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THE 


POETICAL    WOEKS 


OP 


LORD   gYRON. 


WITH 


(gi-jjlanatorii  loies  auli  a  life  of  ilje  |.nt|or, 

By    THOMAS    MOORE. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  NUMEROUS  FINE  STEEL  ENGRAVINGS  EitBRACINO  THE  PRINCIPAL 
FEMALE  CHARACTERS,  LANDSCAPE  AND  HISTORICAL  SUBJECTS. 


First    QuAf\TO   ^dition    Pomplete   in   one  Yolume. 


NEW   YORK: 
JOHNSON,     FRY     AND     COMPANY, 

37    BEEKMAN    STREET. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  tn  the  year  1867,  by 
JOHNSON,  FRY  &  COMPANY, 
III  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tlio  IHi'iict  Court  of  tlie  United  States,  for  tlio  Soutliein  District  of  New  York 


\847 


PREFACE. 


This  Edition  of  the  "Works  of  Lord  Bteon  is  the  first  printed  in  the  quarto  form. 
Originally,  indeed,  many  of  the  separate  Poems  which  constitute  the  volume  were  issued 
in  this  page  ;  but  others  first  appeared  in  octavo,  and  the  tendency  of  recent  publication 
has  been  to  diminish  the  size  of  the  type,  till  it  is  now  rare,  or  an  expensive  luxury,  to 
meet  with  a  really  enjoyable  copy  of  the  Poet's  Works.  This  is  the  distinction  of  the 
present  edition,  which  separates  it  from  others,  that  the  text  is  printed  in  good  readable 
type  expressly  cast  for  the  purpose, — open  and  well  displayed  in  an  ample  quarto  page. 
How  different  this  from  the  early  American  editions  in  narrow  twenty-four  or  thirty- 
two  mos  in  minion  type.  Yet  the  receipt  of  one  of  these  copies,  carried  to  the  noble 
author  by  an  American  traveller  to  the  Mediterranean,  gave  Btron  an  unafi'ected 
^  pleasure.  The  sight,  doubtless,  stirred  his  imagination,  suggesting  to  his  mind  new 
generations  of  readers  in  a  remote  land,  insensible  to  the  difficulties  or  prejudices  which 
beset  him  at  home.  But  however  this  may  have  been,  Byron  always  regarded  the 
land  of  Washington  with  peculiar  admiration.  Every  reader  will  remember  his  tribute 
to  Washington  in  the  fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  : — 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer'd  be. 
And  Freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child, 
1  Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 

Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  arm'd  and  undefiled? 

Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish'd  in  the  wUd, 

Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the  roar 

Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 

On  infant  Washington  ?    Has  Earth  no  more 

Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no  such  shore  ? 

— the  coupling  of  Washington  with  Leonid  as,  and  other  tributes  to  his  fame  in  Don  Juan. 
There  is  a  yet  more  particular  passage  in  one  of  Byron's  Diaries  in  which  he  records 
the  visit  of  a  young  American.  "  Whenever,"  he  writes,  "  an  American  requests  to 
see  me  (which  is  not  unfrequently),  I  comply,  firstly,  because  I  respect  a  people  who 
acquired  their  freedom  by  their  firmness  without  excess  ;  and,  secondly,  because  these 
trans-Atlantic  visits,  '  few  and  far  between,'  make  me  feel  as  if  talking  with  posterity 
from  the  other  side  of  the  Styx.  In  a  century  or  two  the  new  English  and  Spanish 
Atlantides  will  be  masters  of  the  old  countries,  in  all  probability,  as  Greece  and  Europe 
overcame  their  mother  Asia  in  the  older  or  earlier  ages,  as  they  are  called." 

446 


PREFACE. 


Such  was  the  feeling  of  Lobd  Btron  towards  America  where  his  popularity  has 
undergone  no  change  since  his  brilliant  genius  first  dawned  upon  the  world.  The  critics 
for  a  while  ceased  writing  of  him,  having  perhaps  exhausted  the  theme  and  needing 
new  subjects  ;  but  his  fame  has  constantly  been  kept  fresh  in  the  popular  circulation 
of  his  Works.  Byeon  is  still  the  poet  of  youth  and  enthusiasm,  of  the  natural  emotions 
of  the  heart  exhibited  in  that  period  of  life  which  has  more  readers  of  poetry  than  the 
rest  of  the  seven  ages  of  man  combined.  As  an  artist  his  Poems  challenge  the  admiration 
of  all  ages  ;  his  classic  descriptions  in  Childe  Harold  find  their  way  to  the  scholar's 
library  ;  his  Dramas  and  Tales  of  action  and  sentiment  engage  the  attention  of  the  most 
careless  readers  ;  while  the  Horatian  charm  of  his  wit  and  sentiment  is  a  constant  delight 
to  the  accomplished  student  of  the  world  and  its  affairs. 

Of  the  merit  and  interest  of  the  productions  of  the  author  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  "  The 
Corsair,"  "  Manfred,"  "  Don  Juan,"  and  a  host  of  others,  included  in  the  series  "  familiar 
to  our  mouths  as  household  words,"  it  is  unnecessary  at  this  day  to  speak.  After  the 
lapse  of  half  a  century,  the  extraordinary  popularity  of  the  writings  of  Byeon  in  their 
own  day  is  continued  to  new  generations  of  readers,  who  delight  to  acknowledge  his 
rare  poetical  powers,  the  fervour  of  his  imagination,  his  kindling  eloquence,  his  portrayal 
of  character,  his  animated  description  of  natural  scenery,  his  wit,  humor,  pathos,  his 
varied  pictures  of  human  life  in  England,  Italy  and  Greece,  his  unfailing  sympathy  with 
liberty  and  freedom. 

The  life  of  the  Poet,  accompanying  this  Edition,  is  abridged  from  the  best  account  of 
Byron,  the  ample  life  by  his  friend  and  literary  executor,  Thomas  Moore.  The  Notes 
are  mostly  the  Poet's  own  from  the  original  Editions.     The  text  is  that  of  Murray's 


Standard  Edition. 


//       /  />  J>2 


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JoliTLscn,  Ft-iT  &  Co.  PviilislierB.  ITewYcrlt. 


BIOGRAPHY    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


ABRIDGED   PROM   THE  "  LIFE    AND   CORRESPONDENCE ' 


By    THOMAS    MOORE. 


The  family  of  Lord  Byron  traces  its  descent  to 
the  Byrons  of  Normandy,  who  came  to  England 
■with  William  the  Conqueror.  In  Doomsday-book 
the  name  of  Ralph  do  Burun  ranks  high  among  the 
tenants  of  land  in  Nottinghamshire ;  and  in  the 
succeeding  reigns,  under  the  title  of  Lords  of  Hores- 
tan  Castle,  we  find  his  decendants  holding  consider- 
able possessions  in  Derbyshire,  to  which  afterward, 
in  the  time  of  Edward  I.,  were  added  the  lands  of 
Rochdale  in  Lancashire.  Its  antiquity  however  was 
not  the  only  distinction  by  which  the  name  of  Byron 
was  recommended  to  its  inheritor;  those  personal 
merits  and  accomplishments  which  form  the  best 
om.ament  of  a  genealogy  seem  to  have  been  displayed 
in  no  ordinary  degree  by  some  of  his  ancestors.  At 
the  siege  of  Calais  under  Edward  III.,  and  on  the 
memorable  fields  of  Cressy,  Bosworth  and  Marston 
Moor,  the  Byrons  reaped  honors  both  of  rank  and 
fame  of  which  theiryoung  descendanthas  shown  him- 
self proudly  conscious.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII., 
upon  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  the  church 
and  priory  of  Newstead,  with  the  lands  adjoining, 
were  added  to  the  possessions  of  the  Byron  family. 
These  spoils  of  the  ancient  religion  were  conferred 
upon  the  grand-nephew  of  the  gallant  soldier  who 
fought  by  the  side  of  Riclimond  at  Bosworth,  and  was 
distinguished  as  "  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little  with 
the  great  beard."  At  the  coronation  of  James  I.,  we 
find  another  representative  of  the  family  selected  as 
an  object  of  royal  favor,— being  made  on  this  occa- 
sion a  Knight  of  the  Bath.  From  the  following  reign 
(Charles  I.,)  the  nobility  of  the  Byrons  dates  its  ori- 
gin. In  the  year  1G43,  Sir  John  Byron,  great  grandson 
of  him  who  succeeded  to  the  rich  domains  of  New- 
stead,  was  created  Baron  Byron  of  Rochdale,  and 
seldom  has  a  title  been  conferred  for  more  high  and 
honorable  services  than  those  of  this  nobleman. 
Through  the  history  of  the  Civil  Wars,  we  trace  his 
name  in  connection  with  the  varying  fortunes  of  the 
king,  and  find  him  faithful,  persevering,  and  disin- 
terested to  the  last. 
Such  are  a  few  of  the  gallant  and  distinguished 


personages  of  this  noble  house.  By  the  maternal  side 
also  Lord  Fyron  had  to  pride  himself  on  a  line  of  an- 
cestry as  illustrious  as  any  that  Scotland  can  boast, 
his  mother  who  was  one  of  the  Gordons  of  Gight, 
having  been  a  descendant  of  that  Sir  William  Gor- 
don, who  was  the  third  son  of  the  Earl  of  Huntley 
by  the  daughter  of  James  I. 

After  the  eventful  period  of  the  Civil  Wars  the 
celebrity  of  the  name  appears  to  have  died  away  for 
near  a  century.  About  the  year  1750,  the  shipwreck 
and  sufferings  of  Mr.  Byron,  afterward  Admiral,  (the 
grandfather  of  the  subject  of  these  pages),  awaken- 
ined  no  small  degree  the  attention  and  sympathy  of 
the  public.    Not  long  after,  a  less  innocent  notoriety 

attached  itself  to  two  other  members  of  the  family 

one,  the  grand-uncle  of  the  poet,  and  the  other,  his 
father.  The  former,  in  the  year  1 705,  stood  his  trial 
before  the  House  of  Peers  for  killing,  in  a  duel,  or 
rather  scuffle,  his  relation  and  neighbor,  Mr.  Cha- 
worth ;  and  the  latter,  having  carried  off  to  the  Con- 
tinent the  wife  of  Lord  Carmarthen,  on  the  marquis 
obtaining  a  divorce  from  the  lady,  was  married  to 
her.  Of  this  short  union  one  daughter  only  was  the 
issue,  Augusta  Byron,  afterwards  the  wife  of  Colonel 
Leigh. 

The  first  wife  of  the  father  of  the  poet  having 
died  in  1784,  he,  in  the  following  year,  married  Miss 
Catharine  Gordon,  only  child  and  heiress  of  George 
Gordon,  Esq.,  of  Gight.  In  addition  to  the  estate 
of  Gight,  this  lady  possessed  no  inconsiderable  prop- 
erty, and  it  was  known  to  be  solely  with  a  view 
of  relieving  himself  from  his  debts  that  Mr.  Byron 
paid  his  addresses  to  her.  Soon  after  the  mar- 
riage they  removed  to  Scotland.  The  creditors  of 
Mr.  Byron  now  lost  no  time  in  pressing  their  de- 
mands, and  not  only  was  the  whole  of  her  ready 
money,  bank  shares,  fisheries,  etc.,  sacrificed  to  satisfy 
them,  but  a  large  sum  raised  by  mortgage  on  the 
estate  for  the  same  purpose.  In  the  summer  of 
1786  she  and  her  husband  proceeded  to  France; 
and  in  the  following  year  the  estate  of  Gight  itself 
was  sold  and  the  purchase  money  applied  to  the 

(i) 


IV 


LIFE    OF    LOKD    BYRON. 


was  Lavender,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  is  said 
to  have  proceeded,  was  first  by  rubbing  the  foot 
with  oil,  and  then  twisting  the  limb  forcibly  around, 
and  screwing  it  in  a  wooden-machine.  That  the 
boy  might  not  lose  ground  in  his  education,  during 
this  interval  he  received  lessons  in  Latin  from  a 
respectable  schoolmaster,  Mr.  Rogers,  who  read  parts 
of  Virgil  and  Cicero  with  him,  and  represents  his 
proflciency  to  have  been,  for  his  age,  considerable. 
Finding  but  little  benefit  from  the  Nottingham 
practitioner,  Mrs.  Byron,  in  the  summer  of  the  year 
1799,  thought  it  best  to  remove  her  boy  to  London, 
where  at  the  suggestion  of  Lord  Carlisle,  he  was 
put  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Baillie.  It  being  an  ob- 
ject, too,  to  place  him  at  some  quiet  school,  where 
the  means  adapted  for  the  cure  of  his  infirmity 
might  be  more  easily  attended  to,  the  establish- 
ment of  Br.  Glennic,  at  Dulwich,  was  chosen  for 
that  purpose. 

Mrs.  Byron,  who  had  remained  behind  a  short 
time  at  Newstead,  now  came  to  town  ;  and  an  in- 
strument was  constructed  under  Dr.  Baillie's  direc- 
tion, for  straightening  the  limb  of  the  child.  Mod- 
eration in  all  athletic  exercises  was,  of  course,  pre- 
scribed ;'but  Dr.  Glennie  foupd  it  by  no  means  easy 
to  enforce  compliance  with  this  rule,  as  though  suf- 
ficiently quiet  when  with  him  in  his  study,  no  sooner 
was  the  boy  released  for  play,  th^  he  showed  as 
much  ambition  to  excel  in  all  such  games  as  the  most 
robust  youth  in  school.  It  was  probably  during  one 
of  the  vacations  of  this  year  that  the  boyish  love  for 
his  young  cousin.  Miss  Parker,  to  which  he  attri- 
butes the  glory  of  having  first  inspired  him  with 
poetry,  took  possession  of  his  fancy.  "  My  first  dash 
into  poetry,"  he  says,  "  was  as  early  as  1800.  It  was 
the  ebullition  of  a  i)assion  for  my  first  cousin,  Mar- 
garet Parker,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  evanes- 
cent beings.  I  have  long  forgotten  the  verses,  but 
it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  forget  her— her  dark 
eyes — her  long  eye-lashes — her  completely  Greek 
cast  of  face  and  figure  !  I  was  then  aljout  twelve — 
she  rather  older,  perhaps  a  year ;  she  died  a  year 
or  two  afterward,  in  consequence  of  a  fall,  which 
injured  her  spine,  and  induced  consumption.  I 
knew  nothing  of  her  illness,  being  at  Harrow  in 
the  country,  till  she  was  gone.  Some  years  after  I 
made  an  attempt  at  an  elegy,  a  very  dull  one." 

When  he  had  been  nearly  two  years  under  the 
tuition  of  Dr.  Glennie,  his  mother,  discontented  at 
the  slowness  of  his  progress— although  she  herself, 
by  her  interference,  was  the  cause  of  it — entreated 
BO  urgently  of  Lord  CarUsle  to  have  him  removed 
to  a  public  school,  that  her  wish  was  at  length  ac- 
ceded to ;  and  "  accordingly,"  says  Dr.  Glennie,  "  to 
Harrow  he  went,  as  little  prepared  as  it  is  natural 
to  suppose  from  two  years  of  elementary  instruction, 
thwarted  by  every  art  that  could  estrange  the  mind 


of  youth  from  preceptor,  from  school,  and  from  all 
serious  study."  To  a  shy  disposition,  such  as  By- 
ron's was  in  his  youth,  a  transition  from  a  quiet  es- 
tablishment, like  that  of  Dulwich  Grove,  to  the 
bustle  of  a  great  public  school,  was  suflSciently  try- 
ing. We  find  from  his  own  account  that,  for  the 
first  year  and  a  half,  he  hated  Harrow.  The  ac- 
tivity however,  and  sociableness  of  his  nature  soon 
conquered  this  repugnance ;  and  from  being,  as  he 
says,  "  a  most  unpopular  boy,"  he  rose  at  length  to 
be  a  leader  in  all  the  sports,  schemes,  and  mischief 
of  the  school.  At  Harrow  Lord  Byron  was  remarked 
for  the  great  extent  and  readiness  of  his  general  in- 
formation, but  in  all  other  respects  idle,  capable  of 
great  sudden  exertions,  but  of  few  continuous  drudg- 
eries. His  quaUties,  at  this  time,  seemed  much  more 
oratorical  and  martial,  than  poetical,  and  it  was  the 
opinion  of  Dr.  Durry,  the  head  master,  that  he 
would  turn  out  an  orator.  His  first  verses  (in  Eng- 
lish) were  received  but  coolly. 

Byron's  ardent  temperament  led  him  to  con- 
tract friendships  among  his  companions,  which 
from  their  warmth  might  almost  be  described  as 
passions.  When  he  met  one  of  his  school-fellows  in 
after-life,  he  was  aflfected  almost  to  tears  by  the  re- 
collections which  rushed  upon  him.  Notwithstand- 
ing his  general  habits  of  play  and  idleness,  there 
were  moments  when  the  youthful  poet  would  retire 
thoughtfully  within  himself  and  give  way  to  fits 
of  musing  uncongenial  with  the  usual  cheerfulness 
of  his  age.  They  show  a  tomb  in  the  church-yard 
at  Harrow,  commanding  a  view  over  Windsor,  where 
he  used  to  sit  for  hours,  wrapped  up  in  thought. 

We  come  now  to  an  event,  which  according  to 
his  own  deliberate  persuasion,  exercised  a  lasting 
influence  over  the  whole  of  his  subsequent  character 
and  career.  It  was  in  the  year  1803,  that  he  con- 
ceived an  attachment,  which  sunk  so  deep  into  his 
mind  as  to  give  a  color  to  all  his  future  life.  On 
leaving  Bath,  Mrs.  Byron  took  up  her  abode  in  lodg- 
ings at  Nottingham — Newstead  Abbey  being  at  that 
time  let  to  Lord  Grey  de  Ruthen — and  during  the 
Harrow  vacations  of  this  year  she  was  joined  there 
by  her  son.  So  attached  was  he  to  Newstead  that 
he  was  continually  in  its  neighborhood.  An  inti- 
macy soon  sprang  up  between  him  and  his  noble 
tenant,  and  an  apartment  in  the  Abbey  was  hence- 
forth always  at  his  service.  To  the  family  of  Miss 
Chaworth,  who  resided  at  Annesley,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, he  had  been  made  known  some  time  before  in 
London,  and  he  now  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
them.  The  young  heiress  possessed  much  personal 
beauty,  with  a  disposition  the  most  amiable  and  at- 
taching. Byron  at  this  time  was  in  his  nineteenth 
year,  and  the  object  of  his  adoration  two  years  older. 
The  six  short  summer  weeks  which  he  now  passed 
in  her  company,  were  sufficient  to  lay  the  founda- 


LIFE    OF    LOUD    BYRON. 


tion  of  a  feeling  for  all  life.  At  fli-st  he  used  to  re- 
turn to  Newsteart  Abbey  every  night,  but  being  in- 
duced one  evening  to  remain  at  Annesley.  he  stayed 
there  during  the  rest  of  his  visit.  His  time  here 
was  mostly  passed  in  riding  with  Miss  Chaworth 
and  her  cousin ;  sitting  in  idle  reverie,  as  was  his 
custom,  pulling  at  his  handkerchief,  or  in  firing  at  a 
mark.  During  all  this  time  he  had  the  pain  of 
knowing  that  the  heart  of  her  he  loved  was  occu- 
pied by  another — that,  as  he  himself  expresses  it, 

"  Iler  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother— but  no  more  I" 

Neither  is  it  probable  that,  had  even  her  affec- 
tions been  disengaged,  Lord  Byron  would  have  been 
selected  as  the  object  of  them.  Miss  Chaworth 
looked  ujjon  him  as  a  mere  schoolboy.  He  was  in 
his  manners,  too,  at  that  period,  rough  and  odd, 
and  by  no  means  popular  among  girls  of  his  own 
age.  If  at  any  moment  he  had  flattered  himself 
with  the  hope  of  being  loved  by  her,  a  circumstance 
mentioned  in  his  "  memoranda,"  as  one  of  the  most 
painful  humiliations  to  which  the  defect  in  his  foot 
had  exposed  him,  must  have  let  the  truth  in,  with 
the  dreadful  certainty,  upon  his  heart.  He  was 
either  told  of,  or  overheard,  Miss  Chaworth  saying 
to  her  maid,  "  Do  you  think  I  could  care  anything 
for  that  lame  boy  ?"  This  sijecch,  as  he  himself 
described  it,  was  like  a  shot  through  his  heart. 
Though  late  at  night  when  he  heard  it,  he  instantly 
darted  out  of  the  house,  and  scarcely  knowing 
whither  he  ran,  never  stopped,  till  he  found  him- 
self at  Newstead.  In  one  of  the  most  interesting 
of  his  poems,  "  The  Dream,"  he  has  drawn  a  pic- 
ture of  this  youthful  love.  In  the  following  year, 
1805,  Miss  Chaworth  was  married  to  his  successful 
rival,  Mr.  John  Winters. 

The  general  character  which  Byron  bore  among 
the  masters  at  Harrow  was  that  of  an  idle  boy,  who 
would  never  learn  anything ;  and  as  far  as  regarded 
his  tasks  in  school,  this  reputation  was,  by  his  own 
avowal,  not  ill-founded.  But  notwithstanding  his 
backwardness  in  mere  verbal  scholarship,  on  which 
so  large  and  precious  a  jjortion  of  life  is  wasted,  in 
all  that  general  and  miscellaneous  knowledge,  which 
is  alone  useful  in  the  world,  he  was  making  rapid 
progress.  The  list,  which  he  has  left  to  us,  of  the 
books  which  he  had  read  before  he  was  fifteen  years 
of  age,  is  such,  from  its  variety  and  extent,  as  al- 
most to  startle  belief 

In  the  month  of  October,  1805,  he  was  removed 
to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  his  feelings  on 
the  change  to  this  new  scene  of  life  are  thus  de- 
scribed by  himself: — "When  I  first  went  up  to  col- 
lege, it  was  a  new  and  a  heavy-hearted  scene  for 
me  :  first,  I  so  much  disliked  leaving  Harrow,  that 
though  it  was  time  (I  being  seventeen),  it  broke  my 


■viery  rest  for  the  last  -quarter,  with  counting  the  days 
that  remained.  I  always  hated  Harrow  till  the  last 
year  and  a  half,  but  then  I  liked  it.  Secondly,  I 
wished  to  go  to  Oxford,  and  not  to  Cambridge. 
Thirdly,  I  was  so  completely  alone  in  this  new 
world,  that  it  half  broke  my  spirits.  My  compan- 
ions were  not  unsocial,  but  the  contrary — lively,  hos- 
pitable, of  rank  and  fortune,  and  gay  far  beyond 
my  gayety.  I  mingled  with,  and  dined  and  supped, 
etc.,  with  them ;  but,  I  know  not  liow,  it  was  one 
of  the  deadliest  and  heaviest  feeUngs  of  my  life  to 
feel  that  I  was  no  longer  a  boy."  To  remain  long, 
however,  without  attaching  himself,  was  not  By- 
ron's nature,  and  he  soon  formed  friendships  at 
college  which  were  as  remarkable  for  their  warmth 
and  romance  as  any  of  his  schoolboy  attachments. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  this  year  that  he  first  en- 
gaged in  preparing  a  collection  of  his  poems  for  the 
press ;  the  idea  of  printing  them  first  occurred  to 
him  during  his  vacation  at  Southwell.  Miss  Pigot, 
a  young  lady  with  whose  family  he  had  become  very 
intimate,  was  reading  aloud  the  poems  of  Burns, 
when  young  Byron  said  that  "  he,  too,  was  a  poet 
sometimes,  and  would  write  down  for  her  some  ver- 
ses of  his  own  which  he  remembered."  He  then, 
with  a  pencil,  wrote  those  lines  beginning,  "  In  thee 
I  fondly  hoped  to  clasp ; "  he  also  repeated  to  her 
the  verses,  "  When  in  the  hall  my  father's  voice,"  so 
remarkable  for  the  anticipations  of  his  future  fame 
that  glimmer  through  them.  From  this  moment 
the  desire  of  appearing  in  print  took  entire  posses- 
sion of  him,  though  for  the  present  his  ambition  did 
not  extend  in  view  beyond  a  small  volume  for  pri- 
vate circulation.  In  consequence  of  the  objection  of 
his  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Becher,  to  a  certain  poem  in 
this  volume,  the  edition  was  suppressed,  and  Lord 
Byi'on  set  about  preparing  another,  which  was  pro- 
duced about  six  weeks  after.  The  fame  which  he 
now  reaped  within  a  limited  circle,  made  him  more 
eager  to  try  his  chance  on  a  wider  field.  The  hun- 
dred copies  of  which  this  edition  consisted  were 
hardly  out  of  his  hands,  when  with  fi-esh  activity  he 
went  to  press  again,  and  his  first  published  volume, 
the  "  Hours  of  Idleness,"  made  its  appearance.  Some 
new  pieces  which  he  had  written  in  the  interim 
were  added,  and  no  less  than  twenty  of  those  con- 
tained in  the  former  volume  omitted.  The  rank 
and  name  of  Lord  Byron  gained  for  this  volume  a 
considerable  circulation  in  the  fashionable  world  of 
London,  which,  perhaps,  the  merits  of  the  poetry 
alone  might  not  have  attained. 

Upon  his  return  to  Cambridge  he  again  engaged 
in  all  the  dissipations  that  were  at  that  time  so  fre- 
quent among  young  men  of  rank  and  fashion.  We 
observe  in  his  letters  of  this  period  that  sort  of  dis- 
play and  boast  of  rakishness,  which  is  but  too  com- 
mon a  folly  at  this  period  of  life,  when  the  young  as- 


VI 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


pirant  to  manhood  persuades  himself  that  to  be  pro- 
fligate is  to  be  manly.  Unluckily,  this  desire  of  being 
thought  worse  than  he  was  remained  with  Byron 
long  after  the  time  when  such  follies  are  usually  jjast 
and  forgotten.  We  see  from  passages  in  his  earlier 
poems,  and  some  of  his  journals,  that  while  he  was 
yet  a  boy  the  authority  of  all  systems  and  sects  was 
avowedly  shaken  off  by  his  inquiring  spirit.  Yet 
even  in  these  poems  there  is  a  fervor  of  adoration 
mingled  with  a  defiance  of  creeds,  through  which 
the  piety  implanted  in  his  nature  unequivocally 
shows  itself;  and  had  he  fallen  within  the  reach  of 
such  guidance  and  example  as  would  have  fostered 
these  natural  dispositions,  the  license  of  opinion,  in- 
to which  he  afterward  broke  loose,  miglit  have  been 
averted.  After  his  departure  from  Southwell  he  had 
not  a  single  friend  or  relative  to  whom  he  could 
look  up  with  respect,  but  was  thrown  alone  on  the 
world,  with  his  passions  and  his  pride,  to  revel  in 
the  fatal  discovery  which  he  imagined  himself  to 
have  made,  of  the  nothingness  of  the  future,  and 
the  all-paramount  claims  of  the  present.  By  singu- 
lar ill  fortune,  too,  the  most  intimate  of  his  college 
friends,  Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  whose  loss  he  af- 
terward lamented  with  brotherly  tenderness,  was  to 
the  same  extent  as  liimself,  if  not  more  thoroughly, 
a  skeptic. 

In  the  spring  of  this  year,  1808,  appeared  the  me- 
morable critique  upon  the  "  Hours  of  Idleness  "  in 
the  Edhiburgh  lievieic*  The  effect  this  criticism 
produced  upon  him  can  only  be  conceived  by  those 
who,  besides  having  an  adequate  notion  of  what 
most  poets  would  feel  under  such  an  attack,  can  un- 
derstand all  that  there  was  in  the  temper  and  dis- 
position of  Lord  Byron  to  make  him  feel  it  with 
tenfold  more  acuteness  than  others.  From  his  sensi- 
tiveness to  the  praise  of  the  meanest  of  his  censors, 
we  may  guess  how  painfully  he  must  have  writhed 
under  the  sneers  of  the  highest.  A  friend,  who 
found  him  in  the  first  moments  of  excitement  after 
reading  the  article,  inquired  anxiously  whether  he 
had  received  a  challenge,  not  knowing  how  else  to 
account  for  the  fierce  defiance  of  his  looks.  Among 
the  less  sentimental  effects  of  this  review  upon  his 
mind,  he  used  to  mention  that  on  the  day  he  read  it, 
he  drank  three  bottles  of  claret,  to  his  own  share, 
after  dinner ;  that  nothing,  however,  relieved  him 
till  he  had  given  vent  to  his  indignation  in  rhyme, 
and  that  "  after  the  first  twenty  lines  he  felt  himself 
considerably  better." 

His  time  at  Newstead  during  the  autumn  was  prin- 
cipally occupied  in  enlarging  and  preparing  his  sa- 
tire for  the  press.  This  work,  which  owed  its  force 
and  spirit  chiefly  to  the  article  we  have  just  spoken 
of,  had  been  commenced  by  Lord  Byron  a  long  time 

*  Now  known  to  have  been  written  by  Lord  Brougham. 


before.  The  importance  of  this  new  move  in  litera- 
ture seems  to  have  been  fully  appreciated  by  him. 
He  saw  that  his  chances  of  future  eminence  now  de- 
pended upon  the  effort  he  was  about  to  make,  and 
therefore  deliberately  collected  all  his  energies  for 
the  spring,  and  the  misanthropic  mood  of  mind  into 
which  he  had  fallen  at  this  time,  from  disappointed 
aflections  and  thwarted  hopes,  made  the  office  of 
satirist  but  too  congenial  and  welcome  to  his  spirit. 
His  coming  of  age  in  1809  was  celebrated  at  New- 
stead  by  such  festivals  as  his  narrow  means  and  so- 
ciety could  furnish.  Besides  the  ritual  roasting  of  an 
ox,  there  was  a  ball,  it  seems,  given  on  the  occasion. 
Of  Lord  Byron's  own  method  of  commemorating 
the  day,  the  following  curious  record  occurs  in  a  let- 
ter written  from  Genoa  in  1833  :  "  Did  I  ever  tell 
you  that  the  day  I  came  of  age  I  dined  on  eggs  and 
bacon  iind  a  bottle  of  ale  ?  For  once  in  a  way  they 
are  my  favorite  dish  and  drinkable ;  but  as  neither 
of  them  agrees  with  me,  I  never  use  them  but  on 
great  jubilees,  once  in  four  or  five  years  or  so."  It 
was  not  till  the  beginning  of  this  year  that  he  took 
his  satire  to  London.  During  the  progress  of  this 
poem  through  the  press  he  increased  its  length  by 
more  than  a  hundred  lines,  and  the  alterations  which 
he  constantly  made,  show  to  what  a  degree  his  judg- 
ment and  feelings  were  affected  by  the  impressions 
of  the  moment.  On  the  13th  of  March  Lord  By- 
nor  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords  ;  and  a  few 
days  after  the  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Review- 
ers "  made  its  appearance.  This  satire  was  issued 
anonymously,  but  it  was  not  long  before  the  name  of 
the  author  was  generally  known.  Lord  Byron  im- 
mediately upon  its  publication  had  retired  into  the 
country.  He  was  soon,  however,  called  back  to  Lou- 
don to  superintend  a  new  edition,  in  consequence  of 
the  rapid  sale  of  the  first.  To  this  second  edition 
he  made  considerable  additions,  and  prefixed  his 
name.  He  now  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  England, 
with  his  friend  Mr.  Hobhouse,  early  in  the  following 
June,  for  an  extended  tour  in  Spain  and  the  East. 
In  a  letter  of  his  friend  Matthews,  we  have  a  char- 
acteristic picture  of  his  life  at  Newstead  at  this  per- 
iod. After  a  description  of  the  Abbey,  he  says : — 
"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,  for  should  you  make 
any  blunder,  should  you  go  to  the  right  of  the  hall 
steps,  you  are  laid  hold  of  by  a  bear ;  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  de- 
cayed, and  therefore  standing  in  need  of  repair,  a 
body  of  inmates  arc  very  probably  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 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


vu 


by  the  pistol  shots  of  the  merry  monks  of  Kcw- 
stead." 

Having  put  the  finishing  hand  to  his  new  edition 
he  took  leave  of  London,  on  the  11th  of  June,  and 
in  about  a  fortnight  after,  sailed  for  Lisbon,  in  com- 
pany witli  liis  friend,  Mr.  Hobhouso,  taking  with 
him  his  valet,  Fletcher,  Murray,  the  old  family  ser- 
vant, a  German  attendant,  and  a  boy  name  Robert 
Kushton,  who  is  introduced  as  his  page,  in  the  First 
Canto  of  Childe  Harold.  From  Lisbon  he  travelled 
on  horseback  through  Portugal  and  Spain,  visiting, 
on  the  way,  the  beautiful  scenes  of  Cintra  and  Mafra, 
Seville  and  Cadiz,  and  thence  in  the  Hj^jerion  frigate 
to  Gibraltar.  His  letters  of  the  time,  record  in  a 
most  lively  manner,  the  adventures  which  he  met 
with  during  this  hasty  passage.  The  dark  eyed 
beauties  of  Andalusia  appear  to  have  made  deep 
impressions  upon  the  heart  of  Byron,  to  judge  from 
the  frequent  allusions  in  his  poems  of  this  period. 
Having  made  a  short  stay  at  Gibraltar,  on  the  loth 
of  August  he  sailed  for  Malta.  Here  through  some 
trifling  misunderstanding,  he  was  at  the  point  of 
fighting  a  duel  with  an  oflncer  of  the  garrison.  Lord 
Byron  was  on  the  ground  at  the  time  appointed, 
but  through  some  mistake  in  the  arrangements 
his  adversary  did  not  appear ;  but  an  hour  after 
an  officer  deputed  by  him  arrived,  and  not  only  ac- 
counted for  the  delay,  but  made  every  explanation 
with  respect  to  the  supposed  ofience  that  could  be 
required.  This  incident  is  interesting  as  showing 
the  manly  courage  and  coolness  of  Lord  Byron,  in 
the  only  action  of  the  kind  that  he  was  ever  en- 
gaged in.  The  route  which  he  now  took  through 
Albania,  and  other  parts  of  Turkey,  may  be  traced, 
by  those  who  desire  the  details,  in  Mr.  Hobhouse's 
account  of  his  travels.  He  passed  from  Prevesa, 
where  he  landed,  through  Acarnania  and  ^tolia, 
viewing  the  famous  sites  of  Actium  and  Lepanto, 
and  the  classic  ground  of  Delphi  and  Parnassus,  and 
after  crossing  Mount  Cithceron,  he  arrived  at  Athens, 
the  city  of  his  dreams,  on  Christmas-day,  1809.  Here 
he  made  a  stay  of  between  two  and  three  months, 
not  a  day  of  which  he  let  pass  without  employing 
some  of  its  hours  in  visiting  the  grand  monuments 
of  ancient  genius  around  him ;  and  he  has  left  in 
his  own  verses,  an  ever-during  testimony  of  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  he  now  contemplated  these 
spirit-stirring  scenes.  In  addition  to  the  magic  of 
its  name  and  associations,  the  city  of  Minerva 
possessed  another  sort  of  attraction  to  the  poet.  His 
pretty  song,  "  Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part,"  is  said 
to  liave  been  addressed  to  the  oldest  daughter  of  the 
Greek  lady  in  whose  house  he  lodged. 

On  the  5th  of  March  the  travelers  took  a  reluctant 
leave  of  Athens,  and  continued  their  journey  to 
Smyrna,  where,  with  the  exception  of  a  visit  to  the 
ruins  of  Ephesus,  they  remained  for  about  a  month. 


It  was  during  this  time,  as  appears  from  a  memo- 
randum of  his  own,  that  he  finished  the  first  two 
Cantos  of  Childe  Harold.  From  Smyrna  he  sailed 
up  the  Bardanclles  to  Constantinople.  During  his 
passage  up  the  straits.  Lord  Byron  repeated  Lean- 
der's  famous  exploit  of  swimming  across  the  Helles- 
pont, a  feat  to  which  he  afterward  alludes  in  his  let- 
ters. Another  year  was  now  passed  in  the  East,  at 
Constantinople  and  Athens,  and  among  the  islands 
of  the  Archipelago,  and  about  the  middle  of  July, 
1811,  we  find  him  again  in  England. 

The  Eastern  travels  of  Lord  Byron  contributed 
essentially  to  the  formation  of  his  poetic  character. 
In  youth,  the  wild  tales  of  Turkish  conquest  and 
adventure  which  he  had  read  had  taken  a  strong 
hold  of  his  imagination,  and  it  was  to  the  East,  "  the 
land  of  the  sun,"  that  the  dreams  of  his  childhood 
looked  for  their  realization.  The  quick  change  of 
place  and  scene,  the  diversity  of  men  and  manners 
surveyed  by  him,  the  succession  and  variety  of  fresh 
excitement,  brought  into  play  and  invigorated  all 
the  energy  of  his  character.  Amid  all  this  stimulat- 
ing variety  of  objects,  the  melancholy  which  he 
brought  from  home  still  lingered  around  his  mind, 
but  as  his  views  opened  on  a  freer  and  wider  hori- 
zon, every  feeling  of  his  nature  kept  pace  with  their 
enlargement,  and  this  inborn  sadness,  mingling  it- 
self with  the  ejfusions  of  his  genius,  became  one  of 
the  constituents,  not  only  of  their  pathos,  but  their 
grandeur. 

He  had  no  sooner  arrived  in  England  than  ho  set 
about  preparing  for  the  pr-ess  some  of  the  poems 
which  he  had  written  while  abroad.  His  first  at- 
tention was  given  to  a  paraphrase  of  the  Ars  Poetica 
of  Horace,  a  poem  hardly  worthy  of  his  genius, 
but  which,  with  that  strange  blindness  of  authors 
to  the  merits  of  their  own  works,  he  perferred 
to  his  glorious  Childe  Harold.  Happily,  the  bet- 
ter judgment  of  his  friends  averted  the  risk  to 
his  reputation  which  would  have  been  the  conse- 
quence of  his  giving  this  poem  to  the  press  at  this 
time,  and  he  at  length  consented  to  the  immediate 
publication  of  Childe  Harold,  and  it  was  put  into 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Murray  for  that  purpose. 

While  thus  busily  engaged  in  his  literary  projects, 
he  was  called  away  to  Newstead  by  the  intelligence 
of  the  illness  of  his  mother.  She  had  been  indis- 
posed for  some  time,  but  not  to  any  alarming  de- 
gree. At  the  end  of  July  her  illness  took  a  new  and 
fatal  turn,  and  so  strangely  characteristic  was  the 
close  of  the  poor  lady's  life,  that  a  fit  of  rage, 
brought  on,  it  is  said,  by  reading  over  the  uphol- 
sterer's bills,  was  the  ultimate  cause  of  her  death. 
Although  Lord  Byron  started  from  town  as  soim  as 
he  heard  of  the  attack,  he  was  too  late, — she  had 
breathed  her  last. 

Besides  the  loss  of  his  mother  he  had  to  mourn, 


VIU 


LIFE    OF  LORD    EYltON. 


in  quick  succession,  the  untimely  fate  of  two  or 
three  of  his  most  valued  friends.  "  In  the  short 
space  of  one  month,"  he  says,  "  I  have  lost  her  who 
gave  me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  made  that 
being  tolerable."  Of  these,  young  Wingfleld,  one  of 
his  Harrow  favorites,  died  of  a  fever  at  Coimbra ; 
and  Matthews,  the  idol  of  his  admiration  at  college, 
was  drowned  while  bathing  in  the  Cam. 

Childe  Harold  was  not  ready  for  publication  until 
February  of  the  following  year.  A  few  days  previ- 
ous to  its  appearance.  Lord  Byfon  made  the  first 
trial  of  his  eloquence  in  the  House  of  Lords.  The 
subject  of  debate  was  the  Nottingham  Frame-break- 
ing Bill.  In  reference  to  his  parliamentary  displays, 
he  says  :  "  I  spoke  once  or  twice ;  but  dissipation, 
shyness,  haughty  and  reserved  opinions,  together 
with  the  short  time  I  staid  in  England,  prevented 
me  from  repeating  the  experiment ;  as  far  as  I  went, 
it  was  not  discouraging,  particularly  my  first  speech 
(I  spoke  three  or  four  times  in  all),  but  just  after  it 
my  poem  of  Childe  Harold  was  published,  and  no- 
body ever  thought  of  my  prose  afterward,  nor,  in- 
deed, did  L" 

Two  days  after  his  speech,  the  poem  appeared ; 
and  the  impression  which  it  produced  upon  the 
public  was  as  instantaneous  as  it  proved  deep  and 
lasting — the  effect  was  electric ;  his  fame  had  not 
to  wait  for  any  of  the  ordinary  gradations,  but 
seemed  to  spring  up,  like  the  palace  in  the  fairy 
tale,  in  a  night.  As  he  himself  briefly  described  it 
in  his  memoranda : — "  I  awoke  one  morning  and 
found  myself  famous."  The  first  edition  of  his 
work  was  disposed  of  instantly.  "Lord  Byron" 
and  "  Childe  Harold  "  became  the  theme  of  every 
tongue.  At  his  door  most  of  the  leading  men  of 
the  day  presented  themselves ;  from  morning  till 
night  the  most  flattering  testimonies  of  success 
crowded  his  table ;  he  saw  the  whole  splendid  in- 
terior of  high  life  thrown  open  to  receive  him,  and 
found  himself  its  most  distinguished  object.  The 
coijyright  of  his  poem  which  was  purchased  by  Mr. 
Murray  for  £600,  he  presented  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Dal- 
las, saying  that  "  he  never  would  receive  money  for 
his  writings,"  a  resolution,  the  mixed  result  of  gen- 
erosity and  pride,  which  he  afterwards  wisely  aban- 
doned. 

The  facility  with  which  he  soon  gave  himself  up 
to  the  current  of  fashionable  life,  and  mingled  in  all 
the  festivities  through  which  it  leads,  showed  that 
the  novelty,  at  least,  of  this  mode  of  existence  had 
charms  for  him,  however  he  might  estimate  its 
pleasures.  His  nir  and  port,  amid  these  scenes, 
were  those  of  one  whose  better  thoughts  were  else- 
whore,  and  who  looked  with  melancholy  abstraction 
on  the  gay  crowd  around  him.  This  deportment 
was  the  result  partly  of  shyness  and  partly  of  his 
natural  love  of  effect  and  impression. 


Early  in  the  spring  of  1813,  he  brought  out, 
anonymously,  his  poem  on  "  Waltzing,"  and  in  the 
month  of  May  ajipeared  his  wild  and  beautiful 
"  Fragment,"  the  "  Giaour."  The  j)ublic  hailed  this 
new  offspring  of  his  genius  with  wonder  and  de- 
light. This  poem,  which  when  first  published  was 
contained  in  four  hundred  lines,  was  increased  by 
subsequent  additions  to  fourteen  hundred.  The  plan, 
indeed,  which  he  had  adopted,  of  a  series  of  frag- 
ments, left  him  free  to  introduce,  without  reference 
to  more  than  the  general  complexion  of  his  story, 
whatever  sentiments  or  images  his  fancy,  in  its  ex- 
cursions, could  collect.  This  was  succeeded  by  the 
"  Bride  of  Abydos,"  which  was  published  at  the  be- 
ginning of  December  of  the  same  year,  having  been 
struck  off,  like  its  predecessor,  in  one  of  those  par- 
oxysms of  passion  and  imagination,  which  adven- 
tures such  as  the  poet  was  now  engaged  in  were, 
in  a  temperament  like  his,  calculated  to  excite.  He 
says  of  it,  in  his  diary :  "  It  was  written  in  four 
nights  to  distract  my  thoughts  from  ....  were  it 
not  thus,  it  had  never  been  composed,  and  had  I 
not  done  something  at  that  time,  I  must  have  gone 
mad,  by  eating  my  own  heart."  The  "  Corsair " 
and  "Lara,"  the  other  poems  of  this  series,  soon 
followed.  Although  a  certain  degree  of  foundation 
in  fact  seemed  necessary  to  Byron  to  call  into  action 
the  power  which  he  wielded  over  the  passions,  the 
connection  with  reality  which  satisfied  him,  in  many 
instances,  was  so  small,  that  an  aim  at  tracing  through 
his  stories  these  links  with  his  own  fate  and  fortunes, 
would  be  a  task  as  uncertain  as  unsafe  ;  and  this  re- 
mark applies  not  only  to  the  "  Bride  of  Abydos," 
but  to  the  "  Corsair,"  "  Lara,"  and  all  the  beautiful 
fictions  in  which,  though  the  emotions  expressed 
by  the  poet  may  be  regarded  as  vivid  recollections 
of  what  had  at  different  times  agitated  his  own 
bosom,  there  are  but  little  grounds  for  connect- 
ing him  personally  with  the  ground-work  or  inci- 
dents of  the  stories. 

About  a  year  before.  Lord  Byron  had  been  in- 
duced to  turn  his  thoughts  seriously  to  marriage, 
at  least  as  seriously  as  his  thoughts  were  ever  capa- 
ble of  being  so  turned, — and,  chiefly  by  the  advice 
and  intervention  of  his  friend,  Lady  Melbourne,  to 
become  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  a  relation  of  that 
lady.  Miss  Milbanke.  Though  his  proposal  was  not 
then  accepted,  every  assurance  of  friendship  and  re- 
gard accompanied  the  refusal ;  a  wish  was  even  ex- 
pressed that  they  should  continue  to  write  to  each 
other,  and  a  correspondence  ensued  between  them. 
To  this  singular  relation,  he  refers  in  his  diary  : 
"  Yesterday,  a  very  pretty  letter  from  Annabella ; 
which  I  answered.  What  an  odd  situation  and 
friendship  is  ours  !  Without  one  part  of  love  on 
either  side,  and  produced  by  circumstances  which 
in  general  lead  to  coldness  on  one  side,  and  aver- 


Johnson,  Fiy  Jh  Company,  Publishers,  New YorX 


LIFE    OF    LOKD    BYRON, 


IX 


sion  on  the  other.  She  is  a  very  superior  -woinan, 
and  very  little  spoiled,  which  is  strange  in  an  heir- 
ess— a  girl  of  twenty — a  peeress  that  is  to  be,  in  her 
own  right — an  only  child,  and  a  savante,  who  has 
always  had  her  own  way.  She  is  a  poetess  —  a 
mathematician — a  metaphysician  ;  and  yet  withal, 
very  kind,  generous,  and  gentle,  with  very  little  pre- 
tension." 

His  own  account  of  the  circumstances  which  led 
to  his  second  proposal  for  Miss  Milbauke,  is,  in  sub- 
stance as  follows  :  A  person,  who  had  for  some  time 
stood  high  in  his  affection  and  confidence,  observ- 
ing how  cheerless  and  unsettled  was  the  state  both 
of  his  mind  and  prospects,  advised  him  strenuously 
to  marry  ;  and  after  much  discussion,  he  consented. 
The  next  point  for  consideration  was,  who  was  to 
be  the  object. of  his  choice;  and  while  his  friend 
mentioned  one  lady,  he  himself  named  Miss  Mil- 
banke.  To  this,  however,  his  adviser  strongly  ob- 
jected, as  Miss  IVIilbankc  had  at  present  no  fortune, 
and  that  his  own  embarrassed  affairs  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  marry  without  one,  and  that  she  would 
not  at  all  suit  him.  In  consequence  of  these  repre- 
sentations, he  agreed  that  his  friend  should  write  a 
proposal  for  him  to  the  other  lady  named,  which 
was  accordingly  done  ; — and  an  answer  containing 
a  refusal,  arrived  as  they  were,  one  morning,  sitting 
together.  "  You  see,"  said  Lord  Byron,  "  that  after 
all,  Miss  Milbanke  is  to  be  the  person  ; — I  will  write 
to  her."  He  accordingly  wrote  on  the  moment,  and 
a  few  days  after  he  received  a  very  flattering  accept- 
ance of  his  offer.  The  die  was  cast  now,  and  he  had 
no  alternative  but  to  proceed.  Accordingly,  at  the 
end  of  December,  accompanied  by  his  friend,  Mr. 
Hobhouse,  he  set  out  for  Seaham,  the  residence  of 
Sir  Ralph  Milbanke,  the  lady's  father,  in  the  county 
of  Durham  ;  and  on  the  3d  of  January,  1815,  he  was 
married.  The  touching  picture,  that  he  has  drawn, 
in  "  The  Dream,"  of  his  feelings  on  this  occasion, 
agrees  perfectly  with  the  account  of  his  wedding, 
in  his  memoranda.  He  awoke  with  the  most  melan- 
choly reflections,  in  the  morning  ;  he  wandered  alone 
about  the  grounds,  till  he  was  summoned  to  the  cere- 
mony. He  knelt  down, — he  repeated  the  words 
after  the  clergyman ;  but  a  mist  was  before  his 
eyes ;  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere  ;  and  he  was  but 
awakened  by  the  congratulations  of  the  bystanders 
to  find  that  he  was — married. 

After  the  wedding.  Lord  Byron  resided  with  his 
wife  for  some  time  at  Seaham,  but  he  soon  wearied 
of  the  monotony  of  country  life ;  and  towards  the 
end  of  March,  he  returned  to  London,  where,  on  the 
10th  of  December  of  the  same  year,  his  daughter, 
Augusta  Ada,  was  bom.  The  strong  and  affection- 
ate terms  in  which,  after  his  marriage,  lie  had  in 
some  of  his  letters  declared  his  own  happiness, 
tended  to  still  those  apprehensions  which  the  first 


view  of  his  alliance  gave  rise  to.  These  indications 
of  a  contented  heart,  however,  soon  ceased.  His 
mention  of  the  partner  of  his  home  became  rare  and 
formal ;  and  a  feeling  of  unquiet  and  weariness  ap- 
peared, which  brought  back  all  the  worst  anticipa- 
tions of  his  fate. 

About  a  month  after  the  birth  of  her  child.  Lady 
BjTon  most  unexpectedly  adopted  the  resolution  of 
separating  from  her  husband.  She  had  left  London 
at  the  latter  end  of  January,  on  a  visit  to  her  father's 
house,  in  Leicestershire,  and  Lord  Byron  was,  a  short 
time  after,  to  accompany  her.  They  had  parted  in 
the  utmost  kindness, — she  wrote  him  a  letter,  full 
of  playfulness  and  affection,  on  the  road ;  and  imme- 
diately on  her  arrival  at  Kirkley  Mallory,  her  father 
wrote  to  acquaint  Lord  Byron  that  she  would  return 
■to  him  no  more.  At  the  moment  when  he  had  to 
stand  this  unexpected  shock,  his  pecuniary  embar- 
rassments, which  had  been  fast  gathering  around 
him  during  the  whole  of  the  last  year,  (there  hav- 
ing been  no  less  than  eight  or  nine  executions  in 
his  house  within  that  period,)  had  arrived  at  their 
utmost ;  and  at  a  moment,  when  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, he  "  was  standing  alone  on  his  hearth,  with 
his  household  gods  shivered  around  him,"  he  was 
doomed  to  receive  the  startling  intelligence  that 
the  wife  who  had  just  parted  with  him  in  kindness 
had  parted  with  him — forever  ! 

With  respect  to  the  causes  which  may  have  led 
to  this  separation,  it  seems  needless,  with  the  char- 
acters of  both  parties  before  our  eyes,  to  go  in  quest 
of  any  very  mysterious  or  remote  reasons  to  account 
for  it.  Even  had  the  new  condition  of  life  into  which 
he  passed  been,  one  of  prosperity  and  smoothness, 
some  time,  as  well  as  tolerance,  must  still  have  been 
allowed  for  the  subsiding  of  so  excited  a  spirit  into 
rest.  But  on  the  contrary,  his  marriage,  from  the 
reputation,  no  doubt,  of  the  lady,  as  an  heiress,  was 
the  signal  for  all  the  arrears  and  claims  of  a  long- 
accumulating  state  of  embarrassment  to  explode  upon 
him  ;  and  in  addition  to  these  anxieties  and  indig- 
nities of  poverty,  he  had  the  pain  of  fancying, 
whether  rightly  or  wrongly,  that  the  eyes  of  ene- 
mies and  spies  were  upon  him,  even  under  his  own 
roof,  and  that  every  hasty  word  or  look  was  inter- 
preted in  the  most  perverting  light. 

As  from  the  state  of  their  means  they  saw  but 
little  society,  his  only  relief  and  diversion  from  the 
annoyances  of  his  life  was  in  those  avocations  which 
liis  duties,  as  a  member  of  the  Drury-Lane  Commit- 
tee, to  which  he  had  been  elected  since  his  mar- 
riage, imposed  upon  him.  And  here,  this  connec- 
tion with  the  theatre  gave  rise  to  new  suspicions. 
From  the  reputation  which  he  had  previously  ac- 
quired for  gallantries,  it  was  not  difficult  to  misrep- 
resent some  of  those  acquaintances  which  his  fre- 
quent intercourse  witli  the  green-room  induced  him 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


to  form,  and  even  to  connect  with  his  name  injuri- 
ously that  of  a  person  to  whom  he  had  scarcely  ever 
addressed  a  single  word. 

Not  content  with  such  ordinary  and  tangible 
charges,  the  tongue  of  rumor  was  emboldened  to 
proceed  still  farther ;  and  presuming  upon  the  mys- 
terious silence  maintained  by  one  of  the  parties,  ven- 
tured to  throw  out  dark  hints  and  vague  insinu- 
ations, of  which  the  fancy  of  every  hearer  was  left 
to  fill  up  the  outline  as  he  pleased.  In  consequence 
of  all  this  exaggeration,  such  an  outcry  was  now 
raised  against  Lord  Byron  as  in  no  case  of  private 
life,  perhaps,  was  ever  before  witnessed,  nor  had  the 
whole  amount  of  fame  which  he  had  gathered  in 
the  course  of  the  last  four  years,  much  exceeded  in 
proportion  the  reproach  and  obloquy  that  were  now, 
within  the  space  of  a  few  weeks,  heaped  upon  hin? 
In  every  form  of  paragraph,  pamphlet,  and  carica- 
ture, both  his  character  and  person  were  held  up  to 
odium  ;  and  hardly  a  voice  was  raised,  or  at  least 
listened  to,  in  his  behalf;  and  though  a  few  faith- 
ful friends  remained  unshaken  by  his  side,  after  a 
few  efforts  to  gain  a  fair  hearing  they  submitted  in 
silence. 

The  poet  now  determined  to  leave  England  for  a 
tour  through  Switzerland,  the  Netherlands,  and  Italy. 
Since  his  early  travel  in  the  East,  his  thoughts  had 
often  fondly  reverted  to  those  southern  lands  which 
had  so  powerfully  impressed  his  imagination,  and  he 
now  turned  away  without  regret  from  the  country 
which  had  given  him  up,  and  the  friends  who  had 
forsaken  him. 

During  the  month  of  January  and  part  of  Febru- 
ary, his  poems  of  the  "  Siege  of  Cotinth  "  and  "  Pa- 
risina,"  were  in  the  hands  of  the  printers,  and 
about  the  end  of  the  latter  month,  they  made  their 
appearance.  Although  Lord  Byron  was  in  the  most 
embarrassed  circumstances,  and  his  creditors,  ani- 
mated by  the  general  outcry,  were  pressing  their 
claims  with  more  severity  than  ever,  he  still  refused 
to  accept  any  compensation  for  hia  works. 

It  was  under  these  disastrous  and  almost  humili- 
ating circumstances  that  Lord  Byron  took  his  final 
leave  of  England.  On  the  25th  of  April  he  sailed 
for  Ostend,  accompanied  by  Dr.  Polidori,  two  for- 
eign servants,  and  William  Fletcher  and  Robert 
Rushton,  the  same  "  yeoman  "  and  "  page  "  who  had 
set  out  with  him  in  his  youthful  travels  in  1809. 

The  course  which  he  now  pursued  through  Flan- 
ders, and  by  the  Rhine,  may  best  be  traced  in  his 
own  matchless  verses  in  the  Third  Canto  of  "Childe 
Harold."  At  Geneva,  he  took  up  his  residence  at  the 
Hotel  Lecheron,  on  the  banks  of  the  lake.  Here  he 
first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Shelley  and  his  wife, 
who  were  living  in  the  same  hotel.  The  constant 
intercourse  of  the  poets,  thus  thrown  together,  pro- 
duced an  intimacv  l)etween  them  which  lasted  with 


unabated  warmth  until  the  death  of  Shelley.  The 
opinions  and  theories  of  his  new  companion  were 
not  without  their  influence  upon  the  impressionable 
mind  of  Lord  Byron,  and  among  those  fine  bursts 
of  passion  and  description  which  abound  in  his  later 
poetry,  may  be  discovered  traces  of  that  mysticism 
of  meaning — that  sublimity  losing  itself  in  vague- 
ness, which  characterized  the  writings  of  his  extra- 
ordinary friend. 

After  a  stay  of  a  few  weeks  at  this  place,  he  removed 
to  a  villa  in  the  neighborhood,  called  Diodati,  very 
beautifully  situated  on  the  high  banks  of  the  lake, 
where  he  established  his  residence  for  the  remainder 
of  the  summer.  About  the  same  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Shelley  removed  to  a  small  house  on  the  same  side 
of  the  lake,  within  about  ten  minutes'  walk  of  Lord 
Byron's  villa.  At  Diodati,  Byron's  life  was  passed 
in  the  same  regular  round  of  habits  and  occupations 
into  which,  when  left  to  himself,  he  always  naturally 
fell ;  a  late  breakfast,  then  a  visit  to  the  Shelleys' 
cottage,  and  an  excursion  on  the  lake  ;  at  five,  din- 
ner, when  he  usually  preferred  being  alone,  and  then, 
if  tlie  weather  permitted,  an  excursion  again.  He 
and  Shelley  had  joined  in  purchasing  a  small  sail- 
ing vessel,  fitted  to  stand  the  usual  squalls  of  the 
climate,  and  at  that  time,  the  only  keeled  boat  on 
the  lake.  When  the  weather  did  not  allow  of  their 
excursions  after  dinner,  the  inmates  of  the  cottage 
passed  their  evenings  at  Diodati.  Towards  the  lat- 
ter end  of  June,  Lord  Byron  and  his  friend  made  a 
tour  in  his  boat  around  the  lake,  and  visited,  with  the 
''  Heloise  "  before  him,  all  those  scenes  around  Meil- 
lerie  and  Clarens,  which  had  become  consecrated  for 
ever  by  the  genius  of  Rousseau.  At  Ouchy,  near 
Lausanne,  they  were  detained  two  days,  in  a  smaU 
inn,  by  the  weather ;  and  it  was  there,  in  that  short 
interval,  that  Byron  wrote  his  "  Prisoner  of  Chillon." 

Soon  after  he  paid  a  visit  to  Madame  de  StaOl,  in 
her  villa  at  Capet,  and  he  was  received  by  his  dis- 
tinguished hostess  with  a  cordiality  which,  from  his 
unpopularity  at  the  time,  he  hardly  ventured  to  count 
upon.  She  took  him  to  task  upon  bis  matrimonial 
conduct,  and  her  eloquence  so  far  prevailed,  that  ho 
was  induced  to  write  a  letter  to  a  friend  in  England, 
declaring  himself  still  willing  to  be  reconciled  to 
Lady  Byron.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the 
failure  that  ensued  upon  these  negotiations,  was 
what  first  infused  any  bitterness  or  resentment  into 
the  more  kindly  feelings  which  he  had  hitherto 
entertained  through  these  painful  diiferences. 

The  eifect  of  the  late  struggle  upon  his  mind,  in 
stirring  up  all  its  resources  and  energies,  was  visi- 
ble in  the  great  activity  of  his  genius  during  the 
whole  of  this  period,  and  the  rich  variety,  both  in 
character  and  coloring,  of  the  works  with  which  it 
teemed.  Besides  the  Third  Canto  and  the  "  Pris- 
oner of  Chillon,"  he  produced  also  his  two  poems, 


LIFE    OF    LORD   BYRON. 


"Darkness"  and  "The  Dream,"  the  latter  of  which 
must  have  cost  liim  many  a  tear  in  writing,  being, 
indeed,  the  most  mournful,  as  well  as  picturesque 
"  story  of  a  wandering  life,"  that  ever  came  from 
the  pen  and  heart  of  man.  lie  also  began  at  this 
time  a  prose  romance,  founded  upon  the  story  of  the 
marriage  of  Belphcgor,  and  intended  to  shadow  out 
his  own  matrimonial  fate.  While  engaged,  however, 
upon  this  v/ork,  he  heard  from  England  that  Lady 
Byron  was  ill,  and  his  heart  softening  at  this  intelli- 
gence, he  threw  the  manuscript  into  the  fire. 

Soon  afterward,  upon  the  arrival  of  his  friends, 
Mr.  Hobhouse  and  Mr.  S.  Davics,  he  set  out  with 
the  former  on  a  tour  through  the  Bernese  Alps.  He 
has  left  a  journal  of  this  excursion,  in  which  he  re- 
cords in  hasty  memoranda  the  first  impressions  pro- 
duced ujjon  his  mind  by  the  magnificent  scenery 
through  which  he  traveled,  and  it  is  interesting  to 
trace  in  these  careless  notes,  the  germs  of  his  most 
sx)lendid  imagery  in  "  Manfred  "  and  "  Chikle  Har- 
old." After  accomplishing  this  journey,  about  the 
beginning  of  October,  he  took  his  departure  for 
Italy.  After  a  month  spent  at  various  places  on  the 
way,  chiefly  at  Milan  and  Verona,  he  reached  Venice, 
where  he  intended  to  reside  for  the  winter.  All  the 
restraint  of  popular  opinion  being  now  removed,  and 
rendered  desperate  and  careless  of  his  reputation  by 
the  constant  recollection  that  he  was  an  outcast  from 
his  native  land.  Lord  Byron  plunged  into  all  the  dis- 
sipations which  were  offered  to  him  in  the  licentious 
society  and  easy  morals  of  an  Italian  city.  During 
this  time,  however,  his  literary  occupations  were  not 
entirely  neglected ;  he  finished  his  extraordinary 
creation  of  "Manfred,"  and  wrote  several  smaller 
pieces.  He  usually  devoted  a  part  of  the  morning 
to  the  study  of  Armenian,  at  the  convent  of  the  Ar- 
menian monks  on  one  of  the  islands  of  the  lagoon. 
In  this  language  he  does  not  seem  to  have  attained 
much  proficiency,  although  he  took  some  part  in  the 
translation  of  an  Epistle  of  St.  Paul,  not  generally 
considered  genuine,  which  had  been  preserved  in 
the  Armenian  writings.  The  irregular  course  of  life 
which  he  had  adopted  soon  showed  its  effect 
upon  his  health,  and  in  a  few  months  he  was  at- 
tacked with  a  low  fever,  which  left  him  quite  weak. 
In  order  to  escape  the  unhealthy  season  at  Venice, 
and  to  recruit  his  constitution  by  a  change  to  the 
purer  and  more  wholesome  air  of  the  main  land,  he 
removed  for  the  summer  to  a  villa  at  La  Mira,  on  the 
Brcnta,  not  far  from  the  city. 

Some  time  before  this  Lord  Byron  had  made  a 
hurried  trip  to  Florence  and  Home,  which  was  suf- 
ficient, however,  to  store  his  mind  with  the  vivid 
impressions  of  these  famous  cities,  and  their  treas- 
ures of  art  and  antiquity,  which  enrich  his  poems.  In 
fact,  so  far  from  the  powers  of  his  intellect  being 
weakened  by  his  irregularities,  he  was,  perhaps, 


at  no  time  of  his  life  so  actively  in  the  full  posses- 
sion of  his  energies,  for  it  was  at  this  time  that  he 
produced  the  fourth  and  last  canto  of  "  Chikle  Har- 
old," which  was  considered  even  to  surpass  its  pre- 
decessors. About  this  period  his  humorous  story  of 
"  Beppo,"  descriptive  of  Italian  life,  was  also  pub- 
lished. 

Lord  Byron  in  one  of  his  letters  remarks,  that  the 
ancient  beauty  of  the  Venetian  women  had  deserted 
the  "dame,"  or  higher  orders,  and  that  the  faces 
which  adorn  the  canvass  of  Titian  and  Giorgiono 
were  now  only  to  be  found  under  the  "  fazziolc,"  or 
kerchiefs  of  the  lower.  It  was  unluckily  among 
these  latter  specimens  of  the  "  bel  sangue  "  of  Ven- 
ice, that  he  was  now,  by  a  sudden  descent  in  the 
scale  of  refinement,  to  select  the  companions  of  his 
disengaged  hours.  A  proof,  however,  that  in  this 
short  and  desperate  career  of  libertinism,  he  was 
only  seeking  relief  for  a  wronged  and  mortified 
spirit,  is  that,  sometimes  when  his  house  was  in  the 
possession  of  such  visitants,  he  would  hurry  away 
in  his  gondola,  and  pass  the  greater  part  of  the 
night  upon  the  water,  as  if  hating  to  return  home. 
It  is,  indeed,  certain  that  he  always  looked  back  to 
this  period  of  his  life  with  self-reproach ;  and  the 
excesses  to  which  he  had  there  abandoned  himself 
were  among  the  prominent  causes  of  the  detestation 
which  he  afterwards  felt  for  Venice.  It  was  while 
these  different  feelings  were  struggling  in  his  breast, 
that  ho  conceived  and  began  his  poem  of  "Don 
Juan  ;"  and  never  did  pages  more  faithfully  repre- 
sent every  variety  of  emotion,  and  whim,  and  pas- 
sion, that,  like  the  rack  of  autumn,  swept  across  the 
author's  mind  in  writing  them.  The  cool  shrewd- 
ness of  age,  with  the  vivacity  and  glowing  tempera- 
ment of  youth — the  wit  of  a  Voltaire,  with  the  sen- 
sibility of  a  Rousseau — the  minute  practical  know- 
ledge of  a  man  of  society,  with  the  abstract  and 
self-contemplative  spirit  of  a  poet — a  susceptibility 
of  all  that  is  grandest  and  most  affecting  in  human 
virtue,  with  a  deep,  withering  experience  of  all  that 
is  most  fatal  to  it,  the  two  extremes  in  short,  of 
man's  wild  and  inconsistent  nature,  such  was  the 
strange  assemblage  of  contrary  elements  all  meeting 
in  the  same  mind,  and  all  brought  to  bear,  in  turn, 
upon  the  same  task,  from  which  alone  could  have 
sprung  this  extraordinary  poem, — the  most  power- 
ful, and  in  many  resi^ects,  the  most  painful  display 
of  the  versatility  of  genius  that  has  ever  been  left 
for  succeeding  ages  to  wonder  at  and  depilore. 

It  was  about  the  time  that  a  full  consciousness  of 
the  evils  of  this  course  of  life  broke  upon  him  that 
an  attachment,  differing  altogether,  both  in  dura- 
tion and  intensity,  from  any  of  those  that  since  the 
dreams  of  his  boyhood  had  inspired  him,  gained  an 
influence  over  his  mind  which  lasted  through  his 
few  remaining  years,  and  undeniably  wrong  and  im- 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON, 


moral,  even  from  an  Italian  point  of  view,  as  was  the 
nature  of  this  connection,  we  .can  hardly  perhaps — 
taking  into  account  the  far  worse  wrong  from  which 
it  rescued  him — consider  it  otherwise  than  fortu- 
nate. 

The  fair  object  of  this  last  love  was  a  young  Ro- 
magnesc  lady,  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  the  daughter 
of  Count  Gamba,  of  Ravenna.  Her  husband  had 
in  early  life  been  the  friend  of  Alfieri,  and  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  the  promotion  of  a  national 
theatre,  in  which  cause  he  joined  his  own  wealth  to 
the  talents  of  the  poet.  Notwithstanding  his  age, 
and  a  character  by  no  means  reputable,  his  opulence 
made  him  a  prize  which  all  the  mothers  of  Ravenna 
strove  to  secure  for  their  daughters,  and  the  yoimg 
and  beautiful  Teresa  Gamba,  just  emancipated  from 
a  convent  and  only  eighteen,  was  the  selected  victim. 

The  first  time  that  Lord  Byron  met  this  lady  was 
at  the  house  of  the  Countess  Albrizzi,  in  the  autumn 
of  1818.  No  acquaintance,  at  this  time,  ensued  be- 
tween them,  and  it  was  not  till  the  following  spring 
that  they  were  introduced  to  each  other.  The  love 
that  sprang  up  at  this  interview  was  instantaneous 
and  mutual.  "  From  that  evening,"  she  says, "  we  met 
every  day  as  long  as  I  remained  at  Venice." 

About  the  middle  of  April  the  Countess  was 
obliged  to  quit  Venice  with  her  husband,  for  Ra- 
venna. From  every  place  on  the  road  she  wrote 
letters  to  her  lover,  expressing  in  the  most  passion- 
ate and  pathetic  terms  her  despair  at  leaving  him. 
So  great  was  her  affliction  that  it  produced  a  dan- 
gerous iUness,  which  by  the  time  that  she  reached 
the  end  of  her  journey  had  assumed  such  an  alarm- 
ing aspect  that  her  life  was  despaired  of.  The  timely 
arrival  of  Lord  Byron  at  Ravenna  had,  however,  a 
most  favorable  effect ;  and  she  was  soon  sufficiently 
recovered  to  go  to  Bologna,  whither  he  accompanied 
her.  The  state  of  her  health  before  long,  however, 
obliged  her  to  return  to  Venice  ;  her  husband  being 
unable  to  go  with  her,  he  consented  that  Lord  By- 
ron should  be  the  companion  of  her  journey.  The 
air  of  the  city  not  agreeing  with  the  countess,  they 
shortly  afterward  took  up  their  residence  at  a  villa 
on  the  Brenta. 

This  arrangement,  as  might  be  expected,  hardly 
pleased  the  count,  her  husband  ;  and  in  the  winter 
he  returned  to  Venice  to  claim  his  absent  spouse. 
He  immediately  insisted  that  his  lady  should  return 
with  him,  and  after  some  negotiations  she  reluct- 
antly consented  to  accompany  her  lord. 

Lord  Byron  now  turned  his  thoughts  toward  Eng- 
land. For  sometime  he  had  contemplated  a  visit 
to  his  native  land  to  attend  to  his  affairs  at  home, 
and  now  he  had  at  last,  though  unwillingly,  resolved 
upon  the  journey,  and  fixed  the  time  for  his  depar- 
ture, when  the  tidings  reached  him  that  the  count- 
ess was  again  alarmingly  ill  at  Ravenna.    Her  sor- 


row at  her  separation  had  so  preyed  upon  her  mind, 
that  even  her  own  family,  and  her  husband,  fearful 
of  the  consequences,  had  withdrawn  all  opposition 
to  her  wishes,  and  entreated  her  lover  to  hasten  to 
her  side.  Lord  Byron,  only  too  glad  of  any  excuse 
for  abandoning  his  journey,  and  eager  to  return  to 
the  woman  for  whom  he  felt  the  deepest  passion 
that  had,  since  his  boyhood,  animated  his  existence, 
and  who  had  shown  such  a  devoted  attachment  to 
him,  more  touching  amid  the  coldness  and  ingrati- 
tude that  he  had  lately  met  with,  lost  no  time  in 
responding  to  the  summons.  His  presence,  as  before, 
revived  her  sinking  health.  He  now  transferred  his 
wandering  household  to  Ravenna,  when  he  fell  into 
his  usual  routine  of  daily  employments ;  riding  in 
the  pine  forest  celebrated  by  Boccaccio  in  the  after- 
noon, and  passing  his  evenings  in  the  company  of 
his  inamorata,  or  going  occasionally  into  the  society 
of  the  place.  At  this  time,  all  connection  with  his 
own  countrymen,  except  by  correspondence,  had 
almost  entirely  ceased.  There  were  no  resident 
EngUsh  at  Ravenna,  and  travelers  seldom  came 
there,  and  never  stayed  long.  He  was  surrounded 
by  a  retinue  of  Italian  servants,  and  the  only  person 
that  he  ever  saw  who  spoke  his  native  tongue,  was 
his  valet  Fletcher,  and  he,  he  says,  spoke  Nottiiig- 
Jtamshire  dialect.  At  that  time  the  state  of  Italy 
was  very  much  disturbed  by  the  talk  of  revolutions 
and  secret  leagues  against  the  existing  foreign  gov- 
ernment. Lord  Byron,  as  it  appears  from  many 
allusions  in  his  letters,  took  a  warm  interest,  if  not 
a  more  active  part,  in  these  movements.  An  event 
occurred  at  this  time  which  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  his  mind,  and  which  he  has  alluded  to  in  Don 
Juan.  It  is  best  described  in  his  own  words  :  "  I 
open  my  letter  to  tell  you  a  fact  which  will  show 
the  state  of  this  country  better  than  I  can.  The 
commandant  of  the  troops  is  now  lying  dead  in  my 
house.  He  was  shot  at  a  little  past  eight  o'clock, 
about  two  hundred  paces  from  my  door.  I  was 
putting  on  my  coat  to  visit  Madame  la  Contessa  G., 
when  I  heard  the  shot ;  on  coming  into  the  hall,  I 
found  all  my  servants  on  the  balcony,  exclaiming 
that  a  man  was  murdered.  I  immediately  ran 
down,  calling  on  Tita,  the  bravest  of  them,  to  fol- 
low me.  The  rest  wanted  to  hinder  us  from  going, 
as  it  is  the  custom  for  every  one  here,  as  it  seems, 
to  run  away  from  '  the  stricken  deer  !' 

"  However,  down  we  ran,  and  found  him  lying  on 
his  back,  almost,  if  not  quite,  dead,  with  five  wounds, 
one  in  the  heart,  two  in  the  stomach,  one  in  the  fin- 
ger, and  the  other  in  the  arm.  Some  soldiers  cocked 
their  guns,  and  wanted  to  hinder  me  from  passing. 
However,  we  passed,  and  I  found  Diego,  the  adju- 
tant, crying  over  him  like  a  child — a  surgeon,  who 
said  nothing  of  his  profession — a  priest  sobbing  a 
frightened   prayer,  and   the  commandant,  all   this 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


zui 


time  on  his  back,  on  the  Imrrl,  cold  pavement,  with- 
out light  or  assistance,  or  anything  around  him  but 
confusion  and  dismay. 

"As  nobody  could,  or  would,  do  anything  but 
howl  and  pray,  and  as  no  one  would  stir  a  finger  to 
move  him,  for  fear  of  consequences,  I  lost  my  pa- 
tience— made  my  servant  and  a  couple  of  the  mob 
take  up  the  body,  sent  off  two  soldiers  to  the  guard, 
dispatched  Diego  to  the  cardinal  with  the  news, 
and  had  the  commandant  carried  up  stairs  into  my 
own  quarters.  But  it  was  too  late,  he  was  gone. 
Everybody  conjectures  why  he  was  killed,  but  no 
one  knows. 

"  He  only  said, '  O  Dio  !'  and  '  Gesu !'  two  or  three 
limes,  and  appeared  to  have  sufiered  little.  Poor 
fellow  !  He  was  a  brave  officer,  but  had  made  him- 
self much  disliked  by  the  people.  I  knew  him  per- 
sonally, and  had  met  him  often  at  converzazioni  and 
elsewhere.  My  house  is  full  of  soldiers,  dragoons, 
doctors,  priests,  and  all  kinds  of  persons — though  I 
have  now  cleared  it,  and  clapped  sentinels  at  the 
doors.  To-morrow  the  body  is  to  bo  moved.  The 
town  is  in  the  greatest  confusion,  as  you  may  sup- 
pose. 

"  You  are  to  know  that,  if  I  had  not  had  the  body 
moved,  they  would  have  left  it  there  till  morning  in 
the  street,  for  fear  of  consequences.  I  would  not 
choose  to  let  even  a  dog  die  in  such  a  manner,  with- 
out succor ;  and  as  for  consequences,  I  care  for  none 
in  a  duty." 

Before  long  these  agitations  excited  so  much  alarm 
in  the  hearts  of  the  rulers  of  Italy,  that  they  issued 
a  sentence  of  proscription  and  banishment  against 
all  those  whom  they  8Ui)posed  had  in  the  remotest 
degree  contributed  to  them.  The  two  Gambas,  the 
father  and  brother  of  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  were, 
of  course,  as  suspected  chiefs  of  the  Carbonari  of 
Eomagna,  included.  About  the  middle  of  July,  the 
Countess  wrote  to  inform  Lord  Byron  that  her  father, 
in  whose  palazzo  she  was  now  residing,  and  her 
brother,  had  just  been  ordered  to  quit  Ravenna 
within  twenty-four  hours.  She  herself  found  a  few 
days  after,  that  she  must  also  join  the  crowd  of  ex- 
iles. Lord  Byron  himself  had. become  an  object  of 
strong  suspicion  to  the  government,  bnt  not  daring 
to  attack  him  directly,  they  hoped  that  by  driving 
his  friends  away  he  would  be  induced  to  share  their 
banishment.  The  desired  result  was  obtained,  for  a 
short  time  afterward  ho  joined  them  at  Pisa,  in  Tus- 
cany, which  place  they  had  agreed  upon  for  the  win- 
ter. In  his  journey  to  this  place,  he  met  at  Bologna, 
by  a  previous  appointment,  the  poet  Rogers,  who 
has  introduced  the  circumstance  in  his  "  Italy." 

Upon  his  arrival  at  Pisa,  Lord  Byron  took  up  his 
residence  in  a  famous  old  feudal  palazzo  on  the  Arno, 
the  Lanfranchi  Palace.  Soon  after  his  removal  from 
Ravenna,  he  received  the  sad  intelligence  that  his 


natural  daughter,  Allegra  Byron,  whom  he  had  left 
at  the  convent  of  Bagna  Cavallo  for  the  care  of  her 
education,  was  dead.  The  blow  was  a  heavy  one, 
but  after  the  first  violent  burst  of  grief,  he  bore  up 
against  it  with  a  firmness  and  composure  unusual  to 
his  temperament.  Wliile  ho  was  at  Pisa,  a  serious 
affray  occurred,  in  which  ho  was  personally  con- 
cerned. Lord  Byron,  with  some  of  his  friends,  was 
riding  near  the  gates  of  the  city,  when  a  dragoon, 
whom  he  mistook  for  an  officer,  but  who  afterward 
turned  out  to  be  only  a  sergeant-major,  called  upon 
the  guard  to  arrest  them.  Lord  Byron  and  another, 
an  Italian,  rode  through  the  guard,  without  heeding 
them,  but  they  detained  the  rest.  He  then  rode 
homo,  and  sent  his  secretary  to  give  an  account  of 
the  affair  to  the  government  and  procure  their  re- 
lease. Upon  returning  to  the  spot,  he  met  the  same 
dragoon,  and  had  some  words  with  him,  and  sup- 
posing him  to  be  a  gentleman,  asked  him  his  name 
and  address.  As  the  dragoon  was  riding  away,  he 
was  stabbed  and  dangerously  wounded  by  one  of 
Lord  Byron's  servants,  wholly,  however,  without  his 
direction  or  approval.  The  consequence  of  this  ren- 
contre was,  that  the  two  Gambas  and  Lord  Byron's 
servants  were  banished  from  Pisa.  He  himself  was 
advised  to  leave  it.  As  the  countess  went  with  her 
father,  he  a  short  time  after  joined  them  at  Leghorn, 
and  spent  six  weeks  at  Moutenero,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. His  return  to  Pisa  was  occasioned  by  a  new 
prosecution  of  the  family  of  the  Gambas.  They 
were  commanded  to  leave  the  Tuscan  states  in 
four  days.  After  their  departure,  the  Countess 
Guiccioli  and  Lord  Byron  returned  to  the  Lanfranchi 
Palace. 

During  all  this  time  he  had  not  been  idle  with 
his  pen.  "  The  Prophecy  of  Dante,"  "  Sardana- 
palus,"  a  tragedy ;  "  Heaven  and  Earth,"  a  myste- 
ry ;  and  "  Cain,"  a  mystery,  were  written  at  Ra- 
venna. The  last  production  called  forth  the 
severest  denunciations,  for  what  appeared  to  be  its 
impiety  in  questioning  the  benevolence  of  Provi- 
dence. From  this  the  author  defended  himself  on 
the  ground  that  it  was  strictly  a  dramatic  work ; 
that  if  it  was  blasphemous,  so  also  must  be  Milton's 
"Paradise  Lost,"  with  Satan's  "Evil,  be  thou  my 
good."  At  Pisa  ho  wrote,  however,  a  tragedy,  "  The 
Deformed  Transformed,"  and  continued  "  Don  Juan  " 
through  the  Seventeenth  Canto. 

Lord  Byron,  when  in  England,  had  become  ac- 
quainted with  Leigh  Hunt,  the  editor  of  the  Ex- 
aminer. His  regard  for  him  had  been  strengthened 
by  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Hunt  had  stood  forward 
in  his  justification,  when  public  opinion  was  so 
strongly  opposed  to  him.  This  feeling  now  induced 
him  to  invite  Mr.  Hunt  to  Pisa,  and  to  give  him  and 
his  family  a  suite  of  apartments  in  the  Lanfranchi 
Palace.    Besides  this  hospitality,  Mr.  Hunt  often 


XIV 


LIFE    OF  LORD    BYRON. 


received  pecuniary  assistance  from  Lord  Byron, 
but  being  always  totally  unable  to  repay  these  bene- 
fits in  any  way,  he  afterwards  thought  it  proper 
to  revenge  upon  the  dead  the  obligations  which  he 
had  accepted  from  the  living.  Of  the  book  which 
he  wrote  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  speak,  from  the 
utter  oblivion  and  contempt  into  which  it  fell.  In 
it  the  author  sought  to  expose  the  weaknesses  and 
detract  from  the  fame  of  his  patron,  but  succeeded 
only  in  exposing  his  own  vulgarity  and  petty  spite.* 
On  his  arrival  at  Pisa,  in  the  spring  of  1823,  a 
montlily  magazine  was  projected,  to  be  published  in 
London,  of  which  Mr.  Hunt  was  to  be  the  editor,  and 
to  which  Lord  Byron  and  his  friend,  the  poet  Shelley, 
were  to  contribute.  Three  numbers  of  this  period- 
ical. The  Liberal,  were  pubUshed,  after  which,  chiefly 
in  consequence  of  the  death  of  Shelley,  who  was 
dro\\'ned  in  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia  by  the  upsetting 
of  his  yacht  in  a  squall,  it  was  discontinued.  Lord 
Byron's  principal  contribution  was  "  The  Vision  of 
Judgment,"  a  parody  of  the  Laureate  Southey's 
poem  of  the  same  name. 

In  consequence  of  further  trouble  from  the  gov- 
ernment. Lord  Byron  thought  it  expedient  to  leave 
Pisa,  and  after  balancing  in  his  mind  various  pro- 
jects—  sometimes  thinking  of  Genoa,  and  some- 
times of  South  America — he  at  length  decided,  for 
the  present,  to  transfer  his  home  to  Genoa,  where 
he  took  a  villa  in  Albano,  one  of  the  suburbs  of  the 
city.  During  his  residence  here,  he  became  ac- 
quainted Avith  Lord  and  Lady  Blcssington,  who 
were  at  that  time  making  the  grand  tour.  The 
young  Countess  of  Blessington  was  at  that  time  in 
the  full  height  of  all  her  charms,  and  Lord  Byron 
felt  the  influence  of  those  attractions  which  after- 
wards made  her  the  centre  of  the  brilliant  literary 
circle  of  Gore  House.  Upon  his  suggestion  they 
took  a  villa  at  Genoa.  In  their  society  he  met  the 
celebrated  Count  D'Orsay,  of  whose  accomplishments 
he  speaks  with  great  warmth  in  his  letters. 

We  now  come  to  a  period  in  Byron's  career  when 
a  new  start  was  to  be  taken  by  his  daring  spirit, 
and  a  course,  glorious  as  it  was  brief  and  fatal,  en- 
tered upon.  It  may  be  well,  before  we  go  on  with 
our  narrative,  to  take  a  passing  view  of  some  of  the 
chief  causes  which  led  him  to  engage  in  the  strug- 
gle for  Grecian  independence.  Looking  back  from 
the  point  to  which  we  have  now  arrived,  and  atten- 
tively considering  his  writings,  we  cannot  fail  to  ob- 
serve, through  the  whole  of  his  past  life,  amid  all  his 
seeming  inconsistencies  and  contradictions,  an  ad- 
herence to  the  original  principles  on  the  great  sub- 
jects that  interested  him  through  life,  essentially 


*  "  Reminiscences  of  Lord  Byron  and  his  Contemporaries," 
by  Leigh  Hunt.  See  the  verses,  "  Tlie  Living  Dog  and  the  Dead 
Lion,"  in  Moore's  Poetical  Works. 


unchanged.  After  the  failure  of  those  hopes  which 
ho  had  so  sanguinely  entertained  in  the  late  struggle 
between  Italy  and  her  rulers,  it  was  a  relief  to  him 
to  turn  his  eyes  to  Greece,  where  a  spirit  was  now 
rising  such  as  he  had  himself  imaged  forth  in 
dreams  of  song.  His  early  travels  had  left  a  deep 
impression  on  his  mind,  and  whenever  his  fancy 
for  a  roving  life  returned,  he  looked  with  fondness 
to  the  regions  of  the  "  blue  Olympus."  Since  his 
residence  in  Italy,  this  propensity  had,  in  a  great 
degree,  subsided.  In  addition  to  the  sedentary 
effects  of  his  new  domestic  tie,  there  had  grown 
upon  him  a  degree  of  inertness  and  indisposition  to 
change,  which  in  the  instance  of  his  departure  from 
Ravenna  was  with  difficulty  surmounted.  But  now 
the  unsettled  state  of  life  into  wliich  he  was  again 
thrown,  revived  all  his  former  restlessness  and  love 
of  adventure,  and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  Greece, 
as  offering  this  in  its  most  exciting  form,  should 
kindle  in  him  a  desire  not  only  to  witness,  but  per- 
haps to  share  in,  the  triumphs  of  liberty  on  the  very 
fields  where  he  had  already  gathered  for  immortal- 
ity such  memorials  of  her  former  glory.  Among  the 
feelings  that  concurred  with  this  sentiment  to  de- 
termine him  to  this  cnterj^rise,  the  fear  that  his 
poetical  popularity  was  declining,  was  among  the 
strongest.  The  only  difficulty  that  still  remained  to 
retard  his  resolution  was  the  necessity  of  a  temporary 
separation  from  Madame  Guiccioli,  who  was  herself 
anxious  to  participate  in  his  perils,  but  whom  it  was 
impossible,  of  course,  to  think  of  exposing  to  the 
chances  of  a  life,  even  for  men,  so  rude. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  April,  Lord 
BjTon  received  a  visit  from  Mr.  Blaquiere,  the  agent 
of  the  Greek  Committee,  in  England.  Ho  had  been 
directed  to  stop  at  Genoa  and  communicate  with 
Lord  Byron,  as  it  was  thought  that  he  might  feel 
inclined  to  aid  the  revolutionists.  In  this  way  Lord 
Byron's  active  participation  in  the  struggle  began, 
and  he  found  himself,  almost  before  he  had  time  to 
form  a  decision,  or  well  knew  what  he  had  under- 
taken, obliged  to  set  out  for  Greece.  All  the  pre- 
parations for  his  departure  were  now  hastened.  He 
wrote  to  Mr.  Trelawney,  who  was  then  at  Rome,  to 
accompany  him.  He  engaged  a  young  physician. 
Dr.  Bruno,  as  the  surgeon  of  the  expedition,  and 
among  other  things,  he  ordered  three  splendid 
helmets  to  be  made — with  his  never-forgotten  crest 
engraved  upon  them  —  for  himself  and  the  two 
friends  that  were  to  accompany  him.  With  the  aid 
of  his  banker,  and  Mr.  Barry,  of  Genoa,  he  was  en- 
abled to  raise  the  large  sums  of  money  necessary  for 
his  supply ;  10,000  crowns  in  specie  and  40,000 
crowns  in  bills  of  exchange,  being  the  amount  that 
he  took  with  him.  A  portion  of  this  was  raised 
upon  his  furniture  and  books. 
Notwithstanding  the  attractions  that  this  voyage 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


XV 


presented  to  him,  and  his  affection  for  the  land  to 
which  he  was  going — notwithstanding  the  conscious- 
ness of  liis  own  moral  energies,  which  made  him 
always  say  that  "'  a  man  ought  to  do  something 
more  for  society  than  write  verses," — and,  more- 
over, that  he  was  resolved  to  return  to  Italy  within 
a  few  months— notwithstanding  all  this,  every  per- 
son who  was  near  him  at  the  time,  can  bear  witness 
to  the  struggle  which  his  mind  underwent  at  his  de- 
parture. He  had  also  a  sort  of  ominous  presenti- 
ment that  he  was  but  fulfilling  his  own  doom  in  this 
expedition,  and  should  die  in  Greece.  The  evening 
before  Lord  and  Lady  Blessington  left  Genoa,  he 
called  upon  them  for  the  purpose  of  taking  leave. 
lie  appeared  in  low  spirits,  and  after  talking  for 
some  time  in  a  very  melancholy  strain,  he  leaned  his 
head  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa  on  which  they  were 
seated,  and  bursting  into  tears,  wept  for  some  min- 
utes in  uncontrollable  emotion.  He  had  before  pre- 
sented each  of  the  party  with  some  little  farewell 
gift.  He  gave  Lady  Blessington  a  small  cameo  of 
Napoleon  which  he  wore.  The  next  day  he  wrote 
to  her  requesting  her  to  return  it,  as  he  felt  some 
superstition  about  parting  with  it,  and  substitute  a 
Venetian  gold  chain,  which  he  sent,  in  its  place. 

All  was  now  ready,  and  on  the  13th  day  of  July 
he  slept  on  board  the  Hercules,  an  EngUsh  brig, 
wliich  had  been  taken  to  convey  him  to  the  East. 
His  suite,  at  this  time,  consisted  of  Count  Gamba, 
Mr.  Trelawnoy,  Dr.  Bruno,  and  eight  domestics. 
About  sunrise  the  next  morning  they  succeeded  in 
clearing  the  jjort,  but  after  remaining  in  sight  of 
Genoa  the  whole  day,  they  were  obliged,  by  ad- 
verse winds,  to  return.  This  incident  was  regarded 
by  Byron  as  a  bad  omen,  and  tended  still  more  to 
depress  his  spirits.  AVlien,  however,  they  had  fairly 
got  to  sea  on  the  next  day,  and  he  was  wholly  dis- 
engaged, as  it  were,  from  his  former  existence,  the 
natural  power  of  his  spirit  shook  off  this  despond- 
ency, and  the  light  and  life  of  his  better  nature 
again  shone  forth.  After  a  passage  of  five  days 
they  reached  Leghorn,  where  they  were  to  stop  to 
take  in  a  supply  of  powder  and  other  English  goods, 
not  to  be  had  elsewhere.  On  the  34th  of  July,  after 
a  most  fevorable  voyage,  they  cast  anchor  at  Agostoli, 
the  chief  port  of  Cephalonia.  It  had  been  thought 
prudent  that  Lord  Byron  should  first  direct  his 
course  to  one  of  the  Ionian  islands,  from  whence,  as 
a  post  of  observation,  he  should  be  able  to  ascertain 
the  exact  position  of  affairs  on  the  mainland.  "With 
this  view  he  determined  not  to  land  at  Agostoli,  but 
to  await  on  board  his  vessel  further  information  from 
the  government  of  Greece.  "While  awaiting  the 
return  of  his  messengers,  he  employed  his  time  in  a 
visit  to  the  neighboring  island  of  Ithaca.  Un- 
changed since  his  early  travels,  he  still  preferred 
the  wild  charms  of  nature  to  the  classic  associations 


of  art  and  story,  although  he  viewed  with  much 
interest  those  places  which  tradition  had  sanctified. 
The  benevolence,  which  was  one  of  the  chief  mo- 
tives of  his  present  course,  had  opportunities  of 
showing  itself,  even  during  his  short  stay  in  Ithaca. 
On  hearing  that  a  number  of  destitute  fomilies  had 
fled  thither  for  refuge  from  Scio,  Patras,  and  other 
parts  of  Greece,  he  sent  to  the  commandant  three 
thousand  piastres  for  their  relief.  Upon  Lord  By- 
ron's return  to  Cephalonia,  a  messenger  brought  him 
a  letter  from  Marco  Botzari,  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the 
insurrection  in  "Western  Greece.  He  hailed  his  arri- 
val with  enthusiasm,  and  thanked  him  for  the  aid 
which  he  had  already  given  to  the  cause,  in  arming 
forty  Suliotes,  and  sending  them  to  assist  in  the  re- 
lief of  Missolonghi,  at  that  time  besieged  by  the 
Turks.  This  letter  preceded,  only  by  a  few  hours, 
the  death  of  the  writer.  The  same  night  he  led  his 
band  into  the  midst  of  the  Turkish  camp,  and  fell 
at  last  close  to  the  tent  of  the  Pacha  himself  This 
glorious  enterprise  checked,  but  did  not  prevent  the 
advance  of  the  Turks.  After  the  battle.  Lord  Byron 
transmitted  bandages  and  medicines,  of  which  he 
had  a  large  supply,  and  also  pecuniary  assistance  to 
the  wounded. 

The  state  of  Greece  at  this  time  was  such  as  would 
discourage  any  but  the  most  sanguine  spirit.  The 
resources  and  obstinacy  of  the  powerful  Turk,  op- 
posed to  a  hardly  organized  government  destitute 
of  unity,  and  a  degenerate  people  controlled  by  a 
multiplicity  of  leaders,  each  pursuing  his  own  sel- 
fish ends,  and  the  doubtful  favor  with  which  the 
courts  of  Europe  looked  upon  the  attempts  of  any 
nation  to  be  its  own  emancipator,  gave  little  hope 
that  Greece  would  ever  work  out  her  own  liberation, 
or  that  anything  but  a  fortuitous  combination  of 
political  circumstances  could  ever  accomplish  it. 
That  Lord  Byron,  on  a  nearer  view,  saw  tlic  contest 
in  this  light,  his  letters  leave  no  room  to  doubt. 
Though  he  had  little  hoise  of  signally  serving  the 
cause,  he  thought  that  he  at  least  might  be  able  to 
lighten  some  of  the  manifold  evils  that  pressed  upon 
it.  To  infuse  some  spirit  of  union  among  the  lead- 
ers, to  convince  them  of  the  paralyzing  effect  of 
dissensions,  and  to  humanize  the  feelings  of  the 
belligerents  on  both  sides,  so  as  to  take  from  the 
war  that  character  of  barbarism  which  deterred  the 
more  civilized  friends  of  liberty  from  joining  in  it 
as  well  as  to  aid  it  with  money,  were  the  objects  to 
which  he  applied  himself  and  strove  to  effect  by  his 
interference. 

Aware  that  to  judge  deliberately  of  the  state 
of  parties  he  must  keep  out  of  their  vortex,  and 
warned  of  the  risk  he  should  run  by  connecting 
himself  with  any,  he  resolved  to  remain  for  some- 
time longer  at  Cephalonia.  During  the  six  weeks 
that  he  had  been  here,  he  had  been  living  in  the 


XVI 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON, 


most  comfortless  manner,  on  board  the  vessel  wliicli 
brought  him.  Having  made  up  his  mind  to  prolong 
his  stay,  he  decided  upon  fixing  his  residence  on 
shore,  and  he  retired,  for  the  sake  of  privacy,  to  a 
small  village  called  Metaxata,  about  seven  miles  from 
Agostoli. 

Before  his  removal  he  despatched  Mr.  Trelawney 
and  Mr.  Hamilton  Browne  with  a  letter  to  the  ex- 
isting government,  explaining  his  own  views  and 
those  of  the  committee  whom  he  represented  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  a  month  after  that  intelligence  from 
these  gentlemen  reached  him.  The  picture  they 
gave  of  the  state  of  the  country  was  confirmatory  of 
what  has  already  been  described,— incapacity  and 
selfishness  at  the  head  of  afiixirs,  disorganization 
throughout  the  body  politic,  but  still  with  all  this, 
the  heart  of  the  nation  sound,  and  bent  on  resist- 
ance. His  lordship's  agents  had  been  received  with 
all  due  welcome  by  the  government,  who  were  most 
anxious  that  he  should  set  out  for  the  Morea  with- 
out delay ;  and  pressing  letters  to  this  purport  were 
sent  to  him,  both  from  the  legislative  and  executive 
bodies. 

Here,  in  his  retirement,  while  awaiting  more  posi- 
tive assurances  to  direct  liis  movements,  conflicting 
calls  were  reaching  him  from  all  the  various  scenes 
of  action  ;  Metaxa,  at  Missolonghi,  entreated  him  to 
hasten  to  the  relief  of  that  place,  which  the  Turks 
were  now  blockading  by  sea  and  land ;  the  head  of 
the  military  chiefs,  Colcotroni,  was  no  less  urgent 
that  he  should  present  himself  at  the  approaching 
congress  of  Salamis,  where,  under  the  dictation  of 
these  rude  warriors,  the  afiairs  of  the  country  were 
to  be  settled  ;  while  from  anoth^  quarter,  the  great 
opponent  of  these  chieftains,  Mavrocordato,  was,  with 
more  urgency,  as  well  as  more  ability  than  any,  en- 
deavoring to  impress  upon  him  his  own  views,  and 
imploring  his  presence  at  Hydra,  whither  he  had 
been  forced  to  retire.  Byron  listened  with  equal  at- 
tention to  all  these  conflicting  appeals,  and  not  com- 
mitting himself  to  any  party,  strove  in  his  own  way 
to  discover  the  truth,  and  to  form  his  judgment 
from  it.  During  all  this  time  he  pursued  his  usual 
occupations,  rising  earlier,  however,  than  he  was  ac- 
customed to,  for  the  disjjatch  of  business.  Though 
so  much  occupied,  he  was  accessible  to  visitors  at 
all  hours,  a  privilege  which  appears  to  have  been 
somewhat  abused  by  the  native  garrison.  The  per- 
son whoso  visits  gave  him  the  most  pleasure,  as  well 
from  the  interest  he  took  in  the  subject  of  their 
discussions,  as  the  amusement  that  he  derived  from 
his  peculiarities,  was  a  Dr.  Kennedy,  who  from  a 
strong  sense  of  the  value  of  religion  to  himself,  had 
taken  up  the  benevolent  task  of  communicating  his 
own  light  to  others.  Lord  Byron  had  long  and 
frequent  conferences  on  religious  subjects  with  this 
gentleman,  and  quite  astonished  the  worthy  doctor 


by  his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
of  the  writings  of  the  English  divines,  in  which  he 
had  rather  the  advantage  of  his  opponent,  who  seems 
to  have  been  strong  only  in  faith.  In  these  con- 
versations Lord  Byron  expressly  disclaimed  being  an 
infidel,  on  the  contrary,  "  desirous  to  believe,  as  he 
experienced  no  happiness  in  having  his  religious 
opinions  so  unfixed."  He  was  unable,  however,  "  to 
understand  the  Scriptures."  Those  who  conscien- 
tiously believed  in  them  he  would  always  respect, 
and  was  more  disposed  to  trust  in  them  than  in 
others. 

Besides  the  aid  which  he  had  already  afforded  to 
the  Greeks,  in  many  difierent  ways.  Lord  Byron  as- 
sisted the  government  by  the  loan  of  large  sums  of 
money,  to  raise  which  he  sold  his  manor  of  Roch- 
dale, and  drew  largely  upon  his  income  for  the  en- 
suing year.  ' 

The  Grecian  squadron,  which  had  been  long  ex- 
pected at  Missolonghi,  had  now  arrived,  and  INIav- 
rocordato,  the  only  leader  worthy  of  the  name  of 
statesman,  having  been  appointed  to  organize  West- 
ern Greece,  the  time  for  Lord  Byron's  presence  on 
the  scene  of  action  seemed  to  have  arrived,  and  he  set 
about  preparing  for  his  departure.  His  friends  en- 
deavored to  dissuade  him  from  fixing  on  such  an 
unhealthy  sjiot  as  Missolonghi  for  his  residence,  but 
his  mind  was  made  up, — the  proximity  of  the  port 
in  some  degree  tempting  him, — and  having  lured 
for  himself  and  suite  a  light,  fast-sailing  vessel,  with 
a  boat  for  part  of  his  baggage,  and  a  larger  vessel 
for  the  horses,  etc.,  he  was  on  the  26th  of  December 
ready  to  sail.  This  short  voyage  was  not  without  its 
accidents.  Several  hours  before  daybreak,  while  wait- 
ing for  the  other  party  to  come  up.  Lord  Byron  found 
himself  close  under  the  stern  of  a  large  vessel  which 
was  soon  found  to  be  a  Turkish  frigate.  By  good 
fortune,  they  were  mistaken  for  a  Greek  fire- 
ship  by  the  Turks,  who  therefore  feared  to  fire,  but 
with  loud  shouts  frequently  hailed  them.  By  main- 
taining perfect  silence,  and  under  cover  of  the  dark- 
ness. Lord  Byron's  vessel  was  enabled  to  get  away  safe- 
ly ;  and  took  shelter  among  the  Scrofes,  a  cluster  of 
rocks  but  a  few  hours'  sail  from  Missolonghi.  Finding 
his  position  here  untenable  in  case  of  an  attack,  he 
thought  it  right  to  venture  out  again,  and  making 
all  sail,  got  safe  to  Dragomestina,  a  small  sea-port 
town  on  the  coast  of  Acarnania.  The  other  boat, 
with  Count  Gamba  on  board,  was  not  so  fortunate, 
having  been  brought  to  by  the  Turkish  frigate  and 
carried  into  Patras,  where  the  commander  of  the 
squadron  was  stationed.  Here  after  an  interview 
with  the  Pacha,  by  whom  he  was  treated  most  court- 
eously, during  his  detention  he  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  procure  the  release  of  his  vessel  and  freight, 
and  on  the  4th  of  January  he  arrived  at  Missolonghi, 
where,  on  the  next  day,  he  was  joined  by  Lord  By- 


LIFE    OF   LORD    BYRON. 


xvu 


ron,  -who  was  received  by  the  garrison  and  the  in- 
habitants with  the  greatest  demonstrations  of  enthu- 
siasm. The  wliolc  population  of  the  place  crowded 
to  the  shore  to  welcome  him  ;  the  ships  anchored 
off  the  fortress  fired  a  salute  as  he  passed,  and  all 
the  troops  and  dignitaries  of  the  jjlacc,  with  Prince 
Mavrocordato  at  their  head,  met  him  on  his  land- 
ing, and  accompanied  him,  amid  the  mingled  din 
of  shouts,  wild  music,  and  discharges  of  artillery, 
to  the  house  that  had  been  prepared  for  him. 

After  a  week  of  such  fatigue  as  Xord  Byron  had 
undergone,  some  repose  might  fairly  have  been  ex- 
pected by  him.  But  the  scene  on  which  he  entered 
was  one  that  precluded  all  hope  of  rest.  There  was 
collected  together,  within  the  narrow  precincts  of 
that  town,  every  imaginable  element  of  unquiet  and 
misrule.  In  every  quarter,  dissatisfaction  and  dis- 
organization presented  themselves.  Half  of  the  brigs 
of  war  which  had  come  to  the  relief  of  Missolonghi, 
had  returned  to  Hydra,  in  despair  of  being  paid. 
The  sailors  of  the  remaining  vessels  had  quitted 
their  ships,  and  were  remaining  idly  on  shore.  The 
inhabitants,  seeing  themselves  thus  deserted,  with  a 
famine  threatening  them  and  the  Turkish  fleet  be- 
fore their  eyes,  were  ready  for  riot  and  revolt,  and 
to  complete  the  confusion  a  general  assembly  was 
to  be  held  in  the  town,  and  the  wild  chiefs  of  the 
mountains,  ripe  for  dissension,  with  all  their  follow- 
ers were  now  thronging  to  it.  Ill  provided  with 
pay  or  food  this  military  mob  were  no  less  discon- 
tented than  the  sailors,  and  in  every  direction  the  en- 
tire population  presented  a  mass  of  insubordination, 
and  discord  more  likely  to  produce  w^arfarc  among 
themselves  than  with  the  enemy.  Such  was  the  state 
of  affairs  that  Lord  Byron  encountered,  with  the  ad- 
ditional weight  of  the  consciousness  that  all  looked  to 
him  to  set  them  right.  He  lost  no  time  in  beginning 
his  attempts  at  reform,  and  in  trying  to  reduce  this 
chaos  to  something  like  order.  His  first  act  was  to 
pay  the  fleet.  Ho  next  organized  a  regiment  of  five 
hundred  Suliotes,  with  himself  as  their  chief  Hav- 
ing learned  that  there  were  a  few  Turkish  soldiers 
in  confinement  at  Missolonghi,  he  obtained  their  re- 
lease from  the  government,  and  sent  them  to  Yussuf 
Pacha,  with  a  letter,  thanking  him  for  his  courtesy 
to  Count  Gamba. 

An  expedition  against  Lepanto,.*- fortified  town 
on  the  Gulf  of  Corinth,  was  now  proposed,  and  the 
command  was  given  to  Lord  Byron,  who  entered 
into  the  project  with  great  enthusiasm.  The  delay 
of  Parry,  the  engineer,  who  was  expected  with  sup- 
plies necessary  for  the  formation  of  a  brigade  of  ar- 
tillery, for  some  time  checked  this  important  enter- 
prise, and  a  still  more  formidable  embarrassment 
presented  itself  in  the  turbulence  and  insubordina- 
tion of  the  Suliote  troops,  on  whoso  services  it  de- 
pended.   Presuming  upon  the  generosity  of  Lord 


Byron  and  their  own  military  importance,  they 
never  ceased  to  rise  in  the  extravagance  of  their 
demands.  They  pleaded  the  utterly  destitute  and 
homeless  state  of  their  families,  whom  they  had 
been  compelled  to  bring  with  them,  as  a  pretext 
for  their  exaction  and  discontent.  A  serious  riot, 
which  occurred  between  the  Suliotes  and  the  people, 
and  in  which  several  lives  were  lost,  also  added  much 
to  the  anxiety  of  Lord  Byron,  who  deeply  felt  the  dis- 
appointment which  the  ill  success  of  his  endeavors 
had  caused  him.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  how- 
ever, neither  his  eagerness  nor  his  eflforts  for  the  ac- 
complishment of  this  sole  personal  object  of  his  am- 
bition, were  relaxed  an  instant.  To  whatever  little 
glory  was  to  be  won  by  the  attack  on  Lepanto,  he 
looked  forward  as  the  only  reward  for  all  the  sacri- 
fice that  he  was  making.  Such  an  achievement  as 
the  storming  of  the  fortress  he  aspired  to,  not  only 
as  the  sole  means  of  redeeming  worthily  the  pledge 
he  had  given,  but  as  the  most  lasting  and  signal 
service  that  a  name  like  his — echoed  as  it  would 
then  be,  among  the  watch-words  of  liberty  from  age 
to  age — could  bequeath  to  her  cause. 

Towards  the  middle  of  February,  the  indefatigable 
activity  of  Mr.  Parry  having  brought  the  artillery 
brigade  into  such  a  state  of  forwardness  as  to  be 
almost  ready  for  service,  an  inspection  of  the  Suliote 
corps  took  place  preparatory  to  the  expedition  ;  and 
after  much  of  the  usual  deception  and  unmanage- 
bleness  on  their  part,  every  obstacle  appeared  to  be 
at  length  surmounted.  It  was  agreed  that  they 
should  receive  a  month's  pay  in  advance ; — Count 
Gamba,  with  three  hundred  of  their  corps,  as  a  van- 
guard, was  to  march  next  day  and  take  up  a  posi- 
tion under  Lepanto,  and  Lord  Byron  with  the  main 
body  and  the  artillery  was  speedily  to  follow.  New 
difliculties,  however,  were  soon  started  by  these  in- 
tractable mercenaries ;  and  at  the  instigation,  as 
it  afterwards  appeared,  of  Colcotroni,  the  great  rival 
of  Mavrocordato,  they  put  forward  tlicir  exactions 
in  a  new  shape,  by  requiring  the  government  to  ap- 
point generals,  colonels,  captains,  and  inferior  offi- 
cers out  of  their  own  ranks,  to  the  extent  that  there 
should  be  out  of  three  or  four  hundred  Suliotes,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  aliove  the  rank  of  private.  This 
audacious  dishonesty  roused  the  anger  of  Lord  By- 
ron, and  he  at  once  signified  to  the  whole  body  that 
aU  negotiation  with  them  was  at  an  end ;  that  he 
could  no  longer  have  confidence  in  persons  so  little 
true  to  their  engagements  ;  and,  although  he  should 
stiU  keep  up  the  relief  which  he  had  given  to  their 
families,  all  his  agreements  with  them  were  thence- 
forward void. 

it  was  on  the  14th  of  February  that  this  rupture 
with  the  Suliotes  took  place ;  and  though  on  the 
following  day,  in  consequence  of  the  full  submission 
of  their  chiefs,  they  were  again  received  into  his 


XVIU 


LIFE    OF    LORD   BYRON. 


service  on  his  own  terms,  the  whole  aflfair,  com- 
bined with  the  other  difficulties  that  beset  him,  agi- 
tated his  mind  considerably.  He  saw  with  pain 
that  he  should  imperil  the  cause  of  Greece  and  his 
own  character,  by  relying  on  troops  that  any  intrig- 
uer might  seduce  from  their  duty  in  the  moment  of 
danger ;  and  that,  till  some  regular  force  should  be 
organized,  the  expedition  against  Lepanto  must  be 
suspended. 

While  these  vexatious  events  were  occurring,  the 
interruptions  of  his  accustomed  exercise  by  the  rains 
increased  the  irritability  that  these  delays  excited ; 
and  the  whole  together,  no  doubt,  concurred  with 
whatever  predisposing  tendencies  were  already  in 
his  constitution  to  bring  on  that  convulsive  fit — 
the  forerunner  of  his  death, — which,  on  the  evening 
of  the  loth  of  February,  seized  him.  He  was  sit- 
ting, at  about  eight  o'clock,  with  only  Mr.  Parry  and 
Mr.  Hesketh,  in  the  apartment  of  Colonel  StanhoiJe, 
talking  jestingly  upon  one  of  his  favorite  topics,  the 
difference  between  himself  and  this  latter  gentleman, 
and  saying  that  "  he  believed,  after  all,  the  author's 
brigade  would  be  ready  before  the  soldier's  print- 
ing-press." There  was  an  unusual  flush  on  his  face, 
and  from  the  rapid  changes  of  his  countenance  it 
was  manifest  that  he  was  suffering  under  some  nerv- 
ous agitation.  He  then  complained  of  being  thirsty, 
and  calling  for  some  cider,  drank  it ;  upon  whicli, 
a  still  greater  change  being  observable  over  his  fea- 
tures, he  rose  from  his  seat,  but  was  unable  to  walk, 
and,  after  staggering  forward  a  step  or  two,  fell  into 
Mr.  Parry's  arms.  In  another  minute  his  teeth  were 
closed,  his  speech  and  senses  gone,  and  he  was  in 
strong  convulsions.  So  violent,  indeed,  were  his 
struggles,  that  it  required  all  the  strength  both  of 
Mr.  Parry  and  his  servant  Tita,  to  hold  him  during 
the  fit.  His  face,  too,  was  much  distorted,  and,  as 
he  told  Count  Gamba  afterward,  "  So  intense  were 
his  sufferings  during  the  convulsion,  that  had  it 
lasted  but  a  minute  longer,  he  believed  he  must 
have  died."  The  fit  was,  however,  as  short  as  it 
was  violent ;  in  a  few  minutes  his  speech  and  senses 
returned ;  his  features,  though  still  pale  and  hag- 
gard, resumed  their  natural  shape,  and  no  effect 
remained  from  the  attack  but  excessive  weakness.  | 
"  As  soon  as  he  could  speak,"  says  Count  Gamba, 
"  he  showed  himself  perfectly  free  from  all  alarm, 
but  he  very  coolly  asked  whether  his  attack  was 
likely  to  prove  fatal.  '  Let  me  know,'  he  said  ;  '  do 
not  think  I  am  afraid  to  die — I  am  not.'  " 

The  next  morning  he  was  found  to  be  better,  but 
still  pale  and  weak,  and  he  complained  much  of  a 
sensation  of  weight  in  his  head.  Leeches  were 
therefore  applied  to  his  temples,  but  on  their  re- 
moval it  was  some  time  before  they  could  stop  the 
blood,  which  flowed  so  copiously  tliat  he  fainted 
from  exhaustion.     Wliile  he  was  thus  lying  pros- 


trate upon  his  bed,  a  party  of  mutinous  Suliotes 
rushed  into  the  room,  covered  vnth  dirt  and  splen- 
did attire,  brandishing  their  wild  arms,  and  wildly 
insisting  upon  compUance  with  their  demands. 
Lord  Byron,  electrifled  by  this  unexpected  act, 
seemed  to  recover  from  his  sickness,  and  the  more 
they  raged  the  more  his  calm  courage  returned.  His 
health  now  slowly  improved,  and  his  strength  in- 
creased so  that  in  a  few  days  he  was  enabled  to  take 
his  daily  rides  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  insubordination  of  the  Suliotes  continued  to 
grow  more  uncontrollable.  A  short  time  after  the  out- 
break just  spoken  of,  a  quarrel  arose  between  them 
and  the  Frank  guard,  in  which  a  Swedish  officer 
was  killed,  and  a  general  fight  appeared  imminent. 
It  now  became  absolutely  necessary,  for  the  safety  of 
the  European  population,  to  get  rid  of  them  alto- 
gether ;  and  by  some  sacrifices  on  the  part  of  Lord 
Byron,  this  object  was  at  length  effected.  The  ad- 
vance of  a  month's  pay  by  him,  and  the  discharge 
of  their  arrears  by  the  government  (the  latter,  too, 
with  money  lent  by  the  same  universal  paymaster), 
at  length  induced  them  to  quit  the  town,  and  with 
them  vanished  all  hopes  of  the  expedition  against 
Lepanto. 

Compelled  to  abandon  his  favorite  project.  Lord 
Byron  contented  himself  with  strengthening  thq  for- 
tifications of  Missolonghi,  and  forming  a  lirigade, 
with  a  view  to  other  operations  in  the  next  cam- 
paign. From  the  period  of  his  attack  in  April  he 
was  never  in  as  good  health  as  before,  being  trou- 
bled with  frequent  vertigo,  shivering  and  tremor, 
which,  though  proceeding  apparently  from  excessive 
debility,  he  attributed  to  an  excessive  fullness  of 
habit.  Proceeding  upon  this  notion,  he  lived  upon 
a  most  abstemious  diet,  eating  very  little  animal 
food,  and  confining  himself  to  dry  toast,  vegetables 
and  cheese.  Every  day  brought  new  trials.  The 
constant  rains  had  rendered  the  swamps  of  Misso- 
longhi impassable,  and  an  alarm  of  plague  aided  to 
keei)  him  within  doors,  so  that  he  was  almost  en- 
tirely deprived  of  his  customary  exercise.  His  mind, 
too,  was  harassed  by  constant  anxiety.  The  demands 
upon  his  pecuniary  resources  every  day  increased, 
and  the  embarrassments  of  his  public  position,  in 
connection  with  the  rival  chiefs,  grew  all  the  time 
more  complicated. 

On  the  9th  of  April,  Lord  Byron  went  out  on 
horseback  with  Count  Gamba.  About  three  miles 
from  Missolonghi  they  were  overtaken  by  a  heavy 
shower,  and  returned  to  the  walls  wet  through,  and 
in  a  state  of  violent  perspiration.  It  had  been  their 
usual  practice  to  dismount  at  the  walls,  and  return 
to  their  house  in  a  boat ;  but  on  this  day,  Count 
Gamba,  representing  to  Lord  Byron  how  dangerous 
it  would  be,  warm  as  he  then  was,  to  sit  exposed  so 
long  to  the  rain  in  a  boat,  entreated  him  to  go  back 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


xiz 


the  whole  way  on  horseback.  To  this  Lord  Byron 
would  not  consent,  and  they  accordingly  returned 
as  usual. 

About  two  hours  after  his  return  home  he  was 
seized  with  a  shuddering,  and  complained  of  a  fever 
and  rheumatic  pains.  "  At  eight  this  evening,"  says 
Count  Gamba,  "  I  entered  his  room.  He  was  lying 
on  a  sofa,  restless  and  melancholy.  He  said  to  me, 
'I  suffer  a  great  deal  of  pain.  I  do  not  care  for 
death,  but  these  agonies  I  cannot  bear.'  " 

The  following  day  he  rose  at  his  accustomed  hour, 
transacted  business,  and  was  even  able  to  take  his 
ride  in  the  olive  woods.  He  complained,  however, 
of  perpetual  shudderings,  and  had  no  appetite. 

On  the  evening  of  the  11th,  his  fever,  which  was 
pronounced  to  be  rheumatic,  increased ;  and  on  the 
12th  he  kept  his  bed  all  day.  The  two  following 
days,  although  the  fever  apparently  diminished,  he 
became  still  more  weak,  and  suffered  much  from 
pains  in  his  head. 

It  was  not  till  the  14th  that  his  physician,  Dr. 
Bruno,  finding  his  sudorifics  of  little  avail,  began  to 
urge  upon  Lord  Byron  the  necessity  of  being  bled. 
Of  this,  however,  his  patient  would  not  hear.  He 
had  evidently  but  little  reliance  on  his  medical  at- 
tendant, and  from  the  specimens  of  his  intellect  that 
this  young  man  subsequently  gave  to  the  world,  it 
is  lamentable  that  a  valuable  life  should  have  been 
entrusted  to  such  ordinary  hands.  To  the  faithful 
Fletcher,  the  idea  of  his  master's  life  being  in  dan- 
ger seems  to  have  occurred  some  days  before  it 
struck  either  Count  Gamba  or  the  physician.  So 
little,  according  to  his  friend's  nan-ative,  had  the 
suspicion  crossed  Lord  Byron's  own  mind,  that  he 
even  expressed  himself  "  rather  glad  of  his  fever,  as 
it  might  cure  him  of  his  tendency  to  epilepsy."  To 
Fletcher,  however,  it  appears  he  had  professed,  more 
than  once,  strong  doubts  as  to  the  nature  of  his 
complaint  being  so  slight  as  the  physician  seemed 
to  suppose  it ;  and  on  his  servant  renewing  his  en- 
treaties to  send  for  Dr.  Thomas  to  Zante,  made  no 
further  opposition  •  though  still,  out  of  considera- 
tion for  these  gentlemen,  he  referred  him  to  Dr. 
Bruno  and  Mr.  Millingen.  Whatever  might  have 
been  the  advantage  or  satisfaction  of  this  step,  it 
was  now  rendered  wholly  impossible  by  the  weather, 
such  a  hurricane  blowing  into  the  port  that  not  a 
ship  could  get  out.  The  rain,  too,  descended  in 
torrents,  and  between  the  floods  on  the  land  side, 
and  the  sirocco  from  the  sea,  Missolonghi  was,  for 
the  time,  a  pestilential  prison. 

Mr.  Millingen  was  now  called  in  to  visit  Lord 
Byron  in  his  professional  capacity.  It  would  seem 
that  his  assistance  was  requested  chiefly  that  he 
might  join  with  Fletcher  and  Dr.  Bruno  in  prevail- 
ing upon  his  patient  to  suffer  himself  to  be  bled, 
which  was  now  considered  absolutely  necessary  from 


the  increase  of  his  fever.  Notwithstanding  all  the 
arguments  and  reasoning  of  the  doctor,  Lord  Byron 
would  not  yet  consent.  Of  all  his  prejudices  he 
declared  the  strongest  was  that  against  bleeding. 
His  mother  had  on  her  deathbed  obtained  a  promise 
from  him  that  he  would  never  consent  to  being  bled. 
"  Besides,  is  it  not,"  he  asked,  "  asserted  by  Dr. 
Reid  in  his  essays,  that  less  slaughter  is  done  by  the 
lance  than  by  the  lancet  ? — that  minute  instrument  of 
mighty  mischief."  After  much  reasoning  and  re- 
peated entreaties,  Mr.  Millingen  at  length  succeeded 
in  getting  a  promise  from  him,  that  should  he  feel 
his  fever  increase  during  the  night,  he  would  let  Dr. 
Bruno  bleed  him. 

During  this  day  he  transacted  business  and  re- 
ceived several  letters.  In  the  evening  he  conversed 
a  good  deal  with  Parry,  who  sat  by  his  beside,  talk- 
ing very  calmly  of  his  family  and  affairs,  his  inten- 
tions as  to  Greece,  and  what  he  should  ultimately 
do  for  that  country.  He  spoke  of  death  with  great 
composure,  and,  though  he  did  not  believe  his  end 
was  near,  he  appeared  more  resigned  and  composed 
than  his  friend  had  ever  before  seen  him.  On  re- 
visiting his  patient  early  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Mil- 
lingen learned  from  him  that  having  passed  on  the 
whole,  rather  a  better  night,  he  had  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  ask  Dr.  Bruno  to  bleed  him.  Mr.  Mil- 
lingen now  thought  it  his  duty  to  put  away  all  consid- 
erations of  his  feelings,  and  to  represent  to  him  in 
the  plainest  language  that  he  was  trifling  with  his 
life,  and  that  he  had  lost  precious  time  in  not  sub- 
mitting to  the  operation  before,  and  that  if  he  was 
not  bled  immediately  ho  could  not  answer  for  the 
consequences.  It  was  true  he  did  not  care  for  life, 
but  the  uncontrolled  disease,  if  it  went  on,  might 
perhaps  destroy  his  reason  forever.  He  had  here 
hit  upon  the  sensitive  chord  of  Byron's  nature,  who, 
casting  at  them  a  savage  glance  of  vexation,  held 
out  his  arm.  Seizing  the  moment,  they  drew  twenty 
ounces  of  blood,  but  the  relief  did  not  at  all  corre- 
spond to  the  hopes  they  had  formed,  and  during  the 
night  his  fever  became  stronger  than  it  had  been 
hitherto.  The  following  morning,  the  17th,  the 
bleeding  was  repeated  ;  for,  although  the  rheumatic 
pains  had  been  removed,  the  appearances  of  inflam- 
mation of  the  brain  were  now  hourly  increasing. 

It  is  painful  to  dwell  on  the  details,  but  we  are 
now  approaching  the  close.  In  addition  to  most  of 
those  sad  varieties  of  wretchedness  which  inevita- 
bly surround  all  deathbeds,  there  was  also  in  the 
scene  now  passing  around  the  dying  Byron  such  a 
degree  of  confusion  and  discomfort  as  renders  it 
doubly  dreary  to  contemplate.  There  having  been 
no  person  since  his  illness  invested  with  authority 
over  the  household,  neither  order  nor  quiet  was 
maintained  in  his  apartment.  Most  of  the  comforts 
necessary  to  such  an  illness  were  wanting ;  and  those 


XX 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


around  liim,  unprepared  for  the  danger,  were  either, 
like  Bruno,  bewildered  by  it,  or  like  the  kind-hearted 
Fletcher  and  Gamba,  rendered  no  less  helpless  by 
their  feelings.  The  attendants  emulated  each  other 
in  their  eagerness  to  be  of  service,  but  as  almost 
every  one  spoke  a  different  language,  their  zeal  only 
added  to  the  confusion. 

The  next  day  was  Easter,  a  holyday  which  the 
Greeks  celebrate  by  firing  off  muskets  and  artillery, 
and  as  it  was  apprehended  that  the  noise  might  be 
injurious  to  Lord  Byron,  and  as  a  means  of  drawing 
away  the  crowd  from  the  neighborhood,  the  artil- 
lery brigade  was  marched  out  to  exercise  their  guns 
at  some  distance  from  the  town,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  town-guard  patrolling  the  street,  informed 
the  people  of  the  danger  of  their  benefactor,  and 
entreated  them  to  preserve  all  possible  quiet. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Lord  Byron 
rose  and  went  into  the  adjoining  room.  He  was 
able  to  walk  across  the  chamber,  leaning  on  his  ser- 
vant Tita ;  and  when  seated  asked  for  a  book,  which 
was  brought  to  him.  After  reading,  however,  for  a 
few  minutes,  he  found  himself  faint ;  and  again  tak- 
ing Tita's  arm,  tottered  into  the  next  room  and  re- 
turned to  bed. 

At  this  time,  the  physicians  becoming  alarmed, 
held  a  consultation,  and  called  in  to  assist  them 
Dr.  Freiber  and  Luca  Vaya,  a  native  physician.  It 
was  after  this  consultation,  as  it  appears,  that  Lord 
Byron  first  became  aware  of  his  approaching  end. 
Mr.  Millingen,  Fletcher  and  Tita  were  standing 
around  his  bed ;  but  the  two  first,  unable  to  restrain 
their  tears,  left  the  room.  Tita  also  wept,  but  as 
Byron  held  his  hand,  he  could  not  retire.  He,  how- 
ever, turned  away  his  face  ;  while  Byron,  looking  at 
him  steadily,  said,  half  smiling  :  "  Oh,  questa  &  una 
bella  scena  !"  He  then  seemed  to  reflect  a  moment, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Call  Parry."  Almost  immediately 
afterward  a  fit  of  delirium  ensued,  and  he  began  to 
talk  wildly,  as  if  he  were  mounting  a  breech  at  an 
assault,  calling  out  half  in  English,  half  in  Italian, 
"  Forward,  forward — courage — follow,"  etc. 

On  coming  again  to  himself,  he  asked  Fletcher 
whether  he  had  sent  for  Dr.  Thomas  as  he  desired. 
On  being  told  that  he  had,  he  expressed  his  satis- 
faction. It  was  now  evident  that  he  knew  he  was 
dying ;  and  between  his  anxiety  to  make  his  ser- 
vant understand  his  last  wishes,  and  the  rapid  fail- 
ure of  his  powers  of  utterance,  a  most  painful  scene 
ensued.  On  Fletcher  offering  to  bring  jien  and  pa- 
per to  take  down  his  words — "  Oh,  no,"  he  replied, 
"  there  is  no  time,  it  is  now  nearly  over.  Go  to  my 
sister— tell   her— go  to  Lady  Byron — j'ou  will  see 

her,  and  say "     Here  his  voice   faltered,  and 

gradually  became  indistinct,  so  that  only  a  few  words 
could  be  heard. 

The  decision  adopted  by  the  consultation  had 


been,  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Millingen  and 
Dr.  Freiber,  to  administer  to  the  patient  a  strong 
an ti -spasmodic  potion,  which,  while  it  produced 
sleep,  possibly  hastened  his  death.  After  taking 
some  of  this,  he  fell  into  a  slumber.  In  about  half 
an  hour  he  again  woke,  when  a  second  dose  was 
given  to  him.  His  speech  now  became  very  indis- 
tinct, though  he  still  kept  on  muttering  to  himself 
so  incoherently  that  nothing  could  be  understood. 
About  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  this  day,  he  said, 
"  Now  I  shall  go  to  sleep  ;"  and  then  turning  round, 
fell  into  that  slumber  from  which  he  never  woke. 
For  the  next  twenty-four  hours  he  lay  incapable  of 
either  sense  or  motion — with  the  exception  of,  now 
and  then,  slight  symptoms  of  suffocation,  during 
which  his  servant  raised  his  head— and  at  a  quar- 
ter past  six  o'clock  on  the  following  day,  the  19th, 
he  was  seen  to  open  his  eyes,  and  immediately  shut 
them  again.  The  physicians  felt  his  pulse — he  was 
no  more ! 

To  attempt  to  describe  how  this  sad  event  struck 
on  all  hearts  would  be  superfluous.  He,  whom  the 
world  was  to  mourn,  had  on  the  tears  of  Greece  a 
peculiar  claim, — as  it  was  at  her  feet  he  had  now  laid 
down  the  harvest  of  such  a  life  of  fame.  To  the  people 
of  Missolonghi  the  event  seemed  incredible.  It  was 
but  the  other  day  he  had  come  among  them,  radi- 
ant with  renown, — inspiring  faith,  by  his  very  name, 
in  the  miracles  of  success  he  was  about  to  achieve. 
AU  this  had  now  vanished  like  a  short  dream  ;  nor 
can  we  wonder  that  the  poor  Greeks,  to  whom  his 
coming  had  been  such  a  glory,  and  who,  on  the  last 
evening  of  his  life  were  thronging  around  his  house, 
eagerly  asking  about  his  state,  should  regard  the 
thunder-storm  which  broke  over  the  town  at  the 
moment  of  his  death,  as  the  signal  of  his  doom,  and 
cry  to  each  other  in  their  superstitious  grief,  "  The 
great  man  is  gone  !" 

Prince  Mavrocordato  immediately  issued  a  procla- 
mation directing  that  thirty-seven  minute  guns,  the 
number  for  the  age  of  the  deceased,  should  be  fired 
the  next  morning  at  daylight,  that  the  public  offices 
should  be  closed  for  three  days,  and  all  business  sus- 
pended during  that  time,  and  that  a  general  mourn- 
ing should  be  observed  for  twenty-one  days.  Simi- 
lar honors  were  paid  to  his  memory  at  many  other 
places  in  Greece. 

In  speaking  of  the  effect  produced  on  the  war, 
Mr.  Trelawney  says,  "  I  think  Byron's  name  was  the 
great  means  of  getting  the  loan."  A  Mr.  Marshall, 
with  £8,000  per  annum,  was  on  his  way  as  far  as  Corfu, 
and  turned  back  on  hearing  of  Lord  Byron's  death. 
Thousands  were  flocking  to  Missolonghi;  some 
had  arrived  as  far  as  Corfu,  and  hearing  of  his  death, 
confessed  they  came  to  devote  their  fortunes,  not  to 
the  Greeks,  or  from  any  interest  in  their  cause,  but 
to  the  poet,  and  he  being  gone,  they  turned  back. 


I 


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0- 


LIFE    OF    LORD    BYRON. 


XXI 


The  funeral  ceremony  took  place  in  the  church  of 
Saint  Nicholas,  at  Missolonghi.  on  the  22d  of  April. 
His  remains  were  borne  to  the  church  on  the  should- 
ers of  the  officers  of  his  corps,  in  the  midst  of  his 
own  brigade,  with  almost  the  whole  population  fol- 
lo\\-ing.  The  coffin  was  a  rude,  ill-constructed  chest 
of  wood ;  a  black  mantle  served  for  a  pall ;  and  on 
it  were  placed  a  helmet  and  a  sword,  with  a  crown  of 
laurel.  After  the  funeral  service  was  road,  the  bier 
was  left  in  the  church  until  the  next  day,  that  all 
might  view  for  the  last  time,  the  features  of  their 
benefactor. 

The  first  step  taken,  before  any  decision  as  to  its 
ultimate  disposal,  was  to  have  the  body  conveyed 
to  Zante,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  2d  of  May,  the 
remains  were  embarked,  under  a  mournful  salute 
from  the  guns  of  the  fortress.  "  How  different," 
says  Count  Gamba,  "from  that  which  had  wel- 
comed the  arrival  of  Byron  only  four  months 
before !" 

At  Zante  it  was  determined  to  send  the  body  to 
England.  Lord  Byron  had,  when  in  Italy,  expressed 
very  decidedly  his  repugnance  to  the  idea  of  his  re- 
mains resting  in  English  ground ;  and  the  injunc- 
tions he  so  frequently  gave  to  his  friends,  show  his 
wishes  to  have  been,  at  that  time,  sincere.  But  dur- 
ing his  residence  at  Pisa,  and  particularly  since  he 
had  come  to  Greece,  he  had  shown  a  more  cordial 
feeling  toward  his  countrymen,  which  gave  hopes, 
that  with  his  ever  changing  impulses,  his  antipathy 
to  England  as  a  last  resting-place  might  have  been 
overcome.  The  corpse  was  accordingly  placed  on 
board  of  the  Florida,  an  English  brig  which  had 
just  arrived  from  the  committee  with  an  installment 
of  the  loan,  in  charge  of  Colonel  Stanhope,  and  ar- 
rived in  the  Downs  on  June  29th. 

It  is  said,  that  upon  the  suggestion  being  made 
that  Lord  Byron  should  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  such  an  answer  was  returned  by  the  authori- 
ties who  had  the  disposal  of  these  honors,  as  left  no 
doubt  but  that  a  direct  refusal  would  be  the  result 
of  a  regular  application.  However  this  might  be, 
it  was  the  wish  of  his  dearest  relative  to  have  his 
remains  laid  in  the  family  vault  at  Hucknall,  near 
Newstead.  On  being  removed  from  the  Florida,  the 
body  had,  under  the  direction  of  his  lordship's  ex- 
ecutors, Mr.  Ilobhouse  and  Mr.  Hanson,  been  re- 
moved to  the  house  of  Sir  Edward  Knatchbull  in 
Great  George  Street,  where  it  lay  in  state  during 
Friday  and  Saturday,  the  9th  and  10th  of  July,  and 
on  the  following  Monday  the  funeral  procession  took 
place.  Leaving  Westminster  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  attended  by  a  large  number  of  the  per- 
sonal friends  of  the  departed,  and  the  carriages  of 
several  persons  of  rank,  it  proceeded  through  vari- 
ous streets  to  Pancras  Church,  in  the  suburbs  of 
London,  where,  the  ceremonial  being  at  an  end,  the 


carriages  returned,  and  the  hearse  continued  its  way, 
by  slow  stages,  to  Nottingham. 

It  was  on  Friday,  the  ICtli  of  July,  that,  in  the 
small  village  church  of  Hucknall,  the  last  duties 
.were  paid  to  the  remains  of  Byron,  by  depositing 
them  close  to  those  of  his  mother,  in  the  family 
vault.  On  a  tablet  of  white  marble  in  the  chancel 
is  this  inscription  : — 

EST   THE    VAUI,T   BENEATH, 
WHERE    MANY    OP    HIS    ANCESTOKS   AND    HIS   MOTHER 
ARE   BURIED, 
LIE   THE    REMAINS    OP 
GEORGE    GORDON    NOEL    BYRON, 
LORD   BYRON,  OP   ROCHDALE, 
IN    THE    COUNTY    OP    LANCASTER, 
THE    AUTHOR    OP   "  CHILDE    HABOLD'S    PILGRIMAGE." 
HE   WAS   BORN    IN   LONDON,    ON   THE 
22d   op   JANUARY,    1788, 
HE   DIED   AT   MISSOLONGHI,    IN   WESTERN   GREECE, 
ON   THE    19th   op   APRIL,    1834. 
ENGAGED    IN    THE    GLORIOUS    ATTEMPT    TO 
RESTORE   THAT   COUNTRY   TO   HER   ANCIENT   FREE- 
DOM  AND   RENOWN. 


HIS    SISTER,    THE    HONORABLE 

AUGUSTA   MARIA   LEIGH, 

PLACED    THIS   TABLET   TO   HIS   MEMORY. 

We  have  now  followed  to  its  close  a  life  which, 
brief  as  was  its  span,  may  be  said,  perhaps,  to  have 
comprised  within  itself  a  greater  variety  of  those 
excitements  and  interests  which  spring  out  of  the 
deep  workings  of  passion  and  of  intellect,  than  any 
that  the  pen  of  biography  has  ever  before  commem- 
orated. 

To  give  a  clear  idea  of  the  character  of  Lord  By- 
ron is  a  difficult  task.  In  considering  the  characters 
of  most  celebrated  men,  we  find  some  strong  central 
point,  some  fixed  governing  purpose,  to  which  all 
their  actions  may  be  referred,  and  the  motives  traced, 
and  from  which  all  their  im[)ulscs  and  tendencies 
of  their  mind  seem  to  radiate.  In  Byron  this  influ- 
ence was  wholly  absent.  He  was  controlled  entirely 
by  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and  accordingly,  at 
different  times,  we  find  him  acting  on  principles  that 
we  should  suppose  to  be  entirely  contradictory  to  his 
usual  disposition,  as  for  instance,  his  short  attack 
of  parsimony  in  Italy,  which  was  directly  opposed 
to  his  former  extravagance.  So  various  and  con- 
flicting were  his  attributes,  both  moral  and  intellect- 
ual, that  they  seem  to  belong,  not  to  one  character, 
but  to  many.  It  was  this  multiform  aspect  that  led 
the  world  to  compare  him  to  a  medley  host  of  per- 
sonages, all  diflering  from  each  other.  He  tells  us, 
in  his  journal,  that  in  the  course  of  nine  years,  ho 
had  been  likened  to  Rousseau,  Goethe,  Young,  Arc- 


I 


LIFE    OF   LORD    BYRON. 


tine,  Timon  of  Athens,  Dante,  Petrarch,  Satan,  Shak- 
spere,  Buonaparte,  Tiberius,  Sophocles,  Harlequin, 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  and  a  host  of  others.  It 
will  appear;  too,  on  reflection,  that  this  very  verea- 
tility  which  renders  it  so  difficult  to  fix  "ere  it 
change  "  the  fairy  fabric  of  his  character,  is,  in  itself, 
a  true  clue  through  all  that  fabric's  mazes, — is  in 
itself  the  solution  of  whatever  was  most  dazzling  in 
his  might  or  startling  in  his  levity,  of  all  that  most 
attracted  or  repelled  whether  in  his  life  or  his  ge- 
nius. A  variety  of  powers  almost  boundless,  and  a 
pride  no  less  vast  in  displaying  them, — a  suscepti- 
bility of  new  impressions  and  impulses,  even  beyond 
the  usual  allotment  of  genius,  and  an  uncontrolled 
impetuosity,  as  well  from  habit  as  from  tempera- 
ment, in  yielding  to  them ;  such  were  the  two  great 
and  leading  sources  of  all  that  varied  spectacle 
which  his  life  exhibited ;  of  that  succession  of  vic- 
tories achieved  by  his  genius,  in  almost  every  field 
of  mind  that  genius  ever  trod,  and  of  all  those  sal- 
lies of  character  in  every  shape  and  direction  that 
unchecked  feeling  and  dominant  self-will  could 
dictate. 

It  was  impossible  but  that  such  a  range  of  will 
and  power  should  be  abused.  It  was  impossible 
that,  among  the  spirits  that  he  invoked  from  all 
quarters,  those  of  darkness  should  not  appear,  at  his 
bidding,  with  those  of  light.  And  here  the  dangers 
of  an  energy  so  multiplied,  and  thus  luxuriating  in 
its  own  transformations,  show  themselves.    To  this 


one  object  of  displaying  power, — various,  splendid 
and  all-adorning  power, — every  other  consideration 
and  duty  were  but  too  likely  to  be  sacrificed.  Could 
it  have  been  expected  that  from  such  a  career  no  mis- 
chief would  ensue,  or  that  among  these  crosslights 
of  imagination,  the  moral  vision  could  have  remained 
undisturbed  ?  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  that  in  the 
works  of  one  thus  gifted  and  carried  away,  we 
should  find  a  false  splendor  given  to  vice,  to  make 
it  look  like  virtue,  and  evil  too  often  invested  with  a 
grandeur  which  belongs  intrinsically  but  to  good. 

Of  the  personal  character  of  Lord  Byron,  it  may 
fairly  be  said  that  it  was  not  worse  than  that  of  any 
one  of  the  majority  of  men  of  his  rank  in  England, 
and  that  while  his  vices  were  almost  imiversal  in 
his  own  day,  he  constantly  displayed  nobler  traits 
of  character,  and  higher  aspirations,  which  entitled 
him  to  be  considered  morally  far  above  the  Alvan- 
leys  and  Brummels,  and  the  other  debauchees  of 
the  Regency  among  whom  his  youth  was  spent. 

It  is  unnecessary  here  to  speak  of  the  merits  of 
Lord  Byron's  poetry.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  no 
later  critics  have  reversed  the  judgments  of  his  con- 
temporaries, and  at  the  present  day,  when  nearly  all 
the  sentimental  interest  in  the  author  which  lent 
such  an  attraction  to  his  poems  on  their  first  ap- 
pearance has  faded  away,  and  that  school  of  poetry 
which  he  himself  opposed  with  aU  his  powers  of 
ridicule  has  gained  the  ascendancy,  his  works  are 
still  read  and  retain  their  popularity. 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  LORD  BYRON'S  LIFE  AND  WORKS. 


1788. 
Jan.     23.  Born,  in  Holies-street,  London. 

1790— (aetat.  2.) 
Taken  by  his  mother  to  Aberdeen. 

1798— (10.) 
May      19.  Succeeds  to  the  family  title. 
Made  a  ward  of  chancery. 
Itemoved  from  Aberdeen  to  Ncwstead  Abbey. 
Placed  under  the  care  of  an  empiric  at  Nottingham  for 
the  cure  of  his  lameness. 

1799— (11.) 

KemoTcd  to  London,  and  placed  under  the  care  of  Dr. 

Baillie. 
Becomes  the  pupil  of  Dr.  Glennie  at  Didwich. 

1800~(13.) 
Is  sent  to  Harrow  School. 

1803— <15.) 
Passes  the  vacation  at  Nottingham  and  Annesley. — 
And  forms  an  attachment  to  Miss  Chaworth. 

1805— (17.) 
Leaves  Harrow  for  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

1806— (18.) 

Prepares  a  collection  of  his  Poems  for  the  press. 
Prints  a  volume  of  his  Poems ;  but,  at  the  entreaty  of 
a  Mend,  destroys  the  edition. 


Oct 


Jan. 
Nov. 


March. 
Oct. 


Jan. 
Aug. 
Sept. 


1807 -(19.) 

'Hours  of  Idleness." 


See  Fac  Similet, 


Publishes 

No.  L 
Begins  an  epic,  to  be  entitled  "  Bosworth  Field."— And 

writes  part  of  a  novel. 

1808— (20.) 

I  Passes  his  time  between  the  dissipations  of  Cambridge 
f     and  lx>ndun. 
Takes  up  his  residence  at  Newetead.— Forms  the  de- 
sign of  visiting  India.— Engaged  in  preparing  "  Eng- 
lisu  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  "  for  the  press. 

1809— (21.) 
.Tan.     29.  His  coming  of  age  celebrated  at  Ncwstead. 
March  13.  Takes  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

10.  Publishes  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers." 
May.  Engaged  in  preparing  a  second  edition  of  "English 

Bards  "  for  the  press. 
Juno    11.  Leaves  London  on  his  travels,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Hobhouse. 
"      30.  Writes,  on  board  the  Lisbon  packet,  "  Huzza !  Hodg- 
son, we  are  going  1" 
2.  Sails  from  Falmouth. 
7.  Lands  at  Lisbon.— 17.  Leaves  Lisbon  for  Seville  and 

Cadiz. 
6.  Arrives  at  Gibraltar.— 19.  Takes  his  departure  for  Malta. 
1.  Lands  at  Malta.— 14.  Writes,  "As  o'er  the  cold  sepul- 
chral stone."—"  Oh,  Lady  I  when  I  left  the  shore." 
—21.  Leaves  Malta.— 29.  Lands  at  Prevesa. 
1.  Proceeds  to  Solara,  Arta,  and  Joannlni.— 9.   Leaves 
Joanninl  for  Zitza.— Composes,  during  a  thunder- 
storm. "  Chill  and   mirk   is  the   nightly  blast."— 
11.    Reaches    Tepaleen— 12.    Is  introduced  to  All 
Pacha.— 2(i.    Returns  to  Joanninl.- 31.   Begins  the 
first  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold." 
(xxiii) 


July 


Aug. 
Sept. 


Oct. 


Nov.  3.  Proceeds  by  sea  to  Prevesa.— 10.  Driven  on  the  coast 
of  Suli. — 12.  Writes,  in  passing  the  Ambracian  gulf, 
"Through  cloudless  skies,  m  silvery  sheen?'  — 
13.  Sails  down  the  gulf  of  Arta.— 14.  Reaches  Utrai- 
key.— 15.  Traverses  Acarnania.- 21.  Reaches  Misso- 
longhi.— And,  25.  I'atras. 
4.  Leaves  Patras. — 14.  Passes  across  the  gulf  of  Lepanto. 
— 18.  Visits  Mount  Parnassus.  Castn,  and  Delphi. — 
22.  Thebes.— 25.  Arrives  at  Athens. 

1810— (iEtat.  22.) 

1  Spends  ten  weeks  in  visiting  the  monuments  of  Athens, 
making  occasional  excursions  to  several  parts  of  At- 
tica.—Writes,  "  The  spell    is  broke,  the  charm  is 
flown  I"—"  Lines  in  the  Travelers'  Book  at  Orcho- 
menus." — And  "  Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part." 
March   5.  Leaves  Athens  for  Smyrna.— 7.  Visits  the    ruins  of 
Ephesus.— 28.    Concludes,  at  Smyrna,  the    second 
canto  of  "  Childe  Harold." 
11.  Leaves  Smyrna  for  Constantinople.— Visits  the  Troad. 
9.  Writes,  "  Lines  after  swimming  from  Sestos  to  Aby- 
dos."- 14.  Arrives  at  Constantinople. 
Makes  an  Excursion  through  the  Bosphorus  to  the 
Black  Sea  and  Cyanean  Symplegades. 
14.  Departs  from  Constantinople.— 19.  Reaches  Athens.- 
Visits  Corinth. 

I  Makes  a  tour  of  the  Morea,  and  visits  Velay  Pacha. — 
Returns  to  Athens. 


r 


Dec. 


Jan. 
Feb. 


Anril 
May 

June. 

July 

Aug. 
Sept. 
Oct. 

1811— (23.) 
Jan.  Takes  up  his  residence  at  the  Franciscan  Convent, 

Athens. — Writes,  "  Dear  object  of  defeated  care  I" 
Feb.  Writes, "  Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise  1" — "  I  enter  thy  gar- 

den of  roses."- And,  "  Remarks  on  the  Romaic  or 

modern  Greek  Language." 
March  12.  Writes,  "Hints  fhjm  Horace."— 17.  "The  Curse  of 

Minerva." — And  "  Lines  on  Parting." 
May.  Leaves  Athens  for  Malta.— 16.   Writes  "Epitaph  for 

Joseph  Blackett."— And,  26.  "  Farewell  to  Malta." 
July.  Returns  to  England. 

Aug.      1.  Death  of  his  Mother. 
Oct.     11.  Writes  Epistle  to  a  Friend,  "Oh I  banish  care- such 

ever  be." — And  Stanzas  to  Thyrza,  "  Without  a  stone 

to  mark  the  spot." 
Dec.      6.  Writes  "Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  wo  I" 

1812— (24) 

Jan.  Writes  "  One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free  I"—"  When 

time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring." — "And  thou  art 
dead,  as  young  as  fair." 

Feb.  27.  Makes  his  first  Speech  in  the  House  of  Lords.— 29.  Pub- 
Ushes  the  first  two  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold." 

March.  Commits  a  new  edition  of  "  English  Bards,"  etc.,  to  the 
flames.- Writes  "  If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men." 
— "On  a  Cornelian  Heart  which  was  broken."—"  Lines 
to  a  Lady  weeping."— And  "  The  Chain  I  gave  !" 

April  19.  Writes  "  Lines  on  a  blank  leaf  of  the  Pleasures  of 
Memory." 

Sept.  Writes  "  Address  on  the  Opening  of  Drury  Lane  The- 
atre." 

Oct.  Writes  "  The  Waltz  ;  an  Apostrophic  Hymn."— And, 

"  A  Parenthetical  Address  by  Dr.  Plagiary." 

Nov.  Writes  "  Address  to  Time."— And,  "  Thou  art  not  false, 

but  thou  art  fickle  1" 

1813— (setat.  25.) 

Jan.  Writes  "  Remember  him  whom  passion's  power." 

March.  Publishes  "  The  Waltz  "  anonymously. 

May.  Publishes  "  The  Giaour."    See  Fac  Similes,  No.  II. 

July.  Projects  a  journey  to  Abyssinia. 

Sept.  Writes  "  When  from  the  Heart  where  Sorrow  sits." 

Nov.  Is  an  unsuccessful  suitor  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Milbanke. 


XXIV 


CHRONOLOGY. 


Dec.  2.  Publishes  "  The  Bride  of  Abydos."— 13.  Writes  "  The 
Devirs  Drive."— 17.  And  "  Two  Sonnets  to  Genevra." 
—18.  Begins  "The  Corsair."— 31.  Finishes  "The 
Corsair." 

1814-(20.) 
Feb.  Writes  "  Windsor  Poetics." 

April    10.  Writes  "  Ode  to  Napoleon  Bom-iparte."— Kosolvcs  to 

write  no  more  poetry,  and  to  suppress  all  he  had  ever 

written. 
May.  Bejjins  "  Lara." — Writes  "  I  speak  not,  I  trace  not " — 

And  "  Address  to  be  recited  at  the  Caledonian  Meet- 
ing." 
Aug.  Publishes  "Lara." — Writes  "Condolatory  Verses  to 

Lady  Jer-^ey." 
Sept.  Makes  a  second  proposal  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Mll- 

bankc,  and  is  accepted. 
Oct  Writes  "  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter  Parker."— 

And  "  Lines  to  Belshazzar." 
Dec.  Writes  "  Hebrew  Melodies." 

1815— (37.) 
Jan.       2.  Marries  Miss  Milbanke.    See  Fac  Similes,  No.  III. 
Feb.  Writes  "  There  be  none  of  Beauty's  Daughters." 

March.       Writes  "  Lines  on  Napoleon  Bonaparte's  Escape  from 

Elba." 
July.  Begins  "  The  Siege  of  Corinth."— And  writes  "  There's 

not  a  Joy  the  World  can  give." — And  "  We  do  not 

curse  thee,  Waterloo." 
Ang.  Writes  "  Must  thou  go,  my  glorious  Chief?"—"  Star 

of  the  Brave."— And  "  Napoleon's  Farewell." 
Dec.     10.  Birth  of  his  daughter,  Augusta  Ada. 

181G— (28.) 

Jan.  Publishes  "  The  Siege  of  Corinth." 

Feb.  Publishes  "  I'arisina."— Lady  Byron  adopts  the  resolu- 

tion of  separating  from  him. 

March  17.  Writes  "  Fare  thee  well  1  and  if  forever."— And,  20. 
A  Sketch,  "  Bom  in  the  garret." 

April.  16.  Writes  "When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark."— 
25.  Takes  a  last  leave  of  Bis  native  country.— Pro- 
ceeds, through  Flanders  and  by  the  Rhine,  to  Swit- 
zerland. 

May.  Bejjins  the  third  canto  of  "  Cliilde  Harold." 

June.  Writes  "  Tlie  Prisoner  of  Chillon "  at  Ouchy,  near 

Lausanne.— Takes  up  his  abode  at  the  Campagne 
Diodati,  near  Geneva. 

July.  Finishes  the  third  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold."— Writes 

■'Monody  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan."— Stanzas  to 
Augusta,  "  Though  the  Day  of  my  Destiny."—"  The 
Dream."  —  "  Darkness."  —  "  Churchill's  Grave."  — 
"  Prometheus."— "  Could  I  remount."— Epistle  to 
Augusta,  "  My  Sister,  my  sweet  Sister."— And,  "  Son- 
net to  Lake  Leman." 

Sept.  Makes  a  tour  of  the  Bernese  Alps.- Writes  "  Lines  on 

hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ilL"— And  begins 
"Manfred."  ° 

Oct. 

Nov. 


Feb. 
March. 

April. 

May. 


'  Manfred. 

Leaves  Switzerland  for  Italy. 

Takes  up  his  residence  at  Venice.— Translates  "  Ro- 
mance .Muy  Doloroso,"  etc. ;  and  "  Sonetto  di  Vitto- 
relli. "-Writes  "  Lines  on  the  Bust  of  Helen  by  Ca- 
nova."— "  Bright  be  the  Place  of  my  Soul."— And 
"  They  say  that  Hope  is  Happiness.''— Studies  the 
Armenian  language. 

1817— (29.) 

Finishes  "  Manfred." 

Translates,  from  the  Armenian,  a  Correspondence  be- 
tween St.  Paul  and  the  Corinthians. 

Visits  Ferrara  for  a  day.— 20.  Writes  "  The  Lament  of 
Tasso." 

Visits  Rome  for  a  few  days.-5.  Writes  there  a  new 
third  act  to  "  Manfred." 


June. 
Oct. 


Be.^n3,  at  Venice,  the  fourth  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold." 
Writes  "  Beppo." 


1818— (aetat.  30.) 

July.         Writes  "  Ode  to  Venice  " 

Sept.  Finishes  the  first  canto  of  "  Don  Jnan." 

Oct.  Finishes  "  Mazeppa." 

Dec.    13.  Begins  the  second  canto  of  "  Don  Juan." 


Jan.    20, 
April. 

Aug. 

Nov. 
Dec. 


Jan. 
Feb. 
March. 


Guic- 


April 
July 
Oct. 
Nov. 


Jan.  13. 

Feb.  7. 

March  25. 

May  17. 

Juno  11. 

July  10. 

Sept.  9. 

Oct. 

Nov. 


1819— (31.) 
Finishes  the  second  canto  of  "  Don  Juan." 
Commences  an  acquaintance  witli  the  Countess 

cioli.— Writes  "  Stanzas  to  the  Po." 
Writes  "  Letter  to  the  Editor  of  my  Grandmother's  Re- 
view."—And  "  Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth." 
Finishes  the  third  and  fourth  cantos  of  "  Don  Juan  " 
Removes  to  Ravenna. 

1830— (32.) 
Is  domesticated  with  the  Countess  Guiccioli. 
Translates  the  first  canto  of  "  Morgante  Ma^giore  " 
Writes  "The  Prophecy  of  Dante.'^— Translates  "Fran- 
cesca  of  Rimini."  -And  writes  "  Observations  upon 
an  Article  in  Blackwood's  Magazine." 
.  Begins  "Marino  Faliero." 
.  Finishes  "  Marino  Faliero." 
.  Begins  the  fifth  canto  of  "  Don  Juan." 
.  Finishes  the  fifth  canto  of  "Don  Juan."— .\nd  writes 
"  The  Blues  ;  a  Literary  Eclogue." 

1821— (33.) 
Begins  "  Sardanapalus." 

Writes  "  Letter  to  John  Murray,  Esq.,  on    Bowles's 
Strictures  upon  Pope." 
.  Writes  "  Second  Letter  to  John  Murray,  Esq.,"  etc. 
Finishes  ".Sardanapalus." 
Begins  "  The  Two  Foscari." 
Finishes  "The  Two  Foscari."- 10.  Begins  "Cain;  a 

Mystery." 
Finishes  "  Cain."— Writes  "  Vision  of  Judgment." 
Writes  "  Heaven  and  Earth ;  a  Mystery." 
Removes  to  Pisa.— 18.  Begins  "Werner."— And  "  Tho 
Deformed  Transformed.^' 


1823— (34.) 
Jan.    20.  Finishes  "  Werner." 
Feb.  Writes  the  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth  cantos  of  "Don 

Juan." 
Ang.         Finishes  "The  Deformed  Transformed."— Writes  the 

ninth,  tenth,  and  eleventh  cantos  of  "Don  Juan." 
Sept.       Removes  to  Genoa. 

1823— (35.) 
Jan.        Writes  "  The  Age  of  Bronze." 

Feb.        Writes  "  The  Island  "—And  more  cantos  of  "  Don  Juan." 
April.      Turns  his  views  towards  Greece. 
May.       Receives  a  communication  from  the  Greek  eommittee 

sitting  in  London. 
July  14.  Sails  for  Greece. 

Aug.     I  Reaches  Argostoll.— Makes  an   excursion  to  Ithaca.— 
Dec.      (     Waits  at  Cephalonia  the  arrival  of  the  Greek  fleet. 

1824— (36.) 

Jan.  5.  ArrivesatMissolonghi.— 22.  Writes  "Lines  on  completing 
my  Thirty-sixth  Year." — 30.  Is  appointed  commander- 
in-chief  of  an  expedition  against  Lepanto. 

Feb.  15.  Is  seized  with  a  convulsive  fit.    See  Fac  Sijniiea,  No.  IV 

April    9.  His  last  iUness. 

April  19.  His  Death. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 5 

THE  GIAOUR;   A  Fragment  of  a  Turkish 

Tale 63 

THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS  ;  A  Tukkisu  Tale..     77 

THE  CORSAIR  ;  A  Tale 90 

LARA;  ATale ...  110 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH 123 

PARISINA 134 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  ;  A  Fable.  ...  140 

Sonnet  to  Chillon 

BEPPO;  AVenetian  Story 144 

MAZEPPA 153 

THE  ISLAND;   Ob,  Christian  and  his  Com- 
rades   161 

MANFRED  ;  A  Dramatic  Poem 176 

MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  OF  VENICE  ;  An 

Historical  Tragedy 191 

HEAVEN  AND  EARTH  ;  A  Mystery 330 

SARDANAPALUS  :  A  Tragedy 243 

THE  TWO  FOSCARI ;  An  Historical  Tragedy  376 
THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED ;  A  Drama  800 

CAIN  ;  A  Mystery 317 

WERNER ;  Or,  The  Inheritance  :  A  Tragedy  359 
HOURS  OF  IDLENESS ;  A  Series  of  Poems, 

Original  and  Translated 378 

Dedication 378 

Preface 378 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Lady,  cousin  to  the 

author,  and  very  dear  to  him 379 

ToE 379 

ToD 380 

Epitaph  on  a  Friend 380 

A  Fragment 380 

On  leaving  Newstcad  Abbey 380 

Lines  written  in  "  Letters  of  an  Italian  Nun 
and  an  English  Gentleman  ;  by  J.  J.  Rous- 
seau :  founded  on  Facts  " 881 

Answer  to  the  foregoing,  addressed  to  Miss 381 

Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul  when  Dying. . .  .  381 

Translation  from  Catullus.     Ad  Lesbiam 381 

'Translation  of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  and  Tibul- 
lus,  by  Domitius  Marsus 381 


PAGE 

Imitation  of  TibuUus.     "  Sulpicia  ad  Cerin- 
thum  " 381 

Translation  from  Catullus.    "  Lugeto  Veneres, 

Cupidinesque,"  etc 381 

Imitated  from  Catullus.    To  Ellen 383 

Translation  from  Horace.    "  Justum  et  tena- 

cem,"  etc 383 

From  Anacreon.     "  Qe?M  Xeyew  Arpeida;." 383 

From  Anacreon.     "  MeaovvKnaig  no6' upai^." . .  383 
From  the  Prometheus  Vinctus  of  .^schylus. 
"  Mj]da/i'  6  ndvTa  vcfiuv,"  k.  t.?. 383 

To  Emma 883 

To  M.  S.  G 383 

To  Caroline 384 

To  the  same 38'1 

To  the  same 384 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady,  with  the  Poems  of  Camoens  385 

The  First  Kiss  of  Love 385 

On  a  Change  of  Masters  at  a  great  Public 

School 385 

To  the  Duke  of  Dorset 386 

Fragment,  written  shortly  after  the  Marriage 

of  Miss  Chaworth 387 

Qranta ;  a  Medley 387 

On  a  Distant  View  of  the  Village  and  School 

■     of  Harrow  on  the  Hill 388 

To  M 389 

To  Woman 389 

To  M.  S.  G 389 

To  Mary,  on  receiving  her  Picture 389 

To  Lesbia 390 

Lines  addressed  to  a  Young  Lady,  who  was 

alarmed  at  the  Sound  of  a  Bullet  hissing 

near  her 390 

Love's  last  Adieu 391 

Damaetas 391 

To  Marion 391 

To  a  Lady  who  presented  to  the  Author  a  Lock 

of  Hair,  braided  with  his  own 393 

Oscar  of  Alva.    A  Tale 893 

The  Episode  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus 396 

Tarnslation  from   the    Medea  of   Euripides, 

"  Epurff  vneQ  /icv  dyai;"  k.  t.  /.. .         400 

(xxv) 


xxvm 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Elesriac  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter 
Parker,  Bart 54,5 

Stanzas  for  Music.     "  There's  not  a  Joy  the 

World  can  give,"  etc 546 

Stanzas  for  Music.   "  There  be  none  of  Beauty's 

Daughters  " 546 

On  Napoleon's  Escape  from  Elba 546 

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

Waterloo  " 546 

From  the  French.    "  Must  thou  go,  my  glo- 
rious Chief  ?" 547 

On  the  Star  of  "  The  Legion  of  Honor."    From 

the  French 548 

Napoleon's  Farewell.     From  the  French 548 

Endorsement  to  the  Deed  of  Separation,  in  the 

April  of  1810 549 

Darkness 549 

Churchill's  Grave 549 

Prometheus 550 

A  Fragment.    "  Could  I  remount,"  etc 550 

Sonnet  to  Lake  Leman 551 

A  very  mournful  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and  Con- 
quest of  Alhama 551 

Translation  from  Vittorelli.    On  a  Nun 552 

Stanzas  for  Music.    "  Bright  be  the  Place  of 
thy  Soul " 552 

Stanzas  for  Music.    "  They  say  that  Hope  is 
Happiness" 553 

To  Tlfomas.  Moore.     "My  Bark  is  on   the 
Shore  "... 553 

On  the  Bust  of  Helen  by  Canova 553 

Song  for  the  Luddites 553 

To  Thomas  Moore.    "  What  are  you  doing 

now  ?" 553 

So,  we  '11  go  no  more  a  roving. 553 

Versicles 554 

To  Mr.  Murray.    "  To  hook  the  Reader  " 554 

Epistle  from  Mr.  Murray  to  Dr.  Polidori 554 


PAGE 

Epistle  to  Mr.  Murray.     "  My  dear  Mr.  Mur- 
ray," etc 555 

To  Mr.  Murray.     "  Strahan,  Tonson,"  etc. . . .  555 
On  the  Birth  of  John  William  Rizzo  Hoppner  555 

Stanzas  to  the  Po 555 

Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth,  on  the  Repeal 
of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald's  Forfeiture. .  . .  556 

Epigram  from  the  French  of  RulhiSres 556 

Stanzas.     "  Could  Love  forever,"  etc 556 

On  my  Wedding  Day 557 

Epitaph  for  William  Pitt 557 

Epigram.     "  In  digging  up  your  Bones,  Tom 

Paine,"  etc 557 

Stanzas.    "  When  a  Man  hath  no  Freedom  to 

fight  for  at  home,"  etc 557 

Epigram.    "  The  World  is  a  Bimdle  of  Hay  "  557 

The  Charity  Ball 557 

Epigram  on  my  Wedding  Day 558 

On  my  Thirty-third  Birth  Day 558 

Epigram  on  the  Braziers'  Company    558 

Martial,  Lib.  L  Epist.  I 558 

Bowles  and  Campbell 553 

Epigrams  on  Lord  Castlereagh 558 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Castlereagh 558 

John  Keats 559 

The  Conquest.     A  Fragment 558 

To  Mr.  Murray.     "  For  Orford  and  for  Walde- 

grave,"  etc 553 

The  Irish  Avatar. 559 

Stanzas  written  on  the  Road  betweerf  Florence 

and  Pisa 5Q0 

Stanzas  to  a  Hindoo  Air 560 

Impromptu.     "  Beneath  Blossington's  Eyes  ".  561 

To  the  Countess  of  Blessington 561 

Stanzas  inscribed— "  On  this  Day  I  complete 
my  Thirty-sixth  Year  " 561 

DON  JUAN .563 


h(n)W%Mi      Mlf 


JoJuisnn,  T:y    8c  Compcmy.  l^ililishers,  New^urk  . 


THE 


POETICAL     WORKS 


OF 


LORD   BYRON. 


CHILDE    HAROLD^S    PILGRIMAGE. 

%  ^ontExtitt. 


L'unlvcrs  est  nne  espice  de  livre,  dont  on  n'a  la  qne  la  premiere  page  quand  on  n'a  vu  que  son  paye.  J'en  ai  fetiillet^  nn  asse^ 
grand  nombrc,  que  j'al  trouve  igalement  mauvaises.  Cet  examen  ne  m'a  point  dto  Infructueux.  Je  liaissais  ma  patrie.  Toutca  lea 
iDipertinences  dep  penples  divers,  parmi  lesquels  j'ai  v^cu,  m'ont  r6concili6  avec  elle.  Quand  je  n'anrais  tiro  d'autre  benefice  dc  mcs 
voyages  que  celai-la,  je  n'en  regretterais  ni  les  frais  ni  les  liiitigaes. 

Le  Cosmopolite.! 


PREFACE. 
[to  the  first  and  second  cantos.] 

The  following  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part, 
amidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe.  It 
v;as  begun  in  Albania  ;  and  the  parts  relative  to  Spain 
and  Portugal  were  composed  from  the  author's  obser- 
vations in  those  countries.  Thus  much  it  may  be  ne- 
cessary to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  descriptions. 
The  scenes  attempted  to  be  sketched  are  in  Spain,  Por- 
tugal, Epirus,  Acamania,  and  Greece.  There,  for  the 
present,  the  poem  stops :  its  reception  will  determine 
whether  the  author  may  venture  to  conduct  his  read- 
ers to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through  Ionia  and  Phry  • 
gia  :  these  two  Cantos  are  merely  experimental. 

A  fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of 
giving  some  connection  to  the  piece  ;  which,  however, 
makes  no  pretensions  to  regularity.  It  has  been  sug- 
gested to  me  by  friends,  on  whose  opinions  I  set  a  high 
value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character, "  Childo  Harold," 
I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended  some  real 
jiersonage  :  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  appella- 
tion "Childe,"  as  "Cliilde  Waters,"  "Childe  Childers," 
etc.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the  old  structure 
of  versification  which  I  have  adopted.  The  "Good 
Night,"  in  the  beginning  of  the  first  canto,  was  sug- 


1  Par  M.  de  Montbron,  Paris,  1798.    Lord  Byron  somewhere 
calls  it  "an  amusing  little  volume,  full  of  French  flippancy." 


gested  by  "  Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in  the  Bor- 
der Minstrelsy,  edited  by  Mr.  Scott. 

"With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  published 
on  Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found  some  slight 
coincidence  in  the  first  part,  which  treats  of  the  Penin- 
sula, but  it  can  only  be  casual ;  as,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole  of  this  poem 
was  written  In  the  Levant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our  most 
successful  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr.  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,  descriptive  or  senti- 
mental, 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  compo.«ition." — 
Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by  such  authority,  and  by 
the  example  of  some  in  the  highest  order  of  Italian 
poets,  I  shall  make  no  apology  for  attempts  at  similar 
variations  in  the  following  composition  ;  satisfied  that, 
if  they  are  unsuccessful,  their  failure  must  bo  in  the 
execution  rather  than  in  the  design,  sanctioned  by  the 
practice  of  Ariosto,  Thomson,  and  Beattie. 

London,  February,  1813. 


ADDITION    TO   THE   PKEPACE. 

I  HAVK  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical 
journals  have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criti- 
cism. To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their  criti- 
cisms I  have  nothing  to  object ;  it  would  ill  become 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


CIIILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


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  hill : 
Yet  there  I've  wander'd  by  thy  vaunted  rill ; 
Yes  !  sigh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long-deserted  shrine,' 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  stir  ; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale — this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

II. 
Wliilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth. 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  way  did  take  delight ; 
But  spent  Ms  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 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie, 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 

III. 
Childe  Harold  was  hehight : — but  whence  his  name 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say ; 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day  : 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye. 
However  mighty  in  the  olden  time ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  cofBn'd  clay. 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honey'd  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 

rv. 

Childe  Harold  basked  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  fullness  of  satiety  : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell,  [cell. 
Which  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad 


1  The  little  village  of  Caetri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of  Delphi. 
Along  the  path  of  the  monntain,  from  Chryseo,  are  the  remains  of 
sepnlchrea  hewn  in  and  from  the  rock.  "  One,"  Baid  the  guide, 
"  of  a  king  who  hroke  his  neck  hunting."  His  majesty  had  cer- 
tainly chosen  the  fittest  spot  for  such  an  achievement.  A  little 
above  Castrl  is  a  cave,  supposed  the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth ; 
the  npper  part  of  it  Is  paved,  and  now  a  cowhouse.  On  the  other 
side  of  Castrl  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  mountain ;  probably 
to  the  Corycian  Cavern  mentioned  by  Pausanias.  From  this  part 
descend  the  fountain  and  the  "  Dews  of  Castalie." 


V. 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss. 
Had  sigh'd  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  loved  one,  alas  I  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she  !  to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste  ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss, 
And  spoil'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste. 
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  sullen  tear  would  start. 
But  Pride  congeal'd  the  drop  within  his  ee  : 
Apart  he  stalk'd  in  joyless  revery, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  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  shades 
below. 

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

VIII. 

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

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him — though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gather'd  revellers  from  far  and  near. 
He  knew  them  flatt'rers  of  the  festal  hour ; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea  !  none  did  love  him — not  his  lemans  dear — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere ; 
Maidens,  Uke  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare. 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might 
despair. 


■*# 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


X. 

Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother — not  forgot, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate ; 

Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun ; 

Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun  : 

If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page  ! 

Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel : 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 

Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  dote  upon 

Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billow's  rage, 

A  few  dear  objects,  wUl  in  sadness  feel 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 

Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 

But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye  ; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong  : 

XI. 

Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands. 

More  merrily  along. 

The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 

Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands. 

'  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite. 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind  : 

And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite  ; 

Yet  marvel  not.  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

His  goblets  brimm'd  with  every  costly  wine. 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind  ; 

And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 

For  I  have  from  my  father  gone. 

Without  a  sigh  he  left  to  cross  the  brine,       [line. 

A  mother  whom  I  love. 

And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  central 

And  have  no  friend,  save  these  alone, 

XII. 

But  these — and  one  above. 

The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 

'  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently. 

As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home ; 

Yet  did  not  much  complain  ; 

And  fast  the  white  rgcks  faded  from  his  view, 

But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam  : 

Till  I  come  back  again.' — 

And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 

"  Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad  ! 

Eepented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye  ; 

The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 

If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had. 

One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and  wept. 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  stanch  yeoman, 

XIII. 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale  ? 

But  when  the  sim  was  sinking  in  the  sea 

Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman  ? 

He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  string, 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?" — 

And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody. 

'  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life  ? 

When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening  : 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak  ; 

And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling. 

But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 

WiU  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing, 

And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 

'  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall 

Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last "  Good  Night." 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 

And  when  they  on  their  father  call, 

What  answer  shall  she  make  V — 

"  Adieu,  adieu,  my  native  shore 

"  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue ; 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay ; 

The  Night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar. 

But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 

Win  laugh  to  flee  away. 

Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 

"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

Of  wife  or  paramour  ? 

My  native  Land — Good  Night  1 

Fresh  feres  wiU  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 

"  A  few  short  hours  and  He  wiU  rise 

For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve. 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 

Nor  perils  gathering  near ; 

And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

Canto  i. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


"  And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

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

When  none  wiU  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. 

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

Athwart  the  foaming  brine ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to. 

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

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

My  native  land — Good  Night !" 

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

XV. 

Oh,  Christ !  it  is  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land  1 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree  ! 
What  goodly  prospects  o'er  the  hills  expand  1 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand : 
And  when  the  Almighty  lifts  his  fiercest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  his  high  com- 
mand. 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shaft  urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foemen 
purge. 

XVI. 

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

XVII. 
But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town. 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be. 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
'Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee  ; 
2 


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. 
Though  shent  with  Egypt's  plague,  unkempt,  xm- 
wash'd ;  unhurt. 

XVIII. 
Poor,  paltry  slaves  1  yet  bom  '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  imto  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  simless  shrubs  must  weep. 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruflled  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  ye  at  "  Our  Lady's  house  of  wo ;" ' 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show, 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  teU  : 
Here  impious  men  have  punish'd  been,  and  lo  ! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell. 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a  HeU. 

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 


1  The  convent  of  "  Onr  Lady  of  Pnnishment,"  Nossa  Sefltyra  de 
Pena,  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.  Below,  at  some  distance,  is  the 
Corli  Convent,  where  St.  Honorius  dug  his  den,  over  which  is  his 
epitaph.  From  the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the  view.— 
Note  to  First  Faition.—Smce  the  publication  of  this  poem,  I  have 
been  informed  of  the  misapprehension  of  the  term  }/(Msa  Senora 
de  Pma.  It  was  owing  to  the  want  of  the  tUde  or  mark  over  the 
n,  which  alters  the  signification  of  the  word :  with  it,  Pena  elgni- 
fles  a  rock ;  without  it,  Pena  has  the  sense  I  adopted.  I  do  not 
think  it  necessary  to  alter  the  passage ;  as,  though  the  common 
acceptation  afiBxed  to  it  is,  "Our  Lady  of  the  Rock,"  I  may  well 
assume  the  other  sense  from  the  sevcritiee  practised  there.— Ab<e 
Ui  Second  EdUUm. 


10 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Pour'd  forth  his  bloo<J  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  no 
life.' 

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  shun. 

XXIII. 
Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure 

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

XXIV. 
Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened  1» 
Oh,  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye  ! 
With  diadem  hight  foolscap,  lo  !  a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly. 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  array'd,  and  by 
His  side  is  hung  a  seal  and  sable  scroD, 
Where  blazon'd  glare  names  known  to  chivalry. 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll,  [soul. 

Whereat  the  Urchin  points,  and  laughs  with  all  his 

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  tum'd  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  FoUy  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume, 


1  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 
Portngnese  to  their  countrymen ;  but  that  Englishmen  were  daily 
butchered :  and  so  far  from  redress  being  obtained,  we  were  re- 
quested 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 
"  adorned  a  tale  "  instead  of  telling  one.  The  crime  of  assassin- 
ation is  not  confined  to  Portugal ;  in  Sicily  and  Malta  we  are 
knocked  on  the  head  at  a  handsome  average  nightly,  and  not  a 
Sicilian  or  Maltese  is  ever  punished  1 

»  The  Convention  of  Cintrawas  signed  in  the  palace  of  the  Mar- 
chese  Marialva. 


And  Policy  regain'd  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom  ! 
Wo  to  the  conqu'ring,  not  the  conquer'd  host. 
Since  baffled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitania's  coast ! 

XXVI. 
And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 
Britannia  sickens,  Cintra  !  at  thy  name  ; 
And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret, 
And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim  !        [shame. 
Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer 
To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their  fame. 
By  foes  in  fight  o'erthrown,  yet  victors  here. 

Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a  com- 
ing year  ? 

XXVII. 
So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  soUtary  guise  : 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies  : 
Though  here  awhile  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  drew  dim. 

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

XXIX. 
Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay, 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians'  luckless  queen ; 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array. 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen  ; 
Lordlings  and  freres — 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  has  spilt, 

And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  varnish 
guilt. 

XXX. 
O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freeborn  race  !) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaimce  fiUs, 

Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  place, 


3  The  extent  of  Mafra  Is  prodigious  ;  it  contains  a  palace,  con- 
vent, and  most  superb  church.  The  six  organs  are  the  most  beau- 
tiful I  ever  beheld,  in  point  of  decoration  ;  we  did  not  hear  them, 
but  were  told  that  their  tones  were  correspondent  to  their  splen 
dor.    Mafra  is  termed  the  Escurial  of  Portugal. 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


11 


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,  [woes. 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjection's 

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  ? — 
Ne  barrier  wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 
Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall. 

Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land  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  difierence  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. 
Bo  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 
Of  Moor  and  Knight,  in  mailed  splendor  dress'd  : 
Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk  the 

strong ; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mix'd  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  op- 

press'd. 


'  A«  1  fotmd  the  Portngnose,  so  I  have  characterized  them.  That 
they  are  since  Improved,  at  least  In  courage.  Is  evident.  The  late 
exploits  of  Lord  Wellington  have  effaced  the  follies  of  Clntra.  He 
has.  Indeed,  done  wonders  :  he  has,  perhaps,  changed  the  charac- 
ter of  a  nation,  reconciled  rival  superstitions,  and  baffled  an  enemy 
who  never  retreated  before  hl»  predecessors.— 1812. 


XXXV. 

Oh,  lovely  Spain  !  rcnown'd,  romantic  land ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
Wlien  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  call'd  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  gore  ?  = 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale. 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore  ? 
Red  gleam'd  the  cross,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale, 
Wliile  Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  Moorish  matrons' 
wall 

XXXVI. 

Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tale  ? 
Ah  !  such,  alas  !  the  hero's  amplest  fate  ! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  records  fail, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride !  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  es- 
See  how  the  mighty  shrink  into  a  song  !        [tate, 
Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile,  preserve  thee  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  : 
Now  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  I  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,  [shock. 

Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the 

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  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon  ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fix'd,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar, — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done ; 


'  Connt  Jnlian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pelagius  pre- 
served his  Independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Asturias,  and  the 
descendants  of  his  followers,  after  some  centuries,  completed 
their  struggle  by  the  conquest  of  Granada. 


12 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  l 


For  on  tliis  mom  three  jwtent  nations  meet, 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most 
sweet. 

XL. 

By  Heaven  !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mix'd  embroidery. 
Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air  ! 
What  gallant  war-hounda  rouse  them  from  their  lair, 
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  nimiber  their  array. 

XLI. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice  ; 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high ; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies ; 
The  shouts  are  Prance,  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. 

XLII. 
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  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own, 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone  ? 

XLIII. 
Oh,  Albuera,  glorious  field  of  grief! 
As  o'er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  prick'd  his  steed. 
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 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings !  for  their  country's  good. 
And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame ; 
Perish'd,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud. 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine's  path  pursued. 


XLV. 


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

XL  VI. 

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  inthraUs  ;       [rounds  : 
And  young-eyed  Lewdness  walks  her  midnight 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 
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. 
Not  in  the  toils  of  Glory  would  ye  fret :  [yet ! 

The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  happy 

XLVIIL 
How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer  ? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay. 
As  whilome  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer, 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  ? 
No  !  as  he  speeds,  he  chants  "  Viva  el  Rey  !"' 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
Wlien  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy. 
And  gore-faced  Treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate 
joy. 

XLIX. 
On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown'd 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest, 
Wide    scatter'd    hoof-marks    dint  the   wounded 

ground ; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  greensward's  darken'd  vest 

1  "  Viva  el  Rey  PernaDclo !"  Long  live  King  Ferdinand  1  ia  tlie 
ciiorns  of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic  songs.  They  are  chiefly 
in  dispraise  of  the  old  king  Charles,  the  Queen  and  the  Prince  of 
Peace.  I  have  heard  many  of  them :  some  of  the  airs  are  heaiiti- 
ful.  Don  Manuel  Godoy,  the  Principe  de  la  Paz,  of  an  ancient 
but  decayed  family,  was  bom  at  Badajoz,  on  the  frontiers  of  Por- 
tugal, and  was  originally  in  the  ranks  of  the  Spanish  guards  ;  till 
his  person  attracted  the  queen's  eyes,  and  raised  him  to  the  duke- 
dom of  Aicudia,  &c.  &c.  It  is  to  this  man  that  the  Spaniards  uni- 
versally impute  the  ruin  of  their  country. 


Casto  l 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


13 


Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm'd  the  dragon's  nest ; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast,  [lost. 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and 


And  whomsoe'er  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet :' 
Wo  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  view 
Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true  : 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke ; 
And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue. 
If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloak,  [smoke. 
Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's 

LI. 

At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load ; 
And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road. 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'erflow'd, 
The  station'd  bands,  the  never-vacant  watch. 
The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stow'd. 
The  holster'd  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch, 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,"  the  ever-blazing  match, 

LII. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  come  : — ^but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod  ; 
A  little  moment  deigneth  to  delay  : 
Soon  wiU  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way ; 
The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  the  world. 
Ah  !  Spain  !  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day, 
When  soars  Gaul's  Vulture,  with  his  wings  unfurl'd, 
And  thou  shalt  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades 
hurl'd. 

LIII. 
And  must  they  fall?  the  young,  the  proud,  thebrave. 
To  swell  one  bloated  Chief's  unwholesome  reign  ? 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave  ? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  ? 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  appeal  ? 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valor  acts  in  vain  ? 
And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal, 
The  Veteran's  skill.  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood's  heart 
of  steel ? 

LIV. 
Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused. 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 

I  The  red  cockade,  with  "  Femanrto  VII."  In  the  centra. 

«  All  who  have  Been  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pyramidal  form 
In  which  ghot  and  Bhelle  are  piled.  The  Sierra  Morena  was  forti- 
fied In  every  defile  through  which  I  passed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 


And,  all  unsex'd,  the  aniace  hath  espoused. 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war  ? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appall'd,  an  owlet's  larum  chill'd  with  dread, 
Now  views  the  column-scattering  bay'net  jar, 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead 
Stalks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake 
to  tread. 

LV. 
Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 
Oh  !  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Mark'd  her  black  eye  thatmocks  her  coal-black  veil, 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  Lady's  bower. 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's  power, 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace. 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  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  fllls  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  flusli'd  hope  is  lost  ? 
Wlio  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  batter'd  wall  ?' 

LVII. 
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. 

LVIII. 
The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impress'd 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch  ; 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest. 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such  : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful !  how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek. 
Which  glows  yet  smooth  er  from  hi  s  amorous  clutch ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek  ? 
How  poor  their  forms  appear !  how  languid,  wan,  and 
weak ! 

3  Snch  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza,  who  by  her 
valor  elevated  herself  to  the  highest  rank  of  heroines.  When  the 
author  was  at  Seville,  she  walked  daily  on  the  Prado,  decorated 
with  medals  and  orders,  by  command  of  the  Junta. 


14 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


LIX. 

Match,  me,  ye  climes  !  which  poets  love  to  laud ; 
Match  me,  ye  harems  of  the  land  !  where  now ' 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev'n  a  cynic  must  avow ; 
Match  me  those  Houries,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind, 
With  Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters — deign  to 
There  your  wise  Prophet's  paradise  we  find,  [know 
His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus  !'  whom  I  now  survey. 
Not  in  the  phrenzy  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  woo  thine  echoes  with  his  string. 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  wiU 
wave  her  wing. 

LXI. 
Oft  have  I  dream'd  of  thee  I  whose  glorious  name 
WIio  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore  : 
And  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  1 

LXIl. 
Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been, 
Whose  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot. 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  the  haUow'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. 

LXIII. 
Of  thee  hereafter. — Ev'n  amidst  my  strain 
I  turn'd  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here ; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain  ; 
Her  fate,  to  every  freebom  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. 


1  This  etanza  was  written  in  Turkey. 

2  These  stanzas  were  written  In  Castri,  (Delphos,)  at  the  foot  of 
Parnassus,  now  called  Liakara,  December,  1809. 


LXIV. 
But  ne'er  didst  thou,  fair  Mount !  when  Greece  was 

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

glades. 

LXV. 
Pair  is  proud  Seville ;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days ;' 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast. 
Calls  forth  a  sweeter,  though  ignoble  praise. 
Ah,  Vice  I  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. 

LXVI. 
Wlien  Paphos  fell  by  Time — accursed  Time  ! 
The  Queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to  thee — 
The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime ; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  naught  else  constant,  hither  deign'd  to  flee  ; 
And  fix'd  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white  ; 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth  she 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A  thousand  altars  rise,  forever  blazing  bright. 

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

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

3  Serille  was  the  Hispalls  of  the  Romans. 


CAIfTO   I. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


16 


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

LXX. 
Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribbon'd  fair, 
Others  along  the  safer  turnpike  fly ; 
Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 
And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgate  hie. 
Ask  yc,  Bffiotian  shades  !  the  reason  why  ? ' 
'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  mom. 

LXXI. 
All  have  their  fooleries — not  aUke  are  thine, 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea  1 
Soon  as  the  matin  bell  proclaimeth  nine, 
Thy  saint-adorers  count  the  rosary  : 
Much  is  the  Virgin  teased  to  shrive  them  free 
(Well  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 
From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be  ; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare  : 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion 
share. 

LXXII. 
The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clear'd. 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round ; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard, 
Ne  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  foimd : 
Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 
SkiU'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye. 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound  ; 
None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  to  die. 
As  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  Love's  sad  arch- 
ery. 


1  This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  conseqnently  in  the  best  situ- 
ation for  asking  and  answering  such  a  question  ;  not  as  the  birth-  ' 
place  of  Pindar,  but  a»  the  capital  of  Bceotia,  where  the  first  rid- 
dle was  propounded  and  solved. 

'  [Lord  Byron  alludes  to  a  ridiculous  custom  which  formerly  ' 
prevailed  at  the  public-houses  in  Highgate,  of  administering  a  bur- 
lesque oath  to  all  travelers  of  the  middling  rank  who  stopped 
there.  The  party  was  sworn  on  a  pair  of  horns,  fastened,  "  never 
to  kiss  the  maid  when  he  could  the  mistress ;  never  to  eat  brown 
bread  when  ho  could  get  white ;  never  to  drink  small  beer  when 
he  could  get  strong,"  with  many  other  injunctions  of  the  like 
kind,— to  all  which  was  added  the  saving  clause, — "  unless  yon  I 
like  it  best."]  | 


LXXIII. 
Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues — on  gallant  steeds. 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  Ught-poised 

lance. 
Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds, 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance  ; 
Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance ; 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day. 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance. 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away. 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  re- 
pay- 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array'd, 
But  aU  afoot,  the  light-hmb'd  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds  ;  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er, 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed. 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed — 
Alas  !  too  oft  condemn'd  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

LXXV. 
Thrice  sounds  the  clarion  ;  lo  !  the  signal  falls. 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot. 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe  : 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVI. 
Sudden  he  stops  ;  his  eye  is  fix'd  :  away. 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy  !  prepare  the  spear : 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer ; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscath'd  he  goes  ; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear : 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes  ; 
Dart  follows  dart ;   lance,  lance ;   loud  bellowings 
speak  his  woes. 

LXXVII. 
Again  he  comes  ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse  ; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretch'd  a  mangled  corse ; 
Another,  hideous  sight  1  unseam'd  appears. 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source  ; 
Though  death-struck,  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears. 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharm'd 
he  bears. 


16 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Cauto  I. 


LXXVIII 
Foil'd,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last. 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray  : 
And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play. 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand  : 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering 

way- 
Vain  rage  !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand. 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye — 'tis  past — he  sinks  upon  the 

sandl 

LXXIX. 
Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine, 
Sheath'd  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. 

LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 
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  stem  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  leam'd  with  truth  to  deem. 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings  : 
How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe'er  he  seem, 
FuU  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 
Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings. 


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  deign'd  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  cursed  Cain's  unresting 
doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng ; 
But  view'd  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate : 
Fain  would  he  now  have  join'd  the  dance,  the  song ; 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate  ? 
Naught  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate  : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  tha  demon's  sway. 
And  as  in  Beauty's  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay,  [day- 

To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  sooth'd  his  happier 

TO  DTEZ. 

1. 

Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow ; 

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

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 

2. 
And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  wo 

I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 
And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 

A  pang,  e'en  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. 

5. 
It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 

The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore ; 
That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

6. 
What  exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

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

The  blight  of  life — the  demon  Thought. 


Canto  l 


CHILDE    HAllOLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


17 


Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

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

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

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

Witli  many  a  retrospection  cursed  ; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

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

9. 
Wliat  is  that  worst  ?    Nay  do  not  ask — 

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

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

LXXXV. 
Adieu,  fair  Cadiz  !  yea,  a  long  adieu  ! 
Wlio  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood  ? 
When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true,     ■ 
First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued  : 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude. 
Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye ; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud  : ' 
Here  aH  were  noble,  save  Nobility ;  [airy  I 

None  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  Chiv- 

LXXXTI. 
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  naught  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  the  knife  ?" ' 

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  cimeter  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  cursed  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  vrith  female  slaughter  red  ; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 

>  AUttcling  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  Governor  of 
Cadiz,  in  May,  1800. 

'  "  War  to  tlic  Ktiife."  Palafox'8  answer  to  the  French  general 
»t  the  fiege  of  8ara};oza. 

3 


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  Pyrenees  : 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun. 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fall'n  nations  gaze  on  Spain  ;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchain'd  : 
Strange  retribution  !  now  Columbia's  ease 
Kepairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustain'd, 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  unre- 
strain'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  weU-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  I 

XCI. 
And  thou,  my  friend  !'  since  unavailing  wo 
Bursts  from  my  heart  and  mingles  with  the  strain — 
Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low. 
Pride  might  forbid  e'en  Friendship  to  complain  ; 
But  thus  unlaurell'd  to  descend  in  vain. 
By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breast, 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain. 
While  Glory  crowns  so  many  a  meaner  crest ! 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peacefully  to  rest  ? 

XCII. 
Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem'd  the  most ! 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  naught  was  left  so  dear  1 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  forever  lost. 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here  ! 

'  The  Honorable  John  Wlngfleld,  of  the  Guards,  who  died  of  a 
fever  at  Coimbra,  (May  14, 18U.)  I  had  known  him  ten  years,  the 
better  part  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of  mine.  In  the  short 
space  of  one  month,  I  have  lost  her  who  gave  mo  being,  and  most 
of  those  who  had  made  that  being  tolerable.  To  me  the  lines  of 
Young  are  no  Action  :— 

"  Insatiate  archer  I  could  not  one  suffice  f 
Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain, 
And  thrice  ere  thrice  you  moon  had  fiU'd  her  hoi*n." 
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  can- 
didates, 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. 


18 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


And  Mom  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes, 
And  Fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodless  bier, 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose. 
And  moum'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

XCIII. 
Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage  : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know. 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page. 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stem  Critic  !  say  not  so  : 
Patience  I  and  ye  shall  hear  what  he  beheld 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doom'd  to  go  : 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands 
were  quell'd. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO    THE   SECOND. 


I. 


Come  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven  1 — but  thou,  alas ! 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire — 
Goddess  of  Wisdom  !  here  thy  temple  was, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire,' 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire  : 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow. 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow     [bestow. 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  breasts 

II. 

Ancient  of  days  !  august  Athena  !'  where, 
Where  are  thy  men  of  might  ?  thy  grand  in  soul  ? 
Gone — glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things 

that  were : 
First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal. 


'  Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  a  mag- 
azine during  the  Venetian  siege. 

^  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  are  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  conspicuous  than  In  the  record  of  what  Athens  was, 
and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now  is.  This  theatre  of  contention 
between  mighty  factions,  of  the  struggles  of  orators,  the  exaltation 
and  deposition  of  tyrants,  the  triumph  and  punishment  of  gener- 
als, is  now  become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual  disturb- 
ance, between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain  British  nobility  and 
gentry.  "  The  wild  foxes,  the  owls  and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of 
Babylon,"  were  surely  less  degrading  than  such  Inhabitants.  The 
Turks  have  the  plea  of  conquest  for  their  tyranny,  and  the  Greeks 
have  only  suflered  the  fortunes  of  war,  Incidental  to  the  bravest : 
but  how  are  the  mighty  fallen,  when  two  painters  contest  the  priv- 
ilege of  plundering  the  Parthenon,  and  triomph  in  turn,  according 


They  won,  and  pass'd  away — is  this  the  whole  ? 
A  schoolboy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour  ! 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower, 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,gray  flits  the  shade  of  power. 

III. 
Son  of  the  morning,  rise  I  approach  you  here  I 
Come — ^but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn  : 
Look  on  this  spot — a  nation's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  bum. 
Even  gods  must  yield — reUgions  take  their  turn  : 
'Twas  Jove's — 'tis  Mahomet's — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds  ;  [reeds. 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,whose  hope  is  built  on 

IV. 
Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing  !  to  know 
Thou  art  ?  Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given. 
That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go, 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  wo  ? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies  : 
That  little  um  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 

V. 
Or  burst  the  vanish'd  Hero's  lofty  mound ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  : ' 
He  fen,  and  falhng  nations  mourn'd  around  ; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps. 
Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appear'd,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scatter'd  heaps  : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  God  may  dwell  ? 
Why  ev'n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter'd  cell ! 

VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  roin'd  waU, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 

to  the  tenor  of  each  sncceeding  firman  I  Sylla  could  bnt  punish, 
Philip  subdue,  and  Xerxes  bum  Athene  ;  but  It  remained  for  the 
paltry  antiquarian,  and  his  despicable  agents,  to  render  her  con- 
temptible as  himself  and  his  pursuits.  The  Parthenon,  before  its 
destruction  in  part,  by  fire  during  the  Venetian  siege,  had  been  a 
temple,  a  chnrch,  and  a  mosque.  In  each  point  of  view  it  is  an 
object  of  regard :  it  changed  its  worshippers  ;  bnt  still  it  was  a 
place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  devotion :  its  violation  Is  a  tri- 
ple sacrifice.    But— 

"  Man,  proud  man, 
Dress'd  in  a  little  brief  authority. 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep." 
'  It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  bnm  their  dead ; 
the  greater  Ajax,  in  particular,  was  Interred  entire.    Almost  all 
the  chiefs  became  gods  after  their  decease  ;  and  he  was  Indeed  ne- 
glected, 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  Antinons,  whose  death  was  as  heroic  as  his  life 
was  infkmous. 


% 


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O 


Canto  ii. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


19 


Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole. 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit, 
And  Passion's  host  that  never  brook'd  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ. 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

VII. 
Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son  ! 
"  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun  ? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  suflFerers  groan 
With  brain-bom  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron  : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome  rest. 

VIII. 
Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore  ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more  ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight. 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the 
right! 

IX. 
There,  thou  ! — whose  love  and  life  together  fled. 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 
Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead. 
When  busy  memory  flashes  on  my  brain  ? 
Well — I  vrill  dream  that  we  may  meet  again. 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast : 
If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  remain, 
Be  as  it  may  Futurity's  behest. 
For  me  'twere  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest  1 


Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone. 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base ; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  !  was  thy  fav'rite  throne,' 
Mightiest  of  many  such  !  Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be  :  nor  ev'n  can  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  Time  hath  labor'd  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh  : 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  by. 

>  The  temple  of  Jnpiter  Olympins,  of  which  ulxtcen  columns, 
entirely  of  marble,  yot  Burvive :  originally  there  were  one  hundred 
and  fifty.  These  columns,  however,  are  by  many  supposed  to  have 
belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 

'  Alluding  to  Lord  Elgin's  removal  of  works  of  art  from  the 
Acropolis  at  Atheni. 


XI. 
But  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
On  high,  where  Pallas  linger'd,  loath  to  flee 
The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign  ; 
The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  he  ? 
Blush,  Caledonia  !  such  thy  son  could  be  ! 
England  I  I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine  : 
Thy  iree-born  men  should  spare  what  once  was  free ; 
Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine. 
And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  iong-reluctant  brine.' 

XII. 
But  most  the  modem  Pict's  ignoble  boast. 
To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath  spared : 
Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast, 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard. 
Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepared, 
Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains  : 
Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard. 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains,3 
And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  despots' 
chains. 

XIII. 
What !  shall  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears  ? 
Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom  wrung, 
Tell  not  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears  ; 
The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia,  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land  : 
Yes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  endears, 
Tore  down  those  remnants  with  a  harpy's  hand. 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and   tyrants   left  to 
stand. 

XIV. 

Where  was  thine  .lEgis,  Pallas  !  that  appall'd 
Stem  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way  ?* 
Where  Peleus'  son  ?  whom  Hell  in  vain  inthrali'd, 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day 
Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array  ! 
What !  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more, 
To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey  ? 
Idly  he  wander'd  on  the  Stygian  shore. 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield 
before. 


'  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, 
Te?.of !— Iwas  present."  The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  fhther 
of  the  present  Disdar. 

•  According  to  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frightened  Alaric 
from  the  Acropolis :  but  others  relate  that  the  Gothic  king  was 
neariy  as  mischievous  as  the  Scottish  peer.— See  Chandler. 


20 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Caisto  II. 


XV. 
Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece  !  that  looks  on  thee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved ; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see  [ed 

Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  remov- 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behooved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Cursed  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved. 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored. 
And  snatch'd  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern  climes 
abhorr'd  I 

XVI. 

But  where  is  Harold  ?  shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  "the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave  ? 
Little  reck'd  he  of  all  that  men  regret ; 
No  loved  one  now  in  feign'd  lament  could  rave ; 
No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave. 
Ere  the  cold  stranger  pass'd  to  other  climes ; 
Hard  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not  enslave  ; 
But  Harold  felt  not  as  in  other  times. 
And  left  without  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 

XVII. 
He  that  has  sail'd  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 
Has  view'd  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sight ; 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be. 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight ; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  bow. 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  their  flight. 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now, 
So  gayly  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 

XVIII. 
And  oh,  the  little  warhke  world  within  ! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,' 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  dia, 
"When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  mann'd  on  high  : 
Hark,  to  the  boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry  ! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glides ; 
Or  schoolboy  midshipman  that,  standing  by. 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides. 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skillful  urchin  guides. 

XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain, 
Where  on  the  watch  the  staid  lieutenant  walks  : 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  doth  remain 
For  the  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks 
Silent  and  fear'd  by  all— not  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  Fame :  but  Britons  rarely  swerve 
From  law,  however  stem,  which  tends  their  strength 
to  nerve. 


'  To  prevent  blocks  or  spHnters  from  falling  on  deck  during  ac- 
tion. 


XX. 
Blow  !  swiftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  gale  ! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray  ; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail. 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah  !  grievance  sore,  and  Ustless  duU  delay. 
To  waste  on  sluggish  hulks  the  sweetest  breeze  ! 
What  leagues  are  lost  before  the  dawn  of  day. 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas,  [these  ! 
The  flapping  sail  haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like 

XXI. 
The  moon  is  up ;  by  Heaven,  a  lovely  eve  ! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  waves  expand; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe  : 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land  ! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love  ; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand, 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move, 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to  rove. 

XXII. 
Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  steepy  shore ; 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze  1 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze : 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays. 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown, 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase ; 
But  Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frown,         [down. 
From   mountain-cliff  to  coast  descending  sombre 

XXIII. 
'Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end  : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  bafiled  zeal. 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 
Who  vrith  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  Joy  ? 
Alas  !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend. 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy  !      [boy  ? 
Ah  !  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  be  a 

XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  hope  and  pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear. 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possoss'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear; 
A  flashing  pang  I  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 

XXV. 

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


Cahto  II. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


21 


Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  aU  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  loan ; 
This  is  not  solitude ;  'tis  but  to  hold        [unroll'd. 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores 

XXVI. 
But  'midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless ; 
Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flatter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued ; 
This  is  to  be  alone  ;  this,  this  is  solitude  1 

XXVII. 
More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite. 
Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen, 
Watching  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height. 
Which  looks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene. 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  liaUow'd  spot ; 
Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  witching  scene. 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot. 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgot. 

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

XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles, ' 
The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep  ; 
There  for  the  weary  stiU  a  haven  smiles. 
Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased  to  weep 
And  o'er  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride  : 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essay'd  the  dreadful  leap 
Stem  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide  ; 
Wliile  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  mayst  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 

>  Goza  la  said  to  hare  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 


Sweet  Florence  1  could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine  : 
But  check'd  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine, 
Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXI. 
Thus  Harold  deem'd,  as  on  that  lady's  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  was 
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, 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law ; 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims  : 
And  much  she  marvell'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feign'd  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames, 
Which,  though  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely 
anger  dames. 

XXXIII. 
Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble  heart. 
Now  mask'd  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride. 
Was  not  unskiUful  in  the  spoiler's  art. 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  vpide ; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  tum'd  aside, 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue  : 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied  ; 
And  had  he  doted  on  those  eyeS  so  blue, 
Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lovers'  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, 


22 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  Passion  1  these  1 
It,  kindly  cruel,  early  Hope  is  cross'd, 
StiU  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a  disease, 
Not  to  be  cured  when  love  itself  forgets  to  please. 

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

XXXVII. 
Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still, 
Though  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. 

XXXVIII. 
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  emprise : 
Land  of  Albania  !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  1 
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 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave  ; ' 
And  onward  view'd  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot. 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho  1  could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire  ? 
Could  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre,  [aspire. 

That  only  Heaven  to  which  Earth's  children  may 

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, 

1  Ithaca. 

!  Leacadia,  now  Santa  Manra.    From  the  promontory  (the  Lov- 
er's Leap)  Sappho  is  eaid  to  have  thrown  hersel/. 


Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar  ;3 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Bom  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight,  [wight. 
But  loathed  the  bravo's  trade,  and  laugli'd  at  martial 

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

XLII. 
Mom  dawns  ;  and  vrith  it  stem  Albania's  hills. 
Dark  SuU's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak. 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  with  snowy  rills, 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  and  purple  streak. 
Arise  ;  and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer  : 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak. 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear, 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing 
year. 

XLIII. 
Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone, 
And  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu ; 
Now  he  adventured  on  a  shore  unknown. 
Which  aU  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view :  [few ; 
His  breast  was  arm'd  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet : 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new ; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet,  [heat. 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  summer's 

XLIV. 
Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here, 
Though  sadly  scofF'd  at  by  the  circumcised, 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pamper'd  priesthood  dear ; 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  Superstition  I  howsoe'er  disguised, 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross, 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized. 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss  !      [dross  ? 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy 

XLV. 
Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 

3  Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.  The  battle  of 
Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  considerable,  but  less  known,  was 
fought  in  the  Gulf  of  Patras.  Here  the  author  of  Don  Quixote  lost 
hia  left  hand. 


% 


'^ 


PEEBINI   DOWN  EACH  PBECiriCE  THE  'WAT 
BROWSBTlt    AND  PENStVE  OEB  HIS    SCATTER  D  FLOCK 
THE  UTTLE   SHHPHEBD  IN  HIS  WHITE  CAPOTE 
DOTH  LEAN  HIS    BOYISH  FOPM  AWNG  TUB  KOClt 

ChilrifiHar'Jlcl  (•;mto2 


Johnson, Fry  ^  Company,  Publishers, NewYork. 


Canto  ii. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


23 


In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Koman  chief  and  Asian  king' 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring  : 
Look  where  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  rose  ! " 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  rear'd  them,  withering ; 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes  ! 
God  1  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and 
lose? 

XLVI. 
From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Ev'n  to  the  centre  of  lUyria's  vales, 
Childo  Harold  pass'd  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime. 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales  ; 
Yet  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  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this  lowering 
coast. 

XLVII. 
He  pass'd  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,' 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land. 
And  onwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's*  chief,  whose  dread  command 
Is  lawless  law ;  for  with  a  bloody,  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold  : 
Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold. ' 

XLVIII. 
Monastic  Zitza  !"  from  thy  shady  brow, 
Thou  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,  aU  abound. 


'  It  is  said,  that,  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battie  of  Actium, 
Antony  liad  thirteen  Ivings  at  hie  levee. 

'  NicopoliK,  whose  mins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some  distance 
from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hippodrome  survives  in  a  few 
fragments.  These  rains  are  large  masses  of  brickwork,  the  bricks 
of  which  are  joined  by  interstices  of  mortar,  as  largo  as  the  bricks 
themselves,  and  equally  durable. 

'  According  to  Ponqueville,  the  lake  of  Yanina :  but  PonquevlUe 
is  always  out. 

<  The  celebrated  All  Paclia.  Of  this  extraordinary  man  there  is 
an  incorrect  account  in  PouquoviUe's  Travels. 

•  Five  thousand  Sullotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the  castle  of 
Suli,  withstood  thirty  thousand  Albanians  for  eighteen  years  ;  the 
castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.  In  this  contest  there  were 
several  acts  performed  not  unworthy  of  the  better  days  of  Greece. 

'  The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hour's  journey  from 
Joannina,  or  Tanina,  the  capital  of  the  Pachalick.  In  the  valley 
the  river  Kalamas  (once  the  Acheron)  flows,  and,  not  far  from  Zit- 
za, forms  a  flue  cataract.  The  situation  is  perhaps  the  finest  in 
Greece,  though  the  approach  to  Delvinachi  and  parts  of  Acamani.^ 
and  i^tolla  may  contest  the  palm.  Delphi,  Parnassus,  and,  in  At- 
tica, 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  Constantinople ;  but  from  the  different  features  of 
the  last,  a  comparison  can  hardly  bo  made. 


And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole  : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll  [the  souL 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please 

XLIX. 
Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still. 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity, 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high  : 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer,'  nor  rude  is  he. 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer  ;  the  passer  by 
Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  to  see. 


Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest, 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees ; 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast, 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze  : 
The  plain  is  far  beneath — oh  !  let  him  seize 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can  ;  the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease : 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  mom,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

LI. 
Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre,* 
ChimaBra's  alps  extend  from  left  to  right : 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir ;  [fir 

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,  [for  none. 

Close  shamed  Elsyium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek 

LIT. 

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

LUX. 
Oh  !  where,  Dodona  I  is  thine  aged  grove, 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine  ? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove  ? 
What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer's  shrine  ? 


'  The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 

*  The  Chimarint  mountains  appear  to  have  been  volcanic. 

•  Now  called  Kalamas. 
■°  Albauosc  cloak. 


24 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  n. 


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  beneath 
the  stroke  I 

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  yolad  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. 

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

Whose  walls  o'erlook  the  stream ;    and  drawing 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men        [glen. 
Swelling  the  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  lengthening 

LVI. 
He  pass'd  the  sacred  Harem's  silent  tower, 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate 
Survey'd  the  dwelKng  of  this  chief  of  power. 
Where  aU  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. 

LVII. 
Richly  caparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store, 
Circled  the  wide-extending  court  below ; 
Above,  strange  groups  adom'd  the  corridore ; 
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. 

>  Anciently  Mount  Tomanis. 

»  The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  paf?eed  It ;  and. 
Immediately  ahOYe  Tepaleen,  -was  to  the  eye  as  wide  as  the  Thames 
at  Westminster ;  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  the  author  and- his  fel- 
fow-traveller.  In  the  summer  it  must  he  much  narrower.  It  cer- 
Uunly  is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant ;  neither  Achelous,  Alpheus, 
Acheron,  Scamaader,  nor  Caysler,  approach  it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 


LVIII. 
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 ; 
The  bearded  Turk,  that  rarely  deigns  to  speak, 
Master  of  aU  aroimd,  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  thatplay,  are  found ; 
Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground  ; 
Half-whispering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate ; 
Hark  !  from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 
The  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  aU  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  jjassing  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  joj-ful  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  : ' 
Tet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace. 
While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venerable  face,  [disgrace. 

The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with 


^  The  vizier  to  Ali  Pacha. 


Cakto  n. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


25 


LXIII. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
HI  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth  : 
Love  conquers  age — so  Haflz  hath  averr'd 
So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  Ruth, 
Beseeming  all  men  iU,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth  : 
Bloodfollows  blood,  and,  through  thcirmortalspan. 
In  bloodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 
And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury. 
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. 

LXV. 

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

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower, 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendor  and  success  ; 
And  after  view'd  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, 
Wlien  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer'd  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof — ' 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the 
proof ! 

LXVII. 

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

>  Alladiog  to  the  wreckerii  of  Cornwall. 
4 


LXVIII. 
Vain  fear  1  the  Suliotes  stretch'd  the  welcome  hand, 
Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous  swamp, 
Kinder  than  polish'd  slaves  though  not  so  bland, 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments 

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

LXIX. 
It  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  did  address 
Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land. 
Combined  marauders,  half-way,  barr'd  egress. 
And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand  ; 
And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acamania's  forest  wide. 
In  war  well  season'd,  and  with  labors  tann'd. 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide. 
And  from  his  further  bank  ^EtoUa's  wolds  espied. 

LXX. 
Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove. 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest. 
How  brown  the  foUage  of  the  green  hiU's  grove. 
Nodding  at  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast, 
As  winds  come  whispering  lightly  from  the  west. 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep's  serene : 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest ; 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene,  [glean. 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence 

LXXI. 
On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast,' 
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"  his  sabre  from  him  cast, 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man, 
yeUing   their  uncouth  dirge,  long  danced  the  kir- 
tled  clan. 

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


'  The  Albanian  MnsBuImans  do  not  abstain  from  wine,  and,  in- 
deed, very  few  of  the  others. 

•  Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  n  single  person  fVom 
TlaXiKaQi,  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amongst  the  Greeks  and 
Albanese  who  speak  IComaic :  it  means,  properly,  "  a  lad." 


26 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream'd 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sung,  half 
scream'd : 

1. 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war ; 
Tambouegi  I  Tambourgi  !  '  thy  larum  afar 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  Ulyrian,  and  dark  SuUote  P 

3. 
Oh  I  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. 
ShaU  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live  ? 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance  forego  ? 
Wliat  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  shaU  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheath'd  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 


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

6. 

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  hair, 
And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  shaU  tear. 

7. 
I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth. 
Her  caresses  shaU  luU  me,  her  music  shaU  soothe ; 
Let  her  bring  from  her  chamber  the  many-toned  lyre, 
And  sing  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 

8. 
Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  feU 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquer'd,  the  conquerors'  yell ; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared. 
The  wealthy  we  slaughter'd,  the  lovely  we  spared. 

9. 
I  taUc  not  of  mercy,  1  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  AU  Pashaw. 


'  Dmmmer. 

■>  These  stanzas  sre  partly  taken  from  different  Albaneee  songs, 
as  tor  as  I  was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  exposition  of  the  Al- 
banese  in  Homaic  and  Italian. 

"  It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 


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

When  his  Delhis'  come  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the 
How  few  shaU  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks  1 

11- 
SeUctar  !«  unsheath  then  our  chief's  scimitar  : 
Tambourgi  !  thy  larum  gives  promise  of  war. 
Ye  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore. 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more  ! 

LXXIII. 
Fair  Greece  !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ;  though  fallen,  great ! 
Who  now  shaU  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  wilUng  doom. 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait — 
Oh  !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shaU  resume. 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  caU  thee  from  the  tomb  ? 

LXXIV. 
Spirit  of  Freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow' 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forbode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  ? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain. 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain. 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand. 
From  birth  tiU  death  enslaved ;  in  word,  in  deed, 
unmann'd. 

LXXV. 
In  aU  save  form  alone,  how  changed  !  and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye. 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  bum'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,  [page. 

Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen  !  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow  ? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
WiU  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no  ! 


*  Yellow  Is  the  epithet  given  to  the  Ensslans. 
« Infldel. 

'  The  insignia  of  a  Pacha. 

'  Horseman,  answering  to  our  forlorn  hope. 

'  Sword-bearer. 

•  Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiftil  view  of  Athens,  has  still 
considerable  remains ;  it  was  seized  by  Thrasybulus,  previous  to 
the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 


Canto  ii. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


27 


True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe  ! 
Greece  !  ch  ange  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  stiU  the  same ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 

LXXVII. 
The  city  won  for  AUah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest ; 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest ;' 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood,  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet's'  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil. 
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  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin. 
By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer  ; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repentance  wear. 
Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all. 
To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share. 
In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball. 
And  join  the  mimic  train  of  merry  Carnival. 

LXXIX. 
And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  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  throng. 
All  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  on  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,     [lave. 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  they 

LXXXI. 
Glanced  many  a  light  caique  along  the  foam, 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home, 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 


Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 
Or  gently  press'd,  retum'd  the  pressure  still : 
Oh  Love  !  young  Love  !  bound  in  thy  rosy  band, 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will. 
These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life's  years  of  ill ! 

LXXXII. 
But,  midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade. 
Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain, 
Even  through  the  closest  searment  half  betray'd  ? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 
Seem  to  re-echo  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  I  Greece  !  they  love  thee  least  who  owe  thee  most; 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerated  horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

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

LXXXV. 
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,^ 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now ; 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow, 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth. 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough  : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth. 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth  ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave  ;< 


'  When  taken  by  the  Latins,  and  retained  for  several  years. 
'  Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  (some  time  ago  by  the  Wahabces, 
a  sect  yearly  increasing. 


'  On  numy  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the  snow  never 
ie  entirely  melted,  notwithstanding  the  intense  heat  of  the  summer ; 
but  I  never  saw  it  lie  on  the  plains,  even  in  winter. 

*  Of  Mount  PentelicuB,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug  that 
constmcted  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. 


28 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adoms 
Colonna's  cliff,'  and  gleams  along  the  wave ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave,  ^^ 

While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, ["Alas. 
Lingering   Uke  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and   sigh 

I,XXXV1I. 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild ; 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields. 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 
And  stiU  his  honey'd  wealth  Hymettus  yields  ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  bmlds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  MendeU's  marbles  glare ; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

LXXXVIII. 
Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted,  holy  ground ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould. 
But  one  vast  reahn  of  wonder  spreads  around. 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truely  told, 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon : 
Each  hiU  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crush'd  thy  temples  gone : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same ; 
rnchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord— 


1  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  iteelf  and  Marathon,  there  is 
uo  Bcene  more  interesting  than  Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary 
and  artist,  sixteen  columns  are  an  inexhaustible  source  of  obser- 
vation and  design ;  to  the  philosopher,  the  supposed  scene  of  some 
of  Plato's  conversations  will  not  he  unwelcome ;  and  the  traveller 
will  be  Btrnck  with  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  over  "Isles  that 
crown  the  jBgean  deep ;"  but,  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has  yet 
an  additional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer's  Shipwreck ; 
Pallas  and  Plato  are  foi^otten,  in  the  recollection  of  Falconer  and 
Campbell ; — 

"  Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna's  steep. 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep." 
This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  from  a  great  distance. 
In  two  journeys  which  I  made,  and  one  voyage  to  Cape  Colonna, 
the  view  from  either  side,  by  land,  was  less  striking  than  the  ap- 
proach from  the  isles.    In  our  second  land  excursion,  we  had  a 
narrow  escape  from  a  party  of  Mainotee,  concealed  in  the  caverns 
beneath.    We  were  told  afterwards  by  one  of  their  prisoners,  sub- 
sequently ransomed,  that  they  were  deterred  from  attacking  us  by 
the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians :  conjecturing  very  sagacious- 
ly, but  falsely,  that  we  had  a  complete  guard  of  these  Amaouts  at 
hand,  they  remained  stationary,  aud  thus  saved  our  party,  which 
was  too  small  to  have  opposed  any  effectual  reslstauce.    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,  has  done  that  for  herself.  I 
was  fortunate  enough  to  engage  a  very  superior  German  artist ; 
and  hope  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  this  and  many  other  Le- 
vantine scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  his  performances. 


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  mom  to  distant  Glory  dear. 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word ;» 
Which  utter'd,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career, 

XC. 
The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow ; 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear ; 
Mountains  above,  Earth's,  Ocean's  plain  below ; 
Death  in  the  front.  Destruction  in  the  rear  ! 
Such  was  the  scene— what  now  remaineth  here  ? 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd  ground. 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear  ? 
The  rifled  um,  the  violated  mound,  [around. 

The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger  !   spurns 

XCI. 
Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  birt  unwearied,  throng ; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast. 
Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song ; 
Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore ; 
Boast  of  the  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young  ! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore. 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 

XCII. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home. 

If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth ; 

He  that  is  lonely,  hither  let  him  roam. 

And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 

Greece  is  no  Ughtsome  land  of  social  mirth ; 

But  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide, 

And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 

When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  sacred  side,^ 

Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian 

died. 

XCIU. 

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,  ahready  how  defaced  ! 

Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed : 

llcvere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered : 

So  may  our  country's  name  be  imdisgraccd. 

So  mayst  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  rear'd, 

By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'd  1 


'  "  Siste  Viator-heroa  calcas  !"  was  the  epitaph  on  the  ftimons 
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  Fauvel :  few  or 
no  relics,  as  vases,  &c.,were  found  by  the  excavator.  The  plam 
of  Marathon  was  offered  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sum  of  sixteen  thou- 
sand piastres,  about  nine  hundred  pounds.  Alas  1-"  Bxpcnde-- 
quot  ««ra»  in  duce  summo-invenies  !"-wa3  the  dust  of  Miltl- 
ades  worth  no  more?  It  could  scarcely  have  fetched  less  if  sold 
by  weight. 


Canto  ii. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


29 


XCIV. 
For  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  sooth'd  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. 

XCV. 
Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one  ! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  affections  bovmd  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  1 
Nor  stay'd  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  return'd  to  find  fresh  cause  to 

roam ! 

XCVI. 
Oh  !  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved  !  . 
IIow  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past, 
And  cUngs  to  thoughts  now  better  far  removed  I 
But  Time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last 
All  thou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stem  Death  !  thou 

hast; 
The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend : 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast, 
And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend, 
Hath  snatch'd  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to 
lend. 

XCVII. 

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  iU-dissembled  sneer. 

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


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

"  Afln  qne  cette  application  vous  format  de  peneer  a  autre  chose ; 
il  n'y  a  en  vdrit6  de  remide  qne  celui-la  et  le  lemps."—LeUre  du 
Sol  de  Prusse  d  If  AUmbert,  Sept.  1, 1776. 


CANTO    TUB    THIRD. 


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  high 
The  winds  hft  up  their  voices :  I  depart, 
Whither  I  know  not ;  but  the  hour's  gone  by. 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 
mine  eye. 

II. 
Once  more  upon  the  waters  !  yet  once  more  1 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  lus  rider.     Welcome  to  their  roar  ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  whereso'er  it  lead  1 
Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvass  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 
Still  must  I  on  ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed. 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath 
prevail. 

III. 
In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  one. 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind  ; 
Again  to  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun. 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards  :  in  that  tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  aU  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower  ap- 
pears. 

IV. 
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  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling, 
So  that  it  wean  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,    u    not    imgratcful 
theme. 


30 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


V. 
He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe, 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life. 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him  ;  nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife. 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  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 
StiU  unimpair'd,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell. 

VI. 

'Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I  ?    Nothing  :  but  not  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  feeUng  still  with  thee  in  my  crush'd  feelings' 
dearth. 

VII. 
Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly : — ^I  fiave  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became. 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  Ufe  were  poison'd.     'Tis  too  late  1 
Yet  am  I  changed  ;  though  stiU  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  cannot  abate. 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 

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 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter'd  him  [heal ; 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age,  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigor  from  the  limb  : 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 

IX. 
His  had  been  quaflf'd  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood  ;  but  he  fill'd  again, 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  hoUer  ground. 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual ;  but  in  vain. 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gaU'd  forever,  fettering  though  unseen, 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  not ;  worn  with  pain. 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen, 
Entering  with  every  step  ho  took  through  many  a 
scene. 


Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix'd 
Again  in  fancied  safety  vrith  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 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation  ;  such  as  in  strange  land      [hand. 
He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's 

XI. 
But  who  can  view  the  ripen'd  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it  2  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek. 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ?      [fold 
Who  can  contemjjlate  Fame  through  clouds  un- 
The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb  ? 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  roU'd 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time,     [prime. 
Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond 

XII. 
But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man  ;  with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common  ;  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts  ;  still  uncompell'd 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell'd  ; 
Proud  though  in  desolation  ;  which  could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were 

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

XIV. 
Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars. 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams ;  and  earth,  and  earth-bom 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite  :    [jars. 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy ;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  fight 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  Unk  [brink. 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its 

XV. 

But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stem  and  wearisome 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  clipp'd  wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home  : 


Canto  hi. 


CIIILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


31 


Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat. 

XVI. 
Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again. 
With  naught  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom  ; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  Uved  in  vain, 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb. 
Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume,   [wreck 
Which,  though  'twere  wild, — as  on  the  plunder'd 
When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to  check. 

XVII. 

Stop  ! — for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dust ! 
An  Earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below  I 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  ? 
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  gained  by  thee, 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  !  king-making  Victory  ? 

XVIII. 
And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls. 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo  ! 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too  ! 
In  "pride  of  place"'  here  last  the  eagle  flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through  ; 
Ambition's  hfe  and  labors  all  were  vain  ;     [chain. 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution  !    Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters  ; — but  is  Earth  more  free  ? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit ; 
Or  league  to  teach  aU  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  ?  proSering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones  ?    No  ;  prcme  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 

'  "  Pride  of  place  "  la  a  term  of  fiilconry,  and  means  the  hlKhest 
pitch  of  flight.    See  Macbeth,  etc. 

"  An  eagle  towering  in  bis  pride  of  place,"  etc. 


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  vn-eathcs  a  sword 
Such  as  Harmodius"  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 

XXI. 
There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-beU  ;  ^     [knell ! 
But  hush  1  hark  1  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 

XXII. 
Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? — No ;  'twas  but  the  wind. 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined ; 
No  sleep  till  mom,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 
But  hark ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  arm  1  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. 

XXIV. 
Ah  1  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  trembling  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  hfe  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. 


»  See  the  ftmons  song  on  Hannodlus  and  Arlstogiton.  The  best 
English  translation  is  In  Bland's  Anthology,  by  Mr.  (now  Lord 
Chief  Justice)  Denman : 

"With  myrtle  my  Bword  wUl  I  wreathe,"  etc. 

>  On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  It  is  said  that  a  ball  was 
given  at  Brussels. 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


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 
Housed  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star  ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "  The  foe  !    They 
come !  they  come  !" 

XXVI. 
And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering  " 

rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes  : — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thriUs, 
Savage  and  shrill !  But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years. 
And  Evan's,  Donald's'  fame  rings  in  each  clans- 
man's ears ! 

XXVII. 
And  Ardennes^  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves. 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass. 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unretuming  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,  [low. 

And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 

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  mom  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay. 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial 
blent ! 

XXIX. 
Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line. 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong. 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song  ; 


■  Sir  Evan  Cameron  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the  "  gentle 
Lochiel"  of  the  "  forty-five." 

'  The  wood  of  Soignies  Is  supposed  to  he  a  remnant  of  the  forest 
of  Ardennes,  famoas  In  Bolardo's  Orlando,  and  immortal  in  Shak- 
speare's  "  As  you  like  it."  It  is  also  celehrated  in  Tacitus,  as  being 
the  spot  of  successful  defence  by  the  Germans  against  the  Roman 
encroachments.  1  have  ventured  to  adopt  the  name  connected 
with  nobler  associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 


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  I 

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  vride  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing,  [bring.' 
I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought,  to  those  she  could  not 

XXXI. 
I  turn'd  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  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 

Fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
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, 

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


'  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  solitary  trees,  (there  was  a  third,  cut  down,  or 
shivered  in  the  battle,)  which  stand  a  few  yards  from  each  other  at 
a  pathway's  side.  Beneath  these  he  died  and  was  buried.  The 
body  has  since  been  removed  to  England.  A  small  hollow  for  the 
present  marks  where  it  lay,  but  will  probably  soon  be  effaced ;  the 
plough  has  been  upon  it,  and  the  grain  is.  After  pointing  out  the 
different  spots  where  Plcton  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  circnmstances. 
The  place  is  one  of  the  most  marked  in  the  field,  from  the  peculi- 
arity of  the  two  trees  above  mentioned.  I  went  on  horseback 
twice  over  the  field,  comparing  it  with  my  recollection  of  similar 
scenes.  As  a  plain,  Waterloo  seems  marked  out  for  the  scene  of 
some  great  action,  though  this  may  be  mere  imagination  :  I  have 
viewed  with  attention  those  of  Platea,  Troy,  Mantinea,  Lenctra, 
Chseronea  and  Marathon  ;  and  the  field  around  Mont  St.  Jean  and 
Hougonmont  appears  to  want  little  but  a  better  cause,  and  that 
undeflnable  but  impressive  halo  which  the  lapse  of  ages  throws 
around  a  celebrated  spot,  to  vie  in  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these, 
except,  perhaps,  the  last  mentioned. 


^u^^l^ 


YOI.'R    BRIDGE  Of  SIGHS    YOL'f;  S'mANOLlNG  CHAMBER  AND 
TOITB  TOBTUPITIG  INSTBUMENTS  HAVE   UAIJE  TE   SEEM 

THE   BKINGS    'JF  ANOTHER   AND  WDRSt;   Wr3RLU'  , 


'■llllll  HaroM  i'"!::^!!!'.! 


Johnson, Fry  ^  Company,  Puhliahera,  NewYbrk 


i 


Canto  hi. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


33 


XXXIII. 
Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies  ;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks ; 
And  thus  the  heart  wiU  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches, 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. 

XXXIV. 
There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair. 
Vitality  of  poison, — a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches  ;  for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  ye  die ;  but  Life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Sorrow's  most  detested  fruit, 
Like  to  the  apples'  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore. 
All  ashes  to  the  taste  :  Did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er 
Such  hours  'gainst  years  of  life, — say,  would  he  name 
threescore  ? 

XXXV. 

The  Psalmist  number'd  out  the  years  of  man  : 
They  are  enough  ;  and  if  thy  tale  be  true, 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleeting  span. 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo  ! 
Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say — 
"  Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew. 
Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day  I" 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 

XXXVI. 
Tliere  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men. 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mix'd 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  flx'd. 
Extreme  in  all  things  !  hadst  thou  been  betwixt. 
Thy  throne  had  stiU  been  thine,  or  never  been  ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  reassume  the  imperial  mien. 
And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of  the 
scene ! 

XXXVII. 
Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou  ! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  Fame, 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  aU  inert. 
Who  deem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst  assert. 


'  The  (feblod)  upplen  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  ABphaHex  were  isld 
to  be  llilr  without,  and,  within,  aohei).  Vide  Tacitas,  Hi»t.  lib.  v.  7. 
5 


XXXVIII. 
Oh,  more  or  less  than  man — in  high  or  low. 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field  ; 
Kow  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield  : 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor. 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd. 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  tlxe  lust  of  war. 
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. 
Is  gaU  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by. 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye ; —       [smiled. 
When  Fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favorite  child, 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  iUs  upon  him  piled. 

XL. 
Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steel'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn,  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts  ;  'twas  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow. 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  tum'd  unto  thine  overthrow ; 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  vrin  or  lose ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose, 

XLI. 
If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  rock. 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  alone, 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave  the  shock ; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  paved 

thy  throne. 
Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone ; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
Like  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men  ; 
For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  to  wide  a  den.' 

XLII. 
But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane ;  there  is  a  Are 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 


'  The  great  error  of  Napoleon,  "  if  we  liave  writ  our  annalB  true," 
was  a  continued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  hi«  want  of  all  commu- 
Dity  of  feeling  for  or  with  them ;  perliapa  more  offenbire  to  human 
vanity  than  the  active  cruelty  of  more  trembling  and  Buepicioua 
tyranny.  Such  were  his  speeches  to  public  assemblies  as  well  aa 
individuals  ;  and  the  single  expression  which  he  is  said  to  have 
used  on  returning  to  Paris  after  the  Russian  winter  had  destroyed 
his  army,  rubbing  his  hands  over  a  fire,  "  This  is  pleasantcr  tlian 
Moscow,"  would  probably  alienate  more  fcvor  (Vom  his  cause  tbau 
the  destruction  and  reverses  which  led  to  the  remarks 


34 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 
This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion ;  Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Foimders  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,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  theirs !  One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 

Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or 
rule  : 

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

Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

XLV. 
He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall  find  ■ 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapp'd  in  clouds  and 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind,      [snow ; 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  (dtove  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  leneatli  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head,        [led. 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits 

XLVI. 
Away  with  these  !  true  Wisdom's  world  will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine. 
Maternal  Nature  !  for  who  teems  like  thee. 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine  ? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties  ;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain, 

vine. 
And  chiefless  castles*  breathing  stem  farewells 
From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly 

dwells. 

XLVII. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind. 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 
All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind. 
Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and 
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. 

XLVIII. 
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. 
What  want  these  outlaws'  conquerors  should  have 
But  History's  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  ? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ?     [as  brave. 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  fiill 

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

L. 

But  thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river  ! 
Making  thy  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for- 
ever 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so. 
Nor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict,^then  to  see 
Thy  vaUey  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  Heaven ;  and  to  seem  such  to  mc 

Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream  ? — that  it  should 
Lethe  be. 

LI. 
A  thousand  battles  have  assaii'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  aU  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glass'd  with  its  dancing  Ught  the  sunny  ray ; 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  memory's  blighting  dream 

Thy  waves  would  vainly  roU,  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 : 


'  "  What  wants  that  knave  that  a  king  shonid  have  f"  was  King 
James'  question  on  meeting  Johnny  Armstrong  and  bis  followers 
In  fiill  accoatrements.— See  the  Ballad. 


CA^"TO  in. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


35 


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. 

Lin. 
Kor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us  ;  the  heart  must 
Leap  kindly  back  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. 

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

LV. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Wliicli  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties  [wed. 
Than  the  church  links  withal ;  and,  though  un- 
That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise. 
Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes  ; 
But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  foreign  shore  [pour ! 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings 

1. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels ' 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine. 
And  hills  aU  rich  with  blossom'd  trees. 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine. 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 

'  The  castle  of  Drachenfels  etands  on  the  highest  Buinmlt  of 
"  The  Seven  Mountains,"  over  the  Khine  banks ;  it  is  in  ruins, 
and  connected  with  some  singular  traditions :  It  is  the  first  in 
view  on  the  road  from  Bonn,  bat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river ;  on  this  bank,  nearly  facing  it,  are  the  remains  of  another, 
called  the  Jew's  Castle,  and  a  large  cross  commemorative  of  the 
murder  of  a  chief  by  his  brother.  The  number  of  castles  and 
cities  along  the  course  of  the  Khine  on  both  sides  is  very  great, 
,  and  their  situation  remarkably  beautiful.  [These  verses  were 
written  on  the  banlui  of  the  Khine,  tn  Uay.  They  were  addressed 
to  bU  sister.] 


Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

3. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  ofi"er  early  flowers, 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay. 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,^ 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  ! 

3. 
I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me  ; 
Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  wither'd  be. 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such  ; 
For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear. 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye. 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here. 
When  thou  behold'st  them,  drooping  nigh, 
And  know'st  them  gather'd  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offer'd  from  my  heart  to  thine. 

4. 
The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 
The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground. 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 
Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  fomid 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear. 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
StiU  sweeten  more  these  l)ank8  of  Rhine  ! 

LVI. 
By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground. 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid. 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound  ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid. 
Our  enemy's,— but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honor  to  Marceau  !  o'er  whose  early  tomb       [lid. 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom,    [sume. 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  re- 

LVII. 
Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes ; 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose  ; 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those, 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstepp'd. 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 


3G 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


On  such  as  wield  her  weapons  ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him 
wept.' 

LVIII. 
Here  Ehrenbreitstein,"  with  her  shatter'd  wall 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light : 
A  tower  of  victory  !  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watch'd  along  the  plain  : 
But  Peace  destroy'd  what  War  could  never  blight, 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  summer's  rain, 
On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  pour'd  in 
vain. 

LIX.   " 
Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine  !    How  long  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way  ! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self-condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
WTiere  Nature,  nor  too  sombre,  nor  too  gay, 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere, 
Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  autumn  to  the  year. 


LX. 

Adieu  to  thee  again  !  a  vain  adieu  ! 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thiue ; 
The  mind  is  color'd  by  thy  every  hue  ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine  ! 
'Tis  with  the  thankful  glance  of  parting  praise  ; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise — more  glaring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft, — the  glories  of  old  days. 

>  The  monument  of  the  yonng  and  lamented  General  Marcean 
(killed  by  a  riflo-ball  at  Alterkirchen,  on  the  last  day  of  the  fourth 
year  of  the  French  Republic)  still  remains  as  described.  The  in- 
scriptions on  his  monument  are  rather  too  long,  and  not  required : 
his  name  was  enongh  ;  France  adored,  and  her  enemies  admired ; 
both  wept  over  him.  'His  flmeral  was  attended  by  the  generals 
and  detachments  from  both  armies.  In  the  same  grave  General 
Heche  is  interred,  a  gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of  the  word ; 
bnt  though  he  distinguished  himself  greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not 
the  good  fortune  to  die  there  :  his  death  was  attended  by  suspic- 
ions of  poison.  A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which 
is  buried  by  Marceau's)  is  raised  for  him  near  Andemach,  oppo- 
site to  which  one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was  performed. 
In  throwing  a  bridge  to  an  island  on  the  Rhine.  The  shape  and 
style  are  differeni  fVom  that  of  Marceau's,  and  the  inscription 
more  simple  and  pieasing ;  "  The  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse 
to  its  Commander-in-Clhief  Hoche."  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. 

2  Ehrenbreitstein,  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  by  amine  or  treachery.  It  yielded  to  the  former, 
aided  by  surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifications  of  Gibral- 
tar and  Malta,  it  did  not  much  strike  by  comparison ;  bnt  the 


LXI. 
The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen. 
The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom, 
The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man's  art ;  and  these  withal 
A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene, 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
Still  springing  o'er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  near 
them  faU. 

LXII. 
But  these  recede.    Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  waUs 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snovry  scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  haUs 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanch — the  thunderbolt  of  snow  ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals, 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show  [below. 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man 

LXIII. 
But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to  scan. 
There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  pass'd  in  vain, — 
Morat !  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  bequeath'd  his  tombless  host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themselves  their  monument ; — the  Stygian  coast 
Unsepulchred  they  roam'd,  and  shriek'd  each  wan- 
dering ghost.' 

LXIV. 
While  Waterloo  with  Cannae'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  Draconic  clause. 


situation  Is  commanding.  General  Marceau  besieged  It  in  vain 
for  some  time,  and  I  slept  in  a  room  where  I  was  shown  a  window 
at  which  he  is  said  to  have  been  standing  observing  the  progress 
of  the  siege  by  moonlight,  when  a  ball  struck  immediately  below  it. 
"  The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  of  bones  diminished 
to  a  small  number  by  the  Burgundian  legion  in  the  service  of 
France,  who  anxiously  effaced  this  record  of  their  ancestors'  less 
successful  invasions.  A  few  still  remain,  notwithstanding  the 
pains  taken  by  the  Burgundians  for  ages  (all  who  passed  that  way 
removing  a  bone  to  their  own  country),  and  the  less  justifiable 
larcenies  of  the  Swiss  postillions,  who  carried  them  off  to  sell  for 
knife-handles,  a  purpose  for  which  the  whiteness  imbibed  by  the 
bleaching  of  years  had  rendered  them  in  great  request.  Of  these 
relics  I  ventured  to  bring  away  as  much  as  may  have  made  a  quar- 
ter of  a  hero,  for  which  the  sole  excuse  is,  that  if  I  had  not,  the 
next  passer-by  might  have  perverted  them  to  worse  uses  than  the 
careful  preservation  which  I  intend  for  them. 


Canto  hi. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


37 


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. 

LXVI. 
And  there — oh  !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name  1 — 
Julia — the  daughter,  the  devoted — gave 
Her  youth  to  heaven  ;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 
The  life  she  lived  in  ;  but  the  judge  was  just, 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 

And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one 
dust." 

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,        [birth  ; 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death  and 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  wo, 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,' 

Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

LXVIII. 
Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face, 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue : 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 
With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold  ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  loneliness  renew 

1  Arenticam,  near  Morat,  was  the  Roman  capital  of  Helvetia, 
where  Avenches  now  t^tands. 

'  Julia  Alpinnla,  a  young  Aventlan  priestess,  died  soon  after  a 
vain  endeavor  to  save  her  father,  condemned  to  death  as  a  traitor 
by  Aulus  Ciecina.  Her  epitaph  was  discovered  many  years  ago ; 
—it  is  thus :— "  Julia  Alplnula :  Hie  Jaceo.  Infelicis  patris  infeliz 
proles.  Deffi  Aventiie  Sacerdos.  Exorare  patris  necem  non  potni : 
Male  mori  in  fatis  illc  erat.  Vixi  annos  xxiii." — I  know  of  no 
human  composition  so  affecting  as  this,  nor  a  histor>-  of  deeper 
interest.  These  are  tlie  names  and  actions  which  ought  not  to 
perish,  and  to  which  we  turn  with  a  true  and  healthy  tendemees, 
from  the  wretched  and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused  mass  of  con- 
quests and  battles,  with  which  the  mind  is  roused  for  a  time  to  a 
felse  and  feverish  sympathy,  from  whence  it  recurs  at  length  with 
all  the  nausea  consequent  on  such  intoxication. 

"  This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June  8, 1816),  which 
even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine.— (July  20th).  I  this  day  ob- 
Berved  for  some  time  the  distinct  reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  and 
Mont  Argentiere  in  the  calm  of  the  lake,  which  I  was  crossing  in 
my  boat ;  the  distance  of  these  mountains  from  their  mirror  la 
sixty  miles. 


Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherish'd  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in  their 
fold. 

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

LXX. 
There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears. 
And  color  things  to  come  with  hues  of  Night ; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness  :  on  the  sea. 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite. 
But  there  axe  wanderers  o'er  Eternity       [shall  be. 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er 

LXXI. 
Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone. 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake  ? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone.' 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake. 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care. 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake  ; — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  Kves  to  wear,  [bear  ? 

Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflict  or 

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  fleshly  chain, 
Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII. 
And  thus  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 


<  The  color  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  Is  blue,  to  a  depth  of  tint 
which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt  or  fresh,  oxcopt  in 
the  Meditcrninean  and  Archipelago. 


38 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  in. 


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  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform. 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm  ? 
The  bodiless  thought  ?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot  ? 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  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  dare 
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  aU  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. 

LXXTII. 
Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau, 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
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  heavenly  hue 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  pass'd 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and 

fast. 

LXXVIII. 
His  love  was  passion's  essence — as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  Ughtning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamor'd,  were  in  him  tlie  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  6f  living  dame, 


Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper'd  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 
TTiis  breathed  itself  to  life  in  JuUe,  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 
Flashed  the  thrill'd  spirit's  love-devouring  heat ; 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more  bless'd 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  pos- 

sess'd. 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes. 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd  ;  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice  the  kind,  [blind. 

'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and 
But  he  was  phrensied, — wherefore,  who  may  know  ? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find ; 
But  he  was  phrensied  by  disease  or  wo  [show. 
To  that  worse  pitch  of  aU,  which  wears  a  reasoning 

LXXXI. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came. 
As  from  the  Pythian's  mystic  cave  of  yore. 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame, 
Nor  ceased  to  bum  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, 
TiU  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers. 
Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  follows  o'er 
grown  fears? 

LXXXII. 
They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument : 
The  wreck  of  old  opinions — things  which  grew, 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time :  the  veil  tliey 
And  what  behind  it  lay,  aU  earth  shall  view,  [rent. 
But  good  with  iU  they  also  overthrew. 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew  [fill'd. 

Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  re- 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-vidll'd. 


'  ThlB  refers  to  the  accoant  In  his  "  Confessions  "  of  his  passion 
for  the  Comtess  d'lloadetot  (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.  Eoasseau's 
description  of  his  feelings  on  this  occasion  may  be  considered  as 
the  most  passionate,  yet  not  impure,  description  and  expression 
of  love  that  ever  kindled  into  words ;  which,  after  all,  must  be 
felt,  from  their  very  force,  to  he  inadequate  to  the  delineation :  a 
painting  can  give  no  snfflcient  idea  of  the  ocean. 


Caxto  III. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


39 


LXXXIII. 
But  this  -will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured  ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigor,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another ;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.    But  they, 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt, 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourish'd  with  the  day ; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their 
prey? 

LXXXIV. 
What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar  ? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquish'd, 

bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission  :  in  his  lair 
Fix'd  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years  ;  none  need  despair  : 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come, — the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive — in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 

LXXXT. 
Clear,  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 
Tom  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved. 
That  I  with  stem  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 
It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capp'd  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep ;  and  dravdng  near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol 
more; 

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


LXXXVIII. 
Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven  1 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  them- 
selves a  star. 

LXXXIX. 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  stiU — 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  stiU :    From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  luU'd  lake  and  mountain-coast. 
All  is  concentred  in  a  life  intense, 
WTiere  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

XC. 
Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone,  . 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm. 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone. 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty ; — 'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to 
harm. 

XCI. 
Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  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  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air. 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  pray'r  ! 

XCII. 

The  sky  is  changed  ! — and  such  a  change  !    Oh 

night. 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  1    Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  !  Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  I 


40 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


XCIII. 
And  this  is  in  the  night :— Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight,— 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  1 ' 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea. 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  1 
And  now  again  'tis  black,— and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hiU  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth. 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

xcrv» 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  be- 
tween 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene. 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken- 
hearted ;  [thwarted. 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage  [parted  : 
Which  blighted  their  Ufe's  bloom,  and  then  de- 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters,— war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

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  their  play. 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand. 
Flashing  and  cast  around :  of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills   hath 
His  hghtnings,— as  if  he  did  understand,  [fork'd 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd,    [lurk'd. 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein 

XCVI. 
Sky,  mountains, river, winds, lake,  lightnings!  ye! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
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. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh,  tempests  !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  Uke  eagles,  some  high  nest? 

XCVII. 
Could  I  embody  and  imbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me,— could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak. 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek. 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe— into  one  word, 

1  The  tnnnder-Btorm  to  wUch  these  lines  refer  occurred  on  the 
13th  of  June,  1818,  at  midnight.  I  have  seen,  among  the  Acro- 
cerannian  mountains  of  Chimari,  several  more  terrihle,  hut  none 
more  beautiful. 


And  that  one  word  were  Ughtning,  I  would  speak ; 

But  as  it  is,  I  Uve  and  die  unheard,  [sword. 

With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a 

XCVIII. 
The  mom  is  up  again,  the  dewy  mom. 
With  breath  aU  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom. 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scom. 
And  living  as  if  earth  contain'd  no  tomb,— 
And  glowing  into  day  :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  :  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman  !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder'd  fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens  !  sweet  Clarens,^  birthplace  of  deep  love  ! 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought ; 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love  ;  the  snows  above 
The  very  glaciers  have  his  colors  caught. 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
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. 

C. 
Clarens  !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod,— 
Undying  love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ;  where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  Ught,— 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  listeneth,  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  Ught  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  and  many-color'd  things. 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings,       [words, 
Fearless  and  fuU  of  Ufe  :  the  gush  of  springs, 


a  Scene  of  the  romance  of  Eousscan. 


Canto  hi. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


41 


And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

cm. 

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

He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  Ughtfl,  in  its  eternity  ! 

CIV. 
'Twas  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peopling  it  with  affections  ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings  ;  'twas  the  ground 
Where  early  love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound. 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness  ;  'tis  lone. 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound. 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness  ;  here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd 
a  throne. 

CV. 
Lausanne  1  and  Femey  I  ye  have  been  the  abodes 
Of  names  which  unto  you  bequeath'd  a  name ;' 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame : 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder,  and 

the  flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assail'd,  if  Heaven  the  while 
On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do  more 
than  smile. 

CVI. 
The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child. 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind 
A  wit  as  various, — gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild, — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  combined ; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents  :  But  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule, — which,  as  the  wind. 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 
Now  to  o'erthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  throne. 

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, 


>  Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 
6 


Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer ; 
The  lord  of  irony, — that  master-spell. 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  hell,    [fear. 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  welL 

CVIII. 
Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by  them. 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge, — far  less  condemn  ; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall  be 

made 
Known  unto  all, — or  hope  and  dread  aUay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, — in  the  dust. 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  he  decay'd ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'TwiU  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 

CIX. 
But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of  air. 

ex. 

Italia  !  too,  Italia  1  looking  on  thee, 
FuU  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages. 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages, 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires  ;  still. 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her  fill. 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  hiU. 

CXI. 
Thus  far  have  I  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'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  stem  task  of  soul : — No  matter, — it  is  taught. 

CXII. 
And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song, 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile, — 
The  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, 


42 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  iii. 


As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot ; 
I  stood  and  stand  alone, — remember'd  or  forgot. 

CXIII. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ; 
I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles, — nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo  ;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such  ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and 
stiU  could, 
Had  I  not  filed'  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

CXIV. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me, — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes  ;  I  do  believe. 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things, — hopes  which  wiU  not 

deceive. 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing  :  I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve  ;' 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream. 

CXV. 

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

CXVI. 
To  aid  thy  mind's  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,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

CXVIl. 

Yet,  though  dull  Hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ;  though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still  fraught 
With  desolation, — and  a  broken  claim  :         [same. 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us, — 'twere  the 


I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ;  though  to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were  an  aim. 
And  an  attainment, — all  would  be  in  vain, — 
StiU  thou  wouldst  love  me,  stiU  that  more  than  life 
retain. 

CXVIII. 
The  child  of  love, — though  bom  in  bitterness. 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements, — and  thine  no  le§s. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee, — but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  temper'd,  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers  !  O'er  the  sea. 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  respire, 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing  upon  thee, 
As,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  might'st  have  been  to 
me ! 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO    THE     FOURTH. 


Visto  ho  Toscana,  Lombardla,  Romagna, 
Qnel  Monte  che  divide,  e  quel  che  perra 
Italia,  e  an  mare  e  V  altro,  che  la  bagna. 

AHoeU),  Satire  III. 


TO  JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.,  A.M.,  F.R.S.,&c. 


»  "If  It  be  thus. 

For  Banqao'e  lesne  have  I  jUed  my  mind."— Macbeth. 
'  It  is  said  by  Rochefoncanlt,  that  "  there  la  always  something 
in  flie  misfortunes  of  men's  best  fHends  not  displeasing  to  them." 


My  DBAS  HOBHODBB,- 


Veniee,  Jomuary  2, 1818. 


After  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  the  com- 
position of  the  first  and  last  cantos  of  Childe  Harold, 
the  conclusion  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitteil 
to  the  public.  In  parting  with  go  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  ungrateful — I  can,  or  could  be,  to  Childe 
Harold,  for  any  public  favor  reflected  through  the  poem 
on  the  poet, — to,  one,  whom  I  have  known  long,  and 
accompanied  far,  whom  I  have  found  wakeful  over  my 
sickness  and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in  my  prosperity 
and  firm  in  my  adversity,  true  in  counsel  and  trusty  in 
peril, — to  a  friend  often  tried  and  never  found  wanting ; 
— to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth  :  and  in  de- 
dicating to  you,  in  its  complete  or  at  least  concluded 
state,  a  poetical  work  which  is  the  longest,  the  most 
thoughtful  and  comprehensive  of  my  compositions,  I 
wish  to  do  honor  to  myself  by  the  record  of  many  years 
intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of  talent,  of  steadi- 
ness, and  of  honor.  It  is  not  for  minds  like  ours  to  give 
or  to  receive  flattery  ;  yet  the  praises  of  sincerity  have 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


43 


ever  been  penuitted  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  with- 
stand the  shock  firmly,  that  I  thus  attempt  to  commem- 
orate your  good  qualities,  or  rather  the  advantages 
which  I  have  derived  from  their  exertion.  Even  the 
recurrence  of  the  date  of  this  letter,  the  anniversa- 
ry of  the  most  imfortunate  day  of  my  past  existence, 
but  which  cannot  poison  my  future  while  I  retain  the 
resource  of  your  friendship,  and  of  my  own  faculties, 
will  henceforth  have  a  more  agreeable  recollection  for 
both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  remind  us  of  this  my  attempt 
to  thank  you  for  an  indefatigable  regard,  such  as  few 
men  have  experienced,  and  no  one  could  experience, 
without  thinking  better  of  his  species  and  of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at  vari- 
ous periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  historj',  and 
fable — Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy  ;  and  what 
Athens  and  Constantinople  were  to  us  a  few  years  ago, 
Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more  recently.  The  poem 
also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both,  have  accompanied  me  from 
first  to  last ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  a  pardonable  vanity 
which  induces  me  to  reflect  with  complacency  on  a  com- 
position which  in  some  degree  connects  me  with  the 
spot  where  it  was  produced,  and  the  objects  it  would 
fain  describe  ;  and  however  unworthy  it  may  be  deem- 
ed of  those  magical  and  memorable  abodes,  however 
short  it  may  fall  of  our  distant  conceptions  and  imme- 
diate impressions,  yet  as  a  mark  of  respect  for  what  is 
venerable,  and  of  feeling  for  what  is  glorious,  it  has 
been  to  me  a  source  of  pleasure  in  the  production,  and 
1  part  with  it  with  a  kind  of  regret,  which  I  hardly 
suspected  that  events  could  have  left  me  for  imaginary 
objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there 
will  be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding,  and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated 
from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The  fact  is, 
that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a  line  which  every- 
one seemed  determined  not  to  perceive  :  like  the  Chin- 
ese in  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  whom  nobody 
would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese,  it  was  in  vain  that  I  as- 
serted, and  imagined  that  I  had  drawn,  a  distuiction 
between  the  author  and  the  pilgrim  ;  and  the  very  anx- 
iety to  preserve  this  difference,  and  disappointment  at 
finding  it  unavailing,  so  far  crushed  my  efforts  in  the 
composition,  that  I  determined  to  abandon  it  altogether 
— and  have  done  so.  The  opinions  which  have  been,  or 
may  be,  formed  on  that  subject,  are  now  a  matter  of  in- 
difference ;  the  work  is  to  depend  on  itself,  and  not  on 
the  writer  ;  and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his 
own  mind  beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or  perman- 
ent, which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efforts,  deserves 
the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my  in- 
tention, cither  in  the  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have 
touched  upon  the  present  state  of  Italian  literature, 
and  perhaps  of  manners.  But  the  text,  within  the 
limits  I  proposed,  I  soon  found  hardly  sufficient  for  the 
labyrinth  of  external  objects,  and  the  consequent  reflec- 


tions ;  and  for  the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a  few 
of  the  shortest,  I  am  indebted  to  yourself,  and  these 
were  neccessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation  of  the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to  dis- 
sert upon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so  dis- 
similar ;  and  requires  an  attention  and  impartiality 
which  would  induce  us — though  perhaps  no  inattentive 
observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  language  or  customs  of 
the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  recently  abode — to 
distrust,  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment,  and  more  nar- 
rowly examine  our  information.  The  state  of  literary, 
as  well  as  political  party,  appears  to  run,  or  to  have  nin, 
so  high,  that  for  a  stranger  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  piu  dolce, 
tutte  tutte  le  vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e  che  sin- 
che  la  patria  di  Alfleri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  pcrduto  1'  an- 
tico  valoro,  in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la  prima." 
Italy  has  great  names  still — Canova,  Monti,  Ugo  Fos- 
colo,  Pindemonte,  Visconti,  Morelli,  Cicognara,  Albrizzi, 
Mezzophanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglietti,  and  Vacca,  will 
secure  to  the  present  generation  an  honorable  place  in 
most  of  the  departments  of  Art,  Science  and  Belles  Let- 
tres  ;  and  in  some  the  very  highest — Europe — the 
World — has  but  one  Canova. 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  "  La  pian- 
ta  uomo  nasce  piCi  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualunquo 
altra  terra — e  cho  gli  stessi  atroci  delitti  che  vi  si  com- 
mettono  ne  sono  una  prova."  Without  subscribing  to 
the  latter  part  of  his  proposition,  a  dangerous  doctrine, 
the  truth  of  wliich  may  be  disputed  on  better  grounds, 
namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in  no  respect  more  fero- 
cious than  their  neighbors,  that  man  must  be  wilfully 
blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless,  who  is  not  struck  with 
the  extraordinary  capacity  of  this  people,  or,  if  such  a 
word  be  admissible,  their  capabilities,  the  facility  of 
their  acquisitions,  the  rapidity  of  their  conceptions,  the 
fire  of  their  genius,  their  sense  of  beauty,  and,  amidst 
all  the  disadvantages  of  repeated  revolutions,  the  deso- 
lation of  battles,  and  the  despair  of  ages,  their  still  un- 
quenched  "  longing  after  immortality," — the  immortal- 
ity of  independence.  And  when  we  ourselves,  in  riding 
round  the  walls  of  Rome,  heard  the  simple  lament  of 
the  laborers'  chorus,  "  Roma  !  Roma  !  Roma  !  Roma 
non  e  piii  come  era  prima,"  it  was  difficult  not  to  con- 
trast this  melancholy  dirge  with  the  bacchanal  roar  of 
the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the  London  ta 
verns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St.  Jean,  and  the  be- 
trayal of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  France,  and  of  the  world, 
by  men  whose  conduct  you  yourself  have  exposed  in  a 
work  worthy  of  the  better  days  of  our  history.  For 
me, — 

"  Non  movero  mal  corda 
Ove  la  tarba  dl  sne  clance  assorda." 

What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  nations, 
it  were  useless  for  Englishmen  to  inquire,  till  it  becomes 
ascertained  that  England  has  acquired  something  more 
than  a  permanent  army  and  a  suspended  Habeas  Cor- 
pus ;  it  is  enough  for  them  to  look  at  home.    For  what 


44 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  it. 


they  have  done  abroad,  and  especially  in  the  South, 
"  Verily  they  vM  ham  their  reward."  and  at  no  very  dis- 
tant period. 

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

I  am  ever. 

Your  obliged 

And  affectionate  friend, 

BYBON. 


I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand  : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles,    [isles  1 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 

II. 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean,' 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers  : 
And  such  she  was ;— her  daughters  had  their  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  deem'd  their  dignity  in- 
creased. 

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

IV. 
But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  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  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away— 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

V. 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay  ; 
Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence  :  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  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. 

VI. 

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


1  Sabellicns,  deecriblng  the  appearance  of  Venice,  has  made  use 
of  the  above  Image,  which  would  not  he  poetical  were  it  not  tme. 
— "  Quo  flt  nt  qui  supeme  urbom  contempletur,  turritam  telluris 
Imsginem  medio  oceano  flgaratam  se  putet  Inspicere." 


VII. 
I  saw  or  dream'd  of  such,— but  let  them  go — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappear'd  like  dreams ; 
And  whatso'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  over-weening  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  bom  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  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea  ? 

IX. 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well :  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine. 
My  spirit  shall  resume  i1>— 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,— 


f 


Cakto  it. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


46 


I 


If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

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

XL 

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

XII. 
The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns — 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities  ;  nations  melt 
From  power's  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  bhnd  old  Dandolo  ! 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

XIII. 
Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass. 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass  ? 
Are  they  not  bridled  ! — Venice,  lost  and  won. 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done. 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose  1 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun. 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes. 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

XIV. 
In  youth  she  was  all  glory, — a  new  Tyre, — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory. 
The  "Planter  of  the  Lion,"^  which  through  fire 
Anti  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 

'  The  anBwer  of  the  mother  of  Braeldas,  the  Lacedaemonian  gen- 
eral, to  the  strangers  who  praised  the  memory  of  her  son. 

'  That  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  the  standard  of  the  Republic, 
which  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Pantaloon— Hantaleoue,  Pauta- 
leon.  Pantaloon. 


Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite  ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia  1    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 ;        [pile 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust ; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust. 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger  :  empty  halls. 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthralls. 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

XVI. 
When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,' 
Her  voice  they  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  his 
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  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants  ;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of  all, 
Albion  !  to  thee  :  the  Ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children  ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

XVIII. 
I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood — she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart. 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart  ; 
And  Otway,  RadclifFe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art,* 
Had  stamp'd  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so. 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part. 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  wo. 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

XIX. 
I  can  repeople  with  the  past — and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought. 
And  meditation  chasten'd  down,  enough  ; 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought ; 


'  The  story  Is  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nlcias. 
*  Venice  Preserved ;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho ;  the  GhOBt-Seer,  or 
Armenian ;  the  Merchant  of  Venice ;  OtbeUo. 


4B 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


And  of  the  happiest  moments,  whi  ch  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. 

XX. 
But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow' 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  shelter'd  rocks. 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  naught  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms ;  yet  springs  the  trunk,  and 

mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak,  gray  granite,  into  life  it  came. 
And  grew  a  giant  tree ; — the  mind  may  grow  the 

same. 

XXI. 
Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms  :  mute 
The  camel  labors  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence, — not  bestow'd 
In  vain  should  such  example  be  ;  if  they. 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood. 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear, — it  is  but  for  a  day. 

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

XXIII. 
But  ever  and  anon  of  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  forever  :  it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music — summer's  eve — or  spring — 
A  flower — the  wind — the  ocean — which  shall 

wound. 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly 

bound; 


'  Tannen  1b  the  plural  of  tanne,  a  speclea  of  fir  peculiar  to  the 
Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very  rocky  parts,  where  scarcely  soil 
Bufflclent  for  Its  nonrishment  can  be  found.  On  these  spots  it 
growB  to  a  greater  height  than  any  other  monntain  tree. 


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

The  mourn'd  the  loved,  the  lost — too  many ! — ^yet 

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  bmied  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free. 
The  beautiful,  the  brave — the  lords  of  earth  and  sea, 

XXVI. 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome  ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy  ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  decree ; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  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      [faced. 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  cannot  be  de- 

XXVII. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night — 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Aljiine  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 !' 

XXVIII. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Roll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhsetian  hill, 
As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim'd  her  order  ; — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 


'  The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or  exa^erated  to 
those  who  have  never  seen  an  Oriental  or  Italian  sky,  yet  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. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


41 


The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-bom  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within 
it  glows, 

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  yariety  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. 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till — 'tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 

XXX. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua  ; — rear'd  in  air, 
PiUar'd  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover :  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  weU-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.    He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes  : 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 
They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died ; 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
AVent  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  satmtering  Hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die  ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers  ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid ;  alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive : 


XXXIV. 
Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impairi 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were  [prey 

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  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 

XXXV. 
Ferrara  I  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  yore 
Patron  or  t3n-ant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impell'd,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn 
before. 

m  XXXVI. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain  !  and  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  earn'd  Torquato's  fame. 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glory  without  end 
Scatter'd  the  clouds  away — and  on  that  name  attend 

XXXVII. 
The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time  ;  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion — in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing  ;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn — 
Alfonso  !  how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee  !  if  in  another  station  bom, 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to  moum : 

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  fiirrow'd  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire. 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking 
lyre. 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth — monotony  in  wire ! 


•  The  struggle  Is  to  the  fall  as  likely  to  be  with  demons  as  with 
cor  better  thoughts.  Satan  chose  the  wildemeBS  for  the  tempta- 
tion of  our  Saviour.  And  our  unsullied  .lobn  Locke  preferred  the 
presence  of  a  child  to  complete  solitude. 


48 


BYROK'S   WORKS. 


Cahto  IV. 


XXXIX. 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade  !  'twas  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aim'd  with  her  poison'd  arrows  ;  but  to  miss. 
Oh,  victor  unsurpass'd  in  modern  song  ! 
Each  year  brings  forth  its  milKons  ;  but  how  long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roU  on, 
And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 
Compose  a  mind  like  thine  !  though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scatter'd  rays,  they  would  not  form 


a  sun. 


XL. 


Great  as  thou  art,  yet  parallel'd  by  those. 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  bom  to  shine, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry  :  first  rose 
Tlie  Tuscan  father's  comedy  divine  ; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  caU'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line. 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sang  ladye-love  and  war,  romance  and  knightly 
worth. 

XLI. 

The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimick'd  leaves  ; 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust. 
For  the  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  lightning  sanctifies  below 
Whate'er  it  strikes ; — yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  now. 

XLII. 

Italia  !  oh,  Italia  !  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  fiineral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past. 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh,  God  !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress ; 

XLIII. 
Then  might'st  thou  more  appal ;  or,  less  desired. 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms  ;  then,  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps  ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water ;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquish'd,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe.' 

'  The  two  stanzas  xlii.  and  xliii.  are,  with  the  exception  of  a 
line  or  two,  a  translation  of  the  famous  sonnet  of  Filicaja:— 
"  Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cui  feo  la  sorte !" 


XLIV. 
Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him,  ■> 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least-mortal  mind, 
The  friend  of  TuUy  :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Came  Megara  before  me;  and  behind 
jEgina  lay,  Pirseus  on  the  right, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left ;  I  lay  recUned 
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, 
Which  only  make  more  moum'd  and  more  endear'd 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  hght. 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanish'd  might. 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age. 
These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 

XL  VI. 
That  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perish'd  states  he  moum'd  in  their  decline, 
And  I  in  desolation  ;  all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is  ;  and  now,  alas  I 
Rome — Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form,' 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 

XLVII. 
Yet,  Italy  !  through  every  other  land  [side ; 

Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to 
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. 

'  The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero,  on  the 
death  of  his  daughter,  describes  as  it  then  was,  and  now  is,  a  path 
which  I  often  traced  in  Greece,  both  by  sea  and  land,  in  different 
journeys  and  voyages.  "  On  my  return  from  Asia,  as  I  was  sail- 
ing from  jEgina  towards  Megara,  I  began  to  contemplate  the  pros- 
pect of  the  countries  around  me :  ^gina  was  behind,  Megara 
before  me :  Pirseus  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  fret  and  vex  our- 
selves if  any  of  our  friends  happen  to  die  or  be  killed,  whose  life 
is  yet  so  short,  when  the  carcasses  of  so  many  noble  cities  lie  hero 
exposed  before  me  in  one  view."— See  Mlddletoii'e  Cicero,  vol.  ii., 
p.  371. 

'  It  is  Pogglo,  who,  looking  from  the  Capitoline  hill  upon  mined 
Rome,  breaks  forth  in  the  exclamation:  *'Ut  mmc  omni  decore 
nndata,  prostrata  jacet,  instar  gigantei  cadaveris  corrupti  atquo 
tmdiqae  ezeBi." 


Canto  it. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


49 


XLVIII. 
But  Amo  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  com,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  reduntant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Amo  sweeps 
Was  modem  Luxury  of  Commerce  bom, 
And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeem'd  to  a  new  mom. 

XLIX. 
There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills 
The  air  around  with  beauty ;  we  inhale 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instills 
Part  of  its  immortality ;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn  ;  within  the  pale 
We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold  [fail ; 
What  Mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self  would 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old  [mould : 

Envy  the  innate  flash  which   such  a  soul  could 


We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where, 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart 
Reels  with  its  fulness  ;  there — ^forever  there — 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  Art, 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
Away  1 — there  need  no  words,  nor  terms  precise. 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart. 
Where  Pedantry  guUs  PoUy — we  have  eyes  : 
Blood — pulse — and  breast,  confirm  the  Dardan  Shep- 
herd's prize. 

LI. 
Appear'dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise  ? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blcss'd  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  !  while  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  bum,    [urn  ! 
Shower'd  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from  an 

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 
Prom  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which 
Into  thy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 

LIII. 
I  leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands. 
The  artist  and  his  ape,  to  teach  and  tell 

7 


How  well  his  connoisseurship  understands 
The  graceful  bend,  and  the  voluptuous  swell : 
Let  these  describe  the  undescribable  : 
I  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the 
Wherein  that  image  shall  forever  dwell ;     [stream 
The  unrufiled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 

LIV. 
In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  ia 
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. 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  retum'd  to  whence  it  rose. 

LV. 
These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation  : — Italy  ! 
Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny,  [rents 

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  aU  Etroscan  three- 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit  1  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  naught  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust  ? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  intrust  ? 

LVII. 
Ungrateful  Florence  I    Dante  sleeps  afar, 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore ; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war. 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages ;  and  the  crown 
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  not  her  Great  among. 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  form'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue  ? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song. 


60 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


CaJSTO   IV. 


The  poetry  of  speech  ?    No ; — even  his  tomb 
TJptom,  must  bear  the  hysena  bigot's  "wrong, 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whom. 

LIX. 
And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  CsBsar'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. 

LX. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones  ? 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  aU  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  incrust  the  bones 
Of  morchant-dukes  ?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  gently  press'd  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  Amo's  dome  of  Art's  most  princely  shrine. 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies  ; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet — but  not  for  mine ; 
For  I  have  been  accustom'd  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields, 
Than  Art  in  galleries  :  though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields 

LXII. 
Is  of  another  temper,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasimene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home ; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the  shore. 
Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files. 
And  torrents,  swoll'n  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  phrenzy,  whose  convulsion  blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray, 
An  earthquake  reel'd  unheededly  away  ! 


None  felt  stem  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet. 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  lay 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding  sheet ;    [meet  1 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations 

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  withdraw 
From  their  down-topphng  nests ;  and  bellowing 
herds  [no  words. 

Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread  hath 

LXV. 
Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now ; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough  ; 
Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain 
Lay  where  their   roots   are ;   but  a  brook  hath 
A  little  riU  of  scanty  stream  and  bed —      [ta'en — 
A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain  ; 
And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  dead        [red. 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  tum'd  the  unwilling  waters 

LXVI. 
But  thou,  Clitumnus  1  in  thy  sweetest  wave 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  Umbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes ;  the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters  ! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear ; 
Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters — 
A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest  daughters. 

LXVII. 
And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  Temple  stUl, 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps. 
Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill. 
Its  memory  of  thee ;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness  ;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales. 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps ; 
While,  chance,  some  scatter'd  water-lily  sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bub- 
bling tales. 

LXVIII. 
Pass  not  unbless'd  the  Genius  of  the  place  ! 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
'  Win  to  the  brow,  'tis  his  ;  and  if  yc  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  weary  life  a  moment  lave  it  clean 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


51 


With  Nature's  b^tism, — 'tis  to  him  ye  must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust. 

LXIX. 
The  roar  of  waters  ! — from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice ; 
The  fall  of  waters  !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss  ; 
The  hell  of  waters  !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture  ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 
And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round. 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain. 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground. 
Making  it  all  one  emerald  : — how  profound 
The  gulf !  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and 
rent 

With  Ma  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearftil 
vent 

LXXI. 
To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  Bhows 
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  cataract,' 

LXXII. 
Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge. 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  mom. 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge,'' 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 

'  I  saw  the  Cascata  del  Marmore  of  Ternl  twice,  at  different 
periods :  once  from  the  eammit  of  the  precipice,  and  again  from 
the  valley  below.  The  lower  view  Ib  far  to  be  preferred,  if  the 
traveler  has  time  for  one  only  :  but  in  any  point  of  %iew,  either 
from  above  or  below,  it  is  worth  all  the  cascades  and  torrents  of 
Switzerland  put  together :  the  Staubach,  Reichenbach,  PisseVache, 
Fall  of  Arpenaz,  etc..  are  rills  in  comparative  appearance.  Of  the 
Fall  of  Schaffhausen  I  cannot  speak,  not  yet  having  seen  it. 

'  Of  the  time,  place  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  iris,  the  reader 
will  see  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  by  the  gulf  in  which  Alecto  plunged  into  the  infernal 
regions.  It  is  singular  enough,  that  two  of  the  tiuest  cascades  in 
Europe  should  be  artificial — this  of  the  Velino,  and  the  one  at  Tl- 
voli.  The  traveler  is  strongly  recommended  to  trace  the  Velino, 
at  least  as  high  as  the  little  lake,  called  PW  di  I/up.  The  Reatine 
territory  was  the  Italian  Terape,  (Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Attic,  xv.  lib. 
Iv.,)  and  the  ancient  naturalists,  (Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  lib.  il.  cap.  Ixii.,) 
amongst  other  beaatlfUl  varieties,  remarked  the  daily  rainbows  of 


By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  aU  their  beams  unshorn  : 
Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene. 
Love  watching  Madness  with  imalterable  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 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear  [more ; 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont  Blanc  both  far  and  near. 
And  in  Chimari  heard  the  thunder-hiUs  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th'  Acroceraimian  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,  .(Etna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hiUs  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity, 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height,  display'd 
Not  mm  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  vnW,  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  word4 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleasure  to  record 


the  lake  Velinns.  A  scholar  of  great  name  has  devoted  a  treatise 
to  this  district  alone.  See  Aid.  Mannt.  de  Reatina  Vthe  Agroque, 
ap.  Sallengre,  Thesanr.  tom.  i.  p.  773. 

3  In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland,  the  avalanches  are  known 
by  the  name  of  lauwine. 

<  These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  of  Ensign 
Northerton's  remarks:  "D—n  Homo,"  etc. ;  but  the  reasons  for 
our  dislike  arc  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  fresh- 
ness is  worn  away,  and  the  future  pleasure  and  advantage  dead- 
ened and  destroyed,  by  the  didactic  anticipation,  at  an  age  when 
we  can  neither  feel  nor  understand  the  power  of  compositions 
which  it  requires  an  acquaintance  with  life,  as  well  as  Latin  and 
Greek,  to  relish,  or  to  reason  upon.  For  the  same  reason,  we 
can  never  be  aware  of  the  fnllness  of  some  of  the  finest  passages 
of  Shakspearo  ("To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  for  instance),  IVom  the 
habit  of  having  them  hammered  into  us  at  eight  years  old,  as  an 
exercise,  not  of  mind,  but  of  memory :  so  that  when  we  are  old 
enough  to  enjoy  them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and  the  appetite  palled. 
In  some  parts  of  the  continent,  young  persons  are  taught  from 
more  common  authors,  and  do  not  read  the  best  classics  till  their 
maturity.  I  certainly  do  not  speak  on  this  point  from  any  pique 
or  aversion  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  always  been,  and  with  reason  ;-a 
part  of  the  time  passed  there  was  the  happiest  of  my  life ;  and 


52 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


LXXVI. 
Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  which  tum'd 
My  sickening  memory ;  and,  though  Time  hath 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  leam'd,  [taught 
Yet  such  the  fix'd  inveteracy  wrought 
By  the  impatience  of  my  early  thought, 
That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 
My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought, 
If  free  to  choose,  I  can  not  now  restore 
Its  health  ;  but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 

LXXVII. 
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  MoraUst  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  Bard  prescribe  his  art. 
Nor  livelier  Satirist  the  conscience  pierce. 
Awakening  without  wounding  the  touch'd  heart, 
Yet  fare  thee  well — upon  Soracte's  ridge  we  part. 

LXXVIII. 

Oh,  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
Wliat  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?    Come  and 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way  [see 
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  Niobe  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  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
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 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride ;  [Fire, 
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 


my  preceptor,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury,  was  the  best  and  worth- 
iest friend  I  ever  posseBsedjWhose  warnings  I  have  remembered  but 
too  weV.,  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  feelings  towards  him  should  reach  his  eyes, 
let  it  remind  him  of  one  who  never  thinks  of  him  but  with  grati- 
tude and  veneration — of  one  who  would  more  gladly  boast  of  hav- 
ing been  his  pupil,  if,  by  more  closely  following  his  iiyunctions, 
he  could  reflect  any  honor  upon  his  instructor. 


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,  [wrap 

Night's  daughter.  Ignorance,  hath  wrapp'd  and 
AU  round  us  ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err  : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map. 
And  knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections  ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry,  "  Eureka  !"  it  is  clear — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

LXXXII. 
Alas !  the  lofty  city  !  and  alas  1 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !'  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away  1 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay. 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  ! — but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ;  aU  beside — decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see  [free  1 

That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was 

LXXXIII. 
Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  roll'd  on  Fortune's  wheel, 
Triumphant  Sylla  !  Thou,  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  aU  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  made 
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'er-canopied  horizon  fail'd,         [hail'd  1 
Her  rushing  wings — Oh!  she  who  was  Almighty 

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  ; 

■  Oroslus  gives  320  for  the  number  of  triumphs.    He  is  followed 
by  Panvinlus,  by  Mr.  Gibbon  and  the  modem  writers. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


53 


His  day  of  double  victory  and  death         [breath. 
Beheld  him  win  two  reahns,  and,  happier,  yield  his 

LXXXVI. 
The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 
Had  all  but  crown'd  him,  on  the  self-same  day 
Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay.' 
And  show'd  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway. 
And  aU  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way, 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb  ? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  different  were  his 
doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And  thou,  dread  statue  !  yet  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty, 
Thou  who  beheldcst,  '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  1  did  he  die, 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey  ?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene  ? 

LXXXVIII. 
And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome  1 
She-wolf  I  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art. 
Thou  standest  : — Mother  of  the  mighty  heart, 
Which  the  great  founder  suck'd  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch'd  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart. 
And  thy  limbs  black  with  lightning — dost  thou  yet 
Guard  thine  immortal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge 
forget  ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost ; — but  all  thy  foster-babes  are  dead — 
The  men  of  iron  ;  and  the  world  hath  rear'd 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres :  men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  fear'd        [steer'd, 
And  fought  and  conquer'd,  and  the  same  course 
At  apish  distance  ;  but  as  yet  none  have, 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  near'd, 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave, 
But,  vanquish'd  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves  a  slave — 

XC. 
The  fool  of  false  dominion — and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Cfesar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal ;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modell'd  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould. 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold, 


'  On  the  3d  of  September  Cromwell  gained  the  victory  of  Don- 
bar  :  a  year  aflcrwarda  he  obtained  "his  crowning  mercy  "  of  Wor- 
cester ;  and  a  few  years  alter,  on  the  same  day,  which  he  had  ever 
esteemed  the  most  fortunate  for  him,  died. 


And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeem'd 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold. 
Alcides  with  the  distaflf  now  he  seem'd 
At  Cleopatra's  feet, — and  now  himself  he  beam'd 

XCI. 
And  came — and  saw — and  conquer'd !  But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee, 
Like  a  train'd  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory. 
With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  seem'd  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed  ; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish  in  ambition — stiU  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  Ccesars  in  his  fate, 
On  whom  we  tread  :  For  this  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph  !  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd, 
A  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow  ! — Renew  thy  rainbow,  God  1 

xcm. 
What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail. 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep. 
And  all  things  weigh'd  in  custom's  falsest  scale  ; 
Opinion  an  omnipotence, — whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright, 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have 
too  much  light. 

XCIV. 
And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery. 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age. 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  chains,  and  rather  than  be  free. 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
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, 
Averr'd,  and  known — and  daily,  hourly  seen— 
The  yoke  that  is  upon  ns  doubly  bow'd 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow'd. 
The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud, 
And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm  had  done. 


64 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


XCTI. 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer'd  be, 
And  Freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  arm'd  and  undeflled  ? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish'd  in  the  wild. 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington  ?     Has  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no  such  shore  ? 

XCVII. 
But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  ago  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  thraU 
Which  nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst — his 
second  fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet,  Freedom  1  yet  thy  banner,  torn,  but  flying. 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the  wind ; 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and  dying, 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind ; 
TLy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind, 
Chopp'd  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth. 
But  the  sap  lasts, — and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North  ; 
So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 

XCIX. 

■  There  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days," 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone. 
Such  as  an  army's  bafiled  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 
WTiat  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  ?  [not 
How  lived — how  loved — how  died  she  ?   Was  she 
So  honor'd— and  conspicuously  there. 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot  ? 

■  Allnding  to  tbe  tomb  of  Cecilia  Mctella,  called  Capo  di  Bove. 


CI. 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others  ?  such  have  been      ' 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien. 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen. 
Profuse  of  joy — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war. 
Inveterate  in  virtue  ?    Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs  ? — for  such  the  aflFec- 
tions  are. 

CII. 
Perchance  she  died  in  youth  :  it  may  be,  bow'd 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
That  weigh'd  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cloud 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favorites — early  death  ;  yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead. 
Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

cm. 

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 — MeteUa  died. 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife :  Behold  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  day  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  floating  wreck  which  Ruin  leaves 
behind ; 

CV. 
And  from  the  planks,  far  shatter'd  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  aU  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. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


55 


CVI. 
Then  let  the  winds  howl  on  1  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 
Bim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright, 
And  sailing  pinions.     Upon  such  a  shrine 
What  are  our  petty  griefs  ? — 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,  columns 

strewn 
In  fragments,  choked  up  vaults,  and  frescoes  steep'd 
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. 

CVIII. 
There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales ; 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past. 
First  Freedom,  and  then  Glory — when  that  fails. 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption, — barbarism  at  last. 
And  History,  with  all  her  volumes  vast. 
Hath  but  one  page, — 'tis  better  written  here. 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  hath  thus  amass'd 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear, 
Heart,  soul  could  seek,  tongue  ask — Away  with 
words,  draw  near, 

CIX. 
Admire,  exult — despise — laugh,  weep, — for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling  : — Man  ! 
Thou  pendulimi  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear. 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span. 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled, 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill'd ! 
Where  are  its  golden  roofs  ?  where  those  who  dared 
to  build  ? 

ex. 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou. 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base  1 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Cajsar'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 
Scofiing  ;  and  apostolic  statues  cUmb 
To  crush  the  imperial  um,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime," 

■  The  column  of  TnOan  is  Bonnoanted  by  St.  Peter ;  that  of 
Aarellus  by  St.  Paul. 


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. 

CXII. 
Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  ?    where  the 

steep 
Tarpeian  ?  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  race, 
The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.    Did  the  conquerors  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 — bums  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  ; 
TiU  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes, 

Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

CXIV. 

Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name. 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch — hope  of  Italy — 
Rienzi !  last  of  Romans  !'^     Wliile  the  tree 
Of  freedom's  wither'd  trimk  puts  forth  a  leaf, 
Even  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be— 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people's  chief— 
Her  new-born  Numa  thou — with  reign,  alas !  too  brief. 

CXV. 
Egeria  1  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ;  whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air. 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair ; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth. 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring ;  whatsoe'er  thy  birth. 
Thou  wert  a  beautiful  thought,  and  softly  bodied 
forth. 


'  The  name  and  ezploita  of  Rlenzt  must  be  ftunltlar  to  the 
reader  of  Gibbon. 


56 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  it. 


cxvi. 
The  mosses  of  tty  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops  ;  the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring, with  years  unwrinkled, 
Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works  ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prison'd  in  marble,  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  riU  rans  o'er,  and  roimd,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy, 
creep, 

CXVII. 
Fantastically  tangled :  the  green  hUls 
Are  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass ; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class. 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass  ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep  blue  eyes, 
Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  color'd  by  its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 
Egeria  !  thy  all-heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 
The  purple  Midnight  veil'd  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell  ? 
This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enmor'd  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love — the  earliest  oracle  1 

CXIX. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  his  replying, 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart ; 
And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  in  sighing. 
Share  with  immortal  transport  ?  could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys. 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys — 
And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which 
cloys  ? 

cxx. 

Alas  !  our  young  afiections  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  plants 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion  flies 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

CXXI. 
Oh,  Love  !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art — 
An  imseen  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 
In  him  alone.    Can  Nature  show  so  fair  ?  [seized  ? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 
The  unreach'd  Paradise  of  our  despair. 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen. 
And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom 
again  ? 

CXXIII. 

Who  loves,  raves-'tis  youth's  phrenzy — but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such  ;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  stiU  it  draws  us  on, 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  from  the  oft-sown  winds  ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun,    [undone. 
Seems  ever  near  the  prize, — wealthiest  when  most 

CXXIV. 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away — 
Sick  —  sick ;  imfound  the  boon  —  unslaked  the 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay,  [thirst, 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first — 
But  all  too  late, — so  are  we  doubly  cursed. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice — 'tis  the  same, 
Each  idle — and  aU  ill— and  none  the  worst — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  diflfcrent  name. 
And  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 

CXXV. 
Few — none — flnd  what  they  love  or  could  have 

loved. 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies — but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
Envenom'd  with  irrevocable  wrong  ; 
And  Circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod. 
Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust, — the  dust  we  all 

have  trod. 

CXXVI. 
Our  life  is  a  false  nature — 'tis  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things, — this  hard  decree. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


51 


This  iineradicable  taint  of  sin, 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree. 
Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like 

dew — 
Disease,  death,  bondage — all  the  woes  we  see — 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not — which  throb 
through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

CXXVII. 
Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly — 'tis  a  base 
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  Ijrightly  on  the  unprepared  mind,        [blind. 
The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the 

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  stiU  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  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. 

CXXX. 

Oh,  Time  !  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adomer  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  besides  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift. 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer — 
Time,  the  avenger  1  unto  thee  I  lift  [gift 

My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a 

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  ftiU  of  fate : — 
8 


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  ? 

CXXXII. 

And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  himian  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  1 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long — 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Furies  from  the  abyss. 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — just, 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near — in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ? — Awake  !  thou  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 — thou  shalt  take       [found, 
The  vengeance,  which  shah  yet  be  sought  and 

Which  if  /  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  fullness  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  curse  1 

CXXXV. 
That  curse  shall  be  Forgiveness. '  Have  I  not — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth  !  behold  it,  Heaven  ! 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot  8 
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, 


4,- 

• 


58 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Cauto  rv. 


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  remember'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. 

CXXXVIII. 
The  seal  is  set.    Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power  ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  aU  distinct  from  fear : 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been. 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  imseen. 

CXXXIX. 
And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran. 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughter'd  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughter'd  ?  wherefore,  but  be- 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws,    [cause 
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  : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  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  yoimg  barbarians  all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged  J^-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  miurmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd. 
My  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void— seats  crush'd — walls  bow'd — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 
loud. 

m  CXLIII. 

A  ruin — 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  !  develop'd,  opens  the  decay. 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd ; 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which .  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have 
reft  away. 

m  CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head  ;' 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis  on  their  dust  ye 
tread. 

CXLV. 
"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand ;» 
"  When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 
''  And  when  Rome  falls — the  World."    From  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  win 

&  CXLVI. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 

■  Suetonins  informs  us  that  Jullns  Csesar  was  particularly  grati- 
fied 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  mo- 
tive, nor  should  we  without  the  help  of  the  historian. 

"  This  is  quoted  in  the  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire," as  a  proof  that  the  Coliseum  was  entire,  when  seen  by  the 
Anglo-Saxon  pilgrims  at  the  end  of  the  seventh,  or  the  beginning 
of  the  eighth,  century. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S   PILGRIMAGE. 


59 


From  Jove  to  Jesus — spared  and  bless'd  by  time ; 
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  tyrants' 

rods 
Shiver  upon  thee — sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety — Pantheon  I — ^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  honor'd  forms,  whoso  busts  around 
them  close.' 

CXLVIII. 
There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  lighf^ 
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  doth  she  there. 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and 
bare  ? 

CXLIX. 
Fun  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  pain  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  was 
Eve's. 

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 
Bom  with  her  birth.    No ;  he  shall  not  expire 


'  The  Pantheon  has  boon  made  a  receptacle  for  the  biistB  of  mod- 
cm  great,  or,  at  leant,  dlBtlnguUbed,  men.  The  flood  of  light 
which  once  fell  through  the  large  orb  above  on  the  whole  circle  of 
dlvlnitlea,  now  lihincs  on  a  numerous  acsemblago  of  mortals,  some 
one  or  two  of  whom  have  been  almost  delfled  by  the  veneration 
of  their  countrymen. 

'  This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allade  to  the  story  of  the 
Roman  daughter,  which  Is  recalled  to  the  traveler  by  the  site,  or 
pretended  site,  of  that  adventure,  now  shown  at  the  church  of  St. 
Nicholas  in  Careen. 


Wliile  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river : — from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  !    Heaven's  realm 
holds  no  such  tide. 

CH. 
The  starry  fable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  story's  purity ;  it  is 
A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds : — Oh,  holiest  nurse  I 
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,' 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  pile. 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity. 
Whose  travel'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,     [birth  ! 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a 

CLIII. 
But  lo  1  the  dome — the  vast  and  wondrous  dome, 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  ceU — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb  1 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyaena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade  ; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survey'd 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray'd ; 

CUV. 
But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  now, 
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  ?    Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

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 


■  The  castle  of  St.  Angelo. 


60 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined. 

See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 

His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  oe  blasted  by  his  brow. 

CLVI. 
Thou  movest — but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  cUmbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise. 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance ; 
Vastness  which  grows — ^but  grows  to  harmonize — 
All  musical  in  its  immensities  ; 
Rich  marbles — richer  painting — shrines  where 

flame 
The  lamps  of  gold — and  haughty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,  though  their 

frame  [claim. 

Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground — and  this  the  clouds  must 

CLVII. 
Thou  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break, 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make. 
That  ask  the  eye — so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part. 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 

CLVIII. 
Not  by  its  fault — but  thine  :  Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp — and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeUng  most  intense 
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  that  they  contemplate. 

CLIX. 
Then  pause,  and  be  enlighten'd ;  there  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays  [plan  ; 

Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions 
can. 

CLX. 
Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain — 
A  father's  love  and  mortal's  agony 
With  an  immortal's  patience  blending  : — Vain 
The  struggle ;  vain,  against  the  coifing  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp. 
The  old  man's  clench  ;  the  long  envenom'd  chain 


Rivets  the  living  finks, — 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 
AU  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  Kghtnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXII. 
But  in  his  delicate  form — a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped  by  some  sofitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above. 
And  madden'd  in  that  vision — are  express'd 
AU  that  ideal  beauty  ever  bless'd 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest — 
A  ray  of  immortality — and  stood, 
StarUke,  around,  until  they  gather'd  to  a  god  ! 

CLXIII. 
And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  an  eternal  glory — which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallow'd  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust — nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which 
'twas  wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song. 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past  ? 
Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  no  more — these  breathings  are  his  last ; 
His  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast. 
And  he  himself  as  nothing  : — if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  class'd 
With  forms  which  live  and  suffer — let  that  pass — 

His  shadow  fades  away  into  Destruction's  mass, 

CLXV. 
Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  aU 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud. 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall       [cloud 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms  ;  and  the 
Between  us  sinks  and  aU  which  ever  glow'd, 
TiU  Glory's  self  is  twifight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow'd 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness  ;  rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  distract  the  gaze, 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S    PILGRIMAGE. 


61 


CLXVI. 
And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss, 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence  ;  and  to  dream  of  fame, 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never  more. 
Oh,  happier  thought !  can  we  be  made  the  same : 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore  [was  gore. 
These  fardels  of  the  heart — the  heart  whose  sweat 

CLXVII. 
Hark  !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound. 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound;  [ground, 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 

CLXVIII. 
Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ? 
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  stiU  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy, 
Death  hush'd  that  pang  forever :  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  I 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  ;  fbr  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  1 
The  husband  of  a  year  1  the  father  of  the  dead  I 

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  1     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 

'  "  The  death  of  the  PrincCBS  Charlotte  has  been  a  shock  even 
here,  (Venice,)  and  mact  have  been  an  earthquake  at  home.  The 
ftite  of  this  poor  girl  la  melancholy  In  every  respect ;  dying  at 
twenty  or  so,  in  childbed — of  a  boy  too,  a  present  princees  and  fu- 
ture queen,  and  Just  as  she  began  to  be  happy,  and  to  enjoy  her- 
self, and  the  hopes  which  she  Inspired.  I  feel  sorry  in  every  res- 
pect."—Sy/wi  Lellert. 


\      Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 

:  like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes  : — 'twas  but  a  meteor 

I  beam'd. 

I  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  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'erstung 

j      Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate' 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath 
Against  their  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  efibrt,  great  without  a  foe ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother — and  now  there  ! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stem  moment  tear  ! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair. 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  oppress'd 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love 
thee  best 

CLXXIII. 
Lo,  Nemi  1^  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,  cahn  as  cherish'd  hate,  its  surface  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  naught  can  shake, 
All  coil'd  into  itself  and  round,  aa  sleeps  the  snake. 

CLXXIV. 
And  near  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley ; — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latiap  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
"  Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  reascending  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire  : — but  beneath  thy  right 
TuHy  reposed  from  Rome  ;  and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The  Sabine  farm  was  tiU'd,  the  weary  bard's  delight. 

CIA'XV. 
But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won. 
And  he,  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be — 


'  Mary  died  on  the  scaffold ;  Elizabeth  of  a  broken  heart ;  Char- 
les V.  a  hermit ;  Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  In  means  and  glory ;  Crom- 
well of  anxiety ;  and,  *'  the  greatest  Is  behind,"  Napoleon  lives  a 
prisoner.  To  those  sovereigns  a  long  but  superflnous  list  might 
be  added,  of  names  equally  iUastrlous  and  unhappy. 

•  The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Ariclan  retreat  of  Egeria, 
and,  fl-om  the  shades  which  embosomed  the  temple  of  Diana,  has 
preserved  to  this  day  Its  distinctive  appellation  of  The  Orove. 
Nemi  is  bat  an  evening's  ride  from  the  comfortable  inn  of  Albano. 


62 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  it. 


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  test  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  mortal  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  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

CLXXVII. 
Oh  !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place. 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister. 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her  1 
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 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 
Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll  1 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  vrith  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. 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoflSn'd,  and  un- 
known. 

CLXXX. 
His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,— thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,— thou  dost  arise    [wields 
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  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  :— there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 
The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  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  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest  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  sublime — 
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  goost  forth,  dread,  fathomless, 
alone. 

CLXXXIV. 
And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  I  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  fiir  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 

CLXXXV. 
My  task  is  done — my  song  hath  ceased — my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo  ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguish'd  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamji — and  what  is  writ,  is  writ, — 
Would  it  were  worthier  !  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been — and  my  visions  flit 


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THE    GIAOUR. 


63 


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  I  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were — with  you,  the  moral  of  his 
strain  I 


THE    GIAOUR; 


A    FRAQMENT    OF    A    TURKISH    TALE. 


'  One  fatal  remembrance — one  Borrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes — 
To  which  Life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  Joy  hath  no  balm— and  affliction  no  sting." 

Moore. 


To  SAMUEL  ROGERS,  Esq., 

is  A  8LIOHT  BUT  MOST   SINCERB  TOKEN  OF  ABMIEATIOK  TOR  HIS  GBNinS,   BE§PBCT 
rOB  HIS   CUAKACTEB,   AND  GRATITUDE  FOB  HIS  FRIENDSHIP, 


THIS  PBODXTCTION  18  INSCHIBED, 


London,  lilay,  1818. 


BT  HIS  OBLIGED  AND  AFFECTIONATE  SERVANT, 


BTKON. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 
The  tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present, 
is  founded  upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in  the 
East  tlian  formerly  ;  either  because  the  ladies  are  more 
circumspect  than  in  the  "  olden  time,"  or  because  the 
Christians  have  better  fortunes,  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  Arnauts 
were  beaten  back  from  the  Morea,  which  they  had 
ravaged  for  some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  in- 
vasion. The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  re- 
fused the  plunder  of  Misitra,  led  to  the  abandonment 
of  that  enterprise,  and  to  the  desolation  of  the  Morea, 
during  which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was 
unparalleled  even  in  the  annals  of  the  faithful. 

THE  GIAOUR. 

No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave. 
That  tomb'  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff, 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff. 


■  A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promonotory,  by  some  sup- 
posed the  sepulchre  of  Tkemistpcles. 


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  Colonna's  height. 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight. 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 
There  mildly  dimpling.  Ocean's  check 
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,'' 

The  maid  for  whom  his  melody. 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale : 


*  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  bis  appellations. 


64 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 

Unbent  by  winds,  unchill'd  by  snows, 

Far  from  the  winters  of  the  west, 

By  every  breeze  and  season  bless'd, 

Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given 

In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven ; 

And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 

Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 

And  many  a  summer  flower  is  there. 

And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  share, 

And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest. 

That  holds  the  pirate  for  a  guest ; 

Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 

Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 

Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar' 

Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star ; 

Then  stealing  with  the  mufiled  oar. 

Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 

Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey, 

And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 

Strange — that  where  Nature  loved  to  trace. 

As  if  for  gods,  a  dwelling-place, 

And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mix'd 

Within  the  paradise  she  fix'd, 

There  man,  enamor'd  of  distress. 

Should  mar  it  into  wilderness. 

And  trample,  brute-Uke,  o'er  each  flower 

That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour ; 

Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 

To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land. 

But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care. 

And  sweetly  woos  him — ^but  to  spare  : 

Strange — that  where  all  is  peace  beside. 

There  passion  riots  in  her  pride, 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 

To  darken  o'er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevail'd 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assail'd, 

And,  fix'd  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of  hell ; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy. 

So  cursed  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  guitar  is  the  constant  amnsement  of  the  Greek  sailor  by 
night :  with  a  steady  air  wind,  and  during  a  calm,  It  is  accom- 
panied always  by  the  voice,  and  often  by  dancing. 
8         "  Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 
To  lye  In  cold  obstruction  ?" — 

Measure  fm  Measure,  Act  Hi.  Scene  2. 
"  I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  opportunity 
of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  description,  but  those 


The  fix'd  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek. 
And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye. 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 
Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy" 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart. 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon  ; 
Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone. 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour. 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power ; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd. 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd  1= 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 
'Tis  Greece,  but  Uving  Greece  no  more  ! 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair. 
We  start,  for  soid  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  FeeUng  pass'd  away  ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth. 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth. 


Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Wliose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave  1 
Shrine  of  the  mighty  !  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave  : 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylee  ? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave. 

Oh,  servile  oflFspring  of  the  free — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  ? 
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. 


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  remarked  in  cases  of  violent  death  by 
gun-shot  wounds,  the  expression  is  always  that  of  languor,  what- 
ever the  natural  energy  of  the  sufferer's  character :  but  In  death 
from  a  stab  the  coxmtenance  preserves  its  traits  of  feeling  or 
ferocity,  and  the  mind  its  bias,  to  the  last. 


I 


THE   GIAOUR. 


65 


Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  ! 
While  kings,  in  dusky  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  1 
'Twere  long  to  teU,  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  valleys  bred. 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime, 
Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Slaves — nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave,' 

And  callous,  save  to  crime ; 
Stain'd  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes ; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  bless'd. 
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  grieve. 

♦  ♦  ♦  *  * 

Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing, 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing. 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat 
Of  island-pirate  or  Mainote  ; 
And  fearful  for  his  light  caique. 
He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek : 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil. 
And  cumber'd  with  his  scaly  spoil, 

■  AthenR  Is  the  property  of  the  KIslar  Aga  (tbe  slave  of  the  sera- 
glio and  ^ardian  of  the  women),  who  appoints  the  Way  wode.    A 
pancUtr  and  eiinurh— tbewi  are  not  polite,  yet  true  appellations — 
iiow  (junema  the  Goventor  of  Athens  ! 
9 


Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar. 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  Ught 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night. 
***** 
Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed. 
With  slacken'd  bit  and  hoof  of  speed  ? 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound 
The  cavem'd  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound ; 
The  foam  that  streaks  the  courser's  side 
Seems  gather'd  from  the  ocean-tide  : 
Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest, 
There's  none  within  his  rider's  breast ; 
And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lower, 
'Tis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour  I 
I  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 
But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface  : 
Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 
Is  scathed  by  fiery  passion's  brunt ; 
Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye. 
As  meteor-Uke  thou  glidest  by. 
Right  well  I  view  and  deem  thee  one 
Whom  Othman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On — on  he  hasten'd,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  pass'd,  and  vanish'd  from  my  sight. 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impress'd 
A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast. 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed  ;  he  nears  the  steep. 
That,  jutting,  shadows  o'er  the  deep ; 
He  winds  around ;  he  hurries  by ; 
The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eye  ; 
For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 
Whose  glance  is  flx'd  on  those  that  flee ; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight. 
He  wound  along  ;  but  ere  he  pass'd 
One  glance  he  snatch'd,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  check'd  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood — 
Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive  wood  ? 
The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill. 
The  Mosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering  still : 
Though  too  remote  for  soimd  to  wake 
In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,' 
The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal. 


«  "  Tophalke,"  musket.  The  Balram  is  annonnced  by  the  can- 
non at  sunset ;  the  Illumination  of  the  Mosques,  and  the  firing  of 
all  kinds  of  timall  annu,  loaded  with  ball,  |>n>cliiiui  It  during  tbe 
night 


60 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun  ; 
To-night,  the  Bairam  feast  begun ; 
To-night — but  who  and  what  art  thou 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  3 
And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  either  pause  or  flee  ? 

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  hasty  blush, 
But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb, 
Whose  ghostly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 
His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed ; 
He  raised  Ms  arm,  and  fiercely  raised. 
And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 
As  doubting  to  return  or  fly ; 
Impatient  of  his  flight  delay'd. 
Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neigh'd — 
Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasp'd  his  blade ; 
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  doubled,  and  the  shore 
Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more ; 
The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 
His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien. 
'Twas  but  an  instant  he  restrain'd 
That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  rein'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  roU, 
And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 
A  Ufe  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  oppress'd 
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  naught, 
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  I 


'  Jeireed,  or  Djerrld,  a  Wanted  Turkish  javelin,  which  is  darted 
from  horseback  with  great  force  and  precision.  It  is  a  favorite 
oierciee  of  the  Mnssulmans ;  but  I  know  not  if  it  can  be  called 
a  manly  one,  since  the  most  expert  in  the  art  are  the  Black  Eu- 


The  curse  for  Hassan's  sin  was  sent 

To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb  : 

He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom," 

That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom. 

Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 

The  very  cypress  droops  to  death — 

Dark  tree,  still  sad  when  others'  grief  is  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  harem  bower. 
And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power, 
The  owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower  ; 
The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim, 
With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine  grim  ; 
For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble  bed. 
Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread. 
'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 
And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 
As  springing  high  the  silver  dew 
In  whirls  fantastically  flew, 
And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 
The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. 
'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  bark  been  sooth'd  by  Beauty's  song ; 
And  softer  seem'd  each  melting  tone 
Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. 
But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  Age  repose 
Along  the  brink  at  twilight's  close  : 
The  stream  that  fill'd  that  font  is  fled— 
The  blood  that  warm'd  his  heart  is  shed  ! 
And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 
Be  heard  to  rage,  regret,  rejoice. 
The  last  sad  note  that  sweU'd  the  gale 
Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail : 
That  quench'd  in  silence,  all  is  still. 
But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill ; 
Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain. 
No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 
On  desert  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  ; 


nuchs  of  Constantinople.    I  think,  next  to  these,  a  Mamlonk  at 
Smyrna  was  the  most  skillful  that  came  within  my  observation. 

'  ITie  blast  of  the  desert,  fat&l  to  everything  living,  and  often 
alluded  to  in  eastern  poetry. 


THE    GIAOUU. 


61 


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  gather'd  o'er  the  gate. 
Nor  there  the  Fakir's  self  will  wait ; 
Nor  there  will  wandering  Dervise  stay, 
For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay ; 
Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 
To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt." ' 
Alike  must  Wealth  and  Poverty 
Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by. 
For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 
With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side, 
nis  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men, 
Is  Desolation's  hungry  den. 
The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labor, 
.    Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre  ! " 
if  «  «  «  *  * 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet. 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet ; 
More  near — each  turban  I  can  scan, 
And  silver-sheathed  ataghan  ; » 
The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen 
An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green  : ' 
"  Ho  I  who  art  thou  ?"    "  This  low  salam » 
Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am." 
"  The  burden  ye  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  stiU  furl'd,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that's  scatter'd  by. 
And  midway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channel'd  waters  dark  and  deep. 
Rest  from  your  task — so — bravely  done, 
Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run ; 
Yet  'tis  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow, 
That  one  of— "  ♦  *  * 

***** 

Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank, 
The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank  ; 
I  watch'd  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 

'  To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with  yonr  host,  en- 
sures the  safety  of  the  gticst :  even  thongh  an  enemy,  his  person 
from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

3  I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are  the 
first  duties  enjoined  by  Mahomet ;  and  to  say  the  truth,  very  gen- 
erally practised  by  his  disciples.  The  first  praise  tliat  can  be  be- 
stowed on  a  chief,  Is  a  panegyric  on  bis  botmty ;  the  next,  on  his 
valor. 

'  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. 


Bestirr'd  it  more, — 'twas  but  the  beam 
That  checker'd  o'er  the  living  stream  : 
I  gazed,  tiU  vanishing  from  view. 
Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew ; 
StiU  less  and  less,  a  speck  of  white 
That  gemm'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sight ; 
And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep. 
Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep, 
Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves. 
They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 
***** 

As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen'  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  fuU-grown  child. 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild, 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begim  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 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught, 
For  every  touch  that  woo'd  its  stay 
Hath  brush'd  its  brightest  hues  away, 
TiU  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 
'Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast. 
Ah !    where  shaU  either  victim  rest  ? 
Can  this  with  faded  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  mercy  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  Uke  the  Scorpion  girt  by  fire, 


*  Green  is  the  privileged  color  of  the  prophet's  nnmerons  pro- 
tended descendants ;  with  them,  as  here,  faith  (the  tomily  inheri- 
tance) is  supposed  to  supersede  the  necessity  of  good  works : 
they  are  the  worst  of  a  very  indifferent  brood. 

*  "  Salam  aleikoum !  aleikoum  salam  !"  peace  be  with  yon ;  be 
with  you  peace— the  salutation  reser\'ed  for  the  tbithf^il : — to  a 
Christian,  "  Urlamla,"  a  good  Journey ;  or  "  saban  hiresem,  sabaq 
eerula,"  good  mom,  good  even ;  and  sometimes,  "  may  your  end 
be  happy,"  are  the  usual  salutes. 

'  The  blue-winged  butterfly  ofKastimoer,  the  most  rare  and  bean- 
tifhi  of  the  species. 


68 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows, 

The  flames  around  their  captive  close, 

TiU  inly  search'd  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire. 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  she  nourish'd  for  her  foes, 
Wliose  venom  never  yet  was  vain, 
Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain. 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain  : 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire. 
Or  live  like  Scorpion  girt  by  fire ;' 
So  writhes  the  mind  Remorse  hath  riven. 
Unfit  for  earth,  undoom'd  for  heaven. 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath. 
Around  it  flame,  within  it  death  ! 

Black  Hassan  from  the  Harem  flies, 
Kor  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  Lelia  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 
Doth  Lelia  there  no  longer  dwell  ? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell : 
Strange  rumors  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away, 
When  Rhamazan's^  last  sun  was  sot, 
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  Giaour. 
Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deem'd, 
But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seem'd. 
Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 
Whose  treachery  deserved  a  grave  : 
And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque. 
And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 
Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 

•  Almding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so  placed  for 
experiment  by  gentle  philosophers.  Some  maintain  that  the  i)08i- 
tion  of  the  sting,  when  turned  towards  the  head,  is  merely  a  con- 
vulsive movement ;  hut  others  have  actually  brought  in  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. 

"  The  cannon  at  sunset  close  the  Bhamazan. 
'  Phingari,  the  moon. 

♦  The  celebrated  fabulous  mby  of  Snltan  Qiamschid,  the  embel- 
lisher of  Istaithar ;  from  its  splendor,  named  Sciiebgerag,  "  the 
torch  of  night ;"  also  "  the  cup  of  the  sun,"  &c.  In  the  first  edi- 
tion, "  Giamschid  "  was  written  as  a  word  of  three  syllables  ;  so 
D'Herhelot  has  it ;  hut  I  am  told  Kichardson  reduces  it  to  a  dissyl- 
lable, and  writes  "  Jamshid."  I  have  left  in  the  text  the  orthogra- 
phy of  the  one  with  the  pronunciation  of  the  other. 

'  Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth,  narrower  than  the  thread  of  a 


Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 
But  others  say,  that  on  that  night, 
By  pale  Phingari's'   trembling  light, 
The  Giaour  upon  his  jet-black  steed 
Was  seen,  but  seen  alone  to  speed 
With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore, 
Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 

Her  eye's  dark  charm  'twere  vain  to  tell. 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  Gazelle, 
It  will  assist  thy  fancy  weU  ; 
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.* 
Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say 
That  form  was  naught  but  breathing  clay, 
By  Alia  !  I  would  answer  nay ; 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's^  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. 
Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust  ?« 
On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 
That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone  ; 
On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 
The  young  pomegranate's'  blossoms  strew 
Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new ; 
Her  hair  in  hyacinthine"  flow. 
When  left  to  roU  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  Pranguestan  !" 

ihmished  spider,  and  sharper  than  the  edge  of  a  sword,  over  which 
the  Mussulmans  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  expected,  the  unskillful  and  tender  of 
foot  contrive  to  tumble  with  a  "  facilis  descensus  Avenii,"  not 
very  pleasing  prospect  to  the  next  passenger.  There  is  a  shorter 
cut  downwards  for  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

«  A  vulgar  error :  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of  Paradise 
to  well-Dehaved  women  ;  hut  by  far  the  greater  number  of  Mussul- 
mans 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. 

'  An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly  stolen, 
be  deemed  "  i)lu8  Arabe  qu'en  Arabic." 

8  Hyacinlhine,  in  Arabic  "  Sunbul ;"  as  common  a  thought  In 
the  eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  the  Greeks. 

'  "  Franguestan,"  Circassia. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


C9 


As  rears  her  creat  the  ruffled  swan, 
And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride. 

When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 
Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide ; 

Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck  : — 

Thus  arm'd  with  beauty  would  she  check 

Intrusion's  glance,  till  FoUy'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  ? 

AJas  !  that  name  was  not  for  thee  ! 
»  *  *  *  * 

Stem  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  arm'd,  as  best  becomes  a  man, 
"With  arquebuss  and  ataghan  ; 
The  chief  before,  as  deck'd  for  war. 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimatar 
Stain'd  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood, 
When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 
And  few  retum'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, 

'  Blemlllah— "  In  the  name  of  God  1"  the  commencement  of  all 
the  chapters  of  the  Koran  bat  one,  and  of  prayer  and  thanksgiving. 

'  A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussulman.  In 
1800,  the  Capitan  Pacha's  whiskers  at  a  diplomatic  audience  were 
no  less  lively  with  indignation  than  a  tiger  cat's,  to  the  horror  of 


And  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-night. 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light ; 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  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  ! '  now  the  peril's  past ; 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain. 
And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain  :" 
The  Chiaiis  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head  ; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground  ! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein, 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound  ; 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again : 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound. 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsheath'd,  and  carbine  bent. 
Some  o'er  their  courser's  harness  leant. 

Half  shelter'd  by  the  steed  ; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock. 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock. 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen. 
Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stem  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course, 
Till  fiery  fiashes  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  ^  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  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword. 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Kesign'd  carbine  or  ataghan. 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  !  ^ 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near. 
The  lately  ambush'd  foes  appear. 


ail  the  dragomans ;  the  portentous  ranstachios  twisted,  they  stood 
erect  of  their  own  accord,  and  were  expected  every  moment  to 
change  their  color,  but  at  last  condescended  to  subside,  which, 
probably,  saved  more  beads  than  they  contained  hairs. 
"  "Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 


ro 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


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  > 
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  ocean. 
In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming  ; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion, 
In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming. 
Beats  back  the  current  many  a  rood. 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood. 
While  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave. 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave ; 
Through  sparkling  spray,  in  thundering  clash. 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore. 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar  ; 
Thus — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet. 
With  waves  that  madden  as  they  meet — 
Thus  join  the  bands,  whom  mutual  wrong, 
And  fate,  and  fury,  drive  along. 
The  bickering  sabres'  shivering  jar ; 

And  peaUng  wide  or  ringing  near 

Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear. 
The  deathshot  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  1 
Ah  1  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 

'  The  "  evil  eye,"  a  common  snperBtitiou  In  the  Levant,  and  of 
whicb  the  imaginary  effects  are  yet  very  singular  on  tliotse  who 
conceive  themBelves  alfected. 


Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand : 

His  turban  far  behind  him  roll'd, 

And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold ; 

His  flovfing  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,2 

His  breast  with  wounds  unnumber'd  riven. 

His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 

Pall'n  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. 

***** 

"  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  watch'd  my  time,  I  leagued  vrith  these, 
The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize  ; 
My  wrath  is  wreak'd,  the  deed  is  done, 
And  now  I  go — but  go  alone." 


The  browsing  camel's  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  surmner  heat ; 
Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  promised  gift  ? 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 
Oh,  false  reproach  !  yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gain'd  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  descends. 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends  ; 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow — 
How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow  ? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 


'  The  flowered  shawls  Renerally  worn  by  persons  of  rank. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


71 


The  Tailar  lighted  at  the  gate, 

But  scmcu  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  ■  rent — his  caftan  red — 

"  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed : 

Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare. 

But  this  impurpled  pledge  to  bear. 

Peace  to  the  brave  !  whose  blood  is  spilt 

Wo  to  the  Giaour  !  for  his  the  guilt." 

*  *  *  *  * 

A  turban '  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown. 
Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  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  scom'd  forbidden  wine, 
Or  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine. 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of  "Alia  Hu  !"' 
Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand. 
And  stranger  in  his  native  land  ; 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 
And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite. 
And  the  dark  Heaven  of  Houris'  eyes 

On  him  shall  glance  forever  bright ; 
They  come — their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave,* 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave  ! 
Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 

*  *  *  *  * 


■  The  calpac  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  part  of  the  hcad-diess ; 
the  t^hawl  is  wound  round  it,  and  forms  the  turban. 

^  The  turban,  pillar,  and  Inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the  tombs 
of  the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the  cemetery  or  the  wilderness.  In 
the  mountains  yon  frequently  pass  similar  mementoes ;  and  on 
inquiry  you  are  informed  that  they  record  some  victim  of  rebel- 
lion, plunder,  or  revenge. 

8  "  Alia  Hu  1"  the  concluding  words  of  the  Muezzin's  call  to 
prayer  from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exterior  of  the  minaret. 
On  a  still  evening,  when  the  Mnezzin  has  a  fine  voice,  which  is 
frequently  the  case,  the  effect  is  solemn  and  beautiftil  beyond  all 
the  bells  In  Christendom.  [Valid,  the  son  of  Abdalmalck,  was  the 
first  who  erected  a  minaret  or  turret ;  and  this  he  placed  on  the 
grand  mosque  at  Damascus,  for  the  muezzin,  or  crier,  to  announce 
from  it  the  hour  of  prayer.  The  practice  is  kept  to  this  day.  See 
D'Herbelot.] 

<  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. 

'  Monklr  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  before 
whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight  novitiate  and  preparatory 


But  thou,  false  Infidel  I  shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's'  scythe  ; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis' « throne  ; 
And  fire  imquench'd,  imquenchable, 
Around,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell ; 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell ! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  Vampire'  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  &  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  yellow  hair, 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock  when  shorn 
Affection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn. 
But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee, 
Memorial  of  thine  agony  ! 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip « 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip  ; 
Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave. 
Go — and  with  Qouls  and  Afrits  rave  ; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they  ! 


training  for  damnation.  If  the  answers  are  none  of  the  ctearert, 
he  is  hauled  up  with  a  scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a  red-hot 
mace  till  properly  seasoned,  with  a  variety  of  subsidiary  proba- 
tions. The  office  of  these  angels  is  no  sinecure ;  there  are  but 
two,  and  the  number  of  orthodox  deceased  being  in  a  small  pro- 
portion to  the  remainder,  their  hands  are  always  full.  See  Relig. 
Ceremon.  and  Sale's  Koran. 

•  Eblis,  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness. 

'  The  Vampire  superstition  is  stdl  general  in  the  Levant.  Honest 
Toumefort  tells  a  long  story,  which  Mr.  Southey,  in  the  notes  on 
Thalaba,  quotes,  about  these  "Vroucolochas,"  as  he  calls  them.  The 
Romaic  term  is  "  Vardoulacha."  I  recollect  a  whole  family  being 
terrified  by  the  scream  of  a  child,  which  they  imagined  must  pro- 
ceed from  such  a  visitation.  The  Greeks  never  mention  the  word 
without  horror.  I  find  that  "  Broncolokas  "  is  an  old  legitimate 
Hellenic  appellation— at  least  is  so  applied  to  Arsenlus,  who  ac- 
cording to  the  Greeks,  wns  after  his  death  animated  by  the  Devil. 
The  modems,  however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 

'  The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip  with 
blood,  are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a  Vampire.  The  stonen  told 
in  Hungary  and  Greece  of  these  foul  feeders  are  singular,  and 
some  of  them  most  incredibly  attested. 


n 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


***** 
"  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  Mm  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  were  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  face  and  race  alike  unknown. 
The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  cross'd. 
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, 
Or  pent  within  our  penance  cell 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell. 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  whelm'd  beneath  the  sea ; 
Of  sabres  clashing,  foemen  flying, 
Wrongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying. 
On  cliff  he  hath  been  known  to  stand, 
And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  sever'd  from  its  parent  limb. 
Invisible  to  aU  but  him. 
Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave. 
And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 
***** 

*  V  T*  "f*  -f- 

Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl 
That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl : 
The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 
Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by ; 
Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue, 
Oft  wiU  his  glance  the  gazer  rue, 
For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell. 
Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 


A  spirit  yet  unqueU'd  and  high. 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendency ; 

And  hke  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake, 

WiU  others  quail  beneath  his  look, 

Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook. 

From  him  the  half-aflrighted  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  wiU  curl  and  quiver  ! 

Then  fix  once  more  as  if  forever ; 

As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 

Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 

Well  were  it  so — such  ghastly  mirth 

From  joyaunce  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 

But  sadder  still  it  were  to  trace 

What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face  : 

Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  flx'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  waded : 

The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 

Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fitting  doom  ; 

The  close  observer  can  espy 

A  noble  soul;  and  lineage  high  : 

Alas  1  though  both  bestow'd  in  vain, 

Which  Grief  could  change,  and  Guilt  could  staiu, 

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, 

WiU  scarce  delay  the  passer  by ; 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 

Demands  and  haunts  the  stranger's  eye ; 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone. 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone  ! 

"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding. 

Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  column'd  aisle ; 

With  dread  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 
The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 

But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 

And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire ; 

By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 

His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch  ; 

There  wiU  he  pause  tiU  all  is  done — 

And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 

See — by  the  half-illumined  wall 

His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall. 

That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


IS 


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, 

And  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 

Peak  louder  praises  to  the  sky. 

That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 

Of  mix'd  defiance  and  despair  ! 

Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine  I 

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  aU  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven. 

Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven  1" 

To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 
But  such  can  ne'er  be  aU  his  own ; 
Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share. 
Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despaiir ; 
And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 
The  woimd  that  time  can  never  heal 
The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine. 
Must  bum  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  wiU, 
'Twill  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kiU ; 
A  breastplate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 
Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed  ; 
But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear. 
Let  those  who  shape  its  edge,  beware  I 
Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art. 
Can  turn  and  tame  a  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  ! 
10 


It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,' 

Whose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream 

To  still  her  famish'd  nestlings'  scream. 
Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferr'd. 
Should  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  biUows  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  duU  decay ; — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock  1 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  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  fulfill ; 

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. 


■  The  pelican  is,  I  believe,  the  bird  bo  libelled,  by  the  impnta- 
tion  of  feeding  ber  cbictccns  with  her  blood. 


74 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


My  spirit  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 ; 
The  maid  I  love,  the  man  I  hate, 
And  I  wiU  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 
To  save  or  slay  as  these  require. 
Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire  : 
Nor  need'st  thou  doubt  his  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  iww  f 
***** 

"  I  loved  her.  Friar  1  nay,  8.dored — 

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 — nor  bend  thy  knee, 

Nor  midst  my  sins  such  act  record  : 
Thou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed, 
For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed  ! 
The  very  name  of  Nazarene 
Was  wormwood  to  his  Paynim  spleen. 
4Jngrateful  fool !  since  but  for  brands 
Well  wielded  in  some  liardy  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  passions  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  not4eved  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  aU 
Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  inthral ; 
And  I,  alas  I  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  mayst  hate. 

His  doom  was  seal'd — he  knew  it  well, 
Wam'd  by  the  voice  of  stem  Taheer, 
Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear 
The  deathahot  peal'd  of  murder  near. 

As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell ! 
He  died  too  in  the  battle  broil. 
A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil ; 
One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 
One  prayer  to  Alia  all  he  made  : 
He  knew  and  cross'd  me  in  the  fray — 
I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay. 
And  watch'd  his  spirit  ebb  away  : 
Though  pierced  like  pard  by  hunters'  steel, 
He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  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  wiU  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 
***** 

"  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood. 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name  ; 
But  mine  was  like  a  lava  flood 

That  boils  in  iEtna's  breast  of  flame 
I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
Of  ladye-love,-  and  beauty's  chain  : 
If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein, 
Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 
If  bursting  heart,  and  madd'ning  brain, 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel. 
And  all  that  I  have  felt  and  feel, 
Betoken  love — that  love  was  mine, 
And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 
'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  bless'd. 


THE  GIAOUli. 


M- 


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  1 
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  tum'd  mine  eye, 
The  Morning-star  of  Memory  ! 

"  Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven ; 

A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
With  angels  shared,  by  AJla  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  I  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still. 
Although  to  deatli  or  deadliest  ill ! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 

This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 

No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope  ; 
In  phrensy  then  their  fate  accuse  : 
In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  wo  ? 
Alas  !  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  naught  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  bom  to  bear  1 
'Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey. 
With  havoc  have  I  mark'd  my  way  : 
But  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dove, 
To  die — and  know  no  second  love. 
This  lesson  yet  hath  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  1 

"  And  she  was  lost— and  yet  I  breathed, 
But  not  the  breath  of  human  life  : 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed, 
And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. 
Alike  all  time,  abhorr'd  all  place. 
Shuddering  I  shrunk  from  Nature's  face. 
Where  every  hue  that  charm'd  before 
The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore. 
The  rest  thou  dost  already  know. 
And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  wo. 
But  talk  no  more  of  penitence ; 
Thou  sce'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence  : 
And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 
The  deed  that's  done  canst  thou  undo  ? 
Think  me  not  thankless — but  this  grief 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief. 
My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess  : 
But  wouldst  thou  pity  more,  say  less. 
When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live. 
Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive  ; 
Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 
Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 
Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 
From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young, 
And  calm  the  lonely  lioness  : 
But  soothe  not— mock  not  my  distress  ! 

"  In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours. 

When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 
Wliere  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers 
I  had — ah  !  have  I  now  ? — a  friend  ! 
To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send. 

Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow ; 
I  would  remind  him  of  my  end  : 

Though  souls  absorb'd  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendsliip's  claim. 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 


76 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


'Tis  strange — he  prophesied  my  doom, 

I  saw  her,  friar  !  and  I  rose 

And  I  have  smiled — I  then  could  smile — 

Forgetful  of  our  former  woes  ; 

When  Prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 

And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  dart. 

And  warn — I  reck'd  not  what — the  while  : 

And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart ; 

And  now  remembrance  wliispers  o'er 

I  clasp — what  is  it  that  I  clasp  ? 

Those  accents  scarcely  mark'd  before. 

No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp. 

Say — that  his  bodings  came  to  pass. 

No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine. 

And  he  wiU  start  to  hear  their  truth, 

Yet,  Leila  !  yet  the  form  is  thine  ! 

And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth  : 

And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much. 

Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was. 

As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch  ? 

Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 

Ah  1  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold. 

Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been. 

I  care  not ;  so  my  arms  enfold 

In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 

The  all  they  ever  wish'd  to  hold. 

To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died  ; 

Alas  !  around  a  shadow  press'd, 

But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away. 

They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast ; 

If  Guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 

Yet  still  'tis  there  !    In  silence  stands. 

I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame, 

And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands  ! 

Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name  ; 

With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye — 

And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame  ? 

I  knew  'twas  false — she  could  not  die  ! 

I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn, 

But  he  is  dead  !  within  the  dell 

Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn ; 

I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell ; 

And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 

He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 

May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier  ? 

From  earth  ;  why  then  art  thou  awake  ? 

But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old. 

They  told  me  wild  waves  roU'd  above 

And  tell  him — what  thou  dost  behold  ! 

The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love  ; 

The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  mind. 

They  told  me — 'twas  a  hideous  tale  1 

The  wreck  by  passion  left  behind. 

I'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail : 

A  shrivell'd  scroll,  a  scatter'd  leaf. 

If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 

Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief ! 

Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave ; 

*           *           *           *           * 

Oh  !  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 

This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more  ; 

"  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam. 

Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart : 

No,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream  ; 

But,  shape  or  shade  !  whate'er  thou  art. 

Alas  !  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep. 

In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart ! 

I  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep  ; 

Or  farther  with  thee  bear  my  soul 

But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 

Than  winds  can  waft  or  waters  roll  1 

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 ; 

"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 

Despair  is  stronger  than  my  wiU. 

Confessor  !  to  thy  secrect  ear 

Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 

I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  bewail. 

Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer : 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 

I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest ; 

This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 

I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 

Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead. 

'Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  father !  then 

And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head. 

I  saw  her ;  yes,  she  lived  again ; 

Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread, 

And  shining  in  her  white  symar. 

By  prying  stranger  to  be  read. 

As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 

Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread." 

Which  now  I  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 

Who  look'd  and  looks  far  lovelier ; 

Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark ; 

He  pass'd — nor  of  his  name  and  race 

To-morrow's  night  shall  be  more  dark ; 

Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace. 

And  I,  before  its  rays  appear. 

Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 

That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 

Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day  : 

I  wander,  father  1  for  my  soul 

This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 

Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 

Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew. 

^^j2&(Aa-  -{'€/&'/•& 


e^ 


Johnson, Fry  h:  Company, Publishers  .Nev^T^rk 


Cxinx)  L 


THE    BiilDE    OP    ABYDOS. 


77 


THE    BRIDE    OF  ABYDOS, 


A    TURKISH    TALE. 


'  Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly. 
Never  met  or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." 


BUBNS. 


TO 


THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  LORD  HOLLAND, 

THIS  TALE  IS  INSCRIBED, 

WITH  lIVJUtT  SZHTUCENT  01'  REOAIID  ANB  RESPECT, 

BT  HIS  eRATEmj,T  OBUOED  AND  SINCEBE  ntlBin), 


BYEON. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO   TBK    FIBST. 


Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 

Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  cUme, 
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,        [shine  : 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppress'd  with 

perfume. 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul'  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 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie,        [sky. 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine. 
And  aU,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 
'Tig  the  clime  of  the  East ;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun- 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have 
Oh  I  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell    [done  ?2 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which 
they  tell. 

11. 
Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave, 


"'Chil,"thepo»e. 

'  "  Sonla  made  of  are,  and  children  of  the  San, 

With  whom  revenge  Is  virtue."— YonNo's  Bnengt. 


Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest 

To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest. 

Old  Giaffir  sate  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. 


The  train  disap- 


III. 

"Let  the  chamber  be  clear'd." 
pear'd — 

"  Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Harem  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  1) 

Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower  ; 

Her  fate  is  flx'd  this  very  hour  : 

Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought ; 

By  me  alone  be  duty  taught !" 

"  Pacha  !  to  hedr  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 ; 
And  downcast  look'd,  and  gently  spake. 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet : 


18 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


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  loveUly  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  harem's  grating  key, 
Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke 
We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown. 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own  1 
There  linger'd  we,  beguiled  too  long 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song ; ' 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour- 
Beat  thy  divan's  approaching  hour. 
To  thee,  and  to  my  duty  true, 
Warn'd  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew  : 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 
Nay,  father,  rage  not — nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower." 

IV. 
"  Son  of  a  slave" —  the  Pacha  said — 
"  From  unbelieving  mother  bred. 
Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 
Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 
Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 
And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed. 
Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed. 
Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire. 
Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire  1 
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 — 


'  Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Borneo  and  Jnllet  of  the  East.    Sadl, 
the  moral  poet  of  Persia. 
"  Turkish  drum,  which  eoundB  at  sunrise,  noon,  and  twilight. 


If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 
Thou  seest  yon  bow — it  hath  a  string  1" 

V. 
No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard. 

At  least  that  met  old  Giaffltr'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  I — and  who  my  sire  ?" 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career ; 
And  glances  ev'n  of  more  than  ire 

Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  GiafHr  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started ;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done : 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun  : 

"  Come  hither,  boy — what,  no  reply  ? 
I  mark  thee— and  I  know  thee  too  ; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  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  feU, 
On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed  : 

That  eye  retum'd  him  glance  for  glance 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

TiU  Giaffir's  quail'd  and  shrunk  askance — 
And  why — he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 
"  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
WiU  one  day  work  me  more  annoy  : 
I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth. 
And — but  his  arm  is  Kttle  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 '  to  my  sight. 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight — 
But  hark  I — I  hear  Zuleika's  voice  ; 

Like  Ilouris'  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  naught  to  fear — 
My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here  1 
Sweet,  as  the  desert  fountain's  wave. 
To  lips  just  cool'd  in  time  to  save — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou ; 

'  The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compliment  a  hun- 
dred-fold) even  more  than  they  hate  the  Christians. 


i 


Canto  i. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


79 


Kor  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, 

^A^hen  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  transcendent  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  that  rude  old  Chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not  of  grief. 

Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 
To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly  ray  ? 
Who  doth  not  feel,  until  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  with  its  own  delight. 
His  changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confess 
The  might — the  majesty  of  Loveliness  ? 
Such  was  Zuleika — such  around  her  shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmark'd  by  her  alone ; 
The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace. 
The  mind,  the  Music'  breathing  from  her  face, 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole — 
And,  oh  1  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  Soul ! 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 
Across  her  gently-budding  breast  ; 

At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 
To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 
His  child  caressing  and  caress'd, 
Zuleika  came— and  Giaffir  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 
Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 
His  heart  though  stern  could  ever  feel ; 
Affection  chain'd  her  to  that  heart ; 
Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 

'  This  expreesion  has  met  with  objections.  I  yill  not  refer  to 
"  Him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  eoni,"  but  mcreiy  request  the 
reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,  the  features  of  the  women 
whom  he  believes  to  be  the  most  beautiful ;  and,  if  he  then  does 
not  comprehend  fully  what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the  above  line, 
I  shall  be  sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  eloquent  passage  in  the  lat- 
est worlt  ol  the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perliaps  of  any  age. 
Mad.  De  Stael,  on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  comparison  ex- 
cited by  tliat  analogy)  between  "painting  and  music,"  see  vol.  iU. 
cap.  10,  Be  l^Allemaqne.  And  is  not  this  (connection  still  strong- 
er with  the  original  than  the  copy  f  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  speak- 
ing harmony  suggested  the  idea ;  for  this  passage  is  not  drawn 
fl-om  imagination  but  memory,  that  mirror  which  Affliction  dashes 
to  the  earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  ftagments,  only  beholdB 
the  reflection  multiplied ! 


VII. 

"  Zuleika  1  child  of  gentleness  1 

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  rock  not  much  of  blood ; 

But  yet  the  Une  of  Carasman" 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 

First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 
That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lauds. 
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'  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 
And  now  thou  know'st  tliy  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." 

m  m  VIII. 

In  silence  bow'd  the  virgin's  head ; 

And  if  her  eye  was  fiU'd  ^\'ith  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed. 
And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red. 

And  red  to  pale,  as  througli  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  Hty  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,* 

'  Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  the  principal  land- 
owner in  Turkey ;  he  governs  Magnesia :  those  who,  by  a  kind  of 
i  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  condition  of  service,  are  called 
Timariots :  they  serve  as  Spahis,  according  to  the  extent  of  ter- 
ritory, and  bring  a  certain  number  into  the  field,  generally  cavalry, 

s  When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  single  moB- 
senger,  who  is  always  the  first  bearer  of  the  order  for  his  death,  is 
strangled  instead,  apd  sometimes  five  or  six,  one  after  the  other, 
on  the  same  errand,  by  command  of  the  reflectory  patient ;  If,  on 
the  contrary,  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he  lx)ws,  Idsses  the  Sultanas  re- 
spectable signature,  and  is  bow-strung  with  great  complacency. 
In  1810,  several  of  these  presents  were  exhibited  in  the  niche  of 
the  Seraglio  gate ;  among  others,  the  head  of  the  Pacha  of  Bag- 
dat,  a  brave  young  man,  cut  oif  by  treachery,  alter  a  desperate  re- 
sistance. 

*  Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.  The  Turks  hale  a 
superfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have  no  bulla. 


80 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Resign'd  his  gem-adorn'd  chibouque,' 
And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 

With  Maugrabee"  and  Mamajuke, 

His  way  amid  his  DeKs  took,' 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch  well  the  Harem's  massy  doors. 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 
His  eye  look'd  o'er  the  dark  blue  water 

That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 

Between  the  winding  Dardanelles  ; 

But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand. 

Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turban'd  band 
Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter. 

Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt* 

With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt ; 

Nor  mark'd  the  javelin-darting  crowd, 

Nor  heard  the  OUahs'  wild  and  loud — 
He  thought  but  of  old  Giafflr's  daughter  ! 

X. 

No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke ; 

One  sigli  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke  : 

Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate. 

Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 

To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turn'd, 

But  Uttle  from  his  aspect  learn'd ; 

Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same  ; 

Her  heart  confess'd  a  gentler  flame : 

But  yet  that  heart,  alarm'd  or  weak. 

She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 

Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay  ? 

"  How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  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"  perftune. 

And  sprinkled  all  its  odors  o'er 

The  pictured  roof'  and  marble  floor  : 

The  drops,  that  through  his  gUttering  vest 

The  playful  girl's  appeal  address'd, 

>  "  Chibonque,"  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber  month- 
piece,  and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the  leaf,  is  adorned 
with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of  the  wealthier  orders. 

'  *'  Maugrabee,"  Moorish  mercenaries. 

'  "Delis,"  bravoes  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  cavalry, 
and  always  begin  the  action. 

«  A  twisted  fold  otfelt  is  used  for  cimetar  practice  by  the  Turks, 
and  few  but  Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through  it  at  a  single  stroke : 
Bometimes  a  tough  turban  is  use'J  for  the  same  purpose.  The  Jer- 
reed is  a  game  of  blunt  javelins,  animated  and  gracefhl. 

»  "Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "Leilies,"  as  the  Spanish  poets 
call  them,  the  sound  is  Ollah  ;  a  cry  of  which  the  Turks,  for  a  si- 
lent people,  are  somewhat  profuse,  partlcnlarly  during  the  Jerreed, 
or  in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.    Their  animaUon  in  the 


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  ofier'd  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  tho^lght  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  rose  was  pluck'd  and  vn-eathed  ; 
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*  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  1 
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, 
Ev'n  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stem. 
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  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine : 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine. 
If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  woman's  step  admit  her  vow. 
Without  thy  free  consent,  command, 
The  Sultan  should  not  have  my  hand  ! 
Think'st.thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart  ? 

field,  and  gravity  In  the  chamber,  with  their  pipes  and  combcUos, 
form  an  amusing  contrast. 

'  "  Atar-gul,"  ottar  of  roses.    The  Persian  1b  the  finest. 

'  The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the  Mussulman 
apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  great  houses,  with  one  eter- 
nal and  highly  colored  view  of  Constantinople,  wherein  the  prin- 
cipal feature  is  a  noble  contempt  of  perspective ;  below,  arms, 
clmetars,  etc.,  are  In  general  fancifully  and  not  inelegantly  dis- 
posed. 

'  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  opin- 
ions of  the  ancients  on  the  subject.  I  dare  not  venture  a  conjec- 
ture on  the  point,  though  a  little  inclined  to  the  "errare  maliem," 
etc.,  {f  Mr.  Fox  wa«  mistaken. 


■'lit     ilKirJJSH    TJHil-i-.nr     WA3    HAHDI.V    KtltAlWtX-. 
Iif.v.jKt:    rut:    HuHki    WAS     Purcwij    AN1>    WtlKATKRU 


H«.V  '.i    .U.K.I'».  Tjr*.  i.irp. 


mpaiiy'PubliBhera.'NewYork 


Canto  l 


THE   BRIDE   OF   ABYDOS. 


81 


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,'  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  forever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust  1" 

xn. 

He  lived — ^he  breathed — ^he  moved — ^he  felt ; 
He  raised  the  mEiid  from  where  she  knelt ; 
His  trance  was  gone — his  keen  eye  shone 
With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt ; 
With  thoughts  that  bum — in  rays  that  melt. 
As  the  stream  late  concealed 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows. 
When  it  rushes  reveal'd 

In  the  light  of  its  billows  ; 
As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it, 
Flash'd  the  soul  of  that  eye 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 
A  war-horse  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound, 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife. 
Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 
Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  display'd. 
And  all,  before  repress'd,  betray'd  : 
"  Now  thou  art  mine,  forever  mine. 
With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign ; 
Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 
Tliough  sworn  by  one,  hath  boimd  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  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 
For  all  the  treasures  buried  fax 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar.^ 
This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lower'd. 
Reproaches  on  my  head  were  shower'd. 
And  Giafiir  almost  caU'd  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. 
i//«  son,  indeed  ! — yet,  thanks  to  thee. 
Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be  ; 
But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 
Be  only  known  to  ua  as  now. 

■  "Azrael,"  the  angel  of  death. 

'  The  treaBarcB  of  the  Pre-adamtte  SiiltanB.    See  D'Herbelot, 
article  Ittakar 

n 


I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 

From  GiaflSr  thy  reluctant  hand  ; 

More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul 

Holds  not  a  Musselim's'  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  kncw'st  before. 
It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay. 

And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why, 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day  ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss. 
Like  this — and  this — no  more  than  this ; 
For,  Alia  !  sure  thy  lips  are  flame : 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing  ? 
My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same. 

At  least  I  feel  my  cheek,  too,  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health, 
Partake,  but  never  waste  thy  wealth, 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by 
And  lighten  half  thy  poverty  ; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye. 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try ; 
To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire  : 
More  can  I  do  ?  or  thou  require  ? 
But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
We  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 
The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell. 
But  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  'tis  well ; 
Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  '  arms  '  and  '  friends,' 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giafiir  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  me, 
To  be  what  I  have  ever  been  ? 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 


>  "MnsBelim,"  a  governor,  the  next  In  rank  after  a  Pacha;  a 
Waywode  is  the  third ;  and  then  come  the  A^h. 

'  "  Egripo,"  the  Negropont.  According  to  the  proverb,  the 
Turl{B  of  Kgrijio,  the  Jews  of  Baliinica,  and  the  Oreeke  of  Athens, 
are  the  woret  <if  their  reppective  raceB. 


82 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  h. 


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  began, 

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  compell'd 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld  : 
This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal  ? 
Wliy  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal  ? 
I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good  : 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  naught, 
Allah  !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 
And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 
If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime. 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here ; 
Oh,  Selim  !  tell  me  yet  in  time. 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 
Ah  !  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar,' 
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— GiafRr  I  can  greet : 

And  now  with  him  I  fain  must  prate 

Of  firmans,  impost,  levies,  state. 

There's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks. 

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  wam'd  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 

Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come  : 
Then  softly  from  the  Harem  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep 
Our  garden-battlements  are  steep  ; 

Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 

To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time ; 

And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel 

Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 

Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 

Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before : 


'  "  Tchocadar  "—one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes  a  man  of  ; 
authority. 


Trust  me,  Zuleika — fear  not  me  ! 
Thou  know'st  I  hold  a  harem  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." 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND. 


The  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave. 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh  !  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high. 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam. 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  wam'd  him  home ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  soimds,  forbade  to  go. 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear. 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear ; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love. 
The  only  star  it  hail'd  above ; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"  Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long  !" — • 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 

II. 
The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle's  tide 
RoUs  darkly  heaving  to  the  main  ; 
And  Night's  desceflding  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  1  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn. 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore. 
Believing  every  hillock  green 
Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes, 


Canto  ii. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


88 


And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 

Thine  own  "  broad  Hellespont '"  still  dashes, 
Be  long  my  lot  I  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee  ! 

IV. 
The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme : 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 

But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  stilL 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow  : 
That  mighty  heap  of  gather'd  ground 
Which  Ammon's  son  ran  proudly  round,' 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crown'd. 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow  ! 

Within — thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow  ! 
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  ! 


Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 

The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear  : 

TiU  then — no  beacon  on  the  cliflf 

May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff; 

The  scatter'd  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away  ; 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 

Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes  !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber. 

And  o'er  her  silken  Ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber. 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran  ;' 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget  ?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet,* 
Whereon  engrayed  the  Koorsee  text, 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next ; 
And  by  her  comboloio^  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes ; 


*  The  wrangling  abont  this  epithet,  "  the  broad  Helleepont,"  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  swim- 
mini^  across  it  in  the  meantime  ;  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  uTreifior  probably  Homer  had  the  same  notion 
«f  distance  that  a  coquette  has  of  time ;  and  when  he  talks  of 
bonndless,  means  half  a  mile  ;  as  the  latter,  by  a  like  figure,  when 
ehe  says  eternal  attachment,  simply  specifles  three  weeks. 

'  Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar  with  laurel, 
etc.  He  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Caracalla  In  his  race.  It  is 
believed  that  the  last  also  poisor.ed  a  friend,  named  Festus,  for 
tbe  sake  of  new  Patroclan  games.    I  have  seen  the  sheep  feeding 


And  many  a  bright  omblazon'd  rliymo 
By  Persian  scribes  rcdeem'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. 
Wrapp'd  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  treading. 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 

The  gust  its  hollow  meanings  made, 
TiU  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat. 

The  maid  persued  her  silent  guide ; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 

How  could  she  quit  her  SeUm'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  time. 

And  oft  her  Koran  conn'd  apart ; 
And  oft  in  youthful  revery 
She  dream'd  what  Paradise  might  be  : 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdain'd  to  show ; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure. 
Nor  deem'd  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  bower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss. 
Without  her,  most  beloved  in  this  ! 
Oh  !  who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell  ? 
What  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well  ? 


on  the  tombs  of  .fisietes  and  Antilochns :  the  first  is  In  the  centra 
of  the  plain. 

>  When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perflime,  which  is 
slight  but  not  disagreeable. 

'  The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  enclosed  In  gold 
boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn  round  the  neck, 
wrist,  or  arm,  is  still  universal  in  the  East.  The  Koorsee  (throne) 
verse  In  the  second  cap.  of  the  Koran  describes  the  attributes  of 
the  Most  High,  and  is  engraved  in  this  manner,  and  worn  by  the 
pious,  as  the  most  esteemed  and  sublime  of  all  sentences. 

'  "  Comboloio  "—a  Turkish  rosary.  The  MSS.,  particularly 
those  of  the  Persians,  are  richly  adorned  and  Illuminated.  The 
Greek  females  are  kept  In  utter  ignorance ;  but  many  of  the  Turk- 
ish girls  are  highly  accomplished,  though  not  actually  qnalified  for 
a  Christian  coterie.  Perhaps  some  of  our  own  "  Uuea  "  might  not 
be  worse  for  bleaching. 


84 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  n. 


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. 

Wliat  may  this  mean  ?  she  tum'd  to  see 

Her  SeUm— "  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  i^istols  unadom'd  were  braced ; 
And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 
And  from  his  shoulder  losely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 
That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote  : 
Beneath — his  golden  plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuiras  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' 

X. 

"  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seem'd ; 

And  now  thou  see'st  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  Ups  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 

'  "  Galiongee  "—or  Galiongi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  Turkieh  sailor ; 
the  Greeks  ilavlgate,  the  Turks  work  the  guns.  Their  dress  is  pic- 
turesque ;  and  I  have  seen  the  Capitan  Pacha  more  than  once  wear- 
ing it  as  a  kind  of  Incog.  Their  legs,  however,  are  generally  naked. 
The  bnskins  described  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind  with  sil- 
ver are  those  of  an  Amaut  robber,  who  was  my  host  (he  had  quit- 
ted the  profession)  at  his  Pyrgo,  near  Gastounl  in  the  Morea ;  they 
were  plated  in  scales  one  over  the  other,  like  the  back  of  an  arma- 
dillo. 


I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love  ; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove  : 
But  first — Oh  !  never  wed  another — 
Zuleika  !  I  am  not  thy  brother  !" 

XI. 
"  Oh  1  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  rm  all  I  was  before. 

Thy  sister — friend — Zuleika  still. 
Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kiU  ; 

If  thou  hast  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  Giafflr  always  seem'd  thy  foe ; 
And  I,  alas  !  am  GiafEr's  child. 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemn'd,  reviled. 
If  not  thy  sister — wouldst  thou  save 
My  Ufe,  oh  !  bid  me  be  thy  slave  !" 

XII. 
"  My  slave  Zuleika  ! — nay,  I'm  thine  : 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  cahn. 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  link'd  with  mine  ; 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine, 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm  ; 
So  may  the  Koran'  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  deadhest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giafiir  all 

That  SeUm  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. 


'  The  characters  on  all  Turkish  cimeterr,  contain  sometimes  the 
name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but  more  generally  a  text 
from  the  Koran,  in  letters  of  gold.  Amongst  those  in  my  posses- 
sion is  one  with  a  blade  of  singular  construction  ;  it  is  very  broad, 
and  the  edge  notched  into  serpentine  curves  like  the  ripple  of  wa- 
ter, or  the  wavering  of  tiame.  I  asked  the  Armenian  who  sold  it, 
what  poHBible  u^e  such  a  figure  could  add  ;  he  said,  in  Italian,  that 
he  did  not  know  ;  but  the  mutssulmans  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. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


80 


He  rear'd  me,  not  with  tender  help, 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain ;' 
He  watch'd  me  like  a  Eon's  whelp, 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 

My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling ;  but  for  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I  take ; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika !  hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 

XIII. 
"  How  first  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  Abdallali's  arm  was  strong, 
Remember'd  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 
And  Paswan's"  rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest : 
His  death  is  all  I  need  relate. 
The  stem  effect  of  Giaflir's  hate ; 
And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 
Whate'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  horse-tails'  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  1 
What  need  of  words  2  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,*  nor  needed  more  1 
If  thou  my  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt. 
Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out. 


*  It  Irt  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing  or  person- 
age in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark,  or  Cain,  is  equally  the 
privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew ;  indeed,  the  former  profess  to  be 
much  better  acqnained  with  the  lives,  true  and  fabulons,  of  the  pa- 
triarchs, than  is  warranted  by  our  own  sacred  writ ;  and  not  content 
with  Adam,  they  have  a  biojn'aphy  of  Pre-Adamltes.  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  ono  of  the  finest 
poems  in  their  language.  It  is,  therefore,  no  violation  of  costume 
to  pat  the  names  of  Cain,  or  Noah,  into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. 


XV. 
"  The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 
In  part  suppress'd,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  PachaUc  was  gain'd  : — 
Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man — 

Abdallah's  honors  were  obtain'd 
By  him  a  brother's  murder  stain'd  ; 
'Tis  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drain'd 
His  ill-got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 
Wouldst  question  whence  ?  Survey  the  waste 
And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 
His  gains  repay  his  broiUng  brow  ! 
Why  me  the  stem  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  heart  to  lead, 
A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Haroun  only  knows,  or  knew 

This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh  : 
He  in  Abdallah's  palace  grew. 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

Which  holds  he  here — he  saw  him  die  : 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 
Avenge  his  lord  ?  alas!  too  late  ; 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 

With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betray'd, 
Proud  Giafiir  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  ensured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 

"  Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin ;  who,  for  the  last  years  of 
his  life,  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at  defiance. 

'  "  Horse-tail,"  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

*  Giafllr,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I  am  not  sure  which, 
was  actually  taken  off  by  the  Albanian  All,  in  the  manner  describ- 
ed In  the  text.  All  Pacha  while  I  was  in  the  country,  married  the 
daughter  of  his  victim,  some  years  after  the  event  had  taken  place 
at  a  bath  in  Sophia,  or  Adrianople.  The  poison  was  mixed  in  the 
cup  of  coffee,  which  is  presented  before  the  sherbet  b;  tbe  bath- 
keeper,  lifter  dressing. 


86 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


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  AUa  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  Galiongge, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn. 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 

Whose  laws  and  Uves  are  on  their  swords ; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  waning  cheek  more  pale  : 
Those  arms  thou  see'st  my  band  have  brought. 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote ; 
This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  fiU'd — once  quaff  d,  they  ne'er  repine : 
Our  prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves ; 

They're  only  infidels  in  wine. 

XVIII. 

"  What  could  I  be  ?  Proscribed  at  home, 

And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam  ; 

And  listless  left — for  Giaffir's  fear 

Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear — 

Though  oft — Oh,  Mahomet !  how  oft ! — 

In  full  Divan  the  despot  scofif'd. 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand : 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone. 

And  pent  me  here  imtried — unknown ; 

To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left. 

By  hope  unbless'd,  of  fame  bereft. 

While  thou — whose  softness  long  endear'd. 

Though  it  unmann'd  me,  still  had  cheer'd — 

To  Brusa's  waUs  for  safety  sent, 

Awaitedst  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, 

'  The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  ielands  are  confined  to  the 
Archipelago,  the  Boa  alladcd  to. 

»  Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famoas  for  his  efforts  in  1789-90,  for 
the  independence  of  his  country.  Abandoned  by  the  RnssiunB, 
he  became  a  pirate,  and  the  Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his  en- 
torpriaeB.  He  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at  Petersbnrg.  He  and  Riga 
are  the  two  moat  celebrated  of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 


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  ! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine ; 
The  World — ^nay.  Heaven  itself  was  mine  1 

XIX. 
"  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  where  I  join'd  the  crew, 
With  whom  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  fall. 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  ev'n  my  own  intents. 
And  some — and  I  have  studied  all 

Distinguish'd  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank — 
And  some  to  higher  thought  aspire. 

The  last  of  Lambro's^  patriots  there 

Anticipated  freedom  share ; 
And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate, 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs'  from  their  fate. 
So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne'er  knew ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 
Ay  !  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch*  roam. 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home  1' 

•  "  Rayahs,"— all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  the  "  Har- 
atch." 

*  The  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the  Mussul- 
mans profess  much  acquaintance. 

»  The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turkomans,  will 
be  found  well  detailed  In  any  book  of  Eastern  travels.    That  it 


Canto  ii. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


91 


My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 

Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me  : 

Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  Bail, 

Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 

Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb  !  or  glide,  my  prow  ! 

But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer,  Thou  ! 

Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark ; 

The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  I 

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  ! 

Bless'd — as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 

To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call ; 

Soft — as  the  melody  of  youthful  days, 

That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise ; 

Dear — as  his  native  song  to  Exile's  ears. 

Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 

For  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 

Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  hour.' 

A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  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  Harem's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 

Arc  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  frown,  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  soothe  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  assign'd 

By  fatal  Nature  to  man's  warring  kind  : 

Mark  !  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease  ! 

He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it — peace  1 

I  like  the  rest  must  use  my  skill  or  strength. 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length. 

Power  sways  out  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  ev'n  thy  soul  might  err — how  oft  the  heart 

Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part  1 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  wo, 

Or  even  disgrace,  would  lay  her  lover  low, 

poBsesBcs  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself,  cannot  be  denied.  A  yonng 
French  renegade  confeHsed  to  Chateaubriand,  that  ho  never  found 
himnelf  alone,  galloping  in  the  desert,  without  a  Ben»ation  ap- 
proaching to  rapture,  which  wa«  indescribable. 

'  "  Jannat  al  Aden,"  the  perpetual  abode,  the  Mnxsulinan  para- 
dlae. 


Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame — 
Away  suspicion  ! — not  Zuleika's  name  ! 
But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best ; 
No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear : 
Yes,  fear  1 — the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee, 
By  Osman's  power,  and  Giafflr's  stem  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  bless'd. 
Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 
With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath  charms ; 
Earth — sea  alike — our  world  within  our  arms  ! 
Ay — let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck, 
So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round  my  neck : 
The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be 
No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee  ! 
The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
To  Love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  Art : 
There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check : 
Here  moments  menace — there  are  years  of  wreck  I 
But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Horror's  shape  1 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 
Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close  : 
Of  thine  but  ojie  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 

Retum'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  oftener  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,  his  Ufe  who  gave  thee  thine. 
With  me,  this  hour  away — away  ! 

But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Wouldst  thou  recall  thy  willing  vow, 
AppaU'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  forever  gone. 
The  mother  hardcn'd  into  stone ; 


88 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


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  flash'd  on  high  a  blazing  torch  ! 

Another — and  another — and  another —  [brother !" 

"Oh,  fly — no  more  —  yet  now  my  more  than 

Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red ; 

Nor  these  alone— for  each  right  hand 

Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 

They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 

With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 

And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 

Stem  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving  : 

And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave — 

Oh,  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave  ?  , 

XXIII. 
Dauntless  he  stood — "  'Tis  come — soon  past — 
One  kiss,  Zuleika — '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." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stepp'd ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high  : 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumb'd  her  breast  and  eye  1 — 
"  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  I    Sweet !  retire  : 

Yet  stay  within — here  linger  safe. 

At  thee  his  rage  wiU  only  chafe. 
Stir  not— lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance, 
Fear'st  thou  for  him  ? — may  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire  ! 
No — though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd : 
No — though  again  he  call  me  coward  ! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel  ? 
No — as  each  crest  save  his  may  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,  unhaxm'd  by  steel. 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel. 
Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset. 
To  where  the  strand  and  biUows  met : 
There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land. 
And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand — 
Ah  !  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took. 

Hath  doom'd  his  death,  or  fix'd  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 
How  late  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  bullet  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  the  blood  is  bubbling. 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubhng — 
If  aught  his  lips  essay'd  to  groan, 
The  rushing  billows  choked  the  tone  ! 

XXVI. 

Mom  slowly  roUs  the  clouds  away  ; 

Pew  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  Sigaeum's  steep 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore  : 


Canto  ii. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS. 


89 


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  moum'd  above  his  turban  stone,' 
That  heart  hath  burst — that  eye  was  closed — 

Yea — closed  before  his  own  ! 

XXVII. 
By  Helle's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
And  woman's  eye  is  wet — man's  cheek  is  pale  : 
Zuleika  !  last  of  Giaffir's  race, 

Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late  : 
He  sees  not — ne'er  shall  see  thy  face  I 

Can  he  not  hear 
The  loud  Wul-wulleh^  warn  his  distant  ear  ? 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate. 
The  Koran-chanters  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 
Sufficed  to  kill ;  [save 

Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry — and  all  was  still. 

Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave  1 
Ah  !  happy  !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst !    [first ! 
That  grief— though  deep— though  fatal— was  thy 
Thrice  happy  !  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 
Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse  1 
And,  oh,  that  pang  where  more  than  madness  lies  ! 
The  worm  that  will  not  sleep — and  never  dies  ; 
Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night. 
That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light, 
That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quivering  heart  1 
Ah,  wherefore  not  consume  it — and  depart  1 
Wo  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief ! 
Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  dost  spread  ; 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah — Selim  bled. 
Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief: 

'  A  tnrban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  mm  only. 
'  Tlie  deatli-Bong  of  the  TurlsiBh  women.    The  "  silent  slaves  " 
are  the  men.  whose  uotionB  of  deconim  forljid  complaint  in  puilic 
12 


Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed. 
She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed. 
Thy  daughter's  dead  I 
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  hast 
Hark !  to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair !  [shed ! 
"Where  is  my  child?"— an  Echo  answers  — 
"Where  J"  = 

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, 

Ev'n  in  that  deadly  grove — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale  : 
It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair — 

So  white — so  faint — the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high  ; 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail. 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 
May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 
To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again  ! 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears. 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears  ; 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 
Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour, 
And  buds  unshelter'd  by  a  bower ; 
Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower, 

Nor  woos  the  summer  beam  : 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseen— but  not  remote : 
Invisible  his  airy  wings, 
But  soft  as  harp  that  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  I 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
'Tis  sorrow  so  unmix'd  with  dread. 
They  scarce  can  bear  the  mom  to  break 
That  melancholy  speU, 


'  "  I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried :  '  The  IHenda  of 
my  youth,  where  are  they  V  and  an  Echo  answered :  '  Where  are 
they  V  "—From  an  Arabic  MS.  The  above  quotation  (from  whicli 
the  idea  in  the  text  is  talsen)  must  be  already  familiar  to  every 
reader:  it  is  given  in  the  first  annotation,  p.  67,  of  "The  Pleas- 
ures of  Memory ;"  a  poem  so  well  Ituown  as  to  render  a  reference 
almost  superfluons ;  but  to  whose  pages  all  will  be  delighted  to 


90 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake, 

Eve  saw  it  placed— the  Morrow  gone  ! 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 

It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 

But  when  the  day-blush  burst  from  high, 

That  deep  fix'd  pillar  to  the  shore  ; 

Expires  that  magic  melody. 

For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell. 

And  some  have  been  who  could  believe. 

Next  morn  'twas  found  where  Selim  fell ; 

(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Lash'd  by  the  tumbUng  tide,  whose  wave 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame,) 

Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave  : 

That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 

And  there  by  night,  reclined,  'tis  said, 

"Will  shape  and  syllable'  its  sound 

Is  seen  a  ghastly  turbau'd  head  : 

Into  Zuleika's  name. 

And  hence  extended  by  the  billow. 

'Tis  from  her  cypress  summit  heard. 

'Tis  named  the  "  Pirate-phantom's  pillow !" 

That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word  , 

Wlierc  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 

'Tis  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 

Hath  flourish'd  ;  flourisheth  this  hour. 

That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 

Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale ; 

There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone ; 

As  weeping  Beauty's  cheek  at  Sorrow's  tale  ! 

THE    CORSAIR 


A    TALE. 


■  I  Buoi  pensieri  in  lul  dormir  non  pouno." 

Tasso,  Oeruaalemme  Llierata,  canto  x. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE,  ESQ. 
My  dear  Mooke, — 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  the  last  production  with  which  I 
shall  trespass  on  public  patience,  and  your  indulgence, 
for  some  years  ;  and  I  own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avail 
myself  of  this  latest  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning 
my  pages  with  a  name,  consecrated  by  unshaken  pub- 
lic principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and  various  tal- 
ents. 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,  pennit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since  our  first  ac- 
quaintance, has  been  the  years  he  had  lost  before  it  com- 
menced, to  add  the  humble  but  sincere  suffrage  of  friend- 
ship, 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  abandoned 
the  prospect  of  its  renewal,  whenever  your  leisure  or 
inclination  allows  you  to  atone  to  your  friends  for  too 
long  an  absence.  It  is  said  among  those  friends,  I  trust 
truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in  the  composition  of  a 
poem  whose  scene  will  be  laid  in  the  East ;  none  can  do 
those  scenes  so  much  justice.    The  wrongs  of  your  own 

'  "  And  airy  tongues  tliat  syliaUe  men's  names."— Milton. 

For  a  belief  that  tlie  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  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that  George  I.  flew  into  her  win- 
dow in  the  shape  of  a  raven,  (see  Orford'e  Keminiscenccs,)  and 
many  other  instances,  bring  this  superstition  nearer  home.    The 


country,  the  magnificent  and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons, 
the  beauty  and  feeling  of  her  daughters,  may  there  be 
found  ;  and  Collins,  when  he  denominated  his  Oriental 
his  Irish  Eclogues,  was  not  aware  how  true,  at  least, 
was  a  part  of  his  parallel.  Your  imagination  will  cre- 
ate 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  intention  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  gener- 
ation, has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fatal 


most  singular  was  the  whim  of  a  Worcester  lady,  who,  believing 
her  daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape  of  a  singular  bird,  literally  fur- 
nished her  pew  in  the  cathedral  with  cages  ftiU  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's  Letters. 


O./^  T^i 


^^zT-i^i-oMy' 


bin    WIKJ  It.   6HE'   WHOM  COITRADS  ARMS   CONVEY 
rROMBEEKINO  PILE  AWD   COMBATS  WRECK  AWAY 
WHO  BUT  THE  LOVE  OF  HIM  HE  DOOMS    JO  BLEUD  ■ 
THE  HAR.\MOVEEN    DUT  STIU-  THtJ  SLAVE  OP  SEYD 

Cur«..t,Cimi3t5 


ompany  Publishers,  New  York 


Canto  i. 


THE   COKSAIR. 


91 


facility  of  the  octo-syllabic  veree  ;  and  this  is  not  the  ] 
least  victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty  penius :  in  blank  | 
verse,  Milton,  Thomson,  and  our  dramatists,  are  the  bea- 
cons  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  cer- 
tainly ;  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  cir- 
culation 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  personages 
more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I 
have  been  sometimes  criticised,  and  considered  no  less 
responsible  for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than  if  all 
had  been  personal.  Be  it  so — if  I  have  deviated  into 
the  gloomy  vanity  of  "  drawing  from  self,"  the  pictures 
are  probably  like,  since  they  are  unfavorable  ;  and  if 
not,  those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who 
do  not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving.  I  have  no 
particular  desire  that  any  but  my  acquaintance  should 
think  the  author  better  than  the  beings  of  his  imagin- 
ing ;  but  I  cannot  help  a  little  surprise,  and  perhaps 
amusement,  at  some  odd  critical  exceptions  in  the  pre- 
sent instance,  when  I  see  several  bards  (far  more  deserv- 
ing, I  allow,)  in  very  reputable  plight,  and  quite  exemp- 
ted from  all  participation  in  the  faults  of  those  heroes, 
who,  nevertheless,  might  be  found  with  little  more  mo- 
rality than  "  The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps— -but  no — I 
must  admit  Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repulsive  person- 
age ;  and  as  to  his  identity,  those  who  like  it  must  give 
him  what  ever  "  alias  "  they  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the  im- 
pression, 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. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CAKTO    THE     FIRST. 


-nessnn  maggior  dolore, 


Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  fellce 

Mella  mlseria, "— Dantb. 


"  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thouglits  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 


'  The  time  In  thie  poem  may  Beem  loo  iihort  for  the  occnrrenceB, 
lint  the  whole  of  the  Mgean  Ulea  are  within  a  few  honra'  sail  of 


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  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 
Wliose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave ; 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease  ! 
Wliom  slumber  soothes  not — pleasure  cannot  please — 
Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide. 
The  exulting  sense — the  pulse's  maddening  play, 
That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 
That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight. 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 
That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal 
And  where  the  feebler  faint — can  only  feel — 
Feel — to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core. 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 
No  dread  of  death — if  with  us  die  our  foes — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 
Come  when  it  will — wo  snatch  the  life  of  life^ 
Wlien  lost — what  recks  it — by  disease  or  strife  ? 
Let  him  who  crawls  cnamor'd  of  decay. 
Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away; 
Heave  his  thick    breath,  and  shake  his   palsied 

head; 
Ours — the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 
While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul, 
Ours  with  one  pang — one  bound — escapes  control. 
His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave. 
And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave  : 
Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed. 
When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 
For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 
In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory  ; 
And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 
When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey. 
And  cry.  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 
How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  nmr .'" 

II. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle. 

Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while  : 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thriU'd  the  rocks  along. 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song  ! 

Tn  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 ; 

the  continent,  and  the  reader  most  be  kind  enongh  to  take  tlie 
wind  an  I  have  often  fonnd  It. 


92 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 
With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprise  ; 
TeU  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 
Is  famed  and  fear'd — they  ask  and  know  no  more. 
With  these  he  mingles  not  l)ut  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  roots, 
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  uourish'd  by  that  abstinence,  [done. 
"  Steer  to  that  shore  !"— they  sail.     "  Do  this  "—'tis 
"  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  2 
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   roimd  she 
And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern  [swings : 
Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stem. 
'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  I 
When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach  ; 
The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply. 
And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity  ! 


The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd, 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud. 
And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers'  names  in  each  dear 
"  Oh,  are  they  safe  ?  we  ask  not  of  success —  [word : 
But  shall  we  see  them  ?  wiU  their  accents  bless  ? 
From  where  the  battle  roars — the  billows  chafe — 
They  doubtless  boldly  did — but  who  are  safe  ? 
Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surjwise. 
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  slovly  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  clifi'  they  mount — near  yonder  cave. 
What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 
In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand. 
Not  oft  a  resting-staff'  to  that  red  hand  ? 
"  'Tis  he  —'tis  Conrad — here — as  wont — alone  ; 
On — Juan  !— on — and  make  our  purpose  known. 
The  bark  he  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 
His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 
We  dare  not  yet  approach — thou  know'st  his  mood, 
Wlien  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  [ing  short. 
Much  that " — "  Peace,  peace  !" — he  cuts  their  prat- 
Wondering  they  turn,  abash'd,  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." 


Canto  i. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


OS 


«  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 ; 
By  the  edge  sharpen'd  of  my  boarding-brand, 
And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
This  let  the  armorer  with  speed  dispose  ; 
Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes  : 
Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired, 
To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay 's  expired." 

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  faith  can  bind  ? 
The  power  of  Thought — the  magic  of  the  3Dnd  ! 
Link'd  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will ; 
Wields  with  their  hands,  but,  still  to  these  unknown, 
Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  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 
Ko  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ; 
Yet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again. 
Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men  ; 
They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 
That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  cannot  guess. 
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  )iis  voice,  and  cilm  his  general  mien. 
Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen : 
His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 
At  times  attracted,  yet  peq)lex'd  the  view. 


As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 
Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined ; 
Such  might  it  be — that  none  could  truly  tell — 
Too  close  inquiry  his  stem  glance  would  quell. 
There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  might  defy 
The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye  : 
He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning's  gaze  would  seek 
To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek. 
At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy. 
And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny. 
Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 
i  Some  secret  thought,  than  drag  that  chief's  to-day. 
There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer. 
That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear ; 
And  jwhere  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 
Hope  vpithering  fled — and  Mercy  sigh'd  farewell  1 


Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought. 
Within — within — 'twas  there  the  spirit  wrought ! 

;  Love  shows  aU  changes  :  Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile  ; 

I  The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  govem'd  aspect,  speak  alone 
Of  deeper  passsions  ;  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  deem'd  that  gifts  bestow'd  on  better  men 
Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 
Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere  youth  had  lost  her 

force. 
He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse, 


94 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call, 

To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  alL 

He  knew  himself  a  villain — but  he  deem'd 

The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  soem'd ; 

And  scorn'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 

Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 

He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 

The  hearts  that  loathed  him  crouch'd  and  dreaded 

too. 
Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  aUke  exempt 
From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 
His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise ; 
But  they  that  fear'd  him  dared  not  to  despise  : 
Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake  : 
The  first  may  turn — but  not  avenge  the  blow ; 
The  last  expires — but  leaves  no  living  foe  ; 
Fast  to  the  doom'd  offender's  form  it  clings, 
And  he  may  crush — not  conquer — still  it  stings  ! 

XII. 
None  are  all  evil — quickening  round  his  heart, 
One  softer  feeUng  would  not  yet  depart  ; 
Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 
By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child  ; 
Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove. 
And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  Love  ! 
Yes,  it  was  love — unchangeable — unchanged. 
Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged ; 
Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye. 
He  shunn'd,  nor  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,  strengthen'd  by  distress. 
Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime. 
And  yet — Oh  more  than  all ! — untired  by  time ; 
Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baflled  wile, 
Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smDe, 
Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 
On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent ; 
Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  cahnness  part, 
Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart ; 
Which  naught  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, 
Wliich  only  proved,  all  other  lirtues  gone. 
Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one  1 

XIII. 
He  paused  a  moment— till  his  hastening  men 
Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 
"  Strange  tidings  !— m.any  a  peril  have  I  pass'd. 
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'U  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral  pile. 

Ay — let  them  slumber — peaceful  be  their  dreams  ! 

Mom  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilUant  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  ! 

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 — not  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  ? 

Oh,  Fate  1 — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate — 

She  may  redeem  thee  still — nor  yet  too  late." 

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 ; 
Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  rung. 
And  these  the  notes  the  bird  of  beauty  sung  : 


"  Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells. 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore, 

Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  resjjonsive  swells, 
Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 


"  There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp 
Bums  the  slow  flame,  eternal — but  unseen  ; 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 


"  Remember  me — Oh  !  pass  not  thou  my  grave 
Without  one  thought  whose  reUcs  there  rechne ; 

The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  in  thine. 


"  My  fondest — faintest — latest  accents  hear : 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove  ; 

Then  give  me  aU  I  ever  ask'd — a  tear. 
The  first — last— sole  reward  of  so  much  love  !" 


1 


./j^/-/// /////.//  ///■/    ^^///■fr/'y  (7/^  6^/  u/o 


S'J'll.l,  WliI'Mt  ]  RlSi:  'ITJ  HLillSK  THF.  )lKAruN  mN';, 
J.KM'  HPIEH.IJ'IS.S  ■niUE.KHl.UJLD  l,KT  THF.  ULAZK  KXHUti: 
ANIJ  «ANyAHt;STLJJ.Sri  HtilJH  OiriWATl'H'n  f.ACH  STAR, 
ANnMnKNlNCi  CAMi:    AND  ffni.I,  THulI  Wi'liir  Af/\H 


JohnGon.r'ry"^.  Ccmpany.P'j.bhahers  .Ne'w  York, 


Canto  i. 


THE    CORSAIR. 


95 


He  pass'd  the  portal— cross'd  the  corridore, 
And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o'er  ; 
"  My  own  Medora  !  sure  thy  song  is  sad — " 

"  In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  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  I 
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  mourned  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'd  the  mast 
That  met  my  sight^it  near'd— Alas  !  it  passed  ! 
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  tliou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many  a  home 
As  bright  as  this  in\-ites  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  I  nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 
This  hour  again— but  not  for  long— we  part." 

"  This  hour  we  part !— my  heart  foreboded  this  1 

Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 

This  hour— it  cannot  be— this  hour  away  1 

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  wouldst  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  I— dearest  1  come  and  share 
The  feast  these  hands  dehghted  to  prepare  ; 
Light  toil  I  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  1 
See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best 
And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleased,  I  guess'd 
At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest ;  tlirice  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  1 
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, 
ShaU  soothe  or  lull— or,  should  it  vex  thine 'ear, 
We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told, 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old.' 
Why— thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 
To  that  lost  damsel,  sliouldst  thou  leave  me  now ; 
Or  even  that  traitor  chief— I've  seen  thee  smile, 
Wlien  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  -win  return— but  now,  the  moments  bring 

The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing  : 

The  why— the  where — what  boots  it  now  to  tell  ? 

Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word— farewell  1 

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  away. 

Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay ; 

And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  next  we  meet, 

Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet. 

List ! — 'tis  the  bugle  " — Juan  shrilly  blew — 

"  One  kiss — one  more — another — Oh  1  Adieu  I" 

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  diahevell'd  charms  ; 

■  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  x. 


96 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  full — tliat  feeling  seem'd  almost  unfelt ! 
Hark — peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gim  ! 
It  told  'twas  sunset — and  he  cursed  that  sun. 
Again — again — that  form  he  madly  press'd, 
Which  mutely  clasp'd,  imploringly  caress'd  ! 
And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore, 
One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more  ; 
Felt — that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 
Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead — tum'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  ! 
And  now  " — without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 
And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd ; 
Big — bright — and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  feU ; 
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  flx'd  what  time  can  ne'er  eralse  : 
The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy, 
Till — Oh,  how  far  ! — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  hirii. 
And  then  it  flow'd — and  phrensied  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  tum'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate — 

"  It  is  no  dream — and  I  am  desolate  1" 

XVI. 
From  crag  to  crag  descending — swiftly  sped 
Stem  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  tum'd  his  head  ; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey, 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep. 
That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep : 
And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar, 
On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest — but  on  Destruction's  brink  : 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd — and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave  : 
But  no — it  must  not  be — a  worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 
He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind, 
And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind  : 
Again  he  hurries  on — and  as  he  hears 
The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 
The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 
The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar  ; 


As  marks  his  eye  the  sea-boy  on  the  mast. 

The  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, 

He  marveU'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 

Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast. 

He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possess'd ; 

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, 

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 ; 

AU  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  fi^m  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 — "  Arc  all  prepared  ?" 

"  They  are — nay  more — emlsark'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  shine 
On  our  return — tiU  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  dipp'd  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke, 
Around  the  waves  phosphoric'  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. 

'  By  night,  particularly  iu  a  warm  latitude,  every  Btrokc  of  the 
oar,  every  motion  of  the  hoat  or  Hhip,  is  followed  by  a  slight  flash 
like  eheet  lightning  tiova  the  water. 


Canto  i. 


THE    CORSAIR. 


97 


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  Uve  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour ; 

She — ^his  Medora — did  she  mark  the  prow  ? 

Ah  I  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  iinfolds  his  plan — his  means — and  ends  : 

Before  them  bums  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-like  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. 

Coimt  they  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  supine 

The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 

Secure,  imnoted,  Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by, 

And  anchor'd  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie  ! 

Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape. 

That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 

Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — ^not  from  sleep— 

Eqiiipp'd  for  deeds  aUke  on  land  or  deep ; 

While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood. 

And  calmly  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood  ! 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO    THE   SECOND. 


'  ConoBceste  i  dnblosi  desiri  ?"— Dautk. 


In  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light, 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright. 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night : 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come. 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fctter'd  Rovers  home : 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword. 
And  faithful  to  his  finnan  and  his  word. 
His  Bummon'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  ; 


1  Cofllee.  '  "  Chlbouqae,"  pipe.  '  Dancing  girls. 

*  It  hfla  been  observed,  tliat  Conrad's  entering  disguised  as  a  spy 

Is  out  of  natnre.    Perhaps  bo.    I  and  eomething  not  unlilte  It  in 

history :— "  Anxious  to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of  the 

Vandals,  Hajorian  ventured,  after  disguising  the  color  of  his  hair, 

13 


'Tis  but  to  sail — ^no  doubt  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — their  haven  won  1 
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  1 
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  quafl', 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice,' 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslems'  use  ; 
The  long  chibouque's''  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
Wliile  dance  the  Almas'  to  wild  minstrelsy. 
The  rising  mom  wiU  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. 

III. 
With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate. 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 
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 
Escaped,  is  here — himself  would  tell  the  rest." 
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  depress'd ; 
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  wrapp'd  a  breast  bestow'd  on  heaven  alone  ; 


to  vialt  Carthage  in  the  character  of  his  own  ambassador ;  and  Gen- 
seric  was  afterwards  mortified  by  the  discovery,  that  he  had  enter- 
tained and  dlBmisBcd  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an  anec- 
dote may  be  rejected  as  an  improbable  Action  ;  but  it  is  a  fiction 
which  would  not  have  been  Imagined  unless  in  the  life  of  a  hero." 
—See  Gibbon's  Doclinc  and  Fall,  vol.  vl.  p.  180. 


98 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


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  wiU  aUow'd  to  speak. 

IV. 
"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise  ?" 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den 
A  fugitive — " 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?" 
"  From  Scalanova's  pbrt  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  ? 
Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom'd 
To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed  ?" 

"  Pacha  !  the  fetter'd  captive's  mourning  eye. 
That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy ; 
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  mayst  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  not  see  me  fly, 
May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh. 
Pacha  ! — my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves 
Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves  : 
Permit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee  !  Peace 
With  all  around  ! — now  grant  repose — release." 

"  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  aU  are  banqueting  : 
The  supper  done — ^prepare  thee  to  reply, 
Clearly  and  fall — 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  press'd, 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest. 
'Twas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  pass'd 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast : 


He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook  : 
The  feast  was  usher'd  in — but  sumptuous  faro 
He  shunn'd  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
For  one  so  long  condemn'd  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 

"  What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  eat — dost  thou  suppose 
This  feast  a  Christian's  ?  or  my  friends  thy  foes  ? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  ?  that  sacred  pledge. 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge. 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 
And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !" 

"  Salt  seasons  dainties — and  my  food  is  still 
The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rUl ; 
And  my  stem  vow  and  order'si  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes  ; 
It  may  seem  strange — if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head  ; 
But  for  thy  sway — nay  more — thy  Sultan's  throne, 
I  taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet — save  alone  ; 
Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 

"  WeU — 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  [now !" 
Some  villain   spy  —  seize — cleave  him  —  slay  him 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light. 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise — not  in  saintly  garb. 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray  1 
His  close  but  ghttering  casque,  and  sable  plume. 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom. 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite. 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  sweU — 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  heU ! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves ; 
Naught  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry. 
They  seize  that  Dervise  1 — seize  on  Zatanai  ! ' 


•  The  Dervlees  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  ordere,  as  the 
monks. 
'" Zatanai,"  Satan. 


Canto  ii. 


THE    CORSAIR. 


99 


He  saw  their  terror — check'd  the  first  despair 

That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 

Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd, 

The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made  ; 

He  saw  their  terror — from  his  baldric  drew 

His  bugle — brief  the  blast — but  shrilly  blew ; 

'Tis  answer'd — "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew  ! 

Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career  ? 

And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ?" 

Sweeps  his  long  arm — that  sabre's  whirling  sway 

Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay ; 

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  rise  to  guard  its  head  : 

Even  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelm'd  mth  rage,  sur- 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies,      [prise. 

No  craven  he — and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow. 

So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe  ! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight. 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight ; ' 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Harem  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  die — 

Much  hath  been  done — but  more  remains  to  do — 

Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too  ?" 


Quick  at  the  word — they  seized  him  each  a  torch. 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A  stem  dehght  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye, 

But  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  the  cry 

Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 

Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yell. 

"  Oh  !  burst  the  Harem — wrong  not  on  your  lives 

One  female  form — remember — we  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  ; 


'  A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Musenlman  anger. 
See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  page  M.  "  The  Seraskier  received 
a  wound  in  tlie  thigli :  he  plucked  up  his  beard  by  the  roots,  be- 
cause he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field." 


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  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms ; 
Calm  their  loud  fears ;  sustain  their  sinking  frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims : 
So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood, 
And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 
But  who  is  she  ?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 
From  reeking  pile  and  combat's  wreck — away — 
Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed  ? 
The  Harem  queen — but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd  ! 

VI. 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,a 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair  ; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  suatch'd  from  war. 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far, 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 

First  slowlier  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  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alia  il  Alia  !  Vengeance  swells  the  cry 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die  ! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell, 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow'd  too  wcU — 

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  eflFort — 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  ofi" — 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, 

Tin  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death  1 

VII. 

But  first,  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows. 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Harem  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. 


>  Gulnare,  a  female  name ;  it  means,  literally,  the  flower  of  the 
pomegranate. 


100 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  it. 


The  Pacha  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave 
.  Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave  ; 
The  Corsair  vow'd  protection,  soothed  affright, 
As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 
"  The  wish  is  wrong — nay,  worse  for  female — vain ; 
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 — bafiled  of  the  death  he  sought. 
And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 
Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain. 
While  Vengeance  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  pain, 
And  stanch'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again — 
But  drop  for  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  I 
'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  wiD, 
Which  would  have  kiss'd  the  hand  that  then  could 
Oh,  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given        [kilL 
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-coUected  mien 
A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  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  near, 
Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear ; 
And  the  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 
In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 

IX. 
The  Leech  was  sent — but  not  in  mercy — there. 
To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear  ; 
He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain, 
And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain  : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's  evening  sun 
Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun. 
And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  mom 
Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 
Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst. 


Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst. 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake. 

While  famish'd  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

"  Oh,  water — water  !" — smiling  Hate  denies 

The  victim's  prayer — for  if  he  drinks — he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom : — the  Leech,  the  guard,  were 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone.       [gone, 

X. 
'Twere  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew — 
It  ev'n  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  juggUng  fiend — who  never  spake  before — 
But  cries  "  I  wam'd  thee  !"  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 
Vain  voice  !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent. 
May  writhe — rebel — the  weak  alone  repent  1 
Ev'n  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels. 
And,  to  itself,  all — all  that  self  reveals. 
No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought ; 
But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews — 
All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues. 
Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 
Endanger'd  glory,  life  itself  beset ; 
The  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 
'Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate ; 
The  hopeless  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 
Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven  ; 
Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remember'd  not 
So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot ; 
Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time. 
But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime  ; 
The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd. 
Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceal'd — 
All,  in  a  word,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start, 
That  opening  sepulchre — the  naked  heart 
Bares  with  its  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  has  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays. 
The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise  : 
Not  the  loud  recreant  viTotch  who  boasts  and  flies ; 
But  he  who  looks  on  death — and  silent  dies. 
So  steel'd  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  career. 
He  half-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near. 

XI. 
In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower 
Sate  Conrad,  fetter'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame — this  fort 
Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame. 
His  foe,  if  vanquish'd,  had  but  shared  the  same  : — 
Alone  he  sate — in  solitude  had  scanu'd 


Canto  n. 


THE   CORSAIR. 


101 


ffis  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  cha!  ti  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  I" 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 
'Twaa  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 
For  Conrad's  plans  mattired,  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 — 
Destrojdng — saving — prison'd — and  asleep  ! 

XII. 
He  slept  in  calmest  seeming — ^for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep — Ah  !  happy  if  in  death  ! 
He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends  ? 
His  foes  are  gone — and  here  he  hath  no  friends ; 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  ? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face  ! 
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  faUs  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, 
Wliich  oft  in  sport  adorn'd  her  hand  before — 
And  with  it,  scarcely  question'd,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changing  blows, 
Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose  ; 
And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door. 
They  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more : 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring. 
Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

XIIX. 
She  gazed  in  wonder,  "  Can  he  calmly  sleep, 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  ? 


>  In  Sir  Thornan  More,  for  instance,  on  tbe  scaffold,  and  Anne 
Boleyn,  in  the  Tower,  when,  grasping  her  necit,  she  remarlced, 
that  it "  wag  too  slender  to  trouble  tbe  headsman  much."    During 


And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here — 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear  ? 

True— 'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more,  I  owe, 
And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe  ! 
'Tis  late  to  think— but  soft— his  slumber  breaks- 
How  heavily  he  sighs  !— he  starts — awakes  !" 

He  raised  his  head— and  dazzled  with  the  light. 

His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright : 

He  moved  his  hand— the  grating  of  his  chain 

Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 

"  What  is  that  form  ?  if  not  a  shape  of  air 

Methinks  my  jailer'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  80,  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  1" 

Strange  though  it  seem — ^yet  with  extremest  grief 
Is  link'd  a  mirth — it  doth  not  bring  relief— 
That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  beguiles. 
And  smiles  in  bitterness — but  still  it  smiles  ; 
And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best. 
Till  even  the  scafibld'  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  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

Th  ee  would  I  spare — nay  more — would  save  thee  now, 

But  this — time — hope — nor  even  thy  strength  allow ; 

But  aU  I  can,  I  will :  at  least,  delay 

The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 

More  now  were  ruin — ev'n  thyself  were  loth 

The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

"  Yes  ! — loth  indeed  : — my  soul  is  nerved  to  all, 
Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  a  further  fall : 

one  part  of  the  French  Revolution,  it  became  a  bsbion  to  leave 
some  "  mot "  as  a  legacy ;  and  the  quantity  of  bcetious  last  words 
spoken  during  that  period,  would  form  a  melancholy  Jest-book  of 
a  considerable  size. 


102 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril ;  me  with  hope 

Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope  : 

Unfit  to  vanquish — shall  I  meanly  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 — my  sword — my  love — my 

Godl 
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 ; 
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  asked  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  bum  to  answer, '  No  !' 

Oh  !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain, 

And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain  ; 

But  harder  stiU  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear. 

And  hide  from  one — perhaps  another  there. 

He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not — nor  withhold — 

Its  pulse  nor  check'd— nor  quicken'd — calmly  cold  : 

And  when  resign'd,  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 

From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 

No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  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  unmoum'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  Kfe  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-day  I" 

XV. 
She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart. 
And  bow'd  her  head,  and  tum'd  her  to  depart. 
And  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  other's  pain. 
That  starts  at  once — bright — ^pure — from  Pity's  mine, 
Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine  ! 

Oh  !  too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 

In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear  ! 

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  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers  ! 

Wliat  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  ? 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven  ; 

By  this — how  many  lose  not  earth — but  heaven  I 

Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe. 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe. 

XVI. 
'Tis  mom — 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  ! — 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  THE   THIKD. 


Come  vedl— sncor  non  m'  abbandona.— Daitts. 


Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  aim  ; 


] 


Canto  hi. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


103 


Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  Ught  1 
O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
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  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  imconquer'd  Salamis  1 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 
More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance. 
And  tendcrest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep. 
Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast. 
When — Athens  !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's'  latest  day  ! 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes. 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes  : 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour. 
The  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before ; 
But  here  he  sank  below  Cithceron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff'd — ^the  spirit  fled  ; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scom'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die  ! 

But  lo  1  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain, 

The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.' 

No  murky  vapor,  herald  of  the  storm. 

Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form  ; 

With  cornice  gUmmering  as  the  moonbeams  play, 

There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 

And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset. 

Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 

The  groves  of  olives  scatter'd  dark  and  wide 

Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 

The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,' 

And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm, 

Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm. 

All  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye — 

And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  ^gean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 


Mix'd  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle. 
That  frown — 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  ? 

'SVlio  that  beheld  that  sun  upon  thee  set, 

Fair  Athens  1  could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 

Not  ho — 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. 
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  1 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light ;  and  storms  were 
Last  eve  Ansehno's  bark  retum'd,  and  yet        [none. 
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  pass'd 
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  hor  heart ; 
Tin  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  Hope  —  they  soften'd  —  flutter'd  — 

wept — 
All  lost — that  softness  died  not — ^but  it  slept ; 


..0  '^^ 


1  Socrates  dnink  the  bemlock  a  abort  time  before  snnset  (the 
hoar  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  entreatieH  of  his  disciples 
lo  wait  till  the  snn  went  down. 

'  The  twilight  In  Greece  is  mach  shorter  than  in  our  own  coun- 


try :  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of  shorter  dura- 
tion. 

'  The  kiosk  Is  a  Tnrklsh  summer-house :  the  palm  is  without 
the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseus, 
between  which  and  tlic  tree  the  wall  InttTvencs.  Cephisus'  stream 
is  indeed  scanty,  and  llissns  lias  no  stream  at  ail. 


104 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  lu. 


And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  strength  which  said, 
"  "With  nothing  left  to  love— there's  naught  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 — 
Tet  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 

withstood ; 
Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued  : 
She  totters— falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 
Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave ; 
But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes, 
They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supplies  ; 
Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew. 
Raise — fan — sustain — till  life  returns  anew ; 
Awake  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve ; 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious — ^when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 
In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange. 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge ; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight :  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair ; 
Whate'er  his  fate— the  breasts  he  form'd  and  led. 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Wo  to  his  foes  !  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 

V. 
Within  the  Harem's  secret  chamber  sate 
Stem  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  Captive's  fate ; 
His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell. 
Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell ; 
Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 
Surveys  his  brow — would  soothe  his  gloom  of  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,' 
But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha  !  the  day  is  thine  ;  and  on  thy  crest 
Sits  Triumph — Conrad  taken — fall'n  the  rest ! 
His  doom  is  fix'd — -he  dies  :  and  well  his  fate 
Was  eam'd — yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate  : 
Methinks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 


1  The  comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary :  the  beads  are  in  num- 
ber ninety-nine. 


With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold ; 
Report  sjjeaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord  ! 
While  baffled,  weaken'd  by  this  fatal  fray — 
Watch'd — foUow'd — he  were  then  an  easier  prey ; 
But  once  cut  ofi" — the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

"  Gulnare  ! — if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 

Were  ofifer'd  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem  ; 

If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 

Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine  ; 

If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  not  redeem  1 

It  had  not  now  redeem'd  a  single  hour ; 

But  that  I  know  him  fetter'd,  in  my  power ; 

And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I  ponder  still 

On  pangs  that  longest  rack,  and  latest  kiU." 

"  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  1 
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  1 
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  moum'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 — 
Wliich  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. 


tN    WORDS    AXOKE    I    ^K    NOT    WONT    TO    CHAFE: 
IiOOK  TO    T:fvSK  [.I'       MfiK.    nF.i;M    I'Hr   I'Ai.si' iioi' 


Johua. 


I 


Canto  in. 


THE    CORSAIR. 


105 


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. 
MeanwhUe — long  anxious — weary — still — the  same 
RoU'd  day  and  night — Ms  soul  could  terror  tame— 
This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread. 
When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 
When  every  step  that  echo'd  by  the  gate 
Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await ; 
When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 
Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear : 
Could  terror  tame — that  spirit  stern  and  high 
Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die ; 
'Twas  worn — perhaps  decay'd — yet  silent  bore 
That  conflict,  deadlier  far  than  all  before  : 
The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale. 
Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 
But  bound  and  fix'd  in  fetter'd  solitude, 
To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood  ; 
To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart ;  and  meditate 
Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate — 
Too  late  the  last  to  shun— the  first  to  mend — 
To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 
With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  tell 
To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well ; 
Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie. 
And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny ; 
Before  thee  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  first  day  pass'd — he  saw  not  her — Gnlnare — 
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  l>roke  upon  his  sleep ; 
And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent. 
Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element ! 
14 


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  1 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above ;  and,  doubly  loud. 

Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud  ; 

And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar. 

To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star : 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chain, 

And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 

He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  pray'd 

One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made  : 

His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike — 

The  storm  roll'd  onward,  and  disdain'd  to  strike  : 

Its  peal  wax'd  fainter — ceased — he  felt  alone, 

As  if  some  faithless  friend  had  spurn'd  his  groan  ! 

VIIL. 
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  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came. 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame  : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye. 
Which  spoke  before  her  accents — "  Thou  must  die  ! 
Yes,  thou  must  die — there  is  but  one  resource. 
The  last — the  worst — if  torture  were  not  worse." 

"  Lady  !  I  look  to  none— my  lips  proclaim 
What  last  proclaim'd  they — Conrad  still  the  same  : 
Why  shouldst  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare. 
And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear  ? 
Well  have  I  eam'd — nor  here  alone — the  meed 
Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed. 

"  Why  should  I  seek  ?  because — Oh  !  didst  thou  not 
Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot  ? 
Why  should  I  seek  ?  hath  misery  made  thee  blind 
To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  mind  ? 
And  must  I  say  ?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 
With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell — 
Because — despite  thy  crimes — that  heart  is  moved  : 
It  fear'd  thee — thank 'd  thee — ^pitied — madden'd — 

loved. 
Reply  not,  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  truely  dear. 
Were  I  thine  own — thou  wert  not  lonely  here  : 
An  outlaw's  spouse— and  leave  her  lord  to  roam  I 
What  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  homo  ? 
But  speak  not  now — o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head 
Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread  ; 
If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  wouldst  be  free 


106 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


k 


Receive  this  poinard — rise — and  follow  me  ! 

"  Ay — in  my  chains  !  my  stops  will  gently  tread, 

With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head  ! 

Thou  hast  forgot — is  this  a  garb  for  flight  ? 

Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight  ?" 

"  Misdoubting  Corsair  !  I  have  gain'd  the  guard. 
Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 
A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain  : 
Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain  3 
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,  spum'd,  reviled — and  it  shall  be  avenged — 
Accused  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd 
Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 
Yes,  smile  !  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  me — somewhat  high. 
Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 
I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring  :  he  hath  said, 
But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 
'Twas  false  thou  know'st — but  let  such  augurs  rue. 
Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true. 
Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer  ; 
This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 
New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 
Mine  too  he  threatens  ;  but  his  dotage  still 
Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 
Wlien  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me. 
There  yawns  the  sack — and  yonder  rolls  the  sea  1 
What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 
To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 
I  saw  thee — loved  thee — owe  thee  all — would  save, 
If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 
But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 
(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife,) 
I  stiU  had  saved  thee — but  the  Pacha  spared. 
Now  I  am  all  thine  own — for  all  prepared  : 
Thou  lov'st  me  not — ^nor  know'st — or  but  the  worst. 
Alas  1  this  love — that  hatred  are  the  first —      [start, 
Oh  !  couldst  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  wouldst  not 
Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart ; 
'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety — now — 
It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainotc  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  a  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  1 

Night  wears  apace — my  last  of  earthly  rest !" 

"  Rest !  rest !  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake. 

And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 

I  heard  the  order — saw — I  will  not  see — 

If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  vriU  fall  vrith  thee. 

My  Ufe — ^my  love — my  hatred — aU  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  1  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more  ; 

If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 

Will  hover  o'er  thy  scafibld,  and  my  shroud." 

IX. 
She  turn'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  reply, 
But  his  glance  foUow'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 
Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night,  the  clearing  sky  : 
Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  Ught 
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  pass'd,  [last ! 

Then  paused — and  turn'd — and  paused  — 'tis  she  at 
No  poniard  in  that  hand — nor  sign  of  ill— 
"  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart — she  could  not  kill  1" 
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  blooil ! 


Canto  hi. 


THE    CORSAIR. 


107 


He  liad  seen  battle — ^he  had  brooded  lone 
O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown ; 
He  had  been  tempted — chasten'd — and  the  chain 
Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain  : 
But  ne'er  from  strife — captivity  — remorse — 
From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force — 
So  thrill'd — so  shudder'd  every  creeping  vein, 
As  now  tbey  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 
That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak, 
Had  banish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek  1 
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  pcrish'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  tliy  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  Moor ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind ; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind  I 
Bat  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate. 
As  if  they  there  tranferr'd  that  iron  weight. 
No  words  are  utter'd — at  her  sign,  a  door 
Keveals  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, 
Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betray'd ; 
Kesistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIII. 
Embark'd,  the  sail  imfiirl'd,  the  Ught  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  pass'd  ; 
He  thought  of  all — Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph,  and  his  failing  hand ; 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride  : 
He  tum'd  and  saw — Gulnare,  the  homicide  1 

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  press'd, 
"  Thou  mayst  forgive  though  Allah's  self  detest ; 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  ? 
Reproach  me — -but  not  yet — Oh  1  spare  me  now  ! 
I  am  not  what  I  seem — this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bewilder'd — do  not  madden  quite  I 
If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — ^hate  me — if  thou  wilt." 

XV. 
She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesign'd,  the  wretch  he  made ; 
But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  unexpress'd. 
They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell — his  breast. 
Still  onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 
The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stem  they  urge ; 
Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 
A  spot — a  mast — a  sail — an  armed  deck  ! 
Their  Uttle  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry. 
And  ampler  canvass  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  al^sent  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  Anselmo's  hand, 
And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command  1 

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  they  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  wondering  stare, 
They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare ; 
And  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex. 
Whom  blood  appall'd  not,  their  regards  perplex. 
To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye. 
She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by ; 
Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 
Which — Conrad  safe — ^to  fate  resign'd  the  rest. 
Though  worse  than  phrensy  could  that  bosom  fill. 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill. 
The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still  I 


I 


108 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


XVII. 
This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt — ah !  could  he  less  ? — 
Hate  of  that  deed — but  grief  for  her  distress  ; 
What  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away, 
And  Heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day  : 
But — it  was  done  :  he  knew,  whate'er  her  guilt. 
For  him  that  poniard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt ; 
And  he  was  free  : — and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven  ! 
And  now  he  tum'd  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave, 
Whose  brow  was  bow'd  beneath  the  glance  he  gave, 
Who  now  seem'd  changed  and  humbled  : — faint  and 

meek. 
But  varying  oft  the  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  clasp'd  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  sank  in  his  embrace ; 
If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place. 
His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart. 
But — good  or  iU — 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  fij'st,  the  last  that  Frailty  stole  from  Faith — 
To  lips  where  Love  had  lavish'd  all  his  breath. 
To  Ups — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling 
As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing  ! 

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  1  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,  hers  alone  is  dark. 
'Tis  strange — of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd, 
Nor  now,  perchance,  extingnish'd,  only  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 
Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye.  [high 

He  reach'd  his  turret  door — he  paused — no  sound 
Broke  from  within ;  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knock'd,  and  loudly — footstep  nor  reply 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh ; 
He  knock'd — but  faintly — for  his  trembUng  hand 
Reftised  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens — 'tis  a  well-known  face — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent — ^twice  his  own  essay'd, 
And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd  ; 
He  snatch'd  the  lamp — its  light  will  answer  all — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  fall. 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 
As  soon  could  he  have  Unger'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  ! 

XX. 

He  tum'd  not — spoke  not— sunk  not — flx'd  his  look, 
And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook  : 
He  gazed—how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain. 
And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain  ! 
In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair. 
That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there  ; 
And  the  cold  flowers'  her  colder  hand  contain'd. 
In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 
As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep. 
And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep : 
The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow. 
And  veil'd — thought  shrinks  from  aU  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  Ups — 
Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forebore  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  bafiled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  ; 
These — and  the  pale  pure  check,  became  the  bier — 
But  she  is  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

XXI. 

He  ask'd  no  question — all  were  answer'd  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still,  marble  brow. 

1  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. 


It 

1 


'te^  ^2M<z-/^ 


^>^-  r./C^^. 


-M^n^^ 


w:j  lhk  c'jld  :iaowEE3  hep,  colder  il\kd  coxnAuTD, 

|.T  T'TT    I  '.'-r  ^r',.--l'    ',-  TK^TnKE,LY  WERE  STRAIWD 
■  i   "J''Klr:-Mt)   ASLEEP 
,-  -.i.-r  -it;  v;F:t-I  ■ 


Canto  iii. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


109 


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  could  not  hate, 

Was  reft  at  once — and  he  deserved  his  fate. 

But  did  not  feel  it  less  ; — the  good  explore, 

For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar ! 

The  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  stem 

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  express'd 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suifering  breast ; 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one. 
Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none  ; 
Ko  words  suflice  the  secret  soul  to  show. 
For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Wo. 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  press'd. 
And  stupor  almost  luU'd  it  into  rest ; 
So  feeble  now — his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept : 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain. 
Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if  seen. 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been  : 
Kor  long  they  flow'd— lie  dried  them  to  depart. 
In  helpless — hopeless — brokenness  of  heart : 
The  sun  goes  forth — but  Conrad's  day  is  dim  ; 
And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind. 
On  Grief's  vain  eye — the  blindest  of  the  blind — 
Which  may  not — dare  not  see — ^but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a  guide  1 

'  That  the  point  of  honor  which  ie  representod  in  one  instance 
of  Conrad's  character  has  not  heen  carried  beyond  the  bounds  of 
probability,  may  perhaps  be  in  some  degree  confirmed  by  the  fol- 
lowing anecdote  of  a  brother  buccaneer  in  the  year  1814 :— '*  Our 
readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enterprise  against  the  pi- 
rates of  liarrataria :  but  few,  we  believe,  were  informed  of  the  sit- 
uation, history,  or  nature  of  that  establishment.  For  the  informa- 
tion of  such  as  were  nnacquainted  with  it,  we  have  procured  from 
a  fHend  the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main  facts,  of 
which  he  has  personal  Itnowledge,  and  which  cannot  fail  to  inter- 
est 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, 
nntU  it  reaches  within  a  mile  of  the  Mississippi  river,  fifteen  miles 
below  the  city  of  New  Orleans.  The  bay  has  branches  almost  in- 
namerablc,  in  which  persons  can  lie  concealed  from  the  severest 
Bcmtiny.  It  commnnlcates  with  three  lakes  which  lie  on  the  sonth- 
weet  side,  and  these,  with  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  and  which 
lies  contiguous  to  the  sea,  where  there  Is  an  island  formed  by  the 
two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea.  The  east  and  west  points  of 
this  island  wore  fortified,  in  the  year  1811.  by  a  band  of  pirates, 
under  the  command  of  one  Monsieur  La  P'ltte.  A  large  majority 
of  these  outlaws  are  of  that  class  of  the  population  of  the  state  of 
Louisiana  who  fled  from  the  island  of  St.  Domingo  during  the 
troableg  there,  and  took  reltage  In  the  Island  of  Cuba :  and  when 


XXIII. 
His  heart  was  form'd  for  softness — warp'd  to  wrong ; 
Betray'd  too  early,  and  beguiled  too  long ; 
Each  feeling  pure — as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot ;  like  that  had  harden'd  too  ; 
Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd. 
But  simk,  and  chill'd,  and  petrified  at  last. 
Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the  rock. 
If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow. 
Though  dark  the  shade — it  shelter'd — saved  till  now 
The  thunder  came — that  bolt  hath  blasted  both, 
The  Granite's  firmness,  and  the  Lily's  growth  : 
The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  wither'd  where  it  fell ; 
And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  roimd 
But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground  1 

XXIV. 
'Tis  mom —  to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 
Few  dare ;  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 
He  was  not  there — nor  seen  along  the  shore  ; 
Ere  night,  alarm'd,  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er  : 
Another  mom — 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  seaboat's  broken  chain  : 
Their  hope  revives — they  follow  o'er  the  main. 
'Tis  idle  all — moons  roU  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  ; 
He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
Link'd  with  one  virtue,'  and  a  thousand  crimes. 

the  last  war  between  Prance  and  Spain  commenced,  they  were 
compelled  to  leave  that  island  with  the  short  notice  of  a  few  days. 
Without  ceremony,  they  entered  the  United  States,  the  most  of 
them  the  state  of  Louisiana,  with  all  the  negroes  they  had  possessed 
in  Cuba.  They  were  notified  by  the  Governor  of  that  St.ite  of  the 
clause  in  the  Constitution  which  forbade  the  importation  of  slaves ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  received  the  assurance  of  the  Governor  that 
ho  would  obtain,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the  General  Gov- 
ernment for  their  retaining  this  property.— The  island  of  Barrata- 
ria is  situated  about  lat.  29  deg.  IB  min..  Ion.  92  39 ;  and  is  as  re- 
markable 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  es- 
tablishment, he  thought  proper  to  strike  at  the  head.  He  therefore 
offered  a  reward  of  500  dollars  for  the  head  of  Monsieur  I^a  Fitte, 
who  was  well  known  to  the  Inhibitants  of  the  city  of  New  Orleans, 
from  his  immediate  connection,  and  his  once  having  been  a  fenc- 
ing-master in  that  city  of  great  reputation,  which  art  he  learned  in 
I  Bonaparte's  army,  where  he  was  a  captain.  The  reward  which 
I  was  offered  by  the  Governor  for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  answered 
j  by  the  ofl'er  of  a  reward  fl-om  the  latter  of  15,000  for  the  head  of 
I  the  Governor.    The  GoverDor  ordered  out  a  company  to  march 


110 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


LARA:     A    TALE. 


LARA. 


CANTO    THE     FIRST. 


The  serfs  are  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  fagots'  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  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest ! — 
With  none  to  check  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The  thousand  paths  that  slope  the  way  to  crime  ; 

from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  ialand,  and  to  bam  and  destroy  all  the 
property,  and  to  bring  to  the  city  of  New  Orleans  all  his  banditti. 
This  company,  nnder  the  command  of  a  man  who  had  been  the  in- 
timate asBOciate  of  this  hold  Captain,  approached  very  near  to  the 
fortified  island,  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sonnd,  until  he 
heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call.  Then  it  was  he 
found  himself  surrounded  by  armed  men  who  had  emerged  from 
the  secret  avenues  which  led  into  Bayon.  Here  it  was  that  the 
modern  Charles  de  Moor  developed  his  few  noble  traits  ;  for  to  this 
man  who  had  come  to  destroy  his  life  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him, 
he  not  only  spared  his  life,  but  offered  him  that  which  would  have 
made  the  honest  soldier  easy  for  the  remainder  of  his  days ;  which 
was  indignantly  refused.  He  then,  with  the  approbation  of  his 
captor,  returned  to  the  city.  This  circumstance,  and  some  con- 
comitant events,  proved  that  this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be 
taken  by  land.  Our  naval  force  having  always  been  small  in  that 
quarter,  exertions  for  the  destruction  of  this  illicit  establishment 
could  not  he  expected  from  them  until  augmented ;  for  an  ofBcer 
of  the  navy,  with  most  of  the  gunboats  on  that  station,  had  to  re- 
treat 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  bo  hoped  the  government  will  hold  it  by  a  strong 
military  force." — American  Newspaper. 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Granger's  Biographical  History  there 
is  a  singular  passage  in  his  account  of  Archbishop  Blackboume  ; 
and  as  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  profession  of  the  hero 
of  the  foregoing  poem,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracts 
Ing  It.—"  There  in  something  mysterious  in  the  history  and  char- 
acter of  Dr.  Blackboume.  The  foi-mer  is  but  imperfectly  known ; 
and  report  has  even  asserted  he  was  a  buccaneer ;  and  that  one  of 
his  brethren  in  that  profession  having  asked,  on  his  arrival  in  En- 
gland, what  had  become  of  his  old  chum,  Blackboume,  was  an- 


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  recaU. 
His  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
'Twas  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there  ; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  few. 
His  hall  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. 

ewered.  He  is  Archbishop  of  York.  Wo  are  Informed,  that  Black- 
boume was  installed  sub-dean  of  Exeter  In  1694,  which  office  he 
resigned  in  1702 ;  but  after  his  successor  Lewis  Baraet's  death,  in 
1704,  he  regained  it.  In  the  following  year  he  became  doan  ;  and 
in  1714,  held  with  It  the  archdeanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  conse- 
crated bishop  of  Exeter,  Febraary  24, 1716 ;  and  translated  to  Tork 
November  28, 1724,  as  a  reward,  according  to  court  scandal,  for 
uniting  George  I.  to  the  Duchess  of  Munster.  This,  however,  ap- 
pears to  have  been  an  unfounded  calumny.  As  archbishop  he  be- 
haved with  great  prudence,  and  was  equally  respectable  as  the 
guardian  of  the  revenues  of  the  see.  Rumor  whispered  he  retain- 
ed the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  a  passion  for  the  fair  sex  form- 
ed an  item  in  the  list  of  his  weaknesses ;  hut  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  ho  good  a  scholar  as  Blackboume  certainly  was  ? 
He  who  had  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  the  ciasBlcs,  (particularly 
of  the  Greek  tragedians,)  as  to  De  able  to  read  them  with  the  same 
ease  as  he  could  Shakspeare,  must  have  taken  great  pains  to  acquire 
the  learned  languages  ;  and  have  had  both  leisure  and  good  masters. 
But  he  was  undoubtedly  educated  at  Christ  Church  College,  Oxford. 
He  is  allowed  to  have  been  a  pleasant  man  :  this,  however,  was 
tumed  against  him  by  its  being  said, '  he  gained  more  hearts  than 
souls.' " 

"  The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the  savage 
(Alphonso  in.)  was  that  of  an  amiable  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  re- 
tired into  his  chamber  to  bewail  his  irreparable  loss,  and  to  medi- 
tate on  the  vanity  of  human  life."— Gibbon's  Miscellaneous  Works, 
vol.  111.  p.  473. 


Canto  i. 


LARA. 


Ill 


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  roU'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. 
Tliey  see,  they  recognise,  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  by  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 
IVIight  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  : 

That  brow  in  ftirrow'd  lines  had  flx'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. 

That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around, 

And  makes  those  feel  that  will  not  own  the  wound ; 

All  these  seem'd  his,  and  something  more  beneath. 

Than  glance  could  well  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 

Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim. 

That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would  claim. 

Within  his  breast  appear'd  no  more  to  strive. 

Yet  seem'd  as  lately  they  had  been  alive ; 

And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 

At  moments  lighten'd  o'er  his  Uvid  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  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan. 
Nor  glean  experience  from  his  fellow  man ; 
But  what  he  had  beheld  he  shunn'd  to  show. 
As  hardly  worth  a  stranger's  while  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 ; 
Bom  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  where  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 
RepeU'd  approach,  and  sliow'd  him  still  alone ; 
Upon  his  eye  sat  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  confess'd 
They  deom'd  him  better  than  his  air  express'd. 

VIII. 

'Twas  strange — ^in  youth  all  action  and  all  life. 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife ; 
Woman — the  field — the  ocean — aU  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  gaz'd 
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  would  start  away  : 

And  then,  his  rarely  call'd  attendants  said,      [tread. 

Through  night's  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurried 

O'er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frown'd 

In  rude  but  antique  portraiture  around  :     [known — 

They   heard,  but    whisper'd — ^Hhat   must   not   be 

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  ? 


112 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Why  slept  he  not  when  others  were  at  rest  ? 
Why  heard  no  music,  and  received  no  guest  ? 
AH  was  not  well,  they  deepi'd — but  where  the  wrong  i 
Some  knew  perchance — but  'twere  a  tale  too  long ; 
And  such  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise, 
To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise ; 
But  if  they  would — they  could  " — around  the  board. 
Thus  Lara's  yassals  prattled  of  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  naught  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  tum'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  tum'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  pompons  page. 
That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age  ; 
Wliere  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies. 
And  Ues  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  flgures  grew. 
Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life,  to  view ; 
ffis  bristUng  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 
And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume,' 
Glanced  like  a  spectre's  attributes,  and  gave 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 


XII. 
'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  ear  ? 
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, 
Wais  Lara  stretch'd  ;  his  half-drawn  sabre  near, 
Dropp'd  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  brow  ; 
Though  mix'd  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay. 
There  lived  upon  his  lip  the  wish  to  slay ; 
Some  half-form'd  threat  in  utterance  there  had  died, 
Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride  ; 
His  eye  was  almost  seal'd,  but  not  forsook 
Even  in  its  trance  the  gladiator's  look, 
That  oft  awake  his  aspect  could  disclose. 
And  now  was  flx'd  in  horrible  repose.  [speaks 

They  raise  him— bear  him  ;— hush  !  he  breathes,  he 
The  swarthy  blush  recolors  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  which  seem'd  his  own  replied, 
And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  which  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  phrensy  dream'd  or  eye  beheld. 
If  yet  remember'd  ne'er  to  be  reveal'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 


Canto  i. 


LARA. 


113 


As  heretofore  he  flll'd  the  passing  hours, — 
Nor  less  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  forehead  lowers. 
Than  tliese  were  wont ;  and  if  the  coming  night, 
Appear'd  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight. 
He  to  his  marvelling  vassals  show'd  it  not, 
Wliose  shuddering  proved  tlieir  fear  was  less  forgot 
In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dared  not)  crawl 
The  astonish'd  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  haU ; 
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  nighl^song  of  the  breeze ; 
Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  thought  appals, 
As  evening  saddens  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls. 

XVI. 
Vain  thought !  that  hour  of  ne'er  unraveU'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  a  feeling  that  recall'd  to  these 
That  fever'd  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 
Was  it  a  dream  1  was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 
Those  strange  vrild  accents ;  his  the  cry  that  broke 
Their  slumber  ?  his  the  oppress'd,  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  suflering  shudder  yet  ? 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  flx'd 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix'd 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  efiect,  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  know 

his  fate. 
What  had  he  been  ?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown. 
Who  walk'd  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known  ? 
A  hater  of  his  kind  ?  yet  some  would  say. 
With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay ; 
But  own'd  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near. 
Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  wither'd  to  a  sneer ; 
That  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by, 
None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye : 
,  Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard, 
At  times,  a  heart  as  not  by  nature  hard. 
But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem'd  to  chide 
15 


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  fallen  which  could  befall, 
He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world. 
An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurl'd ; 
A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped ; 
But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret : 
With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 
Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  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  stiU,  and  loth  himself  to  blame. 
He  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame. 
And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshy  form 
She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm  ; 
Tin  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  iU, 
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  Bway'd  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 
To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside ; 
And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time. 
Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime  ; 
So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath. 
The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemn'd  to  breathe, 
And  long'd  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 
Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state ; 
His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 
Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own : 
Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  pass'd  below. 
His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow  : 
Ah  !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd, 
But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  flow'd  ! 
'Tis  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walk'd, 
And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk'd. 
Nor  outraged  Reason's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start ; 
His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart. 
And  rarely  wander'd  in  his  speech,  or  drew 
His  thoughts  so  forth  as  to  offend  the  view. 


114 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Castto 


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  remcmber'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  careftil  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  imknown. 
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  1"  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heard 
Ee-echo'd  fast  and  far  the  whisper'd  word. 
"  'Tis  he  !"— "  'Tis  who  2"  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  he 

here  ?" 

XXIII. 
It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by 
Such  questions,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high  ; 
With  look  collected,  but  with  accent  cold. 
More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold. 
He  tum'd,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone — 
"  My  name  is  Lara  ! — when  thine  own  is  known, 
Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlook'd  for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight. 
'Tis  Lara ! — further  wouldst  thou  mark  or  ask  ? 
I  shun  no  question,  and  I  wear  no  mask." 

"  Thou  shunn'st  no  question  !  Ponder — is  there  none 
Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thine  ear  would  shun  ? 
And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too  ?     Gaze  again  ! 
At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain. 
Oh  I  never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt. 
Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget." 
With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 
Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but  nothing  there  could  trace 
They  knew,  or  chose  to  know — with  dubious  look 
He  deign'd  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook. 
And  half  contemptuous  tum'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  easy  to  disprove  the  word — 
But  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down. 
Distrusts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 

Art  thou  not  he  ?  whose  deeds " 

"  Wliate'er  I  be, 
Words  vfiVL  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  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell. 
Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  well. 
Let  Otho  cherish  here  his  polish'd  guest. 
To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  express'd." 
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. 


1 


Canto  i. 


LARA. 


115 


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  retum'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." 

"  To-morrow  be  it,"  EzzeUn  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  bless'd  1" 

What  answers  Lara  ?  to  its  centre  shrunk 

His  soul,  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk  ; 

The  words  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 

That  there  were  gather'd,  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. 

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  sliow'd  resolve,  determined,  though  unknown. 
He  seized  his  cloak — his  head  he  slightly  bow'd. 
And  passing  Ezzelin,  he  left  the  crowd ; 
And,  as  he  pass'd  him,  smiling  met  the  frown 
With  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear  him 

down  : 
It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,  nor  struggling  pride 
That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide ; 
But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 
Of  all  that  he  would  do  or  could  endure. 
Could  this  mean  peace  ?  the  calmness  of  the  good  ? 
Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  ? 
Alas  1  too  hke  in  confidence  are  each. 
For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech ; 
From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 
Truth  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  learn. 

XXV. 

And  Lara  call'd  his  page,  and  went  his  way — 
Well  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  o))ey : 
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  yoimg ; 
Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 
Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's  land. 


In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command  ; 
But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  Lis  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',  kindred's,  parents',  wonted  voice  recall. 
Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one— his  friend,  his  all : 
For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guide ; 
What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side  ? 

XXVI. 

Light  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 
That  brow  whereon  his  native  sun  had  sate, 
But  had  not  marr'd,  though  in  his  beams  he  grew, 
The  cheek  where  oft  the  imbidden  blush  shone 

through  ; 
Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would 
All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delighted  glow ;      [show 
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  lighteu'd  with  electric  thought. 
Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes'  fringe 
Had  temper'd  with  a  melancholy  tinge  ; 
Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there, 
Or,  if  'twere  grief,  a  grief  that  none  should  share : 
And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  please  his  age, 
The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  page  ; 
For  hours  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance. 
As  all-forgotten  in  that  watchful  trance  ; 
And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander'd  lone, 
Brief  were  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none  ; 
His  walk  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book  ; 
His  resting-place  the  bank  that  curbs  the  brook  : 
He  seem'd,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 
From  all  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart ; 
To  know  no  brotherhood,  and  take  from  earth 
No  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon — our  birth. 

XXVII. 

If  aught  he  loved,  'twas  Lara ;  but  was  shown 

His  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone ; 

In  mute  attention  ;  and  his  care,  which  guess'd 

Each  wish,  fulfiU'd  it  ere  the  tongue  express'd. 

Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A  spirit  deep  that  brook'd  not  to  be  chid ; 

His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  hands. 

In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands ; 

As  if  'twas  Lara's  less  than  his  desire 

That  thus  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 

Slight  were  the  tasks  enjoin'd  him  by  his  lord, 

To  hold  tjic  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword ; 

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 : 


116 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stem, 

Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  he  seem'd,  and  better  days. 

Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays. 

So  femininely  white  it  might  bespeak 

Another  sex,  when  matched  with  that  smooth  cheek, 

But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze. 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays ; 

A  latent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 

His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame  : 

True,  in  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast. 

But  from  his  aspect  might  be  more  than  guess'd. 

Kaled  his  name,  though  rumor  said  he  bore 

Another  ere  he  left  his  mountain-shore  ; 

For  sometimes  he  would  hear,  however  nigh. 

That  name  repeated  loud  without  reply. 

As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again. 

Start  to  the  sound,  as  but  remember'd  then  ; 

Unless  '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  haU, 
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  check  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 
And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  aware  :  [dare, 

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  pass'd : 
When  Kaled  saw  that  smile  his  visage  feU, 
As  if  on  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  flx'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 
Whore  joy  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep. 
And  man,  o'erlabor'd  with  his  being's  strife. 
Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetfulness  of  life  : 
There  lie  love's  feverish  hope,  and  cunning's  guile, 
Hate's  working  brain,  and  lull'd  ambition's  wile  ; 
O'er  each  vain  eye  oblivion's  pinions  wave, 
And  quench'd  existence  crouches  in  a  grave. 
What  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become  ? 
Night's  sepulchre,  the  universal  home. 
Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  supine, 
Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline ; 
Glad  for  a  while  to  heave  unconscious  breath, 
Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death. 
And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  increased. 
That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least. 


LARA. 


CANTO    THB   SECOND. 


Night  wanes — the  vapors  round  the  mountains  curl'd 
Melt  into  mom,  and  Light  awakes  the  world. 
Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past, 
And  lead  him  near  to  little  but  his  last ; 
But  mighty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth. 
The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth  ; 
Flowers  in  the  valley,  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  morrow  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  mom — 'tis  noon — assembled  in  the  hall. 
The  gather'd  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call ; 
'Tis  now  the  promised  hour,  that  must  proclaim 
The  life  or  death  of  Lara's  future  fame  ; 
When  Ezzelin  his  charge  may  here  unfold, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 
His  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara's  promise  given, 
To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 
Why  comes  he  not  ?     Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 
Mothinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged. 


Canto  n. 


LARA. 


IIY 


m. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there, 
With  self-confiding,  coldly  patient  air ; 
Why  comes  not  Ezzelin  ?     The  hour  is  past, 
And  munnurs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow 's  o'ercast 
"  I  know  my  friend  !  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  ; 
The  word  I  pledged  for  his  I  pledge  again. 
Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knighthood's  stain." 

He  ceased — and  Lara  answer'd,  "  I  am  here 

To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  Kstening  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  me  it  seems  he  knew 

In  lands  where — but  I  must  not  trifle  too. 

Produce  this  babbler — or  redeem  the  pledge  ; 

Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion's  edge." 

Proud  Otho  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 
His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  flew. 
"  The  last  alternative  befits  me  best, 
And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  guest." 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom, 

However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb  ; 

With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 

Its  grasp  well-used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke  ; 

With  eye  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare. 

Did  Lara  too  liis  willing  weapon  bare. 

In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed, 

For  Otho's  phrenzy  would  not  be  opposed ; 

And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell — 

His  sword  is  good  who  can  inaintain  them  well. 

IV. 
Short  was  the  conflict ;  furious,  blindly  rash, 
Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash  : 
He  bled,  and  fell ;  but  not  with  deadly  wound, 
Stretch'd  by  a  dextrous  sleight  along  the  ground. 
"  Demand  thy  life  !"     He  answer'd  not :  and  then 
From  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  again, 
For  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 
Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue  ; 
And  fiercer  shook  his  angry  falchion  now 
Than  when  his  foe's  was  leveU'd  at  his  brow ; 
Then  all  was  stem  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  tum'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  ineflfectual  strife 
That  left  a  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life  ; 
As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 
Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 

V. 
They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  leech 
Forbade  all  present  question,  sign,  and  speech  ; 
The  others  met  within  a  neighboring  hall, 
And  he,  incensed,  and  heedless  of  them  all. 
The   cause  and  conqueror  in  this  sudden  fray. 
In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away : 
He  back'd  his  steed,  his  homeward  path  he  took, 
Nor  cast  on  Otho's  towers  a  single  look. 

VI. 
But  where  was  he  ?  that  meteor  of  a  night. 
Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  with  Ught. 
Where  was  this  Ezzelin  ?  who  came  and  went 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent. 
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  dwelhng  lay ; 
But  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  fast  inquiry,  which  unfolded  naught 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sought. 
A  chamber  tenantless,  a  steed  at  rest, 
His  host  alarm'd,  his  murmuring  squires  distress'd  ; 
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, 
Now  daily  mutters  o'er  his  blacken'd  fame  ; 
Then  sudden  silent  when  his  form  appcar'd, 
Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fcar'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  woe, 
And  from  his  country's  justice  now  demands 
Account  of  Ezzelin  at  Lara's  hands. 


118 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 
His  presence  ?  who  had  made  him  disappear, 
If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 
Had  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large  ? 
The  general  rumor  ignorantly  loud, 
The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  crowd ; 
The  seeming  friendlessness  of  him  who  strove 
To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love ; 
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  ? 
For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 
A  word  can  kindle  and  a  word  assuage ; 
But  the  deep  working  of  a  soul  unmix'd 
With  aught  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fix'd ; 
Such  as  long  power  and  overgorged  success 
Concentrates  into  all  that's  merciless  : 
These,  Unk'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  that  haunts  him  still,  ahve  or  dead. 

VIII. 
Within  that  land  was  many  a  malecontent. 
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 ; 
rix'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  chme 
Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression's  crime. 
And  now,  diverted  by  his  milder  sway, 
AU  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  ; 
Butmost  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  far  'twas  sound, 
The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  they  found ; 
From  him  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  driven 
They  but  reqmred  a  shelter,  and  'twas  given. 
By  him  no  peasant  moum'd  his  rifled  cot, 
And  scarce  the  Serf  could  murmur  o'er  his  lot ; 
With  liim  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  ofier'd,  with  the  coming  change. 
The  deep  reversion  of  delay'd  revenge  ; 
To  love,  long  bafiled  by  the  unequal  match. 
The  well-worn  charms  success  was  sure  to  snatch. 
All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 
That  slavery  nothing  which  was  stiU  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  tjTants  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  kin ; 
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 ; 

By  circumstance  compeU'd  to  plunge  again. 

In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 

Cut  ofl"  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 

Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes. 

Had  Lara  from  that  night,  to  him  accursed. 

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  faU. 

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 


Canto  ii. 


LARA. 


119 


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  caro  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. 
Wliat  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd  ? 
He  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  prey. 
Stem,  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. 

X. 

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  rain,  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  possess'd 

The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor's  breast  ; 

And  they  that  smote  for  freedom  or  for  sway, 

Deem'd  few  were  slain,  while  more  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  spread. 

And  Carnage  smiled  upon  her  daily  dead. 

XI. 
Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-bom  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  fiiry  of  that  crew ; 
In  vain  their  stubborn  ardor  he  would  tame. 
The  hand  that  kindles  cannot  quench  the  flame ; 
The  wary  foe  alone  hath  tum'd  their  mood. 
And  shown  their  rashness  to  that  erring  brood : 
The  feign'd  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscade. 
The  daily  harass,  and  the  figlit  delayVI, 
The  long  privation  of  the  hoped  supply, 


The  tentless  rest  beneath  the  humid  sky, 
The  stubborn  wall  that  mocks  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  suflTering  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  dwindle  to  a  scanty  band  : 
Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remain'd 
To  mourn  the  discipUne  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 
An  exile's  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw's  hate  : 
Hard  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 : 
Already  they  perceive  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier  stream ; 
Ah-eady  they  descry— is  yon  the  bank  ? 
Away  !  'tis  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly !— What  ghtters  in  the  rear  ? 
'Tis  Otho's  banner— the  pursuer's  spear  ! 
Are  those  the  shepherds'  fires  upon  the  height  ? 
Alas  !  they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight : 
Cut  oflF  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  their  border-stream  their  march  oppose. 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line. 
However  link'd  to  bafile  such  design. 
"  The  charge  be  ours  I  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  I 

XIV. 
His  blade  is  bared, — in  him  there  is  an  air 
As  deep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair ; 
A  something  of  indiflference  more  than  then 
Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men. 
He  tum'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  imwonted  hue 


120 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Of  mournful  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  express'd 
The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast. 
This  Lara  mark'd,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  : 
It  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  as  this  ; 
His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart. 
His  eye  alone  proclaim'd,  "  We  will  not  part ! 
Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee. 
Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  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  stiU  oppose 
Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes  ; 
And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream. 
Which  runs  all  redly  tUI  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 ! 
That  fatal  gesture  left  the  unguarded  side. 
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  I 

XVI. 
Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  hehnless  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 ; 
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  month  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  imquench'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  now  his  only  guide. 
Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 
And  with  his  scarf  would  stanch  the  tides  that  rush, 
With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush  ; 
And  then,  as  his  faint  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. 
He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage, 
And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page. 
Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees. 
Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees  ; 
Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim. 
Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 

XVIII. 
The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field. 
Their  triumph  naught  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  living  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  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what — is  known 
To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reach'd  alone ; 
And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound. 
While  gazed  the  rest  in  dumb  amazement  round : 
They  seem'd  even  then — that  twain — unto  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  Kaled's 

death 
More  near  than  Lara's  by  his  voice  and  breath. 


Canto  n. 


LARA. 


121 


So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 

The  accents  hia  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  ceased, 

Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 

Whether  (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  tum'd  away. 

As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  day. 

And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light, 

To  look  on  Lara's  brow — where  all  grew  night. 

Yet  sense  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  smUed — Heaven  pardon !  if  'twere  with  disdain : 

And  Kaled,  though  lie  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 

From  Lara's  face  his  flx'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  the  expiring  man. 

Nor  seem'd  to  know  his  life  but  then  began. 

That  life  of  Immortality,  secure 

To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  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 

The  weak  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore ;        [o'er 

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  I" — 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  arras  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,  hut  reel'd  and  fell, 
Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 
16 


Than  that  lie  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, 
Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confess'd  ; 
And  life  retum'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 
What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  ? 

XXII. 
And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep, 
But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep ; 
Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound. 
Though  priest  nor  bless'd,  nor  marble  deck'd  the 

mound; 
And  he  was  moum'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief. 
Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 
Vain  was  all  question  ask'd  her  of  the  past, 
And  vain  even  menace — silent  to  the  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  stem 
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  seal'd  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have  told. 

XXIII. 
They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  Ms  breast. 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest. 
They  found  the  scatter'd  dints  of  many  a  scar. 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war ; 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  summer  years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanish'd  in  a  land  of  strife  ; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt. 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt. 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Retum'd  no  more — that  night  appear'd  his  last. 

XXIV. 
Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 
A  Serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale, ' 

'  The  event  In  this  section  was  suggested  by  the  description  of 
the  death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the  duke  of  Gandla.  The  most 
interesting  and  particular  account  of  it  is  given  by  Burchard,  and 
is  in  substance  as  follows  :— "  On  the  eighth  day  of  June,  the  Car- 
dinal of  Valenza  and  the  Duke  of  Gandla,  sons  of  the  Pope, 
supped  with  their  mother,  Vanozza,  near  the  church  of  S,  Pletro 
ad  vinculo  ;  several  other  persons  being  present  at  the  entertain- 
ment. A  late  hour  approaching,  and  the  cardinal  having  reminded 
bis  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  Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza, 
when  the  duke  informed  the  cardinal  that,  before  he  returned 
home,  he  ha<I  to  pay  a  visit  of  pleasure.  Dismissing,  therefore, 
all  his  attendants,  excepting  his  skkglero^  or  footman,  arid  a  person 
in  a  mask,  who  had  paid  blm  a  visit  wUlst  at  supper,  and  who, 


122 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  il 


When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  mom, 
And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn ; 
A  Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood, 
And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's  food, 
Pass'd  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 
Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain  : 
He  heard  a  tramp — a  horse  and  horseman  broke 
From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a  cloak 
Wrapp'd  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's  course, 
Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse. 
And  lifting  thence  the  burden  which  he  bore, 
Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore, 
Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,  and  seem'd  to 

watch, 
And  stiU  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,  aroimd  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone ; 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there. 
And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 
Meantime  the  Serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean  ; 
He  caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast, 
And  something  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, 


during  the  space  of  a  month  or  thereabouts,  previons  to  this  time, 
had  called  upon  him  almost  dally,  at  the  apostolic  palace,  he  took 
this  person  behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  proceeded  to  the  street  of 
the  Jews,  where  he  quitted  his  servant,  directing  him  to  remain 
there  until  a  certain  hour ;  when,  if  he  did  not  return,  he  might 
repair  to  the  palace.  The  duke  then  seated  the  person  in  the 
mask  behind  him,  and  rode,  I  know  not  whither ;  but  in  that 
night  he  was  assassinated,  and  thrown  into  the  river.  The  ser- 
vant, after  having  been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted  and  mor- 
tally wounded ;  yet  such  was  his  situation,  that  he  could  give  no 
intelligible  account  of  what  had  befallen  his  master.  In  the  morn- 
ing, the  duke  not  having  returned  to  the  palace,  his  servants  began 
to  be  alarmed  :  and  one  of  them  informed  the  pontiff  of  the  even- 
ing excursion  of  his  sons,  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet  made  his 
appearance.  This  gave  the  pope  no  small  anxiety ;  but  he  con- 
jectured that  the  duke  had  been  attracted  by  some  courtesan  to 
pass  the  night  with  her.  When,  however,  the  evening  arrived, 
and  he  found  himself  disappointed  in  his  expectations,  he  became 
deeply  afflicted,  and  began  to  make  inquiries  from  diiferent  per- 
t  ons.  Amongst  these  was  a  man  named  Giorgio  Schiavoni,  who, 
having  discharged  some  timber  from  a  bark  In  the  river,  had  re- 
mained on  board  the  vessel  to  watch  it ;  and  being  interrogated 
whether  he  had  seen  any  one  thrown  into  the  river  on  the  night 


Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 
And  such  'tis  known  Sir  Ezzelin  h^d  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  morn. 
If  thus  he  perish'd,  Heaven  receive  his  soul ! 
His  undiscover'd  hmbs  to  ocean  roU ; 
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  efibrts  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  stanch'd  anew  some  phantom's  wound. 

Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply  ; 

Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 

From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit ; 

Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root. 

And  hide  her  visage  with  a  meager  hand, 

Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand — 

This  could  not  last — she  Ues  by  him  she  loved ; 

Her  tale  untold — her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


preceding,  he  replied,  that  he  saw  two  men  on  foot,  who  come 
down  the  street,  and  looked  diligently  about.  That  seeing  no  one, 
they  returned,  and  a  short  time  afterwards  two  others  came,  and 
looked  around  in  the  same  manner,  no  person  still  appearing, 
they  gave  a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a  man  came,  mounted 
on  a  white  horse,  having  behind  him  a  dead  body,  the  head  and 
arms  of  which  hung  on  one  side,  and  the  feet  on  the  other  side  of 
the  horse  ;  the  two  persons  on  foot  supporting  the  body,  to  pre- 
vent its  falling.  They  thus  proceeded  towards  that  part  where  the 
filth  of  the  city  is  usually  discharged  into  the  river,  and  turning 
the  horse,  with  his  tail  towards  the  water,  the  two  persons  took 
the  dead  body  by  the  arms  and  feet,  and  with  all  their  strength 
flung  it  into  the  river.  The  person  on  horseback  then  asked  if 
they  had  thrown  it  in  ;  to  which  they  replied  Signer,  si  (yes.  Sir). 
He  then  looked  towards  the  river,  and  seeing  a  mantle  floating  on 
the  stream,  he  inquired  what  it  was  that  appeared  black,  to  which 
they  answered,  it  was  a  mantle  ;  and  one  of  them  threw  stones 
upon  it,  in  consequence  of  which  it  sunk.  The  attendants  of  the 
pontiff  then  inquired  from  Giorgio,  why  he  had  not  revealed  this 
to  the  governor  of  the  city  ;  to  which  he  replied,  that  he  had  seen 
in  his  time  a  hundred  dead  bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  the 
same  place,  without  any  inquiry  being  made  respecting  them ; 
and  that  he  had  not,  therefore,  considered  it  as  a  matter  of  any 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


123 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH, 


TO 


JOHN    HOBHOUSE,  Esq., 


January  22, 1816. 


THIS  POEM  IS  INSCRIBKD 

BY  HIS 


FRIEND. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 
"  The  grand  army  of  the  TurkB  (in  1715),  under  the 
Prime  Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into  the 
heart  of  the  Morea,  and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli  di 
Komania,  the  most  considerable  place  in  all  that  coun- 
try,' 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  im- 
possible 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  Signer  Minotti,  the  gover- 
nor, to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with  Antonio  Bembo, 
proveditor  extraordinary,  were  made  prisoners  of  war." 
— HUtory  of  the  Turks,  vol.  iii.,  p.  151. 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

In  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men, 

Eighteen  hundred  years  and  ten, 

We  were  a  gallant  company. 

Riding  o'er  land,  and  sailing  o'er  sea. 

Oh,  but  we  went  merrily  ! 

We  forded  the  river,  and  clomb  the  high  hill, 

Never  otir  steeds  for  a  day  stood  still ; 

Whether  wo  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  shed. 

Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed  ; 


Importance.  The  flshermen  and  eeamen  were  then  collected,  and 
ordered  to  search  the  river,  where,  on  the  following  evening,  they 
fbund  the  body  of  the  duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  thirty 
dncats  in  hU  puree.  He  was  pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of 
which  was  in  his  throat,  the  others  in  his  head,  body,  and  limbs. 
No  sooner  was  the  pontiff  Informed  of  the  death  of  his  son,  and 
that  he  had  been  thrown,  like  filth,  into  the  river,  than,  giving  way 
to  his  grief,  ho  shut  himself  up  in  a  chamber,  and  wept  bitterly. 
From  the  evening  of  Wednesday  till  the  following  Saturday,  the 
pope  took  no  food  ;  nor  did  he  sleep  ft-om  Thursday  morning  till 
the  same  hour  on  the  ensuing  day.  At  length,  however,  giving 
way  to  the  entreaties  of  his  attendants,  he  began  to  restrain  his 
Borrow,  and  to  consider  the  injury  which  his  own  health  might 
sustain,  by  the  further  indulgence  of  his  grief.'  —Sosooe'ii  Leo  the 
Tenth,  vol.  i.,  p.  2<>5. 
>  Nspolt  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable  place  in 


Whether  we  couch'd  in  our  rough  capote, 
On  the  rougher  plank  of  our  gliding  boat. 
Or  stretch'd  on  the  beach,  or  our  saddles  spread 
As  a  pillow  beneath  the  resting  head. 
Fresh  we  woke  upon  the  morrow  : 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope. 

We  had  health,  and  we  had  hope. 
Toil  and  travel,  but  no  sorrow. 
We  were  of  all  tongues  and  creeds  ; — 
Some  were  those  who  counted  beads. 
Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church. 

And  some,  or  I  mis-say,  of  neither ; 
Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  search. 

Nor  find  a  motlier  crew  nor  blither. 

But  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  gone, 
And  some  are  scatter'd  and  alone. 
And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hills^ 

That  look  along  Epirus'  valleys. 

Where  freedom  still  at  moments  rallies, 
And  pays  in  blood  oppression's  iUs  ; 

And  some  arc  in  a  fair  countree, 
And  some  all  restlessly  at  home ; 

But  never  more,  oh,  never,  we 
Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roam. 

But  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily, 

And  when  they  now  fall  drearily, 

My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  main, 

And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 

Over  the  earth,  and  through  the  air, 

A  wild  bird  and  a  wanderer. 

the  Morea,  but  Tripolitza,  where  the  Pacha  resides,  and  maintains 
his  government.  Napoli  is  near  Argos.  I  visited  all  three  in  1810- 
11 ;  and,  in  the  course  of  Journeying  through  the  country  from  my 
first  arrival  in  1809, 1  crossed  the  Isthmus  eight  times  in  my  way 
from  Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the  mountains,  or  in  the  other  di- 
rection, when  passing  from  the  Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of  Lopanln. 
Both  the  routes  are  picturesque  and  beautiful,  though  very  difl'er- 
ent :  that  by  sea  has  more  sameness  ;  but  the  voyage  being  always 
within  sight  of  land,  and  often  very  near  It,  presents  many  attrac- 
tive views  of  the  islands  Salamis,  .lEgina,  Poro,  etc.,  and  the  coast 
of  the  Continent. 

'  The  last  tidings  recently  heard  of  Dervish  (one  of  the  Amaouts 
who  followed  me)  state  him  to  be  In  revolt  upon  the  mountains,  at 
the  hsad  of  some  of  the  bands  common  tn  that  country  in  times  of 
trouble. 


124 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


'Tis  this  that  ever  wakes  my  strain, 

And  oft,  too  oft,  implores  again 

The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay 

To  follow  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger — wilt  thou  foUow  now. 

And  sit  with  me  on  Acro-Corinth's  brow  ? 

I. 
Many  a  vanish'd  year  and  age, 
And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage. 
Have  swept  o'er  Corinth  ;  yet  she  stands, 
A  fortress  form'd  to  Freedom's  hands. 
The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock. 
Have  left  untouch 'd  her  hoary  rock. 
The  keystone  of  a  land,  which  stiU, 
Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  hiU, 
The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 
That  purpling  roUs  on  either  side, 
As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet, 
Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 
But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 
Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled, 
Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled. 
Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 
The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank. 
That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 
Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below  : 
Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain. 
Who  perish'd  there,  be  piled  again, 
That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 
More  mountain-like,  through  those  clear  skies. 
Than  yon  tower-capp'd  Acropolis, 
Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss. 

II. 
On  dun  Cithseron's  ridgS  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  Spahl'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 ; 
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  baU ; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies. 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies,   • 


■  The  life  of  the  Tnicomane  is  wandering  and  patriarchal  i^hej 
direll  in  tents. 


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  skiU  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  hath  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  uneflfaced  : 

He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  Ufe, 

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 
Adom'd  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 


^  All  Coumourgi,  the  favorite  of  three  eiiltans,  and  Grand  Vizier 
to  Achmet  HI.,  after  recovering  Peloponneens  from  the  Venetians 
in  one  campaign,  was  mortally  woonded  in  the  next,  againet  the 


THE   SIEGE  OP  CORINTH. 


125 


When  on  Carlowitz'  bloody  plain, 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slain, 
He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die, 
But  cursed  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  reflx'd  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-Uke  the  pealing  din 
Rose  from  each  heated  culverin  : 
And  hero  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 

Germans,  at  the  battle  of  Peterwaradin  (In  the  plain  of  Carlowitz), 
In  Hungary,  endeavoring  to  rally  his  gnards.  He  died  of  his  woonda 
next  day.  His  last  order  was  the  decapitation  of  General  Brenner, 
and  some  other  German  prisoners ;  and  his  last  words ;  *^  Ob,  that 
I  could  thus  serve  all  the  Christian  dogs  I"  s  speech  and  act  not 


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  Paynim  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  prize : 
With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze  ; 
With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays  ; 
Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song  ; 
Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 
The  pairs,  on  whom  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  Buboea'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  faithlass  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  adom'd  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 

X. 
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  witli  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 ! 


nnlike  one  of  C&ligula.  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  be- 
come a  greater,  and  at  his  expense." 


126 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


XI. 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

Tis  midnight :  on  the  mountains  brown 

To  plant  the  Crescent  o'er  the  Cross, 

The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down ; 

Or  risk  a  life  with  Uttle  loss. 

Blue  roU  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 

Secure  in  paradise  to  be 

Spreads  Uke  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 

By  Houris  loved  immortally  : 

Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light. 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 

So  wildly,  spiritually  bright ; 

The  stern  exaltedness  of  zeal,  . 

Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 

And  tum'd  to  earth  without  repining, 

When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 

Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away, 

He  stood  alone — a  renegade 

And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 

Against  the  country  he  betray'd  ; 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band. 

Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand  : 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebble  shook 

They  foUow'd  him,  for  he  was  brave. 

But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave ; 

The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves  ; 

They  crouch'd  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 

The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves, 

To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

And  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling  ; 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke. 

He  eam'd  beneath  a  Moslem  name  ; 

Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  oft  and  shrill. 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 

And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hiU, 

In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 

And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 

Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 

When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop ; 

As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 

They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 

In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer ; 

In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stem ; 

It  rose,  that  chanted  mournful  strain. 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

Like  some  lone  spirit  o'er  the  plain  : 

The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel. 

Twas  musical,  but  sadly  sweet. 

He  ruled  them — man  may  rule  the  worst, 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 

By  ever  daring  to  be  first ; 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway ; 

To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown. 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey. 

It  seem'd  to  those  withiH  the  wall 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yeUing  press, 

A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fall : 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 

With  something  ominous  and  drear. 

XIII. 

An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 
Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 
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. 

His  head  grows  fever'd  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse. 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  he  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose  ; 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart. 

XII. 

The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press'd, 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore  ; 

The  mail  weigh'd  lead-like  on  his  breast, 

The  sound  was  hush'd,  the  prayer  was  o'er ; 

Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 

Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate, 

All  mandates  issued  and  obey'd  : 

Without  a  couch  or  canopy. 

'Tis  but  another  anxious  night. 

Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 

Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed. 

With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay. 

Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 

Few  hours  he  remain,  and  hath  need 

Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day. 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 

But  walk'd  him  forth  along  the  sand. 

Of  slaughter  :  but  within  his  soul 

Where  thousand  sleepers  strew'd  the  strand. 

The  thoughts  like  trouble  waters  roll. 

Wliat  pillow'd  them  ?  and  why  should  he 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 

More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be  ? 

THE  SIEGE   OF  CORINTH. 


127 


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. 
Leganto'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  wiU  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  Unger'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,  tiU  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember'd  rays, 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 

XV. 
Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 
Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes  ; 
And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wander'd, 
And  o'er  the  past  and  present  ponder'd, 
And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 
Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled, 
He  felt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 
The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him, 
Who  cheer'd  the  band,  and  waved  the  sword, 
A  traitor  in  a  turban'd  horde ; 
And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege. 
Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 
Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  number'd, 
The  chiefs  whose  dust  aroimd  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  wrapp'd  the  dusky  mountain. 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain ; 
The  meanest  riU,  the  mightiest  river 
Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  forever. 
Despite  of  every  joke  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  difiused. 
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  or  bay, 
On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 
The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 
And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there  : 
And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 
On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago  : 
A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 
Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

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  ?        [cold  ? 

Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd 

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  tlie  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival, 

Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb  ; 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him  1 

From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 

>  The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are  no  percepti- 
ble tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 


128 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh ;     . 

And  their  white  tusks  craunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull,' 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew 

As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead,  [dull, 

When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they 

So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast  [fed ; 

With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast. 

And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roll'd  on  the  sand, 

The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band : 

Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear. 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair," 

AU  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 

The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 

The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 

But  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf. 

There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf. 

Who  had  stolen  from  the  hiUs,  but  kept  away, 

Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey ; 

Bui  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 

Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

XVII. 
Alp  tum'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight : 
Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight ; 
But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying. 
Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 
Scorch'd  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain. 
There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 
Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  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  in  his  decay. 

XVIII. 
There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 
Fashion'd  by  long  forgotten  hands  : 
Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone. 
Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown  ! 
Out  upon  Time !  it  vrill  leave  no  more 
Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before  ! 
Out  upon  Time  !  who  forever  will  leave 
But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 
O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must 
What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ;  [be : 

Remnants  of  things  that  have  pass'd  away, 
Fragments  of  stone,  reared  by  creatures  of  clay  1 

>  This  Bpectacle  I  have  Been,  such  as  described,  beneath  the  wall 
of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople,  in  the  little  cavities  worn  by  the 
Bosphoms  in  the  rock,  a  narrow  terrace  of  which  projects  between 
the  wall  and  the  water.  I  think  the  fact  is  also  mentioned  in  Hob- 
house's  Travels.  The  bodies  were  probably  those  of  some  refl-ac- 
tory  Janizaries. 

•  This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left,  from  a  Biiperstition  that  Haho- 
met  will  draw  them  into  Paradise  by  it. 


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  oppress'd : 
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, 
Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  t' 
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  stiU, 
So  did  the  leaves  on  Citheeron's  hiU, 
And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek ; 
What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak  ! 
He  turn'd  to  the  left — is  he  sure  of  sight  ? 
There  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. 


'  I  must  here  acknowledge  a  close,  though  unintentional,  resem- 
blance in  these  twelve  lines  to  a  passage  in  an  unpublished  poem 
of  Mr.  Coleridge,  called  "  Christable."  It  was  not  till  after  these 
lines  were  written  that  I  heard  that  wild  and  singularly  original 
and  beautifhl  poem  recited ;  and  the  MS.  of  that  production  I  never 
saw  till  very  recently,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Coleridge  himself, 
who,  I  hope,  is  convinced  that  I  have  not  been  a  willful  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  produc- 
tion, of  which  I  can  only  add  my  mite  of  approbation  to  the  ap- 
plause of  far  more  competent  judges.  —  [The  following  are  the 
lines  in  "  Christable  "  which  Lord  Byron  had  unintentionally  imi- 
tated :— 

"  The  night  is  chill,  the  forest  bare, 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  ctirl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek- 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  rod  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan. 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can. 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  hl^h. 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  at  the  sky  I"] 


THE  SIEGE   OF  CORINTH. 


129 


He  gazed,  he  saw  :  lie  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  -(vith  a  tenderer  streak : 

Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  Ups  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  stUl, 

And  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining, 

Naught  conceal'd  her  bosom  shining ; 

Through  the  parting  of  her  hair. 

Floating  darkly  downward  there, 

Her  rounded  arm  show'd  white  and  bare : 

And  ere  yet  she  made  reply. 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high, 

It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue, 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through, 

XXI. 
"  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best, 
That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  bless'd. 
I  have  pass'd  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall ; 
Sought  (ihcc  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  good 
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  never,  we  meet  again  1 
Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 
In  falling  away  from  thy  father's  creed : 
But  dash  that  turban  to  eartli,  and  sign 
Tlie  sign  of  the  cross,  and  forever  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  ? 
For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  fliime 
The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 
None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I've  sworn, 
Shall  be  left  upon  the  mom  : 
But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 
Where  our  hands  shall  be  join'd,  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  mv  foes." 
1? 


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  flx'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 ;        [down 

As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come 

From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown ; 

Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro. 

As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 

"  If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 
Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  heaven, — 
Again  I  say — that  turban  tear 
From  ofi"  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. 
K  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  sec 
Its  love  forever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon — » 

'  I  have  been  told  that  tlio  Idea  expressed  in  this  and  the  Are 
following  lincB  have  been  admired  by  those  whose  approbation  Is 
valnaWe.  I  am  glad  of  it :  but  It  is  not  original— at  least  not  mine : 
It  may  be  found  much  better  expressed  in  pages  182-3-4,  of  the 
English  version  of  "  Vathcli,"  (I  forget  the  precise  page  of  the 
French,)  a  work  to  which  I  have  before  rofcrrod ;  and  never  re- 
cur to,  or  read,  without  a  renewal  of  gratiflcation.— [The  follow- 
ing Is  tlie  passage :  " '  Deluded  prince  I'  said  the  Ocnius,  addrc«»- 
Ing  the  f'allpb, '  (o  whom  Providence  hath  conSdcd  th"care  of 


130 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


'Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon — 
If,. by  the  time  its  vapory  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 
Thy  heart  vdthin  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  tum'd  aside, 

By  deep  interminable  pride. 

This  first  false  passion  of  Ms  breast 

EoU'd  Kke  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy  !    He  dismay'd 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid  1 

He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave  ! 

No — ^though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst. 

And  charged  to  crush  him — ^let  it  burst ! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly 

Without  an  accent  of  reply ; 

He  watch'd  it  passing ;  it  is  flown  : 

FuU  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  tum'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. 

XXII. 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  if  that  mom  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  gray. 

And  the  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, 


innnmcrable  Bubjects ;  is  it  thus  that  thou  fulflllest  thy  mission  f 
Thy  Crimea  are  already  completed ;  and  art  thou  now  hastening 
to  thy  punishment !  Thou  knowest  that  beyond  those  mountains 
Eblls  and  his  accursed  dives  hold  their  infernal  empire ;  Jind,  se- 
duced by  a  malignant  phantom,  thou  art  proceeding  to  surrender 
thyself  to  them  !  This  moment  is  the  laet  of  grace  allowed  thee : 
give  back  Nouronahar  to  her  father,  who  still  retains  a  few  sparks 
of  life:  destroy  thy  tower  with  all  its  abominations:  drive  Cara- 
this  from  thy  councils :  be  just  to  thy  subjects :  respect  the  minis- 
ters of  the  prophet :  compensate  for  thy  impieties  by  an  exemplary 
life ;  and,  instead  of  squandering  thy  days  in  voluptuous  indul- 
gence, lament  thy  crimes  on  the  sepulchres  of  thy  ancestors.  Thou 
beholdest  the  clouds  that  obscure  the  sun :  at  the  instant  lie  re- 
&snsti  his  splendor,  if  thy  heart  he  not  changed,  the  time  of  mercy 
assigned  thee  will  be  past  forever.' "] 


And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum, 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  "  They  come  I  they 

come  I"  [sword 

The  horsetails  are  pluck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the 
From  its  sheath  ;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman,  [the  word. 

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  cmmblcd  before  : 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar ; 
Alp  at  their  head ;  his  riglit  arm  is  bare. 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar ; 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post ; 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on  ; 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 
A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  haUs, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 
God  and  the  prophet — AUa  Hu  1 
Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo  !  [scale  ; 

"There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to 
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  1" 
Thus  utter'd  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier  ; 
The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear. 
And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire  : — 
Silence — hark  to  the  signal — ^fire  I 

XXIII. 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 

On  the  stately  buflalo. 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar. 

And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore. 

He  tramples  on  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,  sheathed  in  brass, 

Strew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 

Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more  : 

Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 

Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  his  work  is  done  on  the  lovell'd  plain  ; 

Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain. 


THE  SIEGE   OF  CORINTH. 


131 


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  ronew'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  tliere,  save  death,  was  mute ; 
Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 
For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 
Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder. 
Which  make  the  distant  fities  wonder 
How  the  sounding  battle  goes. 
If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes ; 
If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 
In  that  annihilating  voice, 

Which  pierces  the  deep  hiUs  through  and  through 
With  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  Pincus'  bay. 

XXV. 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt. 

Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt  ; 

But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun. 

And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 

Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 

From  T,'ithin  the  plunder'd  dome  : 

Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet. 

That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street ; 

But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 

Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found. 

Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten. 

Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 

With  banded  backs  against  the  wall. 

Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white. 

But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might : 

So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray. 

The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day. 

In  a  semicircle  lay ; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded. 

Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 

'Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurk'd  beneath  his  corslet  bright ; 

But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore. 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before  : 


Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb. 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him  ; 

And  the  foes,  whom  he  singly  kept  at  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 

Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 

Where  Asia's  bounds  and  ours  divide. 

Buried  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 

For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  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  immortally  saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark  to  the  AUah  shout  1  a  band 

Of  the  Mussulman  bravest  and  best  is  at  hand : 

Their  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare, 

Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare — 

Unclothed  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them  on ; 

Thus  in  the  fight  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  thick  of  the  fight,  'tis  there  I 

There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 

So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before ; 

There  is  not  a  banner  in  Moslem  war 

Will  lure  the  Delhis  half  so  far ; 

It  glances  like  a  falling  star ! 

Where'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen. 

The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been  ; 

There  the  craven  cries  for  quarter 

Vainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar  ; 

Or  the  hero,  silent  lying, 

Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying ; 

Mustering  his  last  feeble  blow 

'Gainst  the  nearest  levell'd  foe, 

'  In  the  naval  battle  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dardanelles,  between 
the  Venetians  and  the  Tiu-ks. 


132 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Though  faint  beneath  the  mutual  wound, 
Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII. 
Still  the  old  man  stood  erect, 
And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check'd. 
"  Yield  thee,  Minotti  ;  quarter  take, 
For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

"  Never,  renegado,  never ! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  forever." 

"  Francesca ! — Oh,  my  promised  bride  I 
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  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 

Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 

"  Oh  God  1  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  1" — That  challenge  is  in  vain — 
Alp's  already  with  the  slain  ! 
Wliile  Minotti's  word^  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  dash'd  Alp  to  the  ground  ; 
Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 
''    That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell ; 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 

Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise, 

And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 

Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk  ; 

Naught  of  life  left,  save  a  quivering 

Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering  : 

They  turn'd  him  on  his  back  ;  his  breast 

And  brow  were  stain'd  with  gore  and  dust. 

And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed. 

From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed ; 

But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb. 

Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob  ; 

Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 

Heralded  his  way  to  death  : 

Ere  Ms  very  thought  could  pray, 

Unaneled  he  pass'd  away, 

Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid, — 

To  the  last — a  Renegade. 


XXVIII. 
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  tlirust, 
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  Othmans  gain  the  gate ; 
StiU  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  voUeys  of  the  sulphurous  shower ; 
But  the  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak — 
The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak — 
It  bends — ^it  faUs — and  aU  is  o'er ; 
Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more  ! 

XXX. 
Darkly,  sternly  and  aU  alone, 
Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar  stone  : 
Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH, 


133 


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 ;  oven  now  she  smiles. 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles  : 

Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye. 

And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 

Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby ; 

And  still  he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  flame. 

Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 

XXXI. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 

Contain'd  the  dead  of  ages  gone  ; 

Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 

But  now  illegible  with  gore  ; 

The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 

The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse. 

Were  smear'd,  and  slippery — stain'd,  and  strown 

With  broken  swords,  and  helms  o'erthro^vn  : 

There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 

Lay  cold  in  many  a  cofiin'd  row ; 

You  might  see  them  piled  in  sablcd  state. 

By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate ; 

But  War  had  enter'd  their  dark  caves, 

And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 

Iler  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 

In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead  : 
Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 
The  Christians'  chiefest  magarine ; 

To  these  a  late-form'd  train  now  led, 

Minotti's  last  and  stem  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  blcss'd. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go ; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show  1 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold  ; 

Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize. 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes : 

That  mom  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  1 
Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 
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 
AU  that  mingled  there  below : 
Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 
Scorch'd  and  shrivell'd  to  a  span. 
When  he  fell  to  earth  again 
Like  a  cinder  strew'd  the  plain : 
Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain  ; 
Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  sprinkles 
With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles  ; 
Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 
Scatter'd  o'er  the  isthmus  lay  ; 
Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they  ? 
Let  their  mothers  see  and  say  ! 
When  in  cradled  rest  they  lay. 
And  each  nursing  mother  smiled 
On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child, 
Little  deem'd  she  such  a  day 
Would  rend  those  tender  Unibs  away. 
Kot  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  scali)  or  bone  : 
And  do^n  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 
Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone. 
Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay. 
All  blacken'd  there  and  reeking  lay. 
AU  the  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  earth-shock  disappear'd  : 


134 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


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  bull-frog's  note,  from  out  the  marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd  arose,  and  doubly  harsh  ; 
The  wolves  yell'd  on  the  cavem'd  hiU 
Where  echo  roll'd  in  thunder  still ; 
The  jackal's  troop,  in  gather'd  cry,' 

■  I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetical  licenee  to  transplant  the  Jackal 


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  ! 

from  Asia.  In  Greece  I  never  saw  nor  heard  these  animals ;  but 
among  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  I  have  heard  them  by  hundreds. 
They  haunt  ruins  and  follow  armies. 


PARISINA. 


TO 


SCROPE    BERDMORE    DAVIES,  ESQ. 

THE   FOLLOWING   POEM  IS   INSCEIBED. 

BY  ONE  WHO  HAS  LONG  ADMinED  HIS  TALENTa  AND  VALUED  HIS  PBIBNDamP. 


January  22, 1816. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  poem  is  grounded  on  a  circumstance 
mentioned  in  Gibbon's  "  Antiqidties  of  the  House  of 
Brunswick."  I  am  aware,  that  in  modern  times  the 
delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the  reader  may  deem  such 
subjects  imfit  for  the  purposes  of  poetry.  The  Greek 
dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old  Englisli 
writers,  were  of  a  different  opinion :  as  Alfieri  and 
Schiller  have  also  been,  more  recently,  upon  the  Con- 
tinent. The  following  extract  will  explain  the  facts 
on  which  the  story  is  founded.  The  name  of  Azo  is 
substituted  for  Nicholas,  as  more  metrical. 

"  Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III.,  Perrara  was  pol- 
luted with  a  domestic  tragedy.  By  the  testimony  of 
an  attendant,  and  his  own  observation,  the  Marquis  of 
Este  discovered  the  incestuous  loves  of  his  wife  Paris- 
ina,  and  Hugo  his  bastard  son,  a  beautiful  and  valiant 
youth.  They  were  beheaded  in  the  castle  by  the  sen- 
tence of  a  father  and  husband,  who  published  his 
shame,  and  survived  their  execution.  He  was  unfor- 
tunate, if  they  were  guilty  :  if  they  were  innocent,  he 
was  still  more  unfortunate  ;  nor  Is  there  any  possible 
situation  in  which  I  can  sincerely  approve  the  last  act 
of  the  justice  of  a  parent." — Gibbon's  Miscellaneous 
Works,  vol.  iii.,  p.  470. 


PARISINA. 
I. 

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, 

Wliich  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, 

1  The  lines  contained  in  this  section  were  printed  as  set  to 
music  some  time  since,  but  belonged  to  the  poem  where  they 
now  appear ;  the  greater  part  of  which  was  composod  prior  to 
"  Lara." 


Jt 

# 


^^u^m?/^ 


\  W'lvy  VI  M'l 


r Ti  ll\K    All'   llhll    lld.-f'M    tlKAVt:^ 


.TrJiTifMii     H'-n^   -^-    r.-,it!T''-lTi  V    ^^^>MlM"hf■rf^  N^wYork" 


/ 


; 


PARISINA. 


135 


And  it  is  not  to  gazo  on  the  heayenly  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  leaves, 
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  nnto  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,  above,  beneath  ; 
As  if  aU  else  had  pass'd  away, 

They  only  for  each  other  breathe ; 
Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 

So  deep,  that,  did  it  not  decay, 
That  happy  madness  would  destroy 

The  hearts  which  feel  its  fiery  sway : 
Of  guilt,  of  peril,  do  they  deem 
In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream  ? 
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  pass'd  1 
Alas  !  we  must  awake  before 
We  know  such  vision  comes  no  more. 

IT. 
With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 

The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  pass'd ; 
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  forever, 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 

The  Heaven  she  fears  wiU  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  chiU 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill. 

V. 
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  fcver'd  in  her  sleep  she  seems. 

And  red  her  cheek  with  troubled  dreams, 

And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 
A  name  she  dares  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  piUow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow. 
Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore, 

And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more, — 

So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 
And  whose  tltet  name  ?  'tis  Hugo's, — ^his — 
In  sooth  he  had  not  deem'd  of  this  I — 
'Tis  Hugo's, — he,  the  child  of  one 
He  loved — his  own  all-evil  son — 
The  offspring  of  his  wayward  youth, 
When  he  betray'd  Bianca's  truth, 
The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 
In  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 

VII. 
He  pluck'd  his  poniard  in  its  sheath. 

But  sheathed  it  ere  the  point  was  bare — 
Howe'er  unworthy  now  to  breathe, 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair — 
At  least,  not  smiling — sleeping — there — 
Nay  more  : — ^he  did  not  wake  her  then. 
But  gazed  upon  her  with  a  glance 
Which,  had  she  roused  her  from  her  trance, 
Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again — 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 
Gleam'd  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  damp. 
She  spake  no  more — but  still  she  slumber'd — 
While,  in  his  thought,  her  days  arc  number'd. 

VIII. 
And  with  the  morn  he  sought,  and  found, 
In  many  a  talc  from  those  around. 


I 


136 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


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  there, — 
Before  him  is  the  sinful  pair ; 
Both  young, — and  one  how  passing  fair  ! 
With  swordless  belt,  and  fetter'd  hand. 
Oh,  Christ !  that  thus  a  son  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  he  seems  not  overcome. 
Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb. 

X. 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 

Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom  ; 
How  changed  since  last  her  speaMng  eye 

Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  room, 
Wliere  high-born  men  were  proud  to  wait — 
Where  Beauty  watch'd  to  imSate 

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  sheatliloss  shone. 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  their  own. 
Now,— what  is  she  ?  and  what  are  they  ? 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey  ? 
All  silent  and  unheeding  now, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow. 
And  folded  arms,  and  freezing  air, 
And  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  forbear. 
Her  knights  and  dames,  her  court— is  there  : 
And  he,  the  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couch'd  before  her  glance, 
Who — ^were  his  arm  a  moment  free — 
Had  died  or  gain'd  her  liberty ; 
The  minion  of  his  father's  bride,— 
He,  too,  is  fetter'd  by  her  side  ; 
Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  full  eye  swm 
Lees  for  her  own  despair  than  hiin  ; 


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  hvid  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 ; 

Stem  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 — 
Hi  a  earthly,  his  eternal  fate — 
And  hers, — oh,  hers  ! — he  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow  1 
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  declines,  I  shall  have  none. 
My  life  must  linger  on  alone  ; 
"Well, — ^let  that  pass,— there  breathes  not  one 
Who  would  not  do  as  I  have  done  : 
Those  ties  are  broken — not  by  me  ; 

Let  that  too  pass  ;— the  doom's  prepared  1 
Hugo,  the  priest  awaits  on  thee. 

And  then — thy  crime's  reward  1 
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  1  shalt  view  his  head- 
Away  1  I  cannot  speak  the  rest : 

Go  1  woman  of  the  wanton  breast ; 
Not  I,  but  thou  his  blood  dost  shed : 
Go  I  if  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive, 
And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I  give." 

XIII. 
And  here  stem  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  ; 


i 


PARISINA. 


137 


And  therefore  bow'd  he  for  a  space, 
And  pass'd  bis  shaking  hand  along 
His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng ; 
While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands, 
And  for  a  brief  delay  demands 
His  fiithcr'3  car  :  the  silent  sire 
Forbids  not  what  hig  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  : 

Thou  gav'st,  and  mayst  resume  my  breath, 
A  gift  tor  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  destin'd  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, 
Kor  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  bom  ; 
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  V 
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, 
18 


And  thy  nobility  of  race 
Disdain'd  to  deck  a  thing  like  me — 

Yet  in  my  lineaments  they  trace 

Some  features  of  my  father's  face. 
And  in  my  spirit — all  of  thee. 
From  thee — this  tamelessness  of  heart — 
From  thee — nay,  wherefore  dost  thou  start  ? 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigor  came 
My  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame — 
Thou  didst  not  give  me  life  alone, 
But  all  that  made  me  all  thine  own. 
See  what  thy  guilty  love  hath  done  1 
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  HI, 
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  worse  to  human  view. 
But  God  must  judge  between  us  two  !" 

XIV. 
He  ceased — and  stood  with  folded  arms. 
On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded ; 
And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded. 
Of  all  the  chiefs  that  there  were  rank'd, 
Wlien  those  dull  chains  in  meeting  clank'd : 
Tin  Parisina's  fatal  charms 
Again  attracted  every  eye — 
Would  she  thus  hear  him  doom'd  to  die  1 
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, 


138 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


It  was  a  thing  to  seo,  not  hear  1 

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  hoUow  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  Ufe — 

A  moniunent  of  Azo's  wife, — 

Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing, 

Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting, 

Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 

That  guilt's  detection  and  despair. 

But  yet  she  lived — and  aU  too  soon 

Recover'd  from  that  death-like  swoon — 

But  scarce  to  reason — every  sense 

Had  been  o'erstnmg  by  pangs  intense  ; 

And  each  frail  fibre  of  her  brain 

(As  bowstrings,  when  relax'd  by  rain, 

The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 

Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide — 

The  past  a  blank,  the  future  black. 

With  gUmpsos  of  a  dreary  track, 

Like  lightning  on  the  desert  path, 

When  midnight  storms  are  mustering  wrath. 

She  fear'd — she  felt  that  something  ill 

Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill — 

That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew ; 

That  some  one  was  to  die — but  who  ? 

She  had  forgotten  : — did  she  breathe  ? 

Could  this  be  still  the  earth  beneath. 

The  sky  above,  and  men  around ; 

Or  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frown'd 

On  one,  before  whose  eyes  each  eye 

Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy  ? 

All  was  confused  and  undefined 

To  her  all-jarr'd  and  wandering  mind  ; 

A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears  : 

And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears. 

But  madly  stiU  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  t 


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  1 
Hark  1  the  hymn  is  singing — 

The  song  for  the  dead  below. 

Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so  I 


For  a  departing  being's  soul 

The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  beUs  knoll ; 

He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 

KneeUng  at  the  friar's  knee  ; 

Sad  to  hear— and  piteous  to  see ; 

Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground. 

With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around — 

And  the  headman  with  his  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  anew  : 

While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 

To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father. 

XVI. 

It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 

Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 

Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day. 

And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray ; 

And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 

Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head. 

As  his  last  confession  pouring 

To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 

In  penitential  holiness. 

He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 

With  absolution  such  as  may 

Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 

That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 

As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen — 

And  the  rings  of  chesnut  hair 

Curl'd  half  down  his  neck  so  bare ; 

But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 

Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter 

Oh  I  that  parting  hour  was  bitter  ! 
Even  the  stem  stood  chiU'd  with  awe : 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 
Yet  they  shudder'd  as  they  saw. 

XVII. 
The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 
Of  that  false  son — and  daring  lover  1 
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  tiU  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  headman's  hands  prepared  to  bind 
Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blind : 


PARISINA. 


139 


As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 
"  No — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath — 
These  hands  are  chain'd — but  let  m»dio 
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 — 
RoU'd  the  head— and,  gushing,  sunk 
Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk, 
In  the  dust,  with  each  deep  vein 
Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain ; 
His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver, 
Convulsed  and  quick — then  fix  forever. 
He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die, 

Without  display,  without  parade ; 

Meekly  had  he  Kow'd  and  pray'd. 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid. 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  prior  kneeling. 
His  heart  was  wean'd  from  earthly  feeling  ; 
His  wrathful  sire — his  paramour — 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour  ? 
No  more  reproach — no  more  despair  ; 
No  thought  but  heaven — no  word  but  prayer- 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke. 
When,  bared  to  meet  the  headman's  stroke, 
He  claim'd  to  die  with  eyes  unbound. 
His  sole  adieu  to  those  aroimd. 


XVIII. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death, 
Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath  : 
But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 
A  cold  electric  shiver  ran, 
As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 
On  hira  whose  life  and  love  thus  ended  ; 
And,  with  a  hushing  sound  compress'd, 
A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 
But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 

Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 

Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  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  pass'd. 
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  banisli'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  unconsecratcd  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  headman's  shock, 
In  quicken'd  brokenness  that  came. 
In  pity,  o'er  her  shattcr'd  frame. 
None  knew — and  none  can  ever  know  : 
But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below. 
Her  life  began  and  closed  in  wo  ! 

XX. 
And  Azo  found  another  bride, 
And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side ; 
But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 
As  him  who  withet'd  in  the  grave ; 
Or  if  they  were — on  his  cold  eye 
Their  gro\rth  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  behintL 
He  was  past  all  mirth  or  wo  : 
Nothing  more  remain'd  below 
But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 
A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 
A  heart  which  shunn'd  itself — and  yet 
That  would  not  yield — nor  could  forget, 
Which,  when  it  least  appear'd  to  melt. 
Intently  thought— intensely  felt : 
The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 
Can  only  o'er  the  surface  close — 
The  living  stream  lies  quick  below. 
And  flows — and  cannot  cease  to  flow 


140 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Still  was  his  seal'd-up  bosom  haunted 
By  thoughts  which  Nature  hath  implanted ; 
Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish, 
Howe'er  our  stifled  fears  we  banish  ; 
When,  struggUng  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, 
Forever  in  its  depth  endure, 
Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongeal'd, 
And  cherish'd  most  where  least  reveal'd 
With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left, 
To  throb  o'er  those  of  hfe  bereft ; 
Without  the  power  to  fill  again 


The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain ; 

Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 

United  so\jls  shall  gladness  share. 

With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 

Had  only  pass'd  a  just  decree  ; 

That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  in ; 

Tet  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  live 

AH  greenly  fi-esh  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. 


THE  PRISONER   OF   CHILLON. 


A   FABLE. 


SOimET  ON  CHILLON. 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind  I 
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. 

ChiUon  1  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  efliice  1 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


Mt  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years. 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night,' 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  : 

'  Ludovico  Sforza,  and  others.  The  same  is  asserted  of  Mario 
Antoinette's,  the  wife  of  Louis  XVI.,  though  not  quite  so  short  a 
period.  Grief  is  said  to  have  the  same  effect :  to  such,  and  not  to 
(ear,  this  change  In  hers  was  to  be  attributed. 


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  sufier'd  chains  and  courted  death  ; 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake  ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place ; 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field. 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd  ; 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast. 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

II. 
There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old. 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison'd  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  waU  is  fallen  and  left ; 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


141 


Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 

With  tears  for  naught  but  others'  ills, 

Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp : 

And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills. 

And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

Unless  he  could  assuage  the  wo 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 

Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 

That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 

V. 

With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind. 

Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 

But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind  ; 

Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes. 

Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 

Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  to  rise 

Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood 

For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 

And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score. 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died. 
And  I  lay  Uving  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. 
Wo  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  stiU  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope  or  legend  old. 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone. 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 

A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  : 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  Uke  our  own. 

IV. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

Tlie  yoimgest,  whom  my  father  loved, 

Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 

To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven. 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  : 

And  truly  might  it  be  distress'd 

To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest  ; 

For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
(Wlien  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, 

.\nd  in  liis  natural  spirit  gay, 


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  feefthe  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-Une  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,' 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthrals  : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day  ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd. 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd. 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


'  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens  and  Ville- 
nenve,  which  last  is  at  one  extremity  of  the  Lalte  of  Geneva.  On 
Its  left  are  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the  heio:hts 
of  the  Meillerie  and  the  range  of  Alps  above  Boveret  and  St.  Giu- 
go.  Near  it.  on  a  liill  Ixihind,  is  a  torrent :  below  It,  washing  its 
walls,  the  lake  lias  been  fathomed  to  the  depth  of  800  feet,  French 
measure :  within  it  are  a  range  of  dungeons.  In  which  the  early 
reformers,  and  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 ;  In  some  of  these  are  rings  for  the  fetterd  and  llie  fet- 
tered :  in  the  pavement  the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their 
traces.  Ke  was  confined  bore  several  years.  It  is  by  this  ensile 
that  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catastrophe  of  his  Ilcloise,  in  the  res- 
cue of  one  of  her  children  by  Julie  from  the  water ;  the  shock  of 
which,  and  the  illness  produced  by  the  lmmon*ion.  Is  the  cause  ol 
her  death.  The  chateau  Is  lanje,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a 
great  distance.    The  walls  are  white.  • 


142 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


VII. 
I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  Ms  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food ; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  wo  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  Uttle  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  Ms  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den  ; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold. 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side ; 
But  why  delay  the  truth  ? — he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — ^nor  dead, — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain 
He  died — and  they  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  freebom  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  untired 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 
He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 
Oh,  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood : — 
I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 
I've  seen  it  (?n  the  breaking  ocean 


Strive  with  a  swohi  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  ^vith  such — but  siu-e  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  aU  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb. 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray— 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise. 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  aU  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 — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear  ; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  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, 

/only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  lived — /  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew  ; 

The  last — the  sole — the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race. 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — ^both  had  ceased  to  breathe  ; 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas  1  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  thrive. 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  n\h-e — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  wo  love  shall  ne'er  be  so, 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX. 
What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 

I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too  : 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLOK. 


143 


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  liateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness — without  a  place ; 

There  were  no  stars — ^no  earth — no  time — 

No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime — 

But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 

Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death  ; 

A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

BUnd,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  ! 

X. 

A  hglit  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery  ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch'd,  as  fond  and  tame. 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me  1 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more  : 
It  seem'd  Uke  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again. 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink. 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine. 
But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bird  !  I  could  not  vrish  for  thine  I 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought  1  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ; 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  tlien  'twas  mortal — well  I  knew. 
For  he  would  never  tlius  have  flown, 


And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 
Lone — as  the  corse  within  its  shroud. 
Lone — as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day. 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere. 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate. 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate ; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  wo. 
But  so  it  was  : — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain. 
And  it  was  Kberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart. 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun. 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed. 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 
And  my  crush'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII. 
I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall. 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape. 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all. 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  imto  me  ; 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad  ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high. 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye.  • 

XIII. 
I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  Uke  me  in  frame 
I  saw  their  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  channcU'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,' 

'  Between  ttic  entrances  of  the  Rlione  and  VlUenenve,  not  fat 
from  ChilloD,  iB  n  very  small  Inland ;  the  only  one  I  conld  petcelTo, 


144 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Wliicli  in  my  very  fece  did  smile, 

Tlie  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, 
Mcthought  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  oppress'd, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 


In  my  voyage  round  and  over  the  lake,  within  its  circumference. 
It  contains  a  few  trees  (I  think  not  ahove  three),  and  from  its 
singleness  and  diminutiTe  size  has  a  peculiar  effect  upon  the 
view. 


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  leam'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  aU  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  leam'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. 


BEPPO 


A    VENETIAN     STORY. 


RosaHnd.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller :  Look,  yon  lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits :  dlsahle  all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country ; 
be  out  of  love  with  your  own  Nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are  ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  that 
yon  have  swam  In  a  Cfondola.  ■ie  You  Like  It,  Act  IV.  Scene  1. 

Annotation  qf  the  Commentators. 

That  is,  been  at  Venice,  which  was  much  visited  by  the  young  English  gentlemen  of  those  times,  and  was  then  what  ParU  is  now 
— ^the  seat  of  all  dissoluteness.  S.  A. 


BEPPO, 


'Tis  known,  at  least  it  should  be,  that  throughout 
All  countries  of  the  Catholic  persuasion. 

Some  weeks  before  Shrove  Tuesday  comes  about. 
The  people  take  their  fill  of  recreation. 

And  buy  repentance,  ere  they  grow  devout. 
However  high  their  rank,  or  low  their  station, 

Withflddling,feasting,  dancing,  drinking,  masquing, 

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, 

GiggUng  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  ; 
AU  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. 


BEPPO. 


146 


IV. 
You'd  better  walk  about  begirt  with  briers, 

Instead  of  coat  and  smallcloths,  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. 


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  arc. 
With  prettier  name  in  softer  accents  spoke, 

For,  bating  Covent  Garden,  I  can  hit  on 

No  place  that's  call'd  "  Piazza  "  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  accustom'd  from  a  boy 
To  eat  their  salmon,  at  the  least,  with  soy  ; 

VIII. 
And  therefore  humbly  I  would  recommend 

"  The  curious  in  fish-sauce,"  before  they  cross 
The  sea,  to  bid  their  cook,  or  wife,  or  friend. 

Walk  or  ride  to  the  Strand,  and  buy  in  gross. 
(Or  if  set  out  beforehand,  these  may  send 

By  any  means  less  liable  to  loss,) 
Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Harvey, 
Or,  by  the  Lord !  a  Lent  will  well-nigh  starve  ye ; 

IX. 
That  is  to  say,  if  your  religion's  Roman, 

And  you  at  Rome  would  do  as  Romans  do. 
According  to  the  proverb, — although  no  man, 

If  foreign,  is  obliged  to  fast ;  and  you, 
If  Protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a  woman. 

Would  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a  ragout — 
Dine  and  be  d — d  1  I  don't  mean  to  be  coarse. 
But  that's  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse. 
19 


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  mime,  and  mystery,  and  more 

Than  I  have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 
Venice  the  bell  from  every  city  bore, — 

And  at  the  moment  when  I  fix  my  story, 

That  sea-born  city  was  in  all  her  glory. 

XI. 
They've  pretty  faces  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 

Black  eyes,  arch'd  brows,  and  sweet  expressions 
Such  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians,  [still; 

In  ancient  arts  by  modems  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  a  portrait  of  his  son,  and  wife, 
And  self;  but  such  a  woman  !  love  in  life  ! 

XIII. 
Love  in  full  life  and  length,  not  love  ideal, 

No,  nor  ideal  beauty,  that  fine  name, 
But  something  better  still,  so  very  real, 

That  the  sweet  model  must  have  been  the  same ; 
A  thing  that  you  would  purchase,  beg,  or  steal, 

Wer't  not  impossible,  besides  a  shame  : 
The  face  recalls  some  face,  as  'twere  with  pain, 
You  once  have  seen,  but  ne'er  will  see  again  ; 

XIV. 
One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us,  when  we 

Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face ; 
And,  oh,  the  loveliness  at  times  we  see 

In  momentary  gliding,  the  soft  grace, 
The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree. 

In  many  a  nameless  being  we  retrace, 
Whose  course  and  home  we  knew  not,  nor  shall 
like  the  lost  Pleiad'  seen  no  more  below.       [know, 

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  Qoldoni, 

They  peep  from  out  tlie  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 ! 


146 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


XVI. 
For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  sighs, 

Sighs  wishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a  letter. 
Which  flies  on  wings  of  light-heel'd  Mercuries, 

Who  do  such  things  because  they  know  no  better ; 
And  then,  God  knows,  what  mischief  may  arise. 

When  love  hnks  two  young  people  in  one  fetter, 
Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds. 
Elopements,  broken  vows,  and  hearts,  and  heads. 

x\ai. 

Shakspeare  described  the  sex  in  Desdeinona 
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  "  cavalier  servente." 

XVIII. 

Their  jealousy  (if  they  are  ever  jealous) 

Is  of  a  fair  complexion  altogether. 
Not  Uke  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  veife  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  cofiLn  clapp'd  in  a  canoe, 
Where  none  can  make  out  what  you  say  or  do. 

XX. 

And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  they  go, 

And  unrler  the  Rialto  shoot  along. 
By  night  and  day,  aU  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  80  we'U  call  her  Laura,  if  you  please, 
Because  it  elijw  into  my  verse  with  ease. 


XXII. 
She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 

Which  certain  people  call  a  "  certain  age," 
Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears. 

Because  I  never  heard,  nor  could  engage 
A  person  yet  by  prayers,  or  bribes,  or  tears. 

To  name,  define  by  speech,  or  write  on  page, 
The  period  meant  precisely  by  that  word, — 
Which  surely  is  exceedingly  absurd. 

XXIII. 
Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  best 

Of  time,  and  time  retum'd  the  compliment, 
And  treated  her  genteelly,  so  that,  dress'd, 

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  flatter 
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 : 
He  was  a  merchant  trading  to  Aleppo, 
His  name  Giuseppe,  call'd  more  briefly,  Beppo. 

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  she,  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  thoughts  of  steering  home  ; 
And  there  were  several  offer'd  any  bet. 

Or  that  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not  come. 
For  most  men  (till  by  losing  render'd  sagcr) 
Will  back  their  own  opinions  with  a  wager. 


BEPPO. 


147 


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  this  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  daring  housebreaker  or  sprite. 
And  so  she  thought  it  prudent  to  connect  her 
With  a  vice-husband,  chiefly  to  protect  her. 

XXX. 

She  chose  (and  what  is  there  they  will  not  choose. 
If  only  you  will  but  oppose  their  choice  ?) 

Till  Beppo  should  return  from  his  long  cruise, 
And  bid  once  more  her  faithful  heart  rejoice, 

A  man  some  women  like,  and  yet  abuse — 
A  coxcomb  was  he  by  the  public  voice ; 

A  Count  of  wealth,  they  said,  as  well  as  quality, 

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  1" 

XXXII. 

His  "  bravo  "  was  decisive,  for  that  sound 
Hush'd  "  Academic  "  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  !" 

Soprano,  basso,  even  the  contra-alto, 

Wisb'd  him  five  fathom  under  the  Rialto. 

XXXIII. 
He  patronised  the  Improvisatbri, 

Nay,  could  himself  extemporize  some  stanzas. 
Wrote  rhymes,  sang  songs,  could  also  tell  a  story. 

Sold  pictures,  and  was  skillful  in  the  dance  as 
Italian  i  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  verv  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  enamor  us, 

Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  retain. 
He  was  a  lover  of  the  good  old  school. 
Who  stiU  become  more  constant  as  they  cooL 

XXXV. 

No  wonder  such  accomplishments  should  turn 
A  female  head,  however  sage  and  steady — 

With  scarce  a  hope  that  Beppo  could  return. 
In  law  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he 

Nor  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  show'd  the  least  concern, 
And  she  had  waited  several  years  already ; 

And  really  if  a  man  won't  let  us  know 

That  he's  alive,  te'3  dead,  or  should  be  so. 

XXXVI. 
Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman, 

(Although,  God  knows,  it  is  a  grievous  sin), 
'Tis,  I  may  say,  permitted  to  have  two  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. 

XXXTII. 

The  word  was  formerly  a  "  Cicisbeo," 
But  tliat  is  now  grown  vulgar  and  indecent ; 

The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a  "  Cortejo^^'- 
For  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain,  though 

In  short  it  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Teio,        [recent ; 
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-otetc  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  flj^t  coming  out. 
So  much  alarm'd,  that  she  is  quite  alarming, 

All  Giggle,  Blush  ;  half  Pcrtness,  and  half  Pout ; 

'  Cortejo  is  pronounced  Corte/io,  with  an  aspirate,  according  to 
the  Arabesque  guttaral.  It  means  tliat  tUore  Is  as  yet  no  precise 
name  for  it  in  England,  though  the  practice  Is  as  commLU  us  in 
any  tramontane  country  wliatever. 


148 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


A.nd  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  snpernumery  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)  fi:om  tree  to  tree 
Festoon'd,  much  like  the  back  scene  of  a  play, 

Or  melodrame,  which  people  flock  to  see. 
When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a  dance 
In  vineyards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 

XLII. 
I  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, 
ReeUng  with  (/rapes  red  wagons  choke  the  way, — 
In  England  'twould  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

XLIII. 
I  also  like  to  dine  on  becaflcas. 

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. 

LIT. 
I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 

Which  melts  like  kisses  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  imcouth. 
Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttural. 
Which  we're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  and  sputter  aU. 

XLV. 
I  like  the  women,  too  (forgive  my  foUy), 

From  the  rich  peasant-cheek  of  ruddy  bronze. 
And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  you  a  volley 

Of  rays  that  say  a  thousand  things  at  once. 


To  the  high  dama's  brow,  more  melancholy. 

But  clear,  and  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  words  describe  thy  past  and  pleasant  glow, 
While  yet  Canova  can  create  below  2' 

XLVII. 
"  England  !  with  aU  thy  faults  I  love  thee  stLU," 

I  said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it ; 
I  like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill ; 

I  like  the  government,  (but  that  is  not  it ;) 
I  like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I  like  the  Habeas  Corpus,  (when  we've  got  it ;) 
I  like  a  parliamentary  debate. 
Particularly  when  'tis  not  too  late ; 

XLVIII. 
I  like  the  taxes,  when  they're  not  too  many ; 

I  like  a  seacoal  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  army,  and  disbanded  seamen. 

Poor's  rate.  Reform,  my  own,  the  nation's  debt, 
Our  little  riots  just  to  show  we're  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  glories. 
And  wish  they  were  not  owing  to  the  Tories. 

L. 

But  to  my  tale  of  Laura, — for  I  find 

Digression  is  a  sin,  that  by  degrees 
Becomes  exceeding  tedious  to  my  mind. 

And,  therefore,  may  the  reader  too  displease — 


'  For  the  received  accounts  of  the  caaee  of  Eaphael's  death,  see 

his  lives. 

'  JVote— (In  talking  thus,  the  writer,  more  especially 
Of  women,  would  be  understood  to  eay, 
He  spealis  as  a  spectator,  not  officially. 
And  always,  reader,  in  a  modest  way ; 
Perhaps,  too,  in  no  very  great  degi-ce  shall  he 

Appear  to  have  offended  in,  this  lay. 
Since,  as  all  know,  without  the  sex,  our  sonnets 
Would  seem  nnfinish'd,  like  their  nBtiimm'd  bonnets. j 
(Signed)  Peist^e's  Devil. 


BEPPO. 


149 


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. 
Some  samples  of  the  finest  Orientalism. 

LII. 
But  I  am  but  a  nameless  sort  of  person, 

(A  broken  Dandy  lately  on  my  travels,) 
And  take  for  rhyme,  to  hook  my  rambling  verse  on, 

The  first  that  Walker's  Lexicon  unrdvels. 
And  when  I  can't  find  that,  I  put  a  worse  on, 

Not  caring  as  I  ought  for  critics'  cavils  ; 
I've  half  a  mind  to  tumble  down  to  prose, 
Bnt  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  I" 
He  took  them  not ;  he  very  often  waits. 
And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  ones'  baits. 

LV. 
Bnt  they  were  yoimg  :  Oh  !  what  without  our  youth 

Would  love  be  I  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 
Arc  always  so  preposterously  jealous. 

LVI. 
It  was  the  Carnival,  as  I  have  said 

Some  six  and  thirty  stanzas  back,  and  so 


Laura  the  usual  preparations  made. 

Which  you  do  when  your  mind's  made  up  to  go 
To-night  to  Mrs.  Boehm's  masquerade, 

Sijectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show ; 
The  only  difference  known  between  the  cases 
Is — here,  we  have  six  weeks  of  "  varnish'd  faces." 

LVII. 
Laura,  when  dress'd,  was  (as  I  sang  before) 

A  pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen. 
Fresh  as  the  Angel  o'er  a  new  inn  door. 

Or  frontispiece  of  a  new  Magazine, 
With  all  the  fashions  which  the  last  month  wore, 

Color'd,  and  silver  paper  leaved  between 
That  and  the  title-page,  for  fear  the  press 
Should  sou  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  of  dress. 

LVm. 
They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ; — 'tis  a  haU 

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)  Uke  our  Vauxhall, 

■Excepting  that  it  can't  be  spoilt  by  rain  : 
The  company  is  "  mix'd,"  (the  phrase  I  quote  is 
As  much  as  saying,  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  "  the  World  ;"  but  I, 
Although  I  know  them,  really  don't  know  why. 

LX. 
This  is  the  case  in  England ;  at  least  was 

During  the  dynasty  of  Dandies,  now 
Perchance  succeeded  by  some  other  class 

Of  Imitated  imitators  : — how 
Irreparably  soon  decline,  alas  ! 

The  demagogues  of  fashion :  all  below 
Is  frail ;  how  easily  the  world  is  lost 
By  love,  or  war,  and  now  and  then  by  frost ! 

LXI. 
Crush'd  was  Napoleon  by  the  northern  Thor, 

Who  knock'd  his  army  down  with  icy  hammer, 
Stopp'd  by  the  elements,  like  a  whaler,  or 

A  blundering  novice  in  his  new  French  grammar ; 
Good  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of  war. 

And  aa  for  Fortune — but  I  dare  not  d — n  her, 
Because,  were  I  to  ponder  to  infinity. 
The  more  I  should  believe  in  her  divinity. 


150 


BYRON'S    WOEKS. 


LXII. 
She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet, 

She  gives  us  luck  in  lotteries,  love,  and  marriage  ; 
I  cannot  say  she's  done  much  for  me  yet ; 

Not  that  I  mean  her  bounties  to  disparage. 
We've  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shall  see  yet 

How  much  she'll  make  amends  for  past  miscarriage ; 
Meantime  the  goddess  I'U  no  more  importmie. 
Unless  to  thank  her  when  she's  made  my  fortime. 

LXIII. 

To  turn, — and  to  return  ; — the  devil  take  it ! 

This  stoiy  slips  forever  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. 

LXIV. 
They  went  to  the  Ridotto,  ('tis  a  place 

To  which  I  mean  to  go  myself  to-morrow, 
Just  to  divert  my  thoughts  a  Uttle  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'U  make,  or  find. 
Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hour  behind.) 

LXV. 

N"ow  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  courtsies,  and  to  some  she  dips, 

Oomplains  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  dress'd  so  ill. 

LXVI. 
One  has  false  curls,  another  too  much  paint, 

A  third — ^where  did  she  buy  that  frightful  turban  ? 
A  fourth's  so  pale  she  fears  she's  going  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  wiU  be  her  bane. 
And  lo  !  an  eighth  appears,—"  I'D  see  no  more  !" 
For  fear,  like  Banquo's  king,  they  reach  a  score. 

LXVII. 
Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  gazing. 

Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her ; 
She  heard  the  men's  half-whisper'd  mode  of  praising, 

And,  till  '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,  how,  I  ne'er  could  understand 

Why  naughty  women^but  I  won't  discuss 
A  thing  which  is  a  scandal  to  the  land, 

I  only  don't  see  why  it  should  be  thus  ; 
And  if  I  were  but  in  a  gown  and  band, 

Just  to  entitle  me  to  make  a  fuss, 
I'd  preach  on  this  till  Wilberforce  and  Romilly 
Should  quote  in  their  next  speeches  from  my  homily. 

LXIX. 
While  Laura  thus  was  seen  and  seeing,  smiling, 

Talking,  she  knew  not  why  and  cared  not  what, 
So  that  her  female  friends,  with  envy  broiling. 

Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that ; 
And  well-dress'd  males  still  kept  before  her  filing. 

And  passing  bow'd  and  mingled  with  her  chat ; 
More  than  the  rest  one  person  seem'd  to  stare 
With  pertinacity  that's  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  by  law,  and  concubines  "  ad  Ubitum." 

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  gayly 

As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  nations  ; 
Confinement,  too,  must  make  them  look  quite  palely ; 

And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations. 
Their  days  are  either  pass'd  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  harems  learning  soon  would  make  a  pretty  schism  1 

But  luckily  these  beauties  are  no  "  Blues," 
No  bustling  Botherbys  have  they  to  show  'em 
"  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  1 


BEPPO. 


151 


LXXIV. 
A  stalkiBg  oracle  of  awful  phrase, 

The  approving  "  Good  /"  (by  no  means  good  in  j 
Humming  like  flies  around  the  newest  blaze,    [law) 

.The  bluest  of  bluebottles  you  e'er  saw, 
Teasing  with  blame,  excruciating  with  praise. 

Gorging  the  little  fame  he  gets  aU  raw. 
Translating  tongues  he  knows  not  even  by  letter, 
And  sweating  plays  so  middling,  bad  were  better. 

LXXV. 
One  hates  an  author  that's  all  author,  fellows 

In  foolscap  uniforms  tum'd  up  with  ink. 
So  very  anxious,  clever,  fine,  and  jealous, 

One  don't  know  what  to  say  to  them,  or  think. 
Unless  to  puff  them  with  a  pair  of  bellows ; 

Of  coxcombry's  worst  coxcombs  e'en  the  pink 
Are  preferable  to  these  shreds  of  paper. 
These  unquench'd  snufiings  of  the  midnight  taper. 

•  LXXVI. 

Of  these  same  we  see  several,  and  of  others. 

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  j)en ; 
But  for  the  children  of  the  "  mighty  mother's," 

The  would-be  wits  and  can't-be  gentlemen, 
I  leave  them  to  their  daily  "  tea  is  ready," 
Smug  coterie,  and  literary  lady. 

LXXVII. 
The  poor  dear  Mussulwomen  whom  I  mention 

Have  none  of  these  instructive  pleasant  people. 
And  one  would  seem  to  them  a  new  invention, 

Unknown  as  bells  within  a  Turkish  steeple ; 
I  think  'twould  almost  be  worth  while  to  pension 

(Though  best^sown  projects  very  often  reap  ill) 
A  missionary  author,  just  to  preach 
Our  Christian  usage  of  the  parts  of  speech. 

Lxxvni. 

No  chemistry  for  them  imfolds  her  gases, 
No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lectures. 

No  circulating  Ubrary  amasses 
Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  strictures 

Upon  the  Uving  manners,  as  they  pass  us ; 
No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictvu-es  ; 

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  mcthinks  the  older  that  one  grows 
Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  though  laugh- 
Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after.  fter 


LXXX. 
Oh,  Mirth  and  Innocence  1    Oh,  MUk  and  Water  ! 

Ye  happy  mixtures  of  more  happy  days  1 
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  well  and  long,  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  ballroom  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  stay'd  them  over  for  some  silly  reason. 
And  then  I  look'd  (I  hope  it  was  no  crime) 

To  see  what  lady  best  stood  out  the  season  ; 
And  though  I've  seen  some  thousands  in  their  prime, 

Lovely  and  pleasing,  and  who  still  may  please  on, 
I  never  saw  but  one  (the  stars  withdrawn) 
Whose  bloom  could  after  dancing  dare  the  dawn. 

LXXXIV. 
The  name  of  this  Aurora  I'll  not  mention. 

Although  I  might,  for  she  was  naught  to  me 
More  than  that  patent  work  of  God's  invention, 

A  charming  woman,  whom  we  like  to  see  ; 
But  writing  names  would  merit  reprehension. 

Yet  if  you  like  to  find  out  this  fair  she, 
At  the  next  London  or  Parisian  ball 
You  still  may  mark  her  cheek,  out-blooming  all. 

LXXXV. 
Laura,  who  knew  it  would  not  do  at  aU 

To  meet  the  daylight  after  seven  hours'  sitting 
Among  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball. 

To  make  her  courtsy  thought  it  right  and  fitting : 
The  Count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl. 

And  they  the  room  were  on  the  point  of  quitting. 
When  lo  !  those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 
Just  in  the  very  place  where  they  thould  not. 


152 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


LXXXVI. 
In  this  they're  like  our  coachmen,  and  the  cause 

Is  much  the  same— the  crowd,  and  pulling,  haul- 
With  blasphemies  enough  to  break  their  jaws,  [ing. 

They  make  a  never  intermitting  bawling. 
At  home,  our  Bow-street  gemmen  keep  the  laws. 

And  here  a  sentry  stands  within  your  calling ; 
But  for  all  that,  there  is  a  deal  of  swearing, 
And  nauseous  words  past  mentioning  or  bearing. 

LXXXVII. 
The  Count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  at  last, 

And  homeward  floated  o'er  the  silent  tide, 
Discussing  all  the  dances  gone  and  past ; 

The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  too,  beside  ; 
Some  Uttle  scandals  eke  :  but  all  aghast 

(As  to  their  palace  stairs  the  rowers  glide) 
Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  Adorer, 
When  lo  1  the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 

LXXXVIIL 

"  Sir,*  said  the  Count,  with  brow  exceeding  grave, 
"Your  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 

It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 
Its  import  ?    But  perhaps  'tis  a  mistake  ; 

I  hope  it  is  so  ;  and,  at  once  to  wave 
All  compliment  I  hoi^e  so  for  your  sake  : 

You  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  shall.'''' 

"  Sir,"  (quoth  the  Turk,)  "  'tis  no  mistake  at  alL 

LXXXIX. 
"  That  lady  is  my  wife .'"    Much  wonder  paints 

The  lady's  changing  cheek,  as  well  it  might ; 
But  where  an  Englishwoman  sometimes  faints, 

Italian  females  don't  do  so  outright ; 
They  only  call  a  httle  on  their  saints, 

And  then  come  to  themselves,  almost  or  quite ; 
Which  saves  much  hartshorn,  salts,  and  sprinkling 
And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  cases.        [faces, 

XC. 
She  said, — ^what  could  she  say  ?    Why,  not  a  word  : 

But  the  Count  courteously  invited  in 
The  stranger,  much  appeased  by  what  he  heard : 

"  Such  things,  perhaps,  we'd  best  discuss  within," 
Said  he  ;  "  don't  lot  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

In  public,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  din, 
For  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfaction 
Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction." 

XCI. 
They  enter'd,  and  for  colTee  call'd— it  came, 

A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both. 
Although  the  way  they  make  it's  not  the  same. 

Now  Laura,  much  recovcr'd,  or  less  loth 
To  speak,  cries  "  Beppo  I  what's  your  pagan  name  ? 

Bless  me  !  your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth  ! 
And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long  ? 
Are  you  not  sensible  'twas  very  wrong  ? 


XCII. 

"  And  are  you  really,  truly,  now  a  Turk  ? 

With  any  other  woman  did  you  vidve  ? 
Is't  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a  fork  ? 

Well,  that's  the  prettiest  shawl — as  I'm  alive  ! 
You'll  give  it  me  ?     They  say  you  eat  no  pork. 

And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
To — rbless  me  !  did  I  ever  !    No,  I  never 
Saw  a  man  grown  so  yellow  1    How's  your  Uver  ? 

XCIII. 
"  Beppo  !  that  beard  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 

It  shall  be  shaved  before  you're  a  day  older  : 
Why  do  you  wear  it  ?    Oh,  I  had  forgot — 

Pray  don't  you  think  the  weather  here  is  colder  ? 
Ho\v  do  I  look  ?    You  sha'n't  stir  from  this  spot 

In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholder 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
How  short  your  hair  is  !  Lord,  how  gray  its  grown!" 

XCIV. 
What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands 

Is  more  than  I  know.    He  was  cast  away 
About  where  Troy  stood  once,  and  nothing  stands  ; 

Became  a  slave  of  Course,  and  for  his  pay 
Had  bread  and  bastinadoes,  till  some  bands 

Of  pirates  landing  in  a  neighboring  bay, 
He  join'd  the  rogues  and  prosper'd,  and  became 
A  renegade  of  indifferent  fame. 

XCV. 
But  he  grew  rich,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 

Keen  the  desire  to  see  his  home  again, 
He  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so. 

And  not  be  always  thieving  on  the  main  ; 
Lonely  he  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe, 

And  BO  he  hired  a  vessel  come  from  Spain, 
Bound  for  Corfu  :  she  was  a  fine  polacca, 
Mann'd  with  twelve  hands,  and  laden  with  tobacco. 

XCVI. 
Himself,  and  much  (heaven  knows  how  gotten !)  cash. 

He  then  embark'd  with  risk  of  life  and  limb. 
And  got  clear  off,  although  the  attempt  was  rash  ; 

lie  said  that  Providence  protected  him — 
For  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  lest  we  clash 

In  our  opinions  : — well,  the  ship  was  trim. 
Set  sail,  and  kept  her  reckoning  fairly  on. 
Except  three  days  of  calm  When  off  Cape  Bonn. 

XCVII. 
They  reach'd  the  island,  he  transferr'd  his  lading. 

And  self  and  live-stock,  to  another  bottom. 
And  pass'd  for  a  true  Turkey-merchant,  trading 

With  goods  of  various  names,  but  I  forgot  'em. 
However,  he  got  off  by  this  evading. 

Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot  him  ; 
And  thus  at  Venice  landed  to  reclaim 
His  wife,  religion,  house,  and  Christian  name. 


i 


•SIK'  (QirOIH  xaZ  IL'IIK.!"TIS  no   mSTA-KK   AT   Ar.I,. 

"that  lady  13  io*  WIPE"'  ywra  woNuri'.  tm-nts 


Jolmson.f 'iT-ic  Company,  T->iiblishpra.  NcwVor) 


MAZEPPA 


153 


XCTIII. 
Hia  wife  received,  the  patriarch  rebaptized  him, 

(He  made  the  church  a  present,  by  the  way ;) 
He  then  threw  off  the  garments  which  disguised  him, 

And  bon-ow'd  the  Count's  smallclothes  for  a  day : 
His  friends  the  more  for  his  long  absence  prized  him. 

Finding  he'd  wherewithal  to  make  them  gay, 
With  dinners,whereheoft  became  the  laugh  of  them. 
For  stories — but  I  don't  believe  the  half  of  them. 


XCIX. 
Whatfi'er  his  youth  had  suffer'd,  his  old  age 

With  wealth  and  talking  make  him  some  amends ; 
Though  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a  rage, 

I've  heard  the  Count  and  he  were  always  friends. 
My  pen  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  page, 

AVhich  being  flnish'd,  here  the  story  ends  ; 
'Tis  to  be  wish'd  it  had  been  sooner  done. 
But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  begun. 


M  A  Z.E  PP  A 


ADVEKTISEMENT. 

"  Cbldi  qui  remplissait  alors  cette  place  etait  un 
gentilhomme  Polonais,  nomm6  Mazeppa,  n6  dans  le 
palatinat  de  Podolie  :  il  avait  6te  61ev6  page  de  Jean 
Cafcimir,  et  avait  pris  a  sa  cour  quelque  teinture  des 
belles-lettres,  line  intrigue  qu'il  eut  dans  sa  jeunesse 
avec  la  femme  d'un  gentilhomme  Polonais  ayant  6te 
decouvertb,  le  mari  le  fit  lier  tout  nu  sur  \m  cheval 
farouche,  et  le  laissa  aller  en  cet  etat.  Le  cheval,  qui 
etait  du  pays  de  I'Ukraine,  y  retourna,  et  y  porta  Ma- 
zeppa, demi-mort  de  fatigue  et  de  faim.  Quelques  pay- 
sans  le  secoururent :  il  resta  long-tems  parmi  eux,  et 
se  signala  dans  plusieurs  courses  contre  les  Tartaxes. 
La  supurioritc  de  ses  lumieres  lui  donna  une  grande 
consideration  parmi  les  Cosaques  :  sa  reputation  s'aug- 
mcntant  de  jour  en  jour,  obligea  le  Czar  a  le  faire 
Prince  de  rUkraine,"— Voltaikb,  Hist,  de  Charles 
XII.,  p.  196. 

"  Le  roi  fuyant,  et  poursuivi,  eut  son  cheval  tue  sous 
Ini ;  le  Colonel  Gieta,  blesse,  et  perdant  tout  son  sang, 
lui  donna  la  sein.  Ainsi  on  remit  deux  fois  4  cheval, 
dans  la  fuite,  ce  conquurant  qui  n'avait  pu  y  monter 
pendant  la  bataille." — p.  216. 

"  Le  roi  alia  par  un  autre  chemin  avec  quelques 
cavaliers.  Lo  carrosse  ou  il  etait  rompit  dans  la 
niarche  ;  on  le  remit  A.  cheval.  'Pour  comblo  de  dis- 
grace, il  s'dgara  pendant  la  nuit  dans  un  bois  ;  la,  son 
courage  ne  pouvant  plus  supplier  a  ses  forces  epuisees, 
les  douleurs  de  sa  blessure  devenues  plus  insupporta- 
bles  jMir  la  fatigue,  son  cheval  itant  tombS  de  lassi- 
tude, il  se  concha  quelques  heures  au  pied  d'un  arbre, 
en  danger  d'etre  surpris  a  tout  moment  par  les  vain- 
queuTS,  qui  le  cherchaient  de  tons  c6t6s." — p.  218. 


MAZEPPA. 


'TwA8  after  dread  Pultowa's  day, 
Whan  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede 

Around  a  slaughter'd  army  lay, 
No  more  to  comb.!^  and  to  bleed. 
20 


The  power  and  glory  of  the  war. 

Faithless  as  their  vain  votaries,  men, 
Had  pass'd  to  the  triumphant  Czar, 

And  Moscow's  walls  were  safe  again. 
Until  a  day  more  dark  and  drear, 
And  a  more  memorable  year. 
Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A  mightier  host  and  haughtier  name  ; 
A  greater  wreck,  a  deeper  fall, 
A  shock  to  one — a  thimderbolt  to  alL 

II. 
Such  was  the  hazard  of  the  die ; 
The  wounded  Charles  was  taught  to  fly 
By  day  and  night  through  field  and  flood. 
Stain'd  with  his  own  and  subjects'  blood ; 
For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid : 
And  not  a  voice  was  heard  t'  upbraid 
Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour. 
When  truth  had  naught  to  dread  from  power. 
His  horse  was  slain,  and  Gieta  gave 
His  own — and  died  the  Russians'  slave. 
This  too  sinks  after  many  a  league 
Of  well-sustain'd,  but  vain  fatigue ; 
And  in  the  depth  of  forests,  darkling 
The  watch-fires  in  the  distance  sparkling — 

The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes — 
A  king  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 

Are  these  the  laurels  and  repose 
For  which  the  nations  strain  their  strength  ? 
They  laid  him  by  a  savage  tree. 
In  outworn  nature's  agony ; 
His  wounds  were  stiff — his  limbs  were  stark — 
The  heavy  hour  was  chill  and  dark ; 
The  fever  in  his  blood  forbade 
A  transient  slumber's  fitful  aid : 
And  thus  it  was  :  but  yet  through  all, 
Kinghke  the  monarch  bore  his  fall, 
And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 
His  pangs  the  vassals  of  Ids  will : 


154 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


AH  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 
As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay. 

III. 
A  band  of  chiefs  ! — alas  !  how  few, 
Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinn'd  it ;  but  this  wreck  was  true 

And  chivalrous  :  upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute, 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed, 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 

And  aU  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  piDow  in  an  old  oak's  shade — 
Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old. 
The  Ukraine's  hetman,  calm  and  bold  : 
But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course, 
■  The  Cossack  prince  rubb'd  down  his  horse, 
And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed, 

And  smooth'd  his  fetlocks  and  his  mane. 

And  slack'd  his  girth,  and  stripp'd  his  rein, 
And  joy'd  to  see  how  well  he  fed ; 
For  until  now  he  had  the  dread 
His  wearied  courser  might  refuse 
To  browse  beneath  the  midnight  dews  : 
But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord. 
And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board ; 
But  spirited  and  docile  too,  • 
Whate'er  was  to  be  done,  would  do. 
Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb. 
All  Tartar-like  he  carried  him  ; 
Obey'd  his  voice,  and  came  to  call, 
And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all : 
Though  thousands  were  around, — and  Night, 
Without  a  star,  pursued  her  flight, — 
That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 
His  chief  would  foUow  like  a  fawn. 

IV. 
This  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak. 
And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak. 
Felt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 
The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood — 
If  stiU  the  powder  fiU'd  the  pan. 

And  flints  unloosen'd  kept  their  lock — 
His  sabre's  hilt  and  scabbard  felt. 
And  whether  they  had  chafed  his  belt — 
And  next  the  venerable  man. 
From  out  his  haversack  and  can. 

Prepared  and  spread  his  slender  stock ; 
And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 
The  whole  or  portion  offer'd  then 
With  far  less  of  inquietude 
Than  courtiers  at  a  banquet  would. 
And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 
With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there. 
To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show. 
And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  wo ; — 


And  then  he  said — "  Of  all  our  band, 

Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 

In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 

Can  less  have  said  or  more  have  done 

Than  thee,  Mazeppa  !    On  the  earth 

So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth, 

Since  Alexander's  days  till  now. 

As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou : 

All  Scythia's  fame  to  thine  should  yield 

For  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field." 

Mazeppa  answer'd — "  I'U  betide 

The  school  wherein  I  leam'd  to  ride  !" 

Quoth  Charles—"  Old  Hetman,  wherefore  so, 

Since  thou  hast  leam'd  the  art  so  well  2" 

ilazeppa  said — "  'Twere  long  to  tell ; 

And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go. 

With  every  now  and  then  a  blow. 

And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe. 

Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease, 

Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes  : 

And,  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest. 

And  I  wiU  be  the  sentinel 

Of  this  your  troop."     "  But  I  request," 

Said  Sweden's  monarch,  ''thou  wilt  tell 

This  tale  of  thine,  and  I  may  reap. 

Perchance,  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep  ; 

For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 

The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies." 


"  Well,  sire,  with  such  a  hope  I'U  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back  : 
I  think  'twas  in  my  twentieth  spring, — 
Ay,  'twas, — ^when  Casimir  was  king — 
John  Casimir, — I  was  his  page 
Six  summers,  in  my  earlier  age  ; 
A  learned  monarch,  faith  1  was  he. 
And  most  unlike  your  majesty : 
He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 
New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again  ; 
And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw's  diet) 
He  reign'd  in  most  imseemly  quiet ; 
Not  that  he  had  no  cares  to  vex. 
He  loved  the  muses  and  the  sex  ; 
And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are. 
They  made  him  wish  himself  at  war ; 
But  soon  his  wrath  being  o'er,  he  took 
Another  mistress,  or  new  book  ; 
And  then  he  gave  prodigious  fetes — 
All  Warsaw  gather'd  round  his  gates 
To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court. 
And  dames,  and  chiefs,  of  princely  port : 
He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 
So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one. 
Who,  being  unpension'd,  made  a  satire, 
And  boasted  that  he  could  not  flatter.     • 
It  was  a  court  of  jousts  and  mimes. 
Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes  ; 


MAZEPPA. 


156 


Even  I  for  once  produced  some  verses, 
And  sign'd  my  odes  '  Despairing  Thyrsis,' 
There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 

A  count  of  far  and  high  descent, 
Rich  as  a  salt  or  silver  mine ; ' 
And  ho  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent : 
He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore 

As  few  could  match  beneath  the  tlirone ; 
And  he  would  gaze  upoH  his  store, 
And  o'er  his  pedigree  would  pore. 
Until  by  some  confusion  led, 
Wliich  almost  look'd  like  want  of  head. 

He  thought  their  merits  were  his  own. 
His  wife  was  not  of  his  opinion — 

His  junior  she  by  thirty  years — 
Grew  daily  tired  of  his  dominion  ; 

And,  after  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 

To  virtue  a  few  farewell  tears, 
A  restless  dream  or  two,  some  glances 
At  Warsaw's  youth,  some  songs,  and  dances, 
Awaited  but  the  usual  chances. 
Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender. 
To  deck  her  Count  with  titles  given, 
'Tis  said,  as  passports  into  heaven  ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Of  these,  who  have  deserved  them  most. 

V. 
"  I  was  a  goodly  stripling  then ; 

At  seventy  years  I  so  may  say. 
That  there  were  few,  or  boys  or  men, 

'Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day, 
Of  vassal  or  of  knight's  degree, 
Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me  ; 
For  I  had  strength,  youth,  gayety, 
A  port,  not  like  to  this  ye  see. 
But  smooth,  as  all  is  rugged  now ; 

For  time,  and  care,  and  war,  have  plougli'd 
My  very  soul  from  out  my  brow ; 

iVnd  thus  I  should  be  disavow'd 
By  all  my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Compare  my  day  and  yesterday ; 
This  change  was  wrought,  too,  long  ere  age 
Had  ta'en  my  features  for  his  page  : 
With  years,  ye  know,  have  not  declined 
My  strength,  my  courage,  or  my  mind, 
Or  at  this  hour  I  should  not  be 
Telling  old  tales  beneath  a  tree. 
With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 
But  let  me  on  :  Theresa's  form — 
Mfithinks  it  glides  before  me  now. 
Between  me  and  yon  chestnut's  bough, 

'  This  comparigon  of  a  "  lalt  mine  "  may,  perhaps,  be  pennitted 
to  a  Pole,  ae  the  wealth  of  the  coantr;  conaiatg  greatly  in  the  Bait 
minee. 


The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm ; 
And  yet  I  find  no  words  to  tell 
The  shaiKi  of  her  I  loved  so  well : 
She  had  the  Asiatic  eye. 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighborhood, 

Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood, 
Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky ; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light,  . 
Like  the  first  moonrise  of  midnight ; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream, 
Which  seem'd  to  melt  to  its  own  beam  : 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire. 
Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  expire. 
And  lift  their  raptured  looks  on  high. 
As  though  it  were  a  joy  to  die. 
A  brow  like  a  midsummer  lake. 

Transparent  with  the  sun  therein. 
When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  make. 

And  heaven  beholds  her  face  within 
A  cheek  and  lip— but  why  proceed  ? 

I  loved  her  then — I  love  her  still ; 
And  such  as  I  am,  love  indeed 

In  iierce  extremes — in  good  and  ill 
But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage, 
And  haunted  to  our  very  age 
With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past. 
As  is  Mazeppa  to  the  last. 

VI. 
"  We  met — we  gazed — ^I  saw,  and  sigh'd. 
She  did  not  speak,  and  yet  replied  ; 
There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 
We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines — 
Involuntary  sparks  of  thought, 
Which  strike  from  out  the  heart  o'erwrought 
And  form  a  strange  intelligence. 
Alike  mysterious  and  intense. 
Which  link  the  burning  chain  that  binds. 
Without  their  will,  young  hearts  and  minds  ; 
Conveying,  as  the  electric  wire. 
We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire. 
I  saw,  and  sigh'd — ^in  silence  wept, 
And  still  reluctant  distance  kept, 
Until  I  was  made  known  to  her. 
And  we  might  then  and  there  confer 
Without  suspicion — then,  even  then, 

I  long'd,  and  was  resolved  to  speak  ; 
But  on  my  lips  they  died  again. 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak. 
Until  one  hour.    There  is  a  game, 

A  frivolous  and  foolish  play, 

Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day ; 
It  is — I  have  forgot  the  name — 
And  we  to  this,  it  seems  were  set, 
By  some  strange  chance,  which  I  forget. 
I  reck'd  not  if  I  won  or  lost, 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  be 

So  near  to  hear,  and  oh,  to  see 


156 


IJYRON'S    WORKS. 


The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most. 

For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 

I  watch'd  her  as  a  sentinel, 

That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well  I) 

Until  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was, 

VIH. 

That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 

"  For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 

Her  occupation,  nor  was  grieved 

And  such  there  were  on  us  ; — the  devil 

Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain  ;  but  still 

On  such  occasions  should  be  civil — 

Play'd  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  wiU 

The  devil  t — I'm  loth  to  do  him  wrong. 

Tet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  not 

It  might  be  some  untoward  saint. 

That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot. 

Who  would  not  be  at  fest  too  long, 

Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pass 

But  to  his  pious  bile  gave  vent — 

Even  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there, 

But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 

That  there  was  something  in  her  air 

Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 

Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair ; 

The  Count  was  something  more  than  wroth — 

And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  forth, 

I  was  unarm'd  ;  but  if  in  steel. 

All  incoherent  as  they  were — 

AU  cap-a-pie  from  head  to  heel. 

Their  eloquence  was  little  worth. 

Wliat  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do  ? 

But  yet  she  Usten'd — ^"tis  enough — 

'Twas  near  his  castle,  fer  away 

Who  listens  once  will  listen  twice ; 

From  city  or  from  succor  near. 

Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice, 

And  almost  on  the  break  of  day  ; 

And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 

I  did  not  think  to  see  another. 

My  moments  seem'd  reduced  to  few  ; 

VII. 

And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 

And,  it  may  be,  a  saint  or  two, 

"  I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again — ■ 

As  I  resign'd  me  to  my  fate,         ■■ 

They  tell  me,  sire,  you  never  knew 

They  led  me  to  the  castle  gate  : 

Those  gentle  frailties  ;  if  'tis  true. 

Theresa's  doom  I  never  knew. 

I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain  ; 

Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate — 

To  you  'twould  seem  absurd  as  vain  ; 

An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine. 

But  all  men  are  not  bom  to  reign, 

Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine  ; 

Or  o'er  their  passions,  or  as  you 

And  he  had  reason  good  to  be, 

Thus  o'er  themselves  and  nations  too. 

But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 

I  am — or  rather  teas — a  prince. 

An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 

A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 

Upon  his  future  pedigree  ; 

Them  on  where  each  would  foremost  bleed ; 

Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a  blot 

But  could  not  o'er  myself  evince 

His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got, 

The  like  control.     But  to  resume  : 

While  he  was  highest  of  his  line  ; 

I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again ; 

Because  unto  himself  he  seem'd 

In  sooth,  it  is  a  happy  doom. 

The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deem'd 

But  yet  where  happiest  ends  in  pain. 

In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 

We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 

'Sdeath  !  with  a  page — perchance  a  king 

Which  led  me  to  that  lady's  bower 

Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing  ; 

Was  fiery  Expectation's  dower. 

But  with  a  stripling  of  a  page — 

My  days  and  nights  were  nothing — all 

I  felt — but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

Except  that  hour  which  doth  recall 

In  the  long  lapse  from  yduth  to  age 

IX. 

No  other  like  itself — I'd  give 

" '  Bring  forth  the  horse  I' — the  horse  was  brought ; 

The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 

In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed. 

It  o'er  once  more — and  be  a  page. 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed. 

The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 

Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 

Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword,     , 

Were  in  his  limbs  ;  but. he  was  wild. 

And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught. 

Save  nature's  gift  of  youth  and  health. 

With  spur  and  bridle  undeflled — 

We  met  in  secret — doubly  sweet. 

'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 

Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet ; 

And  snorting,  with  erected  mane. 

I  know  not  that — I  would  have  given 

And  struggUng  fiercely,  but  in  vain. 

My  Ufe  but  to  have  call'd  her  mine 

In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 

In  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven ; 

To  me  the  desert-bom  was  led  : 

t 


MAZEPPA. 


157 


They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong  ; 
They  loosed  Mm  with  a  sudden  lash — 
Away  ! — away  ! — and  on  we  dash  ! — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

X. 
•'  Away  ! — away  ! — ^My  breath  was  gone — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  : 
'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day. 
And  on  he  foam'd — away  ! — away  ! — 
The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter. 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout : 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrench'd  my  head, 
And  snapp'd  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howl'd  back  my  curse  ;  but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed. 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed  : 
It  vexes  me— for  I  would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  well  in  after  days  : 
There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate. 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis'  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left  ; 
Nor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass, 
Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall. 
Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall ; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass. 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was  : 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze, 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft. 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain. 
From  off  the  scorch'd  and  blackening  roof, 
Wliose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain. 
When  launch'd,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash. 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again. 
With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  Count  for  his  uncourtcous  ride. 
They  play'd  me  then  a  bitter  prank. 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide, 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank  : 
At  length  I  play'd  them  one  as  frank — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even — 
iVnd  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour. 
There  never  yet  was  human  power 
Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven. 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 

XI. 
"  Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 
Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 


All  human  dwellings  left  behind ; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky. 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  checker'd  with  the  northern  light : 
Town — village — none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent. 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  'strong  hold. 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man.    The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  march'd  o'er ; 
And  where  the  Spahi's  hoof  hath  trod. 
The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod  : — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray. 
And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by — 
I  could  have  answer'd  with  a  sigh — 
But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away — 
■  And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray ; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane  ; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career ; 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed. 
He  must  have  slacken'd  in  his  speed ; 
But  no — my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might. 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became  : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 
Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 
I  tried  my  voice, — 'twas  faint  and  low. 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang  : 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore. 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er ; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

XII. 
"  We  near'd  the  wild  wood — 'twas  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side  ; 
'Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 
That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 
Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste. 
And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste, — 
But  these  were  few,  and  far  between. 
Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green. 
Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves. 
Ere  strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 
That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 
Discolor'd  wih  a  lifeless  red. 
Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffen'd  gore 
Upon  the  slain  when  battle's  o'er. 
And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 
Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head. 
So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 


158 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


May  peck  vmpierced  each  frozen  cheek : 
'Twas  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 
And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine ; 

But  far  apart — and  well  if  were. 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine — 

The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs ;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
■  My  wounds,  aheady  scarr'd  with  cold — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  Uke  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind ; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track. 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back. 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire ; 
Where'er  we  flew  they  follow'd  on. 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun  ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood. 
At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh  !  how  I  wish'd  for  spear  or  sword. 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish — if  it  must  be  so — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe. 
When  first  my  courser's  race  begun, 
I  wish'd  the  goal  already  won  ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt  1  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roe  ; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewilder'd  with  the  dazzhng  blast. 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  pass'd — 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild  ; 
All  furious  as  a  favor'd  child 
Balk'd  of  its  wish ;  or  fiercer  stiU — 
A  woman  piqued — who  has  her  will 

XIII. 
"  The  wood  was  pass'd ;  'twas  more  than  noon, 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June  ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold — 
Prolong'd  endurance  tames  the  bold  ; 
And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seem. 
But  headlong  as  a  wintry  stream. 
And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 
I  well  could  count  their  causes  o'er : 
And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath. 
The  tortures  which  beset  my  path. 
Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress. 
Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness ; 
Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 
When  stirr'd  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 
And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 
The  rattlesnake's,  in  act  to  strike, 


What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk  ? 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roll'd  round, 

I  seem'd  to  sink  upon  the  ground  ; 

But  err'd,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 

My  heart  tum'd  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 

And  throbb'd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more  : 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel ; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel. 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes. 

Which  saw  no  further :  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortured  by  tliat  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 
And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  could  not  make 

My  senses  cUmb  up  from  below : 

I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea. 

When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee, 

At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm. 

And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 

My  undulating  life  was  as 

The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 

Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 

Fever  begins  upon  the  brain ; 

But  soon  it  pass'd,  with  little  pain. 
But  a  confusion  worse  than  such  : 
I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much. 

Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again  ; 

And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 

Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust : 

No  matter ;  I  have  bared  my  brow 

FuU  in  Death's  face — before — and  now. 

XIV. 

"  My  thoughts  came  back  ;  where  was  I  ?    Cold, 
And  numb,  and  giddy :  pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold. 
And  throb  by  throb  :  till  grown  a  pang 

Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse. 

My  blood  reflow'd,  though  thick  and  chill ; 
My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang. 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 
My  sight  retum'd,  though  dim  ;  alas  ! 
And  thicken'd,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 
Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh  ; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky. 
Studded  with  stars ; — it  is  no  dream  ; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream  ! 
The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide. 
And  we  are  half-way,  struggUng  o'er 
To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance. 
And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffen'd  limbs  were  rebaptized. 
My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves. 
And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves. 
And  onward  we  advance  ! 


M  K 

&§ 

a: 

1^. 

"J  5 

s^ 

o 

<:  5 

C 

CC   ti2 

^ 

CD  d 

o 

H  z 

3  5 

2!    S 


MAZEPPA, 


159 


We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A  haven  I  but  little  prized, 
For  aU  behind  was  dark  and  drear. 
And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 
How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 
I  could  not  teU ;  I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 

XV. 
"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane. 

And  reeling  Umbs,  and  reeking  flank. 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  stAin 

Up  the  rcpeUing  bank. 
We  gain  the  top  :  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 

And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems. 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight ; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scatter'd  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light. 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  naught  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate  ; 
No  twinkhng  taper  from  afar 
Stood  hke  a  hospitable  star ; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatuus  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes  : 

That  very  cheat  had  cheer'd  me  then  I 
Although  detected,  welcome  still. 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 
■   Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

XVI. 

"  Onward  we  went — but  slack  and  slow ; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 

All  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour ; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-bom  tameness  naught  avail'd — 
My  limbs  were  bound  ;  my  force  had  fail'd, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  efforts  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied — 

But  still  it  was  in  vain  ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more. 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er. 

Which  but  prolong'd  their  pain  : 
The  dizzy  race  seem'd  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won  : 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun — 

How  slow,  alas  I  he  came  ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day ; 


How  heavily  it  roll'd  away — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars. 
And  caU'd  the  radiance  from  their  cars. 
And  fill'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

XVII. 
"  Fp  rose  the  sun  ;  the  mists  were  curl'd 
Back  from  the  soUtary  world 
Which  lay  around — behind — before ; 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 

Plain,  forest,  liver  ?    Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot. 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil ; 
No  sign  of  travel — none  of  toil ; 

The  very  air  was  mute ; 
And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 
Prom  herb  nor  thicket.    Many  a  wfirst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst. 
The  weary  brute  stiU  stagger'd  on ; 
And  still  we  were — or  seem'd — alone  : 
At  length,  while  reeUng  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 
No,  no  !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop  ;  I  see  them  come ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  1 

I  strove  to  cry — my  Ups  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  thousand  horse — and  none  to  ride  1 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils — ^never  stretch'd  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein. 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod. 
And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free. 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea. 

Came  thickly  thundering  on. 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ; 
The  sight  renerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh. 

He  answer'd,  and  then  feU ; 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  Umbs  inmiovable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done  1 
On  came  the  troop — they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong  : 
They  stop — they  start — ^they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there. 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round. 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed. 


100 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Who  seem'd  tlie  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour ; 

Without  a  single  speck  orjiair 

To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 

Of  white  upou  his  shaggy  liide ; 

To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save — 

They  snort — they  foam — neigh — swerve  aside, 

And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave  ? 

And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 

By  instinct,  from  a  liuman  eye. — 

XVIII. 

They  left  mc  there  to  my  despair. 

"  The  sun  was  sinking — still  I  lay 

Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 

Chain'd  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed. 

Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  mc  stretch. 

I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay ; 

Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight. 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  hath  need. 

From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed  : 

Nor  him  nor  me — and  there  we  lay 

I  cast  mv  last  looks  up  the  sky. 
And  tnere  between  me  and  the  sun 

•     The  dying  on  the  dead  ! 

I  little  deem'd  another  day 

I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly. 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die. 

Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 

He  flew,  and  perch'd,  then  flew  once  more. 

"  And  there  from  mom  till  twiUght  bound, 

And  each  time  nearer  than  before  ; 

I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round. 

I  saw  his  vring  through  tvriUght  flit. 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 

And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me, 

I  could  have  smote,  but  lack'd  the  strength  ; 

In  hopeless  certainty  of  mind. 

But  the  sUght  motion  of  my  hand. 

That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resign'd 

And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 

To  that  which  our  foreboding  years 

The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggUng  noise, 

Presents  the  worst  and  last  of  fears 

Which  scarcely  could  be  call'd  a  voice, 

Inevitable — even  a  boon. 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length. — 

Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon  ; 

I  know  no  more — my  latest  dream 

Yet  shunn'd  and  dreaded  with  such  care, 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

As  if  it  only  were  a  snare 

Which  flx'd  my  dull  eyes  from  afar. 

That  prudence  might  escape  : 

And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam. 

At  times  both  wish'd  for  and  implored. 

And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 

At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword. 

Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 

Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 

And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 

To  even  intolerable  -woes. 

And  then  again  a  little  breath, 

And  welcome  in  no  shape. 

A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense. 

And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 

An  icy  sickness  curdUng  o'er 

They  who  have  revell'd  beyond  measure 

My  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross'd  my  brain — 

In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure. 

A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain. 

Die  calm,  or  calmer,  oft  than  he 

A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

Whose  heritage  was  misery  : 

For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 

XIX. 

All  that  was  beautiful  and  new. 

"  I  woke — Where  was  I  ? — Do  I  see 

Hath  naught  to  hope,  and  naught  to  leave ; 

A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 

And,  save  the  future,  (which  is  vicw'd 

And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 

Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  good. 

Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  ? 

But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued,) 

Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 

With  naught  perhaps  to  grieve  : — 

And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye. 

The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end. 

That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  ? 

And  Death,  whom  he  should  deem  his  friend, 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more. 

Appears,  to  his  distemper'd  eyes. 

As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize. 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 

The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise, 

A  slender  girl,  long-hair'd,  and  tall. 

To-morrow  would  have  given  him  all. 

Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 

Repaid  his  pangs,  repair'd  his  fall ; 

The  sparkl^  her  eye  I  caught. 

To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 

Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought ; 

Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  cursed. 

For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years. 

A  prying,  pitjdng  glance  on  me 

Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears. 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 

CANTO  I. 


THE    ISLAND. 


161 


I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be, — 
But  that  I  lired,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast : 
And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseal'd. 
She  smiled — and  I  essay'd  to  speak, 

But  fail'd — and  she  approach'd,  and  made 

With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free  ; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smooth'd  the  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread. 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers— ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet ! 
Even  music  folio w'd  her  light  feet ; 

But  those  she  caU'd  were  not  awake, 
And  she  went  forth ;  but,  ere  she  pass'd, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say. 
That  I  had  naught  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call. 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return : — while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone. 

XX. 
"  She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire- 
What  need  of  more  ? — I  will  not  tire 


With  long  recital  of  the  rest. 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest : 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  jilain — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again — 
Me — one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign  ! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain, 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone. 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne, — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess  ? — 

Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair  ! 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
May  see  our  coursers  graze  at  ease 
Upon  his  Turkish  bank, — and  never 
Had  I  such  welcome  for  a  river 

As  I  shall  yield  when  safely  there. 

"  Comrades,  good  night !"    The  Hetman  threw 

His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree  shade, 

With  leafy  couch  already  made, 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whene'er 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where  : 

His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep. 
And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale,  he  wonder'd  not, — 

The  king  had  been  an  hour  asleep. 


THE    ISLAND; 

OB, 

CHRISTIAN    AND    HIS    COMRADES. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  foundation  of  the  following  story  will  be  found 

partly  in  Lieutenant  Bligh's  "  Narrative  of  the  Mutiny 

and  Seizure  of  the  Bounty,  in  the  South  Seas,  in  1789  ;" 

and  partly  in  "  Mariner's  Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands." 

Gbnoa,  1823 

• 

THE    ISLAND. 

CANTO    TBB    FIBST. 


The  morning  watch  was  come ;  the  vessel  lay 
Her  course,  and  gently  made  her  liquid  way ; 
The  cloven  billow  flash'd  from  off  her  prow 
In  furrows  form'd  by  that  majestic  plough  ; 
The  waters  with  their  world  were  all  before  ; 
Behind,  the  South  Sea's  many  an  islet  shore. 
21 


The  quiet  night,  now  dappling,  'gan  to  wane, 
Dividing  darkness  from  the  davming  main ; 
The  dolphins,  not  unconscious  of  the  day, 
Swam  high,  as  eager  of  the  coming  ray  ; 
The  stars  from  broader  beams  began  to  creep. 
And  Uft  their  shining  eyelids  from  the  deep ; 
The  saU  resumed  its  lately  shadow'd  white, 
And  the  wind  flutter'd  with  a  freshening  flight ; 
The  purpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  sun. 
But  ere  he  break — a  deed  is  to  be  done. 

II. 

The  gallant  chief  within  his  cabin  slept. 

Secure  in  those  by  whom  the  watch  was  kept : 

His  dreams  were  of  Old  England's  welcome  shore, 

Of  toils  rewarded,  and  of  dangers  o'er  ; 

His  name  was  added  to  the  glorious  roll 

Of  those  who  search  the  storm-surrounded  Pole. 


102 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


CANTO     I. 


The  worst  was  over,  and  the  rest  seem'd  sure, 
And  why  should  not  his  slumber  be  secure  ? 
Alas  !  his  deck  was  trod  by  unwilling  feet, 
And  wilder  hands  would  hold  the  Tessel's  sheet ; 
Young  heaf  ts,  which  languish'd  for  some  sunny  isle, 
Where  summer  years  and  summer  women  smile ; 
Men  without  country,  who,  too  long  estranged. 
Had  found  no  native  home,  or  found  it  changed, 
And,  half  uncivihzed,  preferr'd  the  cave 
Of  some  soft  savage  to  the  uncertain  wave — 
The  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gave  untill'd  ; 
The  wood  without  a  path  but  where  they  wiU'd 
The  field  o'er  which  promiscuous  Plenty  pour'd 
Her  horn  ;  the  equal  land  -svithout  a  lord  ; 
The  wish — which  ages  have  not  yet  subdued 
In  man — to  have  no  master  save  his  mood  ; 
The  earth,  whose  mine  was  on  its  face,  unsold. 
The  glowing  sun  and  produce  aU  its  gold ; 
The  freedom  which  can  call  each  grot  a  home  ; 
The  general  garden,  where  all  steps  may  roam. 
Where  Nature  owns  a  nation  as  her  child. 
Exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild ; 
Their  sheUs,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they  know. 
Their  unexploring  navy,  the  canoo  ; 
Their  sport,  the  dashing  breakers  and  the  chase ; 
Their  strangest  sight,  a  European  face  : — 
Such  was  the  country  which  these  strangers  ycam'd 
To  see  again ;  a  sight  they  dearly  carn'd. 

III. 
Awake,  bold  Bligh  !  the  foe  is  at  the  gate  ! 

Awake  !  awake  1 Alas  !  it  is  too  late  ! 

Fiercely  beside  thy  cot  the  mutineer 
Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and  fear. 
Thy  limbs  are  bound,  the  bayonet  at  thy  breast ; 
The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice,  arrest ; 
Dragg'd  o'er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  command 
The  obedient  helm  shall  veer,  the  sail  expand  ; 
That  savage  spirit,  which  would  luU  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  escape  from  duty's  path. 
Glares  round  thee,  in  the  scarce  believing  eyes 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice  : 
For  ne'er  can  man  his  conscience  all  assuage, 
Unless  he  drain  the  wine  of  passion — rage. 

IV. 
lu  vain,  not  silenced  by  the  hand  of  death, 
Thou  call'st  the  loyal  with  thy  menaced  breath  : — 
They  come  not ;  they  are  few,  and,  overawed, 
Must  acquiesce,  while  sterner  hearts  applaud. 
In  vain  thou  dost  demand  the  cause  :  a  curse 
Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 
Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  glittering  blade, 
Close  to  thy  throat  the  pointed  bayonet  laid. 
The  levellM  muskets  circle  roimd  thy  breast 
In  hands  as  steel'd  to  do  the  deadly  rest. 
Thou  darcst  them  to  their  worst,  exclaiming—"  Fire  1" 
Btxt  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admire ; 


Some  lurking  remnant  of  their  former  awe 
Restrain'd  them  longer  than  their  broken  law  ; 
They  would  not  dip  their  souls  at  once  in  blood. 
But  left  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood. 


"  Hoist  out  the  boat !"  was  now  the  leader's  cry ; 

And  who  dare  answer  "  No  I"  to  Mutiny, 

In  the  first  dawning  of  the  drunken  hour. 

The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power  ? 

The  boat  is  lower'd  with  all  the  haste  of  hate. 

With  its  slight  plank  between  thee  and  thy  fate ; 

Her  only  cargo  such  a  scant  supply 

As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny  ; 

And  just  enough  of  water  and  of  bread 

To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  from  the  dead  : 

Some  cordage,  canvass,  sails,  and  lines,  and  twine. 

But  treasures  all  to  hermits  of  the  brine. 

Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 

Of  those  who  saw  no  hope,  save  sea  and  air  ; 

And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  Pole — 

The  feeling  compass — Navigation's  soul. 

VI. 
And  now  the  self-elected  chief  finds  time 
To  stun  the  first  sensation  of  his  crime. 
And  raise  it  in  his  followers — "  Ho  !  the  bowl !" 
Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason's  shoal. 
"  Brandy  for  heroes  !"  Burke  could  once  exclaim — 
No  doubt  a  liquid  path  to  epic  fame  ; 
And  such  the  new-born  heroes  found  it  here. 
And  drain'd  the  draught  with  an  applauding  cheer 
"  Huzza !  for  Otaheite !"  was  the  cry. 
How  strange  such  shouts  from  sons  of  Mutiny  I 
The  gentle  island,  and  the  genial  soil, 
The  friendly  hearts,  the  feasts  without  a  toil, 
The  courteous  manners  but  from  nature  caught. 
The  wealth  unhoarded,  and  the  love  unbought ; 
Could  these  have  charms  for  rudest  sea-boys,  driven 
Before  the  mast  by  every  wind  of  heaven  ? 
And  now,  even  now  prepared  with  others'  woes 
To  earn  mild  virtue's  vain  desire,  repose  ? 
Alas  !  such  is  our  nature  !  all  but  aim 
At  the  same  end  by  pathways  not  the  same ; 
Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our  name, 
Our  fortune,  temper,  even  our  outward  frame, 
Are  far  more  potent  o'er  our  yielding  clay 
Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  little  day. 
Yet  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within, 
Heard  through  Gain's  silence,  and  o'er  Glory's  din  . 
Wliatever  cr«jS  be  taught  or  land  be  trod, 
Man's  conscifflace  is  the  oracle  of  God. 

VII. 
The  launch  is  crowded  with  the  faithful  few 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a  melancholy  crew : 
But  some  remain'd  reluctant  on  the  deck 
Of  that  proud  vessel— now  a  moral  wreck— 


CANTO    I. 


THE  ISLAND. 


163 


And  view'd  their  captain's  fate  with  piteous  eyes ; 
While  others  scoff'd  his  augur'd  miseries, 
Sneer'd  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail, 
And  the  slight  bark  so  laden  and  so  frail. 
The  tender  nautilus,  who  steers  his  prow, 
The  sea-born  sailor  of  his  shell  canoe, 
The  ocean  Mab,  the  fairy  of  the  sea, 
Seems  far  less  fragile,  and,  alas  !  more  free. 
He,  when  the  lightning-wing'd  tornadoes  sweep 
The  surge,  is  safe — his  port  is  in  the  deep — 
And  triumphs  o'er  the  armadas  of  mankind, 
Which  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  in  the  wind. 

YIII. 
Wljen  all  was  now  prepared,  the  yessel  clear, 
Which  hail'd  her  master  in  the  mutineer — 
A  seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  mates, 
Show'd  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritates  ; 
Watch'd  his  late  chieftain  with  exploring  eye, 
And  told,  in  signs,  repentant  sympathy ; 
Held  the  moist  shaddock  to  his  parched  mouth, 
Wliich  felt  exhaustion's  deep  and  bitter  drouth  : 
But  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  withdrawn. 
No  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion's  dawn. 
Then  forward  stepp'd  the  bold  and  froward  boy 
His  chief  had  cherish'd  only  to  destroy. 
And,  pointing  to  the  helpless  prow  beneath, 
Exclaim'd,  "  Depart  at  once  !  delay  is  death  !" 
Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelings  ceased  not  all : 
In  that  last  moment  could  a  word  recall 
Kemorse  for  the  black  deed  as  yet  half  done. 
And  what  he  hid  from  many  show'd  to  one  : 
When  Bligh  in  stem  reproach  demanded  where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sense  of  former  care  ? 
Wliere  all  his  hopes  to  see  his  name  aspire, 
And  blazon  Britain's  thousand  glories  higher  ? 
His  feverish  lips  thus  broke  their  gloomy  spell, 
"  'Tis  that  1  'tis  that !  I  am  in  heU  !  in  hell !" 
No  more  he  said ;  but  urging  to  the  bark 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fragile  ark  ; 
These  the  sole  accents  from  his  tongue  that  fell. 
But  volumes  lurk'd  below  his  fierce  farewell. 

IX. 

The  arctic  sim  rose  broad  above  the  wave  ; 
The  breeze  now  sank,  now  whisper'd  from  his  cave  ; 
As  on  the  iEolian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 
Now  swcU'd,  now  flutter'd  o'er  his  ocean  strings. 
With  slow,  despairing  oar,  the  abandon'd  skiff 
Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce-seen  cliff, 
Which  lifts  its  peak  a  cloud  above  the  main  : 
That  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again  ! 
But  'tis  not  mine  to  tell  their  tale  of  grief. 
Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief; 
Their  days  of  danger,  and  their  nights  of  pain  ; 
Their  manly  courage  even  when  deem'd  in  vain  ; 
The  sapping  famine,  rendering  scarce  a  son 
Known  to  his  mother  in  the  skeleton ; 


The  ills  that  lessen'd  still  their  little  store, 

And  starved  even  Hunger  till  he  wrung  no  more ; 

The  varying  frowns  and  favors  of  the  deep. 

That  now  almost  ingulfs,  then  leaves  to  creep 

With  crazy  oar  and  shattered  strength  along 

The  tide  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong ; 

The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 

Which  welcomes,  as  a  well,  the  clouds  that  burst 

Above  their  naked  bones,  and  feels  delight 

In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night, 

And  from  the  outspread  canvass  gladly  wrings 

A  drop  to  moisten  life's  aU-gasping  springs  ; 

The  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  again 

More  hospitable  shelter  from  the  main  ; 

The  ghastly  spectres  which  were  doom'd  at  last 

To  tell  as  true  a  tale  of  dangers  pass'd. 

As  ever  the  dark  annals  of  the  deep 

Disclosed  for  man  to  dread  or  weep. 


X. 

We  leave  them  to  their  fate,  but  not  unknown 

Nor  unredress'd.     Revenge  may  have  her  own  : 

Roused  discipline  aloud  proclaims  their  cause, 

And  injured  navies  urge  their  broken  laws. 

Pursue  we  on  his  track  the  mutineer. 

Whom  distant  vengeance  had  not  taught  to  fear. 

Wide  o'er  the  wave — away  !  away  !  away  1 

Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail  the  welcome  bay  ; 

Once  more  the  happy  shores  without  a  law 

Receive  the  outlaws  whom  they  lately  saw ; 

Nature,  and  Nature's  goddess — ^woman — ^woos 

To  lands  where,  save  their  conscience,  none  accuse  ; 

Where  all  partake  the  earth  without  dispute. 

And  bread  itself  is  gather'd  as  a  fruit ;' 

Where  none  contest  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  streams : 

The  goldless  age,  where  gold  disturbs  no  dreams. 

Inhabits  or  inhabited  the  shore, 

TiU  Europe  taught  them  better  than  before  : 

Bestow'd  her  customs,  and  amended  theirs. 

But  left  her  vices  also  to  their  heirs. 

Away  with  this  1  behold  them  as  they  were. 

Do  good  with  Nature,  or  with  Nature  err. 

"  Huzza  !  for  Otaheite  I"  was  the  cry. 

As  stately  swept  the  gallant  vessel  by. 

The  breeze  springs  up  ;  the  lately  flapping  sail 

Extends  its  arch  before  the  growing  gale  ; 

In  swifter  ripples  stream  aside  the  seas, 

Wliich  her  bold  bow  flings  off  with  dashing  ease. 

Thus  Argo  plough'd  the  Euxine's  virgin  foam  ; 

But  those  she  wafted  still  look'd  back  to  homo — 

These  spurn  their  country  with  their  rebel  bark, 

And  fly  her  as  the  raven  fled  the  ark  : 

And  yet  they  seek  to  nestle  with  the  dove, 

And  tame  their  fiery  spirits  down  to  love. 


'  The  now  celebrated  bread-frait,  to  transplant  which  Captain 
Bligb's  expedition  was  undertaken. 


164 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


CANTO  n 


THE    ISLAND, 


CAmO    THE    SECOND. 


I. 


How  pleasant  were  the  songs  of  Toobonai,' 

When  summer's  sun  went  down  the  coral  bay  1 

Come,  let  us  to  the  islet's  softest  shade, 

And  hear  the  warbling  birds  !  the  damsels  said : 

The  wood-dove  from  the  forest  depth  shall  coo, 

Like  voices  of  the  gods  from  Bolotoo  ; 

We'll  cull  the  flowers  that  grow  above  the  dead, 

For  these  most  bloom  where  rests  the  warrior's  head ; 

And  we  will  sit  in  twilight's  face,  and  see 

The  sweet  moon  glancing  through  the  tooa  tree, 

The  lofty  accents  of  whose  sighing  bough 

Shall  sadly  please  us  as  we  lean  below ; 

Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the  surf  in  vain 

Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o'er  the  main. 

Which  spurn  in  columns  back  the  baffled  spray. 

How  beautiful  are  these  !  how  happy  they. 

Who,  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of  their  lives, 

Steal  to  look  down  where  naught  but  ocean  strives  1 

Even  he  too  loves  at  times  the  blue  lagoon, 

And  smooths  his  ruffled  mane  beneath  the  moon. 

11. 
Yes — from  the  sepulchre  we'll  gather  flowers, 
Then  feast  like  spirits  in  their  promised  bowers, 
Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  rolling  surf. 
Then  lay  our  limbs  along  the  tender  turf. 
And,  wet  and  shining  from  the  sportive  toil. 
Anoint  our  bodies  with  the  fragrant  oil, 
And  plait  our  garlands  gather'd  from  the  grave. 
And  wear  the  wreaths  that  sprung  from  out  the  brave. 
But  lo  !  night  comes,  the  Mooa  woos  us  back. 
The  sound  of  mats  are  heard  along  our  track  : 
Anon  the  torchUght  dance  shall  fling  its  sheen 
In  flashing  mazes  o'er  the  Marly's  green  ; 
And  we  too  will  be  there  ;  we  too  recall 
The  memory  bright  with  many  a  festival. 
Ere  Fiji  blew  the  shell  of  war,  when  foes 
For  the  first  time  were  wafted  in  canoes. 
Alas  !  for  them  the  flower  of  mankind  bleeds  ; 
Alas  !  for  them  our  fields  are  rank  with  weeds  : 
Forgotten  is  the  rapture,  or  unknown. 
Of  wandering  with  the  moon  and  love  alone. 
But  be  it  so  : — they  taught  us  how  to  wield 
The  club,  and  rain  our  arrows  o'er  the  field : 
Now  let  them  reap  the  harvest  of  their  art ! 
But  feast  to-night  I  to-morrow  we  depart. 


'  The  first  three  Bections  are  taken  from  an  actual  song  of  the 
Tonga  Islanders,  of  which  a  prose  translation  is  given  In  "  Mari- 
ner's Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands."  Toobonai  is  rwt  however 
one  of  them  ;  but  was  one  of  those  where  Christian  and  the  mu- 
tincerii  took  refuge.  I  have  altered  and  added,  but  have  retained 
as  mach  &»  possible  of  the  original. 


Strike  up  the  dance  !  the  cava  bowl  fiU  high  1 
Drain  every  drop  ! — to-morrow  we  may  die. 
In  summer  garments  be  our  limbs  array'd  ; 
Around  our  waists  the  tappa's  white  display'd ; 
Thick  wreaths  shall  form  our  coronal,  like  spring's, 
And  round  our  necks  shall  glance  the  hooni  strings: 
So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast  the  glow 
Of  the  dusk  bosoms  that  beat  high  below. 

III. 
But  now  the  dance  is  o'er — yet  stay  awhile ; 
Ah,  pause  I  nor  yet  put  out  the  social  smile. 
To-morrow  for  the  Mooa  we  depart, 
But  not  to-night — to-night  is  for  the  heart. 
Again  bestow  the  wreaths  we  gently  woo, 
Te  young  enchantresses  of  gay  Licoo  ! 
How  lovely  are  your  forms  !  how  every  sense 
Bows  to  your  beauties,  softcn'd,  but  intense. 
Like  to  the  flowers  on  Mataloco's  steep. 
Which  fling  their  fragrance  far  athwart  the  deep  1 — 
We  too  will  see  Licoo  ;  but — oh  !  my  heart  I — 
What  do  I  say  ? — to-morrow  we  depart ! 

IV. 
Thus  rose  a  song — the  harmony  of  times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o'er  these  climes. 
True,  they  had  vices — such  are  Kature's  growth — ■ 
But  only  the  barbarian's — we  have  both  : 
The  sordor  of  civilization,  mix'd 
With  all  the  savage  which  man's  fall  hath  fix'd. 
Who  hath  not  seen  Dissimulation's  reign, 
The  prayers  of  Abel  link'd  to  deeds  of  Cain  ? 
AVlio  such  would  see  may  from  his  lattice  view 
The  Old  World  more  degraded  than  the  New, — 
Now  new  no  more,  save  where  Columbia  rears 
Twin  giants,  born  by  Freedom  to  her  spheres. 
Where  Chimborazo,  over  air,  earth,  wave. 
Glares  with  his  Titan  eye,  and  sees  no  slave. 


Such  was  this  ditty  of  Tradition's  days, 
Wliich  to  the  dead  a  lingering  fame  conveys 
In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 
Beyond  the  sound  whose  charm  is  half  divine ; 
Which  leaves  no  record  to  the  skeptic  eye 
But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony ; 
A  boy  Achilles  with  the  centaur's  lyre 
In  hand,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire. 
For  one  iMig-cherish'd  ballad's  simple  stave, 
Kung  frojj  the  rock,  or  mingled  with  the  wave, 
Or  from  the  bubbling  streamlet's  grassy  side, 
Or  gathering  mountain  eehos  as  they  glide. 
Hath  greater  power  o'er  each  true  heart  and  ear. 
Than  all  the  columns  Conquest's  minions  rear  ; 
Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a  theme 
For  sages,  lal)or3  or  the  student's  dream  ; 
Attracts,  when  History's  volumes  are  a  toil, — 
The  first,  the  freshest  bud  of  Feeling's  soil 


CANTO   II. 


THE  ISLAND. 


105 


Such  was  this  rude  rhyme — rliyme  is  of  the  rude — 

But  such  inspired  the  Norseman's  solitude, 

Who  came  and  conquer'd  ;  such,  wherever  rise 

Lands  which  no  foes  destroy  or  civilize. 

Exist :  and  what  can  our  accomplish'd  art 

Of  verse  do  more  than  reach  the  awaken'd  heart  ? 

vr. 
And  sweetly  now  those  untaught  melodies 
Broke  the  luxurious  silence  of  the  skies, 
The  sweet  siesta  of  a  summer  day, 
The  tropic  afternoon  of  Toobonai, 
When  every  flower  was  bloom,  and  air  was  balm, 
And  the  first  breath  began  to  stir  the  palm. 
The  first  yet  voiceless  wind  to  urge  the  wave 
All  gently  to  refresh  tlie  thirsty  cave, 
Where  sat  the  songstress  with  the  stranger  boy, 
Who  taught  her  passion's  desolating  joy. 
Too  powerful  o%-er  every  heart,  but  most 
O'er  those  who  know  not  how  it  may  be  lost ; 
O'er  those  who,  burning  in  the  new-born  fire, 
Like  martyrs  revel  in  their  funeral  pyre. 
With  such  dev6tion  to  their  ecstasy, 
That  hfe  knows  no  such  rajiture  as  to  die  : 
And  die  they  do ;  for  earthly  life  has  naught 
Match'd  with  that  burst  of  nature,  even  in  thought, 
And  all  our  dreams  of  better  life  above 
But  close  in  one  eternal  gush  of  love. 

VII. 

There  sat  the  gentle  savage  of  the  mid. 

In  growth  a  woman,  though  in  years  a  child. 

As  cliildhood  dates  within  our  colder  clime, 

Where  naught  is  ripen'd  rapidly  save  crime ; 

The  infant  of  an  infant  world,  as  pure 

From  nature — lovely,  warm,  and  premature  ; 

Dusky  like  night,  but  night  with  all  her  stars  ; 

Or  cavern  sparkhng  with  its  native  spars  ; 

With  eyes  that  were  a  language  and  a  spell, 

A  form  like  Aphrodite's  in  her  shcU, 

With  all  her  loves  around  her  on  the  deep, 

"Voluptuous  as  the  first  approach  of  sleep  ; 

Yet  full  of  life — for  through  her  tropic  cheek 

The  blush  would  make  its  way,  and  all  but  speak  ; 

The  sun-born  blood  sufi"used  her  neck,  and  threw 

O'er  her  clear  nut-brown  skin  a  lucid  hue. 

Like  coral  reddening  through  tlie  darken'd  wave, 

Wliieh  draws  the  diver  to  the  crimson  cave. 

Such  was  this  daughter  of  the  southern  seas. 

Herself  a  biUow  in  her  energies, 

To  bear  the  bark  of  others'  happiness. 

Nor  feel  a  sorrow  till  their  joy  grew  less  : 

Her  wild  and  warm  yet  faithful  bosom  knew 

No  joy  like  what  it  gave  ;  her  hopes  ne'er  drew 

Aught  from  experience,  that  chill  touchstone,  whose 

Sad  proof  reduces  aU  things  from  their  hues  : 

She  fear'd  no  iU,  because  she  know  it  not. 

Or  what  she  knew  was  soon — too  soon — forgot : 


Her  smiles  and  tears  had  pass'd,  as  light  winds  pass 
O'er  lakes  to  ruffle,  not  destroy,  their  glass. 
Whose  depths  unsearcli'd,  and  fountains  from  the  hill, 
Restore  their  surface,  in  itself  so  still. 
Until  the  earthquake  tear  the  naiad's  cave. 
Root  up  the  spring,  and  trample  on  the  wave, 
And  crush  the  living  waters  to  a  mass, 
The  amphibious  desert  of  the  dank  morass  I 
And  must  their  fate  be  hers  i     Tlic  eternal  change 
But  grasps  humanity  with  quicker  range  ; 
And  they  who  fall  but  fall  as  worlds  will  fall. 
To  rise,  if  just,  a  spirit  o'er  them  all. 

VIII. 
And  who  is  he  ?  the  blue-eyed  northern  child 
Of  isles  more  known  to  man,  but  scarce  less  wild  ; 
The  fair-hair'd  offspring  of  the  Hebrides, 
Where  roars  the  Pentland  with  its  whirling  seas  ; 
Rock'd  in  his  cradle  by  the  roaring  wind. 
The  tempest-bom  in  body  and  in  mind. 
His  young  eyes  opening  on  the  ocean-foam. 
Had  from  that  moment  deem'd  the  deep  his  home, 
The  giant  comrade  of  his  pensive  moods. 
The  sharer  of  his  craggy  solitudes. 
The  only  Mentor  of  his  youth,  where'er. 
His  bark  was  borne ;  the  sport  of  wave  and  air ; 
A  careless  thing,  who  placed  his  choice  in  chance. 
Nursed  by  the  legends  of  his  land's  romance ; 
Eager  to  hope,  but  not  less  firm  to  bear, 
Acquainted  with  all  feelings  save  despair. 
Placed  in  the  Arab's  clime,  he  would  have  been 
As  bold  a  rover  as  the  sands  have  seen. 
And  braved  their  thirst  with  an  enduring  lip 
As  Ishmael,  wafted  on  his  desert-ship  ;■ 
Fix'd  upon  Chili's  shore,  a  proud  cacique ; 
On  Hellas'  mountains,  a  rebellious  Greek ; 
Born  in  a  tent,  perhaps  a  Tamerlane  ; 
Bred  to  a  throne,  perhaps  unfit  to  reign. 
For  the  same  soul  that  rends  its  path  to  sway. 
If  rcar'd  to  such,  can  find  no  furt'acr  j^rey 
Beyond  itself,  and  must  retrace  its  way,' 
Plunging  for  pleasure  into  pain  :  the  same 
Spirit  which  made  a  Nero,  Rome's  worst  shame, 
An  humble  state  and  discipline  of  heart. 
Had  form'd  his  glorious  namesake's  countcrjjart ;' 

'  The  "  ship  of  the  tlosert  "  is  the  Oriental  flgiiro  for  the  camel 

or  dromedary  ;  and  they  deserve  the  metaphor  well,— the  former 
for  his  endurance,  the  latter  for  his  swiftness. 

'  *'  Liiculhis,  when  frngality  could  charm, 

Had  roasted  turnips  in  the  Sabine  farm."— Pope. 

'  Tlie  Consul  Nero,  who  made  the  unequalled  march  which  de- 
ceived Ilannitial,  and  defeated  AsdriihBl ;  Ihoreliy  accomplishing 
nn  nchiovemcnt  almost  unrivalled  in  military  annals.  The  first 
intelligence  of  his  return,  to  Hannibal,  was  the  8ij;;ht  of  Asdmbal's 
head  thrown  into  liis  camp.  When  Hannibal  saw  (his,  he  exclaim- 
ed with  a  High,  ''  Rome  would  now  be  the  raistre^^s  of  the  world." 
And  yet  to  this  victory  of  Nero's  it  might  be  owing  that  his  im- 
perial namesake  reigned  at  all.  But  tlie  infamy  of  the  one  has 
eclipsed  the  glorj'  of  the  other.  When  the  name  of  "  Nero  "  is 
heard,  who  thinks  of  the  consul  ?— Bnt  such  are  human  IhlnoB  I 


166 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


CANTO    II. 


But  grant  his  vices,  grant  them  all  his  own, 
How  small  their  theatre  without  a  throne  1 

IX. 
Thou  smilest ; — these  comparisons  seem  high 
To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  dazzled  eye ; 
Link'd  with  the  unknown  name  of  one  whose  doom 
Has  naught  to  do  with  glory  or  with  Rome, 
With  Chili,  HeUas,  or  with  Araby ; — 
Thou  smilest  1 — Smile ;  'tis  better  thus  than  sigh  ; 
Yet  such  he  might  have  been ;  he  was  a  man, 
A  soaring  spirit,  ever  in  the  van, 
A  patriot  hero  or  des23otic  chief, 
To  form  a  nation's  glory  or  its  grief. 
Bom  under  auspices  which  make  us  more 
Or  less  than  we  delight  to  ponder  o'er.  , 

But  these  are  visions  ;  say,  what  was  he  here  ? 
A  blooming  boy,  a  truant  mutineer : 
The  fair-hair'd  Torquil,  free  as  ocean's  spray. 
The  husband  of  the  bride  of  Toobonai. 

X  ■  X. 

By  Neuha's  side  he  sate,  and  watch'd  the  waters, — 
Neuha,  the  sun-flower  of  the  island  daughters, 
Highborn,  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles, 
"Without  a  scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles,) 
Of  a  long  race,  the  valiant  and  the  free. 
The  naked  knights  of  savage  chivalry, 
Whose  grassy  cairns  ascend  along  the  shore ; 
And  thine — I've  seen — Achilles  !  do  no  more. 
She,  when  the  thunder-bearing  strangers  came. 
In  vast  canoes,  begirt  with  bolts  of  flame, 
Topp'd  -with  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the  palm, 
Seem'd  rooted  in  the  deep  amidst  its  calm  : 
But  when  the  winds  awaken'd,  shot  forth  wings 
Broad  as  the  cloud  along  the  horizon  flings. 
And  sway'd  the  waves,  like  cities  of  the  sea, 
Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free  ; — 
She,  with  her  paddling  oar  and  dancing  prow, 
8h  ot  through  the  surf,  like  reindeer  through  the  snow. 
Swift-gliding  o'er  the  breaker's  whitening  edge. 
Light  us  a  nereid  in  her  ocean  sledge, 
And  gazed  and  wonder'd  at  the  giant  hulk, 
Wliich  heaved  from  wave  to  wave  its  trampling  bulk : 
The  anchor  dropp'd ;  it  lay  along  the  deep, 
Like  a  huge  lion  in  the  sun  asleep. 
While  roimd  it  swarm'd  the  proas'  flitting  chain, 
Like  summer  bees  that  hum  around  his  mane. 

XI. 

The  white  man  landed ! — need  the  rest  be  told  ? 
The  New  World  stretch'd  its  dusk  hand  to  the  Old; 
Each  was  to  each  a  marvel,  and  the  tic 
Of  wonder  warm'd  to  better  sympathy. 
Kind  was  the  welcome  of  the  sun-born  sires. 
And  kinder  still  their  daughters'  gentler  fires, 
Their  union  grew :  the  children  of  the  storm 
Found  beauty  link'd  with  many  a  dusky  form  ; 


While  these  In  turn  admired  the  paler  glow. 
Which  seem'd  so  white  in  climes  that  knew  no  snow. 
The  chase,  the  race,  the  Uborty  to  roam, 
The  soil  where  every  cottage  show'd  a  home  ; 
The  sea-spread  net,  the  lightly-launch'd  canoe, 
Which  stemm'd  the  studded  archipelago. 
O'er  whose  blue  bosom  rose  the  starry  isles  ; 
The  healthy  slumber,  earn'd  by  sportive  toils  ; 
The  palm,  the  loftiest  dryad  of  the  woods, 
Within  whose  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods,' 
While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the  crest 
Which  shadows  o'er  the  vineyard  in  her  breast ; 
The  cava  feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa's  root, 
Which  bears  at  once  the  cup,  and  milk,  and  fruit ; 
The  bread-tree,  which,  -ndthout  the  ploughshare,  yields 
The  unreap'd  harvest  of  unfurrow'd  fields. 
And  bakes  its  unadulterated  loaves 
Without  a  furnace  in  unpurchased  groves. 
And  flings  ofl^  famine  from  its  fertile  breast, 
A  priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest ; — 
These,  with  the  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods. 
The  airy  joys  of  social  solitudes. 
Tamed  each  rude  wanderer  to  the  sympathies 
Of  those  who  were  more  happy,  if  less  wise. 
Did  more  than  Europe's  discipline  had  done, 
And  civiUzed  Civilization's  sou  ! 

XII. 
Of  these,  and  there  were  many  a  wUling  pair, 
Neuha  and  Torquil  were  not  the  least  fair : 
Both  children  of  the  isles,  though  distant  far  ; 
Both  bom  beneath  a  sea-presiding  star ; 
Both  nourish'd  amidst  nature's  native  scenes, 
Loved  to  the  last,  whatever  intervenes 
Between  us  and  our  childhood's  sympathy, 
Which  still  reverts  to  what  first  caught  the  eye. 
He  who  first  met  the  Highlands'  swelling  blue 
Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue. 
Hail  in  each  crag  a  friend's  familiar  face. 
And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 
Long  have  I  roam'd  through  lands  which  are  not  mine. 
Adored  the  Alp,  and  loved  the  Apennine, 
Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep : 
But  'twas  not  aU  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 
Their  nature  held  mo  in  their  thrilling  thrall ; 
The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 

Qd  Loch- 

ix'd^t 
And  Highland  linns  with  CastaUc's  clear  fount. 

1  When  very  young,  about  eight  years  of  age,  after  an  attack  of 
the  Bcarlet  fever  at  Aberdeen,  I  was  removed  by  medical  advice 
Into  the  Highlands.  Here  I  passed  occasionally  some  Bnmmcrs, 
and  from  this  period  I  date  my  love  of  mountainous  countries.  I 
can  iiever  forget  the  eflect,  a  few  years  afterwards,  in  England,  of 
the  only  thing  I  had  long  seen,  even  in  miniature,  of  a  monntahi. 
In  the  Malvern  hills.  After  I  returned  to  Cheltenham,  I  used  to 
watch  them  every  afternoon,  at  sunset,  with  a  sensation  which  I 
cannot  describe.  This  was  boyish  enough ;  but  I  was  then  only 
thirteen  years  of  age,  and  it  was  in  the  holidays. 


And  Loch-na-gar  with  Ida  look'd  o'er  Troy' 
Mix'd'^^tic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount. 


CANTO   U. 


THE    ISLAND. 


161 


Forgive  me,  Homer's  universal  shade  I 
Forgive  me,  Phcsbus  !  that  my  fancy  stray'd ; 
The  north  and  nature  taught  me  to  adore 
Your  scenes  sublime,  from  those  beloved  before. 

XIII. 
The  love  which  maketh  all  things  fond  and  fair. 
The  youth  which  makes  one  rainbow  of  the  air. 
The  dangers  pass'd,  that  makes  even  man  enjoy 
.  The  pause  in  which  he  ceases  to  destroy. 
The  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  feel 
Strike  to  their  hearts  like  lightning  to  the  steel, 
United  the  half  savage  and  the  whole, 
The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absorbing  soul. 
No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  fight 
Wrapp'd  his  wean'd  bosom  in  its  dark  delight ; 
ZSTo  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 
Disturb'd  him  like  the  eagle  in  her  nest. 
Whose  whetted  beak  and  far-pervading  eye 
Darts  for  a  victim  over  all  the  sky  : 
His  heart  was  tamed  to  that  voluptuous  state, 
At  once  Elysian  and  effeminate. 

Which  leaves  no  laurels  o'er  the  hero's  um  ; 

These  wither  when  for  aught  save  blood  they  bum ; 

Yet  when  their  ashes  in  their  nook  are  laid, 

Doth  not  the  myrtle  leave  as  sweet  a  shade  ? 

Had  Cccsar  known  but  Cleopatra's  kiss, 

Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been  his. 

And  what  have  Cssar's  deeds  and  Ctesar's  fame 

Done  for  the  earth  ?    We  feel  them  in  our  shame  : 

The  gory  sanction  of  his  glory  stains 

The  rust  which  tyrants  cherish  on  our  chains. 

Though  Glory,  Nature,  Reason,  Freedom,  bid 

Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did 

Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot's  song 
From  the  tallbough  where  they  have  perch'd  so  long. 
Still  are  we  hawk'd  at  by  such  mousing  owls 
And  take  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls 
When  but  a  word  of  freedom  would  dispel 
These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  too  well. 

XIV. 
Rapt  in  the  fond  forgetfulness  of  life, 
-Veuha,  the  South  Sea  girl,  was  all  a  wife, 
With  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 
*"rom  love ;  with  no  society  to  scoff 
At  the  new  transient  flame  :  no  babbling  crowd 
Of  coxcombry  in  admiration  loud, 
3r  with  adulterous  whisper  to  alloy 
Her  duty,  and  her  glory,  and  lier  joy : 
With  faith  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form, 
She  stood  as  stands  a  rainbow  in  a  storm 
Changing  its  hues  with  bright  variety, 
But  still  expanding  lovelier  o'er  the  sky, 
Howe'er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colors  move 
The  cloud-compelling  harbinger  of  lore. 


XV. 
Here,  in  this  grotto  of  the  wave-worn  shore, 
They  pass'd  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o'er ; 
Nor  long  the  hours— they  never  paused  o'er  time, 
Unbroken  by  the  clock's  funereal  chime, 
Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span. 
And  points  and  mocks  with  iron  laugh  at  man. 
What  deem'd  they  of  the  future  or  the  past  ? 
The  present,  Uke  a  tyrant,  held  them  fast : 
Their  hour-glass  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  tide, 
Like  her  smooth  billow,  saw  their  moments  glide ; 
Their  clock  the  sun,  in  his  unbounded  tower ; 
They  reckon'd  not,  whose  day  was  but  an  hour ; 
The  nightingale,  their  only  vesper-bell, 
Sung  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day's  farewell  ;i 
The  broad  sim  set,  but  not  with  lingering  sweep 
As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o'er  the  deep  ; 
But  fiery,  fuU,  and  fierce,  as  if  he  left 
The  world  forever,  earth  of  light  bereft. 
Plunged  with  red  forehead  down  along  the  wave. 
As  dives  a  hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 
Then  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies, 
And  then  for  light  into  each  other's  eyes, 
Wondering  that  summer  show'd  so  brief  a  sun, 
And  asking  if  indeed  the  day  were  done. 

XVI. 
And  let  not  this  seem  strange  :  the  devotee 
Lives  not  in  earth,  but  in  his  ecstasy ; 
Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless  driven. 
His  soul  is  gone  before  his  dust  to  heaven. 
Is  love  less  potent  ?     No— his  path  is  trod. 
Alike  uplifted  gloriously  to  God ; 
Or  link'd  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 
The  other  better  self,  whose  joy  or  wo 
Is  more  than  ours  ;  the  all-absorbing  flame 
Which,  kindled  by  another,  grows  the  same, 
Wrapp'd  in  one  blaze  ;  the  pure,  yet  funeral  pile, 
Where  gentle  hearts,  like  Bramins,  sit  and  smile 
How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone, 
Admiring  Nature's  universal  throne, 
Her  woods,  her  wilds,  her  waters,  the  intense 
Reply  of  hers  to  our  intelligence  ! 
Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains  ?    Are  the  waves 
Without  a  spirit  ?    Are  the  dropping  caves 
Without  a  feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ? 
No,  no  !— they  woo  and  clasp  us  to  their  spheres, 
Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  clay  before 
Its  hour,  and  merge  our  soul  in  the  great  shore 
Strip  off  this  fond  and  false  identity  !— 
Wlio  thinks  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky  ? 
And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought. 
In  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 
Time's  lesson,  of  man's  baseness  or  his  own  ? 
All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 


'  The  now  well-known  etory  of  the  loves  of  the  nightingale  and 
rose  need  not  be  more  than  alluded  to,  being  sufflcienUy  femiliar 
to  the  WeBtom  as  to  the  Eastern  reader. 


168 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


CANTO   II. 


XVII. 
Neuha  arose,  and  Torquil :  twilight's  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower, 
Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  spars, 
Echo'd  their  dim  light  to  the  mustering  stars. 
Slowly  the  pair,  partaking  nature's  calm. 
Sought  out  their  cottage,  built  beneath  the  pahn  ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene ; 
Lovely  is  Love — the  spirit ! — when  serene. 
The  Ocean  scarce  spoke  louder  with  his  swell. 
Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the  shell," 
As,  far  divided  from  his  parent  deep. 
The  sea-bom  infant  cries,  and  will  not  sleep, 
Raising  his  little  plaint  in  vain,  to  rave 
For  the  broad  bosom  of  his  nursing  wave  : 
The  woods  droop'd  darkly,  as  inclined  to  rest, 
The  tropic  bird  whecl'd  rockward  to  his  nest. 
And  the  blue  sky  spread  round  them  like  a  lake 
Of  peace,  where  Piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

XVIII. 
But  through  the  pahn  and  plantain,  hark,  a  voice  1 
Not  such  as  would  have  been  a  lover's  choicQ, 
In  such  an  hour,  to  break  the  air  so  still ; 
No  dying  night-breeze,  harping  o'er  the  hill. 
Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock,  and  tree, 
Those  best  and  earliest  lyres  of  harmony. 
With  Echo  for  their  chonis  ;  nor  the  alarm 
Of  the  loud  war-whoop  to  dispel  the  charm  ; 
Nor  the  soliloquy  of  the  hermit  owl, 
Exhaling  all  his  solitary  soul. 
The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite, 
Who  peals  his  dreary  prean  o'er  the  night ; — 
But  a  loud,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 
As  ever  startled  through  a  sea-bird's  bill ; 
And  then  a  pause,  and  then  a  hoarse  "  Hillo  ! 
Torquil !  my  boy  1  what  cheer  ?    Ho  !  brother,  ho  1" 
"  Who  hails  ?"  cried  Torquil,  following  with  his  eye 
The  sound.    "  Here's  one,"  was  all  the  brief  reply. 

XIX. 

But  here  the  herald  of  the  self-same  mouth 

Came  breathing  o'er  the  aromatic  south, 

Not  like  a  "  bed  of  violets  "  on  the  gale. 

But  such  as  wafts  its  cloud  o'er  grog  or  ale. 

Borne  from  a  short  frail  pipe,  which  yet  had  blown 

Its  gentle  odors  over  either  zone. 

And,  puff'd  where'er  winds  rise  or  waters  roll, 

Had  wafted  smoke  from  Portsmouth  to  the  Pole, 

Opposed  its  vapor  as  the  lightning  flash'd, 

And  reek'd,  'midst  mountain-billows  unabash'd, 

To  jEoIus  a  constant  sacrifice. 

Through  every  change  of  aU  tlie  varying  skies. 


t  If  the  reader  will  apply  to  his  ear  the  sea-ahell  on  his  chimney- 
>iece,  he  will  be  aware  of  what  is  alluded  to.  If  the  text  should 
appear  obscure,  ho  will  find  in  "  Gebir  "  the  same  idea  better  ex- 
pressed in  two  lines. 

t  Hobbea,  the  father  of  Locke's  and  other  philosophy,  was  an 
liiTetcrate  smoker,— even  to  pipes  beyond  computation. 


And  what  was  he  who  bore  it  ? — I  may  err, 

But  deem  him  sailor  or  philosophcr.' 

Sublime  tobacco  !  which  from  east  to  west 

Cheers  the  tar's  labor  or  the  Turkman's  rest ; 

Which  on  the  Moslem's  ottoman  divides 

His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides  ; 

Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand. 

Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapping  or  the  Strand ; 

Divine  in  hookas,  glorious  in  a  pipe, 

When  tipp'd  with  amber,  mellow,  rich,  and  ripe ; 

Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 

More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress  ; 

Yet  thy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 

Thy  naked  beauties — give  me  a  cigar  1 

XX. 

Through  the  approaching  darkness  of  the  wood 

A  human  figure  broke  the  solitude. 

Fantastically,  it  may  be,  array'd, 

A  seaman  in  a  savage  masquerade  • 

Such  as  appears  to  rise  out  from  the  deep 

Wlien  o'er  the  line  the  merry  vessels  sweep, 

And  the  rough  saturnalia  of  the  tar 

Flock  o'er  the  deck,  in.  Neptune's  borrow'd  car ;' 

And,  pleased,  the  god  of  ocean  sees  his  name 

Revive  once  more,  though  but  in  mimic  game 

Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  the  breeze 

Undreamt  of  in  his  native  Cyclades. 

Still  the  old  god  delights,  from  out  the  main, 

To  snatch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 

Our  sailor's  jacket,  though  in  ragged  trim. 

His  constant  pipe,  which  never  yet  bum'd  dim. 

His  foremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait,  , 

Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  former  state ; 

But  then  a  sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head. 

Not  over-tightly  bound,  nor  nicely  spread; 

And,  'stead  of  trousers,  (ah,  too  early  torn  ! 

For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their  thorn,) 

A  curious  sort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 

Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat ; 

His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face. 

Perchance  might  suit  alike  with  either  race. 

His  arms  were  all  his  own,  our  Europe's  growth, 

Which  two  worlds  bless  for  civilizing  both  ; 

The  musket  swung  behind  his  shoulders  broad, 

And  somewhat  stoop'd  by  his  marine  abode. 

But  brawny  as  the  boar's  ;  and  hung  beneath. 

His  cuthiss  droop'd,  uilconscious  of  a  sheath. 

Or  loStor  worn  away  ;  his  pistols  were 

Link'd  to  his  belt,  a  matrimonial  pair — 

(Let  not  this  metaphor  appear  a  scoff. 

Though  one  miss'd  fire,  the  other  would  go  off;) 

These,  with  a  bayonet,  not  so  free  from  rust 

As  when  the  arm-chest  held  its  brighter  trust, 

Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  Night 

Survey'd  'him  in  his  garb  heteroclite. 

'  This  roush  but  jovial  ceremony,  used  in  crossing  the  line,  has 
been  so  often  described,  thai  it  need  not  be  more  tlian  alluded  to. 


CANTO   III. 


THE    ISLAND. 


169 


XXI. 
"  What  cheer,  Ben  Bunting  ?"  cried  (when  in  full  view 
Our  new  acquaintance)  Torquil.    "Aught  of  new  ?" 
"Ey,  ey !"  quoth  Ben,  "  not  new,  but  news  enow ; 
A  strange  sail  in  the  offing."    "  Sail  I  and  how  ? 
What !  could  you  make  her  out  ?    It  cannot  be ; 
Fve  seen  no  rag  of  convass  on  the  sea." 
"  Belike,"  said  Ben,  "  you  might  not  from  the  bay, 
But  from  the  bluff-head,  where  I  watch'd  to-day, 
I  saw  her  in  the  doldrums  ;  for  the  wind 
Was  light  and  baflling."    "  When  the  sun  declined 
Wliere  lay  she  ?  had  she  anchor'd  ?"    "  Ko,  but  still 
She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  grew  still." 
"  Her  flag  ?"     "  I  had  no  glass  :  but  fore  and  aft, 
Egad  1  she  secm'd  a  wicked-looking  craft." 
"  Arm'd  ?"    "  I  expect  so  ; — sent  on  the  look-out : 
'Tis  time,  belike,  to  put  our  helm  about." 
"  About  'i    Whate'er  may  have  us  now  in  chase, 
We'll  make  no  running  fight,  for  that  were  base ; 
We  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men." 
"  Ey,  ey  ?  for  that  'tis  all  the  same  to  Ben." 
"  Does  Christian  know  this  ?" — "Ay ;  he  has  piped 

all  hands 
To  quarters.     They  are  furbishing  the  stands 
Of  arms  ;  and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear. 
And  scaled  them.    You  are  wanted." — "  That's  but 
And  if  it  were  not,  mine  is  not  the  soul  [fair ; 

To  leave  my  comrades  helpless  on  the  shoaL 
My  Neuha !  ah  !  and  must  my  fate  pursue 
Not  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true  ? 
But  whatsoe'er  betide,  ah,  Nculia  I  now 
Unman  me  not ;  the  hour  will  not  allow 
A  tear;  I  am  thine  whatever  intervenes  !'' 
"  Right,"  quoth  Ben,  "  that  will  do  for  tke  njarines."' 


THE    ISLAND. 


CANTO  THB   THIBD. 


The  fight  was  o'er ;  the  flashing  through  the  gloom, 
Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a  tomb. 
Had  ceased ;  and  sulphury  vapors  upward  driven 
Had  left  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven : 
The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley, 
Had  left  the  echoes  to  their  melancholy ; 
No  more  they  shriek'd  their  horror,  boom  for  boom ; 
The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquish'd  had  their  doom ; 
The  mutineers  were  crush'd,  dispersed,  or  ta'en, 
Or  lived  to  deem  the  happiest  were  the  slain. 
Few,  few  escaped,  and  these  were  hunted  o'er 
The  isle  they  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 

1  "  That  wlU  do  for  the  marines,  but  the  saiSors  won't  believe 
U,"  is  an  old  saying ;  and  one  of  the  few  fragments  of  former 
Jealonsies  which  stiU  sarvire  (in  Jest  only)  between  these  gallant 
MTTlce*. 

39 


No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  scem'd,  on  earth, 
Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  birth ; 
Track'd  like  wild  beasts,  like  them  they  sought  the 
As  to  a  mother's  bosom  flies  the  child ;  [wild, 

But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den. 
And  still  more  vainly  men  escape  from  men. 

11. 
Beneath  a  rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 
Far  over  ocean  in  his  fiercest  moods, 
When  scaling  his  enormous  crag  the  wave 
Is  hurl'd  down  headlong,  like  the  foremost  brave, 
And  falls  back  on  the  foaming  crowd  behind, 
Wliich  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 
But  now  at  rest,  a  little  remnant  drew 
Together,  bleeding,  thirsty,  fiiint,  and  few ; 
But  still  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  stUl 
With  something  of  the  pride  of  former  wiU, 
As  men  not  all  unused  to  meditate, 
And  strive  much  more  than  wonder  at  their  fate. 
Their  present  lot  was  what  they  had  foreseen. 
And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been  ; 
Yet  still  the  lingering  hope,  which  deem'd  their  lot 
Not  pardon'd,  but  unsought  for  or  forgot. 
Or  trusted  that,  if  sought,  their  distant  caves 
Might  still  be  miss'd  amidst  the  world  of  waves. 
Had  wean'd  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what  they 
And  felt,  the  vengeance  of  their  counti7's  law.  [saw 
Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt-won  paradise, 
No  more  could  shield  their  virtue  or  their  vice : 
Their  better  feelings,  if  such  were,  were  thrown 
Back  on  themselves, — their  sins  remain'd  alone. 
Proscribed  even  in  their  second  country,  they 
Were  lost ;  in  vain  the  world  before  them  lay ; 
All  outlets  seem'd  secured.    Their  new  allies 
Had  fought  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice ; 
But  what  avail'd  the  club  and  spear,  and  arm 
Of  Hercules,  against  the  sulphury  charm. 
The  magic  of  the  thunder,  which  destroy'd 
The  warrior  ere  his  strength,  could  be  employ'd  f 
Dug,  like  a  spreading  pestilence,  the  grave 
No  less  of  hmnan  bravery  than  the  brave  !' 
Their  own  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 
Against  the  many  oft  will  dare  and  do  : 
But  though  the  choice  seems  native  to  die  free. 
Even  Greece  can  boast  but  one  Thermopylae, 
Till  now,  when  she  has  forged  her  broken  chain 
Back  to  a'  sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again  ! 

IIL 
Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appear'd, 
Like  the  last  remnant  of  the  red-deer's  herd ; 
Their  eyes  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn. 
But  still  the  himter's  blood  was  on  their  horn ; 

'  Archidamue,  king  of  Sparta,  and  son  of  Agesilans,  when  he 
saw  a  machine  Invented  for  the  caBtlng  of  stones  and  darts,  ex- 
claimed, that  it  was  the  *'  grave  of  valor."  The  same  story  has 
been  told  of  some  knights  on  the  flrHt  application  of  gunpowder : 
but  the  original  anecdote  Is  In  Plutarch. 


110 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


CANTO   III. 


A  little  stream  came  tmnbling  from  the  height, 

And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might, 

Its  bounding  crystal  frolick'd  in  the  ray, 

And  gush'd  from  cliff  to  crag  with  saltless  spray ; 

Close  on  the  wild,  wide  ocean,  yet  as  pure 

And  fresh  as  innocence,  and  more  secure, 

Its  silver  torrent  glitter'd  o'er  the  deep. 

As  the  shy  chamois'  eye  o'erlooks  the  steep, 

While  far  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 

Of  ocean's  alpine  azure  rose  and  fell. 

To  this  young  spring  they  rush'd, — all  feelings  first 

Absorb'd  in  j>assion's  and  in  nature's  thirst, — 

Drank  as  they  do  who  drink  their  last,  and  threw 

Their  arms  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew  ; 

Cool'd  their  scorch'd  throats,  and  wash'd  the  gory 

stains 
From  wounds  whose  only  bandage  might  be  chains ; 
Then,  when  their  drought  was  quench'd,  look'd 

sadly  round, 
As  wondering  how  so  many  stiH  were  found 
Alive  and  fetterless  : — but  silent  all, 
Each  sought  his  fellow's  eyes,  as  if  to  call 
On  him  for  language  which  his  lips  denied. 
As  though  their  voices  with  their  cause  had  died. 

IV. 

Stem,  and  aloof  a  little  from  the  rest. 
Stood  Christian,  with  his  arms  across  his  chest. 
The  ruddy,  reckless,  dauntless  hue  once  spread 
Along  his  cheek  was  livid  now  as  lead ; 
His  light-brown  locks,  so  graceful  in  their  flow, 
Now  rose  like  startled  vipers  o'er  his  brow. 
Still  as  a  statue,  with  his  lips  compress'd 
To  stifle  even  the  breath  within  his  breast. 
Fast  by  the  rock,  all  menacing,  but  mute. 
He  stood  ;  and,  save  a  slight  beat  of  his  foot. 
Which  deepen'd  now  and  then  the  sandy  dint 
Beneath  his  heel,  his  form  seem'd  tum'd  to  flint. 
Some  paces  further  Torquil  lean'd  his  head 
Against  a  bank,  and  spoke  not,  but  he  bled, — 
Not  mortally  ; — his  worst  wound  was  within : 
His  brow  was  pale,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in, 
And  blood-drops,  sprinkled  o'er  his  yellow  hair, 
Show'd  that  his  faintness  came  not  from  despair. 
But  nature's  ebb.    Beside  him  was  another, 
Rough  as  a  bear,  but  willing  as  a  brother, — 
Ben  Bunting,  who  essay'd  to  wash,  and  wipe, 
And  bind  his  wound — then  calmly  lit  his  J)ipe, 
A  trophy  which  survived  a  hundred  fights, 
A  beacon  which  had  cheer'd  ten  thousand  nights. 
The  fourth  and  last  of  this  deserted  group 
Walk'd  up  and  down — at  times  would  stand,  then 
To  pick  a  pebble  up — then  let  it  drop  [stoop 

Then  hurry  as  in  haste — then  quickly  stop — 
Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  companions — then 
Half  whistle  half  a  tune,  and  pause  again — 
And  then  his  former  movements  would  redouble, 
With  something  between  carelessness  and  trouble. 


This  is  a  long  description,  but  applies 
To  scarce  five  minutes  pass'd  before  the  eyes  ; 
But  yet  what  minutes  1     Moments  like  to  these 
Rend  men's  lives  into  immortalities. 


At  length  Jack  Skyscrape,  a  mercurial  man, 

Who  flutter'd  over  all  things  like  a  fan, 

More  brave  than  firm,_  and  more  disposed  to  dare 

And  die  at  once  than  wrestle  with  despair, 

Exclaim'd, "  G — d  damn  I" — those  syllables  intense, — 

Nucleus  of  England's  native  eloquence, 

As  the  Turk's  "  Allah  1"  or  the  Roman's  more 

Pagan  "  Proh  Jupiter  !"  was  wont  of  yore 

To  give  their  first  impressions  such  a  vent, 

By  way  of  echo  to  embarrassment. 

Jack  was  embarrass'd, — never  hero  more, 

And  as  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  he  swore  : 

Nor  swore  in  vain  ;  the  long  congenial  sound 

Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound ; 

He  drew  it  from  his  mouth,  and  look'd  full  wise, 

But  merely  added  to  the  oath  his  eyes  ; 

Thus  rendering  the  imperfect  phrase  complete, 

A  peroration  I  need  not  repeat. 

VI. 

But  Christian,  of  a  higher  order,  stood 

Like  an  extinct  volcano  in  his  mood  ; 

Silent,  and  sad,  and  savage, — with  the  trace 

Of  passion  reeking  from  his  clouded  face ; 

Till  lifting  up  again  his  sombre  eye. 

It  glanced  on  Torquil,  who  lean'd  faintly  by. 

"  And  is  it  thus  ?"  he  cried,  "  unhappy  boy  1 

And  thee,  too,  thee — my  madness  must  destroy !" 

He  said,  and  strode  to  where  young  Torquil  stood, 

Yet  dabbled  with  his  lately  flowing  blood ; 

Seized  his  hand  wistfully,  but  did  not  press. 

And  shrimk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress  ; 

Inquired  into  his  state  ;  and  when  he  heard 

The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deem'd  or  fear'd, 

A  moment's  brightness  pass'd  along  his  brow, 

As  much  as  such  a  moment  would  allow. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaim'd,  "  we  ^e  taken  in  the  toil. 

But  not  a  coward  or  a  coniJon  spoil ; 

Dearly  they  have  bought  us — dearly  still  may  buy ; — 

And  I  must  fall ;  but  have  you  strength  to  fly  ? 

'Twould  be  some  comfort  stiU,  could  you  survive ; 

Our  dwindled  band  is  now  too  few  to  strive. 

Oh  !  for  a  sole  canoe  !  though  but  a  shell. 

To  bear  you  hence  to  where  a  hope  may  dwell  1 

For  me,  my  lot  is  what  I  sought ;  to  be, 

In  Ufe  or  death,  the  fearless  and  the  free." 

VII. 
Even  as  he  spoke,  around  the  promontory, 
Which  nodded  o'er  the  billows  high  aiid  hoary, 
A  dark  speck  dotted  ocean  :  on  it  flew 
Like  to  the  shadow  of  a  roused  sea-mew 


CANTO    IV. 


THE    ISLAND, 


171 


Onward  it  came — and,  lo  !  a  second  foUow'd — 
Now  seen — now  liid — where  ocean's  vale  was  liol- 
And  near,  and  nearer,  till  their  dusky  crew  [low'd ; 
Presented  well-known  aspects  to  the  view. 
Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  paddles  play, 
Buoyant  as  wings,  and  flitting  through  the  spray ; — 
Now  perching  on  the  wave's  high  curl,  and  now 
Dash'd  downward  in  the  thundering  foam  below, 
Which  flings  it  broad  and  boiling  sheet  on  sheet, 
And  stings  its  high  flakes,  shiver'd  into  sleet : 
But  floating  still  through  surf  and  swell,  drew  nigh 
The  Jbarks,  like  small  birds  through  a  lowering  sky. 
Their  art  seem'd  nature — such  the  skill  to  sweep 
The  wave  of  these  born  playmates  of  the  deep. 

VIII. 
And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand, 
Leap'd  like  a  nereid  from  her  shell  to  land. 
With  dark  but  brilliant  skin,  and  dewy  eye 
Shining  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy  ? 
Neuha — the  fond,  the  faithful,  the  adored — 
Her  heart  on  Torquil's  like  a  torrent  pour'd  : 
And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near,  and  nearer  clasp'd, 
As  if  to  be  assured  'twas  1dm  she  grasp'd  ; 
Shudder'd  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and  then, 
To  find  it  trivial,  smiled  and  wept  again. 
She  was  a  wiirrior's  daughter,  and  could  bear 
Such  sights,  and  feel,  and  mourn,  but  not  despair. 
Her  lover  lived, — nor  foes  nor  fears  could  blight 
That  full-blown  moment  in  its  all  delight : 
Joy  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  fill'd  the  sob 
That  rock'd  her  heart  till  almost  heard  to  throb  ; 
And  paradise  was  breathing  in  the  sigh 
Of  nature's  child  in  nature's  ecstasy. 

IX. 
The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  that  meeting 
Were  not  unmoved  :  who  are,  when  hearts  are  greet- 
Even  Christian  gazed  upon  the  maid  and  boy  [ing  ? 
With  tearless  eye,  but  yet  a  gloomy  joy, 
Mx'd  with  those  bitter  thoughts  tlie  soul  arrays 
In  hopeless  visions  of  our  better  days. 
When  all's  gone — to  the  rainbow's  latest  ray. 
"  And  but  for  me  !"  he  said,  and  turn'd  away  ; 
Then  gazed  upon  the  i^air,  as  in  his  den 
A  lion  looks  upon  his  cubs  again ; 
And  then  relapsed  into  his  sullen  guise, 
As  heedless  of  his  further  destinies. 

X. 

But  brief  their  time  for  good  or  evil  thought ; 
The  billows  round  the  promontory  brought 
The  plash  of  hostile  oars.     Alas  !  who  made 
That  sound  a  dread  ?     All  around  them  seem'd  ar- 
Against  them,  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai :    [rayed 
She,  as  she  caught  the  first  glimpse  o'er  the  bay 
Of  the  arm'd  boats,  which  hurried  to  complete 
The  remnant's  ruin  with  their  flying  feet. 


Beckon'd  the  natives  roimd  her  to  their  prows, 
Embark'd  their  guests  and  launch'd  their  light  ca- 
noes ; 
In  one  placed  Christian  and  his  comrades  twain  ; 
But  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again. 
She  flx'd  him  in  her  own.     Away  !  away  ! 
They  clear  the  breakers,  dart  along  the  bay. 
And  towards  a  group  of  islets,  such  as  bear 
The  sea-bird's  nest  and  seal's  surf-hoUow'd  lair, 
They  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows  ;  fast 
They  flew,  and  fast  their  fierce  pursuers  chased. 
They  gain  upon  them — now  they  lose  again, — 
Again  make  way  and  menace  o'er  the  main  ; 
And  now  the  two  canoes  in  chase  divide. 
And  follow  difierent  courses  o'er  the  tide, 
To  baffle  the  pursuit.    Away  !  away  ! 
As  life  is  on  each  paddle's  flight  to-day. 
And  more  than  life  or  lives  to  Neuha  :  Love 
Freights  the  frail  bark  and  urges  to  the  cove — 
And  now  the  refuge  and  the  foe  arc  nigh — 
Yet,  yet  a  moment  I — Fly,  thou  light  ark,  fly  ! 


THE  ISLAND. 


CANTO    THE    FOURTH. 


Whitk  as  a  white  sail  on  a  dusky  sea. 
When  half  the  horizon's  clouded  and  half  free. 
Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky. 
Is  hoj)e's  last  gleam  in  man's  extremity. 
Her  anchor  parts  ;  but  still  her  snowy  sail 
Attracts  our  eye  amidst  the  rudest  gale  : 
Though  every  wave  she  climbs  divides  us  more, 
The  heart  still  follows  from  the  loneliest  shore. 

II. 
Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 
A  black  rock  rears  its  bosom  o'er  the  spray. 
The  haunt  of  birds,  a  desert  to  mankind, 
Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  the  wind 
And  sleeps  unwieldly  in  his  cavern  dun. 
Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun  : 
There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 
The  startled  echo  of  the  ocean  bird, 
Wlio  rears  on  its  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 
The  feather'd  fishers  of  the  solitude. 
A  narrov.'  segment  of  the  yellow  sand 
On  one  side  forms  the  outline  of  a  strand  ; 
Here  the  young  tui-tle,  crawling  from  his  shell, 
Steals  to  the  deep  wherein  his  parents  dwell ; 
Chipp'd  by  the  beam,  a  nursling  of  the  day. 
But  hatch'd  for  ocean  by  the  fostering  ray ; 
The  rest  was  one  bleak  precipice,  as  e'er 
Gave  mariners  a  shelter  and  despair  ; 


112 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


CANTO   IV. 


A  spot  to  make  the  saved  regret  the  deck 
Which  late  wcut  down,  and  envy  lost  the  wreck 
Such  was  the  stern  asylum  Neuha  chose 
'ro  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes  ; 
But  all  its  secret  was  not  told ;  she  knew 
In  this  a  treasure  hidden  from  the  view. 

in. 
Ere  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 
The  men  that  mann'd  what  held  her  Torquil's  lot 
By  her  command  removed,  to  strengthen  more 
The  skiff  which  wafted  Christian  from  the  shore 
This  he  would  have  opposed  ;  but  with  a  smUe 
She  pointed  calmly  to  the  craggy  isle, 
And  bade  him  "speed  and  prosper."    She  would 
The  rest  upon  herself  for  Torquil's  sake  [take 

They  parted  with  this  added  aid  ;  afar 
The  proa  darted  like  a  shooting  star. 
And  gain'd  on  the  pursuers,  who  now  steer'd 
Right  on  the  rock  which  she  and  Torquil  near'd 
They  puU'd  ;  her  arm,  though  delicate,  was  free 
And  firm  as  ever  grappled  with  the  sea, 
And  yielded  scarce  to  Torquil's  manlier  strength. 
The  prow  now  almost  lay  within  its  length 
Of  the  crag's  steep,  inexorable  face. 
With  naught  but  soundless  waters  for  its  base ; 
Within  a  hundred  boats'  length  was  the  foe. 
And  now  what  refuge  but  their  frail  canoe  ? 
This  Torquil  ask'd  with  half  upbraiding  eye, 
Which  said — "  Has  Neuha  brought  me  here  to  die  ? 
Is  this  a  place  of  safety,  or  a  grave, 
And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  wave  ?" 

IV. 
They  rested  on  their  paddles,  and  uprose 
Neuha,  and  pointing  to  the  approaching  foes,    ■ 
Cried — "  Torquil,  follow  me,  and  fearless  follow  1" 
Then  plunged  at  once  into  the  ocean's  hollow. 
There  was  no  time  to  pause — the  foes  were  near — 
Chains  in  his  eye,  and  menace  in  his  ear  ; 
With  vigor  they  puU'd  on,  and  as  they  came, 
Hail'd  him  to  yield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 
Headlong  he  leapt — to  him  the  swimmer's  skill 
Was  native,  and  now  all  his  hope  from  ill : 
But  how,  or  where  ?     He  dived,  and  rose  no  more 
The  boat's  crew  look'd  amazed  o'er  sea  and  shore 
There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice, 
Steep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a  berg  of  ice. 
They  watch'd  awhile  to  see  him  float  again. 
But  not  a  trace  rebubbled  from  the  main. 
Tiic  wave  roU'd  on,  no  ripple  on  its  face, 
Since  their  first  plunge  recall'd  a  single  trace  ; 
The  little  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam. 
That  whiten'd  o'er  what  seem'd  their  latest  home. 
White  as  a  sepulchre  above  the  pair 
Who  left  no  marble  (mournful  as  an  heir) 
The  quiet  proa  wavering  o'er  the  tide 
Wax  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride ; 


And  but  for  this  alone  the  whole  might  seem 

The  vanish'd  phantom  of  a  seaman's  dream. 

They  paused  and  scarch'd  in  vain,  then  pull'd  away ; 

Even  superstition  now  forbade  their  stay. 

Some  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave. 

But  vanish'd  like  a  corpse-light  from  a  grave ; 

Others,  that  something  supcmatm-al 

Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall ; 

While  all  agreed  that  in  his  cheek  and  eye 

There  was  a  dead  hue  of  eternity. 

Still  as  their  oars  receded  from  the  crag. 

Round  every  weed  a  moment  would  they  lag, 

Expectant  of  some  token  of  their  prey  ; 

But  no — ^he  had  melted  from  them  like  the  spray. 

V. 

And  where  was  he,  the  pilgrim  of  the  deep. 
Following  the  nereid  ?    Had  they  ceased  to  weep 
Forever  ?  or,  received  in  coral  caves, 
Wrung  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves  ? 
Did  they  with  ocean's  hidden  sovereigns  dwell, 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  fantastic  shell  ? 
Did  Neuha  with  the  mermaids  comb  her  hair 
Flowing  o'er  ocean  as  it  stream'd  in  air  ? 
Or  had  they  perish'd,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneath  the  gulf  wherein  they  boldly  leapt  ? 

VI. 
Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 
FoUow'd :  her  track  beneath  her  native  sea 
Was  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 
So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went, 
Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  heel. 
Which  struck  and  flash'd  like  an  amphibious  steel. 
Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 
The  depths  where  divers  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 
Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas. 
Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  heart  and  ease. 
Deep^^eeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 
The  way — then  upward  soar'd — and  as  she  spread 
Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  off"  her  locks, 
Laugh'd,  and  the  sound  wasAnswer'd  by  the  rocks. 
They  had  gain'd  a  central  realm  of  earth  again. 
But  look'd  for  tree,  and  field,  and  sky,  in  vain. 
Around  she  pointed  to  a  spacious  cave. 
Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave,' 
(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen, 
Save  through  the  billows'  glassy  veil  of  green, 
In  some  transparent  ocean  holiday, 
Wlien  all  the  finny  people  are  at  play,) 
Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil's  eyes. 
And  clapp'd  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise  ; 
Led  him  to  where  the  rock  apjjear'd  to  jut. 
And  form  a  something  like  a  Triton's  hut ; 


'  Of  this  cave  (wUicli  Is  no  Action)  the  original  v/ill  he  fonnfl  in 
the  ninth  chapter  of  "  Mariner's  Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands." 
I  have  taken  the  poetical  liherty  to  transplant  it  to  Tooboiiai,  the 
last  island  where  any  distinct  aeconnt  is  loft  of  Christhui  aud  his 
comrades. 


CANTO   IV. 


THE    ISLAND. 


173 


For  all  was  darkness  for  a  space,  till  day, 
Through  clefts  above  let  in  a  sober'd  ray ; 
As  in  some  old  cathedral's  glimmering  aisle 
The  dusty  monuments  from  liglit  recoU, 
Thus  sadly  in  their  refuge  submarine 
The  vault  drew  half  her  shadow  from  the  scene. 

VII. 
Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 
A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo  ; 
A  plantain  leaf  o'er  all,  the  more  to  keep 
Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 
This  mantle  kept  it  dry  ;  then  from  a  nook 
Of  the  same  plantain  leaf  a  flint  she  took, 
A  few  shrunk  wither'd  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 
Of  TorquU's  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  array'd 
The  grot  with  torchlight.     Wide  it  was  and  high, 
And  show'd  a  self-bom  Gothic  canopy  ; 
The  arch  uprear'd  by  nature's  architect. 
The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 
The  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom  hurl'd, 
When  the  Poles  crash'd,  and  water  was  the  world ; 
Or  harden'd  from  some  earth-absorbing  fire, 
While  yet  the  globe  rcek'd  from  its  funeral  pyre ; 
The  fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave,' 
Were  there,  all  scoop'd  by  Darkness  from  her  cave. 
There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phantasy, 
Fantastic  faces  moped  and  movv'd  on  high, 
And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would  fix. 
The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 
Thus  Nature  play'd  with  the  stalactites, 
And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas. 

VIII. 
And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand, 
And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kindled  brand. 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  show'd 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Kor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared : 
The  mat  for  rest ;  for  dress  the  fresh  gnatoo, 
And  sandal  oil  to  fence  against  the  dew 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Bom  of  the  fruit ;  for  board  tlie  plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  turtle-shell  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  the  flesh  it  cover'd  o'er ; 
The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 
A  pine-torch  pile  to  keep  undying  light. 
And  she  herself,  as  beautiful  as  night. 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the  scene, 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  serene. 


'  Tills  may  seem  too  minntc  lor  the  general  otitUnca  (In  Mari- 
ner's Account)  from  which  It  is  taken.  But  few  men  have  trav- 
elled without  seeing  something  of  the  kind — on  land,  that  Is. 
Without  adverting  to  Ellora,  in  Mungo  Park's  last  journal,  he 
mentions  havin.;  met  with  a  rock  or  mountain  so  exactly  resemb- 
ling a  Gothic  cathedral,  that  only  minute  Inspection  could  con- 
vince him  that  it  was  a  work  of  nature. 


She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  strangers'  sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  force  or  flight  might  fail, 
And  form'd  a  refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  countrymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  canoe, 
Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew ; 
Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry  bower ; 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store  with  smiles, 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

IX. 
She,  as  he  gazed  with  grateful  wonder,  press'd 
Her  shelter'd  love  to  her  impassion'd  breast ; 
And  suited  to  her  soft  caresses,  told 
An  olden  tale  of  love, — for  love  is  old, 
Old  as  eternity,  but  not  outworn. 
With  each  new  being  bom  or  to  be  bom  :» 
How  a  young  chief,  a  thousand  moons  ago. 
Diving  for  turtle  in  the  depths  below. 
Had  risen,  in  tracking  fast  his  ocean  prey, 
Into  the  cave  which  round  and  o'er  them  lay ; 
How  in  some  desperate  feud  of  after-time 
He  shelter'd  there  a  daughter  of  the  clime, 
A  foe  beloved,  and  offspring  of  a  foe. 
Saved  by  his  tribe  but  for  a  captive's  wo  ; 
How,  when  tlie  storm  of  war  was  stiU'd,  he  led 
His  island  clan  to  where  the  waters  spread 
Their  deep-green  shadow  o'er  the  rocky  door. 
Then  dived — it  seem'd  as  if  to  rise  no  more : 
His  wondering  mates,  amazed  within  their  bark. 
Or  decm'd  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue  shark  ; 
Row'd  round  in  sorrow  the  sea-girded  rock. 
Then  paused  upon  their  paddles  from  the  shock  ; 
When,  fresh  and  springing  from  the  deep,  they  saw 
A  goddess  rise — so  deem'd  they  in  their  awe  ; 
And  their  companion,  glorious  by  her  side, 
Proud  and  exulting  in  his  mermaid  bride ; 
And  how,  when  undeceived,  the  pair  they  bore 
With  soimding  conchs  and  joyous  shouts  to  shore ; 
How  they  had  gladly  Uved  and  calmly  died, — 
And  why  not  also  Torquil  and  his  bride  ? 
Not  mine  to  tell  the  rapturous  caress 
Which  foUow'd  wildly  in  that  wild  recess 
This  tale ;  enough  that  all  within  that  cave 
Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as  in  the  grave 
Where  Abelard,  through  twenty  years  of  death, 
When  Eloisa's  form  was  lower'd  beneath 
Their  nuptial  vault,  his  arms  outstretch'd,  and  press'd 
The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindled  breast.' 
The  waves  without  sang  round  their  couch,  their  roar 
As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o'er ; 


^  The  reader  will  recollect  the  epigram  of  the  Greek  anthology, 
or  its  tramslation  into  most  of  the  modem  languages : 
"  Whoe'er  thou  art,  thy  master  see 
He  was,  or  is,  or  is  to  be." 
'  The  tradition  is  attatchod  to  the  story  of  Elolsa,  that  when  her 
body  was  lowered  into  the  grave  of  Abelard,  (who  had  been  burled 
twimty  ye.i-s,)  ho  opened  his  arms  to  receive  her. 


174 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


CANTO   IV. 


Within,  their  hearts  made  all  the  harmony, 
Love's  broken  murmur  and  more  broken  sigh. 

X. 

And  they,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 
Which  left  them  exiles  of  the  hollow  rock. 
Where  were  they  ?    O'er  the  sea  for  life  they  plied, 
To  seek  from  Heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 
Another  course  had  been  their  choice — but  where  ? 
The  wave  which  bore  them  still  their  foes  would  bear, 
Who,  disappointed  in  their  former  chase, 
In  search  of  Christian  now  renew'd  their  race. 
Eager  with  anger,  their  strong  arms  made  way, 
Like  vultures  baffled  of  their  previous  prey. 
They  gain'd  upon  them,  all  whose  safety  lay 
In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay  : 
No  further  chance  or  choice  remain'd ;  and  right 
For  the  first  further  rock  which  met  their  sight 
They  steer'd,  to  take  their  latest  view  of  land. 
And  yield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand ; 
Dismiss'd  the  natives  and  their  shallop,  who 
Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scanty  crew ; 
But  Christian  bade  them  seek  their  shore  again, 
Nor  add  a  sacrifice  which  were  in  vain  ; 
For  what  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Against  the  arms  which  must  be  wielded  here  ? 

XI. 
They  landed  on  a  wild  but  narrow  scene, 
Wliere  few  but  Nature's  footsteps  yet  had  been ; 
Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye, 
Stern  and  sustain'd,  of  man's  extremity, 
When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory's  self  remains 
To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains, — 
They  stood,  the  three,  as  the  three  hundred  stood 
Who  dyed  Thermopyte  with  holy  blood. 
But,  ah,  how  different !  'tis  the  cause  makes  all. 
Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  its  fall. 
O'er  them  no  fame,  eternal  and  intense,  [hence ; 

Blazed  through  the  clouds  of  death  and  beckon'd 
No  grateful  country,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
Begun  the  praises  of  a  thousand  years  ; 
No  nation's  eyes  would  on  their  tomb  be  bent. 
No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument ; 
However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spilt 
Their  life  was  shame,  their  epitaph  was  guilt. 
And  this  they  knew  and  felt,  at  least  the  one, 
The  leader  of  the  band  he  had  undone  ; 
Who,  bom  perchance  for  better  things,  had  set 
His  life  upon  a  cast  which  linger'd  yet : 
But  now  the  die  was  to  be  thrown,  and  all 
The  chances  were  in  favor  of  his  fall : 
And  such  a  fall !     But  still  he  faced  the  shock. 
Obdurate  as  a  portion  of  the  rock 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  fix'd  his  levcU'd  gun, 
Dark  as  a  sullen  cloud  before  the  sun. 

'  In  ThibauIt'B  account  of  Frederic  the  Second  of  Prussia,  there 
ti  a  slu^ular  relation  of  a  young  Frenchman,  who,  vt'.V.i  his  mis- 


XII. 

The  boat  drew  nigh,  well  arm'd,  and  firm  the  crew 

To  act  whatever  duty  bade  them  do  ; 

Careless  of  danger,  as  the  onward  wind 

Is  of  the  leaves  it  strews,  nor  looks  behind 

And  yet  perhaps  they  rather  wish'd  to  go 

Against  a  nation's  than  a  native  foe. 

And  felt  that  this  poor  victim  of  self-will, 

Briton  no  more,  had  once  been  Britain's  still. 

They  hail'd  him  to  surrender — no  reply ; — 

Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glitter'd  in  the  sky. 

They  hail'd  again — no  answer ;  yet  once  more 

They  ofl'er'd  quarter  louder  than  before. 

The  echoes  only,  from  the  rocks  rebound, 

Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  dying  sound. 

Then  flash'd  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  volleying  flame, 

And  the  smoke  rose  between  them  and  their  aim, 

While  the  rock  rattled  with  the  bullets'  knell. 

Which  peal'd  in  vain,  and  flatten'd  as  they  fell ; 

Then  flew  the  only  answer  to  be  given 

By  those  who  had  lost  aU  hope  in  earth  or  heaven. 

After  the  first  fierce  peal,  as  they  puU'd  nigher. 

They  heard  the  voice  of  Christian  shout,  "  Now  fire !" 

And  ere  the  word  upon  the  echo  died. 

Two  fell ;  the  rest  assail'd  the  rock's  rough  side, 

And,  furious  at  the  madness  of  their  foes, 

Disdain'd  all  further  eflbrts,  save  to  close. 

But  steep  the  crag,  and  all  without  a  path. 

Each  step  opposed  a  bastion  to  their  wrath. 

While,  placed  amidst  clefts  the  least  accessible. 

Which  Christian's  eye  was  train'd  to  mark  full  well, 

The  three  maintain'd  a  strife  which  must  not  yield. 

In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chosen  to  build. 

Their  every  shot  told  ;  while  the  assailant  fell, 

Dash'd  on  the  shingles  like  the  limpet  shell ; 

But  still  enough  survived,  and  mounted  still, 

Scattering  their  numbers  liere  and  there,  until 

Surrounded  and  commanded,  though  not  nigh 

Enough  for  seizure,  near  enough  to  die, 

The  desperate  trio  held  aloof  their  fate 

But  by  a  thread,  like  sharks  who  have  gorged  the  bait; 

Yet  to  the  very  last  they  battled  well. 

And  not  a  groan  inform'd  their  foes  ^rJio  fell. 

Christian  died  last — t^vice  wounded  ;  and  once  more 

Mercy  was  offer'd  when  they  saw  his  gore ; 

Too  late  for  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die. 

With,  though  a  hostile  hand,  to  close  his  eye. 

A  limb  was  broken,  and  he  droop'd  along 

The  crag,  as  doth  a  falcon  reft  of  young. 

The  sound  revived  him,  or  appear'd  to  wake 

Some  passion  which  a  weakly  gesture  si^ake  . 

He  beckon'd  to  the  foremost,  who  drew  nigh, 

But,  as  they  near'd,  he  rear'd  his  weapon  high — 

His  last  ball  had  been  aim'd,  but  from  his  breast. 

He  tore  the  topmost  button  from  his  vest,' 

tresp,  appeared  to  be  of  some  rank.    He  enlisted  and  deserted  at 
Schweldnitz ;  and  after  a  desperate  resistance  was  retaken,  hav 


CAKTO   IV. 


THE    ISLAND. 


.!?5 


Down  the  tube  dash'd  it,  levell'd,  fired,  and  smiled 
As  lu8  foe  fell ;  then,  like  a  serpent,  coil'd 
His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 
Look'd  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep ; 
Cast  one  glance  back,  and  clench'd  his  hand,  and 

shook 
His  last  rage  'gainst  the  earth  which  he  forsook ; 
Then  plunged  :  the  rock  below  received  like  glass 
His  body  crush'd  into  one  gory  mass, 
With  scarce  a  shred  to  tell  of  human  form. 
Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm  ; 
A  fair-hair'd  scalp,  besmear'd  with  blood  and  weeds, 
Yet  reek'd,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds  ; 
Some  splinters  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last. 
As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  held  them  fast) 
Yet  glitter'd,  but  at  distance — hurl'd  away 
To  rust  beneath  the  dew  and  dashing  spray. 
The  rest  was  nothing — save  a  life  misspent, 
And  soul — but  who  shall  answer  where  it  went  ? 
'Tis  ours  to  bear,  not  judge  the  dead  ;  and  they 
Who  doom  to  hell,  themselves  are  on  the  way. 
Unless  these  bullies  of  eternal  paius 
Are  pardon'd  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse  brains. 

XIII. 
The  deed  was  over  1    All  were  gone  or  ta'en. 
The  fugitive,  the  captive,  or  the  slain. 
Chain'd  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a  gallant  crew, 
They  stood  with  honor,  were  the  wretched  few 
Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle ; 
But  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  spoil. 
Cold  lay  they  were  they  fell,  and  weltering, 
While  o'er  them  flapp'd  the  sea-birds'  dewy  wing, 
Now  wheeling  nearer  from  the  neighboring  surge, 
And  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry  dirge : 
But  calm  and  careless  heaved  the  wave  below. 
Eternal  with  unsympathetic  flow ; 
Far  o'er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on. 
And  sprung  the  flying  fish  against  the  sun, 
Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  from  its  brief  height. 
To  gather  moisture  for  another  flight. 

XIV. 
'Twas  mom ;  and  Neuha,  who  by  dawn  of  day 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray, 
And  watch  if  aught  approach'd  the  amphibious  lair 
Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air  : 

ing  killed  an  officer,  who  attempted  to  seize  him  after  he  was 
wounded,  by  the  discharge  of  his  musket  loaded  with  a  button  of 
his  uniform.  Some  circumstances  on  his  court-martial  raised  a 
great  interest  amongst  bis  Judges,  who  wished  to  discover  his  real 
situation  in  life,  which  be  offered  to  disclose,  but  to  the  Mng  only, 


It  flapp'd,  it  flll'd,  and  to  the  growing  gale 
Bent  its  broad  arch  :  her  breath  began  to  fail 
With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and  high. 
While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie. 
But  no  !  it  came  not ;  fast  and  far  away 
The  shadow  lessen'd  as  it  clear'd  the  bay. 
She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam  from  her  eyes. 
To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies. 
On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 
Diminish'd,  dwindled  to  a  very  speck — 
Then  vanish'd.    All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy  ! 
Down  plunged  she  through  the  cave  to  rouse  her  boy ; 
Told  all  she  had  seen,  and  aU  she  hoped,  and  aU 
That  happy  love  could  augur  or  recall ; 
Sprung  forth  again,  with  Torquil  following  free 
His  bounding  nereid  over  the  broad  sea ; 
Swam  round  the  rock,  to  where  a  shallow  cleft 
Hid  the  canoe  that  Neuha  there  had  left 
Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar, 
That  eve  the  strangers  chased  them  from  the  shore ; 
But  when  these  vanish'd,  she  pursued  her  prow, 
Regain'd,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it  now : 
Nor  ever  did  more  love  and  joy  embark, 
Than  now  were  wafted  in  that  slender  ark. 

XV. 
Again  their  own  shore  rises  on  the  view, 
No  more  polluted  with  a  hostile  hue  ; 
No  sullen  ship  lay  bristling  o'er  the  foam, 
A  floating  dungeon  : — all  was  hope  and  home : 
A  thousand  proas  darted  o'er  the  bay. 
With  sounding  shells,  and  heralded  their  way ; 
The  chiefs  came  down,  aroimd  the  people  pour'd, 
And  welcomed  Torquil  as  a  son  restored  ; 
The  women  throng'd,  embracing  and  embraced 
By  Neuha,  asking  where  they  had  been  chased. 
And  how  escaped  1    The  tale  was  told ;  and  then 
One  acclamation  rent  the  sky  again  ; 
And  from  that  hour  a  new  tradition  gave 
Their  sanctuary  the  name  of  "  Neuha's  Cave." 
A  hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height. 
Blazed  o'er  the  general  revel  of  the  night, 
The  feast  in  honor  of  the  guest,  retum'd 
To  peace  and  pleasure,  perilously  eam'd ; 
A  night  succeeded  by  such  happy  days 
As  only  the  yet  infant  world  displays. 

to  whom  be  requested  permission  to  write.  This  was  refbsed, 
and  Frederic  was  filled  with  the  greatest  indignation,  ftom  baffled 
curiosity  or  some  other  motive,  when  be  understood  that  his  re- 
quest bad  been  denied. 


176 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   I. 


MANFRED 


A     DRAMATIC     POEM. 


"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio. 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy." 


DRAilATIS  PERSON.S!. 


Makfbbd. 

Chamois  Hunteb. 

Abbot  op  St.  Maubicb. 

Manuel. 

Hebman. 

Witch  of  the  Alps. 
Abimanes. 

Kemesis. 

The  Destinies. 

Spibits,  etc. 


The  scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the  Higher  Alps — 
partly  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred,  and  partly  in  the 
Mountains. 

MANFRED. 


ACT    I. 

BOKKB     I. 

Manfbed  dUme. — Scene,  a  Oothie  Gallery. — Time, 
Midnight. 

Man.  The  lamp  must  be  replenish'd,  but  even  then 
It  wiU  not  bum  so  long  as  I  must  watch  : 
My  slumbers — if  I  slumber — are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not :  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within  ;  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 
But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise ; 
Sorrow  is  knowledge ; .  they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth, 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  not  that  of  Life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essay'd,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subjects  to  itself — 
But  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good, 


And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men — 

But  this  avail'd  not :  I  have  had  my  foes, 

And  none  have  baffled,  many  fallen  before  me— 

But  this  avail'd  not :— Good,  or  evil,  life. 

Powers,  passions,  aU  I  see  in  other  beings. 

Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 

Since  that  aU-nameless  hour.    I  have  no  dread, 

And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear. 

Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wishes, 

Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth. 

Now  to  my  task. 

Mysterious  Agency  1 
Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe  ! 
Whom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  in  light — 
Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 
In  subtler  essence — ye,  to  whom  the  tojjs 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts. 
And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  familiar  things — 
I  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  cliarmr 

Which  gives  me  power  upon  you Rise  1  appear  1 

[A  pause. 
They  come  not  yet.    Now  by  the  voice  of  him 
Who  is  the  first  among  you — by  this  sign, 
Which  makes  you  tremble — ^by  the  claims  of  him 

Who  is  undying, — Rise  !  appear  ! Appear  ! 

[A  pause. 
If  it  be  so.     Spirits  of  earth  and  air. 
Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me  :  by  a  power, 
Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spell. 
Which  had  its  birthplace  in  a  star  condemn'd, 
The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolish'd  world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space  ; 
By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul. 
The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around  me, 
I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will.    Appear  1 

A  star  is  seen  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gallery :  it 
is  stationary  ;  and  a  voice  is  heard  singing. 

First  Spnirr. 

Mortal  1  to  thy  bidding  bow'd. 
From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds. 
And  the  summer's  sunset  gilds 


SCEXE   I. 


MANFRED. 


177 


With  the  azure  and  vennilion, 
Wliich  is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion ; 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden ; 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 
Mortal — be  thy  wish  avow'd  1 

Voice  of  the  Second  Spirit. 
Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains ; 

They  crown'd  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  Avalanch  in  his  hand ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  Glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day ; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  cavem'd  base — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou! 

Voice  of  the  Third  Spirit. 
In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters, 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife, 
Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger. 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 
Where  the  Mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells  ; 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells ; 
O'er  my  calm  Hall  of  Coral 

The  deep  echo  roll'd — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold  I 

Fourth  Spirit. 
Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillow'd  on  fire, 
And  the  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher ; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth,  , 

As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth ; 
I  have  quitted  my  birthplace. 

Thy  bidding  to  bide — 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide  ! 

TiPTH  Spirit. 
I  am  the  Rider  of  the  wind. 
The  Stirrer  of  the  storm  ; 
The  hurricane  I  left  behind 
Is  yet  with  liglitninjr  warm  : 
23 


To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  blast : 
The  fleet  I  met  sail'd  well,  and  yet 

'Twin  sink  ere  night  be  past 

Sixth  Spirit. 
My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night. 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light  J 

Skventh  Spirit. 
Thy  star  which  rules  thy  destiny 
Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me : 
It  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 
As  e'er  revolved  roimd  sun  in  air ; 
Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 
Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star. 
The  hour  arrived — and  it  became 
A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 
A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse, 
The  menace  of  the  universe  ; 
Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force. 
Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 
A  bright  deformity  on  high. 
The  monster  of  the  upper  sky ! 
And  thou  !  beneath  its  influence  born — 
Thou  worm  1  whom  I  obey  and  scorn — 
Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine. 
And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 
For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 
Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 
And  parley  with  a  thing  Uke  thee — 
What  wouldst  thou,  Child  of  Clay !  with  me  ! 

The  Seven  Spirits. 
Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy  star, 

Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  Child  of  Clay  ! 
Before  thee  at  thy  quest  their  spirits  are — 

What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals — say  f 

Man.  Forgetfulness 

Fimt  Spirit.  Of  what — of  whom— and  why  ! 

Man.  Of  that  which  is  within  me ;  read  it  there — 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it 

Spirit.  We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  pos- 
Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power       [sess  : 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators,  each  and  all. 
These  shall  be  thine. 

Man.  Oblivion,  self-oblivion — 

Can  ye  not  wring  fiwm  out  the  hidden  reahns 
Ye  ofier  so  profusely  what  I  ask  ? 

Spirit.  It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill ; 
But — thou  mayst  die. 

Man.  Will  death  bestow  it  on  me  J 

Spirit.  We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget  ,• 
Wu  are  eternal ;  and  to  us  the  post 


1^8 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT    I. 


Is,  as  the  future,  present.    Art  tliou  answer'd  ? 

Man.  Ye  mock  me — but  the  power  which  brought 
ye  here 
Hath  made  you  mine.    Slaves,  scoif  not  at  my  will  I 
The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark. 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright. 
Pervading,  and  far-darting  as  your  own. 
And  shall  not  yield  to  yours,  though  coop'd  in  clay  1 
Answer,  or  will  I  teach  you  what  I  am. 

Spirit.  "We  answer  as  we  answer'd ;  our  reply 
la  even  in  thine  own  words. 

Man.  "Wixj  say  ye  so  ? 

Spirit.  If,  as  thou  say'st,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  naught  to  do  with  us. 

Man.  I  then  have  caU'd  ye  from  your  realms  in 
Ye  cannot,  or  ye  will  not,  aid  me.  [vain ; 

Spirit.  Say ; 

What  we  possess  we  oflfer ;  it  is  thine  : 
Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again —      [days — 
Kingdom,  and-  sway,  and  strength,  and  length  of 

Man.  Accursed  !  what  have  I  to  do  with  days  ? 
They  are  too  long  already.    Hence — begone  I 

Spirit.  Yet  pause  :  being  here,  our  will  would  do 
thee  service ; 
Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 
Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Man.  No,  none: 'yet  stay — one  moment,  ere  we 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.    I  hear  [part — 

Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounds, 
As  music  on  the  waters  ;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star  ; 
But  nothing  more.    Approach  me  as  ye  are. 
Or  one,  or  all,  in  your  accustom'd  forms. 

Spirit.  We  have  no  forms  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle  : 
But  choose  a  form — in  fhat  we  will  appear. 

Man.  I  have  no  choice ;  there  is  no  form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.    Let  him. 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting — come. 

Seventh  Spirit.     {Appearing  in  the  shape  of  a  heati^ 
tifal  female  figure^     Behold  1 

Man.  Oh,  God  !  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  might  be  most  happy.    I  wiU  clasp  thee. 

And  we  again  wiU  be \_Tlie  figure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  cxush'd  1 

Manfred /«!?/«  senseless. 

(A  Voice  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  which  follows^ 
When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave. 

And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 
And  the  meteor  on  the  grave, 

And  the  wisp  on  the  morass  ; 
When  the  falling  stars  arc  shooting, 
And  the  answer'd  owls  are  hooting. 


And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 
Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine. 
With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep, 

Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep  ; 

There  are  shades  which  wiU  not  vanish. 

There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not  banish  ; 

By  a  power  to  thee  unknown. 

Thou  canst  never  be  alone  ; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 

Thou  art  gather'd  in  a  cloud ; 

And  forever  shalt  thou  dwell 

In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by, 

Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 

As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen. 

Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been ; 

And  when  in  that  secret  dread 

Thou  hast  tum'd  around  thy  head. 

Thou  shalt  marvel  I  am  not 

As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot. 

And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 

Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 
Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse  ; 
And  a  spirit  of  the  air 
Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare ; 
In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 
Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice ; 
And  to  thee  shall  Night  deny 
All  the  quiet  of  her  sky ; 
And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun. 
Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distill 

An  essence  which  hath  strength  to  kill ; 

From  thy  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 

The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring ; 

From  thy  own  smile  I  snatch'd  the  snake, 

For  there  it  coil'd  as  in  a  brake  ; 

From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 

Which  gave  all  these  their  chiefest  harm  ; 

In  proving  every  poison  known, 

I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

By  thy  cold  breast  and  serpent  smile, 

By  thy  unfathom'd  gulfs  of  guile. 

By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye. 

By  thy  shut  soul's  hypocrisy ; 

By  the  perfection  of  thine  art 

Which  pass'd  for  human  thine  own  heart ; 

By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain. 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  call  upon  thee  I  and  compel 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  Hill ! 


SCKXE   II. 


MANFRED. 


179 


And  on  tliy  head  I  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial ; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  near 

To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear ; 

Lo  !  the  spell  now  works  around  thee, 

And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee ; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  pass'd — now  wither  I 

SCENE  n. 

The  Mountain  of  the  Jungfrau. — Time,  Morning. — 
Manpbed  ahne  upon  the  Cliffs. 
Man.  The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me — 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me — 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me  ; 
I  lean  no  more  on  superhuman  aid, 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf  d  in  darkness. 
It  is  not  of  my  search. — My  mother  Earth  ! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye  Moun- 
"Why  are  ye  beautiful  ?     I  cannot  love  ye.         [tains, 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
Tliat  opcnest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight — thou  shinest  not  on  my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 
To  rest  forever — wherefore  do  I  pause  ? 
I  feel  the  impulse — yet  I  do  not  plunge  ; 
I  see  the  peril — yet  do  not  recede  ; 
And  my  brain  reels — and  yet  my  foot  is  firm  ; 
There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds. 
And  makes  it  my  fataUty  to  live ; 
If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 
This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 
My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 
To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself— 
The  last  infirmity  of  evil.    Ay, 
Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle  passes. 
Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 
WeU  mayst  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I  should  ])0 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets  ;  thou  art  gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee  ;  but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 
With  a  pervading  vision. — Beautiful  I 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world  1 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself ! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  wo, 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 


The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 
Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will. 
Till  our  mortality  predominates. 
And  men  are — what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 
And  trust  not  to  each  other.    Hark  !  the  note, 

[The  ShepherePa  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bolls  of  the  sauntering  herd  ; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes. — Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment — bom  and  dying 
With  the  bless'd  tone  which  made  me  ! 

Enter  from  Mow  a  Chamois  Hunteh. 

CJuimois  Hunter.  Even  so 

This  way  the  chamois  leapt :  her  nimble  feet 
Have  baffled  me  ;  my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail.— What  is  here  ? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath  reach'd 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers. 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain  :  his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  freoborn  peasant's,  at  this  distance — 
I  wiU  approach  him  nearer. 

Man.  {not  perceiving  the  other).     To  be  thus — 
Gray-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  pines, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 
Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay — 
And  to  be  thus,  eternaUy  but  thus, 
Having  been  otherwise  1     Now  furrow'd  o'er 
With  wrinkles,  plough'd  by  moments,  not  by  years 
And  hours — aU  tortured  into  ages — hours 
Which  I  outlive  1 — Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice  ! 
Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me  ! 
I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 
Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict ;  but  ye  pass. 
And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live  ; 
On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

C.  Hun.  The  mists  begin  to  rise  from  up  the  valley ; 
I'll  warn  him  to  descend,  or  he  may  chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 

Man.  The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers ;  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury. 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  Hell, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore,' 
Heap'd  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles. — I  am  giddy. 

C.  Bun.  I  must  approach  him  cautiously ;  if  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 

Man.  Mountains  have  fallen. 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren  ;  filling  up 


180 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  II. 


The  ripe  green  yalleys  Tpith  destruction's  splinters  ; 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crush'd  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  anotlier  channel — thus, 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Kosenberg — 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it  ? 

C.  Ilan.  Friend  I  have  a  care, 

Your  next  step  may  be  fatal ! — for  the  love 
Of  him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink  ! 
Man.  {not  lienring  Mm).     Such  would  have  been 

for  me  a  fitting  tomb  ; 
My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth ; 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
For  the  wind's  pastime — as  thus — thus  they  shall 

be— 
In  this  one  plunge. — Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens  ! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully— 
You  were  not  meant  for  me — Earth !  take  these  atoms ! 
\^As  Majstpred  is  in  act  to  spring  from  the 

cliff,  the  Chamois  Hunter  seizes  and  retains 

Mm  with  a  sudden  grasp. 
G.  Hun.  Hold,  madman  ! — though  aweary  of  thy 

life. 
Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty  blood — 

Away  with  me 1  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

Man.  I  am  most  sick  at  heart — nay,  grasp  me  not — 
I  am  all  feebleness — the  mountains  whirl 
Spinning  around  me 1  grow  blind What  art 

thou? 
C.  Ilun.  I'll  answer  that  anon. — Away  with  me — 

The  clouds  grow  thicker^ there — now  lean  on  me — 

Place  your  foot  here — here,  take  this  staff,  and  cling 
A  moment  to  that  shrub — now  give  me  your  hand, 
And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle — softly— well — 
The  Chalet  will  be  gain'd  within  an  hour — 
Come  on,  we'll  quickly  find  a  surer  footing, 
And  something  like  a  pathway,  which  the  torrent 
Hath  wash'd  since  winter.— Come,  'tis  bravely  done — 
You  should  have  been  a  hunter. — Follow  me. 

[As  they  descend  the  rocks  with  diffleulty, 
the  scene  closes. 

AQ:r  n. 

BOENE      I. 

A  Cottage  amongst  the  Bernese  Alps. 
Manfred  and  the  Chamois  Hunter. 
C.  Hun.  No,  no— yet  pause — thou  must  not  yet  go 
forth: 
Thy  mind  and  body  are  alike  unfit 
To  trust  each  other,  for  some  hours,  at  least ; 
When  thou  art  better,  I  will  be  thy  guide  — 
But  whither  ? 

Man.  It  imports  not :  I  do  know 

My  route  fuU  well,  and  need  no  further  guidance. 
C.  Sun.  Thy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee  of  high 
lineage — 


One  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags 
Look  o'er  the  lower  valleys — which  of  these 
May  call  thee  lord  ?     I  only  know  their  portals  ; 
My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
To  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls. 
Carousing  with  the  vassals  ;  but  the  paths, 
Which  step  from  out  our  mountains  to  their  doors, 
I  know  from  childhood — ^which  of  these  is  thine  ? 

Man.  No  matter. 

C.  Ilun.  Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the  question, 

And  be  of  better  cheer.     Come,  taste  my  wine  ; 
'Tis  of  an  ancient  vintage  :  many  a  day 
'T  has  thaw'd  my  veins  among  our  glaciers,  now 
Let  it  do  thus  for  thine — Come,  pledge  me  fairly. 

Man.  Away,  away  !  there's  blood  upon  the  brim  I 
Will  it  then  never — ^never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 

C  Ilun.  What  dost  thou  mean  ?  thy  senses  wan- 
der from  thee. 

Man.  I  say  'tis  blood — my  blood  !  the  pure  warm 
stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart. 
And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not  love. 
And  this  was  shed  ;  but  still  it  rises  up. 
Coloring  the  clouds,  that  shut  me  out  from  heaven, 
Where  thou  art  not — and  I  shall  never  be. 

O.  Hun.   Man  of  strange  words,  and  some  half- 
maddening  sin. 
Which  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  whate'er 
Thy  dread  and  sufferance  be,  there's  comfort  yet — 
The  aid  of  holy  men,  and  heavenly  patience — — 

Man.  Patience,  and  jiatience  I     Hence — that  word 
was  made 
For  brutes  of  burden,  not  for  birds  of  prey  ; 
Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dust  like  thine, — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

C.  Hun.  Thanks  to  heaven  ! 

I  would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  fame 
Of  William  Tell ;  but  whatsoe'er  thine  ill, 
It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are  useless. 

Man.  Do  I  not  bear  it  ? — Look  on  me — I  live. 

C.  Hun.  This  is  convulsion,  and  no  healthful  life. 

Man.  I  tell  thee,  man  I  I  have  hved  many  years, 
Many  long  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 
To  those  which  I  must  number  :  ages — ages — 
Space  and  eternity — and  consciousness. 
With  the  fierce  thirst  of  death — and  still  unslaked  ! 

C.  Hun.  Why,  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  middle  age 
Hath  scarce  been  set ;  I  am  thine  elder  far. 

Man.  Think'st  thou  existence  doth  depend  on  time  ? 
It  doth  ;  but  actions  are  our  epochs  :  mine 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable. 
Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
Innumerable  atoms  ;  and  one  desert, 
Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves  break. 
But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks, 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness,     [him. 

C.  Hun.  Alas  !  he's  mad — but  yet  I  must  not  leave 


SCENE  II. 


MANFRED. 


181 


I 


Min.  I  would  I  were — for  then  the  things  I  see 
"Would  be  but  a  distemper'd  dream. 

C.  Uiin.  What  is  it 

That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look'st  upon  ? 

Mnn.  Myself,  and  thee — a  peasant  of  the  Alps — 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home. 
And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud  and  free  ; 
Thy  self-respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts  ; 
Thy  days  of  health,  and  niglits  of  sleep  ;  thy  toils, 
By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless  ;  hopes 
Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave, 
With  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf. 
And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph  ; 
This  do  I  see — and  then  I  look  within — 
It  matters  not — my  soul  was  scorch'd  already  1 

C.  Hun.  And  wouldst  thou  then  exchange  thy  lot 
for  mine  ? 

Man.  No,  friend  1    I  would  not  wrong  thee  nor 
My  lot  with  living  being  :  I  can  bear —     [exchange 
However  wretchedly,  'tis  still  to  bear — 
In  life  what  others  could  not  brook  to  dream. 
But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

C.  Hun.  And  with  this — 

This  cautious  feeling  for  another's  pain. 
Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil  2 — say  not  so. 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreak'd  revenge 
Upon  his  enemies  ? 

Man.  Oh  !  no,  no,  no  ! 

My  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  loved  me — 
On  those  whom  I  best  loved  :  I  never  queU'd 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence — 
But  my  embrace  was  fatah 

C.  Hun.  Heaven  give  thee  rest  1 

And  penitence  restore  thee  to  thyself; 
My  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

Mail.  I  need  them  not 

But  can  endure  thy  pity.    I  depart — 
'Tis  time — farewell  1 — Here's  gold,  and  thanks  for 
No  words — it  is  thy  due. — Follow  me  not —  [thee — 
I  know  my  path — the  mountain  peril 's  pass'd : — 
And  once  again,  I  charge  thee,  follow  not ! 

{Exit  Manfebd. 

SCEKB  II. 

A  lower  Valley  in  the  Alps. — A  Cataract. 

Enter  Manpbed. 
It  is  not  noon — ^the  sunbow's  rays  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven. 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular,  » 

And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along. 
And  to  and  fro,  like  tlie  pale  courser's  tail, 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.     No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness  ; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude, 


And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters. — I  will  call  her. 

[Manfred  lalces  some  of  the  water  into  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  and  flinrfs  it  in  the  air,  mutter- 
ing the  adjuration.  After  a  pause,  the  Witch 
OP  THE  Axps  rhes  beneath  the  arch  of  the 
sunhow  of  the  torrent. 

Beautiful  Spirit !  with  thy  hair  of  light, 

And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 

The  charms  of  earth's  least  mortal  daughters  grow 

To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 

Of  purer  elements  ;  while  the  hues  of  youth, — 

Camation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 

Eock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart. 

Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 

Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow. 

The  blush  of  earth,  embracing  with  her  heaven, — 

Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 

The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  thee. 

Beautiful  Spirit  1  in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 

Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul, 

Wliich  of  itself  shows  immortality, 

I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  son 

Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 

At  times  to  commune  with  them — ^if  that  he 

Avail  him  of  his  speUs— to  call  thee  thus. 

And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth ! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  powers  which  give  thee  power ; 
I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts. 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both. 
Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufferings. 
I  have  expected  this — what  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Man.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty — nothing  further. 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her — 
But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I  search  no  further. 

Witch.  What  could  be  the  quest 

Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible  ? 

Man.  A  boon  ; 

But  why  should  I  repeat  it  ?  'twere  in  vain. 

Witch.  I  know  not  that ;  let  thy  lips  utter  it. 

Man.  Well,  though  it  torture  me,  'tis  but  the  same ; 
My  pang  shall  find  a  voice.    From  my  youth  upwarde 
My  spirit  walk'd  not  with  the  souls  of  men. 
Nor  look'd  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes  ; 
The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine, 
The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine ; 
My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 
Made  me  a  stranger ;  though  I  wore  the  form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh. 
Nor  midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 
Was  there  but  one  who but  of  her  anon. 


I 


182 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  II. 


I  said,  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  men, 

I  held  but  slight  communion ;  but  instead. 

My  joy  was  in  the  wilderness,  to  breathe 

The  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top, 

Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  wing 

Flit  o'er  the  herbless  granite ;  or  to  plunge 

Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 

On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new-breaking  waye 

Of  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 

In  these  my  early  strength  exulted ;  or 

To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 

The  stars  and  their  development ;  or  catch 

The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim  ; 

Or  to  look,  list'ning,  on  the  soatter'd  leaves. 

While  Autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song. 

These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone ; 

For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one, — 

Hating  to  be  so, — cross'd  me  in  my  path, 

I  felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them. 

And  was  all  clay  again.    And  then  I  dived. 

In  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of  death. 

Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect ;  and  drew 

From  wither'd  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heap'd  up  dust. 

Conclusions  most  forbidden.    Then  I  pass'd 

The  night  of  years  in  sciences  untaught, 

Save  in  the  old  time  ;  and  with  time  and  toil. 

And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 

As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air. 

And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth. 

Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I  made 

Mine  eyes  familiar  with  Eternity, 

Such  as,  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 

He  who  from  out  the  fountain  dwellings  raised 

Eros  and  Anteros,  at  Gadara,' 

As  I  do  thee  ; — and  with  my  knowledge  grew 

The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 

Of  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until, 

Witcfi,  Proceed. 

Man.            Oh  !  I  but  thus  prolong'd  my  words. 
Boasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 
As  I  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief— 
But  to  my  task.     I  have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being. 
With  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human  ties  ; 
If  I  had  such,  they  seem'd  not  such  to  me — 
Yet  there  was  one 

Witch.  Spare  not  thyself— proceed. 

3Iaii.  She  was  Hke  me  in  lineaments — her  eyes. 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine  ; 
But  soften'd  all,  and  temper'd  into  beauty  : 
She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings, 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe  :  nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine, 

'  The  philosopher  Jambllcus.    The  etory  of  the  raising  of  Ero3 
«nd  .\utero3  may  he  found  in  his  life  by  Ennapins.    It  in  well  told. 


Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears — which  I  had  not ; 
And  tenderness — but  that  I  had  for  her  ; 
Humility — and  that  I  never  had. 
Her  faults  were  mine — her  virtues  were  her  own — 
I  loved  her,  and  destroy'd  her  1 

Witc?i.  With  thy  hand  ? 

Man.  Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart — ^which  broke 
her  heart — 
It  gazed  on  mine,  and  wither'd.    I  have  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers — and  yet  her  blood  was  shed — 
I  saw — and  could  not  stanch  it. 

Witch.  And  for  this — 

A  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise. 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  vrith  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  our  great  knowledge,  and  shrink'st  back 
To  recreant  mortality Away  ! 

Man.  Daughter  of  Air !  I  tellthee,  since  that  hour — 
But  words  are  breath — look  on  me  in  my  sleep. 
Or  watch  my  watchings — come  and  sit  by  me  ! 
My  solitude  is  soUtude  no  more, 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies  ; — I  have  gnash'd 
My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn. 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset ; — I  have  pray'd 
For  madness  as  a  blessing — 'tis  denied  me. 
I  have  affronted  death— but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me. 
And  fatal  things  pass'd  harmless— the  cold  hand 
Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back. 
Back  by  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break. 
In  fantasy,  imagination,  all 
The  affluence  of  my  soul — which  one  day  was 
A  Croesus  in  creation — I  plunged  deep. 
But,  hke  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back 
Into  the  gulf  of  my  unfathom'd  thought. 
I  plunged  amidst  mankind — Forgetfuhiess 
I  sought  in  all,  save  where  'tis  to  be  found, 
And  that  I  have  to  learn — my  sciences, 
My  long-pursued  and  superhuman  art. 
Is  mortal  here — I  dwell  in  my  despair — 
And  live — and  live  forever. 

Witch.  It  may  be 

That  I  can  aid  thee. 

Man.  To  do  this  thy  power 

Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so — in  any  shape — in  any  hour — 
With  any  torture — so  it  be  the  last. 

Wilch.  That  is  not  in  my  province  ;  but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 

Man.  I  will  not  swear— obey!  and  whom  2  the  spirits 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the  slave 
Of  those  who  served  me — Never  1 

Witch.  Is  this  all  ? 

Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer  ?    Yet  bethink  thee, 
And  pause  ere  thou  rejectest. 

Man.  I  have  said  it. 

Witch.  Enough  ! — I  may  retire  then — say  ! 


SCENE   IIL 


MANFRED. 


188 


Man. 


Retire  1 
[  The  "Witch  disappears. 
Man.  (alone.)  We  are  the  fools  of  time  and  terror: 
Steal  on  us  and  steal  from  us  ;  yet  we  live,        [days 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke— 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart, 
A^hich  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with  pain, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness — 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
How  few— how  less  than  few— wherein  the  soul 
Forbeai-s  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.    I  have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science— I  can  call  the  dead. 
And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be  : 
The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And  that  is  nothing— if  they  answer  not— 
The  buried  Prophet  answer'd  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor ;  and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny— he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknowing  what  he  slew, 
And  died  unpardon'd— though  he  call'd  in  aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phigalia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath, 
Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance — she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfiU'd. 
If  I  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 
Had  still  been  living ;  had  I  never  loved. 
That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beautiful- 
Happy  and  giving  happiness.    What  is  she  ? 

Wliat  is  she  now  ? — a  sufferer  for  my  sins 

A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon— or  nothing. 
Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain— 
Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare. 
Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  spirit,  good  or  evil— now  I  tremble. 
And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart. 
But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor 
And  champion  human  fears.   The  night  approaches, 

[Exit. 


BCEXE  m. 
The  Summit  of  the  Jungfrav,  Mountain. 
Enter  FmsT  DESTnrr. 
The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and  bright ; 
And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human  foot 
Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  nightly  tread. 
And  leave  no  traces  ;  o'er  the  savage  sea, 
The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice, 
We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 
The  aspect  of  a  tumbling  tempest's  foam 
Frozen  in  a  moment— a  dead  whirlpool's  image  : 
And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle. 


The  fretwork  of  some  earthquake— where  the  clouds 
Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing  by- 
Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils  • 
Here  do  I  wait  my  sisters,  on  our  way 
To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 
Is  our  great  festival— 'tis  strange  they  come  not. 

A  Voice  without,  singing. 
The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurl'd  down  from  the  throne, 
Lay  buried  in  torpor. 

Forgotten  and  lone ; 
I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 
I  shiver'd  his  chain, 

I  leagued  him  with  numbers 

He's  Tyrant  again  I 
With  the  blood  of  a  million  he'll  answer  my  care, 
With  a  nation's  destruction— his  flight  and  despair. 

Second  Voice,  without. 
The  ship  sail'd  on,  the  ship  sail'd  fast. 
But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a  mast ; 
There  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck. 
And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er  his  wreck ; 
Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by  the  hair, 
And  he  was  a  subject  well  worthy  my  care  ; 
A  traitor  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea— 
But  I  saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc  for  me  I 


First  Destestt,  answering. 
The  city  lies  sleeping ; 

The  mom,  to  deplore  it, 
May  dawn  on  it  weeping  : 

Sullenly,  slowly. 
The  black  plague  flew  o'er  it — 

Thousands  lie  lowly ; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish — 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  shall  cherish  ; 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish 
And  evil  and  dread 

Envelop  a  nation — 
The  bless'd  are  the  dead. 
Who  see  not  the  sight 

Of  their  own  desolation — 
This  work  of  a  pight — 

This  wreck  of  a  realm — ^this  deed  of  my  doing 

For  ages  I've  done,  and  shall  stUl  be  renewing  1 

Enter  the  Second  and  Thibd  Destinies. 

The  Three. 
Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves  • 
We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves  I 


I 


184 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   II. 


First  Des.  Welcome  1    Where's  Nemesis  ? 
Second  Des.  At  some  great  work ; 

But  what  I  know  not,  for  my  hands  were  full. 
Third  Bes.  Behold  she  cometh. 

Enter  Nemesis. 

First  Des.  Say,  where  hast  thou  been  ? 

My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 

Hem.  I  was  detain'd  repairing  shatter'd  thrones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties, 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies, 
And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge ; 
Goading  the  wise  to  madness  ;  from  the  dull 
Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
Afresh,  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date, 
And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves. 
To  weigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit.     Away  ! 
We  have  outstay'd  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds  1 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IT. 

The  Hall  of  Arimanes — Arimanes  on  his  Throne,  a 
Globe  of  Fire,  surrounded  by  the  Spirits. 

Hymn  of  the  Spirits. 
Hail  to  our  Master  I — ^Prince  of  Earth  and  Air  ! 

Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters — ^in  his  hand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 

Themselves  to  chaos  at  his  high  command  1 
He  brcatheth — and  a  tempest  shakes  the  sea  ; 

He  speaketh — and  the  clouds  reply  in  thunder ; 
Ho  gazeth — from  his  glance  the  sunbeams  flee  ; 

He  moveth — earthquakes  rend  the  world  asunder. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise  ; 

His  shadow  is  the  Pestilence ;  his  path 
The  comets  herald  through  the  crackling  skies  ; 

And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 
To  him  War  ofiers  daily  sacrifice ; 

To  him  Death  pays  his  tribute ;  Life  is  his, 
With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies — 

And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is  1 

Enter  the  Destinies  and  Nemesis. 

First  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes  !  on  the  earth 
His  power  increaseth — both  my  sisters  did 
His  bidding,  nor  did  I  neglect  my  duty  ! 

Second  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes  !  we  who  bow 
The  necks  of  men,  bow  dovra  before  his  throne  1 

TTiird  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes  !  we  await 
His  nod ! 

Nem.  Sovereign  of  Sovereigns  1  we  are  thine, 
And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  ours, 
And  most  things  wholly  so  ;  still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing  thine,  demands  our  care, 
And  we  are  vigilant — ^Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  ftilflU'd  to  the  utmost. 


Enter  Manfeed. 

A  Spirit.  What  is  here  ? 

A  mortal  I — ^Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 
Bow  down  and  worship  ! 

Second  Spirit.  I  do  know  the  man — 

A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill ! 

Third  Spirit.     Bow  down  and  worship,  slave  ! — 
What,  know'st  thou  not 
Thine  and  our  Sovereign  ? — Tremble,  and  obey  1 

All  the  Spirits.     Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy  con- 
demned clay. 
Child  of  the  Earth  1  or  dread  the  worst. 

Man.  I  know  it ; 

And  yet  ye  see  I  kneel  not. 

Fourth  Spirit.  'Twill  be  taught  thee. 

Man.  'Tis  taught  already ; — many  a  night  on  the 
earth. 
On  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bow'd  down  my  face. 
And  strew'd  my  head  with  ashes  ;  I  have  known 
The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 
I  sunk  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 
To  my  own  desolation. 

Fifth  Spirit.  Dost  thou  dare 

Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  Glory  ? — Crouch  I  I  say. 

Ma7i.     Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above 
him. 
The  overruUng  Infinite — the  Maker 
Who  made  him  not  for  worship— let  him  kneel, 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirits.  Crush  the  worm  1 

Tear  him  in  pieces  1 — 

First  Des.  Hence  1  Avaunt ! — ^he's  mine. 

Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible  !    This  man 
Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote  ;  his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own  ;  his  knowledge  and  his  powers  and  will. 
As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay. 
Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been  such 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne ;  his  aspirations 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth. 
And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know — 
That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  science 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 
This  is  not  all — the  passions,  attributes 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor 

being, 
Nor  breath  from  the  worm  upwards  is  exempt. 
Have  pierced  his  heart ;  and  in  their  consequence 
Made  him  a  thing  which  I,  who  pity  not, 
Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.    He  is  mine, 
And  thine,  it  may  be — be  it  so  or  not 
No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A  soul  like  his — or  power  upon  his  souL 
Nem.     What  doth  he  here  then  I 


(^52^ 


Ui/U^. 


an:i?*oii,  Kiv  <^  Cornppny,  Pablishers,  Nev^"&T'k. 


8CEXE  rv. 


MANFRED. 


185 


First  Bes.  Let  liim  answer  that. 

Man.    Te  know  that  I  have  known ;  and  without 
power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye  :  but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond — I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I"seek. 

Xem.     What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Man.  Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 

Call  up  the  dead — my  question  is  for  them. 

N'em.    Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal  ? 

Ari.  Tea. 

Nem.  Whom  wouldst  thou 

Unchamel  ? 

Man.  One  without  a  tomb — call  up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow  1  or  Spirit ! 

Whatever  thou  art, 
Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Wliich  retum'd  to  the  earth, 

Beappear  to  the  day  ! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 
And  the  aspect  thou  worest 

Redeem  from  the  worm. 
Appear  ! — Appear  ! — Appear ! 
Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here  1 

[  The  Phantom  of  Astaktb  rises  and  stands 
in  the  midst. 
Man.    Can  this  be  death  ?  there's  bloom  upon  her 

cheek ; 
But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic — like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish'd  leaf. 
It  is  the  same  I  Oh,  God !  that  I  should  dread 
To  look  upon  the  same — Astarte  1 — No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her — but  bid  her  speak — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

Nemesis. 

By  the  power  which  hath  broken 
The  grave  which  cnthrall'd  thee, 

Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken. 
Or  those  who  have  call'd  thee  1 

Man.  She  is  silent, 

And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  anawer'd. 

Nem.  My  power  extends  no  further.   Prince  of  air ! 
It  rests  with  thee  alone — command  her  voice. 

Ari.    Spirit — obey  this  sceptre  1 

Kcm.  Silent  still  I 

She  ia  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 
24 


To  the  other  powers.    Mortal  I  thy  quest  is  vain, 
And  we  arc  baffled  also. 

Man.  Hear  me,  hear  me — 

Astarte  !  my  beloved  1  speak  to  me  ; 
I  have  so  much  endured — so  much  endure — 
Look  on  me  !  the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  more 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.     Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee  :  we  were  not  made 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 
Say  that  thou  loath'st  me  not — that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both — that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed — and  that  I  shall  die ; 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence — in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 
A  future  like  the  past.    I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask,  nor  what  I  seek : 
I  feel  but  what  thou  art — and  what  I  am  : 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  voice  which  was  my  music — Speak  to  me  ! 
For  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  stiU  night. 
Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush'd  boughs, 
And  woko  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  caves 
Acquainted  Avith  thy  vainly  echo'd  name. 
Which  answer'd  me — many  things  answer'd  me — 
Spirits  and  men — but  thou  wert  silent  all. 
Yet  speak  to  me  !  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars. 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 
Speak  to  me  !  I  have  wander'd  o'er  the  earth. 
And  never  found  thy  likeness — Speak  to  me  ! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around — they  feel  for  me : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone — 
Speak  to  me  !  though  it  be  in  wrath  ; — ^but  say — 
I  reck  not  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once — 
This  once — once  more  1 

Phantom  of  Astarte.    Manfred ! 

Man.  Say  on,  say  on — 

I  live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice  ! — 

Phan.    Manfred  1    To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly 
ills. 
Farewell  I 

Man.    Yet  one  word  more — am  I  forgiven  ? 

Phan.    Farewell  1 

Man.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Phan     Farewell ! 

Man.     One  word  of  mercy !    Say,  thou  lovest  me. 

Phan.    Manfred  1 

[77i«  Spirit  of  Astabte  disappears. 

Nem.  She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recall'd ; 

Her  words  will  be  fulfiU'd.    Return  to  the  earth. 

A  Spirit.    He  is  convulsed — This  is  to  be  a  mortal. 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 

Another  Spirit.  Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and 
makes 
His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 


186 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   III. 


Netn.  Hast  thou  further  question 

Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers  ? 
Man.     None. 

Nem.  Then  for  a  time  farewell. 

Man.     We  meet  then  1    Where  ?    On  the  earth  ? — 
Even  as  thou  wilt :  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.    Fare  ye  well  1 

[Eint  Manpeed. 
{Scene  closes.) 

ACT  m. 

SCENE   I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 
Manpked  and  Herman. 

Man.    What  is  the  hour  ? 

Her.  It  wants  but  one  tiU  sunset, 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Man.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

Her.  All,  my  lord,  are  ready : 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

Man.  It  is  well : 

Thou  mayst  retire.  [Exit  Herman. 

Man.  {alone.)        There  is  a  calm  upon  me — 
Inexplicable  stiUness  !  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon,  I  should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalon,"  found. 
And  seated  in  my  soul.    It  wiU  not  last, 
But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once : 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a  new  sense, 
And  I  within  my  tablets  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.    Who  is  there  ? 

He-enter  Herman. 
Her.    My  lord,  the  abbot  of  St.  Maurice  craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 
Aiiot.  Peace  be  with  Count  Manfred  I 

Man.  Thanks,  holy  father !  welcome  to  these  walls ; 
Thy  presence  honors  them,  and  blesseth  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Abbot.  Would  it  were  so.  Count  1 — 

But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 

Man.    Herman,  retire. — ^What  would  my  reverend 

guest? 
A  Hot.    Thus,  without  prelude : — Age  and  zeal,  my 
office. 
And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege ; 
Our  near,  though  not  acquainted  neighborhood. 
May  also  be  my  herald.    Rumors  strange. 


And  of  unholy  nature,  axe  abroad. 
And  busy  with  thy  name ;  a  noble  name 
For  centuries  :  may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpair'd  1 

Man.  Proceed, — ^I  listen. 

Abbot.  'Tis  said  thou  boldest  converse  with  the 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man ;  [things 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes. 
The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.    I  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy.  [things  ? 

Man.  And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these 

Abbot.  My  pious  brethren — the  scared  peasantry — 
Even  thy  own  vassals — who  do  look  on  thee 
With  most  imquiet  eyes.    Thy  life's  in  peril 

Man.  Take  it. 

Abbot.  I  come  to  save,  and  not  destroy — 

I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul ; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity :  reconcile  thee         [heaven. 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the  church  to 

Maji.  I  hear  thee.    This  is  my  reply :  whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself.     I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.    Have  I  sinn'd 
Against  your  ordinances  ?  prove  and  punish  ! 

Abbot.  My  son  !  I  did  not  speak  of  punishment. 
But  i>enitencc  and  pardon  ; — vrith  thyself 
The  choice  of  such  remains — and  for  the  last, 
Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 
Have  given  me  power  to  smooth  the  path  from  sin 
To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts  ;  the  first 
I  leave  to  heaven, — "  Vengeance  is  mine  alone  !" 
So  saith  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humbleness 
His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 

Man.  Old  man  !  there  is  no  power  in  holy  men, 
Nor  charm  in  prayer — nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence — nor  outward  look — nor  fast — 
Nor  agony — ^nor,  greater  than  all  these. 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair. 
Which  is  remorse  without  the  fear  of  hell, 
But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  hell  of  heaven — can  exorcise 
From  out  the  unbounded  spirit,  the  quick  sense 
Of  its  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and  revenge 
Upon  itself;  there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-condemn'd 
He  deals  on  his  o^vn  soul. 

Abbot.  All  this  is  well ; 

For  this  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place, 
"Which  all  who  seek  may  win,  whatever  be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned  : 


SCENE   IL 


MANFRED. 


187 


And  the  commencement  of  atonement  i» 

Tlie  sense  of  its  necessity.    Say  on — 

And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall  be  taught ; 

And  all  we  can  absolve  thee  shall  be  pardon'd. 

Man.  When  Rome's  sixth  emperor'  was  near  his 
The  victim  of  a  self-inflicted  wound,  [last, 

To  shun  the  torments  of  a  public  death 
From  senates  once  his  slaves,  a  certain  soldier, 
With  show  of  loyal  pity,  would  have  stanch'd 
The  gushing  throat  with  his  officious  robe  ; 
The  dying  Roman  thrust  him  back,  and  said — 
Some  empire  still  in  his  expiring  glance, 
"  It  is  too  late— is  this  fidelity  ?" 

Allot.  And  what  of  this  ? 

Man.  I  answer  with  the  Roman — 

"Itistoolatel" 

Allot.  It  never  can  be  so, 

To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul. 
And  thy  own  soul  with  heaven.  Hast  thou  no  hope  ? 
'Tis  strange — even  those  who  do  despair  above. 
Yet  shape  themselves  some  fantasy  on  earth, 
To  which  frail  twig  they  cling,  like  drowning  men. 

Man.  Ay — father !  I  have  had  those  earthly  vis- 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth,  [ions 

To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men, 
The  enlightener  of  nations  ;  and  to  rise 
I  knew  not  whither — it  might  be  to  fall ; 
But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain-cataract, 
"WTiicli  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzling  height, 
Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss, 
(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 
Clouds  raining  from  the  reascending  skies,) 
Lies  low  but  mighty  still.    But  this  is  past. 
My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Allot.  And  wherefore  so  ? 

Man.  I  could  not  tame  my  nature  down  ;  for  he 
Must  serve  who  fain  would  sway — and  soothe — and 
And  watch  all  time — and  pry  into  all  place —     [sue 
And  be  a  living  lie — who  would  become 
A  mighty  thing  amongst  the  mean,  and  such 
The  mass  are ;  I  disdain'd  to  mingle  with 
A  herd,  though  to  be  leader — and  of  wolves. 
The  lion  is  alone,  and  so  am  I. 

Allot.  And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  men  ? 

Man.  Because  my  nature  was  averse  from  life  ; 
And  yet  not  cruel ;  for  I  would  not  make, 
But  find  a  desolation  : — like  the  wind. 
The  red-hot  breath  of  the  most  lone  simoom. 
Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps  o'er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  blast, 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves. 
And  sceketh  not,  so  that  it  Is  not  sought. 
But  being  met  is  deadly ;  such  hath  been 


'  Otho,  being  defeated  In  a  general  engagement  near  Brlxel- 
lom,  ("tabbed  himself.  Plntarch  gays,  that,  though  he  lived  fall 
as  badly  as  Nero,  hia  last  moments  were  those  of  a  philosopher. 
lie  comforted  his  soklicre  who  lamcuteil  his  foHune,  and  cx- 


The  course  of  my  existence  ;  but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 

Allot.  Alas  I 

I  'gin  to  fear  that  thou  art  past  aU  aid 
From  me  and  from  my  calling  ;  yet  so  young, 
I  stiU  would 

Man.  Look  on  me  1  there  is  an  order 

Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age. 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death ; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study — 
Some  worn  with  toil — some  of  mere  weariness — 
Some  of  disease — and  some  insanity — 
And  some  of  wither'd,  or  of  broken  hearts  ; 
For  this  last  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than  are  number'd  in  the  lists  of  Fate, 
Taking  all  shapes,  and  bearing  many  names. 
Look  upon  me  !  for  even  of  all  these  things 
Have  I  partaken ;  and  of  all  these  things, 
One  were  enough  ;  then  wonder  not  that  I 
Am  what  I  am,  but  that  I  ever  was. 
Or  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth. 

Allot.  Yet,  hear  me  still 

Man.  Old  man  1  I  do  respect 

Thine  Order,  and  revere  thine  years  ;  I  deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain  : 
Think  me  not  churlish  ;  I  would  spare  thyself. 
Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this  time 
AU  further  coUoquy — and  so — farewell. 

[^Extt  Masfukd. 

Allot.  This  should  have  been  a  noble  creature :  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  made 
A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 
Had  they  been  wisely  mingled  ;  as  it  is. 
It  is  an  awful  chaos — light  and  darkness — 
And  mind  and  dust — and  passions  and  pure  thoughts, 
Mix'd,  and  contending  without  end  or  order. 
All  dormant  or  destructive :  he  will  perish. 
And  yet  he  must  not ;  I  will  try  once  more. 
For  such  are  worth  redemption  ;  and  my  duty 
Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end. 
I'll  follow  him — but  cautiously,  though  surely. 

\^Exit  Abbot. 

SCENE  n. 
Another  Chamber. 
Mahtked  and  Herman. 
Her.  My  lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on  you  at  sunset : 
He  sinks  beyond  the  mountain. 

Man  Doth  he  so  ? 

I  will  look  on  him. 

[Manfbed  advances  to  the  Window  of  the  Hall. 


pressed  his  concern  for  their  safety,  when  they  BoUcited  to  pay 
him  the  last  friendly  offlces.    Martial  says : 

"  Sit  Cato,  dum  vlvlt,  sane  vel  Ciesaro  major, 
Dam  morltar,  nnmqnld  major  Othone  fnit  f" 


188 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   III. 


Glorious  Orb  !  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  rigorous  race 
'Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sonsi 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne'er  return. — 
Most  glorious  orb  1  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal'd  ! 
Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 
Which  gladden' d,  on  their  mountain  tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  pour'd 
Themselves  in  orisons !    Thou  material  God  ! 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown — 
Wlio  chose  thee  for  his  shadow  !    Thou  chief  star  ! 
Centre  of  many  stars  !  which  mak'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays  ! 
Sire  of  the  seasons  !  Monarch  of  the  climes, 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them  !  for  near  or  far. 
Our  unborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee. 
Even  as  our  outward  aspects  ; — thou  dost  rise, 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Pare  thee  well  1 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.     As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 
My  latest  look  :  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  been 
Of  a  more  fatal  nature.    He  is  gone  : 
I  follow.  [Sxit  Makpeed. 

BCKNB  m. 

The  Mountains — The  Oastle  of  Manfred  at  some  dis- 
tance— A  Terrace  ief ore  a  Tower — Time,  Twilight. 

Herman,  Manuei.,  and  other  Dependants  of 
Manfred. 

Her.  'Tis  strange  enough  ;  night  after  night,  for 
years, 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower. 
Without  a  witness.    I  have  been  within  it, — 
So  have  we  aU  been  ofttimes  :  but  from  it, 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.    To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter  :  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  years, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  'Twere  dangerous ; 

Content  thyself  with  what  thou  know'st  already. 

Her.  Ah  !  Manuel !  thou  art  elderly  and  wise. 
And  couldst  say  much  ;  thou  hast  dwelt  within  the 

castle — 
How  many  years  is't  ? 

Marmel.  Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 

I  served  his  father,  whom  he  naught  resembles. 


1  "  And  it  came  to  pass,  that  the  Sane  of  Ood  eaw  the  daughters 
of  men,  that  they  were  feir,"  &c.  —  "  There  were  giants  in  the 
earth  in  those  days :  and  also  after  that,  when  the  Sons  qf  God 


Her.  There  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  differ  ? 

Manuel.  I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  hut  mind  and  habits ; 
Count  Sigismund  was  proud, — but  gay  and  free, — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller ;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time. 
Merrier  than  day  ;  he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  like  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  delights. 

Her.  Beshrew  the  hour, 

But  tSose  were  jocund  times  !  I  would  that  such 
Would  visit  the  old  waUs  again  ;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

Manvel.  These  waUs 

Must  change  their  chieftain  first.    Oh  !  I  have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman. 

Her.  Come,  be  friendly ; 

Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watch  : 
I've  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  hajjpen'd  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

Manuel.  That  was  a  night  indeed  !  .1  do  remember 
'Twas  twilight,  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening  ; — yon  red  cloud,  which  rests 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  then, — • 
So  like  that  it  might  be  the  same  ;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain  snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon  ; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his  tower, — 
How  occupied,  we  know  not,  but  with  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings — her,  whom  of  aU  earthly  things 
That  lived,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  to  love, — 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 

The  Lady  Astarte,  his 

Hush  I  who  comes  hef  e  ? 
Enter  the  Abbot. 

Abhot.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Her.  Yonder,  in  the  tower. 

Ablot.  I  must  speak  with  him. 

Manuel.  'Tis  impossible ; 

He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

Abbot.        Upon  myself  I  take 
The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be- 
But  I  must  see  him. 

Her.  Thou  hast  seen  him  once 

This  eve  already. 

Abbot.  Herman  !  I  command  thee. 

Knock,  and  apprize  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

Her.    We  dare  not. 

Ablot.  Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 

Of  my  own  purpose. 

came  in  unto  the  daughters  of  men,  and  they  hare  children  to 
them,  the  same  became  mighty  men  which  were  of  old,  men  of 
Tfino\\n."'~'GenesU.  ch.  vi.  verses  2  and  4. 


SCENE  IV. 


MANFRED, 


189 


yr.inuel.  Reverend  father,  stop— 

I  pray  you  pause. 

Abhot.  Why  so  ? 

Manuel.  But  step  this  way. 

And  I  wiU  tell  yon  further.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IT. 

Interior  of  the  Tower. 
Manfred  ahiie. 
The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains— Beautiful ! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  loam'd  the  language  of  another  world. 
•I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth. 
When  I  was  wandering,— upon  such 'a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome  ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  thrqjigh  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber ;  and 
More  near  from  out  the  Cajsars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly. 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot— where  the  CjBsars  dwelt. 
And  dweU  the  tuneless  birds  of  niglit,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  Icvell'd  battlements 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth  ;—        ' 
But  thte  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  1 
While  Cajsar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay.—  ' 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  roUing  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light. 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  flll'd  up. 
As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  ; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was' so. 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  !— 
The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  stiU  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'Twas  such  a  night 
Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time  ; 
But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Tliemselves  in  pensive  order. 

Enter  the  Abbot. 
^^*-  My  good  lord  I 


I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach  ; 

But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 

By  its  abruptness— all  it  hath  of  ill 

Recoils  on  me  ;  its  good  in  the  effect 

May  Hght  upon  your  head— could  I  say  heart—  . 

Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  should 

Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wander'd ; 

But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

^'"■"'-  Thou  know'st  me  not ; 

My  days  are  number'd,  and  my  deeds  recorded  : 
Retire,  or  'twill  be  dangerous — Away  I 

AhUt.  Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me  ? 

f*"*-  Not  I; 

I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand. 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

Abbot.  What  dost  mean  ? 

_5'"'"  I-ook  there  t 

What  dost  thou  see  ? 

Abbot.  Nothing. 

-^«"-  Look  there,  I  say. 

And  steadfastly ;— now  tell  me  what  thou  seest. 

Abbot.    That  which  should  shake  me,— but  I  fear 
I  see  a  dusk  and  avrful  figure  rise,  [it  not- 

Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  of  the  earth  ; 
His  face  wrapp'd  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form  ' 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds  :  he  stands  between 
Thyself  and  me— but  I  do  fear  him  not. 
Man.     Thou  hast  no  cause— he  shall  not  harm 
thee — but 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy. 
I  say  to  thee— Retire  1 

^bbot.  And  I  reply- 

Never— till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend  :— 
What  doth  he  here  ? 

Man.  Why— ay— what  doth  he  here  ?— 

I  did  not  send  for  him,— he  is  unbidden.         [these 
Abbot.    Alas  1  lost  mortal  t  what  with  guests  Uke 
Hast  thou  to  do  ?  I  tremble  for  thy  sake  : 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him  ? 
Ah  !  he  unveils  his  aspect :  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven ;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell— 
Avaunt ! 
Man.    Pronounce— what  is  thy  mission  ? 
^P^'^-  Come  t 

Abbot.   What  art  thou,  unknown  being  ?  answer  !— 

speak  1 
Spirit.  The  genius  of  this  mortal.— Come  !  'tis  time. 
Man.  I  am  prepared  for  aU  things,  but  deny 
The  power  which  summons  me.   Wlio  sent  thee  hero  ? 
Spirit.     Thou'lt  know  anon— Come  1  come  1 

y""-  I  have  commanded 

things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine. 
And  striven  with  thy  masters.     Get  thee  hence  ! 
Spirit.    Mortal  1  thine  hour  is  come— Away  1 1  say 
Man.    I  knew,  and  know  ray  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee  : 
Away  !  I'll  die  as  I  have  lived— alone 


190 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   III. 


Spirit,    Then  I  must  summon  up  my  brethren. — 
Rise  1  [Other  Spirits  rise  up. 

Abbot.    Avaunt  1  ye  evil  ones  !^  A  vaunt !  I  say, — 
Ye  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

Spirit.  Old  man  1 

"We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order ; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  wore  in  vain  :  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him — Away !  away  I 

Man.    I  do  defy  yc, — though  I  feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye ; 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 
To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye — earthly  strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits ;  what  ye  take 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

Spirit.  Reluctant  mortal  1 

Is  this  the  magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal  ? — Can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life  ?  the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched  ! 

Man.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  liest  I 

My  life  is  in  its  last  hour, — tJiat  I  know, 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour ; 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels  ;  my  past  power 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew. 
But  by  superior  science — penance — daring — 
And  length  of  watching — strength  of  mind — and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers — when  the  earth 
.Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy  :  I  stand 
Upon  my  strength — I  do  defy — deny — 
Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  ! — 

Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  made  thee 


Man.  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee  ? 

Must  crimes  be  punish'd  but  by  other  crimes. 
And  greater  criminals  ?— Back  to  thy  hell  1 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel ; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  know : 
What  I  have  done  is  done  ;  I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine : 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end — 
And  its  own  place  and  time — its  innate  sense. 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  color  from  the  fleeting  things  without ; 
But  is  absorb'd  in  suflFerance  or  in  joy. 
Bom  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert,      [me  ; 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter. — Back,  ye  baffled  fiends  ! 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me — but  not  yours  ! 

[  The  demonn  disappear. 

Allot.     Alas  I  how  pale  thou  art — thy  lips  are 
white — 
And  thy  breast  heaves — and  in  thy  gaspiag  throat 
The  accents  rattle — Give  thy  prayers  to  Heaven — 
Pray — albeit  but  in  thought, — but  die  not  thus. 

Man.    'Tis  over — my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not ; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  if  it  were  beneath  me.    Fare  thee  well — 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Allot.  Cold— cold — even  to  the  heart — 

But  yet  one  prayer — Alas  !  how  fares  it  with  thee  ? 

Man.    Old  man !  'tis  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[Makfeed  expires. 

Allot.    He's  gone — ^his  soul  hath  ta'en  his  earthless 
flight- 
Whither  ?    I  dread  to  think — but  he  is  gone. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


191 


MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  OF  VENICE. 

AN     HISTORICAL     TRAGEDY, 

IN     FIVE     ACTS. 


'Dnx  Inquietl  tortidus  Adrlse."— Hobaok. 


PREFACE. 

The  conspiracy  of  tlio  Doge  Marino  Faliero  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  events  in  the  annals  of  the  most 
singular  jrovemment,  city,  and  people  of  modem  his- 
tory. It  occvirred  in  the  year  1355.  Every  thing  about 
Venice  is,  or  was,  extraordinary — her  aspect  is  like  a 
dream,  and  her  history  is  like  a  romance.-  The  story 
of  this  Doge  is  to  be  found  in  all  her  Chronicles,  and 
particularly  detailed  in  the  "  Lives  of  the  Doges,"  by 
Marin  Sanuto,  which  is  given  in  the  Appendix.  It  is 
simply  and  clearly  related,  and  is  perhaps  more  dra- 
matic in  itself  than  any  scenes  which  can  be  founded 
upon  the  subject. 

Marino  Faliero  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  tal- 
ents and  of  courage.  I  find  him  commander-in-chief 
of  the  land  forces  at  the  siege  of  Zara,  where  he  beat 
the  King  of  Hungary  and  his  army  of  eighty  thou- 
sand men,  killing  eight  thousand  men,  and  keeping 
the  besieged  at  the  same  time  in  check  ;  an  exploit  to 
which  I  know  none  similar  in  history,  except  that  of 
Caesar  at  Alesia,  and  of  Prince  Eugene  at  Belgrade. 
He  was  afterwards  commander  of  the  fleet  in  the  same 
war.  He  took  Capo  d'Istria.  He  was  ambassador  at 
Genoa  and  Rome, — at  wliich  last  he  received  the  news 
of  his  election  to  the  dukedom  ;  his  absence  being  a 
proof  that  he  sought  it  by  no  intrigue,  since  he  was 
apprized  of  his  predecessor's  death  and  his  own  suc- 
cession at  the  same  moment.  But  he  appears  to  have 
been  of  an  ungovernable  temper.  A  story  is  told  by 
Sanuto,  of  his  having,  many  years  before,  when  podesta 
and  captain  at  Treviso,  boxed  the  years  of  the  bishop, 
who  was  somevvhat  tardy  in  bringing  the  Host.  For 
this,  honest  Sanuto  "  saddles  him  with  a  judgment," 
as  Thwackura  did  Square  ;  but  he  does  not  tell  us 
whether  he  was  punished  or  rebuked  by  the  Senate 
for  this  outrage  at  the  time  of  its  commission.  He 
seems.  Indeed,  to  have  been  afterwards  at  peace  with 
the  church,  for  we  find  him  ambassador  at  Rome,  and 
invested  with  the  fief  of  Val  di  Marino,  in  the  march 
of  Treviso,  and  -with  the  title  of  Count,  by  Lorenzo 
Count-bishop  of  Ceneda.  For  these  facts  my  authori- 
ties are  Sanuto,  Vettor  Sandi,  Andrea  Navagero,  and 
the  account  of  the  siege  of  Zara,  first  published  by  the 
indefatigable  Abate  Morelli,  in  his  "  Monument!  Vcne- 
ziani  di  varia  Letteratura,"  printed  in  1796,  all  of  which 
I  have  looked  over  in  the  original  language.  The  mod- 


ems, Daru,  Sismondi,  and  Laugier,  nearly  agree  with 
the  ancient  chroniclers.  Sismondi  attributes  the  con- 
spiracy to  his  jtcdousy ;  but  I  find  this  nowhere  as- 
serted by  the  national  historians.  Vettor  s-andi,  indeed, 
says,  that  "  Altri  scrissero  che  ....  dalla  gelosa  sus- 
pizion  di  esso  Doge  siasi  fatto  (Michel  Steno)  staccar 
con  violenza,"  etc.,  etc. ;  but  this  appears  to  have  been 
by  no  means  the  general  opinion,  nor  is  it  alluded  to 
by  Sanuto  or  by  Navagero  ;  and  Sandi  himself  adds,  a 
moment  after,  that  "  per  altre  Veneziane  memorie  tras- 
piri,  che  non  il  solo  desiderio  di  vendetta  lo  dispose  alia 
congiura  ma  anche  la  innata  abituale  ambizion  sua, 
per  cui  anelava  a  farsi  principe  indepcndente."  The 
first  motive  appears  to  have  been  excited  by  the  gross 
affront  of  the  words  written  by  Michel  Steno  on  the 
ducal  chair,  and  by  the  light  and  inadequate  sentence 
of  the  Forty  on  the  offender,  who  was  one  of  their  "  tre 
Capi."  The  attentions  of  Steno  himself  appear  to  have 
been  directed  towards  one  of  her  damsels,  and  not  to 
the  "  Dogaressa  "  herself,  against  whose  fame  not  the  " 
slightest  insinuation  appears,  while  she  is  praised  for 
her  beauty,  and  remarked  for  her  youth.  Neither  do 
I  find  it  asserted  (unless  the  hint  of  Sandi  be  an  asser- 
tion) that  the  Doge  was  actuated  by  jealousy  of  his 
wife  ;  but  rather  by  respect  for  her,  and  for  his  own 
honor,  warranted  by  his  past  services  and  present 
dignity. 

I  know  not  that  the  historical  facts  are  alluded  to  in 
English,  unless  by  Dr.  Moore  in  his  "  View  of  Italy." 
His  account  is  false  and  flippant,  full  of  stale  jests 
about  old  men  and  young  wives,  and  wondering  at  so 
great  an  effect  from  so  slight  a  cause.  How  so  acute 
and  severe  an  observer  of  mankind  as  the  author  of 
Zeluco  could  wonder  at  this  is  inconceivable.  He  knew 
that  a  basin  of  water  spilt  on  Mrs.  Masham's  gown  de- 
prived the  Duke  of  Marlborough  of  liis  command,  and 
led  to  the  inglorious  peace  of  Utrecht — that  Louis  XIV. 
was  plunged  into  the  most  desolating  wars,  because  his 
minister  was  nettled  at  his  finding  fault  with  a  win- 
dow, and  wished  to  give  him  another  occupation — that 
Helen  lost  Troy — that  Lucretia  expelled  the  Tarquins 
from  Rome  —  and  that  Cava  brought  the  Moors  to 
Spain — that  an  insulted  husband  led  the  Gauls  to 
Clusium,  and  thence  to  Rome — that  a  single  verso  of 
Frederick  II.  of  Prussia  on  tlie  Abbe  de  Bernis,  and  a 
jest  on  Madame  de  Pompadour,  led  to  the  battle  of 
Rosbach — that  the  elopement  of  DearliorgU  with  Mac 


192 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Murcliad  conducted  the  English  to  tlie  slavery  of  Ire- 
land— that  a  personal  pique  between  Maria  Antoinette 
and  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  precipitated  the  first  expul- 
sion of  the  Bourbons — and,  not  to  multiply  instances, 
that  Commodus,  Domitian  and  Caligula  fell  victims, 
not  to  their  public  tyranny,  but  to  private  vengeance 
— and  that  an  order  to  make  Cromwell  disembark  from 
the  ship  in  which  he  would  have  sailed  to  America,  de- 
stroyed both  king  and  commonwealth.  After  these  in- 
stances, on  the  least  reflection,  it  is  indeed  extraordin- 
ary in  Dr.  Moore  to  seem  surprised  that  a  man  used  to 
command,  who  had  served  and  swayed  in  the  most  im- 
portant offices,  should  fiercely  resent,  in  a  fierce  age, 
an  unpunished  afiFront,  the  grossest  that  can  be  offered 
to  a  man,  be  he  prince  or  peasant.  The  age  of  Faliero 
is  little  to  the  purpose,  imless  to  favor  it — 

"  The  young  man's  wrath  ie  like  straw  on  fire, 
But  like  red-hot  sted  is  the  old  man's  ire." 

*'  Young  men  soon  give  and  soon  forget  afftonts. 
Old  age  is  slow  at  both." 

Laugier's  reflections  are  more  philosophical : — "  Tale 
fu  il  fine  ignominioso  di  un'  uomo,  che  la  sua  nascita, 
la  sua  eta,  il  suo  carattere  dovevano  tener  lontano  dalle 
passion!  producttrici  di  grandi  delitti.  I  suoi  talenti 
per  lungo  tempo  esercitati  ne'  maggiori  impieghi,  la 
sua  capacita  sperimentata  ne'  governi  e  nelle  ambas- 
ciate,  gli  avevano  acquistato  la  stima  e  la  fiducia  de' 
cittadini,  ed  avevano  uniti  i  suffragi  per  collocarlo  alia 
testa  della  republica.  Innalzato  ad  un  grade  che  ter- 
minava  gloriosamente  la  sua  vita,  il  risentimento  di 
un'  jngiuria  Icggiera  insinuo  nel  suo  cuoro  tal  veleno 
che  basto  a  corrompere  le  antiche  sue  qualita,  e  a  con- 
durlo  al  termine  dei  scellerati ;  serio  esempio,  che  prova 
rum  esservi  etd,  in  cui  la  prudenza  umana  sia  sicura,  e 
chs  nelV  uomo  restano  sempre  passioni  capaci  a  disonor- 
arlo,  quando  nan  inrngUi  sopra  se  atesso."' 

Where  did  Dr.  Moore  find  that  Marino  Faliero  begged 
his  life  ?  I  have  searched  the  chroniclers,  and  find  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  ;  it  is  true  that  he  avowed  all.  He  was 
conducted  to  the  place  of  torture,  but  there  is  no  men- 
tion made  of  any  application  for  mercy  on  his  part ; 
and  the  very  circumstance  of  their  having  taken  him 
to  the  rack  seems  to  argue  any  thing  but  his  having 
shown  a  want  of  finnness,  which  would  doubtless  have 
been  also  mentioned  by  those  minute  historians  who 
by  no  means  favor  him  :  such,  indeed,  would  be  con- 
trary to  his  character  as  a  soldier,  to  the  age  in  which 
he  lived,  and  at  which  he  died,  as  it  is  to  the  truth  of 
history.  I  know  no  justification,  at  any  distance  of 
time,  for  calumniating  an  historical  character :  surely 
truth  belongs  to  the  dead,  and  to  the  unfortunate  ;  and 
they  who  have  died  upon  a  scaffold  have  generally  had 
faults  enough  of  their  own,  without  attributing  to  them 
that  which  the  very  incurring  of  the  perils  which  con- 
ducted them  to  their  violent  death  renders,  of  all  oth- 
ers, the  most  improbable.  The  black  veil  which  is 
painted  over  the  place  of  Marino  Faliero  amongst  the 


1  Laagier,  Hist,  de  la  Kepnb.  de  Yenlae,  Italian  translation,  vol. 
tv.,  p.  30. 


Doges,  and  the  Giant's  Staircase  where  he  was  crowned, 
and  discrowned,  and  decapitated,  struck  forcibly  upon 
my  imagination,  as  did  his  fiery  character  and  strange 
story.  I  went,  in  1819,  in  search  of  his  tomb  more 
than  once  to  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo  ; 
and,  as  1  was  standing  before  the  monument  of  another 
family,  a  priest  came  up  to  me  and  said  :  "  I  can  show 
you  finer  monuments  than  that."  1  told  him  that  I 
was  in  search  of  that  of  the  Faliero  family,  and  par- 
ticularly of  the  Doge  Marino's.  "  Oh  !"  said  he,  "  I 
will  show  it  you  :"  and  conducting  me  to  the  outside, 
pointed  out  a  sarcophagus  in  the  wall  with  an  illegible 
inscription.  He  said  that  it  had  been  in  a  convent  ad- 
joining, but  was  removed  after  the  French  came,  and 
placed  in  its  present  situation  ;  that  he  had  seen  the 
tomb  opened  at  its  removal ;  there  were  stUl  some 
bones  remaining,  but  no  positive  vestige  of  the  decapi- 
tation. The  equestrian  statue  of  which  I  have  made 
mention  in  the  Third  Act  as  before  that  church  is  not, 
however,  of  a  Faliero,  but  of  some  other  now  obsolete 
warrior,  although  of  a  later  date.  There  were  two 
other  Doges  of  this  family  prior  to  Marino  ;  Ordelafo, 
who  fell  in  battle  at  Zara  in  1117,  (where  his  descend- 
ant afterwards  conquered  the  Huns,)  and  Vital  Faliero, 
who  reigned  in  1082.  The  family,  originally  from  Fauo, 
was  of  the  most  illustrious  in  blood  and  wealth  in  the 
city  of  once  the  most  wealthy  and  still  the  most  an- 
cient families  in  Europe.  The  length  1  have  gone  into 
on  this  subject  will  show  the  interest  1  havi^  taken  in 
it.  Whether  I  have  succeeded  or  not  in  the  tragedy, 
I  have  at  least  transferred  into  our  language  an  his- 
torical fact  worthy  of  commemoration. 

It  is  now  four  years  that  I  have  meditated  this  work  ; 
and  before  I  had  suificiently  examined  the  records,  I 
was  rather  disposed  to  have  made  it  turn  on  a  jealousy 
in  Faliero.  But,  perceiving  no  foundation  for  this  in 
historical  truth,  and  aware  tliat  jealousy  is  an  exhausted 
passion  in  the  drama,  I  have  given  it  a  more  historical 
form.  I  was,  besides,  well  advised  by  the  late  Matthew 
Lewis  on  that  point,  in  talking  with  him  of  my  inten- 
tion at  Venice  in  1817.  "If  you  make  him  jealous," 
said  he,  "  recollect  that  you  have  to  contend  with  es- 
tablished writers,  to  say  nothing  of  Shakspeare,  and 
an  exhausted  subject ; — stick  to  the  old  fiery  Doge's 
natural  character,  which  will  bear  you  out,  if  prop- 
erly drawn  ;  and  make  your  plot  as  regular  as  you 
can."  Sir  William  Drummond  gave  me  nearly  the 
same  counsel.  How  far  I  have  followed  these  instruc- 
tions, or  whether  they  have  availed  me,  is  not  for  me 
to  decide.  I  have  had  no  view  to  the  stage  ;  in  its 
present  state  it  is,  perhaps,  not  a  very  exalted  object 
of  ambition  ;  besides,  I  have  been  too  much  behind 
the  scenes  to  have  thought  it  so  at  any  time.  And  I 
cannot  conceive  any  man  of  irritable  feeling  putting 
himself  at  the  mercies  of  an  audience.  The  sneering 
reader,  and  the  loud  critic,  and  the  tart  review,  are  scat- 
tered and  distant  calamities  ;  but  the  trampling  of  an 
intelligent  or  of  an  ignorant  audience  on  a  production 
which,  be  it  good  or  bad,  has  been  a  mental  labor  to 
the  writer,  is  a  palpable  and  immediate  grievance, 
heightened  by  a  man's  doubt  of  their  competency  to 


SCEXE   I. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


193 


judge,  and  his  certainty  of  his  own  imprudence  in 
electing  them  his  judges.  Were  I  cajiable  of  writing 
a  play  which  could  be  deemed  stage- worthy,  success 
would  give  me  no  pleasure,  and  failure  great  paiu.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that,  even  during  the  time  of  being 
one  of  the  Committee  of  one  of  the  theatres,  I  never 
made  the  attempt,  and  never  will.'  But  surely  there 
is  a  dramatic  power  somewhere,  where  Joanna  Baillio, 
and  Millman,  and  John  Wilson  exist.  The  "  City  of 
the  Plague,"  and  the  "  Fall  of  Jerusalem  "  are  full  of 
the  best  material  for  tragedy  that  has  been  seen  since 
Horace  Walpole,  except  passages  of  Ethwald  and  De 
Montfort.  It  is  the  fasliion  to  underrate  Horace  Wal- 
pole ;  firstly,  because  he  was  a  nobleman,  and  secondly, 
because  he  was  a  gentleman  ;  but,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  composition  of  his  incomparable  letters,  and  of  the 
Castle  of  Otranto,  he  is  the  "  Ultimus  Eomanorum," 
the  author  of  the  Mysterious  Mother,  a  tragedy  of  the 
highest  order,  and  not  a  pulling  love-play.  He  is  the 
father  of  the  first  romance  and  of  the  last  tragedy  in 
our  language,  and  surely  worthy  of  a  higher  place 
than  any  living  writer,  be  he  who  he  may. 

In  speaking  of  the  drama  of  Marino  Faliero,  I  forgot 
to  mention,  that  the  desire  of  preserving,  though  still 
too  remote,  a  nearer  approach  to  unity  than  the  irregu- 
larity which  is  the  reproach  of  the  English  theatrical 
compositions  permits,  has  induced  me  to  represent 
the  conspiracy  as  already  formed,  and  the  Doge  acced- 
ing to  it ;  whereas,  in  fact,  it  was  of  his  own  prepara- 
tion and  that  of  Israel  Bertuccio.  The  other  charac- 
ters, (except  that  of  the  Duchess,)  incidents,  and  almost 
the  time,  which  was  wonderfully  short  for  such  a  de- 
sign in  real  life,  are  strictly  historical,  except  that  all 
the  consultations  took  place  in  the  palace.  Had  I  fol- 
lowed this,  the  unity  would  have  been  better  pre- 
served ;  but  I  wished  to  produce  the  Doge  in  the  full 
assembly  of  the  conspirators,  instead  of  monotonously 
placing  him  always  in  dialogue  with  the  same  indi- 
viduals.   For  the  real  facts,  I  refer  to  the  Appendix. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 

Mabeno  Faliero,  Boge  of  Venice. 
Bebtuccio  Faliero,  Nephew  of  Doge. 


1  While  I  was  in  the  Sub-committee  of  Dmry  Lane  Theatre,  I 
can  voucii  for  my  colleagues,  and  I  hope  for  myself,  that  we  did 
onr  best  to  bring  back  the  legitimate  drama.  I  tried  what  I  could 
to  get  *'  De  Moutfort "  revived,  but  in  vain,  and  equally  in  vain  in 
favor  of  Southey'a  "Ivan,"  which  was  thought  an  acting  play; 
and  I  endeavored  also  to  wake  Mr.  Coleridge  to  write  a  tragedy. 
Those  who  are  not  in  the  secret  will  hardly  believe  that  the 
"  School  for  Scandal "  is  the  pl.iy  which  has  brought  least  money^ 
averaging  the  number  of  times  it  has  been  acted  since  its  produc- 
tion ;  BO  Manager  Dibden  assnred  me.  Of  what  has  occurred  since 
Maturin''B  "  Bertram  "  I  am  not  aware ;  so  that  I  may  l)e  traduc- 
ing, through  ignorance,  some  excellent  new  writers  ;  if  so,  I  beg 
their  pardon.  I  have  been  absent  ftrom  England  nearly  five  years, 
and,  till  last  year,  I  never  read  an  Englif^h  newspaper  since  my 
departure,  and  am  now  only  aware  of  theatrical  matters  through 
the  medium  of  the  Parisian  Gazette  of  Galigiiani,  and  only  for 
the  last  twelve  months.  Let  me  then  deprecate  all  offence  to 
trwiic  or  comic  writers,  to  whom  I  wish  well,  and  of  whom  I  know 

26 


LlONi,  a  Patrician  and  Senator. 
BENmTENDE,  Chief  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
Michel  Steno,  One  of  the  Three  Capi  of  the  Forty. 
Israel,  Bertuccio,  Chief  of 

the  Arsenal, 
Philip  Calendabo,  ■  Conspirators. 

Dagolino, 
Bertram, 
Signor  of  the  Night,  ("  Signore  di  Notte,'")  one  of  the 

Officers  belonging  to  the  Republic 
First  Citizen. 
Second  Citizen. 
Third  Citizen. 

ViNCENZO,    \ 

PiBTRO,       >  Officers  helonging  to  the  Ducal  Palate. 
Battista,    ) 

Secretary  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
Ouards,  Conspirators,  Citizens,  Tlie  Council  (f  Ten, 
The  Oiunta,  &c.  &c 

WOMEN. 

Angiolina,  Wife  to  the  Doge. 
Mabianna,  her  Friend. 

Female  Attendants,  Sc. 
Scene  Venice — in  the  year  1355. 

MARINO  FALIERO. 


ACT  L 

SCENE     I  . 

An  Antechaniber  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
PiETRO  speais,  in  entering,  to  Battista. 

Pie.  Is  not  the  messenger  return'd  ! 

Pat.  Not  yet ; 

I  have  sent  frequently,  as  you  commanded. 
But  still  the  Signory  is  deep  in  council 
And  long  debate  on  Steno's  accusation. 

Pie.  Too  long — at  least  so  thinks  the  Doge. 

Bat.  How  bears  he 

These  moment  of  suspense  ? 

Pie.  With  struggling  patience. 

nothing.  The  long  complaints  of  the  actual  state  of  the  drama 
arise,  however,  from  no  fault  of  the  performers.  I  can  conceive 
nothing  better  than  Kemble,  Cook  and  Kean  in  their  very  differ- 
ent manners,  or  than  Elliston  in  gentleman's  comedy,  and  in  some 
parts  of  tragedy.  Miss  O'Neill  I  never  saw,  having  made  and  kept 
a  determinalion  to  see  nothing  which  should  divide  or  disturb  my 
recollections  of  Siddons.  Siddons  and  Kemble  were  the  ideal  of 
tragic  action  ;  I  never  saw  any  thing  at  all  resembling  them  even 
in  person ;  for  this  reason,  we  shall  never  see  again  Coriolanus  or 
Macbeth.  When  Kean  is  blamed  for  want  of  dignity  we  should 
remember  that  it  is  a  grace,  and  not  an  art,  and  not  to  be  attained 
by  Btudy.  In  all,  not  stJPER-natural  parts,  he  is  perfect ;  even  his 
very  defects  belong,  or  seem  to  belong,  to  the  parts  themselves, 
and  appear  truer  to  nature.  But  of  Kemble  we  may  say,  with  refer- 
ence to  his  acting,  what  the  Cardinal  de  Itetz  said  of  the  Marquis 
of  Montrose,  "  that  he  was  the  only  man  he  ever  saw  who  re- 
mindc<l  him  of  the  heroes  of  Plutarch." 


194 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Placed  at  the  ducal  table,  cover'd  o'er 

With  all  the  apparel  of  the  state ;  petitions, 

Dispatches,  judgments,  acts,  reprieves,  reports, 

He  sits  as  rapt  in  duty  ;  but  whene'er 

He  hears  the  jarring  of  a  distant  door, 

Or  aught  that  intimates  a  coming  step. 

Or  murmur  of  a  voice,  his  quick  eye  wanders, 

And  he  will  start  up  from  his  chair,  then  pause. 

And  seat  himself  again,  and  fix  his  gaze 

Upon  some  edict ;  but  I  have  observed 

For  the  last  hour  he  has  not  turn'd  a  leaf.         ['twas 

Bat.  'Tis  said  he  is  much  moved, — and  doubtless 
Foul  scorn  in  Steno  to  offend  so  grossly. 

Pie.  Ay,  if  a  poor  man  :  Steno's  a  patrician, 
Toung,  gaUiard,  gay,  and  haughty. 

Bat.  Then  you  think 

He  will  not  be  judged  hardly  ? 

Pie.  'Twere  enough 

He  be  judged  justly ;  but  tis  not  for  us 
To  anticipate  the  sentence  of  the  Forty. 

Bat.  And  here  it  comes — Wliat  news,  Vincenzo  ? 

Enter  Vestcenzo. 
Yin.  'Tis 

Decided ;  but  as  yet  his  doom's  unknown  : 
I  saw  the  president  in  act  to  seal 
The  parchment  which  will  bear  the  Forty's  judgment 
Unto  the  Doge,  and  hasten  to  inform  him.  \_Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Ducal  Chamber. 

Mabino  Falieeo,  Doge  ;  and  his  Nephew, 
Bertuccio  Faleero. 

Ber.  F.  It  cannot  be  but  they  will  do  you  justice. 

Doge.  Ay,  such  as  the  Avogadori  did. 
Who  sent  up  my  appeal  unto  the  Forty 
To  try  him  by  his  peers,  his  own  tribunal. 

Ber.  F.  His  peers  will  scarce  protect  him :  such  an 
act 
Would  bring  contempt  on  all  authority.         [Forty  ? 

Doge,  Know  you  not  Venice  ?  Know  you  not  the 
But  we  shall  see  anon. 

Ber.  F.  {addressing  Vincenzo,  then  entering,) 
How  now — what  tidings  ? 

Vin.  I  am  charged  to  tell  Ms  highness  thatthecourt 
Has  pass'd  its  resolution,  and  that,  soon 
As  the  due  forms  of  judgment  are  gone  through. 
The  sentence  will  be  sent  up  to  the  Doge  ; 
In  the  meantime  the  Forty  doth  salute 
The  Prince  of  the  Republic,  and  entreat 
His  acceptation  of  their  duty. 

Doge.  Yes — 

They  are  wond'rous  dutiful,  and  ever  humble. 
Sentence  is  pass'd,  you  say  ? 

Vin.  It  is,  your  highness  : 

The  president  was  sealing  it,  when  I 


Was  call'd  in,  that  no  moment  might  be  lost 

In  forwarding  the  intimation  due 

Not  only  to  the  Chief  of  the  Republic, 

But  the  complainant,  both  in  one  united.      [ceived, 

Ber.  F.  Are  you  aware,  from  aught  you  have  per- 
Of  their  decision  ? 

Vin.  No,  my  lord :  you  know 

The  .secret  custom  of  the  courts  in  Venice. 

Ber.  F.  True ;  but  there  still  is  something  given 
to  guess, 
Which  a  shrewd  gleaner  and  quick  eye  would  catch  at ; 
A  whisper,  or  a  murmur,  or  an  air 
More  or  less  solemn  spread  o'er  the  tribunal. 
The  Forty  are  but  men — most  worthy  men. 
And  wise,  and  just,  and  cautious — this  I  grant — 
And  secret  as  the  grave  to  which  they  doom 
The  guilty ;  but  with  all  this,  in  their  aspects — 
At  least  in  some,  the  juniors  of  the  number — • 
A  searching  eye,  an  eye  like  yours,  Vincenzo, 
Would  read  the  sentence  ere  it  was  pronounced. 

Vin.  My  lord,  I  came  away  upon  the  moment, 
And  had  no  leisure  to  take  note  of  that 
WTiich  passed  among  the  Judges,  even  in  seeming ; 
My  station  near  the  accused  too,  Michel  Steno, 
Made  me 

Doge,  {airvptly.)  And  how  look'd  he  f  deliver  that. 

Vin.  Calm,  but  not  overcast,  he  stood  resign'd 
To  the  decree,  whate'er  it  were  ; — but  lo  ! 
It  comes,  for  the  perusal  of  his  highness. 

Enter  the  Secretary  of  the  Forty. 

See.  The  high  tribunal  of  the  Forty  sends 
Health  and  respect  to  the  Doge  Faliero, 
Chief  magistrate  of  Venice,  and  requests 
His  highness  to  peruse  and  to  approve 
The  sentence  pass'd  on  Michel  Steno,  born 
Patrician,  and  arraign'd  upon  the  charge 
Contain'd,  together  with  its  penalty. 
Within  the  rescript  which  I  now  present. 

Doge.  Retire,  and  wait  vrithout. 

[Exemit  Secretary  and  Vincenzo. 
Take  thou  this  paper : 
The  misty  letters  vanish  from  my  eyes  : 
I  cannot  fix  them. 

Ber.  F.  Patience,  my  dear  uncle  : 

Why  do  you  tremble  thus  ? — nay,  doubt  not,  all 
Will  be  as  could  be  wish'd. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

Ber.  F.  {reading.)  "  Decreed 

In  council,  without  one  dissenting  voice. 
That  Michel  Steno,  by  his  own  confession. 
Guilty  on  the  last  night  of  Carnival 
Of  having  graven  on  the  ducal  throne 
The  following  words ^" 

Doge.  Wouldst  thou  repeat  them  ? 

Wouldst  thov  repeat  them — tltou,  a  Faliero, 
Harp  on  the  dcej)  dishonor  of  our  house, 


SCEISTE   II. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


195 


Dishonor'd  in  its  chief — that  chief  the  prince 
Of  Vcuice,  first  of  cities  ?    To  the  sentence. 

Ber.  F.  Forgive  me,  my  good  lord  ;  I  will  obey — 
(Heath)  "That  Michel  Steno  be  detain'd  a  month 
In  close  arrest." 

Do,,  e.  Proceed. 

Ber.  F.  My  lord,  'tis  finish'd. 

JJOje.  How,  say  you  ? — ^finish'd  I    Do  I  dream  ? — 
'tis  false — 
Give  me  the  paper — (Snaieheg  the  paper  and  reads) — 

"  'Tis  decreed  in  council 
That  Michel  Steno  " Nephew,  thine  arm  1 

Ber.  F.  Nay, 

Cheer  up,  be  calm  ;  this  transport  is  uncall'd  for — 
Let  me  seek  some  assistance. 

Doge.  Stop,  Sir — Stir  not — 

'Tis  past. 

Ber.  F.  I  cannot  but  agree  with  you 
The  sentence  is  too  slight  for  the  ofience — 
It  is  not  honorable  in  the  Forty 
To  affix  so  slight  a  penalty  to  that 
"VVliich  was  a  foul  affront  to  you,  and  even 
To  them,  as  being  your  subjects  ;  but  'tis  not 
Yet  without  remedy  :  you  can  appeal 
To  them  once  more,  or  to  the  Avogadori, 
Who,  seeing  that  true  justice  is  withheld, 
Will  now  take  up  the  cause  they  once  declined. 
And  do  you  right  upon  the  bold  delinquent. 
Think  you  not  thus,  good  uncle  ?  why  do  you  stand 
So  fix'd  2  You  heed  me  not ; — I  pray  you,  hear  me  ! 

Doffe  {dashing  down,  the  ducal  bonnet,  and  offering 
to  trample  upon  it,  exclaims,  as  he  is  withheld 
hy  his  nephew) 
Oh,  that  the  Saracen  were  in  Saint  Mark's  I 
Thus  would  I  do  him  homage. 

Ber.  F.                                     For  the  sake 
Of  Heaven  and  all  its  saints,  my  lord 

Doge.  Away  1 

Oh,  that  the  Genoese  were  in  the  port ! 
Oh,  that  the  Huns  whom  I  o'erthrew  at  Zara 
Were  ranged  around  the  palace  ! 

Ber.  F.  'Tis  not  well 

In  Venice'  Duke  to  say  so. 
^  Doge.  Venice'  Duke  1 

Who  now  is  Duke  in  Venice  ?  let  me  see  him, 
That  he  may  do  me  right. 

Ber.  F.  If  you  forget 

Your  office,  and  its  dignity  and  duty. 
Remember  that  of  man,  and  curb  this  passion. 
The  Duke  of  Venice 

Doge,  (interrupting  him.)  There  is  no  such  thing — 
It  is  a  word — ^nay,  worse — a  worthless  by-word  : 
The    most    despised,  wrong'd,   outraged,   helpless 
Who  begs  his  bread,  if  'tis  refused  by  one,  [wretch, 
May  win  it  from  another  kinder  heart ; 
But  he,  who  is  denied  his  right  by  those 
Whose  place  it  is  to  do  no  wrong,  is  poorer 


Than  the  rejected  beggar — he's  a  slave — 
And  that  am  I,  and  thou,  and  all  our  house, 
Even  from  this  hour  ;  the  meanest  artisan 
Will  point  the  finger,  and  the  haughty  noble 
May  spit  upon  us  : — where  is  our  redress  ? 

Ber.  F.  The  law,  my  prince 

Doge,  (interrupting  him.)    You  see  what  it  has 
I  ask'd  no  remedy  but  from  the  law —  [done — 

I  sought  no  vengeance  but  redress  by  law — 
I  call'd  no  judges  but  those  named  by  law — 
As  sovereign,  I  appeal'd  unto  my  subjects, 
The  very  subjects  who  had  made  me  sovereign, 
And  gave  me  thus  a  double  right  to  be  so. 
The  rights  of  place  and  choice,  of  birth  and  service, 
Honors  and  years,  these  scars,  these  hoary  hairs, 
The  travel,  toil,  the  perils,  the  fatigues, 
The  blood  and  sweat  of  almost  eighty  years. 
Were  weigh'd  i'  the  balance,  'gainst  the  foulest  stain. 
The  grossest  insult,  most  contemptuous  crime 
Of  a  rank,  rash  patrician — and  found  wanting  ! 
And  this  is  to  be  borne  ! 

Ber.  F.  I  say  not  that : — 

In  case  your  fresh  appeal  should  be  rejected, 
We  will  find  other  means  to  make  all  even. 

Doge.  Appeal  again  !  art  thou  my  brother's  son  ? 
A  scion  of  the  house  of  Faliero  ? 
The  nephew  of  a  Doge  ?  and  of  that  blood 
Which  hath  already  given  three  dukes  to  Venice  ? 
But  thou  say'st  well — we  must  be  humble  now. 

Ber.  F.  My  princely  uncle !  you  are  too  much 
I  grant  it  was  a  gross  offence,  and  grossly   [moved  : 
Left  without  fitting  punishment :  but  still 
This  fury  doth  exceed  the  provocation. 
Or  any  provocation  :  if  we  are  wrong'd. 
We  will  ask  justice ;  if  it  be  denied. 
We'll  take  it ;  but  may  do  all  this  in  calmness — 
Deep  Vengeance  is  the  daughter  of  deep  Silence. 
I  have  yet  scarce  a  third  part  of  your  years, 
I  love  cur  house,  I  honor  you,  its  chief. 
The  guardian  of  my  youth,  and  its  instructor — 
But  though  I  understand  your  grief,  and  enter 
In  part  of  your  disdain,  it  doth  appal  me 
To  see  your  anger,  like  our  Adrian  waves, 
O'ersweep  all  bounds,  and  foam  itself  to  air. 

Doge.  I  teU  thee — ^nust  I  tell  thee — what  thy  father 
Would  have  required  no  words  to  comprehend  ? 
Hast  thou  no  feeling  save  the  external  sense 
Of  torture  from  the  touch  ?  hast  thou  no  soul — 
No  pride — no  passion — no  deep  sense  of  honor  ? 

Ber.  F.  'Tis  the  first  time  that  honor  has  been 
And  were  the  last,  from  any  other  skeptic,  [doubted, 

Doge.  You  know  the  full  offence  of  this  bom  vil- 
Tliis  creeping,  coward,  rank,  acquitted  felon,   [lain, 
Who  threw  his  sting  into  a  poisonous  libel, 
And  on  the  honor  of — oh,  God  I — my  wife, 
The  nearest,  dearest  part  of  all  men's  honor, 
Left  a  base  sUir  to  pass  from  mouth  to  mouth 


196 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  I, 


Of  loose  mechanics,  with  all  coarse  foul  comments, 
And  yillanous  jests,  and  blasphemies  obscene  ; 
While  sneering  nobles,  in  more  polish'd  guise, 
Whisper'd  the  tale,  and  smiled  upon  the  lie 
Which  made  me  look  like  them — a  courteous  wittol, 
Patient — ay,  proud,  it  may  be,  of  dishonor. 

Bar.  F.  But  still  it  was  a  lie — ^you  knew  it  false, 
And  so  did  all  men. 

Doge.  Nephew,  the  high  Roman 

Said,  "  Caesar's  wife  must  not  even  be  suspected," 
And  put  her  from  him. 

Ber.  F.  True — but  in  those  days 


Doge.  What  is  it  that  a  Roman  would  not  suffer. 
That  a  Venetian  prince  must  bear  ?    Old  Dandolo 
Refused  the  diadem  of  all  the  Cajsars, 
And  wore  the  ducal  cap  I  trample  on, 
Because  'tis  now  degraded. 

£er.  F.  'Tis  even  so. 

J)of/e.  It  is — it  is  :  I  did  not  visit  on 
The  innocent  creature  thus  most  vilely  slander'd 
Because  she  took  an  old  man  for  her  lord, 
For  that  he  had  been  long  her  father's  friend 
And  patron  of  her  house,  as  if  there  were 
Ko  love  in  woman's  heart  but  lust  of  youth 
And  beardless  faces  ;— I  did  not  for  this 
Visit  the  villain's  infamy  on  her. 
But  craved  my  country's  justice  on  his  head. 
The  justice  due  unto  the  humblest  being 
Who  hath  a  wife  whose  faith  is  sweet  to  him, 
Who  hath  a  home  whose  hearth  is  dear  to  him. 
Who  hath  a  name  whose  honor's  all  to  him, 
When  these  are  tainted  by  the  accursing  breath 
Of  calumny  and  scorn. 

Ser.  F.  And  what  redress 

Did  you  expect  as  his  fit  punishment  ? 

Doffe.  Death  1    Was  I  not  the  sovereign  of  the 
Insulted  on  his  very  throne,  and  made  [state, 

A  mockery  to  the  men  who  should  obey  me  ? 
Was  I  not  injured  as  a  husband  ?  scom'd 
As  man  ?  reviled,  degraded,  as  a  prince  ? 
Was  not  offence  like  Ms  a  complication 
Of  insult  and  of  treason  ? — and  he  lives  ! 
Had  he  instead  of  on  the  Doge's  throne 
Stamp'd  the  same  brand  upon  a  peasant's  stool. 
His  blood  had  gilt  the  threshold  ;  for  the  carle 
Had  stabb'd  him  on  the  instant. 

£er.  F.  Do  not  doubt  it. 

He  shall  not  live  till  sunset — leave  to  me 
The  means,  and  calm  yourself. 

Doge.  Hold,  nephew  :  this 

Would  have  sufBced  but  yesterday ;  at  present 
I  have  no  further  wrath  against  this  man.  [doubled 

Ber.  F.  What  mean  you  ?  is  not  the  offence  re- 
By  this  most  rank — I  will  not  say— acquittal ; 
For  it  is  worse,  being  full  acknowledgment 
Of  the  offence,  and  leaving  it  unpunish'd  ? 

Doge.  It  is  redoubled,  but  not  now  by  him  ;  | 


The  Forty  hath  decreed  a  month's  arrest — 
We  must  obey  the  Forty. 

Der.  F.  Obey  them  ! 

Who  have  forgot  their  duty  to  the  sovereign  ? 

Doge.  Why,  yes ;— boy,  you  perceive  it  then  at  last : 
Whether  as  fellow-citizen  who  sues 
For  justice,  or  as  sovereign  who  commands  it, 
They  have  defrauded  me  of  both  my  rights, 
(For  here  the  sovereign  is  a  citizen ;) 
But,  notwithstanding,  harm  not  thou  a  hair 
Of  Steno's  head — he  shall  not  wear  it  long. 

Ber.  F.  Not  twelve  hours  longer,  had  you  left  to  me 
The  mode  and  means  :  if  you  had  calmly  heard  me 
I  never  meant  this  miscreant  should  escape. 
But  wish'd  you  to  repress  such  gusts  of  passion, 
That  we  more  surely  might  devise  together 
His  taking  off. 

Doge.  No,  nephew,  he  must  live  ; 

At  least,  just  now — a  life  so  vile  as  his 
Were  nothing  at  this  hour ;  in  th'  olden  time 
Some  sacrifices  ask'd  a  single  victim. 
Great  expiations  had  a  hecatomb. 

Ber.  F.  Your  wishes  are  my  law  ;  and  yet  I  fain 
Would  prove  to  you  how  near  unto  my  heart 
The  honor  of  our  house  must  ever  be. 

Doge.  Fear  not ;  you  shall  have  time  and  place  of 
But  be  not  thou  too  rash,  as  I  have  been.       [proof; 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  own  anger  now ; 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

Ber.  F.  Why  that's  my  uncle  I 

The  leader,  and  the  statesman,  and  the  chief 
Of  commonwealths,  and  sovereign  of  himself ! 
I  wonder'd  to  perceive  you  so  forget 
All  prudence  in  your  fury  at  these  years. 

Although  the  cause 

Doge.  Ay,  think  upon  the  cause — 

Forget  it  not : — ^When  you  lie  down  to  rest. 
Let  it  be  black  among  your  dreams  ;  and  when 
The  mom  returns,  so  let  it  stand  between 
The  sun  and  you,  as  an  ill-omen'd  cloud 
Upon  a  summer-day  of  festival : 
So  will  it  stand  to  me ; — but  speak  not,  stir  not, — 
Leave  all  to  me  ; — we  shall  have  much  to  do. 
And  you  shall  have  a  part.    But  now  retire, 
'Tis  fit  I  were  alone. 

Ber.  F.  (taling  vp  ar.d placing  the  dvcal  lo»7iet  on 
the  talk.)  Ere  I  depart, 

I  pray  you  to  resume  what  you  have  spum'd, 
Till  you  can  change  it  haply  for  a  crown. 
And  now  I  take  my  leave,  imploring  you 
In  all  things  to  rely  upon  my  duty 
As  doth  become  your  near  and  faithful  kinsman, 
And  not  less  loyal  citizen  and  subject. 

[Exit  Bektuccio  Faliero. 
Doge,  (soliin.)     Adieu,  my  worthy  nephew. 

Hollow  bauble  !  {Talcing  vp  the  ducal  cap. 
Beset  witli  all  the  thorns  that  line  a  crown, 


I 


SCEXK   II. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


197 


Without  investing  the  insulted  brow 

AVith  the  all-swaying  majesty  of  kings  ; 

Thou  idle,  gilded,  aud  degraded  toy, 

Let  me  resume  thee  as  I  would  a  vizor.     [Puts  it  on. 

How  my  brain  aches  beneath  thee  1  and  my  temples 

Throb  feverish  imder  thy  dishonest  weight. 

Could  I  not  turn  thee  to  a  diadem  ? 

Could  I  not  shatter  the  Briarean  sceptre 

Which  in  this  hundred-handed  senate  rules, 

Making  the  people  nothing,  and  the  prince, 

A  pageant  ?  In  my  life  I  have  achieved 

Tasks  not  less  difficult— achieved  for  them. 

Who  thus  repay  me  ! — Can  I  not  requite  them  ? 

Oh  for  one  year  !  Oh  !  but  for  even  a  day 

Of  my  full  youth,  while  yet  my  body  served 

My  soul  as  serves  the  generous  steed  his  lord, 

I  would  have  dash'd  amongst  them,  asking  few 

In  aid  to  overthrow  these  sworn  patricians  ; 

But  now  I  must  look  round  for  other  hands 

To  serve  this  hoary  head  :^but  it  shall  plan 

In  such  a  sort  as  will  not  leave  the  task 

Herculean,  though  as  yet  'tis  but  a  chaos 

Of  darkly  brooding  thoughts :  my  fancy  is 

In  her  first  work,  more  nearly  to  the  light 

Holding  the  sleeping  images  of  things 

For  the  selection  of  the  pausing  judgment. — 

The  troops  are  few  in 

Enter  Vdtcenzo. 

Vin.  There  is  one  without 

Craves  audience  of  your  highness. 

Boge.  I'm  imweU — 

I  can  see  no  one,  not  even  a  patrician — 
Let  him  refer  his  business  to  the  council. 

Vin.  My  lord,  I  will  deliver  your  reply  ; 
It  cannot  much  import — ^hc's  a  plebeian, 
The  master  of  a  galley,  I  believe. 

Boge.  How  !  did  you  say  the  patron  of  a  galley  ? 
That  is — I  mean — a  servant  of  the  state  : 
"Admit  him,  he  may  .be  on  public  service. 

[FJxit  ViNCENZO. 

Boffe,  (solus.)  This  patron  may  be  sounded ;  I  will 
try  him. 
I  know  the  people  to  be  discontented : 
They  have  cause,  since  Sapienza's  adverse  day, 
When  Genoa  conquer'd ;  they  have  further  cause, 
Since  they  are  nothing  in  the  state,  and  in 
The  city  worse  than  nothing — mere  machines. 
To  serve  the  nobles'  most  patrician  pleasure. 
The  troops  have  long  arrears  of  pay  oft  promised, 
And  murmur  deeply — any  hope  of  change 
VrtU  draw  them  forward  :  they  shall  pay  themselves 
With  plunder  : — but  the  priests — I  doubt  the  priest- 
hood 
Will  not  be  with  us  ; — they  have  hated  me 
Since  that  rash  hour,  when,  madden'd  with  the  drone, 


I  smote  the  tardy  bishop  at  Treviso, 

Quickening  his  holy  march  ;  yet,  ne'ertheless. 

They  may  be  won,  at  least  their  chief  at  Rome, 

By  some  well-timed  concessions  ;  but,  above 

All  things,  I  must  be  speedy  :  at  my  hour 

Of  twilight  little  light  of  life  remains. 

Could  I  free  Venice,  and  avenge  my  wrongs, 

I  had  lived  too  long,  and  willingly  would  sleep 

Next  moment  with  my  sires  ;  and,  wanting  this. 

Better  that  sixty  of  my  fourscore  years 

Had  been  already  where — how  soon,  I  care  not — 

The  whole  must  be  extinguish'd ; — better  that 

They  ne'er  had  been,  than  drag  me  on  to  be 

The  thing  these  arch  oppressors  fain  would  make  me. 

Let  me  consider— of  efficient  troops 

There  are  three  thousand  posted  at 

Enter  VrNCEsrzo  and  Isbael  Bebttjccio. 

Vin.  May  it  please 

Your  highness,  the  same  patron  which  I  spake  of 
Is  here  to  crave  your  patience. 

Boge.  Leave  the  chamber, 

Vincenzo. —  [Exit  Vincenzo. 

Sir,  you  may  advance — what  would  you  ? 

/.  Ber.  Redress. 

Boge.  Of  whom  ? 

/.  Ber.  Of  God  and  of  the  Doge. 

Boge.  Alas  I  my  friend,  you  seek  it  of  the  twain 
Of  least  respect  and  interest  in  Venice. 
You  must  address  the  council. 

/.  Ber.  'Twere  in  vain  ; 

For  he  who  injured  me  is  one  of  them. 

Boge.  There's  blood  upon  thy  face — how  came  it 
there  ? 

/.  Ber.   'Tis  mine,  and  not  the  first  I've  shed  for 
Venice, 
But  the  first  shed  by  a  Venetian  hand  : 
A  noble  smote  me. 

Boge.  Doth  he  live  ? 

7.  Ber.  Not  long — 

But  for  the  hope  I  had  and  have,  that  you, 
My  prince,  yourself  a  soldier,  will  redress 
Him,  whom  the  laws  of  discipline  and  Venice 
Permit  not  to  protect  himself ;  —if  not — 
I  say  no  more. 

Boge.  But  something  you  would  do — 

Is  it  not  so  ? 

/.  Ber.        I  am  a  man,  my  lord. 

Boge.  Why,  so  is  he  who  smote  you. 

/.  Ber.  He  is  caU'd  so ; 

Nay,  more,  a  noble  one — at  least,  in  Venice  : 
But  since  he  hath  forgotten  that  I  am  one. 
And  treats  me  like  a  brute,  the  brute  may  turn — 
'Tis  said  the  worm  will. 

Boge.  Say — his  name  and  lineage  ? 

/.  Ber.  Barbaro. 


k 


198 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Boge.  What  was  the  cause,  or  the  pretext  ? 

I.  Ber.  I  am  the  chief  of  the  arsenal,  employ'd 
At  present  in  repairing  certain  galleys 
But  roughly  used  by  the  Genoese  last  year. 
This  morning  comes  the  noble  Barbaro 
Full  of  reproof,  because  our  artisans 
Had  left  some  frivolous  order  of  his  house, 
To  execute  the  state's  decree  :  I  dared 
To  justify  the  men — he  raised  his  hand  ; — 
Behold  my  blood  !  the  first  time  it  e'er  flow'd 
Dishonorably. 

Boge.  Have  you  long  time  served  ? 

/.  Ber.  So  long  as  to  remember  Zara's  siege. 
And  fight  beneath  the  chief  who  beat  the  Huns  there 
Sometime  my  general,  now  the  Doge  Faliero. — 

Boge.  How  !  are  we  comrades  ? — the  state's  ducal 
robes 
Sit  newly  on  me,  and  you  were  appointed 
Chief  of  the  arsenal  ere  I  came  from  Rome  ; 
So  that  I  recognised  you  not.    Wlio  placed  you  ? 

/.  Ber.  The  late  Doge  ;  keeping  still  my  old  com- 
mand 
As  patron  of  a  galley  :  my  new  oflice 
Was  given  as  the  reward  of  certain  scars, 
(So  was  your  predecessor  pleased  to  say  :) 
I  little  thought  his  bounty  would  conduct  me 
To  his  successor  as  a  helpless  plaintifi"; 
At  least,  in  such  a  cause. 

Boge.  Are  you  much  hurt  ? 

/.  Ber.  Irreparably  in  my  self-esteem. 

Boge.    Speak  out ;   fear  nothing  :   being  stung  at 
heart. 
What  would  you  do  to  be  revenged  on  this  man  ? 

/.  Ber.  That  which  I  dare  not  name,  and  yet  will 
do. 

Boge.  Then  wherefore  came  you  here  ? 

/.  Ber.  I  come  for  justice, 

Because  my  general  is  Doge,  and  will  not 
Bee  his  old  soldier  trampled  on.    Had  any, 
Save  Faliero,  fiU'd  the  ducal  throne, 
This  blood  had  been  wash'd  out  in  other  blood. 

Boge.  You  come  to  me  for  justice — unto  ine  ! 
Tlie  Doge  of  Venice,  and  I  cannot  give  it ; 
I  cannot  even  obtain  it — 'twas  denied 
To  me  most  solemnly  an  hour  ago  ! 

I.  Ber.  How  says  your  highness  ? 

Boge.  Steno  is  condemn'd 

To  a  month's  confinement. 

/.  Ber.  What !  the  same  who  dared 

To  stain  the  ducal  throne  with  those  foul  words. 
That  have  cried  shame  to  every  ear  in  Venice  ? 

Boge.    Ay,  doubtless  they  have  echo'd  o'er  the 
arsenal, 
Keeping  due  time  with  every  hammer's  clink, 
As  a  good  jest  to  jolly  artisans  ; 
Or  making  chorus  to  the  creaking  oar, 
In  the  vile  tunc  of  every  galley-slave, 
Who,  as  he  sung  the  merry  stave,  exulted 


He  was  not  a  shamed  dotard  like  the  Doge. 

/.  Ber.  Is't  possible  ?  a  month's  imprisonment ! 
No  more  for  Steno  ? 

Boge.  You  have  heard  the  ofTence, 

And  now  you  know  his  punishment ;  and  then 
You  ask  redress  of  me  !  Go  to  the  Forty, 
Who  pass'd  the  sentence  upon  Michel  Steno ; 
They'll  do  as  much  by  Barbaro,  no  doubt. 

/.  Ber.  Ah  !  dared  I  speak  my  feelings  ! 

Boge.  Give  them  breath. 

Mine  have  no  iurther  outrage  to  endure. 

/.  Ber.  Then,  in  a  word,  it  rests  but  on  your  word 
To  punish  and  avenge — I  will  not  say 
J/y  petty  wrong,  for  what  is  a  mere  blow, 
However  vile,  to  such  a  thing  as  I  am  ? 
But  the  base  insult  done  your  state  and  person. 

Boge.  You  overrate  my  power,  which  is  a  pageant. 
This  cap  is  not  the  monarch's  crown  ;  these  robes 
Might  move  compassion,  like  a  beggar's  rags  ; 
Nay,  more,  a  beggar's  are  his  own,  and  these 
But  lent  to  the. poor  puppet,  who  must  play 
Its  part  with  all  its  empire  in  this  ermine. 

/.  Ber.  Wouldst  thou  be  king  ? 

Boge.  Yes — of  a  happy  people. 

/.  Ber.  Wouldst  thou  be  sovereign  lord  of  Venice  3 

Doge.  Ay, 

If  that  the  people  shared  that  sovereignty. 
So  that  nor  they  nor  I  were  further  slaves 
To  this  o'ergrown  aristocratic  Hydra, 
The  poisonous  heads  of  whoso  envenom'd  body 
Have  breathed  a  pestilence  upon  us  all. 

I.  Ber.  Yet,  thou  wast  bom,  and  still  hast  lived, 
patrician. 

Boge.  In  evil  hour  was  I  so  bom  ;  my  birth 
Hath  made  me  Doge  to  be  insulted  :  but 
I  lived  and  toil'd  a  soldier  and  a  servant 
Of  Venice  and  her  people,  not  the  senate ; 
Their  good  and  my  own  honor  wore  my  guerdon. 
I  have  fought  and  bled ;  commanded,  ay,  and  con- 

quer'd ; 
Have  made  and  marr'd  peace  oft  in  embassies. 
As  it  might  chance  to  be  our  country's  'vantage  ; 
Have  traversed  land  and  sea  in  constant  duty. 
Through  almost  sixty  yeare,  and  still  for  Venice, 
My  fathers'  and  my  birthplace,  whose  dear  spires. 
Rising  at  distance  o'er  the  blue  Lagoon, 
It  was  reward  enough  for  me  to  view 
Once  more  ;  but  not  for  any  knot  of  men. 
Nor  sect,  nor  faction,  did  I  bleed  or  sweat ! 
But  would  you  know  why  I  have  done  all  this  ? 
Ask  of  the  bleeding  pelican  why  she 
Hath  ripp'd  her  bosom  ?    Had  the  bird  a  voice, 
She'd  tell  thee  'twas  for  all  her  little  ones. 

/.  Ber.  And  yet  they  made  thee  duke. 

Boge.  They  made  me  so ; 

I  sought  it  not,  the  flattering  fetters  met  me 
Returning  from  my  Roman  embassy. 


SCENE   IL 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


199 


And  never  having  liitherto  refused 

Toil,  charge,  or  duty  for  the  state,  I  did  not, 

At  these  late  years,  decline  what  was  the  highest 

Of  all  in  seeming,  but  of  all  most  base 

In  what  we  have  to  do  and  to  endure  : 

Bear  witness  for  me  thou,  my  injured  subject, 

When  I  can  neither  right  myself  nor  thee. 

/.  Ber.  You  shall  do  both  if  you  possess  the  will ; 
And  many  thousands  more  not  less  oppress'd, 
Who  wait  but  for  a  signal — wiU  you  give  it  ? 

Doge.  You  speak  in  riddles. 

I-  Ber.  Which  shall  soon  be  read 

At  peril  of  my  life,  if  you  disdain  not 
To  lend  a  patient  ear. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

I-  Ber.  Not  thou, 

Nor  I  alone,  are  injured  and  abused, 
Contemn'd  and  trampled  on  ;  but  the  whole  people 
Groan  with  the  strong  conception  of  their  wrongs : 
The  foreign  soldiers  in  the  senate's  pay 
Are  discontented  for  their  long  arrears  ; 
The  native  mariners,  and  civic  troops,  [them 

Feel  with  their  friends;  for  who  is  he  amongst 
Whose  brethren,  parents,  children,  wives,  or  sisters. 
Have  not  partook  oppression,  or  pollution, 
From  the  patricians  ?    And  the  hopeless  war 
Against  the  Genoese,  which  is  still  maintain'd 
With  the  plebeian  blood,  and  treasure  wrung  [ther : 
From  their  hard  earnings,  has  inflamed  them  fur- 
Even  now — but,  I  forget  that  speaking  thus, 
Perhaps  I  pass  the  sentence  of  my  death  ! 

Doge.  And  sufiering  what  thou  hast  done — fear'st 
Be  silent  then,  and  live  on,  to  be  beaten  [thou  death  ? 
By  those  for  whom  thou  hast  bled. 

I-  Ber.  Ko,  I  will  speak 

At  every  hazard ;  and  if  Venice'  Doge 
Should  turn  delator,  be  the  shame  on  him, 
^Vnd  sorrow  too ;  for  he  will  lose  far  more 
Than  I. 

Doge.  From  me  fear  nothing ;  out  with  it  1 

/.  Ber.  Know  then,  that  there  are  met  and  sworn  in 
A  band  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  true  ;  [secret 
Men  who  have  proved  all  fortunes,  and  have  long 
Grieved  over  that  of  Venice,  and  have  right 
To  do  so ;  having  served  her  in  all  climes, 
And  ha\-ing  rescued  her  from  foreign  foes. 
Would  do  the  same  from  those  within  her  walls. 
Tliey  are  not  numerous,  nor  yet  too  few 
For  their  great  puri)08e ;  they  have  arms,  and  means. 
And  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  faitli,  and  patient  cour- 
Doge.  For  what  then  do  they  pause  ?  [ao^e. 

I-  Ber.  An  hour  to  strike. 

Doge,  {aside)  Saint  Mark's  shall  strike  that  hour  !> 


>  The  bella  of  San  Marco  were  never  rung  bnt  by  order  of  the 
Doge.  One  of  the  pretexts  for  ringing  this  alarm  was  to  have 
been  an  announcement  of  the  appcaraace  of  a  Gcnocee  noet  off 
tbe  Lagnoo. 


-'•  Ber.  I  UQ.^  jjayg  placed 

My  life,  my  honor,  all  my  earthly  hopes 
Within  thy  power,  but  iu  the  firm  belief 
That  injuries  like  ours,  sprung  from  one  cause, 
Will  generate  one  vengeance  :  should  it  be  so, 
Be  our  chief  now— our  sovereign  hereafter. 

Doge.  How  many  are  ye  ? 

/•  Ber.  I'll  not  answer  that 

TiU  I  am  answer'd. 

I^oge.  How,  sir  !  do  you  menace  ? 

/.  Ber.  No ;  I  affirm.     I  have  betray'd  myself; 
But  there's  no  torture  in  the  mystic  wells 
Which  undermine  your  palace,  nor  in  those 
Not  less  appalling  cells,  the  "  leaden  roofs," 
To  force  a  single  name  from  me  of  others. 
The  Pozzi  and  the  Piombi  were  in  vain  ;        [never. 
They  might  wring  blood  from  me,  but  treachery 
And  I  would  pass  the  fearful  "  Bridge  of  Sighs," 
Joyous  that  mine  must  be  the  last  that  e'er 
Would  echo  o'er  the  Stygian  wave  which  flows 
Between  the  murderers  and  the  murder'd,  washing 
The  prison  and  the  palace  walls  :  there  are 
Those  who  would  live  to  think  on't,  and  avenge  me. 
Doge.  If  such  your  power  and  purpose,  why  come 
To  sue  for  justice,  being  in  the  course  [here 

To  do  yourself  due  right  ? 

I-  Ber.  Because  the  man 

Who  claims  protection  from  authority. 
Showing  his  confidence  and  his  submission 
To  that  authority,  can  hardly  be 
Suspected  of  combining  to  destroy  it. 
Had  I  sate  down  too  humbly  with  this  blow, 
A  moody  brow  and  mutter'd  threats  had  made  me 
A  mark'd  man  to  the  Forty's  inquisition ; 
But  loud  complaint,  however  angrily 
It  shapes  its  phrase,  is  little  to  be  fear'd. 
And  less  distrusted.    But,  besides  all  this, 
I  had  another  reason. 

J^oge.  What  was  that  ? 

/.  Ber.  Some  rumors  that  the  Doge  was  greatly 
By  the  reference  of  the  Avogadori  [moved 

Of  Michel  Steno's  sentence  to  the  Forty 
Had  reach'd  me.    I  had  served  j'ou,  honor'd  you, 
And  felt  that  you  were  dangerously  insulted, 
Being  of  an  order  of  such  spirits,  as 
Requite  tenfold  both  good  and  evil :  'twas 
My  wish  to  prove  and  urge  you  to  redress. 
Kow  you  know  all ;  and  that  I  speak  the  truth. 
My  peril  be  the  proof. 

Doge.  You  have  deeply  ventured ; 

But  all  must  do  so  who  would  greatly  win  : 
Thus  far  I'U  answer  you — your  secret's  safe. 

/.  Ber.  And  is  this  all  ? 

J^oge.  Unless  with  all  intrusted. 

What  would  you  have  me  answer  ? 

^-  Ber.  I  yould  have  you 

Trust  him  who  leaves  his  life  in  trust  with  you. 


200 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   II. 


Doge.  But  I  must  know  your  plan,  your  names, 
and  numbers  ; 
The  last  may  then  be  doubled,  and  the  former 
Matured  and  strengthen'd. 

/.  Ber.  We're  enough  already : 

You  arc  the  sole  ally  we  covet  now. 

Doge.  But  bring  me  to  the  knowledge  of  your  chiefs. 

/.  Ber.  That  shall  be  done  upon  your  formal  pledge 
To  keep  the  faith  that  we  will  pledge  to  you. 

Doge.  When  ?  where  ? 

I.  Ber.       This  night  I'll  bring  to  your  apartment 
Two  of  the  principals  ;  a  greater  number 
Were  hazardous. 

Doge.  Stay, "I  must  think  of  this. 

What  if  I  were  to  trust  myself  amongst  you, 
And  leave  the  palace  ? 

/.  Ber.  You  must  come  alone. 

Doge.  With  but  my  nephew. 

I.  Ber.  Not  were  he  your  son. 

Doge.  Wretch  I  darest  thou  name  my  son  ?    He 
At  Sapienza  for  this  faithless  state.      [died  in  arms 
Oh,  that  he  were  alive,  and  I  in  ashes  I 
Or  that  he  were  alive  ere  I  be  ashes  ! 
I  should  not  need  the  dubious  aid  of  strangers. 

I.  Ber.  Not  one  of  all  those  strangers  whom  thou 
But  will  regard  thee  vrith  a  filial  feeling,  [doubtest. 
So  that  thou  keep'st  a  father's  faith  with  them. 

Doge.  The  die  is  cast.    Where  is  the  place  of 
meeting  ? 

/.  Ber.  At  midnight  I  will  be  alone  and  mask'd 
Where'er  your  highness  pleases  to  direct  me, 
To  wait  your  coming,  and  conduct  you  where 
You  shall  receive  our  homage,  and  pronounce 
Upon  our  project. 

Doge.  At  what  hour  arises 

The  moon  ? 

/.  Ber.  Late,  but  the  atmosphere  is  thick  and 
'Tis  a  sirocca.  [dusky ; 

Doge.  At  the  midnight  hour,  then, 

Near  to  the  church  where  sleep  my  sires  ;  the  same 
Twin-named  from  the  apostles  Jolin  and  Paul ; 
A  gondola,'  with  one  oar  only,  will 
Lurk  in  the  narrow  channel  which  glides  by  : 
Be  there. 

/.  Ber.  I  will  not  fail. 

Doge.  And  now  retire 

/.  Ber.  In  the  fuU  hope  your  highness  will  not  fal- 

In  your  great  purpose.   Prince,  I  take  my  leave,  [ter 

[^Exit  Israel  Bbrtuccio. 

Doge,  {solvs.)  At  midnight,  by  the  church  Saints 
John  and  Paul, 
Wliere  sleep  my  noble  fathers,  I  repair — 
To  what  ?  to  hold  a  council  in  the  dark 


'  A  gondola  is  not  like  a  common  boat,  but  is  as  easily  rowed 
Willi  one  oar  as  with  two  (tliough,  of  course,  not  so  swiftly),  and 
often  is  so  from  motives  of  privacy ;  and,  since  the  decay  of 
Venice,  of  economy. 


With  common  ruffians  leagued  to  ruin  states  ! 

And  will  not  my  great  sires  leap  from  the  vault. 

Where  lie  two  Doges  who  preceded  me, 

And  pluck  me  down  amongst  them  ?     Would  they 

For  I  should  rest  in  honor  with  the  honor'd.  [could  ! 

Alas  1  I  must  not  think  of  them,  but  those 

Who  have  made  me  thus  unworthy  of  a  name. 

Noble  and  brave  as  aught  of  consular 

On  Roman  marbles  ;  but  I  will  redeem  it 

Back  to  its  antique  lustre  in  our  annals. 

By  sweet  revenge  on  all  that's  base  in  Venice, 

And  freedom  to  the  rest,  or  leave  it  black 

To  all  the  growing  calumnies  of  time. 

Which  never  spare  the  fame  of  him  who  fails, 

But  try  the  Crosar,  or  the  Catiline, 

By  the  true  touchstone  of  desert — success. 


ACT  IL 

SCENE      I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Angiolina  {wife  of  the  Doge  and  Marianna. 

Aug.  What  was  the  Doge's  answer  ? 

Mar.  That  he  was 

That  moment  summon'd  to  a  conference  ; 
But  'tis  by  this  time  ended.    I  perceived 
Not  long  ago  the  senators  embarking ; 
And  the  last  gondola  may  now  be  seen 
Gliding  into  the  throng  of  barks  which  stud 
The  glittering  waters. 

Ang.  Would  he  were  retum'd ! 

He  has  been  much  disquieted  of  late  ; 
And  Time  which  has  not  tamed  his  fiery  spirit, 
Nor  yet  enfeebled  even  his  mortal  frame 
Which  seems  to  be  nourish'd  by  a  soul 
So  quick  and  restless  that  it  would  consume 
Less  hardy  clay — Time  has  but  little  power 
On  his  resentments  or  his  griefs.     Unlike 
To  other  spirits  of  his  order,  who, 
In  the  first  burst  of  passion,  pour  away 
Their  wrath  or  sorrow,  all  things  wear  in  him 
An  aspect  of  eternity  :  his  thoughts. 
His  feelings,  passions,  good  or  evil,  all 
Have  nothing  of  old  age  ;  and  his  bold  brow 
Bears  but  the  scars  of  mind,  the  thoughts  of  years, 
Not  their  decrepitude  :  and  he  of  late 
Has  been  more  agitated  than  his  wont. 
Would  he  were  come  !  for  I  alone  have  power 
Upon  his  troubled  spirit. 

Mar.  It  is  true, 

His  highness  has  of  late  been  greatly  moved 
By  the  aflront  of  Steno,  and  with  cause  : 
But  the  offender  doubtless  even  now 
Is  doom'd  to  expiate  his  rash  insult  with 
Such  chastisement  as  will  enforce  respect 
To  female  virtue,  and  to  noble  blood. 


SCEXE   r. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


201 


A?!!/.  'Twas  a  gross  insult ;  but  I  heed  it  not 
For  tlie  rash  scorner's  falsehood  in  itself, 
But  for  the  effect,  the  deadly  deep  impression 
AVliich  it  has  made  upon  Faliero's  soul, 
The  proud,  the  fiery,  the  austere — austere 
To  all  save  me  :  I  tremble  when  I  think 
To  what  it  may  conduct. 

ilar.  Assuredly 

The  Doge  can  not  suspect  you  ? 

Anff.  Suspect  me  ! 

Why  Steno  dared  not :  when  he  scrawl'd  his  lie, 
Grovelling  by  stealth  in  the  moon's  glimmering  light, 
Uis  own  still  conscience  smote  him  for  the  act. 
And  every  shadow  on  the  walls  fro-\vn'd  shame 
Upon  his  coward  calumny. 

Mar.  'Twere  fit 

lie  should  be  punish'd  grievously. 

■Ang.  He  is  so. 

Mur.  What !  is  the  sentence  pass'd  ?  is  he  con- 
demn'd  ? 

Aug.  I  know  not  that,  but  he  has  been  detected. 

Mar.  And  deem  you  this  enough  for  such  foul 
scorn  ? 

Ang.  I  would  not  be  a  judge  in  my  own  cause, 
Nor  do  I  know  what  sense  of  punishment 
May  reach  the  soul  of  ribalds  such  as  Steno ; 
But  if  his  insults  sink  no  deeper  in 
The  minds  of  the  inquisitors  than  they 
Have  rufiled  mine,  he  will,  for  all  acquittance. 
Be  left  to  his  own  shamelessness  or  shame. 

Mar.  Some  sacrifice  is  due  to  slander'd  virtue. 

Ang.  Why,  what  is  virtue  if  it  needs  a  victim  ? 
Or  if  it  must  depend  upon  men's  words  ? 
The  dying  Roman  said,  "  'twas  but  a  name  :" 
It  were  indeed  no  more,  if  human  breath 
Could  make  or  mar  it. 

Mar.  Yet  fuU  many  a  dame. 

Stainless  and  faithful,  would  feel  all  the  wrong 
Of  such  a  slander ;  and  less  rigid  ladies. 
Such  as  abound  in  Venice,  would  be  loud 
And  all-inexorable  in  their  cry 
For  justice. 

Ang.  This  but  proves  it  is  the  name 

And  not  the  quality  they  prize  :  the  first 
Have  found  it  a  hard  task  to  hold  their  honor, 
If  they  require  it  to  be  blazon'd  forth  ; 
And  those  who  have  not  kept  it,  seek  its  seeming 
As  they  would  look  out  for  an  ornament 
Of  which  they  feel  the  want,  but  not  because 
They  think  it  so ;  they  live  in  others'  thoughts. 
And  would  seem  honest,  as  they  must  seem  fair 

Mar.  You  have  strange  thoughts  for  a  patrician 
dame. 

Ang.  And  yet  they  were  my  father's ;  with  his 
name, 
The  sole  inheritance  he  left. 

Mitr.  You  want  none  ; 

•2<S 


Wife  to  a  prince,  the  chief  of  the  Republic.  • 

Ang.  I  should  have  sought  none  though  a  peasant's 
But  feel  not  less  the  love  and  gratitude  [bride. 

Due  to  my  father,  who  bestow'd  my  hand 
Upon  his  early,  tried,  and  trusted  fidend. 
The  Count  Val  di  Marino,  now  our  Doge.      [heart  ? 

Mar.  And  with  that  hand  did  he  bestow  your 

Ang.  He  did  so,  or  it  had  not  been  bestow'd. 
Mar.  Yet  this  strange  disproportion  in  your  years. 
And,  let  me  add,  disparity  of  tempers. 
Might  make  the  world  doubt  whether  such  a  union 
Could  make  you  wisely,  permanently  happy. 

Ang.  The  world  will  think  with  worldlings  ;  but 
my  heart 
Has  still  been  in  my  duties,  which  are  many. 
But  never  difficult. 

Mar.  And  do  you  love  him  ? 

Any.  I  love  all  noble  qualities  which  merit 
Love,  and  I  loved  my  father,  who  first  taught  me 
To  single  out  what  we  should  love  in  others, 
And  to  subdue  all  tendency  to  lend 
The  best  and  purest  feelings  of  our  nature 
To  baser  passions.     He  bestow'd  my  hand 
Upon  Faliero  :  he  had  known  him  noble, 
Brave,  generous  ;  rich  in  all  the  qualities 
Of  soldier,  citizen,  and  friend ;  in  all 
Such  have  I  found  him  as  my  father  said. 
His  faults  are  those  that  dwell  in  the  high  bosoms 
Of  men  who  have  commanded  ;  too  much  pride, 
And  the  deep  passions  fiercely  foster'd  by 
The  uses  of  patricians,  and  a  life 
Spent  in  the  storms  of  state  and  war ;  and  also 
From  the  quick  sense  of  honor,  which  becomes 
A  duty  to  a  certain  sign,  a  vice 
When  overstrain'd,  and  this  I  fear  in  him. 
And  then  he  has  been  rash  from  his  youth  upwards, 
Yet  temper'd  by  redeeming  nobleness 
In  such  sort,  that  the  wariest  of  republics 
Has  lavish'd  all  its  chief  employs  upon  him, 
From  his  first  fight  to  his  last  embassy. 
From  which  on  his  return  the  Dukedom  met  him. 

Mar.  But  previous  to  this  marriage,  had  your  heart 
Ne'er  beat  for  any  of  the  noble  youth. 
Such  as  in  years  had  been  more  meet  to  match 
Beauty  like  yours  ?  or  since  have  you  ne'er  seen 
One,  who,  if  your  fair  hand  were  still  to  give. 
Might  now  pretend  to  Loredano's  daughter  ? 

Ang.  I  answer'd  your  first  question  when  I  said 
I  married. 

Mar.        And  the  second  ? 

Ang.  Needs  no  answer. 

Mar.  I  pray  you  pardon,  if  I  have  oficnded. 

Ang.  I  feel  no  wrath,  but  some  surprise  :  I  knew 
That  wedded  bosoms  could  permit  themselves   [not 
To  ponder  upon  what  they  nojn  might  choose. 
Or  aught  save  their  past  choice. 

Mar.  'Tis  their  past  choieo 


202 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   II. 


That  far  too  often  makes  them  deem  they  would 
Nov/  choose  more  wisely,  could  they  cancel  it. 
Anff.  It  may  be  so.   I  knew  not  of  such  thoughts. 
Mar.  Here  comes  the  Doge — shall  I  retire  3 
Aug.  It  may 

Be  better  you  should  quit  me  ;  he  seems  wrapp'd 
In  thought.    How  pensively  he  takes  his  way  ! 

[Exit  Mabianna. 

Enter  the  Doge  and  Pietro. 

Boge,  (musing.)  There  is  a  certain  Philip  Calen- 
Now  in  the  Arsenal,  who  holds  command         [daro 
Of  eighty  men,  and  has  great  influence 
Besides  on  all  the  spirits  of  his  comrades  : 
This  man,  I  hear,  is  bold  and  popular, 
Sudden  and  daring,  and  yet  secret ;  'twould 
Be  well  that  he  were  won  :  I  needs  must  hope 
That  Israel  Bertuccio  has  secured  him, 
But  fain  would  be 

Pie.  My  lord,  pray  pardon  me 

For  breaking  in  upon  your  meditation  ; 
The  Senator  Bertuccio,  your  kinsman. 
Charged  me  to  follow  and  inquire  your  pleasure 
To  fix  an  hour  when  he  may  speak  with  you. 

Boge.  At  sunset.     Stay  a  moment — let  me  see — 
Say  in  the  second  hour  of  night.  Exit  Pietro. 

Ang.  My  lord  ! 

Boge.  My  dearest  child,  forgive  me — why  delay 
So  long  approaching  me  ? — I  saw  you  not.         [now 

Ang.  You  were  absorb'd  in  thought,  and  he  who 
Has  parted  from  you  might  have  words  of  weight 
To  bear  you  from  the  senate. 

Boge.  From  the  senate  ? 

Ang.  I  would  not  interrupt  him  in  his  duty 
And  theirs. 

Boge.  The  senate's  duty  !  you  mistake  ; 

'Tis  we  who  owe  all  service  to  the  senate. 

Ang.  I  thought  the  Duke  had  held  command  in 
Venice.  [jocund. 

Boge.  He  shall.    But  let  that  pass.    "We  wiU  be 
How  fares  it  with  you  ?  have  you  been  abroad  ? 
The  day  is  overcast,  but  the  cahn  wave 
Favors  the  gondolier's  light  skimming  oar  ; 
Or  have  you  held  a  levee  of  your  friends  ? 
Or  has  your  music  made  you  solitary  ? 
Say — is  there  aught  that  you  would  wiU  within 
The  little  sway  now  left  the  Duke  ?  or  aught 
Of  fitting  splendor,  or  of  honest  pleasure, 
Social  or  lonely,  that  would  glad  your  heart, 
To  compensate  for  many  a  dull  hour,  wasted 
On  an  old  man  oft  moved  with  many  cares  ? 
Speak  and  'tis  done. 

Ang.  You're  ever  kind  to  me — 

I  have  nothing  to  desire,  or  to  request, 
Except  to  see  you  oftener  and  calmer. 

Boge.  Calmer  ? 

Ang.  Ay,  calmer,  my  good  lord.     Ah,  why 


Do  you  still  keep  apart,  and  walk  alone. 
And  let  such  strong  emotions  stamp  your  brow, 
As  not  betraying  their  fuU  import,  yet 
Disclose  too  much  ? 

Boge.  Disclose  too  much  ! — of  what  ? 

What  is  there  to  disclose  ? 

Ang.  A  heart  so  ill 

At  ease. 

Boge.  'Tis  nothing,  child.    But  in  the  state 
You  know  what  daily  cares  oppress  all  those 
"Who  govern  this  precarious  commonwealth  ; 
Now  suifering  from  the  Genoese  without, 
And  malcontents  witliin — 'tis  this  which  makes  me 
More  pensive  and  less  tranquil  than  my  wont. 

Ang.  Yet  this  existed  long  before,  and  never 
TiU  in  these  late  days  did  I  see  you  thus. 
Forgive  me  ;  there  is  something  at  your  heart 
More  than  the  mere  discharge  of  public  duties, 
"Which  long  use  and  a  talent  like  to  yours 
Have  render'd  light,  nay,  a  nccessitj'. 
To  keep  your  mind  from  stagnating.     'Tis  not 
In  hostile  states,  nor  perils,  thus  to  shake  you  ; 
You,  who  have  stood  all  storms  and  never  sunk, 
And  climb'd  up  to  the  pinnacle  of  power 
And  never  fainted  by  the  way,  and  stand 
Upon  it,  and  can  look  down  steadily 
Along  the  depth  beneath,  and  ne'er  feel  dizzy. 
"Were  Genoa's  galleys  riding  in  the  port, 
"Were  civil  fury  raging  in  Saint  Mark's, 
You  are  not  to  be  wrought  on,  but  would  faU, 
As  you  have  risen,  with  an  unalter'd  brow — 
Your  feelings  now  are  of  a  different  kind  ; 
Something  has  stung  your  pride,  not  patriotism. 

Boge.  Pride  !  Angiolina  ?    Alas  !  none  is  left  me. 

Ang.  Yes — the  same  sin  that  overthrew  the  angels,  ' 
And  of  all  sins  most  easily  besets 
Mortals  the  nearest  to  the  angelic  nature  : 
The  vile  are  only  vain  ;  the  great  are  proud. 

Boge.  I  had  the  pride  of  honor,  of  your  honor. 
Deep  at  my  heart But  let  us  change  the  theme. 

Ang.  Ah,  no  ! — As  I  have  ever  shared  your  kind- 
In  all  things  else,  let  me  not  be  shut  out  [ness 

From  your  distress  :  were  it  of  public  import. 
You  know  I  never  sought,  would  never  seek 
To  win  a  word  from  you ;  but  feeling  now 
Your  grief  is  private,  it  belongs  to  me 
To  lighten  or  divide  it.     Since  the  day 
"When  foolish  Steno's  ribaldry  detected 
Unflx'd  your  quiet,  you  are  greatly  changed, 
And  I  would  soothe  you  back  to  what  you  were. 

Boge.  To  what  I  was  ! — Have  you  heard  Steno's 

Ang.  No.  [sentence? 

Boge.  A  month's  arrest. 

Ang.  Is  it  not  enough  ? 

Boge.  Enough  ! — yes,  for  a  drunken  galley-slave, 
"Who,  stimg  by  stripes,  may  murmur  at  his  master ; 
But  not  for  a  deliberate,  false,  cool  villain, 


SCENE   I. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


203 


Who  stains  a  lady's  and  a  prince's  honor, 
Even  on  the  throne  of  his  autliority. 

Ar,;;.  There  seems  to  me  enough  in  the  conviction 
Of  a  patrician  guilty  of  a  falsehood  : 
All  other  punishment  were  light  unto 
His  loss  of  honor. 

Doge,  Such  men  have  no  honor, 

They  have  but  their  vile  lives — and  these  are  spared. 

A/Iff,  You  would  not  have  him  die  for  this  offence  ? 

Doge.  Not  noio  : — being  still  alive,  I'd  have  him 
Long  as  he  can  ;  he  has  ceased  to  merit  death ;  [live 
The  guilty  saved  hath  damn'd  his  hundred  judges. 
And  he  is  pure,  for  now  his  crime  is  theirs. 

Ang.  Oh,  had  this  false  and  flippant  libeller 
Shed  his  young  blood  for  his  absurd  lampoon, 
Ne'er  from  that  moment  could  this  breast  have 
A  joyous  hour,  or  dreamless  slumber  more,    [knowna 

Doge.  Does  not  the  law  of  Heaven  say  blood  for 
blood  ? 
And  he  who  taiiiU  kills  more  than  he  who  sheds  it. 
Is  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  shame  of  blows, 
That  make  such  deadly  to  the  sense  of  man  ? 
Do  not  the  laws  of  man  say  blood  for  honor  ? 
And,  less  than  honor,  for  a  little  gold  ? 
Say  not  the  laws  of  nations  blood  for  treason  ? 
Is 't  nothing  to  have  fill'd  these  veins  with  poison 
For  their  once  healthful  current  ?  is  it  nothing — 
To  have  stain'd  your  name  and  mine— the  noblest 
Is 't  nothing  to  have  brought  into  contempt  [names  ? 
A  prince  before  his  people  ?  to  have  fail'd 
In  the  respect  accorded  by  mankind 
To  youth  in  woman,  and  old  age  in  man  ? 
To  virtue  in  your  sex,  and  dignity 
In  ours  ?    But  let  them  look  to  it  who  have  saved 

Ang.  Heaven  bids  us  to  forgive  our  enemies,  [him. 

Doge.  Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own  ?     Is  Satan 
From  wrath  eternal  ?  [saved 

A.ng.  Do  not  speak  thus  wildly — 

Heaven  will  alike  forgive  you  and  your  foes. 

Doge.  Amen  I    May  Heaven  forgive  them  1 

Ang.  And  will  you  ? 

Doge.  Yes,  when  they  are  in  heaven  ! 

Ang.  And  not  till  then  ? 

Doge.  What  matters  my  forgiveness  ?  an  old  man's. 
Worn  out,  scom'd,  spurn'd,  abused  ;  what  matters 
My  pardon  more  than  my  resentment,  both      [then 
Being  weak  and  worthless  ?  I  have  lived  too  long. — 
But  let  us  change  the  argument. — My  child  ! 
My  injured  wife,  the  child  of  Loredano, 
The  brave,  the  chivalrous,  how  little  deem'd 
Thy  father,  wedding  thee  unto  his  friend, 
That  he  was  Unking  thee  to  shame  ! — Alas  ! 
Shame  without  sin,  for  thou  art  faultless.     Hadst 

thou 
But  had  a  different  husband,  any  husband 
In  Venice  save  the  Doge,  this  blight,  this  brand. 
This  blasphemy,  had  never  fallen  upon  thee, 


So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  pure. 
To  suffer  this,  and  yet  be  unavenged  ! 

Ang.  I  am  too  well  avenged,  for  you  still  love  me. 
And  trust,  and  honor  me  ;  and  all  men  know 
That  you  are  just,  and  I  am  true  :  what  more 
Could  I  recjiiire,  or  you  command  ? 

Doge.  'Tis  well 

And  may  be  better  ;  but  whate'er  betide. 
Be  thou  at  least  kind  to  my  memorv. 

Ang.  Why  speak  you  thus  ? 

Doge.  It  is  no  matter  why ; 

But  I  would  still,  whatever  others  think. 
Have  your  respect  both  now  and  in  my  grave. 

Ang.  Why  should  you  doubt  it  2  has  it  ever  fail'd  ? 

Doge.  Come  hither,  child  ;   I  would  a  word  with 
Your  father  was  my  friend ;  unequal  fortune,     [you. 
Made  him  my  debtor  for  some  courtesies 
Which  bind  the  good  more  firmly  :  when,  oppress'd 
With  his  last  malady,  he  will'd  our  union, 
It  was  not  to  repay  me,  long  repaid 
Before  by  his  great  loyalty  to  friendship  ; 
His  object  was  to  place  your  orphan  beauty 
In  honorable  safety  from  the  perils. 
Which,  in  this  scorpion  nest  of  vice,  assail 
A  lonely  and  undower'd  maid.     I  did  not 
Think  with  him,  but  would  not  oppose  the  thought 
Which  soothed  his  death-bed. 

A})g.  I  have  not  forgotten 

The  nobleness  with  which  you  bade  me  speak, 
If  my  young  heart  held  any  preference 
Which  would  have  made  me  happier ;  nor  your  ofler 
To  make  my  dowry  equal  to  the  rank 
Of  aught  in  Venice,  and  forego  all  claim 
My  father's  last  injunction  gave  you. 

Doge.  Thus, 

'Twas  not  a  foolish  dotard's  vile  caprice, 
Nor  the  false  edge  of  aged  appetite, 
Wliich  made  me  covetous  of  girlish  beauty. 
And  a  young  bride  :  for  in  my  fieriest  youth 
I  sway'd  such  passions  ;  nor  was  this  my  age 
Infected  with  that  leprosy  of  lust 
Which  taints  the  hoariest  years  of  vicious  men. 
Making  them  ransack  to  the  very  last 
The  dregs^f  pleasure  for  their  vanish'd  joys  ; 
Or  buy  in  selfish  marriage  some  young  victim, 
Too  helpless  to  refuse  a  state  that's  honest. 
Too  feeUng  not  to  know  herself  a  wretch. 
Our  v,'edlock  was  not  of  this  sort ;  you  had 
Freedom  from  me  to  choose,  and  urged  in  answer 
Your  father's  choice. 

Ang.  I  did  so  ;  I  would  do  so . 

In  face  of  earth  and  heaven  ;  for  I  have  never 
Repented  for  my  sake  ;  sometimes  for  yours, 
In  pondering  o'er  your  late  disquietudes. 

Doge.    I  knew  my  heart  would  never  treat  you 
harshly ; 
I  knew  my  days  could  not  disturb  yon  long  • 


204 


BYROI^'S    WOEKS. 


ACT   II. 


And  then  the  daughter  of  my  earliest  friend, 
His  worthy  daughter,  free  to  choose  again. 
Wealthier  and  wiser,  in  the  ripest  bloom 
Of  womanhood,  more  skillful  to  select 
By  passing  these  probationary  years  ; 
Inheriting  a  prince's  name  and  riches. 
Secured,  by  the  short  penance  of  enduring 
An  old  man  for  some  summers,  against  all 
That  law's  chicane  or  envious  kinsmen  might 
Have  urged  against  her  right ;  my  best  friend's  child 
Would  choose  more  fitly  in  respect  of  years, 
And  not  less  truly  in  a  faithful  heart. 

Ang.  My  lord,  I  look'd  but  to  my  father's  wishes, 
Hallow'd  by  his  last  words,  and  to  my  heart 
For  doing  all  its  duties,  and  replying 
With  faith  to  him  with  whom  I  was  affianced. 
Ambitious  hopes  ne'er  cross'd  my  dreams;  and  should 
The  hour  you  speak  of  come,  it  -ndll  be  seen  so. 

Doge.  I  do  believe  you ;  and  I  know  you  true  : 
For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my  youth 
I  knew  to  be  illusion,  and  ne'er  saw 
Lasting,  but  often  fatal,  it  had  been 
No  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate  days. 
And  could  not  bo  so  now,  did  such  exist. 
But  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a  true  feeling  for  your  welfare,  and 
A  free  compUance  with  all  honest  wishes ; 
A  kindness  to  your  virtues,  watchfulness 
Not  shown,  but  shadowing  o'er  such  little  failings 
As  youth  is  apt  in,  so  as  not  to  check 
Rashly,  but  win  you  from  them  ere  you  knew 
You  had  been  won,  but  thought  the  change  your 

choice ; 
A  pride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  conduct, — 
A  trust  in  you — a  patriarchal  love. 
And  not  a  doting  homage — friendship, — faith — 
Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
Might  claim,  I  hoped  for. 

Ang.  And  have  ever  had. 

Doge.  I  think  so.    For  the  difference  in  our  years 
You  knew  it,  choosing  me,  and  chose  ;  I  trusted 
Not  to  my  qualities,  nor  would  have  faith 
In  such,  nor  outward  ornaments  of  nature. 
Were  I  stiU  in  my  five  and  twentieth  spripg ; 
I  trusted  to  the  blood  of  Loredano 
Pure  in  your  veins  :  I  trusted  to  the  soul 
God  gave  you — to  the  truths  your  father  taught 

you— 
To  your  belief  in  heaven — to  your  mild  virtues — 
To  your  own  faith  and  honor,  for  my  own. 

A  ng.  You  have  done  well. — I  thank  you  for  that 
trust, 
Which  I  have  never  for  one  moment  ceased 
To  honor  you  the  more  for. 

Doge.  Where  is  honor, 

Innate  and  prccept-strengthen'd,  'tis  the  rock 
Of  faith  connubial :  where  it  is  not — where 


Light  thoughts  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Of  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart. 
Or  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
'Twere  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
Of  honesty  in  such  infected  blood, 
Although  'twere  wed  to  him  it  covets  most : 
An  incarnation  of  the  poet's  god 
In  all  his  marble-chisell'd  beauty,  or 
The  demi-deity,  Alcides,  in 
His  majesty  of  superhuman  manhood. 
Would  not  suffice  to  bind  where  virtue  is  not ; 
It  is  consistency  which  forms  and  proves  it : 
Vice  cannot  fix,  and  virtue  cannot  change. 
The  once  faU'n  woman  must  forever  fall ; 
For  vice  must  have  variety,  while  virtue 
Stands  like  the  sun,  and  all  which  rolls  around 
Drinks  life,  and  light,  and  glory  from  her  aspect. 

Ang.  And  seeing,  feeling  thus  this  truth  in  others, 
(I  pray  you  pardon  me  ;)  but  wherefore  yield  you 
To  the  most  fierce  of  fatal  passions,  and 
Disquiet  your  great  thoughts  with  restless  hate 
Of  such  a  thing  as  Steno  ? 

Doge.  You  mistake  me. 

It  is  not  Steno  who  could  move  me  thus  ; 
Had  it  been  so,  he  should — but  let  that  pass. 

Ang.    What  is't  you  feel  so  deeply,  then,  even 
now  ? 

Doge.  The  violated  majesty  of  Venice, 
A  t  once  insulted  in  her  lord  and  laws. 

Ang.  Alas  !  why  v/ill  you  thus  consider  it  ? 

Doge.  I  have  thought  on't  till but  let  me  lead 

you  back 
To  what  I  urged  ;  all  these  things  being  noted, 
I  wedded  you  ;  the  world  then  did  me  justice 
Upon  the  motive,  and  my  conduct  proved 
They  did  me  right,  while  yours  was  all  to  praise  : 
You  had  all   freedom — all  respect — all  trust 
From  me  and  mine  ;  and,  born  of  those  who  made 
Princes  at  home,  and  swept  kings  from  their  thrones 
On  foreign  shores,  in  all  things  you  appear'd 
Worthy  to  be  our  first  of  native  dames. 

Ang.  To  what  does  this  conduct  ? 

Doge.  To  this  much — that 

A  miscreant's  angry  breath  may  blast  it  all — 
A  villain,  whom  for  his  unbridled  bearing. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  festival, 
I  caused  to  be  conducted  forth,  and  taught 
How  to  demean  himself  in  ducal  chambers  ; 
A  wretch  like  this  may  leave  upon  the  wall 
The  blighting  venom  of  his  sweltering  heart, 
And  this  shall  spread  itself  in  general  poison  ; 
And  woman's  innocence,  man's  honor,  pass 
Into  a  by-word ;  and  the  doubly  felon 
(Wlio  first  insulted  virgin  modesty 
By  a  gross  aflront  to  your  attendant  damsels 
Amidst  the  noblest  of  our  dames  in  pubUc) 
Requite  himself  for  his  most  just  expulsion 


SCENTB   II. 


MARINO    FALIEllO. 


205 


By  blackening  publicly  his  sovereign's  consort, 
And  be  absolved  by  his  upright  compeers. 

Aiiff.  But  he  has  been  condcmn'd  into  captivity. 

Doyc.  For  such  as  him  a  dungeon  were  acquittal ; 
And  his  brief  term  of  mock-arrest  will  pass 
Within  a  palace.     But  I've  done  with  him  ; 
The  rest  must  be  with  you. 

Anff.  With  me  my  lord  ? 

Bof/e.  Yes,  Angiolina.    Do  you  not  marvel :  I 
Have  let  this  prey  upon  me  till  I  feel 
My  life  cannot  be  long ;  and  fain  would  have  you 
Regard  the  injunctions  you  will  find  within 

This  scroll  {Givint/ her  a  piper) Fear  not;  they 

are  for  your  advantage  : 
Read  them  hereafter  at  the  fitting  hour. 

Ang.  My  lord,  in  Hfo,  and  after  life,  you  shall 
Be  honor'd  still  by  me  :  but  may  your  days 

Be  many  yet and  happier  than  the  present ! 

This  passion  will  give  way,  and  you  will  be 
Serene,  and  what  you  should  be — what  you  were. 

Doge.  I  will  be  what  I  should  be,  or  be  nothing  ! 
But  never  more — oh  1  never,  never  more. 
O'er  the  few  days  or  hours  which  yet  await 
The  bhghted  old  age  of  Faliero,  shall 
Sweet  Quiet  shed  her  sunset !    Never  more 
Those  summer  shadows  rising  irom  the  past 
Of  a  not  ill-spent  nor  inglorious  life. 
Mellowing  the  last  hours  as  the  night  approaches, 
Shall  sooth.e  me  to  my  moment  of  long  rest. 
I  had  but  little  more  to  ask,  or  hope, 
Save  the  regards  due  to  the  blood  and  sweat, 
And  the  soul's  labor  through  which  I  had  toil'd 
To  make  my  country  honor'd.    As  her  servant — 
Her  servant,  though  her  chief — I  would  have  gone 
Down  to  my  fathers  with  a  name  serene 
And  pure  as  theirs  ;  but  this  has  been  denied  me. — 
Would  I  had  died  at  Zara  ! 

Ang.  There  you  saved 

The  state ;  then  live  to  save  her  still.    A  day. 
Another  day  like  that  would  be  the  best 
Reproof  to  them,  and  sole  revenge  for  you. 

Doge.  But  one  such  day  occurs  within  an  age. 
My  life  is  little  less  than  one,  and  'tis 
Enough  for  Fortime  to  have  granted  once, 
That  which  scarce  one  more  favor'd  citizen 
May  win- in  many  states  and  years.    But  why 
Thus  speak  I  ?     Venice  has  forgot  that  day — 
Then  why  should  I  remember  it  ? — Farewell, 
Sweet  Angiolina  !  I  must  to  my  cabinet ; 
There's  much  for  me  to  do — and  the  hour  hastens. 

Ang.  Remember  what  you  were. 

Doge.  It  were  in  vain. 

Joy's  recollection  is  no  longer  joy, 
Wliile  Sorrow's  memory  is  a  sorrow  still. 

Ang.  At  least,  whate'er  may  urge,  let  me  implore 
That  you  will  take  some  little  pause  of  rest : 
Your  sleep  for  many  nights  has  been  so  turbid, 


That  it  had  been  reUef  to  have  awaked  you, 
Had  I  not  hoped  that  Nature  would  o'erpower 
At  length  the  thoughts  which  shook  your  slumbers 
An  hour  of  rest  will  give  you  to  your  toils        [thus. 
With  fitter  thoughts  and  freshen'd  strength. 

Doge.  I  cannot — 

I  must  not,  if  I  could  ;  for  never  was 
Such  reason  to  be  watchful :  yet  a  few — 
Yet  a  few  days  and  dream-perturbed  nights. 
And  I  shall  slumber  well — but  where  ? — no  matter. 
Adieu,  my  Angiolina. 

Ang.  Let  me  be 

An  instant — yet  an  instant  your  companion  1 
I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  thus. 

Doge.  Come  then. 

My  gentle  child— forgive  me  ;  thou  wert  made 
For  better  fortunes  than  to  share  in  mine, 
Now  darkling  in  their  close  toward  the  deep  vale 
Were  Death  sits  robed  in  his  all-sweeping  shadow. 
When  I  am  gone — it  may  be  sooner  than 
Even  these  years  warrant,  for  there  is  that  stirring 
Within — above — aroimd,  that  in  this  city 
Will  make  the  cemeteries  populous 
As  e'er  they  were  by  pestilence  or  war, — 
When  I  am  nothing,  let  that  which  I  was 
Be  still  sometimes  a  name  on  thy  sweet  lips, 
A  shadow  in  thy  fancy,  of  a  thing 
Which  wouldnothave  thee  mourn  it  but  remember ; — 
Let  us  begone,  my  child — the  time  is  pressing. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   II. 

A  retired  Spot  near  the  Arsenal. 
IsHAEL  Bbrtuccio  and  Philip  Calendaho. 

Cal.  How  sped  you,  Israel,  in  your  late  complaint  ? 

/.  Ber.  Why,  well. 

Cal.  Is't  possible  !  will  he  be  punish 'fl  ? 

Gal.  Yes. 

Cat.  With  what  ?  a  mulct  or  an  arrest  ? 

/.  Ber.  With  death  I— 

Cal.  Now  you  rave,  or  must  intend  revenge, 
Such  as  I  counsell'd  you,  with  your  own  hand. 

/.  Ber.  Yes ;  and  for  one  sole  draught  of  hate 
forego 
The  great  redress  we  meditate  for  Venice, 
And  change  a  life  of  hope  for  one  of  exile  ; 
Leaving  one  scorpion  crush'd,  and  thousands  sting- 
My  friends,  my  family,  my  countrymen  !  [ing 

No,  Calendaro  ;  these  same  drops  of  blood. 
Shed  shamefully,  shall  have  the  whole  of  his 

For  their  requital But  not  only  his  ; 

We  will  not  strike  for  private  wrongs  alone ; 
Such  are  for  selfish  passions  and  rash  men, 
But  are  unworthy  a  tyrannicide. 

Cal.  You  have  more  patience  than  I  care  to  boa  it. 
Had  I  been  present  when  you  bore  this  insult, 


206 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   II. 


I  must  have  slain  liim,  or  expired  mjself 
In  the  vain  effort  to  repress  my  wratii. 

.  I.  Ber.  Thank  Heaven,  you  were  not — all  had  else 
As  'tis,  our  cause  looks  prosperous  still,  [been  marr'd : 

Gd.  You  saw 

The  Doge — what  answer  gave  he  ? 

/.  Ber.  That  there  was 

No  punishment  for  such  as  Barbaro. 

Cal.  I  told  you  so  before,  and  that  'twas  idle 
To  think  of  justice  from  such  hands. 

I.  Ber.  At  least 

It  lull'd  suspicion,  showing  confidence. 
Had  I  been  silent,  not  a  sbirro  but 
Had  kept  me  in  his  eye,  as  meditating 
A  silent,  solitary,  deep  revenge. 

Cal.  But  wherefore  not  address  you  to  the  Coun- 
The  Doge  is  a  mere  puppet,  who  can  scarce  [cil  ? 
Obtain  right  for  himself.    Why  speak  to  him  ? 

I.  Ber.  You  shall  know  that  hereafter. 

Gal.  Why  not  now  ? 

/.  Ber.  Be  patient  but  tiU  midnight.  Get  your  mus- 
And  bid  our  Mends  prepare  their  comjyanies  :  [ters, 
Set  all  in  readiness  to  strike  the  blow. 
Perhaps  in  a  few  hours  ;  we  have  long  waited 
For  a  fit  time — that  hour  is  on  the  dial. 
It  may  be,  of  to-morrow's  sun  :  delay 
Beyond  may  breed  us  double  danger.     See 
That  all  be  punctual  at  our  place  of  meeting. 
And  arm'd,  excepting  those  of  the  Sixteen, 
Who  will  remain  among  the  troops  to  wait 
The  signal. 

Cal.  These  brave  words  have  breathed  new  life 
Into  my  veins  ;  I  am  sick  of  these  protracted 
And  hesitating  councils  :  day  on  day 
Crawl'd  on,  and  added  but  another  link 
To  our  long  fetters,  and  some  fresher  wrong 
Inflicted  on  our  brethren  or  ourselves. 
Helping  to  swell  our  tyrant's  bloated  strength. 
Let  us  but  deal  upon  them,  and  I  care  not 
For  the  result,  which  most  be  death  or  freedom  ! 
I'm  weary  to  the  heart  of  finding  neither. 

/.  Ber.  We  will  be  free  in  life  or  death  !  the  grave 
Is  chainless.    Have  you  all  the  musters  ready  ? 
And  are  the  sixteen  companies  completed 
To  sixty  ? 

Cal.  AU  save  two,  in  which  there  are 

Twenty-five  wanting  to  make  up  the  number,  [they  ? 

/.  Ber.  No  matter ;  we  can  do  without.  Wliose  are 

Cal.  Bertram's  and  old  Soranzo's,  both  of  whom 
Appear  less  forward  in  the  cause  than  we  are. 

/.  Ber.  Your  fiery  nature  makes  you  deem  all  those 
Who  are  not  restless,  cold  ;  but  there  exists 
Oft  in  concentred  spirits  not  less  daring 
Than  in  more  loud  avengers.  Do  not  doubt  them. 

Cal.  I  do  not  doubt  the  elder  ;  but  in  Bertram 
There  is  a  hesitating  softness,  fatal 
To  enterprise  like  ours  :  I've  seen  that  man 


Weep  like  an  infant  o'er  the  misery 

Of  others,  heedless  of  his  own,  though  greater  ; 

And  in  a  recent  quaiTel  I  beheld  him 

Turn  sick  at  sight  of  blood,  although  a  villain's. 

/.  Ber.  The  truly  brave  are  soft  of  heart  and  eyes, 
And  feel  for  what  their  duty  bids  them  do. 
I  have  known  Bertram  long ;  there  doth  not  breathe 
A  soul  more  full  of  honor. 

Cal.  It  may  be  so  : 

I  apprehend  less  treachery  than  weakness ; 
Yet  as  he  has  no  mistress,  and  no  wife, 
To  work  upon  his  milkiness  of  spirit, 
He  may  go  through  the  ordeal ;  it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us  : 
A  woman  or  a  child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve. 

/.  Ber.  Such  ties  are  not 

For  those  who  are  call'd  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purify  corrupted  commonwealths  ; 
We  must  forget  all  feelings  save  the  one — 
We  must  resign  all  passions  save  our  purpose — 
We  must  behold  no  object  save  our  country — 
And  only  look  on  death  as  beautiful. 
So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  heaven 
And  draw  down  freedom  on  her  evermore. 

Cal.  But  if  we  fail 

/.  Her.  They  never  fail  who  die 

In  a  great  cause  :  the  block  may  soak  their  gore ; 
Their  heads  may  sodden  in  the  sun  ;  their  limbs 
Be  strung  to  city  gates  and  castle  walls — 
But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.     Though  years 
Elapse,  and  others  share  as  dark  a  doom, 
They  but  augment  the  deep  and  sweeping  thoughts 
Which  overpower  all  others,  and  conduct 
The  world  at  last  to  freedom  :     What  were  we 
If  Brutus  had  not  lived  ?    He  died  in  giving 
Rome  liberty,  but  left  a  deathless  lesson — 
A  name  which  is  a  virtue,  and  a  soul 
Which  multiplies  itself  throughout  all  time. 
When  wicked  men  wax  mighty,  and  a  state 
Turns  servile  :  he  and  his  high  friend  were  styled 
"  The  last  of  Romans  !"    Let  us  be  the  first 
Of  true  Venetians,  sprung  from  Roman  sires. 

Gal.  Our  fathers  did  not  fly  from  Attila 
Into  these  isles,  where  palaces  have  sprung 
On  banks  redeem'd  from  the  rude  ocean's  ooze, 
To  own  a  thousand  despots  in  his  place. 
Better  bow  down  before  the  Hun,  and  call 
A  Tartar  lord,  than  these  swoln  silkworms  masters  1 
The  first  at  least  was  man,  and  used  his  sword 
As  sceptre  :  these  unmanly  creeping  things 
Command  our  swords,  and  rule  us  with  a  word 
As  with  a  spell. 

I.  Ber.  It  shall  be  broken  soon 

You  say  that  all  things  are  in  readiness  ; 
To-day  I  have  not  been  the  usual  round. 
And  why  thou  knowest ;  but  thy  vigilance 


i 


i 


SCENE   11. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


207 


Will  better  have  supplied  my  care  :  these  orders 

In  recent  coimcil  to  redouble  now 

Our  efforts  to  repair  the  galleys,  have 

Lent  a  fair  color  to  the  introduction 

Of  many  of  our  cause  into  the  arsenal, 

As  new  artificers  for  their  equipment, 

Or  fresh  recruits  obtain'd  in  haste  to  man 

The  hoped-for  fleet.    Are  all  suppUed  with  arms  ? 

Cal.  All  who  were  deem'd  trustworthy :  there  are 
Whom  it  were  well  to  keep  in  ignorance  [some 

Till  it  be  time  to  strike,  and  then  supply  them  ; 
When  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  hour 
They  have  no  opportunity  to  pause,  [them. 

But  needs  must  on  with  those  who  will  surround 

/.  Ber,  You  have  said  well.    Have  you  remark'd 
all  such  ? 

Cal.  I've  noted  most ;  and  caused  the  other  chiefs 
To  use  like  caution  in  their  companies. 
As  far  as  I  have  seen,  we  are  enough 
To  make  the  enterprise  secure,  if  'tis 
Commenced  to-morrow ;  but,  till  'tis  begun. 
Each  hour  is  pregnant  with  a  thousand  perils. 

/.  Ber.  Let  the  Sixteen  meet  at  the  wonted  hour, 
Except  Soranzo,  Nicoletto  Blondo, 
And  Marco  Giuda,  who  will  keep  their  watch 
Within  the  arsenal,  and  hold  all  ready 
Expectant  of  the  signal  we  will  fix  on. 

Cal.  We  will  not  fail. 

1.  Ber.  Let  all  the /est  be  there  ; 

I  have  a  stranger  to  present  to  them. 

Cal.  A  stranger  !  doth  he  know  the  secret  ? 

1.  Ber.  Yes. 

Cal.  And  have  you  dared  to  peril  your  friends' 
On  a  rash  confidence  in  one  we  know  not  ?       [lives 

/.  Ber.  I  have  risk'd  no  man's  life  except  my  own — 
Of  that  be  certain  :  he  is  one  who  may 
Make  our  assurance  doubly  sure,  according 
His  aid  ;  and  if  reluctant,  he  no  less 
Is  in  our  power  ;  he  comes  alone  with  me, 
And  cannot  'scape  us  ;  but  he  will  not  swerve. 

Cal.  I  cannot  judge  of  this  until  I  know  him : 
Is  he  one  of  our  order  ? 

/.  Ber.  Ay,  in  spirit, 

AlthougTi  a  child  of  greatness  ;  he  is  one 
Who  would  become  a  throne,  or  overthrow  one — 
One  who  has  done  great  deeds,  and  seen  great 
No  tyrant,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny ;      [changes  ; 
Valiant  in  war,  and  sage  in  council ;  noble 
In  nature,  although  haughty  ;  quick,  yet  wary : 
Yet  for  all  this,  so  full  of  certain  passions, 
That  if  once  stirr'd  and  baffled,  as  he  has  been 
Upon  the  tenderest  points,  there  is  no  Fury 
In  Grecian  story  like  to  that  which  wrings 
His  vitals  with  her  burning  hands,  till  he 
Grows  capable  of  all  things  for  revenge  ; 
And  add  too,  that  his  mind  is  liberal ; 
He  aces  and  feels  the  people  are  oppresss'd, 


And  shares  their  sufferings.     Take  him  all  in  aU, 
We  have  need  of  such,  and  such  have  need  of  us. 

Cal.  And  what  part  would  you  have  him  take 

/.  Ber.  It  may  be,  that  of  chief.  [with  us  ? 

Cal.  What !  and  resign 

Your  own  command  as  leader  ? 

/.  Ber.  Even  so. 

My  object  is  to  make  your  cause  end  well. 
And  not  to  push  myself  to  power.    Experience, ' 
Some  skill,  and  your  own  choice,  had  mark'd  me  out 
To  act  in  trust  as  your  commander,  till 
Some  worthier  should  appear  :  if  I  have  found  such 
As  you  yourselves  shall  o^vn  more  worthy,  think  you 
That  I  would  hesitate  from  selfishness. 
And,  covetous  of  brief  authority, 
Stake  our  deep  interest  on  my  single  thoughts, 
Rather  than  yield  to  one  above  me  in 
All  leading  quaUties  ?    No,  Calendaro, 
Know  your  friend  better  ;  but  you  all  shall  judge. 
Away  !  and  let  us  meet  at  the  fix'd  hour. 
Be  vigilant,  and  all  will  yet  go  well. 

CjZ.  Worthy  Bertuccio,  I  have  known  you  ever 
Trusty  and  brave,  with  head  and  heart  to  plan 
What  I  have  still  been  prompt  to  execute. 
For  my  own  part,  I  seek  no  other  chief; 
What  the  rest  will  decide  I  know  not,  but 
I  am  with  you,  as  I  have  over  been. 
In  all  our  undertakings.    Now  farewell. 
Until  the  hour  of  midnight  sees  us  meet.     \Exeunt. 

ACT  m. 

SCENE        I. 

&«ne,  the  Space  letween  the  Canal  and  the  Church 
of  San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo.  An  eqvestrian  Sta- 
tue be/ore  it.  A  Gondola  lies  in  the  Canal  at  some 
distance. 

Enter  the  Doge  alone,  disguised. 
Boge,  (solus.)  I  am  before  the  hour,  the  hour  whose 
Pealing  into  the  arch  of  night,  might  strike  [voice, 
These  palaces  wth  ominous  tottering. 
And  rock  their  marbles  to  the  comer-stone, 
Waking  the  sleepers  from  some  hideous  dream 
Of  indistinct  but  awful  augury 
Of  that  which  will  befall  them.    Yes,  proud  city  ! 
Thou  must  be  cleansed  of  the  black  blood  which 
A  lazar-house  of  tyranny  :  the  task         [makes  thee 
Is  forced  upon  me,  I  have  sought  it  not ; 
And  therefore  was  I  punish'd,  seeing  this 
Patrician  pestilence  spread  on  and  on. 
Until  at  length  it  smote  me  in  my  slumbers. 
And  I  am  tainted,  and  must  wash  away 
The  plague  spots  in  the  healing  wave.     Tall  fane  ! 
Wliere  sleep  my  fathers,  whose  dim  statues  shadow 
The  floor  which  doth  divide  us  from  the  dead, 
Wliere  all  the  pregnant  hearts  of  our  bold  blood, 
Moulder'd  into  a  mite  of  asiies,  liold 


208 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   III. 


In  ono  slirunk  heap  what  once  made  many  heroes, 

When  what  is  now  a  handful  shook  the  earth — 

Pane  of  the  tutelar  saints  who  guard  our  house  ! 

Vault  where  two  Doges  rest — my  sires  I  who  died 

The  one  of  toil,  the  other  in  the  field, 

With  a  long  race  of  other  lineal  chiefs 

And  sages,  whose  great  labors,  wounds,  and  state 

I  have  inherited, — let  the  graves  gape. 

Till  all  thine  aisles  be  peopled  with  the  dead, 

And  pour  them  from  thy  portals  to  gaze  on  me  I 

I  call  them  up,  and  them  and  thee  to  witness 

What  it  hath  been  which  put  me  to  this  task — 

Their  pure  high  blood,  their  blazon-roll  of  glories. 

Their  mighty  name  dishonor'd  all  in  me, 

Not  hj  me,  but  by  the  ungrateful  nobles 

We  fought  to  make  our  equals,  not  our  lords  : — 

And  chiefly  thou,  Ordelafo  the  brave. 

Who  perish'd  in  the  field,  where  I  since  conquer'd, 

Batthng  at  Zara,  did  the  hecatombs 

Of  thine  and  Venice'  foes,  there  offer'd  up 

By  thy  descendant,  merit  such  acquittance  ? 

Spirits  !  smile  down  upon  me ;  for  my  cause 

Is  yours,  in  all  life  now  can  be  of  yours, — 

Your  fame,  your  name,  all  mingled  up  in  mine, 

And  in  the  future  fortunes  of  our  race. 

Let  me  but  prosper,  and  I  make  this  city 

Free  and  immortal,  and  our  house's  name 

Worthier  of  what  you  were,  now  and  hereafter  1 

Enter  Isbakt.  Bbetojccio. 

/.  £er.  Who  goes  there  ? 

Doge.  A  friend  to  Venice 

/.  Ber.  'Tis  he. 

Welcome,  my  lord— you  are  before  the  time. 

J)oge.  1  am  ready  to  proceed  to  your  assembly. 

I.  Ber.  Have  with  you. — I  am  proud  and  pleased 
Such  confident  alacrity.    Your  doubts  [to  see 

Since  our  last  meeting,  then,  are  aU  dispell'd  ? 

Voffe.  Not  so — but  I  have  set  my  little  left 
Of  life  upon  this  cast :  the  die  was  thrown 
When  I  first  listen'd  to  your  treason— Start  not ! 
I'hat  is  the  word  :  I  cannot  shape  my  tongue 
To  syllable  black  deeds  into  smooth  names. 
Though  I  be  wrought  on  to  commit  them.    When 
I  heard  you  tempt  your  sovereign,  and  forbore 
To  have  you  dragg'd  to  prison,  I  became 
Your  guiltiest  accomplice  :  now  you  may. 
If  it  so  please  you,  do  as  much  by  me. 

/.  Ber.  Strange  words,  my  lord,  and  most  unmerited ; 
I  am  no  spy,  and  neither  are  we  traitors. 

Doge.    We  ! —  We  ! — no  matter — you  have  eam'd 
To  talk  of  us. — But  to  the  point. — If  this  [the  right 
Attempt  succeeds,  and  Venice,  render'd  free 
And  flourishing,  when  we  are  in  our  graves. 
Conducts  her  generations  to  our  tombs. 
And  makes  her  children  with  their  little  hands 
.Strew  flowers  o'er  her  deliverers'  ashes,  then 


The  consequence  will  sanctify  the  deed, 
And  we  shall  be  like  the  two  Bruti  in 
The  annals  of  hereafter ;  but  if  not, 
If  we  sliould  fail,  employing  bloody  means 
And  secret  plot,  although  to  a  good  end, 
StiU  wc  are  traitors,  honest  Israel  ; — thou 
No  less  than  he  who  was  thy  sovereign 
Six  hours  ago,  and  now  thy  brother  rebel. 

I.  Ber.  'Tis  not  the  moment  to  consider  thus, 
Else  I  could  answer. — Let  us  to  the  meeting. 
Or  we  may  be  observed  in  lingering  here. 

Doge.  We  arc  observed,  and  have  been. 

/.  Ber.  We  observed  I 

Let  me  discover — and  this  steel 

Doge.  Put  up ; 

Here  are  no  human  witnesses  :  look  there — 
What  see  you  ? 

/.  Ber.  Only  a  tall  warrior's  statue 

Bestriding  a  proud  steed,  in  the  dim  light 
Of  the  full  moon. 

Dog.}.  That  warrior  was  the  sire 

Of  my  sire's  fathers,  and  that  statue  was 
Decreed  to  him  by  the  twice  rescued  city  : — 
Think  you  that  he  looks  down  on  us,  or  no  ? 

/•  Ber.  My  lord,  these  are  mere  fantasies ;   there 
No  eyes  in  marble.  [are 

Doge.  But  there  are  in  Death. 

I  tell  thee,  man,  there  is  a  spirit  in 
Such  things  that  acts  and  sees,  unseen,  though  felt ; 
And,  if  there  be  a  spell  to  stir  the  dead, 
'Tis  in  such  deeds  as  we  are  now  upon. 
Deem'st  thou  the  souls  of  such  a  race  as  mine 
Can  rest,  when  he,  tlieir  last  descendant  chief. 
Stands  plotting  on  the  brink  of  their  pure  graves 
With  stung  plebeians  ? 

/.  Ber.  It  had  been  as  well 

To  have  ponder'd  this  before, — ere  you  embark'd, 
In  our  great  enterprise. — Do  you  repent  ?  . 

Doge.  No — but  Ifeel,  and  shall  do  to  the  last. 
I  cannot  quench  a  glorious  life  at  once. 
Nor  dwindle  to  the  thing  I  now  must  be, 
And  take  men's  lives  by  stealth,  without  some  pause; 
Yet  doubt  me  not ;  it  is  this  very  feeling, 
And  knovring  tohat  has  wrung  me  to  be  thus. 
Which  is  your  best  security.     There's  not 
A  roused  mechanic  in  your  busy  plot 
So  wrong'd  as  I,  so  faU'n,  so  loudly  cali'd 
To  his  redress  :  the  very  means  I  am  forced 
By  these  fell  tyrants  to  adopt  is  such 
That  I  abhor  them  doubly  for  the  deeds 
Which  I  must  do  to  pay  them  back  for  theirs. 

/.  Ber.  Let  us  away — hark — the  hour  strikes. 

Doge.  On — on — 

It  is  our  knell,  or  that  of  Venice — On  ! 

/.  Ber.  Say  rather,  'tis  her  freedom's  rising  peal 

Of  triumph This  way — we  are  near  the  place. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  n. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


209 


■  SCENE  n. 
The  house  where  the  Conspirators  meet. 
Dagolino,  Doro,  Bertram,  Fbdele  Teevisako, 
Calendaro,  Antonio  delle  Bende,  etc.,  etc. 
Cat  (entering)  Are  all  here  ? 
Bag.  All  vdth  you  ;  except  the  three 

On  duty,  and  our  leader  Israel, 
Who  is  expected  momently. 

Cal.  Where's  Bertram  ? 

Ber.    Here ! 

CaL  Have  you  not  been  able  to  complete 

The  number  wanting  in  your  company  ? 

Ber.  I  had  mark'd  out  some  :  but  I  have  not  dared 
To  trust  them  with  the  secret,  till  assured 
That  they  were  worthy  faith. 

Cal.  There  is  no  need 

Of  trusting  to  their  faith :  who,  save  ourselves 
And  our  more  chosen  comrades,  is  aware 
Fully  of  our  intent  ?  They  think  themselves 
Engaged  in  secret  to  the  Signory, 
To  punish  some  more  dissolute  young  nobles 
Who  have  defied  the  law  in  their  excesses  ; 
But  once  drawn  up,  and  their  new  swords  well-flesh'd 
In  the  rank  hearts  of  the  more  odious  senators, 
They  will  not  hesitate  to  follow  up 
Their  blow  upon  the  others,  when  they  see 
The  example  of  their  chiefs,  and  I  for  one 
Will  set  them  such,  that  they  for  very  shame 
And  safety  will  not  pause  till  all  have  perish'd. 
Ber.  How  say  you  ?  all ! 
Cal.  Whom  wouldst  thou  spare  ? 

Ber.  I  spare? 

I  have  no  power  to  spare.    I  only  question'd, 
Thinking  that  even  amongst  these  wicked  men 
There  might  be  some,  whose  age  and  qualities 
Might  mark  them  out  for  pity. 

Cal.  Yes,  such  pity 

As  when  the  viper  hath  been  cut  to  pieces, 
The  separate  fragments  quivering  in  the  sun. 
In  the  last  energy  of  venomous  life. 
Deserve  and  have.    Why,  I  should  think  as  soon 
Of  pitying  some  particular  fang  which  made 
One  in  the  jaw  of  the  swoln  serpent,  as 
Of  saving  one  of  these ;  they  form  but  links 
Of  one  long  chain  ;  one  mass,  one  breath,  one  body ; 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  live,  and  breed  together, 
Ilevel,  and  lie,  oppress,  and  kill  in  concert, — 
So  let  them  die  as  one! 

jjag,  ■  Should  one  survive, 

He  would  be  dangerous  as  the  whole  ;  it  is  not 
Their  number,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  but 
The  spirit  of  this  aristocracy 
Wliich  must  be  rooted  out ;  and  if  there  were 
A  single  shoot  of  the  old  tree  in  life, 
'Twould  fasten  in  the  soil,  and  spring  again 
To  gloomy  verdure  and  to  bitter  fruit 
Bertram,  we  must  be  firm  ! 


Cal.  Look  to  it  well, 

Bertram  ;  I  have  an  eye  upon  thee. 

Ber.  Who 

Distrusts  me  ? 

Cal.  Not  I ;  for  if  I  did  so. 

Thou  wouldst  not  now  be  there  to  talk  of  trust : 
It  is  thy  softness,  not  thy  want  of  faith. 
Which  makes  you  to  be  doubted. 

Ber.  You  should  know 

Who  hear  me,  who  and  what  I  am  ;  a  man 
Roused  like  yourselves  to  overthrow  oppression  ; 
A  kind  man,  I  am  apt  to  think,  as  some 
Of  you  have  found  me  ;  and  if  brave  or  no. 
You,  Calenflaro,  can  pronounce,  wlio  have  seen  me 
Put  to  the  proof;  or,  if  you  should  have  doubts, 
I'U  clear  them  on  your  person  1 

Cal.  You  are  welcome. 

When  once  our  enterprise  is  o'er,  which  must  not 
Be  interrupted  by  a  private  brawl. 

Ber.  I  am  no  brawler  ;  but  can  bear  myself 
As  far  among  the  foe  as  any  he 
Who  hears  me  ;  else  why  have  I  been  selected 
To  be  of  your  chief  comrades  ?  but  no  less 
I  own  my  natural  weakness ;  I  have  not 
Yet  leam'd  to  think  of  indiscriminate  murder 
Without  some  sense  of  shuddering ;  and  the  sight 
Of  blood  which  spouts  through  hoary  scalps  is  not 
To  me  a  thing  of  triumph,  nor  the  death 
Of  men  surprised  a  glory.    Well — too  well 
I  know  that  we  must  do  such  things  on  those 
Whose  acts  have  raised  up  such  avengers ;  but 
If  there  were  some  of  these  who  could  be  saved 
From  out  this  sweeping  fate,  for  our  own  sakes 
And  for  our  honor,  to  take  off  some  stain 
Of  massacre,  which  else  pollutes  it  wholly, 
I  had  been  glad ;  and  see  no  cause  in  this 
For  sneer,  nor  for  suspicion  ! 

j)„ff.  Calm  thee,  Bertram ; 

For  we  suspect  thee  not,  and  take  good  heart. 
It  is  the  cause,  and  not  our  will,  which  asks 
Such  actions  from  our  hands  :  we'll  wash  away 
All  stains  in  Freedom's  fountain  ! 

Enter  Israel  BertuCcio,  and  the  Doob,  disguised. 

j)ag.  Welcome,  Israel. 

Consp.  Most  welcome.    Brave  Bertuccio,  thou  art 
Who  is  this  stranger  ?  [l^^o 

Cal.  It  is  time  to  name  him. 

Our  comrades  are  even  now  prepared  to  greet  him 
In  brotherhood,  as  I  have  made  it  known 
That  thou  wouldst  add  a  brother  to  our  cause. 
Approved  by  thee,  and  thus  approved  by  all. 
Such  is  our  trust  in  all  thine  actions.    Now 
Let  him  unfold  himself. 

7_  Ber.  Stranger,  step  forth  I 

[The  DooE  discover  a  himself. 

Contp.  To  arms  1— we  are  bctray'd— it  is  the  Doge  1 


210 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   III. 


Down  with  them  both  !  our  traitorous  captain,  and 
The  tyrant  he  hath  sold  us  to  ! 

Cal.  (drawing  Ms  ncord.)    Hold  I  Hold  ! 
Who  moves  a  step  against  them  dies.    Hold  !  hear 
Bertuccio — What !  are  you  all  appaU'd  to  see 
A  lone,  unguarded,  weaponless  old  man     [mystery  ? 
Amongst  you  ? — Israel,  speak  !     what   means   this 

I.  Ber.  Let  them  advance  and  strike  at  their  own 
Ungrateful  suicides  !  for  on  our  lives  [bosoms, 

Depend  their  own,  their  fortunes,  and  their  hopes. 

Doge.  Strike  ! — If  I  dreaded  death,  a  death  more 
Than  any  your  rash  weapons  can  inflict,  [fearful 

I  should  not  now  be  here  : — Oh  !  noble  Courage  ! 
The  eldest  bom  of  Fear,  which  makes  yOu  brave 
Against  this  solitary  hoary  head  ! 
See  the  bold  chiefs,  who  would  reform  a  state 
And  shake  down  senates,  mad  with  wrath  and  dread 
At  sight  of  one  patrician  !    Butcher  me, 
You  can  ;  I  care  not.     Israel,  are  these  men 
The  mighty  hearts  you  spoke  of  ?  look  upon  them  ! 

Cal".  Faith  !  he  hath  shamed  us,  and  deservedly. 
Was  this  your  trust  in  your  true  chief  Bertuccio, 
To  turn  your  swords  against  him  and  his  guest  ? 
Sheath  them,  and  hear  him. 

/.  Ber.  I  disdain  to  speak. 

They  might  and  must  have  known  a  heart  like  mine 
Incapable  of  treachery ;  and  the  power 
They  gave  me  to  adopt  all  fitting  means 
To  further  their  design  was  ne'er  abused. 
They  might  be  certain  that  whoe'er  was  brought 
By  me  into  this  council  had  been  led 
To  take  his  choice — as  brother,  or  as  victim. 

JDoge.  And  which  am  I  to  be  ?  your  actions  leave 
Some  cause  to  doubt  the  freedom  of  the  choice. 

I.  Ber.  My  lord,  we  would  have  perish'd  here  togeth- 
Had  these  rash  men  proceeded ;  but,  behold,       [er. 
They  are  ashamed  of  that  mad  moment's  impulse, 
And  droop  their  heads  ;  believe  me,  they  are  such 
As  I  described  them — Speak  to  them. 

Oal.  Ay,  speak ; 

We  are  all  listening  in  wonder. 

/.  Ber.  {addressing  the  Conspirators.)  You  are  safe. 
Nay,  more,  almost  triumphant — listen  then. 
And  know  my  words  for  truth. 

-Doge.  You  see  me  here, 

As  one  of  you  hath  said,  an  old,  unarm'd, 
Defenceless  man  ;  and  yesterday  you  saw  me 
Presiding  in  the  hall  of  ducal  state. 
Apparent  sovereign  of  our  hundred  isles, 
Robed  in  official  purple,  dealing  out 
The  edicts  of  a  power  which  is  not  mine, 
Kot  yours,  but  of  our  masters — the  patricians. 
Why  I  was  there  you  know,  or  think  you  know ; 
Why  I  am  here,  he  who  hath  been  most  wrong'd. 
He  who  among  you  hath  been  most  insulted, 
Outraged  and  trodden  on,  until  he  doubt 
If  he  be  worm  or  no,  may  answer  for  me. 


Asking  of  his  own  heart,  what  brought  him  here  ? 

You  know  my  recent  story,  all  men  know  it. 

And  judge  of  it  far  differently  from  those 

Who  sate  in  judgment  to  heap  scorn  on  scorn. 

But  spare  mc  the  recital — it  is  here. 

Here  at  my  heart  the  outrage — but  my  words. 

Already  spent  in  unavailing  plaints, 

Would  only  show  my  feebleness  the  more. 

And  I  come  here  to  strengthen  even  the  strong. 

And  urge  them  on  to  deeds,  and  not  to  war 

With  woman's  weapons  ;  but  I  need  not  urge  you.  - 

Our  private  wrongs  have  sprung  from  public  vices, 

In  this — I  cannot  caU  it  commonwealth 

Nor  kingdom,  which  hath  neither  prince  nor  people, 

But  all  the  sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state 

Without  its  virtues — temperance  and  valor. 

The  lords  of  Lacedaemon  were  true  soldiers. 

But  ours  are  Sybarites,  while  we  are  Helots, 

Of  whom  I  am  the  lowest,  most  enslaved  ; 

Although  dress'd  out  to  head  a  pageant,  as 

The  Greeks  of  yore  made  drunk  their  slaves  to  form 

A  pastime  for  their  children.     You  are  met 

To  overthrow  this  monster  of  a  state. 

This  mockery  of  a  government,  this  spectre. 

Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood, — and  then 

We  will  renew  the  times  of  truth  and  justice, 

Condensing  in  a  fair  free  commonwealth 

Not  rash  equality  but  equal  rights, 

Proportion'd  like  the  columns  to  the  tejnple. 

Giving  and  taking  strength  reciprocal, 

And  making  firm  the  whole  with  grace  and  beauty, 

So  that  no  part  could  be  removed  without 

Infringement  of  the  general  symmetry. 

In  operating  this  great  change,  I  claim 

To  be  one  of  you — if  you  trust  in  me  ; 

If  not,  strike  home, — my  life  is  compromised, 

And  I  would  rather  fall  by  freemen's  hands 

Than  live  another  day  to  act  the  tyrant 

As  delegate  of  tyrants  :  such  I  am  not. 

And  never  have  been — read  it  in  our  annals  ; 

I  can  appeal  to  my  past  government 

In  many  lands  and  cities  ;  they  can  tell  you 

If  I  were  an  oppressor,  or  a  man 

Feeling  and  thinking  for  my  fellow-men. 

Haply  had  I  been  what  the  senate  sought, 

A  thing  of  robes  and  trinkets,  dizen'd  out 

To  sit  in  state  as  for  a  sovereign's  picture  ; 

A  popular  scourge,  a  ready  sentence-signer, 

A  stickler  for  the  Senate  and  "  the  Forty," 

A  skeptic  of  all  measures  which  had  not 

The  sanction  of  "  the  Ten,"  a  council-fawner, 

A  tool,  a  fool,  a  puppet, — they  had  ne'er 

Foster'd  the  wretch  who  stung  me.    What  I  suffer 

Has  reach'd  me  through  my  pity  for  the  people ; 

That  many  know,  and  they  who  know  not  yet 

Will  one  day  learn  :  meantime,  I  do  devote, 

Whate'er  the  issue,  my  last  days  of  life — 


f" 


SCENE   II. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


211 


My  present  power  such  as  it  is — not  that 

Of  Doge,  but  of  a  man  who  has  been  great 

Before  he  was  degraded  to  a  Doge, 

And  still  has  individual  means  and  mind  ; 

I  stake  my  fame  (and  I  had  fame)— my  breath— 

(The  least  of  all,  for  its  last  hours  are  nigh) — 

My  heart— my  hope— my  soul— upon  this  cast ! 

Such  as  I  am,  I  offer  me  to  you 

And  to  your  chiefs  :  accept  me  or  reject  me, 

A  Prince  who  fain  would  be  a  citizen 

Or  nothing,  and  who  has  left  his  throne  to  be  so. 

Cal.  Long  live  Faliero  !— Venice  shall  be  free  ! 

Comp.  Long  live  Faliero  1 

I-  ^'^-  Comrades  I  did  I  weU  ? 

Is  not  this  man  a  host  in  such  a  cause  ? 

Doge.  This  is  no  time  for  eulogies,  nor  place 
For  exultation.    Am  I  one  of  you? 

Cal.  Ay,  and  the  first  amongst  us,  as  thou  hast 
Of  Venice— be  our  general  and  chief  [been 

Doge.  Chief !— general !— I  was  general  at  Zara, 
And  chief  in  Rhodes  and  Cyprus,  prince  in  Venice  : 
I  cannot  stoop that  is,  I  am  not  fit 


To  lead  a  band  of patriots  :  when  I  lay 

Aside  the  dignities  which  I  have  borne, 

'Tis  not  to  put  on  others,  but  to  be 

Mate  to  my  fellows— but  now  to  the  point : 

Israel  has  stated  to  me  your  whole  plan 

'Tis  bold,  but  feasible  if  I  assist  it. 
And  must  be  set  in  motion  instantly. 

Cal  E'en  when  thou  wilt.  Is  it  not  so,  my  friends  ? 
I  have  disposed  all  for  a  sudden  blow; 
When  shall  it  be  then  ? 

^oge.  At  sunrise. 

-5«''-  So  soon  ? 

Doge.  So  soon  !— so  late— each  hour  accumulates 
Peril  on  peril,  and  the  more  so  now 
Since  I  have  mingled  with  you ;— know  you  not 
The  Council  and  "the  Ten  ?"  the  spies,  the  eyes 
Of  the  patricians  dubious  of  their  slaves, 
And  now  more  dubious  of  the  prince  they  have  made 
I  tell  you,  you  must  strike,  and  suddenly,  [one  ? 

Full  to  the  Hydra's  heart— its  heads  will  follow. 

Cal.  With  aU  my  soul  and  sword,  I  yield  assent ; 
Our  companies  are  ready,  sixty  each. 
And  all  now  under  arms  by  Israel's  order ; 
Each  at  their  different  place  of  rendezvous, 
And  vigilant,  expectant  of  some  blow ; 
Let  each  repair  for  action  to  his  post  I 
And  now,  my  lord,  the  signal  ? 

^''•'"'-  When  you  hear 

The  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's,  which  may  not  be 
Struck  without  special  order  of  the  Doge, 
(The  last  poor  privilege  they  leave  their  prince,) 
Marcu  on  Saint  Mark's  ! 
I-  •»«'••  And  there  ?— 

^"9^-  By  different  routes 

Let  your  march  be  directed,  every  si^ty 


Entering  a  separate  avenue,  and  still 

Upon  the  way  let  your  cry  be  of  war 

And  of  the  Genoese  fleet,  by  the  first  dawn 

Discern'd  before  the  port ;  from  round  the  palace, 

Within  whose  court  will  be  drawn  out  in  arms 

My  nephew  and  the  cUents  of  our  house. 

Many  and  martial ;  while  the  bell  tolls  on 

Shout  ye,  "  Saint  Mark  !-the  foe  is  on  our  waters  !" 

Cal.  I  see  it  now— but  on,  my  noble  lord. 

Doge.  All  the  patricians  flocking  to  the  Council, 
(Which  they  dare  not  refuse,  at  the  dread  signal  ' 
Pealing  from  out  their  patron  saint's  proud  tower,) 
Will  then  be  gather'd  in  unto  the  harvest. 
And  we  wiU  reap  them  with  the  sword  for  sickle. 
If  some  few  should  be  tardy  or  absent  them, 
'TwiU  be  but  to  be  taken  faint  and  single. 
When  the  majority  are  put  to'Vest. 

Cal.  Would  that  the  hour  were  come  !  we  will  not 
^"tkiU.  ^^^^^^^ 

Ber.  Once  more,  sir,  with  your  pardon,  I 
Would  now  repeat  the  question  which  I  ask'd 
Before  Bertuccio  added  to  our  cause 
This  great  aUy  who  renders  it  more  sure,  • 
And  therefore  safer,  and  as  such  admits  ' 
Some  dawn  of  mercy  to  a  portion  of 
Our  victims— must  all  perish  in  this  slaughter  ? 

Cal.  All  who  encounter  me  and  mine,  be  sure. 
The  mercy  they  have  shown,  I  show. 

Con^-  All!  All! 

Is  this  a  time  to  talk  of  pity  ?  when 
Have  they  e'er  shown,  or  felt,  or  feign'd  it  ? 

^-  ^'''■-  Bertram, 

This  false  compassion  is  a  folly,  and 
Injustice  to  thy  comrades  and  thy  cause  ! 
Dost  thou  not  see,  that  if  we  single  out 
Some  for  escape,  they  live  but  to  avenge 
The  fallen  ?  and  how  distinguish  now  the  innocent 
From  out  the  guilty  ?  all  their  acts  are  one— 
A  single  emanation  from  one  body. 
Together  knit  for  our  oppression  !    'Tis 
Much  that  we  let  their  children  live ;  I  doubt 
If  all  of  these  even  should- be  set  apart : 
The  hunter  may  reserve  some  single  cub 
From  out  the  tiger's  litter,  but  whoe'er 
Would  seek  to  save  the  spotted  sire  or  dam 
Unless  to  perish  by  their  fangs  ?  however, 
I  will  abide  by  Doge  Faliero's  counsel : 
Let  him  decide  if  any  should  be  saved. 

Doge.  Ask  me  not— tempt  me  not  with  such  a 
Decide  yourselves,  [question- 

1.  Ber.  ,  You  know  their  private  virtues 

Far  better  than  we  can,  to  whom  alone 
Their  public  vices,  and  most  foul  oppression. 
Have  made  them  deadly ;  if  there  be  amongst  them 
One  who  deserves  to  be  repeal'd,  pronounce. 

Doge.  Dolflno's  father  was  my  friend,  and  Lando 
Fought  by  my  side,  and  Marco  Cornaro  shared 


I 


212 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   III. 


My  Genoese  embassy :  I  sared  the  life 
Of  Vcniero — shall  I  save  it  twice  ? 
Would  that  I  could  save  them  and  Venice  also  ! 
All  these  men,  or  their  fathers,  were  my  friends 
Til)  they  became  my  subjects  ;  then  fell  from  me 
As  faithless  leaves  drop  from  the  o'erblown  flower, 
And  left  me  a  lone  blighted  thorny  stalk, 
Which,  in  its  solitude,  can  shelter  nothing  ; 
So,  as  they  let  me  wither,  let  them  perish  ! 

Cal.  They  cannot  coexist  with  Venice'  freedom  ! 

Doge.  Ye,  though  you  know  and  feel  our  mutual 
Of  many  wrongs,  even  ye  are  ignorant  [mass 

What  fatal  poison  to  the  springs  of  life, 
To  human  ties,  and  all  that's  good  and  dear, 
Lurks  in  the  present  institutes  of  Venice  : 
All  these  men  were  my  friends  ;  I  loved  them,  they 
Requited  honorably  my  regards  ; 
We  served  and  fought ;  we  smiled  and  wept  in  con- 
We  revell'd  or  we  sorrow'd  side  by  side  ;  [cert ; 

We  made  alliances  of  blood  and  marriage ; 
We  grew  in  years  and  honors  fairly, — tiU 
Their  own  desire,  not  my  ambition,  made 
Them  choose  me  for  their  prince,  and  then  farewell ! 
Farewell  all  social  memory  1  all  thoughts 
In  common  !  and  sweet  bonds  which  link  old  friend- 
When  the  survivors  of  long  years  and  actions,  [ships. 
Which  now  belong  to  history,  soothe  the  days 
Which  yet  remain  by  treasuring  each  other. 
And  never  meet,  but  each  beholds  the  mirror 
Of  half  a  century  on  his  brother's  brow. 
And  sees  a  hundred  beings,  now  in  earth. 
Flit  round  them  whispering  of  the  days  gone  by, 
And  seeming  not  all  dead,  as  long  as  two 
Of  the  brave,  joyoiTs,  reckless,  glorious  band, 
Which  once  were  one  and  many,  still  retain 
A  breath  to  sigh  for  them,  a  tongue  to  speak 

Of  deeds  that  else  were  silent,  save  on  marble 

Oime  !  Oime  ! — and  must  I  do  this  deed  ? 

I.  Ber.  My  lord,  you  are  much  moved :  it  is  not 
That  such  things  must  be  dwelt  upon.  [now 

Doge.  Your  patience 

A  moment — I  recede  not :  mark  with  me 
The  gloomy  vices  of  thia  government,     [niade  me — 
From  the  hour  they  made  me  Doge,  the  Doge  they 
Farewell  the  past !  I  died  to  all  tliat  had  been. 
Or  rather  they  to  me  :  no  friends,  no  kindness. 
No  privacy  of  life — all  were  cut  off : 
They  came  not  near  me, such  approach  gave  umbrage; 
They  could  not  love  me,  such  was  not  the  law  ; 
They  thwarted  me,  'twas  the  state's  policy  ; 
They  bafiled  me,  'twas  a  patrician's  duty ; 
They  wrong'd  me,  for  such  was  to  right  the  state  ; 
They  could  not  right  me,  that  would  give  suspicion; 
80  that  I  was  a  slave  to  my  own  subjects  ; 
So  that  I  was  a  foe  to  my  own  friesds  ; 
Begirt  with  epics  for  guards — with  robes  for  power — 
With  pomp  for  freedom^ailers  for  a  council — 


Inquisitors  for  friends — and  hell  for  life  ! 

I  had  one  only  fount  of  quiet  left. 

And  that  they  poison'd  !  My  pure  household  gods 

Were  shiver'd  on  my  hearth,  and  o'er  their  shrine 

Sate  grinning  Ribaldry  and  sneering  Scorn. 

/.  Ber.  You  have  been  deeply  wrong'd,  and  now 
Nobly  avenged  before  another  night.  [shall  be 

Doge.  I  had  borne  all — it  hurt  me,  but  I  bore  it — 
Till  this  last  running  over  of  the  cup 
Of  bitterness — until  this  last  loud  insult, 
Not  only  unredress'd,  but  sanction'd  ;  then, 
And  thus,  I  cast  all  further  feehngs  from  me — 
The  feelings  which  they  crush'd  for  me,  long,  long 
Before,  even  in  their  oath  of  false  allegiance  ! 
Even  in  that  very  hour  and  vow,  they  abjured 
Their  friend  and  made  a  sovereign,  as  boys  make 
Playthings,  to  do  their  pleasure  —and  be  broken  I 
I  from  that  hour  have  seen  but  senators 
In  dark  suspicious  conflict  with  the  Doge, 
Brooding  with  him  in  mutual  hate  and  fear ; 
They  dreading  he  should  snatch  the  tyranny 
From  out  their  grasp,  and  he  abhorring  tyrants. 
To  me,  then,  these  men  have  no  private  life, 
Nor  claim  to  ties  they  have  cut  off  from  others' 
As  senators  for  arbitrary  acts 
Amenable,  I  look  on  them — as  such 
Let  them  be  dealt  upon. 

Cal.  And  now  to  action  I 

Hence,  brethren,  to  our  posts,  and  may  this  be 
The  last  night  of  mere  words :  I'd  fain  be  doing  ! 
Saint  Mark's  great  bell  at  dawn  shall  find  me  wakeful ! 

/.  Ber.  Disperse  then  to  your  posts  :  be  firm  and 
vigilant ; 
Think  on  the  wrongs  we  bear,  the  rights  we  claim. 
This  day  and  night  shall  be  the  last  of  peril ! 
Watch  for  the  signal,  and  then  march.    I  go 
To  join  my  band  ;  let  each  l)e  prompt  to  marshal 
His  separate  charge  :  the  Doge  will  now  return 
To  the  palace  to  prepare  all  for  the  blow. 
We  part  to  meet  in  freedom  and  in  glory  ! 

Cal.  Doge,  when  I  greet  you  next,  my  homage  to 
Shall  be  the  head  of  Steno  on  this  sword  I  [you 

Doge.  No ;  let  him  be  reserved  unto  the  last, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a  prey. 
Till  nobler  game  is  quarried  :  his  offence 
Was  a  mere  ebullition  of  the  vice, 
The  general  corruption  generated 
By  the  foul  aristocracy  :  he  could  not — 
He  dared  not — in  more  honorable  days 
Have  risk'd  it.     I  have  merged  all  private  wrath 
Against  him,  in  the  thought  of  our  great  puipose. 
A  slave  insults  me — I  require  his  punishment 
From  his  proud  master's  hands  ;  if  he  refuse  it. 
The  offence  grows  his,  and  let  him  answer  it. 

Cal.  Yet,  as  the  immediate  cause  of  the  alliance 
Which  consecrates  our  undertaking  more 
I  owe  him  such  deep  gratitude,  that  fain 


SCELNE  II. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


213 


I  would  repay  him  as  he  merits  ;  may  I  ? 

Boge.  You  would  but  lop  the  hand,  and  I  the  head; 
You  Tvould  but  smite  the  scholar,  I  the  master  ; 
You  would  but  punish  Steno,  I  the  Senate. 
I  cannot  pause  on  individual  hate. 
In  tlie  absorbing,  sweeping,  whole  revenge, 
Whicli,  like  the  sheeted  fire  from  heaven,  must  blast 
Without  distinction,  as  it  fcU  of  yore, 
Where  the  Dead  Sea  hath  quench'd  two  cities'  ashes. 

/.  Ber.  Away,  then,  to  your  posts  !  I  but  remain 
A  moment  to  accompany  the  Doge 
"To  our  late  place  of  tryst,  to  see  no  spies 
Have  been  upon  the  scout,  and  thence  I  hasten 
To  where  my  allotted  band  is  under  arms. 

Cal.  Farewell,  then, — until  dawn  1 

/.  BcT.  Success  go  with  you  ! 

Ccmgp.  We  will  not  fail — Away  !  My  lord,  farewell. 

[The   Conspirators  salute  the  Doge  and  Israel 

Bertuccio,  and  retire,  headed  ty  Philip  Calen- 

DARo.     The  Doge  and  Israel  Bertuccio  remain. 

I.  Ber.  We  have  them  in  the  toil — it  cannot  fail  1 
Now  thou'rt  indeed  a' sovereign,  and  wilt  make 
A  name  immortal  greater  than  the  greatest : 
Free  citizens  have  struck  at  kings  ere  now ; 
Cassars  have  fallen,  and  even  patrician  hands 
Have  crush'd  dictators,  as  the  popular  steel 
Has  reach'd  patricians  :  but,  until  this  hour, 
What  Prince  has  plotted  for  his  people's  freedom  ? 
Or  risk'd  a  life  to  hberate  his  subjects  ? 
Forever,  and  forever,  they  conspire 
Against  the  people,  to  abuse  their  hands 
To  chains,  but  laid  aside  to  carry  weapons 
Against  the  fellow  nations,  so  that  yoke 
On  yoke,  and  slavery  and  death  may  whet. 
Hot  glut,  the  never-gorged  Leviathan  ! 
Now,  my  lord,  to  our  enterprise  ; — 'tis  great. 
And  greater  the  reward  ;  why  stand  you  rapt  ? 
A  moment  back,  and  you  were  all  impatience  ! 

Doge.  And  is  it  then  decided  ?  must  they  die  ? 

/.  Ber.  Who  ?  • 

Doge.  My  own  friends  by  blood  and  courtesy, 

And  many  deeds  and  days — the  senators  ? 

1.  Ber.  Youpass'dtheirsentence,anditi3ajustone. 

Doge.  Ay,  so  it  seems,  and  so  it  is  to  you  ; 
You  are  a  patriot,  plebeian  Gracchus — 
The  rebel's  oracle,  the  people's  tribune — 
I  blame  you  not — you  act  in  your  vocation  ; 
They  smote  you,  and  oppress'd  you,  and  despised  you ; 
So  they  have  me  :  but  you  ne'er  spake  with  them  ; 
You  never  broke  their  bread,  nor  shared  their  salt ; 
You  never  had  their  wine-cup  at  your  lips  : 
You  grew  not  up  with  them,  nor  laugh'd,  nor  wept. 
Nor  held  a  revel  in  their  company ; 
Ne'er  smiled  to  see  them  smile,  nor  claim'd  their  smile 
In  social  interchange  for  yours,  nor  trusted 
Nor  wore  them  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  as  I  have  : 
These  hairs  of  mine  are  gray,  and  so  are  theirs, 


The  elders  of  the  council :  I  remember 
When  all  our  locks  were  like  the  raven's  wing, 
As  we  went  forth  to  take  our  prey  around 
The  isles  wrung  from  the  false  Mahometan  ; 
And  can  I  see  them  dabbled  o'er  with  blood  ? 
Each  stab  to  them  will  seem  my  suicide. 

/.  Ber.  Doge  !  Doge  1  this  vacillation  is  unworthy 
A  child ;  if  you  are  not  in  second  childhood. 
Call  back  your  nerves  to  your  own  purpose,  nor 
Thus  shame  yourself  and  me.   By  heavens  !  I'd  rather 
Forego  even  now,  or  fail  in  our  intent, 
Than  see  the  man  I  venerate  subside 
From  high  resolves  into  such  shallow  weakness  ! 
You  have  seen  blood  in  battle,  shed  it,  both 
Your  own  and  that  of  others  ;  can  you  shrink  then 
Prom  a  few  drops  from  veins -of  hoary  vampires, 
Who  but  give  back  what  they  have  drain'd  from  mil- 
lions ? 

Doge,  Bear  with  me  !   Step  by  step,  and  blow  on 
I  will  divide  with  you ;  think  not  I  vraver.      [blow, 
Ah  I  no  ;  it  is  the  certainty  of  all 
Wliich  I  must  do  doth  make  me  tremble  thus. 
But  let  these  last  and  lingering  thoughts  have  way, 
To  which  you  only  and  the  night  are  conscious. 
And  both  regardless  ;  when  the  hour  arrives, 
'Tis  mine  to  sound  the  knell,  and  strike  the  blow. 
Which  shall  unpeople  many  palaces. 
And  hew  the  highest  genealogic  trees 
Down  to  the  earth,  strev/'d  with  their  bleeding  fruit. 
And  crush  their  blossoms  into  barrenness  : 
This  will  1 — must  I — have  I  sworn  to  do. 
Nor  aught  can  turn  me  from  my  destiny  ; 
But  still  I  quiver  to  behold  what  I 
Must  be,  and  think  what  I  have  been !  Bear  with  me. 

/.  Ber.  Re-man  your  breast;  I  feel  no  such  remorse, 
I  understand  it  not :  why  should  you  change  ? 
You  acted,  and  you  act,  on  your  free  will. 

Doge.  Ay,  there  it  is— you  feel  not,  nor  do  I, 
Else  I  should  stab  thee  on  the  spot,  to  save 
A  thousand  lives,  and,  killing,  do  no  murder ; 
Yon /eel  not — you  go  to  this  bntcher-work 
As  if  these  high-lsom  men  were  steers  for  shambles! 
When  all  is  over,  you'll  be  free  and  merry. 
And  calmly  wash  those  hands  incarnadine  ; 
But  I,  outgoing  thee  and  all  thy  fellows 
In  this  surpassing  massacre,  shall  be. 
Shall  see  and  feel — oh  God  !  oh  God  !  'tis  true, 
And  thou  dost  well  to  answer  that  it  was 
"  My  own  free  will  and  act,"  and  yet  you  err. 
For  I  will  do  this  !  Doubt  not — fear  not ;  I 
Will  be  your  most  unmerciful  accomplice  ! 
And  yet  I  act  no  more  on  my  free  will. 
Nor  my  own  feelings — both  compel  me  back ; 
But  there  is  hell  within  me  and  around. 
And  like  the  demon  who  believes  and  trembles 
Must  I  abhor  and  do.    Away  I  away  ! 
Get  thee  unto  thy  fellows,  I  will  hie  me 


214 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   IV, 


To  gather  the  retainers  of  our  house. 

Doubt  no't,  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  shall  wake  all 

Except  her  slaughter'd  senate  ;  ere  the  sun  [Venice, 

Be  broad  upon  the  Adriatic,  there 

Shall  be  a  voice  of  weeping,  which  shall  drown 

The  roar  of  waters  in  the  cry  of  blood  ! 

I  am  resolved — come  on. 

/.  Ber.  With  all  my  soul ! 

Keep  a  firm  rein  upon  these  bursts  of  passion ; 
Remember  what  these  men  have  dealt  to  thee, 
And  that  this  sacrifice  wiU  be  succeeded 
By  ages  of  prosperity  and  freedom 
To  this  unshackled  city  :  a  true  tyrant 
Would  have  depopulated  empires,  nor 
Have  felt  the  strange  compunction  which  hath  wrung 
To  punish  a  few  traitors  to  the  people.  [you 

Trust  me,  such  were  a  pity  more  misplaced 
Than  the  late  mercy  of  the  state  to  Steno. 

Doge.  Man,  thou  hast  struck  upon  the  chord  which 
AU  nature  from  my  heart.    Hence  to  our  task  I  [jars 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 


Palazzo  of  the  Patrician  Lioni.     Lioni  laying  aside 

the  mash  and  cloah  which  the  Venetian  Nobles  wore 

in  public,  attended  by  a  Domestic. 

Lioni.  I  will  to  rest,  right  weary  of  this  revel. 
The  gayest  we  have  held  for  many  moons. 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  it  cheer'd  me  not ; 
There  came  a  heaviness  across  my  heart. 
Which,  in  the  lightest  movement  of  the  dance. 
Though  eye  to  eye,  and  hand  in  hand  miited 
Even  with  the  lady  of  my  love,  oppress'd  me. 
And  through  my  spirit  chill'd  my  blood,  until 
A  damp  like  death  rose  o'er  my  brow ;  I  strove 
To  laugh  the  thought  away,  but  'twould  not  be  : 
Through  all  the  music  ringing  in  my  ears 
A  knell  was  sounding  as  distinct  and  clear, 
Though  low  and  far,  as  e'er  the  Adrian  wave 
Rose  o'er  the  city's  murmur  in  the  night, 
Dashing  against  the  outward  Lido's  bulwark : 
So  that  I  left  the  festival  before 
It  reach'd  its  zenith,  and  will  woo  my  pillow 
For  thoughts  more  tranquil,  or  forgetfulness. 
Antonio,  take  my  mask  and  cloak,  and  light 
The  lamp  witnin  my  chamber. 

Ant.  Yea,  my  lord  : 

Command  you  no  refreshment  ? 

Lioni.  Naught,  save  sleep. 

Which  will  not  be  commanded.    Let  me  hope  it, 

{Exit  Antokio. 
Though  my  breast  feels  too  anxious  ;  I  will  try 
Whether  the  air  will  calm  my  spirits  ;  'tis 
A  goodly  night ;  the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  I^evant  hath  cront  into  its  cave, 


And  the  broad  moon  has  brighten'd.  What  a  stillness ! 

[  Goes  to  an  open  lattics. 
And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left. 
Where  the  taU  torches'  glare,  and  silver  lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam  along  the  tapestried  walls. 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  galleries 
A  dazzling  mass  of  artificial  light. 
Which  show'd  all  things,  but  nothing  as  they  were. 
There  Age  essaying  to  recall  the  past. 
After  long  striving  for  the  hues  of  youth 
At  the  sad  labor  of  the  toilet,  and 
Full  many  a  glance  at  the  too  faithful  mirror, 
Prank'd  forth  in  all  the  pride  of  ornament, 
Forgot  itself,  and  trusting  to  the  falsehood 
Of  the  indulgent  beams,  which  show,  yet  hide. 
Believed  itself  forgotten,  and  was  fool'd. 
There  Youth,  which  needed  not,  nor  thought  of  such 
Vain  adjuncts,  lavish'd  its  true  bloom,  and  health. 
And  bridal  beauty,  in  the  unwholesome  press 
Of  flush'd  and  crowded  wassailers,  and  wasted 
Its  hours  of  rest  in  dreaming  this  was  pleasure, 
And  so  shall  waste  them  till  the  sunrise  streams 
On  sallow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes,  which  should  not 
Have  worn  this  aspect  yet  for  many  a  year. 
The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine — 
The  garlands,  the  rose  odors,  and  the  flowers — 
The  sparkling  eyes,  and  flashing  ornaments — 
The  white  arms  and  the  raven  hair — the  braids 
And  bracelets  ;  swanlike  bosoms,  and  the  necklace. 
An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzling  not 
The  eye  like  what  it  circled ;  the  thin  robes,      [en  ; 
Floating  like  light  clouds  'twixt  our  gaze  and  hoav- 
The  many -twinkling  feet  so  small  and  sylphlike, 
Suggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 
Of  the  fair  forms  which  terminate  so  well — 
All  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  scene. 
Its  false  and  true  enchantments — art  and  nature. 
Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parch'd  pilgrim's 
On  Arab  sands  the  false  mirage,  which  offers 
A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst, 
Are  gone.    Around  me  are  the  stars  and  waters — 
Worlds  mirror'd  in  the  ocean,  goodlier  sight 
Than  torches  glared  back  by  a  gaudy  glass  ; 
And  the  great  element,  which  is  to  space 
What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 
Soften'd  with  the  first  breathings  of  the  spring ; 
The  high  moon  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way. 
Serenely  smoothing  o'er  the  lofty  walls 
Of  those  tall  piles  and  sea-girt  palaces. 
Whose  porphyry  pillars,  and  whose  costly  fronts. 
Fraught  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles. 
Like  altars  ranged  along  the  broad  canal, 
Seem  each  a  trophy  of  some  mighty  deed 
Rear'd  up  from  out  the  waters,  scarce  less  strangely 
Than  those  more  massy  and  mysterious  giants 


SCENE   I. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


215 


Of  architecture,  those  Titanian  fabrics, 

Which  point  in  Egypt's  plains  to  times  that  have 

No  other  record.     All  is  gentle  :  naught 

Stirs  rudely ;  but,  congenial  with  the  night, 

Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a  spirit. 

The  tinklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 

Of  sleepless  lover  to  a  wakeful  mistress. 

And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  showing 

That  he  is  not  unheard  ;  while  her  young  hand. 

Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  a  part. 

So  delicately  white,  it  trembles  in 

The  act  of  opening  the  forbi.dden  lattice, 

To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 

Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ; — the  dash 

Phosphoric  of  the  oar,  or  rapid  twinkle 

Of  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas, 

And  the  responsive  voices  of  the  choir 

Of  boatmen  answering  back  with  verse  for  verse ; 

Some  dusky  shadow  checkering  the  Rialto  ; 

Some  glimmering  palace  roof,  or  tapering  spire, 

Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  which  here  pervade 

The  ocean-bom  and  earth-commanding  city — 

How  sweet  and  soothing  is  this  hour  of  calm  ! 

I  thank  thee,  Night !  for  thou  hast  chased  away 

Those  horrid  bodements  which,  amidst  the  throng, 

I  could  not  dissipate  ;  and  with  the  blessing 

Of  thy  benign  and  quiet  influence, — 

Now  will  I  to  my  couch,  although  to  rest 

Is  almost  wronging  such  a  night  as  this 

[A  Icnoclcing  is  heard  from  without. 
Hark  !  what  Is  that  ?  or  who  at  such  a  moment  ? 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  My  lord,  a  man  without,  on  urgent  business, 
Implores  to  be  admitted. 

Lioni.  Is  he  a  stranger  ? 

Ant.  His  face  is  mufiled  in  his  cloak,  but  both 
His  voice  and  gestures  seem  familiar  to  me ; 
I  craved  his  name,  but  this  he  seem'd  reluctant 
To  trust,  save  to  yourself;  most  earnestly 
He  sues  to  be  permitted  to  approach  you. 

Lioni.  'Tis  a  strange  hour,  and  a  suspicious  bear- 
And  yet  there  is  slight  peril :  'tis  not  in  [ing  1 

Their  houses  noble  men  are  struck  at ;  still. 
Although  I  know  not  that  I  have  a  foe 
In  Venice,  'twill  be  wise  to  use  some  cautioh. 
Admit  him,  and  retire  ;  but  call  up  quickly 
Some  of  thy  fellows,  who  may  wait  without. 
Who  can  this  man  be  ? 
Exit  Antonio,  and  returns  with  Bertram  muffled. 

Ber.  My  good  lord  Lioni, 

I  have  no  time  to  lose,  nor  thou — dismiss 
This  menial  hence  ;  I  would  be  private  with  you. 

Lioni.  It  seems  the  voice  of  Bertram — go,  Antonio. 

\_Exit  Antonio. 
Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  at  such  an  hour  ? 

Ber.  {dincovering  himself.)  A  boon,  my  noble  pa- 
tron ;  you  have  granted 


Many  to  your  poor  client,  Bertram  ;  add 
This  onq,  and  make  him  happy. 

Lioni.  Thou  hast  known  me 

From  boyhood,  ever  ready  to  assist  thee 
Iri  all  fair  objects  of  advancement,  which 
Beseem  one  of  thy  station  ;  I  would  promise 
Ere  thy  request  was  heard,  but  that  the  hour. 
Thy  bearing,  and  this  strange  and  hurried  mode 
Of  suing,  gives  me  to  suspect  this  visit 
Hath  some  mysterious  import — but  say  on — 
What  has  occurred,  some  rash  and  sudden  broil  ? 
A  cup  too  much,  a  scuffle,  and  a  stab  ? — 
Mere  things  of  every  day  ;  so  that  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  I  guarantee  thy  safety ; 
But  then  thou  must  withdraw,  for  angry  friends 
And  relatives,  in  the  first  burst  of  vengeance. 
Are  things  in  Venice  deadlier  than  the  laws. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  thank  you  ;  but 

Lioni.                              But  what  ?    You  have  not 
Raised  a  rash  hand  against  one  of  our  order  ? 
If  so,  withdraw  and  fly,  and  own  it  not ; 
I  would  not  slay — ^but  then  I  must  not  save  thee  ! 
He  who  has  shed  patrician  blood 

Ber.  I  come 

To  save  patrician  blood,  and  not  to  shed  it ! 
And  thereunto  I  must  be  speedy,  for 
Each  minute  lost  may  lose  a  life  ;  since  Time 
Has  changed  his   slow  scythe   for  the   two-edged 
And  is  about  to  take,  instead  of  sand,  [sword, 

The  dust  from  sepulchres  to  fill  his  hour-glass  ! — 
Go  not  thou  forth  to-morrow  ! 

Lioni.  Wherefore  not  ? — 

What  means  this  menace  ? 

Ber.  Do  not  seek  its  meaning 

But  do  as  I  implore  thee  ; — stir  not  forth, 
Whate'er  be  stirring  ;  though  the  roar  of  crowds — 
The  cry  of  women,  and  the  shrieks  of  babes — 
The  groans  of  men — the  clash  of  arms — the  sound 
Of  rolling  drum,  shrill  trump,  and  hollow  beU, 
Peal  in  one  wide  alarum  !     Go  not  forth 
Until  the  tocsin's  silent,  nor  even  then 
Till  I  return ! 

Lioni.  Again,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Ber.  Again,  I  tell  thee,  ask  not ;  but  by  all 
Thou  boldest  dear  on  earth  or  heaven — by  all 
The  souls  of  thy  great  fathers,  and  thy  hope 
To  emulate  them,  and  to  leave  behind 
Descendants  worthy  both  of  them  and  thee — 
By  all  thou  hast  of  bless'd  in  hope  or  memory — 
By  all  thou  hast  to  fear  hero  or  hereafter — 
By  aU  the  good  deeds  thou  hast  done  to  me. 
Good  I  would  now  repay  with  greater  good, 
Remain  within — trust  to  thy  household  gods. 
And  to  my  word  for  safety,  if  thou  dost 
As  I  now  counsel — but  if  not,  thou  art  lost  1 

Lioni.  I  am  indeed  already  lost  in  wonder ; 
Surely  thou  ravest !  what  have  I  to  dread  ? 


216 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   IV. 


Who  are  my  foes  ?  or  if  there  be  such,  why 

Art  thou  leagued  with  them  ? — thou  !  or  if  so  leagued, 

Why  comest  thou  to  tell  me  at  this  hour, 

And  not  before  ? 

Ber.  I  cannot  answer  this. 

Wilt  thou  go  forth  despite  of  this  true  warning  ? 

Lioni.  I  was  not  bom  to  shrink  from  idle  threats. 
The  cause  of  which  I  know  not :  at  the  hour 
Of  council,  be  it  soon  or  late,  I  shall  not 
Be  found  among  the  absent. 

Ber.  Say  not  so  ! 

Once  more,  art  thou  determined  to  go  forth  ? 

Lioni.  I  am.    Nor  is  there  aught  which  shall  im- 
pede me  1 

Ber.  Then  Heaven  have  mercy  on  thy  soul  1 — 

Farewell  1  [  Going. 

Lio)ii.  Stay — there  is  more  in  this  than  my  own 
safety 
Which  makes  me  call  thee  back ;  we  must  not  part 
Bertram,  I  have  known  thee  long.  [thus  : 

Ber.  From  childhood,  signor. 

You  have  been  my  protector  :  in  the  days 
Of  reckless  infancy,  when  rank  forgets, 
Or,  rather,  is  not  yet  taught  to  remember 
Its  cold  prerogative,  we  play'd  together ; 
Our  sports,  our  smiles,  our  tears,  were  mingled  oft ; 
My  father  was  your  father's  client,  I 
His  son's  scarce  less  than  foster-brother ;  years 
Saw  us  together — ^happy,  heart-full  hours  1 
Oh,  God  !  the  difference  'twixt  those  hours  and  this ! 

Lioni.  Bertram,  'tis  thou  who  hast  forgotten  them. 

Ber.  Nor  now,  nor  ever ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 
I  would  have  saved  you  :  when  to  manhood's  growth 
We  sprung,  and  you,  devoted  to  the  state. 
As  suits  your  station,  the  more  humble  Bertram 
Was  left  unto  the  labors  of  the  humble. 
Still  you  forsook  me  not ;  and  if  my  fortunes 
Have  not  been  towering,  'twas  no  fault  of  him 
Who  ofttimes  rescued  and  supported  me 
When  struggling  with  the  tides  of  circumstance 
Which  bear  away  the  weaker  :  noble  blood 
Ne'er  mantled  in  a  nobler  heart  than  thine 
Has  proved  to  me,  the  poor  plebeian  Bertram. 
Would  that  thy  fellow-senators  were  like  thee.l 

Lioni.  Why,  what  hast  thou  to  say  against  the 

Ber.  Nothing.  [senate  ? 

Lioni.  I  know  that  there  are  angry  spirits 

And  turbulent  mutterers  of  stifled  treason, 
Who  lurk  in  narrow  places,  and  walk  out 
Muffled  to  whisper  curses  to  the  night ; 
Disbanded  soldiers,  discontented  ruffians. 
And  desperate  libertines  who  brawl  in  taverns  ; 
Tliou,  herdest  not  with  such  :  'tis  true,  of  late 
I  have  lost  sight  of  thee,  but  thou  wert  wont 
To  lead  a  temperate  Ufe,  and  break  thy  bread 
With  honest  mates,  and  bear  a  cheerful  aspect. 
What  hath  come  to  thee  ?  in  thy  hollow  eye 


And  hueless  cheek,  and  thine  unquiet  motions, 
Sorrow  and  shame  and  conscience  seem  at  war 
To  waste  thee. 

Ber.  Bather  shame  and  sorrow  light 

On  the  accursed  tyranny  which  rides 
The  very  air  in  Venice,  and  makes  men 
Madden  as  in  the  last  hours  of  the  plague 
Which  sweeps  the  soul  deliriously  from  life  ! 

Lioni.  Some  villains  have  been  tampering  with 
thee,  Bertram  ; 
This  is  not  thy  old  language,  nor  own  thoughts  ; 
Some  wretch  has  made  thee  drunk  with  disaffection : 
But  thou  must  not  be  lost  so ;  thou  wert  good 
And  kind,  and  art  not  fit  for  such  base  acts 
As  vice  and  villany  would  put  thee  to  : 
Confess — confide  in  me — thou  know'st  my  nature — 
What  is  it  thou  and  thine  are  bound  to  do. 
Which  should  prevent  thy  friend,  the  only  son 
Of  him  who  was  a  friend  unto  thy  father. 
So  that  our  good-wiU  is  a  heritage 
We  should  bequeath  to  our  posterity 
Such  as  ourselves  received  it,  or  augmented ; 
I  say,  what  is  it  thou  must  do,  that  I 
Should  deem  thee  dangerous,  and  keep  the  house 
Like  a  sick  girl  ? 

Ber.                     Nay,  question  me  no  further : 
I  must  be  gone 

Lioni.  And  I  be  murder'd  1 — say, 

Was  it  not  thus  thou  said'st,  my  gentle  Bertram  ? 

Ber.  Who  talks  of  murder  ?  what  said  I  of  mur- 
'Tis  false  1  I  did  not  utter  such  a  word.         [der  ? — 

Lioni.  Thou  didst  not ;  but  from  out  thy  wolfish 
eye, 
So  changed  from  what  I  knew  it,  there  glares  forth 
The  gladiator.    If  my  Ufe's  thine  object, 
Take  it — I  am  imarm'd, — and  then  away  ! 
I  would  not  hold  my  breath  on  such  a  tenure 
As  the  capricious  mercy  of  such  things  [work. 

As  thou  and  those  who  have  set  thee  to  thy  task- 

Ber.  Sooner  than  spill  thy  blood,  I  peril  mine  ; 
Sooner  than  harm  a  hair  of  thine,  I  place 
In  jeopardy  a  thousand  heads,  and  some 
As  noble,  nay,  even  nobler  than  thine  own. 

Lioni.  Ay,  is  it  even  so  ?    Excuse  me,  Bertram  ; 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  singled  out 
From  such  exalted  hecatombs-  -who  are  they 
That  are  in  danger,  and  that  mal-e  the  danger  ? 

Ber.  Venice,  and  aU  that  she  inherits,  are 
Divided  like  a  house  against  itself, 
And  so  will  perish  ere  to-morrow's  twilight  I 

Lioni.  More  mysteries,  and  awful  ones  !   But  now, 
Or  thou,  or  I,  or  both,  it  may  be,  are 
Upon  the  verge  of  ruin  ;  speak  once  out, 
And  thou  art  safe  and  glorious  ;  for  'tis  more 
Glorious  to  save  than  slay,  and  slay  i'  the  dark  too — 
Fie,  Bertram  1  that  was  not  a  craft  for  thee  I 
How  would  it  look  to  see  upon  a  spear 


S^EITE  II. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


ni 


The  head  of  him  -whose  heart  was  open  to  thee, 

Borne  by  thy  hand  before  the  shuddering  people  ? 

And  such  may  be  my  doom  ;  for  here  I  swear, 

Whate'er  the  peril  or  the  penalty 

Of  thy  denunciation,  I  go  forth, 

Unless  thou  dost  detail  the  cause,  and  show 

The  consequence  of  all  which  led  thee  here  I 

Bcr.  Is  there  no  way  to  save  thee  ?  minutes  fly. 
And  thou  art  lost ! — tlwu  !  my  sole  benefactor. 
The  only  being  who  was  constant  to  me 
Through  every  change.    Yet,  make  me  not  a  trai- 
Let  me  save  thee — but  spare  my  honor  !  [tor  ! 

Lioni.  Where 

Can  lie  the  honor  in  a  league  of  murder  ? 
And  who  are  traitors  save  unto  the  state  ? 

Ber.  A  league  is  still  a  compact,  and  more  binding 
In  honest  hearts  when  words  must  stand  for  law ; 
And  in  my  mind,  there  is  no  traitor  like 
He  whose  domestic  treason  plants  the  poinard 
Within  the  breast  which  trusted  to  his  truth. 

Lioni.  And  who  wll  strike  the  steel  to  mine  ? 

Ber.  Not  I; 

I  could  have  wound  my  soul  up  to  all  things 
Save  this.  Thou  must  not  die  1  and  think  how  dear 
Thy  life  is,  when  I  risk  so  many  lives. 
Nay,  more,  the  life  of  lives,  the  Uberty 
Of  future  generations,  not  to  be 
The  assassin  thou  miscall'st  me ; — once,  once  more 
I  do  adjure  thee,  pass  not  o'er  thy  tSireshold ! 

Lioin.  It  is  in  vain — this  moment  I  go  forth. 

Ber.  Then  perish  Venice  rather  than  my  Mend ! 
I  will  disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh,  what  a  villain  I  become  for  thee  !        [state's  ! — 

Lioni.  Say,  rather  thy  friend's  saviour  and  the 
Speak— pause  not — all  rewards,  all  pledges  for 
Thy  safety  and  thy  welfare  ;  wealth  such  as 
The  state  accords  her  worthiest  servants  ;  nay. 
Nobility  itself  I  guarantee  thee. 
So  that  thou  art  sincere  and  penitent,     [love  thee — 

Ber.  I  have  thought  again :   it  must  not  be — I 
Thou  knowest  it — that  I  stand  here  is  the  proof. 
Not  least  though  last ;  but  having  done  my  duty 
By  thee,  I  now  must  do  it  to  my  country  ! 
Farewell — we  meet  no  more  in  life  I — farewell  1 

Lioni.  What,  ho  ! — Antonio — Pedro — to  the  door  1 
Sec  that  none  pass — arrest  this  man  ! 

Enter  Antonio  and  other  armed  Domestics,  who  seize 
Bertbam. 
Lioni.  (continues.)  Take  care 

He  hath  no  harm  ;  bring  me  my  sword  and  cloak ; 
And  man  the  gondola  with  four  oars — quick. 

[Exit  Antonio. 
We  will  unto  Giovanni  Gradenigo's, 
And  send  for  Marc  Comaro  ; — fear  not  Bertram  ; 
This  needful  violence  is  for  thy  safety, 
No  less  than  for  the  general  weal. 
28 


Ber.  Where  wouldst  thou 

Bear  me  a  prisoner  ? 

Lioni.  Firstly  to  "  the  Ten  ;" 

Next  to  the  Doge. 

Ber.  To  the  Doge  ? 

Lioni.  Assuredly : 

Is  he  not  chief  of  the  state  ? 

Ber.  Perhaps  at  sunrise — 

Lioni.  What  mean  you  ? — but  we'll  know  anon. 

Ber.  Art  sure  ? 

Lioni.  Sure  as  aU  gentle  means  can  make ;  and  if 
They  fail,  you  know  "  the  Ten  "  and  their  tribunal, 
And  that  St.  Mark's  has  dungeons,  and  the  dungeons 
A  rack. 

Ber.      Apply  it  then  before  the  dawn  , 

Now  hastening  into  heaven.     One  more  such  word, 
And  you  shall  perish  piecemeal,  by  the  death 
You  think  to  doom  to  me. 


He-enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  The  bark  is  ready, 

My  lord,  and  all  prepared. 

Lioni.  Look  to  the  prisoner. 

Bertram,  I'll  reason  with  thee  as  we  go 
To  the  Magnifico's,  sage  Gradenigo.  [Eh:e^lnt. 

SCENE  n. 

The  Ducal  Palace. — The  Doge^s  Apartment. 

The  DoQE  and  his  nephew  Berttjccio  Falieko. 

Doge.  Are  all  the  people  of  our  house  in  muster  ? 

Ber.  F.  They  are  array'd,  and  eager  for  the  signal, 
Within  our  palace  precincts  at  San  Polo." 
I  come  for  your  last  orders. 

Doge.  It  had  been 

As  well  had  there  been  time  to  have  got  together, 
From  my  own  fief,  Val  di  Marino,  more 
Of  our  retainers— but  it  is  too  late. 

Ber.  F.  Methinks,  my  lord,  'tis  better  as  it  is  : 
A  sudden  swelling  of  our  retinue 
Had  waked  suspicion  ;  and,  though  fierce  and  trusty. 
The  vassals  of  that  district  are  too  rude 
And  quick  in  quarrel  to  have  long  maintain'd 
The  secret  discipline  we  need  for  such 
A  service,  till  our  foes  are  dealt  upon. 

Doge.  True ;  but  when  once  the  signal  has  been 
These  are  the  men  for  such  an  enterprise ;       [given, 
These  city  slaves  have  all  their  private  bias. 
Their  prejudice  against  or  for  this  noble, 
Which  may  induce  them  to  o'erdo  or  spare 
Where  mercy  may  be  madness  ;  the  fierce  peasants, 
Serfs  of  my  country  of  Val  di  Marino, 
Would  do  the  bidding  of  their  lord  without 
Distinguishing  for  love  or  hate  his  foes  ; 


'  The  Doge's  fiunil;  palace. 


I 


218 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   IV. 


Alike  to  them  Marcello  or  Comaro, 

A  Gradenigo  or  a  Foscari  ; 

They  are  not  used  to  start  at  those  vain  names 

Nor  bow  the  knee  before  a  civic  senate ; 

A  chief  in  armor  is  their  Suzerain, 

And  not  a  thing  in  robes. 

Ber.  F.  "We  are  enough  ; 

And  for  the  dispositions  of  our  clients 
Against  the  senate  I  wiU  answer. 

Doge.  Well, 

The  die  is  thrown  ;  but  for  a  warlike  service. 
Done  in  the  field,  commend  me  to  my  peasants  : 
They  made  the  sun  shine  through  the  host  of  Huns 
When  sallow  burghers  slunk  back  to  their  tents, 
Aijd  cower'd  to  hear  their  own  victorious  trumpet. 
If  there  be  small  resistance,  you  will  find 
These  citizens  all  lions,  like  their  standard ; 
But  if  there's  much  to  do,  you'll  wish,  with  me, 
A  band  of  iron  rustics  at  our  backs. 

Ber.  F.  Thus  thinking,  I  must  marvel  you  resolve 
To  strike  the  blow  so  suddenly. 

Doge.  Such  blows 

Must  be  struck  suddenly  or  never.    When 
I  had  o'ermaster'd  the  weak  false  remorse 
Which  yeam'd  about  my  heart,  too  fondly  yielding 
A  moment  to  the  feelings  of  old  days, 
I  was  most  fain  to  strike ;  and,  firstly,  that 
I  might  not  yield  again  to  such  emotions  ; 
And,  secondly,  because  of  all  these  men. 
Save  Israel  and  Philip  Calendaro, 
I  know  not  well  the  courage  or  the  faith  : 
To-day  might  find  'mongst  them  a  traitor  to  us. 
As  yesterday  a  thousand  to  the  senate ; 
But  once  in  with  their  hilts  hot  in  their  hands, 
They  must  on  for  their  own  sakes ;  one  stroke  struck, 
And  the  mere  instinct  of  the  first-born  Cain, 
Which  ever  lurks  somewhere  in  human  hearts. 
Though  cii'cumstance  may  keep  it  in  abeyance. 
Will  urge  the  rest  on  like  to  wolves  ;  the  sight 
Of  blood  to  crowds  begets  the  thirst  of  more, 
As  the  first  wine-cup  leads  to  the  long  revel ; 
And  you  will  find  a  harder  task  to  quell 
Than  urge  them  when  they  ham  commenced,  but  till 
That  moment,  a  mere  voice,  a  straw,  a  shadow, 
Are  capable  of  turning  them  aside. 
How  goes  the  night  ? 

Ber.  F.  Almost  upon  the  dawn. 

Doge.  Then  it  is  time  to  strike  upon  the  bell. 
Are  the  men  posted  ? 

Ber.  F.  By  this  time  they  are. 

But  they  have  orders  not  to  strike,  imtil 
They  have  command  from  you  through  me  in  person. 

Doge.  'Tis  well.    Will  the  morn  never  put  to  rest 
These  stars  which  twinkle  yet  o'er  all  the  heavens  ? 
I  am  settled  and  boimd  up,  and  being  so, 
The  very  effort  which  it  cost  me  to 
Resolve  to  cleanse  this  commonwealth  with  fire, 


Now  leaves  my  mind  more  steady.    I  have  wept. 

And  trembled  at  the  thought  of  this  dread  duty  ; 

But  now  I  have  put  dovm  all  idle  passion, 

And  look  the  growing  tempest  in  the  face. 

As  doth  the  pilot  of  an  admiral  galley  : 

Yet  (wouldst  thou  think  it,  kinsman  ?)  it  hath  been 

A  greater  struggle  to  me,  than  when  nations 

Beheld  their  fate  merged  in  the  approaching  fight, 

Where  I  was  leader  of  a  phalanx,  where 

Thousands  were  sure  to  perish.    Yes,  to  spill 

The  rank  polluted  current  from  the  veins 

Of  a  few  bloated  despots  needed  more 

To  steel  me  to  a  purpose  such  as  made 

Timoleon  immortal,  than  to  face 

The  toils  and  dangers  of  a  life  of  war. 

Ber.  F.  It  gladdens  me  to  see  your  former  wisdom 
Subdue  the  furies  which  so  wrung  you  ere 
You  were  decided. 

Doge.  It  was  ever  thus 

With  me ;  the  hour  of  agitation  came 
In  the  first  gUmmerings  of  a  purpose,  when 
Passion  had  too  much  room  to  sway ;  but  in 
The  hour  of  action  I  have  stood  as  calm 
As  were  the  dead  who  lay  around  me  :  this 
They  knew  who  made  me  what  I  am,  and  trusted 
To  the  subduing  power  which  I  preserved 
Over  my  mood,  when  its  first  burst  was  spent. 
But  they  were  not  aware  that  there  are  things 
Which  make  reVenge  a  virtue  by  reflection, 
And  not  an  impulse  of  mere  anger  :  though 
The  laws  sleep,  justice  wakes,  and  injured  souls 
Oft  do  a  public  right  with  private  wrong, 
And  justify  their  deeds  unto  themselves. — 
Methinks  the  day  breaks — is  it  not  so  ?  look, 
Thine  eyes  are  clear  with  youth  ; — the  air  puts  on 
A  morning  freshness,  and,  at  least  to  me. 
The  sea  looks  grayer  through  the  lattice. 

Ber.  F.  True, 

The  mom  is  dappling  in  the  sky. 

Doge.  Away  then  ! 

See  that  they  strike  without  delay,  and  with 
The  first  toll  from  St.  Mark's,  march  on  the  palace 
With  all  our  house's  strength :  here  I  will  meet  you — 
The  Sixteen  and  their  companies  will  move 
In  separate  columns  at  the  self-same  moment — 
Be  sure  you  post  yourself  at  the  great  gate  : 
I  would  not  trust  "  the  Ten  "  except  to  us — 
The  rest,  the  rabble  of  patricians,  may         [with  us. 
Glut  the   more   careless   swords   of  those   leagued 
Remember  that  the  cry  is  still  "  Saint  Mark  ! 
The  Genoese  are  come — ho  !  to  the  rescue  ! 
Saint  Mark  and  Liberty  !" — Now — now  to  action  1 

Ber.  F.  Farewell  then,  noble  uncle  !  we  will  meet 
In  freedom  and  true  sovereignty,  or  never  ! 

Doge.  Come  hither,  my  Bertuccio — one  embrace- 
Speed,  for  the  day  grows  broader — Send  me  soon 
A  messenger  to  tell  me  how  all  goes 


6CBNE   IL 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


219 


When  you  rejoin  our  troops,  and  then  sound — sound 
The  storm-bell  from  St.  Mark's  ! 

[Exit  BERTrccio  Falikro. 
Doge,  (suhis.)  *  He  is  gone, 

And  on  each  footstep  moves  a  life. — 'Tis  done. 
Now  the  destroying  angel  hovers  o'er 
Venice,  and  pauses  ere  he  pours  the  vial, 
Even  as  the  eagle  overlooks  his  prey, 
.(Vnd  for  a  moment,  poised  in  middle  air, 
Suspends  the  motion  of  his  mighty  wings, 
Then  swoops  with  his  unerring  beak. — Thou  day  ! 
That  slowly  walk'st  the  waters  !  march — march  on — 
I  would  not  smite  i'  the  dark,  but  rather  see 
That  no  stroke  errs.    And  you,  ye  blue  sea-waves  1 
I  have  seen  you  dyed  ere  now,  and  deeply  too, 
With  Genoese,  Saracen,  and  Hunnish  gore. 
While  that  of  Venice  flow'd  too,  but  victorious  ; 
Now  tbou  must  wear  an  unmix'd  crimson  ;  no 
Barbaric  blood  can  reconcile  us  now 
Unto  that  horrible  incarnadine. 
But  friend  or  foe  will  roll  in  civic  slaughter. 
And  have  I  lived  to  fourscore  years  for  this  ? 
I,  who  was  named  Preserver  of  the  City  ? 
I,  at  whose  name  the  million's  caps  were  flung 
Into  the  air,  and  cries  from  tens  of  thousands 
Rose  up,  imploring  Heaven  to  send  me  blessings, 
And  fome,  and  length  of  days — to  see  this  day  ? 
But  this  day,  black  within  the  calendar. 
Shall  be  succeeded  by  a  bright  millennium. 
Doge  Dandolo  survived  to  ninety  summers 
To  vanquish  empires,  and  refuse  their  crown ; 
I  will  resign  a  crown,  and  make  the  state 
llenew  its  freedom — but  oh  1  by  what  means  ? 
The  noble  end  must  justify  them — Wliat 
Are  a  few  drops  of  human  blood  ?  'tis  false. 
The  blood  of  tyrants  is  not  human ;  they, 
Like  to  incarnate  Molochs,  feed  on  ours. 
Until  'tis  time  to  give  them  to  the  tombs 
Which  they  have  made  so  populous. — Oh  world  I 
Oh  men  !  what  are  ye,  and  our  best  designs. 
That  we  must  work  by  crime  to  punish  crime  ? 
And  slay  as  if  Death  had  but  this  one  gate. 
When  a  few  years  would  make  the  sword  superfluous  ? 
And  I,  upon  the  verge  of  th'  miknown  realm. 
Yet  send  so  many  heralds  on  before  me  ? — 
I  must  not  ponder  this. 

[A  jJauge. 
Hark  !  was  there  not 
A  murmur  as  of  distant  voices,  and 
The  tramp  of  feet  in  martial  unison  ? 
Wliat  phantoms  even  of  sound  our  wishes  raise  1 
It  cannot  be — the  signal  hath  not  rung — 
Why  pauses  it  ?    My  nephew's  messenger 
Should  be  upon  his  way  to  me,  and  he 
Himself  perhaps  even  now  draws  grating  back 
Upon  its  ponderous  hinge  the  steep  tower  portal, 
Where  swings  the  sullen  huge  oracular  bell. 


Which  never  knells  but  for  a  princely  death, 
Or  for  a  state  in  peril,  pealing  forth 
Tremendous  bodements  ;  let  it  do  its  oflice. 
And  be  this  peal  its  awfulest  and  last. 
Sound  till  the  strong  tower  rock  ! — ^Wliat !  silent 
I  would  go  forth,  but  that  my  post  is  here,      [still  ? 
To  be  the  centre  of  reunion  to 
The  oft  discordant  elements  which  form 
Leagues  of  this  nature,  and  to  keep  compact 
The  wavering  of  the  weak,  in  case  of  conflict ; 
For  if  they  should  do  battle,  'twill  be  here. 
Within  the  palace,  that  the  strife  will  thicken  : 
Then  here  must  be  my  station,  as  becomes 

The  master-mover. Hark  !  he  comes — he  comes. 

My  nephew,  brave  Bertuccio's  messenger. — 
What  tidings  ?  Is  he  marching  ?  hath  he  sped  ? — 
27iey  here  ! — all's  lost — yet  will  I  make  an  efibrt. 

E7iter  a  Siqnob  of  the  Niout  with  Quarts, 
etc.,  etc. 

Sig.  Doge,  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  I 

Doge.  Me  1 

Thy  prince,  of  treason  ? — Wlio  are  they  that  dare 
Cloak  their  own  treason  under  such  an  order  ? 

Sig.  {showing  Ms  order.)    Behold  my  order  from 
the  assembled  Ten. 

Doge.  And  where  are  they,  and  why  assembled  ?  no 
Such  council  can  be  lawful,  till  the  prince 
Preside  there,  and  that  duty's  mine  ;  on  thine 
I  charge  thee,  give  me  way,  or  marshal  me 
To  the  council  chamber. 

Sig.  Duke  !  it  may  not  be : 

Nor  are  they  in  the  wonted  Hall  of  Council, 
But  sitting  in  the  convent  of  Saint  Saviour's. 

Doge.  You  dare  to  disobey  me,  then  ? 

Sig.  I  serve 

The  state,  and  needs  must  serve  it  faithfully  ; 
My  warrant  is  the  will  of  those  who  rule  it. 

Doge.  And  till  that  warrant  has  my  signature 
It  is  illegal,  and,  as  now  applied. 
Rebellious — Hast  thou  weigh'd  well  thy  life's  worth, 
That  thus  you  dare  assume  a  lawless  function  ? 

Sig.  'Tis  not  my  office  to  reply,  but  act — 
I  am  placed  here  as  guard  upon  thy  person. 
And  not  as  judge  to  hear  or  to  decide. 

Doge,   (aside.)    I  must  gain  time — So  that  the 
storm-bell  sound 
All  may  be  well  yet. — Kinsman,  speed — speed — 
Our  fate  is  trembling  in  the  balance,  and   [speed ! — 
Wo  to  the  vanquish'd  !  be  they  prince  and  people. 
Or  slaves  and  senate — 

[The  great  lell  of  Saint  Marh's  tolls. 
Lo  !  it  sounds — it  tolls  I 
(Aloud.)    Hark,  Signor  of  the  Night !  and  you,  ye 
■Who  wield  your  mercenary  staves  in  fear,  [hirelings. 
It  is  your  knell — Swell  on,  thou  lusty  peal ! 
Now,  knaves,  what  ransom  for  your  lives  ? 


220 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


glg^  Confusion  1 

Stand  to  your  arms,  and  guard  the  door — all's  lost 
Unless  that  fearful  beU  be  silenced  soon. 
The  officer  hath  miss'd  his  path  or  purpose, 
Or  met  some  unforeseen  and  hideous  obstacle. 
Anselmo,  with  thy  company  proceed 
Straight  to  the  Tower ;  the  rest  remain  with  me. 

\Exit  part  of  the  Guard. 

Doge.  Wretch  !  if  thou  wouldst  have  thy  vile  life, 
implore  it ; 
It  is  not  now  a  lease  of  sixty  seconds. 
Ay,  send  thy  miserable  ruffians  forth  ; 
They  never  shall  return. 

Siff.  So  let  it  be  1 

They  die  then  in  their  duty,  as  will  I. 

Doge.  Pool !  the  high  eagle  flies  at  nobler  game 
Than  thou  and  thy  base  myrmidons, — live  on. 
So  thou  provok'st  not  peril  by  resistance, 
And  learn  (if  souls  so  much  obscured  can  bear 
To  gaze  upon  the  sunbeams)  to  be  free. 

Sig.  And  learn  thou  to  be  captive — It  hath  ceased, 
[  The  bell  ceases  to  toll. 
The  traitorous  signal,  which  was  to  have  set 
The  bloodhound  mob  on  their  patrician  prey — 
The  kneU  hath  rung,  but  it  is  not  the  senate's  ! 

Doge,  (after  a  pause.)  All's  silent,  and  all's  lost ! 

Sig.  Now,  Doge,  denounce  me  1 

As  rebel  slave  of  a  revolted  council ! 
Have  I  not  done  my  duty  ? 

Doge.  .  Peace !  thou  thing  ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  worthy  deed,  and  eam'd  the  price 
Of  blood,  and  they  who  use  thee  will  reward  thee. 
But  thou  wert  sent  to  watch  and  not  to  prate. 
As  thou  saidst  even  now- — then  do  thine  office, 
But  let  it  be  in  silence,  as  behooves  thee, 
Since,  though  thy  prisoner,  I  am  thy  prince. 

Sig.  I  did  not  mean  to  fail  in  the  respect 
Due  to  your  rank  :  in  this  I  shall  obey  you. 

Doge,  {aside.)  There  now  is  nothing  left  me  save  to 
And  yet  how  near  success !  I  would  have  fallen  [die  ; 
And  proudly,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  but 
To  miss  it  thus  1 

Enter  other  Signors  op  the  Night,  loith  Bebtuccio 
Falieeo  prisoner. 

2d  Sig.  We  took  him  in  the  act 

Of  issuing  from  the  tower,  where,  at  his  order. 
As  delegated  from  the  Doge,  the  signal 
Had  thus  begun  to  sound. 

Ist  Sig.  Are  all  the  passes 

Which  lead  up  to  the  palace  well  secured  ? 

2d  Sig.  They  are- — besides,  it  matters  not ;  the  chiefs 
Are  all  in  chains,  and  some  even  now  on  trial — 
Their  followers  are  dispersed,  and  many  taken. 

£er.  F.  Uncle ! 

Doge.  It  is  in  vain  to  war  with  Fortune  ; 

The  Glory  hath  departed  from  our  house. 


Ber.  F.   Who  would  have  deem'd  it  ? — Ah  !  one 
moment  sooner  ! 

Doge.  That  moment  would  have  changed  the  face 
This  gives  us  to  eternity — We'll  meet  it      [of  ages  ; 
As  men  whose  triumph  is  not  in  success. 
But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all, 
Equal  to  every  fortune.    Droop  not,  'tis 
But  a  brief  passage — I  would  go  alone, 
Yet  if  they  send  us,  as  'tis  like,  together, 
Let  us  go  worthy  of  our  sires  and  selves, 

Ber.  F.  I  shall  not  shame  you,  uncle. 

lat  Sig.  Lords,  our  orders 

Are  to  keep  guard  on  both  in  separate  chambers, 
Until  the  council  call  ye  to  your  trial. 

Doge.  Our  trial !  will  they  keep  their  mockery  up 
Even  to  the  last  ?  but  let  them  deal  upon  us, 
As  we  had  dealt  on  them,  but  with  less  pomp. 
'Tis  but  a  game  of  mutual  homicides. 
Who  have  cast  lots  for  the  first  death,  and  they 
Have  won  with  false  dice. — Who  hath  been  our  Judas  3 

1st  Sig.  I  am  not  warranted  to  answer  that. 

Ber.  F.  I'D  answer  for  thee — 'tis  a  certain  Bertram, 
Even  now  deposing  to  the  secret  giunta. 

Doge.  Bertram  the  Bergamask!  With  what  vile  tools 
We  operate  to  slay  or  save  !  This  creature, 
Black  with  a  double  treason,  now  wiU  earn 
Rewards  and  honors,  and  be  stamp'd  in  story 
With  the  geese  in  the  Capitol,  which  gabbled 
TiU  Rome  awoke,  and  had  an  annual  triumph. 
While  Manlius,  who  hurl'd  down  the  Gauls,  was  cast 
Prom  the  Tarpeian. 

1st  Sig.  He  aspired  to  treason. 

And  sought  to  rule  the  state. 

Doge.  He  saved  the  state, 

And  sought  but  to  reform  what  he  revived — 
But  this  is  idle Come,  sirs,  do  your  work. 

\st  Sig.  Noble  Bertuccio,  we  must  now  remove  you 
Into  an  inner  chamber. 

Ber.  F.  Farewell,  uncle  ! 

If  we  shall  meet  again  in  life  I  know  not. 
But  they  perhaps  will  let  our  ashes  mingle. 

Doge.  Yes,  and  our  spirits,  whicli  shall  yet  go  forth, 
And  do  what  our  frail  clay,  thus  clogg'd,  hath  fail'd  in ! 
They  cannot  quench  the  memory  of  those 
Wlio  would  have  hurl'd  them  from  their  guilty  thrones, 
And  such  examples  will  find  heirs,  though  distant. 

ACT    V. 

SOBNE     I. 

The  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten  assembled  with  the 
additional  Senators,  who,  on  the  Trials  of  the  Con- 
spirators for  the  Treason  of  Marino  Paliero, 
composed  what  was  called  the  G'iu/da. —  Guards, 
Officers,  etc.,  etc. — Isbaei,  Bertuccio  and  Philip 
Calkndaro  as  Prisoners.— BKRTHAfi,  Lioni,  and 
Witne.'ises,  etc. 


SCENB   I. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


221 


Th*  Chief  of  the  Ten,  Bkkintesde. 

Ben,  There  now  rests,  after  such  conviction  of 
Their  manifold  and  manifest  offences, 
But  to  pronounce  on  these  obdurate  men 
The  sentence  of  the  law  : — a  grievous  task 
To  those  who  hear,  and  those  who  speak.    Alas  ! 
That  it  should  fall  to  me  I  and  that  my  days 
Of  office  should  be  stigmatized  through  all 
The  years  of  coming  time,  as  bearing  record 
To  this  most  foul  and  complicated  treason 
Against  a  just  and  free  state,  known  to  all 
The  earth  as  being  the  Christian  bulwark  'gainst 
The  Saracen  and  the  schismatic  Greek, 
The  savage  Hun,  and  not  less  barbarous  Frank ; 
A  city  which  has  open'd  India's  wealth 
To  Europe  ;  the  last  Roman  refuge  from 
O'erwhelming  Attila ;  the  ocean's  queen  ; 
Proud  Genoa's  prouder  rival !    'Tis  to  sap 
The  throne  of  such  a  city,  these  lost  men 
Have  risk'd  and  forfeited  their  worthless  lives — 
So  let  them  die  the  death. 

/.  Ber.  We  are  prepared ; 

Yonr  racks  have  done  that  for  us.    Let  us  die. 

Ben.  If  ye  have  that  to  say  which  would  obtain 
Abatement  of  your  punishment,  the  Giunta 
WiU  hear  you  ;  if  you  have  aught  to  confess, 
Now  is  your  time,  perhaps  it  may  avail  ye. 

/.  Ber.  We  stand  to  hear,  and  not  to  speak. 

Ben.  Tour  crimes 

Are  fully  proved  by  your  accomplices, 
And  all  which  circumstance  can  add  to  aid  them  ; 
Yet  we  would  hear  from  your  own  lips  complete 
Avowal  of  your  treason  :  on  the  verge 
Of  that  dread  gulf  which  none  repass,  the  truth 
Alone  can  profit  you  on  earth  or  heaven — 
Say,  then,  what  was  your  motive  ? 

/.  Ber.  Justice  1 

Ben.  What 

Your  object  ? 

/.  Ber.  Freedom  ! 

Ben.  You  are  brief,  sir. 

I.  Ber.  So  my  life  grows  :  I 
Was  bred  a  soldier,  not  a  senator. 

Ben.  Perhaps  you  think  by  this  blunt  brevity 
To  brave  your  judges  to  postpone  the  sentence  ? 

/.  Ber.  Do  you  be  brief  as  I  am,  and  believe  me, 
I  shaU  prefer  that  mercy  to  your  pardon. 

Ben.  Is  this  your  sole  reply  to  the  tribunal  ? 

/.  Ber.  Go,  ask  your  racks  what  they  have  virung 
from  us,  [left. 

Or  place  us  there  again ;  we  have  still  some  blood 
And  some  slight  sense  of  pain  in  these  wrench'd  limbs : 
But  this  ye  dare  not  do  ;  for  if  we  die  there — 
And  you  have  left  us  little  life  to  spend 
Upon  your  engines,  gorged  with  pangs  already— 
Ye  lose  the  public  spectacle,  with  which 
You  would  appal  your  slaves  to  further  slavery ! 


Groans  are  not  words,  nor  agony  assent, 
Nor  afiirmation  truth,  if  nature's  sense 
Should  overcome  the  soul  into  a  lie, 
For  a  short  respite — must  we  bear  or  die  ? 

Ben.  Say,  who  were  your  accompUces  ? 

/.  Ber.  The  Senate  ! 

Ben.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

I.  Ber.  Ask  of  the  suffering  people. 

Whom  your  patrician  crimes  have  driven  to  crime. 

Ben.  You  know  the  Doge  ? 

/.  Ber.  I  served  with  him  at  Zara 

In  the  field,  when  you  were  pleading  here  your  way 
To  present  office  ;  we  exposed  our  hves, 
While  you  but  hazarded  the  lives  of  others, 
Alike  by  accusation  or  defence  ; 
And,  for  the  rest,  all  Venice  knows  her  Doge, 
Through  his  great  actions,  and  the  Senate's  insults. 

Ben.  You  have  held  conference  with  him  ? 

/.  Ber.  I  am  weary — 

Even  wearier  of  your  questions  than  your  tortures  ; 
I  pray  you  pass  to  judgment. 

Ben.  It  is  coming. — 

And  you,  too,  Philip  Calendaro,  what 
Have  you  to  say  why  you  should  not  be  doom'd  ? 

Gal.  I  never  was  a  man  of  many  words. 
And  now  have  few  left  worth  the  utterance. 

Ben.  A  further  application  of  yon  engine 
May  change  your  tone. 

Gal.  Most  true,  it  will  do  so ; 

A  former  application  did  so  ;  but 
It  will  not  change  my  words,  or,  if  it  did — 

Be7\.  What  then  ? 

Gal.  Will  my  avowal  on  yon  rack 

Stand  good  in  law  ? 

Ben.  Assuredly. 

Gal.  Whoe'er 

The  culprit  be  whom  I  accuse  of  treason  ? 

Ben.  Without  doubt,  he  will  be  brought  up  to  trial. 

Gal.  And  on  this  testimony  would  he  perish  ? 

Ben.  So  your  confession  be  detail'd  and  full. 
He  will  stand  here  in  peril  of  his  life. 

Gal.  Then  look  well  to  thy  proud  self.  President ! 
For  by  the  eternity  which  yawns  before  me, 
I  swear  that  thoy,  and  only  thou,  shalt  he 
The  traitor  I  denounce  upon  that  rack. 
If  I  be  stretch'd  there  for  the  second  time. 

One  of  the  Giimta.  Lord  President,  'twere  best 
proceed  to  judgment  ; 
There  is  no  more  to  be  drawn  from  these  men. 

Ben.  Unhappy  men  I  prepare  for  instant  death. 
The  nature  of  your  crime— our  law — and  peril 
The  state  now  stands  in,  leave  not  an  hour's  respite — 
Guards  !  lead  them  forth,  and  upon  the  balcony 
Of  the  red  columns,  where,  on  festal  Thursday,' 


'  "  Giovedl  grasso  "— "  fat,  or  greasy  Thursday,' 
not  literally  translate  In  the  text,  wan  the  day. 


-which  I  can- 


2-22 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  V, 


The  Doge  stands  to  behold  the  chase  of  bulls, 
Let  them  be  justified  :  and  leave  exposed 
Their  wavering  relics,  in  the  place  of  judgment, 
To  the  full  view  of  the  assembled  people  ! — 
And  heaven  have  mercy  on  their  souls  ! 

The  GiunUi.  Amen ! 

/.  Ber.  Signors,  farewell !  we  shall  not  all  again 
Meet  in  one  place. 

Ben.  And  lest  they  should  essay 

To  stir  up  the  distracted  multitude — 
Guards  !  let  their  mouths  be  gagg'd,  even  in  the  act 
Of  execution. — Lead  them  hence  ! 

Cal.  What !  must  we 

Not  even  say  farewell  to  some  fond  friend. 
Nor  leave  a  last  word  with  our  confessor  ? 

Ben.  A  priest  is  waiting  in  the  antechamber ; 
But,  for  your  friends,  such  interview  would  be 
Painful  to  them,  and  useless  all  to  you. 

Cal.  I  knew  that  we  were  gagg'd  in  life ;  at  least 
All  those  who  had  not  heart  to  risk  their  lives 
Upon  their  open  thoughts  ;  but  still  I  deem'd 
That  in  the  last  few  moments,  the  same  idle 
Freedom  of  speech  accorded  to  the  dying, 
"Would  not  now  be  denied  to  us  ;  but  since 

/.  Ber.    Even  let  them   have  their  way,  brave 
"What  matter  a  few  syllables  ?  let's  die    [Calendaro  ! 
"Without  the  slightest  show  of  favor  from  them  ; 
So  shall  our  blood  more  readily  arise 
To  Heaven  against  them,  and  more  testify 
To  their  atrocities,  than  could  a  volume 
Spoken  or  written  of  our  dying  words  ! 
They  tremble  at  our  voices — nay,  they  dread 
Our  verj'  silence — let  them  live  in  fear  ! — 
Leave  them  unto  their  thoughts,  and  let  us  now 
Address  our  own  above  ! — Lead  on  ;  we  are  ready. 

Cal.  Israel,  hadst  thou  but  harken'd  unto  me 
It  had  not  now  been  thus ;  and  yon  pale  villain, 
The  coward  Bertram,  would 

/.  Ber.  Peace,  Calendaro  ! 

"What  brooks  it  now  to  ponder  upon  this. 

Bert.  Alas !  I  fain  you  died  in  peace  with  me ; 
I  did  not  seek  this  task  ;  'twas  forced  upon  me  : 
Say,  you  forgive  me,  though  I  never  can 
Retrieve  my  own  forgiveness — frown  not  thus  ! 

/.  Ber.  I  die  and  pardon  thee  ! 

Cal.  (spitting  at  Mm).    I  die  and  scorn  thee  ! 

[^Exeunt  Israel  Bbrtuccio  and  Phh^ip 
Calendaro,  Guards,  etc. 

Ben.  Now  that  these  criminals  have  been  disposed 
'Tis  time  that  wc  proceed  to  pass  our  sentence 
Upon  the  greatest  traitor  upon  record 
In  any  annals,  the  Doge  Faliero  ! 
The  proofs  and  process  are  complete  ;  the  time 
And  crime  require  a  quick  procedure  :  shall 
He  now  be  caU'd  in  to  receive  the  award  ? 
The  Oiuiita,  Ay,  ay. 

Ben.  Avogadori,  order  that  the  Doge 


Be  brought  before  the  council. 

One  of  the  Oiunta.  And  the  rest, 

"When  shall  they  be  brought  up  ? 

Ben.  "When  all  the  chiefs 

Have  been  disposed  of     Some  have  iied  to  Chiozza ; 
But  there  are  thousands  in  pursuit  of  them, 
And  such  precaution  ta'en  on  terra  firma. 
As  well  as  in  the  islands,  that  we  hope 
None  "will  escape  to  utter  in  strange  lands 
His  libellous  tale  of  treasons  'gainst  the  senate. 

Enter  the  Doge  as  Prisoner,  with  Guards,  etc.,  ete. 

Ben.  Doge — for  such  still  you  are,  and  by  the  law 
Must  be  consider'd  tiU  the  hour  shall  come 
"When  you  must  doff  the  ducal  bonnet  from 
That  head,  which  could  not  wear  a  crown  more  noble 
Than  empires  can  confer,  in  quiet  honor. 
Bat  it  must  plot  to  overthrow  your  peers, 
"Who  made  you  what  you  are,  and  quench  in  blood 
A  city's  glory — we  have  laid  already 
Before  you  in  your  chamber  at  full  length. 
By  the  Avogadori,  all  the  proofe 
"Which  have  appear'd  against  you ;  and  more  ample 
Ne'er  rear'd  their  sanguinary  shadows  to 
Confront  a  traitor.    "What  have  you  to  say 
In  your  defence  ? 

JDoge.  "What  shall  I  say  to  ye. 

Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemnation  ? 
Tou  are  at  once  offenders  and  accusers. 
Judges  and  executioners  ! — Proceed 
Upon  your  power. 

Ben.  Your  chief  accomplices 

Having  confess'd,  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 

Doge.  And  who  be  they  ? 

Ben.  In  number  many ;  but 

The  first  now  stands  before  you  and  the  court, 
Bertram,  of  Bergamo, — would  you  question  him  ? 

Doge,  {loohing  at  him  contemptuously.)     No. 

Ben.  And  two  others,  Israel  Bertuccio, 

And  Philip  Calendaro,  have  admitted 
Their  fellowship  in  treason  with  the  Doge  ! 

Doge.  And  where  are  they  ? 

Ben.  Gone  to  their  place,  and  now 

Answering  to  Heaven  for  what  they  did  on  earth. 

Doge.  Ah  !  the  plebeian  Brutus,  is  he  gone  ? 
And  the  quick  Cassius  of  the  arsenal  ? — 
How  did  they  meet  their  doom  ? 

Ben.  Think  of  your  own  ; 

It  is  approaching.    You  decline  to  plead,  then  ? 

Doge.  I  cannot  plead  to  my  inferiors,  nor 
Can  recognize  your  legal  power  to  try  me. 
Show  me  the  law  ! 

Ben.  On  great  emergencies. 

The  law  must  be  remodell'd  or  amended  : 
Our  fathers  had  not  flx'd  the  punishment 
Of  such  a  crime,  as  on  the  old  Roman  tables 
The  sentence  against  parricide  was  left 


SCENE   I. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


223 


In  pure  forgetfulness  ;  they  could  not  render 
That  penal,  which  had  neither  name  nor  thought 
In  their  great  bosoms  :  who  would  have  foreseen 
That  nature  could  be  filed  to  such  a  crime 
As  sons  'gainst  sires,  and  princes  'gainst  their  realms  ? 
Your  sin  hath  made  us  make  a  law  which  will 
Become  a  precedent  'gainst  such  haught  traitors, 
As  would  with  treason  moimt  to  tyranny ; 
Not  even  contented  with  a  sceptre,  till 
They  can  convert  it  to  a  two-edged  sword  I 
Was  not  the  place  of  Doge  sufBcient  for  ye  ? 
What's  nobler  than  the  signory  of  Venice  ? 

BoQC.  The  signory  of  Venice  !  Tou  betray'd  me — 
You — you,  who  sit  there,  traitors  as  ye  are  ! 
From  my  equality  with  you  in  birth, 
And  my  superiority  in  action, 
Tou  drew  me  from  my  honorable  toils 
In  distant  lands — on  flood — in  field — in  cities — 
You  singled  me  out  like  a  victim  to 
Stand  crown'd,  but  bound  and  helpless,  at  the  altar 
Where  you  alone  could  minister.    I  knew  not— 
I  sought  not — wish'd  not — dreamed  not  the  election 
■Which  reach'd  mc  first  at  Rome,  and  I  obey'd ; 
But  found  on  my  arrival,  that,  besides 
The  jealous  vigilance  which  always  led  you 
To  mock  and  mar  your  sovereign's  best  intents, 
You  had,  even  in  the  interregnum  of 
My  journey  to  the  capital,  curtail'd 
And  mutilated  the  few  privileges 
Yet  left  the  duke  :  all  this  I  bore,  and  would 
Have  borne,  until  my  very  hearth  was  stain'd 
By  the  pollution  of  your  ribaldry. 
And  he,  the  ribald,  whom  I  see  amongst  you — 
Fit  judge  in  such  tribunal ! 

Ikn.  {interrupting  him.)  Michel  Steno 

Is  here  in  virtue  of  his  office,  as 
One  of  the  Forty  ;  "  the  Ten  "  having  craved 
A  Giunta  of  patricians  from  the  senate 
To  aid  our  judgment  in  a  trial  arduous 
And  novel  as  the  present :  he  was  set 
Free  from  the  penalty  pronounced  upon  him, 
Because  the  Doge,  who  should  protect  the  law, 
Seeking  to  abrogate  all  law,  can  claim 
No  punishment  of  others  by  the  statutes 
Which  he  himself  denies  and  violates  1 

Doge.  Hii  ptrNisiiiiENT  !    I  rather  see  him  there. 
Where  he  now  sits,  to  glut  him  with  my  death, 
Than  in  the  mockery  of  castigation, 
Wliich  your  foul,  outward,  juggling  show  of  justice 
Decreed  as  sentence.    Base  as  was  his  crime, 
'Twas  purity  compared  with  your  protection. 

Ben.  And  can  it  be,  that  the  great  Dogo  of  Ven- 
With  three  parts  of  a  century  of  years  [ice. 

And  honors  on  his  head,  could  thus  allow 
His  fury,  like  an  angry  boy's,  to  master 
All  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fear,  on  such 
A  provocation  as  a  young  man's  petulance  ? 


Boge.  A  spark  creates  the  flame — 'tis  the  last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  and  mine  was  full 
Already  ;  you  oppress'd  the  prince  and  peojsle  ; 
I  would  have  freed  both,  and  have  fail'd  in  both  : 
The  price  of  such  success  would  have  been  glory. 
Vengeance,  and  victory,  and  such  a  name 
As  would  have  made  Venetian  history 
Rival  to  that  of  Greece  and  Sjracuse 
When  they  were  freed,  and  flourish'd  ages  after. 
And  mine  to  Qelon  and  to  Thrasybulus  : — 
Failing,  I  know  the  penalty  of  failure 
Is  present  infamy  and  death — the  future 
Will  judge,  when  Venice  is  no  more,  or  free ; 
Till  then,  the  truth  is  in  abeyance.    Pause  not ; 
I  would  have  shown  no  mercy,  and  I  seek  none  ; 
My  life  was  staked  upon  a  mighty  hazard, 
And  being  lost,  take  what  I  would  have  taken  ! 
I  would  have  stood  alone  amidst  your  tombs  : 
Now  you  may  flock  round  mine,  and  trample  on  it. 
As  you  have  done  upon  my  heart  while  living. 

Ben.  You  do  confess  then,  and  admit  the  justice 
Of  our  tribunal  ? 

Boge.  I  confess  to  have  fail'd ; 

Fortune  is  female  :  from  my  youth  her  favors 
Were  not  withheld,  the  fault  was  mine  to  hope 
Her  former  smiles  again  at  this  late  hour. 

Ben.  You  do  not  then  in  aught  arraign  our  equity  ? 

Doge.  Noble  Venetians  1  stir  me  not  with  ques- 
I  am  resign'd  to  the  worst ;  but  in  me  still      [tioas. 
Have  something  of  the  blood  of  brighter  days. 
And  am  not  over-patient.    Pray  you,  spare  me 
Further  interrogation,  which  boots  nothing. 
Except  to  turn  a  trial  to  debate. 
I  shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you. 
And  please  your  enemies — a  host  already ; 
'Tis  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no  echo  : 
But  walls  have  ears — nay,  more,  they  have  tongues  ; 

and  if 
There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  o'crleap  them. 
You  who  condemn  me,  you  who  fear  and  slay  me, 
Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  your  graves 
What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil ; 
The  secret  were  too  mighty  for  your  souls  : 
Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 
A  danger  which  would  double  that  you  escape. 
Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I  full  scope 
To  make  it  famous  ;  for  true  words  are  things, 
And  dying  men's  are  things  which  long  outlive. 
And  oftentimes  avenge  them ;  bury  mine. 
If  ye  would  fain  survive  me  :  take  this  counsel. 
And  though  too  oft  ye  made  me  live  in  vprath. 
Let  me  die  calmly ;  you  may  grant  me  this  ; — 
I  deny  nothing — defend  nothing — nothing 
I  ask  of  you,  but  silence  for  myself. 
And  sentence  from  the  court  I 

Ben.  This  full  admission 

Spares  us  the  harsh  necessity  of  ordering 


224 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   V. 


The  torture  to  elicit  the  whole  truth. 

Doge,  The  torture  !  you  have  put  me  there  already, 
Daily  since  I  was  Doge  ;  but  if  you  will 
Add  the  corporeal  rack,  you  may :  these  limbs 
Will  yield  with  age  to  crushing  iron  ;  but      [gines. 
There's  that  -ndthin  my  heart  shall  strain  your  en- 

Bnter  am,  Opficek. 

Offleer.  Noble  Venetians  1  Duchess  Fahero 
Requests  admission  to  the  Giunta's  presence,    [ted  ? 

Ben.  Say,  conscript  fathers,"  shall  she  be  admit- 

One  of  the  Oiunta.  She  may  have  revelations  of 
Unto  the  state,  to  justify  compliance  [importance 
With  her  request. 

Ben.  Is  this  the  general  will  ? 

All.  It  is. 

Doge.  Oh,  admirable  laws  of  Venice  1 

Which  would  admit  the  wife,  in  the  full  hope 
That  she  might  testify  against  the  husband. 
What  glory  to  the  chaste  Venetian  dames  I 
But  such  blasphemers  'gainst  all  honor,  as 
Sit  here,  do  well  to  act  in  their  vocation. 
Now,  villain  Steno  !  if  this  woman  fail, 
I'll  pardon  thee  thy  lie,  and  thy  escape, 
And  my  own  violent  death,  and  thy  vile  life. 

The  D0OHES8  enters. 

Ben.  Lady  1  this  just  tribunal  has  resolved. 
Though  the  request  be  strange,  to  grant  it,  and 
Whatever  be  its  purport,  to  accord 
A  patient  hearing  with  the  due  respect 
Which  fits  your  ancestry,  your  rank,  and  virtues  : 
But  you  turn  pale — ^ho,  there  I  look  to  the  lady  1 
Place  a  chair  instantly. 

Ang.  A  moment's  faintness — 

'Tis  past ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me, — I  sit  not 
In  presence  of  my  prince,  and  of  my  husband. 
While  he  is  on  his  feet. 

Ben.  Your  pleasure,  lady  ? 

Ang.  Strange  rumors,  but  most  true,  if  all  I  hear 
And  see  be  sooth,  have  reach'd  me,  and  I  come 
To  know  the  worst,  even  at  the  worst ;  forgive 
The  abruptness  of  my  entrance  and  my  bearing. 

Is  it 1  cannot  speak — I  cannot  shape 

The  question — but  you  answer  it  ere  spoken. 
With  eyes  averted,  and  with  gloomy  brows — 
Oh,  God  1  this  is  the  silence  of  the  grave  1 

Ben.  (after  a  pause.)  Spare  us,  and  spare  thyself 
Of  our  most  awful,  but  inexorable  [the  repetition 
Duty  to  heaven  and  man  1 

Ang.  Yet  speak  ;  I  cannot — 

I  cannot — no — even  now  believe  these  things. 
Is  he  condemn'd  ? 

Ben.  Alas  1 

Ang.  And  was  he  guilty  ? 

'  The  Venetian  senate  took  the  same  title  as  the  Boman,  of 
'  conscript  fethers." 


Ben.  Lady !  the  natural  distraction  of 
Thy  thoughts  at  such  a  moment  makes  the  question 
Merit  forgiveness  ;  else  a  doubt  like  this 
Against  a  just  and  paramount  tribunal 
Were  deep  ofience.     But  question  even  the  Doge, 
And  if  he  can  deny  the  proofs,  beUeve  him 
Guiltless  as  thy  own  bosom. 

Ang.  Is  it  so  ? 

My  lord — my  sovereign — my  poor  father's  friend — 
The  mighty  in  the  field,  the  sage  in  council ; 
Unsay  the  words  of  this  man  !     Thou  art  silent  I 
Ben.  He  hath  already  own'd  to  his  own  guilt. 
Nor,  as  thou  see'st,  doth  he  deny  it  now. 

Ang.  Ay,  but  he  must  not  die !  Spare  his  few  years, 
Which  grief  and  shame  will  soon  cut  down  to  days ! 
One  day  of  bafiied  crime  must  not  efface 
Near  sixteen  lustres  crowded  with  brave  acts. 

Ben.  His  doom  must  be  fulflll'd  without  remission 
Of  time  or  penalty — 'tis  a  decree. 
Ang.  He  hath  been  guilty,  but  there  may  be  mercy. 
Ben.  Not  in  this  case  with  justice. 
Ang.  Alas  !  signor, 

He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel ;  who 
Upon  the  earth  would  live  were  all  judged  justly  ? 
Be7i.  His  punishment  is  safety  to  the  state. 
Ang.  He  was  a  subject,  and  hath  served  the  state  ; 
He  was  your  general,  and  hath  saved  the  state  ; 
He  is  your  sovereign,  and  hath  ruled  the  state. 
One  of  the  Council.  He  is  a  traitor,  and  betray'd 

the  state. 
Ang.  And,  but  for  him,  there  now  had  been  no 
To  save  or  to  destroy  ;  and  you,  who  sit  [state 

There  to  pronounce  the  death  of  your  deUverer, 
Had  now  been  groaning  at  a  Moslem  oar. 
Or  digging  in  the  Hunnish  mines  in  fetters  1 

One  of  the  Council.  No,  lady,  there  are  others  who 
Rather  than  breathe  in  slavery  !  [would  die 

Ang.  If  there  are  so 

Within  these  wall,  thou  art  not  of  the  number  : 
The  truly  brave  are  generous  to  the  fallen  ! — 
Is  there  no  hope  ? 

Ben.  Lady,  it  cannot  be. 

Ang.  (turning  to  the  Doge.)    Then  die,  Faliero ! 
since  it  must  be  so  ; 
But  with  the  spirit  of  my  father's  friend. 
Thou  hast  been  guilty  of  a  great  oflisnce, 
Half-cancell'd  by  the  harshness  of  these  men. 
I  would  have  sued  to  them — have  pray'd  to  them — 
Have  begg'd  as  famish'd  mendicants  for  bread — 
Have  wept  as  they  will  cry  unto  their  God 
For  mercy,  and  be  answer'd  as  they  answer — 
Had  it  been  fitting  for  thy  name  or  mine, 
And  if  the  cnelty  in  their  cold  eyes 
Had  not  announced  the  heartless  wrath  within. 
Then,  as  a  prince,  address  thee  to  thy  doom  ! 

Doge.  I  have  U  ved  too  long  not  to  know  how  to  die  1 
Thy  suing  to  these  men  were  but  the  bleatiiig 


SCENE   I. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


225 


Of  the  lamb  to  the  butcher,  or  the  cry 
Of  seamen  to  tlie  surge  :  I  would  not  take 
A  life  eternal,  granted  at  the  hands 
Of  wretches,  trom  whose  monstrous  villanies 
I  sought  to  free  the  groaning  nations  ! 

Michel  Steno.  Doge, 

A  word  with  thee,  and  with  this  noble  lady. 
Whom  I  have  grievously  offended.    Would 
Sorrow,  or  shame,  or  penance  on  my  part. 
Could  cancel  the  inexorable  past  I 
But  since  that  cannot  be,  as  Christians  let  us 
Say  farewell,  and  in  peace  :  with  full  contrition 
I  crave,  not  pardon,  but  compassion  from  you. 
And  give,  however  weak,  my  prayers  for  both. 

An(j.  Sage  Benintende,  now  chief  judge  of  Venice, 
I  speak  to  thee  in  answer  to  yon  signor. 
Inform  the  ribald  Steno,  that  his  words 
Ne'er  weigh'd  in  mind  with  Loredano's  daughter 
Further  than  to  create  a  moment's  pity 
For  such  as  he  is  :  would  that  others  had 
Despised  him  as  I  pity  !  I  prefer 
My  honor  to  a  thousand  lives,  could  such 
Be  multiplied  in  mine,  but  would  not  have 
A  single  life  of  others  lost  for  that 
Which  nothing  human  can  impugn — the  sense 
Of  virtue,  looking  not  to  what  is  call'd 
A  good  name  for  reward,  but  to  itself. 
To  me  the  scomer's  words  were  as  the  wind 
Unto  the  rock  :  but  as  there  are — alas  1 
Spirits  more  sensitive,  on  which  such  things 
Light  as  the  whirlwind  on  the  waters  ;  souls 
To  whom  dishonor's  shadow  is  a  substance 
More  terrible  than  death,  here  and  hereafter  ; 
Men  whose  vice  is  to  start  at  vice's  scoffing. 
And  who,  though  proof  against  all  blandishments 
Of  pleasure,  and  all  pangs  of  pain,  are  feeble 
When  the  proud  name  on  which  they  pinnacled 
Their  hopes  is  breathed  on,  jealous  as  the  eagle 
Of  her  high  aiery  ;  let  what  we  now 
Behold,  and  feel,  and  suffer,  be  a  lesson 
To  wretches  how  they  tamper  in  their  spleen 
With  beings  of  a  higher  order.    Insects 
Have  made  the  lion  mad  ere  now  ;  a  shaft 
I'  the  heel  o'erthrew  the  bravest  of  the  brave ; 
A  wife's  dishonor  was  the  bane  of  Troy ; 
A  wife's  dishonor  unking'd  Rome  forever; 
An  injured  husband  brought  the  Gauls  to  Clusium, 
And  thence  to  Rome,  which  perish'd  for  a  time  ; 
An  obscene  gesture  cost  Caligula 
His  life,  while  earth  yet  bore  his  cruelties  ; 
A  virgin's  wrong  made  Spain  a  Moorish  province ; 
And  Steno's  Ue,  couch'd  in  two  worthless  lines. 
Hath  decimated  Venice,  put  in  peril 
A  senate  which  hath  stood  eight  hundred  years, 
Discrown'd  a  prince,  cut  off  his  crownless  head. 
And  forged  now  fetters  for  a  groaning  people  1 
Let  the  poor  wretch,  like  to  the  courtesan 
29 


Wlio  fired  Persepolis,  be  proud  of  this, 

If  it  so  please  him— 'twere  a  pride  fit  for  him  ! 

But  \zt  him  not  insult  the  last  hours  of 

Him,  who,  whatc'er  he  now  is,  was  a  hero, 

By  the  intrusion  of  his  very  prayers  : 

Kothing  of  good  can  come  from  such  a  source, 

Nor  would  we  aught  with  him,  nor  now,  nor  ever : 

We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 

Of  human  baseness.    Pardon  is  for  men, 

And  not  for  reptiles — we  have  none  for  Steno, 

And  no  resentment :  things  like  him  must  sting. 

And  higher  beings  suffer ;  'tis  the  charter 

Of  life.    The  man  who  dies  by  the  adder's  fang 

May  have  the  crawler  crush'd,  but  feels  no  anger  : 

'Twas  the  worm's  nature  ;  and  some  men  are  worms 

In  soul,  more  than  the  living  things  of  tombs. 

Doge,  {to  Ben.)  Signor  !  complete  that  which  you 
deem  your  duty. 

Ben.  Before  we  can  proceed  upon  that  duty. 
We  would  request  the  princess  to  withdraw ; 
'Twill  move  lier  too  much  to  be  witness  to  it. 

Ai^n.  I  know  it  will,  and  yet  I  must  endure  it 
For  'tis  a  part  of  mine— I  will  not  quit. 
Except  by  force,  my  husband's  side— Proceed  ! 
Nay,  fear  not  either  shriek,  or  sigh,  or  tear  ; 
Though  my  heart  burst,  it  shall  be  silent.— Speak  I 
I  have  that  within  which  shall  o'er  master  all. 

Ben.  Marino  FaUero,  Doge  of  Venice, 
Count  of  Val  di  Marino,  Senator, 
And  some  time  General  of  the  Fleet  and  Army, 
Noble  Venetian,  many  times  and  oft 
Intrusted  by  the  state  with  high  employments, 
Even  to  the  highest,  listen  to  the  sentence. 
Convict  by  many  witnesses  and  proofs, 
And  by  thine  own  confession,  of  the  guilt 
Of  treachery  and  treason,  yet  unheard  of 
Until  this  trial — the  decree  is  death. 
Thy  goods  are  confiscatcunto  the  state. 
Thy  name  is  razed  from  out  her  records,  save 
Upon  a  public  day  of  thanksgiving 
For  this  our  most  miraculous  deliverance. 
When  thou  art  noted  in  our  calendars 
With  earthquakes,  pestilence,  and  foreign  foes. 
And  the  great  enemy  of  man,  as  subject 
Of  grateful  masses  for  Heaven's  grace  in  snatching 
Our  lives  and  country  from  thy  wickedness. 
The  place  wherein  as  Doge  thou  shouldst  be  ])ainted. 
With  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 
To  be  left  vacant,  with  a  death  black  veil 
Flung  over  these  dim  words  engraved  beneath, — 
"  This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 
Decapitated  for  his  crimes." 

Doge.  "  His  crimes  1" 

But  let  it  be  so  :  it  will  be  in  vain. 
The  veil  which  blackens  o'er  this  blighted  name, 
And  hides,  or  seems  to  hide  these  lineaments. 
Shall  draw  more  gazers  than  the  thousand  portraits 


226 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  r. 


Which  glitter  round  it  in  their  pictured  trappings — 
Tow  delegated  slaves — the  people's  tyrants  ! 
"  Decapitated  for  his  crimes  !" —  What  crimes  ? 
Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts, 
So  that  the  contemplator  might  approve, 
Or  at  the  least  learn  whence  the  crimes  arose  ? 
When  the  beholder  knows  a  Doge  conspired, 
Let  him  be  told  the  cause — it  is  your  history. 

Ben.  Time  must  reply  to  that ;  our  sons  vpill  judge 
Their  fathers'  judgment,  vrhich  I  now  pronounce. 
As  Doge,  clad  in  the  ducal  robes  and  cap, 
Thou  shalt  be  led  hence  to  the  Giants'  Staircase, 
Where  thou  and  all  our  princes  are  invested  ; 
And  there,  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed. 
Thy  head  shall  be  struck  ofiF;  and  Heaven  have  mercy 
Upon  thy  soul ! 

Doge,  Is  this  the  Giunta's  sentence  ? 

Ben,,  It  is. 

Doge.  I  can  endure  it. — And  the  time  ? 

Ben.  Must  be  immediate,  make  thy  peace  with  God : 
Within  an  hour  thou  must  be  in  His  presence. 

Boge.  I  am  already ;  and  my  blood  will  rise 
To  Heaven  before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed  it. — 
Are  all  my  lands  confiscated  ? 

Ben.  They  are  ; 

And  goods,  and  jewels,  and  aU  kind  of  treasure. 
Except  two  thousand  ducats — these  dispose  of. 

Boge.  That's  harsh. — I  would  have  fain  reserved 
the  lands 
Near  to  Treviso,  which  I  hold  by  investment 
From  Laurence  the  Count-bishop  of  Ceneda, 
In  fief  perpetual  to  myself  and  heirs, 
To  portion  them  (leaving  my  city  spoil. 
My  palace  and  my  treasures,  to  your  forfeit) 
Between  my  consort  and  my  kinsmen. 

Ben.  These 

Lie  under  the  state's  ban  ;  their  chief,  thy  nephew, 
In  peril  of  his  own  life  ;  but  the  council 
Postpones  his  trial  for  the  present.     If 
Thou  will'st  a  state  unto  thy  widow'd  princess, 
Fear  not,  for  we  will  do  her  justice. 

Ang.  Signors, 

I  share  not  in  your  spoil !  From  henceforth,  know 
I  am  devoted  unto  God  alone. 
And  take  my  refuge  in  the  cloister. 

Boge.  Come ! 

The  hour  may  be  a  hard  one,  but  'twill  end. 
Have  I  aught  else  to  undergo  save  death  ? 

Ben .  You  have  naught  to  do,  except  confess  and  die, 
The  priest  is  robed,  the  cimeter  is  bare, 
And  both  await  without. — But,  above  all 
Think  not  to  speak  unto  the  people  ;  they 
Are  now  by  thousands  swarming  at  the  gates, 
But  these  are  closed  :  the  Ten,  the  Avogadori, 
The  Giunta,  and  the  chief  men  of  the  Forty, 
Alone  will  be  beholders  of  thy  doom. 


And  they  are  ready  to  attend  the  Doge. 

Boge.  The  Doge ! 

Ben.  Yes,  Doge,  thou  hast  lived  and  thou  shalt  die 
A  sovereign  ;  till  the  moment  which  precedes 
The  separation  of  that  head  and  trunk. 
The  ducal  crown  and  head  shall  be  united. 
Thou  hast  forgot  thy  dignity  in  deigning 
To  plot  with  petty  traitors  j  not  so  we. 
Who  in  the  very  punishment  acknowledge 
The  prince.    Thy  vile  accomplices  have  died 
The  dog's  death,  and  the  wolf's  ;  but  thou  shalt  fall 
As  falls  the  Uon  by  the  hunters,  girt 
By  those  who  feel  a  proud  compassion  for  thee. 
And  mourn  even  the  inevitable  death 
Provoked  by  thy  wild  vsrath,  and  regal  fierceness. 
Now  we  remit  thee  to  thy  preparation  : 
Let  it  be  brief,  and  we  ourselves  will  be 
Thy  guides  unto  the  place  where  first  we  were 
United  to  thee  as  thy  subjects,  and 
Thy  senate ;  and  must  now  be  parted  from  thee 
As  such  forever,  on  the  self-same  spot. — 
Guards  !  form  the  Doge's  escort  to  his  chamber. 

[Bxevnt. 

SCENE    II. 

I'he  Doge's  Apartment. 

The  Doge  as  Prisoner,  and  the  Duchess  attending 

him. 

Boge.  Now,  that  the  priest  is  gone,  'twere  useless 
To  linger  out  the  miserable  minutes ;  [all 

But  one  pang  more,  the  pang  of  parting  from  thee, 
And  I  will  leave  the  few  last  grains  of  sand 
Which  yet  remain  of  the  accorded  hour. 
Still  falling — I  have  done  with  time. 

Ang.  Alas ! 

And  I  have  been  the  cause,  the  unconscious  cause ; 
And  for  this  funeral  marriage,  this  black  union. 
Which  thou  compliant  with  my  father's  wish,  [own. 
Didst  promise  at  Ms  death,  thou  hast  seal'd  thine 

Boge.  Not  so  :  there  was  that  in  my  spirit  ever 
Which  shaped  out  for  itself  some  great  reverse  ; 
The  marvel  is,  it  came  not  until  now — 
And  yet  it  was  foretold  me. 

Ang.  How  foretold  you  ? 

Boge.  Long  years  ago — so  long,  they  are  a  doubt 
In  memory,  and  yet  they  Kve  in  annals  : 
When  I  was  in  my  youth,  and  served  the  senate 
And  signory  as  podesta  and  captain 
Of  the  town  of  Treviso,  on  a  day 
Of  festival,  the  sluggish  bishop  who 
Convey'd  the  Host  aroused  my  rash  young  anger. 
By  strange  delay,  and  arrogant  reply 
To  my  reproof;  I  raised  my  hand  and  smote  him, 
Until  he  reel'd  beneath  his  holy  burden  ; 
And  as  he  rose  from  earth  again,  he  raised 
His  tremulous  hands  in  pious  wrath  toward  Heaven. 


SCENE  III. 


MARINO    FALIERO. 


Thence  pointing  to  the  Host,  which  had  fallen  from 

He  turn'd  to  me,  and  said,  "The  hour  wUl  come  [him 

When  he  thou  hast  o'erthrown  shall  overthrow  thee : 

The  glory  shall  depart  from  out  thy  house. 

The  wisdom  shall  be  shaken  from  thy  soul, 

And  in  thy  best  maturity  of  mind 

A  madness  of  the  heart  shall  seize  upon  thee  ; 

Passion  shall  tear  thee  when  all  passions  cease 

In  other  men,  or  mellow  into  virtues  ; 

And  majesty,  which  decks  all  other  heads, 

Shall  crown  to  leave  thee  headless  ;  honors  shall 

But  prove  to  thee  the  heralds  of  destruction. 

And  hoary  hairs  of  shame,  and  both  of  death, 

But  not  such  death  as  fits  an  aged  man," 

Thus  saying,  he  pass'd  on. — That  hour  is  come. 

Anff.  And  with  this  warning  couldst  thou  not 
To  avert  the  fatal  moment,  and  atone,  [have  striven 
By  penitence  for  that  which  thou  hadst  done  ? 

Dofje.  I  own  the  words  went  to  my  heart,  so  much 
That  I  remember'd  them  amid  the  maze 
Of  life,  as  if  they  form'd  a  spectral  voice. 
Which  shook  me  in  a  supernatural  dream  ; 
And  I  repented ;  but  'twas  not  for  me 
To  pull  in  resolution  :  what  must  be 
I  could  not  change,  and  would  not  fear. — Nay  more, 
Thou  canst  not  have  forgot,  what  all  remember. 
That  on  my  day  of  landing  here  as  Doge, 
On  my  return  from  Rome,  a  mist  of  such 
Unwonted  density  went  on  before 
The  Bucentaiu",  like  the  columnar  cloud 
Which  usher'd  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  till 
The  pilot  was  misled,  and  disembark'd  us 
Between  the  pillars  of  Saint  Mark's,  where  'tis 
The  custom  of  the  state  to  put  to  death 
Its  criminals,  instead  of  touching  at 
The  Riva  deUa  Paglia,  as  the  wont  is,  — 
So  that  all  Venice  shudder'd  at  the  omen. 

Ang.  Ah  !  little  boots  it  now  to  recollect 
Such  things. 

Doffe.  And  yet  I  find  a  comfort  in 

The  thought  that  these  things  are  the  work  of  Fate ; 
For  I  would  rather  yield  to  gods  than  men, 
Or  cling  to  any  creed  of  destiny. 
Rather  than  deem  these  mortals,  most  of  whom 
I  know  to  be  as  worthless  as  the  dust. 
And  weak  as  worthless,  more  than  instruments 
Of  an  o'erruling  power  ;  they  in  themselves 
Were  all  incapable — they  could  not  be 
Victors  of  him  who  oft  had  conquer'd  for  them  ! 

Any.  Employ  the  minutes  left  in  aspirations 
Of  a  more  healing  nature,  and  in  peace 
Even  with  these  wretches  take  thy  flight  to  Heaven. 

Doye.  I  am  at  peace  :  the  peace  of  certainty 
That  a  sure  hour  wiU  come,  when  their  sons'  sons. 
And  this  proud  city,  and  these  azure  waters. 
And  all  which  makes  them  eminent  and  bright. 
Shall  be  a  desolation  and  a  curse. 


A  hissing  and  a  scoff  unto  the  nations, 
A  Carthage,  and  a  Tyre,  an  Ocean  Babel ! 

Aug.  Speak  not  thus  now  ;  the  surge  of  passion 
Sweeps  o'er  thee  to  the  last ;  thou  dost  deceive  [still 
Thyself,  and  canst  not  injure  them — be  calmer. 

Doge.  I  stand  within  eternity,  and  see 
Into  eternity,  and  I  behold — 
Ay,  palpable  as  I  see  thy  sweet  face 
For  the  last  time — the  days  which  I  denounce 
Unto  all  time  against  these  wave-girt  walls, 
And  they  who  are  indwellers. 

Guard  (coming  forward).    Doge  of  Venice, 
The  Ten  are  in  attendance  on  your  highness. 

Doge.  Then  farewell,  Angiolina ! — one  embrace — 
Forgive  the  old  man  who  hath  been  to  thee 
A  fond  but  fatal  husband — ^love  my  memory — 
I  would  not  ask  so  much  for  mc  still  living. 
But  thou  canst  judge  of  me  more  kindly  now. 
Seeing  my  evil  feelings  are  at  rest. 
Besides,  of  all  the  fruit  of  these  long  years, 
Glory,  and  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  and  name, 
Which  generally  leave  some  flowers  to  bloom 
Even  o'er  the  grave,  I  have  nothing  left,  not  even 
A  little  love,  or  friendship,  or  esteem, 
No,  not  enough  to  extract  an  epitaph 
From  ostentatious  kinsmen  ;  in  one  hour 
I  have  uprooted  all  my  former  life. 
And  outlived  every  thing,  except  thy  heart. 
The  pure,  the  good,  the  gentle,  which  mil  oft 
With  unimpair'd  but  not  a  clamorous  grief 

Still  keep Thou  tum'st  so  pale ! — Alas !  she  faints. 

She  has  no  breath,  no  pulse ! — Guards !  lend  your 
I  cannot  leave  her  thus,  and  yet  'tis  better,      [aid — 
Since  every  lifeless  moment  spares  a  pang. 
When  she  shakes  off  this  temporary  death, 
I  shall  be  with  the  Eternal. — Call  her  women — 
One  look  !— how  cold  her  hand  ! — as  cold  as  mine 
Shall  be  ere  she  recovers. — Gently  tend  her. 

And  take  my  last  thanks 1  am  ready  now. 

[TTie  Attendants  of  Angiolina  enter,  and  suT' 
round  their  mistress,  who  has  fainted. — Exevnt 
the  Doge,  Guards,  etc.,  etc. 

SCENE     III. 

The  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace :  the  outer  gates  are 
shut  against  the  people. — The  Doge  enters  in  his 
ducal  robes,  in  procession  with  the  Council  of  Ten 
and  other  Patricians,  attended  ly  the  Guards,  till 
they  arrive,  at  the  (op  of  the  "  Giant's  Staircase," 
{where  the  Doges  tooh  the  oaths)  ;  the  £.recxitioner 
is  stationed  there  with  his  stoord.-^On  arriving,  a 
Chief  of  the  Ten  takes  off  the  ducal  cap  from  the 
Doge's  head. 

Doge.  So  now  the  Doge  is  nothing,  and  at  last 
I  am  again  Marina  Faliero : 
'Tis  well  to  be  so,  though  but  for  a  moment. 


228 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


Here  was  I  crown'd,  and  here,  bear  witness,  Heaven  ! 
With  how  much  more  contentment  I  resign 
That  shining  mockery,  the  ducal  bauble, 
Than  I  received  the  fatal  ornament. 

One  of  the  Ten.  Thou  tremblest,  Faliero  ! 

Doge.  'Tis  with  age,  then.i 

Ben.  Faliero  !   hast  thou  aught  further  to  corn- 
Compatible  with  justice,  to  the  senate  ?  [mend, 

Doge.  I  would  commend  my  nephew  to  their  mercy. 
My  consort  to  their  justice  ;  for  methinks 
My  death,  and  such  a  death,  might  settle  all 
Between  the  state  and  me. 

Ben.  They  shall  be  cared  for ; 

Even  notwithstanding  thine  unheard-of  crime. 

Doge.  Unheard  of  I  ay,  there's  not  a  history 
But  shows  a  thousand  crown'd  conspirators 
Agaiiist  the  people  ;  but  to  sel  them  free 
One  sovereign  only  died,  and  one  is  dying. 

Ben.  And  who  were  they  who  fell  in  such  a  cause  ? 

Doge.    The  King  of   Sparta,  and  the  Doge  of 
Agis  and  Faliero  !  [Venice — 

Ben.  Hast  thou  more 

To  utter  or  to  do  ? 

Doge.  May  I  speak  ? 

Ben.  Thou  mayst ; 

But  recollect  the  people  are  without, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  the  human  voice. 

Doge.  I  speak  to  Time,  and  to  Eternity 
Of  which  I  grow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 
Ye  elements  !  in  which  to  be  resolved 
I  hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a  spirit 
Upon  you  1    Ye  blue  waves  !  which  bore  my  banner. 
Ye  winds  !  which  flutter'd  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it. 
And  fiU'd  my  swelling  sails  as  they  were  wafted 
To  many  a  triumph  !     Thou,  my  native  earth. 
Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth. 
Which  drank  this  willing  blood  from  many  a  wound ! 


•  This  W8B  the  actual  reply  of  BailH,  malre  of  Paris,  to  a  French- 
man who  made  him  the  same  reproach  on  hie  way  to  execution, 
in  the  earliest  part  of  their  revolution.  I  find  in  reading  over 
(since  the  completion  of  this  tragedy),  for  the  first  time  these  pis 
years,  "  Venice  Presen-ed,"  a  similar  reply  on  a  different  occasion 
by  Renault,  and  other  coincidences  arising  from  the  subject.  I 
need  hardly  remind  the  gentlest  reader,  that  such  coincidences 
must  be  accidental,  from  the  very  facility  of  their  detection  by 
reference  to  so  popular  a  play  on  the  stage  and  in  the  closet  as 
Otway's  chef-d'a?uvre. 

"  Should  the  dramatic  picture  seem  harsh,  let  the  reader  look  to 
the  hietorical,  of  the  period  prophesied,  or  rather  of  the  few  years 
preceding  that  period.  Voltaire  calculated  their  "  nostre  bene 
merite  Meretrici  "  at  12,000  of  regulars,  without  including  volun- 
teers and  local  militia,  on  what  authority  I  know  Jiot ;  but  it  is, 
perhaps,  the  only  part  ot  the  population  not  decreased.  Venice 
once  contained  two  hundred  thousand  inhabitants  :  there  are  now 
about  ninety  thousand  ;  and  these  !  I— few  individuals  can  con- 
ceive, and  none  could  describe,  the  actual  state  into  which  the 
more  than  infernal  tyranny  of  Austria  has  plunged  this  unhappy 
city.  From  the  present  decay  and  degeneracy  of  Venice  under 
the  Barbarians,  there  are  some  honorable  individual  exceptions. 
There  is  Pasqualigo,  the  last,  and,  alas !  posthummis  son  of  the 
marriage  of  the  Doges  with  the  Adriatic,  who  fought  his  frigate 
with  far  greater  gallantry  than  any  of  his  French  coadjuiors  in 


Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  but 
Reek  up  to  Heaven  I    Ye  skies,  which  will  receive  it ! 
Thou  sun !  which  shinest  on  these  things,  and  Thou  ! 
Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns  ! — Attest ! 
I  am  not  innocent^but  are  these  guiltless  ? 
I  perish,  but  not  unavenged  ;  far  ages 
Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be. 
And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 
Of  this  proud  city,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  forever  ! Yes,  the  hours 

Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 

When  she,  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark. 

Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield. 

Unto  a  bastard  Attila,  without 

Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 

As  these  old  veins,  oft  drain'd  in  shielding  her, 

Shall  pour  in  sacrifice.— She  shall  be  bought 

And  sold,  and  be  an  api^anage  to  those 

Who  shall  despise  her  !* — She  shall  stoop  to  be 

A  province  for  an  empire,  petty  town 

In  lieu  of  capital,  -with  slaves  for  senates, 

Beggars  for  nobles,  panders  for  a  people  ! 

Then  when  the  Hebrew's  in  thy  palaces,' 

The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 

Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ; 

When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 

In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 

Make  their  noTjility  a  plea  for  pity ; 

Then,  when  the  few  who  still  retain  a  wreck 

Of  their  great  fathers'  heritage  shall  fawn 

Round  a  barbarian  Vice  of  Kings'  Vicc-gerent, 

Even  in  the  jDalace  where  they  sway'd  as  sovereigns. 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  slew  their  sovereign, 

Proud  of  some  name  they  have  disgraced,  or  sprung 

From  an  adulteress  boastful  of  her  guilt 

With  some  large  gondoUer  or  foreign  soldier, 

Shall  bear  about  their  bastardy  in  triumph 


!  the  memorable  action  ofl'  Lissa.  I  came  home  in  the  squadron 
with  the  prizes  in  1811,  and  recollect  to  have  heard  Sir  William 
Hoste,  and  the  other  ofllcers  engaged  in  that  glorious  conflict, 
speak  in  the  highest  terms  of  Pasqualigo's  behavior.  There  is 
the  Abbate  Morelli.  There  is  Alvise  Querini,  who,  after  a  long 
and  honorable  diplomatic  career,  finds  some  consolation  for  the 
wrongs  of  hie  country,  in  the  pursuits  of  literature  with  his 
nephew,  Vittor  Benzon,  the  son  of  the  celebrated  beauty,  the 
heroine  of  "  La  Biondina  in  Gondoletta."  There  are  the  patrician 
poet  Morosini,  and  the  poet  lamberti,  the  author  of  the  "  Bion- 
dina," etc.,  and  many  other  estimable  productions  ;  and,  not  least 
in  an  Englishman's  estimation,  Madame  Michelli,  the  translator 
of  Shakspeare.  There  are  the  young  Dandolo  and  the  improv- 
visatore  Carrer,  and  Giuseppe  Albrizzi,  the  accomplished  son  of 
an  accomplished  mother.  There  is  Aglietti,  and,  were  there 
nothing  else,  there  is  the  immortality  of  Canova.  Cicognara,  ' 
MuBtoxithi,  Bucati,  etc.,  etc.,  I  do  not  reckon,  because  the  one  is 
a  Greek,  and  the  others  were  bom  at  least  a  hundred  miles  oil', 
which,  throughout  Italy,  coustitutes,  if  not  a  foreigner,  at  least, 
a  stranger  {foresliere). 

'  The  chief  palaces  on  the  Brenta  now  belong  to  the  .Tews ;  who 
in  the  earlier  times  of  the  republic  were  only  allowed  to  inhabit 
Mestri,  and  not  to  enter  the  city  of  Venice.  The  whole  commeixe 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  and  Greeks,  and  the  Huns  form  tho 
garrison. 


RCENE   IV. 


MARINO   FALIERO. 


229 


To  the  third  spurious  generation  ; — when 
Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 
Slaves  tum'd  o'er  to  the  vanquish'd  by  the  victors, 
Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice. 
And  scom'd  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 
As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  conception 
Defy  all  codes  to  image  or  to  name  them  ; 
Then,  when  of  Cyprus,  now  thy  subject  kingdom. 
All  thine  inheritance  shall  be  her  shame 
Entail'd  on  thy  less  virtuous  daughters,  grown 
A  wider  proverb  for  worse  prostitution  ; — 
When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cling  thee, 
Vice  without  splendor,  sin  without  rehef 
Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o'er. 
But  in  its  stead,  coarse  lusts  of  habitude, 
Pnudent  yet  passionless,  cold  studied  lewdness. 
Depraving  nature's  frailty  to  an  art ; — 
When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 
Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  pleasure, 
Youth  without  honor,  age  without  respect, 
Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  wo 
'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar'st  not 

murmur," 
Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled  deserts. 
Then,  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 
Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine  ! 
Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  !» 
Gehenna  of  the  waters  !  thou  sea  Sodom  ! 
Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods  I 
Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  !  [tioner. 

[Here  the  Doge  turns  and  (iMresses  the  Execu. 
Slave,  do  thine  office  1 
Strike  as  I  struck  the  foe  I     Strike  as  I  would 
Have  struck  those  tyrants  1  Strike  deep  as  my  curse ! 
Strike — and  but  once  ! 

The  Doge  thrown  himitelf  wpon  his  knees,  and  as 
the  Exeeulioner  raises  his  sword  the  scene  closes. 

SCENE  rv. 
The  Piazza  and  Piazzetta  of  Saint  ^Tark^s.     The 
People  in  crowds  gathered  round  the  grated  gates  of 
the  Bueal  Palace,  which  are  nhuf. 
First  Citzen.  I  have  gain'd  the  gate,  and  can  dis- 
cern the  Ten. 

'  If  the  Doge's  prophecy  eeem  remarkable,  look  to  the  follow- 
ing, made  by  Alimanni  two  hundred  and  seventy  years  ago: — 
"  There  is  one  very  singular  prophecy  concerning  Venice :  '  If 
thou  dost  not  change,'  it  says  to  that  proud  republic, '  thy  lib- 
erty, which  is  already  on  the  wing,  will  not  reckon  a  century 
more  than  the  thousandth  year.'  If  we  carry  back  the  epo- 
cha  of  Venetian  freedom  to  the  establishment  of  the  government 
under  which  the  Republic  flonrished,  we  shall  find  that  the  date 
of  the  election  of  the  first  Doge  is  007  ;  and  if  we  add  one  century 
to  a  thousand,  that  is,  eleven  hundred  years,  we  shall  find  the 
sense  of  the  prediction  to  be  literally  this  :  'Thy  liberty  will  not 
last  till  1797.'  Recollect  that  Venice  ceased  to  be  free  in  the  year 
179(!,  the  fifth  year  of  the  French  Republic ;  and  yon  will  perceive, 
that  there  never  was  prediction  more  pointed,  or  more  exactly 
followed  by  the  event.  You  will,  therefore,  note,  as  very  remark- 
able, the  three  lines  of  Alimanni  addressed  to  Venice ;  which, 
however,  no  one  has  pointed  out : — 

'  Se  non  cangi  pensier,  un  secol  solo 


Robed  in  their  gowns  of  state,  ranged  round  the  Doge. 
Second  Cif.  I  cannot  reach  thee  with  mine  utmost 
How  is  it  ?  let  us  hear  at  least,  since  sight      [effort. 
Is  thus  prohibited  imto  the  people, 
Except  the  occupiers  of  those  bars.  [they  strip 

First  Cit.  One  has  approach'd  the  Doge,  and  now 
The  ducal  bonnet  from  his  head — and  now 
He  raises  his  keen  eyes  to  Heaven  ;  I  see 
Them  glitter,  and  his  lips  move — hush  1  hush  !  no, 
'Twas  but  a  murmur — Curse  upon  the  distance  ! 
His  words  are  inarticulate,  but  the  voice 
Swells  up  like  mutter'd  thunder  ;  would  we  could 
But  gather  a  sole  sentence  !  [sound. 

Second  Cit.   Hush  !    we  perhaps   may  catch  the 
First  Cit.  'Tis  vain, 

I  cannot  hear  hiiii.    How  his  hoary  hair 
Streams  on  the  wind  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ! 
Now — now — he  kneels — and  now  they  form  a  circle 
Round  him,  and  all  is  hidden — but  I  see 

The  lifted  sword  in  air Ah,  hark  !  it  falls  ! 

[  The  People  murmur. 

Third  Cit.  Then   they  have   murder'd  him  who 

would  have  freed  us.  [ever. 

Fourth  Cit.  He  was  a  kind  man  to  the  commons 

Fifth  Cit.  Wisely  they  did  to  keep  their  portals 

barr'd. 

Would  we  liad  known  the  work  they  were  i^rcijaring 

Ere  we  were  summon'd  here — we  would  have  brought 

Weapons,  and  forced  them  ! 

Sixth  Cit.  Are  you  sure  he's  dead  ? 

First  Cit.  I  saw  the  sword  fall.    Lo  !  what  have 
we  here  ? 
Enter  on  the  Balcony  of  the  Palace  which  fronts  Saint 
Marl's  Place  a  Chief  of  the  Ten,  with  a  lloody 
sword.     lie  waves  it  thrice  iefore  the  People,  and 
exclaims. 
"  Justice  hath  dealt  upon  the  mighty  Traitor  !" 
[  The  gates  are  opened  ;  the  populace  rvsh  in  towards 
the  "Giani\i  Staircase,"  where  the  execution  has 
taken  place      The  foremost  of  them  exclaims  to 
those  behind. 
The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  Giant's  Steps  ! 

[The  Curtain  falls. 


Non  contera  sopra  '1  millesimo  anno 

Tua  Hberta,  che  va  fuggendo  a  volo.' 
Many  prophesies  have  passed  for  such,  and  many  men  have  been 
called  prophets  for  much  less."— Ginouene,  t.  Ix.,  p.  144. 

"  Of  the  first  fifty  Doges,  five  abdicated— ,;?t'«  were  banished  with 
their  eyes  put  oni—Jiva  were  massacred — and  nine  deposed ;  so 
that  nineteen  out  of  fifty  lost  the  throne  by  violence,  besides  two 
who  fell  in  battle ;  this  occurred  long  previous  to  the  reign  of 
Marino  Faliero.  One  of  his  more  immediate  predecessors,  jVn- 
drea  Dandolo,  died  of  vexation.  Marino  Faliero  himself  perished 
as  related.  Amongst  his  successors,  Foscarl,  after  seeing  his  son 
repeatedly  tortured  and  banished,  was  deposed,  and  died  of  break- 
ing a  blood-vessel,  on  hearing  the  bell  of  Saint  Mark's  toll  for  the 
election  of  his  successor.  Moroslni  was  impeached  for  the  loss 
of  Candia ;  but  this  was  prerious  to  his  dukedom,  during  which 
he  conquered  the  Morea,  and  was  styled  the  Feloponaesian.  Fa- 
liero might  truly  say, 

"  Thou  den  of  dmnkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  I" 


230 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


PART  I. 


"  And  It  come  to  pass, 
all  wbich  they  chose." 


HEAVEN   AND    EARTH. 

A     MTSTEKT, 

FOTOKED  ON  THE  POLLOWING  PASSAGE  IN  GENESIS,  CHAP.  TI. 

,  that  the  sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters  of  men  that  they  were  i^lr :  and  they  took  them  wiTes  of 


'And  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover." — Colekidge. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


AngeU. — Samiaba. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael,  the  Archangel. 
Men. — Noah  and  his  Sons. 
Ibad. 
Japhkt. 

Women. — An  ah. 

Aholibamah. 

Ohmis  of  SpiriU  of  the  Earth. — Chorus  of  Mortals. 

HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


PART    I. 

SCENE     I. 

A  woody  and  mountainous  district  near  Mount 
Ararat. —  I'ime,  Midnight. 

Enter  Anah  and  Aholibamah. 

An3.h.  OxjB  father  sleeps ;  it  is  the  hour  when  they 
Who  love  us  are  accustom'd  to  descend 
Through  the  deep  clouds  o'er  rocky  Ararat : — 
How  my  heart  beats  ! 

Aho.  Let  us  proceed  upon 

Our  invocation. 

Anah.  But  the  stars  are  hidden. 

I  tremble. 

Alio.  So  do  I,  but  not  with  fear 

Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

Anah,  My  sister,  though 

I  love  Azaziel  more  than oh,  too  much  ! 

What  was  I  going  to  say  ?  my  heart  grows  impious 

Aho.  And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures  ? 

Anah.  But,  Aholibamah, 

I  love  oup  God  less  since  his  angel  loved  me  : 
This  cannot  be  of  good  :  and  though  I  know  not 


That  I  do  wrong,  I  feel  a  thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right. 

Aho.  Then  wed  thee 

Unto  some  son  of  clay,  and  toil  and  spin  ! 
There's  Japhet  loves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee  long: 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust  2 

Anah.  I  should  have  loved 

Azaziel  not  less,  were  he  mortal ;  yet 
I  am  glad  he  is  not.    I  cannot  outlive  him. 
And  when  I  think  that  his  immortal  wings 
Will  one  day  hover  o'er  the  sepulchre 
Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  him, 
As  he  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 
Less  terrible  ;  but  yet  I  pity  him  : 
His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 
Mine  would  be  such  for  him,  were  I  the  Seraph, 
And  he  the  perishable. 

Aho.  Rather  say. 

That  he  will  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  Earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 

Anah.  And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  loved  him, 
Better  thus  than  that  he  should  weep  for  me. 

Aho.  If  I  thought  thus  of  Samiasa's  love. 
All  Seraph  as  he  is,  I'd  spurn  him  from  me. 
But  to  our  invocation  ! — 'Tis  the  hour. 
Anah.  Seraph ! 

From  thy  sphere  ! 
Whatever  star  contain  thy  glory  ; 
In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  watchest  with  "  the  seven," 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 
Before  thy  bright  wings  worlds  be  driven, 
Yet  hear ! 
Oh  !  think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear  ! 

And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee. 
Yet  think  that  thou  art  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell, — and  never  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me, — 
The  bitterness  of  tears. 
Eternity  is  in  thine  years. 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes ; 
With  me  thou  canst  not  sympathize. 
Except  in  love,  and  there  thou  must 


I 


Bcsme  I. 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


231 


Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 
Ne'er  wept  beneath  the  skies. 
Thou  walk'st  thy  many  worlds,  thou  see'st 

The  face  of  him  who  made  thee  great, 
As  he  hath  made  me  of  the  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden's  gate  : 
Yet,  Seraph  dear ! 
Oh  hear ! 
For  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  I  would  not  die 
Until  I  know  that  I  must  die  in  knowing, 
That  thou  forget'st  in  thine  eternity 

Her  whose  heart  death  could  not  keep  from  o'er- 
For  thee,  immortal  essence  as  thou  art  I    [flowing 
Great  is  their  lore  who  love  in  sin  and  fear  ; 
And  such,  I  feel,  are  waging  in  my  heart 

A  war  unworthy  :  to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  Seraph  I  that  such  thoughts  appear, 
For  sorrow  is  our  element ; 

Dehght 
An  Eden  kept  afar  from  sight. 

Though  sometimes  with  our  visions  blent. 
The  hour  is  near 
Which  tells  me  we  are  not  abandon'd  quite. — 
Appear !  Appear  I 
Seraph  ! 
My  own  Azaziel  I  be  but  here, 
And  leave  the  stars  to  their  own  light. 
Aho.  Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  air — 
^  Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 

Dispute  with  Him 
Who  made  all  empires,  empire ;  or  recalling 
Some  wandering  star,  which  shoots  through  the 
abyss, 
Whose  tenants  dying,  while  their  world  is  falling, 
Share  the. dim  destiny  of  clay  in  this ; 

Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim. 
Thou  deignest  to  partake  their  hymn — 
Samiasa  ! 
I  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 

Many  may  worship  thee,  that  will  I  not : 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee, 
Descend  and  share  my  lot ! 
Though  I  be  form'd  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden's  streams, 
Thine  immortality  can  not  repay 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.    There  is  a  ray 
In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  shine. 
I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  be  hidden  long  :  death  and  decay 

Our  mother  Eve  bequeath'd  us — but  my  heart 
Defies  it :  though  this  life  must  pass  away, 
Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part  ? 


Thou  art  immortal — so  am  I :  I  feel — 

I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal, 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep. 
Into  my  ears  this  truth — "  Thou  liv'st  forever  1" 
But  if  it  be  in  joy 

I  know  not,  nor  would  know  ; 
That  secret  rests  with  the  Almighty  giver 

Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  wo. 
But  thee  and  me  he  never  can  destroy ; 
Change  us  he  may,  but  not  o'erwhclm  ;  we  are 
Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 
With  him  if  he  will  war  with  us  :  with  thee 

I  can  share  all  things,  even  immortal  sorrow  ; 
For  thou  hast  ventured  to  share  life  with  me, 
And  shall  /  shrink  from  thine  eternity  ? 

No  1   though  the  serpent's  sting  should  pierce 
me  through. 
And  thou  thyself  wert  Kke  the  serpent,  coil 
Around  me  still !  and  I  will  smile. 
And  curse  thee  not ;  but  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 

As but  descend,  and  prove 

A  mortal's  love 
For  an  immortal.    If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain  ! 

Anah.  Sister  !  sister  !  I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  partial  night. 

Aho.  The  clouds  from  oif  their  pinions  flinging, 
As  though  they  bore  to-morrow's  light 

Aiwih.  But  if  our  father  see  the  sight  ! 

A?io.  He  would  but  deem  it  was  the  moon 
Rising  into  some  sorcerer's  tune 
An  hour  too  soon. 

Anah.  They  come  !  he  comes  ! — Azaziel ! 

Aho.  Haste 

To  meet  them  I  Oh  !  for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there. 
To  Samiasa's  breast  1 

Anah.  Lo  !  they  have  kindled  all  the  west, 
Like  a  returning  sunset ; — lo  ! 

On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 
A  mild  and  many-color'd  bow. 
The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path. 
Now  shines  !  and  now,  behold  !  it  hath 
Retum'd  to  night,  as  rippling  foam. 

Which  the  leviathan  hath  lash'd 
From  his  unfathomable  home, 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  calm  deep. 

Subsides  soon  after  he  again  hath  dash'd 
Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains  sleep. 
Aho.  They  have  touch'd  earth  !  Samiasa  ! 
Anah.  My  Azaziel  1 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

Enter  Ikad  and  Japuet. 
Irnd.  Despond  not :  wherefore  wilt  thou  wander  thus 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


PAET   I. 


To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night, 
And  lift  thy  tearful  eye  vmto  the  stars  ? 
They  cannot  aid  thee. 

Japh.  But  they  soothe  me — now 

Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look. 
Methinks  a  being  that  is  beautiful 
Becometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 
Tho  eternal  beauty  of  undying  things. 
Oh,  Anah ! 

Irad.  But  she  loves  thee  not. 

Japh.  Alas  1 

Irad.  And  proud  Ahohbamah  spurns  me  also. 

Jafh.  I  feel  for  thee  too. 

Irad.  Let  her  keep  her  pride, 

Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn : 
It  may  be,  time  too  wiU  avenge  it. 

JapU.  Canst  thou 

Find  joy  in  such  a  thought  ? 

Irad.  Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow. 

I  loved  her  well ;  I  would  have  loved  her  better, 
Had  love  been  met  ydth  love ;  as  'tis,  I  leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 

Jwph.  "What  destinies  ? 

Irad.  I  have  some  cause  to  think 

She  loves  another. 

Japh,  Anah  1 

Irad.  No ;  her  sister. 

Japh.  What  other  ? 

Irad.  That  I  know  that ;  but  her  air. 

If  not  her  words,  tells  me  she  loves  another. 

Japh.  Ay,  but  not  Anah  ;  she  but  loves  her  God. 

Irad.  Whate'er  she  loveth,  so  she  loves  thee  not, 
What  can  it  profit  thee  ? 

Japh.  True,  nothing  ;  but 

I  love 

Irad.  And  so  do  I. 

Ja/ph.  And  now  thou  lovest  not, 

Or  think'st  thou  lov'st  not,  art  thou  happier  ? 

Irad.  Yes. 

Japh.  I  pity  thee. 

Irad.  Me  1  why  ? 

Japh.  For  being  happy. 

Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

Irad.  I  take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  distemper. 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost  for  more  shekels 
Than  aU  our  father's  herds  would  bring  if  weigh'd 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain — 
The  yellow  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us, 
As  if  such  useless  and  discolor'd  trash, 
The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and  all 
Our  flocks  and  wilderness  afford. — Go,  Japhet, 
Sigh  to  the  stars,  as  wolves  howl  to  the  moon — 
I  must  back  to  my  rest. 

Japh.  And  so  would  I 

If  I  could  rest. 

Irad.  Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents  then  ? 


Japh.  No,  Irad ;  I  will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth  they  say  opens  from  the  internal  world 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

Irad.  Wherefore  so  ? 

What  wouldst  thou  there  ? 

Japh.  Soothe  further  my  sad  spirit 

With  gloom  as  sad  :  it  is  a  hopeless  spot, 
And  I  am  hopeless. 

Irad.  But  'tis  dangerous  ; 

Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  with  terrors. 
I  must  go  with  thee. 

Japh.  Irad,  no  ;  believe  mc 

I  feel  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

Irad.  But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the  more 
As  not  being  of  them  :  turn  thy  steps  aside. 
Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 

Jnph.  No,  neither,  Irad ; 

I  must  proceed  alone. 

Irad.  Then  peace  be  with  thee  ! 

\Exit  Ikad. 
Japh.  {lolus.)  Peace !  I  have  sought  it  where  it 
should  be  found. 
In  love — with  love,  too,  which  perhaps  deserved  it ; 
And,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart — 
A  weakness  of  the  spirit — listless  days. 
And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep — 
Have   come   upon   me.     Peace !    what  peace  ?    the 
Of  desolation,  and  the  stillness  of  [calm 

The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 
The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning  boughs ; 
Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  state 
Of  my  mind  overworn.    The  earth's  grown  wicked, 
And  many  signs  and  portents  have  proclaim'd 
A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o'erwhelming  doom 
To  perishable  beings.     Oh,  my  Anah  ! 
When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shaE  open  wide 
The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how  mightest  thou 
Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 
The  elements  ;  this  bosom,  which  in  vain 
Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more  vainly. 

While  thine O  God  !  at  least  reniit  to  her 

Thy  wrath  !  for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing 
As  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench, 
Although  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.    My  Anah  ! 
How  would  I  have  adored  thee,  but  thou  wouldst 
And  still  would  I  redeem  thee — see  thee  live     [not ; 
Wlien  ocean  is  earth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 
By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan. 
Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world, 
Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm. 

{Exit  Japhet. 
Eater  Noah  and  Shem. 
Noah.  Where  is  thy  brother  Japhet  ? 
Shem.  He  went  forth, 

According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 
He  said  ;  but,  as  I  fear,  to  bend  his  steps 


SCElfE  m. 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


233 


Towards  Anah's  tents,  round  wbich  he  hovers  night- 
Like  a  dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest ;  [ly, 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat. 

Nvah.  What  doth  he  there  2     It  is  an  evil  spot 
Upon  an  earth  all  evil ;  for  things  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there  :  he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a  fated  race, 
Although  he  could  not  wed  her  if  she  loved  him, 
jVnd  that  she  doth  not.    Oh,  the  unhappy  hearts 
Of  men  !  that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days. 
And  that  the  hour  approacheth,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings  !     Lead  the  way  ; 
He  must  be  sought  for  ! 

Shem.  do  not  forward,  father  : 

I  will  seek  Japhet. 

Noah.  Do  not  fear  for  me  : 

All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah.    Let  us  on. 

Shem.  To  the  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sisters  ? 

Noah.  No ;  to  tlie  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

[Exeunt  Noah  and  Shem. 

SCENE    ui. 

The  mountains  — A  cavern,  and  the  rocks  of  Caucasus. 

Japh.  (soluK.)  Ye  wilds,  that  look  eternal ;   and 
thou  cave. 
Which  seem'st  unfathomable  ;  and  ye  mountains. 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty  ; 
Hero,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks 
And  toppling  trees  that  twine  their  roots  with  stone 
In  perpendicular  places,  where  the  foot 
Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  tlicm — yes, 
Te  look  eternal !    Yet,  in  a  few  days, 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurl'd 
Before  the  mass  of  waters  ;  and  yon  cave, 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world. 
Shall  have  its  depths  search'd  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
And  dolphins  gambol  in  the  lion's  den  I 

And  man Oh,  men  !  my  fellow-beings  !   Who 

Shall  weep  above  your  imiversal  grave, 
Save  I  ?    Who  shall  be  left  to  weep  ?    My  kinsmen, 
Alas  !  what  am  I  better  than  ye  are. 
That  I  must  live  beyond  yc  ?     Where  shall  be 
The  pleasant  places  where  I  thought  of  Anah 
While  I  had  hope  ?  or  the  more  savage  haunts, 
Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I  despair'd  for  her  ? 
And  can  it  be  !     Shall  yon  exulting  peak, 
Wliose  glittering  top  is  like  a  distant  star. 
Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep  ? 
No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth. 
And  scatter  back  the  mists  in  floating  folds 
From  its  tremendous  brow  ?  no  more  to  have. 
Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  liead  at  even, 
Ijcaving  it  with  a  crown  of  many  hues  ? 
30 


No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 

For  angels  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 

Nearest  the  stars  ?   And  can  those  words  "  rw  more''' 

Be  meant  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  us, 

And  the  jiredestined  creeping  things  reserved 

By  my  sire  to  Jehovah's  bidding  ?    May 

J/c  preserve  fhem.,  and  I  not  have  the  power 

To  snatch  the  loveliest  of  earth's  daughters  from 

A  doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his  mate. 

Shall  'scape  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolong'd. 

To  hiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world. 

Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime  whose  ooze 

Shall  slumber  o'er  the  wreck  of  this  until 

The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 

Beneath  the  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 

The  sole  and  undistinguish'd  sepulchre. 

Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life  ?    How  much 

Breath  will  be  still'd  at  once  !  All-beauteous  world  ! 

So  young,  so  mark'd  for  destruction,  I 

With  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day. 

And  night  by  night,  thy  numbcr'd  days  and  nights : 

I  cannot  save  thee,  I  cannot  save  even  her 

Whose  love  liad  made  me  love  thee  more ;  but  as 

A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  cannot  think 

Upon  thy  coming  doom  without  a  feeling 

Such  as — O  God  !  and  canst  thou — [ffe  pauses. 

A  rushing  sound  from  the  cnrern  is  lieard,  and  shouts 
of  laughter — afterwards  a  Spirit  passes. 

Japh.  In  the  name 

Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou  ? 

Spirit,  (laughs.)  Ha  1  ha  1  ha  ! 

Japh.  By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak  ! 

Spirit,  (laughs.)  Ha  1  ha  1 

Japh.  By  the  approaching  deluge  !  by  the  earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean  1  by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  fountains  : 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to  seas, 
And  the  Omnipotent  who  makes  and  crushes  ! 
Thou  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct. 
Yet  awful  Thing  of  Shadows,  speak  to  me  ! 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh  ? 

Spirit.  Why  weep'st  thou  ? 

Japh.  For  earth  and  all  her  children. 

Spirit.  Ha  !  ha !  ha  ! 

[Spirit  vanishes. 

Japh.  How  the  fiend  mocks  the  tortures  of  a  world, 
The  coming  desolation  of  an  orb. 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life  ! 
How  tlie  earth  sleeps  !  and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  upon  the  very  eve  of  death  ! 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it  ?    What  is  here. 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  like  things 
Bom  ere  this  dying  world  ?  They  come  like  clouds  1 
[Various  Spirits  pass  from  the  cater  n. 

Spirit.  Rejoice ! 

The  abhorred  race 


234 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


PAST  I. 


WHch  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  liigh  place, 

The  Sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 

But  listen'd  to  the  voice 

Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  tears 

Of  knowledge  without  power, 

And  art  thou  not  ashamed 

Are  nigh  the  hour 

Thus  to  survive. 

Of  death  1 

And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive  ? 

Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow. 

With  a  base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed, 

Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,  nor  time's  sapping 

As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named, 

motion, 

Without  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 

Shall  they  drop  off.    Behold  their  last  to-morrow  1 

Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissolving  wave. 

Earth  shall  be  ocean  ! 

Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favor'd  father. 

And  no  breath. 

And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drown'd  Earth's  grave  ? 

Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave  ! 

Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 

Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot : 

Except  the  base  and  bUnd  ? 

Not  even  a  rock  from  out  the  liquid  grave 

Mine 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save, 

Hateth  thine. 

Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  hath  died. 

As  of  a  different  order  in  the  sphere. 

After  long  looking  o'er  the  ocean  wide 

But  not  our  own. 

For  the  expected  ebb  which  cometh  not : 

There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a  throne 

All  shall  be  void. 

Vacant  in  heaven  to  dwell  in  darkness  here, 

Destroy'd ! 

Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 

Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 

Go,  wretch  !  and  give 

Of  life,  and  the  abhorr'd 

A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches — live  ! 

Children  of  dust  be  quench'd  ;  and  of  each  hue 

And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 

Of  earth  naught  left  but  the  unbroken  blue ; 

Above  what  they  have  done. 

And  of  the  variegated  mountain 

Envy  the  giant  patriarchs  then  no  more, 

Shall  naught  remain 

And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one ! 

Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain  ; 

Thyself  for  being  his  son  ! 

Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain  : 

All  merged  within  the  universal  fountain. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  issuing  from  the  cavern. 

Man,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die, 

Rejoice  1 

And  sea  and  sky 

No  more  the  human  voice 

Look  vast  and  Ufeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 

Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 

Upon  the  foam 

With  prayer  ; 

Who  shall  erect  a  home  ? 

No  more 

Jaj)h.  {coming  forward.)     My  sire  ! 

Shall  they  adore ; 

Earth's  seed  shall  not  expire  ; 

And  we,  who  ne'er  for  ages  have  adored 

Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 

The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 

From  day. 

To  whom  the  omission  of  a  sacrifice 

Avaunt !  ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste  ! 

Is  vice ; 

Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 

We,  we  shall  view  the  deep's  salt  sources  pour'd 

When  God  destroys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy ; 

Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 

Hence !  haste ! 

Of  all  in  chaos  ;  until  they, 

Back  to  your  inner  caves  ! 

The  creatures  proud  of  their  poor  clay. 

Until  the  waves 

Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall  lurk 

Shall  search  you  in  your  secret  place. 

In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 

And  drive  your  sullen  race 

The  Deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair ; 

Forth,  to  be  roll'd  upon  the  tossing  winds 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair. 

In  restless  wretchedness  along  all  space  ! 

Shall  cease  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other, 

Spirit.          Son  of  the  saved  ! 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  to  die 

When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 

Beside  the  lamb,  as  though  he  were  his  brother ; 

The  wide  and  warring  element ; 

Till  all  things  shall  be  as  they  were. 

When  the  great  barrier  of  the  deep  is  rent, 

Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky  : 

Shall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy  ?    No  ! 

Wliile  a  brief  truce 

Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall  be  of  wo — 

Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 

Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 

The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation, 

Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 

To  generate  new  nations  for  his  use  ; 

Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride. 

This  remnant,  floating  o'er  the  undulation 

SCENE  III. 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


235 


Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  slime, 
When  the  hot  sun  hath  baked  the  reeking  soil 
Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  to  Time 
New  beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil. 
Until— 
Jaj>h.  (Interrupling  them)  The  eternal  will 
Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream 
Of  good  and  evil ;  and  redeem 
Unto  himself  all  times,  all  things  ; 
And,  gather'd  under  his  almighty  ^^•ings, 
Abolish  hell ! 
And  to  the  expiated  Earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth, 

Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise. 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well  1 
Spirits.  And  when  shall  take  eflfect  this  wondrous 

spell  ? 
Jcip?i.  When  the  Redeemer  cometh  ;  first  in  pain, 

And  then  in  glory. 
Spirit.  Meantime  still  struggle  in  the  mortal  chain, 
TiU  earth  wax  hoary  ; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven,  in  vain, 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battle  plain  ; 
New  times,  new  cUmes,  new  arts,  new  men  :  but  still, 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill, 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms  ; 

But  the  same  moral  storms 
Shall  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a  few  hours  the  glorious  giants'  graves.' 

Chorus  of  Spirils. 
Brethren,  rejoice ! 
Mortal,  farewell ! 
Hark  !  hark  !  already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell ; 
The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings  ; 
The  clouds  have  nearly  flU'd  their  springs  ; 
The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  be  broken, 

And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows ;'  while  mankind 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token — 
Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 
We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear, 
The    mustering  thunders   of  the  threatening 
sphere ; 
Yet  a  few  hours  their  coming  is  delay'd — 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high, 

Yet  undisplay'd. 
Save  to  the  Spirit's  all-pervading  eye. 
Howl  I  howl  1  oh  Earth  ! 
Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth  : 

'  "  And  there  wore  giants  in  the  earth  In  those  day",  ord  also  after 
Uiat . . .  mighty  men,  which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown."— Oen«rf<. 

'  "  The  same  day  were  all  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  broken 
up ;  and  the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened."— /Wd. 


Tremble,  ye  mountains,  soon  to  shrink  below 

The  ocean's  overflow  ! 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs  ;  and  shells, 

The  little  shells  of  ocean's  least  things  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle's  offspring  dwells — 

How  shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remorseless  sea  ! 
And  call  his  nestlings  up  with  fruitless  yeU, 
Unanswer'd,  save  by  the  encroaching  swell ; — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad  wings, 

The  wings  which  could  not  save : — 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space 
brings 
Naught  to  his  eye  beyond  the  deep,  his  grave  ? 
Brethren,  rejoice ! 

And  loudly  lift  each  superhuman  voice 

AUdie, 
Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Seth's  seed — 

The  seed  of  Seth, 
Exempt  for  future  sorrow's  sake  from  death. 
But  of  the  sons  of  Cain 
None  shall  remain  ; 
And  all  his  goodly  daughters 
Must  lie  beneath  tlie  desolating  waters — 
Or,  floating  upward,  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  heaven  upbraid, 
Wliich  would  not  spare 
Beings  even  in  death  so  fair. 
It  is  decreed. 
All  die ! 
And  to  the  universal  human  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed  ! 
Fly,  brethren,  fly ! 
But  still  rejoice ! 
We  fell ! 
They  fall ! 
So  perish  all 
These  petty  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  hell ! 
[  The  Spirits  disappear,  soaring  upwards. 

Japh.  (solus).  God  hath  proclaim'd  the  destiny  of 
My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it ;  [earth  ; 
The  very  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves  ; 
The  scroll'  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear  : 
And  yet  men  listen'd  not,  nor  listen ;  but 
Walk  darkling  to  their  doom ;  which,  though  so  nigh. 
Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief. 
Than  their  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty  purpose 
Or  deaf  obedient  ocean,  which  fulfills  it. 
No  sign  yet  hangs  its  Ijanner  in  the  air ; 
The  clouds  are  few,  and  of  their  wonted  texture  ; 
The  Sim  will  rise  upon  the  earth's  last  day 
As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 
God  said  unto  him,  "  Shine  !"  and  he  broke  forth 


•  The  book  of  Enoch,  preserved  by  the  Ethiopians,  1b  said  by 
them  to  be  anterior  to  the  flood. 


I 


236 


BYRON'S    WORKS, 


PART   I. 


Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 

Unform'd  forefather  of  mankind — but  roused 

Before  the  human  orison  the  earher 

Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds, 

Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven 

Have  wings  Uke  angels,  and  like  them  salute 

Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites  ! 

Their  matins  now  draw  nigh — ^the  east  is  kindling— 

And  they  will  sing  !  and  day  will  break  !    Botli  near, 

So  near  the  awful  close  !     For  these  must  drop 

Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep ;  and  day. 

After  the  bright  course  of  a  few  brief  morrows, — 

Ay,  day  wiU  rise ;  but  upon  what  ? — a  chaos, 

"Wliich  was  ere  day ;  and  which,  renew'd,  makes  time 

Nothing  !  for,  without  life,  what  are  the  hours  ? 

No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 

Unto  Jehovah,  who  created  both. 

Without  him,  even  eternity  would  be 

A  void :  without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man. 

Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallow'd  in  that  deep 

Which  has  no  fountain  ;  as  his  race  will  be 

Devour'd  by  that  which  drowns  his  infant  world. — 

What  have  we  here  ?     Shapes  of  both  earth  and  air  ? 

No — all  of  heaven,  they  are  so  beautiful. 

I  cannot  trace  their  features  ;  but  their  forms, 

How  loveUly  they  move  along  the  side 

Of  the  gray  mountain,  scattering  its  mist ! 

And  after  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 

Infernal  immortality  pour'd  forth 

Their  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  shall  be 

Welcome  as  Eden.    It  may  be  they  come 

To  tell  me  the  reprieve  of  our  young  world, 

For  which  I  have  so  often  pray'd. — They  come  1 

Anah  !  oh,  God  1  and  with  her 

Enter  Same  as  A,  Azaziel,  Anah,  and  Aholibamah. 

Anah.  Japhet ! 

Sam.  Lo ! 

A  son  of  Adam. 

Aza.  What  doth  the  earth-bom  here, 

While  all  his  race  are  slumbering  ? 

Japh.  Angel !  what 

Dost  thou  on  earth  when  thou  shouldst  be  on  high  ? 

Aza.  Know'st  thou  not,  or  forget'st  thou,  that  a 
Of  our  great  function  is  to  guard  thine  earth  ?  [part 

Japli.  But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth, 
Which  is  condcmn'd  ;  nay,  even  the  evil  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.     Anah  !  Anah  !  my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved  ! 
Why  walk'st  thou  with  this  spirit,  in  those  hours 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below  ? 

Anah.  Japhet,  I  cannot  answer  thee ;  yet,  yet 
Forgive  me 

Japh.  May  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 

Will  pardon,  do  so  !  for  thou  art  greatly  tempted. 

Aho.  Back  to  thy  tents,  insulting  son  of  Noah  ! 
We  know  thee  not. 


J(iph.  The  hour  may  come  when  thou 

May'st  know  me  better ;  and  thy  sister  know 
Me  still  the  same  which  I  have  ever  been. 

Sam.  Son  of  the  patriarch,  who  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whate'cr  thy  griefs, 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix'd  with  wrath. 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong  ? 

Jijph.  Wrong  I  the  greatest  of  all  wrongs ;  but  thou 
Say'st  well,  though  she  be  dust,  I  did  not,  could  not, 
Deserve  her.     Farewell,  Anah  !  I  have  said 
That  word  so  often  !  but  now  say  it,  ne'er 
To  be  repeated.    Angel !  or  whate'er 
Thou  art,  or  must  be  soon,  hast  thou  the  power 
To  save  this  beautiful — these  beautiful 
Children  of  Cain  ? 

Aza.  From  what  ? 

Japh.  And  is  it  so, 

That  ye  too  know  not  ?     Angels  !  angels  !  ye 
Have  shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  .now  must 
Partake  his  punishment ;  or,  at  the  least. 
My  sorrow. 

Sam.         Sorrow  !  I  ne'er  thought  till  now 
To  hear  an  Adamite  speak  riddles  to  me. 

Japh.  And  hath  not  the  Most  High  expounded 
Then  ye  are  lost,  as  they  are  lost.  [them  ? 

Aho.  So  be  it ! 

If  they  love  as  they  are  loved,  they  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal, -than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
With  Bamiasa ! 

Anah.  Sister  !  sister  !  speak  not 

Thus. 

Aza.  Fearest  thou,  my  Anah  ? 

Anah.  Yes,  for  thee : 

I  would  resign  the  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

Jdph.  It  is  for  him,  then  !  for  the  seraph  thou 
Hast  left  me  1     That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast  not 
Left  thy  God  too  !  for  unions  like  to  these. 
Between  a  mortal  and  an  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  haJlow'd.     We  are  sent 
Upon  the  earth  to  toil  and  die  ;  and  they 
Are  made  to  minister  on  high  imto 
The  Highest :  but  if  he  can  save  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 
Alone  can  do  so. 

Anah.  Ah  !  he  speaks  of  death. 

Sam.  Of  death  to  vs  !  and  those  who  are  with  us ! 
But  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

Japh.  I  grieve  not  for  myself,  nor  fear ; 

I  am  safe,  not  for  my  deserts,  but  those 
Of  a  well-doing  sire,  who  hath  been  found 
Righteous  enough  to  save  his  children.     Would 
His  power  was  greater  of  redemption  !  or 


SCKKB  in. 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


237 


That  by  exchanging  my  own  life  for  hors, 
Who  could  alone  have  made  mine  happy,  she, 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain's  race,  could  share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a  remnant  of 
The  seed  of  Seth  1 

Aho.  And  dost  thou  think  that  we, 

With  Cain's,  the  eldest  bom  of  Adam's,  blood 
Worm  in  our  veins, — strong  Cain !  who  was  begotten 
In  Paradise, — would  mingle  with  Seth's  children  ? 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage  ? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril  1 
Our  race  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

Japh.  I  did  not  speak  to  thee  Aholibamah  ! 
Too  much  of  the  forefather  whom  thou  vauntest 
Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which  springs 
From  him  who  shed  the  first,  and  that  a  brother's  1 
But  thou,  my  Anah  !  let  me  call  thee  mine. 
Albeit  thou  art  not ;  'tis  a  word  I  cannot 
Part  with,  although  I  must  from  thee.    My  Anah  ! 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that  Abel 
Had  left  a  daughter,  whose  pure  pious  race 
Survived  in  thee,  so  much  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  stem  Cainites,  save  in  beauty, 

For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favor 

Aho.  {interrupt int/  him).    And  wouldst  thou  have 
her  like  our  father's  foe 
In  mind,  in  soul  ?     If  J  partook  thy  thought. 
And  dream'd  that  aught  of  Abel  was  in  Tier  ! — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah  ;  thou  makest  strife. 
Japh.  Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  so  1 
Aho.  But 

He  slew  not  Seth  :  and  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him  ? 

Japh.  Thou  speakest  well :  his  God  hath  judged 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself  [him,  and 
Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done. 

Aho.  He  was  our  fathers'  father ; 

The  eldest  born  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest, 
And  most  enduring  : — Shall  I  blush  for  him 
From  whom  we  had  our  being  ?    Look  upon 
Our  race ;  behold  their  stature  and  their  beauty. 

Their  courage,  strength,  and  length  of  days 

Japh.  They  are  number'd. 

Aho.  Be  it  so  1  but  while  yet  their  hours  endure, 
I  glory  in  my  brethren  and  our  fathers. 
Japh.  My  sire  and  race  but  glory  in  their  God, 

Anah  1  and  thou  ? 

Anah.  Whate'er  our  God  decrees. 

The  God  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I  must  obey, 
And  will  endeavor  patiently  to  obey. 
But  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  this  dread  hour 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be). 
It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Of  all  my  house.    My  sister  1  oh,  my  sister  I 
What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 


The  brightest  future,  without  the  sweet  past — 

Thy  love — my  father's— all  the  life,  and  all 

The  things  which  sprang  up  witli  me,  like  the  stars, 

Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 

Soft  lights  which  were  not  mine  ?    Aholibamah  ! 

Oh,  if  there  should  be  mercy — seek  it,  find  it : 

I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 

Aho.  What  hath  this  dreamer  with  his  father's 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world,  [ark, 
Shaken  my  sister  ?    Are  toe  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs  ?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a  son  of  Noah  for  our  lives  ? 

Rather  than  thus But  the  enthusiast  dreams 

The  worst  of  dreams,  the  fantasies  engender'd 
By  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.    Who 
Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth. 
And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  take  a  shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way  ? 
Who  shall  do  this  ? 

Japh.  He  whose  one  word  produced  them. 

Aho.  Who  heard  that  word  ? 

Japh.  The  universe,  which  leap'd 

To  life  before  it.    Ah,  smilest  thou  stiU  in  scorn  ? 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs  :  if  they  attest  it  not, 
They  are  none. 

Sam.  Aholibamah,  own  thy  God  ! 

Aho.  I  have  ever  hail'd  our  Maker,  Samiasa, 
As  thine,  and  mine  :  a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

Japh.  Alas  !  what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  ?    Even 
He  who  made  earth  in  love  had  soon  to  grieve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inhabitants. 

Aho.  'Tis  said  so. 

Japh.  It  is  even  so. 

Enter  Noah  and  Shem. 

Noah.  Japhet  I  What 

Dost  thou  here  with  these  children  of  the  wicked  ? 
Dread'st  thou  not  to  partake  their  coming  doom  ? 

Japh.  Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-bom  being  ;  and  behold. 
These  are  not  of  the  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

Koah.  These  are  they,  then. 

Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  them  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain  ;  the  sons  of  heaven. 
Who  seek  earth's  daughters  for  their  beauty  ? 

Azd.  Patriarch  1 

Thou  hast  said  it. 

Noah.  Wo,  wo,  wo  to  such  communion  ! 

Hast  not  God  made  a  barrier  between  earth 
And  heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind  ? 

Slim.  Was  not  man  made  in  high  Jehovah's  image  ? 
Did  God  not  love  what  he  hiad  made  ?    And  what 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto  created  love  ? 


23S 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


PAKT  I. 


Noah.  I  am 

But  man,  and  was  not  made  to  judge  mankind, 
Far  less  the  sons  of  God ;  but  as  our  God 
Has  deign'd  to  commune  with  me,  and  reveal 
His  judgments,  I  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  seraphs  from  their  everlasting  seat 
Unto  a  perishable  and  perishing. 
Even  on  the  very  eve  oiperisJiing,  world, 
Cannot  be  good. 

Aza.  What  I  though  it  were  to  save  ? 

Noah.  Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 
What  he  who  made  you  glorious  hath  condemn'd. 
Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  'twould 
Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful ; 
And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh.  Oh,  father  !  say  it  not. 

Noah.  Son  !  son  ! 

If  that  thou  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  they  exist ;  they  soon  shall  cease  to  be. 
While  thou  shalt  be  the  sire  of  a  new  world, 
And  better. 

Japh.         Let  me  die  with  this,  and  them! 
_  Noth,  Thou  fhouJdxt  for  such  a  thought,  but  shalt 
Who  can  redeems  thee.  [not ;  he 

Sam.  And  why  him  and  thee. 

More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both  ? 

Noah.  Ask  him  who  made  thee  greater  than  myself 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  his  o"wn 
Almightiness.     And  lo  !  his  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  messenger  appears  ! 

Enter  Raphael,  the  Archangel. 
Raph.  Spirits ! 

Whose  seat  Is  near  the  throne. 
What  do  ye  here  ? 
Is  thus  a  seraph's  duty  to  be  shown, 
Now  that  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone  ? 
Return  ! 
Adore  and  bum 
In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  "  seven," 
Your  place  is  heaven. 
Sam.  Raphael ! 

The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 

How  long  hath  this  been  law. 
That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod  ? 

Earth  !  which  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sod  t 
The  world  he  loved,  and  made 
For  love  ;  and  oft  have  we  obey'd 
His  frequent  mission  with  delighted  pinions  : 

Adoring  him  in  his  least  works  display'd ; 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  his  dominions  ; 
And  as  the  latest  birth  of  his  great  word, 
Eager  to  keep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 
Why  is  thy  brow  severe  ? 
And  wherefore  speak'st  thou  of  destruction  near  ? 


Raph.     Had  Samiasa  and  Azaziel  been 
In  their  true  place,  with  the  angelic  choir. 
Written  in  fire 
They  would  have  seen 
Jehovah's  late  decree. 
And  not  inquir'd  their  Maker's  breath  of  me  : 
But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin  ; 
And  even  the  spirit's  knowledge  shall  grow  less 

As  they  wax  proud  within  ; 
For  Blindness  is  the  first-born  of  Excess. 

When  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye  stay'd, 
Stung  with  strange  passions,  and  debased 

By  mortal  feelings  for  a  mortal  maid  : 
But  ye  are  pardon'd  thus  far,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure  equals.     Hence  !  away  !  away  ! 
Or  stay. 
And  lose  eternity  by  that  delay. 
Aza.  And  thou  !  if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 
To  us  until  this  moment  hidden, 
Dost  thou  not  err  as  we 
In  being  here  ? 
Raph.  I  came  to  caU  ye  back  to  your  fit  sphere. 
In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God. 
Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 

That  which  I  came  to  do  :  till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space  ;  together 

Let  us  still  walk  the  stars.    True,  earth  must  die  ! 
Her  race,  return'd  into  her  womb,  must  wither. 
And  much  which  she  inherits  :  but  oh !  why 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroy'd. 
Without  involving  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks  ?  immortal  still 

In  their  immeasurable  forfeiture. 
Our  brother  Satan  fell ;  his  burning  will 
Rather  than  longer  worship  dared  endure  1 
But  ye  who  still  are  pure  ! 
Seraphs  !  less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one. 

Think  how  he  was  undone  ! 
And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
For  heaven  desired  too  late  ? 
Long  have  I  warr'd, 
Long  must  I  war 
With  him  who  deem'd  it  hard 
To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  him 
Wlio  midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  sims  to  a  dependent  star, 
Leaving  the  archangels  at  his  right  hand  dim. 
I  loved  him — beautiful  he  was  :  oh  heaven  ! 
Save  his  who  made,  what  beauty  and  what  power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's  !    Would  the  hour 

In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven  ! 
The  wish  is  impious  :  but,  oh  ye  I 
Yet  imdestroy'd,  be  warn'd  !  Eternity 

With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice  : 
He  hath  not  tempted  you ;  he  cannot  tempt 


SCKNB  in. 


HEAVEN    AND    EARTH. 


239 


The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt : 

But  man  hath  listen'd  to  his  voice, 
And  ye  to  woman's — beautiful  she  is. 
The  serpent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss. 
The  snake  but  vanquish'd  dust ;  but  she  will  draw 
A  second  host  from  heaven,  to  break  heaven's  law. 
Yet,  yet,  oh  fly  ! 
Ye  cannot  die ; 
But  they 
Shall  pass  away, 
While  ye  shall  fill  with  shrieks  the  upper  sky 

For  perishable  clay, 
Whose  memory  in  your  immortaUty 

Shall  long  outlast  the  sun  which  gives  them  day. 
Think  how  your  essence  differeth  from  theirs 
In  all  but  suffering !  why  partake 
The  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs — 
Boru  to  be  plough'd  with  years,  and  sown  with  cares; 
And  reap'd  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  soil  ? 
Even  had  their  days  been  left  to  toil  their  path 
Through  time  to  dust,  unshorten'd  by  God's  wrath, 
Still  they  are  Evil's  prey  and  Sorrow's  spoil 

Ako.  Let  them  fly  ! 

I  hear  the  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die 

Sooner  than  our  white-boarded  patriarchs  died ; 

And  that  on  high 

An  ocean  is  prepared. 

While  from  below 

The  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven's  overflow 

Few  shall  be  spared, 
It  seems ;  and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  lift  their  eyes  to  Adam's  God  in  vain. 
Sister  !  since  it  is  so. 
And  the  eternal  Lord 
In  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  wo, 
Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored. 
And  meet  the  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the  sword. 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismay'd. 
And  wailing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  mortal  or  immortal  thrall, 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allay'd, 
Weep  for  the  myriads  who  can  weep  no  more. 
Fly,  seraphs  !  to  your  own  eternal  shore. 
Where  winds  nor  howl  nor  waters  roar. 
Our  portion  is  to  die. 
And  yours  to  live  forever : 
But  which  is  best,  a  dead  eternity, 
Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver. 
Obey  him,  as  we  shall  obey ; 
I  would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  of  clay 
An  hour  beyond  his  will ; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  his  grace. 
For  all  the  mercy  which  Seth's  race 
Find  still. 
Fly! 
And  88  your  pinionB  bear  ye  back  to  heaven, 


Think  that  my  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on  high, 

Samiasa ! 
And  if  I  look  up  with  a  tearless  eye, 
'Tis  that  an  angel's  bride  disdains  to  weep — 
Farewell !  Now  rise,  inexorable  Deep  ! 
Anah.        And  must  we  die  ? 

And  must  I  lose  thee  too, 
Azaziel ! 
Oh  my  heart !  my  heart ! 

Thy  prophecies  were  true  ! 
And  yet  thou  wert  so  happy  too  I 
The  blow,  though  not  unlook'd  for,  falls  as  new : 
But  yet  depart ! 
Ah  !  why  ? 
Yet  let  me  not  retain  thee — fly  ! 
My  pangs  can  be  but  brief;  but  thine  would  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 
Too  much  already  hast  thou  deign'd 
To  one  of  Adam's  race  ! 
Our  doom  is  sorrow  :  not  to  us  alone, 
But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain'd 
To  love  us,  Cometh  anguish  with  disgrace. 
The  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  been  hurl'd 
From  his  once  archangelic  throne 
Into  some  unknown  world  : 
And  thou,  Azaziel !  No — 
Thou  shalt  not  sufier  wo 
For  me.    Away  !  nor  weep  ! 
Thou  canst  not  weep ;  but  yet 
Mayst  suffer  more,  not  weeping  :  then  forget 
Her,  whom  the  surges  of  the  all-strangling  Deep 

Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.     Fly  !  fly  ! 
Being  gone  'twill  be  less  difficult  to  die. 
Japh.  Oh  say  not  so  ! 

Father  1  and  thou,  archangel,  thou  ! 
Surely  celestial  Mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  brow  : 

Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a  shore, 
Save  in  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more  ! 

Noah.  Peace,  child  of  passion,  peace  ! 
If  not  within  thy  heart,  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong  ! 
Live  as  he  wills  it— die,  when  he  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain's^ 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence ;  cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  selfish  plaint. 
Wouldst  thou  have  God  commit  a  sin  for  thee  ? 
Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  his  intent 
For  a  mere  mortal  sorrow.   "Be  a  man  ! 
And  bear  what  Adam's  race  must  bear,  and  can. 
Japh.  Ay,  father  I  but  when  they  are  gone, 
And  we  are  all  alone. 
Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 
The  depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear  land, 

And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast, 


240 


BYRON'S    WORKS 


PART  I. 


Who,  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shall  then  command  ? 
Can  wc  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest  2 
Oh  God  !  be  thou  a  God,  and  spare 

Yet  while  'tis  time  1 
Renew  not  Adam's  fall : 
Mankind  were  then  but  twain. 
But  they  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  rain. 
Whose  drops  shall  be  less  thick  than  would  their 
Were  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cain,  [graves, 
Noah.  Silence,  vain  boy  !   each  word  of  thine's  a 
Angel !  forgive  this  stripling's  fond  despair,  [crime. 
Eaph.  Seraphs!  these  mortals  speak  in  passion:  Ye! 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  passionless  and  pure, 
May  now  return  with  me. 

Sam.  It  may  not  be : 

We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 
Raph.  Say'st  thou  ? 

Aza.  He  hath  said  it,  and  I  say,  Amen  ! 

Rapli.        Again ! 
Then  from  this  hour. 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power, 
And  aUens  from  your  God, 
Farewell ! 
Jiipli.  Alas  !  where  shall  they  dwell  ? 

Hark,  hark  !  Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still, 
Are  howling  from  the  mountain's  bosom : 
There's  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill. 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blossom  : 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  load. 
Noah.  Hark,  hark !  the  sea-birds  cry  ! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky. 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  white  wing,  wetted  by  the  wave. 

Yet  dared  to  soar, 
Even  when  the  waters  wax'd  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shore, 
And  then,  no  more  ! 
Japh.  The  sun  !  the  sun  ! 

He  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone, 
And  a  black  circle,  boimd 
His  glaring  disk  around. 
Proclaims  earth's  last  of  summer  days  hath  shone : 

The  clouds  return  into  the  hues  of  night. 
Save  where  their  brazen-color'd  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  moms  were  wont  to  break, 

Noah.  And  lo  !  yon  flash  of  light, 
The  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears  ! 

It  Cometh  !  hence,  ftway  ! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey  ! 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallow'd  ark  uprears 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides  1 
Japh.  Oh,  father,  stay  ! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides  ! 
Noah.  Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  such  ?  Begone  1 
Japh.  Not  I. 

Noah.  Then  die 


With  them ! 
How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  sky, 
And  seek  to  save  what  all  things  now  condemn. 
In  overwhelming  unison 

With  just  Jehovah's  wrath  ! 

Japh.  Can  rage  and  justice  join  in  the  same  path  ? 

Noah.  Blasphemer!  darest  thou  murmur  evcfti  now  ? 

liaph.  Patriarch,  be  stillafatht*!  smooth  thy  brow: 

Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink  : 
He  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  shall  not  drink 

With  sobs  the  salt  foam  of  the  swelling  waters ; 
But  be,  when  Passion  j^asseth,  good  as  thou. 

Nor  perish  like  Heaven's  children  with  Man's 
daughters. 

Aho.  The  tempest  Cometh ;  Heaven  and  Earth  unite 
For  the  annihilation  of  all  life. 
Unequal  is  the  strife 
Between  our  strength  and  the  Eternal  M^'ght ! 

Sam.  But  ours  is  with  thee  :  we  will  bear  ye  far 

To  some  untroubled  star, 
Where  thou  and  Anah  shalt  partake  our  lot : 

And  if  thou  dost  not  weep  for  thy  lost  earth. 
Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot.  [birth ! 

Anah.  Oh  !  my  dear  father's  tents,  my  place  of 
And  mountains,  land,  and  woods  !  when  ye  are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears  ? 

Aza.  Thy  Spirit-lord. 

Fear  not ;  though  wc  are  shut  from  heaven. 
Yet  much  is  ours,  whence  we  can  not  be  driven. 

Raph.  Rebel !  thy  words  are  wicked  as  thy  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak  :  the  flaming  sword, 
Which  chased  the  iirst-born  out  of  Paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 

Aza.  It  cannot  slay  us  :  threaten  dust  with  death, 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  which  bleeds. 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes  ? 

Raph.  The  moment  cometh  to  approve  thy  strength ; 
And  learn  at  length 
How  vain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  commands  : 
Thy  former  force  was  in  thy  faith. 

Enter  Mortals,  flying  for  refuge. 
Chorus  of  Mortah. 
The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling — God  !  oh  God 
What  have  we  done  ?    Yet  spare  ! 
Hark  1  even  the  forest  beasts  howl  forth  their  prayer ! 
The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den, 
To  herd,  in  terror,  innocent  with  men ; 
And  the  birds  scream  their  agony  through  air 
Yet,  yet,  Jehovah  !  yet  withdraw  thy  rod 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world's  despair ! 
Hear  not  Man  only  but  all  Nature  plead  ! 

Raph.  Farewell,  thou  earth !  ye  wretched  sons  of  clay, 
I  cannot,  must  not,  aid  you.     'Tis  decreed  ! 

lExit  Raph-^l. 
Japh.  Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their 
prey. 


I 


6CENB   I. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH, 


241 


While  others,  fix'd  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  pour'd. 
Ko  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament. 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious  :  Death  hath  risen  : 
In  the  sun's  place  a  pale  and  .ghastly  glare 
Hath  wound  itself  around  the  dying  air. 

A!it.  Come,  Anah  !  quit  this  chaos-founded  prison, 
To  which  the  elements  again  repair, 
To  turn  it  into  what  it  was  :  beneath 
The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  be  safe, 
As  was  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 
Its  mother's — Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe, 
Witli  all  its  elements  !  Heed  not  their  din  ! 
A  brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shalt  breathe 
Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore  : 
These  darken'd  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 

[AzAziEi,  and  Samiasa  Jly  off,  and  disappear 
with  Anah  and  Aholfbamah. 

Japh.  They  are  gone !    They  have  disappear'd 
amidst  the  roar 
Of  the  forsaken  world  ;  and  never  more, 
Whether  they  live,  or  die  with  all  earth's  life. 
Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
Anah  unto  these  eyes. 

Chorus  of  Mortah. 

Oh  son  of  Noah  !  mercy  on  thy  kind  ! 
What !  wilt  thou  leave  us  all — all— aZ/  behind  ? 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife. 
Thou  sitt'st  vrithin  thy  guarded  ark  ? 

A  mother  (offering  her  infant  to  Japhet.)      Oh  let 
this  child  embark ! 
I  brought  him  forth  in  wo. 

But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  my  bosom  clinging  so. 
Why  was  he  bom  ? 
What  hath  he  done — 
My  unwean'd  son — 
To  move  Jehovah's  wrath  or  scorn  V 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  Death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 

My  boy, 
And  roll  the  waters  o'er  his  placid  breath  ? 
Have  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth  ! 
Or  cursed  be — with  him  who  made 
Thee  and  thy  race,  for  which  we  are  betray'd  ! 
Japh.  Peace  !  'tis  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

For  prayer  ! ! ! 

And  where 
Shall  prayer  ascend, 
When  the  swoln  clouds  unto  the  mountains  bend 

And  burst. 
And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend, 

;ii 


Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst  ? 
Accursed 
Be  he  who  made  thee  and  thy  sire  ! 
We  deem  our  curses  vain  ;  we  must  expire ; 

But  as  we  know  the  worst. 
Why  should  our  hymn  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent 
Before  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 
Since  we  must  faU  the  same  ? 
If  he  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  his  shame  ? 

To  make  a  world  for  torture. — Lo  !  they  come, 
The  loathsome  waters,  in  their  rage  1 
And  vrith  their  roar  make  wholesome  Nature  dumb ! 

The  forest's  trees,  (coeval  with  the  hour 
Wlien  Paradise  upsprimg, 

Ere  Eve  gave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sung,) 
So  massy,  vast,  yet  green  in  their  old  age, 
Are  overtopp'd. 
Their  summer  blossoms  by  the  surges  lopp'd, 
Which  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 
Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  lowering  skies — 

They  meet  the  seas. 
And  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 
Fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly  !  and  take  thine  ease 
In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent. 
And  view,  all  floating  o'er  the  element. 
The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  days  : 
Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise  ! 
A  Mortal.  Blessed  are  the  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord  ! 
And  though  the  waters  be  o'er  earth  outspread, 
Yet,  as  his  word. 
Be  the  decree  adored  1 
He  gave  me  life — ^lie  taketh  but 
The  breath  which  is  his  own  : 
And  though  these  eyes  should  be  forever  shut. 
Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  his  throne 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  tone, 

Still  blessed  be  the  Lord, 
For  what  is  past, 
For  that  which  is  : 
For  all  are  his. 
From  first  to  last — 
Time— space — eternity — life— death — 
The  vast  known  and  immeasurable  unknown. 
He  made,  and  can  immake  ; 
And  shall  /,  for  a  little  gasp  of  breath. 

Blaspheme  and  groan  ? 
No ;  let  me  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith. 
Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake  ! 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

Where  shall  we  fly  ? 
Not  to  the  mountains  high  ; 
For  now  their  torrents  rush,  with  double  roar, 


242- 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still, 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill, 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearch'd  cave. 

Enter  a  Womav. 

Woman.  Oh,  save  me,  save  ! 
Our  valley  is  no  more  : 

My  father  and  my  father's  tent, 
My  brethren  and  my  brethren's  herds. 

The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noonday  bent 
And  sent  forth  evening  songs  from  sweetest  birds, 
The  little  rivulet  which  freshen'd  all 
Our  pastures  green, 
No  more  are  to  be  seen. 
When  to  the  mountain  cliflF  I  climb'd  this  mom, 

I  tum'd  to  bless  the  spot. 


And  not  a  leaf  appear'd  about  to  fall ; — 

And  now  they  are  not ! — 
Why  was  I  bom  ? 

Japh.  To  die  !  in  youth  to  die  ! 

And  happier  in  that  doom, 
Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 

Which  I 
Am  thus  condemn'd  to  weep  above  in  vain. 
Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain  ? 

[7%e  waters  rise  ;  Men  fly  in  every  direetion  ; 
many  are  overtahen  hy  the  waves ;  the  Chorus 
oj  Mortah  disperses  in  search  of  safety  vp 
the  mountains  ;  Japhet  remains  upon  a  rock 
while  the  Arh  floats  towards  him  in  the  dis- 
tance. 


SARDANAPALTJS 


A     TRAGEDY. 


TO 

THE    ILLUSTRIOUS    GOETHE 

A  RTBAKGER  FBBSUHES  TO  OrFKB  THS  HOMAQE 

OP  A  LITEEART  TASSAL  TO  HIS  LIBOE  LORD,  THE  riRST  OP  EXISTING  WRITERS, 

WHO  HAS  CREATED  THE  LITERATURE  OP  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY, 

AND  ILLUSTRATED  THAT  OP  EUROPE. 

THE  UNWORTHY  PRODUCTION  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  VENTURES  TO  INSCRIBE  TO  HID 

IS  ENTITLED 

SARDANAPALUS. 


PREFACE. 

In  publishing  the  follovring  Tragedies  I  have  only 
to  repeat,  that  they  were  not  composed  with  the  most 
remote  view  to  the  stage.  On  the  attempt  made  by 
the  managers  in  a  former  instance,  the  public  opinion 
has  been  already  expressed.  With  regard  to  my  owji 
private  feelings,  as  it  seems  that  they  are  to  stand  for 
nothing,  I  shall  say  nothing. 

For  the  historical  foundation  of  the  following  com- 
positions the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Notes. 

The  Author  has  in  one  instance  attempted  to  pre- 
serve, and  in  the  other  to  approach,  the  "  unities  ;" 
conceiving  that  with  any  very  distant  departure  from 


them,  there  may  oe  poetry,  but  can  be  no  drama.  He 
is  aware  of  the  unpopularity  of  this  notion  in  present 
English  literature  ;  but  it  is  not  a  system  of  his  own, 
being  merely  an  opinion,  wUch,  not  very  long  ago, 
was  the  law  of  literature  throughout  the  world,  and 
is  still  so  in  the  more  civUized  part  of  it.  But  "  nous 
avons  change  tout  cela,"  and  are  reaping  the  advan- 
tages of  the  change.  The  writer  is  far  from  conceiv- 
ing that  any  thing  he  can  adduce  by  personal  precept 
or  example  can  at  all  approach  his  regular,  or  even  ir- 
regular predecessors ;  he  is  merely  giving  a  reason 
why  he  preferred  the  more  regular  formation  of  a  struc- 
ture, however  feeble,  to  an  entire  abandonment  of  all 
rules  whatHoever.  Where  he  has  failed,  the  failure  is 
in  the  architect, — and  not  in  the  art. 


SCENB   I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


243 


DRAMATIS  PERSON^.' 


UBN. 


Sardanapalub,  King  of  Ninedeh  and  Assyria,  etc. 

Arbaces,  the  Mede  who  aspired  to  the  Throne. 

Beleses,  a  Chaldean  and  Soothsayer, 

Salemenes,  the  Kinfs  Brother-in-law. 

Altada,  an  Assyrian  Officer  of  the  Palace, 

Pakia. 

Zaues. 

Sfeeo. 

Balea. 

WOMEN. 

Zarina,  the  Queen. 

Mtbbha,  an  Ionian  female  Slave,  and  the  Favorite 

of  Sardanapaxtjs. 
Women    composing    the   Harem  of   Sabdanapalus, 
Guards,  Attendants,  Chaldean  Priests,  Medes,  etc., 

etc. 
Scene — a  Hall  in  the  Royal  Palace  of  Nineveh. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


ACT  L 


SCENE     I. 


A  Hall  in  the  Palace. 
Salemenes,  (solvs.)  He  hath  wrong'd  his  queen,  but 
still  he  is  her  lord  ; 
He  hath  wrong'd  my  sister,  still  he  is  my  brother ; 
He  hath  wrong'd  his  people,  stiU  he  is  their  sovereign, 
And  I  must  be  his  friend  as  well  as  subject  ; 
He  must  not  perish  thus.    I  will  not  see 
The  blood  of  Nimrod  and  Semiramis 
Sink  in  the  earth,  and  thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  empire  ending  like  a  shepherd's  tale  : 
He  must  be  roused.    In  his  effeminate  heart 
There  is  a  careless  courage  which  corruption 
Has  not  all  quench'd,  and  latent  energies, 
Repress'd  by  circumstance,  but  not  destroy'd — 
Steep'd  but  not  drown'd,  in  deep  voluptuousness. 
If  bom  a  peasant,  he  had  been  a  man 
To  have  reach'd  an  empire ;  to  an  empire  born. 
He  will  bequeath  none  ;  nothing  but  a  name, 
Wliich  his  sons  will  not  .prize  in  heritage  : 
Yet,  not  all  lost,  even  yet  he  may  redeem 
His  sloth  and  shame  l)y  only  being  that 
Which  he  should  be,  as  easily  as  the  thing 
He  should  not  be  and  is.     "Were  it  less  toil 
To  sway  his  nations  than  consume  his  life  ? 


>  In  this  tragedy  It  bae  been  my  intention  to  follow  tbe  accotmt 
of  Diodoras  Siculus  ;  reducing  it,  howeTcr,  to  snch  dramatic  reg- 
ularity as  I  beet  could,  and  trying  to  approach  the  unities.  I 
therefore  euppoae  the  rebellion  to  explode  and  succeed  in  one  day 
by  a  sudden  conspiracy,  instead  of  the  long  war  of  the  history. 


To  head  an  army  than  to  rule  a  harem  ? 

He  sweats  in  palling  pleasures,  dulls  his  soul, 

And  saps  his  goodly  strength,  in  toils  which  yield 

Health  like  the  chase,  nor  glory  like  the  war —  [not 

He  must  be  roused.    Alas !  there  is  no  sound 

[Sound  of  soft  music  heard  from  within. 
To  rouse  him  short  of  thunder.    Hark  !  the  lute. 
The  lyre,  the  timbrel ;  the  lascivious  tinklings 
Of  lulling  instruments,  the  softening  voices 
Of  women,  and  of  beings  less  than  women, 
Must  chime  into  the  echo  of  hia  revel. 
While  the  great  king  of  all  we  know  of  earth 
Lolls  crown'd  with  roses,  and  his  diadem 
Lies  negligently  by  to  be  caught  up 
By  the  first  manly  hand  which  dares  to  snatch  it. 
Lo,  where  they  come  !  already  I  perceive 
The  reeking  odors  of  the  perfum'd  trains, 
And  see  the  bright  gems  of  the  glittering  girls, 
At  once  his  chorus  and  his  council,  flash 
Along  the  gallery,  and  amidst  the  damsels, 
As  femininely  garb'd,  and  scarce  less  female. 
The  grandson  of  Semiramis,  the  man-queen. — 
He  comes  !  Shall  I  await  him  ?  yes,  and  front  him, 
And  tell  him  what  all  good  men  tell  each  other, 
Speaking  of  him  and  his.     They  come,  the  slaves, 
Led  by  the  monarch  subject  to  his  slaves. 
Enter  Sabdanapalus  effeminately  dressed,  his  Head 

crowned  with  Flowers,  and  his  Rohe  negligently 

flowing,  attended  hy  a  Train  of  Women  and  young 

Sines. 

Sar.  {fpeaking  to  some  of  his  attendants)     Let  the 
pavilion  over  the  Euphrates 
Be  garlanded,  and  lit,  and  furnish'd  forth 
For  an  especial  banquet ;  at  the  hour 
Of  midnight  we  will  sup  there  :  see  naught  wanting, 
And  bid  the  galley  be  prepared.     There  is 
A  cooling  breeze  whicli  crisps  the  broad  clear  river: 
We  will  embark  anon.    Fair  nymphs,  who  deign 
To  share  the  soft  hours  of  Sardanapalus, 
We'll  meet  again  in  that  the  sweetest  hour. 
When  we  shall  gather  like  the  stars  above  us, 
And  you  will  form  a  heaven  as  bright  as  theirs ; 
Till  then,  let  each  be  mistress  of  her  time. 
And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  Myrrha,'  choose. 
Wilt  thou  along  with  them  or  me  ? 

Myr.  My  lord 

Sfir.  My  lord,  my  life !  why  answerest  thou  so 
It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  so  answer'd.  [coldly  ? 
Rule  thine  own  hours,  thou  rulest  mine — say,  wouldst 
Accompany  our  guests,  or  charm  away  [thou 

The  moments  from  me  ? 

Myr.  The  king's  choice  is  mine. 


'  "  The  Ionian  name  had  still  been  more  comprehensive,  liaving 
Included  the  Achalans  and  the  Bceotlans,  who,  together  with  those 
to  whom  It  was  afterwards  confined,  would  make  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  Oroek  nation ;  and  among  the  orientals  it  was  always  the 
general  name  for  the  Greeks."— Mitford's  Greece,  vol.  i.  p.  199. 


244 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   I. 


Bar.  I  pray  thee  say  not  so  :  my  chiefest  joy 
Is  to  contribute  to  thine  every  wish. 
I  do  not  dare  to  breath  my  own  desire, 
Lest  it  should  clash  with  thine  ;  for  thou  art  still 
Too  prompt  to  sacrifice  thy  thoughts  for  others. 

Myr.  I  would  remain  :  I  have  no  happiness 
Save  in  beholding  thine ;  yet 

Bar.  Yet !  what  yet  ? 

Thy  own  sweet  will  shall  be  the  only  barrier 
Which  ever  rises  betwixt  thee  and  me. 

Myr.  I  think  the  present  is  the  wonted  hour 
Of  council ;  it  were  better  I  retire. 

Sal.    (cornea  forward  and  says.)    The  Ionian   slave 
says  well :  let  her  retire. 

Sar.  Who  answers  ?    How  now,  brother, 

Sil.  The  queeii's  brother, 

And  your  most  faithful  vassal,  royal  lord. 

Sar.  {(iddrcssinri  Ms  tr.iiii.)  As  I  have  said  let  all 
dispose  their  hours 
Till  midnight,  when  again  we  pray  your  presence. 

[7%e  court  retiring. 
{To  MvERHA  who  is  going)  Myrrha  !  I  thought  thou 
wouldst  remain. 

Myr.  Great  king. 

Thou  didst  not  say  so. 

Sar.  But  thou  lookedst  it : 

I  know  each  glance  of  those  Ionic  eyes. 
Which  said  thou  wouldsl  not  leave  me. 

Mgr.  Sire  !  your  brother 

Sal.  His  e  n  orth  brother,  minion  of  Ionia  1 
How  darest  thou  name  me  and  not  blush  ? 

Sar.  Not  blush  I 

Thou  hast  no  more  eyes  than  heart  to  make  her  crimson 
Like  to  the  dying  day  on  Caucasus, 
Where  sunset  tints  the  snow  with  rosy  shadows, 
And  then  reproach  her  with  thine  own  cold  blindness, 
Which  will  not  see  it.     What,  in  tears,  my  Myrrha  ? 

Sal.  Let  them  flow  on ;  she  weeps  for  more  than  one. 
And  is  herself  the  cause  of  bitterer  tears. 

Sar.  Cursed  be  he  who  caus'd  those  tears  to  flow ! 

Sal.  Curse  not  thyself — millions  do  that  already. 

Sar.  Thou  dost  forget  thee :  make  me  not  remember 
I  am  a  monarch. 

Sal.  Would  thou  couldst ! 

Myr.  My  sovereign, 

I  pray,  and  thou,  too,  prince,  permit  my  absence. 

Sar.  Since  it  must  be  so,  and  this  churl  has  check'd 
Thy  gentle  spirit,  go  ;  but  recollect 
That  we  must  forthwith  meet :  I  had  rather  lose 
An  empire  than  thy  presence.  [A'jji  Mybeiia. 

Sal.  It  may  be. 

Thou  wilt  lose  both,  and  both  forever  ! 

Sar.  Brother, 

I  can  at  least  command  myself,  who  listen 
To  language  such  as  this  :  yet  urge  me  not 
Beyond  my  easy  nature. 

Sal.  .      'Tis  beyond 


That  easy,  far  too  easy,  idle  nature, 

Which  I  would  urge  thee.    O  that  I  could  rouse  thee  I 

Though  'twere  against  myself 

Sar.  By  the  god  Baal  1 

The  man  would  make  me  tyrant. 

Sal.  So  thou  art. 

Think'st  thou  there  is  no  tyranny  but  that 
Of  blood  and  chains  ?    The  despotism  of  vice — 
The  weakness  and  the  wickedness  of  luxury — 
The  negligence — the  apathy — the  evils 
Of  sensual  sloth — produce  ten  thousand  tyrants, 
Whose  delegated  cruelty  surpasses      • 
The  worst  acts  of  one  energetic  master. 
However  harsh  and  hard  in  his  own  bearing. 
The  false  and  fond  examples  of  thy  lusts 
Corrupt  no  less  than  they  oppress,  and  sap 
In  the  same  moment  aU  thy  pageant  power 
And  those  who  should  sustain  it ;  so  that  whether 
A  foreign  foe  invade,  or  civil  broil 
Distract  within,  both  will  alike  prove  fatal : 
The  first  thy  subjects  have  no  heart  to  conquer  ; 
The  last  they  rather  would  assist  than  vanquish. 

Sar.   Why,  what  makes  thee  the  mouthpiece  of 
the  iJeople  ? 

Sal.  Forgiveness  of  the  queen,  my  sister's  wrongs ; 
A  natural  love  unto  my  infant  nephews  ; 
Faith  to  the  king,  a  faith  he  may  need  shortly, 
In  more  than  words  ;  respect  for  Nimrod's  line  ; 
Also,  another  thing  thou  knowest  not. 

Sar.  What's  that? 

Sal.  To  thee  an  unknown  word. 

Sar.  Yet  speak  it  ? 

I  love  to  learn. 

Sal.  Virtue. 

Bar.  Not  know  the  word  ! 

Never  was  word  yet  rung  so  in  my  ears — 
Worse  than  the  rabble's  shout  or  sjjlitting  trumpet ; 
I've  heard  thy  sister  talk  of  nothing  else. 

Sal.  To  change  the  irksome  theme,  then,  hear  of 

Bar.  From  whom  ?  [vice. 

Sal.       Even  from  the  winds,  if  thou  couldst  listen 
Unto  the  echoes  of  the  nation's  voice. 

Sir.  Come,  I'm  indulgent,  as  thou  knowest,  patient, 
As  thou  has  often  proved — speak  out,  what  moves 

Sal.  Thy  peril.  [thee? 

Bar.  Say  on. 

Sal.  Thus,  then  :  all  the  nations, 

For  they  are  many,  whom  thy  father  left 
In  heritage,  are  loud  in  wrath  against  thee. 

Sar.  'Gainst  me  !  What  would  the  slaves  ? 

Sal.  A  king. 

Bar.  And  what 

Am  I  then  1 

Sal.  In  their  eyes  a  nothing ;  but 

In  mine  a  man  who  might  be  something  still. 

Sar.   The  railing  drunkards !   why,  what  would 
Have  they  not  peace  and  plenty  ?  [they  have  ? 


Scene  n. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


246 


Sal  .      Of  the  first 

More  than  is  glorious  ;  of  the  last,  far  less 
Than  the  king  recks  of. 

S(ir.  Whose  then  is  the  crime, 

But  the  false  satraps,  who  provide  no  better  ? 

Sal.  And  somewhat  in  the  monarch  who  ne'er  looks 
Beyond  his  palace  walls,  or  if  he  stirs 
Beyond  them,  'tis  but  to  some  mountain  palace, 
Till  summer  heats  wear  down.    O  glorious  Baal ! 
"Who  built  up  this  vast  empire,  and  wert  made 
A  god,  or  at  the  least  shinest  like  a  god 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  thy  renown. 
This,  thy  presumed  descendant,  ne'er  beheld 
As  king  the  kingdoms  thou  didst  leave  as  hero, 
Won  with  thy  blood,  and  toil,  and  time,  and  peril ! 
For  what  ?  to  furnish  imposts  for  a  revel. 
Or  multiplied  extortions  for  a  minion. 

Sw^.  I  understand  thee — thou  wouldst  have  me  go 
Forth  as  a  conqueror.    By  all  the  stars 
Which  the  Chaldeans  read  !  the  restless  slaves' 
Deserve  that  I  should  curse  them  with  their  wishes, 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 

Sal.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Semiramis — a  woman  only — ^led 
These  our  Assyrians  to  the  solar  shores 
Of  Ganges. 

Sar.  'Tis  most  true.    And  how  retum'd  ? 

Sal.  Why,  like  a  ma7i — a  hero  ;  baffled,  but 
Not  vanquish'd.    With  but  twenty  guards,  she  made 
Good  her  retreat  to  Bactria. 

Sar.  And  how  many 

Left  she  behind  in  India  to  the  vultures  ? 

Sal.  Our  annals  say  not. 

Sar.  Then  I  wiU  say  for  them — 

That  she  had  better  woven  within  her  palace 
Some  twenty  garments,  than  with  twenty  guards 
Have  fled  to  Bactria,  leaving  to  the  ravens, 
And  wolves,  and  men — the  fiercer  of  the  three, 
Her  myriads  of  fond  subjects.     Is  this  glory  ? 
Then  let  me  live  in  ignominy  ever. 

Sal.  All  warlike  spirits  have  not  the  same  fate. 
Semiramis,  the  glorious  parent  of 
A  hundred  kings,  although  she  fail'd  in  India, 
Brought  Persia,  Media,  Bactria,  to  the  reahn 
Which  she  once  sway'd — and  thou  mighfst  sway. 

Sar.  I  sway  them — 

She  but  subdued  them. 

Sal.  It  may  be  ere  long 

That  they  will  need  her  sword  more  than  your  sceptre. 

Sar.  There  was  a  certain  Bacchus,  was  there  not? 
I've  heard  my  Greek  girls  speak  of  such — they  say 
He  was  a  god,  that  is,  a  Grecian  god. 
An  idol  foreign  to  Assyria's  worship, 
Wlio  conquer'd  this  same  golden  realm  of  Ind 
Thou  pratcst  of,  where  Semiramis  was  vanquish'd. 

Sal.  I  have  heard  of  such  a  man  ;  and  thou  per- 
That  he  is  deem'd  a  god  for  what  he  did.      [ceivcst 


Sar.  And  in  his  godship  I  will  honor  him — 
Not  much  as  man.     What,  ho  1  my  cupbearer  1 

Sal.  What  means  the  king  ? 

Sar.  To  worship  your  new  god 

And  ancient  conqueror.    Some  wine,  I  say. 

Enter  Cupbearer. 
Sar.  (addremng  the  Cuphearer.)  Bring  me  the  gol- 
den goblet  thick  with  gems. 
Which  bears  the  name  of  Nimrod's  chahce.   Hence, 
Fill  full,  and  bear  it  quickly.  [Exit  Cupbearer. 

Sal.  Is  this  moment 

A  fitting  one  for  the  resumption  of 
Thy  yet  unslept-oflf  revels  ? 

He-enter  Cupbearer,  with  wine. 

Sar.  {talcing  the  cup  from  him.)      Noble  kinsman, 
If  these  barbarian  Greeks  of  the  far  horses 
And  skirts  of  these  our  realms  lie  not,  this  Bacchus 
Conquer'd  the  whole  of  India,  did  he  not  ? 

Sal.  He  did,  and  thence  was  deem'd  a  deity. 

Sar.  Not  so  : — of  all  his  conquests  a  few  columns, 
Which  may  be  his,  and  might  be  mine,  if  I 
Thought  them  worth  purchase  and  conveyance,  are 
The  landmarks  of  the  seas  of  gore  he  shed. 
The  realms  he  wasted,  and  the  hearts  he  broke. 
But  here,  here  in  this  goblet  is  his  title 
To  immortality — the  immortal  grape 
From  which  he  first  cxpress'd  the  soul,  and  gave 
To  gladden  that  of  man,  as  some  atonement 
For  the  victorious  mischiefs  he  had  done. 
Had  it  not  been  for  this,  he  would  have  been 
A  mortal  still  in  name  as  in  his  grave  ; 
And,  like  my  ancestor  Semiramis, 
A  sort  of  semi-glorious  human  monster. 
Here's  that  which  deified  him — let  it  now 
Humanize  thee  ;  my  surly,  chiding  brother, 
Pledge  me  to  the  Greek  god  ! 

Sal.  For  aU  thy  realms 

I  would  not  so  blaspheme  our  country's  creed. 

Sar.  That  is  to  say,  thou  thinkest  him  a  hero, 
That  he  shed  blood  by  oceans  ;  and  no  god. 
Because  he  turn'd  a  fruit  to  an  enchantment. 
Which  cheers  the  sad,  revives  the  old,  inspires 
The  young,  makes  Weariness  forget  his  toil. 
And  Fear  her  danger ;  opens  a  new  world 
Wlien  this,  the  present,  palls.      Well,  then  /pledge 
And  him  as  a  true  man,  who  did  his  utmost     [thee, 
In  good  or  evil  to  surprise  mankind.  [Drinks. 

Sal.  Wilt  thou  resume  a  revel  at  this  hour  ? 

Sar.  And  if  I  did,  'twere  better  than  a  trophy. 
Being  bought  without  a  tear.     But  that  is  not 
My  present  purpose  :  since  thou  wilt  not  pledge  me, 
Continue  what  thou  pleasest. 
(To  the  Cupbearer.)  Boy,  retire. 

[Exit  Cupbearer. 

Sal.  I  would  but  have  recall'd  thet.  from  thy  dream: 
Better  by  me  awaken'd  than  rebellion. 


I 


248 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT    I. 


Sar.    Who  should  rebel  ?  or  why  ?  what  cause  ? 
I  am  the  lawful  king,  descended  from  [pretext  ? 

A  race  of  kings  who  knew  no  predecessors. 
What  have  I  done  to  thee,  or  to  the  people. 
That  thou  shouldst  rail,  or  they  rise  up  against  me  ? 

Sal.  Of  what  thou  hast  done  to  me,  I  speak  not. 

Sar.  But 

Thou  think'st  that  I  have  wrong'd  the  queen  :   is't 

Sal.  rai«i/  Thou  hast  wrong'd  her!         [not  so  ? 

Sar.  Patience,  prince,  and  hear  me. 

She  has  all  power  and  splendor  of  her  station, 
Respect,  the  tutelage  of  Assyria's  heirs, 
The  homage  and  the  appanage  of  sovereignty. 
I  married  her  as  monarchs  wed — for  state. 
And  loved  her  as  most  husbands  love  their  wives ; 
If  she  or  thou  supposedst  I  could  link  me 
Like  a  Chaldean  peasant  to  his  mate, 
Te  knew  nor  me,  nor  monarchs,  nor  mankind. 

Sal.  I  pray  thee  change  the  theme :  my  blood  dis- 
Complaint,  and  Salemenes'  sister  seeks  not      [dains 
Reluctant  love  even  from  Assyria's  lord ! 
Nor  would  she  deign  to  accept  divided  passion 
With  foreign  strumpets  and  Ionian  slaves. 
The  queen  is  silent. 

Sar.  And  why  not  her  brother  ? 

Sal.  I  only  echo  thee  the  voice  of  empires. 
Which  he  who  long  neglects  not  long  vrill  govern. 

Sar.  The  ungrateful  and  ungracious  slaves  !  they 
murmur 
Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 
To  dry  into  the  desert's  dust  by  myriads, 
Or  whiten  with  their  bones  the  banks  of  Ganges  ; 
Kor  decimated  them  with  savage  laws. 
Nor  sweated  them  to  build  up  pyramids. 
Or  Babylonian  walls. 

Sal.  Yet  these  are  trophies 

More  worthy  of  a  j^eople  and  their  prince 
Than  songs,  and  lutes,  and  feasts,  and  concubines. 
And  lavish'd  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

Sar.  Or  for  my  trophies  I  have  founded  cities  : 
TJiere's  Tarsus  and  Anchialus,  both  built 
In  one  day — what  could  that  blood-loving  beldame, 


»  "  iror  this  expedition  he  took  only  a  small  chosen  body  of  the 
phalanx,  but  all  his  light  troops.  In  the  first  day's  march  he 
reached  Anchialus,  a  town  said  to  have  been  founded  by  the  king 
of  Assyria,  Sardanapalns.  The  fortifications,  in  their  magnitude 
and  extent,  still  in  Arriaa's  time,  bore  the  character  of  greatness, 
which  the  Assyrians  appear  singularly  to  have  affected  in  works 
of  the  kind.  A  monument  representing  Sardanapalns  was  found 
there,  warranted  by  an  inscription  in  Assyrian  characters,  of  course 
In  the  old  Assyrian  language,  which  the  Greeks,  whether  well  or 
ill,  interpreted  thus  :  '  Sardanapalns,  son  of  Auacyndaraxes,  in 
one  day  founded  Anchialus  and  Tarsus.  Eat,  drink,  play :  all  other 
human  Joys  are  not  worth  a  fillip.'  Supposing  this  version  near- 
ly exact,  (for  Arrian  says  it  was  not  quite  so,)  whether  the  purpose 
has  not  been  to  invite  to  civil  order  a  people  disposed  to  turbu- 
lence, rather  than  to  recommend  immoderate  luxury,  may  per- 
haps reasonably  be  questioned.  What,  indeed,  could  be  the  ob- 
ject of  a  king  of  Assyria  in  founding  such  towns  in  a  country  so 
distant  fi:om  his  capital,  and  so  divided  from  it  by  an  Immense  ox- 
tent  of  sandy  deserts  and  lofly  mountains,  and  siill  more,  how  the 


My  martial  grandam,  chaste  Semiramis, 
Do  more,  except  destroy  them  ? 

Sal.  'Tis  most  true ; 

I  own  thy  merit  in  those  founded  cities. 
Built  for  a  whim,  recorded  with  a  verse 
Which  shames  both  them  and  thee  to  coming  ages. 

Sar.  Shame  me  !  by  Baal,  the  cities,  though  well 
built, 
Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse  !  Say  what 
Thou  wilt  'gainst  me,  my  mode  of  Ufe  or  rule. 
But  nothing  'gainst  the  truth  of  that  brief  record. 
Why,  those  few  lines  contain  the  history 
Of  all  things  human  :  hear — "  Sardanapalus, 
The  king,  and  son  of  Anacyndaraxes, 
In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 
Eat,  drink,  and  love  ;  the  rest's  not  worth  a  fillip.'" 

Sal.  A  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  inscription. 
For  a  king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects  !    [edicts — 

S-ir.  Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  me  doubtless  set  up 
"  Obey  the  king — contribute  to  his  treasure — 
Recruit  his  phalanx — spiU  your  blood  at  bidding — 
Pall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toil." 
Or  thus — "  Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  fifty  thousand  of  his  enemies. 
These  are  their  sepulchres,  and  this  his  trophy." 
I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors  ;  enough 
Por  me,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroaning  to  the  tomb  :  I  take  no  license 
Which  I  deny  to  them.    We  aU  are  men. 

Sal.  Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods — 
Sar.  In  dust 

And  death,  where  they  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 
Talk  not  of  such  to  me  !  the  worms  are  gods  ; 
At  least  they  banqueted  upon  your  gods. 
And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment. 
Those  gods  were  merely  men  :  look  to  their  issue — 
I  feel  a  thousand  mortal  things  about  me. 
But  nothing  godlike, — imless  it  may  be 
The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a  disposition 
To  love  and  to  be  merciful,  to  pardon 


inhabitants  could  be  at  once  in  circtmistances  to  abandon  thcm- 
eelves  to  the  intemperate  joys  which  their  prince  has  been  suppos- 
ed to  have  recommended,  is  not  obvious  ;  but  it  may  deser^'C  ob- 
servation that,  in  that  line  of  coast,  the  southern  of  Lepser  Asia, 
ruins  of  cities,  evidently  of  an  age  after  Alexander,  yet  barely 
named  in  history,  at  this  day  astonish  the  adventurous  traveller 
by  their  magnificence  and  elegance.  Amid  the  desolation  which, 
under  a  singularly  barbarian  government,  has  for  so  many  centu- 
ries been  daily  spreading  in  the  finest  countries  of  the  globe, 
whether  more  from  soil  and  climate,  or  from  opportunities  for 
commerce,  extraordinary  means  must  have  been  found  for  com- 
munities to  flourish  there  ;  whence  it  may  seem  that  the  measures 
of  Sardanapalus  were  directed  by  juster  views  than  have  been  com- 
monly ascribed  to  him :  but  that  monarch  having  been  the  last  of 
a  dynasty,  ended  by  a  revolution,  obloquy  on  his  memory  would 
follow  of  course  from  the  policy  of  his  successors  and  their  parti- 
sans. The  inconsistency  of  traditions  concerning  Sardanapalus 
is  striking  in  Diodorus's  account  of  him."— Miiroitp's  Greece, 
vol.  X.  p,  311. 


SCEKB  n. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


247 


The  follies  of  my  species,  and  (that's  human) 
To  be  indulgent  to  my  own. 

Sal.  Alas ! 

The  doom  of  Nineveh  is  seal'd. — Wo — wo 
To  the  unrivall'd  city  I 

Sar.  What  "dost  dread  ? 

Sal.  Thou  art  guarded  by  thy  foes  :  in  a  few  hours 
The  tempest  may  break  out  which  overwhelms  thee, 
And  thine  and  mine ;  and  in  another  day 
What  is  shall  be  the  past  of  Belus'  race. 

Sar.  What  must  we  dread  ? 

Sal.  Ambitious  treachery 

Which  has  environ'd  thee  with  snares  ;  but  yet 
There  is  resource  :  empower  me  with  thy  signet 
To  quell  the  machinations,  and  I  lay 
The  heads  of  thy  chief  foes  before  thy  feet. 

Sar.  The  heads — ^how  many  ? 

Sal,  Must  I  stay  to  number 

When  even  thine  own's  in  peril  ?    Let  me  go  ; 
Give  me  thy  signet — trust  me  with  the  rest. 

Sar.  I  will  trust  no  man  with  unlimited  lives. 
When  we  take  those  from  others,  we  nor  know 
What  we  have  taken,  nor  the  thing  we  give. 

Sal.  Wouldst  thou  not  take  their  lives  who  seek 
for  thine  ? 

Sar.  That's  a  hard  question — But  I  answer.  Yes. 
Cannot  the  thing  be  done  without  ?  Who  are  they 
Whom  thou  suspectest  ? — ^Let  them  be  arrested. 

Sal.  I  would  thou  wouldst  not  ask  me ;  the  next 
moment 
Will  send  my  answer  through  thy  babbling  troop 
Of  paramours,  and  thence  fly  o'er  the  palace, 
Even  to  the  city,  and  so  baffle  all. — 
Trust  me. 

Sar,        Thou  knowest  I  have  done  so  ever ; 
Take  thou  the  signet.  [Gives  the  signet. 

Sal.  I  have  one  more  request. — 

Sar.  Name  it. 

Sal.         That  thou  this  night  forbear  the  banquet 
In  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates. 

Sar.  Forbear  the  banquet !  Not  for  all  the  plotters 
That  ever  shook  a  kingdom  !  Let  them  come. 
And  do  their  worst :  I  shall  not  blench  for  them  ; 
Nor  rise  the  sooner ;  nor  forbear  the  goblet ; 
Nor  crown  me  with  a  single  rose  the  less ; 
Nor  lose  one  joyous  hour. — I  fear  them  not. 

Sal.  But  thou  wouldst  arm  thee,  wouldst  thou  not, 
if  needful  1 

Sar.  Perhaps.    I  have  the  goodliest  armor,  and 
A  sword  of  such  a  temper ;  and  a  bow 
And  javelin,  which  might  furnish  Nimrod  forth  : 
A  little  heavy,  but  yet  not  unwieldy. 
And  now  I  think  on't,  'tis  long  since  I've  used  them, 
Even  in  the  chase.    Hast  ever  seen  them,  brother  ? 

Sal.  Is  this  a  time  for  such  fantastic  trifling  ? — 
If  it  need  be,  wilt  thou  wear  them  f 

Sar.  Will  I  not  ? 


Oh  t  if  it  must  be  so,  and  these  rash  slaves 
Will  not  be  ruled  with  less,  I'U  use  the  sword 
Till  they  shall  wish  it  tum'd  into  a  distaff. 

Sal.  They  say  thy  sceptre's  turn'd  to  that  already. 

Sar.  That's  false  !  but  let  them  say  so  :   the  old 
Of  whom  our  captives  often  sing,  related     [Greeks, 
The  same  of  their  chief  hero,  Hercules, 
Because  he  loved  a  Lydian  queen  :  thou  seest 
The  populace  of  all  the  nations  seize 
Each  calumny  they  can  to  sink  their  sovereigns. 

Sal.  They  did  not  speak  thus  of  thy  fathers. 

Sar.  No : 

They  dared  not.   They  were  kept  to  toil  and  combat ; 
And  never  changed  their  chains  but  for  their  armor; 
Now  they  have  peace  and  pastime,  and  the  license 
To  revel  and  to  rail ;  it  irks  me  not. 
I  would  not  give  the  smile  of  one  fair  girl 
For  aU  the  popular  breath  that  e'er  divided 
A  name  from  nothing.    What  are  the  rank  tongues 
Of  this  vile  herd,  grown  insolent  with  feeding. 
That  I  should  prize  their  noisy  praise,  or  dread 
Their  noisome  clamor  ? 

Sal.  You  have  said  they  are  men  ; 

As  such  their  hearts  are  something. 

Sar.  So  my  dogs'  are  ; 

And  better,  as  more  faithful : — but,  proceed ; 
Thou  hast  my  signet : — since  they  are  tumultuous, 
Let  them  be  temper'd,  yet  not  roughly,  till 
Necessity  enforce  it.    I  hate  aU  pain, 
Given  or  received  ;  we  have  enough  within  us. 
The  meanest  vassal  as  the  loftiest  monarch. 
Not  to  add  to  each  other's  natural  burden 
Of  mortal  misery,  but  rather  lessen, 
By  mild  reciprocal  alleviation, 
The  fatal  penalties  imposed  on  life : 
But  this  they  know  not,  or  they  will  not  know. 
I  have,  by  Baal !  done  all  I  could  to  soothe  them  : 
I  made  no  wars,  I  added  no  new  imposts, 
I  interfered  not  with  their  civic  lives, 
I  let  them  pass  their  days  as  best  might  suit  them, 
Passing  my  own  as  suited  me. 

Sal.  Thou  stopp'st 

Short  of  the  duties  of  a  king ;  and  therefore 
They  say  thou  art  unfit  to  be  a  monarch. 

Sar.  They  lie. — Unhappily,  I  am  unfit 
To  be  aught  save  a  monarch  ;  else  for  me. 
The  meanest  Mede  might  be  the  king  instead. 

Sal.  There  is  one  Mede,  at  least,  who  seeks  to  be  so. 

Sar.  What  mean'st  thou  ? — 'tis  thy  secret ;  thou 
desirest 
Few  questions,  and  I'm  not  of  curious  nature. 
Take  the  fit  steps  ;  and,  since  necessity 
Requires,  I  sanction  and  support  thee.    Ne'er 
Was  man  who  more  desired  to  rule  in  peace 
The  peacefiil  only  :  if  they  rouse  me,  better 
They  had  conjured  up  stern  Nimrod  from  his  ashes, 
"  The  mighty  hunter."    I  will  turn  these  realms 


I 


248 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


To  one  wide  desert  chase  of  brutes,  who  were, 

But  would  no  more,  by  their  own  choice,  be  human. 

What  they  have  found  me,  they  belie  ;  that  loMch 

They  yet  may  find  me — shall  defy  their  wish 

To  speak  it  worse ;  and  let  them  thank  themselves. 

Sal,  Then  thou  at  last  canst  feel  ? 

Sar.  Feel  1  who  feels  not 

Ingratitude  ? 

Sal.  I  will  not  pause  to  answer 

With  words,  but  deeds.  Keep  thou  awake  that  energy 
Which  sleeps  at  times,  but  is  not  dead  within  thee, 
And  thou  mayst  yet  be  glorious  in  thy  reign, 
As  powerful  in  thy  realm.    Farewell ! 

[Exit  SaIjEMENBs. 

Sar.  (solus.)  Farewell  1 

He's  gone  ;  and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet, 
Which  is  to  him  a  sceptre.    He  is  stem 
As  I  am  heedless ;  and  the  slaves  deserve 
To  feel  a  master.    What  may  be  the  danger 
I  know  not :  he  hath  found  it,  let  him  quell  it. 
Must  I  consume  my  life — this  little  life — 
In  guarding  against  all  may  make  it  less; 
It  is  not  worth  so  much  !  It  were  to  die 
Before  my  hour,  to  live  in  dread  of  death, 
Tracing  revolt ;  suspecting  all  about  me. 
Because  they  are  near ;  and  all  who  are  remote. 
Because  they  are  far.    But  if  it  should  be  so — 
If  they  should  sweep  me  off  from  earth  and  empire. 
Why,  what  is  earth  or  empire  of  the  earth  ? 
I  have  loved,  and  lived,  and  multiplied  my  image  ; 
To  die  is  no  less  natural  than  those — 
Acts  of  this  clay  1  'Tis  true  I  have  not  shed 
Blood  as  I  might  have  done,  in  oceans,  till 
My  name  became  the  synonyme  of  death — 
A  terror  and  a  trophy.    But  for  this 
I  feel  no  penitence  ;  my  life  is  love : 
If  I  must  shed  blood,  it  shall  be  by  force. 
Till  now,  no  drop  from  an  Assyrian  vein 
Hath  flow'd  for  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  coin 
Of  Nineveh's  vast  treasures  e'er  been  lavish'd 
On  objects  which  could  cost  her  sons  a  tear. 
If  then  they  hate  me,  'tis  because  I  hate  not ; 
If  they  rebel,  'tis  because  I  oppress  not. 
Oh,  men  !  ye  must  be  ruled  with  scythes,  not  sceptres. 
And  mow'd  down  like  the  grass,  else  all  we  reap 
Is  rank  abundance,  and  a  rotten  harvest 
Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil. 
Making  a  desert  of  fertility. — 
I'll  think  no  more. Within  there,  ho  I 

Enter  an  Attend akt. 
Sar.  Slave,  tell 

The  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  presence. 
Attend.  King,  she  is  here. 


Mtrrha  enters. 
Sar.  (apart  to  Attendant.)    Away  1 


(Addressing  Mybrha.) 


Beautiful  being ! 


Thou  dost  almost  anticipate  my  heart ; 
It  throbb'd  for  thee,  and  here  thou  comest :  let  me 
Deem  that   some  unknown  influence,  some   sweet 
Communicates  between  us,  though  unseen,     [oracle, 
In  absence,  and  attracts  us  to  each  other. 

Myr.  There  doth.  < 

Sar.  I  know  there  doth,  but  not  its  name  : 

What  is  it  ? 

Myr.  In  my  native  land  a  god. 

And  in  my  heart  a  feeUng  like  a  god's. 
Exalted  ;  yet  I  own  'tis  only  mortal ; 
For  what  I  feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy — 

That  is,  it  would  be  happy  ;  but 

[Mybbha  pauses, 

Sxr.  There  comes 

Forever  something  between  us  and  what 
We  deem  our  happiness  :  let  me  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesitating  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  and  mine  is  seal'd. 

Myr.  My  lord  ! — ■ 

S.ir.  My  lord — my  king — sire — sovereign  !  thus  it 
Forever  thus,  address'd  with  awe.    I  ne'er         [is — 
Can  see  a  smile,  unless  in  some  broad  banquet's 
Intoxicating  glare,  when  the  buffoons 
Have  gorged  themselves  up  to  equality. 
Or  I  have  quaff 'd  me  down  to  their  abasement. 
Myrrha,  I  can  hear  all  these  things,  these  names. 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay,  time  was,  I  prized 

them ; 
That  is,  I  sufTer'd  them — from  slaves  and  nobles  ; 
But  when  they  falter  from  the  lips  I  love. 
The  lips  which  have  been  press'd  to  mine,  a  chill 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  a  cold  sense  of  the  falsehood 
Of  this  my  station,  which  represses  feeling 
In  those  for  whom  I  have  felt  most,  and  makes  me 
Wish  that  I  could  lay  down  the  dull  tiara. 
And  share  a  cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
With  thee,  and  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of  flowers. 

Myr.  Would  that  we  could  ! 

Sar.  And  dost  thou  feel  this  ?   Why  ? 

Myr.  Then  thou  wouldst  know  what  thou  canst 

Sar.  And  that  is [never  know. 

Myr.  The  true  value  of  a  heart ; 

At  least,  a  woman's. 

Sar.  I  have  proved  a  thousand — 

A  thousand,  and  a  thousand. 

Myr.  HeartB  ? 

Sar.  I  think  so. 

Myr.  Not  one  !  the  time  may  come  thou  mayst. 

Sar.  It  will. 

Hear,  Myrrha ;  Salemenes  has  declared — 
Or  why  or  how  he  hath  divined  it,  Belus, 
Who  founded  our  great  realm,  knows  more  than  I — 
But  Salemenes  hath  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 

Myr.  He  did  well. 

Sar.  And  say'st  thou  so  ? 


SCENE   II. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


249 


Thou  whom  he  spum'd  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  weep  and  blush  ? 

Myr.  I  should  do  both 

More  frequently,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.    But  thou  spak'st  of  peril — 
Peril  to  thee 

S'lr.  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 

From  Medes — and  discontented  troops  and  nations. 
I  know  not  what — a  labyrinth  of  things — 
A  maze  of  mutter'd  threats  and  mysteries  : 
Thou  know'st  the  man— ^it  is  usual  custom. 
But  he  is  honest.    Come,  we'll  think  no  more  on't — 
But  of  the  midnight  festival. 

Myr.  'Tis  time 

To  think  of  aught  save  festivals.    Thou  hast  not 
Spum'd  his  sage  cautions  ? 

8ar.  What ! — and  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Myr.  Fear  I    I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  I  fear 
death  ? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  ? 

Sar.  Then  wherefore  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  ? 

Myr.  I  love. 

Sar.  And  do  not  I  ?  I  love  thee  far — far  more 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm. 
Which,  it  may  be,  are  menaced ;— yet  I  blench  not. 

Myr.  That  means  thou  lovest  not  thyself  nor  me ; 
For  he  who  loves  another  loves  himself. 
Even  for  that  other's  sake.     This  is  too  rasli : 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  not  to  be  so  lost. 

Sar.  Lost ! — why,  who  is  the  aspiring  chief  who 
Assume  to  win  them  ?  [dared 

Myr.  Who  is  he  should  dread 

To  try  so  much  ?    When  he  who  is  their  ruler 
Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him  ? 

Sar.  Myrrha  I 

Myr.  Frown  not  upon  me  :  you  have  smiled 

Too  often  on  me  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  augur.     King,  I  am  your  subject ! 
Master,  I  am  your  slave  !    Man,  I  have  loved  you  ! — 
Loved  you,  I  know  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  bom  a  foe  to  monarchs — 
A  slave,  and  hating  fetters — an  Ionian, 
And,  therefore,  when  I  love  a  stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  ! 
Still  I  have  loved  you.    If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature, 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  ? 

Sar.  Save  me,  my  beauty  !     Thou  art  very  fair, 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love — not  safety. 

Myr.  And  without  love  where  dwells  security  ? 

Sai:  I  speak  of  woman's  love. 

Myr.  Tlie  very  first 

Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  breast. 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quench'd  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 


Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing, 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  them. 

Sar.  My  eloquent  Ionian  !  thou  speak'st  music. 
The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song 
I  have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favorite  pastime 
Of  thy  far  father-land.    Nay,  weep  not — calm  thee. 

Myr.  I  weep  not.  But  I  pray  thee,  do  not  speak 
About  my  fathers  or  their  land. 

Sar.  Yet  oft 

JTiou  speakest  of  them. 

Myr.  True — true  :  constant  thought 

Will  overflow  in  words  unconsciously ; 
But  when  another  speaks  of  Greece,  it  wounds  me. 

Sar.  Well,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  site  me,  as 
thou  saidst  ? 

Myr.  By  teaching  thee  to  save  thyself,  and  not 
Thyself  alone,  but  these  vast  realms,  from  all 
The  rage  of  the  worst  war — the  war  of  brethren  1 

Sar.  Why,  child,  I  loathe  all  war,  and  warriors  ; 
I  live  in  peace  and  pleasure  :  what  can  man 
Do  more  ? 

Myr.        Alas  !  my  lord,  with  common  men 
There  needs  too  oft  the  show  of  war  to  keep 
The  substance  of  sweet  peace  ;  and  for  a  king, 
'Tis  sometimes  better  to  be  fear'd  than  loved. 

Sar.  And  I  have  never  sought  but  for  the  last. 

Myi:  And  now  art  neither. 

Sar.  Dost  thou  say  so,  Myrrha  ? 

Myr.  I  speak  of  civic  popular  love,  se//-love, 
Which  means  that  men  are  kept  in  awe  and  law. 
Yet  not  oppress'd — at  least  they  must  not  think  so ; 
Or  if  they  think  so,  deem  it  necessary 
To  ward  off  worse  oppression,  their  own  passions. 
A  king  of  feasts,  and  flowers,  and  wine,  and  revel, 
And  love,  and  mirth,  was  never  king  of  glory. 

Sar.  Glory  !  what's  that  ? 

Myr.  Ask  of  the  gods  thy  fathers. 

Sar.  They  cannot  answer ;  when  the  priests  speak 
for  them, 
'Tis  for  some  small  addition  to  the  temple.  [ers. 

Myr.  Look  to  the  annals  of  thine  empire's  found- 

Sar.  They  are  so  blotted  o'er  with  blood,  I  cannot. 
But  what  wouldst  have  ?  the  empire  has  been  found- 
I  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires.  [ed. 

Myr.  Preserve  thine  own. 

Sar.                                     At  least,  I  will  enjoy  it 
Come,  Myrrha,  let  us  go  on  to  the  Euphrates  : 
The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepared. 
And  the  pavilion,  deck'd  for  our  retum. 
In  fit  adomment  for  the  evening  banquet. 
Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  until 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  us 
Itself  an  opposite  star ;  and  we  will  sit 
Crown'd  with  fresh  flowers  like 

Myr.  Victims. 

Sar.  No,  like  sovereigns, 


250 


BYROIST'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Tlie  shepherd  kings  of  patriarchal  times, 

Who  knew  no  brighter  gems  than  summer  wreaths, 

And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.    Let  us  on. 

Enter  Pania. 

Pan.  May  the  king  live  forever  I 
Sar.  Not  an  hour 

Longer  than  he  can  love.    How  my  soul  hates 
This  language  which  makes  life  itself  a  lie, 
Flattering  dust  with  eternity.    Well,  Pania  1 
Be  brief. 

Pan.  I  am  charged  by  Salemenes  to 
Reiterate  his  prayer  imto  the  king, 
That  for  this  day,  at  least,  he  will  not  quit 
The  palace :  when  the  general  returns. 
He  will  adduce  such  reasons  as  wiU  warrant 
His  daring,  and  perhaps  obtain  the  pardon 
Of  his  presumption. 

Sar.  What !  am  I  then  coop'd  ? 

Already  captive  ?  can  I  not  even  breathe 
The  breath  of  heaven  I    Tell  Prince  Salemenes, 
Were  all  Assyria  raging  round  the  walls 
In  mutinous  myriads,  I  would  still  go  forth. 

Pan.  I  must  obey,  and  yet 

Myr.  Oh,  monarch,  listen — 

How  many  a  day  and  moon  thou  hast  reclined 
Within  these  palace  walls  in  silken  dalliance,* 
And  never  shown  thee  to  thy  people's  longing ; 
Leaving  thy  subjects'  eyes  ungratitied. 
The  satraps  imcontroll'd,  the  gods  unworshipp'd. 
And  all  things  in  the  anarchy  of  sloth, 
Till  all,  save  evil,  slumber'd  through  the  realm  ! 
And  wilt  thou  not  now  tarry  for  a  day, — 
A  day  which  may  redeem  thee  1    Wilt  thou  not 
Yield  to  the  few  still  faithful  a  few  hours. 
For  them,  for  thee,  for  thy  past  fathers'  race. 
And  for  thy  sons'  inheritance  ? 

Pan.  'Tis  true  ! 

From  the  deep  urgency  with  which  the  prince 
Dispatch'd  me  to  your  sacred  presence,  I 
Must  dare  to  add  my  feeble  voice  to  that 
Which  now  has  spoken. 

.Sar.  No,  it  must  not  be. 

Myr.  For  the  sake  of  thy  reahn. 

Sar.  Away ! 

Pan.  For  that 

Of  all  thy  faithful  subjects,  who  will  rally 
Round  thee  and  thine  I 

Sar.  These  are  mere  fantasies ; 

There  is  no  peril : — 'tis  a  sullen  scheme 
Of  Salemenes,  to  approve  his  zeal. 
And  show  himself  more  necessary  to  us. 

Myr.  By  all  that's  good  and  glorious  take  this 

Sar.  Business  to-morrow.  [counsel. 

Myr.  Ay,  or  death  to-night. 

Sa/r.  Why  let  it  come  then  unexpectedly 


'Midst  joy  and  gentleness,  and  mirth  and  love  ; 
So  let  me  fall  like  the  pluck'd  rose  ! — far  better 
Thus  than  be  wither'd. 

Myr.  Then  thou  wilt  not  j'ield, 

Even  for  the  sake  of  all  that  ever  stirr'd 
A  monarch  into  action,  to  forego 
A  trifling  revel  ? 

-Sar.  No. 

Myr.  Then  yield  for  mine  ; 

For  my  sake  I 

Sar.  Thine,  my  Myrrha  ! 

Myr.  ■  'Tis  the  first 

Boon  which  I  ever  ask'd  Assyria's  king,     [granted. 

Sar.  That's  true,  and  wer't  my  kingdom,  must  be 
Well,  for  thy  sake,  I  yield  me.     Pania,  hence  ! 
Thou  hear'st  me. 

Pan.  And  obey.  ^Exit  Pania. 

Sar.  I  marvel  at  thee. 

What  is  thy  motive,  Myrrha,  thus  to  urge  me  'f 

Myr.  Thy  safety  ;  and  the  certainty  that  naught 
Could  urge  the  prince  thy  kinsman  to  require 
Thus  much  from  thee,  but  some  impending  danger. 

Sar.  And  if  I  do  not  dread  it,  why  shouldst  thou  ? 

Myr.  Because  thou  dost  not  fear,  I  fear  for  thee. 

Sar.  To-morrow  thou  wilt  smile  at  these  vain  fan- 
cies, 

Myr.  If  the  worst  come,  I  shall  be  where  none 
And  that  is  better  than  the  power  to  smile,  [weep, 
And  thou  ? 

Snr.  I  shall  be  king,  as  heretofore. 

Myr.  Where? 

Sar.  With  Baal,  Nimrod,  and  Semiramis, 

Sole  in  Assyria,  or  with  them  elsewhere. 
Fate  made  me  what  I  am — may  make  me  nothing — 
But  either  that  or  nothing  must  I  be  : 
I  will  not  live  degraded. 

Myr.  Hadst  thou  felt 

Thus  always,  none  would  ever  dare  degrade  thee. 

Sar.  And  who  will  do  so  nov,'  ? 

Myr.  Dost  thou  suspect  none  ? 

S<tr.  Suspect !— that's  a  spy's  office.    Oh,  we  lose 
Ten  thousand  precious  moments  in  vain  words, 
And  vainer  fears.    Within  there  !    Ye  slaves,  deck 
The  hall  of  Nimrod  for  the  evening  revel : 
If  I  must  make  a  prison  of  our  palace. 
At  least  we'll  wear  our  fetters  jocundly  : 
If  the  Euphrates  be  forbid  us,  and 
The  summer  dwelling  on  its  beauteous  border, 
Here  we  are  still  unmenaced.    Ho  !  within  there  ! 

{Exit  SAKDANAPALrS. 

Myr.  (sola.)  Why  do  I  love  this  man  ?     My  coun- 
try's daughters 
Love  none  but  heroes.    But  I  have  no  country  ! 
The  slave  hath  lost  all  save  her  bonds.    I  love  him  ; 
And  that's  the  heaviest  link  of  the  long  chain — 
To  love  whom  we  esteem  not.    Be  it  so  : 
The  hour  is  coming  when  he'll  need  all  love. 


SCENE   II. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


251 


And  find  none.     To  fall  from  him  now  were  baser 
Than  to  have  stabb'd  him  on  his  throne  when  high- 
Would  have  been  noble  in  my  country's  creed  :    [est 
I  was  not  made  for  either.     Could  I  save  him, 
I  should  not  love  him  better,  but  myself; 
And  I  have  need  of  the  last,  for  I  have  fallen 
In  my  own  thoughts,  by  loving  this  soft  stranger  : 
And  yet  methinks  I  love  him  more,  perceiving 
That  he  is  hated  of  his  own  barbarians, 
The  natural  foes  of  all  the  Ijlood  of  Greece. 
Could  I  but  wake  a  single  thought  like  those 
Which  even  the  Phrygians  felt  when  battling  long 
'Twixt  lUon  and  the  sea,  within  his  heart,  [triumph. 
He  would  tread  down  the  barbarous  crowds,  and 
He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him  ;  the  slave  loves 
Her  master,  and  would  free  him  from  his  vices. 
If  not,  I  have  a  means  of  freedom  still, 
And  if  I  cannot  teach  him  how  to  reign. 
May  show  him  how  alone  a  king  can  leave 
His  throne.    I  must  not  lose  him  from  my  sight. 

{Exit. 

ACT    II. 

SCENE      I  . 

The  Portal  of  the  same  Hall  of  the  Palace. 

Beleses,  (solus.)  The  sun  goes  down  :  methinks  he 
sets  more  slowly, 
Taking  his  last  look  of  Assyria's  empire. 
How  red  he  glares  amongst  those  deepening  clouds. 
Like  the  blood  he  predicts  !     If  not  in  vain. 
Thou  sun  that  sinkest,  and  ye  stars  which  rise, 
I  have  outwatch'd  ye,  reading  ray  by  ray 
The  edicts  of  your  orbs,  which  make  Time  tremble 
For  what  he  brings  the  nations,  'tis  the  furthest 
Hour  of  Assyria's  years.     And  yet  how  calm  ! 
An  earthquake  should  announce  so  great  a  fall — 
A  summer's  sun  discloses  it.     Yon  disk. 
To  the  star-read  Chaldean,  bears  upon 
Its  everlasting  page  the  end  of  what 
Seem'd  everlasting  ;  but  oh,  thou  true  sun  ! 
The  burning  oracle  of  aU  that  live. 
As  fountain  of  all  life,  and  symbol  of 
Him  who  bestows  it,  wherefore  dost  thou  limit 
Thy  lore  unto  calamity  ?     Why  not 
Unfold  the  rise  of  days  more  worthy  thine 
AU-glorious  burst  from  ocean  ?  why  not  dart 
A  beam  of  hope  athwart  the  future  years, 
As  of  wrath  to  its  days  ?    Hear  me  !  oh,  hear  me  ! 
I  am  thy  worshiper,  thy  priest,  thy  servant — 
I  have  gazed  on  thee  at  thy  rise  and  fall. 
And  bow'd  my  head  beneath  thy  mid-day  beams, 
Wlien  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.    I  have  watch'd 
For  thee,  and  after  thee,  and  pray'd  to  thee. 
And  sacrificed  to  thee,  and  read,  and  fear'd  thee. 
And  ask'd  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answer'd — but 


Only  to  thus  much  :  while  I  speak,  he  sinks- 
Is  gone — and  leaves  his  beauty,  not  his  knowledge, 
To  the  delighted  west,  which  revels  in 
Its  hues  of  dying  glory.     Yet  what  is 
Death,  so  it  be  but  glorious  ?    'Tis  a  sunset ; 
And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 
The  gods  but  in  decay. 

Enter  Abbaces,  hy  an  inner  door. 

Ari.  Beleses,  why 

So  rapt  in  thy  devotion  ?    Dost  thou  stand 
Gazing  to  trace  thy  disappearing  god 
Into  some  realm  of  undiscover'd  day  ? 
Our  business  is  with  night — 'tis  come. 

Bel.  But  not 

Gone. 

Arb.  Let  it  roll  on — we  are  ready. 

Bel.  Yes. 

Would  it  were  over  ! 

Arb.  Does  the  prophet  doubt, 

To  whom  the  very  stars  shine  victory  2 

Bel.  I  do  not  doubt  of  victory — but  the  victor. 

Arb.  Well,  let  thy  science  settle  that.     Meantime 
I  have  prepared  as  many  glittering  spears 
As  wiU  outsparkle  our  allies — your  planets. 
There  is  no  more  to  thwart  us.    The  she-king. 
That  less  than  woman,  is  even  now  upon 
The  waters  with  his  female  mates.    The  order 
Is  issued  for  the  feast  in  the  pavilion. 
The  first  cup  which  he  drains  will  be  the  last 
Quaff'd  by  the  line  of  Nimrod. 

Bel.  'Twas  a  brave  one. 

Arb.  And  is  a  weak  one — 'tis  worn  out — we'll 

Bel.  Art  sure  of  that  ?  [mend  it. 

Arb.  Its  founder  was  a  hunter — 

I  am  a  soldier — what  is  there  to  fear  ? 

Bel.  The  soldier. 

Arb.  And  the  priest  it  may  be  :  but 

If  you  thought  thus,  or  think,  why  not  retain 
Your  king  of  concubines  ?  why  stir  me  up  ? 
Why  spur  me  to  this  enterprise  ?  your  own 
No  less  than  mine  ? 

Bel.  Look  to  the  sky. 

Arb.  I  look. 

Bel.  What  seest  thou  ? 

Arb.  A  fair  summer's  twilight,  and 

The  gathering  of  the  stars. 

Bel.  And  midst  them,  mark 

Yon  earliest,  and  the  brightest,  which  so  quivers. 
As  it  would  quit  its  place  in  the  blue  ether. 

Arb.  Well  ? 

Bel.  'Tis  thy  natal  ruler — thy  birth  planet. 

Arb.  (totichii'ff  his  scabbard.)  My  star  is  in  this 
scabbard  :  when  it  shines. 
It  shall  outdazzle  comets.    Let  us  think 
Of  what  is  to  be  done  to  justify 
Thy  planets  and  their  portents,    Wlieu  we  conquer, 


252 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  11. 


They  shall  have  temples — ay,  and  priests — and  thou 
Shalt  be  the  pontiff  of — what  gods  thou  wilt ; 
For  I  observe  that  they  are  ever  just, 
And  own  the  bravest  for  the  most  devout. 

Bel.  Ay,  and  the  most  devout  for  brave — thou  hast 
Seen  me  turn  back  from  battle.  [not 

Arb.  No ;  I  own  thee 

As  iirm  in  fight  as  Babylonia's  captain, 
As  skillful  in  Chaldea's  worship  :  now, 
"Win  it  but  please  thee  to  forget  the  priest. 
And  be  the  warrior  ? 

Bel.  Why  not  both  ? 

Arl.  The  better ; 

And  yet  it  almost  shames  me,  we  shall  have 
So  little  to  effect.    This  woman's  warfare 
Degrades  the  very  conqueror.    To  have  pluck'd 
A  bold  and  bloody  despot  from  his  throne. 
And  grappled  with  him,  clashing  steel  with  steel. 
That  were  heroic  or  to  win  or  fall ; 
But  to  upraise  my  sword  against  this  silkworm. 
And  hear  him  whine,  it  may  be 

Bel.  Do  not  deem  it ; 

He  has  that  in  him  which  may  make  you  strife  yet ; 
And  were  he  all  you  think,  his  guards  are  hardy. 
And  headed  by  the  cool,  stem  Salemenes. 

Arb.  They'll  not  resist. 

Bel.  Why  not  ?  they  are  soldiers. 

Arb.  True, 

And  therefore  need  a  soldier  to  command  them. 

Bel.  That  Salemenes  is. 

Arh.  But  not  their  king. 

Besides,  he  hates  the  effeminate  thing  that  governs, 
Tor  the  queen's  sake,  his  sister.    Mark  you  not 
He  keeps  aloof  from  all  the  revels  ? 

Bel.  But 

Not  from  the  council— there  he  is  ever  constant. 

Arb.  And  ever  thwarted ;  what  would  you  have 
To  make  a  rebel  out  of  ?    A  fool  reigning,       [more 
His  blood  dishonor'd,  and  himself  disdain'd  : 
Why,  it  is  his  revenge  we  work  for. 

Bel.  Could 

He  but  be  brought  to  think  so  :  this  I  doubt  of 

Arb.  What  if  we  sound  him  ? 

Bel.  Yes — ^if  the  time  served. 

Enter  Bale  A. 

Bal.  Satraps  !    The  king  commands  your  pres- 
The  feast  to-night.  [ence  at 

Bel.  To  hear  is  to  obey. 

In  the  pavilion  ? 

Bal.  No  ;  here  in  the  palace. 

Arb.  How  !  in  the  palace  ?  it  was  not  thus  order'd. 

Bal.  It  is  so  order'd  now. 

Arb.  And  why  ? 

Brd.  I  know  not 

May  I  retire  ? 

Arb.  Stay. 


Bel.  {to  Arb.  aside.)  Hush  1  let  him  go  his  way. 
(Alterrtutely  to  Bal.)  Yes,  Balea,  thank  the  monarch, 

kiss  the  hem 
Of  his  imperial  robe,  and  say,  his  slaves 
Will  take  the  crumbs  he  deigns  to  scatter  from 
His  royal  table  at  the  hour — was't  midnight  ? 

Bal.  It  was  :  the  place,  the  hall  of  Nimrod.  Lords, 
I  humble  me  before  you,  and  depart. 

l^Exil  Balea. 

Ar]>.  I  like  not  this  same  sudden  change  of  place  ; 
There  is  some  mystery :  wherefore  should  he  change 
it? 

Bel.  Doth  he  not  change  a  thousand  times  a  day  ? 
Sloth  is  of  all  things  the  most  fanciful — 
And  moves  more  parasangs  in  its  intents 
Than  generals  in  their  marches,  when  they  seek 
To  leave  their  foe  at  fault.  Why  dost  thou  muse  ? 

Arb.  He  loved  that  gay  pavilion, — it  was  ever 
His  summer  dotage. 

Bel.  And  he  loved  his  queen — 

And  thrice  a  thousand  harlotry  besides — 
And  he  has  loved  all  things  by  turns,  except 
Wisdom  and  glory. 

Arh.                          Still— I  like  it  not. 
If  he  has  changed — why,  so  must  we  :  the  attack 
Were  easy  in  the  isolated  bower, 
Beset  with  drowsy  guards  and  drunken  courtiers  : 
But  in  the  hall  of  Nimrod 

Bel.  Is  it  so  ? 

Methought  the  haughty  soldier  fear'd  to  mount 
A  throne  too  easily — does  it  disappoint  thee 
To  find  there  is  a  slipperier  step  or  two 
Than  what  was  counted  on  ? 

Arh.  When  the  hour  comes, 

Thou  shalt  perceive  how  far  I  fear  or  no. 
Thou  hast  seen  my  life  at  stake — and  gaily  play'd 
But  here  is  more  upon  the  die — a  kingdom.       [for  ; 

Bel.  I  have  foretold  already — ^thou  wilt  win  it ! 
Then  on,  and  prosper. 

Arb.  Now  were  I  a  soothsayer, 

I  would  have  boded  so  much  to  myself. 
But  be  the  stars  obey'd — I  cannot  quarrel 
With  them,  nor  their  interpreter.    Who's  here  ? 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sah  Satraps ! 
Bel.  Mj  prince  ! 

Sal.  Well  met — I  sought  ye  both, 

But  elsewhere  than  the  palace. 
Arb.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Sal.  'Tis  not  the  hour. 

Arb.  The  hour  ! — what  hour  ? 

Sal.  Of  midnight. 

Bel.  Midnight,  my  lord  1 

Sal,  What,  are  you  not  invited  ? 

Bel.  Oh,  yes  ! — we  had  forgotten. 
Sal.  Is  it  usual 


SCENE   I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


253 


Thiis  to  forget  a  sovereign's  invitation  ? 

Arb.  Why — we  but  now  received  it. 

Sal.  Then  why  here  ? 

Arb.  On  duty. 

Sal.  On  what  duty  ? 

Bel.  On  the  state's. 

"We  have  the  privilege  to  approach  the  presence ; 
But  found  the  monarch  absent. 

Sal,  And  I  too 

Am  upon  duty. 

Arb.  May  we  crave  its  purport  ? 

Sal.  To  arrest  two  traitors.  Guards  !  Within  there  I 


Ehiter  Ouards. 


Satraps, 


Sal.  (continuing.) 
Your  swords. 

Bel.  (delivering  his.)  My  lord,  behold  my  cimeter. 

Arb.  (dratoing  his  sword.)  Take  mine. 

Sal.  (advancing.)  I  will. 

Arb.  But  in  your  heart  the  blade — 

The  hilt  quits  not  this  hand. 

Sal.  (drawing.)  How  !  dost  thou  brave  me  ? 

'Tis  well — this  saves  a  trial,  and  false  mercy. 
Soldiers,  hew  down  the  rebel ! 

Arb.  Soldiers  !    Ay — 

Alone  you  dare  not. 

Sal.  Alone  !  foolish  slave — 

What  is  there  in  thee  that  a  prince  should  shrink  from 
Of  open  force  ?    We  dread  thy  treason,  not 
Thy  strength  :  thy  tooth  is  naught  without  its  ven- 
The  serpent's,  not  the  lion's.    Cut  him  down,  [om — 

Bel.  (inierposing.)  Arbaces  !  are  you  mad  ?    Have 

I  not  render'd  [tice. 

My  sword  ?    Then  trust  like  me  our  sovereign's  jus- 

Arb.  No — I  will  sooner  trust  the  stars  thou  prat'st 
And  this  slight  arm,  and  die  a  king  at  least        [of. 
Of  my  own  breath  and  body — so  far  that 
None  else  shall  chain  them. 

Sal.  (to  the  Guards.)  You  hear  him,  and  me. 

Take  him  not, — kill. 

[The  Guards  attach,  Abbaces,  who  defends  him- 
self valiantly  and  dexterously  till  they  waver. 

Sal.  Is  it  even  so  ;  and  must 

I  do  the  hangman's  office  ?    Recreant !  see 
How  you  should  fell  a  traitor  ! 

[Salemenes  attacks  Abbaces. 

Bhiter  Sabdanafalus  and  Train. 

Sar.  Hold  your  hands — 

Upon  your  lives,  I  say.    What,  deaf  or  drunken  ? 
My  sword  !    Oh,  fool,  I  wear  no  sword  1  here,  fellow, 
Give  me  thy  weapon.  [To  a  Guard. 

Sabdanapalus  snatches  a  sword  from  one  of  the 
soldiers  and  rtuhes  between  the  combatants — 
they  separate. 
Sar.  In  my  very  palace  1 


What  hinders  me  from  cleaving  you  in  twain, 
Audacious  brawlers  ? 

Bel.  Sire,  your  justice. 

Sal.  Or— 

Your  weakness. 

Sar.  (raising  the  sword.)  How  ? 

Sal.  Strike  I  so  the  blow's  repeated 

Upon  yon  traitor — whom  you  spare  a  moment, 
I  trust  for  torture — I'm  content. 

Sar.  What — him  ! 

Who  dares  assail  Arbaces  ? 

Sal.  I! 

Sar.  Indeed ! 

Prince,  you  forget  yourself.    Upon  what  warrant  ? 

Sal.  (showing  the  signet.)  Thine. 

Arb.  (con/used.)  The  king's  ! 

Sal.  Yes  !  and  let  the  king  confirm  it. 

Sar.  I  parted  not  from  this  for  such  a  purpose. 

Sal.  You  parted  with  it  for  your  safety — I 
Employ'd  it  for  the  best.    Pronounce  in  person. 
Here  I  am  but  your  slave — a  moment  past 
I  was  your  representative. 

Sdr.  Then  sheathe 

Your  swords. 

[Abbaces  a7id  Salemenes  return  their  swords 
to  the  scabbards. 

Sal.  Mine's  sheathed :  I  pray  you  sheathe  not  yours, 
'Tis  the  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safety. 

Sar.  A  heavy  one ;  the  hilt,  too,  hurts  my  hand. 
(I'o  a  Guard.)  Here,  fellow,  take  thy  weapon  back. 

Well,  sirs. 
What  doth  this  mean  ? 

Bel.  The  prince  must  answer  that. 

Sil.  Truth  upon  my  part,  treason  upon  theirs. 

Sar.  Treason — Arbaces  I  treachery  and  Beleses  ! 
That  were  a  union  I  will  not  believe. 

Bel.  Where  is  the  proof? 

Sal.  I'll  answer  that,  if  once 

The  king  demands  your  fellow-traitor's  sword. 

Arb.  (to  Sil.)  A  sword  which  has  been  drawn  aa 
Against  his  foes.  [oft  as  thine 

Sal.  And  now  against  his  brother. 

And  in  an  hour  or  so  against  himself. 

Sar.  That  is  not  possible  :  he  dared  not ;  no — 
No — I'll  not  hear  of  such  things.    These  vain  bick- 
erings 
Are  spawn'd  in  courts  by  base  intrigues,  and  baser 
Hirelings,  who  live  by  lies  on  good  men's  lives. 
You  must  have  been  deceived,  my  brother. 

Sal.  First 

Let  him  deliver  up  his  weapon,  and 
Proclaim  himself  your  subject  by  that  duty. 
And  I  wiU  answer  all. 

Sar.                             Why,  if  I  thought  so — 
But  no,  it  cannot  be  :  the  Mede  Arbaces — 
The  trusty,  rough,  true  soldier — the  best  captain- 
Of  all  who  discipline  our  nations No, 


264 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   II. 


I'll  not  insult  him  thus,  to  bid  liim  render 

The  cimeter  to  me  he  never  yielded 

Unto  our  enemies.    Chief,  keep  your  weapon. 

Sul.  {delivering  hack  the  signet.)    Monarch,  take 
back  your  signet. 

Bar.  No,  retain  it ; 

But  use  it  with  more  moderation. 

Jal.  Sire, 

I  used  it  for  your  honor,  and  restore  it 
Because  I  cannot  keep  it  with  my  own. 
Bestow  it  on  Arbaces. 

Sar.  So  I  should  : 

He  never  ask'd  it. 

Sal.  Doubt  not,  he  will  have  it, 

Without  that  hollow  semblance  of  respect. 

Bel.  I  know  not  what  hath  prejudiced  the  prince 
So  strongly  'gainst  two  subjects,  than  whom  none 
Have  been  more  zealous  for  Assyria's  weal. 

Jal.  Peace,  factious  priest,  and  faithless  soldier  I 
Unit'st  in  thy  own  person  the  worst  vices  [thou 

Of  the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind. 
Keep  thy  smooth  words  and  juggling  homilies 
For  those  who  know  thee  not.    Thy  fellow's  sin 
Is,  at  the  least,  a  bold  one,  and  not  temper'd 
By  the  tricks  taught  thee  in  Chaldea. 

Bel.  Hear  him, 

My  liege — the  son  of  Belus  !  he  blasphemes 
The  worship  of  the  land,  which  bows  the  knee 
Before  your  fathers. 

Sar.  Oh,  for  that  I  pray  you 

Let  him  have  absolution  I     I  dispense  with 
The  worship  of  dead  men  ;  feeling  that  I 
Am  mortal,  and  believing  that  the  race 
From  whence  I  sprung  are — what  I  see  them — ashes. 

Bel.  King !  do  not  deem  so :  they  are  with  the  stars. 
And 

Sar.  You  shall  join  them  there  ere  they  wiU  rise, 
If  you  preach  farther.     Why,  this  is  rank  treason. 

Sal.  My  lord ! 

Sar.  To  school  me  in  the  worship  of 

Assyria's  idols  !     Let  him  be  released — 
Give  him  his  sword. 

Sal.  My  lord,  and  king,  and  brother, 

I  pray  ye  pause. 

Sar.  Yes,  and  be  sermonized. 

And  dinn'd,  and  deafen'd  with  dead  men  and  Baal, 
And  all  Chaldea's  starry  mysteries. 

Bel.  Monarch  !  respect  them. 

Sar.  Oh,  for  that — ^I  love  them  ! 

I  love  to  watch  them  in  the  deep  blue  vault, 
And  to  compare  them  with  my  Myrrha's  eyes  ; 
I  love  to  see  their  rays  redoubled  in 
The  tremulous  silver  of  Euphrates'  wave, 
As  the  light  breeze  of  midnight  crisps  the  broad 
And  rolling  water,  sighing  through  the  sedges 
Which  fringe  his  banks  :  but  whether  they  may  be 
Gods,  as  some  say,  or  the  abodes  of  gods, 


As  others  hold,  or  simply  lamps  of  night, 
Worlds,  or  the  lights  of  worlds,  I  know  uor  care  not. 
There's  something  sweet  in  my  uncertainty 
I  would  not  change  for  your  Chaldean  lore  ; 
Besides,  I  know  of  these  aU  clay  can  know 
Of  aught  above  it,  or  below  it — nothing. 
I  see  their  brilliancy  and  feel  their  beauty — 
When  they  shine  on  my  grave  I  shall  know  neither. 

Bel.  For  neither,  sire,  say  letter. 

Sar.  I  will  wait. 

If  it  so  please  you,  pontiff,  for  that  knowledge. 
In  the  mean  time  receive  your  sword,  and  know 
That  I  prefer  your  service  militant 
Unto  your  ministry — not  loving  either. 

SiL  {aside.)  His  lusts  have  made  him  mad.   Then 
Spite  of  himself.  [must  I  save  him, 

Sar.  Please  you  to  hear  me,  Satraps  ! 

And  chiefly  thou,  my  priest,  because  I  doubt  thee 
More  than  the  soldier  ;  and  would  doubt  thee  all 
Wert  thou  not  half  a  warrior  :  let  us  part 
In  peace — I'll  not  say  pardon — which  must  be 
Eam'd  by  the  guilty  :  this  I'll  not  pronounce  ye, 
Although  upon  this  breath  of  mine  depends 
Your  own  ;  and,  deadlier  for  ye,  on  my  fears. 
But  fear  not — for  that  I  am  soft,  not  fearful — 
And  so  live  on.   Were  I  the  thing  some  think  me. 
Your  heads  would  now  be  dripping  the  last  drops 
Of  their  attainted  gore  from  the  high  gates 
Of  this  our  palace,  into  the  dry  dust. 
Their  only  portion  of  the  coveted  kingdom 
They  would  be  crown'd  to  reign  o'er — let  that  pass 
As  I  have  said,  I  will  not  deem,  ye  guilty, 
Nor  doom  ye  guiltless.     Albeit  better  men 
Than  ye  or  I  stand  ready  to  arraign  you  ; 
And  should  I  leave  your  fate  to  sterner  judges, 
And  proofs  of  all  kinds,  I  might  sacrifice 
Two  men,  who,  whatsoe'er  they  now  are,  were 
Once  honest.    Ye  are  free,  sirs. 

Arh.  Sire,  this  clemency 

Bel.  {interrupting  him.)  Is  worthy  of  yourself ;  and. 
We  thank [although  innocent, 

Sar.  Priest !  keep  your  thanksgivings  for  Belus  ; 
His  offspring  needs  none. 

Bel.  But  being  innocent 

Sar.  Be  silent — Guilt  is  loud.    If  ye  are  loyal. 
Ye  are  injured  men,  and  should  be  sad,  not  grateful. 

Bel.  So  we  should  be,  were  justice  always  done 
By  earthly  power  omnipotent ;  but  innocence 
Must  oft  receive  her  right  as  a  mere  favor. 

Sar.  That's  a  good  sentence  for  a  homily. 
Though  not  for  this  occasion.    P*rithee  keep  it 
To  plead  thy  sovereign's  cause  before  his  people. 

Bel.  I  trust  there  is  no  cause. 

Sar.  No  cause,  perhaps  ; 

But  many  causers  : — if  ye  meet  with  such 
In  the  exercise  of  your  inquisitive  function 
On  earth,  or  should  you  read  of  it  in  heaven 


8CENB   I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


255 


In  some  mysterious  twinkle  of  tho  stars, 

Which  are  your  chronicles,  I  pray  you  note,  [en 

That  there  are  worse  things  bet^-ixt  earth  and  heav- 

Than  him  who  ruleth  many  and  slays  none  ; 

And,  hating  not  himself,  yet  loves  his  fellows     [him 

Enough  to  spare  even  those  who  would  not  spare 

Were  they  once  masters — but  that's  doubtful.     Sa- 

Tour  swords  and  persons  are  at  liberty  [traps  I 

To  use  them  as  ye  will — but  from  this  hour 

I  have  no  call  for  either.    Salemenes  ! 

Follow  me. 

{Exeunt  Sardanapalus,   Salkmenes,  and  the 
Train,  etc.,  having  Ahbaces  and  Beleses. 

Ari.  Beleses ! 

Bel.  Now,  what  think  you  ? 

Arb.  That  we  are  lost. 

Bel.  That  we  have  won  the  kingdom. 

Arb.  What !  thus  suspected — with  the^word  slung 
o'er  us 
But  by  a  single  hair,  and  that  still  wavering. 
To  be  blown  down  by  his  imperious  breath, 
WTiich  spared  us — why,  I  know  not. 

Be!.  Seek  not  why ; 

But  let  us  profit  by  the  interval. 
The  hour  is  still  our  own — our  power  the  same — 
The  night  the  same  we  destined.    He  hath  changed 
Nothing  except  our  ignorance  of  all 
Suspicion  into  such  a  certainty 
As  must  make  madness  of  delay. 

Arb.  And  yet 

Bel.  What,  doubting  still ! 

Arb.  He  spared  our  lives,  nay,  more. 

Saved  them  from  Salemenes. 

Be'.  And  how  long 

Will  he  so  spare  ?  till  the  first  drunken  minute. 

Ai'b.  Or  sober,  rather.    Yet  he  did  it  nobly ; 
Gave  royally  what  we  had  forfeited 
Basely 

Bel.        Say,  bravely. 

Arb.  Somewhat  of  both,  perhaps. 

But  it  has  touch'd  me,  and,  what'er  betide, 
I  will  no  further  on. 

Bel.  And  lose  the  world  ! 

Arb.  Lose  anything  except  my  own  esteem. 

Bel.  I  blush  that  we  should  owe  our  lives  to  such 
A  king  of  distafis  ! 

Arb.  But  no  less  we  owe  them  ; 

And  I  should  blush  far  more  to  take  the  grantor's  ! 

Bel.  Thou  mayst  endure  whate'er  thou  wilt — the 
Have  written  otherwise.  [stars 

A  lb.  Though  they  came  down. 

And  marshall'd  me  the  way  in  all  their  brightness, 
I  would  not  follow. 

Bel.  This  is  weakness — ^worse 

Than  a  scared  beldam's  dreaming  of  the  dead, 
And  waking  in  the  dark. — Go  to — ^go  to. 

Arb.  Methoughthelook'd  like  Nimrod  as  he  spoke, 


Even  as  the  proud  imperial  statue  stands 
Looking  the  monarch  of  the  kings  around  it, 
And  sways,  while  they  but  ornament,  the  temple. 
j      Bel.  I  told  you  that  you  had  too  much  despised 
And  that  there  was  some  royalty  within  him.  [him. 
What  then  ?  he  is  the  nobler  foe. 

Arb.  But  we 

The  meaner : — Would  he  had  not  spared  us  ! 

Bel.  So— 

Wouldst  thou  be  sacrificed  thus  readily  ? 

Arb.  No — but  it  had  been  better  to  have  died 
Than  live  ungrateful. 

Bel.  Oh,  the  souls  of  some  men ! 

Thou  wouldst  digest  what  some  call  treason,  and 
Fools  treachery — and,  behold,  upon  the  sudden. 
Because  for  something  or  for  nothing,  this 
Rash  reveller  steps,  ostentatiously, 
'Twixt  thee  and  Salemenes,  thou  art  tum'd 
Into — ^what  shall  I  say — Sardanapalus  ! 
I  know  no  name  more  ignominious. 

Arb.  But 

An  hour  ago,  who  dared  to  term  me  such 
Had  held  his  life  but  lightly — as  it  is, 
I  must  forgive  you,  even  as  he  forgave  us — 
Semiramis  herself  would  not  have  done  it. 

Bel.  No — the  queen  Uked  no  sharers  of  the  king- 
Not  even  a  husband.  [dom, 

Arb,  I  must  serve  him  truly 

Bel.  And  humbly? 

Arb.  No,  sir,  proudly — being  honest. 

I  shall  be  nearer  thrones  than  you  to  heaven  ; 
And  if  not  quite  so  haughty,  yet  more  lofty. 
You  may  do  your  own  deeming — you  have  codes. 
And  mysteries,  and  corollaries  of 
Right  and  wrong,  which  I  lack  for  my  direction, 
And  must  pursue  but  what  a  plain  heart  teaches. 
And  now  you  know  me. 

Bel.  Have  you  flnish'd  ? 

Arb.  Yes — 

With  you. 

Bel.        And  would,  perhaps,  betray  as  well 
As  quit  me  ? 

Arb.  That's  a  sacerdotal  thought, 

And  not  a  soldier's. 

Bel.  Be  it  what  you  will- 

Truce  with  these  wranglings,  and  but  hear  me. 

Arb.  No- 

There  is  more  peril  in  your  subtle  spirit 
Than  in  a  phalanx. 

Bel.  If  it  must  be  so — 

I'll  on  alone. 

Arb.  Alone ! 

Bel.  Thrones  hold  but  one. 

Arb.  But  this  is  fill'd. 

Bel.  With  worse  than  vacancy — 

A  despised  monarch.    Look  to  it,  Arbaces  : 
I  have  still  aided,  cherish'd,  loved,  and  urged  you ; 


256 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT   II. 


Was  willing  even  to  serve  you,  in  the  hope 
To  serve  and  save  Assyria.    Heaven  itself 
Seem'd  to  consent,  and  all  events  were  friendly, 
Even  to  the  last,  tiU  that  your  spirit  shrunk 
Into  a  shallow  softness  ;  but  now,  rather 
Than  sec  my  country  languish,  I  will  be 
Her  saviour  or  the  victim  of  her  tyrant. 
Or  one  or  both,  for  sometimes  both  are  one  : 
An(^  if  I  win,  Arbaces  is  my  servant. 

Arb.   Your  servant ! 

Bel.  Why  not  ?  better  than  be  slave. 

The  pardoned  slave  of  sJie  Sardanapalus ! 

Enter  Pania. 

Fan.  My  lords,  I  bear  an  order  from  the  king. 

Ari.  It  is  obey'd  ere  spoken. 

JBel.  Notwithstanding, 

Let's  hear  it. 

Pan.  Forthwith,  on  this  very  night. 

Repair  to  your  respective  satrapies 
Of  Babylon  and  Media. 

Bel.  With  our  troops  ? 

P<m.  My  order  is  unto  the  satraps  and 
Their  household  train. 

Arh.  But — 

Bel.  It  must  be  obey'd  ; 

Say,  we  depart. 

Pan.  My  order  is  to  see  you 

Depart,  and  not  to  bear  your  answer. 

Bel.  (aside.)  Ay  1 

Well,  sir,  we  wiU  accompany  you  hence. 

Pan,  I  will  retire  to  marshal  forth  the  guard 
Of  honor  which  befits  your  rank,  and  wait 
Tour  leisure,  so  that  it  the  hour  exceeds  not. 

[Exit  Pania. 

Bel.  Now  then  obey  I 

Arb,  Doubtless. 

Bel.  Yes,  to  the  gates 

That  grate  the  palace,  which  is  now  our  prison — 
No  further 

Arb.        Thou  hast  harp'd  the  truth  indeed  ! 
The  realm  itself,  in  all  its  wide  extension, 
Yawns  dungeons  at  each  step  for  thee  and  me. 

Bel.  Graves  1 

Arb.  If  I  thought  so,  this  good  sword  should  dig 
One  more  than  mine. 

Bel.  It  shall  have  work  enough. 

Let  me  hope  better  than  thou  augurest ; 
At  present,  let  us  hence  as  best  we  may. 
Thou  dost  agree  with  me  in  understanding 
This  order  as  a  sentence  ? 

Arb.  Why,  what  other 

Interpretation  should  it  bear  ?  it  is 
The  very  policy  of  orient  monarchs — 
Pardon  and  poison — favors  and  a  sword — 
A  distant  voyage,  and  an  eternal  sleep. 


How  many  satraps  in  his  father's  time — 
For  he  I  own  is,  or  at  least  iea-i,  bloodless — 

Bel.  But  will  not,  can  not  be  so  now. 

Arb.  I  doubt  it. 

How  many  satraps  have  I  seen  set  out 
In  his  sire's  day  for  mighty  vice-royalties. 
Whose  tombs  are  on  their  path  !  I  know  not  how. 
But  they  all  sicken'd  by  the  way,  it  was 
So  long  and  heavy. 

Bel.  Let  us  but  regain 

»The  free  air  of  the  city,  and  we'll  shorten 
The  journey. 

Arb.  'Twill  be  shorten'd  at  the  gates, 

It  may  be. 

Bel.        No ;  they  hardly  will  risk  that. 
They  mean  us  to  die  privately,  but  not 
Within  the  palace  or  the  city  walls, 
Where  we  are  known,  and  may  have  partisans  : 
If  they  had  meant  to  slay  us  here,  we  were 
No  longer  with  the  living.    Let  us  hence. 

Arb.  If  I  but  thought  he  did  not  mean  my  life — 

Bel.  Fool  1  hence — what  else  should  despotism 
alarm'd 
Mean  ?  Let  us  but  rejoin  our  troops,  and  march. 

Arb.  Towards  our  provinces  ? 

Bel.  No  :  towards  your  kingdom. 

There's  time,  there's  heart,  and  hope,  and  power,  and 

means 
Which  their  half  measures  leave  us  in  full  scope.^ 
Away ! 

Arb.  And  I  even  yet  repenting  must 
Relapse  to  guilt  I 

Bel.  Self-defence  is  a  virtue, 

Sole  bulwark  of  all  right.    Away,  I  say ! 
Let's  leave  this  place,  the  air  grows  thick  and  choking. 
And  the  walls  have  a  scent  of  night-shade — hence  ! 
Let  us  not  leave  them  time  for  further  council. 
Our  quick  departure  proves  our  civic  zeal ; 
Our  quick  departure  hinders  our  good  escort, 
The  worthy  Pania,  from  anticipating 
The  orders  of  some  parasangs  from  hence  : 

Nay,  there's  no  other  choice,  but hence,  I  say. 

[Exit  with  Abbaces,  wTio  follows  reluctantly. 

Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Salemenes. 

8ar.  Well,  all  is  remedied,  and  without  bloodshed. 
That  worst  of  mockeries  of  a  remedy ; 
We  are  now  secure  by  these  men's  exile. 

Sal.  Yes, 

As  he  who  treads  on  flowers  is  from  the  adder 
Twined  round  their  roots. 

Bar.  Why,  what  wouldst  have  me  do  ? 

Sal.  Undo  what  you  have  done. 

Sar.  Revoke  my  pardon  ? 

Sal.   Replace  the  crown  now  tottering  on  yonr 

Sar.  That  were  tyrannical.  [temples. 

Sal.  But  sure. 


SCENE   I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


257 


Sar.  We  are  so. 

What  danger  can  they  work  upon  the  frontier 

Sal.  They  are  not  there  yet — ^neyer  should  they 
Were  I  well  listen'd  to.  [be  so, 

Sar.  Nay,  I  have  listen'd 

Impartially  to  thee — why  not  to  them  ? 

Sal.  You  may  know  that  hereafter ;  as  it  is, 
I  take  my  leave,  to  order  forth  the  guard. 
Sar.  And  you  will  join  us  at  the  banquet  ? 
Sal.  Sire, 

Dispense  with  me — I  am  no  wassailer  : 
Command  mc  in  all  service  save  the  Bacchant's 
Sar.  Nay,  but  'tis  fit  to  revel  now  and  then. 
Sal.  And  fit  that  some  should  watch  for  those  who 
Too  oft.    Am  I  permitted  to  depart  ?  [revel 

Sar.  Yes Stay  a  moment,  my  good  Salemenes, 

My  brother,  my  best  subject,  better  prince 

Than  I  am  king.   You  should  have  been  the  monarch, 

And  I — I  know  not  what,  and  care  not ;  but 

Think  not  1  am  insensible  to  all 

Thine  honest  wisdom,  and  thy  rough  yet  kind. 

Though  oft-reproving,  sufferance  of  my  folUes. 

If  I  have  spared  these  men  against  thy  counsel. 

That  is,  their  lives — it  is  not  that  I  doubt 

The  advice  was  sound  ;   but,  let  them  live  :  we  will 

Cavil  about  their  lives — so  let  them  mend  them,  [not 

Their  banishment  will  leave  me  still  sound  sleep. 

Which  their  death  had  not  left  me. 

Sal.  Thus  you  run 

The  risk  to  sleep  forever,  to  save  traitors — 
A  moment's  pang  now  changed  for  years  of  crime. 
Still  let  them  be  made  quiet. 

Sar.  Tempt  me  not : 

My  word  is  pass'd. 

Sal.  But  it  may  be  recall'd. 

Sar.  'Tis  royal. 

Sal.  And  should  therefore  be  decisive. 

This  half  indulgence  of  an  exile  serves 
But  to  provoke — a  pardon  should  be  full, 
Or  it  is  none. 

Sar.  And  who  persuaded  me 

After  I  had  repeal'd  them,  or  at  least 
Only  dismiss'd  them  from  our  presence,  who 
Urged  me  to  send  them  to  their  satrapies  ? 

Sal.  True  ;  that  I  had  forgotten ;  that  is,  sire. 
If  they  e'er  reach'd  their  satrapies — why,  then, 
Reprove  me  more  for  my  advice  ? 

Sar.  And  if 

They  do  not  reach  them — ^look  to  it ! — in  safety. 
In  safety,  mark  me — and  security — 
Look  to  thine  own. . 

Sal,  Permit  me  to  depart ; 

Their  safety  shall  be  cared  for. 

Sar.  Get  thee  hence,  then ; 

And,  prithee,  think  more  gently  of  thy  brother. 
Sal.  Sire,  I  shall  ever  duly  serve  my  sovereign. 

[Exit  Salemenes. 
33 


Sar.  (solus)  That  man  is  of  a  temper  too  severe ; 
Hard  but  as  lofty  as  the  rock,  and  free 
From  all  the  taints  of  common  earth — while  I 
Am  softer  clay,  impregnated  with  flowers  : 
But  as  our  mold  is,  must  the  produce  be. 
If  I  have  err'd  this  time,  'tis  on  the  side 
Wliere  error  sits  most  lightly  on  that  sense, 
I  know  not  what  to  call  it ;  but  it  reckons 
With  me  ofttimes  for  pain,  and  sometimes  pleasure ; 
A  spirit  which  seems  placed  about  my  heart 
To  count  its  throbs,  not  quicken  them,  and  ask . 
Questions  which  mortal  never  dared  to  ask  me, 
Nor  Baal,  though  an  oracular  deity — • 
Albeit  his  marble  face  majestical 
Frowns  as  the  shadows  of  the  evening  dim 
His  brows  to  changed  expression,  till  at  times 
I  think  the  statue  looks  in  act  to  speak. 
Away  with  these  vain  thoughts,  I  will  bo  joyous — 
And  here  comes  Joy's  true  herald. 


Enter  Mtbkha. 

3fi/r.  King  !  the  sky 

Is  overcast,  and  musters  muttering  thunder. 
In  clouds  that  seem  approaching  fast,  and  show 
In  forked  flashes  a  commanding  tempest. 
WiU  you  then  quit  the  palace  ? 

Sar.  Tempest,  say'st  thou  ? 

My?:  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Sar.  For  my  own  part  I  should  be 

Not  iU  content  to  vary  the  smooth  scene, 
And  watch  the  warring  elements  ;  but  this 
Would  little  suit  the  silken  garments  and 
Smooth  faces  of  our  festive  friends.     Say,  Myrrha, 
Art  thou  of  those  who  dread  the  roar  of  clouds  ? 

Mi/r.  In  my  own  country  we  respect  their  voices 
As  auguries  of  Jove. 

Sar.  Jove  ! — ay,  your  Baal — 

Ours  also  has  a  property  in  thimder. 
And  ever  and  anon  some  falling  bolt 
Proves  his  divinity, — and  yet  sometimes 
Strikes  his  own  altars. 

Myr.  That  were  a  dread  omen. 

Sar.  Yes — for  the  priests.  Well,  we  will  not  go 
Beyond  the  palace  walls  to-night,  but  make  [forth 
Our  feast  within. 

Myr.  Now,  Jove  be  praised  I  that  he 

Hath  heard  the  prayer  thou  wouldst  not  hear.    The 
Are  kinder  to  thee  than  thou  to  thyself,  [gods 

And  flash  this  storm  between  thee  and  thy  foes, 
To  shield  thee  from  them. 

Sar.  Child,  if  there  be  peril 

Methinks  it  is  the  same  within  these  walls 
As  on  the  river's  brink. 

Myr.  Not  so ;  these  walls 

Are  high,  and  strong,  and  guarded.    Treason  has 
To  penetrate  through  many  a  winding  way, 


258 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


And  massy  portal ;  but  in  the  pavilion 
There  is  no  bulwark. 

Sar.  No,  nor  in  the  palace, 

Nor  in  the  fortress,  nor  upon  the  top 
Of  cloud-fenced  Caucasus,  where  the  eagle  sits 
Nested  in  pathless  clefts,  if  treachery  be : 
Even  as  the  arrow  finds  the  airy  king, 
The  steel  will  reach  the  earthly.    But  be  calm  : 
The  men,  or  innocent  or  guilty,  are 
Banish'd,  and  far  upon  their  way. 

Myr.  They  live,  then  ? 

Sar.  So  sanguinary  ?     Thou  ! 

Myr.  I  would  not  shrink 

From  just  infliction  of  due  punishment 
On  those  who  seek  your  life  :  wer't  otherwise, 
I  should  not  merit  mine.    Besides,  you  heard 
The  princely  Salemenes. 

Sar.  This  is  strange  ; 

The  gentle  and  the  austere  are  both  against  me, 
And  urge  me  to  revenge. 

Myr.  'Tis  a  Greek  virtue. 

(S«r.  But  not  a  kingly  one — I'U  none  on't ;  or 
If  ever  I  indulge  in't,  it  shall  be 
With  kings — my  equals. 

Myr.  These  men  sought  to  be  so. 

8ar.  Myrrha,  this  is  too  feminine,  and  springs 
From  fear 

Myr.  For  you. 

Sar.  No  matter,  still  'tis  fear. 

I  have  observed  your  sex,  once  roused  to  wrath, 
Are  timidly  vindictive  to  a  pitch 
Of  perseverance,  which  I  could  not  copy. 
I  thought  you  were  exempt  from  this,  as  from 
The  childish  helplessness  of  Asian  women, 

Myr.  My  lord,  I  am  no  boaster  of  my  love. 
Nor  of  my  attributes  ;  I  have  shared  your  splendor. 
And  wiU  partake  your  fortunes.     You  may  live 
To  find  one  slave  more  true  than  subject  myriads  : 
But  this  the  gods  avert  I  I  am  content 
To  be  beloved  on  trust  for  what  I  feel. 
Rather  than  prove  it  to  you  in  your  griefs. 
Which  might  not  yield  to  any  cares  of  -mine. 

Sar.  Grief  cannot  come  where  perfect  love  exists, 
Except  to  heighten  it,  and  vanish  from 
That  which  it  could  not  scare  away.    Let's  in — 
The  hour  approaches,  and  we  must  prepare     ' 
To  meet  the  invited  guests,  who  grace  our  feast. 

{Wxewnt. 


ACT  m. 

SCENK    I. 

The  Rail  of  the  Palace  illuminated. — Sabdanapaitjs 
and  his  Ouests  at   Table.  —  A  storm,  without,  and 
Thunder  occasionally  heard  during  the  Banquet. 
Sar.  Fill  fuU  !  why  this  is  as  it  should  be :  here 


Is  my  true  realm,  amidst  bright  eyes  and  faces 
Happy  as  fair !  Here  sorrow  cannot  reach. 

Zam.  Nor  elsewhere — ^where  the  king  is,  pleasure 
sparkles. 

Sar.  Js  not  this  better  now  than  Ninirod's  huntings, 
Or  my  wild  grandam's  chase  in  search  of  kingdoms 
She  could  not  keep  when  conquer'd  ? 

Alt.  Mighty  though 

They  were,  as  aU  thy  royal  line  have  been. 
Yet  none  of  those  who  went  before  have  reach'd 
The  acme  of  Sardanapalus,  who 
Has  placed  his  joy  in  peace — the  sole  true  glory. 

Sar.  And  pleasure,  good  Altada,  to  which  glory 
Is  but  the  path.    What  is  it  that  we  seek  ? 
Enjoyment !     We  have  cut  the  way  short  to  it. 
And  not  gone  tracking  it  through  human  ashes, 
Making  a  grave  with  every  footstep. 

Zatn.  No^ 

All  hearts  are  happy,  and  all  voices  bless 
The  king  of  peace,  who  holds  a  world  in  jubilee. 

Sfir.  Art  sure  of  that  ?  I  have  heard  otherwise. 
Some  say  that  there  be  traitors. 

Zam.  Traitors  they 

Who  dare  to  say  so  ! — 'Tis  impossible. 
What  cause  ? 

Sar.  What  cause  ?  true, — ^fiU  the  goblet  up  ; 

We  will  not  think  of  them  :  there  are  none  such. 
Or  if  there  be,  they  are  gone. 

Alt.  Guests,  to  my  pledge  ! 

Down  on  your  knees,  and  drink  a  measure  to 
The  safety  of  the  king — the  monarch,  say  I  ? 
The  god  Sardanapalus  ! 

(Zames  and  the  Oues's  hneel,  and.  exclaim — 
Mightier  than 
His  father  Baal,  the  god  Sardanapalus  ! 

[/<  thunders  as  they  Tcneel ;  some  start  up  in 
covfwtion. 

Zam.  Why  do  you  rise,  my  friends  ?  in  that  strong 
His  father  gods  consented.  [peal 

Myr.  Menaced,  rather. 

King,  wilt  thou  bear  this  mad  impiety  ? 

Sar,  Impiety ; — nay,  if  the  sires  who  reign'd 
Before  me  can  be  gods,  I'U  not  disgrace 
Their  lineage.    But  arise,  my  pious  friends ; 
Hoard  your  devotion  for  the  thunderer  there  : 
I  seek  but  to  be  loved,  not  worship'd. 

Alt.  Both— 

Both  you  must  ever  be  by  all  true  subjects. 

Sar.  Methink  the  thunders  still  increase  :  it  is 
An  awful  night. 

Myr.  Oh  yes,  for  those  who  have 

No  palace  to  protect  their  worshipers. 

Sar.  That's  true,  my  Myrrha ;  and  could  I  convert 
My  realm  to  one  wide  shelter  for  the  wretched, 
I'd  do  it. 

Myr.    Thou'rt  no  god,  then,  not  to  be 


SCENE  L 


SARDANAPALUS. 


259 


Able  to  work  a  wiE  so  good  and  general, 
As  thy  wish  would  imply. 

Stir.  And  your  gods,  then, 

Who  can,  and  do  not  ? 

Myr.  Do  not  speak  of  that, 

Lest  we  provoke  them. 

Sar.  True,  they  love  not  censure 

Better  than  mortals.     Friends,  a  thought  has  struck 
Were  there  no  temples,  would  there,  think  ye,  be  [me; 
Air  worshipers  ?  that  is,  when  it  is  angry, 
And  pelting  as  even  now. 

^ftfr.  The  Persian  prays 

Upon  his  mountain. 

Siir.  Yes,  when  the  sun  shines. 

Myr.  And  I  would  ask,  if  this  your  palace  were 
Unroord  and  desolate,  how  many  flatterers 
Would  lick  the  dust  in  which  the  king  lay  low  ? 

Alt.  The  fair  Ionian  is  too  sarcastic 
Upon  a  nation  whom  she  knows  not  well ; 
The  Assyrians  know  no  pleasure  but  their  king's. 
And  homage  is  their  pride. , 

Sar.  Nay,  pardon,  guests. 

The  fair  Greek's  readiness  of  speech. 

Alt.  Pardon  !  sire  ; 

We  honor  her  of  all  things  next  to  thee. 
Hark  !  what  was  that  1 

Zam.  That !  nothing  but  the  jar 

Of  distant  portals  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Alt.  It  sounded  like  the  clash  of — Hark  again  ! 

Zam.  The  big  rain  pattering  on  the  roof. 

S:ir.  No  more. 

Myrrha,  my  love,  hast  thou  thy  shell  in  order  ? 
Sing  me  a  song  of  Sappho,  her,  thou  know'st. 
Who  in  thy  country  threw 

En,ter  Pania,  with  his  sword  and  garments  Moody,  and 
disordered.     The  Quests  rise  in  confusion. 

Pan.  (to  the  Guards.)  -Look  to  the  portals  ; 

And  with  your  best  speed  to  the  walls  without. 
Your  arms  !  To  arms  !  The  king's  in  danger.    Mon- 
Excuse  this  haste, — 'tis  faith.  [arch  ! 

Sar.  Speak  on. 

Pan.                                                               It  is 
As  Salemenes  fear'd ;  the  faithless  satraps 

Sar.   You  are  wounded — give  some  wine.    Take 
breath,  good  Pania. 

Pan.  'Tis  nothing — a  mere  flesh  wound.  I  am  worn 
More  with  my  speed  to  warn  my  sovereign, 
Than  hurt  in  his  defence. 

Myr.  Well,  sir,  the  rebels  ? 

Pan.  Soon  as  Arbaces  and  Beleses  reach'd 
Their  stations  in  the  city,  they  refused 
To  march  ;  and  on  my  attempt  to  use  the  power 
Which  I  was  delegated  with,  they  call'd 
Upon  their  troops,  who  rose  in  fierce  defiance. 

Uyr.  AU? 


Pan.  Too  many. 

Sar.  Spare  not  of  thy  free  speech 

To  spare  mine  ears  the  truth. 

Pan.  My  own  slight  guard 

Were  faithful — and  what's  left  of  it  is  still  so. 

Myr.  And  are  these  all  the  force  stiU  faithful  ? — 

Pan.  No — 

The  Bactrians,  now  led  on  by  Salemenes, 
Who  even  then  was  on  his  way,  still  urged 
By  strong  suspicion  of  the  Median  chiefs. 
Are  numerous,  and  make  strong  head  against 
The  rebels,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  and  forming 
An  orb  around  the  palace,  where  they  mean 
To  centre  all  their  force,  and  save  the  king. 
(He  hesitates.)  I  am  charged  to 

Myr.  'Tis  no  time  for  hesitation. 

Pan.  Prince  Salemenes  doth  implore  the  king 
To  arm  himself,  although  but  for  a  moment. 
And  show  himself  unto  the  soldiers  :  his 
Sole  presence  in  this  instant  might  do  more 
Than  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf 

Sar.  What,  ho ! 

My  armor  there. 

Myr.  And  wilt  thou  ? 

Sar.  Will  I  not  ? 

Ho,  there  1    But  seek  not  for  the  buckler ;  'tis 
Too  heavy  : — a  light  cuirass  and  my  sword. 
Where  are  the  rebels  ? 

Pan.  Scarce  a  furlong's  length 

From  the  outward  wall,  the  fiercest  conflict  rages. 

Sar.  Then  I  may  charge  on  horseback.   Sfero,  ho ! 
Order  my  horse  out.    There  is  space  enough 
Even  in  our  courts,  and  by  the  outer  gate. 
To  marshal  half  the  horsemen  of  Arabia. 

Exit  Sfero /or  the  armor. 

Myr.  How  I  do  love  thee  1 

Sar.  I  ne'er  doubted  it. 

Myr.  But  now  I  know  thee. 

Sar.  (to  his  Attendant.)  Bring  down  my  spear,  too, 
Where's  Salemenes  ? 

Pan.  Where  a  soldier  should  be. 

In  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

Sar.  Then  hasten  to  him Is 

The  path  still  open,  and  communication 
Left  'twixt  the  palace  and  the  phalanx  ? 

Pan.  'Twaa 

When  I  late  left  him,  and  I  have  no  fear  : 
Our  troops  were  steady,  and  the  phalanx  form'd. 

Sar.  Tell  him  to  spare  his  person  for  the  present, 
And  that  I  will  not  spare  my  own — and  say, 
I  come. 

Pan.  There's  victory  in  the  very  word. 

[Exit  Pania. 

Sar.  Altada — Zames — forth,  and  arm  ye  1    There 
Is  all  in  readiness  in  the  armory. 
See  that  the  women  are  bestow'd  in  safety 
In  the  remote  apartments  :  let  a  guard 


260 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  JOI. 


Be  set  before  them,  with  strict  charge  to  quit 
The  post  but  with  their  lives — command  it,  Zames. 
Altada,  arm  yourself  and  return  here  ; 
Your  post  is  near  our  person. 

Exeunt  Zames,  AijTAda,  and  all  save  Myhbha. 

JSnter  Sfeko  and  others  with  the  King's  Arms,  etc. 

Sfe.  King  1  your  armor. 

8ar.  (arming  himself.)  Give  me  the  cuirass — so  : 
my  baldric ;  now 
My  sword  :  I  had  forgot  the  helm—  where  is  it  ? 
That's  well — no,  'tis  too  heavy  :  you  mistake,  too — 
It  was  not  this  I  meant,  but  that  which  bears 
A  diadem  around  it. 

Sfe.  Sire,  I  deem'd 

That  too  conspicuous  from  the  precious  stones 
To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath — and  trust  mo. 
This  is  of  better  metal,  though  less  rich. 

Sar.  You  deem'd  !  Are  you  too  turn'd  a  rebel  ? 
Your  part  is  to  obey  :  return,  and — no —  [Fellow  ! 
It  is  too  late — ^I  will  go  forth  without  it. 

Sfe.  At  least,  wear  this. 

Sar.  Wear  Caucasus  !  why,  'tis 

A  mountain  on  my  temples. 

Sfe.  Sire,  the  meanest 

Soldier  goes  not  forth  thus  exposed  to  battle. 
AU  men  will  recognize  you — for  the  storm 
Has  ceased,  and  the  moon  breaks  forth  in  her  bright- 
er. I  go  forth  to  be  recognized  and  thus     [ness. 
Shall  be  so  sooner.    Now — my  spear  I  I'm  arm'd. 

[In  going  stops  short,  and  tnrns  to  Speso. 
Sfero — I  had  forgotten — bring  the  mirror. 

Sfe.  The  mirror,  sire  ? 

Sar.  Yes,  sir,  of  polish'd  brass, 

Brought  from  the  spoils  of  India— but  be  speedy. 

[Exit  Spbbo. 

Sar.  Myrrha,  retire  unto  a  jslace  of  safety. 
Wliy  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels  ? 

Myr.  Because  my  place  is  here. 

Sar.  And  when  I  am  gone 

Myr.  I  follow. 

San:  You  !  to  battle  ? 

Myr.  If  it  were  so, 

'Twere  not  the  first  Greek  girl  had  trod  the  path. 
I  will  await  here  your  return. 

Sar.  The  place 

Is  spacious,  and  the  first  to  be  sought  out, 
If  they  prevail ;  and,  if  it  be  so, 
And  I  return  not 

Myr.  StUl,  we  meet  again, 

Sar.  How? 

Myr.       In  the  spot  where  all  must  meet  at  last — 
In  Hades  !  if  there  be,  as  I  believe, 
A  shore  beyond  the  Styx  :  and  if  there  be  not, 
In  ashes. 

Sa/r.        Barest  thou  so  much  ? 

¥vr.  I  dare  all  things, 


Except  survive  what  I  have  lovQd,  to  be 
A  rebel's  booty :  forth,  and  do  your  bravest. 

Re-enter  Spbbo  with  the  mirror. 

Sar.  (looHng  at  himself.)  This  cuirass  fits  me  well, 
the  baldric  better, 
And  the  helm  not  at  all.    Methinks  I  seem 

[Flings  airay  the  helmet  after  trying  it  again. 
Passing  well  in  these  toys  ;  and  now  to  prove  them. 
Altada  !    Where's  Altada  ? 

Sfe.  Waiting,  sire, 

Without :  he  has  your  shield  in  readiness. 

Sar.  True ;  I  forgot  he  is  my  shield-bearer 
By  right  of  blood,  derived  from  age  to  age. 
Myrrha,  embrace  me  ; — yet  once  more — once  more — 
Love  me,  whate'er  betide.     My  chiefest  glory 
Shall  be  to  make  me  worthier  of  your  love. 

Myr.  Go  forth,  and  conquer  1 

Mreunt  Saedanapalus  ajid  Speed. 
Now,  I  am  alone. 
AU  are  gone  forth,  and'  of  that  all  how  few 
Perhaps  return.     Let  him  but  vanquish,  and 
Me  perish  !    If  he  vanquish  not,  I  perish  ; 
For  I  wiU  not  outlive  him.    He  has  wound 
About  my  heart,  I  know  not  how  nor  why. 
Not  for  that  he  is  king  ;  for  now  his  kingdom 
Rocks  underneath  his  throne,  and  the  earth  yawns 
To  yield  him  no  more  of  it  than  a  grave  ; 
And  yet  I  love  him  more.     Oh,  mighty  Jove  1 
Forgive  this  monstrous  love  for  a  barbarian. 
Who  knows  not  of  Olympus  !  yes,  I  love  him 

Now,  now,  far  more  than Hark — to  the  war  shout. 

Methinks  it  nears  me.    If  it  should  be  so, 

[She  draws  forth  a  small  vial. 
This  cunning  Colchian  poison,  which  my  father  [me 
Leam'd  to  compoimd  on  Euxine  shores,  and  taught 
How  to  preserve,  shall  free  me  !    It  had  freed  me 
Long  ere  this  hour,  but  that  I  loved,  until 
I  half  forgot  I  was  a  slave  : — ^where  all 
Are  slaves  save  one,  and  proud  of  servitude, 
So  they  are  served  in  turn  by  something  lower 
In  the  degree  of  bondage,  we  forget 
That  shackles  worn  like  ornaments  no  less 
Are  chains.    Again  that  shout !  and  now  the  clash 
Of  arms — and  now — and  now — 

Enter  Altada. 

Alt.  Ho,  Sfero,  ho  ! 

Myr.  He  is  not  here !  what  wouldst  thou  witli 
Goes  on  the  conflict  ?  [him  ?    How 

Alt.  Dubiously  and  fiercely. 

Myr.  And  the  king  ? 

Alt.  Like  a  king.    I  must  find  Sfero, 

And  bring  him  a  new  spear  and  his  own  helmet. 
He  fights  till  now  bareheaded,  and  by  far 
Too  much  exposed.    The  soldiers  knew  his  face, 


SOBITB   I. 


SARDANAPLUS. 


261 


And  the  foe  too ;  and  in  the  moon's  broad  light, 
His  silk  tiara  and  his  flowing  hair 
Make  him  a  mark  too  royal.    Every  arrow 
Is  pointed  at  the  fair  hair  and  fair  features, 
And  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  both. 

Myr.  Ye  gods. 

Who  fulminate  o'er  my  father's  land,  protect  him  ! 
Were  you  sent  by  the  king? 

Alt.  By  Salemenes, 

Who  sent  me  privily  upon  this  charge. 
Without  the  knowledge  of  the  careless  sovereign. 
The  king  !  the  king  fights  as  he  revels  I  ho  1 
What,  Sfero,  I  will  seek  the  armory — 
He  must  be  there.  [Exit  Altada. 

Myr.  'Tis  no  dishonor — no — 

'Tis  no  dishonor  to  have  loved  this  man. 
I  almost  wish  now,  what  I  never  wish'd 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.    If  Alcides 
Were  shamed  in  wearing  Lydian  Omphale's 
She-garb,  and  wielding  her  vile  distaflF,  surely 
He,  who  springs  up  a  Hercules  at  once. 
Nursed  in  effeminate  arts  from  youth  to  manhood, 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle. 
As  though  it  were  a  bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a  Greek  girl  should  be  his  paramour. 
And  a  Greek  bard  his  minstrel,  a  Greek  tomb 
His  monument.    How  goes  the  strife,  sir  ? 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer.  Lost, 

Lost  almost  past  recovery.    Zames  !    Where 
Is  Zames  ? 

Myr.        Posted  with  the  guard  appointed 
To  watch  before  the  apartment  of  the  women. 

\Exit  Officer. 

Myr.  (sola.)  He's  gone ;  and  told  no  more  than 
that  all's  lost  I 
What  need  have  I  to  know  more  ?    In  those  words, 
Those  little  words,  a  kingdom  and  a  king, 
A  line  of  thirteen  ages,  and  the  lives 
Of  thousands,  and  the  fortune  of  aU  left 
With  life,  are  merged ;  and  I,  too,  with  the  great, 
Like  a  small  bubble  breaking  with  the  wave 
Which  bore  it,  shaU  be  nothing.    At  the  least. 
My  fate  is  in  my  keeping  :  no  proud  victor 
Shall  count  me  with  his  spoils. 

Enter  PijsnA. 

Pan.  Away  with  me, 

Myrrha,  without  delay ;  we  must  not  lose 
A  moment — all  that's  left  us  now. 

Myr.  The  king  ? 

Pan.  Sent  me  here  to  conduct  you  hence,  beyond 
The  river,  by  a  secret  passage. 

Myr.  Then 

He  lives 


Pan.  And  charged  me  to  secure  your  life. 

And  beg  you  to  live  on  for  his  sake,  till 
He  can  rejoin  you. 

Myr.  Will  he  then  give  way  ? 

Pan.  Not  till  the  last.  Still,  still  he  does  whate'er 
Despair  can  do ;  and  step  by  step  disputes 
The  very  palace. 

Myr.  They  are  here,  then  : — ay. 

Their  shouts  come  ringing  through  the  ancient  halls. 
Never  profaned  by  rebel  echoes  till 
This  fatal  night.    Farewell,  Assyria's  line  1 
Farewell  to  all  of  Nimrod  !    Even  the  name 
Is  now  no  more. 

Pan.  Away  with  me — away  1 

Myr.  No :   I'll  die  here  1    Away,  and  tell  your 
I  loved  him  to  the  last.  [king 

Enter  Sakdahapalus  and  Salemenes  with  Soldiers. 
Pania  quits  Myrhha,  and  ranges  himself  with 
them. 

Sar.  Since  it  is  thus, 

We'll  die  where  we  were  bom — ^in  our  own  halls. 
Serry  your  ranks — stand  firm.    I  have  despatch'd 
A  trusty  satrap  for  the  guard  of  Zames, 
AU  fresh  and  faithful ;  they'll  be  here  anon. 
All  is  not  over. — Pania,  look  to  Myrrha. 

[Pania  returns  towards  Mtbrha. 

Sal.    We  have  breathing  time ;  yet  once  more 
charge,  my  fnends — 
One  for  Assyria  1 

Sar.  Rather  say  for  Bactria  1 

My  faithful  Bactrians,  I  will  henceforth  be 
King  of  your  nation,  and  we'll  hold  together 
This  realm  as  province. 

Sal.  Hark  I  they  come — they  come. 

Enter  Belbbes  and  Arbaces  with  the  Eebels. 

Ari.  Set  on,  we  have  them  in  the  toil.     Charge  ! 
charge  1  [ — On  ! 

Bel.  On  1  on  ! — Heaven  fights  for  us,  and  vnth  us 
[They  charge  the  King  and  Salemenes  with  their 
Troops,  who  defend  themselnes  till  the  arrival  of 
Zames,  with  the  Ouard  before  mentioned.      The 
Rebels  are  then  driven  off,  and  pursued  by  Sal- 
emenes, etc.     As   the  King  is  going  to  join  the 
pursuit,  Beleses  crosses  him. 
Bel.  Ho  1  tyrant — I  will  end  this  war. 
Sar.  Even  so, 

My  warlike  priest,  and  precious  prophet,  and 
Grateful  and  trusty  subject : — yield,  I  pray  thee. 
I  would  reserve  thee  for  a  fitter  doom. 
Rather  than  dip  my  hands  in  hpary  blood. 
Bel.  Thine  hour  is  come. 

Sar.  No,  thine. — I've  lately  read 

Though  but  a  young  astrologer,  the  stars  ; 
And  ranging  roimd  the  zodiac,  found  thy  fate 


262 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


In  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion,  which  proclaims 
That  thou  wilt  now  be  crush'd. 
Bel.  But  not  by  thee. 

\Tliey  fight ;  Beleses  i»  wounded  and  disarmed. 
8ar.  (raising  his  sword  to  Jeapatch  him,  exclaims) — 
Now  call  upon  thy  planets,  will  they  shoot 
From  the  sky  to  preserve  their  seer  and  credit  ? 

[A  party  of  Sebels  enter  and  rescue  Bblesks. 
They  assail  the  king,  who,  in  turn,  is  rescued 
ly  a  Party  of  his  Soldiers,  who  drive  the  Ee- 
hels  off. 
The  Tillain  was  a  prophet  after  all. 
Upon  them — ho  !  there — victory  is  ours. 

[Exit  in  pursuit. 
Myr.  (to  Pan.)  Pursue !  Why  stand'st  thou  here 
and  leav'st  the  ranks 
Of  fellow-soldiers  conquering  without  thee  ? 
Pan.  The  king's  command  was  not  to  quit  thee. 
Myr.  Me ! 

Think  not  of  me — a  single  soldier's  arm 
Must  not  be  wanting  now.     I  ask  no  guard, 
I  need  no  guard  :  what,  with  a  world  at  stake, 
Keep  watch  upon  a  woman  ?     Hence,  I  say, 
Or  thou  art  shamed  1     Nay,  then,  /  will  go  forth, 
A  feeble  female,  'midst  their  desperate  strife, 
And  bid  thee  guard  me  there — where  thou  shouldst 

shield 
Thy  sovereign.  {Exit  Myebha. 

Pan.  Yet  stay,  damsel  1 — She  is  gone. 

If  aught  of  ill  betide  her,  better  I 
Had  lost  my  life.     Sardanapalus  holds  her 
Far  dearer  than  Ms  kingdom,  yet  he  fights 
For  that  too ;  and  can  I  do  less  than  he, 
Who  never  flash'd  a  cimeter  till  now  ? 
Myrrha,  return,  and  I  obey  you,  though 
In  disobedience  to  the  monarch.  {Exit  Pania. 

Enter  Altada  and  Sfeko  hy  an  opposite  door. 

Alt,  Myrrha ! 

What,  gone  ?  yet  she  was  here  when  the  fight  raged. 
And  Pania  also.     Can  aught  have  befallen  them  3 

8fe.  I  saw  both  safe,  when  late  the  rebels  fled : 
They  probably  are  but  retired  to  make 
Their  way  back  to  the  harem. 

Alt.  If  the  king 

I*rove  victor,  as  it  seems  even  now  he  must, 
And  miss  his  own  Ionian,  we  are  doom'd 
To  worse  than  captive  rebels. 

Sfe.  Let  us  trace  them ; 

She  cannot  be  fled  far ;  and,  found,  she  makes 
A  richer  prize  to  our  soft  sovereign 
Than  his  recover'd  kingdom. 

Alt.  ,  Baal  himself 

Ne'er  fought  more  fiercely  to  win  empire,  than 
His  silken  son  to  save  it :  he  defies 
All  augury  of  foes  or  Mends  ;  and  like 
The  close  and  sultry  summer's  day,  which  bodes 


A  twilight  tempest,  bursts  forth  in  such  thunder 
As  sweeps  the  air  and  deluges  the  earth.. 
The  man's  inscrutable. 

Sfe.  •  Not  more  than  others. 

All  are  the  sons  of  circumstance  :  away — 
Let's  seek  the  slave  out,  or  prepare  to  be 
Tortured  for  his  infatuation,  and 
Condemn'd  without  a  crime.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Salbmekbs  and  Soldiers,  etc. 

Sal.  The  triumph  is 

Flattering :    they  are  beaten  backward  from   the 
And  we  have  open'd  regular  access  [palace, 

To  the  troops  station'd  on  the  other  side 
Euphrates,  who  may  stiU  be  true ;  nay,  must  be, 
When  they  hear  of  our  victory.    But  where 
Is  the  chief  victor  ?  where's  the  king  ? 

Enter  Sardanafalus,  cum  suis,  etc.,  and  Mtrrtia. 

Sar.  Here,  brother. 

Sal.  Unhurt,  I  hope. 

Sar.      •                        Not  quite  ;  but  let  it  pass. 
We've  clear'd  the  palace 

Sal.  And  I  trust  the  city. 

Our  numbers  gather  ;  and  I've  order'd  onward 
A  cloud  of  Parthians,  hitherto  reserved, 
AU  fresh  and  fiery,  to  be  pour'd  upon  them 
In  their  retreat,  which  soon  will  be  a  flight. 

Sar.  It  is  already,  or  at  least  they  march'd 
Faster  than  I  could  follow  with  my  Bactrians, 
Who  spared  no  speed.    I  am  spent :  give  me  a  seat. 

Sal.  There  stands  the  throne,  sire. 

Sar.  'Tis  no  place  to  rest  on, 

For  mind  nor  body :  let  me  have  a  couch, 

[  They  place  a  seat. 
A  peasant's  stool,  I  care  not  what :  so — ^now 
I  breathe  more  freely. 

Sal.  This  great  hour  has  proved 

The  brightest  and  most  glorious  of  your  Ufe. 

Sar.  And  the  most  tiresome.     Where's  my  cup- 
Bring  me  some  water.  [bearer  ? 

S-d.  (umiling).  'Tis  the  first  time  he 

Ever  had  such  an  order :  even  I, 
Your  most  austere  of  counsellors,  would  now 
Suggest  a  purpler  beverage. 

Sar.  Blood — doubtless. 

But  there's  enough  of  that  shed ;  as  for  wine, 
I  have  leam'd  to-night  the  price  of  the  pure  element : 
Thrice  have  I  drank  of  it,  and  thrice  renew'd, 
With  greater  strength  than  the  grape  ever  gave  me, 
My  charge  upon  the  rebels.    Where's  the  soldier 
Who  gave  me  water  in  his  helmet  ? 

One  of  the  Guards.  Slain,  sire  1 

An  arrow  pierced  his  brain,  while,  scattering 
The  last  drops  from  his  helm,  he  stood  in  act 
To  place  it  on  his  brows. 


SCBNK  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


263 


Sar.  Slain  1  unrewarded  ! 

And  slain  to  serve  my  thirst :  that's  hard,  poor  slave  1 
Had  he  but  lived,  I  would  have  gorged  him  with 
Gold  :  all  the  gold  of  earth  could  ne'er  repay 
The  pleasure  of  that  draught ;  for  I  was  parch'd 
Ab  I  am  now.  [T/iey  bring  water — he  dnnJcs, 

I  live  again — from  henceforth 
The  goblet  I  reserve  for  hours  of  love, 
But  war  on  water. 

Sal,  And  that  bandage,  sire, 

Which  girds  your  arm  ? 

8ar.  A  scratch  from  brave  Beleses. 

Myr.  Oh  1  he  is  wounded  ! 

Sar.  Not  too  much  of  that ; 

And  yet  it  feels  a  little  stiff  and  painful, 
Now  I  am  cooler. 

Myr.  ,       You  have  bound  it  with 

Sar.  The  fillet  of  my  diadem  :  the  first  time 
That  ornament  was  ever  aught  to  me. 
Save  an  incumbrance. 

Myr.  (to  the  Attendants).     Summon  speedily 
A  leech  of  the  most  skillful :  pray,  retire  : 
I  will  unbind  your  wound  and  tend  it. 

Sar.  Do  so, 

For  now  it  throbs  sufficiently  :  but  what 
Know'st  thou  of  woimds  ?  yet  wherefore  do  I  ask  ? 
Know'st  thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted  on 
This  minion  ? 

Sal.  Herding  with  the  other  females. 

Like  frighten'd  antelopes. 

Sar.  No :  like  the  dam 

Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raging, 
(And  femininely  meaneth  furiously. 
Because  all  passions  in  excess  are  female), 
Against  the  hunter  flying  with  her  cub, 
She  urged  on  with  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
Her  floating  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  soldiers, 
In  the  pursuit. 

Sal.  Indeed  1 

Sar.  You  see,  this  night 

Made  warriors  of  more  than  me.    I  paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek  ;         [hair 
Her  large  black  eyes,  that  flash'd  through  her  long 
As  it  streamed  o'er  her ;  her  blue  veins  that  rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow ;  her  nostril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry ;  her  lips 
Apart ;  her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din. 
As  a  lute's  pierceth  through  the  cymbal's  clash, 
Jarr'd  but  not  drown'd  by  the  loud  brattling  ;  her 
Waved  arms,  more  dazzling  with  their  own  bom 

whiteness 
Than  the  steel  her  hand  held,  which  she  caught  up 
From  a  dead  soldier's  grasp ; — all  these  things  made 
Iler  seem  unto  the  troops  a  prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself, 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

Sal.  (cuide).  This  is  too  much. 


Again  the  love-fit's  on  him,  and  all's  lost. 
Unless  we  turn  his  thoughts. 

{Aloxtd).    But  pray  thee,  sire. 
Think  of  your  wound — you  said  even  now  'twas 
painful. 

Sar.  That's  true,  too ;  but  I  must  not  think  of  it. 

Sal.  I  have  look'd  to  all  things  needful,  and  will 
Receive  reports  of  progress  made  in  such  [now 

Orders  as  I  had  given,  and  then  return 
To  hear  your  further  pleasure. 

Sar.  Be  it  so. 

Sal,  {in  retiring).  Myrrha  ! 

Myr.  Prince ! 

Sal.  You  have  shown  a  soul  to-night, 

Which,  were  he  not  my  sister's  lord But  now 

I  have  no  time ;  thou  lovest  the  king  ? 

Myr.  I  love 

Sardanapalus. 

Sal.  But  wouldst  have  him  king  still  ? 

Myr.  I  would  not  have  him  less  than  what  he 
should  be. 

Sal.  Well,  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours,  and  all 
He  should,  or  should  not  be  ;  to  have  him  live, 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  luxury. 
Yon  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
Raging  without :  look  well  that  he  relapse  not. 

Myr.  There  needed  not  the  voice  of  Salemenes 
To  urge  me  on  to  this  :  I  will  not  fail. 
All  that  a  woman's  weakness  can 

Sal.  Is  power 

Omnipotent  o'er  such  a  heart  as  his  : 
Exert  it  wisely.  [Exit  Salemenes. 

Sar.  Myrrha  !  what,  at  whispers 

With  my  stem  brother  ?    I  shall  soon  be  jealous. 

Myr.  {smiling).  You  have  cause,  sire  ;  for  on  the 
earth  there  breathes  not 
A  man  more  worthy  of  woman's  love — 
A  soldier's  trust — a  subject's  reverence — • 
A  king's  esteem — the  whole  world's  admiration  ! 

Sar.  Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.    I  must  not  . 
Hear  those  sweet  lips  grow  eloquent  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  shade  :  yet  you  speak  truth. 

Myr.  And  now  retire,  to  have  your  wound  look'd  to. 
Pray,  lean  on  me. 

Sar.  Yes,  love  1  but  not  from  pain. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 

ACT   IV. 

S  C  B  IT  B       I. 

Sabdanapaltjs  discovered  sleeping  upon  a  Couch,  and 
occasionally  disturbed  in  his  Slumbers,  with  Mtbbha 

^catching. 

Myr.  {sola,  gazing.)  I  have  stolen  upon  his  rest, 
if  rest  it  be. 


264 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   IV. 


Which  thus  convulses  slumber :  shall  I  -wake  him  ? 

No,  he  seems  cahner.    Oh,  thou  God  of  Quiet  I 

Whose  reign  is  o'er  seal'd  eyelids  and  soft  dreams, 

Or  deep,  deep  sleep,  so  as  to  be  unfathom'd. 

Look  Uke  thy  brother.  Death — so  stiU — so  stirless — 

For  then  we  are  happiest,  as  it  may  be,  we 

Arc  happiest  of  aU  within  the  realm 

Of  thy  stem,  silent,  and  unwakening  twin. 

Again  he  moves — again  the  play  of  pain 

Shoots  o'er  his  features,  as  the  sudden  gust 

Crisps  the  reluctant  lake  that  lay  so  calm 

Beneath  the  mountain  shadow ;  or  the  blast 

Ruffles  the  autumn  leaves,  that  drooping  cling 

Faintly  and  motionless  to  their  loved  boughs. 

I  must  awake  him — ^yet  not  yet :  who  knows 

From  what  I  rouse  him  ?    It  seems  pain ;  but  if 

I  quicken  him  to  heavier  pain  ?    The  fever 

Of  this  tumultuous  night,  the  grief  too  of 

His  wound,  though  sUght,  may  cause  all  this,  and 

Me  more  to  see  than  him  to  suffer.    Ko  :         [shake 

Let  Nature  use  her  own  maternal  means, — 

And  I  await  to  second,  not  disturb  her.      [the  stars, 

Sar.  {moakening.)  Not  so — although  ye  multiplied 
And  gave  them  to  me  as  a  realm  to  share 
From  you  and  with  you  1    I  wotild  not  so  purchase 
The  empire  of  eternity.    Hence — hence — 
Old  hunter  of  the  earliest  brutes  !  and  ye, 
Who  hunted  fellow-creatures  as  if  brutes  ! 
Once  bloody  mortals — and  now  bloodier  idols. 
If  your  priests  lie  not !   And  thou,  ghastly  beldame ! 
Dripping  with  dusky  gore,  and  trampling  on 
The  carcasses  of  Inde — away  1  away  I        [No — that 

Where  am  I?    Where  the  spectres?    Where 

Is  no  false  phantom  :  I  should  know  it  'midst 

All  that  the  dead  dare  gloomily  raise  up 

From  their  black  gulf  to  daunt  the  living.  Myrrha  1 

Myr.  Alas !  thou  art  pale,  and  on  thy  brow  the 
Gather  Uke  night-dew.    My  beloved,  hush —  [drops 
Cahn  thee.     Thy  speech  seems  of  another  world, 
And  thou  art  lord  of  this.    Be  of  good  cheer ; 
All  wiU  go  well. 

Sar.  Thy  Tiand — so — 'tis  thy  hand ; 

'Tis  flesh  ;  grasp — clasp — yet  closer,  till  I  feel 
Myself  that  which  I  was. 

Myr.  At  least  know  me 

For  what  I  am,  and  ever  must  be — thine. 

Sar.  I  know  it  now.     I  know  this  life  again. 
Ah,  Myrrha  !  I  have  been  where  we  shall  be. 

Myr.  My  lord  I 

Sar.  I've  been  i'  the  grave — where  worms  are 

And  kings  are But  I  did  not  deem  it  so  ;  [lords, 

I  thought  'twas  nothing. 

Myr.  So  it  is ;  except 

Unto  the  timid,  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be. 

8ar.  Oh,  Myrrha  !  if   [close  ? 

Sleep  shows  such  things,  what  may  not  death  dis- 


Myr.  I  know  no  evil  death  can  show,  which  hfe 
Has  not  already  shown  to  those  who  live 
Embodied  longest.     If  there  be  indeed 
A  shore  where  mind  survives,  'twiU  be  as  mind, 
All  unincorporate  :  or  if  there  flits 
A  shadow  of  this  cumbrous  clog  of  clay, 
Which  stalks,  methinks,  between  our  souls  and  heav- 
And  fetters  us  to  earth — at  least  the  phantom,     [en, 
Whate'er  it  have  to  fear,  wiU  not  fear  death. 

Sar.  I  fear  it  not ;  but  I  have  felt — have  seen — 
A  legion  of  the  dead. 

Myr.  And  so  have  L 

The  dust  we  tread  upon  was  once  alive, 
And  wretched.   But  proceed :  what  hast  thou  seen  ? 
Speak  it,  'twill  lighten  thy  dimm'd  mind. 

Sar.  Methought — 

Myr.  Yet  pause,  thou  art  tired^in  pain — ex- 
hausted :  all 
Which  can  impair  both  strength  and  spirit :  seek 
Rather  to  sleep  again. 

Sar.  Not  now — ^I  would  not 

Dream  ;  though  I  know  it  now  to  be  a  dream     [it  ? 
What  I  have  dreamt : — and  canst  thou  bear  to  hear 
Myr.  I  can  bear  all  things,  dreams  of  life  or  death. 
Which  I  participate  with  you,  in  semblance 
Or  full  reality. 

Sar.  And  this  look'd  real, 

I  tell  you  after  that  these  eyes  were  open, 
I  saw  them  in  their  flight — ^for  then  they  fled. 
Myr.  Say  on. 

Sar.  I  saw,  that  is,  I  dream'd  myself 

Here — ^here — even  where  we  are,  guests  as  we  were. 
Myself  a  host  that  deem'd  himself  but  guest, 
Willing  to  equal  aU  in  social  freedom  ; 
But,  on  my  right  hand  and  my  left,  instead 
Of  thee  and  Zames,  and  our  custom'd  meeting 
Was  ranged  on  my  left  hand  a  haughty,  <^ark. 
And  deadly  face — I  could  not  recognize  it, 
Yet  I  had  seen  it,  though  I  knew  not  where : 
The  features  were  a  giant's,  and  the  eye 
Was  still,  yet  lighted  ;  his  long  locks  curl'd  down 
On  his  vast  bust,  whence  a  huge  quiver  rose 
With  shaft-heads  feather'd  from  the  eagle's  wing, 
That  peep'd  up  bristling  through  his  serpent  hair. 
I  invited  him  to  fill  the  cup  which  stood 
Between  us,  but  he  answer'd  not — I  fiU'd  it — 
He  took  it  not,  but  stared  upon  me,  till 
I  trembled  at  the  flx'd  glare  of  his  eye  : 
I  frown'd  upon  him  as  a  king  should  frown — 
He  frown'd  not  in  his  turn,  but  look'd  upon  me 
With  the  same  aspect,  which  appall'd  me  more. 
Because  it  changed  not :  and  I  turn'd  for  refuge 
To  milder  guests,  and  sought  them  on  the  right. 

Where  thou  wert  wont  to  be.    But [He  pauses. 

Myr.  Wliat  instead  ? 

Sar.  In  thy  own  chair — thy  own  place  in  the  ban- 
quet— 


SCSXB   I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


265 


I  sought  thy  sweet  face  in  the  circle — but 
Instead — a  gray-hair'd,  wither'd,  bloody-eyed, 
And  bloody-handed,  ghastly,  ghostly  thing. 
Female  in  garb,  and  crown'd  upon  the  brow, 
Furrow'd  with  years,  yet  sneering  with  the  passion 
Of  vengeance,  leering  too  with  that  of  lust. 
Sate  : — my  veins  curdled. 

Myr.  Is  this  all  ? 

Sur.  Upon 

Her  right  hand — her  lank,  bird-like,  right  hand — 
A  goblet,  bubbling  o'er  with  blood ;  and  on    [stood 
Her  left,  another,  fiU'd  with — what  I  saw  not, 
But  turn'd  from  it  and  her.    But  all  along 
The  table  sate  a  range  of  crowned  wretches, 
Of  various  aspects,  but  of  one  expression. 

Myr.  And  felt  you  not  this  a  mere  vision  ? 

Sar.  No : 

It  was  so  palpable,  I  could  have  touch'd  them. 
I  turn'd  from  one  face  to  another,  in 
The  hope  to  find  at  last  one  which  I  knew 
Ere  I  saw  theirs  :  but  no — all  turn'd  upon  me. 
And  stared,  but  neither  ate  nor  drank,  but  stared. 
Till  I  grew  stone,  as  they  seem'd  half  to  be, 
Yet  breathing  stone,  for  I  felt  life  in  them, 
And  life  in  me  :  there  was  a  horrid  kind 
Of  sympathy  between  us,  as  if  they 
Had  lost  a  part  of  death  to  come  to  me, 
And  I  the  half  of  life  to  sit  by  them. 
We  were  in  an  existence  all  apart 

From  heaven  or  earth And  rather  let  me  see 

Death  all  than  such  a  being  1 

Myr.  And  the  end  ? 

Sar.  At  last  I  sate,  marble,  as  they,  when  rose 
The  hunter  and  the  crone  ;  and  smiling  on  me — 
Yes,  the  enlarged  but  noble  aspect  of 
The  hunter  smiled  upon  me — I  should  say. 
His  lips,  for  his  eyes  moved  not — and  the  woman's 
Thin  lips  relax'd  to  something  like  a  smile. 
Both  rose,  and  the  crown'd  figures  on  each  hand 
Rose  also,  as  if  aping  their  chief  shades — 
Mere  mimics  even  in  death — but  I  sate  still : 
A  desperate  courage  crept  through  every  limb, 
And  at  the  last  I  fear'd  them  not,  but  laugh'd 
Full  in  their  phantom  faces.     But  then — then 
The  hunter  laid  his  hand  on  mine  :  I  took  it. 
And  grasp'd  it — ^but  it  melted  from  my  own  ; 
While  he  too  vanish'd,  and  left  nothing  but 
The  memory  of  a  hero,  for  he  look'd  so. 

Myr.  And  was  :  the  ancestor  of  heroes,  too. 
And  thine  no  less. 

Sar.  Ay,  Myrrha,  but  the  woman, 

The  female  who  remain'd,  she  flew  upon  me. 
And  burnt  my  lips  up  with  her  noisome  kisses ; 
And,  flinging  down  the  goblets  on  each  hand, 
Methought  their  poisons  flow'd  around  us,  till 
Each  form'd  a  hideous  river.    Still  she  clung ; 
The  other  phantoms,  like  a  row  of  statues, 
34 


Stood  duU  as  in  our  temples,  but  she  still 
Embraced  me,  while  I  shrunk  from  her,  as  if, 
In  lieu  of  her  remote  descendant,  I 
Had  been  the  son  who  slew  her  for  her  incest. 
Then — then — a  chaos  of  all  loathsome  things  [ing — 
Throng'd  thick  and  shapeless  :  I  was  dead,  yet,  feel- 
Buried  and  raised  again — consumed  by  worms. 
Purged  by  the  flames,  and  wither'd  in  the  air  1 
I  can  fix  nothing  further  of  my  thoughts. 
Save  that  I  long'd  for  thee,  and  sought  for  thee. 
In  all  these  agonies, — and  woke  and  found  thee. 

Myr.  So  shalt  thou  find  me  ever  at  thy  side. 
Here  and  hereafter,  if  the  last  may  be. 
But  think  not  of  these  things — the  mere  creations 
Of  late  events,  acting  upon  a  frame 
Unused  to  toil,  yet  overwrought  by  toil 
Such  as  might  try  the  sternest. 

Sar.  '  I  am  better. 

Now  that  I  see  thee  once  more,  what  was  seen 
Seems  nothing. 

Enter  Salemehes. 

SaZ.  Is  the  king  so  soon  awake  ? 

Sar.  Yes,  brother,  and  I  would  I  had  not  slept ; 
For  all  the  predecessors  of  our  line 
Rose  up,  methought,  to  drag  me  down  to  them 
My  father  was  amongst  them,  too  ;  but  he, 
I  know  not  why,  kept  from  me,  leaving  me 
Between  the  hunter-founder  of  our  race, 
And  her,  the  homicide  and  husband-killer. 
Whom  you  call  glorious. 

Sal.  ,  So  I  term  you  also, 

Now  you  have  shown  a  spirit  like  to  hers. 
By  daybreak  I  propose  that  we  set  forth. 
And  charge  once  more  the  rebel  crew,  who  still 
Keep  gathering  head,  repulsed,  but  not  quite  queU'd. 

Sar.  How  wears  the  night  ? 

Sal.  There  yet  remains  some  hours 

Of  darkness  :  use  them  for  your  further  rest 

Sar.  No,  not  to-night,  if  'tis  not  gone  :  methought 
I  pass'd  hours  in  that  vision. 

Myr.  Scarcely  one ; 

I  watch'd  by  you  :  it  was  a  heavy  hour, 
But  an  hour  only. 

Sar.  Let  us  then  hold  council ; 

To-morrow  we  set  forth. 

Sal.  But  ere  that  time, 

I  had  a  grace  to  seek. 

Sar.  'Tis  granted. 

Sal.  Hear  it 

Ere  you  reply  too  readily ;  and  'tis 
For  your  ear  only. 

Myr.  PWnce,  I  take  my  leave. 

[Exit  Mtrkha. 

Sal.  That  slave  deserves  her  freedom. 

Soar.  Freedom  only  1 

That  slave  deserves  to  share  a  throne. 


266 


BTKON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  IV. 


Sal.  Your  patience — 

'Tis  not  yet  vacant,  and  'tis  of  its  partner 
I  come  to  speak  with  you. 

Sar.  How  !  of  the  queen  ? 

Sal.  Even  so.    I  judged  it  fitting  for  their  safety 
That,  ere  the  dawn,  she  sets  forth  with  her  children 
For  Paphlagonia,  where  our  kinsman  Cotta 
Governs ;  and  there  at  all  events  secure 
My  nephews  and  your  sons  their  lives,  and  with  them 
Their  just  pretensions  to  the  crown  in  case 

Sar.  I  perish — as  is  probable  :  well  thought — 
Let  them  set  forth  with  a  sure  escort. 

Sal.  That 

Is  all  provided,  and  the  galley  ready 
To  drop  down  the  Euphrates  ;  but  ere  they 
Depart,  will  you  not  see 

Sar.  My  sons  ?    It  may 

Unman  my  heart,  and  the  poor  boys  wiU  weep ; 
And  what  can  I  reply  to  comfort  them. 
Save  with  some  hollow  hopes,  and  iU-wom  smiles  ? 
You  know  I  cannot  feign. 

Sal.  But  you  can  feel ; 

At  least,  I  trust  so  :  in  a  word,  the  queen 
Requests  to  see  you  ere  you  part — forever. 

Sar.  Unto  what  end  ?  what  purpose  ?  I  wiU  grant 
Aught — all  that  she  can  ask — but  such  a  meeting. 

Sal.  You  know,  or  ought  to  know,  enough  of 
women, 
Since  you  have  studied  them  so  steadily. 
That  what  they  ask  in  aught  that  touches  on 
The  heart,  is  dearer  to  their  feelings  or 
Their  fancy,  than  the  whole  external  world. 
I  think  as  you  do  of  my  sister's  wish ; 
But  'twas  her  wish — she  is  my  sister — ^you 
Her  husband — wiU  you  grant  it  ? 

Sa/r.  ''Twill  be  useless : 

But  let  her  come. 

Sal.  I  go.  [Exit  Salemenes. 

Sar.  We  have  hved  asunder 

Too  long  to  meet  again — and  now  to  meet ! 
Have  I  not  cares  enow,  and  pangs  enow, 
To  bear  alone,  that  we  must  mingle  sorrows, 
Who  have  ceased  to  mingle  love  ? 

Re-enter  Salemenes  and  Zaeina. 

Sal.  My  sister  !  Courage  : 

Shame  not  our  blood  with  trembhng,  but  remember 
Prom  whence  we  sprung.    The  queen  is  present,  sire. 

Zar.  I  pray  thee,  brother,  leave  me. 

Sal.  Since  you  ask  it. 

[Exit  Salemenes. 

Zar.  Alone  with  him !  How  many  a  year  has  pass'd, 
Though  we  are  still  so  young,  since  we  have  met, 
Which  I  have  worn  in  widowhood  of  heart. 
He  loved  me  not :  yet  he  seems  little  changed — 
Changed  to  me  only — would  the  change  were  mutual ! 
He  speaks  not — scarce  regards  me — not  a  word — 


Nor  look — yet  he  was  soft  of  voice  and  aspect, 
Indifierent,  not  austere.    My  lord  1 

Sar.  Zarina  1 

Zar.  No,  not  Zarina — do  not  say  Zarina. 
That  tone — that  word — annihilates  long  years. 
And  things  which  make  them  longer. 

Sar.                                                    'Tis  too  late 
To  think  of  these  past  dreams.    Let's  not  reproach — 
That  is,  reproach  me  not — for  the  last  time 

Zar.  And  Jii'st.     I  ne'er  reproach'd  you. 

Sar.  'Tis  most  true  ; 

And  that  reproof  comes  heavier  on  my  heart 
Than But  our  hearts  are  not  in  our  own  power. 

Zar.  Nor  hands ;  but  I  gave  both. 

Sar.  Your  brother  said 

It  was  your  will  to  see  me,  ere  you  went 
From  Nineveh  with {He  hesitates). 

Zar.  Our  children :  it  is  true. 

I  wish'd  to  thank  you  that  you  have  not  divided 
My  heart  from  all  that's  left  it' now  to  love — 
Those  who  are  yours  and  mine,  who  look  like  you, 
And  look  upon  me  as  you  look'd  upon  me 
Once But  they  have  not  changed. 

Sar.  Nor  ever  wilL 

I  fain  would  have  them  dutiful 

Zar.  I  cherish 

Those  infants,  not  alone  from  the  bhnd  love 
Of  a  fond  mother,  but  as  a  fond  woman. 
They  are  now  the  only  tie  between  us. 

Sar.  Deem  not 

I  have  not  done  you  justice  :  rather  make  them 
Resemble  your  own  line,  than  their  own  sire. 
I  trust  them  with  you — to  you :  fit  them  for 

A  throne,  or,  if  that  be  denied ^You  have  heard 

Of  this  night's  tumults  ? 

Zar.  I  had  half  forgotten, 

And  could  have  welcomed  any  grief,  save  yours, 
Which  gave  me  to  behold  your  face  again. 

Sar.  The  throne — ^I  say  it  not  in  fear — but  'tis 
In  peril ;  they  perhaps  may  never  mount  it  1 
But  let  them  not  for  this  lose  sight  of  it. 
I  will  dare  aU  things  to  bequeath  it  them ; 
But  if  I  fail,  then  they  must  win  it  back 
Bravely — and,  won,  wear  it  wisely,  not  as  I 
Have  wasted  down  my  royalty. 

Zar.  They  ne'er 

Shall  know  from  me  of  aught  but  what  may  honor 
Their  father's  memory. 

Sar.  Rather  let  them  hear 

The  truth  from  you  than  Trom  a  trampling  world. 
If  they  be  in  adversity,  they'll  learn 
Too  soon  the  scorn  of  crowds  for  crownless  princes, 
And  find  that  all  their  father's  sins  are  theirs. 
My  boys  ! — I  could  have  borne  it  were  I  childless. 

Zar.  Oh  1  do  not  say  so — do  not  poison  all 
My  peace  left,  by  unwishing  that  thou  wert 
A  father.    If  thou  conquerest,  they  shall  reign, 


SCENE    I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


267 


And  honor  Mm  who  saved  the  reabn  for  them, 
So  little  cared  for  as  his  own ;  and  if 

Sar.  "Tis  lost,  all  earth  will  cry  out,  thank  your 
And  they  will  swell  the  echo  with  a  curse,     [father  I 

Zar.  That  they  shall  never  do  ;  but  rather  honor 
The  name  of  him,  who,  dying  like  a  king, 
In  his  last  hours  did  more  for  his  own  memory 
Than  many  monarchs  in  a  length  of  days. 
Which  date  the  flight  of  time,  but  make  no  annals. 

Sar.  Our  annals  draw  perchance  unto  their  close ; 
But  at  the  least,  whate'er  the  past,  their  end 
Shall  be  like  their  beginning — memorable. 

Zar.  Yet,  be  not  rash — be  careful  of  your  life. 
Live  but  for  those  who  love. 

Sar.  And  who  are  they  ? 

A  slave,  who  loves  from  passion — I'll  not  say 
Ambition — she  has  seen  thrones  shake,  and  loves  ; 
A  few  friends  who  have  revell'd  till  we  are 
As  one,  for  they  are  nothing  if  I  fall ; 
A  brother  I  have  injured — children  whom 

I  have  neglected,  and  a  spouse 

•    Zar.  Who  loves. 

Sar.  And  pardons  ? 

Zar.  I  have  never  thought  of  this. 

And  cannot  pardon  till  I  have  condemn'd. 

Sar.  3Iy  wife ! 

Zar.  Kow  blessing  on  thee  for  that  word  ! 

I  never  thought  to  hear  it  more — from  thee. 

Sar.  Oh!  thou  wilt  hear  it  from  my  subjects.  Yes — 
These  slaves,  whom  I  have  nurtured,  pamper'd,  fed, 
And  swoln  vrith  peace,  and  gorged  with  plenty,  tiU 
They  reign  themselves — all  monarchs  in  their  man- 
sions— 
Now  swarm  forth  in  rebellion,  and  demand 
His  death,  who  made  their  lives  a  jubilee ; 
While  the  few  upon  whom  I  have  no  claim 
Are  faithful !  This  is  true,  yet  monstrous. 

Zar.  'TiB 

Perhaps  too  natural ;  for  benefits 
Turn  poison  in  bad  minds. 

Sar.  And  good  ones  make 

Good  out  of  evil.    Happier  than  the  bee. 
Which  hives  not  but  from  wholesome  flowers. 

Zar.  Then  reap 

The  honey,  nor  inquire  whence  'tis  derived. 
Be  satisfied — ^you  are  not  all  abandon'd. 

Sa/r.  My  life  insxires  me  that.  How  long,  bethink 
Were  not  I  yet  a  king,  should  I  be  mortal;  [you. 
That  is,  where  mortals  are,  not  where  they  must  be  ? 

Zar.  I  know  not.    But  yet  live  for  my — that  is. 
Your  children's  sake  1 

Sar.  My  gentle,  wrong'd  Zarina  1 

I  am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance 
And  impulse — borne  away  with  every  breath  1 
Misplaced  upon  the  throne — misplaced  in  life. 
I  know  not  what  I  could  have  been,  but  feel 
I  am  not  what  I  should  be — ^let  it  end. 


But  take  this  with  thee  :  if  I  was  not  form'd 
To  prize  a  love  like  thine,  a  mind  like  thine. 
Nor  dote  even  on  thy  beauty — as  I've  doted 
On  lesser  charms,  for  no  cause  save  that  such 
Devotion  was  a  duty,  and  I  hated 
All  that  look'd  like  a  chain  for  me  or  others, 
(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch)  ;  yet  hear 
These  words,  perhaps  among  riiy  last — that  none 
E'er  valued  more  thy  virtues,  though  he  knew  not 
To  profit  by  them — as  the  miner  lights 
Upon  a  vein  of  virgin  ore,  discovering 
That  which  avails  him  nothing  :  he  hath  found  it. 
But  'tis  not  his — but  some  superior's,  who 
Placed  him  to  dig,  but  not  divide  the  wealth 
Which  sparkles  at  his  feet ;  nor  dare  he  Uft 
Nor  poise  it,  but  must  grovel  on,  upturning 
The  sullen  earth. 

Zar.  Oh  !  if  thou  hast  at  length 

Discover'd  that  my  love  is  worth  esteem, 
I  ask  no  more — but  let  us  hence  together, 
And  /—let  me  say  we — shall  yet  be  happy. 
Assyria  is  not  all  the  earth — we'll  find 
A  world  out  of  our  own — and  be  more  bless'd 
Than  I  have  ever  been,  or  thou,  with  all 
An  empire  to  indulge  thee. 

JSnter  Salembnks. 

Sal.  I  must  part  ye — 

The  moments,  which  must  not  be  lost,  are  passing. 

Zar.  Inhuman  brother  1  wilt  thou  thus  weigh  out 
Instants  so  high  and  blest  ? 

Sal.  Blest ! 

Zar.  He  hath  been 

So  gentle  with  me,  that  I  cannot  think 
Of  quitting. 

Sal.  So — this  feminine  farewell 

Ends  as  such  partings  end,  in  no  departure. 
I  thought  as  much,  and  yielded  against  all 
My  better  bodings.    But  it  must  not  be. 

Zar.  Not  be  ? 

Sal.  Remain,  and  perish 

Zar.  With  my  husband 

Sal.  And  children. 

Zar.  Alas  1 

Sal.                                        Hear  me,  sister,  like 
My  sister  :— all's  prepared  to  make  your  safety 
Certain,  and  of  the  boys  too,  our  last  hopes ; 
'Tis  not  a  single  question  of  mere  feeling. 
Though  that  were  much— but  'tis  a  point  of  state  : 
The  rebels  would  do  more  to  seize  upon 
The  ofl'spring  of  their  sovereign,  and  so  crush 

Zar.  Ahl  do  not  name  it. 

Sal.  '  Well,  then,  mark  me :  when 

They  are  safe  beyond  the  Median's  grasp,  the  rebels 
Have  miss'd  their  chief  aim — the  extinction  of 
The  line  of  Nimrod.    Though  the  present  king 
Fall,  his  sons  live  for  victory  and  vengeance. 


268' 


BYRON'S    WORKS, 


ACT   IV 


Zar.  But  could  not  I  remain,  alone  ? 

Sal.  What!  leaye 

Your  children,  with  two  parents  and  yet  orphans — 
In  a  strange  land — so  young,  so  distant  ? 

Zar.  No— 

My  heart  will  break. 

Sal.  Now  you  know  all — decide. 

8a/r.  Zarina,  he  hath  spoken  well,  and  we 
Must  yield  awhile  to  this  necessity. 
Remaining  here,  you  may  lose  all ;  departing, 
Tou  save  the  better  part  of  what  is  left. 
To  both  of  us,  and  to  such  loyal  hearts 
As  yet  beat  in  these  kingdoms. 

Sal.  The  time  presses. 

Sar.  Go,  then.     If  e'er  we  meet  again,  perhaps 
I  may  be  worthier  of  you — and,  if  not. 
Remember  that  my  faults,  though  not  atoned  for, 
Are  ended.    Yet,  I  dread  thy  nature  wiU 
Griere  more  above  the  blighted  name  and  ashes 

Which  once  were  mightiest  in  Assyria— than 

But  I  grow  womanish  again,  and  must  not ; 
I  must  learn  sternness  now.     My  sins  have  all 
Been  of  the  softer  order — hide  thy  tears — 
I  do  not  bid  thee  not  to  shed  them-^'twere 
Easier  to  stop  Euphrates  at  its  source 
Than  one  tear  of  a  true  and  tender  heart — 
But  let  me  not  behold  them  ;  they  unman  me 
Here  when  I  had  remann'd  myself    My  brother, 
Lead  her  away. 

Zar.  Oh,  God  !  I  never  shall 

Behold  him  more  !  [be  obey'd. 

Sal.  (striving  to  conduct  her.)  Nay,  sister,  I  mnut, 

Zar.  I  must  remain — away  !  you  shall  not  hold 
What,  shall  he  die  alone  ? — I  live  alone  ?  [me. 

Sal.  He  shall  not  die  alone  ;  but  lonely  you 
Have  lived  for  years. 

Zar.  That's  false  !  I  knew  he  lived. 

And  lived  upon  his  image — let  me  go  1 

Sal.  {conducting  her  off  the  stage.)   Nay,  then,  I 
must  use  some  fraternal  force. 
Which  you  will  pardon. 

Zir.  Never.    Help  me !    Oh, 

Sardanapalus,  wilt  thou  thus  behold  me 
Tom  from  thee  ? 

Sal.  Nay — then  all  is  lost  again, 

If  that  this  moment  is  not  gain'd. 

Zar.  My  brain  turns — 

My  eyes  fail  —where  is  he  ?  [She  faints. 

Sar.  {advancing^  No — set  her  down — 

She's  dead — and  you  have  slain  her. 

Sal.  'Tis  the  mere 

Faintness  of  o'erwrought  passion  ;  in  the  air 
She  wiU  recover.   Pray,  keep  back. — [Aside.l  I  must 
Avail  myself  of  this  sole  moment  to 
Bear  her  to  where  her  children  are  embark'd, 
I'  the  royal  galley  on  the  river. 

[Salembnes  hears  her  off. 


Sar.  (solus.)  This,  too — 

And  this  too  must  I  suffer — I,  who  never 
Inflicted  purposely  on  human  hearts 
A  voluntary  pang  !     But  that  is  false — 
She  loved  me,  and  I  loved  her.     Fatal  passion  1 
Why  dost  thou  not  expire  at  once  in  hearts 
Which  thou  hast  lighted  up  at  once  ?     Zarina  ! 
I  must  pay  dearly  for  the  desolation 
Now  brought  upon  thee.    Had  I  never  loved 
But  thee,  I  should  have  been  an  unopposed 
Monarch  of  honoring  nations.     To  what  gulfs 
A  single  deviation  from  the  track 
Of  human  duties  leads  even  those  who  claim 
The  homage  of  mankind  as  their  bom  due 
And  find  it,  till  they  forfeit  it  themselves  ! 

Bnter  Mykrha. 

Sar.  You  here  !    Who  call'd  you  ? 

Myr.  No  one— but  I  heard 

Far  oif  a  voice  of  wail  and  lamentation, 
And  thought 

Sar.  It  forms  no  portion  of  your  duties 

To  enter  here  till  sought  for. 

Mt/r.  Though  I  might, 

Perhaps,  recall  some  softer  words  of  yours, 
(Although  they  too  icere  chiding^)  which  reproved  me, 
Because  I  ever  dreaded  to  intrude ; 
Resisting  my  own  wish  and  your  injunction 
To  heed  no  time  nor  presence,  but  approach  you 
Uncall'd  for  : — ^I  retire. 

Sar.  Yet  stay — being  here. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  :  events  have  sour'd  me 
Till  I  wax  peevish — heed  it  not :  I  shall 
Soon  be  myself  again. 

Myr.  I  wait  with  patience, 

What  I  shall  see  with  pleasure. 

Sar.  Scarce  a  moment 

Before  your  entrance  in  this  hall,  Zarina, 
Queen  of  Assyria,  departed  hence. 

Myr.  Ah  1 

Sar.  Wherefore  do  you  start  ? 

Myr.  Did  I  do  so  ? 

Sar.  'Twas  well  you  enter'd  by  another  portal. 
Else  you  had  met.  That  pang  at  least  is  spared  her  I 

Myr.  I  know  to  feel  for  her. 

Sar.  That  is  too  much, 

And  beyond  nature — 'tis  nor  mutual, 
Nor  possible.   You  cannot  pity  her. 
Nor  she  aught  but 

Myr.  Despise  the  favorite  slave  ? 

Not  more  than  I  have  ever  scom'd  myself. 

Sar.  Scom'd  !  what,  to  be  the  envy  of  your  sex. 
And  lord  it  o'er  the  heart  of  the  world's  lord  ? 

Myr.  Were  you  the  lord  of  twice  ten  thousand 
worlds — 
As  you  are  like  to  lose  the  one  you  sway'd — 
I  did  abase  myself  as  much  in  being 


SCENE   L 


SARDANAPALUS. 


269 


Your  paramour,  as  though  you  were  a  peasant — 
Nay,  more,  if  that  the  peasant  were  a  Greek. 

8ar.  You  talk  it  well 

Myr.  And  traly. 

Bar.  In  the  hour 

Of  man's  adversity  all  things  grow  daring 
Against  the  falling ;  but  as  I  am  not 
Quite  fallen,  nor  now  disposed  to  bear  reproaches. 
Perhaps  because  I  merit  them  too  often. 
Let  us  then  part  while  peace  is  still  between  ns. 

Myr.  Part ! 

Bar.  Have  not  all  past  human  being  parted, 

And  must  not  aU  the  present  one  day  part  ? 

Mxjr.  Why? 

8ar.  For  your  safety,  which  I  will  have  look'd  to. 
With  a  strong  escort  to  your  native  land  ; 
And  such  gifts,  as,  if  you  had  not  been  all 
A  queen,  shall  make  your  dowry  worth  a  kingdom. 

Myr.  I  pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

Sar.  The  queen  is  gone : 

You  need  not  shame  to  foUow.    I  would  fall 
Alone — ^I  seek  no  partners  but  in  pleasure. 

Myr.  And  I  no  pleasure  but  in  parting  not. 
You  shall  not  force  me  from  you. 

Sar.  Think  well  of  it- 

It  soon  may  be  too  late. 

Myr.  So  let  it  be ; 

For  then  you  cannot  separate  me  from  you. 

Sar.  And  will  not ;  but  I  thought  you  wish'd  it. 

Myr.  1 1 

Sar.  You  spoke  of  your  abasement. 

Myr.  And  I  feel  it 

Deeply — ^more  deeply  than  aU  things  but  love. 

Sa/r.  Then  fly  from  it. 

Myr.  'Twill  not  recall  the  past — 

'Twill  not  restore  my  honor,  nor  my  heart. 
No — here  I  stand  or  fall.    If  that  you  conquer, 
I  live  to  joy  in  your  great  triumph  :  should 
Your  lot  be  different,  I'U  not  weep,  but  share  it. 
You  did  not  doubt  me  a  few  hours  ago. 

Sar.  Your  courage  never — nor  your  love  till  now ; 
And  none  could  make  me  doubt  it  save  yourself 
Those  words 

Myr.         Were  words.    I  pray  you,  let  the  proofs 
Be  in  the  past  acts  you  were  pleased  to  praise 
This  very  night,  and  in  my  further  bearing, 
Beside,  wherever  you  are  borne  by  fate. 

Sar.  I  am  content ;  and,  trusting  in  my  cause, 
Think  we  may  yet  be  victors  and  return 
To  peace — the  only  victory  I  covet. 
To  me  war  is  no  glory — conquest  no 
Renown.    To  be  forced  thus  to  uphold  my  right 
Sits  heavier  on  my  heart  than  aU  the  wrongs 
These  men  would  bow  me  down  with.  Never,  never 
Can  I  forget  this  night,  even  should  I  live 
To  add  it  to  the  memory  of  others. 
I  thought  to  have  made  mine  inoffensive  rule 


An  era  of  sweet  peace  'midst  bloody  annals, 

A  green  spot  amidst  desert  centuries. 

On  which  the  future  would  turn  back  and  smile, 

And  cultivate,  or  sigh  when  it  could  not 

Recall  Sardanapalus'  golden  reign. 

I  thought  to  have  made  my  realm  a  paradise, 

And  every  moon  an  epoch  of  new  pleasures. 

I  took  the  rabble's  shouts  for  love— the  breath 

Of  friends  for  truth— the  lips  of  woman  for 

My  only  guerdon — so  they  are,  my  Myrrha  : 

[He  kisses  her. 
Kiss  me.    Now  let  them  take  my  realm  and  life  : 
They  shall  have  both,  but  never  thee  ! 

Myr.  No,  never ! 

Man  may  despoil  his  brother  man  of  all        [yield — 
That's  great  or  glittering  —  kingdoms  fall — hosts 
Friends  fail— slaves  fly — and  all  betray — and,  more 
Than  all,  the  most  indebted — but  a  heart 
That  loves  without  self-love  1   'Tis  here — now  prove. 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  I  sought  you.    How  1  she  here  again  ? 

Sar.  Return  not 

Now  to  reproof:  methinks  your  aspect  speaks 
Of  higher  matter  than  a  woman's  presence. 

Sai.  The  only  woman  whom  it  much  imports  me 
At  such  a  moment  now  is  safe  in  absence — 
The  queen's  embark'd. 

Sar.  And  well  ?  say  that  much. 

Sal.  Yes. 

Her  transient  weakness  has  pass'd  o'er ;  at  least. 
It  settled  into  tearless  silence  :  her 
Pale  face  and  glittering  eye,  after  a  glance 
Upon  her  sleeping  children,  were  still  fix'd 
Upon  the  palace  towers  as  the  swift  galley 
Stole  down  the  hurrying  stream  beneath  the  star- 
But  she  said  nothing.  [light ; 

Sar.  Would  I  felt  no  more 

Than  she  has  said  ! 

Sal.  'Tis  now  too  late  to  feel ! 

Your  feelings  cannot  cancel  a  sole  pang : 
To  change  them,  my  advices  bring  sure  tidings 
That  the  rebellious  Medes  and  Chaldees,  marshaU'd 
By  their  two  leaders,  are  already  up 
In  arms  again  ;  and,  serrying  their  ranks. 
Prepare  to  attack  :  they  have  apparently 
Been  join'd  by  other  satraps. 

Sar.  What  1  more  rebels  ? 

Let  us  be  first,  then. 

Sal  That  were  hardly  prudent 

Now,  though  it  was  our  first  intention.     If 
By  noon  to-morrow  we  are  join'd  by  those 
I've  sent  for  by  sure  messengers,  we  shall  be 
In  strength  enough  to  venture  an  attack, 
Ay,  and  pursuit  too  :  but  till  then,  my  voice 
Is  to  await  the  onset. 


210 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


8ar.  I  detest 

That  waiting :  though  it  seems  so  safe  to  fight 
Behind  high  walls,  and  hurl  down  foes  into 
Deep  fosses,  or  behold  them  sprawl  on  spikes 
Strew'd  to  receive  them,  still  I  like  it  not — 
My  soul  seems  lukewarm  ;  but  when  I  set  on  them. 
Though  they  were  piled  on  mountains,  I  would  have 
A  pluck  at  them,  or  perish  in  hot  blood  1 — 
Let  me  then. charge  ! 

Sal.  You  talk  like  a  young  soldier. 

Sar.  I  am  no  soldier,  but  a  man  :  speak  not 
Of  soldiership,  I  loathe  the  word,  and  those 
Who  pride  themselves  upon  it ;  but  direct  me 
Where  I  may  pour  upon  them. 

Sal.  You  must  spare 

To  expose  your  life  too  hastily ;  'tis  not 
Like  mine  or  any  other  subject's  breath  : 
The  whole  war  turns  upon  it — with  it ;  this 
Alone  creates  it,  kindles,  and  may  quench  it — 
Prolong  it — end  it. 

Sar.  Then  let  us  end  both  1 

'Twere  better  thus,  perhaps,  than  prolong  either ; 
I'm  sick  of  one,  perchance  of  both. 

[A  trumpet  sounds  without. 

Sat.  Harkl 

Sar.  Let  us 

Reply,  not  listen. 

Sal.  And  your  wound  1 

Sar.  'Tis  bound — 

'Tis  heal'd — ^I  had  forgotten  it.    Away  1 
A  leech's  lancet  would  have  scratch'd  me  deeper ; 
The  slave  that  gave  it  might  be  well  ashamed 
To  have  struck  so  weakly. 

Sal.  Now,  may  none  this  hour 

Strike  with  a  better  aim  1 

Sar.  Ay,  if  we  conquer ; 

But  if  not,  they  wiU  only  leave  to  me  [them  I 

A  task  they  might  have  spared  their  king.    Upon 

[  Trumpet  sounds  again. 

Sal.  I  am  with  you. 

Sar,  Ho,  my  arms  !  again,  my  arms  1 

{Bxeunt. 

ACT  V. 

S  C  EKE      I. 

The  sarnie  Hall  in  the  Palace. 

Mtbkha  and  Baiba. 

Myr.  (at  a  window.)    The  day  at  last  has  broken. 
What  a  night 
Hath  usher'd  it !    How  beautiful  in  heaven  ! 
Though  varied  with  a  transitory  storm, 
More  beautiftd  in  that  variety  1 
How  hideous  upon  earth  I  where  peace  and  hope, 
And  love  and  revel,  in  an  hour  were  trampled 
By  human  passions  to  a  human  chaos, 


Not  yet  resolved  to  separate  elements. 

'Tis  warring  still !    And  can  the  sun  so  rise, 

So  bright,  so  rolUng  back  the  clouds  into 

Vapors  more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky. 

With  golden  pinnacles,  and  snowy  mountains, 

And  billows  purpler  than  the  ocean's,  making 

In  heaven  a  glorious  mockery  of  the  earth, 

So  like  we  almost  deem  it  permanent ; 

So  fleeting,  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 

Beyond  a  vision,  'tis  so  transiently 

Scatter'd  along  the  eternal  vault :  and  yet 

It  dwells  upon  the  soul,  and  soothes  the  soul. 

And  blends  itself  into  the  soul,  until 

Sunrise  and  sunset  form  the  haunted  epoch. 

Of  sorrow  and  of  love  ;  which  they  who  mark  not, 

Know  not  the  realms  where  those  twin  genii 

(Who  chasten  and  who  purify  our  hearts. 

So  that  we  would  not  change  their  sweet  rebukes 

For  all  the  boisterous  joj's  that  ever  shook 

The  air  with  clamor)  build  the  palaces 

Where  their  fond  votaries  repose  and  breathe 

Briefly ;  but  in  that  brief  cool  calm  inhale 

Enough  of  heaven  to  enable  them  to  bear 

The  rest  of  common,  heavy,  human  hours. 

And  dream  them  through  in  placid  sufierance ; 

Though  seemingly  employ'd  like  all  the  rest 

Of  toiling  breathers  in  allotted  tasks 

Of  pain  or  pleasure,  two  names  for  one  feeling, 

Which  our  internal,  restless  agony 

Would  vary  in  the  sound,  although  the  sense 

Escapes  our  highest  efibrts  to  be  happy. 

Bal.  You  muse   right  cahnly :   and  can  you   so 
The  sunrise  which  may  be  our  last  ?  [watch 

Myr.  It  is 

Therefore  that  I  so  watch  it,  and  reproach 
Those  eyes,  which  never  may  behold  it  more, 
For  having  look'd  upon  it  oft,  too  oft, 
Without  the  reverence  and  the  rapture  due 
To  that  which  keeps  all  earth  from  being  as  fragile 
As  I  am  in  this  form.     Come,  look  upon  it, 
The  Chaldee's  god,  which,  when  I  gaze  upon, 
I  grow  almost  a  convert  to  your  Baal. 

Bal.  As  now  he  reigns  in  heaven,  so  once  on  earth 
He  sway'd. 

Myr.  He  sways  it  now  far  more,  then  ;  never 

Had  earthly  monarch  half  the  power  and  glory 
Which  centres  in  a  single  ray  of  his. 

Bal.  Surely  he  is  a  god  ! 

Myr.  So  we  Greeks  deem  too  ; 

And  yet  I  sometimes  think  that  gorgeous  orb 
Must  rather  be  the  abode  of  gods  than  one 
Of  the  immortal  sovereigns.     Now  he  breaks 
Through  all  the  clouds,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  Ught 
That  shuts  the  world  out.     I  can  look  no  more. 

Bal.  Hark  !  heard  you  not  a  sound  ? 

Myr.  No,  'twas  mere  fancy ; 

They  battle  it  beyond  the  wall,  and  not 


scmrs  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


271 


As  in  late  midnight  conflict  in  the  very 
Chambers  :  the  palace  has  become  a  fortress 
Since  that  insidious  hour ;  and  here,  within 
The  very  centre,  girded  by  vast  courts 
And  regal  halls  of  pyramid  proportions, 
Which  must  be  carried  one  by  one  before 
They  penetrate  to  where  they  then  arrived. 
We  are  as  much  shut  in  even  from  the  sound 
Of  peril  as  from  glory. 

Bal.  But  they  reach'd 

Thus  far  before. 

Myr.  Yes,  by  surprise,  and  were 

Beat  back  by  valor  :  now  at  once  we  have 
Courage  and  vigilance  to  guard  us. 

Bal.  May  they 

Prosper ! 

Myr.      That  is  the  prayer  of  many,  and 
The  dread  of  more  :  it  is  an  anxious  hour ; 
I  strive  to  keep  it  from  my  thoughts.    Alas  ! 
How  vainly  I 

Bal.  It  is  said  the  king's  demeanor 

In  the  late  action  scarcely  more  appall'd 
The  rebels  than  astonish'd  his  true  subjects. 

Myr,  'Tis  easy  to  astonish  or  appal 
■  The  vulgar  mass  which  molds  a  horde  of  slaves  ; 
But  he  did  bravely. 

Bal.  Slew  he  not  Beleses  ? 

I  heard  the  soldiers  say  he  struck  him  down. 

Myr.  The  wretch  was  overthrown,  but  rescued  to 
Triumph,  perhaps,  o'er  one  who  vanquish'd  him 
In  fight,  as  he  had  spared  him  in  his  peril ; 
And  by  that  heedless  pity  risk'd  a  crown. 

Bal,  Hark !  [slowly. 

Myr.  You  are  right:  some  steps  approach,  but 

Enter  Soldiers,  hearing  in  Saiemenes  wounded,  with 

a  broken  Javelin  in  his  Side  ;  they  seat  him  upon 

one  of  the  Couches  which  furnish  the  Apartment, 

Myr.  Oh,  Jove ! 

Bal.  Then  all  his  over. 

Sal.  That  is  false. 

Hew  down  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a  soldier. 

Myr.  Spare  him — he's  none  :  a  mere  court  butter- 
That  flutters  in  the  pageant  of  a  monarch.  [fly, 

Sal.  Let  him  live  on,  then. 

Myr,  So  wilt  thou,  I  trust. 

Sal,  I  fain  would  live  this  hour  out,  and  the  event. 
But  doubt  it.     Wherefore  did  he  bear  me  here  3 

Sol.  By  the  king's  order.  When  the  javelin  struck 
You  fell  and  fainted :  'twas  his  strict  command  [you. 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

Sal,  'Twas  not  iU  done : 

For  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance, 
The  sight  might  shake  our  soldiers — but — 'tis  vain, 
I  feel  it  ebbing  1 

Myr.  Let  me  see  the  wound  ; 

I  am  not  quite  skilless  :  in  my  native  land 


'Tis  part  of  our  instruction.  War  being  constant, 
We  are  nerved  to  look  on  such  things. 

Sol.  Best  extract 

The  javelin. 

Myr.  Hold  I  no,  no,  it  cannot  be. 

Sal.  I  am  sped,  then  1 

Myr.  With  the  blood  that  fast  must  follow 

The  extracted  weapon,  I  do  fear  thy  life.  [you 

Sal.  And  I  not  death.    Where  was  the  king  when 
Convey'd  me  from  the  spot  where  I  was  stricken  ? 

Sol,  Upon  the  same  ground,  and  encouraging 
With  voice  and  gesture  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  had  seen  you  fall,  and  falter'd  back. 

Sal,  Whom  heard  ye 

Named  next  to  the  command  ? 

Sol.  I  did  not  hear. 

Sal,  Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  'twas  my  last  request 
That  Zames  take  my  post  until  the  junction. 
So  hoped  for,  yet  delay'd,  of  Ofratanes, 
Satrap  of  Susa.     Leave  me  here  :  our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spare  your  absence. 

Sol,  But  prince 

Sal,  Hence,  I  say  !    Here's  a  courtier  and 

A  woman,  the  best  chamber  company. 
As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 
Upon  the  field,  I'll  have  no  idle  soldiers 
About  my  sick  couch.  Hence!  and  do  my  bidding.  1 

\^Exennt  the  Soldiers. 

Myr.  Gallant  and  glorious  spirit  I  must  the  earth 
So  soon  resign  thee  ? 

Sal.  Gentle  Myrrha,  'tis 

The  end  I  would  have  chosen,  had  I  saved 
The  monarch  or  the  monarchy  by  this  ; 
As  'tis,  I  have  not  outlived  them. 

Myr.  You  wax  paler. 

Sal.  Your  hand ;  this  broken  weapon  but  prolongs 
My  pangs,  without  sustaining  life  enough 
To  make  me  useful :  I  would  draw  it  forth, 
And  my  life  with  it,  could  I  but  hear  how 
The  fight  goes. 

Enter  Sabdanapalus  and  soldiers. 

Sar.  My  best  brother  I 

Sal,  And  the  battle 

Is  lost  ? 

Sar,  (despondinffly.)  You  see  me  here. 

Sal.  I'd  rather  see  you  thus  I 

[He  draws  out  the  weapon  from  the  wound, 
and  dies. 
Sar.  And  thus  I  wiU  be  soon ;  unless  the  succor, 
The  last  frail  reed  of  our  beleaguer'd  hopes. 
Arrive  with  Ofratanes. 

Myr.  Did  you  not 

Receive  a  token  from  your  dying  brother, 
Appointing  Zames  chief  ? 
Sar.  I  did. 


272 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


Where's  Zames  ? 


And  Altada  9 


Dying. 


Myr. 

Sar.  Dead, 

Myr. 

Sar. 

Myr.  Pania?  Sfero  ? 

Sar.  Pania  yet  lives  ;  but  Sfero's  fled,  or  captive. 
1  am  alone. 

Myr.  And  is  all  lost  ? 

Sar.  Our  walls, 

Though  thinly  mann'd,  may  still  hold  out  against 
Their  present  force,  or  aught  save  treachery  : 
But  i'  the  field 

Myr.  I  thought  'twas  the  intent 

Of  Salemenes  not  to  risk  a  sally 
Till  ye  were  strengthen'd  by  the  expected  succors. 

Sar.  I  overruled  him. 

Myr.  Well,  the  fault's  a  brave  one. 

Sar.  But  fatal.    Oh,  my  brother  !  I  would  give 
These  realms,  of  which  thou  wert  the  ornament. 
The  sword  and  shield,  the  sole-redeeming  honor. 

To  call  back But  I  will  not  weep  for  thee  ; 

Thou  shalt  be  moum'd  for  as  thou  wouldst  be  mourn' d. 
It  grieves  me  most  that  thou  couldst  quit  this  life 
Believing  that  I  could  survive  what  thou 
Hast  died  for — our  long  royalty  of  race. 
If  I  redeem  it,  I  will  give  thee  blood 
Of  thousands,  tears  of  millions,  for  atonement, 
(The  tears  of  all  the  good  are  thine  already.) 
If  not,  we  meet  again  soon, — if  the  spirit 
Within  us  lives  beyond  : — thou  readest  mine, 
And  dost  me  justice  now.    Let  me  once  clasp 
That  yet  warm  hand,  and  fold  that  throbless  heart, 

[Etntraces  the  hody. 
To  this  which  beats  so  bitterly.    Now,  bear 
The  body  hence. 

Soldier.  Where  ? 

Sir.  To  my  proper  chamber. 

Place  it  beneath  my  canopy,  as  though 
The  king  lay  there  :  when  this  is  done,  we  will 
Speak  further  of  the  rites  due  to  such  ashes. 

\^ExeHnt  Soldiers  with  the  body  of  SAiiEMENES. 

Enter  Pania. 

Sar.  Well,  Pania  1  have  you  placed  the  guards  and 
The  orders  flx'd  on  ?  [issued 

Pan.  Sire,  I  have  obey'd, 

Sar.  And  do  the  soldiers  keep  their  hearts  up  ? 

Pan.  Sire  ? 

Sar.  I'm  answer'd  !   When  a  king  asks  twice,  and 
A  question  as  an  answer  to  his  question,  [has 

It  is  a  portent.     What !  they  are  dishearten'd  ? 

Pan.  The  death  of  Salemenes,  and  the  shouts 
Of  the  exulting  rebels  on  his  fall. 
Have  made  them 

Sar.  Rage-  -hot  droop — it  should  have  been. 

We'll  find  the  means  to  rouse  them. 

Pan.  Such  a  loss 


Might  sadden  even  a  victory. 

bar.  Alas  1 

Who  can  so  feel  it  as  I  feel  ?  but  yet,  [and  we 

Though  coop'd  within  these  walls,  they  are  strong. 
Have  those  without  will  break  their  way  through 

hosts. 
To  make  their  sovereign's  dwelling  what  it  was — 
A  palace ;  not  a  prison,  nor  a  fortress, 

Enter  an  Officer,  hastily. 
Sar.  Thy  face  seems  ominous.     Speak  1 
Offi.  I  dare  not. 

Sar.  Dare  not  ? 

While  millions  dare  revolt  with  sword  in  hand  ! 
That's  strange.    I  pray  thee  break  that  loyal  silence 
Which  loathes  to  shock  its  sovereign  ;  we  can  hear 
Worse  than  thou  hast  to  tell. 

Pan.  Proceed,  thou  hearest. 

Offi.  The  wall  which  skirted  near  the  river's  brink 
Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  the  Euphrates,  which  now  rolling,  swoln, 
From  the  enormous  mountains  where  it  rises, 
By  the  late  rains  of  that  tempestuous  region, 
O'erfloods  its  banks,  and  hath  destroy'd  the  bulwark. 

Pan.  That's  a  black  augury  !  it  has  been  said 
For  ages,  "  That  the  city  ne'er  should  yield 
To  man,  until  the  river  grew  its  foe." 

Sar.  I  can  forgive  the  omen,  not  the  ravage. 
How  much  is  swept  down  of  the  wall  ? 

Offi.  About 

Some  twenty  stadii. 

Sar.  And  all  this  is  left 

Pervious  to  the  assailants  ? 

Offi.  For  the  present 

The  river's  fury  must  impede  the  assault ; 
But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel, 
And  may  be  cross'd  by  the  accustom'd  barks. 
The  palace  is  their  own. 

Sar.  That  shall  be  never. 

Though  men,  and  gods,  and  elements,  and  omens, 
Have  risen  up  'gainst  one  who  ne'er  provoked  them, 
My  fathers'  house  shall  never  be  a  cave 
For  wolves  to  horde  and  howl  in. 

Pan.  With  your  sanction, 

I  will  proceed  to  the  spot,  and  take  such  measures 
For  the  assurance  of  the  vacant  space 
As  time  and  means  permit. 

Sar.  About  it  straight ; 

And  bring  me  back,  as  speedily  as  full 
And  fair  investigation  may  permit. 
Report  of  the  true  state  of  this  irruption 
Of  waters.  ]_Exeunt  Pania  and  the  Officer. 

Myr.        Thus  the  very  waves  rise  up 
Against  you. 

Sar.  They  are  not  my  subjects,  girl. 

And  may  be  pardon'd,  since  they  can't  be  punish'd. 

Myr.  I  joy  to  see  this  portent  shakes  you  not. 


SCEKB  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


273 


Sar.  I  am  past  the  fear  of  portents ;  they  can  tell  me 
Nothing  I  have  not  told  myself  since  midnight : 
Despair  anticipates  such  things. 

Myr.  Despair ! 

Sar.  No ;  not  despair  precisely.    When  we  know 
All  that  can  come,  and  how  to  meet  it,  our 
Resolves,  if  firm,  may  merit  a  more  noble 
Word  than  this  is  to  give  it  utterance. 
But  what  are  words  to  us  ?  we  have  well-nigh  done 
With  them  and  all  things. 

Myr.  Save  ore«  deed — the  last 

And  greatest  to  all  mortals  ;  crowning  act 
Of  all  that  was — or  is — or  is  to  be — 
The  only  thing  common  to  all  mankind. 
So  different  in  their  births,  tongues,  sexes,  natures. 
Hues,  features,  climes,  times,  feelings,  intellects, 
Without  one  point  of  union  save  in  this. 
To  which  we  tend,  for  which  we're  bom,  and  thread 
The  labyrinth  of  mystery,  caU'd  life.  [cheerful. 

Sar.  Our  clew  being  well-nigh  wound  out,  let's  be 
They  who  have  nothing  more  to  fear  may  well 
Indulge  a  smile  at  that  which  once  appall'd  ; 
As  children  at  discover'd  bugbears. 

Be-enter  Pania. 

Pan.  'Tis 

As  was  reported:  I  have  order'd  there 
A  double  guard,  withdrawing  from  the  wall 
Where  it  was  strongest  the  required  addition 
To  watch  the  breach  occasion'd  by  the  waters. 

Sovr.  You  have  done  your  duty  faithfully,  and  as 
My  worthy  Pania  1  further  ties  between  us 
Draw  near  a  close.    I  pray  you  take  this  key  : 

[  Oives  a  hey. 
It  opens  to  a  secret  chamber,  placed 
Behind  the  couch  in  faiy  own  chamber.    (Now 
Press'd  by  a  nobler  weight  than  e'er  it  bore — 
Though  a  long  line  of  sovereigns  have  lain  down 
Along  its  golden  frame — as  bearing  for 
A  time  what  late  was  Salemenes).     Search 
The  secret  covert  to  which  this  will  lead  you ; 
'Tis  full  of  treasure ;  take  it  for  yourself 
And  your  companions  :  there's  enough  to  load  ye 
Though  ye  be  many.     Let  the  slaves  be  freed,  too  ; 
And  all  the  inmates  of  the  palace,  of 
Whatever  sex,  now  quit  it  in  an  hour.         [pleasure, 
Thence  launch  the    regal  barks,  once  form'd  for 
And  now  to  serve  for  safety,  and  embark. 
The  river's  broad  and  swoln,  and  uncommanded 
(More  potent  than  a  king)  by  these  besiegers. 
Fly  !  and  be  happy  ! 

Pan.  Under  your  protection  1 

So  you  accompany  your  faithful  guard. 

Sar.  No,  Pania !  that  must  not  be ;  get  thee  hence. 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate. 

Pan.  'Tis  the  first  time 

I  ever  disobey'd  :  but  now 

35 


Sa/r.  So  all  men 

Dare  beard  me  now,  and  Insolence  within 
Apes  Treason  from  without.    Question  no  further ; 
'Tis  my  command,  my  last  command.    Wilt  thou 
Oppose  it  ?  thou  ! 

Pan.  But  yet — not  yet. 

Sar.  Well,  then, 

Swear  that  you  will  obey  when  I  shall  give 
The  signal. 

Pan.  With  a  heavy  but  true  heart, 

I  promise. 

8a/r.  'Tis  enough.    Now  order  here 

Fagots,  pine-nuts,  and  wither'd  leaves,  and  such 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  with  one  sole  spark ; 
Bring  cedar,  too,  and  precious  drugs,  and  spices, 
And  mighty  planks,  to  nourish  a  tall  pile ; 
Bring  frankincense  and  myrrh,  too,  for  it  is 
For  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  the  pyre  ! 
And  heap  them  round  yon  throne. 

Pan.  My  lord  I 

Sar.  I  have  said  it, 

And  you  have  sworn. 

Pan.  And  could  keep  my  faith 

Without  a  vow.  {Exit  Pania. 

Myr.  What  mean  you  ? 

Sa/r.  You  shall  know 

Anon — what  the  whole  earth  shall  ne'er  forget. 

Pania  returning  with  a  Herald. 

Pan.  My  king,  in  going  forth  upon  my  duty. 
This  herald  has  been  brought  before  me,  craving 
An  audience. 

Sar.  Let  him  speak. 

Her.  The  King  Arbaces 

Sa/r.  What,  crown'd  already  ? — But,  proceed. 

Her.  Beleses, 

The  anointed  high-priest 

Sar.  Of  what  god,  or  demon  ? 

With  new  kings  rise  new  altars.    But,  proceed : 
You  are  sent  to  prate  your  master's  will,  and  not 
Reply  to  mine. 

Her.  And  Satrap  Ofratanes 

Sar.  Why,  he  is  ours. 

Her.    (showing  a  ring).  Be  sure  that  he  is  now 
In  the  camp  of  the  conquerors  :  behold 
His  signet  ring. 

Sar.  'Tis  his.    A  worthy  triad  1 

Poor  Salemenes  !  thou  hast  died  in  time 
To  see  one  treachery  the  less  ;  this  man 
Was  thy  true  friend  and  my  most  trusted  subject. 
Proceed. 

Her.        They  ofier  thee  thy  life,  and  freedom 
Of  choice  to  single  out  a  residence 
In  any  of  the  further  provinces. 
Guarded  and  watch'd,  but  not  confined  in  person. 
Where  thou  shalt  pass  thy  days  in  peace  ;  but  on 
Condition  that  the  three  young  princes  are 


274 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  T. 


Given  up  as  hostages. 

Sar.  {ironically).        The  generous  victors  ! 
Her.  I  wait  the  answer. 

Sar.  Answer,  slave  1  How  long 

Have  slaves  decided  on  the  doom  of  kings  ? 
Her.  Since  they  were  free. 

Sar.  Mouthpiece  of  mutiny  1 

Thou  at  the  least  shalt  learn  the  penalty 
Of  treason,  though  its  proxy  only.     Pania  1 
Let  his  head  be  thrown  from  our  walls  within 
The  rebels'  hnes,  his  carcass  down  the  river. 
Away  with  him  1 

[Pania  and  the  Guards  seizing  him. 

Pan.  I  never  yet  obey'd 

Tour  orders  with  more  pleasure  than  the  present. 
Hence  with  him,  soldiers  1  do  not  soil  this  hall 
Of  royalty  with  treasonable  gore ; 
Put  him  to  rest  without. 

H  r.  A  single  word  : 

My  office,  king,  is  sacred. 

Sar.  And  what's  mine  ? 

That  thou  shouldst  come  and  dare  to  ask  of  me 
To  lay  it  down  ? 

Her.  I  but  obey'd  my  orders. 

At  the  same  peril,  if  refused,  as  now 
Incurr'd  by  my  obedience. 

Sar.  So  there  are 

New  monarchs  of  an  hour's  growth  as  despotic 
As  sovereigns  swathed  in  purple,  and  enthroned 
From  birth  to  manhood  1 

Her.  My  life  waits  your  breath. 

Yours  (I  speak  humbly) — but  it  may  be — yours 
May  also  be  in  danger  scarce  less  imminent : 
Would  it  then  suit  the  last  hours  of  a  line 
Such  as  is  that  of  Nimrod,  to  destroy 
A  peaceful  herald,  unarm' d,  in  his  office  1 
And  violate  not  only  all  that  man 
Holds  sacred  between  man  and  man — but  that 
More  holy  tie  which  links  us  with  the  gods  ? 

Sar.  He's  right. — Let  him  go  free.^My  life's  last 
Shall  not  be  one  of  wrath.     Here,  fellow,  take     [act 
[  Oives  him  a  golden  ctip  from  a  table  near. 
This  golden  goblet,  let  it  hold  your  wine, 
And  think  of  tne  ;  or  melt  it  into  ingots. 
And  think  of  nothing  but  their  weight  and  value. 

Her.  I  thank  you  doubly  for  my  life,  and  this 
Most  gorgeous  gift,  which  renders  it  more  precious. 
But  must  I  bear  no  answer  ? 

Sar.  Yes,— I  ask 

An  hour's  truce  to  consider. 

Her.  But  an  hoiur's  ? 

Sar.  An  hour's  :  if  at  the  expiration  of 
That  time  your  masters  hear  no  further  from  me, 
They  are  to  deem  that  I  reject  their  terms, 
And  act  befittingly. 

Her.  I  shall  not  fail 

To  be  a  faithful  legate  of  your  pleasure. 


Sar.  And  hark  !  a  word  more. 

Her.  I  shall  not  forget  it, 

Whate'er  it  be. 

Sar.  Commend  me  to  Beleses ; 

And  tell  him,  ere  a  year  expire,  I  summon 
Him  hence  to  meet  me. 

Her.  '  Where  ? 

Sar.  At  Babylon. 

At  least  from  thence  he  wiU  depart  to  meet  me. 

Her.  I  shall  obey  you  to  the  letter.     [Eiit  Herald. 

Sar.  Pania ! — 

Now,  my  good  Pania  ! — quick !  with  what  I  order'd. 

Pan.  My  lord, — the  soldiers  are  already  charged. 
And,  see  !  they  enter. 

[^Soldiers  enter ^  and  form  a  Pile  about  the  Throve,  etc. 

Sar.  Higher,  my  good  soldiers, 

And  thicker  yet ;  and  see  that  the  foundation 
Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  flame ;  nor  yet  be  quench'd 
With  aught  officious  aid  would  bring  to  quell  it. 
Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ;  I  would  not 
Leave  that,  save  fraught  with  fire  unquenchable, 
To  the  new  comers.     Frame  the  whole  as  if 
'Twere  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemies.     Now  it  bears  an  aspect  I 
How  say  you,  Pania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a  king's  obsequies  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  for  a  kingdom's. 

I  understand  you,  now. 

Sar.  And  blame  me  ! 

Fan.  No — 

Let  me  but  fire  the  pile,  and  share  it  with  you. 

Myr.  That  duty's  mine. 

Pan.  A  woman's  1 

Myr.  'Tis  the  soldier's 

Part  to  die  for  his  sovereign,  and  why  not 
The  woman's  with  her  lover  ? 

Pan.  'Tis  most  strange  ! 

Myr.  But  not  so  rare,  my  Pania,  as  thou  think'st  it. 
In  the  meantime,  live  thou. — Farewell  1  the  pile 
Is  ready. 

Pan.      I  should  shame  to  leave  my  sovereign 
With  but  a  single  female  to  partake 
His  death. 

Sar:         Too  many  far  have  heralded 
Me  to  the  dust,  already.    Get  thee  hence  ; 
Enrich  thee. 

Pan.  And  Uve  wretched  1 

Sa/r.  Think  upon 

Thy  vow  : — 'tis  sacred  and  irrevocable. 

Pan.  Since  it  is  so,  farewell. 

Sar.  Search  well  my  chamber. 

Feel  no  remorse  at  bearing  off  the  gold ; 
Remember,  what  you  leave  you  leave  the  slaves 
Who  slew  me  :  and  when  you  have  borne  away 
AU  safe  off  to  your  boats,  blow  one  long  blast 
Upon  the  trumpet  as  you  quit  the  palace. 


SCENE   I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


275 


The  river's  brink  is  too  remote,  its  stream 
Too  loud  at  present  to  permit  the  echo 
To  reach  distinctly  from  its  banks.    Then  fly, — 
And  as  you  sail,  turn  back  ;  but  still  keep  on 
Tour  way  along  the  Euphrates  :  if  you  reach 
The  land  of  Paphlagonia,  where  the  queen 
Is  safe  with  my  three  sons  in  Cotta's  court, 
Say  what  you  saw  at  parting,  and  request 
That  she  remember  what  I  said  at  one 
Parting  more  mournful  stiU. 

Fail.  That  royal  hand  I 

Let  me  then  once  more  press  it  to  my  lips  ; 
And  these  poor  soldiers  who  throng  round  you,  and 
Would  fain  die  with  you  ! 

[  The  Soldiers  and  Pania   throng  round  him, 
kissing  his  hand  and  the  hem  of  his  rohe. 
Sar.  My  best !  my  last  friends  1 

Let's  not  unman  each  other — part  at  once : 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  forever. 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments, 
And  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 
Hence,  and  be  happy  :  trust  me,  I  am  not 
Jfow  to  be  pitied  ;  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  present ; — for  the  future,  'tis 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such 
There  be  :  I  shall  know  soon.    Farewell — FareweU. 
[Exeunt  Pania  and  Soldiers. 
Myr.  These  men  were  honest :  it  is  comfort  still 
That  our  last  looks  should  be  on  loving  faces. 

Sar.  And  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful ! — but  hear  me ! 
If  at  this  moment, — ^for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink, — thou  feel'st  an  inward  shrinking  from 
This  leap  through  flame  into  the  future,  say  it : 
I  shall  not  love  thee  less  ;  nay,  perhaps  more, 
For  yielding  to  thy  nature  :  and  there's  time 
Yet  for  thee  to  escape  hence. 

Myr.  Shall  I  light 

One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap'd  beneath 
The  ever-burning  lamp  that  burns  without, 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  ? 
Sar.  Do  so.    Is  that  thy  answer  ? 
Myr.  Thou  shalt  see. 

[Ejcit  Mybkha. 
Sar.  (koIu):),  She's  firm.     My  fathers  !  whom  I  wiU 
It  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  some  [rejoin. 

Of  the  gross  stains  of  too  material  being, 
I  would  not  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 
To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen  ; 
If  I  have  not  kept  your  inheritance 
As  ye  bequeath'd  it,  this  bright  part  of  it. 
Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 
Of  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils. 
In  which  they  would  have  revell'd,  I  bear  with  me 
To  you  in  that  absorbing  element. 
Which  most  personifies  the  soul  as  leaving 
The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 
Its  fiery  workings  : — and  the  light  of  this 


Most  royal  of  funereal  pyres  shall  be 

Not  a  mere  piUar  form'd  of  cloud  and  flame, 

A  beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a  day. 

And  then  a  mount  of  ashes,  but  a  light 

To  lesson  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 

Voluptuous  princes.    Time  shall  quench  full  many 

A  people's  records,  and  a  hero's  acts  ; 

Sweep  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 

Of  empires,  into  nothing  ;  but  even  then 

Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 

A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 

Despise — but,  it  may  be,  avoid  the  life 

Which  led  to  such  a  consummation. 

Mykbha  return^  with  a  lighted  torch  in  one  Hand, 
and  a  Cup  in  the  other. 
Myr.  Lo ! 

I've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sar.  And  the  cup  ? 

Myr.  'Tis  my  country's  custom  to 

Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

Sar.  And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I've  not 
Forgot  the  custom  ;  and  although  alone, 
WiU  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

[Saedanapalus  takes  the  cvp,  and  after  drink- 
ing and  tinkling  the  reversed  cup,  as  a  drop 
falls,  exclaims — 

And  this  libation 
Is  for  the  excellent  Beleses. 

Myr.  Why 

Dwells  thy  mind  rather  upon  that  man's  name 
Than  on  his  mate's  in  villany  ? 

Sar.  The  one 

Is  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  tool,  a  kind 
Of  human  sword  in  a  friend's  hand  ;  the  other 
Is  master-mover  of  his  warlike  puppet : 
But  I  dismiss  them  from  my  mind. — Yet  pause, 
My  Myrrha  1  dost  thou  truly  follow  mc. 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 

Myr.  And  dost  thou  think 

A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love,  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom  ? 

Sar.  Then  . 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

Myr.  It  is  long 

In  sounding. 

Sar.  Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace. 

Myr.  Embrace,  but  not  the  last ;  there  is  one  more. 

Sar.  True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix  our  ashes. 

Myr.  And  pure  as  is  my  love  to  thee,  shall  they. 
Purged  from  tlie  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly  passion, 
Mix  pale  with  thine.     A  single  thought  yet  irks  me. 

Sar.  Say  it. 

Myr.  It  is  that  no  kind  hand  will  gather 

The  dust  of  both  into  one  um. 


276 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Bar.  The  better  I 

Rather  let  them  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scatter'd  into  air, 
Than  be  polluted  more  by  human  hands 
Of  slaves  and  traitors.     In  this  blazing  palace, 
And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin, 
"We  leave  a  nobler  monument  than  Egypt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick  mountains,  o'er  dead  kings, 
Or  hine,  for  none  know  whether  those  proud  piles 
Be  for  their  monarch,  or  their  ox-god  Apis : 
So  much  for  monuments  that  have  forgotten 
Their  very  record ! 

Myr.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth  ! 

And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  !  farewell,  Ionia  ! 
Be  thou  stiU  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation  !  My  last  prayer 
Was  for  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  one,  were  of  thee ! 

8ar.  And  that? 


Myr.  Is  yours. 

\^The  trumpet  of  Pania  sounds  without. 
8ar.  Hark  t 

Myr.  N'oie ! 

Sir.  Adieu,  Assyria  ! 

I  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  fathers'  land. 
And  better  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 
I  sated  thee  with  peace  and  joys  ;  and  this 
Is  my  reward  I  and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing, 
Not  even  a  grave.  [ZZ«  mounts  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha ! 
Myr.  Art  thou  ready  ? 

8ar.  As  the  torch  in  thy  grasp. 

[Mtbkha  fires  the  pile. 
Myr.  'Tis  fired  !  I  come. 

[As  Mybbha  springs  forward  to  throw  herself 
into  the  flames,  the  Curtain  falls. 


THE    TWO    FOSOARI 

AN    HISTORICAL    TRAGEDY. 


'  The  father  softens,  bnt  the  govertwr '»  resolved."— Critic. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


MBK. 

Francis  Foscabi,  Doge  of  Venice. 
Jacopo  Foscabi,  Son  of  the  Doge. 
James  Loredano,  a  Patrician. 
Marco  Memmo,  a  Chief  of  the  Forty. 
Barbabioo,  a  Senator. 

Other  Senator's,  the  Council  of  Ten, 
Guards,  Attendants,  etc.,  etc. 

WOMAN. 

Marina,  Wife  of  young  Foscabi. 

Scene — the  Ducal  Palace,  Venice. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 

AGT    I. 

SCENE     I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Enter  Loredano  and  Babbabigo,  meeting. 
Lor.  Where  is  the  prisoner  ? 
Par.  Reposing  from 

The  Question. 


Lor.  The  hour's  past — flx'd  yesterday 

For  the  resumption  of  his  trial. — Let  us 
Rejoin  our  colleagues  in  the  council,  and 
Urge  his  recall. 

Par.  Nay,  let  him  profit  by 

A  few  brief  minutes  for  his  tortured  limbs  ; 
He  was  o'erwrought  by  the  Question  yesterday. 
And  may  die  under  it  if  now  repeated. 

Lor.  WeU? 

Par.  I  yield  not  to  you  in  love  of  justice, 

Or  hate  of  the  ambitious  Foscari, 
Father  and  son,  and  all  their  noxious  race  ; 
But  the  poor  wretch  has  suffer'd  beyond  nature's 
Most  stoical  endurance. 

Lor.  Without  owning 

His  crime. 

Par.  Perhaps  without  committing  any. 

But  he  avow'd  the  letter  to  the  Duke 
Of  Milan,  and  his  sufierings  half  atone  for 
Such  weakness. 

Lor.  We  shall  see. 

Bar.  You,  Loredano, 

Pursue  hereditary  hate  too  far. 

Lor.  How  far  ? 

Par.  To  extermination. 

Lor.  When  they  are 

Extinct,  you  may  say  this. — Let's  in  to  council. 


SCBNE   I. 


THE   TWO   FOSCARI. 


277 


Bar.  Yet  pause — the  number  of  our  colleagues  is 
Complete  yet ;  two  are  wanting  ere  we  can  [not 

Proceed. 
Lor.        And  the  chief  judge,  the  Doge  ? 
Bar.  No — ^he, 

"With  more  than  Roman  fortitude,  is  ever 
First  at  the  board  in  this  unhappy  process 
Against  his  last  and  only  son. 

Lor.  True — true — 

His  last. 
Bar.     Will  nothing  move  you  ? 
Lor.  FeeU  he,  think  you  ? 

Bar.  He  shows  it  not. 

Lor.  I  have  marked  that — the  wretch  1 

Ba/r.  But  yesterday,  I  hear,  on  his  return 
To  the  ducal  chambers,  as  he  pass'd  the  threshold, 
The  old  man  fainted. 
Lor.  It  begins  to  work,  then. 

Bar.  The  work  is  half  your  own. 
Lor.  And  should  be  all  mine — 

My  father  and  my  uncle  are  ijo  more. 

Bar.  I  have  read  their  epitaph,  which  says  they 
By  x)oison.  [died 

Lor.  When  the  Doge  declared  that  he 

Should  never  deem  himself  a  sovereign  till 
The  death  of  Pet«r  Loredano,  both 
The  brothers  sicken'd  shortly  : — he  is  sovereign. 
Ba/r.  A  wretched  one. 

Lor.  What  should  they  be  who  make 

Orphans  ? 
Bar.        But  did  the  Doge  make  you  so  ? 
Lor.  Yes. 

Bar.  What  solid  proofs  ? 

Lor.  When  princes  set  themselves 

To  work  in  secret,  proofs  and  process  are 
Alike  made  difficult ;  but  I  have  such 
Of  the  first,  as  shall  make  the  second  needless. 
Baa:  But  you  will  move  by  law  ? 
Lor.  By  all  the  laws 

Which  he  would  leave  us. 

Ba/r.  They  are  such  in  this 

Our  state  as  render  retribution  easier 
Than  'mongst  remoter  nations.    Is  it  true 
That  you  have  written  in  your  books  of  commerce, 
(The  wealthy  practice  of  our  highest  nobles), 
"  Doge  Foscari,  my  debtor  for  the  deaths 
Of  Marco  and  Pietro  Loredano, 
My  sire  and  uncle  ?" 
Lor.  It  is  written  thus. 

Ba/r.  And  will  you  leave  it  unerased  ? 
Lor.  Till  balanced. 

Ba/r.  And  how  ? 

[  Theo  Senators  pass  over  the  stage,  as  in  their  way 
to  "  the  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten." 
Lor.  You  see  the  number  is  complete. 

FoUowme.  [.EW«  Louedano. 

Bar.  (sohis).  Follow  th^  !  I  have  follow'd  long 


Thy  path  of  desolation,  as  the  wave 

Sweeps  after  that  before  it,  alike  whelming 

The  wreck  that  creaks  to  the  wild  winds,  and  wretch 

Who  shrieks  within  its  riven  ribs,  as  gush 

The  waters  through  them ;  but  this  son  and  sire 

Might  move  the  elements  to  pause,  and  yet 

Must  I  on  hardily  like  them — Oh  !  would 

I  could  as  blindly  and  remorselessly  ! — 

Lo,  where  he  comes  ! — Be  still,  my  heart !  they  are 

Thy  foes,  must  be  thy  victims  :  wilt  thou  beat 

For  those  who  almost  broke  thee  ? 

Enter  Guards,  with  young  Foscaki  as  prisoner,  etc. 

Guard.  Let  him  rest. 

Signer,  take  time. 

Joe.  Fos.  I  thank  thee,  friend,  I'm  feeble  ; 

But  thou  mayst  stand  reproved. 

Guard.  I'll  stand  the  hazard. 

Jac.  Fos.  That's  kind  : — I  meet  some  pity,  but  no 
This  is  the  first.  [mercy  ; 

Ovard.  And  might  be  last,  did  they 

Who  rule  behold  us. 

Bar.  {advancing  to  the  Guard).  There  is  one  who 
Yet  fear  not ;  I  will  neither  be  thy  judge  [does  ; 
Nor  thy  accuser  :  though  the  hour  is  past. 

Wait  their  last  summons 1  am  of  "  the  Ten," 

And  waiting  for  that  summons,  sanction  you 
Even  by  my  presence  :  when  the  last  call  sounds. 
We'll  in  together. — Look  well  to  the  prisoner  1 

Jac.  Fos.  Wliat  voice  is  that  ? — 'Tis  Barbarigo's  ! 
Our  house's  foe,  and  one  of  my  few  judges.        [Ah  ! 

Ba/r.  To  balance  such  a  foe,  if  such  there  be. 
Thy  father  sits  amongst  thy  judges. 

Jac.  Fos.  True, 

He  judges. 

Bar.            Then  deem  not  the  laws  too  harsh 
Which  yield  so  much  indulgence  to  a  sire 
As  to  allow  his  voice  in  such  high  matter 
As  the  state's  safety 

Jac.  Fos.  And  his  son's.     I'm  faint ; 

Let  me  approach,  I  pray  you,  for  a  breath 
Of  air,  yon  window  which  o'erlooks  the  waters. 

Fnter  an  Officer,  who  whispers  Bakbarigo. 

Bar.  {to  the  Guard).  Let  him  approach.     I  must 
not  speak  with  him 
Further  than  thus  :  I  have  transgress'd  my  duty 
In  this  brief  parley,  and  must  now  redeem  it 
Within  the  Council  Chamber.        [Exit  Bakbarigo. 

[  Guard  conducting  Jacopo  Foscari  to  the  window. 

Guard.  There,  sir,  'tis 

Open — How  feel  you  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Like  a  boy — Oh,  Venice  1 

Oua/rd.  And  your  limbs  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Limbs  1  how  often  have  they  borne  me 
Bounding  o'er  yon  blue  tide,  as  I  have  skimm'd 


278 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


The  gondola  along  in  childish  race, 

And,  mask'd  as  a  young  gondolier,  amidst 

My  gay  competitors,  noble  as  I, 

Raced  for  our  pleasure,  in  the  pride  of  strength ; 

While  the  fair  populace  of  crowding  beauties, 

Plebeian  as  patrician,  cheer'd  us  on 

With  dazzling  smiles,  and  wishes  audible, 

And  waving  kerchiefs,  and  applauding  hands, 

Even  to  the  goal ! — How  many  a  time  have  I 

Cloven  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast  more  daring. 

The  wave  all  roughen'd ;  with  a  swimmer's  stroke 

Flinging  the  biUows  back  from  my  drench'd  hair, 

And  laughing  from  my  lip  the  audacious  brine, 

Which  kiss'd  it  like  a  wine-cup,  rising  o'er 

The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  stUl 

The  loftier  they  uplifted  me  ;  and  oft. 

In  wantonness  of  spirit,  plunging  down 

Into  their  green  and  glassy  gulfs,  and  making 

My  way  to  shells  and  sea-weed,  all  unseen 

By  those  above,  till  they  wax'd  fearful ;  then 

Ileturning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 

As  show'd  that  I  had  search'd  the  deep  ;  exulting, 

With  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 

The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I  spurn'd 

The  foam  which  broke  around  me,  and  pursued 

My  track  Kke  a  sea-bird.    I  was  a  boy  then. 

Guard.  Be  a  man  now :  there  never  was  more  need 
Of  manhood's  strength.  [my  own, 

Jac.  Fos.  (looking  from  the  lattice  )  My  beautiful. 
My  only  Venice — this  is  hreath  !    The  breeze, 
Thine  Adrian  sea-breeze,  how  it  fans  my  face  1 
Thy  very  winds  feel  native  to  my  veins. 
And  cool  them  into  calmness  !     How  unlike 
The  hot  gales  of  the  horrid  Cyclades, 
Which  howl'd  about  my  Candiote  dungeon,  and 
Made  my  heart  sick. 

Quard.  I  see  the  color  comes      [bear 

Back  to  your  cheek  :  Heaven  send  you  strength  to 
What  more  may  be  imposed  ! — I  dread  to  think  on't. 

Jae.  Fos.  They  will  not  banish  me  again  ? — No — 
Let  them  wring  on ;  I  am  strong  yet.  [no. 

Guard.  Confess, 

And  the  rack  will  be  spared  you. 

Jac,  Fos.  I  confess'd 

Once — twice  before  :  both  times  they  exiled  me. 

Guard.  And  the  third  time  will  slay  you. 

Jac.  Fos.  Let  them  do  so, 

So  I  be  buried  in  my  birthplace  :  better 
Be  ashes  here  than  aught  that  lives  elpewhere. 

Guard.  And  can  you  so  much  love  the  soil  which 
hates  you  ?    ' 

Jae.  Fos.  The  soil  I — Oh,  no  ;  it  is  the  seed  of  the 
Whicli  persecutes  me  ;  but  my  native  earth        [soil 
Will  take  me  as  a  mother  to  her  arms. 
I  ask  no  more  than  a  Venetian  grave, 
A  dungeon,  what  they  will,  so  it  be  here. 


Enter  an  Officer. 

Offi.  Bring  in  the  prisoner  ! 

Guard.  Signor,  you  hear  the  order. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ay,  I  am  used  to  such  a  summons  ;  'tis 
The  third  time  they  have  tortured  me :  then  lend  me 
Thine  arm.  [To  the  Guard. 

Offi.  Take  mine,  sir ;  'tis  my  duty  to 

Be  nearest  to  your  person. 

Jac.  Fos.  You  I — ^you  are  he 

Who  yesterday  presided  o'er  my  pangs — 
Away  ! — I'd  walk  alone. 

Offi.  As  you  please,  signor ; 

The  sentence  was  not  of  my  signing,  but 
I  dared  not  disobey  the  Council  when 
They [engine. 

Jac.  Fos.  Bade  thee  stretch  me  on  their  horrid 
I  pray  thee  touch  me  not-r-that  is,  just  now  ; 
The  time  will  come  they  will  renew  that  order. 
But  keep  oflF  from  me  till  'tis  issued.     As 
I  look  upon  thy  hands,  my  curdling  limbs 
Quiver  with  the  anticipated  wrenching. 
And  the  cold  drops  strain  through  my  brow,  as  if — 
But  onward — I  have  borne  it — ^I  can  bear  it. 
How  looks  my  father  ? 

Offi.  With  his  wonted  aspect. 

Jac.  Fos.  So  does  the  earth,  and  sky,  the  blue  of 
The  brightness  of  our  city,  and  her  domes      [ocean, 
The  mirth  of  her  Piazza,  even  now 
Its  merry  hum  of  nations  pierces  here, 
Even  here,  into  these  chambers  of  the  imknown 
Who  govern,  and  the  unknown  and  the  unnumber'd 
Judged  and  destroy'd  in  silence, — all  things  wear 
The  self-same  aspect,  to  my  very  sire  ! 
Nothing  can  sympathize  with  Foscari, 
Not  even  a  Foscari,— -Sir,  I  attend  you. 

[Exeunt  Jacopo  Foscaki,  Officer,  etc. 

Enter  Mbmmo  a7id  another  Senator. 

Mem.  He's  gone — we  are  too  late : — think  you  "  the 
Will  sit  for  any  length  of  time  to-day  ?  [Ten" 

Sen.  They  say  the  prisoner  is  most  obdurate, 
Persisting  in  his  first  avowal ;  but 
More  I  know  not. 

Mem.  And  that  is  much ;  the  secrets 

Of  yon  terrific  chamber  are  as  hidden 
From  us,  the  premier  nobles  of  the  state. 
As  from  the  people. 

Sen.  Save  the  wonted  rumors. 

Which — like  the  tales  of  spectres,  that  are  rife 
Near  ruin'd  buildings — never  have  been  proved. 
Nor  wholly  disbelieved  :  men  know  as  little 
Of  the  state's  real  acts  as  of  the  grave's 
TJnfathom'd  mysteries. 

Mem.  But  with  length  of  time 

We  gain  a  step  in  knowledge,  and  I  look 
Forward  to  be  one  day  of  the  decemvirs. 

Sen.  Or  Doge  ? 


SCENE   I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


279 


2Iem.  Why,  no ;  not  if  I  can  avoid  it 

Sen.  'Tis  the  first  station  of  the  state,  and  may 

Be  lawfully  desired,  and  lawfully 

Attain'd  by  noble  aspirants. 
Mem.  To  such 

I  leave  it  j  though  bom  noble,  my  ambition 

Is  limited  :  I'd  rather  be  an  unit 

Of  an  imited  and  imperial  "  Ten," 

Than  shine  a  lonely,  though  a  gilded  cipher. 

Whom  have  we  here  ?  the  wife  of  Foscari  ? 

Enter  Mabina,  with  a  female  Attendant. 

Mar.  What,  no  one  ? — I  am  wrong,  there  still  are 
But  they  are  senators.  [two ; 

Mem.  Most  noble  lady, 

Command  us. 

Mar.  I  command  ! — Alas  I  my  life 

Has  been  one  long  entreaty,  and  a  vain  one. 

Mem.  I  imderstand  thee,  but  I  must  not  answer. 

Mar.  (Jiercely.)  True — none  dare  answer  here  save 
Or  question  save  those [on  the  rack, 

Mem.  {interrupting  her.)  High-bom  dame !  be- 
Where  thou  now  art.  [think  thee 

Mar.  Where  I  now  am  !     It  was 

My  husband's  father's  palace. 

Mem.  The  Duke's  palace. 

Mar.  And  his  son's  prison  ! — true,  I  have  not  for- 
And  if  there  were  no  other  nearer,  bitterer  [got  it ; 
Eemembrances,  would  thank  the  illustrious  Memmo 
For  pointing  out  the  pleasures  of  the  place. 

Mem.  Be  calm  ! 

Mar.  (looking  up  towards  heaven.)    I  am ;  but  oh, 
thou  eternal  God  1 
Canst  thou  continue  so,  with  such  a  world  ? 

Mem.  Thy  husband  yet  may  be  absolved. 

Mar.  He  is, 

In  heaven.    I  pray  you,  signor  senator, 
Speak  not  of  that ;  you  are  a  man  of  oflBce, 
So  is  the  Doge ;  he  has  a  son  at  stake, 
Now,  at  this  moment,  and  I  have  a  husband, 
Or  had ;  they  are  there  within,  or  were  at  least 
An  hour  since,  face  to  face,  as  judge  and  culprit : 
Will  he  condemn  him  f 

Mem.  I  trust  not. 

Mar.  But  if 

He  does  not,  there  are  those  will  sentence  both. 

Mem.  They  can. 

Mar.  And  with  them  power  and  will  are  one 

In  wickedness  : — my  husband's  lost  1 

Mem.  Not  so ; 

Justice  is  judge  in  Venice. 

Mar.  If  it  were  so. 

There  now  would  be  no  Venice.    But  let  it 
Live  on,  so  the  good  die  not,  till  the  hour 
Of  nature's  summons  ;  but  "  the  Ten's  "  is  quicker. 
And  we  must  wait  on't.    Ah,  a  voice  of  wail ! 

{A  faint  cry  leithin. 


Sen.  Hark ! 

Mem.  'Twas  a  cry  of— 

Mar.  No,  no  ;  not  my  husband's — 

Not  Foscari's. 

Mem.  The  voice  was 

Mar.  Not  his :  no. 

He  shriek  1    No  ;  that  should  be  his  father's  part, 
Not  his — not  his — he'U  die  in  silence. 

[A  faint  groan  again  within. 

Mem.  What  1 

Again  ? 

Mar.  His  voice  1  it  seem'd  so  :  I  will  not 
Believe  it.     Should  he  shrink,  I  cannot  cease 
To  love ;  but — no — no — no— it  must  have  been 
A  fearful  pang  which  wrung  a  groan  from  him. 

Sen.  And,  feeling  for  thy  husband's  wrongs,  wouldst 
thou 
Have  him  bear  more  than  mortal  pain,  in  silence  ? 

Mar.  We  all  must  bear  our  tortures.    I  have  not 
Left  barren  the  great  house  of  Foscari, 
Though  they  sweep  both  the  Doge  and  son  from 
I  have  endured  as  much  in  giving  life  [Ufe ; 

To  those  who  will  succeed  them  as  they  can 
In  leaving  it :  but  mine  were  joyful  pangs  : 
And  yet  they  wrung  me  till  I  could  have  shriek'd, 
But  did  not ;  for  my  hope  was  to  bring  forth 
Heroes,  and  would  not  welcome  them  with  tears. 

Mem.  AH'8  silent  now. 

Mar.  Perhaps  all's  over  ;  but 

I  will  not  deem  it :  he  hath  nerved  himself. 
And  now  defies  them. 

Enter  an  Officer  liastily. 

Mem.  How  now,  Mend,  what  seek  you  ? 

Offi.  A  leech.    The  prisoner  has  fainted. 

{Exit  Officer. 

Mem.  Lady, 

'Twere  better  to  retire. 

Sen.  (offering  to  assist  her.)  I  pray  thee  do  so. 

Mar.  OS  1  I  wiU  tend  him. 

Mem.  You  !    Remember,  lady  1 

Ingress  is  given  to  none  within  those  chambers, 
Except  "  the  Ten,"  and  their  familiars. 

Mar.  Well, 

I  know  that  none  who  enter  there  return 
As  they  have  enter'd — many  never  ;  but 
They  shall  not  balk  my  entrance. 

Mem.  Alas  !  this 

Is  but  to  expose  yourself  to  harsh  repulse, 
And  worse  suspense. 

Mar.  Who  shall  oppose  me  f 

Mem.  They 

Whose  duty  'tis  to  do  so. 

Mar.  'Tis  tlietr  duty 

To  trample  on  all  human  feelings,  all 
Ties  which  bind  man  to  man,  to  emulate 
The  fiends,  who  will  one  day  requite  them  in 


280 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I, 


Variety  of  torturing  !    Yet  I'll  pass. 

Mem.  It  is  impossible. 

Mar.  That  shall  be  tried 

Despair  defies  even  despotism  :  there  is 
That  in  my  heart  would  make  its  way  through  hosts 
With  levell'd  spears  ;  and  think  you  a  few  jailers 
Shall  put  me  from  my  path  ?    Give  me,  then,  way ; 
This  is  the  Doge's  palace ;  I  am  wife 
Of  the  Duke's  son,  the  innocent  Duke's  son, 
And  they  shall  hear  this  1 

Mem.  It  will  only  serve 

More  to  exasperate  his  judges. 

Mar.  What 

Are  judges  who  give  way  to  anger  f  they 
Who  do  so  are  assassins.    Give  me  way. 

l^Exit  Mabina. 

Sen.  Poor  lady ! 

Mem.  'Tis  mere  desperation  :  she 

WUl  not  be  admitted  o'er  the  threshold. 

Sen.  And 

Even  if  she  be  so,  cannot  save  her  husband. 
But,  see,  the  officer  returns. 
[^The  Officer  passes  over  the  stage  with  another  person. 

Mem.  I  hardly 

Thought  that "  the  Ten"  had  even  this  touch  of  pity, 
Or  would  permit  assistance  to  this  sufierer. 

Sen.  Pity  !     Is't  pity  to  recall  to  feeling 
The  wretch  too  happy  to  escape  to  death. 
By  the  compassionate  trance,  poor  nature's  last 
Resource  against  the  t3Tanny  of  pain  ? 

Mem.  I  marvel  they  condemn  him  not  at  once. 

Sen.  That's  not  their  policy  :  they'd  have  him  live, 
Because  he  fears  not  death  ;  and  banish  him. 
Because  all  earth,  except  his  native  land, 
To  him  is  one  wide  prison,  and  each  breath 
Of  foreign  air  he  draws  seems  a  slow  poison, 
Consuming  but  not  killing. 

Mem.  Circumstance 

Confirms  his  crimes,  but  he  avows  them  not.      [ten, 

Sen.  None,  save  the  Letter,  which  he  says  was  writ- 
Address'd  to  Milan's  duke,  in  the  full  knowledge 
That  it  would  fall  into  the  senate's  hands, 
And  thus  he  should  be  reconvey'd  to  Venice. 

Mem.  But  as  a  culprit. 

Sen.  Yes,  but  to  his  country ; 

And  that  was  all  he  sought, — so  he  avouches. 

Mem.  The  accusation  of  the  bribes  was  proved. 

Sen.  Not  clearly,  and  the  charge  of  homicide 
Has  been  annull'd  by  the  death-bed  confession 
Of  Nicolas  Erizzo,  who  slew  the  late 
Chief  of  "the  Ten." 

Mem.  Then  why  not  clear  him  ? 

Sen.  That 

They  ought  to  answer  ;  for  it  is  weU  known 
That  Almoro  Donato,  as  I  said. 
Was  slain  by  Erizzo  for  private  vengeance.       [than 

Mem.  There  must  be  more  in  this  strange  process 


The  apparent  crimes  of  the  accused  disclose — 
But  here  come  two  of  "  the  Ten ;"  let  us  retire. 

[^Exeunt  Memmo  and  Senator. 

Enter  Lobedano  and  Bakbakigo. 

Ba/r.  (addressing  Lob.)  That  were  too  much :  be- 
lieve me,  'twas  not  meet 
The  trial  should  go  further  at  this  moment. 

Lor.  And  so  the  Council  must  break  up,  and  Jus- 
Pause  in  her  fuU  career,  because  a  woman  [tice 
Breaks  in  on  our  dehberations  ? 

Bar.  No, 

That's  not  the  cause ;  you  saw  the  prisoner's  state. 

Lor.  And  had  he  not  recover'd  ? 

Bar.  To  relapse 

Upon  the  least  renewal. 

Lor.  'Twas  not  tried. 

Bar.  'Tis  vain  to  murmur  ;  the  majority 
In  council  were  against  you. 

Lor.  Thanks  to  you,  sir, 

And  the  old  ducal  dotard,  who  combined 
The  worthy  voices  which  o'erruled  my  own. 

Bar.  I  am  a  judge  ;  but  must  confess  that  part 
Of  our  stern  duty,  which  prescribes  the  Question, 
And  bids  us  sit  and  see  its  sharp  infliction. 
Makes  me  wish 

Lor.  What  J 

Bar.  That  you  would  sometimes  feel, 

As  I  do  always. 

Lor.  Go  to,  you're  a  child. 

Infirm  of  feeling  as  of  purpose,  blown 
About  by  every  breath,  shook  by  a  sigh. 
And  melted  by  a  tear — a  precious  judge 
For  Venice  1  and  a  worthy  statesman  to 
Be  partner  in  my  policy  ! 

Bar.  He  shed 

No  tears. 

Lor.       He  cried  out  twice. 

Bar.  A  saint  had  done  so, 

Even  with  the  crown  of  glory  in  his  eye. 
At  such  inhuman  artifice  of  pain 
As  was  forced  on  him ;  but  he  did  not  cry 
For  pity ;  not  a  word  nor  groan  escaped  him. 
And  those  two  shrieks  were  not  in  supplication. 
But  wrung  from  pangs,  and  follow'd  by  no  prayers. 

Lor.  He  mutter'd  many  times  between  his  teeth, 
But  inarticulately. 

Bar.  That  I  heard  not ; 

You  stood  more  near  him. 

Lor.  I  did  so. 

Bar.  Methought, 

To  my  surprise  too,  you  were  touch'd  with  mercy, 
And  were  the  first  to  call  out  for  assistance 
When  he  was  failing. 

Lor.  I  believed  that  swoon 

His  last. 

Bar.        And  have  I  not  oft  heard  thee  name 


SCENE    I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


281 


His  and  his  father's  death  your  nearest  -wish  ? 

Lor.  If  he  dies  innocent,  that  is  to  say, 
"With  his  guilt  unavow'd,  he'll  be  lamented. 

Bar.  What,  wouldst  thou  slay  his  memory  ? 

Lor.  Wouldst  thou  have 

His  state  descend  to  his  children,  as  it  must, 
If  he  die  unattainted  ? 

Bar.  War  ^th  them  too  ? 

Lor.  With  all  their  house,  till  theirs  or  mine  are 
nothing. 

Bar.  And  the  deep  agony  of  his  pale  wife. 
And  the  repress'd  convulsion  of  the  high 
And  princely  brow  of  his  old  father,  which 
Broke  forth  in  a  slight  shuddering,  though  rarely, 
Or  in  some  clammy  drops,  soon  wiped  away 
In  stem  serenity ;  these  moved  you  not  ? 

{Exit  LOREDANO. 

He's  silent  in  his  hate,  as  Foscari 

Was  in  his  suffering ;  and  the  poor  wretch  moved 

More  by  his  silence  than  a  thousand  outcries       [me 

Could  have  effected.     'Twas  a  dreadful  sight 

When  his  distracted  wife  broke  through  into 

The  hall  of  our  tribunal,  and  beheld 

What  we  could  scarcely  look  upon,  long  used 

To  such  sights.     I  must  think  no  more  of  this, 

Lest  I  forget  in  this  compassion  for 

Our  foes,  our  former  injuries,  and  lose 

The  hold  of  vengeance  Loredano  plans 

For  him  and  me  ;  but  mine  would  be  content 

With  lesser  retribution  than  he  thirsts  for 

And  I  would  mitigate  his  deeper  hatred 

To  milder  thoughts  ;  but  for  the  present,  Foscari 

Has  a  short  hourly  respite,  granted  at 

The  instance  of  the  elders  of  the  Council, 

Moved  doubtless  by  his  wife's  appearance  in 

The  hall,  and  his  own  sufferings.    Lo  !  they  come  : 

How  feeble  and  forlorn  !     I  cannot  bear 

To  look  on  them  again  in  this  extremity  : 

I'll  hence,  and  try  to  soften  Loredano. 

[^Exit  Barbabigo. 

ACT  n. 

SCENE      I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Dogb'b  Palace. 
The  Doge  and  a  Senator. 

Ben.  Is  it  your  pleasure  to  sign  the  report 
Now,  or  postpone  it  till  to-morrow  ? 

Doge.  Now ; 

I  overlook'd  it  yesterday  :  it  wants 
Merely  the  signature.     Give  me  the  pen — 

[  I'hc  Doge  sits  down  and  signs  the  paper. 
There,  signor.  [not  sign'd. 

Sen.  {looking  at  the  paper.)  You  have  forgot ;  it  is 

Doge.  Not  sign'd  ?    Ah,  I  perceive  my  eyes  begin 
To  wax  more  weak  with  age.    I  did  not  see 
That  I  had  dipp'd  the  pen  without  effect. 
36 


Sen.  (dipping  the  pen  into  the  inh,  and  placing  the 
paper  iefore  the  Doge.)  Tour  hand,  too  shakes, 
my  lord  :  allow  me,  thus— 

Doge.  'Tis  done,  I  thank  you. 

Sen.  Thus  the  act  confirm'd 

By  you  and  by  "the  Ten"  gives  peace  to  Venice. 

Doge.  'Tis  long  since  she  enjoy'd  it :  may  it  be 
As  long  ere  she  resume  her  arms  ! 

Sen.  'Tis  almost 

Thirty-four  years  of  nearly  ceaseless  warfare 
With  the  Turk,  or  the  powers  of  Italy ; 
The  state  had  need  of  some  repose. 

Doge.  No  doubt : 

I  found  her  Queen  of  Ocean,  and  I  leave  her 
Lady  of  Lombardy  :  it  is  a  comfort 
That  I  have  added  to  her  diadem 
The  gems  of  Brescia  and  Ravenna ;  Crema 
And  Bergamo  no  less  are  hers  ;  her  realm 
By  land  has  grown  by  thus  much  in  my  reign, 
While  her  sea-sway  has  not  shrunk. 

Sen.  'Tis  most  true, 

And  merits  aU  our  country's  gratitude. 

Doge.  Perhaps  so. 

Sen.  Which  should  be  made  manifest. 

Doge.  I  have  not  complain'd,  sir. 

Sen.  My  good  lord,  forgive  me. 

Doge.  For  what  ? 

Sen.  My  heart  bleeds  for  you. 

Doge.  For  me,  signor ! 

Sen.  And  for  your 

Doge.  Stop ! 

Sen.  It  must  have  way,  my  lord : 

I  have  too  many  duties  towards  you 
And  all  your  house,  for  past  and  present  kindness, 
Not  to  feel  deeply  for  your  son. 

Doge.  Was  this 

In  your  commission  ? 

Sen.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Doge.  This  prattle 

Of  things  you  know  not :  but  the  treaty's  sign'd  : 
Return  with  it  to  them  who  sent  you. 

Sen.  I 

Obey.     I  had  in  charge,  too,  from  the  Council 
That  you  would  fix  an  hour  for  their  reunion. 

Doge.  Say,  when  they  will — now,  even  at  this  mo- 
If  it  so  please  them  :  I  am  the  state's  servant,  [ment, 

Sen.  They  would  accord  some  time  for  your  repose. 

Doge.  I  have  no  repose  ;  that  is,  none  which  shaU 
The  loss  of  an  hour's  time  unto  the  state.         [cause 
Let  them  meet  when  they  will,  I  shall  be  found 
Where  I  should  be,  and  what  I  have  been  ever. 

[Exit  Senator. 
[The  DooB  remains  in  silence. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Att.  Prince ! 

Doge.  Say  on. 


282 


BYEOIST'S  WOEKS. 


ACT  II. 


Att.  The  illustrious  lady  Foscari 

Requests  an  audience. 

Doge,  Bid  her  enter.    Poor 

Marina !  [Bxit  Attendant. 

[  The  Doge  remains  in  silence  as  he/ore. 

Unier  MAErtTA. 

Ifar.  I  have  ventured,  father,  on 
Your  privacy. 

Doge.  I  have  none  from  you,  my  child. 

Command  my  time,  when  not  commanded  by 
The  state. 

Mar.  I  vrish'd  to  speak  to  you  of  him. 

Doge.  Your  husband  ? 

Miir.  And  your  son. 

Doge.  Proceed,  my  daughter  ! 

Mar.  I  had  obtain'd  permission  from  "the  Ten" 
To  attend  my  husband  for  a  limited  number 
Of  hours. 

Doge.      You  had  so. 

Mar.  'Tis  revoked. 

Doge.  By  whom  ? 

Mar.  "The  Ten."    When  we  had  reach'd  "the 
Bridge  of  Sighs," 
Which  I  prepared  to  pass  with  Foscari, 
The  gloomy  guardian  of  that  passage  first 
Demurr'd  :  a  messenger  was  sent  back  to 
"  The  Ten  ;"  but  as  the  court  no  longer  sate. 
And  no  permission  had  been  given  in  writing, 
I  was  thrust  back,  with  the  assurance  that 
Until  that  high  tribunal  reassembled. 
The  dungeon  walls  must  still  divide  us. 

Doge.  True, 

The  form  has  been  omitted  in  the  haste 
With  which  the  court  adjoum'd ;  and  till  it  meets, 
'Tis  dubious. 

Mar.  Till  it  meets  1  and  when  it  meets. 

They'll  torture  him  again  ;  and  he  and  I 
Must  purchase,  by  renewal  of  the  rack, 
The  interview  of  husband  and  of  wife. 
The  holiest  tie  beneath  the  heavens  !    O  God  1 
Dost  thou  see  this  ? 

Doge.  Child— child 

Mar.  {abruptly/.)  Call  me  not  "  child  1" 

You  soon  will  have  no  children — you  deserve  none — 
You,  who  can  talk  thus  calmly  of  a  son 
In  circumstances  which  would  call  forth  tears 
Of  blood  from  Spartans  !    Though  these  did  not 
Their  boys  who  died  in  battle,  is  it  written      [weep 
That  they  beheld  them  perish  piecemeal,  nor 
Stretch'd  forth  a  hand  to  save  them  ? 

Doge.  You  behold  me  : 

I  cannot  weep — ^I  would  I  could ;  but  if 
Each  white  hair  on  this  head  were  a  young  life. 
This  ducal  cap  the  diadem  of  earth. 
This  ducal  ring  with  which  I  wed  the  waves 
A  talisman  to  still  them — I'd  give  all 
For  him. 


Mar.      With  less  he  surely  might  be  saved. 

Doge.  That  answer  only  shows  you  know  not  Ven- 
Alas  !  how  should  you  ?  she  knows  not  herself,  [ice. 
In  all  her  mystery.     Hear  me — they  who  aim 
At  Foscari,  aim  no  less  at  his  father ; 
The  sire's  destruction  would  not  save  the  son  ; 
They  work  by  different  means  to  the  same  end. 
And  that  is but  they  have  not  conquer'd  yet. 

Mar.  But  they  have  crush'd. 

Doge.  Nor  crush'd  as  yet — ^I  live. 

Mar.  And  your  son, — ^how  long  will  he  live  ? 

Doge.  I  trust, 

For  aU  that  yet  is  past,  as  many  years 
And  happier  than  his  father.     The  rash  boy, 
With  womanish  impatience  to  return. 
Hath  ruin'd  all  by  that  detected  letter ; 
A  high  crime,  which  I  neither  can  deny 
Nor  palliate,  as  parent  or  as  Duke  : 
Had  he  but  borne  a  little,  little  longer 

His  Candiote  exile,  I  had  hopes ^he  has  quench'd 

He  must  return.  thcin — 

Mar.  To  exile  ? 

Doge.  I  have  said  it. 

Mar.  And  can  I  not  go  with  him  ? 

Doge.  You  well  know 

This  prayer  of  yours  was  twice  denied  before 
By. the  assembled  "  Ten,"  and  hardly  now 
Will  be  accorded  to  a  third  request. 
Since  aggravated  errors  on  the  part 
Of  your  lord  renders  them  still  more  austere. 

,Mar.  Austere  ?  Atrocious  !  The  old  human  fiends. 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave,  with  dim  eyes,  strange 
To  tears  save  drops  of  dotage,  with  long  white 
And  scanty  hairs,  and  shaking  hands,  and  heads 
As  palsied  as  their  hearts  are  hard,  they  council. 
Cabal,  and  put  men's  lives  out,  as  if  life 
Were  no  more  than  the  feelings  long  extinguish'd 
In  their  accursed  bosoms. 

Doge.  You  know  not 

Mar.  I  do — I  do — and  so  should  you,  methinks — 
That  these  are  demons  :  could  it  be  else  that 
Men,  who  have  been  of  women  bom  and  suckled — 
Who  have  loved,  or  talk'd  at  least  of  love — have  given 
Their  hands  in  sacred  vows — have  danced  their  babes 
Upon  their  knees,  perhaps  have  mourn'd  above  them — 
In  pain,  in  peril,  or  in  death — who  are. 
Or  were  at  least  in  seeming,  human,  could 
Do  as  they  have  done  by  yours,  and  you  yourself. 
You,  who  abet  them  ? 

Doge.  1  forgive  this,  for 

You  know  not  what  you  say. 

Mar.  You  know  it  well, 

And  feel  it  nothing. 

Doge.  I  have  borne  so  much, 

That  words  have  ceased  to  shake  me. 

Mar.  Oh,  no  doubt  1 


SCEIfE   I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


283 


Tou  have  seen  your  son's  blood  flow,  and  your  flesh 

shook  not : 

And,  after  that,  what  are  a  woman's  words  ?      [you. 

No  more  than  woman's  tears,  that  they  should  shake 

Doge.  Woman,  tliis  clamorous  grief  of  thine,  I  teU 

Is  no  more  in  the  balance  weigh'd  with  that    [thee. 

Which but  I  pity  thee,  my  poor  Marina  1 

Mar.  Pity  my  husband,  or  I  cast  it  from  me  ; 
Pity  thy  son  !     Thou  pity  ! — 'tis  a  word 
Strange  to  thy  heart — how  came  it  on  thy  lips  ? 
Doge.  I  must  bear  these  reproaches,  though  they 

Couldst  thou  but  read [wrong  me. 

Mar.  'Tis  not  upon  thy  brow. 

Nor  in  thine  eyes,  nor  in  thine  acts, — where  then 
Should  I  behold  this  sympathy  ?  or  shall  ? 
Doge,  {pointing  downwards.)  There  ! 
Mar.  In  the  earth  ? 

Doge.  To  which  I  am  tending  :  when 

It  lies  upon  this  heart,  far  lightlier,  though 
Loaded  with  marble,  than  the  thoughts  which  press 
Now,  you  will  know  me  better.  [it 

Mar'.  Are  you,  then, 

Indeed,  thus  to  be  pitied  ? 

Doge.  Pitied  I    None 

Shall  ever  use  that  base  word,  with  which  men 
Cloak  their  soul's  hoarded  triumph,  as  a  fit  one 
To  mingle  with  my  name  ;  that  name  shall  be, 
As  far  as  I  have  borne  it,  what  it  was 
When  I  received  it. 

Mar.  But  for  the  poor  children 

Of  him  thou  canst  not,  or  thou  wilt  not  save. 
You  were  the  last  to  bear  it. 

Doge.  Would  it  were  so  I 

Better  for  him  he  never  had  been  bom  ; 
Better  for  me.     I  have  seen  our  house  dishonor'd. 

Mar.  That's  false  !    A  truer,  nobler,  trustier  heart, 
More  loving,  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 
Within  a  human  breast.     I  would  not  change 
My  exiled,  persecuted,  mangled  husband, 
Oppress'd  but  not  disgraced,  crush'd,  overwhelm'd, 
Alive,  or  dead,  for  prince  or  paladin 
In  story  or  in  fable,  with  a  world 
To  back  his  suit.    Dishonor'd  1 — he — dishonor'd  ! 
I  tell  thee.  Doge,  'tis  Venice  is  dishonor'd  ; 
His  name  shall  be  her  foulest,  worst  reproach, 
For  what  he  suffers,  not  for  what  he  did. 
'Tis  ye  who  are  all  traitors,  tyrants  ; — ye  ! 
Did  you  but  love  your  country  like  this  victim 
Who  totters  back  in  chains  to  tortures,  and 
Submits  to  all  things  rather  than  to  exile, 
You'd  fling  yourselves  before  him,  and  implore 
His  grace  for  your  enormous  guilt. 

Doge.  He  was 

Indeed  all  you  have  said.    I  better  bore 
The  deaths  of  the  two  sons  Heaven  took  from  me, 
Than  Jacopo's  disgrace. 
Mar.  That  word  again  ? 


Doge.  Has  he  not  been  condemn'd  ? 

Mar.  Is  none  but  guilt  so  1 

Doge.  Time  may  restore  his  memory — I  would  hope 

He  was  my  pride,  my but  'tis  useless  now —  [so. 

I  am  not  given  to  tears,  but  wept  for  joy 
When  he  was  bom  :  those  drops  were  ominous. 

Miir.  I  say  he's  innocent !    And  were  he  not  so, 
Is  our  own  blood  and  kin  to  shrink  from  us 
In  fatal  moments  1 

Doge.  I  shrank  not  from  him : 

But  I  have  other  duties  than  a  father's ; 
The  state  would  not  dispense  me  from  those  duties  : 
Twice  I  demanded  it,  but  was  refused  : 
They  must  then  be  fulfiU'd. 


Att. 
"  The  Ten." 
Doge. 
Att. 

Doge.  He  !- 
Mar. 


Enter  an  Attendant. 

A  message  from 

Who  bears  it  ? 

Noble  Loredano. 
-but  admit  him.  [Exit  Attendant. 

Must  I  then  retire  ? 

Doge.  Perhaps  it  is  not  requisite,  if  this 

Concerns  your  husband,  and  if  not Well,  signor, 

Your  pleasure  I  [  To  Loeedano  entering. 

Lor.  I  bear  that  of  •'  the  Ten." 

Doge.  They 

Have  chosen  well  their  envoy. 

Lor.  'Tis  their  choice 

Which  leads  me  here. 

Doge.  It  does  their  wisdom  honor, 

And  no  less  to  their  courtesy.     Proceed. 

Lor.  We  have  decided. 

We? 

Lor.  "  The  Ten"  in  council. 

Doge.  What !  have  they  met  again,  and  met  with- 
Apprizing  me  ?  [out 

Lor.  They  wish'd  to  spare  your  feelings. 

No  less  than  age. 

Doge.  That's  new — when  spared  they  either  ? 

I  thank  them,  notwithstanding. 

Lor.  You  know  well 

That  they  have  power  to  act  at  their  discretion. 
With  or  without  the  presence  of  the  Doge.        [fore 

Doge.  'Tis  some  years  since  I  leam'd  this,  long  be- 
I  became  Doge,  or  dream'd  of  such  advancement. 
You  need  not  school  me,  signor :  I  sate  in 
That  council  when  you  were  a  young  patrician. 

Lor.  Trae,  in  my  father's  time  ;  I  have  heard  him 
The  admiral,  his  brother,  say  as  much.  [and 

Your  highness  may  remember  them ;  they  both 
Died  suddenly. 

Doge.  And  if  they  did  so,  better 

So  die  than  live  on  Ungeringly  in  pain. 

Lor.  No  doubt :  yet  most  men  like  to  live  their 

Doge.  And  did  not  they  ?  [days  out 


284 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


ACT  II. 


Lor.  The  grave  knows  best :  they  died, 

As  I  said,  suddenly. 

Boge.  Is  that  so  strange. 

That  you  repeat  the  word  emphatically  ? 

Lor.  So  far  from  strange,  that  never  was  there 
In  my  mind  half  so  natutal  as  theirs.  [death 

Think  you  not  so  ? 

Boge.  What  should  I  think  of  mortals  ? 

Lor.  That  they  have  mortal  foes. 

Boge.  I  understand  you  ; 

Tour  sires  were  mine,  and  you  are  heir  in  all  things. 

Lor.  You  best  know  if  I  should  be  so. 

Boge.  I  do. 

Tour  fathers  were  my  foes,  and  I  have  heard 
Foul  rumors  were  abroad  ;  I  have  also  read 
Their  epitaph,  attributing  their  deaths 
To  poison.     'Tis  perhaps  as  true  as  most 
Inscriptions  upon  tombs,  and  yet  no  less 
A  fable. 

Lor.      Who  dares  says  so  ? 

Boge.  I ! 'Tis  true 

Your  fathers  were  mine  enemies,  as  bitter 
As  their  son  e'er  can  be,  and  I  no  less 
Was  theirs  ;  but  I  was  openly  their  foe  : 
I  never  work'd  by  plot  in  council,  nor 
Cabal  in  commonwealth,  nor  secret  means 
Of  practice  against  life  by  steel  or  drug. 
The  proof  is,  your  existence. 

Lor.  I  fear  not.       [were  I 

Boge.  You  have  no  cause,  being  what  I  am  ;  but 
That  you  would  have  me  thought,  you  long  ere  now 
*  Were  past  the  sense  of  fear.    Hate  on  ;  I  care  not. 

Lor.  I  never  yet  knew  that  a  noble's  life 
In  Venice  had  to  dread  a  Doge's  frown. 
That  is,  by  open  means. 

Boge.  But  I,  good  signer. 

Am,  or  least  icnn,  more  than  a  mere  duke. 
In  blood,  in  mind,  in  means  ;  and  that  they  know 
Who  dreaded  to  elect  me,  and  have  since 
Striven  all  they  dare  to  weigh  me  down  :  be  sure, 
Before  or  since  that  period,  had  I  held  you 
At  so  much  price  as  to  require  your  absence, 
A  word  of  mine  had  set  such  spirits  to  work 
As  would  have  made  you  nothing.     But  in  aU  things 
I  have  observed  the  strictest  reverence  ; 
Not  for  the  laws  alone,  for  those  you  have  strain'd 
(I  do  not  speak  of  you  but  as  a  single 
Voice  of  the  many)  somewhat  beyond  what 
I  could  enforce  for  my  authority, 
Were  I  disposed  to  brawl ;  but,  as  I  said, 
I  have  observed  with  veneration,  like 
A  priest's  for  the  high  altar,  even  unto 
The  sacrifice  of  my  own  blood  and  quiet. 
Safety,  and  all  save  honor,  the  decrees, 
The  health,  the  pride,  and  welfare  of  the  state. 
And  now,  sir,  to  your  business. 

Lor.  'Tis  decreed, 


That,  without  farther  repetition  of 

The  Question,  or  continuance  of  the  trial. 

Which  only  tends  to  show  how  stubborn  guilt  is, 

("  Tlie  Ten,"  dispensing  with  the  stricter  law 

Which  stiU  prescribes  the  Question  till  a  full 

Confession,  and  the  prisoner  partly  having 

Avow'd  his  crime  in  not  denying  that 

The  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan  's  his), 

James  Foscari  return  to  banishment. 

And  sail  in  the  same  galley  which  conveyed  him. 

Ma/r.  Thank  God  !     At  least  they  will  not  drag 
Before  that  horrid  tribunal.     Would  he     [him  more 
But  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom, 
Not  he  alone,  but  all  who  dwell  hero,  could 
Desire,  were  to  escape  from  such  a  land. 

Boge.  That  is  not  a  Venetian  thought,  my  daughter, 

Mar.  No,  'twas  too  human.    May  I  share  his  exile  ? 

Lor.  Of  this  "  the  Ten  "  said  nothing. 

Mar.  So  I  thought  I 

That  were  too  human,  also.    But  it  was  not 
Inhibited  ? 

Lor.  It  was  not  namedL 

Mar.  (to  the  Boge).  Then,  father, 

Surely  you  can  obtain  or  grant  me  thus  much  : 

[To  LOKEDANO. 

And  you,  sir,  not  oppose  my  prayer  to  be 
Permitted  to  accompany  my  husband. 

Boge.  I  will  endeavor. 

Mar.  And  you,  signor  ? 

Lor.  Lady  1 

'Tis  not  for  me  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
Of  the  tribunal. 

Mar.                    Pleasure  !  what  a  word 
To  use  for  the  decrees  of 

Bnge.  Daughter,  know  you 

In  what  a  presence  you  pronounce  these  things  ? 

Mar.  A  prince's  and  his  subject's. 

Lor.  Subject  1 

Mar.  Oh  I 

It  galls  you : — well,  you  are  his  equal,  as 
Tou  think  ;  but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be, 
Were  he  a  peasant : — well,  then,  you're  a  prince, 
A  princely  noble  ; — and  what  then  am  I  ? 

Lor.  The  offspring  of  a  noble  house. 

Mar.  And  wedded 

To  one  as  noble.    What,  or  whose,  then,  is 
The  presence  that  should  silence  my  free  thoughts  ? 

ior.  The  presence  of  your  husband's  judges. 

Boge.  And 

The  deference  due  even  to  the  Ughtest  word 
That  falls  from  those  who  rule  in  Venice. 

Mar.  Keep 

Those  maxims  for  your  mass  of  scared  mechanics, 
Tour  merchants,  your  Dalmatian  and  Greek  slaves, 
Tour  tributaries,  yoiu"  dumb  citizens, 
And  mask'd  nobility,  your  sbirri,  and 
Tour  spies,  your  galley  and  your  other  slaves. 


SCENX   I. 


THE   TWO   FOSCARI. 


285 


To  whom  your  midnight  carryings  off  and  drown- 
your  dungeons  next  the  palace  roofs,  or  under  [ings, 
The  water's  level ;  your  mysterious  meetings, 
And  unknown  dooms,  and  sudden  executions, 
Your  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  your  strangling  chamber, 
Tour  torturing  instruments,  have  made  ye  seem  [and 
The  beings  of  another  and  worse  world  I 
Keep  such  for  them  :  I  fear  ye  not.     I  know  ye  ; 
Have  known  and  proved  your  worst,  in  the  infernal 
Process  of  my  poor  husband  t     Treat  me  as 
Ye  treated  him  : — you  did  so,  in  so  dealing 
With  him.     Then  what  have  I  to  fear  from  you, 
Even  if  I  were  of  fearful  nature,  which 
I  trust  I  am  not  ? 

Doge.  You  hear,  she  speaks  wildly. 

Mar.  Not  wisely,  yet  not  wildly. 

Lor.  Lady  !  words 

Utter'd  within  these  walls  I  bear  no  further 
Than  to  the  threshold,  saving  such  as  pass 
Between  the  Duke  and  me  on  the  state's  service. 
Doge !  have  you  aught  in  answer  ? 

Dnge.  Something  from 

The  Doge  ;  it  may  be  also  from  a  parent. 

Lr.  My  mission  here  is  to  the  I)oge. 

Doge.  Then  say 

The  Doge  will  choose  his  own  ambassador. 
Or  state  in  person  what  is  meet ;  and  for 
The  father 

Lor.  I  remember  mine. — Farewell ! 

I  kiss  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  lady, 
And  bow  me  to  the  Duke.  \^E.dt  Lobedano. 

Mar.  Are  you  content  ? 

Doge.  I  am  what  you  behold. 

Mar.  And  that's  a  mystery. 

Doge.  All  things  are  so  to  mortals  ;  who  can  read 
Save  he  who  made  ?  or,  if  they  can,  the  few    [them 
And  gifted  spirits,  who  have  studied  long 
That  loathsome  volume — man,  and  pored  upon 
Those  black  and  bloody  leaves,  his  heart  and  brain. 
But  learn  a  magic  which  recoils  upon 
The  adept  who  pursues  it :  aU  the  sins 
We  find  in  others,  nature  made  our  own ; 
All  our  advantages  are  those  of  fortune  ; 
Birth,  wealth,  health,  beauty,  are  her  accidents. 
And  when  we  cry  out  against  Fate,  'twere  well 
We  should  remember  Fortune  can  take  naught 
Save  what  she  gate — the  rest  was  nakedness. 
And  lusts,  and  appetites,  and  vanities, 
The  universal  heritage,  to  battle 
With  as  we  may,  and  least  in  humblest  stations, 
Where  hunger  swallows  all  in  one  low  want, 
And  the  original  ordinance,  that  man 
Must  sweat  for  his  poor  pittance,  keeps  all  passions 
Aloof,  save  fear  of  famine  I     All  is  low, 
And  false,  and  hollow — clay  from  first  to  last, 
The  prince's  urn  no  less  than  potter's  vessel. 
Our  fame  is  in  men's  breath,  our  lives  upon 


Less  than  their  breath  ;  our  durance  upon  days, 
Our  days  on  seasons  ;  our  whole  being  on 
Something  which  is  not  us  ! — So,  we  are  slaves, 
The  greatest  as  the  meanest — nothing  rests 
Upon  our  will ;  the  will  itself  no  less 
Depends  upon  a  straw  than  on  a  storm  ; 
And  when  we  think  we  lead,  we  are  most  led. 
And  still  towards  death,  a  thing  which  comes  as  much 
Without  our  act  or  choice,  as  birth,  so  that 
Methinks  we  must  have  sinn'd  in  some  old  world. 
And  this  is  hell :  the  best  is,  that  it  is  not 
Eternal. 

Mar.      These  are  things  we  cannot  judge 
On  earth. 

Doge.      And  how  then  shall  we  judge  each  other, 
Who  are  all  earth,  and  I,  who  am  caU'd  upon 
To  judge  my  son  ?     I  have  administer'd 
My  country  faithfully — victoriously — 
I  dare  them  to  the  proof,  the  chart  of  what 
She  was  and  is  :  my  reign  has  doubled  realms  ; 
And,  in  reward,  the  gratitude  of  Venice 
Has  left,  or  is  about  to  leave,  me  single. 

Mar.  AndFoscari?    I  do  not  think  of  such  things, 
So  I  be  left  with  him. 

Doge.  You  shall  be  so  : 

Thus  much  they  cannot  well  deny. 

Mar.  And  if 

They  should,  I  will  fly  with  him. 

Doge.  That  can  ne'er  be. 

And  whither  would  you  fly  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  reck  not — 

To  Syria,  Egypt,  to  the  Ottoman — 
Anywhere,  where  we  might  respire  unfetter'd, 
And  live  nor  girt  by  spies,  nor  liable 
To  edicts  of  inquisitors  of  state. 

Doge.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  a  renegade  for 
And  turn  him  into  traitor  2  [husband, 

Mar.  '  He  is  none ! 

The  country  is  the  traitress,  which  thrusts  forth 
Her  best  and  bravest  from  her.     Tyranny 
Is  far  the  worst  of  treasons.    Dost  thou  deem 
None  rebels  except  subjects  ?    The  prince  who 
Neglects  or  violates  his  trust  is  more 
A  brigand  than  the  robber-chief. 

Doge.  I  cannot 

Charge  me  with  such  a  breach  of  faith. 

Mvr.  ^^ '  thou 

Observ'st,  obey'st,  such  laws  as  make  old  Draco's 
A  code  of  mercy  by  comparison. 

Doge.  I  found  the  law  ;  I  did  not  make  it.    Were  I 
A  subject,  still  I  might  find  parts  and  portions 
Fit  for  amendment ;  but  as  prince,  I  never 
Would  change,  for  the  sake  of  my  house,  the  charter 
Left  by  our  fathers. 

Mar.  Did  they  make  it  for 

The  ruin  of  their  children  ? 

Doge.  Under  such  laws,  Venice 


286 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


ACT  II. 


Has  risen  to  what  she  is — a  state  to  rival 
In  deeds,  and  days,  and  sway,  and,  let  me  add, 
In  glory  (for  we  have  had  Roman  spirits 
Amongst. us),  all  that  history  has  bequeath'd 
Of  Rome  and  Carthage  in  their  best  time,  when 
The  people  sway'd  by  senates. 

Mar.  Rather  say, 

Groan'd  under  the  stern  oligarchs. 

Doge.  Perhaps  so ; 

But  yet  subdued  the  world  :  in  such  a  state 
An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 
Such  rank  as  is  permitted,  or  the  meanest, 
Without  a  name,  is  alike  nothing,  when 
The  policy,  irrevocably  tending 
To  one  great  end,  must  be  maintain'd  in  vigor. 

Mar.  This  means  that  you  are  more  a  Doge  than 
father. 

Doge.  It  means,  I  am  more  citizen  than  either. 
If  we  had  not  for  many  centuries 
Had  thousands  of  such  citizens,  and  shall, 
I  trust,  have  still  such,  Venice  were  no  city. 

Mar.  Accursed  be  the  city  where  the  laws 
"Would  stifle  nature's  ! 

Doge.  Had  I  as  many  sons 

As  I  have  years,  I  would  have  given  them  all. 
Not  without  feeling,  but  I  would  have  given  them 
To  the  state's  service,  to  fulfill  her  wishes 
On  the  flood,  in  the  field,  or,  if  it  must  be, 
As  it,  alas  1  has  been,  to  ostracism. 
Exile,  or  chains,  or  whatsoever  worse 
She  might  decree. 

Mar.  And  this  is  patriotism  1 

To  me  it  seems  the  worst  barbarity. 
Let  me  seek  out  my  husband  :  the  sage  "  Ten," 
With  all  its  jealousy,  will  hardly  war 
So  far  with  a  weak  woman  as  deny  me 
A  moment's  access  to  his  dungeon. 

Doge.  '         I'll 

So  far  take  on  myself,  as  order  that 
Ton  may  be  admitted. 

Mar.  And  what  shall  I  say 

To  Foscari  from  his  father  ? 

Doge.  That  he  obey 

The  laws. 

Mar.      And  nothing  more  ?    Will  you  not  see  him 
Ere  he  depart  ?    It  may  be  the  last  time. 

Doge.  The  last ! — my  boy  1 — the  last  time  I  shall 
My  last  of  children  I    Tell  him  I  will  come.        [see 

[^Exeunt. 

ACT    III. 

SCENE      I  . 

The  Prison  of  Jacopo  Poscabi. 

Jae.  Fos.  Qtolun).  No  light,  save  yon  faint  gleam, 
which  shows  me  walls 
Which  never  echo'd  but  to  sorrow's  sounds, 


The  sigh  of  long  imprisonment,  the  step 

Of  feet  on  which  the  iron  clank'd,  the  groan 

Of  death,  the  imprecation  of  despair  ! 

And  yet  for  this  I  have  retum'd  to  Venice, 

With  some  faint   hope,  'tis  true,  that  time,  which 

The  marble  down,  had  worn  away  the  hate      [wears 

Of  men's  hearts  ;  but  I  knew  them  not,  and  here 

Must  I  consume  my  own,  which  never  beat 

For  Venice  but  with  such  a  yearning  as 

The  dove  has  for  her  distant  nest,  when  wheeling 

High  in  the  air  on  her  return  to  greet 

Her  callow  brood.    What  letters  are  these  which 

[Approachmg  the  wall. 
Are  scrawl'd  along  the  inexorable  wall  ? 
WiU  the  gleam  let  me  trace  them  ?    Ah  !  the  names 
Of  my  sad  predecessors  in  this  place. 
The  dates  of  their  despair,  the  brief  words  of 
A  grief  tod  great  for  many.    This  stone  page 
Holds  like  an  epitaph  their  history ; 
And  the  poor  captive's  tale  is  graven  on 
His  dungeon  barrier,  like  the  lover's  record 
Upon  the  bark  of  some  tall  tree,  which  bears 
His  own  and  hia  beloved's  name.    Alas  ! 
I  recognize  some  names  famiUar  to  me. 
And  blighted  like  to  mine,  which  I  will  add, 
Fittest  for  such  a  chronicle  as  this, 
Which  only  can  be  read,  as  writ,  by  wretches. 

\He  engraves  hh  name. 

Enter  a  Familiar  of  the  "  Ten." 

Fam.  I  bring  you  food. 

Jae.  Fos.  I  pray  you  set  it  down ; 

I  am  past  hunger  :  but  my  lips  are  parch'd — 
The  water  ? 

Fam.  There. 

Jac.  Fos.  (after  drinking).  I  thank  you :  I  am  bet- 

Fam.  I  am  commanded  to  inform  you  that      [ter. 
Your  further  trial  is  postponed. 

Jac.  Fos.  Till  when  ? 

Fam.  I  know  not. — It  is  also  in  my  orders 
That  your  illustrious  lady  be  admitted. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah  1  they  relent,  then, — I  had  ceased  to 
Twas  time.  [hope  it : 

Enter  Marina. 

Ma/r.  My  best  beloved  1 

Jac.  Fos.  {embracing  her).  My  true  wife, 

And  only  friend  !    What  happiness  ! 

Mar.  We'll  part 

No  more. 

Jac.  Fiis.  How  1  wouldst  thou  share  a  dungeon  ? 

Mar.  ^J> 

The  rack,  the  grave,  all— anything  with  thee. 
But  the  tomb  last  of  all,  for  there  we  shall 
Be  ignorant  of  each  other,  yet  I  will 
Share  that— all  things  except  new  separation ; 


BCEITK   I, 


THE   TWO   FOSCARI. 


281 


It  is  too  much  to  have  survived  the  first. 

How  dost  thou  ?    How  are  those  worn  limbs  ?    Alas  1 

Why  do  I  ask  ?     Thy  paleness 

Jac.  Fos.  'Tis  the  joy 

Of  seeing  thee  again  so  soon,  and  so 
Without  expectancy,  has  sent  the  blood 
Back  to  my  heart,  and  left  my  cheeks  like  thine, 
For  thou  art  pale  too,  my  Marina  ! 

Mar.  'Tis 

The  gloom  of  this  eternal  cell,  which  never 
Knew  sunbeam,  and  the  sallow  sullen  glare 
Of  the  familiar's  torch,  which  seems  akin 
To  darkness  more  than  light,  by  lending  to 
The  dungeon  vapors  its  bituminous  smoke, 
Which  cloud  whate'er  we  gaze  on,  even  thine  eyes — 
No,  not  thine  eyes — they  sparkle — how  they  sparkle  1 

Joe.  Fos.  And  thine ! — but  I  am  blinded  by  the 
torch. 

Mar.  As  I  had  been  without  it.    Couldst  thou  see 
here? 

Jar.  Fos.  Nothing  at  first ;  but  use  and  time  had 
Familiarity  with  what  was  darkness  ;       [taught  me 
And  the  gray  twilight  of  such  glimmerings  as 
Glide  through  the  crevices  made  by  the  winds 
Was  kinder  to  mine  eyes  than  the  full  sun, 
When  gorgeously  o'ergilding  any  towers 
Save  those  of  Venice  :  but  a  moment  ere 
Thou  camest  hither  I  was  busy  writing. 

Mar.  What? 

,/a^.  Fos.  My  name :  look,  'tis  there — recorded  next 
The  name  of  him  who  here  preceded  me, 
If  dungeon  dates  say  true. 

Mar.  And  what  of  him  ? 

Joe.  Fos.  These  walls  are  silent  of  men's  ends ; 
they  only 
Seem  to  hint  shrewdly  of  them.    Such  stem  walls 
Were  never  piled  on  high  save  e'er  the  dead, 
Or  those  who  soon  must  be  so. —  W/iat  of  him  f 
Thou  askest. — What  of  me  ?  may  soon  be  ask'd, 
With  the  like  answer — doubt  and  dreadful  surmise — 
Unless  thou  tell'st  my  tale. 

Mar.  I  speak  of  thee  I 

Joe.  Fos.   And  wherefore  not  ?     All  then  shall 
The  tyranny  of  silence  is  not  lasting,  [speak  of  me  : 
And,  though  events  be  hidden,  just  men's  groans 
Will  burst  all  cerement,  even  a  living  grave's  ! 
I  do  not  do'ibt  ray  memory,  but  my  life  ; 
And  neither  do  I  fear. 

Mar.  Thy  life  is  safe. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  liberty  ? 

Mar.  The  mind  should  make  its  own. 

Jac.  Fos.  That  has  a  noble  sound ;  but  'tis  a  sound, 
A  music  most  impressive,  but  too  transient : 
The  mind  is  much,  but  is  not  all.    The  mind 
Hath  nerved  me  to  endure  the  risk  of  death. 
And  torture  positive,  far  worse  than  death, 
(If  death  be  a  deep  sleep),  without  a  groan. 


Or  with  a  cry  which  rather  shamed  my  judges 
Than  me  ;  but  'tis  not  all,  for  there  are  things 
More  woful — such  as  this  small  dungeon,  where 
I  may  breathe  many  years. 

Mar.  Alas  !  and  this 

Small  dungeon  is  all  that  belongs  to  thee 
Of  this  wide  realm,  of  which  thy  sire  is  prince. 

Jac.  Fos.  That  thought  would  scarcely  aid  me  to 
endure  it. 
My  doom  is  common,  many  are  in  dungeons. 
But  none  like  mine,  so  near  their  father's  palace  ; 
But  then  my  heart  is  sometimes  high,  iind  hope 
Will  stream  along  those  moted  rays  of  light 
Peopled  with  dusty  atoms,  which  afford 
Our  only  day ;  for,  save  the  jailor's  torch. 
And  a  strange  firefly,  which  was  quickly  caught 
Last  night  in  yon  enormous  spider's  net, 
I  ne'er  saw  aught  here  Uke  a  ray.    Alas  ! 
I  know  if  mind  may  bear  us  up,  or  no, 
For  I  have  such,  and  shown  it  before  men  ; 
It  sinks  in  solitude  :  my  soul  is  social, 

Mar.  I  will  be  with  thee. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah  !  if  it  were  so ! 

But  that  they  never  granted — nor  will  grant. 
And  I  shall  be  alone  :  no  men — no  books — 
Those  lying  likenesses  of  lying  men. 
I  ask'd  for  even  those  outlines  of  their  kind, 
Which  they  term  annals,  history,  what  you  will. 
Which  men  bequeath  as  portraits,  and  they  were 
Refused  me, — so  these  walls  have  been  my  study. 
More  faithful  pictures  of  Venetian  story. 
With  all  their  blank,  or  dismal  stains,  than  is 
The  Hall  not  far  from  hence,  which  bears  on  high 
Hundreds  of  doges,  and  their  deeds  and  dates. 

Mar.  I  come  to  tell  thee  the  result  of  their 
Last  council  on  thy  doom. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  know  it— look : 

[He  points  to  his   liinbs,  as  re/erring  to  the 
Question  which  he  had  undergone. 

Mar.  No — ^no— no  more  of  that :  even  they  relent 
From  that  atrocity. 

Joe.  Fos.  What  then  ? 

Mar.  .  That  you 

Return  to  Candia. 

Jac.  Fos.  Then  my  last  hope's  gone. 

I  could  endure  my  dungeon,  for  'twas  Venice  ; 
I  could  support  the  torture,  there  was  something 
In  my  native  air  that  buoy'd  my  spirits  up 
Like  a  ship  on  the  ocean  toss'd  by  storms. 
But  proudly  still  bestriding  the  high  waves, 
And  holding  on  its  course ;  but  there,  afar. 
In  that  accursed  isle  of  slaves,  and  captives, 
And  unbelievers,  like  a  stranded  wreck. 
My  very  soul  seem'd  mouldering  in  my  bosom, 
And  piecemeal  I  shall  perish,  if  remanded. 

Mar.  And  here  f 

Jac.  Fos.        At  once — by  better  means,  as  briefer. 


288 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  ni. 


What !  would  they  even  deny  me  my  sires'  sepnl- 
As  well  as  home  and  heritage  ?  [chxe, 

Mar.  My  husband  ! 

I  have  sued  to  accompany  thee  hence, 
And  not  so  hopelessly.     This  love  of  thine 
For  an  ungrateful  and  tyrannic  soil 
Is  passion,  and  not  patriotism ;  for  me 
So  I  could  see  thee  with  a  quiet  aspect, 
And  the  sweet  freedom  of  the  earth  and  air, 
I  would  not  cavil  about  climes  or  regions. 
This  crowd  of  palaces  and  prisons  is  not 
A  paradise  ;  its  first  inhabitants 
Were  wretched  exiles. 

Joe.  Fos.  Well  I  know  ?ww  wretched  1 

Mar.  And  yet  you  see  how  from  their  banishment 
Before  the  Tartar  into  these  salt  isles, 
Their  antique  energy  of  mind,  all  that 
Kemain'd  of  Rome  for  their  inheritance. 
Created  by  degrees  an  ocean-Rome  ;' 
And  shall  an  evil,  which  so  often  leads 
To  good,  depress  thee  thus  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Had  I  gone  forth 

Prom  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs,  seeking 
Another  region,  with  their  flocks  and  herds  ; 
Had  I  been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  from  Zion, 
Or  like  our  fathers,  driven  by  Attila 
From  fertile  Italy,  to  barren  islets, 
I  would  have  given  some  tears  to  my  late  country, 
And  many  thoughts  ;  but  afterwards  address'd 
Myself,  with  those  about  me,  to  create 
A  new  home  and  fresh  state  :  perhaps  I  could 
Have  borne  this — though  I  know  not. 

3far.  Wherefore  not  ? 

It  was  the  lot  of  millions,  and  must  be 
The  fate  of  myriads  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ay — ^we  but  hear 

Of  the  survivors'  toil  in  their  new  lands, 
Their  numbers  and  success  ;  but  who  can  number 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  of  that  parting. 
Or  after  their  departure  ;  of  that  malady 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep,  with  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile's  fever'd  eye,  that  he 
Can  scarcely  be  restrain'd  from  treading  them  ? 
That  melody,  which  out  of  tones  and  tunes 
Collects  such  pasture  for  the  longing  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  mountaineer,  when  far  away 
From  his  snow  canopy  of  cliffs  and  clouds. 


"  In  Lady  Morgan's  fearless  and  excellent  work  upon  Italy,  I 
perceive  the  expression  of  "Rome  of  the  Ocean,"  applied  to 
Venice.  The  same  phrase  occurs  in  the  "  Two  Foscari."  My 
publisher  can  vouch  for  me,  that  the  tragedy  was  written  and 
sent  to  England  sometime  before  I  had  seen  Lady  Morgan's  work, 
which  I  only  received  on  the  10th  of  August.  I  hasten,  however, 
to  notice  the  coincidence,  and  to  yield  the  originality  of  the  phrase 
to  her  who  first  placed  it  before  the  public.  I  am  the  more  anxious 
to  do  this,  as  I  am  informed  (for  I  have  seen  but  few  of  the  speci- 
mens, and  those  accidentally)  that  there  have  been  lately  brought 
against  me  charges  of  plagiarism. 


That  he  feeds  on  the  sweet,  but  poisonous  thought, 
And  dies.     You  caU  this  weakness  !    It  is  strength, 
I  say, — ^the  parent  of  all  honest  feeling. 
He  who  loves  not  his  country,  can  love  nothing. 

Mar.  Obey  her,  then  :  'tis  she  that  puts  thee  forth. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ay,  there  it  is  :  'tis  like  a  mother's  curse 
Upon  my  soul — the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 
The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations, 
Their  hands  upheld  each  other  by  the  way. 
Their  tents  were  pitch'd  together — I'm  alone   [thee. 

Mar.  You  shall  be  so  no  more-^I  will  go  with 

JcK.  Fos.  My  best  Marina  ! — and  our  children  ? 

Mar.  They, 

I  fear,  by  the  prevention  of  the  state's 
Abhorrent  policy,  (which  holds  all  ties 
As  threads,  which  may  be  broken  at  her  pleasure,) 
WiU  not  be  sufter'd  to  proceed  with  us. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  canst  thou  leave  them  ? 

Mar.  Yes.     With  many  a  pang. 

But — I  can  leave  them,  children  as  they  are, 
To  teach  you  to  be  less  a  child.    From  this 
Learn  you  to  sway  your  feelings,  when  exacted 
By  duties  paramount ;  and  'tis  our  first 
On  earth  to  bear. 

Jac.  Fos.  Have  I  not  borne  ? 

Mar.  Too  much 

From  tyrannous  injustice,  and  enough 
To  teach  you  not  to  shrink  now  from  a  lot. 
Which,  as  compared  with  what  you  have  undergone 
Of  late,  is  mercy. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah,  you  never  yet 

Were  far  away  from  Venice,  never  saw 
Her  beautiful  towers  in  the  receding  distance. 
While  every  furrow  of  the  vessel's  track 
Seem'd  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart ;  you  never' 
Saw  days  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold  and  crimson  glory, 
And  after  dreaming  a  disturbed  vision 
Of  them  and  theirs,  awoke  and  found  them  not. 

Mar.  I  will  divide  this  with  you.     Let  us  think 
Of  our  departure  from  this  much-loved  city, 
(Since  you  must  love  it,  as  it  seems,)  and  this 
Chamber  of  state,  her  gratitude  allots  you. 
Our  children  wiU  be  cared  for  by  the  Doge, 
And  by  my  uncles  :  we  must  sail  ere  night. 

Jac.  Fos.  That's  sudden.     Shall  I  not  behold  my 

Mar.  You  win  [father? 

Jac.  Fos.  Where  ? 

Mar.  Here,  or  in  the  ducal  chamber — 

He  said  not  which.    I  would  that  you  could  bear 
Your  exile  as  he  bears  it. 

Jac.  Fos.  Blame  him  not, 

I  sometimes  murmur  for  a  moment ;  but 
He  could  not  now  act  otherwise.     A  show 
Of  feeling  or  compassion  on  his  part 
Would  have  but  drawn  upon  his  aged  head 


SCENE   I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


289 


Suspicion  from  "  the  Ten,"  and  upon  mine 
Accumulated  ilia. 

Mar.  Accumulated  I 

What  pangs  are  those  they  have  spared  you  ? 

Ja/-.  Fos.  That  of  leaving 

Venice  without  beholding  him  or  you, 
Wliich  might  have  been  forbidden  now,  as  'twas 
Upon  my  former  exile.   . 

Mar.  That  is  true, 

And  thus  far  I  am  also  the  state's  debtor, 
And  shall  be  more  so  when  I  see  us  both 
Floating  on  the  free  waves — away — away — 
Be  it  to  the  earth's  end,  from  this  abhorr'd, 
Unjust,  and 

Jac.  Fos.  Curse  it  not.    If  I  am  silent, 

Who  dares  accuse  my  country  ? 

Mar.  Men  and  angels  1 

The  blood  of  myriads  reeking  up  to  heaven, 
The  groans  of  slaves  in  chains,  and  men  in  dungeons. 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  sons,  and  sires,  and  subjects. 
Held  in  the  bondage  of  ten  bald-heads  ;  and 
Though  last,  not  least,  tTiij  silence.     Coiildxt  thou  say 
Aught  in  its  favor,  who  would  praise  like  tft^  ? 

Joe:  Fus.  Let  us  address  us  then,  since  so  it  must 
To  our  departure.    Who  comes  here  ?  [be. 

Enter  Loredamo,  attended  hy  Familiars. 

Lor.  {to  the  Familiars.)  Retire, 

But  leave  the  torch.  [Exetmt  the  tico  Familiars. 

Jac.  Fos.  Most  welcome,  noble  signer. 

I  did  not  deem  this  poor  place  could  have  drawn 
Such  presence  hither. 

Lor.  "Tis  not  the  first  time 

I  have  visited  these  places. 

Mar.  Nor  would  be 

The  last,  were  all  men's  merits  well  rewarded. 
Came  you  here  to  insult  us,  or  remain 
As  spy  upon  us,  or  as  hostage  for  us  ? 

L'r.  Neither  are  of  my  office,  noble  lady  ! 
I  am  sent  hither  to  your  husband,  to 
Announce  "  the  Ten's  "  decree. 

Mar.  That  tenderness 

Has  been  anticipated  :  it  is  known. 

Lor.  As  how  ? 

Mar.  I  have  inform'd  him,  not  so  gently 

Doubtless,  as  your  nice  feelings  would  prescribe, 
The  indulgence  of  your  colleagues  :  but  he  knew  it. 
If  you  come  for  our  thanks,  take  them,  and  hence  1 
The  dungeon  gloom  is  deep  enough  without  you, 
And  full  of  reptiles,  not  less  loathsome,  though 
Their  sting  is  honester. 

Jac.  F:is.  I  pray  you,  calm  you : 

What  can  avail  such  words  ? 

Mar,  To  let  him  know 

That  he  is  known. 

Lor.  Let  the  fair  dame  preserve 

Her  sex's  privilege. 

37 


Mar.  I  have  some  sons,  sir, 

WiU  one  day  thank  you  better. 

Lor.  You  do  well 

To  nurse  them  wisely.    Foscari — you  know 
Your  sentence,  then  ? 

Joe.  Fos.  Return  to  Candia  ? 

Lor.  True — 

For  life. 

Jac.  Fos,  Not  long. 

Lor.  I  said — for  life. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  I 

Repeat — not  long. 

Lor.  A  year's  imprisonment 

In  Canea — afterwards  the  freedom  of 
The  whole  isle. 

Jac.  Fos.  Both  the  same  to  me  :  the  after 

Freedom  as  is  the  first  imprisonment. 
Is't  true  my  wife  accompanies  me  ? 

Lor.  Yes, 

If  she  so  wills  it. 

Mar.  Who  obtain'd  that  justice  ? 

Lor.  One  who  wars  not  with  women. 

Mar.  But  oppresses 

Men  :  howsoever  let  him  have  my  thanks 
For  the  only  boon  I  would  have  ask'd  or  taken 
From  him  or  such  as  he  is. 

Lor.  He  receives  them 

As  they  are  ofifer'd. 

Mar.  May  they  thrive  with  him 

So  much  ! — no  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  Is  this,  sir,  your  whole  mission  ? 

Because  we  have  brief  time  for  preparation. 
And  you  perceive  your  presence  doth  disquiet 
This  lady,  of  a  house  noble  as  yours. 

Mar.  Nobler ! 

Lor.  How  nobler  ? 

Mar.  As  more  generous  1 

We  say  the  ''generous  steed"  to  express  the  purity 
Of  his  high  blood.  Tlius  much  I've  leam'd,  although 
Venetian,  (who  see  few  steeds  save  of  bronze,) 
From  those  Venetians  who  have  skimm'd  the  coasts 
Of  Egypt,  and  her  neighbor  Araby : 
And  why  not  say  as  soon  the  '^ genei-o-;.<>  man  V 
If  race  be  aught,  it  is  in  qualities 
More  than  in  years  ;  and  mine,  which  is  as  old 
As  yours,  is  better  in  its  product,  nay — 
Look  not  so  stern — but  get  you  back,  and  pore 
Upon  your  genealogic  tree's  most  green 
Of  leaves  and  most  mature  of  fruits,  and  there 
Blush  to  find  ancestors,  who  would  have  blush'd 
For  such  a  son — thou  cold  inveterate  hater  ! 

Jou:  Fos.  Again,  Marina  1 

Mar.  Again  I  still,  Marina. 

See  you  not,  he  comes  here  to  glut  his  hate 
With  a  la  it  look  upon  our  misery  ? 
Let  him  partake  it  I 

Jac.  Fos.  That  were  difficult 


290 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


Xfar.  Nothing  more  easy.     He  partakes  it  now — 
Ay,  he  may  veil  beneath  a  marble  brow 
And  sneering  lip  the  pang,  but  he  partakes  it. 
A  few  brief  words  of  truth  shame  the  devil's  ser- 
No  less  than  master ;  I  have  probed  his  soul   [vants 
A  moment,  as  the  eternal  fire,  ere  long. 
Will  reach  it  always.     See  how  it  shrinks  from  me  I 
With  death,  and  chains,  and  exile  in  his  hand 
To  scatter  o'er  his  kind  as  he  thinks  6t : 
They  are  his  weapons,  not  his  armor,  for 
I  have  pierced  him  to  the  core  of  his  cold  heart. 
I  care  not  for  his  frowns  !     We  can  but  die. 
And  he  but  live,  for  him  the  very  worst 
Of  destinies  :  each  day  secures  him  more 
His  tempter's. 

Jac.  Fos.  This  is  mere  insanity. 

Mar.  It  may  be  so  ;  and  tcho  hath  made  us  mad  f 
Lor.  Let  her  go  on  ;  it  irks  not  me. 
Mar.  That's  false  ! 

You  came  here  to  enjoy  a  heartless  triumph 
Of  cold  looks  upon  manifold  griefs  !    You  came 
To  be  sued  to  in  vain — to  mark  our  tears, 
And  hoard  our  groans— to  gaze  upon  the  wreck 
Which  you  have  made  a  prince's  son — my  husband ; 
In  short,  to  trample  on  the  fallen — an  office 
The  hangman  shrinks  from,  as  all  men  from  him  ! 
How  have  you  sped  ?     We  are  wretched,  signor,  as 
Your  plots  could  make,  and  vengeance  could  desire 
And  howy««?  you  ?  [us, 

Lor.  As  rocks. 

Mar.  By  thunder  blasted : 

They  feel  not,  but  no  less  are  shiver'd.    Come, 
Foscari  ;  now  let  us  go,  and  leave  this  felon, 
The  sole  fit  habitant  of  such  a  cell. 
Which  he  has  peopled  often,  but  ne'er  fitly 
Till  he  himself  shall  brood  in  it  alone. 

Enter  the  Doge. 

Jac.  Fos.  My  father  1 

Doge,  (embracing  him.)  Jacopo  !  my  son — ^my  son ! 

Jac.  Fos.  My  father  still !    How  long  it  is  since  I 
Have  heard  thee  name  my  name — our  name  ! 

Doge.  My  boy  1 

Couldst  thou  but  know 

Jac.  Fos.  I  rarely,  sir,  have  murmur'd. 

Doge.  I  feel  too  much  thou  hast  not. 

Ma/r.  Doge,  look  there  1 

[She  points  to  Lokedano. 

Doge.  I  see  the  man — what  mean'st  thou  ? 

Mar.  Caution ! 

Lor.  Being 

The  virtue  which  this  noble  lady  most 
May  practice,  she  doth  well  to  recommend  it. 

Mar.  Wretch  !  'tis  no  virtue,  but  the  policy 
Of  those  who  fain  must  deal  perforce  with  vice  : 
As  such  I  recommend  it,  as  I  would 
To  one  whose  foot  was  on  an  adder's  path. 


Doge.  Daughter,  it  is  superfluous  ;  I  have  long 
Kiiown  Loredano. 

Lnr.  You  may  know  him  better. 

Mar.  Yes  ;  worse  he  could  not. 
Jite.  Fos.  Father,  let  not  these 

Our  parting  hours  be  lost  in  listening  to 
Reproaches,  which  boot  nothing.     Is  it — is  it, 
Indeed,  our  last  of  meetings  ? 

Doge.  You  behold 

These  white  hairs ! 

Jac.  Fos.  And  I  feel,  besides,  that  mine 

Will  never  be  so  white.    Embrace  me,  father  ! 
I  loved  you  ever — never  more  than  now. 
Look  to  my  children — to  your  last  child's  children  ; 
Let  them  be  all  to  you  which  he  was  once, 
And  never  be  to  you  what  I  am  now. 
May  I  not  see  them  also  ? 

Mar.  No — not  here,    [where. 

Ja^;.  Fos.  They  might  behold   their  parent   any 
Mar.  I  would  that  they  beheld  their  father  in 
A  place  which  would  not  mingle  fear  with  love. 
To  freeze  their  young  blood  in  its  natural  current. 
They  have  fed  well,  slept  soft,  and  knew  not  that 
Their  sire  was  a  mere  hunted  outlaw.     Well 
I  know  his  fate  may  one  day  be  their  heritage, 
But  let  it  only  be  their  heritage, 
And  not  their  present  fee.     Their  senses,  though 
Alive  to  love,  are  yet  awake  to  terror ; 
And  these  vile  damps,  too,  and  yon  thick  green  wave 
Which  floats  above  the  place  where  we  now  stand — 
A  cell  so  far  below  the  water's  level. 
Sending  its  pestilence  through  every  crevice. 
Might  strike  them  :  this  is  not  their  atmosphere, 
However  you — and  you — and,  most  of  all. 
As  worthiest — you,  sir,  noble  Loredano  ! 
May  breathe  it  without  prejudice. 

Jac.  Fos.  I  have  not 

Reflected  upon  this,  but  acquiesce. 
I  shall  depart,  then,  without  meeting  them  ? 
Doge.  Not  so :  they  shall  await  you  in  my  cham- 
Jac.  Fos.  And  must  I  leave  them — all  ?  [bcr. 

Lxyr.  You  must. 

Jac.  Fos.  Not  one  ? 

Lor.  They  are  the  state's. 

Mar.  I  thought  they  had  been  mine. 

Lor.  They  are,  in  all  maternal  things. 
Mar.  That  is, 

In  all  things  painfnl.     If  they're  sick,  they  will 
Be  left  to  me  to  tend  them  ;  should  they  die, 
To  me  to  bury  and  to  mourn  ;  but  if 
They  live,  they'll  make  you  soldiers,  senators, 
Slaves,  exiles — what  yon  will ;  or  if  they  are 
Females  with  portions,  brides  and  bribes  for  nobles  1 
Behold  the  state's  care  for  its  sons  and  mothers  I 
Lor.  The  hour  approaches,  and  the  wind  is  fair. 
Jac.  Fos.  How  know  you  that  here,  where  the  ge- 
nial wind 


SOBSH   I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


201 


Ne'er  blows  in  all  its  blustering  freedom  ? 

Lor.  'Twas  so 

When  I  came  here.     The  galley  floats  within 
A  bow-shot  of  the  "  Riva  di  Schiavoni." 

Jae.  Fo».  Father  !  I  pray  you  to  precede  me,  and 
Prepare  my  children  to  behold  their  father. 

Boge.  Be  firm,  my  son  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  .     I  will  do  my  endeavor. 

Mar.  Farewell  I  at  least  to  this  detested  dungeon. 
And  him  to  whose  good  offices  you  owe 
In  part  your  past  imprisonment. 

Lor.  And  present 

Liberation. 

Doge.  He  speaks  truth. 

J<ie.  Fos.  No  doubt  1  but  'tis 

Exchange  of  chains  for  heavier  chains  I  owe  him. 
He  knows  this,  or  he  had  not  sought  to  change 
But  I  reproach  not.  [them. 

Lor.  The  time  narrows,  signor. 

Jae.  Fos.  Alas  !  I  little  thought  so  lingeringly 
To  leave  abodes  like  this  :  but  when  I  feel 
That  every  step  I  take,  even  from  this  cell, 
Is  one  away  firom  Venice,  I  look  back 
Even  on  these  dull  damp  walls,  and 

Doge.  Boy  !  no  tears. 

Mar.  Let  them  flow  on  :  he  wept  not  on  the  rack 
To  shame  him,  and  they  cannot  shame  him  now. 
They  will  relieve  his  heart — that  too  kind  heart — 
And  I  will  find  an  hour  to  wipe  away 
Those  tears,  or  add  my  own.     I  could  weep  now. 
But  would  not  gratify  yon  wretch  so  far. 
Let  us  proceed.    Boge,  lead  tlie  way. 

Lor.  {to  the  I'hmiliiir.)  The  torch,  there  ! 

Mar.  Yes,  light  us  on,  as  to  a  funeral  pyre. 
With  Loredano  mourning  like  an  heir. 

Doge.  My  son,  you  are  feeble  ;  take  this  hand. 

Jac.  Fos.  Alas  ! 

Must  youth  support  itself  on  age,  and  I 
Who  ought  to  be  the  prop  of  yours  ? 

Lor,  Take  mine. 

Mar.  Touch  it  not,  Foscari  ;  'twill  sting  you.  Sig- 
Stand  ofif !  be  sure,  that  if  a  grasp  of  yours  [nor. 
Would  raise  us  from  the  gulf  wherein  we  are  plimg- 
No  hand  of  ours  would  stretch  itself  to  meet  it.  [ed, 
Come,  Foscari,  take  the  hand  the  altar  gave  you ; 
It  could  not  save,  but  will  support  you  ever. 

[Exevnt. 

ACT  rv. 

8  C  E  N  B       I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Filter  LoKEDAUO  and  Babbabiqo. 

Bar.  And  have  you  confidence  in  such  a  project  ? 

Lor.  I  have. 

Bar.  'Tis  hard  upon  his  years. 


-^^-  Say  rather 

Kind  to  relieve  him  from  the  cares  of  state. 
Bar.  'TwiU  break  his  heart. 
Lor.  Age  has  no  heart  to  break. 

He  has  seen  his  son's  half  broken,  and,  except 
A  start  of  feeling  in  his  dungeon,  never 
Swerved. 

Bar.        In  his  countenance,  I  grant  you,  never ; 
But  I  have  seen  him  sometimes  in  a  calm 
So  desolate,  that  the  most  clamorous  grief 
Had  naught  to  envy  him  within.     Where  is  he  1 

Lor.  In  his  own  portion  of  the  palace,  with 
His  son,  and  the  whole  race  of  Foscaris. 
Bar.  Bidding  farewell  ? 

Lor.  A  last.   As  soon  he  shall 

Bid  to  his  dukedom. 

Bar.  When  embarks  the  son  ? 

Lor.  Forthwith — when  this  long  leave  Is  taken. 
Time  to  admonish  them  again.  ['Tls 

Bai:  Forbear ; 

Retrench  not  from  their  moments. 

Lor.  Not  I,  now 

We  have  higher  business  for  our  own.     This  day 
Shall  be  the  last  of  the  old  Doge's  reign. 
As  the  first  of  his  son's  last  banishment, 
And  that  Is  vengeance. 

Bar.  In  my  mind,  too  deep. 

Lor.  'Tls  moderate — not  even  life  for  life,  the  rule 
Denounced  of  retribution  from  all  time  ; 
They  owe  me  still  my  father's  and  my  uncle's. 
Bar.  Did  not  the  Doge  deny  this  strongly  ? 
Lor.  Doubtless. 

Bar.  And  did  not  this  shake  your  suspicion  ? 
Lor.  No. 

Bar.  But  If  this  despotism  should  take  place 
By  our  united  infiuence  In  the  Council, 
It  must  be  done  with  all  the  deference 
Due  to  his  years,  his  station,  and  his  deeds. 

Lor.  As  much  of  ceremony  as  you  will. 
So  that  the  thing  be  done.     You  may,  for  aught 
I  care,  depute  the  Council  on  their  knees, 
(Like  Barbarossa  to  the  Pope,)  to  beg  him 
To  have  the  courtesy  to  abdicate. 
Bar.  What,  if  he  will  not  ? 
Lor.  We'll  elect  another. 

And  make  him  nuU. 

Bar.  But  will  the  laws  uphold   us  ? 

Lor.  What  laws  {—"The  Ten"  are  laws  ;  and  if 
I  will  be  legislator  In  this  business,    [they  were  not, 
Bar.  At  your  own  peril  ? 

Lor.  There  is  none,  I  tell  you, 

Our  powers  are  such. 

Bar.  But  he  has  twice  already 

Solicited  permission  to  retire, 
And  twice  it  was  refused. 

Lor.  The  better  reason 

To  grant  it  the  third  time. 


292 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ACT  IV. 


Ba/r.  Unask'd? 

Lor.  It  shows 

The  impression  of  his  former  instances  : 
If  they  were  from  his  heart,  he  may  be  thankful : 
If  not,  'twill  punish  his  hypocrisy. 
Come,  they  are  met  by  this  time ;  let  us  join  them, 
And  be  thou  fix'd  in  purpose  for  this  once. 
I  have  prepared  "such  arguments  as  will  not 
Fail  to  more  them,  and  to  remove  him  :  since 
Their  thoughts,  their  objects,  have  been  sounded, 

do  not 
You,  with  your  wonted  scruples,  teach  ns  pause,    . 
And  all  will  prosper. 

Bar.  Could  I  but  be  certain 

This  is  no  prelude  to  such  persecution 
Of  the  sire  as  has  fallen  upon  the  son, 
I  would  support  you. 

Lor.  He  is  safe,  I  tell  you  ; 

His  fourscore  years  and  five  may  linger  on 
As  long  as  he  can  drag  them  :  'tis  his  throne 
Alone  is  aim'd  at. 

Bar.  But  discarded  princes 

Are  seldom  long  of  life. 

Lor.  And  men  of  eighty 

More  seldom  still. 

Bar.  And  why  not  wait  these  few  years  ? 

Lor.  Because  we  have  waited  long  enough,  and  he 
Lived  longer  than  enough.     Hence  !  into  council ! 
{Exeunt  Loredano  a-nd  Babbakigo. 

Enter  Memmo  and  a  Senator. 

Sen.  A  summons  to  "  the  Ten  !"     Why  so  ? 

Mem.  "The  Ten" 

Alone  can  answer  :  they  are  rarely  wont 
To  let  their  thoughts  anticipate  their  purpose 
By  previous  proclamation.     We  are  summon'd — 
That  is  enough. 

Sen.  For  them,  but  not  for  us ; 

I  would  know  why. 

Mem.  You  will  know  why  anon, 

If  you  obey ;  and,  if  not,  you  no  less 
Will  know  why  you  should  have  obey'd 

Sen.  I  mean  not 

To  oppose  them,  lut 

Mem.  In  Venice  "  lut"  's  a  traitor. 

But  me  no  "  hutu,"  unless  you  would  pass  o'er 
The  Bridge  which  few  repass. 

Sen.  I  am  silent. 

Mem.  Why 

Thus  hesitate  J    "  The  Ten"  have  call'd  in  aid 
Of  their  deliberation  five-and-twenty 
Patricians  of  the  senate — you  are  one. 
And  I  another ;  and  it  seems  to  me 
Both  honor'd  by  the  choice  or  chance  which  leads 
To  mingle  with  a  body  so  august.  [us 

Sen.  Most  true.    I  say  no  more. 

Mem,  As  we  hope,  signor, 


And  all  may  honestly,  (that  is,  all  those 
Of  noble  blood  may,)  one  day  hope  to  be 
Decemvir,  it  is  surely  for  the  senate's 
Chosen  delegates,  a  school  of  wisdom,  to 
Be  thus  admitted,  though  as  novices, 
To  view  the  mysteries. 

Sen.  Let  us  view  them  :  they, 

No  doubt,  are  worth  it. 

Mem.  Being  worth  our  lives 

If  we  divulge  them,  doubtless  they  are  worth 
Something,  at  least  to  you  or  me. 

Sen.  I  sought  not 

A  place  within  the  sanctuary ;  but  being 
Chosen,  however  reluctantly  so  chosen, 
I  shall  fulfill  my  office. 

Mem.  Let  us  not 

Be  latest  in  obeying  "  the  Ten's  "  summons. 

Sen.  All  are  not  met,  but  I  am  of  your  thought 
80  far — let 's  in. 

Mem.  The  earliest  are  most  welcome 

In  earnest  councils — we  will  not  be  least  so. 

[Exetmt. 

Enter  the  Doge,  Jacopo  Foscaki,  and  Marina. 

Jac.  F08.  Ah,  father !  though  I  must  and  will  de- 
Yet — yet — I  pray  you  to  obtain  for  me  [part, 
That  I  once  more  return  unto  my  home, 
Howe'er  remote  the  period.     Let  there  be 
A  point  of  time,  as  beacon  to  my  heart, 
With  any  penalty  annex'd  they  please, 
But  let  me  still  return. 

Boge.  Son  Jacopo, 

Go  and  obey  our  country's  will :  'tis  not 
For  lis  to  look  beyond. 

Jac.  Fos.  But  still  I  must 

Look  back.     I  pray  you  think  of  me. 

Doge.  Alas  1 

You  ever  were  my  dearest  oflFspring,  when 
They  were  more  numerous,  nor  can  be  less  so 
Now  you  are  last ;  but  did  the  state  demand 
The  exile  of  the  disinterred  ashes 
Of  your  three  goodly  brothers,  now  in  earth, 
And  their  desponding  shades  came  flitting  round. 
To  impede  the  act,  I  must  no  less  obey 
A  duty,  paramount  to  every  duty. 

Mar.  My  husband  !  let  us  on  :  this  but  prolongs 
Our  sorrow. 

Jac.  Fos.  But  we  are  not  summon'd  yet ; 
The  galley's  sails  are  not  unfurl'd  :— who  knows  ? 
The  wind  may  change. 

Mar.  And  if  it  do,  it  will  not 

Change  their  hearts,  or  your  lot :  the  galley's  oar 
Will  quickly  clear  the  harbor. 

Jac.  Fos.  O  ye  elements  I 

Where  are  your  storms  ? 

!/■(,;.  In  human  breasts.    Alas  ! 

Will  nothing  calm  you  ? 


SCENE   I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


293 


Jae,  Foi.  Never  yet  did  mariner 

Put  up  to  patron  saint  such  prayers  for  prosperous 
And  pleasant  breezes,  as  I  call  upon  you, 
Ye  tutelar  saints  of  my  own  city  I  which 
Ye  love  not  with  more  holy  love  than  I, 
To  lash  up  from  the  deep  the  Adrian  waves, 
And  waken  Auster,  sovereign  pf  the  tempest ! 
Till  the  sea  dash  me  back  on  my  own  shore 
A  broken  corse  upon  the  barren  Lido, 
Where  I  may  mingle  with  the  sands  which  skirt 
The  land  I  love,  and  never  shall  see  more  ! 

Mar.  And  wish  you  this  with  me  beside  you  ? 

Jae.  Fos.  No — 

No — not  for  thee,  too  good,  too  kind  !    Mayst  thou 
Live  long  to  be  a  mother  to  those  children 
Thy  fond  fldeUty  for  a  time  deprives 
Of  such  support !     But  for  myself  alone. 
May  all  the  winds  of  heaven  howl  down  the  Gulf 
And  tear  the  vessel,  till  the  mariners, 
Appall'd,  turn  their  despairing  eyes  on  me, 
As  the  Phenicians  did  on  Jonah,  then 
Cast  me  out  from  amongst  them,  as  an  offering 
To  appease  the  waves.     The  billow  which  destroys 
Will  be  more  merciful  than  man,  and  bear  me,    [me 
Dead,  but  still  hear  me  to  a  native  grave. 
From  fishers'  hands  upon  the  desolate  strand. 
Which,  of  its  thousand  wrecks,  hath  ne'er  received 
One  lacerated  like  the  heart  which  then 
Will  be — but  wherefore  breaks  it  not  ?  why  live  I  ? 

Mar.  To  man  thyself,  I  trust,  with  time,  to  master 
Such  useless  passion.     Until  now  thou  wert 
A  sufferer,  but  not  a  loud  one  :  why. 
What  is  this  to  the  things  thou  hast  borne  in  si- 
Imprisonment  and  actual  torture  ?  [lence — 

Jae.  Fos.  Double, 

Triple,  and  tenfold  torture  !     But  you  are  right. 
It  must  be  borne.     Father,  your  blessing  ! 

JJoge.  Would 

It  could  avail  thee  I  but  no  less  thou  hast  it. 

Jae.  Fos.  Forgive 

Doge.  What  ? 

Jae.  Fos.  My  poor  mother,  for  my  birth, 

And  me  for  having  lived,  and  you  yourself, 
(As  I  forgive  you,)  for  the  gift  of  life. 
Which  you  bestow'd  upon  me  as  my  sire. 

Mar.  What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Jae.  Fus.  Nothing.     I  cannot  charge 

My  memory  with  much  save  sorrow  :  but 
I  have  been  so  beyond  the  common  lot 
Chasten'd  and  visited,  I  needs  must  think 
That  I  was  wicked.     If  it  be  so,  may 
What  I  have  undergone  here  keep  me  from 
A  like  hereafter ! 

Mar.  Fear  not :  Uiata  reserved 

For  your  oppressors. 

Jae.  Fos.  Let  me  hope  not. 

Ma/r.  Hope  not  ? 


Jae.  Fos.  I  cannot  wish  them  all  they  have  inflicted 

Mar.  All !  the  consummate  fiends  1    A  thousand 
fold  I 
May  the  worm  which  ne'er  dieth  feed  upon  them  1 

Jae.  Fos.  They  may  repent. 

Mar.  And  if  they  do,  Heaven  wiU  not 

Accept  the  tardy  penitence  of  demons. 

Enter  an  Officer  and  Guards. 

Offi.  Signor  !  the  boat  is  at  the  shore — the  wind 
Is  rising — we  are  ready  to  attend  you. 

Jae.  Fos.  And  I  to  be  attended.  Once  more,  father, 
Your  hand ! 

Boge.     Take  it.     Alas,  how  thine  own  trembles  I 

Jae.  Fos.  No — you  mistake  ;  'tis  yours  that  shakes. 
Farewell !  [my  father. 

Boge.        Farewell !    Is  there  aught  else  ? 

Jae.  Fos.  No — nothing. 

[To  the  Offieer. 
Lend  me  your  arm,  good  signor. 

Offi.  You  turn  pale — 

Let  me  support  you — paler — ho  !  some  aid  there  ! 
Some  water ! 

Mar.  Ah,  he  is  dying  ! 

Jae.  Fob.  Now,  I'm  ready — 

My  eyes  swim  strangely — where's  the  door  ? 

Mar.  Away  1 

Let  me  support  him — my  best  love  !     O  God  I 
How  faintly  beats  this  heart — this  pulse  ! 

Jae.  Fos.  The  light  1 

Is  it  the  light  ? — I  am  faint. 

[Officer  presents  him  with  water. 

Offi.  He  wiU  be  better, 

Perhaps,  in  the  air. 

Jae.  Fos.  I  doubt  not.     Father — wife — 

Your  hands  ! 
.    Mar.     There's  death  in  that  damp  clammy  grasp. 

0  God  !     My  Foscari,  how  fare  you  ? 

Jae.  Fos.  Well ! 

[He  dies. 

Offi.  He's  gone  1 

Doge.  He's  free ! 

Mar.  No — no,  he  is  not  dead ; 

There  must  be  life  yet  in  that  heart — ^he  could  not 
Thus  leave  me. 

Doge.  Daughter ! 

Ma/r.  Hold  thy  peace,  old  man  1 

1  am  no  daughter  now — thou  hast  no  son. 
Oh,  Foscari  1 

Offi.  We  must  remove  the  body. 

Doge.  Touch  it  not,  dungeon  miscreants !   your 
base  office 
Ends  with  his  life,  and  goes  not  beyond  murder, 
Even  by  your  murderous  laws.    Leave  his  remains 
To  those  who  know  to  honor  them. 

Offi.  I  must 

Inform  the  signory,  and  learn  their  pleasure. 


294 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


ACT  IV. 


Doge.  Inform  the  signory  from  me,  the  Doge, 
They  have  no  further  power  upon  those  ashes  : 
While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a  subject — 
Now  he  is  mine — my  broken-hearted  boy  ! 

[Exit  Officer. 

Mar.  And  I  must  live  ? 

Doge.  Your  children  live,  Marina. 

Mar.  My  children  1  true — they  live,  and  I  must 
To  bring  them  up  to  serve  the  state,  and  die      [live 
As  died  their  father.     Oh,  what  best  of  blessings 
Were  barrenness  in  Venice  !    Would  my  mother 
Had  been  so ! 

Doge.  My  unhappy  children  ! 

Mar.  What  1 

You  feel  it  then  at  last — you  !    Where  is  now 
The  stoic  of  the  state  ? 

Doge,  {throwing  himsdf  down  hy  the  body.)     Here/ 

Mar.  Ay,  weep  on  1 

I  thought  you  had  no  tears — you  hoarded  them 
Until  they  are  useless  ;  but  weep  on  !  he  never 
Shall  weep  more — never,  never  more  1 

Enter  Loredano  and  Babbabioo. 

Lor.  What's  here  ? 

Mar.  Ah,  the  devil  come  to  insult  the  dead ! 
Incarnate  Lucifer  !  'tis  holy  ground.  [Avaunt ! 

A  martyr's  ashes  now  lie  there,  which  make  it 
A  shrine.     Get  theo  back  to  thy  place  of  torment ! 

Bar.  Lady,  we  knew  not  of  this  sad  event. 
But  pass'd  here  merely  on  our  path  from  council. 

Mar.  Pass  on. 

Lor.  We  sought  the  Doge. 

Mar.  (jiointing  to  (he  Doge,  who  in  still  on  the  ground 
ly  his  son's  body.)     He's  busy,  look. 
About  the  business  you  provided  for  him. 
Are  ye  content  ? 

Bar.  We  will  not  interrupt 

A  parent's  sorrows. 

Mar.  No,  ye  only  make  them, 

Then  leave  them. 

Doge,  (rising.)  Sirs,  I  am  ready. 

Bar.  No— not  now. 

Lor.  Yet  'twas  important. 

Doge.  If  'twas  so,  I  can 

Only  repeat — I  am  ready. 

Bar.  It  shall  not  be 

Just  now,  though  Venice  totter'd  o'er  the  deep 
Like  a  frail  vessel.     I  respect  your  griefs. 

Doge.  I  thank  you.  If  the  tidings  which  you  bring 
Are  evil,  you  may  say  them  ;  nothing  further 
Can  touch  me  more  than  him  thou  look'st  on  there : 
If  they  be  good,  say  on  :  you  need  not/«ar 
That  they  can  comfort  me. 

Bar.  I  would  they  could  ! 

Doge.  I  spoke  not  to  you,  but  to  Loredano. 
He  understands  me. 

^"■^^  Ah,  I  thought  it  would  be  so. 


Doge.  What  mean  you  1 

Mar.  Lo  !  there  is  the  blood  beginning 

To  flow  through  the  dead  lips  of  Foscari — 
The  body  bleeds  in  presence  of  the  assassin. 

[  I'O  LORBDANO. 

Thou  cowardly  murderer  by  law,  behold 
How  death  itself  bears  witness  to  thy  deeds  I 

Doge.  My  child  !  this  is  a  phantasy  of  grief 
Bear  hence  the  body.    [To  his  atteitdimis.]    Signors, 
Within  an  hour  I'U  hear  you.  [if  it  please  you, 

[Exeunt  Doge,  Marina,  and  attendants  with  the 
body.     Manent  Lobedano  and  BARBABiao. 
Ba/r.  He  must  not 

Be  troubled  now. 

Lor.  He  said  himself  that  naught 

Could  give  him  trouble  farther. 

Bar.  These  are  words  ; 

But  grief  is  lonely,  and  the  breaking  in 
Upon  it  barbarous. 

L<yr.  Sorrow  preys  upon 

Its  soUtude,  and  nothing  more  diverts  it 
From  its  sad  visions  of  the  other  world. 
Than  calling  it  at  moments  back  to  this. 
The  busy  have  no  time  for  tears. 

Bar.  And  therefore 

You  would  deprive  this  old  man  of  all  business  ? 

Lor.  The  thing  's  decreed.    The  Giunta  and  "  the 
Ten" 
Have  made  it  law— who  shall  oppose  that  law  ? 

Bar.  Humanity ! 

Lor.  Because  his  son  is  dead  ? 

Ba/r.  And  yet  imburied. 

Lor.  Had  we  known  this  when 

The  act  was  passing,  it  might  have  suspended 
Its  passage,  but  impedes  it  not — once  pass'd. 

Ba/r.  I'll  not  consent. 

Lor.  You  have  consented  to 

AU  that's  essential — leave  the  rest  to  me. 

Bar.  Why  press  his  abdication  now  ? 

Lor.  The  feelings 

Of  private  passion  may  not  interrupt 
The  public  benefit ;  and  what  the  state 
Decides  to-day  must  not  give  way  before 
To-morrow  for  a  natural  accident. 

Bar.  You  have  a  son  ? 

Lor.  I  hate — and  had  a  father. 

Bar.  Still  so  inexorable  ? 

Lor.  Still. 

Bar.  But  let  him 

Inter  his  son  before  we  press  upon  him 
This  edict. 

Lor.  Let  him  call  up  into  life 

My  sire  and  uncle — I  consent.    Men  may, 
Even  aged  men,  be,  or  appear  to  be. 
Sires  of  a  hundred  sons,  but  cannot  kindle 
An  atom  of  their  ancestors  from  earth. 
The  victims  are  not  equal :  he  has  seen 


SCENE   I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


295 


His  sons  expire  by  natural  deaths,  and  I 
My  sires  by  violent  and  mysterious  maladies. 
I  used  no  poison,  bribed  no  subtle  master 
Of  the  destructive  art  of  healing,  to 
Shorten  the  path  to  the  eternal  cure. 
His  sons — and  he  had  four — are  dead,  without 
My  dabbling  in  vile  drugs. 

B<w.  And  art  thou  sure 

He  dealt  in  such  ? 

Lor.  Most  sure. 

Bar.  And  yet  he  seems 

All  openness. 

Lor,  And  so  he  seem'd  not  long 

Ago  to  Carmagnuola. 

Bar.  The  attainted 

And  foreign  traitor  ? 

Ixn:  Even  so  :  when  he, 

After  the  very  night  in  which  "the  Ten" 
(Join'd  with  the  Doge)  decided  his  destruction, 
Met  the  great  duke  at  daybreak  with  a  jest, 
Demanding  whether  he  should  augur  him    [swer'd, 
"  The  good  day  or  good  night  ?"  his  Dogeship  an- 
"  That  he  in  truth  had  pass'd  a  night  of  vigil. 
In  which  (he  added  with  a  gracious  smUe) 
There  often  has  been  question  about  you." ' 
'Twas  true  ;  the  question  was  the  death  resolved 
Of  Carmagnuola,  eight  months  ere  he  died  ;      [him 
And  the  old  Doge,  who  knew  him  doom'd  smiled  on 
With  deadly  cozenage,  eight  long  months  before- 
Kight  months  of  such  hypocrisy  as  is  [hand — 

Learn'd  but  in  eighty  years.     Brave  Carmagnuola 
Is  dead ;  so  is  young  Foscari  and  his  brethren — 
I  never  smiled  on  them. 

Bar.  Was  Carmagnuola 

Tour  fnend  ? 

Lor.  He  was  the  safeguard  of  the  city. 

In  early  life  its  foe,  but,  in  his  manhood, 
Its  saviour  first,  then  victim. 

Bar.  Ah,  that  seems 

The  penalty  of  savage  cities  !    He 
Whom  we  now  act  against,  not  only  saved 
Our  own,  but  added  others  to  our  sway. 

Lor.  The  Romans  (and  we  ape  them)  gave  a  crown 
To  him  who  took  a  city ;  and  they  gave 
A  crown  to  him  who  saved  a  citizen 
In  battle  :  the  rewards  are  equal.     Now, 
If  we  should  measure  forth  the  cities  taken 
By  the  Doge  Foscari,  with  citizens 
Destroy'd  by  him,  or  through  him,  the  account 
Were  fearfully  against  him,  although  narrow'd 
To  private  havoc,  such  as  between  him 
And  my  dead  father. 

Bar.  Are  you  then  thus  flx'd  ? 

Lor.  Why,  what  should  change  me  ? 

Bar.  That  which  changes  me: 

But  you,  I  know,  are  marble  to  retain 


>  An  hiBtorical  litct.    See  Daru,  torn.  il. 


A  feud.    But  when  all  is  accomplish'd,  when 
The  old  man  is  deposed,  his  name  degraded. 
His  sons  all  dead,  his  family  depress'd. 
And  you  and  yours  triumphant,  shall  you  sleep  ? 

Lor.  More  soundly. 

Bar.  That's  an  error,  and  you'll  find  it 

Ere  you  sleep  with  your  fathers. 

iMr.  They  sleep  not 

In  their  accelerated  graves,  nor  will 
Till  Foscari  fills  his.    Each  night  I  see  them 
Stalk  frowning  round  my  couch,  and,  pointing  to- 
The  ducal  palace,  marshal  me  to  vengeance,   [wards 

Bar.  Fancy's  distemperature  !     There  is  no  pas- 
More  spectral  or  fantastical  than  Hate  ;  [sion 
Not  even  its  opposite.  Love,  so  peoples  air 
With  phantoms,  as  this  madness  of  the  heart. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Lor.  Where  go  you,  sirrah  ? 

Offi,.  By  the  ducal  order 

To  forward  the  preparatory  rites 
For  the  late  Foscari's  interment. 

Bar.  Their 

Vault  has  been  often  open'd  of  late  years. 

Lor.  'Twill  be  full  soon,  and  may  be  closed  for- 

Offi.  May  I  pass  on  8  [ever. 

Lor.  You  may. 

Bar.  How  bears  the  Doge 

This  last  calamity  ? 

Offi.  With  desperate  firmness. 

In  presence  of  another  he  says  little. 
But  I  perceive  his  lips  move  now  and  then  ; 
And  once  or  twice  I  heard  him,  from  the  adjoining 
Apartment,  mutter  forth  the  words  :  "  My  son  !" 
Scarce  audibly.    I  must  proceed.  [^Exit  Officer. 

Bar.  This  stroke 

Will  move  all  Venice  in  his  favor. 

Lor.  Right  1 

We  must  be  speedy  :  let  us  call  together 
The  delegates  appointed  to  convey 
The  council's  resolution. 

Bar.  I  protest 

Against  it  at  this  moment. 

Ij>r.  As  you  please — 

ril  take  their  voices  on  it  ne'ertheless. 
And  see  whose  most  may  sway  them,  yours  or  mine. 
[Eeeunt  Babbabiqo  and  Loredano. 

ACT   V. 

SCENE       I. 

The  Doge's  Apartment. 

The  Doge  and  Attendants. 

Att.  My  lord,  the  deputation  is  in  waiting  ; 
But  add,  that  if  another  hour  would  better 
Accord  with  your  will,  they  will  make  it  theirs. 


296 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


ACT'  V. 


Boge.  To  me  all  hours  are  like.  Let  ttem  approach. 

\Exit  Attendant. 

An  Officer.  Prince  I  I  have  done  your  bidding. 

Doge.  What  command  ? 

Offi.  A  melancholy  one — to  call  the  attendance 
Of 

Boge.  True — ^true — ^true  :  I  crave  your  pardon.    I 
Begin  to  fail  in  apprehension,  and 
Wax  very  old — old  almost  as  my  years. 
Till  now  I  fought  them  off,  but  they  begin 
To  overtake  me. 

Enter  the  Deputation^  consisting  of  Six  of  the  Big- 
nory,  and  the  Chief  of  the  Ten. 

Noble  men,  your  pleasure  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  In  the  first  place,  the  Council 
doth  condole 
With  the  Doge  on  his  late  and  private  grief. 

Doge.  No  more — no  more  of  that. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Will  not  the  Duke 

Accept  the  homage  of  respect  ? 

Doge.  I  do 

Accept  it  as  'tis  given — proceed. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  "  The  Ten," 

With  a  selected  giunta  from  the  senate 
Of  twenty-five  of  the  best  bom  patricians, 
Having  deliberated  on  the  state 
Of  the  republic,  and  the  o'erwhelming  cares 
Which,  at  this  moment,  doubly  must  oppress 
Your  years,  so  long  devoted  to  your  country, 
Have  judged  it  fitting,  with  all  reverence, 
Now  to  sohcit  from  your  wisdom,  (which 
Upon  reflection  must  accord  in  this,) 
The  resignation  of  the  ducal  ring. 
Which  you  have  worn  so  long  and  venerably : 
And  to  prove  that  they  are  not  ungrateful,  nor 
Cold  to  your  years  and  services,  they  add 
An  appanage  of  twenty  hundred  golden 
Ducats,  to  make  retirement  not  less  splendid 
Than  should  become  a  sovereign's  retreat. 

Doge.  Did  I  hear  rightly  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Need  I  say  again  ? 

■   Doge.  No.     Have  you  done  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  I  have  spoken.    Twenty-four 
Hours  are  accorded  you  to  give  an  answer. 

Doge.  I  shall  not  need  so  many  seconds. 

Chief  of  tlie  Ten.  We 

Will  now  retire. 

Doge.  Stay !    Four  and  twenty  hours 

Will  alter  nothing  which  I  have  to  say. 

Chi(f  of  the  Ten.  Speak  1 

Doge.  When  I  twice  before  reiterated 

My  wish  to  abdicate,  it  was  refused  me  : 
And  not  alone  refused,  but  ye  exacted 
An  oath  from  me  that  I  would  never  more 
Renew  this  instance.     I  have  sworn  to  die 
In  full  exertion  of  the  functions,  which 


My  country  call'd  me  here  to  exercise. 
According  to  my  honor  and  my  conscience — 
I  cannot  break  my  oath. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Reduce  us  not 

To  the  alternative  of  a  decree. 
Instead  of  your  compliance. 

Doge.  Providence 

Prolongs  my  days  to  prove  and  chasten  me  ; 
But  ye  have  no  right  to  reproach  my  length 
Of  days,  since  every  hour  has  been  the  country's. 
I  am  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  her, 
As  I  have  laid  down  dearer  things  than  life  : 
But  for  my  dignity — I  hold  it  of 
The  iDhole  republic ;  when  the  general  will 
Is  manifest,  then  you  shall  all  be  answer'd. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  grieve  for  such  an  answer ; 
Avail  you  aught.  [but  it  cannot 

Doge.  I  can  submit  to  all  things, 

But  nothing  will  advance  ;  no,  not  for  a  moment. 
What  you  decree — decree. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  With  this,  then,  must  we 

Return  to  those  who  sent  us  ? 

Doge.  You  have  heard  me. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  With  all  due  reverence  we  retire. 
lExeu7it  the  Deputation,  etc. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 
Att.  My  lord, 

The  noble  dame  Marina  craves  an  audience. 
Doge.  My  time  is  hers. 

Enter  Mabina. 

Mar.  My  lord,  if  I  intrude — 

Perhaps  you  fain  would  be  alone  ? 

Doge.  Alone ! 

Alone,  come  all  the  world  around  me,  I 
Am  now  and  evermore.     But  we  wiU  bear  it. 

Mar.  We  will ;  and  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are, 
Endeavor Oh,  my  husband  1 

Doge.  Give  it  way ; 

I  cannot  comfort  thee. 

Mar.  He  might  have  lived. 

So  form'd  for  gentle  privacy  of  life. 
So  loving,  so  beloved ;  the  native  of 
Another  land,  and  who  so  bless'd  and  blessing 
As  my  poor  Foscari  ?    Nothing  was  wanting 
Unto  his  happiness  and  mine  save  not 
To  be  Venetian. 

Doge.  Or  a  prince's  son. 

Mar.  Yes;   all  things  which  conduce  to  other 
Imperfect  happiness  or  high  ambition,  [men's 

By  some  strange  destiny,  to  him  proved  deadly. 
The  country  and  the  people  whom  he  loved. 
The  prince  of  whom  he  was  the  elder  born, 
And 

Doge.      Soon  may  be  a  prince  no  longer. 

Mar.  How  ? 


SCENE    I. 


THE   TWO    FOSCARI. 


297 


Doge,  They  have  taken  my  son  from  me,  and  now 
At  my  too  long  worn  diadem  and  ring.  [aim 

Let  them  resume  the  gewgaws  1 

Mar.  Oh,  the  tyrants  1 

In  such  an  hour  too  1 

Doge.  'Tis  the  fittest  time  1 

An  hour  ago  I  should  have  felt  it. 

Mar.  And 

Will  you  not  now  resent  it  ?    Oh,  for  vengeance  I 
But  he,  who,  had  he  been  enough  protected, 
Might  have  repaid  protection  in  this  moment. 
Cannot  assist  his  father. 

Doge.  Nor  should  do  so 

Against  his  country,  had  he  a  thousand  lives 
Instead  of  that 

Mar.  They  tortured  from  him.     This 

May  be  pure  patriotism.    I  am  a  woman  : 
To  me  my  husband  and  my  children  were 
Country  and  home.    I  loved  him — how  I  loved  him  ! 
I  have  seen  him  pass  through  such  an  ordeal  as 
The  old  martyrs  would  have  shrunk  from  :  he  is  gone. 
And  I,  who  would  have  given  my  blood  for  him. 
Have  naught  to  give  but  tears  !  But  could  I  compass 
The  retribution  of  his  wrongs  I     Well,  well ; 
I  have  sons,  who  shall  be  men. 

Doge.  Your  grief  distracts  you. 

Mar.  I  thought  I  could  have  borne  it,  when  I  saw 
him 
Bow'd  down  by  such  oppression  ;  yes,  I  thought 
That  I  would  rather  look  upon  his  corse 
Than  his  prolong'd  captivity  : — I  am  punish'd 
For  that  thought  now.    Would  I  were  in  his  grave  I 

Doge.  I  must  look  on  him  once  more. 

Mar.  Come  with  me  I 

Doge.  Is  he 

Mar.  Our  bridal  bed  is  now  his  bier. 

Doge.  And  he  is  in  his  shroud  ! 

Mar.  Come,  come,  old  man  I 

\Exeant  th^  Doge  and  Marina. 

Enter  Babbarigo  and  Loredano. 

Bar.  {to  an  Attendant.)  Where  is  the  Doge  ? 

-4«.  This  instant  retired  hence 

With  the  illustrious  lady  his  son's  widow. 

Lwr.  Where? 

Att.  To  the  chamber  where  the  body  lies. 

Bar.  Let  us  return,  then. 

^'"■'  You  forget,  you  cannot. 

We  have  the  implicit  order  of  the  Giunta 
To  await  their  coming  here,  and  join  them  in 
Their  office  :  they'll  be  here  soon  after  us.      [Doge  ? 

Rir.  And  will  they  press  their  answer  on  the 

Lor.  'Twas  his  own  wish  that  all  should  be  done 
promptly. 
He  answer'd  quickly,  and  must  so  be  answcr'd; 
His  dignity  is  look'd  to,  his  estate 
Cared  for — what  would  he  more  ? 

■^'■-  Die  in  his  robes : 

38 


He  could  not  have  lived  long ;  but  I  have  done 
My  best  to  save  his  honors,  and  opposed 
This  proposition  to  the  last,  though  vainly. 
Why  would  the  general  vote  compel  me  hither  ? 

Lor.  'Twas  fit  that  some  one  of  such  diflferent 
thoughts 
From  ours  should  be  a  witness,  lest  false  tongues 
Should  whisper  that  a  harsh  majority 
Dreaded  to  have  its  acts  beheld  by  others. 

Bar.  And  not  less,  I  must  needs  think,  for  the 
Of  humbling  me  for  my  vain  opposition.  [sake 

You  are  ingenious,  Loredano,  in 
Your  modes  of  vengeance,  nay,  poetical, 
A  very  Ovid  in  the  art  of  hating  ; 
'Tis  thus  (although  a  secondary  object. 
Yet  hate  has  microscopic  eyes)  to  you 
I  owe,  by  way  of  foil  to  the  more  zealous. 
This  undesired  association  in 
Your  Giunta's  duties. 

Lor.  How  1 — my  Giunta  ! 

Bar.  Yours ! 

They  speak  your  language,  watch  your  nod,  approve 
Your  plans,  and  do  your  work.   Are  they  not  yovrs  t 

Lor.  You  talk  unwarily.  'Twere  best  they  hear  not 
This  from  you. 

Bar.  Oh,  they'll  hear  as  much  one  day 

From  louder  tongues  than  mine  I  they  have  gone  be- 
Even  their  exorbitance  of  power :  and  when    [yond 
This  happens  in  the  most  contemn'd  and  abject 
States,  stung  humanity  will  rise  to  check  it. 

lar.  You  talk  but  idly. 

Bar.  That  remains  for  proof. 

Here  come  our  colleagues. 

Enter  the  Deputation  as  before. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  the  Duke  aware 

We  seek  his  presence  ? 

Att.  He  shall  be  inform'd. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

Bar.  The  Duke  is  with  his  son. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so, 

We  will  remit  him  till  the  rights  are  over. 
Let  us  return.    'Tis  time  enough  to-morrow. 

Lor.  (a.iide  to  Bar.)  Now  the  rich  man's  hell-fire 
upon  your  tongue, 
Unquench'd,  unquenchable  !     I'll  have  it  torn 
From  its  vile  babbling  roots,  till  you  shall  utter 
Nothing  but  sol)s  through  blood,  for  this  I     Sage 

signers, 
I  pray  ye  be  not  hasty.  [Aloud  to  the  others. 

Bar.  But  be  human  1 

Lor.  See,  the  Duke  comes  ! 

Enter  the  Doge. 

Doge.  I  have  obey'd  your  summons. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  come  once  more  to  urge  our 
Doge.  And  I  to  answer.  [past  request. 

Chitf  of  the  Ten.  What  ?      . 


298 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


Doge.  My  only  answer. 

You  have  heard  it. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Hear  you  then  the  last  decree, 
Definitive  and  absolute ! 

Doge.  To  the  point — 

To  the  point  1    I  know  of  old  the  forms  of  office, 
And  gentle  preludes  to  strong  acts — go  on  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  You  are  no  longer  Doge ;  you 
are  released 
■Prom  your  imperial  oath  as  sovereign  ; 
Your  ducal  robes  must  be  put  off ;  but  for 
Your  services,  the  state  allots  the  appanage 
Already  mention'd  in  our  former  congress. 
Three  days  are  left  you  to  remove  from  hence. 
Under  the  penalty  to  see  confiscated 
An  your  own  private  fortune. 

Doge.  That  last  clause, 

I  am  proud  to  say,  would  not  enrich  the  treasury. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Your  answer,  Duke  ! 

Lor.  Your  answer,  Francis  Foscari  1 

Doge.  If  I  could  have  foreseen  that  my  old  age 
Was  prejudicial  to  the  state,  the  chief 
Of  the  republic  never  would  have  shown 
Himself  so  far  ungrateful,  as  to  place 
His  own  high  dignity  before  his  country ; 
But  this  life  having  been  so  many  years 
Not  useless  to  that  country,  I  would  fain 
Have  consecrated  my  last  moments  to  her. 
But  the  decree  being  render'd,  I  obey. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.   If  you  would  have  the  three 
days  named  extended, 
We  willingly  will  lengthen  them  to  eight. 
As  sign  of  our  esteem. 

Doge.  Not  eight  hours,  signor, 

Nor  even  eight  minutes.     There's  the  ducal  ring, 

[  Taking  off  hin  ring  and  cap. 
And  there  the  ducal  diadem.     And  so 
The  Adriatic 's  free  to  wed  another. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Yet  go  not  forth  so  quickly. 

Doge.  I  am  old,  sir, 

And  even  to  move  but  slowly  must  begin 
To  move  betimes.     Methinks  I  see  amongst  you 
A  face  I  know  not — Senator  1  your  name. 
You,  by  your  garb.  Chief  of  the  Forty  ! 

Mem.  Signor, 

I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo. 

Doge.  Ah ! 

Your  father  was  my  friend.  But  sons  a,nd  fathers  ! — 
What,  ho  !  my  servants  there  ! 

-Att.  My  prince  ! 

Doge.  No  prince — 

There  are  the  princes  of  the  prince  1     {Pointing  to 

the  Ten^a  Deputation.]     Prepare 
To  part  from  hence  upon  the  instant. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Why 

Bo  rashly  ?  'twill  give  scandaL 


Doge.  Answer  that ; 

[  To  the  Ten. 
It  is  your  province.     Sirs,  bestir  yourselves : 

[  To  the  Servanti. 
There  is  one  burden  which  I  beg  you  bear 
With  care,  although  'tis  past  all  further  harm — 
But  I  will  look  to  that  myself. 

Bar.  He  means 

The  body  of  his  son. 

Doge.  And  call  Marina, 

My  daughter ! 

Enter  Makina. 

Doge.  Get  thee  ready ;  we  must  mourn 

Elsewhere. 

Mar.  And  everywhere. 

Doge.  True  ;  but  in  freedom, 

Without  these  jealous  spies  upon  the  great. 
Signors,  you  may  depart :  what  would  you  more  ? 
We  are  going  :  do  you  fear  that  we  shall  bear 
The  palace  with  us  ?     Its  old  walls,  ten  times 
As  old  as  I  am,  and  I'm  very  old, 
Have  served  you,  so  have  I,  and  I  and  they 
Could  tell  a  tale  ;  but  I  invoke  them  not 
To  fall  upon  you  !  else  they  would,  as  erst 
The  pillars  of  stone  Dagon's  temple  on 
The  Israelite  and  his  Philistine  foes. 
Such  power  I  do  believe  there  might  exist 
In  such  a  curse  as  mine,  provoked  by  such 
As  you ;  but  I  curse  not.     Adieu,  good  signors  I 
May  the  next  duke  be  better  than  the  present. 

Zor.  The  p>-(  sent  duke  is  Paschal  Malipiero. 

Doge.  Not  till  I  pass  the  threshold  of  these  doors. 

Lor.  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  is  soon  about  to  toll 
For  his  inauguration. 

Doge.  Earth  and  heaven  1 

Ye  will  reverberate  this  peal ;  and  I 
Live  to  hear  this  1 — the  first  doge  who  e'er  heard 
Such  sound  for  his  successor  !     Happier  he,    . 
My  attainted  predecessor,  stem  FaUero— 
This  insult  at  the  least  was  spared  him. 

Lor.  What  1 

Do  you  regret  a  traitor  ? 

Doge.  No — I  merely 

Envy  the  dead. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  My  lord,  if  you  indeed 
Are  bent  upon  this  rash  abandonment 
Of  the  state's  palace,  at  the  least  retire 
By  the  private  staircase,  which  conducts  you  towards 
The  landing  place  of  the  canal. 

Doge.  No.     I 

Will  now  descend  the  stairs  by  which  I  mounted 
To  sovereignty — the  Giant's  Stairs  on  whose 
Broad  eminence  I  was  invested  duke. 
My  services  have  called  me  up  those  steps, 
The  malice  of  my  foes  wiU  drive  me  down  them. 
There  five  and  thirty  years  ago  was  I 
InstaU'd,  and  traversed  these  same  halls,  from  which 


SOEKE   I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


299 


I  never  thought  to  be  divorced  except 
A  corse — a  corse,  it  might  be,  fighting  for  them — 
But  not  push'd  hence  by  fellow-citizens. 
But  come  ;  my  son  and  I  will  go  together — 
He  to  his  grave,  and  I  to  pray  for  mine. 
Chief  of  ths  Ten.  What !  thus  in  public  ? 
Doge.  I  was  publicly 

Elected,  and  so  will  I  be  deposed. 
Marina  1  art  thou  willing  ? 

Mar.  Here's  my  arm  I   [forth. 

Boge.  And  here  my  sfaff :  thus  propp'd  will  Igo 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  It  must  not  be — the  people  will 

perceive  it.  [know  it. 

Doge.  The  people  !     There's  uo  people,  you  well 
Else  you  dare  not  deal  thus  by  them  or  me. 
There  is  a  populice,  perhaps,  whose  looks 
May  shame  you ;  but  they  dare  not  groan  nor  curse 
Save  with  their  hearts  and  eyes.  [you 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  You  speak  in  passion, 

Else 

Doge.  You  have  reason.    I  have  spoken  much 
More  than  my  wont :  it  is  a  foible  yvhich 
Was  not  of  mine,  but  more  excuses  you. 
Inasmuch  as  it  shows  that  I  approach 
A  dotage  which  may  justify  this  deed 
Of  yours,  although  the  law  does  not,  nor  will. 
Farewell,  sirs  ! 

Bar.  You  shall  not  depart  without 

An  escort  fitting  past  and  present  rank. 
We  will  accompany  with  due  respect, 
The  Doge  unto  his  private  palace.     Say  I 
My  brethren,  will  we  not  ? 

Different  voices.  Ay  t — Ay  ! 

Doge.  You  shall  not 

Stir — in  my  train,  at  least.     I  enter'd  here 
As  sovereign — I  go  out  as  citizen 
By  the  same  portals,  but  as  citizen. 
AU  these  vain  ceremonies  are  base  insults. 
Which  only  ulcerate  the  heart  the  more. 
Applying  poisons  there  as  antidotes. 
Pomp  is  for  princes — I  am  none  !    That's  false, 
I  am,  but  only  to  these  gates.    Ah  ! 

Lor.  Hark ! 

[  Tlie  great  bell  of  St.  Marh^s  tolls. 

Lor.  The  bell  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  St.  Mark's,  which  tolls  for  the 
Of  Malipiero.  [election 

Doge.  Well  I  recognize 

The  sound  !  I  heard  it  once,  but  once  before. 
And  that  is  five  and  thirty  years  ago  ! 
Even  then,  I  was  not  young. 

Bar.  Sit  down,  my  lord  I 

You  tremble. 

Doge.  'Tis  the  knell  of  my  poor  boy. 

My  heart  aches  bitterly. 

Ba/r.  I  pray  you  sit. 

Doge.  No ;  my  seat  here  has  been  a  throne  till  now. 


Marina  I  let  us  go. 

Mar.  Most  readily. 

Doge,  (walls  a  few  itteps,  then  stoj)s.)  I  feel  athirst — 
will  no  one  bring  me  here 
A  cup  of  water  ? 

Bar.  I 

Mar.  And  I 

Lor.  And  I 

[The  Doge  tal-es  a  gullet  from  the  hand  of 

LOBBDANO. 

Doge.  I  take  poitrs,  Loredano,  from  the  hand 
Most  fit  for  such  an  liour  as  this. 

Lor.  Why  so  ? 

Doge.  'Tis  said  that  our  Venetian  crystal  has 
Such  pure  antipathy  to  poisons  as 
To  burst,  if  aught  of  venom  touches  it 
You  bore  this  goblet,  and  it  is  not  broken. 

Zor.  Well,  sir ! 

Doge.  Then  it  is  false,  or  you  are  true.  . 

For  my  own  part,  I  credit  neither ;  'tis 
An  idle  legend. 

Mar.  You  talk  wildly,  and 

Had  better  now  be  seated,  nor  as  yet 
Depart.     Ah,  now  you  look  as  look'd  my  husband  ! 

Bar.  He  sinks  ! — support  him  ! — quick^a  chair- 
support  him  ! 

Doge.  The  bell  tolls  on  ! — let's  hence — my  brain  's 

Bar.  I  do  beseech  you,  lean  upon  us  !        [on  fire  I' 

Doge.  No ! 

A  sovereign  should  die  standing.     My  poor  boy  1 
OS  with  your  arms  ! — T/iat  bell ! 

[  The  Doge  drops  down  and  dies. 

Mar.  My  God  !     My  God  1 

Ear.  {to  Lor.)  Behold  1  your  work  's  completed  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  there  then 

No  aid  ?    Call  in  assistance  ! 

Att.  'Tis  all  over. 

Chief  if  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so,  at  least  his  obsequies 
Shall  be  such  as  befits  his  name  and  nation, 
His  rank  and  his  devotion  to  the  duties 
Of  the  realm,  while  his  age  permitted  him 
To  do  himself  and  them  full  justice.     Brethren, 
Say,  shall  it  not  be  so  ? 

Bar.  He  has  not  had 

The  misery  to  die  a  subject  where 
He  reign'd :  then  let  his  funeral  rites  be  princely. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  are  agreed,  then  ? 

AlU  except  Lor.,  answer.  Yes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.      Heaven's  peace  be  with  him  I 

Mo,r.  Signers,  your  pardon  :  this  is  mockery. 
Juggle  no  more  with  that  poor  remnant,  which, 
A  moment  since,  while  yet  it  had  a  soul, 
(A  soul  by  whom  you  have  increased  your  empire, 
And  made  your  power  as  proud  as  was  his  glory,) 
You  banish'd  from  his  palace,  and  tore  down 
From  his  high  place,  with  such  relentless  coldness  ; 
And  now,  when  he  can  neither  know  these  honors, 


300 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


PART  I. 


Nor  would  accept  them  if  he  could,  you,  signors. 
Purpose  with  idle  and  superfluous  pomp. 
To  make  a  pageant  over  what  you  trampled. 
A  princely  funeral  will  be  your  reproach, 
And  not  his  honor. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Lady,  we  revoke  not 
Onr  purposes  so  readily. 

Mar.  I  know  it. 

As  far  as  touches  torturing  the  living. 
I  thought  the  dead  had  been  beyond  even  you, 
Though  (some,  no  doubt,)  consign'd  to  powers  which 
Resemble  that  you  exercise  on  earth.  [may 

Leave  him  to  me  ;  you  would  have  done  so  for 
His  dregs  of  life,  which  you  have  kindly  shorten'd : 
It  is  my  last  of  duties,  and  may  prove 
A  dreary  comfort  in  my  desolation. 
Grief  is  fantastical,  and  loves  the  dead, 
And  the  apparel  of  the  grave. 
,     Chief  of  the  Ten.  Do  you 

Pretend  still  to  this  oflSce  ? 

Mar.  I  do,  signor. 

Though  his  possessions  have  been  all  consumed 
In  the  state's  service,  I  have  still  my  dowry, 
Which  shall  be  consecrated  to  his  rites. 
And  those  of \^8he  stops  with  agitation. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Best  retain  it  for  your  children. 

Mar.  Ay,  they  are  fatherless  !  I  thank  you. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 

Cannot  comply  with  your  request.    His  relics 


Shall  be  exposed  with  wonted  pomp,  and  foUow'd 
Unto  their  home  by  the  new  Doge,  not  clad 
As  I)oge,  but  simply  as  a  senator. 

Mar.  I  have  heard  of  murderers,  who  have  interr'd 
Their  victims  ;  but  ne'er  heard,  until  this  hour, 
Of  so  much  splendor  in  hypocrisy 
O'er  those  they  slew.    I've  heard  of  widows'  tears — 
Alas  !  I  have  shed  some — always  thanks  to  you  1 
I've  heard  of  heirs  in  sables — you  have  left  none 
To  the  deceased,  so  you  would  act  the  part 
Of  such.     Well,  sirs,  your  will  be  done  !  as  one  day 
I  trust.  Heaven's  will  be  done  too  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Know  you,  lady. 

To  whom  ye  speak,  and  perils  of  such  speech  ? 

Mar.  I  know  the  former  better  than  yourselves  ; 
The  latter — like  yourselves  ;  and  can  face  both. 
Wish  you  more  funerals  ? 

Bar.  Heed  not  her  rash  words ; 

Her  circumstances  must  excuse  her  bearing. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  will  not  note  them  down. 

Bar.  {turning  to  Lor.  who  is  writing  upon  his  tab- 
lets.) 

What  art  thou  writing. 
With  such  an  earnest  brow,  upon  thy  tablets  ? 

Lor.  {pointing  to  the  Doge's  body.)  That  he  has 
paid  me  1 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What  debt  did  he  owe  you  ? 

Lor.  A  long  and  just  one ;  Nature's  debt  and  mine. 

[  Curtain  falls. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED 


A     DEAMA. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Tins  production  is  founded  partly  on  the  story  of  a 
novel  called  "  The  Three  Brothers,"  published  many 
years  ago,  from  which  M.  G.  Lewis'  "  Wood  Demon  " 
was  also  taken,  and  partly  on  the  "Faust"  of  the 
great  Goethe.  The  present  publication  contains  the 
two  first  Parts  only,  and  the  opening  chorus  of  the 
third.    The  rest  may,  perhaps,  appear  hereafter. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Stranger,  afterwards  C^sibar. 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

Philibbht. 

Cellini. 


Bertha. 
Olimpia. 

Spirits,  Soldiers,  Citizens  of  Rome,  Priests, 
Peasants,  etc. 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 

PART    L 

SCENE       I. 

xi  Forest. 
Enter  Arnold  and  his  mother  Bertha 
Bert.  Out,  hunchback  I 


SCKiTB  I. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


301 


Am.  I  was  bom  so,  mother  1 

Bert.  Out, 

Thou  incubus  !    Thou  nightmare  !    Of  seven  sons, 
The  sole  abortion ! 

Arn.  Would  that  I  had  been  so. 

And  never  seen  the  light ! 

Berf.  I  would  so  too  ! 

But  as  thou  /mat — hence,  hence — and  do  thy  best ! 
That  back  of  thine  may  bear  its  burden  ;  'tis 
More  high,  if  not  so  broad  as  that  of  others. 

Arn.  It  hears  its  burden  ; — but  my  heart  1   Will  it 
Sustain  that  which  you  lay  upon  it,  mother  ? 
I  love,  or,  at  the  least,  I  loved  you  :  nothing 
Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  aught  like  me. 
You  nursed  me— do  not  kill  mc  ! 

Berf.  Yes — I  nursed  thee, 

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

Arn.  I  will :  but  when  I  bring  it, 

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

Bert.  As  is  the  hedgehog's, 

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

[Exit  Bebtha. 

Arn.  {solva.)  Oh,  mother ! She  is  gone,  and  I 

Her  bidding  ; — wearily  but  willingly  [must  do 

I  would  fulfill  it,  could  I  only  hope 

A  kind  word  in  return.    What  shall  I  do  ? 

[Abnold  begins  to  cut  wood :  in  doing  this  he 
".oounds  one  of  his  hands. 
My  labor  for  the  day  is  over  now. 
Accursed  be  this  blood  that  flows  so  fast ; 
For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 
At  home.    What  home  ?    I  have  no  home,  no  kin, 
Ko  kind — not  made  like  other  creatures,  or 
To  share  their  sports  or  pleasures.   Must  I  bleed  too 
Like  them  ?    Oh,  that  each  drop  which  falls  to  earth 
Would  rise  a  snake  to  sting  them,  as  they  have  stung 
Or  that  the  devil,  to  whom  they  liken  me,  [me  ! 

Would  aid  his  likeness  !     If  I  must  partake 
His  form,  why  not  his  power  ?     Is  it  because 
I  have  not  his  will  too  ?    For  one  kind  word 
From  her  who  bore  me  would  still  reconcile  me 
Even  to  this  hateful  aspect.    Let  me  wash 
The  wound. 

[Arnold  goes  to  a  spring,  and  stoops  to  wash 
his  hand :  he  starts  hack. 


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

And  shall  I  live  on, 
A  burden  to  the  earth,  myself,  and  shame 
Unto  what  brought  me  into  life  !     Thou  blood 
Which  flowest  so  freely  from  a  scratch,  let  me 
Try  if  thou  wilt  not  in  a  fuller  stream 
Pour  forth  my  woes  forever  with  thyself 
On  earth,  to  which  I  will  restore  at  once 
This  hateful  compound  of  her  atoms,  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  elements,  and  take 
The  shape  of  any  reptile  save  myself. 
And  make  a  world  for  myriads  of  new  worms  ! 
This  knife  !  now  let  me  prove  if  it  will  sever 
This  wither'd  slip  of  nature's  nightshade — ^my 
Vile  form — from  the  creation,  as  it  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest. 

[Abnold  places  the  knife  in  the  ground,  with 
the  point  upwards. 

Now  'tis  set, 
And  I  can  fall  upon  it.     Yet  one  glance 
On  the  fair  day,  which  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
Myself,  and  the  sweet  sun  which  warm'd  me,  but 
In  vain.    The  birds — how  joyously  they  sing  1 
So  let  them,  for  I  would  not  be  lamented  : 
But  let  their  merriest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell : 
The  fallen  leaves  my  monument ;  the  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 
Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I  fain  would  fall  1 

[As  he  rushes  to  throw  himself  upon  the  knife, 
his  eye  is  suddenly  caught  iy  the  fountain, 
which  seems  in  motion. 
The  fountain  moves  without  a  wind  :  but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a  spring  change  my  resolve  ? 
No  1     Yet  it  moves  again  !     The  waters  stir, 
Not  as  with  air,  but  by  some  subterrane 
And  rocking  power  of  the  internal  world. 
What's  here  ?    A  mist !    No  more  ? — 

[A  cloud  comes  from  the  fountain.     He  stands 
gazing  upon  it;   it  is  dispelled,  and  a  tall 
black  man  comes  towards  him. 
Arn.  What  would  you  ?    Speak  1 

Spirit  or  man  ? 

Stran.  As  man  is  both,  why  not 

Say  both  in  one  ? 

Arn.  Your  form  is  man's,  and  yet 

You  may  be  devil. 

Stran.  So  many  men  are  that 

Wliich  is  so  call'd  or  thought,  that  you  may  add  mo 
To  which  you  please,  without  much  wrong  to  either. 
But  come  :  you  wish  to  kill  yourself; — pursue 
Your  purpose. 


302 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


PART  I. 


Am.  You  have  interrupted  me. 

Slran.  "What  is  that  resolution  which  can  e'er 
Be  interrupted  ?    If  I  be  the  devil 
You  deem,  a  single  moment  would  have  made  you 
Mine,  and  forever,  by  your  suicide ; 
And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

Am.  I  said  not 

You  were  the  demon,  but  that  your  approach 
Was  like  one. 

Stran.  Unless  you  keep  company 

With  him  (and  you  seem  scarce  used  to  such  high 
Society)  you  can't  tell  how  he  approaches  ; 
And  for  his  aspect,  look  upon  the  fountain, 
And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Look  likest  what  the  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 

Am.  Do  you — dare  you 

To  taunt  me  with  my  born  deformity  ? 

Stran.  Were  I  to  taunt  a  buffalo  with  this 
Cloven-foot  of  thine,  or  the  swift  dromedary 
With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  the  animals 
Would  revel  in  the  compliment.     And  yet 
Both  beings  are  more  swift,  more  strong,  more  migh- 
In  action  and  endurance  than  thyself,  [ty 

And  all  the  fierce  and  fair  of  the  same  kind 
With  thee.     Thy  form  is  natural :  'twas  only 
Nature's  mistaken  largess  to  bestow 
The  gifts  which  are  of  others  upon  man. 

Arn.  Give  me  the  strength  then  of  the  buffalo's 
When  he  spurs  high  the  dust,  beholding  his    [foot. 
Near  enemy  ;  or  let  me  have  the  long 
And  patient  swiftness  of  the  desert-ship, 
"  The  harmless  dromedary  ! — and  I'U  bear 
Thy  fiendish  sarcasm  with  a  saintly  patience. 

Stran.  I  will. 

Arn.  (with  surprise.)  Thou  canst  ? 

Stran.  Perhaps.     Would  you  aught  else  ? 

Am.  Thou  mockest  me. 

S/ran.  Not  I.     Why  should  I  mock 

What  all  are  mocking  ?  That's  poor  sport,  methinks. 
To  talk  to  thee  in  human  language,  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speak  mine,)  the  forester 
Hunts  not  the  wretched  coney,  but  the  boar, 
Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  paltry  game 
To  petty  burghers,  who  leave  once  a  year 
Their  walls,  to  fill  their  household  caldrons  with 
Such  scullion  prey.     The  meanest  gibe  at  thee, — 
Now  I  can  mock  the  mightiest. 

Arn.  Then  waste  not 

Thy  time  on  me  :  I  seek  thee  not. 

Stran.  Your  thoughts 

Are  not  far  from  me.    Do  not  send  me  back  : 
I  am  not  so  easily  recall'd  to  do 
Good  service. 

Arn.  What  wilt  thou  do  for  me  ? 

Stran.  Change 

Shapes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  so  irks  you  ; 


Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

Arn.  Oh,  then  you  are  indeed  the  demon,  for 
Naught  else  would  wittingly  wear  mine. 

Stran.  I'U  show  thee 

The  brightest  which  the  world  e'er  bore,  and  give 
Thy  choice.  [thee 

Arn.  On  what  condition  ? 

Stran.  There's  a  question ; 

An  hour  ago  you  would  have  given  your  soul 
To  look  like  other  men,  and  now  you  pause 
To  wear  the  form  of  heroes. 

Am.  No  ;  I  will  not. 

I  must  not  compromise  my  soul. 

Stran.  What  soul 

Worth  naming  so,  would  dwell  in  such  a  carcass  ? 
Arn.  'Tis  an  aspiring  one,  whate'er  the  tenement 
In  which  it  is  mislodged.    But  name  your  compact ; 
Must  it  be  sign'd  in  blood  ? 

Slran.  Not  in  your  own. 

Arn.  Whose  blood  then  ? 

Stran.  We  will  talk  of  that  hereafter. 

But  I'll  be  moderate  with  you,  for  I  see 
Great  things  within  you.     You  shall  have  no  bond 
But  your  own  will,  no  contract  save  your  deeds. 
Are  you  content  ? 

Arn.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 

Stran.  Now  then  ! — 

[The  Stranger  approaches  the  fmmtain,  and 
turns  to  Arnold. 

A  little  of  your  blood. 
Am.  For  what  1 

Stran.  To  mingle  with  the  magic  of  the  waters. 
And  make  the  charm  effective. 

Am.  {holding  out  his  wounded  arm.)  Take  it  all. 
Stran.  Not  now.    A  few  drops  will  suffice  for  this. 
TTie  Stranger  takes  some  of  Arnold's  Mood  in 
his  hand,  and  casts  it  into  the  fountain. 
Stran.      Shadows  of  beauty  ! 
Shadows  of  power  1 
Rise  to  your  duty — 
This  is  the  hour  ! 
Walk  lovely  and  pliant 

From  the  depth  of  this  fountain, 
As  the  cloud-shapen  giant 

Bestrides  the  Hartz  Mountain. 
Come  as  ye  were. 

That  our  eyes  may  behold 
The  model  in  air 

Of  the  form  I  wiU  mould, 
Bright  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spann'd  : — 
Such  his  desire  is,  {Pointing  to  Arnold. 

Such  my  command  I 
Demons  heroic — 

Demons  who  wore 
The  form  of  the  stoic 
Or  sophist  of  yore — 


SCENE  I. 


THE   DEFORMED   TRANSFORMED. 


303 


Or  the  shape  of  each  victor, 

From  Macedon's  boy 
To  each  high  Roman  picture 
Who  breathed  to  destroy — 
Shadows  of  beauty  ! 

Shadows  of  power ! 
Up  to  your  duty — 
This  is  the  hour  ! 
[  Various  Phan  tom-i  arise  from  the  iraters,  and 
pass  in  succession  before  the  Stranger  and 
Arnold. 
Am.  What  do  I  see  ? 

Stran.  The  black-eyed  Roman,  with 

The  eagle's  beak  between  those  eyes  which  ne'er 
Beheld  a  conqueror,  or  look'd  along 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome's,  while  Rome  became 
His,  and  all  their/ who  heir'd  his  very  name. 

Am.  The  phantom's  bald ;   my  quest  is  beauty. 
Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defects  !  [Could  I 

Stran.  His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  more  than 
You  see  his  aspect — choose  it,  or  reject.  [hairs. 

I  can  but  promise  you  his  form  :  his  fame 
Must  be  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

Am.  I  will  fight  too, 

But  not  as  a  mock  Cffisar.     Let  him  pass  ; 
His  aspect  may  be  fair,  but  suits  me  not. 

Stran.  Then  you  are  far  more  difficult  to  please 
Than  Cato's  sister,  or  than  Brutus'  mother. 
Or  Cleopatra  at  sixteen — an  age 
When  love  is  not  less  in  the  eye  than  heart. 
But  be  it  so  !    Shadow,  pass  on  ! 

[  The  Phantom,  of  Julius  Ccesar  disappears. 
Am.  And  can  it 

Be,  that  the  man  who  shook  the  earth  is  gone, 
And  left  no  footstep  ? 

Stran.  There  you  err.     His  substance 

Left  graves  enough,  and  woes  enough,  and  fame 
More  than  enough  to  track  his  memory  ; 
But  for  his  shadow,  'tis  no  more  than  yours, 
Except  a  Uttle  longer  and  less  crook'd 
r  the  sun.    Behold  another  1 

[A  second  phantom  passes. 
Am.  Who  is  he  ? 

Stran.  He  was  the  fairest  and  the  bravest  of 
Athenians.    Look  upon  him  well. 

Am.  He  is 

More  lovely  than  the  last.     How  beautiful  I 

Stran.    Such  was  the  curled  son  of  Clinias; — 
wouldst  thou 
Invest  thee  with  his  form  ? 

Am.  .  Would  that  I  had 

Been  bom  with  it  1   But  since  I  may  choose  further, 
I  wiU  look  further. 

[The  shade  ofAlcibiades  disappears. 
Stran.        Lo !  behold  again !  [eyed  satyr. 

Am.  What !  that  low,  swarthy,  shorf^nosed,  round- 
With  the  wide  nostrils  and  Silenus'  aspect, 


The  splay  feet  and  low  stature  !  I  had  better 
Remain  that  which  I  am. 

Stran.  And  yet  he  was 

The  earth's  perfection  of  all  mental  beauty. 
And  personification  of  all  virtue. 
But  you  reject  him  ? 

Am.  If  his  form  could  bring  me 

That  which  redeem'd  it — no. 

Stran.  I  have  no  power 

To  promise  that ;  but  you  may  try,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a  form,  or  in  your  own. 

Am.  No.     I  was  not  bom  for  philosophy. 
Though  I  have  that  about  me  which  has  need  on't. 
Let  him  fleet  on. 

Stran.  Be  air,  thou  hemlock-drinker  ! 

[The  shadow  of  Socrates  disappears :  another  rines. 

Am.  What's  here  ?  whose  broad  brow  and  whose 
curly  beard 
And  manly  aspect  look  like  Hercules, 
Save  that  his  jocund  eye  hath  more  of  Bacchus 
Than  the  sad  purger  of  the  infernal  world. 
Leaning  dejected  on  his  club  of  conquest. 
As  if  he  knew  the  worthlessness  of  those 
For  whom  he  had  fought. 

Stran.  It  was  the  man  who  lost 

The  ancient  world  for  love. 

Am.  I  cannot  blame  him, 

Since  I  have  risk'd  my  soul  because  I  find  not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

Stran.  Since  so  far 

You  seem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  features  ? 

Am.  No.  As  you  leave  me  choice,  I  am  difficult, 
If  but  to  see  the  heroes  I  should  ne'er 
Have  seen  else  on  this  side  of  the  dim  shore 
Whence  they  float  back  before  us. 

Stran.  Hence,  triumvir  ! 

Thy  Cleopatra's  waiting. 

[The  shade  of  Anthony  disappears :  another  rises. 

Am.  Who  is  this  ? 

Who  truely  looketh  like  a  demigod, 
Blooming  and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and  stature, 
If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  yet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs, 
Which  he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays— a  something 
Which  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the  flashing 
Emanation  of  a  thing  more  glorious  still 
Was  he  e'er  human  only  f 

Stran.  Let  the  earth  speak, 

If  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  even 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  form'd  his  um. 

Am.  Who  was  this  glory  of  mankind  ? 

Stran.  The  shame 

Of  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war- 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities. 

Arn.  Yet  one  shadow  more. 


304 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


PAET  I. 


Btran.    (addressing  the  shadow.)    Get  thee  to  La- 
mia's lap  1 
[The  shade  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetes  vanishes : 
another  rises. 

I'll  fit  you  sHll, 
Fear  not,  my  huncliback  :  if  the  shadows  of 
That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taste, 
m  animate  the  ideal  marble,  till 
Vour  soul  be  reconciled  to  her  new  garment. 

Am.  Content !  I  wiU  fix  here. 

Stran.  I  must  commend 

Your  choice.    The  godlike  son  of  the  sea-goddess, 
The  unshorn  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locks 
A.S  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber  waves 
Of  rich  Pactolus,  roll'd  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
Softcn'd  by  intervening  crystal,  and 
Eipplcd  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wind, 
AU  vow'd  to  Sperchius  as  they  were — behold  them  1 
Ajid  him — as  he  stood  by  Polixena, 
With  sanction'd  and  with  soften'd  love,  before 
riie  altar,  gazing  on  his  Trojan  bride. 
With  some  remorse  within  for  Hector  slain 
A.nd  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  passion 
For  the  sweet  downcast  virgin,  whose  young  hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  slew  her  brother.     So 
He  stood  i'  the  temple  !    Look  upon  him  as 
Greece  look'd  her  last  upon  her  best,  the  instant 
Ere  Paris'  arrow  flew. 

Am.  I  gaze  upon  him 

As  if  I  were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Envelope  mine. 

Stran.  You  have  done  well.    The  greatest 

Deformity  should  only  barter  with 
The  extremest  beauty,  if  the  proverb's  true 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 

Am.  Come  1  Be  qnick  1 

I  am  impatient. 

Blran.  As  a  youthful  beauty 

Before  her  glass.     Ymi  loth  see  what  is  not, 
But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 

Am.  Must  I  wait  ? 

Stran.  No ;  that  were  a  pity.    But  a  word  or  two : 
His  statue  is  twelve  cubits  ;  would  you  so  far 
Outstep  these  times,  and  be  a  Titan  ?    Or 
(To  talk  canonically)  wax  a  son 
Of  Anak  ? 

Am.        Why  not  ? 

Stran.  Glorious  ambition ! 

I  love  thee  most  in  dwarfs  !     A  mortal  of 
Philistine  stature  would  have  gladly  pared 
His  own  Goliath  down  to  a  slight  David  : 
But  thou,  my  manikin,  wouldst  soar  a  show 
Rather  than  hero.     Thou  shalt  be  indulged, 
If  such  be  thy  desire ;  and  yet,  by  being 
A  little  less  removed  from  present  men 
In  figure,  thou  canst  sway  them  more ;  for  aU 
Would  rise  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hunt 


A  new-found  mammoth  ;  and  their  cursed  engines. 
Their  culverins,  and  so  forth,  would  find  way 
Through  our  friend's  armor  there,  with  greater  ea.-*o 
Than  the  adulterer's  arrow  through  his  heel, 
Which  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptize 
In  Styx. 

Am.  Then  let  it  be  as  thou  deem'st  best. 

Stran.  Thou  shalt  be  beauteous  as  the  thing  thou 
seest, 
And  strong  as  what  it  was,  and 

Am.  I  ask  not 

For  valor,  since  deformity  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  o'ertake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal — 
Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.     There  is 
A  spur  in  its  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  compensate 
For  stepdame  Nature's  avarice  at  first. 
They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  of  fortune, 
And  oft,  Uke  Timour  the  lame  Tartar,  win  them. 

Stran,.  Well  spoken  I    And  thou  doubtless  wilt 
remain 
Form'd  as  thou  art.    I  may  dismiss  the  mould 
Of  shadow,  which  must  turn  to  flesh,  to  incase 
This  daring  soul,  which  could  achieve  no  less 
Without  it. 

Am.  Had  no  power  presented  me 

The  possibiUty  of  change,  I  would 
Have  done  the  best  which  spirit  may  to  make 
Its  way  with  all  deformity's  duU,  deadly. 
Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a  mountain, 
In  feeling,  on  my  heart  as  on  my  shoulders — 
A  hateful  and  unsightly  molehill,  to 
The  eyes  of  happier  man.    I  would  have  look'd 
On  beauty  in  that  sex  which  is  the  type 
Of  aU  we  know  or  dream  of  beautiful 
Beyond  the  world  they  brighten,  with  a  sigh — 
Not  of  love,  but  despair ;  nor  sought  to  win. 
Though  to  a  heart  all  love,  what  could  not  love  me 
In  turn,  because  of  this  vile  crooked  clog. 
Which  makes  me  lonely.     Nay,  I  could  have  borne 
It  all,  had  not  my  mother  spurn'd  me  from  her. 
The  she-bear  licks  her  cubs  into  a  sort 
Of  shape ;— my  dam  beheld  my  shape  was  hopeless. 
Had  she  exposed  me,  like  the  Spartan,  ere 
I  knew  the  passionate  part  of  life,  I  had 
Been  a  clod  of  the  valley, — happier  nothing 
Than  what  I  am.     But  even  thus,  the  lowest. 
Ugliest,  and  meanest  of  mankind,  what  courage 
And  perseverance  could  have  done,  perchance 
Had  made  me  something — as  it  has  made  heroes 
Of  the  same  mould  as  mine.     You  lately  saw  me 
Master  of  my  own  life,  and  quick  to  quit  it ; 
And  he  who  is  so  is  the  master  of 
Whatever  dreads  to  die. 

Stran.  Decide  between 


SCEI7B   L 


THE  DEFORMED   TRANSFORMED. 


305 


What  yon  have  been,  or  will  be 

Am.  I  have  done  bo. 

Ton  hare  open'd  brighter  prospects  to  my  eyes, 
And  sweeter  to  my  heart.     As  I  am  now, 
I  might  be  fear'd,  admired,  respected,  loved 
Of  all  save  those  next  to  me,  of  whom  I 
Would  be  beloved.    As  thou  showest  me 
A  choice  of  forms,  I  take  the  one  I  view.  * 
Haste  1  haste ! 

Stran.  And  what  shall  /  wear  ? 

Am.  Surely,  he 

Who  can  command  all  forms  will  choose  the  highest, 
Something  superior  even  to  that  which  was 
Pelides  now'before  us.    Perhaps  his 
Who  slew  him,  that  of  Paris  :  or— still  higher — 
The  poet's  god,  clothed  in  such  limbs  as  are 
Themselves  a  poetry. 

Stran.  Less  will  content  me ; 

For  I,  too,  love  a  change. 

Am.  Your  aspect  is 

Dusky,  but  not  uncomely. 

Stran.  If  I  chose, 

I  might  be  whiter ;  but  I  have  a  penchant 
For  black — it  is  so  honest,  and  besides 
Can  neither  blush  with  shame  nor  pale  with  fear ; 
But  I  have  worn  it  long  enough  of  late. 
And  now  PU  take  your  figure. 
Am.  Mine ! 

Stran.  Yes.     You 

Shall  change  with  Thetis'  son,  and  I  with  Bertha, 
Your  mother's  offspring.     People  have  their  tastes  : 
You  have  yours — I  mine. 
Am.  Dispatch  !  dispatch  ! 

Stran.  Even  so. 

[^The  Stranger  takes  some  earth  and  moulds  it 
along  the  turf,  and  then  addresses  the  phan- 
tom of  Achilles. 
Beautiful  shadow 

Of  Thetis's  boy ! 
Who  sleeps  in  the  meadow 

Whose  grass  grows  o'er  Troy  : 
From  the  red  earth,  like  Adam,' 

Thy  likeness  I  shape, 
As  the  being  who  made  him, 

Whose  actions  I  ape. 
Thou  clay,  be  aU  glowing, 

Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 
Be  as  fair  as,  when  blowing. 

It  wears  its  first  streak  1 
Ye  violets,  I  scatter. 

Now  turn  into  eyes  ! 

And  thou,  sunshiny  water. 

Of  blood  take  the  guise  ! 

Let  these  hyacinth  boughs 

Be  his  long  flowing  hair, 

>  Adam  means  " red  earth"  from  which  the  flrat  man  wae 
formed. 

39 


And  wave  o'er  his  brows, 
As  thou  wavest  in  air  ! 
Let  his  heart  be  this  marble 

I  tear  from  the  rock  ! 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 

Of  birds  on  yon  oak  ! 
Let  his  flesh  be  the  purest 

Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
The  lily-root  surest. 

And  drank  the  best  dew  1 
Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 
Which  clay  can  compound. 
And  his  aspect  the  brightest 

On  earth  to  be  found  ! 
Elements,  near  me, 

Be  mingled  and  stirr'd, 
Know  me,  and  hear  me. 
And  leap  to  my  word  ! 
Sunbeams,  awaken 

This  earth's  animation ! 
'Tis  done  !    He  hath  taken 
His  stand  in  creation  1 
[Arnold  falls  senseless  ;  his  soul  passes  into  the 
shape  of  Achilles,  which  rises  from  the  ground  ; 
while  dhe  phantom  has  disappeared,  part  hy 
part,  as  the  figure  was  formed  from  the  earth. 
Am.  (in  his  new  form.)  I  love,  and  I  shall  be  be- 
loved !     Oh,  life  1 
At  last  I  feel  thee  !    Glorious  spirit ! 

Stran.  Stop ! 

What  shall  become  of  your  abandon'd  garment, 
Yon  hump,  and  lump,  and  clod  of  ugUness, 
Which  late  you  wore,  or  were  ? 

Am.  Who  cares  ?    Let  wolves 

And  vultures  take  it,  if  they  will. 

Stran.  And  if 

They  do,  and  are  not  scared  by  it,  you'll  say 
It  must  be  peace-time,  and  no  better  fare 
Abroad  i'  the  fields. 

Arn.  Let  us  but  leave  it  there  ; 

No  matter  what  becomes  on't. 

Stran.  That's  ungracious. 

If  not  imgrateful.    Whatsoe'er  it  be,  . 
It  hath  sustain'd  your  soul  full  many  a  day. 

Arn.  Ay,  as  the  dunghill  may  conceal  a  gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  jewels  should  be. 
Stran.  But  if  I  give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.    For  they 
Wlio  make  men  without  women's  aid  have  long 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  not  love 
Your  interlopers.    The  devil  may  take  men, 
Not  make  them,— though  he  reap  the  benefit 
Of  the  original  workmanship  :— and  therefore 
Some  one  must  be  found  to  assume  the  shape 
You  have  quitted. 

Arn.  Who  would  do  so  ? 


206 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


PART  I. 


Stran.  That  I  know  not, 

And  therefore  I  must. 

Am.  You  1 

Stran.  I  said  it  ere 

You  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beauty. 

Arn.  True.    I  forget  all  things  in  the  new  joy 
Of  this  immortal  change. 

Stran.  In  a  few  moments 

I  will  be  as  you  were,  and  you  shall  see 
Yourself  forever  by  you,  as  your  shadow. 
Arn.  I  would  be  spared  this. 
Stran.  But  it  cannot  be. 

What  I  shrink  already,  being  what  you  are, 
From  seeing  what  you  were  ? 
Arn.  Do  as  thou  wilt. 

Stran.  (to  the  late  form  of  Abnold,  extended  on 
the  earth.) 
Clay  !  not  dead,  but  soul-less  I 

Though  no  man  would  choose  thee, 
An  immortal  no  less 

Deigns  not  to  refuse  thee. 
Clay  thou  art ;  and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  is  of  equal  merit. 
Fire  !  without  which  naught  can  live ; 
Fire  1  but  in  which  naught  can  live, 
Save  the  fabled  salamander. 
Or  immortal  souls,  which  wander, 
Praying  what  doth  not  forgive, 
Howling  for  a  drop  of  water, 

Burning  in  a  quenchless  lot : 
Fire  1  the  only  element 
Where  nor  fish,  beast,  bird,  nor  worm, 

Save  the  worm  which  dieth  not. 
Can  preserve  a  moment's  form. 
But  must  with  thyself  be  blent : 
Fire  !  man's  safeguard  and  his  slaughter : 
Fire  !  Creation's  first-born  daughter, 
And  Destruction's  threaten'd  son. 
When  heaven  with  the  world  hath  done : 
Fire  !  assist  me  to  renew 
Life  in  what  lies  in  my  view 

Stiff  and  cold  ! 
His  resurrection  rests  with  me  and  you  ! 
One  little,  marshy  spark  of  flame — 
And  he  again  shall  seem  the  same ; 

But  I  his  spirit's  place  shall  hold  ! 
\^An  ignis-fatuus  flits  through  the  wood  and  rests 
on  the  hrow  of  the  body.     The  Stranger  disap- 
pears :  tfie  iody  rises. 
Am.  (in  his  riewform.)  Oh,  horrible  1  [thou  ? 

Stran.  (in  Abnold's  late  shape.)  What !  tremblest 
Am.  Not  so — 

I  merely  shudder.    Where  is  fled  the  shape 
Thou  lately  worest  ? 

Stran.  To  the  world  of  shadows. 

But  let  us  thread  the  present.     Whither  wilt  thou  ? 
Ami.  Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 


Stran.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Your  betters  keep  worse  company. 

Am.  My  betters  ! 

Stran.  Oh,  you  wax  proud,  I  see,  of  your  new  form  ! 
I'm  glad  of  that.    Ungrateful  too  1    That's  well ; 
You  improve  apace  ; — two  changes  in  an  instant. 
And  you  are  old  in  the  world's  ways  already. 
But  bear  with  me  :  indeed  you'll  find  me  useful 
Upon  your  pilgrimage.     But  come,  pronounce 
Where  shall  we  now  be  errant  ? 

Am.  Where  the  world 

Is  thickest,  that  I  may  behold  it  in 
Its  workings. 

Stran.  That's  to  say,  where  there  is  war 

And  woman  in  activity.     Let's  see  1 
Spain — Italy — the  new  Atlantic  world — 
Afiic,  with  all  its  Moors.     In  very  truth, 
There  is  small  choice  :  the  whole  race  are  just  now 
Tugging  as  usual  at  each  other's  hearts. 

Am.  I  have  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 

Stran.  A  goodly  choice — 

And  scarce  a  better  to  be  found  on  earth. 
Since  Sodom  was  put  out.     The  field  is  wide  too ; 
For  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish  scion 
Of  the  old  Vandals  are  at  play  along 
The  sunny  shores  of  the  world's  garden. 

Arn.  How 

Shall  we  proceed  ? 

Stran.  Like  gallants,  on  good  coursers. 

What  ho  !  my  chargers  !    Never  yet  were  better 
Since  Phaeton  was  upset  into  the  Po. 
Our  pages  too ! 

Etiter  two  Pages,  with  four  eoalrhlaek  horses. 

Am.  A  noble  sight  I 

Stran.  And  of 

A  nobler  breed.    Match  me  in  Barbary, 
Or  your  Kochlini  race  of  Araby, 
With  these ! 

Arn.         The  mighty  steam,  which  volumes  high 
From  their  proud  nostrils,  bums  the  very  air ; 
And  sparks  of  flame,  like  dancing  fire-flies,  wheel 
Around  their  manes,  as  common  insects  swarm 
Round  common  steeds  towards  sunset. 

Stran.  Mount,  my  lord : 

They  and  I  are  your  servitors. 

Am.  And  these 

Our  dark-eyed  pages — what  may  be  their  names  ? 

StTran.  You  shall  baptize  them. 

Arn.  What!  in  holy  water? 

Stran.  Why  not  ?    The  deeper  sinner,  better  saint. 

Arn.  They  are  beautiful,  and  cannot,  sure,  be  de- 
mons. 

Stran.  True  ;  the  devil's  always  ugly ;  and  your 
Is  never  diabolical.  [beauty 

Arn.  I'll  call  him 


KCEXE  n. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


sol 


Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  such  bright 
And  blooming  aspect,  Huon  ;  for  he  looks 
Like  to  the  lovely  boy  lost  in  the  forest, 
And  never  found  till  now.     And  for  the  other 
And  darker,  and  more  thoughtful,  who  smiles  not, 
But  looks  as  serious  though  serene  as  night, 
He  shaU  be  Memnmi,  from  the  Ethiop  king 
Whose  statue  turns  a  harper  once  a  day. 
And  you  ? 

Stran.      I  have  ten  thousand  names,  and  twice 
As  many  attributes  ;  but  as  I  wear 
A  human  shape,  will  take  a  human  name. 

Am.  More  human  than  the  shape  (though  it  was 
I  trust.  [mine  once) 

Stran.  Then  call  me  Csesar. 

Am.  Why,  that  name 

Belongs  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
By  the  world's  lords. 

Stran.  And  therefore  fittest  for 

The  devil  in  disguise — since  so  you  deem  me. 
Unless  you  call  me  pope  instead. 

Arn.  Well,  then, 

Csesar  thou  shalt  be.    For  myself,  my  name 
Shall  be  plain  Arnold  still. 

CcBs.  We'll  add  a  title— 

"  Count  Arnold  :"  it  hath  no  ungracious  sound, 
And  will  look  well  upon  a  billet-doux. 

Arn.  Or  in  an  order  for  a  battle-field. 

C(BS.  (sings.)  To  horse  !  to  horse  !  my  coal-black 
Paws  the  ground  and  snuffs  the  air  1  [steed 

There's  not  a  foal  of  Arab's  breed 
More  knows  whom  he  must  bear ; 

On  the  hill  he  wiU  not  tire. 

Swifter  as  it  waxes  higher  ; 

In  the  marsh  he  will  not  slacken. 

On  the  plain  be  overtaken ; 

In  the  wave  he  will  not  sink, 

Nor  pause  at  the  brook's  side  to  drink ; 

In  the  race  he  will  not  pant. 

In  the  combat  he'U  not  faint  1 

On  the  stones  he  will  not  stumble. 

Time  nor  toil  shall  make  him  humble  ; 

In  the  stall  he  will  not  stiflfen. 

But  be  winged  as  a  griffin. 

Only  flying  with  his  feet : 

And  will  not  such  a  voyage  be  sweet  ? 

Merrily  !  merrily  1  never  unsound, 

Shall  our  bonny  black  horses  skim  over  the  ground ! 

From  the  Alps  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or  fly  ! 

For  we'll  leave  them  behind  in  the  glance  of  an  eye. 
[TTiey  mount  their  horses  and  disappear. 

8  C  B  If  E       II. 

A  Camp  he/ore  the  Walh  of  Rome. 
Arnold  and  C^sab. 

C(B».  You  are  well  enter'd  now. 

Am.  Ay  ;  but  my  path 


Has  been  o'er  carcasses  :  mine  eyes  are  full 
Of  blood. 

CcBs.        Then  wipe  them,  and  see  clearly.    Why  ! 
Thou  art  a  conqueror ;  the  chosen  knight 
And  free  companion  of  the  gallant  Bourbon, 
Late  constable  of  France  :  and  now  to  be 
Lord  of  the  city  which  hath  been  earth's  lord 
Under  its  emperors,  and — changing  sex, 
Not  sceptre,  an  hermaphrodite  of  empire — 
Lady  of  the  old  world. 

Arn.  How  old  ?     What !  are  there 

New  worlds  ? 

Cms.  To  you.    You'll  find  there  .are  such  shortly. 
By  its  rich  harvests,  new  disease,  and  gold  ; 
From  one-half  of  the  world  named  a  whole  new  one, 
Because  you  know  no  better  than  the  dull 
And  dubious  notice  of  your  eyes  and  ears. 

Arn.  I'll  trust  them. 

Cms.  Do  1     They  will  deceive  you  sweetly, 

And  that  is  better  than  the  bitter  truth. 

Arn.  Dog  ! 

Cais.  Man  1 

Arn.  Devil ! 

Cos.  Your  obedient  humble  servant. 

Arn.  Say  m'lster  rather.     Thou  hast  lured  me  on, 
Through  scenes  of  blood  and  lust,  till  I  am  here. 

Coes.  And  where  wouldst  thou  be  ? 

Am.  Oh,  at  peace — in  peace. 

Cess.  And  where  is  that  which  is  so  ?  From  the  star 
To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion  ;  and 
In  life  commotion  is  the  extremest  point 
Of  life.    The  planet  wheels  till  it  becomes 
A  comet,  and  destroying  as  it  sweeps 
The  stars,  goes  out.     The  poor  worm  winds  its  way, 
Living  upon  the  death  of  other  things. 
But  still,  like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  subject 
Of  something  which  has  made  it  live  and  die. 
You  must  obey  what  all  obey,  the  rule 
Of  fix'd  necessity  :  against  her  edict 
Rebellion  prospers  not. 

Arn.  And  when  it  prospers 

CcBS.  'Tis  no  rebellion. 

Am.  Will  it  prosper  now  ? 

Cos.  The  Boufbon  hath  given  orders  for  the  assault, 
And  by  the  dawn  there  will  be  work. 

Arn.  AJas ! 

And  shall  the  city  yield  ?    I  see  the  giant 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  saint. 
Saint  Peter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 
That  sky  whence  Christ  ascended  from  the  cross, 
Which  his  blood  made  a  badge  of  glory  and 
Of  joy,  (as  once  of  torture  unto  him, 
God  and  God's  Son,  man's  sole  and  only  refuge.) 

(7«8.  'Tis  there,  and  shall  be. 

Arn.  What « 

CcBs.  The  crucifix 

Above,  and  many  altar  shrines  below. 


308 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


PART  I. 


Also  some  culverins  upon  the  walls, 
And  harquebusses,  and  what  not ;  besides 
The  men  who  are  to  kindle  them  to  death 
Of  other  men. 

Am.  And  those  scarce  mortal  arches, 

Pile  above  pile  of  everlasting  wall, 
The  theatre  where  emperors  and  their  subjects 
(Those  subjects  Romans)  stood  at  gaze  upon 
The  battles  of  the  monarchs  of  the  wild 
And  wood,  the  lion  and  his  tusky  rebels 
Of  the  then  untamed  desert,  brought  to  joust 
In  the  arena,  (as  right  well  they  might. 
When  they  had  left  no  human  foe  imconquer'd  ;) 
Made  even  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  amphitheatre,  as  well 
As  Dacia  men  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a  sole  instant's  pastime,  and  "  Pass  on 
To  a  new  gladiator  !" — Must  it  fall  ? 

CcBs.  The  city,  or  the  amphitheatre  ? 
The  church,  or  one,  or  all  ?  for  you  confound 
Both  them  and  me. 

Arn.  To-morrow  sounds  the  assault 

With  the  first  cock-crow. 

C(Bs.  Which,  if  it  end  with 

The  evening's  first  nightingale,  will  be 
Something  new  in  the  annals  of  great  sieges  ; 
For  men  must  have  their  prey  after  long  toil. 

Arn.  The  sun  goes  down  as  calmly,  and  perhaps 
More  beautifully  than  he  did  on  Rome 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  wall. 

Cms.  I  saw  him. 

Arn.  You  ! 

C<BS.  Yes,  sir.     You  forget  T  am  or  was 

Spirit,  till  I  took  up  with  your  cast  shape 
And  a  worse  name.     I'm  CcEsar  and  a  hunchback 
Now.     Well !  the  first  of  Caesars  was  a  bald-head, 
And  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a  wig 
(So  history  says)  than  as  a  glory.     Thus 
The  world  runs  on,  but  we'll  be  merry  still. 
I  saw  your  Romulus  (simple  as  I  am) 
Slay  his  own  twin,  quickborn  of  the  same  womb, 
Because  he  leapt  a  ditch,  ('twas  then  no  wall, 
Wliate'er  it  now  be ;)  and  Rome's  earliest  cement 
Was  brother's  blood  ;  and  if  its  native  blood 
Be  spilt  tiU  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 
As  e'er  t'was  yellow,  it  will  never  wear 
The  deep  hue  of  the  ocean  and  the  earth. 
Which  the  great  robber  sons  of  Fratricide 
Have  made  their  never-ceasing  scene  of  slaughter 
For  ages. 

Arn.        But  what  have  these  done,  their  far 
Remote  descendants,  who  have  lived  in  peace, 
The  peace  of  heaven,  and  in  her  sunshine  of 
Piety  ? 

CcBs.  And  what  had  tltey  done,  whom  the  old 
Romans  o'erswept  ? — Hark  ! 

Am,  They  are  soldiers  singing. 


A  reckless  roundelay,  upon  the  eve 

Of  many  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 

CcBs.  And  why  should  they  not  sing  as  well  as  swans  ? 
They  are  black  ones,  to  be  sure. 

Arn.  So,  you  are  learn'd, 

I  see,  too  ? 

Cms.        In  my  grammar,  certes.     I 
Was  educated  for  a  monk  of  aU  times. 
And  once  I  was  well  versed  in  the  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters,  and— were  I  so  minded — 
Could  make  their  hieroglyphics  plainer  than 
Your  alphabet. 

Am.  And  wherefore  do  you  not  ? 

Cms.  It  answers  better  to  resolve  the  alphabet 
Back  into  hieroglyphics.     Like  your  statesman, 
And  prophet,  pontiff,  doctor,  alchymist. 
Philosopher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 
More  Babels,  without  new  dispersion,  than 
The  stammering  young  ones  of  the  flood's  dull  ooze, 
Who  fail'd  and  fled  each  other.    Why  ?  why,  marry, 
Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neighbor. 
They  are  wiser  now,  and  will  no  separate 
For  nonsense.     Nay,  it  is  their  brotherhood, 
Their  Shibboleth,  their  Koran,  Talmud,  their 
Cabala ;  their  best  brick-work,  wherewithal 
They  build  more [sneerer  1 

Arn.    (intemipting  him.)      Oh,  thou   everlasting 
Be  silent !     How  the  soldiers'  rough  strain  seems 
Soften'd  by  distance  to  a  hymn-hke  cadence  1 
Listen  ! 

Cos.  Yes.     I  have  heard  the  angels  sing. 

Arn.  And  demons  howl. 

Cces.  And  man  too.     Let  us  listen  : 

I  love  all  music. 

Song  of  the  Soldiers  within. 

The  black  bands  came  over 

The  Alps  and  their  snow ; 
With  Bourbon,  the  rover. 

They  pass'd  the  broad  Po. 
We  have  beaten  all  foemen, 

We  have  captured  a  king. 
We  have  turn'd  back  on  no  men, 

And  so  let  us  sing  ! 
Here's  the  Bourbon  forever  1 

Though  pennyless  all. 
We'll  have  one  more  endeavor 

At  yonder  old  wall. 
With  the  Bourbon  we'll  gather 

At  day-dawn  before 
The  gates,  and  together 

Or  break  or  climb  o'er 
The  wall :  on  the  ladder 

As  mounts  each  firm  foot. 
Our  shout  shall  grow  gladder. 

And  death  only  be  mute. 


SCSNB  n. 


THE.  DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


309 


With  the  Bourbon  we'll  mount  o'er 

The  walls  of  old  Rome, 
And  who  then  shall  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  each  dome  ? 
Up !  up  with  the  lily  ! 

And  down  with  the  keys  ! 
In  old  Rome,  the  seven-hilly, 

We'll  revel  at  ease. 
Her  streets  shall  be  gory. 

Her  Tiber  all  red. 
And  her  temples  so  hoary 

Shall  clang  with  our  tread. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon  !  the  Bourbon  I 

The  Bourbon  for  aye  ! 
Of  our  song  bear  the  burden  ! 

And  fire,  fire  away  1 
With  Spain  for  the  vanguard. 

Our  varied  host  comes ; 
And  next  to  the  Spaniard 

Beat  Germany's  drums ; 
And  Italy's  lances 

Are  couch'd  at  their  mother ; 
But  our  leader  from  France  is. 

Who  warr'd  with  his  brother. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon  !  the  Bourbon  1 

Sans  country  or  home. 
We'll  follow  the  Bourbon, 

To  plunder  old  Rome. 
GoB».  An  indifferent  song 

For  those  within  the  walls,  methinks,  to  hear. 

Am.  Yes,  if  they  keep  to  their  chorus.  But  here 
The  general  with  his  chiefs  and  men  of  trust,  [comes 
A  goodly  rebel ! 

Enter  the  Constable 'Roxtkbos  '■'■  cum  auis ,"  etc.,  etc. 

Phil.  How  now,  noble  prince. 

You  are  not  cheerful  ? 

Bourb.  Why  should  I  be  so  ? 

Phil.  Upon  the  eve  of  conquest,  such  as  ours, 
Most  men  would  be  so. 

Bourb.  If  I  were  secure  ! 

Phil.  Doubt  not  our  soldiers.    Were  the  walls  of 
adamant, 
They'd  crack  them.     Hunger  is  a  sharp  artillery. 

Bourb.  That  they  wiU  falter  is  my  least  of  fears. 
That  they  will  be  repulsed,  with  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kindled  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on — were  those  hoary  walls 
Mountains,  and  those  who  guard  them  like  the  gods 
Of  the  old  fables,  I  would  trust  my  Titans  ; — 
But  now 

Phil.       They  are  but  men  who  war  with  mortals. 
'  Bourb.  True  :  but  those  walls  have  girded  in  great 
And  sent  forth  mighty  spirits.  The  past  earth  [ages. 
And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 
Is  peopled  with  those  warriors  ;  and  methinks 
They  flit  along  the  eternal  city's  rampart. 


And  stretch  their  glorious,  gory,  shadowy  hands. 
And  beckon  me  away  ! 

Phil.  So  let  them  I    Wilt  thou 

Turn  back  from  shadowy  menaces  of  shadows  ? 

Bourb.   They  do  not  menace  me.     I  could  have 
Methinks,  a  Sylla's  menace ;  but  they  clasp,    [faced. 
And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike  hands, 
And  with  their  thin  aspen  faces  and  flx'd  eyes 
Fascinate  mine.     Look  there ! 

Phil.  I  look  upon 

A  lofty  battlement. 

Bourb.  And  there  1 

Phil.  Not  even 

A  guard  in  sight ;  they  wisely  keep  below, 
Shelter'd  by  the  gray  parapet  from  some 
Stray  bullet  of  our  lansquenets,  who  might 
Practice  in  the  cool  twiUght. 

Bourb.  You  are  blind. 

Phil.  If  seeing  nothing  more  than  may  be  seen 
Be  so. 

Bourb.  A  thousand  years  have  mann'd  the  walls 
With  all  their  heroes, — the  last  Cato  stands 
And  tears  his  bowels,  rather  than  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I  would  enslave. 
And  the  first  Csesar  with  his  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  battlement. 

Phil.  Then  conquer 

The  walls  for  which  he  conquer'd  and  be  greater  ! 

Bourb.  True :  so  I  will,  or  perish. 

Phil.  You  can  not. 

In  such  an  enterprise  to  die  is  rather 
The  dawn  of  an  eternal  day,  than  death. 

Count  Arnold  and  C^sar  advance. 

Cces.  And  the  mere  men — do  they  too  sweat  beneath 
The  noon  of  this  same  ever-scorching  glory  ? 

Bourb.  Ah  1 

Welcome  the  bitter  hunchback  !  and  his  master 
The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beauteous, 
And  generous  as  lovely.     We  shall  find 
Work  for  you  both  ere  morning. 

C(M.  You  will  find, 

So  please  your  highness,  no  less  for  yourself. 

Bourb.  And  if  I  do,  there  will  not  be  a  laborer 
More  forward,  hunchback  1 

Cms.  You  may  well  say  so, 

For  you  have  seen  that  back — as  general. 
Placed  in  the  rear  in  action — but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it. 

Bourb.  "That's  a  fair  retort. 

For  I  provoked  it : — ^but  the  Bourbon's  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  far  advanced 
In  danger's  face  as  yours,  were  you  the  deeil. 

Cms.  And  if  I  were,  I  might  have  saved  myself 
The  toil  of  coming  here. 

Phil.  Why  so  ? 

I      Cast.  One  half 

,  Of  your  brave  bands  of  their  own  bold  accord 


310 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


PAUT  I.. 


Will  go  to  him,  the  other  half  be  sent, 
More  swiftly,  not  less  surely. 

Bourh.  Arnold,  your 

Slight  crooked  friend 's  as  snake-like  in  his  words 
As  his  deeds. 

Cces.  Your  highness  much  mistakes  me. 

The  first  snake  was  a  flatterer — I  am  none ; 
And  for  my  deeds,  I  only  sting  when  stung, 

Bourb.  You  are  brave,  and  that's  enough  for  me  ; 
and  quick 
In  speech  as  sharp  in  action — and  that's  more. 
I  am  not  alone  a  soldier,  but  the  soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Ocen.  They  are  but  bad  company,  your  highness  : 
And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  f6es,  as  being 
More  permanent  acquaintance. 

Phil.  How  now,  fellow  1    . 

Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a  buffoon. 

Ccet.  You  mean  I  speak  the  truth. 

I'll  lie — ^it  is  as  easy  :  then  you'll  praise  me 
For  calUng  you  a  hero. 

Bourh.  Philibert ! 

Let  him  alone  ;  he's  brave,  and  ever  has 
Been  first,  with  that  swart  face  and  mountain  shoul- 
In  field  or  storm,  and  patient  in  starvation  ;       [der. 
And  for  his  tongue,  the  camp  is  full  of  license, 
And  the  sharp  stinging  of  a  lively  rogue 
Is,  to  my  mind,  far  preferable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  heavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a  more  famish'd,  sullen,  grumbling  slave. 
Whom  nothing  can  convince  save  a  full  meal, 
And  wine,  and  sleep,  and  a  few  maravedis, 
With  which  he  deems  him  rich. 

Cces.  It  would  be  well 

If  the  earth's  princes  ask'd  no  more. 

Bourh.  Be  silent ! 

Cces.  Ay,  but  not  idle.  Work  yourself  with  words  I 
You  have  few  to  speak. 

Phil.  What  means  the  audacious  prater  ? 

G<Ks.  To  prate,  Uke  other  prophets. 

Bourh.  Philibert ! 

Why  will  you  vex  him  ?  Have  we  not  enough 
To  think  on  ?  Arnold  !  I  wiU  lead  the  attack 
To-morrow. 

Am.  I  have  heard  as  much,  my  lord. 

Bourh.  And  you  will  follow  ? 

Am.  Since  I  must  not  lead. 

Bourh.  'Tis  necessary  for  the  further  daring 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
Plant  the  first  foot  upon  the  foremost  ladder's 
First  step. 

Ctm.  Upon  its  topmost,  let  us  hope : 

So  shall  he  have  his  full  deserts. 

Bow-h.  The  world's 

Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 
Through  every  change  the  seven-hill  city  hath 


Ketain'd  her  sway  o'er  nations,  and  the  Caesars, 
But  yielded  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Unto  the  pontiffy.     Roman,  Goth,  or  priest. 
Still  the  world's  masters  !     Civilized,  barbarian, 
Or  saintly,  still  the  walls  of  Romulus 
Have  been  tlie  circus  of  an  empire.     Well ! 
'Twas  their  turn— now  'tis  ours  ;  and  let  us  hope 
That  we  will  fight  as  well,  and  rule  much  better 

Cte«.  No  doubt,  the  camp's  the  school  of  civic 
What  would  you  make  of  Rome  ?  [rights. 

Bourb.  That  which  it  was. 

Cobs.  In  Alaric's  time  ? 

Bourh.                      No,  slave  !  in  the  first  Caesar's, 
Whose  name  you  bear  like  other  curs 

Cte».  And  kings ! 

'Tis  a  great  name  for  bloodhounds. 

Bourh.  There's  a  demon 

In  that  fierce  rattlesnake,  thy  tongue.     Wilt  never 
Be  serious  ? 

Ctes.  On  the  eve  of  battle,  no  ; — 

That  were  not  soldier-Uke.    'Tis  for  the  general 
To  be  more  pensive  :  we  adventurers 
Must  be  more  cheerful.  Wherefore  should  we  think  ? 
Our  tutelar  deity,  in  a  leader's  shape. 
Takes  care  of  us.    Keep  thought  aloof  from  hosia  1 
If  the  knaves  take  to  thinking,  you  will  have 
To  crack  those  walls  alone. 

Bourh.  You  may  sneer,  since 

'Tis  lucky  for  you  that  you  fight  no  worse  for 't. 

Cces.  I  thank  you  for  the  freedom  ;  'tis  the  only 
Pay  I  have  taken  in  your  highness'  service. 

Bourh.  Well,  sir,  to-morrow  you  shall  pay  youreelf. 
Look  on  those  towers  ;  they  hold  my  treasury  : 
But,  Philibert,  we'll  in  to  council.     Arnold, 
We  would  request  your  presence. 

Ai-n.  Prince  !  my  service 

Is  yours,  as  in  the  field. 

Bourh.  In  both  we  prize  it. 

And  ycurs  wiU  be  a  post  of  trust  at  daybreak. 

Ctes.  And  mine  ? 

Bourh.  To  follow  glory  with  the  Bourbon. 

Good  night ! 

Arn.  {to  C^SAK.)  Prepare  our  armor  for  the  assault, 
And  wait  within  my  tent. 

{Exeunt  Boubbon,  Aknold,  PHn-raEBT,  etc. 

Cms.  {solus.)  Within  thy  tent ! 

Think'st  thou  that  I  pass  from  thee  with  my  pres- 
Or  that  this  crooked  coffer,  which  contain'd  [ence  ? 
Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aught  to  me 
Except  a  mask  ?     And  these  are  men,  forsooth  ! 
Heroes  and  chiefs,  the  flower  of  Adam's  bastards  1 
This  is  the  consequence  of  giving  matter 
The  power  of  thought.    It  is  a  stubborn  substance, 
And  thinks  chaotically,  as  it  acts, 
Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elements. 
Well  1  I  must  play  with  these  poor  puppets  :  'tis 
The  spirit's  pastime  in  his  idler  hours. 


SOBHBI. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


311 


When  I  grow  weary  of  it,  I  Lave  business 
Amongst  the  stars,  which  these  poor  creatures  deem 
Were  made  for  them  to  look  at.    'Twere  a  jest  now 
To  bring  one  down  amongst  them,  and  set  fire 
Unto  their  anthill :  how  the  pismires  then 
Would  scamper  o'er  the  scalding  soil,  and,  ceasing 
From  tearing  down  each  other's  nests,  pipe  forth 
One  universal  orison  1    Ha  1  ha  1 

[Exit  C^sAB. 

PART  n. 

80  B  K  B      I. 

Be/ore  the  walh  of  Rome.  The  assault :  the  army  in 
motion,  with  ladders  to  scale  the  walls ;  BouBBOir, 
nith  a  white  scarf  <ner  his  armor,  foremost. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  in  the  air. 

1. 
'Tis  the  mom,  but  dim  and  dark. 
Whither  flies  the  silent  lark  ? 
Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sun  ? 
Is  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 
Nature's  eye  is  melancholy 
O'er  the  city  high  and  holy : 
But  without  there  is  a  din 
Should  arouse  the  saints  within, 
And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 
Bound  which  yellow  Tiber  dashes. 
Oh,  ye  seven  hills  !  awaken. 
Ere  your  very  base  be  shaken  ! 


Hearken  to  the  steady  stamp  1 

Mars  is  in  their  every  tramp  1 

Not  a  step  is  out  of  time. 

As  the  tides  obey  the  moon  1 

On  they  march,  though  to  self-slaughter, 

Regular  as  rolling  water. 

Whose  high  waves  o'ersweep  the  border 

Of  huge  moles,  but  keep  their  order. 

Breaking  only  rank  by  rank. 

Hearken  to  the  armor's  clank  ! 

Look  down  o'er  each  frowning  warrior, 

How  he  glares  upon  the  barrier : 

Look  on  each  step  of  each  ladder. 

As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 

8. 

Look  upon  the  bristling  wall, 
Mann'd  without  an  interval ! 
Round  and  round,  and  tier  on  tier, 
Cannon's  black  mouth,  shining  spear. 
Lit  match,  bell-mouth'd  musquetoon, 
Oaping  to  be  murderous  soon ; 
All  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 


Mix'd  with  what  we  now  behold. 
In  this  strife  'twixt  old  and  new. 
Gather  Uke  a  locusts'  crew. 
Shade  of  Remus  !  'tis  a  time 
Awfiil  as  thy  brother's  crime  ! 
Christians  war  against  Christ's  shrine  : 
Must  its  lot  be  like  to  thine  ? 


Near — and  near — and  nearer  still. 

As  the  earthquake  saps  the  hiU, 

First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion. 

Like  a  scarce-awaken'd  ocean, 

Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder. 

Till  the  rocks  are  crush'd  to  powder, — 

Onward  sweeps  the  rolling  host ! 

Heroes  of  the  immortal  boast ! 

Mighty  chiefs  I  eternal  shadows  ! 

First  flowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 

Which  encompass  Rome,  the  mother 

Of  a  people  without  brother  ! 

Will  you  sleep  when  nations'  quarrels 

Plough  the  root  up  of  your  laurels  ? 

Ye  who  weep  o'er  Carthage  burning, 

Weep  not — strike  !  for  Rome  is  mourning  I ' 


Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations  ! 
Famine  long  hath  dealt  their  rations. 
To  the  wall,  with  hate  and  hunger. 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger, 
On  they  sweep.     Oh,  glorious  city. 
Must  thou  be  a  theme  for  pity  ? 
Fight,  like  your  first  sire,  each  Roman  t 
Alaric  was  a  gentle  foeman, ' 
Match'd  with  Bourbon's  black  banditti  ! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  city ; 
Rouse  thee  1    Rather  give  the  torch 
With  thy  own  hand  to  thy  porch. 
Than  behold  such  hosts  pollute 
Your  worst  dwelling  with  their  foot. 

6. 

Ah,  behold  yon  bleeding  spectre  I 

Dion's  children  find  no  Hector  ; 

Priam's  ofispring  loved  their  brother  ; 

Rome's  great  sire  forgot  his  mother. 

When  he  slew  his  gallant  twin. 

With  inexpiable  sin. 

See  the  giant  shadow  stride 

O'er  the  ramparts  high  and  wide  1 

When  the  first  o'erleapt  thy  wall. 

Its  foundation  moum'd  thy  falL 

>  Sctpio,  the  second  AMcanaa,  Is  said  to  have  repeated  a  verge 
of  Homer,  and  wept  over  the  burning  of  Carthage.  He  had  bet- 
ter have  granted  It  a  capitulation. 


312 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


PART  II. 


Now,  though  towering  like  a  Babel, 
Who  to  stop  his  steps  are  able  ? 
Stalking  o'er  thy  highest  dome, 
Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  Rome  1 


Now  they  reach  thee  in  their  anger  : 
Firp  and  smoke  and  hellish  clangor 
Are  around  thee,  thou  world's  wonder ! 
Death  is  in  thy  walls  and  under. 
Now  the  meeting  steel  first  clashes, 
Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes, 
With  its  iron  load  all  gleaming. 
Lying  at  its  foot  blaspheming  1 
Up  again  !  for  every  warrior 
Slain,  another  climbs  the  barrier. 
Thicker  grows  the  strife  :  thy  ditches 
Europe's  mingling  gore  enriches. 
Rome  !  although  thy  walls  may  perish. 
Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish. 
Making  gay  the  harvest-home ; 
But  thy  hearths,  alas  !  oh,  Rome  ! — 
Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish. 
Fight  as  thou  wast  wont  to  vanquish. 


Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates  ! 

Let  not  your  quench'd  hearths  be  Ate's  1 

Yet  again,  ye  shadowy  heroes. 

Yield  not  to  these  stranger  Neroes  1 

Though  the  son  who  slew  his  mother 

Shed  Rome's  blood,  he  was  your  brother : 

Twas  the  Roman  curb'd  the  Roman  ; — 

Brennus  was  a*  baffled  foeman. 

Yet  again,  ye  saints  and  martyrs. 

Rise  1  for  yours  are  holier  charters  1 

Mighty  gods  of  temples  falling. 

Yet  in  ruin  still  appalUng  ! 

Mightier  founders  of  those  altars. 

True  and  Christian, — strike  the  assaulters. 

Tiber  !  Tiber  !  let  thy  torrent 

Show  even  nature's  self  abhorrent. 

Let  each  breathing  heart  dilated 

Turn,  as  doth  the  lion  baited  ! 

Rome  be  crush'd  to  one  wide  tomb. 

But  be  still  the  Roman's  Rome  ! 

BoTTSBON,  Aenold,  C^sar,  and  olhern,  arrive  at  tJie 

foot  of  the  wall.     Arnold  is  about  to  plant  Ms 

ladder. 

Bowrb.  Hold,  Arnold  1 1  am  first. 

Am.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bourl.    Hold,  sir,  I  charge  you !  Follow !  I  am 
Of  such  a  follower,  but  will  brook  no  leader,  [proud 
[Bourbon  ^ tore <s  Ms  ladder,  and  begins  to  mount. 
Now,  boys  !    On  !  on  ! 

\_A  shot  strikes  him,  and  Bovsboh  falls. 

CdBs.  And  off  I 


Am.  Eternal  powers  ! 

ThehostwiUbeappall'd, — but  vengeance !  vengeance ! 

Bourb.  'Tis  nothing — ^lend  me  your  hand. 

[Bourbon  takes  Arnold  by  the  hand,  and  rises  ; 
but  as  he  puts  his  foot  on  the  step,  falls  again. 
Arnold  !  I  am  sped. 
Conceal  my  fall — all  will  go  well — conceal  it ! 
Fling  my  cloak  o'er  what  wiU  be  dust  anon  ; 
Let  not  the  soldiers  see  it. 

Am.  You  must  be 

Removed  ;  the  aid  of 

Bourb.  No,  my  gallant  boy  ; 

Death  is  upon  me.     But  what  is  one  life  ? 
The  Bourbon's  spirit  shall  command  them  still. 
Keep  them  yet  ignorant  that  I  am  but  clay. 
Till  they  are  conquerors — then  do  as  you  may. 

Cais.  Would  not  your  highness  choose  to  kiss  the 
cross  ? 
We  have  no  priest  here,  but  the  hilt  of  sword 
May  serve  instead  :  it  did  the  same  for  Bayard. 

Bovrb.    Thou  bitter  slave  !   to  name  him  at  this 
But  I  deserve  it.  [time  I 

Arn.  (to  Cjesar.)  Villain,  hold  your  peace ! 

Cas.  What,  when  a  Christian  dies  ?  Shall  I  not  ofler 
A  Christian  "  Vade  in  pace  ?" 

Arn.  Silence  !  Oh  1 

Those  eyes  are  glazing  which  o'erlook'd  the  world, 
And  saw  no  equal. 

Bourb.  Arnold,  shouldst  thou  see 

France But  hark !  hark !  the  assault  grows  warm- 
er—Oh ! 
For  but  an  hour,  a  minute  more  of  life 
To  die  within  the  wall  1  Hence,  Arnold,  hence  1 
You  lose  time — ^they  will  conquer  Rome  without  thee. 

Am.  And  without  thee  ! 

Bourb.  Not  so  ;  I'll  lead  them  still 

In  spirit.    Cover  up  my  dust,  and  breathe  not 
That  I  have  ceased  to  breathe.    Away  !  and  be 
Victorious  1 

Arn.        But  I  must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

Bourb.  You  must — farewell — Up  !  up  !  the  world 
is  winning.  [Bourbon  dies. 

Cms.  (to  Arnold.)  Come,  count,  to  business. 

Am.  True.    I'll  weep  hereafter. 

.     [Arnold  covers  Bourbon's  body  with  a  mantle, 
and  mounts  the  ladder,  crying 
The  Bourbon  !  Bourbon  !  On,  boys  !  Rome  is  ours  ! 

€ms.  Good-night,  lord  constable  1  thou  wert  a  man. 
ICm&ax,  follows  Arnold  ;  they  reach  the  battle- 
ment ;  Arnold  and  CiESAR  are  struck  down. 

Cms.  A  precious  somerset !     Is  your  countship  in- 
jured ? 

Aril.  No.  [Remoimfs  the  ladder. 

Cms.  A  rare  bloodhound,  when  his  own  is  heated  1 
And  'tis  no  boy's  play.  Now  he  strikes  them  down  1 
His  hand  is  on  the  battlement — he  grasps  it 
As  though  it  were  an  altar ;  now  his  foot 


SCENB   I. 


THE   DEFORMED   TRANSFORMED. 


313 


Is  on  it,  and What  have  we  here  ? — a  Roman  ? 

[A  man  falls. 
The  first  bird  of  the  covey  !  he  has  fallen 
On  the  outside  of  the  nest.   Why,  how  now,  fellow  ? 

Wounded  Man.  A  drop  of  water  ! 

Cos.  Blood's  the  only  liquid 

Nearer  than  Tiber. 

Wounded  Man,.  I  have  died  for  Rome.  [Dies. 

Gas.  And  so  did  Bourbon  in  another  sense. 
Oh  these  immortal  men  !  and  their  great  motives  I 
But  I  must  after  my  young  charge.    He  is 
By  this  time  i'  the  forum.    Charge  !  charge  1 

[CiESAB  mounts  the  Uidder  ;  the  scene  closes. 

SCENE  n. 

The  City. — Combats  between  the  Besiegers  and  Besieged 

in  the  streets.     Inhabitants  flying  in  confusion. 

Enter  C^SAB. 

G<B».  I  cannot  find  my  hero  he  is  mix'd 
With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  pursue 
The  fugitives,  or  battle  with  the  desperate. 
What  have  we  here  ?     A  cardinal  or  two 
That  do  not  seem  in  love  with  martyrdom. 
How  the  old  red-shanks  scamper  I  Could  they  doflf 
Their  hose  as  they  have  dofiF'd  their  hats,  'twould  be 
A  blessing,  as  a  mark  the  less  for  plunder. 
But  let  them  fly ;  the  crimson  kennels  now 
Will  not  much  stain  their  stockings,  since  the  mire 
Is  of  the  self-same  purple  hue. 

Enter  a  Party  fighting — Aknold  at  the  head  of  the 
Besiegers. 

He  comes. 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins — Gore  and  Glory, 
Holla  !  hold,  count  I 

Arn.  Away  !  they  must  not  rally. 

Cces.  I  tell  thee,  be  not  rash  ;  a  golden  bridge 
Is  for  a  flying  enemy.    I  gave  thee 
A  form  of  beauty,  and  an 
Exemption  from  some  maladies  of  body 
But  not  of  mind,  which  is  not  mine  to  give. 
But  though  I  gave  the  form  of  Thetis'  son, 
I  dipp'd  thoc  not  in  Styx ;  and  'gainst  a  foe 
I  would  not  warrant  thy  chivalric  heart 
More  than  Pelides'  heel ;  why  then,  be  cautious, 
And  know  thyself  a  mortal  stilL 

Arn.  And  who 

With  aught  of  soul  would  combat  if  he  were 
Invulnerable  ?     That  were  pretty  sport. 
Tliink'st  thou  I  beat  for  hares  when  lions  roar  ? 

[Aknold  rushes  into  the  combat. 

C(K».  A  precious  sample  of  humanity  I 
Well,  his  blood's  up  :  and  if  a  little's  shed, 
'TwiU  serve  to  curb  his  fever. 

[Arnold  engages  with  a  Roman,  who  retires 
t4>itards  a  portico. 

Am.  Yield  thee,  slave  1 

40 


I  promise  quarter. 

Rom.  That's  soon  said. 

Am.  And  done — 

My  word  is  known. 

Rom.  So  shall  be  my  deeds. 

[They  reengaje.     Cesak  comes  forward- 

Gais.  Why,  Arnold  !  hold  thine  own  :  thou  hast  in 
A  famous  artisan,  a  cunning  sculptor  ;  [hand 

Also  a  dealer  in  the  sword  and  dagger. 
Not  so,  my  musqueteer ;  'twas  he  who  slew 
The  Bourbon  from  the  wall. 

Arn.  Ay,  did  he  so  ? 

Then  he  hath  carved  his  monument. 

Rom.  I  yet 

May  live  to  carve  your  betters'. 

Cas.  Well  said,  my  man  of  marble  !  Benvenuto, 
Thou  hast  some  practice  in  both  ways  ;  and  he 
Who  slays  Cellini  will  have  work'd  as  hard 
As  e'er  thou  didst  upon  Carrara's  blocks. 

[Aknold  disarms  and  wounds  Cellini,  but 
slightly  ;  tJte  latter  draws  a  pistol,  and  fires  ; 
then  retires,  and  disappears  through  the 
portico. 

Cms.  How  farest  thee  ?  Thou  hast  a  taste  methinks, 
Of  red  Bellona's  banquet. 

Arn.  {staggers.)  'Tis  a  scratch. 

Lend  me  thy  scarf    He  shall  not  'scape  me  thus. 

Goes.  Where  is  it  ? 

Arn.  In  the  shoulder,  not  the  sword  arm — 

And  that's  enough.     I  am  thirsty  :  would  I  had 
A  helm  of  water. 

Gees.  That's  a  Uquid  now 

In  requisition,  but  by  no  means  easiest 
To  come  at. 

Arn.  And  my  thirst  increases  ; — but 

I'll  find  a  way  to  quench  it. 

Gees.  Or  be  quench'd 

Thyself? 

Arn.  The  chance  is  even  ;  we  will  throw 
The  dice  thereon.     But  1  lose  time  in  prating  : 
Prithee  be  quick.  [C^sar  binds  on  the  scarf. 

And  what  dost  thou  so  idly  ? 
Why  dost  not  strike  ? 

Cais.  Your  old  philosophers 

Beheld  mankind,  as  mere  spectators  of 
The  Olympic  games.     When  I  behold  a  prize 
Worth  wrestling  for,  I  may  be  found  a  Milo. 

Arn.  Ay,  'gainst  an  oak. 

Cm.  A  forest,  when  it  suits  me. 

I  combat  with  a  mass,  or  not  at  all. 
Meantime,  pursue  thy  sport  as  I  do  mine ; 
Which  is  just  now  to  gaze,  since  all  these  laborers 
WUl  reap  my  harvest  gratis. 

Arn.  Thou  art  still 

A  fiend ! 

Gees.  And  thou — a  man. 

Arn.  Why,  such  I  fain  would  show  me. 


314 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


PAET  II. 


C<Bs.  True — as  men  are. 

Am.  And  what  is  that  ? 

C(Bs.  Thou  feelest  and  thou  see'st. 

ySxit  Arnold,  joining  in  the  eomhat  which  still 
continues  between  detached,  parties.  The  scene 
closes. 

SCENE  m. 

8t.  Peter's — The  Interior  of  the  Church — The  Pope 
at  the  Altar — Priests,  etc.  crowding  in  confusion 
and  Citizens  flying  for  refuse,  pursued  hy  Sol- 
diery. 

Enter  Cmsah. 

A  Spanish  Soldier.  Down  with  them,  comrades ! 
seize  uj)on  those  lamps  ! 
Cleave  yon  bald-pated  shaveling  to  the  chine  I 
His  rosary's  of  gold. 

Lutheran  Soldier.  Revenge  !  revenge  ! 
Plunder  hereafter,  but  for  vengeance  now — 
Yonder  stands  Anti-Christ  1 

G(Es.  (interposing.)  How  now,  schismatic  ? 

What  wouldst  thou  ? 

Luth.  Sold.        In  the  holy  name  of  Christ, 
Destroy  proud  Anti-Christ.     I  am  a  Christian. 

Cms.  Yea,  a  disciple  that  would  make  the  founder 
Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  he  see 
Such  proselytes.     But  stint  thyself  to  plunder. 

Luth.  Sold.  I  say  he  is  the  dovil. 

Cobs.  Hush  !  keep  that  secret, 

Lest  he  should  recognise  you  for  his  own. 

Luth.  Sold.  Why  would  you  save  him  ?   I  repeat 
The  devil,  or  the  devil's  vicar  upon  earth.         [he  is 

Cces.  And  that's  the  reason  :  would  you  make  a 
quarrel 
With  your  best  firiends  ?   You  had  far  best  be  quiet ; 
His  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

Luth.  Sold.  That  shall  be  seen  1 

[The  Lutheran  Soldier  rusfies  forwnrd ;  a  shot 
strikes  him  from  one  of  the  Pope's  Ouards, 
and  he  falls  at  the  foot  of  the  Altar. 

CcBS.  (to  the  Lutheran.)  I  told  you  so. 

Luth.  Sold.  And  will  you  not  avenge  me  ? 

Cces.  Kot  I !    You  know  that  "  Vengeance  is  the 
You  see  he  loves  no  interlopers.  [Lord's  : " 

Luth.  Sold,  (dying.)  Oh, 

Had  I  but  slain  him,  I  had  gone  on  high, 
Crown'd  with  eternal  glory  I     Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  that  reach'd  him  not. 
And  take  thy  servant  to  thy  mercy.     'Tis 
A  glorious  triumph  still ;  proud  Babylon's 
No  more ;  the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  for  sackcloth 
And  ashes  1  [The  Lutheran  dies. 

Cmfi.  Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest. 

WeU  done,  old  Babel  1 


[  The  Ouards  defend  themselves  desperately,  while 
the  Pontiff  e^scapes,  hy  a  private  passage,  to  the 
Vatican,  and  the  Castle  of  Angelo. 

Cms.  Ha  !  right  nobly  battled  ! 

Now,  priest !  now,  soldier !  the  two  great  profes- 
Together  by  the  ears  and  hearts  1    I  have  not  [sions. 
Seen  a  more  comic  pantomime  since  Titus 
Took  Jewry.     But  the  Romans  had  the  best  then  ; 
Now  they  must  take  their  turn. 

Soldiers.  He  hath  escaped  ! 

Follow  I  [sage  up, 

Another  Sold.  They  have  barr'd  the  narrow  pas- 
And  it  is  clogg'd  with  dead  even  to  the  door. 

Com.  I  am  glad  he  hath  escaped ;  he  may  thank 
me  for  't 
In  part.    I  would  not  have  his  bulls  abolished — 
'Twere  worth  one-half  our  empire  :  his  indulgences 
Demand  some  in  return  ; — no,  no,  he  must  not 
Fall ; — and  besides,  his  now  escape  may  furnish 
A  future  miracle,  in  future  proof 
Of  his  infallibility.  [  To  the  Spanish  Soldiery. 

Well,  cut-throats  I 
What  do  you  pause  for  ?    If  you  make  not  haste, 
There  will  not  be  a  link  of  pious  gold  left. 
And  you,  too.  Catholics  1    Would  ye  return 
From  such  a  pilgrimage  without  a  relic  ? 
The  very  Lutherans  have  more  true  devotion  : 
See  how  they  strip  the  shrines  ! 

Soldiers.  By  holy  Peter 

He  speaks  the  truth  ;  the  heretics  will  bear 
The  best  away. 

Cces.  And  that  were  shame  !    Go  to  ! 

Assist  in  their  conversion. 

[The  Soldiers  disperse;  many  quit  the  Church, 
others  enter. 

Cess.  They  are  gone. 

And  others  come  :  so  flows  the  wave  on  wave 
Of  what  these  creatures  call  eternity. 
Deeming  themselves  the  breakers  of  the  ocean. 
While  they  are  but  its  bubbles,  ignorant 
That  foam  is  their  foundation.     So,  another  1 

Enter  Olimpia,  flying  from  the  pursuit.    She  springs 
upon  the  Altar. 

Sold.  She's  mine  1 

Another  Sold,  (opposing  the  former^  You  lie,  I 
track'd  her  first ;  and  were  she 
The  Pope's  niece,  I'll  not  yield  her.  [  Theyflght. 

Bd  Sold,  (advancing  towards  Olimp.)  You  may  set- 
Your  claims  ;  I'll  make  mine  good.  [tie 

Olimp.  Infernal  slave  1 

You  touch  me  not  alive. 

M  Sold.  Alive  or  dead  1 

Olimp.  (emhracing  a  massive  crnciflx.)  Respect  your 
God! 

Zd  Sold.  Yes,  when  he  shines  in  gold. 

Girl,  you  but  grasp  your  dowry. 


8CEEN  m. 


THE    DEFORMED    TRANSFORMED. 


315 


[As  Tie  advances,  Olimpia,  teith  a  ttrong  and  sud- 
den effort,  cjists  down  the  cruc\fix :  it  strikes 
the  Soldier,  who  falls. 
id  Sold.  Oh,  great  God  I 

Olimp.  Ah,  now  you  recognize  him  1 
3d  Sold.  My  brain's  crush'd  1 

Comrades,  help,  ho  I     All's  darkness  I  [He  dies. 

Other  Soldiers,  (coming  up.)    Slay  her,  although 
she  had  a  thousand  lives  : 
She  hath  kill'd  our  comrade. 

Olimp.  Welcome  such  a  death  I 

You  have  no  life  to  give,  which  the  worst  slave 
Would  take.    Great  God  !  through  thy  redeeming 
And  thy  Son's  Mother,  now  receive  me  as  [Son 

I  would  approach  thee,  worthy  her,  and  him,  and 
thee  1 

Enter  Arnold. 

Arn.  What  do  I  see  ?    Accursed  jackals  ! 
Forbear  1 

Cess,  {aside  and  laughing.)  Ha  !  ha  I  here's  equity  ! 
The  dogs 
Have  as  much  right  as  he.    But  to  the  issue ! 

Soldiers.  Count,  she  hath  slain  our  comrade. 

Arn.  With  what  weapon  ? 

Sold.  The  cross,  beneath  which  he  is  crush'd; 
behold  him 
Lie  there,  more  like  a  worm  than  man ;  she  cast  it 
Upon  his  head. 

Arn.  Even  so  ;  there  is  a  woman 

Worthy  a  brave  man's  liking.     Were  ye  such, 
Ye  would  have  honor'tl  her.    But  get  ye  hence. 
And  thank  your  meanness,  other  God  you  have  none, 
For  your  existence.    Had  you  touch'd  a  hair 
Of  those  dishevell'd  locks,  I  would  have  thinn'd 
Your  ranks  more  than  the  enemy.     Away  ! 
Ye  jackals  I  gnaw  the  bones  the  lion  leaves. 
But  not  even  these  till  he  permits. 

A  Sold,  (murmuring.)  The  lion 

Might  conquer  for  himself  then. 

Arn.  (cuts  him  down.)  Mutineer  1 

Rebel  in  hell — you  shall  obey  on  earth  ! 

[  The  soldiers  assault  Arnold. 

Am.  Come  on  1  I'm  glad  on 't !    I  will  show  you, 
slaves. 
How  you  should  be  commanded,  and  who  led  you 
First  o'er  the  wall  you  were  so  shy  to  scale. 
Until  I  waved  my  banners  from  its  height. 
As  you  are  bold  within  it. 

Abnold  mows  down   the  foremost ;   the  rest 
throw  down  their  arms. 

Soldiers.  Mercy  I  mercy  1 

Am.  Then  learn  to  grant  it  I     Have  I  taught  you 
Led  you  o'er  Rome's  eternal  battlements  ?  [who 

Soldiers.  We  saw  it,  and  we  know  it ;  yet  forgive 
A  moment's  error  in  the  heat  of  conquest — 
The  conquest  which  you  led  to. 

Arn.  Get  you  hence  1 


Hence  to  your  quarters  !  you  will  find  them  fix'd 
In  the  Colonna  palace. 

Olimp.  (aside.)  In  my  father's 

House ! 

Arn.  (to  the  soldiers.)  Leave  your  arms ;  ye  have 
no  further  need 
Of  such  :  the  city's  render'd.     And  mark  well 
You  keep  your  hands  clean,  or  I'll  find  out  a  stream 
As  red  as  Tiber  now  runs,  for  your  baptism. 

Soldiers,  (deposing  their  arms  and  departing.)  We 

Arn.  (to  Olimp.)  Lady,  you  are  safe.  [obey  ! 

Olimp.  I  should  be  so, 

Had  I  a  knife  even ;  but  it  matters  not — 
Death  hath  a  thousand  gates  ;  and  on  the  marble, 
Even  at  the  altar  foot,  whence  I  look  down 
Upon  destruction,  shall  my  head  be  dash'd. 
Ere  thou  ascend  it.     God  forgive  thee,  man  ! 

Arn.  I  wish  to  merit  his  forgiveness,  and 
Thine  own,  although  I  have  not  injured  thee. 

Olimp.  No  I     Thou  hast  only  sack'd  my  native 
No  injury  ! — and  made  ray  father's  house      [land, — 
A  den  of  thieves  !     No  injury  ! — this  temple — 
Slippery  with  Roman  and  with  holy  gore. 
No  injury  !    And  now  thou  wouldst  preserve  me, 

To  be but  that  shall  never  be  ! 

[She  raises  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  folds  her  robe 
round  her,  and  prepares  to  dash  herself  down 
on  the  side  of  the  Altar  opposite  to  that  where 
Arnold  stands. 

Am.  Hold!  Hold  I 

I  swear. 

Olimp.  Spare  thine  already  forfeit  soul 
A  perjury  for  which  even  hell  would  loathe  thee. 
I  know  thee. 

Am.             No,  thou  know'st  me  not ;  I  am  not 
Of  these  men,  though 

Olimp.  I  judge  thee  by  thy  mates ; 

It  is  for  God  to  judge  thee  as  thou  art. 
I  see  thee  purple  with  the  blood  of  Rome ; 
Take  mine,  'tis  aU  thou  e'er  shalt  have  of  me. 
And  here,  upon  the  marble  of  this  temple. 
Where  the  baptismal  font  baptized  me  God's, 
I  ofier  him  a  blood  less  holy 
But  not  less  pure  (pure  as  it  left  me  then, 
A  redeem'd  infant)  than  the  holy  water 
The  saints  have  sanctified  ! 

[Olimpia  waves  her  hand  to  Arnold  with  dis- 
dain, and  dashes  herself  on  the  pavement  from 
the  Altar. 

Am.  Eternal  God  1 

I  feel  thee  now  !    Help  1  help  1    She's  gone. 

Cais.  (approaches^  I  am  here. 

Arn.  Thou  1  but,  oh,  save  her  1 

Ca^.  (assisting  him  to  raise  Olimp.)  She  hath  done 
The  leap  was  serious.  [it  well  I 

Arn.  Oh,  she  is  lifeless  1 

Cte».  If 


316 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


PART   H. 


She  be  so,  I  have  naught  to  do  with  that ; 
The  resurrection  is  beyond  me. 

Am.  Slave ! 

Vm%.  Ay,  slave  or  master,  'tis  all  one  :  methinks 
Good  words,  however,  are  as  well  at  times. 

Am.  Words  ! — Canst  thou  aid  her  ? 

Cte«.  I  will  try.     A  sprinkling 

Of  that  same  holy  water  may  be  useful. 

\E.e  hrings  some  in  his  helmet  from  the  font. 

Am.  'Tis  mix'd  with  blood. 

Cces.  There  is  no  cleaner  now 

In  Rome. 

Am.        How  pale  !  how  beautiful !  how  lifeless  ! 
Alive  or  dead,  thou  essence  of  all  beauty, 
I  love  but  thee  ! 

CcBs.  Even  so  Achilles  loved 

Penthesilea  :  with  his  form  it  seems 
You  have  his  heart,  and  yet  it  was  no  soft  one. 

Am.  She  breathes  !    But  no,  'twas  nothing  or  the 
Faint  flutter  life  disputes  with  death.  [last 

Cms.  She  breathes. 

Arn.  Thou  say'st  it  ?    Then  'tis  truth. 

CW.  You  do  me  right — 

The  devil   speaks  truth   much  oftener  than   he's 
He  hath  an  ignorant  audience.  [deem'd  : 

Ar>i.  {witliout  attending  to  him.)  Yes  !  her  heart 
Alas  !  that  the  first  beat  of  the  only  heart        [beats. 
I  ever  wish'd  to  beat  with  mine  should  vibrate 
To  an  assassin's  pulse. 

Cass.  A  sage  reflection. 

But  somewhat  late  i'  the  day.    Where  shall  we  bear 
I  say  she  lives.  [her  ? 

Arn.  And  will  she  live  ? 

Cces.  As  much 

As  dust  can. 

Arn.  Then  she  is  dead  I 

Cces.  Bah  !  bah  !    You  are  so. 

And  do  not  know  it.     She  will  come  to  life — 
Such  as  you  think  so,  such  as  you  now  are  ; 
But  we  must  work  by  human  means. 

Am.  We  will 

Convey  her  unto  the  Colonna  palace, 
Where  I  have  pitch'd  my  banner. 

Cces.  Come  then  !  raise  her  up  1 

Am.  Softly! 

Cces.  As  softly  as  they  bear  the  dead. 

Perhaps  because  they  cannot  feel  the  jolting. 

Am.  But  doth  she  live  indeed  ? 

Cces.  Nay,  never  fear ! 

But,  if  you  rue  it  after,  blame  not  me. 

Arn.  Let  her  but  live  ! 

C(Bs.  The  spirit  of  her  Ufe 

Is  yet  within  her  breast,  and  may  revive. 
Count !  count !  I  am  your  servant  in  all  things. 
And  this  is  a  new  office  : — 'tis  not  oft 
I  am  employ'd  in  such  ;  but  you  perceive 
How  stanch  a  friend  is  what  you  call  a  fiend. 


On  earth  you  have  often  only  fiends  for  friends  ; 
Now  I  desert  not  mine.     Soft !  bear  her  hence. 
The  beautiful  half-clay,  and  nearly  spirit  1 
I  am  almost  enamor'd  of  her,  as 
Of  old  the  angels  of  her  earliest  sex. 

Am.  Thou  1 

Cces.         I !    But  fear  not.    I'll  not  be  your  rival 

Am.  Rival ! 

Cces.  I  could  be  one  right  formidable  ; 

But  since  I  slew  the  seven  husbands  of 
Tobias'  future  bride,  (and  after  all 
'Twas  suck'd  out  by  some  incense,)  I  have  laid 
Aside  intrigue  :  'tis  rarely  worth  the  trouble 
Of  gaining,  or — what  is  more  difficult — 
Getting  rid  of  your  prize  again ;  for  there's 
The  rub !  at  least  to  mortals. 

Arn.  Prithee,  peace ! 

Softly  !  methink's  her  lips  move,  her  eyes  open  ! 

Cces.  Like  stars,  no  doubt ;  for  that's  a  metaphor 
For  Lucifer  and  Venus. 

Am.  To  the  palace 

Colonna,  as  I  told  you  1 

Cces.  Oh  !  I  know 

My  way  through  Rome. 

Am.  Now  onward,  onward  !     Gently  I 

{^Exeunt,  hearing  Olxmpia.     The  scene  closes. 


PART  in. 

SCENE    I. 

A  Cattle  in  the  Apennines  surrounded  iy  a  wild  but 
smiling  country.  Chorus  of  Peasants  singing  he- 
fore  the  Gates. 

CHOBUS. 
1. 

The  wars  are  over. 

The  spring  is  come  ; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home : 
They  are  happy,  we  rejoice ; 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice ! 

2. 

The  spring  is  come ;  the  violet's  gone. 

The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sun  : 

With  us  she  is  but  a  winter's  flower. 

The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  her  bower, 

And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 

To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  self-same  hue. 

8. 

And  when  the  spring  comes  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odor  and  virgin  hues. 


SCENE  I. 


cAiisr. 


81T 


Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Their  herald  out  of  dim  December — 
The  morning  star  of  all  the  flowers, 
The  pledge  of  daylight's  lengthen'd  hours  ; 
Nor,  midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet. 

Enter  C^sab. 
CcBs.  (singinff.)  The  wars  are  all  over, 
Our  swords  are  all  idle. 
The  steed  bites  the  bridle 
The  casque's  on  the  wall. 
There's  rest  for  the  rover  ; 
But  his  armor  is  rusty, 
And  the  veteran  grows  crusty. 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 

He  drinks— but  what's  drinking  ? 
A  mere  pause  from  thinking  ! 
No  bugle  awaits  him  with  life-and-death  calL 

CHORUS. 

But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly, 

The  boar's  in  the  wood, 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood  : 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble 

She  sits  like  a  crest. 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

With  birds  from  their  nest 


Cces.     Oh  !  shadow  of  glory  I 

Dim  image  of  war  1 
But  the  chase  hath  no  story. 

Her  hero  no  star, 
Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 

Of  empire  and  chase. 
Who  made  the  woods  wonder 

And  quake  for  their  race. 
When  the  lion  was  young. 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 
Then  'twas  sport  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fight ; 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine 

For  a  spear,  'gainst  the  mammoth, 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 

At  the  foaming  behemoth ; 
While  man  was  in  stature 

As  towers  in  our  time, 
The  first-bom  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  sublime  1 

CHORUS. 

But  the  wars  are  over. 
The  spring  is  come  ; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home : 
They  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice  ; 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  from  every  voice  I 

[Exeunt  the  Peasantry,  singing. 


CAIN: 


A     MY8TEKT, 


•  Now  the  Seipent  was  more  subtle  than  any  heast  of  the  fleld  which  the  Lord  God  had  made.' 


-Oen.  ch.  111.  v.  1. 


ro 


¥ 


SIR    WALTEE    SCOTT,    BART., 

THIS  ''mTSTEET  op  CAIK"  IS  IN8CRIBBD, 

BY  HIS  OBLieKD  PBISNB,  AND  rAITHPUI.  SIBTiHT, 


PREFACE. 

The  following  scenes  are  entitled  "  A  Mystery,"  in 
conformity  with  the  ancient  title  annexed  to  dramas 
upon  similar  subjects,  which  were  styled  "  Mysteries, 
or  Moralities."  The  author  has  by  no  means  taken  the 
same  liberties  with  his  subject  which  were  common, 
formerly,  as  may  be  seen  by  any  reader  curious  enough 
to  refer  tj  those  very  profane  productions,  whether  in 


THK  AUTHOR. 

English  French,  Italian,  or  Spanish.  The  author  has 
endeavored  to  preserve  the  language  adapted  to  his 
characters ;  and  where  it  is  (and  this  is  but  rarely) 
taken  from  actual  Scripture,  he  has  made  as  little  al- 
teration, even  of  words,  as  the  rhythm  would  permit. 
The  reader  will  recollect  that  the  book  of  Genesis  does 
not  state  that  Eve  was  tempted  by  a  demon,  but  by 
•■  the  Serpent ; "  and  that  only  because  he  was"  the  most 
subtle  of  aU  the  beasts  of  the  field."    Whatever  inter- 


318 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


pretation  the  Rabbins  and  the  Fathers  may  have  put 
upon  this,  I  take  the  words  as  I  find  them,  and  reply, 
with  Bishop  Watson  upon  similar  occasions,  when  the 
Fathers  were  quoted  to  him,  as  Moderator  in  the  schools 
of  Cambridge,  "  Behold  the  Book  !" — holding  up  the 
Scripture.  It  is  to  be  recollected  that  my  present  sub- 
ject has  nothing  to  do  with  the  New  Testament,  to 
which  no  reference  can  be  here  made  without  anachron- 
ism. With  the  poems  upon  similar  topics,  I  have  not 
been  recently  familiar.  Since  I  was  twenty  I  have 
never  read  Milton ;  but  I  had  read  him  so  frequently 
before,  that  this  may  make  little  difference.  Gesner's 
"  Death  of  Abel "  I  have  never  read  since  I  was  eight 
years  of  age,  at  Aberdeen.  The  general  impression  of 
my  recollection  is  delight ;  but  of  the  contents  I  re- 
member only  that  Cain's  wife  was  called  Mahala,  and 
Abel's  Thirza  :  in  the  following  pages  I  have  called 
them  "  Adah  "  and  '•  Zillah,"  the  earliest  female  names 
which  occur  in  Genesis  ;  they  were  those  of  Lamech's 
wives  :  those  of  Cain  and  Abel  are  not  called  by  their 
names.  Whether,  then,  a  coincidence  of  subject  may 
have  caused  the  same  in  expression,  I  know  nothing, 
and  care  as  little. 

The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind,  (what  few 
choose  to  recollect,)  that  there  is  no  allusion  to  a  future 
state  in  any  of  the  books  of  Moses,  nor  indeed  in  the 
Old  Testament.  For  a  reason  for  this  extraordinary 
omission  he  may  consult  Warburton's  "  Divine  Lega- 
tion ;"  whether  satisfactory  or  not,  no  better  has  yet 
been  assigned.  I  have  therefore  supposed  it  now  to 
Cain,  without,  I  hope,  any  perversion  of  Holy  Writ. 

With  regard  to  the  language  of  Lucifer,  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  make  him  talk  like  a  clergyman  upon 
the  same  subjects ;  but  I  have  done  what  I  could  to 
restrain  him  within  the  bounds  of  spiritual  politeness. 

If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of 
the  Serpent,  it  is  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis  has 
not  the  most  distant  allusion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind, 
but  merely  to  the  Serpent  in  his  serpentine  capacity. 

Note. — The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  has 
partly  adopted  in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier,  that 
the  world  had  been  destroyed  several  times  before  the 
creation  of  man.  This  speculation,  derived  from  the 
different  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous  and  un- 
known animals  found  in  them,  is  not  contrary  to  the 
Mosaic  accoant,  but  rather  confirms  it ;  as  no  human 
bones  have  yet  been  discovered  in  those  strata,  although 
those  of  many  known  animals  are  found  near  the  re- 
mains of  the  unknown.  The  assertion  of  Lucifer,  that 
the  pre-Adamite  world  was  also  peopled  by  rational 
beings  much  more  intelligent  than  man,  and  propor. 
tionably  poweriul  to  the  mammoth,  etc.,  etc.,  is,  of 
course,  a  poetical  fiction  to  help  him  to  make  out  his 
case. 

I  ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a  "  tramelogedia  "  of 
Alfieri,  called  "  Abele." — I  have  never  read  that,  nor 
any  other  of  the  posthumous  works  of  the  writer,  ex- 
cept his  Life. 

Raveitna,  Sept.  20, 1831. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Men. — Adam. 
Caht. 
Abel. 
Spirits. — Angel  op  the  Lobd. 

LUCIFEB. 

Women. — Eve. 
Adah. 
Zn<LAL. 


CAIN:  A  MYSTERY. 

ACT  L 

S  C  E  IT  E       I. 

The  Land  without  Paradise. —  Time^  Sunrise. 
Adam,  Eve,  Cain,  Abel,  Adah,  Zillah,  offering  a 

Sacrifice. 

Adam.  God,  the  Eternal !  Infinite  !  AU-wise  ! — 
Who  out  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  mako 
Light  on  the  waters  with  a  word — all  hail  1 
Jehovah,  with  returning  light,  all  hail ! 

Eve.  God  !  who  didst  name  the  day,  and  separato 
Morning  from  night,  till  then  divided  never — 
Who  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  thy  work  the  firmament — all  hail ! 

Abel.  God  !  who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Earth — ocean — air — and  fire,  and  with  the  day 
And  night,  and  worlds,  which  these  illuminate. 
Or  shadow,  madest  beings  to  enjoy  them. 
And  love  both  them  and  thee — all  hail !  all  hail ! 

Adah.  God,  the  Eternal !    Parent  of  all  things  ! 
Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beauteous  beings, 
To  be  beloved,  more  than  all,  save  thee — 
Let  me  love  thee  and  them  : — All  hail !  all  hail ! 

Zillah.  O  God  1  who  loving,  making,  blessing  all, 
Yet  didst  permit  the  Serpent  to  creep  in. 
And  drive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 
Keep  us  from  further  evil : — Hail !  all  hail  I 

Adam.  Son  Cain,  my  first-born,  wherefore  art  thon 

Cain.  Why  should  I  speak  ?  [silent  ? 

Adam.  To  pray. 

Cain.  Have  ye  not  pray'd  ? 

Adam.  We  have,  most  fervently. 

Cain.  And  loudly  :  I 

Have  heard  you. 

Adam.  So  will  God,  I  trust 

Ahel.  Amen ! 

Adam.  But  thou,  my  eldest  bom,  art  silent  still. 

Cain.  'Tis  better  I  should  be  so. 

Adam.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Cain.  I  have  naught  to  ask. 

Adam.  Nor  aught  to  thank  for  ? 

Cain.  No. 

Adam.  Dost  thou  not  live  ? 


BCKNE   I. 


CAIN. 


319 


Cain.  Must  I  not  die  ? 

Eve.  Alas  I 

The  fruit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  faU. 

Adam.  And  we  must  gather  it  again.         [ledge  ? 

0  God !  why  didst  thou  plant  the  tree  of  know- 
Cain.  And  wherefore  pluck'd  ye  not  the  tree  of 

Ye  might  have  then  defied  him.  [life  ? 

Adam.  Oh,  my  son  1 

Blaspheme  not :  these  are  serpent's  words. 

Gain.  Why  not  ? 

The  snake  spoke  truth :  it  was  the  tree  of  know- 
It  was  the  tree  of  life  :  knowledge  is  good,  [ledge ; 
And  life  is  good  ;  and  how  can  both  be  evil  ? 

Ere.  My  boy  !  thou  speakest  as  I  spoke,  in  sin, 
Before  thy  birth  :  let  me  not  see  renew'd 
My  misery  in  thine.    I  have  repented. 
Let  me  not  see  my  ofispring  fall  into 
The  snares  beyond  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
Which  e'en  in  Paradise  destroy'd  his  parents, 
Content  thee  with  what  is.     Had  we  been  so. 
Thou  now  hadst  been  contented.     Oh,  my  son  I 

Adam.  Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  hence. 
Each  to  his  task  of  toil — not  heavy,  though 
Needful :  the  earth  is  young,  and  yields  us  kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labor. 

Eve.  Cain,  my  son, 

Behold  thy  father  cheerful  and  resign'd. 
And  do  as  he  doth.  [Exeunt  Adam  and  Eve. 

Zillah.  Wilt  thou  not,  my  brother  ? 

Ahel.  Wliy  wilt  thou  wear  this  gloom  upon  thy 
Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  to  rouse  [brow, 
The  Eternal  anger  ? 

Adah.  My  beloved  Cain, 

Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me  ? 

Cain.  No,  Adah  I  no 

1  fain  would  be  alone  a  little  while. 
Abel,  I'm  sick  at  heart ;  but  it  will  pass. 
Precede  me  brother — I  will  follow  shortly. 
And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind ; 
Your  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met 
I'U  follow  you  anon. 

Adah.  If  not,  I  will 

Return  to  seek  you  here. . 

Ahel.  The  peace  of  God 

Be  on  your  spirit,  brother  1 

[Exeunt  Abel,  Zillah,  and  Adah. 

Cain,  (solus.)  And  this  is 

Life  1 — Toil !  and  wherefore  should  I  toil  ? — ^because 
My  father  could  not  keep  his  place  in  Eden. 
Wliat  had  I  done  in  this  ? — I  was  unborn  : 
I  sought  not  to  be  bom  ;  nor  love  the  state 
To  which  that  birth  has  brought  me.  Wliy  did  he 
Yield  to  the  serpent  and  the  woman  ?  or 
Yielding,  why  suffer  ?    What  was  there  in  this  ? 
The  tree  was  planted,  and  why  not  for  him  ? 
If  not,  why  place  him  near  it,  where  it  grew, 


The  fairest  in  the  centre  ?    They  have  but 

One  answer  to  all  questions,  "  'Twas  his  will, 

And  he  is  good."    How  know  I  that  ?    Because 

He  is  all-powerful,  must  all-good,  too,  follow  ? 

I  judge  but  by  the  fruits — and  they  are  bitter — 

Which  I  must  feed  on  for  a  fault  not  mine. 

Whom  have  we  here  ?     A  shape  like  to  the  angels. 

Yet  of  a  sterner  and  a  sadder  aspect 

Of  spiritual  essence  :  why  do  I  quake  ? 

Why  should  I  fear  him  more  than  other  spirits, 

Whom  I  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 

Before  the  gates  round  which  I  linger  oft. 

In  twilight's  hour,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  those 

Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance. 

Ere  the  night  closes  o'er  the  inhibited  walls 

And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop. 

The  cherubim-defended  battlements  ? 

If  I  shrink  not  from  these,  the  fire-arm'd  angels, 

Why  should  I  quail  from  him  who  now  approaches  ? 

Yet  he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 

Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 

As  he  hath  been,  and  might  be  :  sorrow  seems 

Half  of  his  immortality.     And  is  it 

So  ?  and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity  ? 

He  Cometh. 

Enter  Lucifer. 

Lucifer.  Mortal  I 

Cain.  Spirit,  who  art  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  Master  of  spirits. 

Cain.  And  being  so,  canst  thou 

Leave  them,  and  walk  with  dust  ? 

Lucifer.  I  know  the  thoughts 

Of  dust,  and  feel  for  it,  and  with  you. 

Cain.  How  1 

You  know  my  thoughts  ? 

Lucifer.  They  are  the  thoughts  of  all 

Worthy  of  thought ; — 'tis  your  immortal  part 
Which  speaks  within  you. 

Cain.  Wliat  immortal  part  ? 

This  has  not  been  reveal'd  :  the  tree  of  life 
Was  withheld  from  us  by  my  father's  folly. 
While  that  of  knowledge,  by  my  mother's  haste, 
Was  pluck'd  too  soon  ;  and  all  the  fruit  is  death  1 

Lucifer.  They  have  deceived  thee  ;  thou  shall  live. 

Cain.  I  live, 

But  live  to  die  :  and,  living,  see  no  thing 
To  make  death  hateful,  save  an  innate  cUnging, 
A  loathsome,  and  yet  all  invincible 
Instinct  of  life,  which  I  abhor,  as  I 
Despise  myself,  yet  cannot  overcome — 
And  so  I  live.    Would  I  had  never  lived  ! 

Lucifer.  Thou  livest,  and  must  live  forever :  think 
The  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  cov'ring,  is    [not 
Existence — it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
No  less  than  thou  art  now. 

Cain.  No  less  !  and  why 

No  more  ? 


820 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Lucifer.  It  may  be  thou  shalt  be  as  we. 

Cain.  And  ye  ? 

Luc^er.  •    Are  everlasting. 

Gain.  Are  ye  happy  ? 

Lucifer.  We  are  mighty. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy  ? 

Lucifer.  No ;  art  thou  ? 

Cairo.  How  should  I  be  so  ?     Look  on  me  ! 

Lu  -ifer.  Poor  clay  1 

And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wretched  ?     Thou  ! 

Cain.  I  am  : — and  thou,  with  all  thy  might,  what 
art  thou  ? 

Luciftr.  One  who  aspired  to  be  what  made  thee. 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thou  art.  [and 

Cain.  Ah ! 

Thou  look'st  almost  a  god  ;  and 

Lucifer.  I  am  none  : 

And  having  fail'd  to  be  one,  would  be  naught 
Save  what  I  am.     He  conquer'd ;  let  him  reign  ! 

Cain.  Who? 

LwAfer.  Thy  sire's  Maker,  and  the  earth's. 

Cain.  And  heaven's. 

And  all  that  in  them  is.     So  I  have  heard 
His  seraphs  sing  ;  and  so  my  father  saith. 

Lucifer.  They  say — what  they  must  sing  and  say. 
Of  being  that  which  I  am — and  thou  art —  [on  pain 
Of  spirits  and  of  men. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lucifer.  Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality — 
Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tcU  him,  that 
His  evil  is  not  good  !  If  he  has  made. 
As  he  saith — which  I  know  not,  nor  believe — 
But,  if  he  made  us — he  cannot  unmake  : 
We  are  immortal ! — nay,  he'd  have  us  so, 
That  he  may  torture  : — let  him  !     He  is  great — 
But,  in  his  greatness,  is  no  happier  than 
We  in  our  conflict  I    Goodness  would  not  make 
Evil ;  and  what  else  hath  he  made  ?     But  let  him 
Sit  on  his  vast  and  solitary  throne. 
Creating  worlds,  to  make  eternity 
Less  burdensome  to  his  immense  existence 
And  unparticipated  solitude  1 
Let  him  crowd  orb  on  orb  :  he  is  alone 
Indefinite,  indissoluble  tyrant ! 
Could  he  but  crush  himself,  'twere  the  best  boon 
He  ever  granted  :  but,  let  him  reign  on. 
And  multiply  himself  in  misery  1 
Spirits  and  mep,  at  least  we  sympathize — 
And,  suffering  in  concert,  make  our  pangs, 
Innumerable,  more  endurable, 
By  the  unbounded  sympathy  of  all — 
With  all !     But  He  !  so  wretched  in  his  height. 
So  restless  in  his  wretchedness,  must  still 

Create,  and  re-create 

Cain.  Thou  speak'st  to  me  of  things  which  long 
have  swum 


In  visions  through  my  thought :  I  never  could 

Reconcile  what  I  saw  with  what  I  heard. 

My  father  and  my  mother  talk  to  me 

Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees  :  I  see 

The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 

Guarded  by  fiery-sworded  cherubim, 

Which  shut  them  out,  and  me  :  I  feel  the  weight 

Of  daily  toil  and  constant  thought :  I  look 

Around  a  world  where  I  seem  nothing,  with 

Thoughts  which  arise  within  me,  as  if  they 

Could  master  all  things  :— but  I  thought  alone 

This  misery  was  mine.     My  father  is 

Tamed  down  ;  my  mother  has  forgot  the  mind 

Which  made  her  thirst  for  knowledge  at  the  risk 

Of  an  eternal  curse  ;  my  brother  is 

A  watching  shepherd  boy,  who  offers  up 

The  flrstUngs  of  the  flock  to  him  who  bids 

The  earth  yield  nothing  to  us  without  sweat ; 

My  sister  Zillah  sings  an  earUer  hymn 

Than  the  birds'  matins  ;  and  my  Adah,  my 

Own  and  beloved,  she,  too,  understands  not 

The  mind  which  overwhelms  me  :  never  till 

Kow  met  I  aught  to  sympathize  with  me. 

'Tis  well — I  rather  would  consort  with  spirits. 

Lucifer.  And  hadst  thou  not  been  fit  by  thine  own 
For  such  companionship,  I  would  not  now         [soul 
Have  stood  before  thee  as  I  am  :  a  serpent 
Had  been  enough  to  charm  ye,  as  before. 

Cain.  Ah  !  didst  thou  tempt  my  mother  ? 

Lucifer.  I  tempt  none, 

Save  with  the  truth  :  was  not  the  tree,  the  tree 
Of  knowledge  ?  and  was  not  the  tree  of  life 
Still  fruitful  ?     Did  /  bid  her  pluck  them  not  ? 
Did  /  plant  things  prohibited  within 
The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  curious 
By  their  own  innocence  ?     I  would  have  made  ye 
Gods  ;  and  even  He  who  thrust  ye  forth,  so  thrust 
Because  "  ye  should  not  eat  the  fruits  of  life,        [ye 
And  become  gods  as  we."     Were  those  his  words  ? 

Cain.  They  were,  as  I  have  heard  from  those  who 
In  thunder.  [heard  them, 

Lucifer.      Then  who  was  the  demon  ?    He 
Who  would  not  let  ye  live,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  live  forever  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge  ? 

Cain.  Would  they  had  snatch'd  both 

The  fruits,  or  neither  ! 

Lucifer.  One  is  yours  already ; 

The  other  may  be  still. 

Cain.  How  so  ? 

Lucifer.  By  being 

Yourselves,  in  your  resistance.     Nothing  can 
Quench  the  mind,  if  the  mind  will  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  things — 'tis  made 
To  sway. 

Cain.      But  didst  thou  tempt  my  parents  ? 

Lucifer.  I  ? 


SCENB    t. 


CAIN. 


321 


Poor  clay  1  what  should  I  tempt  them  for,  or  how  ? 

Cain.  They  say  the  'serpent  was  a  spirit. 

Lucifer.  Who 

Said  that  ?     It  is  not  written  so  on  high  : 
The  proud  One  will  not  so  far  falsify, 
Though  man's  vast  fears  and  little  vanity 
Would  make  him  cast  upon  the  spiritual  nature 
His  own  low  failing.     The  snake  wan  the  snake — 
No  more  ;  and  yet  not  less  than  those  he  tempted, 
In  nature  being  earth  also — more  in  zol.idom, 
Since  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fatal  to  their  narrow  joys. 
Think'st  thou  I'd  take  the  shape  of  things  that  die  ? 

Cain.  But  the  thing  had  a  demon  ? 

Ludfer.  He  but  woke  one 

In  those  he  spake  to  with  his  forky  tongue. 
I  tell  thee  that  the  serpent  was  no  more 
Than  a -mere  serpent :  ask  the  cherubim 
Who  guard  the  tempting  tree.  When  thousand  ages 
Have  roll'd  o'er  your  dead  ashes,  and  your  seed's, 
The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  array 
Their  earliest  fault  in  fable,  and  attribute 
To  me  a  shape  I  scorn,  as  I  scorn  all 
That  bows  to  him,  who  made  things  but  to  bend 
Before  his  sullen,  sole  eternity  ; 
But  we,  who  see  the  truth,  must  speak  it.     Thy 
Fond  parents  listen'd  to  a  creeping  thing. 
And  fell.     For  what  should  spirits   tempt  them  ? 
Was  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  bounds         [What 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 

Space but  I  speak  to  thee  of  what  thou  know'st 

With  all  thy  tree  of  knowledge.  [not, 

Cain.  But  thou  canst  not 

Speak  aught  of  knowledge  which  I  would  not  know, 
And  do  not  thirst  to  know,  and  bear  a  mind 
To  know. 

Lucifer.  And  heart  to  look  on  ? 

Caia.  Be  it  proved. 

Lucifer.  Barest  thou  to  look  on  Death  ? 

Cain.  ■  He  has  not  yet 

Been  seen. 

Lucifer.  But  must  be  undergone. 

Cain.  My  father 

Says  he  is  something  dreadful,  and  my  mother 
Weeps  when  he  is  named  ;  and  Abel  lifts  his  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  Zillah  casts  hor's  to  the  earth. 
And  sighs  a  prayer ;  and  Adah  looks  on  me, 
And  speaks  not. 

Lucifer.  And  thou  ? 

Cain.  Thoughts  unspeakable 

Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  seems, 
Inevitable.    Could  I  wrestle  with  him  ? 
I  wrestled  with  the  lion,  when  a  boy, 
In  play,  till  he  ran  roaring  from  my  gripe. 

Lucifer.   It   lias   no   shape ;    but  will   absorb   all 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth-born  being.         [things 
41 


Cain.  Ah  1 

I  thought  it  was  a  being  :  who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  beings  save  a  being  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  the  Destroyer. 

Cain.  Who  ? 

Lucifer.  The  Maker — call  him 

Which  name  thou  wilt ;  he  makes  but  to  destroy. 

Cain.   I  knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  since  I 
Of  death  ;  although  I  know  not  what  it  is,      [heard 
Yet  it  seems  horrible.     I  have  look'd  out 
In  the  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  him  ; 
And  when  I  saw  gigantic  shadows  in 
The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  Eden,  checker'd 
By  the  far-flashing  of  the  cherubs'  swords, 
I  watch'd  for  what  I  thought  his  coming  ;  for 
With  fear  rose  longing  in  my  heart  to  know 
Wliat  'twas  which  shook  us  all — but  nothing  came, 
And  then  I  tum'd  my  weary  eyes  from  oflF 
Our  native  and  forbidden  Paradise, 
Up  to  the  lights  above  us,  in  the  azure. 
Which  are  so  beautiful :  shall  they,  too,  die  ?  [thee. 

Lticifer.  Perhaps — but  long  outlive  both  thine  and 

Cain.  I'm  glad  of  that :  I  would  not  have  them 
They  are  so  lovely.    What  is  death  ?     I  fear,   [die — 
I  feel,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  ;  but  what, 
I  cannot  compass  :  'tis  denounced  against  us, 
Both  them  who  sinn'd  and  sinn'd  not,  as  an  ill — 
What  ill  ? 

Lucifer.  To  be  resolved  into  the  earth. 

Cain.  But  shall  I  know  it  ? 

Lucifer.  As  I  know  not  death, 

I  cannot  answer. 

Cain.  Were  I  quiet  earth 

That  were  no  evil :  would  I  ne'er  had  been 
Aught  else  but  dust ! 

Lucifer.  That  is  a  grovelling  wish, 

Less  than  thy  father's,  for  he  wish'd  to  know. 

Cain.  But  not  to  Uve,  or  wherefore  pluck'd  he  not 
The  life-tree  ? 

Lucifer.  He  was  hinder'd. 

Cain.  Deadly  error  1 

Not  to  snatch  first  that  fruit : — but  ere  he  pluck'd 
The  knowledge,  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 
Alas  !  I  scarcely  know  what  it  is, 
And  yet  I  fear  it — fear  I  know  not  what  1 

Lucifer.  And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear  noth- 
What  is  true  knowledge.  [ing  :  see 

Cain.  Wilt  thou  teach  me  all  ? 

Liudfer.  Ay,  upon  one  condition  ! 

Cain.  ■  Name  it. 

Lucifer.  That 

Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  me— thy  Lord. 

Cain.  Thou  art  not  the  Lord  my  father  worships. 

Lucifer.  No. 

Cain.  His  equal  ? 

Lucifer.  No  !  I  have  naught  in  common  with  him. 
Nor  would  :  I  would  be  aught  above — beneath 


322 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Aught  save  a  sharer  or  a  servant  of 
His  power.     I  dwell  apart ;  but  I  am  great : — 
Many  there  are  who  worship  me,  and  more 
Who  shall — be  thou  amongst  the  first. 

Cain.  I  never 

As  yet  have  bow'd  unto  my  father's  God, 
Although  my  brother  Abel  oft  implores 
That  I  would  join  with  him  in  sacriflce  : — 
Why  should  I  bow  to  thee  ? 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne'er  bow'd 

To  him  ? 

Cain.      Have  I  not  said  it  ? — need  I  say  it  ? 
Could  not  thy  mighty  knowledge  teach  thee  that  ? 

Ltidfer.  He  who  bows  not  to  him  has  bow'd  to 

Cain.  But  I  will  bend  to  neither.  [me  ! 

Lucifer.  Ne'er  the  less. 

Thou  art  my  worshipper  :  not  worshipping 
Him  makes  thee  mine  the  same. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lucifer.  Thou'lt  know  here — and  hereafter. 

Cain.  Let  me  but 

Be  taught  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

Lucifer.  Follow 

Where  I  will  lead  thee. 

Cain.                               But  I  must  retire 
To  till  the  earth — for  I  had  promised 

Lucifer.  What  ? 

Cahi.  To  cull  some  first-fruits. 

Lucifer.  Why  ? 

Cain.  To  offer  up 

With  Abel  on  an  altar. 

Lucifer.  Saidst  thou  not 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  bent  to  him  who  made  thee  ? 

Cain.                                                                  Yes — 
But  Abel's  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon  me  ; 
The  oflFering  is  more  his  than  mine — and  Adah 

iMcifer.  Why  dost  thou  hesitate  ? 

Cain.  She  is  my  sister, 

Bom  on  the  same  day,  of  the  same  womb  ;  and 
She  wrung  from  me,  with  tears,  this  promise  ;  and 
Bather  than  see  her  weep,  I  would,  methinks. 
Bear  all — and  worship  aught. 

Lucifer.  Then  follow  me  ! 

Cain.  I  will. 

Enter  Adah. 

Adah.  My  brother,  I  have  come  for  thee ; 

It  is  our  hour  of  rest  and  joy — and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.    Thou  hast  labor'd  not 
This  mom  ;  but  I  have  done  thy  task  :  the  fruits 
Are  ripe,  and  glowing  as  the  light  which  ripens  : 
Come  away 

Cain.  See'st  thou  not  ? 

Adah.  I  see  an  angel ; 

We  have  seen  many  :  will  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest  ? — ^he  is  welcome. 

C!»»n.  But  he  is  not  like 


The  angels  we  have  seen. 

Adah.  Are  there,  then,  others  ? 

But  he  is  welcome,  as  they  were  :  they  deign'd 
To  be  our  guests — will  he  ? 

Cain,  {to  Lucifer.)  Wilt  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  I  ask 

Thee  to  be  mine. 

Cain.  I  must  away  with  him. 

Adah.  And  leave  us  ? 

Cain.  Ay. 

Adah.  And  me  f 

Gain.  Beloved  Adah  1 

Adah.  Let  me  go  with  thee. 

Lucifer.  No,  she  must  not. 

Adah.  Who 

Art  thou  that  steppest  between  heart  and  heart  ? 

Cain.  He  is  a  god. 

Adah.  How  know'st  thou  ? 

Gain.  He  speaks  liko 

A  god. 

Adah.  So  did  the  serpent,  and  it  lied. 

Lucfer.  Thou  errest,  Adah  ! — was  not  the  tree  that 
Of  knowledge  ? 

Adah.  Ay — to  our  eternal  sorrow. 

Lucifer.   And  yet  that  grief  is  knowledge — so  he 
And  if  he  did  betray  you,  'twas  with  truth ;  [lied  not: 
And  truth  in  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  good. 

Adah.     But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gather'd 
Evil  on  ill :  expulsion  from  our  home, 
And  dread,  and  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heaviness ; 
Remorse  of  that  which  was — and  hope  of  that 
Which  Cometh  not.    Cain  !  walk  not  with  this  spirit. 
Bear  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  me — I 
Love  thee. 

Lucifer.  More  than  thy  mother,  and  thy  sire  ? 

Adah.  I  do.     Is  that  a  sin,  too  ? 

Lucifer.  No,  not  yet : 

It  one  day  will  be  in  your  children. 

Adah.  What ! 

Must  not  my  daughter  love  her  brother  Enoch  ? 

Lucifer.  Not  as  thou  lovest  Cain. 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God  ! 

Shall  they  not  love  and  bring  forth  things  that  love 
Out  of  their  love  ?  have  they  not  drawn  their  milk 
Out  of  this  bosom  J  was  not  he,  their  father. 
Bom  of  the  same  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hour 
With  me  ?  did  we  not  love  each  other  ?  and 
In  multiplying  our  being  multiply 
Things  which  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them  ? — And  as  I  love  thee,  my  Cain  !  go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit ;  he  is  not  of  ours. 

Lucifer.  The  sin  I  speak  of  is  not  of  my  making, 
And  cannot  be  a  sin  in  you — whate'er 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality. 

Adah.    What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 


SCENE   I. 


CAIN. 


323 


Sin  in  itself?  Can  circumstance  make  sin 
Of  virtue  ? — ^if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 
Of 

Lucifer.   Higher  things  than  ye  are  slaves:   and 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  not   [higher 
Prefer  an  independency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation, 
In  hymns  and  harpings,  and  self-seeking  prayers, 
To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipotent,  and  not  from  love, 
But  terror  and  self-hope. 

Adah.  Omnipotence 

Must  be  all  goodness. 

Lucifer.  Was  it  so  in  Eden  ? 

Adah.  Fiend !  tempt  me  not  with  beauty ;  thou 
Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false.  [art  fairer 

Lucifer.  As  true. 

Ask  Eve,  your  mother  :  bears  she  not  the  knowledge 
Of  good  and  evil  ? 

Adah.  Oh,  my  mother  !  thou 

Hast  pluck'd  a  fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  offspring 
Than  to  thyself;  thou  at  the  least  hast  pass'd 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  happy  spirits  : 
But  we  thy  children,  ignorant  of  Eden, 
Are  girt  about  by  demons,  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  with  our  own 
Dissatisfied  and  curious  thoughts — as  thou 
Wert  work'd  on  by  the  snake,  in  thy  most  flush'd 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss. 
I  cannot  answer  this  immortal  thing 
Which  stands  before  me  ;  I  cannot  abhor  him ; 
I  look  upon  him  with  a  pleasing  fear, 
And  yet  I  fly  not  from  him  :  in  his  eye 
There  is  a  fastening  attraction  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his  ;  my  heart 
Beats  quick ;  he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me  near. 
Nearer,  and  nearer : — Cain — Cain — save  me  from  him : 

Cain.  Wliat  dreads  my  Adah  ?   This  is  no  ill  spirit. 

Adah.  He  is  not  God — nor  God's  :  I  have  beheld 
The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs  ;  he  looks  not 
Like  them. 

Cain.        But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still — 
The  archangels. 

Lucifer.  And  still  loftier  than  the  archangels. 

Adah.  Ay — but  not  blessed. 

Lucifer.  If  the  blessedness 

Consists  in  slavery — no. 

Adah.  I  have  heard  it  said. 

The  seraphs  lore  most — cherubim  know  most — 
And  this  should  be  a  cherub — since  he  loves  not. 

Zti<;i/er.Andifthehigherknowledgequencheslove, 
What  must  he  he  you  cannot  love  when  known  ? 
Since  the  all-knowing  cherubim  love  least. 
The  seraphs'  love  can  be  but  ignorance  : 
That  they  are  not  compatible,  the  doom 
Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 


Choose  betwixt  love  and  knowledge— since  there  is 
No  other  choice  :  your  sire  has  chosen  akeady ; 
His  worship  is  but  fear. 

^<^«^-  Oh,  Cain  !  choose  love. 

Ca  n.  For  thee,  my  Adah,  I  choose  not— it  was 
Bom  with  me— but  I  love  naught  else. 
^'^^^  Our  parents  ? 

Cain.   Did  they  love  us  when  they  snatch'd  from 
the  tree 
That  which  hath  driven  us  all  from  Paradise  ? 

Adah.  We  were  not  bom  then— and  if  we  had  been, 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  our  children,  Cain  ? 
Cain.  My  little  Enoch  !  and  his  lisping  sister  1 
Could  I  but.  deem  them  happy,  I  would  half 

Forget but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 

Through  thrice  a  thousand  generations  !  never 

Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 

Who  sow'd  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 

In  the  same  hour  !    They  pluck'd  the  tree  of  science 

And  sin — and,  not  content  with  their  own  sorrow, 

Begot  mc — thee — and  all  the  few  that  are, 

And  all  the  unnumber'd  and  innumerable 

Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be, 

To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 

By  ages  1 — and  /  must  be  sire  of  such  things  1 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  love — my  love  and  joy. 

The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hour. 

All  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other. 

But  lead  them  and  ourselves  through  many  years 

Of  sin  and  pain — or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow, 

Intercheck'd  with  an  instant  of  brief  pleasure. 

To   Death — the   unknown  !   Methinks   the  tree  of 

knowledge 
Hath  not  fulfill'd  its  promise : — ^if  they  sinn'd 
At  least  they  ought  to  have  know  all  things  that  are 
Of  knowledge — and  the  mystery  of  death. 
What  do  they  know  ? — that  they  are  miserable. 
What  need  of  snakes  and  fruits  to  teach  us  that  ? 
Adah.  I  am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 

Wert  happy 

Cain.  Be  thou  happy,  then,  alone — 

I  will  have  naught  to  do  with  happiness. 
Which  humbles  me  and  mine. 

Adah.  Alone  I  could  not. 

Nor  would  be  happy  :  but  with  those  around  us, 
I  think  I  could  be  so,  despite  of  death. 
Which,  as  I  know  it  not,  I  dread  not,  though 
It  seems  an  awful  shadow — if  I  may 
Judge  from  what  I  have  heard. 

Luciftrr.  And  thou  couldst  not 

Aloni.,  thou  sayst,  be  happy  ? 

Adiih.  Alone  !  Oh,  my  God  I 

Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good ! 
To  me  my  solitude  seems  sin  ;  unless 
When  I  think  how  soon  I  shall  see  my  brother, 
His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 


324 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Lucifer.  Yet  thy  God  is  alone ;  and  is  he  happy  ? 
Lonely,  and  good  ? 

Adah.  He  is  not  so ;  he  hath 

The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy, 
And  thus  becomes  so  in  diffusing  joy  : 
What  else  can  joy  be,  but  the  spreading  joy  ? 

Lxicfer.  Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresh  from  Eden ; 
Or  of  his  first-born  son  :  ask  your  own  heart; 
It  is  not  tranquil. 

Adah.  Alas  1  no  !  and  you — 

Are  you  of  heaven  ? 

Lucifer.  If  I  am  not,  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  all-spreading  happiness 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  aU-great  and  good 
Maker  of  life  and  living  things  ;  it  is    . 
His  secret,  and  he  keeps  it.      We  must  bear, 
And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  vain. 
His  seraphs  say  ;  but  it  is  worth  the  trial. 
Since  better  may  not  be  without :  there  is 
A  wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eye 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  which  watches,  welcoming  the  mom. 

Adah.  It  is  a  beautiful  star ;  I  love  it  for 
Its  beauty. 

Lucifer.  And  why  not  adore  ? 

Adah.  Our  father 

Adores  the  invisible  only. 

Lucifer.  But  the  symbols 

Of  the  Invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  visible  ;  and  yon  bright  star 
Is  leader  of  the  host  of  heaven. 

Adah.  Our  father 

Saith  that  he  has  beheld  the  God  himself 
Who  made  him  and  our  mother. 

Lucifer..  Hast  thou  seen  him  ? 

Adah.  Yes — in  his  works. 

Lucifer.  But  in  his  being  ? 

Adah.  No — 

Save  in  my  father,  who  is  God's  own  image  ; 
Or  in  his  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee — 
And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming  :  as  the  silent  sunny  noon 
All  light  they  look  upon  us  ;  but  thou  seem'st 
Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouds 
Streak  the  deep  purple,  and  unnumber'd  stars 
Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 
With  things  that  look  as  if  they  would  be  suns  ; 
So  beautiful,  unnumber'd,  and  endearing. 
Not  dazzling,  and  yet  drawing  us  to  them. 
They  fill  my  eyes  with  tears,  and  so  dost  thou. 
Thou  seem'st  unhappy  :  do  not  make  us  so. 
And  I  will  weep  for  thee. 

Lucifer.  Alas  !  those  tears  ! 

Couldst  thou  but  know  what  oceans  will  be  shed 

Adah.  By  me  ? 
Lucifer.  By  all. 


Adah.  Wliat  all  ? 

Lucifer.  The  million  millions — 

The  myriad  myriads — the  all-peopled  earth — 
The  unpeopled  earth — and  the  o'er-peopled  Hell, 
Of  which  thy  bosom  is  the  germ. 

Adah.  Oh,  Cain  1 

This  spirit  curseth  us. 

Gain.  Let  him  say  on ; 

Him  wiU  I  follow. 

Adah.  Whither  ? 

Lucifer.  To  a  place 

Whence  he  shall  come  back  to  thee  in  an  hour ; 
But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days. 

Adah.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Lucifer.  Did  not  your  Maker  make 

Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  few  days  ? 
And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  this  work. 
Show  in  an  hour  what  he  hath  made  in  many, 
Or  hath  destroy'd  in  few  ? 

Cain.  Lead  on. 

Adah.  Will  he, 

In  sooth,  return  within  an  hour  ? 

Lucifer.  He  shall 

With  us  acts  arc  exempt  from  time,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour. 
Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity. 
We  breathe  not  by  a  mortal  measurement — 
But  that's  a  mystery.     Cain,  come  on  with. me. 

Adah.  Will  he  return  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay,  woman  !  he  alone 

Of  mortals  from  that  place,  (the  first  and  last 
Who  shall  return,  save  One,)  shall  come  back  to 
To  make  that  silent  and  expectant  world  [thee, 

As  populous  as  this  :  at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 

Adah.  Where  dwellest  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  Throughout  all  space.     Where  should  I 
dwell  ?     Wliere  are 
Thy  god  or  gods — there  am  I :  all  things  are 
Divided  with  me  ;  life  and  death — and  time — 
Eternity- — and  heaven  and  earth — and  that 
Which  is  not  heaven  nor  earth,  but  peopled  with 
Those  who  once  peopled  or  shall  people  both — 
These  are  my  realms  1     So  that  I  do  divide 
His,  and  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
His.     If  I  were  not  that  which  I  have  said, 
Could  I  stand  here  ?    His  angels  are  within 
Your  vision. 

Adah.  So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 

Spoke  with  our  mother  first. 

Lucifer.  Cain  !  thou  hast  heard. 

If  thou  dost  long  for  knowledge,  I  can  satiate 
That  thirst ;  nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fruits 
Which  shall  deprive  thee  of  a  single  good 
The  conqueror  has  left  thee.     Follow  me. 
Cain.  Spirit,  I  have  said  it. 

{^Exeunt  Lucifbb  a/iid  Cain. 


SCENE   I. 


CAIN. 


325 


Adah,  {follows,  exclaiming.)    Cain  1  my  brother  1 
Cain  I 

ACT  n. 

SCENE      I. 

Th«  Abyss  of  Space. 

Gain.  I  tread  on  air,  and  sink  not ;  yet  I  fear 
To  sink. 

Lvcifer.  Have  faith  in  me,  and  thou  shalt  be 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I  am  the  prince. 
Cain.  Can  I  do  so  without  impiety  ? 
Lucifer.  BeHeve — and  sink  not !  doubt — and  per- 
Would  run  the  edict  of  the  other  God,      [ish  1  thus 
Wlio  names  me  demon  to  his  angels  ;  they 
Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things. 
Which,  knowing  naught  beyond  their  shallow  senses. 
Worship  the  word  which  strikes  their  ear,  and  deem 
Evil  or  good  what  is  proclaim'd  to  them 
In  their  abasement.     I  will  have  none  such  : 
Worship  or  worship  not,  thou  shalt  behold 
The  worlds  beyond  thy  little  world,  nor  be 
Amerced  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life. 
With  torture  of  my  dooming.     There  will  come 
An  hour,  when,  toss'd  upon  some  water-drops, 
A  man  shall  say  to  a  man,  "  Believe  in  me, 
And  walk  the  waters  ;"  and  the  man  shall  walk 
The  billows  and  be  safe.     /  will  not  say, 
Believe  in  me,  as  a  conditional  creed 
To  save  thee ;  but  fly  with  me  o'er  the  gulf 
Of  space  an  equal  flight,  and  I  will  show 
What  thou  darest  not  deny, — the  history 
Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  future  worlds. 

Cain.  Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whate'er  thou  art. 

Is  yon  our  earth  ? 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  not  recognize 

The  dust  which  form'd  your  father  ? 

Cain.  Can  it  be  ? 

Yon  small  blue  circle,  swinging  in  far  ether. 

With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still. 

Which  looks  Uke  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night  ? 

Is  this  our  Paradise  ?    Where  are  its  walls. 

And  they  who  guard  them  ? 
Lucifer.  Point  me  out  the  site 

Of  Paradise. 

Cain.  How  should  I  ?    As  we  move 

Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and  smaller, 

And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less, 

Gathers  a  halo  round  it,  like  the  light 

Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  I 

Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Paradise  : 

Methinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them. 

Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  stars 

Which  are  around  us ;  and,  as  we  move  on. 

Increase  their  myriads. 

Lucifer.  And  if  there  should  be 

Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inhabited 


By  greater  things,  and  they  themselves  far  more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth, 
Though  multipUed  to  animated  atoms, 
All  living,  and  all  doom'd  to  death,  and  wretchd. 
What  wouldst  thou  think  ? 

Cain.  I  should  be  proud  of  thought 

Which  knew  such  things. 

Lucifer.  But  if  that  high  thought  were 

Link'd  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 
Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things. 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chain'd  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat 
To  lure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  aU  foredoom'd  to  be 

As  frail,  and  few  so  happy 

Cain.  Spirit!  I 

Know  naught  of  death,  save  as  a  dreadful  thing 
Of  which  I  have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life  ;  a  heritage  not  happy. 
If  I  may  judge,  till  now.     But,  spirit !  if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said,  (and  I  within 
Feel  the  prophetic  torture  of  its  truth,) 
Here  let  me  die  :  for  to  give  birth  to  those 
Who  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 

Methinks  is  merely  propagating  death, 

And  multiplying  murder. 

Lucifer.  Thou  canst  not 

All  die — there  is  what  must  survive. 

Cain.  The  other 

Spake  not  of  this  unto  my  father,  when 

He  shut  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 

Written  upon  his  forehead.     But  at  least 

Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 

I  may  be  in  the  rest  as  angels  are. 

Lucifer.  T  am  angelic  :  wouldst  thou  be  as  I  am  ? 
Cain.  I  know  not  what  thou  art :  I  see  thy  power, 

And  see  thou  show'st  me  things  beyond  my  power, 

Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  faculties. 

Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 

And  my  conceptions. 
iMcifer.  What  are  they  which  dwell 

So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 

With  worms  in  clay  ? 

Cain.  And  what  art  thou  who  dweUest 

So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 

Nature  and  immortality — and  yet 

Seem'st  sorrowful  ? 
Lucifer  I  seem  that  which  I  am ; 

And  therefore  do  I  ask  of  thee,  if  thou 

Wouldst  be  immortal  ? 

Cain.  Thou  hast  said,  I  must  be 

Immortal  in  despite  of  me.    I  knew  not 

This  until  lately — but  since  it  must  be, 


0' 


^ 


326 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  n. 


Let  me,  or  happy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 

Lucifer.  Thou  didst  before  I  came  upon  thee. 

Cain.  How  ? 

Lucifer.  By  suffering. 

(Jain.  And  must  torture  be  immortal  ? 

Lucifer.  We  and  thy  sons  will  try.     But  now,  be- 
Is  it  not  glorious  ?  [hold  ! 

Cain.  Oh,  thou  beautiful 

And  unimaginable  ether  !  and 
Ye  multiplying  masses  of  inceased 
And  still  increasing  lights  !  what  are  ye  ?  what 
Is  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I  have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden  ? 
Is  your  course  measured  for  ye  ?    Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  universe  of  endless 
Expansion — at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think — 
Intoxicated  with  eternity  ? 

0  God  !  oh,  gods  !  or  whatsoe'er  ye  are  ! 
How  beautiful  ye  are  !  how  beautiful 
Your  works,  or  accidents,  or  whatsoe'er 

0         They  may  be  !     Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die, 

(If  that  they  die,)  or  know  ye  in  your  might 

And  knowledge  !    My  thoughts  are  not  in  this  hour 

Unworthy  what  I  sec,  though  my  dust  is  ; 

Spirit !  let  me  expire,  or  see  them  nearer.      [earth  ! 

Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  nearer  ?  look  back  to  thine 

Cain.  Where  is  it  ?     I  see  nothing  save  a  mass 
Of  most  innumerable  lights. 

Lucifer.  Look  there  ! 

Cain.  I  cannot  see  it. 

Lucifer.  Yet  it  sparkles  still. 

Cain.  That ! — yonder  ! 

Lucifer.  Yea. 

Caiv.  And  wilt  thou  tell  me  so  ? 

Why,  I  have  seen  the  fire-flies  and  fire-worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 
In  the  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  them. 

Lucifer.  Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  worlds, 
Each  bright  and  sparkling — what  dost  think  of 
them  ? 

Cain.  That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere, 
And  that  the  night,  which  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  its  flight. 
And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course, 
Must  both  be  guided. 

Lucifer.  But  by  whom  or  what  ? 

Cain.  Show  me. 

Lucifer.  Dar'st  thou  behold  ? 

Cain.  How  know  I  what 

1  dare  behold  ?  As  yet,  thou  hast  shown  naught 
I  dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

Lucifer,  On,  then,  with  me. 

Wouldst  thou  behold  things  mortal  or  immortal  ? 


Cain.  Why,  what  are  things  ? 

Lucifer.  Both  partly  :  but  what  doth 

Sit  next  thy  heart  ? 

Cain.  The  things  I  see. 

Lucifer.  But  what 

Sate  nearest  it ! 

Cain.  The  things  I  have  not  seen, 

Nor  ever  shall — the  mysteries  of  death.  [died, 

Lucifer.  What,  if  I  show  to  thee  things  which  have 
As  I  have  shown  thee  much  which  cannot  die  ? 

Cain.  Do  so. 

Lucifer.  Away,  then  !  on  our  mighty  wings. 

Cain.  Oh  !  how  we  cleave  the  blue  !  The  stars  fade 
from  us ! 
The  earth  !  where  is  my  earth  ?  Let  me  look  on  it. 
For  I  was  made  of  it. 

Lucifer.  'Tis  now  beyond  thee. 

Less,  in  the  universe,  than  thou  in  it ; 
Yet  deem  not  that  thou  canst  escape  it ;  thou 
Shalt  soon  return  to  earth,  and  all  its  dust : 
'Tis  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

Cain.  Where  dost  thou  lead  me  ? 

Lucifer.  To  what  was  before  thee  t 

The  phantasm  of  the  word  ;  of  which  thy  world 
Is  but  the  wreck. 

Cain.  What !  is  it  not  then  new  ? 

Lucifer.  No  more  than  life  is  ;   and  that  was  ere 
Or  /  were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us         [thou 
Greater  than  either  :  many  things  will  have 
No  end ;  and  some,  which  would  pretend  to  have 
Had  no  beginning,  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou  ;  and  mightier  things  have  been  extinct 
To  make  way  for  much  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmise  ;  for  mnmenf.t  only  and  the  »pace 
Have  been  and  must  be  all  nnchingeable. 
But  changes  make  not  death,  except  to  clay  ; 
But  thou  art  clay, — and  canst  but  comprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  such  thou  shalt  behold. 

Cain.  Clay,  spirit  1  what  thou  wilt,  I  can  survey. 

Lucifer.  Away,  then  ! 

Cain.  But  the  lights  fade  from  me  fast 

And  some  till  now  grew  larger  as  we  approach'd, 
And  wore  the  look  of  worlds. 

Lucifer.  And  such  they  are. 

Cain.  And  Edens  in  them  ? 

Lucifer.  It  may  be. 

Cain.  And  men  ? 

Lucifer.  Yea,  or  things  higher. 

Cain.  Ay  ?  and  serpents  too  ? 

Lucifer.   Wouldst  thou  have  men  without  them  ? 
Breathe  save  the  erect  ones  ?  [must  no  reptiles 

Cain.  How  the  lights  recede  I 

Where  fly  we  ? 

Lucifer.        To  the  world  of  phantoms,  which 
Are  beings  past,  and  shadows  still  to  come. 

Cain.  But  it  grows  dark  and  dark — the  stars  are 

Lucifer.  And  yet  thou  seest.  [gone  1 


SCENE   11. 


CAIN. 


327 


Cain.  Tis  a  fearful  light  I 

No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  innumerable. 
The  very  blue  of  the  empurpled  night 
Fades  to  a  dreary  twilight,  yet  I  see 
Huge  dusky  masses  :  but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  light, 
Seem'd  full  of  life  even  when  their  atmosphere 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  show'd  them  taking  shapes 
Unequal,  of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains ; 
And  some  emitting  sparks,  and  some  displaying 
Enormous  liquid  plains,  and  some  begirt 
With  luminous  belts,  and  floating  moons,  which  took. 
Like  them,  the  features  of  fair  earth  : — instead, 
All  here  seems  dark  and  dreadful. 

Lucifer.  But  distinct. 

Thou  seekest  to  behold  death,  and  dead  things  ? 

Cain.  I  seek  it  not ;  but  as  I  know  thare  are 
Such,  and  that  my  sire's  sin  makes  him  and  me, 
And  all  that  we  inherit,  liable 
To  such,  I  would  behold  at  once,  what  I 
Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

Lxieifer.  Behold  1 

Cain.  'Tis  darkness. 

Lcuifer.  And  so  it  shaU  be  ever ;  but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates ! 

Cain.  Enormous  vapors  roll 

Apart — what's  this  ? 

Lucifer.  Enter  1 

Cain.  Can  I  return  ? 

Lucifer.  Return  !  be  sure  :  how  else  should  death 
be  peopled  ? 
Its  present  realm  is  thin  to  what  it  wiU  be 
Through  thee  and  thine. 

Cain.  The  clouds  still  open  wide 

And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round  us. 

Lucifer.  Advance  ! 

Cain.  And  thou  ! 

Lucifer.  Fear  not — without  me  thou 

Couldst  not  have  gone  beyond  thy  world.    On  !  on  1 
[They  disappear  through  the  clouds. 

BCENE  n. 

Hades. 

Enter  Lucifer  and  Cats. 
Cain.  How  silent  and  how  vast  are  these  dim  worlds ! 
For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more  peopled 
Than  tlie  huge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which  swung 
So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 
Had  deem'd  them  rather  the  bright  populace 
Of  some  all  unimaginaVjle  heaven, 
Than  things  to  be  inhabited  themselves, 
But  that  on  drawing  near  them  I  beheld 
Their  swelling  into  palpable  immensity 
Of  matter,  which  seem'd  made  for  life  to  dwell  on, 
Rather  than  life  itself     But  here,  all  is 
So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 


It  speakS*of  a  day  past. 

Lucifer.  It  is  the  realm 

Of  death. — Wouldst  have  it  present  ? 

Cain.  Till  I  know 

That  which  it  really  is,  I  cannot  answer. 
But  if  it  be  as  I  have  heard  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  'tis  a  thing — 
Oh  God  !  I  dare  not  think  on't !     Cursed  be 
He  who  invented  life  that  leads  to  death  1 
Or  the  dull  mass  of  life,  that,  being  life. 
Could  not  retain,  but  needs  must  forfeit  if — 
Even  for  the  innocent ! 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  curse  thy  father  ? 

Cain.  Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my  birth  ? 
Cursed  he  not  me  before  my  birth  in  daring 
To  pluck  the  fruit  forbidden  ? 

Lucifer.  Thou  say'st  well 

The  curse  is  mutual  'twixt  thy  sire  and  thee — 
But  for  thy  sons  and  brother  ? 

Cain.  Let  them  share  it 

With  me,  their  sire  and  brother  ?     What  else  is 
Bequeath'd  to  me  ?  I  leave  them  my  inheritance. 
Oh,  ye  interminable  gloomy  realms 
Of  swimming  shadows  and  enormous  shapes, 
Some  fully  shown,  some  indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melancholy — what  are  ye  ? 
Live  ye,  or  have  ye  lived  ? 

Lucifer.  Somewhat  of  both. 

Cain.  Then  what  is  death  ? 

Lucifer.  What  ?  Hath  not  he  who  made  ye 

Said  'tis  another  life  ? 

Cain.  Till  now  he  hath 

Said  nothing,  save  that  all  shall  die. 

Lucifer.  Perhaps 

He  one  day  will  unfold  that  further  secret. 

Cain.  Happy  the  day  ! 

Lucifer.  Yes  ;  happy  !  when  unfolded 

Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  clogg'd 
With  agonies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Yet  unborn  myriads  of  unconscious  atoms. 
All  to  be  animated  for  this  only  ! 

Cain.   What  are  these  mighty  phantoms  which  I 
Floating  around  me  ? — They  wear  not  the  form  [see 
Of  the  intelligences  I  have  seen 
Round  our  regretted  and  unenter'd  Eden, 
Nor  wear  the  form  of  man  as  I  have  view'd  it 
In  Adam's,  and  in  Abel's,  and  in  mine. 
Nor  in  my  sister-bride's  nor  in  my  children's  : 
And  yet  they  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  not 
Of  men  nor  angels,  looks  like  something,  which 
If  not  the  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first. 
Haughty,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and  full 
Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape  ;  for  I  never  saw  such.     They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  seraph,  nor  the  face  of  man, 
Nor  form  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  aught  that  is 
Now  breathing  ;  mighty  yet  and  beautiful 


328 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  IL 


As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which  •• 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I  scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 

Lucifer.  Yet  they  lived. 

Cain.  Where  ? 

Lucifer.  Where 

Thou  livest. 

Gain.        When  ? 

Lucifer.  On  what  thou  callest  earth 

They  did  inhabit. 

Gain.  Adam  is  the  first. 

Lucifer.  Of  thine,  I  grant  thee — but  to  mean  to  be 
The  last  of  these. 

Gain.  And  what  are  they  ? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

Thou  shalt  be. 

Gain.  But  what  were  they  ? 

Lucifer.  Living,  high, 

Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things, 
As  much  superior  unto  all  thy  sire, 
Adam,  could  e're  have  been  in  Eden,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be. 
In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 
Thee  and  thy  son  ; — and  how  weak  they  are,  judge 
By  thy  own  flesh. 

Gain.  Ah  me  !  and  did  they  perish  ? 

Lucifer.  Yes,  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt  fade 
from  thine. 

Cain.  But  was  mine  theirs  ? 

Lucifer.  It  was. 

Gain.  But  not  as  now. 

It  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures. 

Lucifer.  True,  it  was  more  glorious. 

Cain.  And  wherefore  did  it  fall  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  him  who  fells. 

Cain.  But  how  ? 

Lucifer.  By  a  most  crushing  and  inexorable 

Destruction  and  disorder  of  the  elements, 
Which  struck  a  world  to  chaos,  as  a  chaos 
Subsiding  has  struck  out  a  world  :  such  things, 
Though  rare  in  time,  are  frequently  in  eternity. 
Pass  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past. 

Cain.  'Tis  avrful ! 

Lucifer.  And  true.    Behold  these  phantoms  1  they 
Material  as  thou  art.  [were  once 

Cain.  And  must  I  be 

Like  them  ? 

Lucifer.  Let  He  who  made  thee  answer  that. 
I  show  thee  what  thy  predecessors  are. 
And  what  they  were  thou  feelest,  in  degree 
Inferior  as  thy  petty  feelings  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  high  intelligence  and  earthly  strength. 
What  ye  in  common  have  with  what  they  had 
Is  life,  and  what  ye  shall  have — death  :  the  rest 
Of  your  poor  attributes  is  such  as  suits 


Keptiles  engender'd  out  of  the  subsiding 
Slime  of  a  mighty  universe,  crush'd  into 
A  scarcely-yet  shaped  planet,  peopled  with 
Things  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  blindness — 
A  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  from  which 
Knowledge  was  barr'd  as  poison.     But  behold 
What  these  superior  beings  are  or  were  ; 
Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  back  and  till 
The  earth,  thy  task — I'll  waft  thee  there  in  safety. 

Oahi.  No  ;  I'll  stay  here. 

Lucifer.  How  long  ? 

Cain.  Forever !    Since 

I  must  one  day  return  here  from  the  earth, 
I  rather  would  remain  ;  I  am  sick  of  all 
That  dust  hast  shown  me — let  me  dwell  in  shadows. 

Lucifer.  It  cannot  be  :  thou  now  beholdest  as 
A  vision  that  which  is  reality. 
To  make  thyself  fit  for  this  dwelling,  thou 
Must  pass  through  what  the  things  thou  see'st  have 
The  gates  of  death —  [pass'd — 

Gain.  By  what  gate  have  we  enter'd 

Even  now  ? 

Lucifer.  By  mine  !    But,  plighted  to  return. 
My  spirit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself     Gaze  on ; 
But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
la  come. 

Cain.  And  these,  too  ;  can  they  ne'er  repass 
To  earth  again  ? 

Lucifer.  Their  earth  is  gone  forever — 

So  changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 
Be  conscious  to  a  single  present  spot 
Of  its  new  scarcely  harden'd  surface — 'twas — 
Oh,  what  a  beautiful  world  it  was  ! 

Cain.  And  is. 

It  is  not  with  the  earth,  though  I  must  till  it, 
I  feel  at  war,  but  that  I  may  not  profit 
By  what  it  bears  of  beautiful  untoiling. 
Nor  gratify  my  thousand  swelling  thoughts 
With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Of  death  and  life. 

Lucifer.  What  thy  world  is,  thou  see'st. 

But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
That  which  it  was. 

Cain.  And  those  enormous  creatures, 

Phantoms  inferior  in  intelligence 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have  pass'd, 
Resembling  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 
Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hugest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  tenfold 
In  magnitude  and  terror ;  taller  than 
The  cherub-guarded  walls  of  Eden,  with 
Eyes  flashing  like  the  fiery  swords  which  fence  them. 
And  tusks  projecting  like  the  trees  stripp'd  of 
Their  bark  and  branches — what  were  they  ? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

The  Mammoth  is  in  thy  world  ; — but  these  lie 


BCKNE   II. 


CAIN. 


320 


By  myriads  underneath  its  surface. 

Cain.  But 

None  on  it  ? 

Lneifer.        No;  for  thy  frail  race  to  war 
With  them  would  render  the  curse  on  it  useless — 
Twould  be  destroy'd  so  early. 

Cain.  But  why  war  t 

Lneifer.  You  have  forgotten  the  denunciation 
Which  drove  your  race  from  Eden — war  with  all 

things, 
And  death  to  all  things,  and  disease  to  most  things, 
And  pangs,  and  bitterness  ;  these  were  the  fruits 
Of  the  forbidden  tree. 

Cain.  But  animals — 

Did  they,  too,  eat  of  it,  that  they  must  die  ?       [you, 

Lucifer.  Your  Maker  told  ye,  they  were  made  for 
As  you  for  him.     You  would  not  have  their  doom 
Superior  to  your  own  ?     Had  Adam  not 
Fallen,  all  had  stood. 

Cain.  Alas  !  the  hopeless  wretches  ! 

They  too  must  share  my  sire's  fate,  Uke  his  sons  ; 
Like  them,  too,  vrithout  having  shared  the  apple  ; 
Like  them,  too,  without  the  so  dear-bought  know- 
It  was  a  lying  tree — for  we  know  nothing.       [ledge  ! 
At  least  it  promised  knowledge  at  the  price 
Of  death — but  knowledge  still :  but  what  knows  man  ? 

TMcifer.  It  may  be  death  leads  to  the  highest 
knowledge ; 
And  being  of  all  things  the  sole  thing  certain, 
At  least  leads  to  the  surest  science  :  therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly. 

Cain.  These  dim  realms  ! 

I  see  them,  but  I  know  them  not. 

Lucifer.  Because 

Thy  hour  is  yet  afar,  and  matter  cannot 
Comprehend  spirit  wholly — but  'tis  something 
To  know  there  are  such  realms. 

Cain.  We  knew  already 

That  there  was  death. 

Lucifer.  But  not  what  was  beyond  it. 

Cain.  Nor  know  I  now. 

Lueifer.  Thou  knowest  that  there  is 

A  state,  and  many  states  beyond  thine  own — 
And  this  thou  knewest  not  this  mom. 

Cain.  But  all 

Seems  dim  and  shadowy. 

Lucifer.  Be  content ;  it  will 

Seem  clearer  to  thine  immortality. 

Cain.  And  yon  immeasurable  liquid  space 
Of  glorious  azure  which  floats  on  beyond  us. 
Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I  should  deem 
The  river  which  flows  out  of  Paradise 
Past  my  own  dwelling,  but  that  it  is  bankless 
And  boundless,  and  of  an  ethereal  hue — 
What  is  it  ? 

Jjucifer.      There  is  still  some  such  on  earth, 
Although  inferior,  and  thy  children  shall 
42 


Dwell  near  it — 'tis  the  phantasm  of  an  ocean. 

Cain.  'Tis  like  another  world  ;  a  liquid  sun — 
And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o'er 
Its  shining  surface  ? 

Lucifer.  Are  its  inhabitants, 

The  past  leviathans. 

Cain.  And  yon  immense 

Serpent,  which  rears  its  dripping  mane  and  vasty 
Head  ten  times  higher  than  the  haughtiest  cedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  he  could  coil 
Himself  around  the  orbs  we  lately  look'd  on — 
Is  he  not  of  the  kind  which  basked  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden  ? 

Lueifer.  Eve,  thy  mother,  best 

Can  tell  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her. 

Cain.  This  seems  too  terrible.   No  doubt  the  other 
Had  more  of  beauty. 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne'er  beheld  him  ? 

Cain.  Many  of  the  same  kind,  (at  least  so  call'd,) 
But  never  that  precisely  which  persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  the  same  aspect. 

Lucifer.  Your  father  saw  him  not  ? 

Cain.  No  ;  'twas  my  mother 

Who  tempted  him — she  tempted  by  the  serpent. 

Lueifer.   Good  man  1  whene'er  thy  wife,  or  thy 
sons'  wives 
Tempt  thee  or  them  to  aught  that's  new  or  strange, 
Be  sure  thou  see'st  first  who  hath  tempted  them. 

Cain.  Thy  precept  comes  too  late  :   there  is  no 
For  serpents  to  tempt  woman  to.  [more 

Lneifer.  But  there         [to» 

Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt  man 
And  man  tempt  woman  : — let  thy  sons  look  to  it  I 
My  counsel  is  a  kind  one  ;  for  'tis  even 
Given  chiefly  at  my  own  expense  :  'tis  true, 
'Twill  not  be  foUow'd,  so  there's  little  lost. 

Cain.  I  understand  not  this. 

Lucifer,  The  happier  thou  I — 

Thy  world  and  thou  are  still  too  young !  Thou 
Thyself  most  wicked  and  unhappy :  is  it  [thinkest 
Not  so  ? 

Cain.  For  crime,  I  know  not ;  but  for  pain, 
I  have  felt  much. 

Lucifer.  First-bom  of  the  first  man  1 

Thy  present  state  of  sin — and  thou  art  evil. 
Of  sorrow — and  thou  sufierest,  are  both  Eden 
In  all  its  innocence  compared  to  what 
Thou  shortly  mayst  be  ;  and  that  state  again 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a  Paradise 
To  what  thy  sons'  sons'  sons,  accumulating 
In  generations  like  to  dust,  (which  they 
In  fact  but  add  too,)  shall  endure  and  do. 
Now  let  us  back  to  earth  ! 

Cain.  And  wherefore  didst  thou 

Lead  me  here  only  to  inform  mc  this  ? 

Lueifer.  Was  not  thy  quest  for  knowledge  ? 

Cain.  Yes  ;  as  being 


330 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT   II. 


The  road  to  happiness. 

Lucifer.  If  truth  be  so, 

Thou  hast  it. 

Cain.  Then  my  father's  God  did  well 

When  he  prohibited  the  fatal  tree. 

Lucifer.  But  had  done  better  in  not  planting  it. 
But  ignorance  of  evil  doth  not  save 
From  evil ;  it  must  still  roll  on  the  same, 
A  part  of  all  things. 

Cain.  Not  of  all  things.     No; 

I'll  not  believe  it — for  I  thirst  for  good.         [ets  evil 

Lucifer.  And  who  and  what  doth  not  ?   ^Vho  cov- 
For  its  own  bitter  sake  ? — None — nothing  1  'tis 
The  leaven  of  all  life,  and  lifelessness. 

Giiiii.  Within  those  glorious  orbs  which  we  be- 
Distant,  and  dazzling,  and  innumerable,  [hold. 

Ere  we  came  down  into  this  phantom  realm, 
111  cannot  come  :  they  are  too  beautiful. 

Lvcifer.  Thou  hast  seen  them  from  afar — 

Cain.  And  what  of  that  ? 

Distance  can  but  diminish  glory — they, 
When  nearer,  must  be  more  ineffable. 

iMcifer.   Approach  the  things  of  earth  most  beau- 
tiful. 
And  judge  their  beauty  near. 

Omh.  I  have  done  this — 

The  loveliest  thing  I  know  is  loveliest  nearest. 

Lucifer.   Then  there  must  be  delusion. — What  is 
Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eyes  is  still  [that 

More  beautiful  than  beauteous  things  remote  ? 

Cain.  My  sister  Adah. — All  the  stars  of  heaven, 
The  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 
Which  looks  a  spirit,  or  a  spirit's  world— 
The  hues  of  twilight — the  sun's  gorgeous  coming — 
His  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 
My  eyes  with  pleasant  tears  as  I  behold 
Him  sink,  and  feel  my  heart  float  softly  with  him 
Along  that  western  paradise  clouds —  [voice — 

The   forest   shade — the   green   bough — the   bird's 
The  vesper  bird's,  which  seems  to  sing  of  love. 
And  mingles  with  the  song  of  cherubim. 
As  the  day  closes  over  Eden's  walls ; — 
All  these  are  nothing,  to  my  eyes  and  heart. 
Like  Adah's  face  :  I  turn  from  earth  and  heaven 
To  gaze  on  it. 

Lucifer.        'Tis  fair  as  frail  mortaUty, 
In  the  first  dawn  and  bloom  of  young  creation. 
And  earliest  embraces  of  earth's  parents, 
Can  make  its  oflspring ;  still  it  is  delusion. 
Gain.  You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 

Lucifer.  Mortal  1 

My  brotherhood's  with  those  who  have  no  children. 
Cain.  Then  thou  canst  have  no  fellowship  with  us. 
Lucifer.  It  may  be  that  thine  own  shall  be  for  me. 
But  if  thou  dost  possess  a  beautiful 
Being  beyond  all  beauty  in  thine  eyes, 
Why  art  thou  wretched  ? 


Cain.  Why  do  I  exist  ? 

Why  art  thou  wretched  ?  why  are  all  things  so  ? 
Ev'n  he  who  made  us  must  be,  as  the  maker 
Of  things  unhappy  !  To  produce  destruction 
Can  surely  never  be  the  task  of  joy. 
And  yet  my  sire  says  he's  omnipotent : 
Then  why  is  evil — he  being  good  !     I  ask'd 
This  question  of  my  father ;  and  he  said, 
Because  this  evil  only  was  the  path 
To  good.     Strange  good,  that  must  arise  from  out 
Its  deadly  opposite.     I  lately  saw 
A  lamb  stung  by  a  reptile  :  the  poor  suckling 
Lay  foaming  on  the  earth,  beneath  the  vain 
And  piteous  bleating  of  its  restless  dam  ; 
My  father  pluck'd  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 
The  wound ;  and  by  degrees  the  helpless  wretch 
Resumed  its  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 
The  mother's  milk,  who  o'er  it  tremulous 
Stood  licking  its  reviving  limbs  with  joy. 
Behold,  my  son  I  said  Adam,  how  from  evil 
Springs  good ! 

iMcifer.  What  didst  thou  answer  ? 

Cain.  Nothing ;  for 

He  is  my  father :  but  I  thought,  that  'twere 
A  better  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  been  aiung  at  aV,  than  to 
Purchase  renewal  of  its  little  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  though 
Dispell'd  by  antidotes. 

Lucifer.  But  as  thou  saidst 

Of  all  beloved  things  thou  lovest  her 
Who  shared  thy  mother's  milk,  and  giveth  hers 
Unto  thy  children 

Cain.  Most  assuredly : 

What  should  I  be  without  her  ? 

Lucifer.  What  am  I  ? 

Cain.  Dost  thou  love  nothing  ? 

Lucifer.  What  does  thy  God  love  ? 

Cain.  All  things,  my  father  says  ;  but  I  confess 
I  see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here. 

Lvcifer.  And,  therefore,  thou  canst  not  see  I  love 
Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose. 
To  which  particular  things  must  melt  like  snows. 

Cain.  Snows  1  what  are  they  ? 

Lucifer.  Be  happier  in  not  knowing 

What  thy  remote  oflTspring  must  encounter ; 
But  bask  beneath  the  cUme  which  knows  no  winter  I 

Ca  in.  But  dost  thou  not  love  something  like  thyself? 

T^ucifer.  And  dost  thou  love  thyself? 

Cain.  Yes,  but  love  more 

What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable. 
And  is  more  than  myself,  because  I  love  it. 

Lucifer.  Thou  lovest  it,  because  'tis  beautiful, 
As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother's  eye ; 
And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
WiU  cease,  like  any  other  appetite. 

Cain.  Cease  to  be  beautifiil !  how  can  that  be  ? 


BCUKE    U. 


CAIN. 


831 


Lucifer.  With  time. 

Cain.  But  time  has  past,  and  hitherto 

Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  fair : 
Not  like  fair  Adah  and  the  seraphim — 
But  very  fair. 

Lvxiftr.        All  that  must  pass  away 
In  them  and  her. 

Cain.  I'm  sorry  for  it ;  but 

Cannot  conceive  my  love  for  her  the  less. 
And  when  her  beauty  disappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  all  beauty  will  lose  more 
Than  me  in  seeing  perish  such  a  work. 

Lucifer.  I  pity  thee  who  lovest  what  must  perish. 

Cain.  And  I  thee  who  lov'st  nothing. 

Lucifer.  And  thy  brother — 

Sits  he  not  near  thy  heart  ? 

Cain.  Why  should  he  not  ? 

Lucifer.  Thy  father  loves  him  well — so  does  thy  God. 

Cain.  And  so  do  I. 

Lucifer.  'Tis  well  and  meekly  done. 

Cain.  Meekly  I 

Lucifer.  He  is  the  second  bom  of  flesh, 

And  is  his  mother's  favorite. 

Cain.  Let  him  keep 

Her  favor,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 
To  win  it. 

iMcifer.  And  his  father's  ? 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  me  ?  should  I  not  love  that  which  all  love  ? 

Lucifer.  And  the  Jehovah — the  indulgent  Lord, 
And  bounteous  planter  of  barr'd  Paradise — 
He,  too,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

Cain.  I 

Ne'er  saw  him,  and  I  know  not  if  he  smiles. 

Lucifer.  But  you  have  seen  his  angels. 

Cain.  Rarely. 

Lucifer.  But 

Sufiiciently  to  see  they  love  your  brother  : 
Sis  sacrifices  are  acceptable. 

Cain.  80  be  they ;  wherefore  speak  to  me  of  this  ? 

Lncifer.  Because  thou  hast  thought  of  this  ere  now. 

Cain.  And  if 

I  have  thought,  why  recall  a  thought  that {he 

pauses,  as  agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here  we  are  in  thrj  world  :  speak  not  of  mjn«. 
Thou  hast  shown  me  wonders  ;  thou  hast  shown  me 
Mighty  pre-Adamites  who  walk'd  the  earth     [those 
Of  which  ours  is  the  wreck ;  thou  hast  pointed  out 
Mjrriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 
Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  in 
Infinity  of  life  :  thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 
Of  that  existence  with  the  dreaded  name 
Which  my  sire  brought  us — Death  ;  thou  hast  shown 

me  much — 
But  not  all :  show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells, 
In  his  especial  Paradise, — or  thine  : 
Where  is  it  ? 


Lucifer.        Here,  and  o'er  all  space. 

Caiii.  But  ye 

Have  some  allotted  dwelling — as  all  things  : 
Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  tenants  ; 
All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element ;  and  things  which  have 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath,  have  theirs,  thou 
And  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine —    [say'st; 
Ye  do  not  dwell  together  ? 

Luefer.  No,  we  reign 

Together ;  but  our  dwellings  are  asunder. 

Cain.  Would  there  were  only  one  of  ye !  perchance 
A  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 
In  elements  which  seem  now  jarr'd  in  storms. 
How  came  ye,  being  spirits,  wise  and  infinite. 
To  separate  ?     Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 
Your  essence,  and  your  nature,  and  your  glory  ? 

Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  Abel's  brother  ? 

Cain.  We  are  brethren, 

And  so  we  shall  remain  ;  but  were  it  not  so, 
Is  spirit  like  to  flesh  ?  can  it  fall  out  ? 
Infinity  with  Immortality  ? 
Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery — 
For  what  ? 

Lucifer.  To  reign. 

Cain.  Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 

Ye  are  both  eternal  ? 

Lucifer.  Yeal 

Cain.  And  what  I  have  seen. 

Yon  blue  immensity,  is  boundless  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay. 

Cain.  And  cannot  ye  both  reign  then  ? — is  there  not 
Enough  ? — why  should  ye  differ  ? 

Lucifer.  We  hoth  reign. 

Cain.  But  one  of  you  makes  evil. 

Ludfer.  Which  ? 

Cain.  Thou  !  for 

If  thou  canst  do  man  good,  why  dost  thou  not  ? 

Lucifer.  And  why  not  he  who  made  ?  /  made  ye 
Ye  are  his  creatures,  and  not  mine.  [not ; 

Cain.  Then  leave  us 

His  creatures,  as  thou  say'st  we  are,  or  show  me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  his  dwelling. 

Lucifer.  I  could  show  thee 

Both  ;  but  the  time  will  come  thou  shalt  see  one 
Of  them  for  evermore. 

Cain.  And  why  not  now  ? 

Lucifer.  Thy  human  mind  hath  scarcely  grasp  to 
The  little  I  have  shown  thee  into  calm  [gather 

And  clear  thought ;  and  thou  wouldst  go  on  aspiring 
To  the  great  double  Mysteries  I  the  two  Principles  ! 
And  gaze  upon  them  on  their  secret  thrones  ! 
Dust !  limit  thy  ambition  ;  for  to  see 
Either  of  these,  would  be  for  thee  to  perish  ! 

Cain.  And  let  me  perish,  so  I  see  them  ! 

Lucifer.  There 

The  son  of  her  who  snatch'd  the  apple  spake  1 


332 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


But  thou  wouldst  only  perish,  and  not  see  them ; 
That  sight  is  for  the  other  state. 

Cain.  Of  death  ? 

Lucifer.  That  is  the  prelude. 

Cain.  Then  I  dread  it  less, 

Now  that  I  know  it  leads  to  something  definite. 

Lucifer.  And  now  I  will  convey  thee  to  thy  world, 
Where  thou  shalt  multiply  the  race  of  Adam, 
Eat,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep,  and  die. 

Cain.  And  to  what  end  have  I  beheld  these  things 
Which  thou  hast  shown  me  ? 

Lucifer.  Didst  thou  not  require 

Knowledge  ?  And  have  I  not,  in  what  I  show'd, 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself  ? 

Cain.  Alas !  I  seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer.  And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  nothingness; 
Bequeath  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
'Twill  spare  them  many  tortures. 

Cain.  Haughty  spirit ! 

Thou  speak'st  it  proudly ;  but  thyself,  though  proud, 
Hast  a  superior. 

Lucifer.  No  !  by  heaven,  which  he 

Holds,  and  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
Of  worlds  and  life,  which  I  hold  with  him.     No  ! 
I  have  a  victor — true  ;  but  no  superior. 
Homage  he  has  from  all — but  none  from  me  : 
I  battle  it  against  him,  as  I  battled 
In  highest  heaven.     Through  all  eternity, 
And  the  unfathomable  gulfs  of  Hades, 
And  the  interminable  realms  of  space. 
And  the  infinity  of  endless  ages. 
All,  aU,  will  I  dispute  !     And  world  by  world, 
And  star  by  star,  and  universe  by  universe. 
Shall  tremble  in  the  balance,  till  the  great 
Conflict  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  shall  cease. 
Which  it  ne'er  shall,  till  he  or  I  be  quench'd  I 
And  what  can  quench  our  immortality. 
Or  mutual  and  irrevocable  hate  ? 
He  as  a  conqueror  will  call  the  conquer'd 
Evil ;  but  what  will  be  the  yood  he  gives  ? 
Were  I  the  victor,  his  works  would  be  deem'd 
The  only  evil  ones.     And  you,  ye  new 
And  scarce  bom  mortals,  what  have  been  his  gifts 
To  you  already,  in  your  Uttle  world  ? 

Cain.  But  few  !  and  some  of  those  but  bitter. 

Lucifer.  Back 

With  me,  then,  to  thine  earth,  and  try  the  rest 
Of  his  celestial  boons  to  you  and  yours. 
Evil  and  good  are  things  in  their  own  essence, 
And  not  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver ; 
But  if  he  gives  you  good — so  call  him  ;  if 
Evil  springs  from  him,  do  not  name  it  mjre«. 
Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount ;  and  judge 
Not  by  words,  though  of  spirits,  but  the  fruits 
Of  your  existence,  such  as  it  must  be. 


One  good  gift  has  the  fatal  apple  given — 
Your  reason : — let  it  not  be  oversway'd 
By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  faith 
'Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling  : 
Think  and  endure, — and  form  an  inner  world 
In  your  own  bosom — where  the  outward  fails  ; 
So  shall  you  nearer  be  the  spiritual 
Nature,  and  war  triumphant  with  your  own. 

[They  disappear. 

ACT  m. 

8  C  S  N  E      I. 

The  Earth  near  Eden,  as  in  Act  I. 
Enter  Cain  and  Adah. 

Adah.  Hush  !  tread  softly,  Cain. 

Cain.  I  will ;  but  wherefore  ? 

Adah.  Our  little  Enoch  sleeps  upon  yon  bed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 

Cain.  Cypress  I  'tis 

A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  moum'd 
O'er  what  it  shadows ;  wherefore  didst  thou  choose 
For  our  child's  canopy  ?  [it 

Adah.  Because  its  branches 

Shut  out  the  sun  like  night,  and  therefore  seem'd 
Fitting  to  shadow  slumber. 

Cain.  Ay,  the  last — 

And  longest ;  but  no  matter — lead  me  to  him. 

[  They  go  up  to  the  child. 
How  lovely  he  appears  !  his  little  cheeks. 
In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose  leaves  strewn  beneath  them. 

Adah.  And  his  lips,  too. 

How  beautifully  parted  !     No  ;  you  shall  not 
Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now  :  he  will  awake  soon — 
His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over ; 
But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
'Tis  closed. 

Cain.  You  have  said  well ;  I  will  contain 

My  heart  tiU  then.     He  smiles,  and  sleeps  !     Sleep 
And  smile,  thou  little,  young  inheritor  [on 

Of  a  world  scarce  less  young  :  sleep  on,  and  smile  1 
Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheer- 
ing 
And  innocent  I  thou  hast  not  pluck'd  the  fruit — 
Thou  know'st  not  thou  art  naked  !     Must  the  time 
Come  thou  shalt  be  amerced  for  sins  unknown. 
Which  were  not  mine  nor  thine  ?  But  now  sleep  on  I 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles, 
And  shining  lids  are  trembling  o'er  his  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o'er  them ; 
Half  open,  from  beneath  them  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  although  in  slumber.   He  must  dream — 
Of  what  ?    Of  Paradise  !    Ay,  dream  of  it. 
My  disinherited  boy  !     'Tis  but  a  dream  ; 
For  never  more  thyself,  thy  sons,  nor  fathers, 


SCEXE   I. 


CAIN. 


333 


Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy  ! 

Adah.  Dear  Cain  !     Nay,  do  not  whisper  o'er  our 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o'er  the  past :  [son 

Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise  ? 
Can  we  not  make  another  ? 

Cain.  Where  ? 

Ada'!.  Here,  or 

Where'er  thou  wilt :  where'er  thou  art,  I  feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden. 
Have  I  not  thee,  our  boy,  our  sire,  and  brother, 
And  Zillah — our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eve, 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth  ? 

Cain.  Yes — death,  too,  is  amongst  the  debts  we 
owe  her. 

Adah.   Cain !   that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew 
thee  hence. 
Hath  sadden'd  thine  still  deeper.     I  had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  thou  hast  beheld. 
Visions,  thou  say'st,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 
Would  have  composed  thy  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a  contented  knowledge  ;  but  I  see 
Thy  guide  hath  done  thee  evil :  still  I  thank  him. 
And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  thee  back  to  us. 

Cain.  So  soon  ? 

Adah.  'Tis  scarcely 

Two  hours  since  ye  departed  :  two  hng  hours 
To  me,  but  only  hours  upon  the  sun.  [seen 

Cain.  And  yet  I  have  approach'd  that  sun,  and 
Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never  more 
Shall  light ;  and  worlds  he  never  lit :  methought 
Years  had  roll'd  o'er  my  absence. 

Adah.      '  Hardly  hours. 

Cain.  The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time, 
And  measures  it  by  that  which  it  beholds. 
Pleasing  or  painful ;  little  or  almighty. 
I  had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Of  endless  beings  ;  skirr'd  extinguish'd  worlds  ; 
And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 
I  had  borrow'd  more  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 
From  its  immensity ;  but  now  I  feel 
My  littleness  again.     Well  said  the  spirit, 
That  I  was  nothing  ! 

Adah.  Wherefore  said  he  so  ? 

Jehovah  said  not  that. 

Cain.  No ;  he  contents  him 

With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are ; 
And  after  flattering  dust  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  Immortality,  resolves 
It  back  to  dust  again — for  what  ? 

Adah.  Thou  know'st — 

Even  for  our  parents'  error. 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  us  ?  they  sinn'd,  then  let  them  die  I         [thought 
Adah.  Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is   that 
Thy  own,  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 
Would  /  could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live  I 


Cain.  Why,  so  say  I — provided  that  one  victim 
Might  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life. 
And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 
Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  sorrow, 
Nor  hand  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him. 

Adah.  How  know  we  that  some  such  atonement 
May  not  redeem  our  race  ?  [one  day 

Cain.  By  sacrificing 

The  harmless  for  the  guilty  ?  what  atonement 
Were  there  ?  why,  we  are  innocent :  what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin — 
If  it  be  such  a  sin  to  seek  for  knowledge  ? 

Adah.   Alas  !    thou  sinnest  now,  my  Cain :   thy 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears.  [words 

Cain.  Then  leave  me  I 

Adah.  Never, 

Though  thy  God  left  thee. 

Cain.  Say,  what  have  we  here  ? 

Adah.  Two  altars,  which  our  brother  Abel  made 
During  thine  absence,  whereupon  to  oflFer 
A  sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 

Cain.  And  how  knew  he,  that  /  would  be  so  ready 
With  the  burnt-offerings,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a  meek  brow,  whose  base  humility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator  ? 

Adah.  Surely,  'tis  well  done. 

Cain.  One  altar  may  suffice  ;  /  have  no  offering. 

Adah.  The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early,  beautiful 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  flowers  and  fruits,' 
These  are  a  goodly  offering  to  the  Lord, 
Given  with  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit. 

Cain.  I  have  toil'd,  and  till'd,  and  sweaten  in  the 
According  to  the  curse  :— must  I  do  more  ?        [sun 
For  what  should  I  be  gentle  ?  for  a  war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat  ?     For  what  must  I  be  grateful  ? 
For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 
Till  I  return  to  dust  ?     If  I  am  nothing — 
For  nothing  shall  I  be  an  hypocrite, 
And  seem  well-pleased  with  pain  ?  For  what  shonldl 
Be  contrite  ?  for  my  father's  sin,  already 
Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone, 
And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 
The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 
Little  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper  there, 
The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 
To  myriads  is  within  him  !  better  'twere 
I  snatch'd  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dash'd  him  'gainst 
The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God  t 

Touch  not  the  child — my  child  1   thy  child  1     Oh, 
Cain  I 
Cain.  Fear  not  I  for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Which  sways  them,  I  would  not  accost  yon  infant 


334 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


With  ruder  greeting  than  a  father's  kiss. 

Adah.  Then,  wliy  so  awful  in  thy  speech  ? 

Cain.  I  said, 

'Twere  better'that  he  ceased  to  Uve,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeath  ;  but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say — 
'Twere  better  that  he  never  had  been  bom. 

Adah.  Oh,  do  not  say  so  !  Where  were  then  tho 
The  mother's  joys  of  watching,  nourishing,  [joys. 
And  loving.him  ?    Soft !  he  awakes.    Sweet  Enoch  1 

\^8he  gora  to  the  child. 
Oh,  Cain  !  look  on  him  ;  see  howfuU  of  life. 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  joy. 
How  like  to  me — how  like  to  thee,  when  gentle, 
For  then  we  are  all  alike ;  is 't  not  so,  Cain  ? 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  our  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  other  ;  as  they  are 
In  the  clear  waters,  when  they  are  gentle,  and 
When  thou  art  gentle.     Love  us,  then,  my  Cain  ! 
And  love  thyself  for  our  sakes,  for  we  love  thee. 
Look  1  how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his  arms, 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine. 
To  hail  his  father  ;  while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  wing'd  with  joy.    Talk  not  of  pain  I 
The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent !     Bless  him,  Cain  I 
As  yet  he  hath  no  words  to  thank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too. 

Cain.  Bless  thee,  boy  I 

If  that  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee. 
To  save  the  from  the  serpent's  curse  ! 

Adah.  It  shall. 

Surely  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile's  subtlety. 

Cain.  Of  that  I  doubt ; 

But  bless  him  ne'er  the  less. 

Adah.  Our  brother  comes. 

Cain.  Thy  brother  Abel. 

Enter  Abel. 

Abel.  Welcome,  Cain  1  My  brother, 

The  peace  of  Qod  be  on  thee  1 

Cain.  Abel,  hail  I 

Abel.  Our  sister  tells  me  that  thou  host  been  wan- 
In  high  communion  with  a  spirit,  far  [dering, 
Beyond  our  wonted  range.    Was  he  of  those 
We  have  seen  and  spoken  with,  hke  to  our  father  ? 

Cain.  No. 

Abel.  Why  then  commime  with  him  ?  he  may  be 
A  foe  to  the  Most  High. 

Cain.  And  Men  J  to  man. 

Has  the  Most  High  been  so — if  so  yoa  term  him  ? 

Abel.  Term  Mm  !  your  words  are  strange  to-day, 
My  sister  Adah,  leave  us  for  awhile—  [""y  brother. 
We  mean  to  sacrifice. 

Adah.  Farewell,  my  Cain ; 


But  first  embrace  thy  son.     May  his  soft  spirit, 
And  Abel's  pious  ministry,  recall  thee 
To  peace  and  holiness  I 

[Erit  Adah,  with  her  child. 

Abel.  Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

Cain.  I  know  not. 

Abel.  Nor  what  thou  hast  seen  1 

Cain.  The  dead, 

The  immortal,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipotent. 
The  overpowering  mysteries  of  space — 
The  innumerable  worlds  that  were  and  are — 
A  whirlwind  of  such  overwhelming  things. 
Suns,  moons,  and    earths,  upon  their  loud-voiced 

spheres 
Singing  in  thunder  round  me,  as  have  made  me 
Unfit  for  mortal  converse  :  leave  me,  Abel. 

A  bel.  Thine  eyes  are  flashing  with  unnatural  light — 
Thy  cheek  is  flush'd  with  an  unnatural  hue — 
Thy  words  are  fraught  with  an  unnatural  sound — 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

Cain.  It  means 1  pray  thee,  leave  me. 

Abel.  Not  till  we  have  pray'd  and  sacrificed  together. 

Cain.  Abel,  I  pray  thee,  sacrifice  alone — 
Jehovah  loves  thee  well. 

Abel.  Both  well,  I  hope. 

Cain.  But  thee  the  better  :  I  care  not  for  that ; 
Thou  art  fitter  for  his  worship  than  I  am  ; 
Revere  him,  then — but  let  it  be  alone— 
At  least,  without  me. 

Abel.  Brother,  I  should  ill 

Deserve  the  name  of  our  great  father's  son. 
If,  as  my  elder,  I  rever'd  thee  not, 
And  in  the  worship  of  our  God  caU'd  not 
On  thee  to  join  me,  and  precede  me  in 
Our  priesthood — 'tis  thy  place. 

Cain.  But  I  have  ne'er 

Asserted  it. 

Abel.        The  more  my  grief;  I  pray  thee 
To  do  so  now  :  thy  soul  seems  laboring  in 
Some  strong  delusion  ;  it  will  calm  thee. 

Cain.  No ; 

Nothing  can  calm  me  more.     Calm  !  say  I  ?  Never 
Knew  I  what  calm  was  in  the  soul,  although 
I  have  seen  the  elements  still'd.  My  Abel,  leave  me  1 
Or  let  me  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purpose. 

Abel.  Neither ;  we  must  perform  our  task  together. 
Spmn  me  not. 

Cain.  If  it  must  be  so well,  then. 

What  shall  I  do  ? 

Abel.  Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

Cain.  Choose  for  me  :  they  to  me  are  so  much  turf 
And  stone. 

Abel.        Choose  thou  1 

Cain.  I  have  chosen. 

Abel.  'Tis  the  highest. 

And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.    Now  prepare 
Thine  offerings. 


SCENE   I, 


CAIN. 


335 


Cain.  Where  are  thine  ? 

Ahel.  Behold  them  here — 

The  firstlings  of  the  flock,  and  fat  thereof— 
A  shepherd's  humble  oflering. 

Cain.  I  have  no  flocks  ; 

I  am  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 
Yield  what  it  yieldeth  to  my  toil— its  fruit : 

[i/b  blathers  fruits. 
Behold  them  in  their  various  bloom  and  ripeness. 

[They  dress  their  altars,  and  kindle  aflame 
upon  them. 

Ahel.  My  brother,  as  the  elder,  offer  first 
The  prayer  and  thanksgiving  with  sacrifice. 

Cain.  No — I  am  new  to  this  ;  lead  thou  the  way. 
And  I  will  follow — as  I  may. 

Abel,  (kneeling.')  Oh  God  I 

Who  made  us,  and  who  breathed  the  breath  of  life 
Within  our  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us. 
And  spared,  despite  our  father's  sin,  to  make 
His  children  all  lost,  as  they  might  have  been, 
Had  not  thy  justice  been  so  temper'd  with 
The  mercy  which  is  thy  delight,  as  to 
Accord  a  pardon  like  a  Paradise, 
Compared  with  our  great  crimes : — Sole  Lord  of  light ! 
Of  good,  and  glory,  and  eternity  ; 
Without  whom  all  were  evil,  and  with  whom 
Kothing  can  err,  except  to  some  good  end 
Of  thine  omnipotent  benevolence — 
Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfiU'd — 
Accept  from  out  thy  humble  first  of  shepherd's 
First  of  the  ficrst-born  flocks — an  offering. 
In  itself  nothing — as  what  offering  can  be 
Aught  imto  thee  ? — but  yet  accept  it  for 
The  thanksgiving  of  him  who  spreads  it  in 
The  face  of  thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 
Even  to  the  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honor 
Of  thee,  aud  of  thy  name,  for  evermore  ! 

Cain,  {standing  erect  during  this  speech.)  Spirit  I 
whate'er  or  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be — and,  if  good. 
Shown  in  the  exemption  of  thy  deeds  from  evil ; 
Jehovah  upon  earth  !  and  God  in  heaven  I 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  attributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works  : — 
If  thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers, 
Take  them  !  If  thou  must  be  induced  with  altars. 
And  soften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them  ! 
Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  thee.  [smokes 

If  thou  lov'st  blood,  the  shepherd's  shrine,  which 
On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service 
In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 
In  sanguinary  incense  to  the  skies ; 
Or  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth. 
And  milder  seasons,  which  the  unstain'd  turf 
I  spread  them  on  now  offers  in  the  face 
Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripen'd  them,  may  seem 
Ctood  to  thee,  inasmuch  ae  they  have  not 


Suffer'd  in  limb  or  life,  and  rather  form  • 

A  sample  of  thy  works,  than  supplication 

To  look  on  ours  !     If  a  shrine  without  victim. 

And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favor, 

Look  on  it !  and  for  him  who  dresseth  it, 

He  is — such  as  thou  mad'st  him  ;  and  seeks  nothing 

Which  must  be  won  by  kneeling :  if  he's  evil. 

Strike  him  !  thou  art  omnipotent,  and  mayst — 

For  what  can  he  oppose  ?  If  he  be  good. 

Strike  him,  or  spare  him,  as  thou  wilt !  since  all 

Rests  upon  thee ;  and  good  and  evil  seem 

To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  thy  will ; 

And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  I  know  not, 

Kot  being  omnipotent,  nor  fit  to  judge 

Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 

Its  mandate  ;  which  thus  far  I  have  endured. 

[7'he  fire  upon  the  altar  o/Abei,  kindles  into  a 
column  of  the  brightest  flame,  and  ascends  to 
heaven ;  while  a  whirlwind  throws  down  the 
altar  of  Cain,  and  scatters  the  fruits  abroad 
upon  the  earth. 
Abel,    (kneeling.)   Oh,  brother,  pray  I     Jehovah's 

wroth  with  thee. 
Cain.  Why  so  ? 

Ahel.  Thy  fruits  are  scatter'd  on  the  earth. 

Cain.   From  earth  they  came,  to  earth  let  them 
return  ; 
Their  seed  will  bear  fresh  fruit  there  ere  the  summer 
Thy  burnt  flesh-off  ring  prospers  better :  see 
How  heav'n  licks  up  the  flames,  when  thick  with 
blood ! 
Ahel.  Think  not  upon  my  offering's  acceptance, 
But  make  another  of  thine  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

Cain.        I  will  build  no  more  altars, 
Nor  suffer  any — 

Ahel,  (rising.)  Cain  !  what  meanest  thou  ? 
Cain.  To  cast  down  yon  vile  flatt'rer  of  the  clouds, 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  pray'rs — 
Thine  altar,  with  its  blood  of  lambs  and  kids. 
Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  destroy'd  in  blood. 

Ahel,  (opposing  him^   Thou   shalt  not : — add  not 
impious  works  to  impious 
Words  1  let  that  altar  stand — 'tis  hallow'd  now 
By  the  immortal  pleasure  of  Jehovah, 
In  his  acceptance  of  the  victims. 

Cain.  His ! 

His  pleasure  /  what  was  his  high  pleasure  in 
The  fumes  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking  blood. 
To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  which 
Still  yearn  for  their  dead  offspring  ?  or  the  pangs 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victims  underneath 
Thy  pious  knife  ?  Give  way  !  this  bloody  record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  sun,  to  shame  creation  ! 

Ahel.  Brother,  give  back  1  thou  shalt  not  touch 
With  violence  :  if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it,  [my  altar 
To  try  another  sacrifice,  'tis  thine. 


336 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  m. 


Cain.  Another  sacrifice  1  Give  way,  or  else 
That  sacrifice  may  be 

Abel.  What  mean'st  thou  ? 

Gain.  Give — 

Give  way ! — thy  God  loves  blood  1 — then  look  to  it : — 
Give  way,  ere  he  hath  more  ! 

Abel.  In  his  great  name 

I  stand  between  thee  and  the  shrine  which  hath 
Had  his  acceptance. 

Gain.  If  thou  lov'st  thyself. 

Stand  back  till  I  have  strew'd  this  turf  along 
Its  native  soil : — else — 

Abel,  (opposing  Mm.)  I  love  God  far  more 
Than  life. 

Cain.  {Strihing  him  with  a  brand,  on  the  temples, 
which  he  snatches  from  the  altar.) 
Then  take  thy  life  unto  thy  God, 
Since  he  loves  lives. 

Abel,  {falls.)    What  hast  thou  done,  my  brother  ? 

Cain.  Brother ! 

Abel.  Oh,  God,  receive  thy  servant,  and 

Forgive  his  slayer,  for  he  knew  not  what 
He  did — Cain,  give  me — give  me  thy  hand ;  and  tell 
Poor  Zillah 

Gain,  {after  a  moment's  stupefaction.)  My  hand  1 
'tis  all  red,  and  with — 
What? 

\^A  long  pavse. — LooTcing  slowly  round. 
Where  am  I  ?  alone  !  Where's  Abel  ?  where 
Cain  ?  Can  it  be  that  I  am  he  ?     My  brother. 
Awake  ! — why  liest  thou  so  on  the  green  earth  ? 
Tis  not  the  hour  of  slumber ; — why  so  pale  ? 
What,  hast  thou  ! — thou  wert  full  of  life  this  mom  1 
Abel !  I  pray  thee,  mock  me  not !  I  smote 
Too  fiercely,  but  not  fatally.     Ah,  why 
Wouldst  thou  oppose  me  ?     This  is  mockery ; 
And  only  done  to  daunt  me : — 'twas  a  blow — 
And  but  a  blow.     Stir — stir — nay,  only  stir  !      [me  I 
Who,  so — that's  well ! — thou  breath'st !  breathe  upon 
Oh,  God  !  Oh,  God ! 

Abel,  {very  fiintly.)  What's  he  who  speaks  of  God! 

Cain.  Thy  murderer. 

Abel.  Then  may  God  forgive  him  !    Cain, 

Comfort  poor  Zillah  : — she  has  but  one  brother 
Now.  [Abel  dies. 

Cain.   And  I  none  ! — Who  makes  me  brotherless ; 
His  eyes  are  open  !  then  he  is  not  dead  ! 
Death  is  like  sleep  ;  and  sleep  shuts  down  our  lids. 
His  lips,  too,  are  apart ;  why  then  he  breathes  ! 
And  yet  I  feel  it  not. — His  heart ! — his  heart ! — 

Let  me  see,  doth  it  beat  ?  methinks No  ! — no  1 

This  is  a  vision,  else  I  am  become 
The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 
The  earth  swims  round  me : — what  is  this  ? — 'tis  wet; 
\^Puts  hif  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  lonhs  at  it. 
And  yet  there  are  no  dews  1  'Tis  blood — my  blood — 
My  brother's  and  my  own  I  and  shed  by  me  ! 


Then  what  have  I  further  to  do  with  life, 
Since  I  have  taken  life  from  my  own  flesh  ? 
But  he  can  not  be  dead  1 — Is  silence  death  ? 
No ;  he  will  wake  :  then  let  me  watch  by  him.' 
Life  cannot  be  so  slight,  as  to  be  quench'd 
Thus  quickly  ! — he  hath  spoken  to  me  since — 
What  shall  I  say  to  him  ? — My  brother  1 — No  : 
He  will  not  answer  to  that  name  ;  for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.     Yet — yet — speak  to  me. 
Oh  1  for  a  word  more  of  that  gentle  voice, 
That  I  may  bear  to  hear  my  own  again  ! 

Enter  Zillah. 

Zillah.  I  heard  a  heavy  sound ;  what  can  it  be  ? 
'Tis  Cain ;  and  watching  by  my  husband.     What 
Dost  thou  there,  brother?  Doth  he  sleep  ?  Oh,heav'nl 
What  means  this  paleness,  and  yon  stream  ? — No,  no! 
It  is  not  blood ;  for  who  would  shed  his  blood  ? 
Abel !  what's  this  ? — who  hath  done  tJiis  ?  He  moves 

not; 
He  breathes  not :  and  his  hands  drop  down  from  mine 
With  stony  lifelessness  !  Ah  !  cruel  Cain  1 
Why  cam'st  thou  not  in  time  to  save  him  from 
This  violence  ?     Whatever  hath  assail'd  him, 
Thou  wert  the  stronger,  and  should'st  have  stepp'd  in 
Between  him  and  aggression  !     Father  ! — Eve  1 — 
Adah  ! — come  hither  !  Death  is  in  the  world  ! 

[Exit  Zillah,  calling  on  her  Parents,  etc.,  etc. 

Cain.  {koIus)  And  who  hath  brought  him  there  ? — 
I — who  abhor 
The  name  of  Death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Empoison'd  all  my  life,  before  I  knew 
His  aspect — I  have  led  him  here,  and  giv'n 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace, 
As  if  he  would  not  have  asserted  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  my  aid. 
I  am  awake  at  last — a  dreary  dream 
Had  madden'd  me  I^but  he  shall  ne'er  awake  I 

Enter  Adam,  Eve,  Adah,  and  Zillah. 

Adam.  A  voice  of  wo  from  Zillah  brings  me  here. — 
What  do  I  see  ? — 'Tis  true  ! — My  son  ! — my  son  ! 
Woman,  behold  the  serpent's  work,  and  thine  1 

[roEvB. 

Eve.  Oh  I  speak  not  of  it  now:  the  serpent's  fangs 
Are  in  my  heart.     My  best  beloved,  Abel ! 
Jehovah  !  this  is  punishment  beyond 
A  mother's  sin,  to  take  him  from  me  ! 

Adam.  Who, 

Or  what  hath  done  this  deed  ? — speak,  Cain,  since  thou 
Wert  present ;  was  it  some  more  hostile  angel. 
Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah  ?  or  some  wild 
Brute  of  the  forest  ? 

Eve.                        Ah  !  a  livid  light 
Breaks  through,  as  from  a  thunder.cloud  I  yon  brand, 
Massy  and  bloody  f  snatch'd  from  off  the  altar. 
And  black  with  smoke,  and  red  with 


SCEXB    (. 


CAIN. 


337 


Adam.  Speak,  my  son  1 

Speak,  and  assure  us,  wretched  as  we  are, 
That  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

Adah.  Speak,  Cain  1  and  say  it  was  not  thou  ! 

Eve.  It  was. 

I  see  it  now — he  hangs  his  guilty  head 
And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah.        Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong — 
Cain  !  clear  thoe  ftom  this  horrible  accusal. 
Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent. 

Eve.                                                 Hear,  Jehoyah ! 
May  the  eternal  serpent's  curse  be  on  him ! 
For  he  was  fitter  for  his  seed  than  ours. 
May  all  his  days  be  desolate.     May 

Adah.  Hold  I 

Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son — 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  brother. 
And  my  betroth'd. 

Eve.  He  hath  left  thee  no  brother — 

ZiUah  no  husband — me  no  son  ! — for  this 
I  curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore  1 
All  bonds  I  break  between  us  !  as  he  broke 

That  of  his  nature,  in  yon Oh  death  1  death  I 

Why  didst  thou  not  take  me,  who  first  incurr'd  thee? 
Why  dost  thou  not  so  now  ? 

Adam.  Eve  !  let  not  this. 

Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety  1 
A  heavy  doom  was  long  forespoken  to  us  ; 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  faithful  servants  to  his  holy  wilL 
Eve.,    (pointing  to  Cain.)     His  will  !  !    the  will  of 

yon  incarnate  spirit 
Of  death,  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  earth 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.    May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him  1  and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  o'er  the  wilderness,  like  us 
From  Eden,  till  his  children  do  by  him 
As  he  did  by  his  brother  !  May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherubim  pursue  him 
By  day  and  night — snakes  spring  up  in  his  path — 
Earth's  fruits  be  ashes  In  his  mouth — the  leaves 
On  which  he  lays  his  head  to  sleep  be  strew'd 
With  scorpions  !     May  his  dreams  be  of  his  victim  I 
His  waking  a  continual  dread  of  death  ! 
May  the  clear  rivers  turn  to  blood  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stain  them  with  his  raging  lip  I 
May  every  element  shim  or  change  to  him  1 
May  he  live  in  the  pangs  which  others  die  with  1 
And  death  itself  wax  something  worse  than  death 
To  him  who  first  acquainted  him  with  man  ! 
Hence,  fratricide  !  henceforth  that  word  is  Cain, 
Through  all  the  coming  myriads  of  mankind. 
Who  shall  abhor  thee,  though  thou  wert  their  sire  ! 
May  the  grass  wither  from  thy  feet !  the  woods 
Deny  thee  shelter  !  earth  a  home !  the  dust 
43 


A  grave  I  the  sun  his  light  1  and  heaven  her  God ! 

[Exit  EvK. 

Adam.  Cain !  get  thee  forth :  we  dwell  no  more 
togethere 

Depart !  and  leave  the  dead  to  me 1  am 

Henceforth  alone — we  never  must  meet  more. 

Adah.  Oh,  part  not  with  him  thus,  my  father :  do  not 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eve's  upon  his  head  ! 

Adam.  I  curse  him  not :  his  spirit  be  his  curse. 
Come  Zillah ! 

Zillah.        I  must  watch  my  husband's  corse. 

Adam.  We  will  return  again,  when  he  is  gone 
Wlio  hath  provided  for  us  this  dread  ofiicc. 
Come,  Zillah  ! 

Zillah.        Yet  one  kiss  on  yon  pale  clay, 
And  those  lips  once  so  warm — my  heart !  my  heart  1 
[Exeunt  Adam  and  Zillah,  weeping. 

Adah.  Cain  1  thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go  forth. 
I  am  ready. 
So  shall  our  children  be.    I  will  bear  Enoch, 
And  you  his  sister.    Ere  the  sun  declines 
Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 
Under  the  cloud  of  night. — Nay,  speak  to  me, 
To  me — thiiie  own. 

Cain.  Leave  me  I 

Adah.  Why,  all  have  left  thee. 

Cain.  And  wherefore  lingerest  thou  ?    Dost  thou 
To  dwell  with  one  who  hath  done  this  ?       [not  fear 

Adah.  I  fear 

Nothing  except  to  leave  thee,  much  as  I 
Shrink  from  the  deed  which  leaves  thee  brotherless. 
I  must  not  speak  of  this — ^it  is  between  thee 
And  the  great  God. 

A  Voice  from  within  exclaims,  Cain  !  Cain  ! 

Adah.  Hear'st  thou  that  voice  f 

The  Voice  within,  Cain  !  Cain  ! 

Adah.  It  soundeth  like  an  angel's  tone. 

Enter  the  Angel  of  the  Lord. 

Adah.  Where  is  thy  brother  Abel  ? 

Cain.  Am  I  then 

My  brother's  keeper  ? 

Adah.  Cain  !  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

The  voice  of  thy  slain  brother's  blood  cries  out. 
Even  from  the  ground,  unto  the  Lord ! — Now  art  thou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  open'd  late  her  mouth 
To  drink  thy  brother's  blood  from  thy  rash  hand. 
Henceforth,  when  thou  shalt  till  the  ground,  it  shall  not 
Yield  thee  her  strength  ;  a  fugitive  shalt  thou 
Be  from  this  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth  1 

Adah.  This  punishment  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 
Behold,  thou  drivest  him  from  the  face  of  earth. 
And  from  the  face  of  God  shall  he  be  hid. 
A  fugitive  and  vagabond  on  earth, 
'Twill  come  to  pass,  that  whoso  findeth  him 
Shall  slay  him. 

Cain.  Would  thy  could  !  but  who  are  they 


.338 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  m. 


Shall  slay  me  ?  where  are  these  on  the  lone  earth 
As  yet  unpeopled  ? 

Angel.  Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother, 

And  who  shall  warrant  thee  against  thy  son  ? 

Adah.  Angel  of  Light !  be  merciful,  nor  say 
That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 
A  murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 

Angel.  Then  he  would  but  be  what  his  father  is. 
Did  not  the  milk  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  see'st  so  besmear'd  with  blood  ? 
The  fratricide  might  well  engender  parricides. — 
But  it  shall  not  be  so — the  Lord,  thy  God 
And  mine,  commandeth  me  to  set  his  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  forth  in  safety. 
Who  slayeth  Cain,  a  sevenfold  vengeance  shall 
Be  taken  on  his  head.     Come  hither : 

Cain.  What 

Wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Angel.  To  mark  upon  thy  brow 

Exemption  from  such  deeds  as  thou  hast  done. 

Cain.  No,  let  me  die  I 

Angel.  It  must  not  be. 

[  The  Angel  sets  the  marh  on  Cadi's  Irow. 

Cain.  It  bums 

My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  is  within  it. 
Is  there  more  ?  let  me  meet  it  as  I  may.  [womb, 

Angel.  Stem  hast  thou  been  and  stubborn  from  the 
As  the  ground  thou  must  henceforth  till ;  but  he 
Thou  slew'st  was  gentle  as  the  flocks  he  tended. 

Cain.  After  the  fall  too  soon  was  I  begotten  ; 
Ere  yet  my  mother's  mind  subsided  from 
The  serpent,  and  my  sire  still  moum'd  for  Eden. 
That  which  I  am,  I  am  ;  I  did  not  seek 
For  life,  nor  did  I  make  myself;  but  could  I 
With  my  own  death  redeem  him  from  the  dust — 
And  why  not  so  ?  let  him  return  to-day. 
And  I  lie  ghastly  !  so  shall  be  restored 
By  God  the  life  to  him  he  loved  ;  and  taken 
From  me  a  being  I  ne'er  loved  to  bear. 

Angel.  Who  shall  heal  murder  ?  what  is  done  is 
Go  forth  !  fulfill  thy  days  I  and  be  thy  deeds  [done. 
Unlike  the  last !  [  The  Angel  disappears 

Adah.  He's  gone,  let  us  go  forth  ; 

I  hear  our  little  Enoch  cry  within 
Our  bower. 

Cain.         Ah  1  little  know  he  what  he  weeps  for  I 


And  I  who  have  shed  blood  can  not  shed  tears  1 
But  the  four  rivers  would  not  cleanse  my  soul. 
Think'st  thou  my  boy  will  bear  to  look  on  me  ? 

Adah.  If  I  thought  that  he  would  not,  I  would — 

Cain,  (interrupting  her^  No, 

No  more  of  threats  :  we  have  had  too  many  of  them : 
Go  to  our  children  ;  I  wiU  follow  thee. 

Adah.  I  will  not  leave  thee  lonely  with  the  dead ; 
Let  us  depart  together. 

Cain.  Oh  !  thou  dead 

And  everlasting  witness  1  whose  unsinking 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven  !  what  thou  now  art 
I  know  not  I  but  if  thou  see'st  what  /  am, 
I  think  thou  wilt  forgive  him,  whom  his  God 
Can  ne'er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul. — Farewell ! 
I  must  not,  dare  not  touch  what  I  have  made  thee. 
I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  womb  with  thee,  drain'd 
The  same  breast,  clasp'd  thee  often  to  my  own. 
In  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I 
Can  never  meet  thee  more,  nor  even  dare 
To  do  that  for  thee,  which  thou  should'st  have  done 
For  me — compose  thy  limbs  into  their  grave — 
The  first  grave  yet  dug  for  mortality. 
But  who  hath  dug  that  grave  ?  Oh,  earth  !  Oh,  earth  I 
For  all  the  fruits  thou  hast  rendered  to  me,  I 
Give  thee  back  this. — Now  for  the  wilderness. 

[Adah  stoops  down  and  l-isses  the  body  of  Abel. 

Adah.  A  dreary  and  an  early  doom,  my  brother, 
Has  been  thy  lot  ?    Of  aU  who  mourn  for  thee, 
I  alone  must  not  weep.     My  ofiice  is 
Henceforth  to  dry  up  tears,  and  not  to  shed  them  : 
But  yet,  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me. 
Not  only  for  thyself,  but  him  who  slew  thee. 
Now,  Cain  !  I  wiU  divide  thy  burden  with  thee. 

Cain.  Eastward  from  Eden  will  we  take  our  way; 
'Tis  the  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  steps.         [God 

Adah.  Lead  !  thou  shalt  be  my  guide,  and  may  our 
Be  thine  !  Now  let  us  carry  forth  our  children. 

Cain.  And  he  who  lieth  there  was  childless.     I 
Have  dried  the  fountain  of  a  gentle  race,        [couch. 
Which   might   have  graced   his   recent    marriage 
And  might  have  temper'd  this  stem  blood  of  mine, 
Uniting  with  our  children  Abel's  ofispring  !  ^ 

Oh  Abel  1 

Adah.  Peace  be  with  him  1 

Cain.  But  with  me  ! 

\Exeunt. 


SCENE   I. 


WERNER. 


339 


WERNER;   OR,  THE  INHERITANCE 


A    TRAGEDY. 


TO 
THE    ILLUSTRIOUS    GOETHE, 

BT  ONE  or  Hia  HUMBLEST  ADMIKERS, 
THIS  TBASEDT  IS  DEDICATED. 


PREFACE. 

The  following  drama  is  taken  entirely  from  the 
"  German's  Tale,  Kruitzner,"  published  many  years 
ago  in  Lee's  Canterbury  Tales  ;  written  (I  believe)  by 
two  sisters,  of  whom  one  furnished  only  this  story  and 
another,  both  of  which  are  considered  superior  to  the 
remainder  of  the  collection.  I  have  adopted  the  char- 
acters, plan,  and  even  the  language,  of  many  parts  of 
the  story.  Some  of  the  characters  are  modified  or  al- 
tered, a  few  of  the  names  changed,  and  one  character, 
Ida  of  Stralenheim,  added  by  myself ;  but  in  the  rest 
the  original  is  chiefly  followed.  When  I  was  young 
(about  fourteen,  I  think)  I  first  read  this  tale,  which 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  me  ;  and  may,  indeed,  be 
said  to  contain  the  germ  of  much  that  I  have  since 
written.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  ever  was  very  popular ; 
or,  at  any  rate,  its  popularity  has  since  been  eclipsed 
by  that  of  other  great  writers  in  the  same  department. 
But  I  have  generally  found  that  those  who  had  read  it, 
agreed  \vith  me  in  their  estimate  of  the  singular  power 
of  mind  and  conception  which  it  develops.  I  should 
also  add  conception,  rather  than  execution  ;  for  the  story 
might  perhaps,  have  been  developed  with  greater  ad- 
vantage. Amongst  those  whose  opinions  agreed  with 
mine  ujmju  this  story,  I  could  mention  some  very  high 
names  :  but  it  is  not  necessary,  nor  indeed  of  any  use  ; 
for  every  one  must  judge  according  to  his  own  feelings. 
I  merely  refer  the  reader  to  the  original  story,  that  he 
may  see  to  what  extent  I  have  borrowed  from  it ;  and 
am  not  unwilling  that  he  should  find  much  greater 
pleasure  in  perusing  it  than  the  drama,  which  is  found- 
ed upon  its  contents. 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tale  so  far  back  as 
1815.  (the  first  I  ever  attempted,  except  one  at  thirteen 
years  old,  called  "  XJlrie  and  Iltrina,"  which  I  had  sense 
enough  to  b»im,)  and  had  nearly  completed  an  act,  when 
1  was  interrupted  by  circumstances.  This  is  somewhere 
amongst  my  papers  in  England  ;  but  as  it  has  not  been 
found,  I  have  rewritten  the  first,  and  added  the  subse- 
quent acts. 

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

Pisa,  February, 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Men. — Werner. 
Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 
Idenstein. 
Gabor. 
Fritz. 
Henrick. 
Eric. 
Arnheim. 
Meister. 
Rodolph. 

LUDWIG. 

Women. — Josephine. 

Ida  Stralenheim. 


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

Time— The  close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 


WERNER. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

TTie  Hall  of  a  decayed  Palace  near  a  small  Town  on 
the  Northern  Frontier  of  Silesia — the  Night  tem- 
pestuous. 

Werner  and  Josephinb  his  wife. 
Jos.  My  love,  be  calmer  1 
Wer.  I  am  calm. 

Jos.  To  me— 

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


340 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Wer.        'Tis  chill ;  the  tapestry  lets  through 
The  wind  to  which  it  waves  :  my  blood  is  frozen. 

Jos.  Ah.  no  ! 

Wer.  (smiling.)  Why  !  wouldst  thou  have  it  so  ? 

Jos.  I  would 

Have  it  a  healthful  current. 

Wer.  Let  it  flow 

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

Jos.  And  am  I  nothing  in  thy  heart  ? 

Wer.  All— all. 

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

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

[Werner  walks  on  alirujMy  and  then  approaches 
Josephine. 

The  storm  of  the  night 
Perhaps,  aflfects  me  ;  I  am  a  thing  of  feelings, 
And  have  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas  1 
Thou  know'st  by  sufferings  more  than  mine,  my  love ! 
In  watching  me. 

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

Wer.  Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 

Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest ! 

Jos.  But  think 

How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain. 
Whose  every  drop  bows  them  down  nearer  earth. 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

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

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

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

Wer.  Yes.  And  from  these  alone. 

Jos.  And  that  is  something. 

Wer.  True — to  a  peasant. 

Jos.  Should  the  nobly  bom 

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

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

Jos.  Well  ? 

Wer.   Something  beyond  our  outward  sufferings 
(though 


These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  now. 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 
Seized  me  upon  this  pesolate  frontier,  and 
Hath  wasted,  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means, 
And  leaves  us— no !  this  is  beyond  me  1 — but 
For  this  I  had  been  happy — thou  been  happy — 
The  splendor  of  my  rank  sustain'd — my  name — 
My  father's  name — been  stiU  upheld ;  and,  more 
Than  those 

Jos.  (fibruptly.)  My  son — our  son — our  Ulric, 
Been  clasp'd  again  in  these  long-empty  arms 
And  all  a  mother's  hunger  satisfied. 
Twelve  years  !  he  was  but  eight  then  : — beautiful 
He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now, 
My  Uhic  !  my  adored  I 

Wer.  I  have  been  full  oft 

The  chase  of  Fortune  ;  now  she  hath  o'ertaken 
My  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  bay, — 
Sick,  poor,  and  lonely 

Jos.  Lonely  !  my  dear  husband  ? 

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

Jos.  And  I  had  not  outlived  thee  ;  but  pray  take 
Comfort !    We  have  struggled  long ;  but  they  who 
With  fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last,  [strive 

So  that  they  find  the  goal  or  cease  to  feel 
Further.    Take  comfort, — we  shall  find  our  boy. 

Wer.  We  were  in  sight  of  him,  of  every  thing 
Which  could  bring  compensation  for  past  sorrow  — 
And  to  be  baffled  thus  1 

Jos.  We  are  not  baffled. 

Wer.  Are  we  not  penniless  ? 

Jos.  We  ne'er  were  wealthy. 

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

Jos.  Who  knows  ?  our  son 

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

Wer.  'Tis  hopeless, 

Since  his  strange  disappearance  from  my  father's, 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  have  reveal'd  his  course. 
I  parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  promise  that  his  anger  would  stoj)  short 
Of  the  third  generation  ;  but  Heaven  seems 


SCENE    I. 


WERNER. 


S41 


To  claim  her  stem  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  follies. 

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

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

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

Wer.  Save  what  we  seem  I  save  what  we  are — 
Even  to  our  very  hopes — Ha  1  ha  !       [sick  beggars, 

Jos.  Alas ! 

That  bitter  laugh ! 

Wer.  Who  would  read  in  this  form 

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

Jos.  You 

Ponder'd  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things. 
My  Werner  1  when  you  deign'd  to  choose  for  bride 
The  foreign  daughter  of  a  wandering  exile. 

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

Jos.   Your  father  did  not  think  so,  though  'twas 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
With  thee,  I  should  have  deem'd  it  what  it  is. 

Wer.  And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Jos.  All  which  it 

Has  done  in  our  behalf, — nothing. 

Wer.  How, — ^nothing  ? 

Jot.  Or  worse  ;  for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 
Thy  heart  from  the  beginning  :  but  for  this, 
We  had  not  felt  our  poverty  but  as 
Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully ; 
But  for  these  phantoms  of  thy  feudal  fathers, 
Thou  mightst  have  eam'd  thy  bread,  as  thousands 

earn  it  I 
Or,  if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce. 
Or  other  civic  means,  to  amend  thy  fortunes. 

Wer,  (ironically.)  And  been  an  Hanseatic  burgher  ? 
Excellent !  [art 

Jos.  Whate'er  thou  mightst  have  been,  to  me  thou 
What  no  state  high  or  low  can  ever  change. 


My  heart's  first  choice ; — ^which  chose  thee,  knowing 
neither  [sorrows : 

Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride ;  naught,  save  thy 
While  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them ; 
When  they  end,  let  mine  end  with  them,  or  thee  ! 

Wer.  My  better  angel !  such  I  have  ever  found  thee ; 
This  rashness,  or  this  weakness  of  my  temper, 
Ne'er  raised  a  thought  to  injure  thee  or  thine. 
Thou  didst  not  mar  my  fortunes  :  my  own  nature 
In  youth  was  such  as  to  unmake  an  empire. 
Had  such  been  my  inheritance  ;  but  now, 
Chasten'd,  subdued,  out-worn,  and  taught  to  know 
Myself, — to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee  ! 
Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-and-twentieth  spring. 
My  father  barr'd  me  from  my  father's  house, 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires, 
(For  I  was  then  the  last,)  it  hurt  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  faults  deserved  exclusion  ;  although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon's  round  me. 

[A  loud  knoching  is  heard. 

Jos.  Hark ! 

Wer.  A  knocking ! 

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

Wer.  And  poverty  hath  none, 

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

[Werner  puts  his  hand  into  his  Tiosom,  as  if  to 
search  for  some  weapon. 

Jos.  Oh  !  do  not  look  so.     I 

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

]^She  goes  to  the  door. 

Enter  Idenstbin. 

Iden.  A  fair  good  evening  to  my  fairer  hostresa 
And  worthy What's  your  name,  my  friend  f 

Wer.  Are  you 

Not  afraid  to  demand  it  ? 

Iden.  Not  afraid  ? 

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

Wer.  Better,  sir  ! 

Iden.  Better  or  worse,  like  matrimony  :  what 
Shall  I  say  more  ?  You  have  been  a  guest  this  month 
Here  in  the  prince's  palace — (to  be  sure. 
His  highness  had  resign'd  it  to  the  ghosts 
And  rats  these  twelve  years — but  'tis  still  a  palace) — 
I  say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 
We  do  not  know  your  name. 

Wer.  My  name  is  Werner. 


842 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


Iden.  A  goodly  name,  a  very  worthy  name 
As  e'er  was  gilt  upon  a  trader's  board : 
I  have  a  cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  who  has  got  a  wife  who  bore 
The  same.     He  is  an  officer  of  trust, 
Surgeon's  assistant,  (hoping  to  be  surgeon,) 
And  has  done  miracles  i'  the  way  of  business. 
Perhaps  you  are  related  to  my  relative. 

Wer.  To  yours  ? 

Jo*.  Oh,  yes  ;  we  are,  but  distantly. 

[Aside  to  "Webner. 
Cannot  you  humor  the  dull  gossip  till 
We  learn  his  purpose  ? 

Iden.  "Well,  I'm  glad  of  that ; 

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

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

Iden.  Why,  what  should  bring  me  here  ? 

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

Jos.  {aside.)  Patience,  dear  Werner  ? 

Iden.  You  don't  know  what  has  happen'd,  then  ? 

Jos.  How  should  we  ? 

Iden.  The  river  has  o'erflow'd. 

Jos.  Alas  !  we  have  known 

That  to  our  sorrow  for  these  five  days  ;  since 
It  keeps  us  here. 

Iden.  But  what  you  don't  know  is, 

That  a  great  personage,  who  fain  would  cross 
Against  the  stream  and  three  postillions'  wishes, 
Is  drown'd  below  the  ford,  with  five  post-horses, 
A  monkey,  and  a  mastifij  and  a  valet. 

Jos.  Poor  creatures  !  are  you  sure? 

Iden.  Yes,  of  the  monkey, 

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

Jos.  And  where  will  you  receive  him  ?  here,  I  hope. 
If  we  can  be  of  service — say  the  word. 

Iden.  Here  ?  no ;  but  in  the  prince's  own  apartment, 
As  fits  a  noble  guest : — 'tis  damp,  no  doubt, 


Not  having  been  inhabited  these  twelve  years  ; 
But  then  he  comes  from  a  much  damper  place, 
So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in  't,  if  he  be 
Still  liable  to  cold — and  if  not,  why 
He'll  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow  :  ne'ertheless 
I  have  order'd  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst — that  is. 
In  case  he  should  survive. 

Jos.  Poor  gentleman  I 

I  hope  he  will,  with  all  my  heart. 

Wer.  Intendant, 

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

[Aside  to  his  wife. 
Retire  :  I'll  sift  this  fool. 

Iden.  His  name  ?  oh  Lord  1 

Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a  name  or  no  ? 
'Tis  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he's  able 
To  give  an  answer ;  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epitaph.     Methought 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names  ? 

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

Enter  Gaboe. 

Gab.  If  I  intrude,  I  crave 

Iden.  Oh,  no  intrusion  1 

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

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

Iden.  What  ho,  there  !  bustle  ! 

Without  there,  Herman,  Weilburg,  Peter,  Conrad  1 
[Oives  directions  to  different  servants  who 
enter. 
A  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-night — see  that 
AU  is  in  order  in  the  damask  chamber — 
Keep  up  the  stove — I  will  myself  to  the  cellar — 
And  Madame  Idenstein  (my  consort,  stranger,) 
Shall  furnish  forth  the  bed-apparel ;  for. 
To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of  this 
Within  the  palace  precincts,  since  his  highness 
Left  it  some  dozen  years  ago.     And  then 
His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless  ? 

Oab.  Faith  1 

I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table  after 
His  soaking  in  your  river  :  but  for  fear 
Your  viands  should  be  thrown  away,  I  mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a  friend  without 
Who  will  do  honor  to  your  good  cheer  with 
A  traveller's  appetite. 

Iden.  But  are  you  sure 

His  excellency ^But  his  name  :  what  is  it  ? 

Odb.  I  do  not  know. 


BCKKB  L 


WERNER. 


343 


Iden.  And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

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

Iden.  Well,  that's  strange, 

To  save  a  man's  life  whom  you  do  not  know. 

Odb.  Not  so ;  for  there  are  some  I  know  so  well, 
I  scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

Iden.  Pray, 

Good  friend,  and  who  may  you  be  ? 

Odb.  By  my  family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden.  Which  is  call'd, 

Oab.  It  matters  little. 

Iden.  (ankle.)  I  think  that  all  the  world  are  grown 
anonymous, 
Since  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he's  call'd  1 
Pray,  has  his  excellency  a  large  suite  ? 

Oab.  Sufficient. 

Iden.  How  many  ? 

Oab.  I  did  not  count  them. 

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

Iden.  Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a  great  man  1 
No  doubt  you'll  have  a  swingeing  sum  as  recompense. 

Oab.  Perhaps. 

Iden.  Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 

Oab.  I  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale  : 
In  the  mean  time,  my  best  reward  would  be 
A.  glass  of  your  Hockheimer — a  green  glass, 
Wreath'd  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  devices, 
O'erflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage  : 
For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 
Run  hazard  of  being  drown'd,  (although  I  own 
It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  least  likely  for  you,) 
111  pull  you  out  for  nothing.     Quick,  my  friend. 
And  think,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff, 
A  wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 

Iden,  (aside.)  I  don't  much  like  this  feUow — close 
and  dry 
He  seems,  two  things  which  suit  me  not :  however, 
Wine  he  shall  have  ;  if  that  unlock  him  not, 
I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity. 

[Exit  Idenstein. 

Oab.  (to  Werner.)  This  master  of  the  ceremonies 
The  intendant  of  the  palace,  I  presume  :  [is 

'Tis  a  fine  building,  but  decay'd. 

Wer.  The  apartment 

Design'd  for  him  you  rescued  will  be  found 
In  fitter  order  for  a  sickly  guest. 

Gab.  1  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
For  you  seem  delicate  in  health. 

Wer.  (quieUy.)  Sir  1 

Oab.  Pray 

Excuse  mc  :  have  I  said  aught  to  offend  you  ? 

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

Odb.  And  that's  the  reason  I  would  have  us  less  so : 
I  thought  our  bustling  guest  without  had  said  [part 
You  were  a  chance  and  passing  guest,  the  counter- 


Of  me  and  my  companions. 

Wer.  Very  true. 

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

Wer.  Pray,  pardon  me  ;  my  health 

Odb.  Even  as  you  please. 

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

Wer.        I  have  also  served,  and  can 
Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

Odb.  In  what  service  ? 

The  Imperial  ? 

Wer,   (quicMy,  and  then  interrupting  himself^   I 
commanded — ^no — I  mean 
I  served  ;  but  it  is  many  years  ago. 
When  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 
The  Austrian. 

Oab.  Well,  that's  over  now,  and  peace 

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

Wer.  What  is  that  ? 

Oab.  Whate'er 

They  lay  their  hands  on.     All  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance  :  the  Chatelains  must  keep 
Their  castle  walls — beyond  them  'tis  but  doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baron. 
My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I've  little  left  to  lose  now. 

Wer.  And  I — ^nothing. 

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

Wer.  I  was. 

Odb.  You  look  one  stiU.    All  soldiers  are 

Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 
Our  swords  when  drawn  must  cross,  our  engines  aim 
(While  levell'd)  at  each  other's  hearts ;  but  when 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  matchlock,  we  are  brethren. 
You  are  poor  and  sickly — I  am  not  rich,  but  healthy; 
I  want  for  nothing  which  I  cannot  want ; 
You  seem  devoid  of  this — wilt  share  it  ? 

[Gabob  pulls  out  his  purse. 

Wer.  Who 

Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  ? 

Oab.  You  yourself. 

In  saying  you  were  a  soldier  during  peace-time. 

Wer.    (looking  at  him  with  suspicion.)  You  know 
me  not  ? 

Oab.  I  know  no  man,  not  even 

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


344 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I, 


Wer.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

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

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

Unter  Idenstein. 

Tden.  'Tis  here  1  the  supernaculum !  twenty  years 
Of  age,  if  'tis  a  day. 

Gab.  Which  epoch  makes 

Young  women  and  old  wine  ;  and  'tis  great  pity, 
Of  two  such  excellent  things,  increase  of  years. 
Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the  other. 
Fill  full — Here's  to  our  hostess  ! — your  fair  wife  1 

[TaJces  the  glass. 

Iden.  Fair  1 — Well,  I  trust  your  taste  in  wine  is 
equal 
To  that  you  show  for  beauty ;  but  I  pledge  you 
Nevertheless. 

Oah.  Is  not  the  lovely  woman 

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

Iden.  I  would  she  were  ! 

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

Gab.  And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a  prince's  : 
Though  time  hath  touch'd  her,  too,  she  stiU  retains 
Much  beauty:  and  more  majesty. 

Iden.  And  that 

Is  more  than  I  can  say  for  Madame  Idenstein, 
At  least  in  beauty  :  as  for  majesty. 
She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared — but  never  mind  1 

Oab.  I  don't.     But  who 

May  be  this  stranger  ?  He,  too,  hath  a  bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 

Iden.  There  I  differ. 

He's  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patient ;  but 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  him. 
Except  his  name,  (and  that  I  only  leam'd 
To  night,)  I  know  not. 

Gab.  But  how  came  he  here  ? 

Iden.  In  a  most  miserable  old  caleche, 


About  a  month  since,  and  immediately 

Fell  sick,  almost  to  death.    He  should  have  died. 

Gab,  Tender  and  true  1— but  why  ? 

Iden.  Why,  what  is  life 

Without  a  living  ?    He  has  not  a  stiver. 

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

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

Gab.  Poor  souls ! 

Iden.  Ay, 

Exceeding  poor. 

Gal).  And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 

If  I  mistake  not.     Whither  were  they  going  ? 

Iden.  Oh  1  Heaven  knows  where,  unless  to  hea- 
ven itself. 
Some  days  ago  that  look'd  the  likeliest  journey 
For  Werner. 

Gab.  Werner  1  I  have  heard  the  name : 

But  it  may  be  a  feign'd  one. 

Iden.  Like  enough ! 

But  hark !  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A  blaze  of  torches  from  without.     As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  excellency's  come. 
I  must  be  at  my  post:  will  you  not  join  me, 
To  help  him  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door  ? 

Gab.  I  dragg'd  him 

From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would  have  given 
His  barony  or  county  to  repel 
The  rushing  river  from  his  gurgling  throat. 
He  has  valets  now  enough :  they  stood  aloof  then, 
Shaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore,' 
All  roaring  "  Help  !"  but  offering  none  ;  and  as 
For  duty  (as  you  call  it) — I  did  mine  then, 
Now  do  youTK  Hence,  and  bow  and  cringe  him  here. 

Iden.  /cringe  ! — buf  I  shall  lose  the  opportunity — 
Plague  take  it  1 — he'U  be  here  and  I  not  there  ! 

{Exit  Idenstein  hastily. 

Re-enter  Wbrnbb. 

Wer.  (to  himself.)  I  heard  a  noise  of  wheels  and 
voices.     How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me  I 
Perceiving  Gabob.]  Still  here  I  Is  he  not 
A  spy  of  my  pursuer's  ?    His  frank  offer 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a  stranger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  seca-et  enemy ; 
For  friends  are  slow  at  such. 


8CKNB   I. 


WERNER. 


S48 


Onh.  Sir,  you  seem  rapt ; 

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

Iden.  {without.)  This  way — 

This  way,  your  excellency  : — have  a  care. 
The  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy,  and 
Somewhat  decay'd  ;  but  if  we  had  expected 
So  high  a  guest — Pray  take  my  arm,  my  lord  1 
Enter  Stsalenheim,  Idenstein,  and  Attendants  — 

partly  his  own,  and  partly  Retainers  of  the  Domain 

of  which  Idenstbin  i»  Intendant. 

Stral.  I'll  rest  me  here  a  moment. 

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

Instantly,  knaves  !  [Stralenheim  sits  down. 

Wer.  {aside.)        'Tis  he  ! 

Stral.  I'm  better  now. 

Who  are  these  strangers  ? 

Iden.  Please  you,  my  good  lord, 

One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

Wer.  {aloud  and  hastily.)    Who  says  that  ? 

[  They  look  at  him  with  surprise. 

Iden.  Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you,  or  to  you  / — but 
Here's  one  his  excellency  may  be  pleased 
To  recognise.  [Pointinff  to  Gabob. 

Gab.  I  seek  not  to  disturb 

His  noble  memory. 

Stral.  I  apprehend 

This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aid 
I  owe  my  rescue.    Is  not  that  the  other  ? 

[Pointinr;  to  Wekneb. 
My  state  when  I  was  succor'd  must  excuse 
My  uncertainty  to  whom  I  owe  so  much. 

Iden.  He  I — no,  my  lord,  he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it.     'Tis  a  poor  sick  man, 
Travel-tired,  aud  lately  risen  from  a  bed 
From  whence  he  never  dream'd  to  rise. 

Stral.  Methought 

That  there  were  two. 

Gah.  There  were,  in  company ; 

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

Stral.     '  Where  is  he  ? 

An  Atten.  My  lord,  he  tarried  in  the  cottage  where 
Your  excellency  rested  for  an  hour. 
And  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

Stral.  Till 

44 


That  hour  arrives,  I  can  but  offer  thanks. 
And  then 

Gah.  I  seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 

So  much.     My  comrade  may  speak  for  himself. 

Stral.  {fixing  his  eyes  upon  Werner  :  then  aside.) 
It  cannot  be  !  and  yet  he  must  be  look'd  to. 
'Tis  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 
These  eyes  ;  and,  though  my  agents  still  have  kept 
Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  aloof 
My  own  from  his,  not  to  alarm  him  into 
Suspicion  of  my  plan.     Why  did  I  leave 
At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made  assurance 
If  this  be  he  or  no  ?     I  thought,  ere  now. 
To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 
In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 
To  fight  against  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 

May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till 

[He  pauses,  and  looks  at  Werner  ;  tlien.  resfumea. 

This  man  must 
Be  watch'd.    If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed, 
His  father,  rising  from  his  grave  again, 
Would  pass  him  by  unknown.    I  must  be  wary : 
An  error  would  spoil  all. 

Iden.  Your  lordship  seems 

Pensive.    Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on  ? 

Stral.   'Tis  past  fatigue  which  gives  my  weigh'd- 
down  spirit 
An  outward  show  of  thought.    I  will  to  rest. 

Iden.  The  prince's  chamber  is  prepared,  with  aE 
The  very  furniture  the  prince  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendor. 

{Aside.)  Somewhat  tatter'd, 
And  devilish  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  torchlight ; 
And  that's  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment ; 
So  let  their  bearer  sleep  'neath  something  like  one 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  forever  lie. 

Stral.  {rising  and  turning  to  Gabob.)  Good-night, 
good  people  1  Sir,  I  trust  to-morrow 
Will  find  me  apter  to  requit  your  service. 
In  the  meantime  I  crave  your  company 
A  moment  in  my  chamber. 

Oab.  I  attend  you. 

Stral.  {after  a  few  steps,  pauses,  and  calls  Webbbb.) 
Friend  1 

Wer.  Sir  1 

Iden.  Sir  !  Lord— oh  lord  1  Why  don't  you  say 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  J    Pray, 
My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  want  of  breeding : 
He  hath  not  been  accustom'd  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

Stral.  {to  Idenstein.)  Peace,  intendant  t 

Iden.  Oh  I 

I  am  dumb. 

Stral.  {to  Webnbb.)  Have  you  been  long  here  ! 

Wer.  Long  ? 

Stral.  I  sought 


346 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

TVcr.  You  may  seek 

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

Stral.  Indeed !  Ne'ertheless, 

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

Wtr.  When  I  know  it  such, 

I  will  requite — that  is,  reply — ^in  imison. 
Stral.  The  intendant  said,  you  had  been  detain'd 
by  sickness — 
If  I  could  aid  you — journeying  the  same  way  ? 
Wer.  {quickly.)  I  am  not  journeying  the  same  way  I 
Stral.  How  know  ye 

That,  ere  you  know  my  route  ? 

Wer.  Because  there  is 

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

Stral.  Your  language  is  above 

Your  station. 

Wer.  {bitterly.)  Is  it  ? 
Stral.  Or,  at  least,  beyond 

Your  garb. 

Wer,  'Tis  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it. 

As  sometimes  happens  to  the  better  clad. 
But,  in  a  word,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 
Stral.  {startled.)  I. 

Wer.  Yes — you !  You  know  me  not,  and  question 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not — not  knowing     [me, 
My  inquisitor.    Explain  what  you  would  have, 
And  then  I'll  satisfy  yourself,  or  me. 
Stral.  I  knew  not  that  you  had  reasons  for  reserve. 
Wer.  Many  have  such  : — Have  you  none  ? 
Stral.  None  which  can 

Interest  a  mere  stranger. 

Wer.  Then  forgive 

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

Stral.  Sir, 

I  will  not  balk  your  humor,  though  untoward : 
I  only  meant  you  service — but  good-night ! 
Intendant,  show  the  way  !  {to  Gabob.)  Sir,  you  will 
with  me  ? 
[Exeunt  Stralenhbim  and  attendants ;  Iden- 
STBiN  and  Gabok. 
Wer.  {solus.)  'Tis  he  1  I  am  taken  in  the  toils.  Be- 
I  quited  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  his  late  steward,     [fore 
Inform'd  me,  that  he  had  obtaiu'd  an  order 
From  Brandenburgh's  elector,  for  the  arrest 
Of  Kruitzner  (such  the  name  1  then  bore)  when 
I  came  upon  the  frontier ;  the  free  city 
Alone  preserved  ray  freedom — till  I  left 
Its  walls— fool  that  I  was  to  quit  them  !    But 


I  deem'd  this  humble  garb,  and  route  obscure, 
Had  baffled  the  slow  hounds  in  their  pursuit. 
What's  to  be  done  ?  He  knows  me  not  by  person  ; 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehension, 
Have  recognised  Mm,  after  twenty  years. 
We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 
Our  youth.    But  those  about  him  !  Now  I  can 
Bivine  the  frankness  of  the  Hungarian,  who 
No  doubt  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralenheim's, 
To  sound  and  to  secure  me.    Without  means  I 
Sick,  poor — begirt  too  with  the  flooding  rivers, 
Impassable  even  to  the  wealthy,  with 
All  the  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  peril  vrith  men's  lives, — 
How  can  I  hope  ?     An  hour  ago  methought 
My  state  beyond  despair  ;  and  now,  'tis  such. 
The  past  seems  paradise.    Another  day, 
And  I'm  detected, — on  the  very  eve 
Of  honors,  rights,  and  my  inheritance. 
When  a  few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  still 
In  favoring  an  escape. 

Enter  Idenbtein  and  Fritz  in  conversation. 

IVitz.  Immediately. 

Iden.  I  tell  you  'tis  impossible. 

Fritz.  It  must 

Be  tried,  however ;  and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 
Arrives  from  Frankfort,  from  the  commandant. 

Iden.  I  will  do  what  I  can. 

Fritz.  And  recollect 

To  spare  no  trouble  ;  you  wiU  be  repaid  \ 
Tenfold. 

Iden.  The  baron  is  retired  to  rest  ? 

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

Iden.  Before 

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

Fritz.  Remember !  [  Exit  Fritz. 

Iden,  The  devil  take  these  great  men,  they 

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

Wer.  You  have  left 

Your  noble  guest  right  quickly. 

Iden.  Yes — he's  dozing 

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


SCENE    L 


WERNER. 


847 


Wer.  "  To  Frankfort !" 

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

This 

[Werner  looH  around,  nnd  matehet  up  a  knife, 

lying  on  a  table  in  a  recess. 

Now  I  am  master  of  myself  at  least. 
Hark, — footsteps  !  How  do  I  know  that  Stralenheim 
Will  wait  for  even  this  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation  ? 
That  he  suspects  me'  s  certain.     I'm  alone ; 
He  with  a  numerous  train.     I  weak  ;  he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority. 
I  nameless,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I  reach  my  omi  domain  ; 
He  full-blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  burghers 
Than  they  could  do  elsewhere.     Hark  !  nearer  still ! 
I'll  to  the  secret  passage,  which  communicates 

With  the No  !  all  is  silent — 'twas  my  fancy  ! — 

Still  as  the  breathless  interval  between 

The  flash  and  thunder :  I  must  hush  my  soul 

Amidst  its  perils.     Yet  I  will  retire. 

To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 

I  wot  of:  it  will  serve  me  as  a  den 

Of  secrecy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst. 

[Weuneb  draws  a  panel,  and  exit,  closing  it 
after  him. 

Enter  Gabor  and  Josephine. 

Oab.  Where  is  your  husband  ? 

Jos.  Here,  I  thought :  I  left  him 

Not  long  since  in  his  chamber.     But  these  rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant. 

Gab.  Baron  Stralenheim 

Put  many  questions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
1  have  my  doubts  if  he  means  well. 

Jos.  Alas ! 

What  can  there  be  in  common  with  the  proud 
And  wealthy  baron,  and  the  unknown  Werner  ? 

Gab.  That  you  know  best. 

Jos.  Or,  if  it  were  so,  how 

Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf. 
Rather  than  that  of  him  whose  life  you  saved  ? 

Gab.  I  help'd  to  save  him,  as  in  peril ;  but 
I  did  not  pledge  myself  to  serve  him  in 
Oppression.    I  know  well  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the  poor. 
I  have  proved  them  ;  and  my  spirit  boils  up  when 
I  find  them  practising  against  the  weak  : — 
This  is  my  only  motive. 


Jos.  It  would  be 

Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Tour  good  intentions. 

Gab.  Is  he  so  suspicious  ? 

Jos.  He  was  not  once ;  but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld. 

Gab.  I'm  sorry  for  it. 

Suspicion  is  a  heavy  armor,  and 
With  its  own  weight  impedes  more  than  protects. 
Good  night  1  I  trust  to  meet  with  him  at  daybreak. 

\_Exit  Gabor. 

Re-enter  Idenstein  and  sotne  Peasants.    Josefhinb 
retires  up  the  Hall. 

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

Idea.  Why,  you  will  be  well  paid  for't, 

And  have  risk'd  more  than  drowning  for  as  much, 
I  doubt  not. 

Second  Peasant.  But  our  wives  and  families  ? 

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

T/iird  Peasant.  I  have  neither,  and  will  venture. 

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

Third  Peasant.  No  more  ! 

Iden.  Out  upon  your  avarice  1 

Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition  ! 
I  tell  thee,  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 
Do  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 
Risk  lives  and  souls  for  the  tithe  of  one  thaler  ? 
When  had  you  half  the  sum  ? 

Third  Peasant.  Never — but  ne'er 

The  less  I  must  have  three. 

Iden.  Have  you  forgot 

Whose  vassal  you  were  bom,  knave  ? 

Third  Peasant.  No — the  prince's, 

And  not  the  stranger's. 

Iden.  Sirrah  !  in  the  prince's 

Absence,  I'm  sovereign  ;  and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connection  ; — "  Cousin  Idenstein  I 
(Quoth  he)  you'll  order  out  a  dozen  villains." 
And  so,  you  villains  I  troop — march — march, — I  say, 
And  if  a  single  dog's-ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder — look  to  it ! 
For  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  strctch'd  as  parchment  on  a  drum 
Like  Ziska's  skin,  to  beat  alarm  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  cannot  eficct 
Impossibilities — Away,  ye  earth-worms  ! 

{Exit,  driving  them  out, 

Jos.    (coming  forward.)   I  fain  would  shun  these 
scenes,  too  oft  repeated. 
Of  feudal  tyranny  o'er  petty  victims  : 


348 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  IL 


I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 

Even  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  dull  spot, 

The  dimmist  in  the  district's  map,  exist 

The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 

O'er  something  poorer  still — the  pride  of  rank 

In  servitude,  o'er  something  still  more  servile  ; 

And  vice  in  misery  affecting  still 

A  tatter'd  splendor.     What  a  state  of  being  ! 

In  Tuscany,  my  own  dear  sunny  land. 

Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants. 

Like  Cosmo.     We  had  evils,  but  not  such  ' 

As  these  ;  and  our  all-ripe  and  gushing  valleys 

Made  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  herb 

Was  in  itself  a  meal,  and  every  vine 

Rain'd,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  which  makes  glad 

The  heart  of  man  ;  and  the  ne'er  unfelt  sun 

(But  rarely  clouded,  and  when  clouded,  leaving 

His  warmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams) 

Makes  the  worn  mantle,  and  the  thin  robe,  less 

Oppressive  than  an  emperor's  jewell'd  purple. 

But,  here  !  the  despots  of  the  north  appear 

To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  their  clime. 

Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags, 

To  wring  his  soul— as  the  bleak  elements 

His  form.     And  'tis  to  be  amongst  these  sovereigns 

My  husband  pants  !  and  such  his  pride  of  birth 

That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 

Father  bom  in  an  humble  state  could  nerve 

His  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal. 

Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature  ; 

But  I,  bom  nobly  also,  from  my  father's 

Kindness  was  taught  a  different  lesson.     Father  ! 

May  thy  long-tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 

Look  down  on  us  and  our  so  long  desired 

Ulric  !     I  love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me  1 

What's  that  ?    Thou,  Werner  I  can  it  be  ?  and  thus  ? 

Enter  Weknkr  hastily,  with  the  knife  in  his  hand, 
iy  the  secret  panel,  which  he  closes  hurriedly  after 
him. 
Wer.    (not  at  first  recognising  her.)      Discover'd, 

•     then  I'll  stab {recognising  her.) 

Ah  !  Josephine, 
Why  art  thou  not  at  rest  ? 

Jos.  What  rest  ?  My  God  ! 

What  doth  this  mean  ? 

Wer.  {showirvg  a  rouleau.)  Here's  gold — gold,  Jose- 
phine, 
Will  rescue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 
Jos.  And  how  obtain'd  ? — that  knife  ! 
Wer.  'Tis  bloodless — yet. 

Away — we  must  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  But  whence  comest  thou  ? 

Wer.  Ask  not !  but  let  us  think  where  we  shall  go — 
This — this  will  make  us  way — {showing  the  gold) — 
I'll  fit  them  now. 
Jos.  I  dare  not  think  thee  guilty  of  dishonor. 


Wer.  Dishonor ! 

Jos.  I  have  said  it. 

Wer.  Let  us  hence. 

'Tis  the  last  night,  I  trust,  that  we  need  pass  here. 

Jos.  And  not  the  worst,  I  hope. 

Wer.  Hope  !  I  make  sure. 

But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  Yet  one  question — 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Wer.  {fiercely.)  Left  one  thing  undone  which 

Had  made  all  well ;  let  me  not  think  of  it  1 
Away ! 

Jos.  Alas,  that  I  should  doubt  of  thee  ! 

l^Exeunt. 

ACT  II. 

8  C  E  N  B     I. 

A  Hall  in  the  same  Palace. 
Enter  Idenstein  and    Others. 

Iden,  Fine  doings !  goodly  doings !  honest  doings  I 
A  baron  pillaged  in  a  prince's  palace  ! 
Where,  tiU  this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was  heard  o£ 

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

Iden.  Oh  I  that  I  e'er  should  live  to  see  this  day  I 
The  honor  of  our  city's  gone  forever. 

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

Iden.  And  so  am  I. 

Fritz.  But  whom  do  you  suspect  ? 

Iden.  Suspect !  all  people 

Without — within — above — below — Heaven  help  me ! 

Fritz.  Is  there  no  other  entrance  to  the  chamber  ? 

Iden.  None  whatsoever. 

Fritz.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

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

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

Iden.  Doubtless 

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

Iden.  Poor  as  a  miser. 

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

l''ritz.  There's  another, 

The  stranger 

Iden.  The  Hungarian  ? 


SCEITK    L 


WERNER. 


849 


Fritz.  He  who  help'd 

To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 

Iden.  Not 

Unlikely.    But,  hold — might  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite  ? 

Fritz.  How  ?    TTe  sir  ! 

Iden.  No — not  you, 

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

Fritz.  Good  sir. 

Be  not  so  quick  ;  the  honor  of  the  corps 
Which  forms  the  baron's  household's  unimpeach'd, 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fair  way 
Of  peculation  ;  such  as  in  accompts, 
Weights,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  buttery. 
Where  all  men  take  their  prey  ;  as  also  in 
Postage  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents, 
Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furnish  noble  masters  : 
But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thievery, 
We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-wages.     Then 
Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  he  would  not 
Have  been  so  poor  a  spirit  as  to  hazard 
His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  svvoop'd  all ; 
Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 

Iden.  There  is  some  sense  in  that 

Fritz.  No,  sir,  be  sure 

'Twas  none  of  our  corps ;  but  some  petty,  trivial 
Picker  and  stealer,  without  art  or  genius. 
The  only  question  is- — Who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself  ? 

Iden.  You  don't  mean  me  ? 

Fritz.  No,  sir  ;  I  honor  more 

Your  talents 

Iden.  And  my  principles,  I  hope. 

FVitz.  Of  course.    But  to  the  point :    What's  to 
be  done  ? 

Iden.  Nothing — but  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said. 
We'll  oflFer  a  reward ;  move  heaven  and  earth. 
And  the  police,  (though  there's  none  nearer  than 
Frankfort ;)  post  notices  in  manuscript, 
(For  we've  no  printer) ;  and  set  by  my  clerk 
To  read  them,  (for  few  can  save  he  and  I.) 
We'll  send  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 
Search  empty  pockets  ;  also,  to  arrest 
All  gipsies,  and  ill-clothed  and  sallow  people. 
Prisoners  we'll  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit ; 
And  for  the  baron's  gold — if  'tis  not  found. 
At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting  twice  its  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.    Here's  alchemy 


For  your  lord's  losses  1 

Fritz.  He  hath  found  a  better. 

Iden.  Where? 

Fritz.  In  a  most  immense  inheritance. 

The  late  Count  Siegendorf,  his  distant  kinsman, 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

Iden.  '  Was  there 

No  heir  ? 

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

Iden.  He's  fortunate. 

Fritz.  'Tis  true,  there  is  a  grandson, 

Whom  the  late  count  reclaim'd  from  his  son's  hands, 
And  educated  as  his  heir ;  but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

Iden  How  so  ? 

Fritz.  His  sire  made 

A  left-hand,  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage. 
With  an  Italian  exile's  dark-eyed  daughter : 
Noble,  they  say,  too ;  but  no  match  for  such 
A  house  as  Siegendorf 's.     The  grandsire  ill 
Could  brook  the  alliance ;  and  could  ne'er  be  brought 
To  see  the  parents,  though  he  took  the  son. 

Iden.  If  he's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 
Dispute  your  claim,  and  weave  a  web  that  may 
Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 

Fritz.  Why, 

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

Iden.  The  devil  he  did  ! 

Fritz.  -  Why,  yes : 

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

Iden.  Was  there  no  cause  assign'd  ? 

Fritz.  Plenty,  no  douBt, 

And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.    Some  averr'd 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents  ;  some  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly, 
(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted  on  him  ;) 
A  third  believed  he  wish'd  to  serve  in  war. 
But  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  departure. 
He  might  have  since  retum'd,  were  that  the  motive  ; 
A  fourth  set  charitably  have  surmised. 
As  there  was  something  strange  and  mystic  in  him, 


350 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  II. 


That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature 

He  had  join'd  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste  Lusa- 

The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia,  [tia, 

Since  the  last  years  of  wars  had  dwindled  into 

A  kind  of  general  condottiero  system 

Of  bandit  warfare ;  each  troop  with  its  chief, 

And  all  against  mankind. 

Iden.  That  cannot  be. 

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

Fritz.  Heaven  best  knows  ! 

But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprise. 
That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure.  . 

Pve  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  Indian, 
Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.     After  aU, 
Your  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Gustavus, 
Tour  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Weimar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale  ; 
And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  proclaim'd. 
They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 
Pursue  it  on  their  own  account.     Here  comes 
The  baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday's  escape, 
But  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Until  this  morning. 

Enter  Stbalenheim  and  Ulkic. 

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

Zrir.  I  pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

Stral.  But 

Can  I  not  serve  you  ?    You  are  young,  and  of 
That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes ;  fair  in  favor ; 
Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so  ; 
And  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart, 
Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war, 
As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 
An  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stranger 
In  as  perilous,  but  opposite,  element. 
You  are  made  for  the  service  :  I  have  served  ; 
Have  rank  by  birth  and  soldiership,  and  friends 
Who  shall  be  yours.    'Tis  true  this  pause  of  peace 
Favors  such  views  at  present  scantily ; 
But  'twill  not  last,  men's  spirits  are  too  stirring  ; 
And,  after  thirty  yeai's  of  conflict,  peace 
Is  but  a  petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 
In  every  forest,  or  a  mere  arm'd  truce. 
War  will  reclaim  his  own  ;  and,  in  the  meantime 
You  might  obtain  a  post,  which  would  ensure 


A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  fail  not 
To  rise.     I  speak  of  Brandenberg,  wherein 
I  stand  well  with  the  Elector ;  in  Bohemia, 
Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 
Upon  its  frontier. 

Ulr.  You  perceive  my  garb 

Is  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.     If  I  must  decline 
Your  offer,  'tis  with  the  same  feeling  which 
Induced  it. 

Stral.  Why,  this  is  mere  usnry  ! 

I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  you  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 
To  heap  more  obligations  on  me,  till 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

Ulr.  You  shall  say  so  when 

I  claim  the  payment. 

Stral.  Well,  sir,  since  you  will  not — 

You  are  nobly  born  ? 

Ulr.  I  have  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so. 

Stral.  Your  actions  show  it.     Might  I  ask  your 
Ulr.  Ulric.  [name? 

Stral.  Your  house's  ? 

Ulr.  When  I'm  worthy  of  it, 

I'll  answer  you. 

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

[Aloud  to  Fritz  and  Idenstbik. 
So,  sirs  !  how  have  ye  sped  in  your  researches  ? 
Iden.  Indifferent  well,  your  excellency. 
Stral.  Then 

I  am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught  ? 
Iden.  Humph  !— not  exactly. 
Stral.  Or  at  least  suspected  ? 

Iden.  Oh,  for  that  matter,  very  much  suspected  ! 
Stral.  Who  may  he  be  ? 

Iden.  Why,  don't  you  know,  my  lord  ? 

Stral.  How  should  I  ?    I  was  fast  asleep. 
Iden.  And  so 

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

Stral.  Dolt  1 

Iden.  Why,  if 

Your  lordship,  being  robb'd,  don't  recognize 
The  rogue  ;  how  should  I,  not  being  robb'd,  identify 
The  thief  among  so  many  ?     In  the  crowd, 
May  it  please  your  excellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better  : 
'Tis  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features  ; 
But  I'll  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once, 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no. 
His  face  shall  be  so.     • 

Stral.  (to  Fritz.)  Prithee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  tp  trace  the  fellow  ? 


SCENE   I. 


WERNER. 


861 


Fritz.  Faith  1 

My  lord,  not  much  as  yet,  except  conjecture. 

Stral.  Besides  the  loss,  (which  I  must  own,  affects 
Just  now  materially,)  I  needs  would  find  [me 

The  villain  out  of  public  motives ;  for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  could  creep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lighted  chambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce-closed  eyes,  would  soon 
Leave  bare  your  borough,  Sir  Intendant  I 

Iden.  True; 

If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 

Ulr.  What  is  all  this  ? 

Stral.  You  join'd  us  but  this  morning, 

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

Ulr.  Some  rumor  of  it  reach'd  me  as  I  pass'd 
The  outer  chamber  of  the  palace,  but 
I  know  no  further. 

Stral.  It  is  a  strange  business  ; 

The  intendant  can  inform  you  of  the  facts. 

Iden.  Most  willingly.     You  see 

.  Stral.  {impatiently.')  Defer  your  tale, 

Till  certain  of  the  hearer's  patience. 

Iden.                                                      That 
Can  only  be  approved  by  proofs.    You  see 

Stral.   {again    interrupting    him,   and   addressing 
Ulric.) 
In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair. 
My  cabinet  before  me,  with  some  gold 
Upon  it,  (more  than  I  much  like  to  lose. 
Though  in  part  only  :)  some  ingenious  person 
Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  attendants. 
Besides  those  of  the  place,  and  bore  away 
A  himdred  golden  ducats,  which  to  find 
I  would  be  fain,  and  there's  an  end.     Perhaps 
You  (as  I  still  am  rather  faint)  would  add 
To  yesterday's  great  obligation,  this. 
Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  to  aid  these  men 
(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  in  recovering  it  ? 

Ulr.  Most  willingly,  and  without  loss  of  time — 
{To  Idenstein.)  Come  hither,  mynheer  ! 

Iden.                                But  so  much  haste  bodes 
Right  little  speed,  and 

Ulr.  Standing  motionless 

None  ;  so  let's  march ;  we'll  talk  as  we  go  on. 

Iden.  But 

Ulr.         Show  the  spot,  and  then  I'll  answer  you. 

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

Stral.  Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  ass  with  you. 

Fritz.  Hence  I 

Ulr.  Come  on,  old  oracle,  expound  thy  riddle  ! 

[Exit  with  Idenstein  and  Fritz. 

Stral.  {unhis.)  A  stalwart,  active,  soldier-looking 
Handsome  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labor,  [stripling, 
And  with  a  brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 
When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindles  up 
In  answering  yours.     I  wish  I  could  engage  him, 


I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now. 

For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a  struggle. 

And  though  I  am  not  the  man  to  yield  without  one, 

Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 

And  my  desire.     The  boy,  they  say,  's  a  bold  one  ; 

But  he  hath  play'd  the  truant  in  some  hour 

Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to  [whom 

Champion    his    claims.     That's   well.     The    father 

For  years  I've  track'd,  as  does  the  bloodhound, 

In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me  [never 

To  fault ;  but  here  I  have  him,  and  that's  better. 

It  must  be  he  !    All  circumstance  proclaims  it ; 

And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 

Of  my  inquiries,  still  confirm  it.     Yes  ! 

The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 

Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time ;  the  account,  too. 

The  intendant  gave  (for  I  have  not  beheld  her) 

Of  his  wife's  dignified  but  foreign  aspect 

Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  we  met. 

As  snakes  and  lions  shrink  back  from  each  other 

By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  bo  foes 

Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either  ; 

All — all — confirm  it  to  my  mind.     However, 

We'll  grapple,  ne'ertheless.     In  a  few  hours 

The  order  comes  from  Frankfort,  if  these  waters 

Rise  not  the  higher,  (and  the  weather  favors 

Their  quick  abatement,)  and  I'll  have  him  safe 

Within  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 

His  real  estate  and  name ;  and  there's  no  harm  done. 

Should  he  prove  other  than  I  deem.     This  robbery 

(Save  for  the  actual  loss)  is  lucky  also  : 

He's  poor,  and  that's  suspicious — he's  unknown. 

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

Of  guilt, — but  what  hath  he  of  innocence  ? 

Were  he  a  man  indifferent  to  my  prospects. 

In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 

The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 

Hath  something  which  I  like  not ;  and  alone 

Of  all  around,  except  the  intendent,  and 

The  prince's  household  and  mine  own,  had  ingress 

Familiar  to  the  chamber. 

Enter  Gabor. 

Friend,  how  fare  you  ? 

Oah.  As  those  who  fare  well  everywhere,  when  they 
Have  supp'd  and  slumber'd,  no  great  matter  how — 
And  you,  my  lord  ? 

Stral.  Better  in  rest  than  purse  : 

Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 

Oab.  I  heard 

Of  your  late  loss  ;  but  'tis  a  trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

Stral.  You  would  hardly  think  so, 

Were  the  loss  yours. 

Qab.  I  never  had  so  much 

(At  once)  in  my  whole  life,  and  therefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.    But  I  came  htre  to  seek  you. 


852 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACTU. 


Your  couriers  are  tum'd  back — I  have  outstripp'd 
In  my  return.  [them, 

Stral.  You  I    Why  ? 

Oah.  I  went  at  daybreak, 

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

Stral.  Would  the  dogs  were  in  it  1 

Why  did  they  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  passage  ? 
I  order'd  this  at  all  risks. 

Gah.  Could  you  order 

The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea,  (scarcely  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swoln  stream,)  and  be  obey'd,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

Stral.  I  must  see  to  it : 

The  knaves  !  the  slaves  ! — but  they  shall  smart  for 
this.  [&i7  Stkalenhbim. 

Oah.  (solus.)  There  goes   my  noble,  feudal,  seU- 
Epitome  of  what  brave  chivalry  [will'd  baron  ! 

The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times, 
Have  left  us.     Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands,  (if  he  hath  any,)  and,  stiU  dearer. 
His  sixteen  quarterings,  for  as  much  fresh  air 
As  would  have  flU'd  a  bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  half  way  through  the  window 
Of  his  o'erset  and  water-logg'd  conveyance  ; 
And  now  he  storms  at  half  a  dozen  wretches. 
Because  they  love  their  lives  too  !     Yet,  he's  right : 
'Tis  strange  they  should,  when  such  as  he  may  put 
To  hazard  at  his  pleasure.     Oh,  thou  world  !   [them 
Thou  art  indeed  a  melancholy  jest  1 

[Exit  Gabob. 

SCENE      11. 

The  Apartment  of  Werner,  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Jobbfhine  and  Ulbic. 

Jos.  Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again  ! 
My  Ubic  ! — my  beloved  1 — can  it  be — 
After  twelve  years  ? 

Ulr.  My  dearest  mother  I 

Jos.  Yes  1 

My  dream  is  realized — how  beautiful ! — 
How  more  than  all  I  sigh'd  for  !    Heaven  receive 
A  mother's  thanks  I — a  mother's  tears  of  joy  1 
This  is  indeed  thy  work  1     At  such  an  hour,  too. 
He  comes  not  only  as  a  son,  but  saviour. 

Ulr.  If  such  a  joy  await  me,  it  must  double 
What  I  now  feel,  and  lighten  from  my  heart 
A  part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 
Of  love  (for  that  was  ne'er  withheld) — forgive  me  1 
This  long  delay  was  not  my  fault 


Joi-  I  know  it, 

But  cannot  think  of  sorrow  now,  and  doubt 
If  I  e'er  felt  it,  'tis  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory,  by  this  oblivious  transport  1 — 
My  son  I 

Enter  Werner. 

Wer.  What  have  we  here, — more  strangers  ? 

Jos.  No  1 

Look  upon  him  !    What  do  you  see  ? 

Wer.  A  stripling, 

For  the  first  time 

Ulr.  {kneeling.)  For  twelve  long  years,  my  father  I 

Wer.  O  God  ! 

Jos.  He  faints ! 

Wer.  No — I  am  better  now — 

Ulric !     {Emhraces  him.) 

Ulr.  My  father,  Siegendorf ! 

Wer.  {starting.)  Hush  !  boy 

The  walls  may  hear  that  name  1 

Ulr.  What  then  ? 

Wer.  ■  Why,  then— 

But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.     Remember, 
I  must  be  known  here  but  as  Werner.     Come  1 
Come  to  my  arms  again  !     Why,  thou  look'st  all 
I  should  have  been,  and  was  not.     Josephine  I 
Sure  'tis  no  father's  fondness  dazzles  me  ; 
But,  had  I  seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have  chosen 
This  for  my  son  ! 

Ulr.  And  yet  you  knew  me  not  1 

Wer.  Alas  1  I  have  had  that  upon  my  soul. 
Which  makes  me  look  on  aU  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

Ulr.  My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly  :  I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught ;  and  ofttimes  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halls  of — (I'll  not  name  them, 
As  you  say  that  'tis  perilous) — but  i'  the  pomp 
Of  your  sire's  feudal  mansion,  I  look'd  back 
To  the  Bohemian  mountains  many  a  sunset. 
And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 
O'er  thee  and  me,  with  those  huge  hills  between  us. 
They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

Wer.  I  know  not  that. 

Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

Ulr.  Oh,  heavens  !  I  left  him  in  a  green  old  age. 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  still  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 
Fell  fast  around  him.     'Twas  scarce  three  months 

Wer.  Why  did  you  leave  him  ?  [since. 

Jos.  {embracing  Ulric.)  Can  you  ask  that  question  1 
Is  he  not  here  f 

Wer.  True  :  he  hath  sought  his  parents, 

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

Ulr.  All  shall  be  better'd.     What  we  have  to  do 
Is  to  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  rights. 
Or  rather  yours  ;  for  I  waive  all,  unless 
Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 


SCENE  IL 


WERNER. 


333 


Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost, 
So  that  I  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form : 
But  I  trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

Wer.  Have  you  not  heard  of  Stralenheim  ? 

Ulr.  I  saved 

His  life  but  yesterday  :  he's  here. 

Wer.  You  saved 

The  serpent  who  will  stLng  us  all  1 

Ulr.  You  speak 

Riddles  :  what  is  this  Stralenheim  to  us  ? 

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

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

Wer.  Ay,  if  at  Prague 

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

Ulr.        Doth  he  personally  know  you  ? 

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

Ulr.  I  think  you  wrong  him  ; 

(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase  ;)  but  Stralenheim 
Is  not  what  you  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so, 
He  owes  me  something  both  for  past  and  present. 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me, 
He  hath  been  plunder'd  too,  since  he  came  hither  : 
Is  sick ;  a  stranger  ;  and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robb'd  him  : 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so  ;  and  the  business 
Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that :  but  I 
Have  found,  in  searching  for  another's  dross. 
My  own  whole  treasure — you,  my  parents  ! 

Wer.  (agitatedly^  Who 

Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  "  villain  ?" 

Ulr.  What 

More  noble  name  belongs  to  common  thieves  ? 

Wer.  Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an  unknown 
With  an  infernal  stigma  ?  [being 

Ulr.  My  own  feelings 

Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  from  his  deeds. 

Wer.  Who  taught  you,  long-sought  and  ill-found 
boy  1  that 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  to  insult  me  ? 

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

Wer.  Every  thing  1 

That  ruffian  is  thy  father  I 

Jos.  Oh,  my  son  ! 

Believe  him  not — and  yet ! (her  voice  falter*.) 

4.5 


Ulr.  (starts,  looks  earnestly  at  Wehner,  and  then 
says  slowly^  And  you  avow  it  ? 

Wer.  Ulric  !  before  you  dare  despise  your  father. 
Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.    Young, 
Rash,  new  to  life,  and  rear'd  in  luxury's  lap, 
Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force, 
Or  misery's  temptation  ?     Wait— (not  long, 
It  Cometh  like  the  night,  and  quickly) — Wait  I — 
Wait  till,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  blighted — till 
Sorrow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  your  cabin ; 
Famine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table  ; 
Despair  your  bedfellow — then,  rise,  but  not 
From  sleep,  and  judge  !  Should  that  day  e'er  arrive — 
Should  you  see  then  the  serpent,  who  hath  coil'd 
Himself  around  all  that  is  dear  and  noble 
Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  path. 
With  but  Ms  folds  between  your  steps  and  happiness, 
When  he,  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name. 
Lands,  life  itself,  lies  at  your  mercy,  with 
Chance  your  conductor ;  midnight  for  your  mantle  ; 
The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep. 
Even  to  your  deadliest  foe  ;  and  he,  as  'twere 
Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 
His  death  alone  can  save  you  : — Thank  your  God  ! 
If  then,  like  me,  content  with  petty  plunder. 
You  turn  aside 1  did  so. 

Ulr.  But 

Wer.  (abruptly.)  Hear  me  ! 

I  will  not  brook  a  human  voice — scarce  dare 
Listen  to  my  ovra  (if  that  be  human  still) — 
Hear  me  !  you  do  not  know  this  man — I  do. 
He's  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.    You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave  ;  but  leani 
None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subtilty.    My  worst  foe,  Stralenheim, 
Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  couch'd  within 
A  prince's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife  ! 
An  instant — a  mere  motion — the  least  impulse — 
Had  swept  him  and  all  fears  of  mine  from  earth. 
He  was  within  my  power — my  knife  was  raised — 
Withdrawn — and  I'm  in  his  : — arc  you  not  so  ? 
Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  7iot  ?     Who  says 
He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you  ?  or 
To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a  dungeon  ? 

[//«  paimen. 

Ulr.  Proceed — proceed  I 

Wer.  Me  he  hath  ever  known. 

And  hunted  through  each  change  of  time — name — 

fortune — 
And  why  not  you  ?    Are  you  more  versed  in  men  ? 
He  wound  snares  round  me  ;  flung  along  my  path 
Reptiles,  whom,  in  my  youth,  I  would  have  spurn'd 
Even  from  my  presence  ;  but,  in  spurning  now. 
Fill  only  with  fresh  venom.    Will  you  be 
More  patient  ?    Ulric  ! — Ulric  ! — ^there  are  crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear. 


354 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  n. 


Ulr.  {looks  first  at  him,  and  then  at  JosEpmKE.) 
My  mother ! 

Wer.  Ay  !  I  thought  so  :  you  have  now 

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

Ulr.  But  stay  I 

[Wehner  rushes  out  of  the  chamber. 

Jos.  (to  Ulric.)  Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm 
of  passion 
Abates.     Think'st  thou,  that  were  it  well  for  him, 
I  had  not  follow'd  J 

Ulr.  I  obey  you,  mother, 

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

Jos.  Oh,  he  is  good  ! 

Condemn  him  not  from  his  own  mouth,  but  trust 
To  me,  who  have  borne  so  much  with  him,  and  for 
That  this  is  but  the  surface  of  his  soul,  [him. 

And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

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

Jos.  Kor  doth  he 

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

Ulr.  Explain  to  me 

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

Jos.  Ay ! 

Hadst  thou  but  done  so  ! 

Snter  Gabob  and  Idbnstein,  with  Attendants. 

Oah.  {to  Ulr.)  I  have  sought  you,  comrade. 
So  this  is  my  reward  ! 

Ulr.  Wliat  do  you  mean  ? 

Gai.  'Sdeath !  have  I  lived  to  these  years,  and 
for  this ! 
{To  Men.)  But  for  your  ago  and  foUy,  I  would 

Jden.  Help ! 

Hands  off !    Touch  an  intendant ! 

Gab.  Do  not  think 

I'll  honor  you  so  much  as  save  your  throat 
From  the  Ravcnstone '  by  choking  you  myself. 

Men.  I  thank  you  for  the  respite  :  but  there  are 
Those  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 

Ulr.  Unriddle  this  vile  wrangling,  or 

Gah.  At  once,  then. 

The  baron  has  been  robb'd,  and  upon  me 
This  worthy  personage  has  deign'd  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions — me  1  whom  he  ne'er  saw 
Till  ycster'  evening. 

Men.  Wouldst  have  me  suspect 

'  The  Kavcnstone,  "Kabenstcin,"  Is  the  atone  gibhei  of  Ger- 
many, and  TO  called  ftom  the  ravens  perching  on  it. 


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

Gab.  You  shall 

Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men, 
The  worms  !  you  hound  of  malice  1 

[Gabor  seizes  on  him, 

Ulr.  {interfering.)  Nay,  no  violence  : 

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

Gab.  {letting  go  Men^  True : 

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

Ulr.  {to  Men.)  How 

Fare  you  ? 

Men.         Help  t 

Ulr.  I  have  help'd  you. 

Men.  Kill  him  1  then 

I'll  say  so. 

Gab.         I  am  calm — live  on  ! 

Men.  That's  more 

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

Gab.  Does  he  abet  you  in  your  accusation  ? 

Men.  Does  he  not  ? 

Gab.  Then  next  time  let  him  go  sink 

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

Enter  Stbalenheim. 

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

Stral.  Well,  sir ! 

Gah.  Have  you  aught  with  me  ? 

Stral.  What  should  I 

Have  with  you  ? 

Gab.  You  know  best,  if  yesterday's 

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

Stral.  I  accuse  no  man. 

Gab.  Then  you  acquit  me,  baron  ? 

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

Odb.  But  you  at  least 

Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.   I  am  insulted — 
Oppress'd  here  by  these  menials,  and  I  look 
To  you  for  remedy — teach  them  their  duty  ! 
To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  part  of  it, 
If  duly  taught ;  but,  in  one  word,  if  I 
Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a  man 
Worthy  to  be  so  of  a  man  like  me. 
I  am  your  equal. 

Stral.  You ! 

Gab.  Ay,  sir  !  and,  for 

Aught  that  you  know,  superior  ;  but  proceed — 
I  do  not  ask  for  hints,  and  surmises. 


SCKNE   II. 


WERNER. 


85fi 


And  circumstance,  and  proofe  ;  I  know  enough 

Of  what  I  have  done  for  you,  and  what  you  owe  me, 

To  have  at  least  waited  your  payment  rather 

Than  paid  myself,  had  I  been  eager  of 

Your  gold.    I  also  know,  that  were  I  even 

The  villain  I  am  deem'd,  the  service  render'd 

So  recently  would  not  permit  you  to 

Pursue  me  to  the  death,  except  through  shame, 

Such  as  would  leave  your  scutcheon  but  a  blank. 

But  this  is  nothing :  I  demand  of  you 

Justice  upon  your  unjust  servants,  and 

From  your  own  lips  a  disavowal  of 

All  sanction  of  their  insolence  :  thus  much 

You  owe  to  the  unknown,  who  asks  no  more. 

And  never  thought  to  have  ask'd  so  much. 

Stral.  This  tone 

May  be  of  innocence. 

Oab.  'Sdeath  I  who  dare  doubt  it. 

Except  such  villains  as  ne'er  had  it  ? 

Stral.  You 

Are  hot,  sir ! 

Gab.  Must  I  turn  an  icicle 

Before  the  breath  of  menials,  and  their  master  ? 

Stral.  Uhic  1  you  know  this  man  ;  I  found  him  in 
Your  company. 

Gal).  ■     We  found  you  in  the  Oder ; 

Would  we  had  left  you  there  ! 

Stral.  I  give  you  thanks,  sir. 

Gab.  I've  eam'd  them ;  but  might  have  e.arn'd 
more  from  others. 
Perchance,  if  I  had  left  you  to  your  fate. 

Stral.  Uhic !  you  know  this  man  ? 

Gab.  No  more  than  you  do, 

If  he  avouches  not  my  honor. 

Ulr.  I 

Can  vouch  your  courage,  and,  as  far  as  my 
Own  brief  connection  led  me,  honor. 

Stral.  Then 

I'm  satisfied. 

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

Stral.  I  merely  said  that  I 

Was  satisfied — not  that  you  are  absolved. 

Gab.  Again  !    Am  I  accused  or  no  ? 

Stral.  Go  to ! 

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

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


Stral.  Threat'st  thou  ? 

Gab.  Not  so  much 

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

Stral.  As  you  have  said,  'tis  true  I  owe  you  some- 
For  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself,  [thing 

Gab.  Not  with  your  gold. 

Stral.  With  bootless  insolence. 

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

[Fxit  Stralenheim,  Idenstbin,  rtH(i  Attend- 
ants. 

Gab.  {folloioing.)  I'll  after  him  and 

Ulr.  (stopping  him.')  Not  a  step. 

Gab.  Who  shall 

Oppose  me  ? 

Ulr.  Your  own  reason,  Avith  a  moment's 

Thought. 

Gab.        Must  I  bear  this  ? 

Ulr.  Pshaw  1  we  all  must  bear 

The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves — the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 
Nor  the  lowest  his  vicegerents  upon  earth. 
I've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear     [skin — 
Things  which  had  made  this   silkworm   cast  his 
And  shrink  you  from  a  few  sharp  sneers  and  words  ? 

Gab.  Must  I  bear  to  be  deem'd  a  thief?   If 'twere 
A  bandit  of  the  woods,  I  could  have  borne  it — 
There's  something  daring  in  it ; — but  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a  slumbering  man  1 — 

Ulr.  It  seems,  then. 

You  are  not  guilty  ? 

Gah.  Do  I  hear  aright  ? 

Toil,  too ! 

Ulr.         I  merely  ask'd  a  simple  question. 

Gab.  If  the  "judge  ask'd  me,  I  would  answer  ".No," 
To  you  I  answer  thvs.    {He  draws.) 

Ulr.  (drawing.)  With  all  my  heart ! 

Jos.  Without  there  !    Ho  !  help !  help  I    O  God  ! 
Here's  murder ! 

[Exit  JosEpmNE  thriehing. 

Gabob  and  Vjsbio  fght.    Gabob  is  disarmed  just  as 
Stbalenheim,  Josephine,  Idensteik,  etc.,  re- 
enter. 
JoK  Oh,  glorious  heaven  !     He's  safe  ! 
Stral.  (to  Jos.)  Who  'b  safe  ? 

Jos.  My 

Ulr.  (interrupting  her  with  a  steini  lool\  and  turn- 
ing afterwards  to  Stealenjieim.)     Both  ! 
Here 's  no  great  harm  done. 

Stral.  What  hath  caused  aU  this  ? 

Ulr.  Yov,  baron,  I  believe  ;  but  as  the  eifect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you.    Gabor  I 
There  is  your  sword  ;  and  v/hen  you  bare  it  next, 
Let  it  not  be  against  your/n«nrff, 


366 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ACT  II. 


[Ulbic  pronounces  the  last  words  slowly  and  em- 
phatically in  a  low  voice  to  Gabob. 

Gab.  I  thank  you 

Less  for  my  life  than  for  yovir  counsel. 

Stral.  These 

Brawls  must  end  here. 

Gal.  {talcing  his  sicord.)  They  shall.    You  have 
wrong'd  me,  Ulric, 
Mora  with  your  unkind  thoughts  than  sword.     I 
The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than  [would 

The  first  in  yours.    I  could  have  borne  yon  noble's 
Absurd  insinuations — ignorance 
And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 
Entail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands. 
But  I  may  fit  him  yet : — you  have  vanquish'd  me 
I  was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 
That  I  could  cope  with  you,  whom  I  had  seen 
Already  proved  by  greater  perils  than 
Rest  in  this  arm.    We  may  meet  by  and  by, 
However — but  in  friendship.  [^Exit  Qabor. 

Stral.  I  will  brook 

No  more  !    This  outrage  following  up  his  insults, 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  cancelFd  all  the  little 
I  owed  him  heretofore  for  the  so-vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succor. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  ? 

Ulr.  Not  even  by  a  scratch. 

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

Iden.  Secure  him  1    He  hath  got  his  sword  again. 
And  seems  to  know  the  use  on't ;  'tis  his  trade, 
Belike  ; — I'm  a  civilian. 

Stral.  Fool  I  are  not 

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

Ulr.  Baron,  I  do  beseech  you  ! 

Stral,  I  must  be 

Obey'd.    No  words  1 

Idetf.  Well,  if  it  must  be  so — ■ 

March,  vassals  !  I'm  your  leader,  and  wiU  bring 
The  rear  up  :  a  wise  general  never  should 
Expose  his  precious  life — on  which  all  rests. 
I  like  that  article  of  war. 

[Exit  Idensteiu  and  Attendants. 

Stral.  Come  hither, 

Ulric  1  what  does  this  woman  here  ?    Oh,  now 
I  recognize  her  1  'tis  the  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  name  "  Werner." 

Ulr.  'Tis  his  name. 

Stral.  Indeed ! 

Is  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame  ? — 

Jos.  Who  seeks  him  ? 

Stral.  No  one — for  the  present :  but 

I  fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourself 
Alone. 


Ulr,  I  wiU  retire  with  you. 

Jos.  Not  so : 

You  are  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 
All  places  here. 

(Aside  to  Ulr.,  as  she  goes  out.)  Oh,  Ulric !  have  a 
Remember  what  depends  on  a  rash  word  1     [care — 

Ulr.  (to  Jos.)  Fear  not ! — 

{Exit  JosBPniNE. 

Stral.  Ulric,  I  think  that  I  may  trust  you : 
You  saved  my  life — and  acts  like  these  beget 
Unbounded  confidence. 

Ulr.  Say  on. 

Stral.  Mysterious 

And  long-engender'd  circimistances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  enter'd  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious — perhaps  fatal  to  me. 

Ulr.  Who  ?  Gabor,  the  Hungarian  ? 

Stral.  No— this  "Werner "— 

With  the  false  name  and  habit. 

Ulr.  How  can  this  be  ? 

He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor — and  yellow 
Sickness  sits  cavem'd  in  his  hollow  eye  : 
The  man  is  helpless. 

Stral.  He  is — 'tis  no  matter ; — 

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

Ulr.  And  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Stral.  I  have  sent 

To  Frankfort,  to  the  governor,  my  friend, 
(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  of  the  house  of  Brandenburg,) 
For  a  fit  escort — but  this  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  so  for  some  hours. 

Ulr.  It  is  abating. 

Stral.  That  is  well. 

Ulr.  But  how 

Am  I  concern'd  ? 

Stral.  As  one  who  did  so  much 

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

Ulr.  Why  so  ? 

Stral.  He  stands 

Between  me  and  a  brave  inheritance  1 
Oh,  could  you  see  it !    But  you  shall. 

Ulr.  I  hope  so. 

Stral.  It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.    It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  that  fiii'e  and  sword 
Have  skimm'd  it  lightly :  so  that  now,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  double  value. 


SCENE   II. 


WERNER. 


357 


Confronted  with  whole  realms  far  and  near 
Made  deserts. 

Ulr.  You  describe  it  faithfully. 

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

Uh:  I  accept  the  omen. 

Stral.  Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it  and  me, 
Such  as  hotli  may  make  worthy  your  acceptance, 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  forever. 

Ulr.  And  this  sole,  sick,  and  miserable  wretch — 
This  way-worn  stranger — stands  between  you  and 
This  Paradise  ?    (As  Adam  did  between 
The  devil  and  his).    {Aside.l 

Stral.  He  doth. 

Ulr.  Hath  he  no  right  ? 

Stral.  Right  1  none.    A  disinherited  prodigal, 
Who  for  these  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lineage 
In  all  his  acts — ^but  chiefly  by  his  marriage. 
And  living  amidst  commerce-fetching  burghers. 
And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a  mart  of  Jews. 

Ulr.  He  has  a  wife,  then  ? 

Stral,  You'd  be  sorry  to 

Call  such  your  mother.    You  have  seen  the  woman 
He  calls  his  wife  ? 

Ulr.  Is  she  not  so  ? 

Stral.  No  more 

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

Ulr.  They  are  childless,  then  ? 

Stral.  There  is  or  was  a  bastard. 

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

Ulr.  At  your  vain  fears  : 

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

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

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

Stral.  You  have  harp'd  the  very  string  next  to  my 
I  may  depend  upon  you  ?  [heart. 

Ulr.  'Twere  too  late 

To  doubt  it. 

Stral.  Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 

Your  bosom,  (for  the  appearance  of  the  man 
Is  pitiful,)  he  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robb'd  me  as  the  fellow  more  suspected, 
Except  that  circumstance  is  less  against  him, 
He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  a  chamber 
Without  approach  to  mine  :  and,  to  say  truth, 
I  think  too  well  of  blood  allied  to  mine, 
To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act : 


Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one 
Once — though  too  rash. 

Ulr.  And  they,  my  lord,  we  know 

By  our  experience,  never  plunder  till  [heirs, 

They  knock  the  brains  out  first — which  makes  them 
Not  thieves.  The  dead, who  feel  naught,  can  lose  noth- 
Nor  e'er  be  robb'd :  their  spoils  are  a  bequest—  [ing. 
No  more. 

Stral.      Go  to  1  you  are  a  wag.    But  say 
I  may  bo  sure  you'll  keep  an  eye  on  this  man, 
And  let  me  know  his  slightest  movement  towards 
Concealment  or  escape  ? 

Ulr.  You  may  be  sure 

You  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
WiU  be  his  sentinel 

Stral.  By  this  you  make  me 

Yours,  and  forever. 

Ulr.  Such  is  my  intention. 

[Extnmt. 

ACT  m. 

SCENE      I  . 

A  Hall  in  the  same  Palace,  from  wTience  the  secret 
Passage  leads. 

Enter  Webneb  and  Gaboe. 

Gal>.  Sir,  I  have  told  my  tale  :  if  it  so  please  you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a  few  hours,  well — 
If  not,  I'll  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

Wer.  How 

Can  I,  so  wretched,  give  to  Misery 
A  shelter  ? — wanting  such  myself  as  much 
As  e'er  the  hunted  deer  a  covert 

Gai.  Or 

The  wounded  lion  his  cool  cave.  Methinka 
You  rather  look  like  one  would  turn  at  bay, 
And  rip  the  hunter's  entrails. 

Wer.  Ah ! 

6ai.  I  care  not 

If  it  be  so,  being  much  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself.    But  will  you  shelter  me  ? 
I  am  oppress'd  like  you — and  poor  like  you — 
Disgraced [graced  ? 

Wer.  (abruptly.)  Who  told  you  that  I  was  dis- 

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

Wer.  Again  1 

Ab7? 

Gak  Or  any  other  honest  man. 
What  the  devil  would  you  have  ?  You  don't  believe 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  ?  [me 

Wer.  No,  no — I  cannot. 

Gab.  Wliy  that's  my  heart  of  honor  !  yon  young 
Your  miserly  intendant  and  dense  noble —  [gallant— 
All — all  suspected  me ;  and  why  ?  because 


958 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


I  am  the  worst-clothed,  and  least  named  amongst 

them ; 
Although,  were  Momus'  lattice  in  your  breasts. 
My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 
Than  theirs  :  but  thus  it  is — ^you  poor  and  helpless — 
Both  still  more  than  myself. 

Wer.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Gab.  You're  right :  I  ask  for  shelter  at  the  hand 
"Which  I  call  helpless  ;  if  you  now  deny  it, 
I  were  weU  paid.   But  you,  who  seem  to  hare  proved 
The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well, 
By  sympathy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 
Of  the  new  world  the  Spaniard  boasts  about. 
Could  never  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its  worth, 
Weigh'd  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance, 
Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I  grant  its  power. 
Because  I  feel  it)  as  may  leave  no  nightmare 
Upon  his  heart  o'  nights. 

Wer.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

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

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

Gab.  So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 
The  priests  say,  (and  no  doubt  they  should  know 
Therefore  I'U  stick  by  this — as  being  loth       [best,) 
To  suffer  martyrdom,  at  least  with  such 
An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb. 
It  is  but  a  night's  lodging  which  I  crave  ; 
To-morrow  I  wiU  try  the  waters  as 
The  dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

Wer.  Abated  ?    Is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

Gab.  There  was 

At  noontide. 

Wer.  Then  we  may  be  safe. 

Gab.  '  Are  ycni 

In  peril  ? 

Wer.      Poverty  is  ever  so. 

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

Wer.  Your  poverty  ? 

Gab.  No — you  don't  look  a  leech  for  that  disorder ; 
I  meant  my  peril  only :  you've  a  roof, 
And  I  have  none  ;  I  merely  seek  a  covert. 

Wer.  Rightly  ;  for  how  s'nould  such  wretch  as  I 
Have  gold  ? 

Gat.  Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on't. 
Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  baron's. 

Wei:  Dare  you  insinuate  ? 

Gab.  What  ? 

Wei:  Are  you  aware 

To  whom  you  speak  ? 

Gab.  No  ;  and  I  am  not  used 

Greatly  to  care.    {A  noise  heard  without.)  But  hark  ! 

Wer.  Who  come  ?  [they  come  ! 

Gab.  The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds,  after  me : 
I'd  face  them — but  it  were  in  vain  to  expect 


Justice  at  hands  like  theirs.    Where  shall  I  go  ? 
But  show  me  any  place.    I  do  assure  you. 
If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I  am  most  guiltless  : 
Think  if  it  were  your  own  case  ! 

Wer.  {aside.)  O  just  God  ! 

Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter  1    Am  I  dust  still  ? 

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

Wer.  Are  you  not 

A  spy  of  Stralenheim's  ? 

Gab.  Not  I !  and  if 

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

Wer.  You  f 

Gab.  After  such 

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

Wer.  I  will. 

Gab.  But  how  ? 

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

Oab.  Open  it. 

And  I  will  use  it  for  the  same. 

Wer.  I  found  it. 

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

Oab.  It  is  unnecessary  : 

How  should  I  make  my  way  in  darkness  through 
A  Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  windings  ?     [lead  ? 

Wer.  Yes,  but  who  knows  to  what  place  it  may 
/know  not — (mark  you  !) — but  who  knows  it  might 
Lead  even  into  the  chamber  of  your  foe  ?  [not 

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

Gab.  But  I  will. 

A  thousand  thanks  I 

Wer.         You'll  find  the  spring  the  more  obvious 
On  the  other  side ;  and,  when  you  would  return. 
It  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

Gab.  I'll  in— farewell ! 

[Gaeor  goes  in  by  the  secret  panel. 

Wer.  (solus.)  What  have  I  had  done  ?  Alas  1  what 
Before  to  make  this  fearful  ?    Let  it  be  [h^id  I  done 


SCENB    I. 


WERNER. 


;!59 


still  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man, 
Whose  sacrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own — 
They  come  !  to  seek  elsewhere  what  is  before  them  1 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Other.'. 

Iden.  Is  he  not  here  ?    He  must  have  vanished 
Through  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid      [then 
Of  pictured  saints  upon  the  red  and  yellow  [sunrise 
Casements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams  like 
On  long  pearl-color'd  beards  and  crimson  crosses. 
And  gilded  croiscrs,  and  cross'd  arms,  and  cowls. 
And  helms,  and  twisted  armor,  and  long  swords, 
All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows 
Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  hermits,  who33 
Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  in  some  panes 
Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 
As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 
He's  gone,  however. 

Wer,  Whom  do  you  see  ? 

Iden.  A  villain. 

Wer.  Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  ? 

Iden.  In  the  search 

Of  him  who  robb'd  the  baron. 

Wer.  Are  you  sure 

You  have  divined  the  man  ? 

Iden.  As  sure  as  you 

Stand  there :  but  where's  he  gone  ? 

Wer.  Who  ? 

Iden.  He  we  sought. 

Wer.  You  see  he  is  not  here. 

Iden.  And  yet  we  traced  him 

Up  to  this  haU.    Are  you  accomplices  ? 
Or  deal  you  in  the  black  art  ? 

Wer.  I  deal  plainly. 

To  many  men  the  blackest. 

Men.  It  may  be 

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

Wer.  You  had  best  begin 

Your  inquisition  now  :  I  may  not  be 
So  patient  always. 

Iden.  I  should  like  to  know, 

In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
That  Stralenheim's  in  quest  of. 

Wer.  Insolent  1 

Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  ? 

Iden.  Yes,  one  ; 

But  there's  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keenly. 
And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.    But  come  1 
Bustle,  my  boys  1  we  are  at  fault. 

\Exit  Idensteik  and  Attendants. 

Wer.  In  what 

A  maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me  1 
And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.    Down, 


Thou  busy  devil,  rising  in  my  heart  1 

Thou  art  too  late  !    I'll  naught  to  do  with  blood. 

Enter  Ulbic. 

Ulr.  I  sought  you,  father  I 
Wer.  Is  't  not  dangerous  ? 

Ulr.  No  ;  Stralenheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  between  us  ;  more — 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions. 
Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

Wer.  I  cannot  think  it ; 

'Tis  but  a  suare  he  winds  about  us  both. 
To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 

Ulr.,  I  cannot 

Pause  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 
The  doubts  that  rise  like  briers  in  our  path. 
But  must  break  through  them,  as  an  unarm'd  carle 
Would,  though  with  naked  limbs,  were  the  wolf 

rustling 
In  the  same  thicket  where  ho  liew'd  for  bread. 
Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caught  so  : 
We'll  overfly  or  rend  them. 

Wer.  Show  me  how  ? 

Ulr.  Can  you  not  guess  ? 
Wer.  I  cannot. 

Ulr.  That  is  strange. 

Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  last  night  f 
Wer.  I  understand  you  not. 

Ulr.  Then  we  shall  never 

More  understand  each  other.    But  to  change 

The  topic 

Wer.  You  mean  to  pursue  it,  as 

'Tis  of  our  safety. 

Ulr.  Right ;  I  stand  corrected. 

I  see  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 
Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 
The  waters  are  abating  ;  a  few  hours 
Will  bring  his  summon'd  myrmidons  from  Frank- 
When  you  will  be  a  prisoner,  perhaps  worse,     [fort, 
And  I  an  outcast,  bastardized  by  practice 
Of  this  same  baron  to  make  way  for  him. 

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

Ulr.  You  must  not  use  it,  at  least  now ;  but  take 
This  ring.  [//e  gives  Werner  a  jewel. 

Wer.  A  gem  !    It  was  my  father's  I 
Ulr.  And 

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


860 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


Wer.  And  leave  you, 

So  lately  found,  in  peril  too  ? 

Ulr.  Fear  nothing  1 

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

Wei:  My  noble  boy  ! 

Vlr.  Hush  1  hush  !  no  transports :  we'll  indulge 
In  Castle  Siegendorf !     Display  no  gold  :     [in  them 
Show  Idenstein  the  gem,  (I  know  the  man, 
And  have  look'd  through  him  :)  it  will  answer  thus 
A  double  purpose.    Stralenheim  lost  ffold — 
JVo  jewel :  therefore  it  could  not  be  his  ; 
And  then  the  man  who  was  possess'd  of  this 
Can  hardly  be  suspected  of  abstracting 
The  baron's  coin,  when  he  could  thus  convert 
This  ring  to  more  than  Stralenheim  has  lost 
By  his  last  night's  slumber.     Be  not  over  timid 
In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant, 
And  Idenstein  will  serve  you. 

Wer.  I  wiU  follow 

In  all  things  your  direction. 

Ulr.  I  would  have 

Spared  you  the  trouble  ;  but  had  I  appear'd 
To  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  still  more 
By  dabbling  with  a  jewel  in  your  favor. 
All  had  been  known  at  once. 

Wer.  My  guardian  angel ! 

This  overpays  the  past.    But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  1 

Ulr.  Stralenheim  knows  nothing 

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

Wer.  To  part  no  more  ! 

Ulr.  I  know  not  that ;  but  at 

The  least  we'll  meet  again  once  more. 

Wer.  My  boy ! 

My  friend  I  my  only  child,  and  Sole  preserver  I 
Oh,  do  not  hate  me  1 

Ulr.  Hate  my  father  ! 

Wer.  Ay ! 

My  father  hated  me.    Why  not  my  son  ? 

Ulr.  Your  father  knew  you  not  as  I  do. 

Wer.  Scorpions 

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

Ulr.  I'll  v)ait ! 

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


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

Ulr.  ^Vh  erefore  should  I  ? 

Wer.  Must  I  repeat  my  humiliation  ? 
Ulr.  No  1 

I  have  fathom'd  it  and  you.    But  let  us  talk 
Of  this  no  more.    Or  if  it  must  be  ever, 
Kot  note.    Your  error  has  redoubled  all 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  house, 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim. 
AU  we  have  now  to  think  of  is  to  bafile 
Him.    I  have  shown  one  way. 

Wer.  The  only  one, 

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

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

Wer.  Assuredly, 

Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest, 
Especially  the  next  in  blood. 

Ulr.  Blood!  'tis 

A  word  of  many  meanings  ;  in  the  veins, 
And  out  of  them,  it  is  a  different  thing — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  is  call'd)  are  aliens  to  each  other. 
Like  Theban  brethren  :  when  a  part  is  bad 
A  few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest. 
Wer.  I  do  not  apprehend  j'ou. 
Ulr.  That  may  be— 

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

You  and  my  mother  must  away  to-night. 

Here  comes  the  intendant :  sound  him  with  the  gem ; 

'Twill  sink  into  his  venal  soul  like  lead 

Into  the  deep,  and  bring  up  slime  and  mud, 

And  ooze  too,  from  the  bottom,  as  the  lead  doth 

With  its  greased  understratum  ;  but  no  less 

Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these  shoals. 

The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time  ! 

Farewell !  I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  hand, 

My  father ! 

Wer.  Let  me  embrace  thee  ! 

Ulr.  We  may  be 

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

Wer.  Accursed 

Be  he  who  is  the  stifling  cause  which  smothers 
The  best  and  sweetest  feelings  of  our  hearts  ; 
At  such  an  hour  too  1 

Ulr.  Yes,  curse — it  will  ease  you  ' 

Here  is  the  intendant. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

Master  Idenstein, 


SCENE   U. 


WERNER. 


301 


How  fare  you  in  your  purpose  ?    Have  you  caught 
The  rogue  ? 

Iden.  No,  faith ! 

Ulr.  Well,  there  are  plenty  more ; 

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

Iden.  Gone  back  to  his  chamber  : 

And  now  I  tliink  on't,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  impatience. 

Ulr.  Your  great  men 

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

Hen.  Who  was  he  ? 

Ulr.  An  old  Bohemian — an  imperial  gipsy. 

Idei^.  A  gipsy  or  Bohemian,  'tis  the  same, 
For  they  pass  by  both  names.    And  was  be  one  ? 

Ulr.  I've  heard  so ;  but  I  must  take  leave.     In- 

tendant,  [your  name. 

Your  servant ! — Werner,  {to  Wer.,  slightly,)  if  that  be 

Yours.  {Exit  Ulkic. 

Iden.  A  well-spoken,  pretty-faced  young  man  ! 
And  prettily-behaved  !    He  knows  his  station. 
You  see,  sir :  how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

Wer.  I  perceived  it,  and  applaud 

His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

Iden.  That's  well — 

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

Wer.  (showing  the  ring.)  Would  this  assist  your 
knowledge  ? 

Iden.  How  !— What !— Eh  I 

A  jewel ! 

Wer.  'Tis  your  own  on  one  condition. 

Iden.  Mine  !     Name  it ! 

Wer.  That  hereafter  you  permit  me 

At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it :  'tis 
A  family  ring. 

Iden,  A  family  ! — yours  ! — a  gem  1 

I'm  breathless  ! 

Wer.  You  must  also  furnish  me 

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

Iden.  But  is  it  real  ?    Let  me  look  on  it : 

Diamond,  by  all  that's  glorious  ! 

Wer.  Come,  I'll  trust  you : 

You  have  guess'd,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  bom  above 
My  present  seeming. 

Iden.  I  can't  say  I  did, 

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

Wer.  I  have  important  reasons 

For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 
46 


Iden.  So  then  you  are  the  man 

Whom  Stralenheim's  in  quest  of  ? 

Wer.  1  am  not ; 

But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct 
So  much  embarrassment  to  me  just  now, 
And  to  the  baron's  self  hereafter — 'tis 
To  spare  both  that  I  would  avoid  all  bustle.  ' 

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

Wer.  Gaze  on  it  freely ; 

At  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 

Iden.  Oh,  thou  sweet  sparkler  I 

Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher  1 
Thou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself ! 
Thou  bright  eye  of  the  Mine  !  thou  loadstar  of 
The  soul !  the  true  magnetic  Pole  to  which 
All  hearts  point  duly  north,  like  trembling  needles  ! 
Thou  flaming  Spirit  of  the  Earth  I  which,  sitting 
High  on  the  monarch's  diadem,  attractest 
More  worship  than  the  majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre  I 
Shalt  thou  be  mine  ?     I  am,  methinks,  already 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchymist  1 — 
A  wise  magician,  who  has  bound  the  devil 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  soul.     But  come, 
Werner,  or  what  else  ? 

Wer.  Call  me  Werner  still ; 

You  may  yet  know  me_  by  a  loftier  title. 

Iden.  I  do  believe  in  thee  !  thou  art  the  spirit 
Of  whom  I  long  have  dream'd  in  a  low  garb. 
But  come,  I'll  serve  thee  ;  thou  shalt  be  as  free 
As  air,  despite  the  waters  ;  let  us  hence  : 
I'll  show  thee  I  am  honest — (oh,  thou  jewel  I) 
Thou  shalt  be  furnish'd,  Werner,  with  such  means 
Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds 
Should  overtake  thee.     Let  me  gaze  again  1 
I  have  a  foster  brother  in  the  mart 
Of  Hamburgh  skill'd  in  precious  stones.    How  many 
Carats  may  it  weigh  ?  Come,  Werner,  I  will  wing  thee  I 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE      II. 

Stbalenheim's  Chamber. 
Stralenhbim  awl  Fkitz. 

Fritz.  All's  ready,  my  good  lord  ! 

Stral.  I  am  not  sleepy, 

And  yet  I  must  to  bed  ;  I  fain  would  say 
To  rest,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit. 
Too  dull  for  wakefulness,  too  quick  for  slumber. 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky, 
Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  through,  nor  yet 


362 


BYROIST'S  WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
'Twixt  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist ; — I  will 
Unto  my  pillow. 

Fritz.  May  you  rest  there  well  1 

Siral.  I  feel,  and  feax,  I  shall. 

Fritz.  And  wherefore  fear  ? 

Stral.  I  know  not  why,  and  therefore  do  fear  more. 

Because  an  undescribable bat  'tis 

All  folly.    Were  the  locks  (as  I  desired) 
Changed,  to-day,  of  this  chamber  ?  for  last  night's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

Fritz.  Certainly, 

According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 
The  inspection  of  myself  and  the  young  Saxon 
Who  saved  your  life.    I  think  they  call  him  "  Ulric." 

Stral.  You  think !  you  supercilious  slave  1  what 
right 
Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be 
Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 
Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a  litany 
Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty.  [still 

Get  hence  !     "  You  thinh,''''  indeed  I  you  who  stood 
Howling  and  dripping  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 
Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash'd  aside 
The  roaring  torrent,  and  restored  me  to 
Thank  him — and  despise  you.     ^'Tou  thinh!'''  and 
Can  recollect  his  name  !     I  will  not  waste       [scarce 
More  words  on  you.     Call  me  betimes. 

Fritz.  Good  night  1 

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

[TVte  scene  closes. 

SCENE      III. 

The  Secret    Passage. 

Oab.  (s  lus.)  Four — 

Five — six  hours  have  I  counted,  like  the  guard 
Of  outposts  on  the  never-merry  clock  : 
That  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  from  enjoyment 
With  every  clang.     'Tis  a  perpetual  knell. 
Though  for  a  marriage  feast  it  rings  :  each  stroke 
Peals  for  a  hope  the  less  ;  the  funeral  note 
Of  Love  deep-buried  without  resurrection 
In  the  grave  of  Possession  ;  while  the  knoll 
Of  long-lived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo 
To  triple  Time  in  the  son's  ear. 

I'm  cold — 
I'm  dark  ;  I've  blown  my  fingers — number'd  o'er 
And  o'er  my  steps — and  knock'd  my  head  against 
Some  fifty  buttresses— and  roused  the  rats 
And  bats  in  general  insurrection,  till 
Their  cursed  pattering  feet  and  whirling  wings 
Leave  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound. 
A  light  1    It  is  at  distance,  (if  I  can 


Measure  in  darkness  distance  ;)  but  it  blinks 

As  through  a  crevice  or  a  keyhole,  in 

The  inhibited  direction  :  I  must  on, 

Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 

A  distant  lamp-light  is  an  incident 

In  such  a  den  as  this.     Pray  heaven  it  lead  me 

To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me  !    Else — Heaven  aid 

To  obtain  or  to  escape  it !     Shining  still  [me 

Were  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himself, 

Or  he  himself  girt  with  its  beams,  I  could 

Contain  no  longer.     Softly  !  mighty  well ! 

That  corner's  turn'd — so — ah  1  no ! — right !  it  draws 

Nearer.     Here  is  a  darksome  angle — so. 

That's  weather'd.     Let  me  pause.     Suppose  it  leads 

Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 

I  have  escaped — no  matter,  'tis  a  new  one ;  ' 

And  novel  perils,  Uke  fresh  mistresses. 

Wear  more  magnetic  aspects  :  I  will  (m. 

And  be  it  where  it  may — I  have  my  dagger. 

Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch.     Burn  still, 

Thou  little  light !     Thou  art  my  ignis  fatuus  ! 

My  stationary  Will-o'-the-Wisp  !     So  !  so  ! 

He  hears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not. 

[  The  scene  ehset. 

SCENE      IV. 

A  Garden. 

Enter  Wbrneb. 

Wer.  I  could  not  sleep — and  now  the  hour's  at 
All's  ready.     Idenstein  has  kept  his  word  ;    [hand ; 
And  station'd  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
Upon  the  forest's  edge,  the  vehicle 
Awaits  us.     Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 
To  pale  in  heaven  ;  and  for  the  last  time  I 
Look  on  these  horrid  walls.     Oh,  never,  never 
Shall  I  forget  them  !    Here  I  came  most  poor, 
But  not  dishonor'd  :  and  I  leave  them  with 
A  stain, — if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 
My  heart ! — a  never-dying  cankerworm, 
Which  all  the  coming  splendor  of  the  lands, 
And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf 
Can  scarcely  lull  a  moment.     I  must  find 
Some  means  of  restitution,  which  would  ease 
My  soul  in  part ;  but  how  without  discovery  ? — 
It  must  be  done,  however  ;  and  I'll  pause 
Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safety. 
The  madness  of  my  misery  led  to  this 
Base  infamy  ;  repentance  must  retrieve  it : 
I  will  have  naught  of  Stralenheim's  upon 
My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine ; 
Lands,  freedom,  life,— and  yet  he  sleeps  as  soundly, 
Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 
Spread  for  his  canopy,  o'er  silken  piUows, 

Such  as  when Hark !  what  noise  is  that  ?  Again  1 

The  branches  shake,  and  some  loose  stones  hare  fallen 
From  yonder  terrace. 


8CBNB   rv. 


WERNER. 


363 


[TTlkic  leaps  down  from  the  terrace. 
Ulric  !  ever  welcome  I 
Thrice  welcome  now  1  this  filial 

Ulr.  Stop!    Before 

We  approach,  tell  me 

Wer.  Why  look  you  so  ? 

Ulr.  Do  I 

Behold  my  father,  or 

Wer.  What? 

Ulr.  An  assassin  ? 

Wer.  Insane  or  insolent ! 

Ulr.  Keply,  sir,  as 

You  prize  your  life,  or  mine  ! 

Wer.  To  what  must  I 

Answer  ? 

Ulr.        Are  you  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
Of  Stralenheim  ? 

Wer.  I  never  was  as  yet 

The  murderer  of  any  man.     What  mean  you  ? 

Ulr.  Did  not  you  this  night  (as  the  night  before) 
Retrace  the  secret  passage  ?     Did  you  not 

Again  revisit  Stralenheim's  chamber  ?  and 

[Ulric  pauses. 

Wer.  Proceed. 

Ulr.  Died  he  not  by  your  hand  ? 

Wer.  Great  God  1 

Ulr.  You  are  innocent,  then  !  my  father's  innocent  1 
Embrace  me!  Yes, — your  tone — your  look — yes. 
Yet  say  so.  [yes, — 

Wer.  If  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind. 

Conceived  deliberately  such  a  thought. 
But  rather  strove  to  trample  back  to  hell 
Such  thoughts — if  e'er  they  glared  a  moment  through 
The  irritation  of  my  oppressed  spirit — 
May  heaven  be  shut  forever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mine  eyes  ! 

Ulr.  But  Stralenheim  is  dead. 

Wer.  'Tis  horrible  !  'tis  hideous,  as  'tis  hateful ! 
But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Ulr.  No  bolt 

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

Wer.  Oh,  my  boy  I  what  unknown  woes 

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

Ulr.  My  father  !  I  acquit  you  ! 

But  will  the  world  do  so  ?  will  even  the  judge. 
If But  you  must  away  this  instant. 

Wer.  No ! 

ni  face  it.    Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 

Ulr.  Yet 

You  had  no  guests — no  visitors — no  life 


Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mother's  ? 

Wer.  Ah ! 

The  Hungarian  1 

Ulr.  He  is  gone  !  he  disappeared 

Ere  sunset. 

Wer.  No ;  I  hid  him  in  that  very 

Conceal'd  and  fatal  gallery. 

Ulr.  There  Til  find  him. 

[Ulric  is  going. 

Wer.  It  is  too  late  :  he  had  left  the  palace  ere 
I  quitted  it.    I  found  the  secret  panel 
Open,  and  the  doors  which  lead  from  that  hall 
Which  masks  it :  I  but  thought  he  had  snatch'd  the 
And  favorable  moment  to  escape  [silent 

The  myrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  were 
Dogging  him  yester-even. 

Ulr.  You  reclosed 

The  panel  ? 

Wer.  Yes  ;  and  not  without  reproach 

(And  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  this  duU  heedlessness,  in  leaving  thus 
His  shelterer's  asylum  to  the  risk 
Of  a  discovery. 

Ulr.  You  are  sure  you  closed  it  f 

Wer.  Certain. 

Ulr.                That's  well ;  but  had  been  better,  if 
You  ne'er  had  tum'd  it  to  a  den  for [He  pauses. 

Wer.  Thieves ! 

Thou  wouldst  say  :  I  must  bear  it  and  deserve  it ; 
But  not 

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

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

Wer.  Could  I  shun  it  ? 

A  man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe  ;  disgraced 
For  my  own  crime  ;  a  victim  to  mij  safety. 
Imploring  a  few  hours'  concealment  from 
The  very  wretch  who  was  the  cause  he  receded 
Such  refuge.     Had  he  been  a  wolf  I  could  not 
Have  in  such  circumstances  thrust  him  forth. 

Ulr.  And  like  the  wolf  he  hath  repaid  you.     But 
It  is  too  late  to  ponder  thus  : — you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn.     I  will  remain  here  to 
Trace  the  murderer,  if  'tis  possible. 

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

Ulr.  Who  seems  f     Who  else 

Can  be  so  ? 

Wer.          Not  /,  though  just  now  you  doubted — 
You,  my  son  ! — doubted 

Ulr.  And  do  you  doubt  of  him 

The  fugitive  ? 

Wer.  Boy  !  since  I  fell  into 

The  abyss  of  crime,  (though  not  of  meh  crime,)  I, 


364 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT  VI. 


Having  seen  the  innocent  oppress'd  for  me, 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty's  guilt.  Your  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances  ;  and  views  a  criminal 
In  Innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be, 
Because  'tis  dusky. 

Ulr.  And  if  I  do  so, 

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

Tour  flight — moreover 

Wer.  Fly  !  and  leave  my  name 

Linked  with  the  Hungarian's,  or  prcferr'd  as  poorest, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed  ? 

Ulr.  Pshaw  !  leave  any  thing 

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

Wer.  Most  true  ;  but  still  I  would  not  have  it 

Engraved  in  crimson-in  men's  memories. 
Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men — 

Besides,  the  search 

Ulr.  I  will  provide  against 

Aught  that  can  touch  you.    No  one  knows  you  here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf :  if  Idenstein 
Suspects,  'tis  hut  suspicion,  and  he  is 
A  fool :  his  folly  shaU  have  such  employment 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self     The  laws  (if  e'er 
Laws  reach'd  this  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years. 
Or  crush'd,  or  rising  slowly  from  the  dust, 
To  which  the  march  of  armies  trampled  them. 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Here,  save  as  such — without  lands,  influence. 
Save  what  hath  perish'd  with  him.     Few  prolong 
A  week  bfeyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O'er  men,  imless  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  roused  :  such  is  not  here  the  case  ;  he  died 
Alone,  unknown, — a  solitary  grave, 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  without  a  scutcheon, 
Is  all  he'll  have,  or  wants.     If  /  discover 
The  assassin  'tvrill  be  well — if  not,  believe  me. 
None  else  ;  though  all  the  full-fed  train  of  menials 
May  howl  above  his  ashes,  (as  they  did 
Around  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder,) 
Will  no  more  stir  a  finger  now  than  then. 
Hence  !  hence  !  I  must  not  hear  you  answer.  Look 
The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  gray 
Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  of  night. 
You  shall  not  answer : — Pardon  me  that  I 
Am  peremptory  ;  'tis  your  son  that  speaks, 
Your  long-lost,  late-found  son.  Let's  call  my  mother 
Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 


To  me  :  I'll  answer  for  the  event  as  far 

As  regards  yo>i,  and  that  is  the  chief  point. 

As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 

We'll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf— once  more 

Our  banners  shall  be  glorious  !     Think  of  that 

Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me. 

Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them.    Hence  ! 

And  may  your  age  be  happy  !     I  will  kiss        [you  ! 

My  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  speed  be  with 

Wer.  This  counsel  's  safe — but  is  it  honorable  ? 

Ulr.  To  save  a  father  is  a  child's  chief  honor. 


ACT  rv. 


SCENE       I. 


[Exeunt. 


A  Gothic  Ball  in  the  Castle  nf  Siegendorf,  near 
Prague. 

Enter  Eric  and  Hbitkick,  Retainers  of  the  Count. 

Erie.  So,  better  times  are  come  at  last ;  to  these 
Old  walls  new  masters  and  high  wassail — both 
A  long  desideratum. 

Hen.  Yes,  for  masters. 

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

Erie.  Why, 

For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well ;  but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  which  salt  and  sauces  season 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest. 

Hen.  The  old  count  loved  not 

The  roar  of  revel ;  are  you  sure  that  this  does  ? 

Eric.  As  yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as  he's  boun- 
And  we  all  love  him.  [teous, 

Hen.  His  reign  is  as  yet 

Hardly  a  year  o'erpast  its  honeymoon, 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal : 
Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

Eric.  Pray  Heaven  he  keep  the  present  1 

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

Hen.  Why  so  ? 

Erie.  Look  on  him  ! 

And  answer  that  yourself. 

Hen.  He's  very  youthful. 

And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a  young  tiger. 
Erie.  That's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 
Hen.  But 

Perhaps  a  true  one. 

Eric.  Pity,  as  I  said. 

The  wars  are  over  :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  weU-supported  pride, 


SCENE   I. 


WERNER, 


365 


Which  awes,  and  yet  offends  not  ?  in  the  field, 
Who  Uke  him  with  his  spear  in  hand,  when,  gnash- 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left       [ing 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boar  makes  for  the  thicket  ? 
Who  backs  a  horse,  or  bears  a  hawk,  or  wears 
A  sword  like  him  ?    Whose  plume  nods  knightlier  ? 

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

Erie.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Hen,  You  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  native  fellow  vassals  bom 
On  the  domain)  are  such  a  sort  of  knaves 
As {Pauses.) 

Erie.  What  ? 

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

£ric.  Nonsense  !  they  are  all  brave  iron-visaged 
Such  as  old  Tilly  loved.  [feUows, 

Hen.                                 And  who  loved  Tilly  ? 
Ask  that  at  Magdebourg — or  for  that  matter 
Wallenstein  either  ; — they  are  gone  to 

Eric.  Rest ; 

But  beyond  'tis  not  ours  to  pronounce. 

Hen.  I  wish  they  had  left  us  something  of  their 
The  country  (nominally  now  at  peace)  [rest : 

Is  overrun  with — God  knows  who  :  they  fly 
By  night,  and  disappear  with  sunrise ;  but 
Leave  us  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more, 
Than  the  most  open  warfare. 

Erie.  But  Count  Ulric — 

What  has  all  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

Hen.  With  him  ! 

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

Of  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  marauders  ? 

Erie.  You'd  better  ask  himself. 

Hen.  I  would  as  soon 

Ask  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  milk. 

Eric.  And  here  he  comes  ! 

Hen.  The  devil  1  you'll  hold  your  tongue  ? 

Eric,  Why  do  you  turn  so  pale  ? 

Hen.  'Tis  nothing — but 

Be  silent 

Erie.        I  will,  upon  what  you  have  said. 

Hen.  I  assure  you  I  mean  nothing, — a  mere  sport 
Of  words,  no  more ;  besides,  had  it  been  otherwise, 
He  is  to  espouse  the  gentle  Baroness, 
Ida  of  Stralenheim,  the  late  baron's  heiress  : 
And  she,  no  doubt,  will  soften  whatsoever 
Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 
Have  given  all  natures,  and  most  unto  those 
Who  were  bom  in  them,  and  bred  up  upon 
The  knees  of  Homicide ;  sprinkled,  as  it  were, 
With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.    Prithee,  peace 
On  all  that  I  have  said  ! 


Enter  Ulric  and  Rodolph. 

Good  morrow,  count. 

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

Erie.  The  dogs  are  order'd 

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

Ulr.  The  dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric.  I  fear  he  has  scarcely  recover'd 
The  toils  of  Monday  :  'twas  a  noble  chase  : 
You  spear'd /o;ir  with  your  own  hand. 

TJlr.  True,  good  Eric  ; 

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

Erie.  He  shall  be  straight  caparison'd.  How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  ? 

TJlr.  I  leave  that  to  Weilburg,  our 


Master  of  the  horse. 


Rod. 
TJlr. 
Is  awkward  from  the 


Rodolph  1 


[Exit  Eric. 
My  lord ! 


The  news 
(RoBOLPH  j«oJ/i?s  to  Henrick.) 
How  now,  Henrick  ?  why 
Loiter  you  here  ? 

Hen.  For  your  commands,  my  lord. 

TJlr.  Go  to  my  father,  and  present  my  duty. 
And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  me  before 
I  mount.  \E3:'d  Henrick. 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 
Upon  the  frontiers  of  Franconia,  and 
'Tis  rumor'd  that  the  column  sent  against  them 
Is  to  be  strengthen'd.     I  must  join  them  soon. 

Rod.  Best  wait  for  further  and  more  sure  advices. 

TJlr.  I  mean  it — and  indeed  it  could  not  well 
Have  fallen  out  at  a  time  more  opposite 
To  all  my  plans. 

Rod.  It  wiU  be  difficult 

To  excuse  your  absence  to  the  count  your  father. 

TJlr.  Yes,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our  domain 
In  high  Silesia  will  permit  and  cover 
My  journey.     In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 
Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  off  the  eighty  men 
Whom  WoMFe  leads — keep  the  forests  on  your  route : 
You  know  it  well  ? 

Rod.  As  well  as  on  that  night 

When  we 

TJlr.  We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 

We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success  :  [ter. 

And  when  you  have  join'd,  give  Rosenberg  this  let- 

[Gu'f«  a  letter. 
Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slight  addition 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 


866 


BYKON'S    WORKS. 


ACT    IV. 


My  coming,  though  I  could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  castle, 
Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries, 
Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 

Rod.  I  thought  you  loved  the  lady  Ida  ? 

Ulr.  Why, 

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

Rod.  And  constantly  ? 

Ulr.  I  think  so  ;  for  I  love 

Naught  else.     But  I  have  not  the  time  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart.     Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.     Speed  1  speed  1  good  Ro- 

Rod.  On  my  return,  however,  I  shall  find  [dolph  1 
The  Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Siegendorf  ? 

Ulr.  Perhaps,  my  father  wishes  it ;  and  sooth 
'lis  no  bad  policy  :  this  union  with 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival  branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past. 

Rod.  Adieu.' 

Ulr.  Yet  hold — we  had  better  keep  together 

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

Rod.  I  will.     But  to 

Return — 'twas  a  most  kind  act  in  the  count 
Your  father  to  send  up  to  Konigsberg 
For  this  fair  orphan  of  the  baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

Ulr.  Wondrous  kind  1 

Especially  as  little  kindness  till 
Then  grew  between  them. 

Rod.  The  late  baron  died 

Of  a  fever,  did  he  not  ? 

Ulr.  How  should  I  know. 

Rod.  I  have  heard  it  whisper'd  there  was  some- 
thing strange 
About  his  death — and  even  the  place  of  it 
Is  scarcely  known. 

Ulr.  Some  obscure  village  on 

The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier. 

Rod.  He 

Has  left  no  testament — no  farewell  words  ? 

Ulr.  I  am  neither  confessor  nor  notary, 
So  cannot  say. 

Rod.  Ah  !  here's  the  lady  Ida. 

Enter  Ida  Stkalenhbim:. 

Ulr.  You  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin  ! 

Ida.  Kot  too  early. 

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

Ulr.  {smilinff.)  Are  we  not  so  ? 

Ida.  Yes,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name  ;  methinks 


It  sounds  so  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
Our  pedigree,  and  only  weigh'd  our  blood. 

Ulr.  {starting.)  Blood  I 

Ida.  Why  does  yours  start  from  your  cheeks  ? 

Ulr.  Ay!  doth  it  ? 

Ida.  It  doth — but  no  !  it  rushes  like  a  torrent 
Even  to  your  brow  again. 

Ulr.  (recovering  himself.')  And  if  it  fled. 
It  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 
Back  to  my  heart,  which  beats  for  you,  sweet  cousin  ! 

Ida.  "Cousin"  again. 

Ulr.  Nay,  then  I'll  caU  you  sister. 

Ida.  I  like  that  name  still  worse.    Would  we  had 
Been  aught  of  kindred  !  [ne'er 

Ulr.  (filoomily.)  Would  we  never  had  1 

Ida.  Oh,  heavens  !  and  can  you  wish  that  ? 

Ulr.  Dearest  Ida  I 

Did  I  not  echo  your  own  wish  ? 

Ida.  Yes,  Ulric, 

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

Ulr.  You  shall  be 

All— aU 

Ida.  And  you  to  me  are  so  already ; 

But  I  can  wait ! 

Ulr.  Dear  Ida ! 

Ida.  Call  me  Ida, 

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

[She  pauses. 

Ulr.  You  have  mine — you  have  me. 

Ida.  Dear  Ulric,  how  I  wish 

My  father  could  but  view  my  happiness, 
Which  wants  but  this  ! 

Ulr.  Indeed ! 

Ida.  You  would  have  loved  him, 

He  you  ;  for  the  brave  ever  love  each  other  : 
His  manner  was  a  little  cold,  his  spirit 
Proud,  (as  is  birth's  prerogative  ;)  but  under  [other  ! 

This  grave  exterior Would  you  had  known  each 

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

Ulr.  Who  says  that  t 

Ida.  What? 

Ulr.  That  he  died  alone  f 

Ida.  The  general  rumor 

And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 
Have  ne'er  retum'd  :  that  fever  was  most  deadly 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

Ulr.  If  they  were  near  him, 

He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

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


SOBNS   I. 


WERNER. 


367 


Ulr.  Say ! 

It  was  so. 

Ida.  I  sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

Ulr.  All  dreams  are  false. 

Ida.  And  yet  I  see  him  as 

I  see  you. 

Ulr.         Where  t 

Ida.  In  sleep — I  see  Mm  lie 

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

Ulr.  But  you  did  not  see  his^ic« .' 

Ida.  (hoking  at  him.)  No  I  O  my  God  !  do  you  ? 

Ulr.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

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

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

Ida.  Child,  indeed  !  I  have 

Full  fifteen  summers  !  \_A  bugle  sounds. 

Bod.  Hark,  my  lord,  the  bugle  ! 

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

Hod.  Pardon  me,  fair  baroness  1 

Ida.  I  will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn  it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 

Rod.  You  will  not, 

Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

Ulr,  I  must  not  now 

Forgo  it. 

Ida.        But  you  shall  I 

Ulr.  Shall ! 

Ida.  Yes,  or  be 

No  true  knight. — Come,  dear  Ulric  !  jdeld  to  me 
In  this,  for  one  day  :  the  day  looks  heavy. 
And  you  are  tum'd  so  pale  and  ilL 

Ulr.  You- jest. 

Ida.  Indeed  I  do  not : — ask  of  Rodolph. 

Bod.  Truly, 

My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour 
You  have  changed  more  than  e'er  I  saw  you  change 
In  years. 

Uh:        "TIb  nothing ;  but  if  'twere,  the  air 
Would  soon  restore  me.    I'm  the  true  chameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere  ;  your  feasts 
In  castle  halls,  and  social  banquets,  nurse  not 
My  spirit — I'm  a  forester  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  moimtain-tops,  where  I  love  all 
The  eagle  loves. 

Ida.  Except  his  prey,  I  hope. 

Ulr.  Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a  fair  chase,  and  I 
Will  bring  you  six  boars'  heads  for  trophies  home. 

Ida.  And  will  you  not  stay,  then  ?    You  shall  not 


Come  I  I  will  sing  to  you.  [go  I 

Ulr.  Ida,  you  scarcely 

WiU  make  a  soldier's  wife. 
Ida.    .  I  (Jo  not  wish 

To  be  so  ;  for  I  trust  these  wars  are  over. 

And  you  wiU  live  in  peace  on  your  domains. 

Enter  Werneb  as  CotTNT  Siegendorf. 

Ulr.  My  father,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 
With  such  brief  greeting.  You  have  heard  our  bugle  ; 
The  vassals  wait. 

Sieg.  So  let  them. — You  forget 

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

Ulr.  You,  count, 

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

Sieg.  No,  Ulric : 

It  were  not  well  that  you  alone  of  all 
Our  young  nobility 

Ida.  And  far  the  noblest 

In  aspect  and  demeanor. 

Sieg.  (to  Ida.)  True,  dear  child. 

Though  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  damsel. 
But  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  position. 
So  lately  reinstated  in  our  honors. 
Believe  me,  'twould  be  mark'd  in  any  house, 
But  most  in  ours,  that  one  should  be  found  wanting 
At  such  a  time  and  place.     Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same  moment 
It  spread  its  peace  o'er  aU,  hath  double  claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving  :  first,  for  our  country  ; 
And  next,  that  we  are  here  to  share  its  blessings. 

Ulr.  (aside.)  Devout,  too  !  Well,  sir,  I  obey  at  once. 

(Then  aloud  to  a  Servant.) 

Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without !    [Exit  Litdwio. 

Ida.  And  so 

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

Sieg.  (smiling.)  You  are  not  jealous 

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

Ida.  But  I  should  like  to  govern  now. 

Sieg.  You  shall, 

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

Ida.  Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsmen  I 

Ulric,  you'U  come  and  hear  me  ) 


368 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ACT    IV 


Ulr.  By  and  by. 

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

Ulr.  And  why  not 

Old  Tilly's  ? 

Ida.        Not  that's  monster's  !  I  should  think 
My  harp-strings  rang  with  groans,  and  not  with 

music, 
Could  aught  of  his  sound  on  it : — but  come  quickly ; 
Your  mother  wiU  be  eager  to  receive  you.         [^a;ji. 

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

Ulr.  My  time  's  your  vassal. 
(Aside  to  Rod.)  Rodolph,  hence  1  and  do 

As  I  directed  :  and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 

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

Sieg.  (starts.)  Ah  ! — 

Where  ?  on  what  frontier  ? 

Rod.  The  Silesian,  on 

My  way — (Aside  to  Ulric.) —  Where  shall  I  say  ? 

Ulr.         (aside  to  Kodolph.)     To  Hamburgh. 

(  Aside  to  himself.)     That 
Word  will,  I  think,  put  a  firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inquisition. 

Rod.  Count,  to  Hamburgh. 

Sieg.  (agitated.)  Hamburgh  !  No,  I  have  naught  to 
do  there,  nor 
Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.    Then 
God  speed  you  •! 

Rod.  Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf ! 

[Exit  RoDOLPH. 

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

Ulr.  ■      My  lord,  he  is 

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

Sieg.  I  talk  not  of  his  birth. 

But  of  his  bearing.     Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 

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

Sieg.  If  I  must  be  plain. 

The  world  speaks  more  than  lightly  of  this  Rodolph : 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  "  black  bands  "  who 
Ravage  the  frontier.  [still 

Ulr.  And  will  you  believe 

The  world  ? 

Sieg.  In  this  case — yes. 

Ulr.  In  any  case, 

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

Si^g.  Son  1 


I  understand  you  ;  you  refer  to but 

My  destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 
Her  spider  web,  that  I  can  only  fiutter 
Like  the  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.     Take  heed, 
Ulric;  you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led  me: 
Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine 
Quench'd  them  not — twenty  thousands  more,  per- 
chance. 
Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  moments  which 
Might  date  for  years,  did  Anguish  make  the  dial) 
May  not  obliterate  or  expiate 
The  madness  and  dishonor  of  an  instant. 
Ulric,  be  warn'd  by  a  father  ! — I  was  not 
By  mine,  and  you  behold  me  ! 

Ulr.  I  behold 

The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  appanage,  and  honor'd 
By  those  he  rules  and  those  he  ranks  with. 

Sieg.  Ah  1 

Why  vdlt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I  fear 
For  thee  ?     Beloved,  when  thou  lovest  me  not  I 
All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindness  for  me — 
But  if  my  son's  is  cold ! 

Ulr.  Who  dare  say  that  ? 

Sieg.  None  else  but  I,  who  see  it— feel  it — keener 
Than  would  your  adversary,  who  dared  say  so. 
Your  sabre  in  his  heart !  But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

Ulr.  Your  err.     My  nature  is  not  given 

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

Sieg.  And  did  not  /  too  pass  those  twelve  torn 
years 
In  a  like  absence  ?     But  'tis  vain  to  urge  you — 
Nature  was  never  call'd  back  oy  remonstrance. 
Let's  change  the  theme.     I  wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name. 
But  dark  deeds,  (ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  Rumor 
Reports  be  true,)  with  whom  thou  consortest. 
Will  lead  thee 

Ulr.  (impatientl(/.)  I'U  be  led  by  no  man. 

Sieg.  Nor 

Be  leader  of  such,  I  would  hope :  at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I  have  thought  it  well 
That  thou  shouldst  wed  the  lady  Ida— more 
As  thou  appear'st  to  love  her. 

Ub:  I  have  said 

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

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


SCENE   I. 


WERNER. 


360 


Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there :)  some  strong 
Some  master  fiend  is  in  thy  service  to  [bias, 

Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave, 
And  make  his  every  thought  subservient ;  else 
Thou'dst  say  at  once — "  I  love  young  Ida,  and 
Will  wed  her  :"  or,  "I  love  her  not,  and  aU 
The  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me." — So 
Would  I  have  answer'd 

Ulr.  Sir,  you  wed  for  love. 

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

Ulr.  Wliich  miseries 

Had  never  been  but  for  this  love  match. 

Sieg.  Still 

Against  your  age  and  nature  1  Who  at  twenty 
E'er  answer'd  thus  till  now  ? 

Ulr.  Did  you  not  warn  me 

Against  your  own  example  ? 

Sieg.  Boyish  sophist  1 

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

Ulr.  What  matters  it,  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her  ! 

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

Ulr.  The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenlieim,  your  foe : 
ril  wed  her,  ne'ertheless  ;  though,  to  say  truth, 
Just  now  I  am  not  violently  transported 
In  favor  of  such  unions. 

Sieg.  But  she  loves  you. 

Ulr.  And  I  love  her,  and  therefore  would  think 

Sieg.  Alas  !  Love  never  did  so.  [twice. 

Ulr.  Then  'tis  time 

He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps  :  tiU  now 
He  hath  ta'en  a  jump  i'  the  dark. 

Sieg.  But  you  consent  ? 

Ulr.  I  did,  and  do. 

Sieg.  Then  fix  the  day. 

Ulr.  'Tis  usual. 

And  certes  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  lady. 

Sieg.  I  will  engage  for  her. 

Ulr.  So  will  not  / 

For  any  woman  ;  and  as  what  I  fix, 
I  fein  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I'll  give  mine. 
47 


Sieg.  But  'tis  your  office 

To  woo. 

Ulr.    Count,  'tis  a  marriage  of  your  making, 
So  be  it  of  your  wooing ;  but  to  please  you 
I  will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother. 
With  whom,  you  know,  the  lady  Ida,  is. — 
What  would  you  have  ?  You  have  forbid  my  stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  walls. 
And  I  obey  ;  you  bid  me  turn  a  chamberer. 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knitting  needles, 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for  smiles, 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminine,  as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  world-winning  battle — 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ?  [Exit  Ulbic. 

Sieg.  (solus.)  Too  much ! — 

Too  much  of  duty,  and  too  little  love ! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not : 
For  such  hath  been  ray  wayward  fate,  I  could  not 
Fulfil  a  parent's  duties  by  his  side 
TiU  now  ;■  but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne'er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  long'd  without  tears 
To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I  have  found  him  ! 
But  how  ! — obedient,  but  with  coldness  ;  duteous 
In  my  sight,  but  with  carelessness  ;  mysterious — 
Abstracted — distant — much  given  to  long  absence. 
And  where — none  know — in  league  with  the  most 

riotous 
Of  our  young  nobles;  though  to  do  him  justice, 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures ; 
Yet  there's  some  tie  between  them  which  I  cannot 
Unravel.     They  look  up  to  him — consult  him — 
Throng  round  him  as  a  leader :  but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence  1     Ah  I  can  I  hope  it 
After — what  1  doth  my  father's  curse  descend 
Even  to  my  child  ?     Or  is  the  Hungarian  near 
To  shed  more  blood  ?  or — Oh  !  if  it  should  be  ! 
Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  dost  thou  walk  these  walls 
To  wither  him  and  his — who,  though  they  slew  not, 
Unlatch'd  the  door  of  death  for  thee  ?     'Twas  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin  :  thou  wert  our  foe. 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee ;  to  wake  with  thine  awakening  I 
And  only  took — Accursed  gold  !  thou  Uest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands  ;  I  dare  not  use  thee. 
Nor  part  from  thee  ;  thou  camest  in  such  a  guise, 
Methinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mine.    Yet  I  have  done,  to  atone  for  thee, 
Thou  villanous  gold  !  and  thy  dead  master's  doom, 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother  !  I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida — cherish'd  her  as  one 
Who  will  be  mine. 


Atten. 


Enter  an  Attendant. 

The  abbot,  if  it  please 


370 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ACT  IV, 


Your  excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  -waits 

Upon  you.  [Exit  Attendant. 

Buter  the  Pkiob  Ai/Bebt. 

Prior.  Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 

Within  them ! 

8ieg^  Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father ! 

And  may  thy  prayer  be  heard ! — all  men  have  need 

Of  such,  and  I 

Prior.  Have  the  first  claim  to  all 

The  prayers  of  our  community.     Our  convent. 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  children. 

Sieg.  Yes,  good  father; 

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

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

Sieg.  True,  father :  and  to  avert  those  pangs  from 
one. 
Who  though  of  our  mos{  faultless  holy  church. 
Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices. 
Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 
I  have  to  offer  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  this  spirit. 

[SiBQEKDOftF  offers  the  gold  which  he  had    taken 
from  Stbalbnheim. 
Prior.  Count,  if  I 

Receive  it,  'tis  because  I  know  too  well 
Refusal  would  offend  you.     Be  assured 
The  largess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms. 
And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead. 
Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yours. 
Which  has  of  old  endow'd  it ;  but  from  you 
And  yours  in  aU  meet  things  'tis  fit  we  obey. 
For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

Sieg.  {faltering.)  For — for— the  dead. 

Prior.   His  name  ? 

Sieg.  'Tis  from  a  soul,  and  not  a  name, 

I  would  avert  perdition. 

Prior.  I  meant  not 

To  pry  into  your  secret.     We  will  pray 
For  one  unknown,  the  same  as  for  the  proudest. 
Sieg.  Secret  1  I  have  none :  but,  father,  he  who's 
gone 
Might  have  one ;  or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath — 
No,  not  bequeath — but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purjwses. 

Prior.  A  proper  deed 

In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends. 

Sieg.  But  he  who's  gone  was  not  my  friend,  but  foe, 
The  deadliest  and  the  staunchest. 
Prior.  Better  stilL 


To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  for  the  souls 
Of  our  dead  enemies  is  worthy  those 
Who  can  forgive  them  living. 

Sieg.  But  I  did  not 

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

But 

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

Sieg.  Father,  'tis  not  my  gold  1 

Prior.  Whose  then  ?     You  said  it  was  no  legacy. 
Sieg.  No  matter  whose — of  this  be  sure,  that  he 
Who  own'd  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
In  that  which  it  may  purchase  from  your  altars  : 
'Tis  yours,  or  theirs. 

Prior.  Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  ? 

Sieg.  No ;  but  there's  worse  than  blood — eternal 

shame  1 
Prior.  Did  he  who  own'd  it  die  in  his  led  f 
Sieg.  Alas  1 

He  did. 

Prior.  Son  !  you  relapse  into  revenge. 
If  you  regret  your  enemy's  bloodless  death. 

Sieg.  His  death  was  fathomlessly  deep  in  blood. 
Prior.  You  said  he  died  in  his  bed,  not  battle. 
Sieg.  He 

Died,  I  scarce  know— but— he  was  stabb'd  i'  the  dark, 
And  now  you  have  it — perish'd  on  his  pillow 
By  a  cut-throat  1     Ay  ! — you  may  look  upon  me  1 
/  am  not  the  man.     I'll  meet  your  eye  on  that  point, 
As  I  can  one  day  God's. 

Prior.  Nor  did  he  die 

By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours  ? 
Sieg.  No  1  by  the  God  who  sees  and  strikes  ! 
Prior.  Nor  know  you 

Who  slew  him  ? 

Sieg.  I  could  only  guess  at  one. 

And  he  to  me  a  stranger,  unconnected. 
As  unemploy'd.     Except  by  one  day's  knowledge, 
I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 
Prior.  Then  you  are  free  from  guilt. 
Sieg.  (eagerly.)  Oh,  am  I  ? — say  I 

Prior.  You  have  said  so,  and  know  best. 
Sieg.  Father  !  I  have  spoken 

The  truth,  and  naught  but  truth,  if  not  the  whole  : 
Yet  say  I  am  7iot  guilty  !  for  the  blood 
Of  this  man  weighs  on  me,  as  if  I  shed  it, 
Though,  by  the  Power  who  abhorreth  human  blood, 
I  did  not ! — nay,  once  spared  it,  when  I  might 
And  could — ay,  perhaps,  should,  (if  our  self-safety 
Be  e'er  excusable  in  such  defences 
Against  the  attacks  of  over-potent. foes  :) 
But  pray  for  him,  for  me,  and  aU  my  house ; 
For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 
I  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  me, 


SCENE   I. 


WERNER. 


371 


As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.    Pray  for  me, 
Father  !  I  have  pray'd  myself  in  vain. 

Priur.  I  will 

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

Sieij.  But  calmness  is  not 

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

Prior.  But  it  will  be  so, 

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

[Exeunt. 

ACT   V. 

8  C   E   K  E       I  . 

A  larffe  and  magnificent  Gothic  Hall  in  the  Castle  of 
Siegendorf,  decorated  with  Trophies,  Banners  and 
Army  of  that  Family. 

Enter  Arnhbim  and  Meister,  Attendants  of  CoiWT 

SlEGENDOEP. 

Am.  Be  quick  !  the  coimt  will  soon  return :  the 
Already  are  at  the  portal.  Have  you  sent  [ladies 
The  messengers  in  search  of  him  he  seeks  for  ? 

Meis.  I  have,  in  all  directions,  over  Prague, 
As  far  as  the  man's  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.     The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions  !     All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

Am.  Go  to  !  my  lady  countess  comes. 

Meis.  I'd  rather 

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

Am.  Begone  !  and  rail 

Within.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  the  CotWTESS  Josephtne  Siegendorf 
and  Ida  Stralenheim. 

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

Ida.  How  can  you  say  so  !  never  have  I  dreamt 
f  »f  aught  so  beautiful.     The  flowers,  the  boughs. 
The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights, 
The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy  faces, 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense  and  the  sun      [tomhs. 
Streaming  through  the  stain'd  windows,  even  the 
Which  look'd  so  calm,  and  the  celestial  hymns. 
Which  seem  as  if  they  rather  came  from  heaven 


Than  mounted  there.    The  bursting  organ's  peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  an  harmonious  thunder  ; 
The  white  robes  and  the  lifted  eyes ;  the  world 
At  peace  !  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another  ! 
Oh,  my  sweet  mother  !  [Embracing  Josephine. 

Jos.  My  beloved  child  1 

For  such,  I  trust,  thou  shalt  be  shortly. 

Ida.  Oh, 

I  am  so  already.    Peel  how  my  heart  beats  ! 

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

Ida.  Never  shall  it  do  so  ! 

How  should  it  ?  AVhat  should  make  us  grieve  ?  I 
To  hear  of  sorrow  :  how  can  we  be  sad,  [hate 

Who  love  each  other  so  entirely  ?     You, 
The  count  and  Ulric,  and  your  daughter  Ida. 

Jos.  Poor  child  ! 

Ida.  Do  you  pity  me  ? 

Jos.  No ;  I  but  envy, 

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

Ida.  I'll  not  hear 

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

Jos.  You  will  spoil  him,  little  flatterer, 

If  he  should  hear  you. 

Ida.  But  he  never  will. 

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

Jos.  Why  so  ?  he  loves  you  well. 

Ida.  But  I  can  never 

Shape  my  thoughts  of  him  into  words  to  him. 
Besides,  he  sometimes  frightens  me. 

Jos.  How  so  ? 

Ida.  A  cloud  comes  o'er  his  blue  eyes  suddenly, 
Yet  he  says  nothing. 

Jos.  It  is  nothing  :  all  men, 

Especially  in  these  dark  troublous  times, 
Have  much  to  think  of. 

Ida.  But  I  cannot  think 

Of  aught  save  him. 

Jos.  Yet  there  are  other  men. 

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

Ida.  I  did  not  see  him, 

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

Jos.  I  could  not 


372 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


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

Ida.  I  thought  too 

Of  heaven,  although  I  looked  on  Ulric. 

Jos.  Come, 

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

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

Enter  Count  Sibgendokp,  in  fxdl  dress,  from  the 
solemnity,  and  Ludwig. 

Sieg.  Is  he  not  found  ? 

iMd.  Strict  search  is  making  everywhere  ;  and  if 
The  man  be  in  Prague,  be  sure  he  will  be  found. 

Sieg.  Where  's  Uh^c  ? 

Lud.  He  rode  round  the  other  way 

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

Enter  Ulbic,  siplendidly  dressed. 

Sieg.  {to  Lud.)  See  they  cease  not 

Their  quest  of  him  I  have  described.  [Exit  Ltjdwig. 

Oh,  Ulric  1 
How  have  I  long'd  for  thee  ! 

Ulr.  Your  wish  is  granted — 

Behold  me  1 

Sieg.  I  have  seen  the  murderer. 

Wlr.  Whom?    Where? 

Sieg.  The  Hungarian,  who  slew  StralenheLm. 

Ulr.  You  dream. 

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

Heard  him  1  he  dared  to  utter  even  my  name. 

Ulr,  What  name ! 

Sieg.  Werner  !  Hwas  mine. 

Ulr.  It  must  be  so 

No  more  :  forget  it. 

Sieg.  Kever  !  never !  all 

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

Ulr.  To  the  point — the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg.   Listen  ! — The   church   was    throng'd ;    the 
hymn  was  raised ; 
"T'e  Deum"  peal'd  from  nations,  rather  than 
From  choirs,  in  one  great  cry  of  "  God  be  praised" 
For  one  day's  peace,  after  thrice  ten  dread  years, 
Each  bloodier  than  the  former  :  I  arose. 
With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I  look'd  down 
Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces, — from 
Our  banner'd  and  escutcheon'd  gallery,  I 
Saw,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  (for  I  saw 


A  moment  and  no  more,)  what  struck  me  sightless 
To  all  else— the  Hungarian's  face  !  I  grew 
Sick ;  and  when  I  recover'd  from  the  mist 
Which  curl'd  about  my  senses,  and  again 
Look'd  down,  I  saw  him  not.     The  thanksgiving 
Was  over,  and  we  march'd  back  in  procession. 

Ulr.  Continue. 

Sieg.  When  we  reach'd  the  Muldau's  bridge, 

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

Ulr.  You  saw  him 

No  more,  then  ? 

Sieg.                    I  look'd,  as  a  dying  soldier 
Looks  at  a  draught  of  water,  for  this  man  : 
But  still  I  saw  him  not ;  but  in  his  stead 

Ulr.  What  in  his  stead  ? 

Sie;/.  My  eye  forever  fell 

Upon  youi:  dancing  crest ;  the  loftiest 
As  on  the  loftiest  and  the  loveliest  head 
It  rose  the  highest  of  the  stream  of  plumes, 
Which  overflow'd  the  glittering  streets  of  Prague. 

Ulr.  What 's  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg.  Much  ;  for  I 

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

Ulr.  Uttered  by 

Sieg.  HiM  I  I  tum'd — and  saw — and  feU. 

Ulr.  And  wherefore  ?     Were  you  seen  ? 

Sieg.  The  officious  care 

Of  those  around  me  dragg'd  me  fi'om  the  spot, 
Seeing  my  faintness,  ignorant  of  the  cause  : 
You,  too,  were  too  remote  in  the  procession 
(The  old  nobles  being  divided  from  their  children) 
To  aid  me. 

Ulr.  But  I'll  aid  you  now. 

Sieg.  In  what  ? 

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

What  shall  we  do  with  him  ?  [found 

Sieg.  I  know  not  that. 

Ulr.  Then  wherefore  seek  ? 

Sieg.  Because  I  cannot  rest 

Till  he  is  found.    His  fate,  and  Stralenheim's, 
And  ours,  seem  intertwisted !  nor  can  be 
Unravell'd  tiU 


SCGNB  I. 


WERNER. 


373 


Enter  an  Attendant. 


A  stranger  to  wait  on 
Who? 


Atten. 
Tour  excellency, 
Sieg. 

Atten.  He  gave  no  name. 

Sieg.  Admit  him  ne'ertheless. 

[  The  Attendant  introduces  Gabob,  and 
afterwardi  exit. 

Ahl 
Cfab.  "Tis,  then,  Werner  I 

Sieg.  (haughtily.)  The  same  you  knew,  sir,  by  that 

name  ;  and  you  ! 
Gab.  (looking  round.)  I  recognise  you  both:  father 
and  son. 
It  seems.     Count,  I  have  heard  that  you,  or  yours. 
Have  lately  been  in  search  of  me :  I  am  here. 

Sieg.  I  have  sought  you,  and  have  found  you :  you 
are  charged 
(Tour  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with  such 

A  crime  as [-5«  pauses. 

Oab.  Grive  it  utterance,  and  then 

I'll  meet  the  consequence. 

Sieg.  Tou  shall  do  so — 

Unless 

Oah.  First,  who  accuses  me  ? 

Sieg.  All  things, 

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

gah.  And  on  me  only  f 

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

Sieg.  Trifling  viUian ! 

Who  play'st  with  thine  own  guilt!    Of  all  that 

breathe 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him 
Gainst  whom  thy  breath  would  blow  thy  bloody 
But  I  will  talk  no  further  with  a  wretch,      [slander. 
Further  than  justice  asks.     Answer  at  once. 
And  without  quibbling,  to  my  charge. 

Gab.  'Tis  false  1 

Sieg.    Who  says  so  ? 
Gab.  I. 

Sieg.  And  how  disprove  it  ? 

Gab.  By 

The  presence  of  the  murderer. 

Sieg.  Name  him  1 

Gab.  He 

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

Sieg.  If  you  mean  me,  I  dare 

Your  utmost. 

Gab.  You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety ! 

I  know  the  assassin. 

Sieg.  Where  is  he  ? 


Oah.  (pointing  to  Ulkic.)  Beside  you ! 

[Ulric  rushes  forward  to  attack  Gabob. 
SiEGENDORF  ijiierposcs. 
Sieg.  Liar  and  fiend  1  but  you  shall  not  be  slain ; 
These  walls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within  them. 

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

[Ulbic  endeavors  to  compose  himself. 
Gab.  Look  at  hdm,  count,  and  then  hear  me. 
Sieg.  (first  to  Gabor,  and  then  looking  at  U1.RIC.) 

I  hear  thee. 

My  God  1  you  look 

Ulr.  How? 

Sieg.  As  on  that  dread  night 

When  we  met  in  the  garden. 

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

Sieg.  Go  on,  sir. 

Gab.  Ere  I  do  so, 

Allow  me  to  inquire  who  profited 
By  Stralenheim's  death  ?  Was't  I— as  poor  as  ever ; 
And  poorer  by  suspicion  on  my  name  ! 
The  baron  lost  in  that  last  outrage  neither 
Jewels  nor  gold ;  his  life  alone  was  sought, — 
A  life  which  stood  between  the  claims  of  others 
To  honors  and  estates  scarce  less  than  princely. 

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

Gab.  I  can't  help  that. 

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

[SiBGENDORP j?rs<  loois  at  the  Hungarian,  and 
then  at  Ulric,  who  has  unbuckled  his  sabre, 
and  is  drawing  lines  with  it  on  thefioor — 
still  in  its  sheath. 
Ulr.  (looks  at  his  father  and  says) 

Let  the  man  go  on  1 
Gab.  I  am  unarm'd,  count — bid  your  son  lay  down 
His  sabre. 

Ulr.  (offers  it  to  him  contemptuously.) 

Take  it. 
Gab.  No,  sir,  'tis  enough 

That  we  are  both  unarm'd — I  would  not  choose 


374 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


ACT  T. 


To  wear  a  steel  whicli  may  be  stain'd  with  more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 

Ulr.  (casts  the  sabre  from  Mm  in  contempt^ 

It — or  some 
Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hands — spared  yours 
Once  when  disarm'd  and  at  my  mercy. 

Gab.  True— 

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

Ulr.  Proceed. 

The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relater. 
But  is  it  of  my  father  to  hear  further  ? 

[To  SrEGENDOKF. 

8ieg.  (takes  his  ton  hy  the  hand.)  My  son  !  I  know 
my  own  innocence,  and  doubt  not 
Of  yours — but  I  have  promised  this  man  patience ; 
Let  him  continue. 

Gab.  I  will  not  detain  you 

By  speaking  of  myself  much  :  I  began 
Life  early — and  am  what  the  world  has  made  me. 
At  Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  where  I  pass'd 
A  winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 
My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 
(Which  I  frequented  sometimes  but  not  often) 
To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance 
In  February  last.     A  martial  force, 
Sent  by  the  state,  had,  after  strong  resistance, 
Secured  a  band  of  desperate  men,  supposed 
Marauders  from  the  hostile  camp. — They  proved, 
However,  not  to  be  so — but  banditti, 
Whom  either  accident  or  enterprise 
Had  carried  from  their  usual  haunt — forests 
Which  skirt  Bohemia — even  into  Lusatia. 
Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank — and  martial  law  slept  for  a  time. 
At  last  they  were  escorted  o'er  the  frontiers. 
And  placed  beneath  the  civil  jurisdiction 
Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort.     Of  their  fate, 
I  know  no  more. 

Sieff.  And  what  is  this  to  Ulric  ? 

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

8ieg.  And  did  you  so  ? 

Gab.  You'll  hear.    Chance  favor'd  me  : 

A  popular  aflfray  in  the  public  square 
Drew  crowds  together — it  was  one  of  those 


Occasions  where  men's  souls  look  out  of  them. 

And  show  them  as  they  are — even  in  their  faces  : 

The  moment  my  eye  met  his,  I  exclaim'd, 

"  This  is  the  man  !"  though  he  was  then,  as  since, 

With  the  nobles  of  the  city.     I  felt  sure 

I  had  not  err'd,  and  watch'd  him  long  and  nearly ; 

I  noted  down  his  form — his  gesture — features. 

Stature,  and  bearing — and  amidst  them  all. 

Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 

I  could  discern,  methought,  the  assassin's  eye 

And  gladiator's  heart. 

Ulr.  (smiling.)  The  tale  sounds  well. 

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

Sieg.  And  may  not  be  right  now. 

Gab  I  follow'd  him, 

SoUcited  his  notice — and  obtain'd  it — 
Though  not  his  friendship : — it  was  his  intention 
To  leave  the  city  privately — we  left  it 
Together, — and  together  we  arrived 
In  the  poor  town  where  Werner  was  conceal'd. 

And  Stralenheim  was  succor'd Now  we  are  on 

The  verge — clare  you  hear  further  ? 

Sieg.  I  must  do  so — 

Or  I  have  heard  too  much. 

Gab.  I  saw  in  you 

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

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

Gab.  StiU  you  owe  me  something, 

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

Sieg.  I  conceal'd  you — I, 

Whom  and  whose  house  you  arraign,  reviving  viperl 

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

Sieg.  You  merciful  I — 

You  1    Base  calumniator  ! 

Gab.  ■    L    'TwiUrest 

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


SCEXE   I. 


WERNER. 


375 


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

Sieg.  Asleep !    And  yet 

You  slew  him  ! — Wretch  ! 

Gab.  He  was  already  slain, 

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

8ieg.  But  he  was  all  alone  1 

You  saw  none  else  ?    You  did  not  see  the 

[JS«  pauBeafrom  agitation. 

Gab.  No, 

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

Sieg.  {tn  Ulric.)  Then,  my  boy !  thou  art  guilt- 
less still — 
Thou  bad'st  me  say  /  was  so  once — Oh  !  now 
Do  thou  as  much  ! 

Oah.  Be  patient !  I  can  not 

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

Sieg.  Oh  1   God  of  fathers  ! 

Gab.  I  beheld  his  features 

As  I  see  yours — but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them — behold  them  in  Count  Ulric's  1 
Distinct,  as  I  beheld  them,  though  the  expression 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was  ; — but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  crime — so  lately. 

Sieg.  This  is  so 

O/ib.  (interrupting  him.)  Nay — but  hear  me  to  the 
Now  you  must  do  so.     I  conceived  myself        [end  1 
Betray'd  by  you  and  him  (for  now  I  saw 
There  was  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refuge,  to  become 
The  victim  of  your  guilt ;  and  my  first  thought 
Was  vengeance :  but  though  arm'd  with  a  short 

poinard 
(Having  left  my  sword  without)  I  was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning — either  in  address  or  force. 
I  tum'd,  and  fled — i'  the  dark  :  chance  rather  than 
Skill  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall, 


And  thence  the  chamber  where  you  slept :  if  I 
Had  found  you  waking,  Heaven  alone  can  tell     [ed ; 
What  vengeance  and  suspicion  might  have  prompt- 
But  ne'er  slept  guilt  as  Werner  slept  that  night. 

Sieg.  And  yet  I  had  horrid  dreams  !  and  such 
brief  sleep, 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  when  I  awoke. 
Why  didst  thou  spare  me  ?  I  dreamt  of  my  father — 
And  now  my  dream  is  out  1 

Gab.  'Tis  not  my  fault 

If  I  have  read  it.     Well  1  I  fled  and  hid  me — 
Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons — 
And  show'd  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf ! 
Werner,  whom  I  had  sought  in  huts  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  palace  of  a  sovereign  ! 
You  sought  me  and  have  found  me — ^now  you  know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

Sieg.  {after  a  pause.)  Indeed  1 

.  Gab.  Is  it  revenge  or  justice  which  inspires 
Your  meditation  ? 

Sieg.  Neither — I  was  weighing 

The  value  of  your  secret. 

Gab.  You  shall  know  it 

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

Sieg.  Yes. 

Gah.  Not  quite.     You  think  me  venal,  and  scarce 
'Tis  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes     [true  : 
Have  made  me  both  at  present.     You  shaU  aid  me ; 
I  would  have  aided  you— and  also  have 
Been  somewhat  damaged  in  my  name  to  save 
Yours  and  your  son's.  Weigh  well  what  I  have  said. 

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

Gab.  (casts  Ms  eyes  on  Ulric  vihn  is  leaning  against 
a  pillar.)  If  I  should  do  so  ? 

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

Gab.  (hesitatingly.)  This  is  the  second  safe  asylum 
You  have  oSer'd  me. 

Sieg.  And  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

Gal).  I  know  not  that  even  now-  -  but  will  approve 
The  second.     I  have  still  a  further  shield. 
I  did  not  enter  Prague  alone  ;  and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenheim,  there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalf. 
Be  brief  in  your  decision  I 

Sieg.  I  will  be  so. 

My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocable 
Within  these  walls,  but  it  extends  no  further. 

Gab.  I'll  take  it  for  so  much. 

Seig.  (points  to  Ulric's  sabre  still  vpon  the  ground.) 

Take  also  that — 


S76 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


ACT  T. 


I  saw  yon  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

Oah.  {tal-es  up  the  sabre.)  I  will ;  and  so  provide 
To  sell  my  life — not  cheaply. 

[Gabor  goes  into  the  turret,  which  Siegendobf 
closes. 

Sieg.  {advances  to  Ulr.)  Now,  Count  TJlric  ! 
For  son  I  dare  not  call  thee.    What  say'st  thou  ? 

Ulr.  His  tale  is  true. 

Sieg.  True,  monster ! 

Ulr.  Most  true,  father ! 

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

Sieg.  Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains  ; 

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

Ulr.  It  is  no  time 

For  trifling  or  dissembling.     I  have  said 
His  story's  true  ;  and  he  too  must  be  silenced. 

Sieg.  How  so  ? 

Ulr.  As  Stralenheim  is.     Are  you  so  duU 

As  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before  ? 
When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discovery  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  ?     Or  had  the  prince's  household  been 
Then  summon'd,  would  the  cry  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a  stranger  ?     Or  should  I 
Have  loiter'd  on  the  way  ?    Or  could  you,  Werner, 
The  object  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears. 
Have  fled,  unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke  ?    I  sought  and  fathom'd  you, 
Doubting  if  you  were  false  or  feeble  :  I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter ;  and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  times  your  weakness. 

Sieg.  Parricide  !  no  less 

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

Ulr.  Father,  do  not  raise 

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

Sieg.  Oh,  my  dead  father's  curse!  'tis  working  now. 

Ulr.  Let  it  work  on !  the  grave  will  keep  it  down  1 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes :  it  is  more  easy 
To  baffle  such,  than  countermine  a  mole. 
Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath  you. 
Yet  hear  me  still !    If  you  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 
To  listen  to  him  !     Who  proclaim'd  to  me 
That  there  were  crimes  made  venial  by  the  occasion  J 


That  passion  yras  our  nature  ?  that  the  goods 

Of  Heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune  ? 

Who  show'd  me  his  humanity  secured 

By  his  nerves  only  ?     Who  deprived  me  of 

All  power  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 

In  open  day  ?     By  his  disgrace  which  stamp'd 

(It  might  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on       • 

Himself — a  felonU  brand  1     The  man  who  is 

At  once  both  warm  and  weak  invites  to  deeds 

He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not.     Is  it  strange     [done 

That  I  should  act  what  you  could  thiuh  ?     We  have 

With  right  and  wrong  ;  and  now  must  only  ponder 

Upon  effects,  not  causes.     Stralenheim, 

Whose  life  I  saved  from  impulse,  as,  unknmen, 

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

Known  as  our  foe — but  not  from  vengeance.     He 

Was  a  rock  in  our  way  which  I  cut  through. 

As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  us 

And  our  true  destination — but  not  idly. 

As  stranger  I  preserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 

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

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

I  have  plunged  our  enemy.     You  kindled  first 

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

Of  safety — or  let  me  1 

Sieg.  I  have  done  with  life  ! 

Ulr.  Let  us  have  done  with  that  which  cankers 
Familiar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations  [life— 

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

[Exit  Ulbic. 

Sieg.  ifolui.)  Am  I  awake  ?  are  these  my  father's 
halls? 
And  yon — my  son  ?   My  son  1  mine  !  who  have  ever 
Abhorr'd  both  mystery  and  blood,  and  yet 
Am  plunged  into  the  deepest  hell  of  both  I 
I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  wiU  be  shed — 
The  Hungarian's  1 — Ulric — he  hath  partisans. 
It  seems  :  I  might  have  guess'd  as  much.    Oh,  fool ! 
Wolves  prowl  in  company.     He  hath  the  key 
(As  I  too)  of  the  opposite  door  which  leads 
Into  the  turret.    Now  then  !  or  once  more 
To  be  the  father  of  fresh  crimes,  no  less 
Than  of  the  criminal !    Ho  !  Gabor  1  Gabor  1 

\_Exit  into  the  turret,  closing  the  door  after  him. 

8  C  B  N  B      II. 

The  Interior  of  the  Turret. 
Gabob  and  Sibgbndobf. 
Gab.  Who  calls  f 


SCKITB  n. 


WERNER. 


S11 


Sieg.  I — Siegendorf !    Take  these,  and  fly  1 

Lose  not  a  moment ! 

l^Tears  off  a  diamond  star  and  other  jewels,  and 
thr tints  them  into  Qabor's  hand. 

Oab.  What  am  I  to  do 

With  these  ? 

Sieg.  Whate'er  you  -will :  sell  them,  or  hoard, 

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

Gab.  You  pledged  your  honor  for  my  safety  1 

Sieg.  And 

Must  thus  redeem  it.    Fly  !  I  am  not  master, 
It  seems,  of  my  own  castle — of  my  own 
Retainers — nay,  even  of  these  very  walls. 
Or  I  would  bid  them  fall  and  crush  me  I     Fly  1 
Or  you  will  be  slain  by 

Gai>.  Is  it  even  so  ? 

Farewell,  then  !    Recollect,  however,  count, 
You  sought  this  fatal  interview  ! 

Sieg.  I  did : 

Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still  1 — Begone  I 

Gai.  By  the  same  path  I  enter'd  ? 

Sieg.  Yes  ;  that's  safe  still : 

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

Gafi.  I  know  too  well — 

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

Sieg.  (siolus  and  listening.)   He  hath  clear'd  the 
staircase.    Ah  !  I  hear 
The  door  sound  loud  behind  him  !    He  is  safe  ! 

Safe  ! — Oh,  my  father's  spirit ! — I  am  faint 

[He  leans  down  upon  a  stone  seat,  near  the  wall 
of  the  tower,  in  a  drooping  posture. 

Enter  Ulkic,  with  others  armed,  and  with  weapons 
drawn. 

Ulr.  Dispatch  ! — he's  there  ! 

Lud.  The  count,  my  lord  ! 

Ulr.  {recognizing  Sieg.)  Tou  here,  sir  ! 

Sieg.  Yes :  if  you  want  another  victim,  strike  ! 

Ulr.  (seeing  him  stripped  of  his  jewels.)  Where  is 
the  ruffian  who  hath  plunder'd  you  ? 
Vassals,  dispatch  in  search  of  him  I    You  see 
'Twas  as  I  said — the  wretch  hath  stripp'd  my  father 
Of  jewels  which  might  form  a  prince's  heirloom  I 
Away  !  I'll  follow  you  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Biegendorp  and  Ulbic, 
What's  this  ? 
Where  is  the  villain  ! 

Steg.  There  are  tico,  sir :  which 

Are  you  in  quest  of  ? 

Ulr.  Let  us  hear  no  more 

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

Steg.  He's  gone. 

Ub-.  With  your  connivance  ? 

43 


With 


Sieg. 
My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

Ulr.  Then  fare  you  well  1 

[Ulric  is  going. 

Steg.  Stop  !  I  command — entreat — implore  !    Oh, 
Will  you  then  leave  me  ?  [Ulric  1 

Ulr.  What !  remain  to  be 

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

Sieg.  I  never  had  one ; 

And  would  you  ne'er  had  borne  the  useless  name  1 
Where  will  you  go  ?     I  would  not  send  you  forth 
Without  protection. 

Ulr.  Leave  that  unto  me. 

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

Sieg.  The  foresters ! 

With  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at  Frank- 
fort! 

Uli:  Yes— men — who  are  worthy  of  the  name !  Go 
Your  senators  that  they  look  well  to  Prague  ;      [tell 
Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times; 
There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been  laid 
With  Wallenstein  1 

Enter  Josephine  and  Ida. 

Jos.  What  is't  we  hear?  My  Siegendorf  I 

Thank  heav'n,  I  see  you  safe  ! 

Sieg.  Safe ! 

Ida.  Yes,  dear  father. 

Sieg.  No,  no ;  I  have  no  children :  never  more 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent. 

Jos.  What 

Means  my  good  lord  ? 

Sieg.  That  you  have  given  birth 

To  a  demon  1 

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

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

Ida.    (stooping  to  kiss  it.)  I'd  kiss  it  ofi",  though  it 

Sieg. .  It  is  so !  [were  mine. 

Ulr.  Away !  it  is  your  father's  ?         [Exit  Ulric. 

Ida.  Oh,  great  God ! 

And  I  have  loved  this  man  I 

[Ida/ijIIs  senseless — Josephinb  stands  speech^- 
less  with  horror. 

Sieg.  The  wretch  hath  slain 

Them  both  I — My  Josephine  1  we  are  now  alone  I 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so ! — All  is  over 
For  me ! — Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grave  ; 
Thy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine  1 — The  race  of  Siegendorf  is  past  I 


378 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


HOURS    OF   IDLENESS 


A    SERIES    OF    POEMS,    ORIGINAL    AND    TRANSLATED.' 


Vlrglnlbus  pueriflqne  canto. — Hobacb,  lib.  111.  Ode  1. 

M^r'  up  fie  fj.a\'  atvee,  fir/re  t1  vukil — Homek,  Iliad,  x.  249. 
He  whistled  as  he  went,  for  want  of  thought.— Dktdbn. 


TO 


THE   RIGHT   HONORABLE   FREDERICK,   EARL   OF   CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT  Oy  THU  OABTBB,   BTC,  ETC. 
THB  SECOND  EDITION  OF  THESE  POEMS  IS  INSCKIBED, 

BT  HIS  OBLIGED  WARD  AND  APFECTIONATE  KINSMAN,'  • 

THB  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 

In  Bubmitting  to  the  public  eye  the  following  collec- 
tion, I  have  not  only  to  combat  the  difiBculties  that 
writers  of  verse  generally  encounter,  but  may  incur  the 
charge  of  presumption  for  obtruding  myself  on  the 
world,  when,  without  doubt,  I  might  be,  at  my  age, 
more  usefully  employed. 

These  productions  are  the  fruits  of  the  lighter  hours 
of  a  young  man  who  has  lately  completed  his  nine- 
teenth year.  As  they  bear  the  internal  evidence  of  a 
boyish  mind,  this  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  information. 
Some  few  were  written  during  the  disadvantages  of 
illness  and  depression  of  spirits  :  under  the  former  in- 
fluence, "  Childish  Recollections,"  in  particular, 
were  composed.  This  consideration,  though  it  cannot 
excite  the  voice  of  praise,  may  at  least  arrest  the  arm 
of  censure.  A  considerable  portion  of  these  poems  has 
been  privately  printed,  at  the  request  and  for  the  peru- 
sal of  my  friends.  I  am  sensible  that  the  partial 
and  frequently  injudicious  admiration  of  a  social  circle 
is  not  the  criterion  by  which  poetical  genius  is  to  be 
estimated,  yet,  "  to  do  greatly  "  we  must  "  dare  great- 
ly ;"  and  I  have  hazarded  my  reputation  and  feelings 
in  publishing  this  volume.  "  I  have  passed  the  Ru- 
bicon," and  must  stand  or  fall  by  the  "  cast  of  the  die.". 
In  the  latter  event,  I  shall  submit  without  a  murmur  ; 
for,  though  not  without  solicitude  for  the  fate  of  these 
effusions,  my  expectations  are  by  no  means  sanguine. 
It  probable  that  I  may  have  dared  much  and  done  lit- 
tle ;  for,  in  the  words  of  Cowper,  "  it  is  one  thing  to 
write  what  may  please  our  friends,  who,  because  they 
are  such,  are  apt  to  be  a  little  biased  in  our  favor,  and 
another  to  write  what  may  please  everybody  ;  because 
they  who  have  no  connection,  or  even  knowledge  of 
the  author,  will  be  sure  to  find  fault  if  they  can."     To 


'  First  published  in  18OT. 

'  Isabella,  the  daughter  of  ■William,  fourth  Lord  Byron,  (great- 
great  uncle  of  the  Poet,)  became,  in  1742,  the  wife  of  Henry,  fourth 


the  truth  of  this,  however,  I  do  not  wholly  subscribe : 
on  the  contrary,  I  feel  convinced  that  these  trifles  will 
not  be  treated  with  injustice.  Their  merit,  if  they 
possess  any,  will  be  liberally  allowed :  their  numerous 
faults,  on  the  other  hand,  cannot  expect  that  favor 
which  has  been  denied  to  others  of  maturer  years,  de- 
cided character,  and  far  greater  ability. 

I  have  not  aimed  at  exclusive  originality,  still  less 
have  I  studied  any  particular  model  for  imitation  : 
some  translations  are  given,  of  which  many  are  para- 
phrastic. In  the  original  pieces  there  may  appear  a 
casual  coincidence  with  authors  whose  works  I  have 
been  accustomed  to  read  ;  but  I  have  not  been  guilty 
of  intentional  plagiarism.  To  produce  any  thing  en- 
tirely new,  in  an  age  so  fertile  in  rhyme,  would  be  an 
Herculean  task,  as  every  subject  has  already  been 
treated  to  its  utmost  extent.  Poetry,  however,  is  not 
my  primary  vocation  ;  to  divert  the  dull  moments  of 
indisposition,  or  the  monotony  of  a  vacant  hour,  urged 
me  "  to  this  sin :"  little  can  be  expected  from  so 
unpromising  a  muse.  My  wreath,  scanty  as  it  must 
be,  is  all  I  shall  derive  from  these  productions ;  and  I 
shall  never  attempt  to  replace  its  fading  leaves,  or  pluck 
a  single  additional  sprig  from  groves  where  I  am,  at 
best,  an  intruder.  Though  accustomed,  in  my  young- 
er days,  to  rove  a  careless  mountaineer  on  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland,  I  have  not  of,  late  years,  had  the 
benefit  of  such  pure  air,  or  so  elevated  a  residence,  as 
might  enable  me  to  enter  the  lists  with  genuine  bards, 
who  have  enjoyed  both  these  advantages.  But  they 
derive  considerable  fame,  and  a  few  not  less  profit,  from 
their  productions  :  while  I  shall  expiate  my  rashness 
as  an  interloper,  certainly  without  the  latter,  and  in  all 
probability  with  a  very  slight  share  of  the  former.     I 


Earl  of  Carlisle,  and  was  the  mother  of  the  CfthEarl,  to  whom 
this  dedication  was  addressed.  This  lady  was  a  poetess  In  her 
way.  The  Fairy's  Answer  to  Mrs.  Greville's  "Prayer  of  Indif- 
erfence,"  in  Pearch's  Collection  is  usually  ascribed  to  her. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


379 


leave  to  others  "  virum  volitare  per  ora."  I  look  to  the 
few  who  will  hear  with  patience  "  diilce  est  desipere  in 
loco."  To  the  former  worthies  I  resign,  without  repin- 
ing, the  hope  of  immortality,  and  content  myself  with 
the  not  very  magnificent  prospect  of  ranking  amongst 
"  the  mob  of  gentlemen  who  write  ;" — my  readers  must 
determine  whether  I  dare  say  "with  ease,"  or  the  honor 
of  a  posthumous  page  in  "  The  Catalogue  of  Royal 
and  Noble  Authors," — a  work  to  which  the  Peerage  is 
under  infinite  obligations,  inasmuch  as  many  names  of 
oonsiderable  length,  sound,  and  antiquity,  are  thereby 
rescued  from  the  obscurity  which  unluckily  over- 
shadows several  voluminous  productions  of  their  il- 
lustrious bearers. 

With  slight  hopes,  and  some  fears,  I  publish  this 
first  and  last  attempt.  To  the  dictates  of  young  am- 
bition may  be  ascribed  many  actions  more  criminal 
and  equally  absurd.  To  a  few  of  my  own  age  the 
contents  may  aflford  amusement :  I  trust  they  will,  at 
least,  be  found  harmless.  It  is  highly  improbable,  from 
my  situation  and  pursuits  hereafter,  that  I  should  ever 
obtrude  myself  a  second  time  on  the  public  ;  nor,  even, 
in  the  very  doubtful  event  of  present  indulgence,  shall 
[  be  tempted  to  commit  a  future  trespass  of  the  same 
nature.  The  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson  on  the  Poems 
of  a  noble  relation  of  mine,'  "  That  when  a  man  of 
rank  appeared  in  the  character  of  an  author,  he  de- 
served to  have  his  merit  handsomely  allowed,"  can 
have  little  weight  with  verbal,  and  still  less  with  peri- 
odical censors ;  but  were  it  otherwise,  I  should  be  loth 
to  avail  myself  of  the  privilege,  and  would  rather  incur 
the  bitterest  censure  of  anonymous  criticism,  than 
triumph  In  honors  granted  solely  to  a  title. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

COUSIN  TO   THK   AUTHOR,  AND   VERY   DEAR   TO   HIM.' 

Hush'd  are  the  winds,  and  still  the  evening  gloom, 
Not  e'en  a  zephyr  wanders  through  the  grove, 

Whilst  I  return,  to  view  my  Margaret's  tomb, 
And  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I  love. 


'  The  Earl  of  Carlisle,  whose  works  have  long  received  the 
meed  of  public  applause,  to  which,  by  their  intrinsic  worth,  they 
were  well  entitled. 

'  The  author  claims  the  indnlgence  of  the  reader  more  for  this 
piece  than,  perhaps,  any  other  in  the  collection ;  but  as  it  was 
written  at  an  earlier  period  than  the  rest,  (being  composed  at  the 
age  of  fourteen.)  and  his  first  essay,  he  preferred  submitting  it  to 
the  indulgence  of  his  friends  in  its  present  state,  to  making  either 
addition  or  alteration. 

'  My  first  dash  into  poetry  was  as  early  as  1800.  It  was  the 
ebullition  of  a  passion  for  my  first  cousin.  Margaret  Parker 
(daughter  and  grand-danghter  of  the  two  Admirals  Parker),  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  evanescent  beings.  I  have  long  forgotten 
the  verse ;  but  It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  forget  her — her  dark 
eyes — her  long  eyelashes — her  completely  Greek  cast  of  fiw:e  and 
figure !  I  was  then  about  twelve— she  rather  older,  perhaps  a 
year.  She  died  about  a  year  or  two  afterwards,  in  consequence  of 
a  fall,  which  injureil  her  spine,  and  induced  consumption.    Her 


Within  this  narrow  cell  reclines  her  clay. 
That  clay,  where  once  such  animation  beam'd : 

The  King    of  Terrors  seized  her  as  his  prey ; 
Not  worth,  nor  beauty,  have  her  life  redeem'd. 

Oh  !  could  that  King  of  Terrors  pity  feel, 
Or  Heaven  reverse  the  dread  decrees  of  fate  I 

Not  here  the  mourner  would  his  grief  reveal, 
Not  here  the  muse  her  virtues  would  relate. 

But  wherefore  weep  ?    Her  matchless  spirit  soars 
Beyond  where  splendid  shines  the  orb  of  day ; 

And  weeping  angels  lead  her  to  those  bowers 
Where  endless  pleasures  virtue's  deeds  repay. 

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

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

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

Still  they  call  forth  my  warm  afiection's  tear, 
StiU  in  my  heart  retain  their  wonted  place.    i8oa.» 


TO    E- 


Let  Folly  smile,  to  view  the  names 
Of  thee  and  me  in  friendship  twined ; 

Yet  Virtue  will  have  greater  claims 
To  love,  than  rank  with  vice  combined. 

And  though  unequal  is  thy  fate, 
Since  title  deck'd  my  higher  birth  I 

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

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

Our  intercourse  is  not  less  sweet, 

Since  worth  of  rank  supplies  the  place. 

November,  1802. 


Bister  Angusta  (by  some  thought  still  more  beantifhl),  died  of  the 
same  malady ;  and  it  was,  indeed,  in  attending  her,  that  Margaret 
met  with  the  accident  which  occasioned  her  deAtb.  My  sister  told 
me,  that  when  she  went  to  see  her,  shortly  before  her  death,  upon 
accidentally  mentioning  my  name,  Margaret  colored,  throughout 
the  paleness  of  mortality,  to  the  eyes,  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  my  sister,  who  knew  nothing  of  our  attachment,  nor  could 
conceive  why  my  name  should  affect  her  at  such  a  time.  I  knew 
nothing  of  her  illness — being  at  Harrow  and  in  the  country— till 
she  was  gone.  Some  years  after,  I  made  an  attempt  at  an  elegy — 
a  very  dull  one.  I  do  not  recollect  scarcely  any  thing  equal  to  the 
transparent  beauty  of  my  cousin,  or  to  the  sweetness  of  her  tem- 
per, during  the  short  period  of  our  Intimacy.  She  looked  as  if 
she  had  been  made  out  of  a  rainbow— all  beauty  and  peace.— Jyron 
DiOT-y,  1821. 

*  This  little  poem,  and  some  others  in  the  collection,  refer  to  a 
boy  of  Lord  Byron's  own  age,  son  of  one  of  his  tenants  at  New- 
stead,  for  whom  he  bad  formed  a  romantic  attachment,  of  earlier 
dat«  than  any  of  his  school  friendships. 


880 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


TO   D — -. 

In  thee,  I  fondly  hoped  to  clasp 

A  friend,  whom  death  alone  could  sever ; 
Till  enyy,  with  malignant  grasp, 

Detach'd  thee  from  my  breast  forever. 

True,  she  has  forced  thee  from  my  breast, 
Yet,  in  my  heart  thou  Iceep'st  thy  seat ; 

There,  there  thine  image  still  must  rest, 
Until  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 

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

On  thy  dear  breast  I'll  lay  my  head — 
Without  thee,  where  would  be  my  heaven  ? 

February,  1803. 


EPITAPH   ON   A   FRIEND. 

'Xarfip  nplv  fiiv  ITiafixcc  tvi  ^uotaiv  luioc. — LaerTIUS, 

Oh,  Friend  I  forever  loved,  forever  dear  ! 

What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honor'd  bier  1 

What  sighs  re-echo'd  to  thy  parting  breath. 

Whilst  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death  ! 

Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course  ; 

Could  sighs  avert  his  dart's  relentless  force ; 

Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a  short  delay. 

Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prey, 

Thou  still  hadst  lived  to  bless  my  aching  sight, 

Thy  comrade's  honor  and  thy  friend's  delight. 

If  yet  thy  gentle  spirit  hover  nigh 

The  spot  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie, 

Here  wilt  thou  read,  recorded  on  my  heart, 

A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 

No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 

But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep  ; 

Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 

Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 

What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  Une, 

A  father's  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine  I 

Though  none,  like  thee,  his  dying  hour  wiU  cheer, 

Yet  other  offspring  soothe  his  anguish  here  : 

But,  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place  ? 

Thine  image,  what  new  friendship  can  efface  ? 

Ah  I  none  ! — a  father's  tears  will  cease  to  flow, 

Time  will  assuage  an  infant  brother's  wo  ; 

To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known, 

While  solitary  friendship  sighs  alone.  isob. 


A   FRAGMENT. 

When,  to  their  airy  hall,  my  fathers'  voice 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice ; 
When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  shall  ride. 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  descend  the  mountain's  side ; 
Oh,  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns  ! 


No  lengthen'd  scroll,  no  praise-encumber'd  stone ; 

My  epitaph  shall  be  my  name  alone  ; 

If  tJiat  with  honor  fail  to  crown  my  clay. 

Oh,  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay  ! 

That,  only  that,  shall  single  out  the  spot ; 

By  that  remember'd,  or  with  that  forgot.  isoa. 


ON   LEAVING    NEWSTEAD    ABBEY. 

"  Why  dost  thou  build  the  hall,  son  of  the  winged  days  ?  Thoa 
lookest  from  thy  tower  to-day  :  yet  a  few  years,  and  the  blast  of 
the  desert  comes,  it  howls  in  thy  empty  court." — Ossian. 

Through  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hollow 
winds  whistle ; 
Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay ; 
In  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 
Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  late  bloom'd  in 
the  way. 

Of  the  mail-cover'd  Barons,  who  proudly  to  battle 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain. 

The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  blast 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain,  [rattle. 

No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-stringing  num- 
bers. 
Raise  a  flame  in  the  breast  for  the  war-laurel'd 
wreath ; 
Near  Askalon's  towers,  John  of  Horistan  slumbers ; 
Unnerved  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel  by  death. 

Paul  and  Hubert,  too,  sleep  in  the  valley  of  Cressy ; 

For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell : 
My  fathers  !  the  tears  of  your  country  redress  ye ; 

How  you  fought,  how  you  died,  still  her  annals 
can  tell. 

On  Marston,  with  Rupert,  'gainst  traitors  contending, 
Four  brothers  enrich'd  with  their  blood  the  bleak 
field; 

For  the  rights  of  a  monarch  their  country  defending, 
Till  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  seal'd. 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell !  your  descendant,  de- 
parting 

From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu  1 
Abroad,  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 

New  courage,  he'll  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 
'Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret ; 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation, 
The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish ; 

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

When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your 
own !  180S. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


381 


LINES 

■WBITTEN  IN  "letters  TO  AN  ITAilAN  3TON  AKD 
AS  ENOIilSII  OENTLEMAH  :  BT  J.  J.  BOUSSEAU : 
POUNDED   ON  PACTS." 

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

ANSWER  TO   THE  POREGOING,  ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  — . 

Dear,  simple  girl,  those  flattering  arts. 

From  which  thou'dst  guard  frail  female  hearts, 

Exist  but  in  imagination, — 

Mere  phantoms  of  thine  own  creation ; 

For  he  who  views  that  witching  grace, 
•  That  perfect  form,  that  lovely  face, 

With  eyes  admiring,  oh,  believe  me, 

He  never  wishes  to  deceive  tliee  ! 

Once  in  thy  polish'd  mirror  glance, 

Thou'lt  there  descry  that  elegance, 
.   Which  from  our  sex  demands  such  praises. 

But  envy  in  the  other  raises  : 

Then  he  who  tells  thee  of  thy  beauty. 

Believe  me,  only  does  his  duty : 

Ah  I  fly  not  from  the  candid  youth  ; 

It  is  not  flattery, — 'tis  truth.  jidy,  isM. 


ADRIAN'S   ADDRESS   TO   fflS   SOUL   WHEN 
DYING. 

[Asmtn-A  1  vagnla,  blandula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis, 
Quffi  nnnc  abibis  in  loca — 
Tallidnla,  rigida,  nndnia, 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos  ?] 

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

To  what  unknown  region  borne. 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight  ? 
No  more  with  wonted  humor  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 


TRANSLATION   FROM   CATULLUS. 

ad  lesbiam. 

EquaJj  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be — 
Greater  than  Jove  he  seems  to  me — 
Who,  free  from  Jealousy's  alarms. 
Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms. 
That  cheek,  which  ever  dimpling  glows, 
That  mouth,  from  whence  such  music  flows, 
To  him,  alike,  are  always  known, 
Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 
Ah,  Lesbia  !  though  'tis  death  to  me, 
I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee  ; 
But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly  ; 


I  needs  must  gaze,  but,  gazing,  die  ; 
Whilst  trembling  with  a  thousand  fears, 
Parch'd  to  the  throat  my  tongue  adheres. 
My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 
My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support. 
Cold  dews  my  pallid  face  o'erspread. 
With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head, 
My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring, 
And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing. 
My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light. 
Their  orbs  are  veil'd  in  starless  night : 
Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath, 
And  feels  a  temporary  death. 


TRANSLATION   OF   THE   EPITAPH   ON 
VIRGIL   AND   TIBULLUS. 


BY   DOMITIUS   MARSUS. 


He  who  sublime  in  epic  numbers  roU'd, 
And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love, 

By  Death's '  unequal  hand  alike  controU'd 
Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move. 


IMITATION   OF   TIBULLUS. 

"  Sulpieia  ad  Cerinthum."— ZJJ.  4. 

Cruel  Cerinthus  !  does  the  fell  disease 
Wliich  racks  my  breast  your  fickle  bosom  please  ? 
Alas  !  I  wish'd  but  to  o'ercome  the  pain. 
That  I  might  live  for  love  and  you  again  : 
But  now  I  scarcely  shall  bewail  my  fate  ; 
By  death  alone  I  can  avoid  your  hate. 


TRANSLATION   FROM   CATULLUS. 
[Lngete,  Veneres,  Cnpidinesque,  etc.] 

Ye  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head. 
Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread, 
My  Lesbia's  favorite  bird  is  dead, 

Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  loved : 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 
Obedient  to  her  call  he  flow. 
No  fear,  no  wild  alarm  he  knew. 

But  lightly  o'er  her  bosom  moved. 

And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there, 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air. 
But  cherup'd  oft,  and,  free  from  care. 

Tuned  to  her  ear  his  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  pass'd  the  gloomy  bourne 
From  whence  he  never  can  return. 
His  death  and  Lesbia's  grief  I  mourn. 

Who  sighs,  alas  !  but  sighs  in  vain. 

'  The  liand  of  Deatli  is  said  to  be  unjust  or  nncqaal,  as  Vlrgjl 
was  c«neidcrably  older  than  Tlbtdlns  at  bis  decease. 


382 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Oh,  cursed  be  thou,  devouring  grave  ! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave, 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thou  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away : 
From  thee  my  Lesbia's  eyes  o'erflow, 
Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow ; 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  wo, 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITATED   FROM   CATULLUS. 

TO  ELLEN. 

Oh  !  might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  miUion  scarce  would  quench  desire  : 
Still  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  bliss. 
And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss : 
Nor  Jhen  my  soul  should  sated  be  ; 
Still  would  I  kiss  and  cling  to  thee  : 
Naught  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever ; 
Still  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  forever ; 
E'en  though  the  number  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest's  countless  seed. 
To  part  would  be  a  vain  endeavor  : 
Could  I  desist  ? — ah  1  never— never  ! 


TRANSLATION    FROM    HORACE. 
[Justnm  et  tenacem  propositi  viram,  etc.] 

The  man  of  firm  and  noble  soul 
No  factious  clamors  can  control ; 
No  threat'nihg  tyrant's  darkling  brow 

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

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

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

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

Again  in  crashing  chaos  roll'd. 
In  vast  promiscuous  ruin  hurl'd. 
Might  light  his  glorious  funeral  pile  : 
Still  dauntless  'mid  the  wreck  of  earth  he'd  smile. 


FROM   ANACREON. 
[9e^  ?.eyeiv  Arpeidaf;,  k.  t.  A.] 

I  wish  to  tune  my  quivering  lyre 
To  deeds  of  fame  and  notes  of  fire ; 
To  echo,  from  its  rising  swell. 
How  heroes  fought  and  nations  fell. 
When  Atreus'  sons  advanced  to  war, 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  roved  afar ; 


But  still  to  martial  strains  unknown. 
My  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone  : 
Fired  with  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
I  seek  some  nobler  hero's  name  ; 
The  dying  chords  are  strung  anew. 
To  war,  to  war,  my  harp  is  due  : 
With  glowing  strings,  the  epic  strain 
To  Jove's  great  son  I  raise  again  ; 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds. 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds. 
All,  all  in  vain  ;  my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu,  ye  chiefs  renown'd  in  arms  ! 
Adieu,  the  clang  of  war's  alarms  I 
To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung. 
And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung ; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal. 
To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel : 
Love,  Love  alone,  my  lyre  shall  claim. 
In  songs  of  bliss  and  sighs  of  flame. 


FROM   ANACREON. 

pieaovvKTiai;  ttoO'  upatr'  k.  t.  A.] 

'TwA8  now  the  hour  when  Night  had  driven 

Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven ; 

Bootes,  only,  seem'd  to  roll 

His  arctic  charge  around  the  pole  ; 

While  mortals,  lost  in  gentle  sleep. 

Forgot  to  smile,  or  ceased  to  weep  : 

At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy, 

Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy. 

Quick  to  my  gate  directs  his  course. 

And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force. 

My  visions  fled,  alarm'd  I  rose, — 

"  What  stranger  breaks  my  bless'd  repose  ?" 

"  Alas  !"  replies  the  wily  child. 

In  faltering  accents  sweetly  mild, 

"  A  hapless  infant  here  I  roam. 

Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home. 

Oh,  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast  1 

The  nightly  storm  is  pouring  fast ; 

No  prowling  robber  lingers  here. 

A  wandering  baby  who  can  fear  ?" 

I  heard  his  seeming  artless  tale, 

I  heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale  : 

My  breast  was  never  pity's  foe. 

But  felt  for  all  the  baby's  wo. 

I  drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light, 

Toung  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight ; 

His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung. 

And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung, 

(Ah  !  httle  did  I  think  the  dart 

Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart.) 

With  care  I  tend  my  weary  guest, 

His  little  fingers  chill  my  breast ; 


I 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


383 


Hia  glossy  curls,  Ms  azure  wing, 

Which  droop  with  nightly  showers,  I  wring  ; 

His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm  ; 

And  now  reviving  from  the  storm. 

Scarce  had  he  felt  his  wonted  glow, 

Than  swift  he  seized  his  slender  bow  : — 

"  I  fain  would  know,  my  gentle  host," 

He  cried,  "  if  this  its  strength  has  lost ; 

I  fear,  relax'd  with  midnight  dews, 

The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse." 

With  poison  tipp'd,  his  arrow  flies. 

Deep  in  my  tortured  heart  it  lies  ; 

Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laugh'd  : — 

"  My  bow  can  still  impel  the  shaft : 

'Tis  firmly  fix'd,  thy  sighs  reveal  it ; 

Say,  courteous  host,  canst  thou  not  feel  it  ?" 


PROM   THE   PROMETHEUS   VINCTUS   OF 
^SCHYLUS. 

[MT/iafi'  i  TTuvra  vifiuv,  k.  t.  /..] 

Qbbat  Jove,  to  whose  almighty  throne 
Both  gods  and  mortals  homage  pay, 

Ke'er  may  my  soul  thy  power  disown, 
Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 

Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  fall 

In  sea-girt  Ocean's  mossy  hall ; 

My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
'Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  main. 

How  different  now  thy  joyless  fate, 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride. 
When  placed  aloft  in  godlike  state, 

The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side. 

Thou  sat'st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smiled, 

And  mirthful  strains  the  hours  beguiled. 

The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danced  around, 

Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  flx'd,  nor  Jove  relentless 

frown'd, 

Harrow,  Dec.  1, 1801. 


TO  EMMA. 

SracE  now  the  hour  is  come  at  last, 

When  you  must  quit  your  anxious  lover  ; 

Since  now  our  dream  of  bliss  is  past. 
One  pang,  my  girl,  and  all  is  over. 

Alas  !  that  pang  will  be  severe, 

Which  bids  us  part  to  meet  no  more  ; 

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

Well !  we  have  pass'd  some  happy  hours, 
And  joy  will  mingle  with  our  tears  : 

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


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

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

O'er  fields  through  which  we  used  to  run. 
And  spend  the  hours  in  childish  play ; 

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

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

Yet  envied  every  fly  the  kiss 

It  dared  to  give  your  slumbering  eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

This  is  the  deepest  of  our  woes. 

For  this  these  tears  our  cheeks  bedew ; 

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


/ 


TO  M.  S.  Q. 


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

Yet  I  forego  that  bliss  divine, 
Alas  !  it  were  unhallow'd  bliss. 

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

Yet  is  the  daring  wish  repress'd  ; 
For  that, — would  banish  its  repose. 

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

Yet  I  conceal  my  love, — and  why  ? 
I  would  not  force  a.  painful  tear. 

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

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


884 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


No  I  for  thou  never  canst  be  mine, 
United  by  the  priest's  decree  : 

By  any  ties  but  those  divine, 
Mine,  my  beloved,  thou  ne'er  shalt  be. 

Then  let  the  secret  fire  consume. 
Let  it  consume,  thou  shalt  not  know : 

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

I  mn  not  ease  my  tortured  heart. 
By  driving  dove-eyed  peace  from  thine; 

Bather  than  such  a  sting  impart. 
Each  thought  presumptuous  I  resign.  ■ 

Yes  1  3rield  those  lips,  for  which  I'd  brave 
More  than  I  here  shall  dare  to  teU ; 

Thy  innocence  and  mine  to  save, — 
I  bid  thee  now  a  last  farewell. 

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

Which  to  obtain  my  soul  would  dare 
AH,  all  reproach — but  thy  disgrace. 

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

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


TO  CAROLINE. 

Think'st  thou  I  saw  thy  beauteous  eyes, 
Sufiused  in  tears,  implore  to  stay ; 

And  heard  unmoved  thy  plenteous  sighs. 
Which  said  far  more  than  words  can  say  ? 

Though  keen  the  grief  thy  tears  express'd. 
When  love  and  hope  lay  both  o'erthrown ; 

Yet  still,  my  girl,  this  bleeding  breast 
Throbb'd  with  deep  sorrow  as  thine  own. 

But  when  our  cheeks  with  anguish  glow'd, 
When  thy  sweet  lips  were  join'd  to  mine, 

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

Thou  couldst  not  feel  my  burning  cheek. 
Thy  gushing  tears  had  quench'd  its  flame . 

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

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

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


Again,  thou  best  beloved,  adieu  1 
Ah !  if  thou  canst,  o'ercome  regret ; 

Nor  let  thy  mind  past  joys  review, — 
Our  only  hope  is  to  forget  1 


/ 


TO  CAROLINE. 


When  I  hear  you  express  an  affection  so  warm, 
Ne'er  think,  my  beloved,  that  I  do  not  believe ; 

For  your  lip  would  the  soul  of  suspicion  disarm. 
And  your  eye  beams  a  ray  which  can  never  deceive. 

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

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

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

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

'Tis  this,  my  beloved,  which  spreads  gloom  o'er  my 
features. 

Though  I  ne'er  shall  presume  to  arraign  the  decree. 
Which  God  has  proclaim'd  as  the  fate  of  his  creatures, 

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

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

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

But  as  death,  my  beloved,  soon  or  late  shall  o'ertake  us, 
And  our  breasts,  which  alive  with  such  sympathy 
glow, 

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

Oh  1  then  let  us  drain,  while  we  may,  draughts  of 
pleasure. 
Which  from  passion  like  ours  may  unceasingly  flow. 
Let  us  pass  round  the  cup  of  love's  bliss  in  full  measure. 
And  quaff  the  contents  as  our  nectar  below. 

1805. 


TO  CAROLINE. 

Oh  I  when  shall  the  grave  hide  forever  my  sorrows  ? 

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

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

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

curses,  [bliss ; 

I  blast  not  the  fiends  who  have  hurl'd  me  from 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


385 


For  poor  is  the  soul  which,  bewailing,  rehearses 
Its  querulous  grief,  when  in  anguish  like  this, 

TVas  my  eye,  'stead  of  tears,  with  red  fury  flakes 

bright'ning, 
■Would  my  lips  breathe  a  flame  which  no  stream 

could  assuage,  [its  lightning, 

On  our  foes  should  my  glance  launch  in  vengeance 

With  transport  my  tongue  give  a  loose  to  its  rage. 

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

Could  they  view  us  our  sad  separation  bewailing. 
Their  merciless  hearts  would  rejoice  at  the  sight. 

Yet  still,  though  we  bend  with  a  feign'd  resignation, 
Life  beams  not  for  us  with  one  ray  that  can  cheer; 

Love  and  hope  upon  earth  bring  no  more  consolation ; 
In  the  grave  is  our  hope,  for  in  life  is  our  fear. 

Oh  1  when,  my  adored,  in  the  tomb  will  they  place  me. 
Since,  in  life,  love  and  friendship  forever  are  fled  ? 

If  again  in  the  mansion  of  death  I  embrace  thee. 
Perhaps  they  will  leave  unmolested  the  dead. 

1805. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY, 

wrrn  the  fokus  of   camoens. 

This  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem. 

Perhaps,  dear  girl !  for  me  thou'lt  prize, 

It  sings  of  Love's  enchanting  dream, 
A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 

Who  blames  it  but  the  envious  fool. 
The  old  and  disappointed  maid  ; 

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

Then  read,  dear  girl !  with  feeling  read, 
For  thou  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  those ; 

To  thee  in  vain  I  shall  not  plead 
In  pity  for  the  poet's  woes. 

He  was  in  sooth  a  genuine  bard ; 

His  was  no  faint,  fictitious  flame  : 
Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward, 

But  not  thy  hapless  fate  the  same. 


THE  FIRST  KISS   OF  LOVE. 

'A  Bop^crof  ie  x^P^^'i 

'Epura  ftowov  i/xct.  Anacreon. 

Away  with  your  fictions  of  flimsy  romance ; 
Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has  wove  I 
49 


Give  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance, 
Or  the  rapture  which  dwells  on  the  first  kiss  of 
love. 

Ye  rhymers,  whose  bosoms  with  fantasy  glow, 
Whose  pastoral  passions  arc  made  for  the  grove ; 

From  what  blest  inspiration  your  sonnets  would  flow, 
Could  you  ever  have  tasted  the  first  kiss  of  love  1 

If  Apollo  should  e'er  his  assistance  refuse. 
Or  the  Nine  be  disposed  from  your  service  to  rove, 

Invoke  them  no  more,  bid  adieu  to  the  muse, 
And  try  the  eflfect  of  the  first  kiss  of  love  I 

I  hate  you,  ye  cold  compositions  of  art ! 

Though  prudes  may  condemn  me,  and  bigots  re- 
prove, 
I  court  the  effusions  that  spring  from  the  heart, 

Which  throbs  with  delight  to  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

Your  shepherds,  your  flocks,  those  fantastical  themes, 
Perhaps  may  amuse,  yet  they  never  can  move  : 

Arcadia  displays  but  a  region  of  dreams  : 

What  are  visions  like  these  to  the  first  kiss  of  love  ? 

Oh  !  cease  to  afiirm  that  man,  since  his  birth, 
From  Adam  till  now,  has  with  wretchedness  strove ; 

Some  portion  of  paradise  still  is  on  earth, 
And  Eden  revives  in  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

When  age  chills  the  blood,  when  our  pleasures  are 
pass'd — 

For  years  fleet  iiway  with  the  wings  of  the  dove — 
The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last, 

Our  sweetest  memorial  the  first  kiss  of  love. 


ON  A  CHANGE  OF  MASTERS  AT  A  GREAT 
PUBLIC    SCHOOL. 

Wheee  are  those  honors,  Ida  !  once  your  own, 
When  Probus  fiU'd  your  magisterial  throne  ? 
As  ancient  Rome,  fast  falling  to  disgrace, 
Hail'd  a  barbarian  in  her  Ca;sar's  place, 
So  you,  degenerate,  share  as  hard  a  fate, 
And  seat  Pomposus  where  your  Probus  sate. 
Of  narrow  brain,  yet  of  a  narrower  soul, 
Pomposus  holds  you  in  his  harsh  control ; 
Pomposus,  by  no  social  virtue  sway'd, 
With  florid  jargon,  and  with  vain  parade  ; 
With  noisy  nonsense,  and  new-fangled  rules. 
Such  as  were  ne'er  before  enforced  in  schools. 
Mistaking  pedantry  for  learning's  laws. 
He  governs,  sanction'd  but  by  self-applause. 
With  him  the  same  dire  fate  attending  Rome, 
Ill-fated  Ida  !  soon  must  stamp  your  doom : 
Like  her  o'erthrown,  forever  lost  to  fame. 
No  trace  of  science  left  you,  but  the  name. 

July,  1805. 


386 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


TO   THE   DUKE    OF   DORSET.' 

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

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth,  their  golden  idol,  not  to  thee, — 
And  even  in  simple  boyhood's  opening  dawn 
Some  slaves  arc  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn, — 
When  these  declare,  "  that  pomp  alone  should  wait 
On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great ; 
That  books  were  only  meant  for  drudging  fools. 
That  gallant  spirits  scom  the  common  rules  ;" 
Believe  them  not ; — they  point  the  path  to  shame. 
And  seek  to  blast  the  honors  of  thy  name. 
Turn  to  the  few  in  Ida's  early  throng, 
Whose  souls  disdain  not  to  condemn  the  wrong ; 
Or  if,  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth. 
None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth. 
Ask  thine  own  heart ;  'twill  bid  thee,  boy,  forbear  ; 
For  well  I  know  that  virtue  lingers  there. 

Yes  !  I  have  mark'd  thee  many  a  passing  day. 
But  now  new  scenes  invite  me  far  away ; 
Yes  !  I  have  mark'd  within  that  generous  mind 
A  soul,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind. 
Ah  !  though  myself,  by  nature  haughty,  wild. 
Whom  Indiscretion  hail'd  her  favorite  child  ; 
Though  every  error  stamps  me  for  her  own. 
And  dooms  my  fall,  I  fain  would  fall  alone  ; 

•  In  looking  over  my  papers  to  eclect  a  few  additonal  poems  for 
this  second  edition,  I  found  the  above  lines,  which  I  had  totally 
forgotten,  composed  in  the  fnmmer  of  ISOS,  a  short  time  previous 
to  my  departure  from  Harrow.  They  were  addressed  to  a  young 
schoolfellow  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  my  frequent  companion 
in  some  rambles  through  the  neighboring  country :  liowcvcr,  he 
never  saw  the  lines,  and  most  probably  never  will.  .\s,  on  a  re- 
perusal,  I  found  them  not  worse  than  some  other  pieces  in  the 
collection,  I  have  now  published  them,  for  the  first  time,  after  a 
slight  revision. 

''  George-John-Froderick,  fourth  Sukc  of  Dorset,  born  Novem- 
ber 15, 1793.  This  amiable  nobleman  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  his 
horse,  while  hunting  near  Dublin,  February  22, 1815,  being  on  a 
visit  at  the  time  to  his  mother,  the  duchess-do^vager,  and  her  sec- 
ond husband,  Charles,  Rirl  of  Whitworth,  then  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  Ireland. 

'  At  every  public  school  the  junior  boys  arc  completely  subserv- 
ient to  the  upper  forms  till  they  &U&m  a  seat  in  the  higher  classes. 
From  tUs  state  of  probation,  very  properly,  no  rank  is  exempt ; 


Though  my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can  tame, 
I  love  the  virtues  which  I  cannot  claim. 

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

Turn  to  the  annals  of  a  former  day  ; 
Bright  are  the  deeds  thine  earlier  sires  display. 
One,  though  a  courtier,  lived  a  man  of  worth. 
And  call'd,  proud  boast !  the  British  drama  forth.' 
Another  view,  not  less  renown'd  for  wit ; 
Alike  for  courts,  and  camps,  or  senates  fit ; 
Bold  in  the  field,  and  favor'd  by  the  Nine ; 
In  every  splendid  part  ordain'd  to  shine  ; 
Far,  far  distinguish'd  from  the  glittering  throng. 
The  pride  of  princes,  and  the  boast  of  song.' 
Such  were  thy  fathers  ;  thus  preserve  their  name  ; 
Not  heir  to  titles  only,  but  to  fame. 
The  hour  draws  nigh,  a  few  brief  days  will  close 
To  m«,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes  ; 
Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign  [mine  : 
Shades  where  Hope,  Peace,  and  Friendship  all  were 
Hope,  that  could  vary  like  the  rainbow's  hue. 


but  after  a  certain  period,  they  command  in  turn  those  who  suc- 
ceed. 

*  Allow  me  to  disclaim  any  personal  allusions,  even  the  most 
distant :  I  merely  mention  generally  what  is  too  often  the  weak- 
ness of  preceptors. 
i  '  "  Thomas  Sackvillo,  Lord  Bnckhurst,  was  bom  in  1527.  While 
1  a  student  of  the  Inner  Temple,  he  wrote  his  tragedy  of  Gorboduc, 
which  was  played  before  Queen  Elizabeth  at  Whitehall,  in  1561. 
His  tragedy,  and  his  contribution  of  the  Induction  and  legend  of 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham  to  the  "  Mirror  for  Magistrates,"  com- 
pose the  poetical  history  of  Sackville." 

«  Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset,  was  born  in  1637,  and  died 
In  1706.  He  was  esteemed  the  most  accomplished  man  of  his 
day,  and  alike  distinguished  in  (he  voluptuous  court  of  Charles 
n.  and  the  gloomy  one  of  William  IH.  He  behaved  with  consid- 
erable gallantry  in  the  sea-flght  with  the  Dutch  in  1605 ;  on  the 
day  previous  to  which  he  is  said  to  have  composed  his  celebrated 
song.  To  all  you  Ladles  now  at  Land.  His  character  has  been 
drawn  in  the  highest  colors  by  Drydon,  Pope,  Prior  and  Congreve. 


IIOUKS  OF  IDLENESS. 


387 


And  gild  their  pinions  as  the  moments  fle^^ ; 
Peace,  that  reflection  never  frown'd  away, 
By  dreams  of  ill  to  cloud  some  future  day ; 
Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  tell, 
Alas  !  they  love  not  long,  who  love  so  welL 
To  these  adieu  !  nor  let  me  linger  o'er 
Scenes  hail'd,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shore, 
Receding  slowly  through  the  dark-blue  deep, 
Beheld  by  eyes  that  mourn,  yet  cannot  weep. 

Dorset,  farewell !  I  will  not  ask  one  part 
Of  sad  remembrance  in  so  young  a  heart ; 
The  coming  morrow  from  thy  youthful  mind 
Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a  trace  behind. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  in  some  maturer  year. 
Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  self-same  sphere, 
Since  the  same  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate, 
May  one  day  claim  our  suffrage  for  the  state, 
We  hence  may  meet,  and  pass  each  other  by, 
With  faint  regard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye. 

For  me,  in  future,  neither  friend  nor  foe, 
A  stranger  to  thyself,  thy  weal  or  wo, 
With  thee  no  more  again  I  hope  to  trace 
The  recollection  of  our  early  race  ; 
No  more,  as  once,  in  social  hours  rejoice. 
Or  hear,  unless  in  crowds,  thy  well-known  voice  : 
Still,  if  the  wishes  of  a  heart  untaught 
To  veil  those  feelings  which  perchance  it  ought, 
If  these, — but  let  me  cease  the  lengthen'd  strain, — 
Oh  !  if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain, 
The  guardian  seraph  who  directs  thy  fate 
Will  leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee  great. 

1805. 


FRAGMENT. 

•WHITTEN   SHORTLY   AFTER   THE   MARRIAGE   OP 
MISS  CHAWORTH. 

Hills  of  Annesley  !  bleak  and  barren. 
Where  my  thoughtless  childhood  stray"d, 

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

Now  no  more,  the  hours  beguiling, 

Former  favorite  haunts  I  see  ; 
Now  no  more  my  Mary  smiling 

Makes  ye  seem  a  heaven  to  me. 


1805. 


GRANTA.    A  Medley. 

On !  could  Le  Sage's'  demon's  gift 
Be  realized  at  my  desire, 


1  The  Diable  Boltonx  of  Le  Sage,  where  Asmodcus,  the  demon, 
places  Don  Cleofas  on  an  elevated  Bituatlou,  and  unroofs  the  houses 
for  InBpection. 

'  On  the  death  of  Mr.  Pitt,  In  January,  1906,  Lord  Henry  Potty 
and  Lord  Palmorston  were  candidate'  to  represent  the  rniverslty 
of  Cambridge  In  parliament. 


This  night  my  trembling  form  he'd  lift 
To  place  it  on  St.  Mary's  spire. 

Then  would,  unroofd,  old  Granta's  halls 

Pedantic  inmates  full  display ; 
Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn  or  stalls, 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 

Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight, 

Petty  and  Palmerston  survey ; 
Who  canvass  there  with  all  their  might, 

Against  the  next  elective  day.' 

Lo  !  candidates  and  voters  lie 
All  luU'd  in  sleep,  a  goodly  number : 

A  race  renown'd  for  piety, 
^Vhose  conscience  won't  disturb  their  slumber. 

Lord  H ,'  indeed,  may  not  demur ; 

Fellows  are  sage  reflecting  men : 
They  know  preferment  can  occur 

But  very  seldom, — now  and  then. 

They  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 

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

And  therefore  smiles  on  his  proposal. 

Now  from  the  soporific  scene 
I'll  turn  mine  eye,  as  night  grows  later. 

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

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp ; 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He  surely  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 

With  all  the  honors  of  his  college. 
Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them, 

Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge  : 

Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest 

To  scan  precisely  metres  Attic ; 
Or  agitates  his  anxious  breast 

In  solving  problems  mathematic : 

Who  reads  false  quantities  in  8eale,< 

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

In  barbarous  Latin'  doom'd  to  wrangle : 

Renouncing  every  pleasing  page 
From  authors  of  historic  use  ; 

'  Edward-Harvey  Hawke,  third  Lord  Hawke.  His  lordship  died 
in  1824. 

«  Scale's  pnhlication  on  Greek  Metres  dlsphiys  considerable  talent 
and  ingennity,  but,  as  might  be  expected  in  so  difflcnlt  a  work.  Is 
not  remarkable  for  accuracy. 

»  The  Latin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canlnt  species,  and  not  very 
iBlelligible. 


383 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Preferring  to  the  letter'd  sage, 
The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.i 

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

Compared  with  other  recreations, 
Which  bring  together  the  imprudent ; 

Whose  daring  revels  shock  the  sight, 

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

As  every  sense  is  steep'd  in  wine. 

Not  so  the  methodistic  crew, 

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

And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray  : 

Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit. 

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

Of  all  their  boasted  self-deniaL 

'Tis  mom : — ^irom  these  I  turn  my  sight. 

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

Across  the  green  in  numbers  fly. 

Loud  rings  in  air  the  chapel  bell ; 

'Tis  hush'd  : — what  sounds  are  these  I  hear  ? 
The  organ's  soft  celestial  swell 

Rolls  deeply  on  the  list'ning  ear. 

To  this  is  join'd  the  sacred  song. 
The  royal  minstrel's  hallow'd  strain ; 

Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 
Will  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused, 

Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners  ; 
All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 

To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 

If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended. 
Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  him, 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended, — 
In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em. 

The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken 

By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order, 
Were  ask'd  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken. 

On  Babylonian  river's  border. 

Oh  !  had  they  sung  in  notes  like  these. 
Inspired  by  stratagem  or  fear, 

'  The  discovery  of  Pythagoras,  that  the  square  of  the  hypothe- 
nnse  is  eciual  to  the  squares  of  the  other  two  sides  of  a  right-angled 
triangle. 

a  On  a  saiofg  day,  the  students  wear  enrpllcca  iu  chapel. 


They  might  have  set  their  hearts  at  ease. 
The  devil  a  soul  had  stay'd  to  hear. 

But  if  I  scribble  longer  now. 
The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read : 

My  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low ; 
'Tis  almost  time  to  stop,  indeed. 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta's  spires  1 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I  fly  ; 
No  more  thy  theme  my  muse  inspires : 

The  reader's  tired,  and  so  am  I. 


isoo. 


ON  A    DISTANT    VIEW    OF    THE    VILLAGE 
AND  SCHOOL  OF  HARROW  ON  THE  HILL. 

Oh  1  mlhl  prsetcritos  referat  si  Jupiter  annos.— Vibgil. 

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

Where  science  first  dawn'd  on  the  powers  of  re- 
flection, 
And  friendships  were  form'd  too  romantic  to  last ; 

Where  fancy  yet  joys  to  trace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades,  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied  ; 

How  welcome  to  me  your  ne'er  fading  remembrance, 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied  ! 

Again  I  revisit  the  hills  where  we  sported. 

The  streams  where  we  swam,  and  the  fields  Avherc 
we  fought ;  [sorted. 

The  school  where,  loud  wam'd  by  the  bell,  we  re- 
To  pour  o'er  the  precepts  by  pedagogues  taught. 

Again  I  behold  where  for  hours  I  have  ponder'd, 
As  reclining,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone  I  lay ; 

Orroundthe  steep  brow  of  the  churchyard  I  wander'd. 
To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun's  setting  ray. 

I  once  more  view  the  room,  with  spectators    sur- 
rounded. 
Where,  as  Zanga,  I  trod  on  Alonzo  o'erthrown ; 
While,  to  swell  my  young  pride,  such  applauses  re- 
sounded, 
I  fancied  that  Mossop'  himself  was  outshone  ; 

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

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

Ye  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  how  much  I  regret  you  1 
Unfaded  your  memory  dwells  in  my  breast ; 

Though  sad  and  deserted,  I  ne'er  can  forget  you : 
Your  pleasures  may  still  be  in  fancy  possess'd. 

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

'  Mossop,  a  cotemporary  of  Oarricl:,  famous  for  his  perform- 
ance of  Zanga. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


389 


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

But  if,  through  the  course  of  the  years  which  await 
me, 
Some  new  scene  of  pleasure  should  open  to  view, 
I  will  say,  while  with  rapture  the  thought  shall  elate 
me, 
Oh,  such  were  the  days  which  my  infancy  knew  1" 

1S06. 


TO  M . 

Oh  !  did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire, 
"With  bright  but  mild  affection  shine. 

Though  they  might  kindle  less  desire, 
Love,  more  than  mortal,  would  be  thine. 

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

"We  must  admire,  but  still  despair ; 
That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem. 

"When  Nature  stamp'd  thy  beauteous  birth, 
So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone. 

She  fear'd  that,  too  divine  for  earth. 
The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own : 

Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work, 
Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize. 

She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk 
"Within  those  once  celestial  eyes. 

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

Thy  beauty  must  enrapture  all ; 
But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  gaze  ? 

'Tis  said  that  Berenice's  hair 
In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven  ; 

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

For  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll. 

Thy  sister-lights  would  scarce  appear : 

E'en  suns,  which  systems  now  control, 

"Would  twinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere.' 

1800. 


TO  "WOMAN. 

"Woman  !  experience  might  have  told  me, 
That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee : 
Surely  experience  might  have  taught 
Thy  firmest  promises  arc  naught : 

'  "  TSto  of  the  birest  Btttrs  In  all  the  heaven, 
HavlDg  some  business,  do  Intreat  her  eyes, 
To  twinkle  In  their  spheres  till  they  return."— Sdakeb. 
>  The  last  line  is  almost  a  literal  translation  from  a  Spanish 
proverb. 


But,  placed  in  all  thy  charms  before  me, 

All  I  forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 

Oh  memory  !  thou  choicest  blessing 

Wlien  join'd  with  hope,  when  still  possessing ; 

But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover 

When  hope  is  fled  and  passion's  over ! 

"Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver. 

How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her  1 

How  throbs  the  pulse  when  first  we  view 

The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue. 

Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 

A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows  ! 

How  quick  we  credit  every  oath. 

And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth  ! 

Fondly  we  hope  'twill  last  for  aye, 

"When,  lo!  she  changes  in  a  day. 

This  record  will  forever  stand, 

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


TO  M.  S.  G. 

"When  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you'll  surely 
Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleep ;  [forgive ; 

For  in  visions  alone  your  affection  can  live, — 
I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep 

Then,  Morpheus  !  envelope  my  faculties  fast, 

Shed  o'er  me  your  languor  benign  ; 
Should  the  dream  of  to-night  but  resemble  the  last, 

"What  rapture  celestial  is  mine  I 

They  tell  us  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death, 

Mortality's  emblem  is  given; 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath. 

If  this  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven  1 

Ah  !  frown  not,  sweet  lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow 

Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in  this ; 
If  I  sin  in  my  dream,  I  atone  for  it  now. 

Thus  doom'd  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 

Though  in  visions,  sweet  lady,  perhaps  you  maj 
Oh !  think  not  my  penance  deficient !       [smile, 

When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers  be- 
To  awake  will  be  torture  suflicient.  [guile, 


TO  MARY, 

ON  BECErVING  HER   rlCTUnE.» 

This  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charms. 
Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give. 

My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms, 
Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 

•  Of  this  "  Mary,"  who  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  the  heiress 
of  Anneslcy,  or  "Mary"  of  Aberdeen,  all  that  has  been  ascertained 
Is,  that  she  was  of  an  humble,  if  not  equivocal  station  in  life,— and 
that  she  had  long  light  golden  hair,  "  of  which,"  says  Mr. 
Moore,  "the  poet  used  to  show  a  lock,  as  well  as  her  picture, 
among  his  friend^?." 


390 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Here  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold 
Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave, 

The  cheeks  which  sprung  from  beauty's  mould, 
The  lips  which  made  me  beauty's  slave. 

Here  I  can  trace — ah,  no  1  that  eye, 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire, 
Must  all  the  painter's  art  defy, 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 

Here  I  behold  a  beauteous  hue ; 

But  Where's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying ; 
Which  gave  a  lustre  to  its  blue. 

Like  Luna  o'er  the  ocean  playing  ? 

Sweet  copy  !  far  more  dear  to  me. 

Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art. 
Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart. 

She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear. 
Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul. 

Unconscious  that  lier  image  there 
Held  every  sense  in  fast  control. 

Through  hours,  through  years,  through  time,  'twill 
My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments,  raise ;        [cheer ; 

In  life's  last  conflict  'twill  appear. 
And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


TO  LESBIA. 

Lesbia  !  since  far  from  you  I've  ranged. 
Our  souls  with  fond  aflfection  glow  not ; 

You  say  'tis  I,  not  you,  have  changed, 
I'd  tell  you  why, — but  yet  I  know  not. 

Your  polish'd  brow  no  cares  have  cross'd ; 

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

Or  told  my  love,  witli  hope  grown  bolder. 

Sixteen  was  then  our  utmost  age. 

Two  years  have  lingering  pass'd  away,  love  ! 
And  now  new  thoughts  our  minds  engage. 

At  least  I  feel  disposed  to  stray,  love  ! 

'Tis  I  that  am  alone  to  blame, 
I  that  am  guilty  of  love's  treason  ; 

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

I  do  not,  love !  suspect  your  truth, 

With  jealous  doubt  my  bosom  heaves  not : 


>  The  occurrence  took  place  at  Southwell,  and  the  boantiftil  lady 
to  whom  the  lines  were  nddreseed  was  Miss  Honson. 


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

No,  no,  my  fiame  was  not  pretended  ; 

For,  oh  !  I  loved  you  most  sincerely ; 
And — though  our  dream  at  last  is  ended — 

My  bosom  still  esteems  you  dearly. 

No  more  we  meet  in  yonder  bowers  ; 

Absence  has  made  me  prone  to  roving; 
But  older,  firmer  hearts  than  ours 

Have  found  monotony  in  loving. 

Your  cheek's  soft  bloom  is  unimpair'd. 
New  beauties  still  are  daily  bright'ning ; 

Your  eye  for  conquest  beams  prepared. 
The  forge  of  love's  resistless  lightning. 

Arm'd  thus  to  make  their  bosoms  bleed. 
Many  wiU  throng  to  sigh  like  me,  love ! 

More  constant  they  may  prove,  indeed ; 
Fonder,  alas  !  they  ne'er  can  be,  love  ! 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

[As  the  author  was  discharging  his  pistols  In  a  garden,  two 
ladies  passing  near  the  spot  were  alarmed  by  the  sound  of  a  bnllet 
hissing  near  them ;  to  one  of  whom  the  following  stanzas  were 
addressed  the  next  morning.]  i 

Doubtless,  sweet  girl !  the  hissing  lead, 
Wafting  destruction  o'er  thy  charms. 

And  hurtling-  o'er  thy  lovely  head. 
Has  fiU'd  that  breast  with  fond  alarms. 

Surely  some  envious  demon's  force, 

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

Diverted  from  its  first  career. 

Yes  !  in  that  nearly  fatal  hour 
The  ball  obey'd  some  hell-bom  guide; 

But  Heaven,  with  interposing  power, 
In  pity  turn'd  the  death  aside. 

Yet,  as  perchance  one  trembling  tear 

Upon  that  thrilling  bosom  fell ; 
Which  I,  th'  unconscious  cause  of  fear. 

Extracted  from  its  glistening  cell : 

Say,  what  dire  penance  can  atone 

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

What  punishment  wilt  thou  decree  ? 

Might  I  perform  the  judge's  part. 
The  sentence  I  should  scarce  deplore ; 


'  This  word  is  used  by  Gray,  in  his  poem  to  the  Fatal  Sisters : 
**  Iron  sleet  of  arrowy  shower 
Hurtles  through  the  darken'd  air." 


~^^^i^  ^2Z^l^J<^C^C4U^^ 


EhiV-  iTonwr  jpranr  ir  ret  .'««*«ff  ^  ratrm: 


::r-so?;..-'n- !^  Ccnipary,  Publishers. i'^ew^^i'k. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


391 


It  only  would  restore  a  heart 
Which  but  belong'd  to  thee  before. 

The  least  atonement  I  can  make 

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

Thou  shalt  be  all  in  all  to  mc. 

But  thou,  perhaps,  mayst  now  reject 

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

Let  it  be  death,  or  what  thou  wilt. 

Choose  then,  relentless !  and  I  swear 
Naught  shall  thy  dread  decree  prevent ; 

Yet  hold — one  little  word  forbear  ! 
Let  it  be  aught  but  banishment. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ADIEU. 

&.U,  i'  aei  jiz  i^evyei. — AlfACREON. 

The  roses  of  love  glad  the  garden  of  life,  [dew. 

Though  nurtured  'mid  weeds  dropping  pestilent 

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

In  vain  with  endearments  we  soothe  the  sad  heart, 
In  vain  do  we  vow  for  an  age  to  be  true  ; 

The  chance  of  an  hour  may  command  us  to  part. 
Or  death  disunite  us  in  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Still  Hope,  breathing  peace  through  the  grief-swollen 
breast. 

Will  whisper,  "  Our  meeting  we  yet  may  renew  :" 
With  this  dream  of  deceit  half  our  sorrow's  repress'd. 

Nor  taste  we  the  poison  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 

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

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

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

Yet  why  do  I  ask  ? — to  distraction  a  prey. 
Thy  reason  has  perish'd  with  love's  last  adieu  1 

Oh  I  who  ia  yon  misanthrope,  shunning  mankind  ? 

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

The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu  1 

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

Despair  now  inflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins ; 
He  ponders  in  phrensy  on  love's  last  adieu  ! 


How  he  envies  the  wretch  with  a  soul  wrapp'd  in 
steel  1 

His  pleasm-es  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are  few, 
Who  laughs  at  the  pang  that  he  never  can  feel, 

And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'crcast ; 

No  more  with  love's  former  devotion  we  sue  ? 
He  spreads  his  young  wing,  he  retires  with  the  blast ; 

The  shroud  of  aflfection  is  love's  last  adieu  ! 

In  this  life  of  probation  for  rapture  divine, 
Astrea  declares  that  some  penance  is  due ; 

From  him  who  has  worshipp'd  at  love's  gentle  shrine, 
The  atonement  is  ample  in  love's  last  adieu  ! 

Who  kneels  to  the  god,  on  his  altar  of  light 
Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew : 

His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight ; 
His  cypress,  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu  1 


DAM^TAS. 
In  law  an  infant,'  and  in  years  a  boy, 
In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy ; 
From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  wcan'd  ; 
In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a  fiend  ; 
Versed  in  hypocrisy,  while  yet  a  child  ; 
Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild ; 
Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a  tool ; 
Old  in  the  world,  though  scarcely  broke  from  school ; 
Damoetas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin. 
And  found  the  goal  when  others  just  begin  : 
Even  still  conflicting  passions  shake  his  soul, 
And  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasure's  bowl ; 
But,  pall'd  with  vice,  he  breaks  his  former  chain. 
And  what  was  once  his  bliss  appears  his  banc. 


TO    MARION. 
Marion  !  why  that  pensive  brow  ? 
What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou  ? 
Change  that  discontented  air  ; 
Frowns  become  not  one  so  fair. 
'Tis  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest. 
Love's  a  stranger  to  thy  breast ; 
He  in  dimpling  smiles  appears 
Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears. 
Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  dovra, 
But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 
Then  resume  thy  former  fire, 
Some  will  love,  and  all  admire ; 
While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us. 
Naught  but  cool  indifference  thrills  us. 
Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile. 
Smile  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile. 


'  In  law  every  person  Is  an  infiint  who  has  not  attained  the  ago 
of  tweDtf-one. 


392 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Eyes  like  thine  were  never  meant 
To  hide  their  orbs  in  dark  restraint ; 
Spite  of  all  thou  fain  wouldst  say, 
Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 
Thy  lips — but  here  my  modest  Muse 
Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse  : 
She  blushes,  curt'sies,  frowns — in  short  she 
Dreads  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me  ; 
And  flying  off  in  search  of  reason. 
Brings  prudence  back  in  proper  season. 
All  I  shall  therefore  say  (whate'er 
I  think,  is  neither  here  nor  there) 
Is,  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing, 
Were  form'd  for  better  things  than  sneering  : 
-    Of  smoothing  compliments  divested, 
Advice  at  least 's  disinterested ; 
Such  is  my  artless  song  to  thee, 
From  all  the  flow  of  flattery  free ; 
Counsel  like  mine  is  like  a  brother's  : 
My  heart  is  given  to  some  others  ; 
That  is  to  say,  unskill'd  to  cozen, 
It  shares  itself  among  a  dozen. 
Marion,  adieu  1  oh,  pr'ythee  slight  not 
This  warning,  though  it  may  delight  not ; 
And,  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 
To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teasing, 
At  once  I'll  tell  thee  our  opinion 
Concerning  woman's  soft  dominion  : 
Howe'cr  we  gaze  with  admiration 
On  eyes  of  blue  or  lips  carnation, 
Howe'er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us, 
Howo'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us, 
Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove. 
These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love  : 
It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture 
To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture  ; 
But  wouldst  thou  see  the  secret  chain 
Which  binds  us  in  your  bumble  train, 
To  hail  you  queens  of  all  creation. 
Know,  in  a  word,  'tis  Animation. 


TO   A  LADY 

WHO  PRESENTED  TO  THE  AUTHOB  A  LOCK  OF  HAIB 
BRAIDED  WITH  HIS  OWN,  AND  APPOINTED  A  NIGHT 
IN  DECEHBEE   TO   MEET   HIM  IN   THE   GARDEN. 

These  locks,  which  fondly  thus  entwine, 
In  firmer  chains  our  hearts  confine, 
Than  all  th'  unmeaning  protestations 

'  In  the  above  little  piece  the  author  has  been  accused  by  some 
candid  readers  of  introducing  the  name  of  a  lady  from  whom  he 
was  some  hundred  miles  distant  at  the  time  this  was  written ; 
and  poor  Juliet,  who  has  slept  so  long  in  "the  tomb  of  all  the 
Capulets,"  has  been  converted,  with  a  trifling  alteration  of  her 
name,  into  an  English  damsel,  walking  in  a  garden  of  their  own 
creation,  during  the  month  of  December,  in  a  village  where  the 
author  never  passed  a  winter.  Such  has  been  the  candor  of  some 
Ingenious  critics.  We  would  advise  the  liberal  commentators  on 
taste  and  arbiters  of  decorum  to  read  SliaJcspcare. 


Which  swell  with  nonsense  love  orations. 

Our  love  is  fix'd,  I  think  we've  proved  it, 

Nor  time,  nor  place,  nor  art  have  moved  it  ; 

Then  wherefore  should  we  sigh  and  whine, 

With  groundless  jealousy  repine. 

With  silly  whims  and  fancies  frantic, 

Merely  to  make  our  love  romantic  ? 

Why  should  you  weep  like  Lydia  Languish, 

And  fret  with  self-created  anguish, 

Or  doom  the  lover  you  have  chosen. 

On  winter  nights  to  sigh  half  frozen  ; 

In  leafless  shades  to  sue  for  pardon. 

Only  because  the  scene's  a  garden  ? 

For  gardens  seem,  by  one  consent, 

Since  Shakspeare  set  the  precedent, 

Since  Juliet  first  declared  her  passion, 

To  form  the  place  of  assignation.' 

Oh  !  would  some  modern  muse  inspire. 

And  seat  her  by  a  sea-coal  fire ; 

Or  had  the  bard  at  Christmas  written, 

And  laid  the  scene  of  love  in  Britain, 

He  surely,  in  commiseration. 

Had  changed  the  place  of  declaration. 

In  Italy  I've  no  objection  ; 

Warm  nights  are  proper  for  reflection ; 

But  here  our  climate  is  so  rigid. 

That  love  itself  is  rather  frigid. 

Think  on  our  chilly  situation, 

And  curb  this  rage  for  imitation ; 

Then  let  us  meet,  as  oft  we've  done. 

Beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun ; 

Or,  if  at  midnight  I  must  meet  you. 

Within  your  mansion  let  me  greet  you : 

There  we  can  love  for  hours  together. 

Much  better,  in  such  snowy  weather. 

Than  placed  in  all  th'  Arcadian  groves 

That  ever  witness'd  rural  loves  ; 

Then,  if  my  jjassion  fail  to  please, 

Next  night  I'll  be  content  to  freeze  ; 

No  more  I'll  give  a  loose  to  laughter. 

But  curse  my  fate  forever  after.' 


OSCAR   OF   ALVA. 

A  TALE. 

How  sweetly  shines  through  azure  skies, 
The  lamp  of  heaven  on  Lora's  shore  ; 

Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise. 
And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 

'  Having  heard  that  a  very  severe  and  indelicate  censure  has 
been  passed  on  the  above  poem,  I  beg  leave  to  reply  in  a  quota- 
tion from  an  admired  work,  "Carr's  Stranger  in  France." — "As 
we  were  contemplating  a  painting  on  a  large  scale.  In  which, 
among  other  figures,  is  the  uncovered  whole  length  of  a  warrior, 
a  prudish-looking  lady,  who  seemed  to  have  touched  the  age  of 
desperation,  after  having  attentively  surveyed  it  through  her 
glass,  observed  to  her  party,  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  inde- 
corum in  that  picture.  Madame  S.  shrewdly  whispered  in  my 
ear, '  that  the  indecorum  was  in  the  remark.' " 


I 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


303 


But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 
On  Alva's  cnsques  of  silver  play'd ; 

And  view'd,  at  midnight's  silent  noon, 
Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array'd  : 

Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow, 
On  Alva's  dusky  hills  of  wind. 

The  boys  in  childhood  chased  the  roe. 
And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind. 

And  on  the  crimson'd  rocks  beneath, 
Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow. 

Pale  in  the  scattcr'd  ranks  of  death, 
She  saw  the  gasping  warrior  low ; 

But  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er, 
They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 

They  lightly  wheel  the  bright  claymore. 
And  send  the  whistling  arrow  far. 

While  many  an  eye  which  ne'er  again 
Could  mark  the  rising  orb  of  day, 

Tum'd  feebly  from  the  gory  plain. 
Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 

Dark  was  the  flow  of  Oscar's  hair. 
Wildly  it  stream'd  along  the  gale ; 

But  Allan's  locks  were  bright  and  fair. 
And  pensive  seem'd  his  cheek,  and  pale. 

Once  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  bless'd  her  dear  propitious  light ; 

But  now  she  glimmer'd  from  above, 
A  sad,  funereal  torch  of  night. 

But  Oscar  own'd  a  hero's  soul, 

His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  truth  ; 
Allan  had  early  leam'd  control. 

And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from  youth. 

Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race, 

And  gray  her  towers  are  seen  afar ; 
No  more  her  heroes  urge  the  chase. 

Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

Both,  both  were  brave  :  the  Saxon  spear 
Was  shiver'd  oft  beneath  their  steel ; 

And  Oscar's  bosom  scom'd  to  fear, 
But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel ; 

But  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan  ? 

Why  grows  the  moss  on  Alva's  stone  ? 
Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man. 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

While  Allan's  soul  belied  his  form. 
Unworthy  with  such  charms  to  dwell ; 

Keen  as  the  lightning  of  the  storm. 
On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell. 

And  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 
A  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  hall ; 

It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky, 
^ind  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  wall. 

From  high  Southannon's  distant  tower 
Arrived  a  young  and  noble  dame  ; 

With  Kenneth's  lands  to  form  her  dower, 
Glenalvon's  blue-eyed  daughter  came ; 

Yes,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 
It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave  ; 

But  there  no  more  his  banners  rise. 
No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

And  Oscar  claim'd  the  beauteous  bride, 
And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smiled  : 

It  soothed  the  father's  feudal  pride 
Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon's  child. 

Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth, 
When  Angus  hail'd  his  eldest  bom  ; 

The  vassals  round  their  chieftain's  hearth 
Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  mom. 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note  1 
Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  1 

In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 
And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

They  feast  upon  the  mountain  deer. 
The  pibroch  raised  its  piercing  note  : 

To  gladden  more  their  highland  cheer. 
The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float : 

See  how  the  heroes'  blood-red  plumes 
Assembled  wave  in  Alva's  hall ; 

Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes. 
Attending  on  their  chieftain's  call. 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild 
Hoped  that  one  day  the  pibroch's  strain 

Should  play  before  the  hero's  child 
While  he  should  lead  the  tartan  train. 

It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands, 
The  pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace ; 

To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  the  bands, 
Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  cease. 

Another  year  is  quickly  pass'd. 
And  Angus  hails  another  son  ; 

His  natal  day  is  like  the  last. 
Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 
50 

But  where  is  Oscar  ?  sure  'tis  late  : 
Is  this  a  bridegroom's  ardent  flame  ? 

While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait. 
Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 

394 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


At  length  young  Allan  join'd  the  bride  : 
"  Why  comes  not  Oscar,"  Angus  said  : 

"Is  he  not  here  ?"  the  youth  replied  ; 
"  With  me  he  roTed  not  o'er  the  glade : 

"  Perchance  forgetful  of  the  day, 
'Tis  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe  ; 

Or  ocean's  waves  prolong  his  stay ; 
Yet  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow." 

"  Oh,  no  !"  the  anguish'd  sire  rejoin'd, 
"  Nor  chase  nor  wave  my  boy  delay  ; 

Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind  ? 

Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  way  ? 

"  Oh,  search,  ye  chiefs  I  oh,  search  around  1 
Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly  ; 

Till  Oscar,  till  my  son  is  found. 
Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  reply." 

All  is  confusion — through  the  vale 
The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings, 

It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale, 
Till  night  expands  her  dusky  wings ; 

It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain. 

It  sounds  through  morning's  misty  light, 
But  Oscar  comes  not  o'er  the  plain. 

Three  daj's,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  Chief 
For  Oscar  search'd  each  moimtain  cave ; 

Then  hope  is  lost ;  in  boundless  grief, 
His  locks  in  gray-torn  ringlets  wave. 

"  Oscar  !  my  son  ! — thou  God  of  Heav'n, 
Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age  ! 
Or  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given. 
Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage. 

"  Yes,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore 

My  Oscar's  whiten'd  bones  must  lie  ; 
Then  grant,  thou  God  !  I  ask  no  more. 
With  him  his  frantic  sire  may  die  1 

"  Yet  he  may  live, — away,  despair  ! 
Be  calm,  my  soul  1  he  yet  may  live ; 
T'  arraign  my  fate,  my  voice  forbear  1 

0  God  1  my  impious  prayer  forgive. 

"  What,  if  he  live  for  me  no  more, 

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

Alas  !  can  pangs  like  these  be  just  3" 

Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn. 
Till  Time,  which  soothes  severest  wo. 

Had  bade  serenity  return. 

And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  flow. 


For  still  some  latent  hope  survived 
That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear ; 

His  hope  now  droop'd  and  now  revived, 
Till  Time  had  told  a  tedious  year. 

Days  roU'd  along,  the  orb  of  light 
Again  had  run  his  destined  race  ; 

No  Oscar  bless'd  his  father's  sight. 
And  sorrow  left  a  fainter  trace. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remain'd. 

And  now  his  father's  only  joy  ; 
And  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gain'd, 

For  beauty  crown'd  the  fair-hair'd  boy. 

She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid. 
And  Allan's  face  was  wondrous  fair ; 

If  Oscar  lived,  some  other  maid 

Had  claim'd  his  faithless  bosom's  care. 

And  Angus  said,  if  one  year  more 
In  fruitless  hope  was  pass'd  away, 

His  fondest  scruples  should  be  o'er, 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 

Slow  roll'd  the  moons,  but  bless'd  at  last 
Arrived  the  dearly  destined  mom  ; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling  pass'd, 
What  smiles  the  lovers'  cheeks  adorn  I 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note  ! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  I 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clan,  in  festive  crowd. 

Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva's  hall ; 

The  sounds  of  mirth  re-echo  loud. 
And  all  their  fonner  joy  recall. 

But  who  is  he,  whose  darken'd  brow 
Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth  ? 

Before  his  eyes'  far  fiercer  glow 

The  blue  flames  curdle  o'er  the  hearth. 

Dark  is  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form. 

And  tall  his  plume  of  gory  red  ; 
His  voice  is  like  the  rising  storm. 

But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 

'Tis  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  round, 
The  bridegroom's  health  is  deeply  quaff''d ; 

With  shouts  the  vaulted  roofs  resound. 
And  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught. 

Sudden  the  stranger-chief  arose. 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hush'd ; 
And  Angus'  cheek  with  wonder  glows. 

And  Slora's  tender  bosom  blush'd. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS, 


3C5 


"  Old  man  !"  he  cried,  "  this  pledge  is  done  ; 

Thou  saw'st  'twas  duly  drank  by  me  : 
It  hail'd  the  nuptials  of  thy  son  : 

Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 

"  While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy, 

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

Say,  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot  ?" 

"Alas  !"  the  hapless  sire  replied, 
The  big  tear  starting  as  he  spoke, 

"  When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died, 
This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 

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

And  Allan  is  my  last  resource, 

Since  martial  Oscar's  death  or  flight." 

"  'Tis  well,"  replied  the  stranger  stem, 
And  fiercely  flash'd  his  rolling  eye  : 

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

"  Perchance,  if  those  whom  most  he  loved 
Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return  ; 
Perchance  the  chief  has  only  roved  ; 
For  him  thy  beltane  yet  may  bum." 

"  Fill  high  the  bowl  the  table  round, 

We  will  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth  ; 
With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crown'd ; 
Pledge  me  departed  Oscar's  health." 

"  With  all  ^y  soul,"  old  Angus  said, 
And  fill'd  his  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 

"  Here's  to  my  boy  !  alive  or  dead, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  sou  like  him." 

"  Bravely,  old  man,  this  health  has  sped ; 

But  why  docs  Allan  trembling  stand  ? 
Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead, 

And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand." 

The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  face 
Was  tum'd  at  once  to  ghastly  hue ; 

The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase 
Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 

Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high. 
And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste  ; 

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


>  Beltane  Tree,  a  Iligbland  festival  on  the  flnt  of  Hay,  held 
near  (Ires  lighted  for  the  occasion.    Beal-tain  moaiM  the  lire  of 


"  And  is  it  thus  a  brother  hails       "  ' '"  '  "'  ' 
A  brother's  foud  remembrance  here  ? 

If  thus  affection's  strength  prevails. 
What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear  ?" 

Roused  by  the  sneer,  he  raised  the  bowl, 
"  Would  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirtli ;" 

Internal  fear  appall'd  his  soul ; 
He  said,  and  dash'd  the  cup  to  earth. 

"  'Tis  he  I  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice  !" 
Loud  shrieks  a  darkly  gleaming  form  ; 

"A  murderer's  voice  !"  the  roof  replies, 
And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink. 

The  stranger's  gone. — amidst  the  crew 
A  form  was  seen  in  tartan  green. 

And  tall  the  shade  temfic  grew. 

* 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a  broad  belt  round. 
His  plume  of  sable  stream'd  on  high  ; 

But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds  there. 
And  fix'd  was  the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 

And  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild. 

On  Angus  bending  low  the  knee  ; 
And  thrice  he  frown'd  on  a  chief  on  the  ground. 

Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

The  bolts  loud  roU,  from  pole  to  pole, 
The  thunders  through  the  welkin  ring,  [storm, 

And  the  gleaming  form,  through  the  mist  of  the 
Was  borne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased. 

Who  lies  upon  the  stony  flool-  ? 
Oblivion  press'd  old  Angus'  breast. 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  more. 

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

His  sand  is  done, — his  race  is  run  ; 
Oh,  never  more  shall  Allan  rise  ! 

But  Oscar's  breast  is  cold  as  clay. 

His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale  : 
And  Allan's  barbed  arrow  lay 

With  him  in  dark  Glentauar's  vale. 

And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came, 
Or  who,  no  mortal  wight  can  tell ; 

But  no  one  doubts  the  form  of  flame. 
For  Alva's  sons  knew  Oscar  well. 


Baal,  and  the  name  stlU  preserves  the  primeval  origin  of  this  Cel- 
tic aaperftitlon. 


S96 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Ambition  nerved  young  Allan's  hand, 
Exulting  demons  wing'd  his  dart : 

While  Envy  waved  her  burning  brand, 
And  pour'd  her  venom  round  his  heart. 

Swift  is  the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow ; 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  side  ? 
Dark  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low. 

The  dart  has  drunk  his  vital  tide. 

And  Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move, 
She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel ; 

Alas !  that  eyes  which  beam'd  with  love 
Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  hell. 

Lo  1  seest  thou  not  a  lonely  tomb 
Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead  ? 

It  glimmers  through  the  twiUght  gloom ; 
Oh  1  that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed. 

Far,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave 

Which  held  his  clan's  great  ashes  stood  ; 

And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave, 
For  they  were  stain'd  with  kindred  blood. 

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

The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward. 
But  who  can  strike  a  murderer's  praise  ? 

Unstrung,  untouch'd,  the  harp  must  stand, 
No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake  ; 

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

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

A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 
A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  there. 


TIIE  EPISODE  OF  NISUS  AND  EURYALUS. 

A   PARAPHRASE   PROM   THE   ^XEID,  LIB.    IX. 

Nisus,  the  guardian  of  the  jjortal,  stood, 

Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood ; 

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

Or  pour  his  arrows  through  th'  embattled  field  : 

From  Ida  torn,  he  left  his  sylvan  cave. 

And  sought  a  foreign  home,  a  distant  grave. 

To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 

With  him  Euryalus  sustains  the  post; 

No  lovelier  mien  adom'd  the  ranks  of  Troy, 

And  beardless  bloom  yet  graced  the  gallant  boy  ; 

Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  Ufe, 

As  yet  a  novice  in  the  martial  strife, 

'Twas  his,  with  beauty,  valor's  gifts  to  share — 

A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair  : 

These  bum  with  one  pure  flame  of  generous  love  ; 

In  peace,  ia  war,  united  still  they  move ; 


Friendship  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward; 
And  now  combined  they  hold  their  nightly  guard 

"  What  god,"  exclaim'd  the  first,  "  instils  this  fire  ? 
Or,  in  itself  a  god,  what  great  desire  ? 
My  laboring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  oppress'd, 
Abhors  this  station  of  inglorious  rest ; 
The  love  of  fame  with  this  can  ill  accord, 
Be  't  mine  to  seek  for  glory  with  my  sword. 
Seest  thou  yon  camp,  with  torches  twinkling  dim. 
Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy  limb  ? 
Where  confidence  and  ease  the  watch  disdain. 
And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign  ? 
Then  hear  my  thought : — In  deep  and  sullen  grief 
Our  troops  and  leaders  mourn  their  absent  chief: 
Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  prize  be  thine, 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine,) 
Were  this  decreed,  beneath  yon  rising  mound, 
Methinks  an  easy  path  perchance  were  found  ; 
Which  pass'd,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas'  walls. 
And  lead  uEneas  from  Evander's  halls." 

With  equal  ardor  fired,  and  warlike  joy, 
His  glowing  friend  address'd  the  Dardan  boy  : — 
"  These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shalt  thou  dare  alone  ? 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,  be  thine  own  ? 
Am  I  by  thee  despised,  and  left  afar. 
As  one  unfit  to  share  tlie  toils  of  war  ? 
Not  thus  his  son  tlie  great  Opheltes  taught ; 
Not  thus  my  sire  in  Argive  combats  fought ; 
Not  thus,  when  Ilion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 
I  track'd  ^neas  through  the  walks  of  fate : 
Thou  know'st  my  deeds,  my  breast  devoid  of  fear, 
And  hostile  life-drops  dim  my  gory  spear. 
Here  is  a  soul  with  hope  immortal  burns, 
And  life,  ignoble  life,  for  glory  spurns. 
Fame,  fame  is  cheaply  earn'd  by  fleeting  breath : 
The  price  of  honor  is  the  sleep  of  death." 

Then  Nisus, — "  Calm  thy  bosom's  fond  alarms. 
Thy  heart  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms. 
More  dear  thy  worth  and  valor  than  my  own, 
I  swear  by  him  who  fills  Olympus'  throne  ! 
So  may  I  triumph,  as  I  speak  the  truth. 
And  clasp  again  the  comrade  of  my  youth  ! 
But  should  I  fall, — and  he  who  dares  advance 
Through  hostile  legions  must  abide  by  chance, — 
If  some  Rutulian  arm,  with  adverse  blow. 
Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  thee  low, 
Live  thou,  such  beauties  I  would  fain  preserve, 
Thy  budding  years  a  lengthen'd  term  deserve. 
When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be. 
Whose  gentle  eyes  will  shed  one  tear  for  me  ; 
Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by  force, 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  foes  my  captive  corse ; 
Or,  if  my  destiny  these  last  deny. 
If  in  the  spoiler's  power  my  ashes  he, 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


397 


Thy  pious  care  may  raise  a  simple  tomb, 
To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 
Why  should  thy  doting  wretched  mother  weep 
Her  only  boy,  reclined  in  endless  sleep  ? 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dared. 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  peril  shared ; 
Who  braved  what  woman  never  braved  before, 
And  left  her  native  for  the  Latian  shore." 
"  In  vain  you  damp  the  ardor  of  my  soul," 
Replied  Euryalus  ;  "  it  scorns  control  I 
Hence,  let  us  haste  !" — their  brother  guards  arose, 
Roused  by  their  call,  nor  court  again  repose ; 
The  pair,  buoy'd  up  on  Hope's  exulting  wing, 
Their  stations'leave,  and  speed  to  seek  the  king. 

Now  o'er  the  earth  a  solemn  stillness  ran, 
And  luU'd  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man ; 
Save  where  the  Dardan  leaders  nightly  hold 
Alternate  converse,  and  their  plans  unfold. 
On  one  great  point  the  council  are  agreed, 
An  instant  message  to  their  prince  decreed ; 
Each  lean'd  upon  the  lance  he  well  could  wield. 
And  poised  with  easy  arm  his  ancient  shield ; 
When  Nisus  and  his  friend  their  leave  request 
To  offer  something  to  their  high  behest. 
With  anxious  tremors,  yet  unawed  by  fear. 
The  faithful  pair  before  the  throne  appear : 
lulus  greets  them ;  at  his  kind  command, 
The  elder  first  address'd  the  hoary  band. 

"  With  patience"  (thus  Hyrtacides  began), 
"  Attend,  nor  judge  from  youth  our  humble  plan. 
Where  yonder  beacons  half  expiring  beam. 
Our  slumbering  foes  of  future  conquest  dream, 
Nor  heed  that  we  a  secret  path  have  traced, 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed. 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  black'ning  smoke, 
Whose  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak ! 
If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  fortune  will  allow. 
We'll  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's  brow, 
Where  Pallas'  walls  at  distance  meet  the  sight. 
Seen  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  by  night : 
Then  shall  ^neas  in  his  pride  return, 
While  hostile  matrons  raise  their  offspring's  um  ; 
And  Latian  spoils  and  purpled  heaps  of  dead 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero's  tread. 
Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way ; 
Where  yonder  torrent's  devious  waters  stray, 
Oft  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream. 
The  distant  spires  above  the  valleys  gleam." 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdom  famed. 
Moved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  exclaim'd, — 
"  Ye  parent  gods  !  who  rule  the  fate  of  Troy, 
Still  dwells  the  Dardan  spirit  hi  the  boy; 
When  minds  like  these  in  striplings  thus  ye  raise. 
Yours  is  the  godlike  act,  be  yours  the  praise ; 


In  gaUant  youth,  my  fainting  hopes  revive. 

And  Ilion's  wonted  glories  still  survive." 

Then  in  his  warm  embrace  the  boys  he  press'd, 

And,  quivering,  strain'd  them  to  his  aged  breast ; 

With  tears  the  burning  check  of  each  bedew'd. 

And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renew'd : 

"What gift,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 

Can  we  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise  ? 

Our  deities  the  first  best  boon  have  given — 

Internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 

What  poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on  earth, 

Doubtless  await  such  young,  exalted  worth. 

iEneas  and  Ascanius  shall  combine 

To  yield  applause  far,  far  surpassing  mine." 

lulus  then: — "By  all  the  powers  above! 

By  those  Penates  who  my  country  love  ! 

By  hoary  Vesta's  sacred  fane,  I  swear, 

My  hopes  are  all  in  you,  ye  generous  puir ! 

Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sight. 

And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  delight. 

Nisus  !  two  silver  goblets  are  thine  o^vn, 

Saved  from  Arisba's  stately  domes  o'erthrown ; 

My  sire  secured  them  on  that  fatal  day. 

Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  robber's  prey : 

Two  massy  tripods,  also,  shall  be  thine ; 

Two  talents  polish'd  from  the  glittering  mine  ; 

An  ancient  cup,  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave. 

While  yet  our  vessels  press'd  the  Punic  wave  : 

But  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down, 

When  great  .tineas  wears  Hesperia's  crown, 

The  casque,  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed 

Which  Turnus  guides  with  more  than  mortal  speed, 

Are  thine  ;  no  envious  lot  shall  then  be  cast, 

I  pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  pass'd : 

Nay  more,  twelve  slaves,  and  twice  six  captive  dames, 

To  soothe  thy  softer  hours  with'  amorous  flames, 

And  all  the  realms  which  now  the  Latins  sway 

The  labours  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 

But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  years 

Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart  reveres. 

Henceforth  affection,  sweetly  thus  begun. 

Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  souls  in  one  ; 

Without  thy  aid,  no  glory  shall  be  mine ; 

Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design  ; 

Alike  through  life  esteem'd,  thou  godlike  boy. 

In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 

To  him  Euryalus : — "  No  day  shall  shame 
The  rising  glories  which  from  this  I  claim. 
Fortune  may  favor,  or  the  skies  may  frown. 
But  valor,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 
Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart. 
One  boon  I  beg,  the  nearest  to  my  heart. 
My  mother,  sprung  from  Priam's  royal  line, 
Like  thine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine. 
Nor  Troy  nor  king  Acestes'  realms  restrain 
Her  feeble  age  from  dangers  of  the  main ; 


398 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Alone  she  came,  all  selfish  fears  above, 

A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 

Unknown  the  secret  enterprise  I  brave, 

Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave ; 

From  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek. 

No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  my  check ; 

By  gloomy  night  and  thy  right  hand  I  vow 

Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now  : 

Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain. 

In  thee  her  much  loved  child  may  live  again ; 

Her  dying  hours  with  jiious  conduct  bless, 

Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress : 

So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame, 

To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in  fame." 

Struck  with  a  filial  care  so  deeply  felt, 

In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt : 

Faster  than  all,  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow ; 

Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  wo. 

"  All  thou  has  ask'd  receive,"  the  prince  replied ; 

"  Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside. 

To  cheer  thy  mother's  years  shall  be  my  aim, 

Creusa's'  style  but  wanting  to  the  dame. 

Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run, 

But  bless'd  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a  son. 

Now,  by  my  Ufe ! — my  sire's  most  sacred  oath — 

To  thee  I  pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth. 

All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow'd, 

If  tliou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 

Thus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  forth  to  view 

A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew ; 

Lycaon's  utmost  skiH  had  graced  the  steel. 

For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel : 

A  tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil. 

Slain  'midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 

Mnestheus  to  guard  the  elder  youth  bestows, 

.>nd  old  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows. 

Arm'd,  thence  they  go,  while  all  th'  assembled  train. 

To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain. 

More  than  a  boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 

lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place  : 

His  prayer  he  sends  ;  but  what  can  prayers  avail, 

Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale  ! 

The  trench  is  pass'd,  and,  favor'd  by  the  night. 
Through  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  flight. 
When  shall  the  sleep  of  mauy  a  foe  be  o'er  ? 
Alas  !  some  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  more  ! 
Chariots  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms,  are  seen  ; 
And  flowing  flasks,  and  scatter'd  troops  between  : 
Bacchus  and  Mars  to  rule  the  camp  combine  ; 
A  mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine. 
"  Now,"  cries  the  first,  "  for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
"With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labor  share  : 
Here  lies  our  path  ;  lest  any  hand  arise. 
Watch  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies  : 

'  The  mother  of  lulus,  lost  on  the  night  when  Troy  wan  taken. 


I'll  carve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 
And  clear  thy  road  with  many  a  deadly  lelow." 
His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  repress'd, 
And  pierced  proud  Rhamnes  through  his  panting 

breast : 
Stretch'd  at  his  ease,  th'  incautious  king  reposed  ; 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed : 
To  Tumus  dear,  a  prophet  and  a  prince. 
His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince ; 
But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  aU, 
Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 
Next  Remus'  armor-bearer,  hapless,  fell. 
And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage  swell ; 
The  charioteer  along  his  courser's  sides 
Expires,  the  steel  his  sever'd  neck  divides  ; 
And,  last,  his  lord  is  number'd  with  the  dead  : 
Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head ; 
From  the  swoU'n  veins  the  blackening  torrents  pour ; 
Stain'd  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting  gore. 
Young  Lamyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire, 
And  gay  Serranus,  fill'd  with  youthful  fire  ; 
Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  pass'd  ; 
LuU'd  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last ; 
Ah  !  happier  far  had  he  the  morn  survey'd. 
And  till  Aurora's  dawn  his  skill  display 'd. 

In  slaiighter'd  fold,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep, 
His  hungry  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep  ; 
'Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night  he  prowls. 
With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls  : 
Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams  ; 
In  seas  of  gore  the  lordly  tyrants  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other's  deadly  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a  name  ; 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  feel. 
Yet  wakeful  Rhcesus  sees  the  threatening  steel ; 
His  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hides. 
And  vainly  in  the  weak  defence  confides  ; 
Full  in  his  heart,  the  falchion  search'd  his  veins. 
The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains  ; 
Through  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  they  flow, 
One  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 
Now  where  Messapus  dwelt  they  bend  their  way, 
Wliose  fires  emit  a  faint  and  trembling  ray  ; 
There,  unconflned,  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Unwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed  : 
Brave  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade's  arm, 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warm  : 
"  Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  pass'd  ; 
Full  foes  enough  to-night  have  breathed  their  last ; 
Soon  wiU  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn  ; 
Now  let  us  speed,  nor  temjjt  the  rising  mom." 

With  silver  arms,  with  various  art  emboss'd. 
What  bowls  and  mantles  in  confusion  toss'd. 
They  leave  regardless  !  yet  one  glittering  prize 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS, 


399 


Attracts  the  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes  ; 

The  gilded  harness  Uhamnes'  coursers  felt, 

The  gems  which  stud  the  monarch's  golden  belt : 

This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 

Once  by  a  line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 

Th'  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 

Messapus'  helm  hia  head  in  triumph  bears  ; 

Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  thoy  bend, 

To  seek  the  vale  where  safer  paths  extend. 

Just  at  this  hoiu-,  a  band  of  Latian  horse 
To  Tumus'  camp  pursue  their  destined  course  : 
While  the  slow  foot  their  tardy  march  delay, 
The  knights,  impatient,  sjjur  along  the  way : 
Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led, 
To  Tumus  with  their  master's  promise  sped  : 
Now  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  walls, 
"Wlien,  on  the  left,  a  Ught  reflection  falls  ; 
The  plunder'd  helmet,  through  the  waning  night, 
Sheds  forth  a  silver  radiance,  glancing  bright. 
Volscens  with  question  loud  the  pair  alarms  : — 
"  Stand,  stragglers  !  stand  1  why  early  thus  in  arms  ? 
From  whence,  to  whom  ?" — He  meets  with  no  reply  ? 
Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly : 
The  thicket's  depth  with  hurried  pace  they  tread, 
TVliile  round  the  wood  the  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  •»  path  between. 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene  : 
Euryalus  his  heavy  spoils  impede. 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead ; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forest's  maze 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds  in  safety  graze. 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend, 
On  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  God  !  my  boy,"  he  cries,  "  of  me  bereft. 
In  what  impending  perils  art  thou  left  I" 
Listening  he  runs — above  the  waving  trees. 
Tumultuous  voices  swell  the  passing  breeze ; 
Tlie  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground. 
Again  he  turns,  of  footsteps  hears  the  noise ; 
The  seund  elates,  the  sight  his  hope  destroys  : 
The  hapless  boy  a  ruffian  train  surround, 
While  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  confound ; 
Him  with  loud  shouts  the  furious  knights  pursue, 
StruggUng  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew. 
What  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  dare  ? 
Ah  !  must  he  rush,  bis  comrade's  fate  to  share  ? 
What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay. 
Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler's  prey  ? 
His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give, 
Or  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wish'd  to  live  ? 
Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high. 
On  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  phrenzied  eye  : — 
"  Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star  ! 
Queen  of  the  sky,  whose  beams  arc  seen  afar ! 


By  night  heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day  the  grove, 
When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  deign'st  to  rove  ; 
If  e'er  myself,  or  sire,  have  sought  to  grace 
Thine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase, 
Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd, 
To  free  ray  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 
Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung ; 
Through  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung  ; 
The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 
Transfix'd  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay  : 
He  sobs,  he  dies, — the  troop  in  wild  amaze. 
Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze. 
While  pale  they  stare,  through  Tagus'  temples  riven, 
A  second  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven. 
Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  lowering  eyes  ; 
Veil'd  by  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 
Burning  with  wrath,  he  view'd  his  soldiers  fall. 
"  Thou  youth  accursed,  thy  life  shall  pay  for  all  1" 
(Juick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  he  drew, 
And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew. 
Nisus  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals, 
Forth,  forth  he  starts,  and  all  his  love  reveals  ; 
Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise. 
And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies : 
'  Me,  me, — ^your  vengeance  hurl  ou  me  alone ; 
Here  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own  ! 
Ye  starry  spheres  1  thou  conscious  Heaven  !  attest ! 
He  could  not — durst  not — lo  !  the  guile  confess'd  ! 
All,  all  was  mine, — his  early  fate  suspend ; 
He  only  loved  too  well  his  hapless  friend : 
Spare,  spare,  ye  chiefs  !  from  him  your  rage  remove ; 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was  love." 
He  pray'd  in  vain ;  the  dark  assassin's  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gored ; 
Lowly  to  earth  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest, 
And  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  his  breast : 
As  some  young  rose,  whose  blossom  scents  the  air, 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share ; 
Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower. 
Declining  gently,  falls  a  fading  flower  ; 
Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  lovely  head. 
And  lingering  beauty  hovers  round  the  dead. 

But  flery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide. 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  despair  his  guide  ; 
Volscens  he  seeks  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  ghost ; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  foe  ; 
Rage  nerves  his  arm,  fate  gleams  in  every  blow  ; 
In  vain  beneath  unnumbcr'd  wounds  he  bleeds. 
Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds  ; 
In  viewless  circles  whecl'd,  his  falchion  flies. 
Nor  quits  the  hero's  grasp  till  Volscens  dies  ; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found, 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning  through  the  wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  afiection  proved — 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved  ; 


400 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


Then  on  his  bosom  sought  his  wonted  place, 
And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend's  embrace. 

Celestial  pair  !  if  aught  my  verse  can  claim, 
Wafted  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame  ! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire. 
No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  expire, 
Wliile  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome  ! 
And  vanquish'd  millions  hail  their  empress,  Rome  ! 


TRANSLATION   FROM   THE   JIEDEA   OF 
EURIPIDES. 

['E,0(j7££-  vKtp  fitv  uyav,  k.  t.  A.] 

When  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 

The  breast  where  love  is  wont  to  glow. 
What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge 

Wliich  rolls  the  tide  of  human  wo  ? 
The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  shame, 

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

Absorbs  each  wish  it  felt  before. 

But  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  soul  by  purer  dreams  possess'd. 
The  pleasing  balm  of  mortal  ills 

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

Fair  Venus  1  from  thy  native  heaven, 
What  heart  unfeeling  would  despise 

The  sweetest  boon  the  gods  have  given  ? 

But  never  from  thy  golden  bow 

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

Awakes  an  all-consuming  fire  : 
Ye  racking  doubts  !  ye  jealous  fears  ! 

With  others  wage  internal  war ; 
Repentance,  source  of  future  tears. 

From  me  be  ever  distant  far  1 

May  no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love  ! 
May  all  the  hours  be  wing'd  with  joy. 

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

^  Medea,  who  accompanied  Jason  to  Corinth,  was  deserted  by 
him  for  the  daughter  of  Croon,  king  of  that  city.  The  chorus 
from  which  this  is  talten  hero  addresses  Medea ;  though  a  con- 
siderable liberty  Is  taken  with  the  original,  by  expanding  the 
idea,  as  also  in  some  other  parts  of  the  translation. 

'  The  original  is  KaOapiiv  dvot^avn  x^I/da  ippevCv,  literally, 
•'disclosing  the  bright  key  of  the  mind." 

'  No  reflection  is  here  intended  against  the  person  mentioned 
under  the  name  of  Magnus.  lie  is  merely  represented  as  per- 
forming an  unavoidable  function  of  his  office.  Indeed,  such  an 
attempt  could  only  recoil  upon  himself ;  as  that  gentleman  is  now 
as  much  distinguished  by  his  eloquence,  and  the  dignified  pro- 
priety with  which  he  fills  his  situation,  as  he  was  in  his  younger 
days  for  wit  and  conviviality.— [Dr.  William  Hansel  was,  in  1790, 
appointed  to  the  headship  of  Trinity  College,  by  Mr.  Pitt.  While 


May  I  with  some  fair  lover  sigh, 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  mine— 
With  me  to  live,  with  me  to  die. 

My  native  soil  1  beloved  before- 

Now  dearer  as  my  peaceful  home, 
Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore, 

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

May  I  resign  this  fleeting  breath  ! 
Nor  quit  my  silent  humble  bower ; 

A  doom  to  me  far  worse  than  death. 

Have  I  not  heard  the  exile's  sigh  ? 

And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear. 
Through  distant  climes  condemn'd  to  fly, 

A  pensive,  weary  wanderer  here  ? 
Ah  !  hapless  dame  ! '  no  sire  bewails. 

No  friend  thy  wretched  fate  deplores, 
No  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails 

Thy  steps  within  a  stranger's  doors. 

Perish  the  fiend  whose  iron  heart, 

To  fair  afiection's  truth  unknown, 
Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  depart, 

Unpitied,  helpless,  and  alone ; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks  with  silver  key» 

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

And  ocean's  storms  between  us  roll ! 


THOUGHTS   SUGGESTED   BY  A   COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION. 

High  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
Magnus'  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears  : 
Placed  on  his  chair  of  state,  he  seems  a  god. 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his  nod. 
As  all  around  sit  wrapp'd  in  speechless  gloom, 
His  voice  in  thunder  shakes  the  sounding  dome ; 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 
Unskill'd  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth  in  Euclid's  axioms  tried. 
Though  little  versed  in  any  art  beside  ; 

a  bachelor  of  arts,  he  distinguished  himself  as  the  author  of  sev- 
eral jeux  cTespHt.  Dr.  Jowett,  of  Trinity  Ilall,  having  amused 
both  himself  and  the  public,  by  a  pretty  little  fairy  garden,  with 
narrow  gravel  walks,  besprinkled  with  shells  and  pellucid  peb- 
bles, and  enclosed  by  a  Chinese  railing.  Dr.  Mansel  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing lines  thereon  :— 

"  A  little  garden,  little  Jowett  made. 
And  fenced  it  with  a  little  palisade ; 
If  you  would  know  the  taste  of  little  Jowett, 
This  little  garden  won't  a  little  show  it." 

He  was  indebted  to  the  influence  of  his  pupil,  the  late  Mr.  Perce- 
val, for  his  subsequent  promotion,  in  1808,  to  the  see  of  Bristol. 
He  is  supposed  to  have  materially  assisted  in  the  "  Pursuits  of 
Literature."    His  lordship  died  at  Trinity  Lodge,  In  June,  1S20.] 


HOURS   OF  IDLENESS. 


401 


Who,  scarcely  skill'd  an  English  line  to  pen, 
Scans  Attic  metres  with  a  critic's  ken. 
AVhat,  though  he  knows  not  how  his  fathers  bled, 
When  ci\'il  discord  piled  the  fields  with  dead. 
When  Edward  bade  his  conquering  bands  advance, 
Or  Henry  trampled  on  the  crest  of  France  : 
Though  marvelling  at  the  name  of  Magna  Charta, 
Yet  well  he  recollects  the  law  of  Sparta  ; 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made. 
While  Blackstone  's  on  the  shelf  neglected  laid  ; 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaimts  the  deathless  fame, 
Of  Avon's  bard  remembering  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth  whose  scientific  pate 
Class-honors,  medals,  fellowships,  await ; 
Or  even,  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize. 
If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
But  lo  !  no  common  orator  can  hope 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope. 
Not  that  our  heads  much  eloquence  require, 
Th'  Athenian's  '  glowing  style,  or  TuUy's  fire. 
A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 
We  do  not  try  by  speaking  to  convince. 
Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud  : 
We  speak  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the  crowd : 
Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 
A  proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan  : 
No  borrow'd  grace  of  action  must  be  seen. 
The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  Dean  ; 
Whilst  every  staring  graduate  would  prate 
Against  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man  who  hopes  t'  obtain  the  promised  cup 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  ne'er  look  up ; 
Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word — 
No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard. 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest : 
Who  speaks  the  fastest 's  sure  to  speak  the  best ; 
\fi\o  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space 
May  safely  hope  to  win  the  wordy  race. 

The  sons  of  science  these,  who,  thus  repaid. 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade  ; 
Where  on  Cam's  sedgy  bank  supine  they  lie 
Unknown,  unhonor'd  live,  unwept  for  die  : 
Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls  : 
They  think  all  learning  flx'd  within  their  walls  : 
In  manners  rude,  in  fooUsh  forms  precise. 
All  modem  arts  affecting  to  despise ; 
Yet  prizing  Bcntley's,  Brunck's,  or  Porson's'  note, 
More  than  the  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote  : 
Vain  as  their  honors,  heavy  as  their  ale, 
Sad  as  their  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale ; 

1  DemoetheneB. 

'  The  present  Greek  professor  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge ; 
a  man  wboee  powers  of  mind  and  writings  may,  perbap><,  justify 
tlieir  preference. 

51 


To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to  feel 
When  Self  and  Church  demand  a  bigot  zeal. 
With  eager  haste  they  court  the  lord  of  power. 
Whether  'tis  Pitt  or  Petty  rules  the  hour ; ' 
To  him,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head, 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread. 
But  should  a  storm  o'erwhelm  him  with  disgrace, 
They'd  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  flU'd  his  place. 
Such  are  the  men  who  learning's  treasures  guard ! 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward  ! 
This  much,  at  least,  we  may  presume  to  say — 
The  premium  can't  exceed  the  price  they  pay. 

1806. 

TO   A   BEAUTIFUL   QUAKER. 

Sweet  girl !  though  only  once  we  met. 

That  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget ; 

And  though  we  ne'er  may  meet  again. 

Remembrance  will  thy  form  retain. 

I  would  not  say,  "  I  love,"  but  still 

My  senses  struggle  with  my  will : 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  my  breast. 

My  thoughts  are  more  and  more  repress'd ; 

In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs. 

Another  to  the  last  replies  : 

Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 

Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke. 

Our  eyes  a  sweeter  language  spoke ; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals, 

And  tells  a  tale  it  never  feels  : 

Deceit  the  guilty  lips  impart ; 

And  hush  the  mandates  of  the  heart ; 

But  soul's  interpreters,  the  eyes. 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise. 

As  thus  our  glances  oft  conversed, 

And  all  our  bosoms  felt  rehearsed. 

No  spirit,  from  within,  reproved  us, 

Say  rather,  "  'twas  the  spirit  moved  us." 

Though  what  they  utter'd  I  repress. 

Yet  I  conceive  thou'lt  partly  guess  ; 

For  as  on  thee  my  memory  ponders. 

Perchance  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

This  for  myself,  at  least,  I'll  say, 

Thy  form  appears  through  night,  through  day : 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems  ; 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams  : 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away, 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray, 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight, 

Which  make  me  wish  for  endless  night. 

•  Since  tliis  was  written,  Lord  Henry  Petty  has  lost  bia  place, 
and  sabsequently  (I  had  almost  said  consequently)  the  honor  of 
representing  the  University.  A  fact  so  glaring  requires  no  com- 
ment. 


402 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Since,  oh  !  whate'er  my  future  fate, 
Shall  joy  or  wo  my  steps  await, 
Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  beset, 
Thine  image  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

Alas  !  again  no  more  we  meet. 
No  more  ovir  former  looks  repeat ; 
Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer, 
The  dictate  of  my  bosom's  care  : 
"  May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  Quaker, 
That  anguish  never  can  o'ertake  her  ; 
That  peace  and  virtue  ne'er  forsake  her, 
But  bliss  be  aye  her  heart's  partaker  I 
Oh  !  may  the  happy  mortal,  fated 
To  be,  by  dearest  ties,  related. 
For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover, 
And  lose  the  husband  in  the  lover  I 
May  that  fair  bosom  never  know 
What  'tis  to  feel  the  restless  wo. 
Which  stings  the  soul  with  vain  regret, 
Of  him  who  never  can  forget !" 


THE   CORNELIAN. 

No  specious  splendor  of  this  stone 

Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever  ; 
With  lustre  only  once  it  shone. 

And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver. 

Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship's  ties. 
Have,  for  my  weakness,  oft  reproved  mo ; 

Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I  prize, — 
For  I  am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 

He  ofifer'd  it  with  downcast  look. 
As  fearful  that  I  might  refuse  it ; 

I  told  him  when  the  gift  I  took. 
My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 

This  pledge  attentively  I  view'd. 
And  sparkling  as  I  held  it  near, 

Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedew'd, 
And  ever  since  I've  loved  a  tear. 

Still,  to  adorn  his  bumble  youth, 

Nor  wealth  nor  birth  their  treasures  yield ; 
But  he  who  seeks  the  flowers  of  truth. 

Must  quit  the  garden  for  the  field. 

'Tis  not  the  plant  uprear'd  in  sloth, 

Wliich  beauty  shows,  and  sheds  perfume  ; 

The  flowers  which  yield  the  most  of  both 
In  Nature's  wild  luxuriance  bloom. 

Had  Fortune  aided  Nature's  care. 
For  once  forgetting  to  be  blind, 

His  would  have  been  an  ample  share. 
If  well  proportion'd  to  his  mind. 


But  had  the  goddess  clearly  seen, 
His  form  had  fix'd  her  fickle  breast ; 

Her  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been, 
And  none  remain'd  to  give  thee  rest. 


AN   OCCASIONAL   PROLOGUE, 

DELrVEKED    PREYI0U8    TO    THE     PEBFORMAITCE    OF 

"  THE     WHEEL     OF     FORTXTNE  "     AT     A     PRIVATE 
THEATRE. 

Since  the  refinement  of  this  polish'd  age 

Has  swept  immoral  railery  from  the  stage  ; 

Since  taste  has  now  expunged  licentious  wit. 

Which  stamp'd  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ ; 

Since  now  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek, 

Nor  dare  to  call  the  blush  from  Beauty's  cheek ; 

Oh  !  let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim. 

And  meet  indulgence,  though  she  find  not  fame. 

StiU,  not  for  her  alone  we  wish  respect. 

Others  appear  more  conscious  of  defect : 

To-night  no  veteran  Roscii  you  behold. 

In  aU  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old  ; 

No  Cooke,  no  Kemble,  can  salute  you  here  ; 

No  Siddons  draw  the  sympathetic  tear  ; 

To-night  you  throng  to  witness  the  diiitt 

Of  embryo  actors,  to  the  Drama  new  : 

Here,  then,  our  almost  unfledged  wings  we  try  ; 

Clip  not  our  pinions  ere  the  birds  can  fly  : 

Failing  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar. 

Drooping,  alas  !  we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 

Not  one  poor  trembler  only  fear  betrays. 

Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads,  to  meet  your  praise ; 

But  all  our  dramatis  personse  wait 

In  fond  suspense  this  crisis  of  their  fate. 

No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard. 

Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward : 

For  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  displays. 

Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze. 

Surely  the  last  will  some  protection  find ; 

None  to  the  softer  sex  can  prove  unkind  : 

While  Youth  and  Beauty  form  the  female  shield, 

The  sternest  censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 

Yet,  should  our  feeble  efibrts  naught  avail. 

Should,  after  all,  our  best  endeavors  fail. 

Still  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live. 

And,  if  you  can't  applaud,  at  least  forgive. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  FOX, 

THE   FOI/LOWING   ILLIBERAl,   IMPROMPTtT  APPEABKD 
IK   A  MORNKfG  PAPER. 

"  Our  nation's  foes  lament  on  Fox's  death. 
But  bless  the  hour  when  Pitt  resign'd  his  breath  : 
These  feelings  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  undue, 
We  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  its  due." 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS, 


403 


TO    WHICH    THE    AUTHOB    OF    THESE    PIECES    SENT 
THE  FOLLOVrraa  BEPLY. 

Oh  factious  viper  t  vehose  envenom'd  tooth 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  truth  ; 
What  though  our  "  nation's  foes  "  lament  the  fate, 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great, 
Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  the  name 
Of  him  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame  ? 
When  Pttt  expired  in  plenitude  of  power, 
Though  ill  success  obscured  his  dying  hour, 
Kty  her  dewy  wings  before  him  spread. 
For  noble  spirits  "  war  not  with  the  dead  :" 
His  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  requiem  gave. 
As  all  his  errors  slumbcr'd  in  the  grave ; 
He  sunk,  an  Atlas  bending  'neath  the  weight 
Of  cares  o'erwhelming  our  conflicting  state  ; 
When,  lo  !  a  Hercules  in  Fox  appcar'd, 
Vfho  for  a  time  the  ruin'd  fabric  rear'd  : 
He,  too,  is  fall'n,  who  Britain's  loss  supplied, 
With  him  our  fast-reviving  hopes  have  died ; 
Not  one  great  people  only  raise  his  urn, 
jVII  Europe's  far-extended  regions  mourn. 
"  These  feelings  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  undue. 
To  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  its  due  ;" 
Yet  let  not  canker'd  Calumny  assail, 
Or  round  our  statesman  wind  her  gloomy  veil. 
Fox  !  o'er  whose  corse  a  mourning  world  must  weep. 
Whose  dear  remains  in  honor'd  marble  sleep  ; 
For  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  groan. 
While  friends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own  ; 
Fox  shall  in  Britain's  future  annals  shine, 
Nor  e'en  to  Pitt  the  patriot's  palm  resign  ; 
Which  Envy,  wearing  Candor's  sacred  mask, 
For  Pitt,  and  Pitt  alone,  has  dared  to  ask. 


THE    TEAR. 

**  O  lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentlam  ortus  ex  animo ;  qaater 
Felix  t  in  imo  qui  scatcntem 
Pcctore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit." — Gray. 

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

The  lips  may  beguile  with  a  dimple  or  smile, 
But  the  test  of  affection  's  a  Tear. 

Too  oft  is  a  smUe  but  the  hypocrite's  wile, 

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

Is  dimm'd  for  a  time  with  a  Tear. 

Mild  Charity's  glow,  to  us  mortals  below, 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear ; 

Compassion  will  melt  where  this  virtue  is  felt, 
And  its  dew  is  diSiised  in  a  Tear. 

The  man  doom'd  to  sail  with  the  blast  of  the  gale, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 


As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave  which  may  soon  be  his 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear.       [grave, 

The  soldier  braves  death  for  a  fanciful  wreath 

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

And  bathes  every  wound  with  a  Tear. 

If  with  high-bounding  pride  he  return  to  his  bride, 
Renouncing  the  gore-crimson'd  spear. 

All  his  toils  are  repaid  when,  embracing  the  maid. 
From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear. 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth  !  seat  of  Friendship  and 
Where  love  chased  each  fast-fleeting  year,  [Truth, 

Loth  to  leave  thee,  I  mourn'd,  for  a  last  look  I  tum'd, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  through  a  Tear. 

Though  my  vows  I  can  pour  to  my  Mary  no  more, 

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

She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a  Tear. 

By  another  possess'd,  may  she  live  ever  bless'd  ! 

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

And  forgive  her  deceit  with  a  Tear. 

Ye  friends  of  my  heart,  ere  from  you  I  depart. 
This  hope  to  my  breast  is  most  near  : 

If  again  we  shall  meet  in  this  rural  retreat, 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a  Tear. 

When  my  soul  wings  her  flight  to  the  regions  of 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier,        [night, 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb  where  my  ashes  consume, 
Oh  !  moisten  their  dust  with  a  Tear. 

May  no  marble  bestow  the  splendor  of  wo. 

Which  the  children  of  vanity  rear  ; 
No  flction  of  fame  shall  blazon  my  name ; 

AU  I  ask — all  I  wish — is  a  Tear. 

Octoder  26, 1806. 


REPLY  TO  SOME  VERSES  OF  J.  M.  B.  PIGOT, 
ESQ.,  ON  THE  CRUELTY  OF  HIS  MXS- 
TRESS. 

Why,  Pigot,  complain  of  this  damsel's  disdain, 

Wliy  thus  in  despair  do  you  fret  ? 
For  months  you  may  try,  yet,  believe  me,  a  sigh 

Will  never  obtain  a  coquette. 

Would  you  teach  her  to  love  ?  for  a  time  seem  to 
At  first  she  may  frown  in  a  pet ;  [rove 

But  leave  her  awhile,  she  shortly  will  smile. 
And  then  you  may  kiss  your  coquette. 


404 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


For  such  are  the  airs  of  these  fanciful  fairs, 

They  think  all  our  homage  a  debt : 
Yet  a  partial  neglect  soon  takes  an  effect, 

And  humbles  the  proudest  coquette. 

Dissemble  your  pain,  and  lengthen  your  chain, 

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

That  yours  is  the  rosy  coquette. 

If  stUl,  from  false  pride,  your  pangs  she  deride. 

This  whimsical  virgin  forget ; 
Some  other  admire,  who  will  melt  with  your  fire. 

And  laugh  at  the  Uttle  coquette. 

For  me,  I  adore  some  twenty  or  more. 
And  love  them  most  dearly  ;  but  yet. 

Though  my  heart  they  inthral,  I'd  abandon  them  all 
Did  they  act  Uke  your  blooming  coquette. 

No  longer  repine,  adopt  this  design, 
And  break  through  her  slight-woven  net ; 

Away  with  despair,  no  longer  forbear 
To  fly  from  the  captious  coquette. 

Then  quit  her,  my  friend  !  your  bosom  defend. 
Ere  quite  with  her  snares  you're  beset :       [smart. 

Lest  your  deep-wounded  heart,  when  incensed  by  the 
Should  load  you  to  curse  the  coquette. 

October  27, 1806. 


TO  THE   SIGHING  STREPHON. 

YoTXK  pardon,  my  friend,  if  my  rhymes  did  offend, 

Your  pardon  a  thousand  times  o'er  : 
From  friendship  I  strove  your  pangs  to  remove, 

But  I  swear  I  will  do  so  no  more. 

Since  your  beautiful  maid  your  flame  has  repaid. 

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

Of  this  quickly  reformM  coquette. 

Yet  still,  I  must  own,  I  should  never  have  known 
From  your  verses,  what  else  she  deserved  ; 

Your  pain  seem'd  so  great,  I  pitied  your  fate. 
As  your  fair  was  so  devilish  reserved. 

Since  the  balm-breathing  kiss  of  this  magical  miss 
Can  such  wonderful  transports  produce ;       [met," 

Since  the  "  world  you  forget,  when  your  lips  once  have 
My  counsel  will  get  but  abuse. 

'  Miss  Elizabeth  Pigot,  of  Southwell,  to  whom  several  of  Lord 
Byron's  earliest  letters  were  addressed. 

^  Lachin  y  Gair,  or,  as  it  is  pronounced  in  the  Erse,  Zoch  na 
Garr,  towers  proudly  pre-eminent  in  the  Northern  Highlands 
near  Tnvercauld.  One  of  our  modem  tourists  mentions  it  as  the 
highest  mountain,  perhaps,  in  Great  Britain.    Bo  this  as  it  may 


You  say,  when  "  I  rove,  I  know  nothing  of  love  ;" 

'Tis  true,  I  am  given  to  range  : 
If  I  rightly  remember,  I've  loved  a  good  number. 

Yet  there's  pleasure,  at  least,  in  a  change. 

I  wiU  not  advance,  by  the  rules  of  romance, 

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

Or  drive  me  to  dreadful  despair.  [affright. 

While  my  blood  is  thus  warm  I  ne'er  shall  reform, 

To  mix  in  the  Platonists'  school ; 
Of  this  I  am  sure,  was  my  passion  so  pure. 

Thy  mistress  would  think  me  a  fool. 

And  if  I  should  shun  every  woman  for  one. 
Whose  image  must  flU  my  whole  breast — 

Wliom  I  must  prefer,  and  sigh  but  for  her — 
What  an  insult  'twould  be  to  the  rest ! 

Now,  Strephon,  good-by  ;  I  cannot  deny 

Your  passion  appears  must  absurd ; 
Such  love  as  you  plead  is  pure  love  indeed. 

For  it  only  consists  in  the  word. 


TOELIZA.' 

Eliza,  what  fools  are  the  Mussulman  sect. 

Who  to  woman  deny  the  soul's  future  existence  ; 

Could  they  see  thee,  Eliza,  they'd  own  their  defect, 
And  this  doctrine  would  meet  with  a  general 
resistance. 

Had  their  prophet  possess'd  half  an  atom  of  s  ense. 
He  ne'er  would  have  women  from  paradise  driven ; 

Instead  of  his  houris,  a  flimsy  pretence. 
With  women  alone  he  had  peopled  his  heaven. 

Yet  still,  to  increase  your  calamities  more. 

Not  content  with  depriving  your  bodies  of  spirit. 

He  allots  one  poor  husband  to  share  amongst  four ! — 
With  souls  you'd  dispense ;    but  this  last  who 
could  bear  it  ? 

His  reUgion  to  please  neither  party  is  made  ; 

On  husbands  'tis  hard,  to  the  wives  most  uncivil; 
StiU  I  can't  contradict  what  so  oft  has  been  said, 

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


LACHIN  Y  GAIR.2 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses ! 
In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove  ; 

it  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  sublime  and  picturesque  amongst 
our  "  Caledonian  Alps."  Its  appearance  is  of  a  dusky  hue,  but  the 
summit  is  the  seat  of  eternal  snows.  Near  Lachin  y  Gair  I  spent 
some  of  the  early  part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of  which  has 
given  birth  to  these  stanzas. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


405 


Restore  me  the  rocks,  where  the  snow-flake  reposes, 
Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love  : 

Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains, 

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war ; 

Though  cataracts  foam  'stead  of  smooth-flowing 
fountains, 
I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Ah !  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd; 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid ;' 
On  chieftains  long  perish'd  my  memory  ponder'd, 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-cover'd  glade. 
I  sought  not  my  home  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star ; 
For  fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story. 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

"  Shades  of  the  dead  !  have  I  not  heard  your  voices. 

Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale  ?" 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  the  wind,  o'er  his  own  Highland  vale. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers, 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car: 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers  ; 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

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

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

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

You  rest  with  your  clan  in  the  caves  of  Braemar ;' 
The  pibroch  resounds,  to  the  piper's  lo  ud  number. 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

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

Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again  : 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flow'rs  has  bereft  you, 

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

To  one  who  has  roved  o'er  the  mountains  afar  : 
Oh,  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic  ! 

The  steep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr ! 


TO  ROMANCE. 

Pakest  of  golden  dreams,  Romance ! 

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

Thy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys  ; 

•  This  word  Is  erroneously  pronounced  plad ;  the  proper  pro- 
nnnclation  (according  to  the  Scotch)  is  shown  hy  the  orthography. 

2  I  allude  here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  "  the  GordOTis"  many 
of  whom  fought  for  the  unfortunate  Prince  Charles,  better  known 
hy  the  name  of  the  Pretender.  This  branch  was  nearly  allied  by 
blood,  as  well  as  attachment,  to  the  Stuarts.  George,  the  second 
Earl  of  Huntley,  married  the  Princess  Annabella  Stuart,  daughter 
of  James  the  First  of  Scotland.  By  her  he  left  four  sons:  the 
third.  Sir  William  Gordon,  I  bare  the  honor  to  claim  as  one  of  my 
progenitors. 

'  Whether  any  perished  In  the  battle  of  CuUodcn,  I  am  not 


At  length,  in  spells  no  longer  bound, 
I  break  the  fetters  of  my  youth  ; 

No  more  I  tread  thy  mystic  round, 
But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth. 

And  yet  'tis  hard  to  quit  the  dreams 

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

Whose  eyes  through  rays  immortal  roll  ; 
While  Fancy  holds  her  boundless  reign. 

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

And  even  woman's  smiles  are  true. 

And  must  we  owe  thee  but  a  name. 

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

A  Pylades'  in  every  friend  ? 
But  leave  at  once  thy  realms  of  air 

To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves ; 
Confess  that  woman  's  false  as  fair, 

And  friends  have  feeling  for — themselves  ! 

With  shame  I  own  I've  felt  thy  sway ; 

Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o'er  : 
No  more  thy  precepts  I  obey, 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar. 
Fond  fool !  to  love  a  sparkling  eye. 

And  think  that  eye  to  truth  was  dear ; 
To  trust  a  passing  wanton's  sigh. 

And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear  ! 

Romance  !  disgusted  with  deceit. 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  I  fly. 
Where  Afiectation  holds  her  seat. 

And  sickly  Sensibility ; 
Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 

For  any  pangs  excepting  thine; 
Who  turns  aside  from  real  wo. 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine. 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cypress  crown'd,  array'd  in  weeds, 
Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  sigh. 

Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds  ; 
And  call  thy  sylvan  female  choir. 

To  mourn  a  swain  forever  gone. 
Who  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire. 

But  bends  not  now  before  thy  throne. 


certain ;  but,  as  many  fell  in  the  insurrection,  I  have  used  the 
name  of  the  principal  action  ''pars pro  loto." 

*  A  tract  of  the  Uighlands  so  called.  There  is  also  a  Castle  of 
ISraemar. 

"  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  Pylades  was  the  companion 
of  Orestes,  and  a  partner  in  one  of  those  friendships  which,  with 
those  of  Achilles  and  Patroclus,  Nisns  and  Eurjalns.  Damon  and 
Pythias,  have  been  handed  down  to  posterity  as  remarkable  in- 
stances of  attachments,  which  in  all  probability  never  existed 
beyond  the  imagination  of  the  poet,  or  the  page  of  an  historian, 
or  modem  novelist. 


406 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


Ye  genial  nymphs,  -whose  ready  tears 

On  all  occasions  swiftly  flow ; 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  fears, 

With  fancied  flames  and  phrcnsy  glow ; 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name, 

Apostate  from  your  gentle  train  ? 
An  infant  bard  at  least  may  claim 

From  you  a  sympathetic  strain. 

Adieu,  fond  race  !  a  long  adieu! 

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

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

Convulsed  by  gales  you  cannot  weather ; 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 

Alas  I  must  perish  altogether. 


ANSWER  TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES 

SENT  BY  A  FRIEND  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  COMPLAINING 
THAT  ONE  OF  HIS  DESCRIPTIONS  WAS  RATHER  TOO 
WARMLY   DRAWN. 

But  if  any  old  lady,  knlgbt,  priest,  or  physician, 
Bliould  condemn  me  for  printing  a  second  edition ; 
If  good  Madam  Sqaintum  my  work  should  abuse, 
May  I  venture  to  give  her  a  smack  of  my  muse  ?" 

New  Bath  Guide. 

Candor  compels  me,  Becher  !'  to  commend 
The  verse  which  blends  the  censor  with  the  friend. 
Tour  strong  yet  just  reproof  extorts  applause 
From  me,  the  heedless  and  imprudent  cause. 
For  this  wild  error  which  pervades  my  strain, 
I  sue  for  pardon, — must  I  sue  in  vain  ? 
The  wise  sometimes  from  Wisdom's  ways  depart : 
Can  youth  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart  ? 
Precepts  of  prudence  curb,  but  can't  control, 
The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul. 
When  Love's  delirium  haunts  the  glowing  mind. 
Limping  Decorum  lingers  far  behind  : 
Vainly  the  dotard  mends  her  prudish  pace, 
Outstripp'd  and  vanquish'd  in  the  mental  chase. 
The  young,  the  old,  have  worn  the  chains  of  love ; 
Let  those  they  ne'er  confined  my  lay  reprove : 
Let  those  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing  power 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower. 
Oh  !  how  I  hate  the  nerveless,  frigid  song. 
The  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throng. 
Whose  labor'd  lines  in  chilling  numbers  flow. 
To  paint  a  pang  the  author  ne'er  can  know  1 

'  The  Hev.  Jolm  Becher,  prebendarj-  of  Southwell,  the  well- 
known  author  of  several  philanthropic  plans  for  the  amelioration 
of  the  condition  of  the  poor.  In  this  gentleman  the  youthflil  poet 
found  not  only  an  honest  and  judicious  critic,  but  a  sincere  friend. 
To  his  care  the  superintendence  of  the  second  edition  of  "  Hours 
of  Idleness,"  during  its  progress  through  a  country  press,  was  in- 
trusted, and  at  his  suggestion  several  corrections  and  omissions 
weru  made. 


The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is  youth ; — 

My  lyre,  the  heart;  my  muse,  the  simple  truth. 

Far  be  't  from  me  the  "  virgin's  mind  "  to  "  taint :" 

Seduction's  dread  is  here  no  slight  restraint. 

The  maid  whose  virgin  breast  is  void  of  guile, 

Whose  wishes  dimple  in  a  modest  smile, 

Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  wanton  leer, 

Firm  in  her  virtue's  strength,  yet  not  severe — 

She  whom  a  conscious  grace  shall  thus  refine 

Will  ne'er  be  "  tainted"  by  a  strain  of  mine. 

But  for  the  nymph  whose  premature  desires 

Torment  her  bosom  with  unholy  fires, 

No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  sjjread ; 

She  would  have  fallen,  though  she  ne'er  had  read. 

For  me,  I  fain  would  please  the  chosen  few, 

Wliose  souls,  to  feeling  and  to  nature  true. 

Will  spare  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy 

The  light  effusions  of  a  heedless  boy. 

I  seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowd ; 

Of  fancied  laurels  I  shall  ne'er  be  proud  : 

Their  warmest  plaudits  I  would  scarcely  prize, 

Their  sneers  or  censures  I  alike  despise. 

November  26, 1806. 

ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY.^ 

"  It  Is  the  voice  of  years  that  are  gone !  they  roll  before  rae 
with  all  their  deeds."— Ossian. 

Newstead  !  fast-falling,  once-resplendent  dome  ! 

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

Whose  pensive  shades  aroimd  thy  ruins  glide. 

Hail  to  thy  pile !  more  honor'd  in  thy  fall 
Than  modem  mansions  in  their  pillar'd  state ; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall. 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blasts  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  serfs,*  obedient  to  their  lord. 
In  grim  array  the  crimson  cross'  demand ; 

Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board 
Their  chief's  retainers,  an  immortal  band. 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy's  magic  eye 

Retrace  their  progress  though  the  lapse  of  time, 

Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordain'd  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim  in  Judea's  clime. 

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

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

Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 


*  As  one  poem  on  this  subject  is  already  printed,  the  author 
had,  originally,  no  intention  of  inserting  the  following.  It  is  now 
added  at  the  particular  request  of  some  friends. 

'  Henry  II.  founded  Newstead  soon  after  the  murder  of  Thomaii 
a  Becket. 

*  This  word  is  used  by  Walter  Scott,  in  his  poem,  "  The  Wild 
Huntsman;"  synonymous  with  vassal. 

'  The  red  cross  was  the  badge  of  the  crusaders. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


407 


Yes  I  in  thy  gloomy  colls  and  shades  profound 
The  monk  abjured  a  world  he  ne'er  could  view  ; 

Or  blood-stain'd  guilt  repenting  solace  found, 
Or  innocence  from  stem  oppression  flew. 

A  monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise, 

Where   Sherwood's  outlaws  once  were  wont  to 

And  Superstition's  crimes,  of  various  dyes,  [prowl ; 
Sought  shelter  in  the  priest's  protecting  cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 
The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguish'd  clay. 

In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 
Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 

Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend 
Soon  as  the  gloaming'  spreads  her  waning  shade, 

The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend, 
Or  matin  orioons  to  Mary"  paid. 

Years  roll  on  years  ;  to  ages,  ages  yield ; 

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

Till  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  Henkt  rear'd  the  Gothic  walls. 
And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace ; 

Another  Henbt'  the  kind  gift  recalls, 
And  bids  devotion's  hallow'd  echoes  cease. 

Vain  is  each  threat  or  supplicating  prayer ; 

He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  bless'd  abode, 
To  roam  a  dreary  world  in  deep  despair — 

Ko  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge,  but  their  God. 

Hark  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain. 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din  1 

The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 
High  crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 
The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  bumish'd  arms, 

The  braying  trumpet  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 

An  abbey  once,  a  regal  fortress*  now, 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers. 
War's  dread  machines  o'erhang  thy  threatening  brow. 

And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  showers. 

>  As  "  gloaming,"  the  Scottish  word  for  twilight,  is  far  more 
poetical,  and  has  been  recommended  by  many  eminent  literary 
men,  particularly  by  Dr.  Moore  In  his  Letters  to  Bums,  I  have 
ventured  to  nse  it  on  account  of  its  harmony. 

•  The  priory  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin. 

•  At  the  diesolntion  of  the  monasteries,  Henry  vm.  bestowed 
Newstead  Abbey  on  Sir  John  Byron. 

•  Newstead  sustained  a  considerable  siege  In  the  war  between 
Charles  I.  and  his  parliament. 


Ah,  vain  defence  1  the  hostile  traitor's  siege. 

Though  oft  repulsed,  by  guile  o'ercomes  the  brave ; 

His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  liege. 
Rebellion's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave. 

Not  unavenged  the  raging  baron  yields ; 

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

And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 

Still  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wish'd  to  strew 
Self-gather'd  laurels  on  a  self-sought  grave ; 

But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  flew. 
The  monarch's  friend,  the  monarch's  hope,  to  save. 

Trembling,  she  snatch'd  him'  from  th'  unequal  strife, 

In  other  fields  the  torrent  to  repel ; 
For  nobler  combats,  here,  reserved  his  life. 

To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  Falkland'  fell. 

From  thee,  poor  pile  !  to  lawless  plunder  given, 
While  dying  groans  their  painful  requiem  sound. 

Far  different  incense  now  ascends  to  heaven, 
Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  robber's  corse, 
Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod ; 

O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commix'd  with  horse, 
Corruption's  heap,  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 

Graves,  long  with  rank  and  sighing  weeds  o'erspread, 
Ransack'd,  resign  perforce  their  mortal  mould : 

From  ruflSan  fangs  escape  not  e'en  the  dead. 
Raked  from  repose  in  search  for  buried  gold. 

Hush'd  is  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre, 
The  minstrel's  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death  ; 

No  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  with  fire, 
Or  sings  the  glories  of  the  martial  wreath. 

At  length  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  mth  prey. 
Retire  ;  the  clamor  of  the  fight  is  o'er ; 

Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway. 
And  sable  Horror  guards  the  massy  door. 

Here  Desolation  holds  her  dreary  court : 
What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  reign  ! 

Shrieking  their  dirge,  ill-omen'd  birds  resort. 
To  flit  their  vigils  in  the  hoary  fane. 


»  Lord  Byron,  and  his  brother  Sir  William,  held  high  commands 
in  the  royal  army.  The  former  was  general  in  chief  in  Ireland, 
lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  governor  to  James,  Dulte  of  York, 
afterwards  the  unhappy  James  U. ;  the  latter  had  a  principal  share 
in  many  actions. 

•  Lucius  Carey,  Viscount  Falkland,  the  most  accomplished  man 
of  his  age,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Newbury,  charging  in  the 
ranks  of  Lord  Byron's  regiment  of  cavalry. 


408 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Soon  a  new  morn's  restoring  beams  dispel 
The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain's  skies  ; 

The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  hell, 
And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 

With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans  ; 

Whirlwinds,  responsive,  greet  his  laboring  breath ; 
Earth  shudders  as  her  caves  receive  his  bones, 

Loathing'  the  offering  of  so  dark  a  death. 

The  legal  ruler'  now  resumes  the  helm. 
He  guides  through  gentle  seas  the  prow  of  state ; 

Hope  cheers,  with  wonted  smiles,  the  peaceful  realm, 
And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied  hate. 

The  gloomy  tenants,  Newstead  !  of  thy  cells, 

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

Enjoy'd,  from  absence,  with  enraptured  zest. 

Vassals,  within  thy  hospitable  pale, 
Loudly  carousing,  bless  their  lord's  return  ; 

Culture  again  adorns  the  gladdening  vale. 

And  matrons,  once  lamenting,  cease  to  mourn. 

A  thousand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  float, 
Unwonted  foliage  mantles  o'er  the  trees  ; 

And  hark  1  the  horns  proclaim  a  mellow  note, 
The  hunter's  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the  breeze. 

Beneath  their  coursers'  hoofs  the  valleys  shake  : 
What  fears,  what  anxious  hopes,  attend  the  chase ! 

The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  Lake  ; 
Exulting  shouts  announce  the  flnish'd  race. 

Ah,  happy  days  !  too  happy  to  endure  ! 

Such  simple  sports  our  plain  forefathers  knew : 
No  splendid  vices  glitter'd  to  allure  ; 

Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 

From  these  descending,  sons  to  sires  succeed ; 

Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his  dart ; 
Another  chief  impels  the  foaming  steed, 

Another  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Newstead !  what  saddening  change  of  scene  is  thine ! 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay  ! 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray  worn  towers  ; 

Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep ; 
Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers  ; 

These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

'  This  Is  an  hlBtorical  fact.  A  violent  tempest  occurred  imme- 
diately Bubsequent  to  the  death  or  interment  of  Cromwell,  which 
occasioned  many  disputes  between  his  partisans  and  the  cavaliers : 
both  interpreted  the  circumstance  into  divine  interposition  ;  but 


Yet  are  his  tears  no  emblem  of  regret ; 

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

But  warm  his  bosom  with  impassion'd  glow. 

Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes 
Or  gewgaw  grottoes  of  the  vainly  great ; 

Yet  lingers  'mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs. 
Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  will  of  fate. 

Haply  thy  sun,  emerging,  yet  may  shine. 
Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray  ; 

Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine. 
And  bless  thy  future  as  thy  former  day. 


CHILDISH    RECOLLECTIONS. 

"  I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  dear  to  me." 

When  slow  Disease,  with  all  her  host  of  pains. 
Chills  the  warm  tide  which  flows  along  the  veins  ; 
When  Health,  affrighted,  spreads  her  rosy  wing, 
And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring ; 
Not  to  the  aching  frame  alone  confined, 
Unyielding  pangs  assail  the  drooping  mind : 
What  grisly  forms,  the  spectre-train  of  wo. 
Bid  shuddering  Nature  shrink  beneath  the  blow, 
With  Resignation  wage  relentless  strife. 
While  Hope  retires  appall'd,  and  clings  to  life. 
Yet  less  the  pang  when,  through  the  tedious  hour 
Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power. 
Calls  back  the  vanisli'd  days  to  rapture  given. 
When  love  was  bliss,  and  Beauty  form'd  our  heaven ; 
Or,  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene, 
Those  fairy  bowers,  where  aU  in  turn  have  been. 
As  when  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer  storm 
The  orb  of  day  unveils  his  distant  form. 
Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain, 
And  dimly  twinkles  o'er  the  watery  plain  ; 
Thus,  while  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams, 
The  sun  of  memory,  glowing  through  my  dreams, 
Though  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  former  blaze, 
To  scenes  far  distant  points  his  paler  rays ; 
Still  rules  my  senses  with  unbounded  sway. 
The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

Oft  does  my  heart  indulge  the  rising  thought. 
Which  still  recurs,  unlook'd  for  and  unsought  ; 
My  soul  to  Fancy's  fond  suggestion  yields. 
And  roams  romantic  o'er  her  airy  fields  : 
Scenes  of  my  youth,  developed,  crowd  to  view, 
To  which  I  long  have  bade  a  last  adieu ! 
Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themes  ; 
Friends  lost  to  me  for  aye,  except  in  dreams; 

whether  as  approbation  or  condemnation,  we  leave  for  the  casuists 
of  that  age  to  decide.  I  have  made  such  use  of  the  occurrence  as 
enitcl  the  subject  of  my  poem.  '  Charles  II. 


HOURS    OF   IDLENESS. 


409 


Some  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep, 

Whose  forms  I  now  remember  but  to  weep ; 

Some  who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course 

Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source ; 

Wlio,  still  contending  in  the  studious  race, 

In  quick  rotation  fill  the  senior  place. 

These  with  a  thousand  visions  now  unite, 

To  dazzle,  though  they  please,  my  aching  sight. 

Ida  !  bless'd  spot,  where  Science  holds  her  reign, 

How  joyous  once  I  join'd  thy  youthful  train  ! 

Bright  in  idea  gleams  thy  lofty  spire, 

Again  I  mingle  with  thy  playful  choir ; 

Our  tricks  of  mischief,  every  childish  game, 

Unchanged  by  time  or  distance,  seem  the  same ; 

Through  winding  paths  along  the  glade,  I  trace 

The  social  smile  of  every  welcome  face; 

My  wonted  haunts  my  scenes  of  joy  and  wo. 

Each  early  boyish  friend,  or  youthful  foe, 

Ourfeuds  dissolved,  but  not  my  friendship  pass'd  :— 

I  bless  the  former,  and  forgive  the  last. 

Hours  of  my  youth !  when,  nurtured  in  my  breast, 

To  love  a  stranger,  friendship  made  me  bless'd  ; — 

Friendship,  the  dear  peculiar  bond  of  youth, 

When  every  artless  bosom  throbs  with  truth  ; 

Untaught  by  worldly  widsom  how  to  feign. 

And  check  each  impulse  with  prudential  rein. 

When  all  we  feel,  our  honest  souls  disclose — 

In  love  to  friends,  in  open  hate  to  foes  ; 

Ko  varnish'd  tales  the  lips  of  youth  repeat. 

No  dear-bought  knowledge  purchased  by  deceit. 

Hypocrisy,  the  gift  of  lengthen'd  years, 

Matured  by  age,  the  garb  of  prudence  wears. 

When  now  the  boy  is  ripen'd  into  man, 

His  careful  sire  chalks  forth  some  wary  plan  ; 

Instructs  his  son  from  candor's  path  to  shrink. 

Smoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think ; 

Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny — 

A  patron's  praise  can  well  reward  the  lie : 

And  who,  when  Fortune's  warning  voice  is  heard, 

Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a  word  ? 

Although  against  that  word  his  heart  rebel, 

And  truth  indignant  all  his  bosom  swell. 

Away  with  themes  like  this,  not  mine  the  task 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  mask ; 
Let  keener  bards  delight  in  satire's  sting ; 
My  fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction's  wing : 
Once,  and  but  once,  she  aim'd  a  deadly  blow. 
To  hurl  defiance  on  a  secret  foe  ; 
But  when  that  foe,  from  feeling  or  from  shame, 
The  cause  unknown,  yet  still  to  me  the  same, 
Warn'd  by  some  friendly  hint,  perchance,  retired. 
With  this  submission  all  her  rage  expired. 


From  dreaded  pangs  that  feeble  foe  to  save. 
She  hush'd  her  young  resentment,  and  forgave; 
Or,  if  my  muse  a  pedant's  portrait  drew, 
PoMPOsus'  virtues  are  but  known  to  few ; 
I  never  fear'd  the  young  usurper's  nod. 
And  he  who  wields  must  sometimes  feel  the  rod. 
If  since  on  Granta's  failings,  known  to  all 
Who  share  the  converse  of  a  college  hall. 
She  sometimes  trifled  in  a  lighter  strain, 
'Tis  past,  and  thus  she  will  not  sin  again. 
Soon  must  her  early  song  forever  cease. 
And  all  may  rail  when  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

Here  first  remember'd  be  the  joyous  band. 
Who  hail'd  me  chief, i  obedient  to  command; 
Who  join'd  with  me  in  every  boyish  sport— 
Their  first  adviser,  and  their  last  resort ; 
Nor  shrunk  beneath  the  upstart  pedant's  frown, 
Or  all  the  sable  glories  of  his  gown ; 
Who,  thus  transplanted  from  his  father's  school — 
Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule — 
Succeeded  him,  whom  all  unite  to  praise. 
The  dear  preceptor  of  my  early  days  ; 
Pbobus,"  the  pride  of  science,  and  the  boast, 
To  Ida  now,  alas  !  forever  lost. 
With  him,  for  years,  we  search'd  the  classic  page. 
And  fear'd  the  master,  though  we  loved  the  sage : 
Ketircd  at  last,  his  small  yet  peaceful  seat. 
From  learning's  labor  is  the  bless'd  retreat. 
PoMPOSus  fills  his  magisterial  chair; 
PoMPOsus  governs, — but,  my  muse,  forbear  : 
Contempt,  in  silence,  be  the  pedant's  lot ; 
His  name  and  precepts  be  alike  forgot ! 
No  more  his  mention  shall  my  verse  degrade, — 
To  him  my  tribute  is  already  paid. 

High,  through  those  elms,  with  hoary  branches 
crown'd. 
Fair  Ida's  bower  adorns  the  landscape  round ; 
There  Science,  from  her  favor'd  seat,  smveys 
The  vale  where  rural  Nature  claims  her  praise  ; 
To  her  awhile  resigns  her  youthful  train. 
Who  move  in  joy,  and  dance  along  the  plain ; 
In  scatter'd  groups  each  favor'd  haunt  pursue ; 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new ; 
Flush'd  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noontide  sun, 
In  rival  bands  between  the  wickets  run,     . 
Drive  o'er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 
Or  chase  with  nimble  feet  its  rapid  course. 
But  these  with  slower  steps  direct  their  way. 
Where  Brent's  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents  stray; 

Dr.  Dmry.    This  most  able  and  excellent  man  retired  from    it  would  be  nscleas  to  ennmerate  qualifications  which  were  never 
his  Bituation  in  March,  1805,  after  having  resided  thirty-five  years    doubted.    A  considerable  contest  toolc  place  between  three  rival 
at  Harrow ;  the  last  twenty  as  head-master ;  an  office  he  held  with  i  candidates  for  his  vacant  chair :  of  this  I  can  only  say, 
equal  honor  to  himself  and  advantAge  to  the  very  extensive  school  [  Si  mea  cum  vestris  valuissent  vota,  Pelasgl  I 

over  which  he  presided.    Panegyric  would  here  be  superfluous ;  Non  foret  ambignns  tantl  certaminis  hseres. 

52 


410 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


While  yonder  few  search  out  some  green  retreat, 

And  arbors  shade  them  from  the  summer  heat : 

Others  again,  a  pert  and  lively  crew. 

Some  rough  and  thoughtless  stranger  placed  in  view, 

With  frolic  quaint  their  antic  jests  expose. 

And  tease  the  grumbling  rustic  as  he  goes  ; 

Nor  rest  with  this,  but  many  a  passing  fray 

Tradition  treasures  for  a  future  day : 

'"Twas  here  the  gathcr'd    swains   for  vengeance 

fought, 
And  here  we  carn'd  the  conquest  dearly  bought ; 
Here  have  we  fled  before  superior  might. 
And  here  renew'd  the  wild  tumultuous  fight." 
While  thus  our  souls  with  early  passions  swell. 
In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell ; 
Th'  allotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o'er. 
And  Learning  beckons  from  her  temple's  door. 
No  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall, 
But  ruder  records  fill  the  dusky  wall ; 
There,  deeply  carved,  behold  each  tyro's  name 
Secures  its  owner's  academic  fame  ; 
Here  mingling  viev/  the  names  of  sire  and  son — 
The  one  long  graved,  the  other  just  begun  : 
These  shah  survive  alike  when  son  and  sire 
Beneath  one  common  stroke  of  fate  expire  : 
Perhaps  their  last  memorial  these  alone. 
Denied  in  death  a  monumental  stone. 
Whilst  to  the  gale  in  mournful  cadence  wave 
The  sighing  weeds  that  hide  their  nameless  grave. 
And  here  my  name,  and  many  an  early  friend's, 
Along  the  wall  in  lengthen'd  line  extends. 
Though  still  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful  race. 
Who  tread  our  steps,  and  fiU  our  former  place, 
Who  young  obey'd  their  lords  in  silent  awe. 
Whose  nod  commanded,  and  whose  voice  was  law; 
And  now,  in  turn,  possess  the  reins  of  power. 
To  rule  the  little  tyrants  of  an  hour ; — 
Though,  sometimes,  with  the  tales  of  ancient  day, 
They  pass  the  dreary  winter's  eve  away — 
"  And  thus  our  former  rulers  stemm'd  the  tide. 
And  thus  they  dealt  the  combat  side  by  side ; 
Just  in  this  place  the  mouldering  walls  they  scaled. 
Nor  bolts  nor  bars  against  their  strength  avail'd  ; 
Here  Pkobus  came,  the  rising  fray  to  quell, 
And  here  he  falter'd  forth  his  last  farewell ; 
And  here  one  night  abroad  they  dared  to  roam. 
While  bold  Pomposus  bravely  stay'd  at  home  ;" — 
While  thus  they  speak,  the  hour  must  soon  arrive, 
When  nafues  of  these,  like  ours,  alone  sun-ive: 
Yet  a  few  years,  one  general  wreck  will  whelm 
The  faint  remembrance  of  our  fairy  realm. 

Dear  honest  race !    though  now  we  meet  no 
more, 
One  last  long  look  on  what  we  were  before — 
Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu — 
Drew  tears  from  eyes  imused  to  weep  with  you. 


Through  splendid  circles,  fashion's  gaudy  world. 
Where  folly's  glaring  standard  waves  unfurl" d, 
I  plunged  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret. 
And  all  I  sought  or  hoped  was  to  forget. 
Vain  wish !  if  chance  some  well-remember'd  face. 
Some  old  companion  of  my  early  race. 
Advanced  to  claim  his  friend  with  honest  joy. 
My  eyes,  my  heart,  proclaim'd  me  still  a  boy ; 
The  glittering  scene,  the  fluttering  groups  around. 
Were  quite  forgotten  when  my  friend  was  found : 
The  smiles  of  beauty— (for,  alas  !  I've  known 
What  'tis  to  bend  before  Love's  mighty  throne) — 
The  smiles  of  beauty,  though  those  smiles  were  dear, 
Could  hardly  charm  me,  when  that  friend  was  near. 
My  thoughts  bewilder'd  in  the  fond  sui-prise. 
The  woods  of  Ida  danced  before  my  eyes  ; 
I  saw  the  sprightly  wand'rers  pour  along, 
I  saw  and  join'd  again  the  joyous  throng ; 
Panting,  again  I  traced  her  lofty  grove ; 
And  friendship's  feeUngs  triumphed  over  love. 

Yet,  why  should  I  alone  with  such  deliglit. 
Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flight  ? 
Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim 
Endear'd  to  all  in  childhood's  very  name  ? 
Ah  !  sure  some  stronger  impulse  vibrates  here, 
Which  whispers  friendship  will  be  doubly  dear, 
To  one  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts  must  roam. 
And  seek  abroad  the  love  denied  at  home. 
Those  hearts,  dear  Ida,  have  I  found  in  thee — 
A  home,  a  world,  a  paradise  to  me. 
Stem  Death  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share 
The  tender  guidance  of  a  father's  care. 
Can  rank,  or  e'en  a  guardian's  name,  supply 
The  love  which  gUstens  in  a  father's  eye  ? 
For  this  can  wealth  or  title's  sound  atone, 
Made,  by  a  parent's  early  loss,  my  own  ? 
What  brother  springs  a  brother's  love  to  seek  ? 
What  sister's  gentle  kiss  has  press'd  my  cheek  ? 
For  me  how  dull  the  vacant  moments  rise. 
To  no  fond  bosom  link'd  by  kindred  ties  ! 
Oft  in  the  progress  of  some  fleeting  dream 
Fraternal  smiles  collected  round  me  seem  ; 
While  still  the  visions  to  my  heart  are  press'd, 
The  voice  of  love  will  murmur  in  my  rest : 
I  hear — I  wake — and  in  the  sound  rejoice ; 
I  hear  again, — ^but  ah  I  no  brother's  voice. 
A  hermit,  'midst  of  crowds,  I  fain  must  stray 
Alone,  though  thousand  pilgrims  fill  the  way ; 
While  these  a  thousand  kindred  wreaths  entwine, 
I  cannot  call  one  single  blossom  mine  : 
What  then  remains  ?  in  solitude  to  groan, 
To  mix  in  friendship,  or  to  sigh  alone. 
Thus  must  I  cling  to  some  endearing  hand. 
And  none  more  dear  than  Ida's  social  band. 

Alonzo  !  best  and  dearest  and  of  my  friends, 
Thy  name  ennobles  him  who  thus  commends  : 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


4n 


From  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst  gain  no  praise ; 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 
Oh  !  in  the  promise  of  thy  early  youth, 
If  hope  anticipate  the  words  of  truth, 
Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious  name, 
To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 
Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 
Of  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  bless'd, 
Oft  have  we  drain'd  the  font  of  ancient  lore  ; 
Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  the  more. 
Yet,  when  confinement's  lingering  hour  was  done. 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one  : 
Together  v/c  impell'd  the  flying  ball ; 
Together  waited  in  our  tutor's  hall ; 
Together  join'd  in  cricket's  manly  toil, 
Or  shared  the  produce  of  the  river's  spoil ; 
Or,  plunging  from  the  green  declining  shore, 
Our  pliant  limbs  the  buoyant  billows  bore ; 
In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same. 
All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name. 

Nor  yet  are  you  forgot,  my  jocund  boy  ! 
Davus,  the  harbinger  of  childish  joy  ; 
Forever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  fun. 
The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmless  pun  ; 
Yet  with  a  breast  of  such  materials  made — 
Anxious  to  please,  of  pleasing  half  afraid  ; 
Candid  and  liberal,  with  a  heart  of  steel 
In  danger's  path,  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
Still  I  remember,  in  the  factious  strife. 
The  rustic's  musket  aim'd  against  my  life  : 
High  poised  in  air  the  massy  weapon  hung, 
A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  every  tongue  ; 
Whilst  I,  in  combat  with  another  foe. 
Fought  on,  unconscious  of  th'  impending  blow ; 
Your  arm,  brave  boy,  arrested  his  career — 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear  ; 
Disarm'd  and  baffled  by  your  conquering  hand. 
The  groveling  savage  roU'd  upon  the  sand  : 
An  act  like  this,  can  simple  thanks  repay  ? 
Or  all  the  labors  of  a  grateful  lay  1 
Oh  no  !  whene'er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed. 
That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed. 

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


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

Now  lost,  but  nearest,  of  the  social  band. 
See  honest,  ojjcn,  generous  Cleon  stand  ; 
With  scarce  one  speck  to  cloud  the  pleasing  scene, 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  begun. 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  was  run  ; 
Thus  side  by  side  we  pass'd  our  first  career. 
Thus  side  by  side  we  strove  for  many  a  year ; 
At  last  concluded  our  scholastic  life. 
We  neither  conquer'd  in  the  classic  strife  : 
As  speakers  each  supports  an  equal  name, 
And  crowds  allow  to  both  a  partial  fame  : 
To  soothe  a  youthful  rival's  early  pride. 
Though  Cleon's  candor  would  the  palm  divide. 
Yet  candor's  self  compels  me  now  to  own. 
Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone. 

Oh  !  friends  regretted,  scenes  forever  dear. 
Remembrance  hails  you  with  her  warmest  tear  ! 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  urn. 
To  trace  the  hours  which  never  can  return ; 
Yet  with  the  retrospection  loves  to  dwell. 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  last  farewell  1 
Yet  greets  the  triumph  of  my  boyish  mind. 
As  infant  laurels  round  my  head  were  twined. 
When  Probus'  praise  repaid  my  lyric  song. 
Or  placed  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng ; 
Or  when  my  first  harangue  received  applause. 
His  sage  instruction  the  primeval  cause. 
What  gratitude  to  him  my  soul  possess'd 
Wliile  hope  of  dawning  honors  fiU'd  my  breast ! 
For  all  my  humble  fame,  to  him  alone 
The  praise  is  due,  who  made  that  fame  my  own. 


412 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Oh  I  could  I  soar  above  these  feeble  lays, 

These  young  effusions  of  my  early  days, 

To  him  my  muse  her  noblest  strain  woiild  give  : 

The  song  might  perish,  but  the  theme  might  live. 

Yet  why  for  him  the  needless  verse  essay  ? 

His  honor'd  name  requires  no  vain  display  : 

By  every  son  of  grateful  Ida  bless'd. 

It  finds  an  echo  in  each  youthful  breast ; 

A  fame  beyond  the  glores  of  the  proud, 

Or  aU  the  plaudits  of  the  venal  crowd. 

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

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

whirl'd, 
Are  swept  forever  from  this  busy  world ; 
Revolve  the  fleeting  moments  of  your  youth. 
While  Care  as  yet  withheld  her  venom'd  tooth  ; 
Say  if  remembrance  days  hke  these  endears 
Beyond  the  rapture  of  succeeding  years  ? 
Say,  can  ambition's  fever'd  dream  bestow 
So  sweet  a  balm  to  soothe  your  hours  of  wo  ? 
Can  treasures,  hoarded  for  some  thankless  son, 
Can  royal  smiles,  or  wreaths  by  slaughter  won. 
Can  stars  or  ermine,  man's  maturer  toys, 
(For  guttering  baubles  are  not  left  to  boys,) 
Recall  one  scene  so  much  beloved  to  view. 
As  those  where  Youth  her  garland  twined  for  you  ? 
Ah,  no  !  amidst  the  gloomy  calm  of  age 
You  turn  with  faltering  had  Ufe's  varied  page  ; 
Peruse  the  record  of  your  days  on  earth, 
UnsulUed  only  where  it  marks  your  birth  ; 
Still  Ungcring  pause  above  each  chccker'd  leaf. 
And  blot  with  tears  the  sable  lines  of  grief; 

'  "  L' Amite  est  I'Amour  eans  ailes,"  Ib  a  French  proverb.  [See 
a  subsequent  poem,  under  this  title.] 

'  Written  by  James  Montgomery,  author  of  "  Wanderer  In 
Switzerland,"  etc. 

» No  particular  hero  is  here  alluded  to.   The  exploits  of  Bayard, 


Where  Passion  o'er  the  theme  her  mantle  threw, 

Or  weeping  Virtue  sigh'd  a  faint  adieu  ; 

But  bless  the  scroU  which  fairer  words  adorn, 

Traced  by  the  rosy  finger  of  the  morn ; 

When  Friendship  bow'd  before  the  shrine  of  truth, 

And  Love,  without  his  pinion,'  smiled  on  youth. 


ANSWER    TO   A    BEAUTIFUL    POEM,  EN- 
TITLED "THE  C05IM0N  LOT." 

Montgomery  !  true,  the  common  lot 
Of  mortals  Ues  in  Lethe's  wave ; 

Yet  some  shall  never  be  forgot — 
Some  shall  exist  beyond  the  grave. 

"  Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth," 
The  hero'  rolls  the  tide  of  war ; 
Yet  not  unknown  his  martial  worth. 
Which  glares  a  meteor  from  afar. 

His  joy  or  grief,  his  weal  or  wo, 
Perchance  may  'scape  the  page  of  fame, 

Yet  nations  now  unborn  will  know 
The  record  of  his  deathless  name. 

The  patriot's  and  the  poet's  frame 
Must  share  the  common  tomb  of  aU ; 

Their  glory  will  not  sleep  the  same  ; 
That  will  arise,  though  empires  fall. 

The  lustre  of  a  beauty's  eye 
Assumes  the  ghastly  stare  of  death  ; 

The  fair,  the  brave,  the  good  must  die, 
And  sink  the  yawning  grave  beneath. 

Once  more  the  speaking  eye  revives. 
Still  beaming  through  the  lover's  strain, 

For  Petrarch's  Laura  still  survives  : 
She  died,  but  ne'er  will  die  again. 

The  roUing  seasons  pass  away, 

And  Time,  untiring,  waves  his  wing ; 

Whilst  honor's  laurels  ne'er  decay. 
But  bloom  in  fresh,  unfading  spring. 

All,  aU  must  sleep  in  grim  repose, 

CoUected  in  the  silent  tomb ; 
The  old  and  young,  with  friends  and  foes, 

Festering  aUke  in  shrouds,  consume. 

The  mouldering  marble  lasts  its  day, 
Yet  falls  at  length  a  useless  fane ; 

To  ruin's  ruthless  fangs  a  prey. 
The  wrecks  of  pillar'd  pride  remain. 

Nemours,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  and  in  more  modem  times 
the  fame  of  Marlborough,  Fredcriclj  the  Great,  Count  Saxe, 
Charles  of  Sweden,  etc.,  are  familiar  to  every  historical  reader, 
but  the  exact  places  of  their  birth  are  known  to  a  very  email  pro- 
portion of  their  admirers. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


413 


What,  though  the  sculpture  be  destroy'd, 
From  dark  oblivion  meant  to  guard ; 

A  bright  renown  shaU  be  enjoy'd 
By  those  whose  virtues  claim  reward. 

Then  do  not  say  the  common  lot 
Of  all  lies  deep  in  Lethe's  wave ; 

Some  few  who  ne'er  will  be  forgot 
Shall  burst  the  bondage  of  the  grave. 


}800. 


TO  A  LADY 

WUO    PIlESENTEa)    THE    AUTnOB   WITH    THE    TELVET 
B^\JJD    WHICH  BOtWD   HER   TRESSES. 

This  Band,  which  bound  thy  yellow  hair. 
Is  mine,  sweet  girl !  thy  pledge  of  love  ; 

It  claims  my  warmest,  dearest  care. 
Like  relics  left  of  saints  above. 

Oh  !  I  wiU  wear  it  next  my  heart ; 

'Twill  bind  my  soul  in  bonds  to  thee ; 
From  me  again  'twill  ne'er  depart. 

But  mingle  in  the  grave  with  me. 

The  dew  I  gather  from  thy  lip 

Is  not  so  dear  to  me  as  this  ; 
That  I  but  for  a  moment  sip, 

And  banquet  on  a  transient  bliss  : 

ThU  will  recall  each  youthful  scene, 
E'en  when  our  lives  are  on  the  wane  ; 

The  leaves  of  Love  will  still  be  green 
When  Memory  bids  them  bud  again. 

Oh  I  little  lock  of  golden  hue, 

In  gently  waving  ringlet  curl'd. 
By  the  dear  head  on  which  you  grew, 

I  would  not  lose  you  for  a  world. 

Not  though  a  thousand  more  adorn 
The  polish'd  brow  where  once  you  shone. 

Like  rays  which  gild  a  cloudless  morn, 
Beneath  Columbia's  fervid  zone. 

1806.       [First  published,  1832.] 


REMEMBRANCE. 

'Ti3  done  ! — ^I  saw  it  in  my  dreams  : 

No  more  with  Hope  the  future  beams ; 
My  days  of  happiness  are  few  ; 

ChiU'd  by  misfortune's  wintry  blast. 

My  dawn  of  life  is  overcast, 
Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  alike  adieu  ! — 
Would  I  could  add  Remembrance  too  ! 

1806.        [First  published,  18^.] 

I  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the  story,  though  con- 
siderably varied  in  the  catastrophe,  is  tikcn  from  "Nisus  and 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  REV.  J.  T.  BECHEB,   ON  HIB  AD- 
VISING THE  AUTHOR  TO  MIX  MORE  WTTH  SOCIETY. 

Dear  Becher,  you  tell  me  to  mix  with  mankind ; — 
I  cannot  deny  such  a  precept  is  wise ; 

But  retirement  accords  with  the  tone  of  my  mind : 
I  wiU  not  descend  to  a  world  I  despise. 

Did  the  senate  or  camp  my  exertions  require, 
Ambition  might  prompt  me,  at  once,  to  go  forth  ; 

When  infancy's  years  of  probation  expire. 
Perchance  I  may  strive  to  distinguish  my  birth. 

The  flrc  in  the  cavern  of  Etna  conceal'd. 
Still  mantles  imseen  in  its  secret  recess ; — 

At  length,  in  a  volume  terrific  reveal'd, 
No  torrent  can  quench  it,  no  bounds  can  repress. 

Oh  !  thus,  the  desire  in  my  bosom  for  fame 
Bids  me  live  but  to  hope  for  posterity's  praise. 

Could  I  soar  with  the  phoenix  on  pinions  of  flame. 
With  him  I  would  wish  to  expire  in  the  blaze. 

For  the  life  of  a  Fox,  of  a  Chatham  the  death. 
What  censure,  what  danger,  what  wo  would  I 
brave  1  [breath ! 

Their  lives  did  not  end  when  they  yielded  their 
Their  glory  illumines  the  gloom  of  their  grave. 

Yet  why  should  I  mingle  in  Fashion's  full  herd  ? 

Why  crouch  to  her  leaders,  or  cringe  to  her  rules  ? 
Why  bend  to  the  proud,  or  applaud  the  absurd  ? 

Why  search  for  delight  in  the  friendship  of  fools  ? 

I  have  tasted  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of  love ; 

In  friendship  I  early  was  taught  to  believe  ; 
My  passion  the  matrons  of  prudence  reprove ; 

I  have  found  that  a  friend  may  profess,  yet  deceive. 

To  me  what  is  wealth  ? — ^it  may  pass  in  an  hour. 
If  tyrants  prevail,  or  if  Fortune  should  frown ; 

To  me  what  is  title  ? — the  phantom  of  power ; 
To  me  what  ia  fashion  ? — I  seek  but  renown. 

Deceit  is  a  stranger  as  yet  to  my  soul ; 

I  still  am  unpractised  to  varnish  the  truth  : 
Then  why  should  I  live  in  a  hateful  control  ? 

Wliy  waste  upon  folly  the  days  of  my  youth  ? 

1806. 


THE   DEATH   OF   CALMAR   AND   ORLA. 

AN  IMITATION  OP  MACPHERSON's  OSSIAN.' 

Dear  are  the  days  of  youth  1  Age  dwells  on  their 
remembrance  through  the  mist  of  time.  In  the  twi- 
light he  recalls  the  sunny  hours  of  mom.  He  lifts  his 
spear  with  trembling  hand.  "  Not  thus  feebly  did  I 
raise  the  steel  before  my  fathers  ! "     Passed  is  the  race 


Enryalns,"  of  which  episode  a  translation  is  already  given  In  the 
present  volome. 


414 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


of  heroes  1  But  their  fame  rises  on  the  harp  ;  their 
souls  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ;  they  hear  the 
sound  through  the  sighs  of  the  storm,  and  rejoice  in 
their  hall  of  clouds  !  Such  is  Calmar.  The  gray  stone 
marks  his  narrow  house.  He  looks  down  from  eddy- 
ing tempests  :  he  rolls  his  form  in  the  whirlwind,  and 
hovers  on  the  blast  of  the  mountain. 

In  Morven  dwelt  the  chief;  a  beam  of  war  to  Fingal. 
His  steps  in  the  field  were  marked  in  blood.  Loohlin's 
sous  had  fled  before  his  angry  spear :  but  mild  was 
the  eye  of  Calmar ;  soft  was  the  flow  of  his  yellow 
locks :  they  streamed  like  the  meteor  of  the  night. 
No  maid  was  the  sigh  of  his  soul :  his  thoughts  were 
given  to  friendship, — to  dark-haired  Orla,  destroyer  of 
heroes  !  Equal  were  their  swords  in  battle  ;  but  fierce 
was  the  pride  of  Orla  : — gentle  alone  to  Calmar.  To- 
gether they  dwelt  in  the  cave  of  Oithona. 

From  Lochlin,  Swaran  bounded  o'er  the  blue  waves. 
Erin's  sons  fell  beneath  his  might:  Fingal  roused  his 
chiefs  to  combat.  Their  ships  cover  the  ocean.  Their 
hosts  throng  on  the  green  hills.  They  come  to  the  aid 
of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in  clouds.  Darkness  veils  tlie  armies  : 
but  the  blazing  oaks  gleam  through  the  valley.  The 
sons  of  Lochlin  slept :  their  dreams  were  of  blood. 
They  lift  the  spear  in  thought,  and  Fingal  flies.  Not 
so  the  host  of  Morven.  To  watch  was  the  post  of  Orla. 
Calmar  stood  by  his  side.  Their  spears  were  in  their 
hands.  Fingal  called  his  chiefs :  they  stood  around. 
The  king  was  in  the  midst.  Gray  were  his  locks,  but 
strong  was  the  arm  of  the  king.  Age  withered  not 
his  powers.  "  Sons  of  Morven,"  said  the  hero,  "  to- 
morrow we  meet  the  foe.  But  where  is  Cuthullin,  the 
shield  of  Erin  ?  He  rests  in  the  halls  of  Tura  ;  he 
knows  not  of  our  coming.  Who  will  speed  through 
Lochlin  to  the  hero,  and  call  the  chief  to  anna  ?  The 
path  is  by  the  swords  of  foes  ;  but  many  are  my  heroes. 
They  are  thunderbolts  of  war.  Speak,  ye  chiefs  !  Who 
will  arise  ?" 

"  Son  of  Trenmor !  mine  be  the  deed,"  said  dark- 
haired  Orla,  "and  mine  alone.  What  is  death  to  me  1 
1  love  the  sleep  of  the  mighty,  but  little  is  the  danger. 
The  sons  of  Lochlin  dream.  I  wiU  seek  car-borne  Cuth- 
ullin. If  I  fall,  raise  the  song  of  bards;  and  lay  me  by 
the  stream  of  Lubar."  "  And  shalt  thou  fall  alone  ?" 
said  fair-haired  Calmar.  "  Wilt  thou  leave  thy  friend 
afar  ?  Chief  of  Oithona  !  not  feeble  is  my  arm  in  fight. 
Could  I  see  thee  die,  and  not  lift  the  spear  ?  No,  Orla  ! 
ours  has  been  the  chase  of  the  roebuck,  and  the  feast 
of  shells  ;  ours  be  the  path  of  danger  :  ours  has  been 
the  cave  of  Oithona  ;  ours  be  the  narrow  dwelling  on 
the  banks  of  Lubar."  "  Calmar,"  said  the  chief  of 
Oithona,  "  why  should  thy  yellow  locks  bo  darkened 
in  the  dust  of  Erin  ?  Let  me  fall  alone.  My  father 
dwells  in  his  hall  of  air  :  he  will  rejoice  in  his  boy  ; 
but  the  blue-eyed  Mora  spreads  the  feast  for  her  son 
in  Morven.  She  listens  to  the  steps  of  the  hunter  on 
the  heath,  and  thinks  it  is  the  tread  of  Calmar.  Let 
him  not  say,  '  Calmar  has  fallen  by  the  steel  of  Loch- 
lin :  he  died  with  gloomy  Orla,  the  chief  of  the  dark 
brow.'    Why  should  tears  dim  the    azure  ej-es  of 


Mora  ?  Why  should  her  voice  curse  Orla,  the  destroyer 
of  Calmar  1  Live,  Calmar  1  Live  to  raise  my  stone  of 
moss ;  live  to  revenge  mo  in  the  blood  of  Lochlin. 
Join  the  song  of  bards  above  my  grave.  Sweet  will 
be  the  song  of  death  to  Orla,  from  the  voice  of  Calmar. 
My  ghost  shall  smile  on  the  notes  of  praise."  "  Orla," 
said  the  son  of  Mora,  "  could  I  raise  the  song  of  death 
to  my  friend  1  Could  I  give  his  fame  to  the  winds  'I 
No,  my  heart  would  speak  in  sighs  :  faint  and  broken 
are  the  sounds  of  sorrow.  Orla  !  our  souls  shall  hear 
the  song  together.  One  cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high  : 
the  bards  will  mingle  the  names  of  Orla  and  Calmar." 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their  steps  are 
to  the  host  of  Lochlin.  The  dying  blaze  of  oak  dim 
twinkles  through  the  night.  The  northern  star  points 
the  path  to  Tura.  Swaran,  the  king,  rests  on  his  lonely 
hill.  Here  the  troops  are  mixed  :  they  frown  in  sleep  ; 
their  shields  beneath  their  heads.  Their  swords  gleam 
at  distance  in  heaps.  The  fires  are  faint ;  their  embers 
fail  in  smoke.  All  is  hushed  ;  but  the  gale  sighs  on 
the  rocks  above.  Lightly  wheel  the  heroes  through 
the  slumbering  band.  Half  the  journey  is  past,  when 
Mathon,  resting  on  his  shield,  meets  the  eye  of  Orla. 
It  rolls  in  flame,  and  glistens  through  the  shade.  His 
spear  is  raised  on  high.  "  Why  dost  thou  bend  thy 
brow,  chief  of  Oithona  ?"  said  fair-haired  Calmar  :  "  we 
are  in  the  midst  of  foes.  Is  this  a  time  for  delay  ?" 
"  It  is  a  time  for  vengeance,"  said  Orla  of  the  gloomy 
brow.  "  Mathon  of  Lochlin  sleeps :  seest  thou  his 
spear  ?  Its  point  is  dim  with  the  gore  of  ray  father. 
The  blood  of  Mathon  shall  reek  on  mine  ;  but  shall  I 
slay  him  sleeping,  sou  of  Mora  ?  No !  he  shall  feel 
his  wound :  my  fame  shall  not  soar  on  the  blood  of 
slumber.  Rise,  Mathon,  rise  !  The  son  of  Conna  calls  ; 
thy  life  is  his  ;  rise  to  combat."  Mathon  starts  from 
sleep ;  but  did  he  rise  alone  ?  No  :  the  gathering 
chiefs  bound  on  the  plain.  "  Fly  !  Calmar,  fly  !"  said 
dark-haired  Orla.  "  Mathon  is  mine.  I  shall  die  in 
joy :  but  Lochlin  crowds  around.  Fly  through  the 
shade  of  night."  Orla  turns.  The  holm  of  Mathon  is 
cleft ;  his  shield  falls  from  his  arm  :  he  shudders  in 
his  blood.  He  rolls  by  the  side  of  the  blazing  oak. 
Strumon  sees  him  fall :  his  wrath  rises :  his  weapon 
glitters  on  the  head  of  Orla  :  but  a  spear  pierced  his 
eye.  His  brain  gushes  through  the  wound,  and  foams 
on  the  spear  of  Calmar.  As  roll  the  waves  of  the 
ocean  on  two  mighty  barks  of  the  north,  so  pour  the 
men  of  Lochlin  on  the  chiefs.  As,  breaking  the  surge 
in  foam,  proudly  steer  the  barks  of  the  north,  so  rise 
the  chiefs  of  Morven  on  the  scattered  crests  of  Lochlin. 
The  din  of  arms  came  to  the  ear  of  Fingal.  He  strikes 
his  shield  ;  his  sons  throng  around  ;  the  people  pour 
along  the  heath.  Ryno  bounds  in  joy.  Ossian  stalks 
in  his  arms.  Oscar  shakes  the  spear.  The  eagle  wing 
of  Fillan  floats  on  the  wind.  Dreadful  is  the  clang  of 
death  !  many  are  the  widows  of  Lochlin  !  Morven  pre- 
vails in  its  strength. 

Morn  glimmers  on  the  hills  :  no  living  foe  is  seen  ; 
but  the  sleepers  are  many  ;  grim  they  lie  on  Erin. 
The  breeze  of  ocean  lifts  their  locks  ;  yet  they  do  not 
awake.     The  hawks  scream  above  their  prey. 


HOURS  0F  IDLENESS. 


415 


Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o'er  the  breast  of  a  chief? 
Bright  as  the  gold  of  the  stranger,  they  mingle  with 
the  dark  hair  of  his  friend.  'Tis  Calmar  :  he  lies  on 
the  bosom  of  Orla.  Theirs  is  one  stream  of  blood. 
Fierce  is  the  look  of  the  gloomy  Orla.  He  breathes 
not ;  but  his  eye  is  still  a  flame.  It  glares  in  death 
unclosed.  His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calmar's  ;  but  Cal- 
mar lives !  he  lives,  though  low.  "  Rise,"  said  the 
king,  "  rise,  son  of  Mora  :  'tis  mine  to  heal  the  wounds 
of  heroes.  Calmar  may  yet  bound  on  the  hills  of 
Morven." 

"  Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer  of  Morven 
with  Orla,"  said  the  hero.  "  What  were  the  chase  to 
me  alone  ?  Who  should  share  the  spoils  of  battle  with 
Calmar  ?  Orla  is  at  rest  I  Kough  was  thy  soul,  Orla  ! 
yet  soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of  morn.  It  glared  on  oth- 
ers in  lightning  :  to  me  a  silver  beam  of  light.  Bear 
my  sword  to  blue-eyed  Mora  ;  let  it  hang  in  my  empty 
hall.  It  is  not  pure  from  blood  :  but  it  could  not  save 
Orla.  Lay  me  with  my  friend.  Raise  the  song  when  I 
am  dark !" 

They  are  laid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Four  gray 
stones  mark  the  dwelling  of  Orla  and  Calmar.  When 
Swaran  was  bound,  our  sails  rose  on  the  blue  waves. 
The  winds  gave  our  barks  to  Morven  :  —  the  bards 
raised  the  song. 

"  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds  ?  Whose 
dark  ghost  gleams  on  the  red  streams  of  tempests  ? 
His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder.  'Tis  Orla,  the  brown 
chief  of  Oithona.  He  was  unmatched  in  war.  Peace 
to  thy  soul,  Orla  !  thy  fame  will  not  perish.  Nor  thine, 
Calmar !  Lovely  wast  thou,  son  of  blue-eyed  Mora  ; 
but  not  harmless  was  thy  sword.  It  hangs  in  thy 
cave.  The  ghosts  of  Lochlin  shriek  around  its  steel. 
Hear  thy  praise,  Calmar  !  It  dwells  on  the  voice  of  the 
mighty.  Thy  name  shakes  on  the  echoes  of  Morven. 
Then  raise  thy  fair  locks,  son  of  Mora.  Spread  them 
on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow ;  and  smile  through  the 
tears  of  the  storm,"  ' 


L'AJVHTIE   EST   L' AMOUR   SANS   AILES. 

Why  should  my  anxious  breast  repine, 

Because  my  youth  is  fled  ? 
Days  of  delight  may  still  be  mine  ; 

Aflfection  is  not  dead. 
In  tracing  back  the  years  of  youth, 
One  firm  record,  one  lasting  truth 

Celestial  consolation  brings  ; 
Bear  it,  ye  breezes,  to  the  seat 
Where  first  my  heart  responsive  beat, — 

"  Friendship  is  Lovo  without  his  wings  !" 

Through  few,  but  deeply  chccker'd  years. 
What  moments  have  been  mine  ! 

■  I  fear  LaiDg'8  later  edition  lias  completely  orcrthrown  every 
hope  that  Macpherson'a  Osslan  misht  prove  the  translation  of  a 
aeries  of  poems  complete  in  themselves  ;  but,  while  the  impos- 
iiire  is  discovered,  the  merit  of  the  work  remains  nndlspnted, 
thongh  not  without  Oralts— particularly.  In  some  parts,  turbid  and 


Now  half  obscured  by  clouds  of  tears, 

Now  bright  in  rays  divine ; 
Howe'er  my  future  doom  be  cast. 
My  soul,  enraptured  with  the  past. 

To  one  idea  fondly  clings  ; 
Friendship  !  that  thought  is  all  thine  own. 
Worth  worlds  of  bliss,  that  thought  alone — 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  1" 

Wliere  yonder  yew-trees  lightly  wave 

Their  branches  on  the  gale, 
Unheeded  heaves  a  simple  grave. 

Which  tells  the  common  tale  ; 
Round  this  unconscious  schoolboys  stray, 
"nil  the  dull  knell  of  childish  play 

From  yonder  studious  mansion  rings  ; 
But  here  whene'er  my  footsteps  move. 
My  silent  tears  too  plainly  prove, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  !" 

Oh,  Love  !  before  thy  glowing  shrine 

My  early  vows  were  paid  ; 
My  hopes,  my  dreams,  my  heart  was  thine. 

But  these  are  now  decay'd  ; 
For  thine  are  pinions  like  the  wind, 
No  trace  of  thee  remains  behind. 

Except,  alas  !  thy  jealous  stings. 
Away,  away  !  delusive  power. 
Thou  shalt  not  haunt  my  coming  hour  ; 

Unless,  indeed,  without  thy  wings. 

Seat  of  my  youth  U  thy  distant  spire 

Recalls  each  scene  of  joy ; 
My  bosom  glows  with  former  fire, — 

In  mind  again  a  boy. 
Thy  grove  of  elms,  thy  verdant  hill, 
"riiy  every  path  delights  me  still. 

Each  flower  a  double  fragrance  flings ; 
Again,  as  once,  in  converse  gay. 
Each  dear  associate  seems  to  say, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  1" 

My  Lycus  P  wherefore  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Thy  falling  tears  restrain ; 
Aifcction  for  a  time  may  sleep. 

But,  oh,  'twill  wake  again. 
Think,  think,  my  friend,  when  next  we  meet, 
Our  long-wish'd  interview,  how  sweet ! 

From  tliis  my  hope  of  rapture  springs ; 
While  youthful  hearts  thus  fondly  swell, 
Absence,  my  friend,  can  only  tell, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  !" 


bombastic  diction.  The  present  humble  imitation  will  be  par- 
doned by  the  admirers  of  the  original  as  an  attempt,  however  in- 
ferior, which  evinces  an  attachment  to  their  favorite  author. 

•  Harrow. 

'  The  Earl  of  Clare. 


416 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


In  one,  and  one  alone  deceived, 

Did  I  my  error  mourn  2 
No — from  oppressive  bonds  relieved, 

I  left  the  wretch  to  scorn. 
I  turn'd  to  those  my  childhood  knew, 
With  feelings  warm,  with  bosoms  true, 

Twined  with  my  heart's  according  strings  ; 
And  till  those  vital  chords  shall  break, 
For  none  but  these  my  breast  shall  wake 

Friendship,  the  power  deprived  of  wings  1 

Ye  few  !  my  soul,  my  life  is  yours, 

My  memory  and  my  hope ; 
Your  worth  a  lasting  love  ensures, 

Unfetter'd  in  its  scope ; 
From  smooth  deceit  and  terror  sprung. 
With  aspect  fair  and  honey'd  tongue, 

Let  Adulation  wait  on  kings ; 
With  joy  elate,  by  snares  beset, 
We,  we,  my  friends,  can  ne'er  forget, 

"Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings !" 

Fictions  and  dreams  inspire  the  bard 

Who  rolls  the  epic  song ; 
Friendship  and  Truth  be  my  reward — 

To  me  no  bays  belong ; 
If  laurell'd  Fame  but  dwells  with  lies. 
Me  the  enchantress  ever  flies. 

Whose  heart  and  not  whose  fancy  sings  ; 
Simple  and  young,  I  dare  not  feign ; 
Mine  be  the  rude  yet  heartfelt  strain, 

"  Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  !" 
[First  published,  1832.] 


THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE. 

Father  of  Light !  great  God  of  Heaven  ! 

Hear'st  thou  the  accents  of  despair  ? 
Can  guilt  like  man's  be  e'er  forgiven  ? 

Can  vice  atone  for  crimes  by  prayer  ? 

Father  of  Light,  on  thee  I  call ! 

Thou  seest  my  soul  is  dark  within  ; 
Thou  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fall, 

Avert  from  me  the  death  of  sin. 

No  shrine  I  seek,  to  sects  unknown  ; 

Oh,  point  to  me  the  path  of  truth  ! 
Thy  dread  omnipotence  I  own; 

Spare,  yet  amend,  the  faults  of  youth. 

Let  bigots  rear  a  gloomy  fane. 
Let  superstition  hail  the  pile. 

Let  priests,  to  spread  their  sable  reign. 
With  tales  of  mystic  rites  beguile. 

Shall  man  confine  his  Maker's  sway 
To  Gothic  domes  of  mouldering  stone  ? 


Thy  temple  is  the  face  of  day ; 
Earth,  ocean,  heaven,  thy  boundless  throne. 

Shall  man  condemn  his  race  to  hell. 
Unless  they  bend  in  pompous  form  ? 

Tell  us  that  all,  for  one  who  fell. 
Must  perish  in  the  mingling  storm  ? 

Shall  each  pretend  to  reach  the  skies. 

Yet  doom  his  brother  to  expire, 
Wliose  soul  a  different  hope  supplies. 

Or  doctrines  less  severe  inspire  ? 

Shall  these,  by  creeds  they  can't  expound, 

Prepare  a  fancied  bliss  or  wo? 
Shall  reptiles,  grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Their  great  Creator's  purpose  know  ? 

Shall  those  who  live  for  self  alone. 
Whose  years  float  on  in  daily  crime — 

Shall  they  by  Faith  for  guilt  atone. 
And  live  beyond  the  bounds  of  Time  ? 

Father  1  no  prophet's  laws  I  seek, — 
Thy  laws  in  Nature's  works  appear ; — 

I  own  myself  corrupt  and  weak. 
Yet  will  I  pray,  for  thou  wilt  hear ! 

Thou  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star 
Though  trackless  realms  of  sether's  space ; 

Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war. 
Whose  hand  from  pole  to  pole  I  trace : — 

Thou,  who  in  wisdom  placed  me  here, 
Who,  when  thou  wilt,  can  take  me  hence. 

Ah !  whilst  I  tread  this  earthly  sphere. 
Extend  to  me  thy  wide  defense. 

To  Thee,  my  God,  to  Thee  I  call ! 

Whatever  weal  or  wo  betide. 
By  thy  command  I  rise  or  fall. 

In  thy  protection  I  confide. 

If,  when  this  dust  to  dust 's  restored, 

My  soul  shaU  float  on  airy  wing. 
How  shall  thy  glorious  name  adored 

Inspire  her  feeble  voice  to  sing  ! 

But,  if  this  fleeting  spirit  share 
With  clay  the  grave's  eternal  bed, 

While  life  yet  throbs,  I  raise  my  prayer, 
Though  doom'd  no  more  to  quit  the  dead. 

To  Thee  I  breathe  my  humble  strain. 

Grateful  for  all  thy  mercies  past. 
And  hope,  my  God,  to  thee  again 

This  erring  life  may  fly  at  last. 

December  29, 1806. 
[First  published,  IS30.] 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


417 


TO  EDWARD  NOEL  LONG,  ESQ. 

Nil  ego  eontnlerim  Jocando  sanas  amico.— Hon. 
Dear  Long,  in  this  sequester'd  scene. 

While  all  around  in  slumber  lie. 
The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 

Come  rolling  fresh  on  Fancy's  eye  ; 
Thus  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm. 
While  clouds  the  darken'd  noon  deform, 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
I  hail  the  sky's  celestial  bow, 
Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace, 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah !  though  the  present  brings  but  pain, 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again  ; 
Or  if,  in  melancholy  mood. 
Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude. 
To  check  my  bosom's  fondest  thought, 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream, 
I  crush  the  fiend  w^ith  malice  fraught. 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme. 
Although  we  ne'er  again  can  trace, 

In  Granta's  vale,  the  pedant's  lore  ; 
Nor  through  the  groves  of  Ida  chase 

Our  raptured  visions  as  before. 
Though  Youth  hag  flown  on  rosy  pinion, 
And  Manhood  claims  his  stern  dominion — 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy, 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring  : 
But  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  among  the  fairy  bowers, 
Where  smiling  Youth  delights  to  dwell, 
And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell ; 
If  frowning  Age,  with  cold  control. 
Confines  the  current  of  the  soul. 
Congeals  the  tears  of  Pity's  eye, 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh. 
Or  hears  unmoved  misfortune's  groan. 
And  bids  me  feel  for  self  alone  ; 
Oh,  may  my  bosom  never  learn 

To  soothe  its  wonted  heedless  flow ; 
Still,  still  despise  the  censor  stern, 

But  ne'er  forget  another's  wo. 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays. 
Still  may  I  rove,  untutor'd,  wild. 
And  even  in  age  at  heart  a  child. 

Though  now  on  airy  visions  borne, 
To  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn, 
And  all  my  former  joys  are  tame. 

But,  hence  !  ye  hours  of  sable  hue  ! 
Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrows  o'er : 

By  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 


I'll  think  upon  your  shade  no  more. 
Thus,  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  is  pass'd, 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose. 
We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast. 

When  lull'd  by  zephyr  to  repoae. 

Full  often  has  my  infant  Muse 

Attuned  to  love  her  languid  lyre  ; 
But  now  without  a  theme  to  choose. 
The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire. 
My  youthful  nymphs,  alas  !  are  flown  ; 

E is  a  wife,  and  C a  mother. 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone, 

And  Mary's  given  to  another ; 
And  Cora's  eye  which  roll'd  on  me, 
Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall : 
In  truth,  dear  Lono,  'twas  time  to  flee ; 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  all. 
And  though  the  sun,  with  genial  rays. 
His  beams  alike  to  all  displays, 
And  every  lady's  eye  's  a  sun, 
These  last  should  be  confined  to  one. 
The  soul's  meridian  don't  become  her. 
Whose  Sim  displays  a  general  summer! 
Thus  faint  is  every  former  flame. 
And  passion's  self  is  now  a  name. 
As,  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 
And  bade  them  bum  with  fiercer  glow. 

Now  quenches  aU  their  sparks  in  night ; 
Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires. 

As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers, 
Wliile  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 
Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  now,  dear  Long,  'tis  midnight's  noon, 
And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon, 
Wliose  beauties  I  shall  not  rehearse, 
Described  in  every  stripUng's  verse ; 
For  why  should  I  the  path  go  o'er, 
Which  e^cry  bard  has  trod  before  ? 
.  Yet  ere  yon  silver  lamp  of  night 

Has  thrice  perform'd  her  stated  round, 
Has  thrice  retraced  her  path  of  light. 

And  chased  away  the  gloom  pro^und, 
I  trust  that  wc,  my  gentle  friend. 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend 
Above  the  dear-loved  peaceful  seat 
Which  once  contain'd  our  youth's  retreat ; 
And  then  with  those  our  childhood  knew, 
We'll  mingle  in  the  festive  crew  ; 
While  many  a  talc  of  former  day 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away, 
And  all  the  flow  of  souls  shall  pour 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower. 
Nor  cease  till  Luna's  waning  horn 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  mom. 


418 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


TO  A  LADY.' 

Oh  !  had  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine, 
As  once  this  pledge  appear'd  a  token, 

These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 
For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 

To  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe, 
To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving  : 

They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 
'Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 

For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure. 
And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother ; 

But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 
Bestow'd  by  thee  upon  another. 

Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 
And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him ; 

Yet  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy. 
For  thy  dear  sake  I  cannot  hate  him. 

Ah  1  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone. 
My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any ; 

But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 
Attempts,  alas  !  to  find  in  many. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid  ! 

'Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee  ; 
Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory  yield  their  aid, 

But  Pride  may  teach  mo  to  forget  thee. 

Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 
This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures  ; 

These  varied  loves,  those  matron's  fears. 
These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion's  measurcs- 

If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush'd  : — 
This  check  now  pale  from  early  riot. 

With  passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  fiush'd, 
But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 

Yes,  once  the  rural  scone  was  sweet. 
For  Nature  seem'd  to  smile  before  thee  ; 

And  once  my  breast  abhorr'd  deceit, — 
For  theft  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys  : 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness  ; 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise, 

I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 

Yet,  even  in  these  a  thought  will  steal, 
In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavor, — 

And  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel, — 
To  know  that  thou  art  lost  forever. 

'  Mtb.  Musters. 


I  WOULD  I  WERE  A   CARELESS  CHILD. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  careless  child. 

Still  dwelling  in  my  Highland  cave. 
Or  roaming  through  the  dusky  wild. 

Or  bounding  o'er  the  dark  blue  wave  ; 
The  cumbrous  pomp  of  Saxon'  pride 

Accords  not  with  the  free  born  soul, 
Which  loves  the  mountain's  craggy  side, 

And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  roll. 

Fortune !  take  back  those  cultured  lands. 

Take  back  this  name  of  splendid  sound  ! 
I  hate  the  touch  of  servile  hands, 

I  hate  the  slaves  that  cringe  around. 
Place  me  along  the  rocks  I  love. 

Which  sound  to  Ocean's  wildest  roar  ; 
I  ask  but  this — again  to  rove 

Through  scenes  my  youth  hath  known  before. 

Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I  feel 

The  world  was  ne'er  design'd  for  me  : 
Ah  !  why  do  dark'ning  shades  conceal 

The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be  ? 
Once  I  beheld  a  splendid  dream, 

A  visionary  scene  of  bliss  : 
Truth  ! — wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 

Awake  me  to  a  world  like  this  ? 

I  loved — but  those  I  loved  are  gone  ; 

Had  friends — my  early  friends  are  fled  : 
How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone 

When  all  its  former  hopes  are  dead  ! 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  stirs  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart — the  heart — is  lonely  stiU. 

How  diJl !  to  hear  the  voice  of  those 

Whom  rank  or  chance,  whom  wealth  or  power, 
Have  made,  though  neither  friends  nor  foes, 

Associates  of  the  festive  hour. 
Give  me  again  a  faithful  few. 

In  years  and  feelings  still  the  same, 
And  I  will  fly  the  midnight  crew. 

Where  boist'rous  joy  is  but  a  name. 

And  woman,  lovely  woman  !  thou. 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all ! 
How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now. 

When  e'en  thy  smiles  begin  to  pall ! 
Without  a  sigh  would  I  resign 

Tliis  busy  scene  of  splendid  wo. 
To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine. 

Which  virtue  knows,  or  seems  to  know. 

»  Sassenach,  or  Saxon,  a  Gaelic  word,  signifying  either  Lowland 
or  English. 


HOURS    OF    IDLENESS. 


419 


F  in  would  I  fly  the  haunts  of  men — 

I  seek  to  shun,  not  hate  mankind  ; 
My  breast  requires  the  sullen  glen, 

Whose  gloom  may  suit  a  darken'd  mind. 
Oh  I  that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 

Which  bear  the  turtle  to  her  nest ! 
Then  would  I  cleave  the  vault  of  heaven, 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest.' 


WHEN  I  ROVED  A  YOUNG   HIGHLANDER. 

When  I  roved  a  young  Highlander  o'er  the  dark 
heath. 

And  climb'd  thy  steep  summit,  oh,  Morven  of 
snow  I' 
To  gaze  on  the  torrent  that  thunder'd  beneath, 

Or  the  mist  of  the  tempest  that  gather'd  below," 
Untutor'd  by  science,  a  stranger  to  fear, 

And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  infancy  grew, 
No  feeling,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear ; 

Need  I  say,  my  sweet  Mary,  'twas  centred  in  you  ? 

Yet  it  could  not  be  love,  for  I  knew  not  the  name, — 

What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a  child  ? 
But  still  I  perceive  an  emotion  the  same 

As  I  felt,  when  a  boy,  on  the  crag-cover'd  wild  : 
One  image  alone  on  my  bosom  impress'd, 

I  loved  my  bleak  regions,  nor  panted  for  new  ; 
And  few  were  my  wants,  for  my  wishes  were  bless'd  ; 

And  pure  were  my  thoughts,  for  my  soul  was  with 
you. 

I  arose  with  the  dawn  :  with  my  dog  as  my  guide. 

From  mountain  to  mountain  I  bounded  along  ; 
I  breasted  the  billows  of  Dee's'  rushing  tide. 

And  heard  at  a  distance  the  Highlander's  song  : 
At  eve,  on  my  heath-cover'd  couch  of  repose. 

No  dreams,  save  of  Mary,  were  sjjread  to  my  view ; 
And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose. 

For  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a  blessing  on  you. 

I  left  my  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gone  ; 

The  mountains  are  vanish'd,  my  youth  is  no  more ; 
As  the  last  of  my  race,  I  must  wither  alone. 

And  delight  but  in  days  I  have  witncss'd  before : 
Ah  !  splendor  has  raised,  but  embitter'd,  my  lot ; 

More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  infancy  knew : 
Though  my  hopes  may  have  fail'd,  yet  they  arc  not 
forgot ; 

Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with  you. 


1  "  And  I  said.  Oh !  that  I  had  winga  like  a  dove ;  for  then  would 
1  fly  away,  and  be  at  rest." — PicUm  Iv.  6.  This  verso  also  consti- 
tntes  a  part  of  the  most  beautiful  anthem  in  our  language. 

^  Morven,  a  lofty  mountain  in  Aberdeenshire.  *'  Gormal  of 
enow,"  is  an  expression  frequently  to  be  found  in  Osslan. 

'  This  will  not  appear  extraordinary  to  those  who  have  bean 
accustomed  to  the  mountains.  It  is  by  no  means  uncommon,  on 
attaining  the  top  of  Ben-e-vls,  Ben-y-bonrd,  etc.,  to  perceive, 


When  I  see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  to  the  sky, 

I  think  of  the  rocks  that  o'ershadow  Colblccn ;' 
When  I  see  the  soft  blue  of  a  love-speaking  eye, 

I  think  of  those  eyes  that  endear'd  the  rude  scene ; 
When,  haply,  some  light-waving  locks  I  behold, 

That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary's  in  hue, 
I  think  on  the  long-flowing  ringlets  of  gold. 

The  locks  that  were  sacred  to  beauty,  and  you. 

Yet  the  day  may  arrive  when  the  mountains  once  more 

Shall  rise  to  my  sight  in  their  mantles  of  snow  : 
But  while  these  soar  above  me,  unchanged  as  before. 

Will  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me  ? — ah,  no  ! 
Adieu,  then,  ye  hills,  where  my  childhood  was  bred ! 

Tliou  sweet-flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu  ! 
No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head, — 

Ah,  Mary !  what  home  could  be  mine  but  with  you  ? 


TO  GEORGE,  EARL  DELAWARR. 

Oh  !  yes,  I  will  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other ; 

The  friendships  of  childhood,  though  fleeting,  are 
true ; 
The  love  which  you  felt  was  the  love  of  a  brother. 

Nor  less  the  affection  I  cherish'd  for  you. 

But  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion  ; 

The  attachment  of  years  in  a  moment  expires  : 
Like  Love,  too,  she  moves  on  a  swift- waving  pinion. 

But  glows  not,  like  Love,  with  unquenchable  fires. 

Full  oft  have  we  wander'd  through  Ida  together. 
And  bless'd  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  I  allow  : 

In  the  spring  of  our  Ufe,  how  serene  is  the  weather  I 
But  winter's  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 

No  more  with  affection  shall  memory  blending, 
The  wonted  delights  of  our  childliood  retrace  : 

When  pride  steels  the  bosom,  the  heart  is  unbending. 
And  what  would  be  justice  appears  a  disgrace. 

However,  dear  George,  for  I  still  must  esteem  you — 
The  few  whom  I  love  I  can  never  upbraid — 

The  chance  which  has  lost  may  in  future  redeem  you. 
Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  made. 

I  will  not  complain,  and  though  chill'd  is  affection, 
With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live  : 

My  bosom  is  calm'd  by  the  simple  reflection,  [give. 
That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  should  for- 

between  the  summit  and  the  valley,  clouds  pouring  down  rain, 
and  occasionally  accompanied  by  lightning,  while  the  spectator 
literally  looks  down  upon  the  storm  perfectly  secure  from  iti 
effects. 

*  "  Breasting  the  lofty  surge."— Shakspeabs.  The  Dee  is  a 
beautiful  river,  which  rises  near  Mar  Lodge,  and  fells  into  the  sea 
at  New  Aberdeen. 

'  Colbleen  is  a  mountain  near  t!io  verje  of  tha  Hlslilaade,  uot 
tut  ftom  the  rains  of  Dee  Castle. 


420 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my  existence, 
If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own  ; 

You  knew  me  unalter'd  by  years  or  by  distance, 
Devoted  to  lore  and  to  friendship  alone. 

You  knew, — but  away  with  the  vain  retrospection  1 
The  bond  of  affection  no  longer  endures  ; 

Too  late  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recollection. 
And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly  yours. 

For  the  present,  we  part, — I  will  hope  not  forever ; 

For  time  and  regret  will  restore  you  at  last : 
To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavor, 

I  ask  no  atonement,  but  days  like  the  past. 


TO    THE   EARL    OF    CLARE. 

"  Tu  semper  anioris 
Sis  momor,  et  cari  commitis  ne  aViscedat  imago."— Val  Flac. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  when  young  we  roved, 
Like  striplings,  mutually  beloved, 

With  friendship's  purest  glow, 
The  bliss  which  wing'd  those  rosy  hours 
Was  such  as  pleasure  seldom  showers 

On  mortals  here  below. 

The  recollection  seems  alone 
Dearer  than  all  the  joys  I've  known, 

When  distant  far  from  you  : 
Though  pain,  'tis  stiU  a  pleasing  pain. 
To  trace  those  days  and  hours  again. 

And  sigh  again,  adieu  ! 

My  pensive  memory  lingers  o'er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoy'd  no  more, 

Those  scenes  regretted  ever ; 
The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full. 
Life's  evening  dream  is  dark  and  dull, 

And  we  may  meet — ah,  never  ! 

As  when  one  parent  spring  supplies 

Two  streams  which  from  one  fountain  rise. 

Together  join'd  in  vain  ; 
How  soon,  diverging  from  their  source, 
Each,  murmuring,  seeks  another  course. 

Till  mingled  in  the  main  ! 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  wo. 
Though  near,  alas  !  distinctly  flow. 

Nor  mingle  as  before  : 
Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear 
Till  death's  unfathom'd  gulf  appear, 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

•  Tlieee  etanzaa  were  written  soon  after  the  appearance  of  a  se- 
vere critique,  in  a  nortliem  review,  on  a  new  pulilication  of  tlio 
British  Anacreon. 


Our  souls,  my  friend  !  which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a  thought  beside, 

Now  flow  in  diflFerent  channels  : 
Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 
'Tis  yours  to  mix  in  polish'd  courts, 

And  shine  in  fashion's  annals  ; 

'Tis  mine  to  waste  on  love  my  time. 
Or  vent  my  reveries  in  rhyme. 

Without  the  aid  of  reason  ; 
For  sense  and  reason  (critics  know  it) 
Have  quitted  every  amorous  poet. 

Nor  left  a  thought  to  seize  on. 

Poor  Little  1  sweet,  melodious  bard  ! 
Of  late  esteem'd  it  monstrous  hard 

That  he,  who  sang  before  all, — 
He  who  the  lore  of  love  expanded, — 
By  dire  reviewers  should  be  branded. 

As  void  of  wit  and  moral.' 

And  yet,  while  Beauty's  praise  is  thine. 
Harmonious  favorite  of  the  Nine  ! 

Repine  not  at  thy  lot. 
Thy  soothing  lays  may  still  be  read. 
When  Persecution's  arm  is  dead, 

And  critics  are  forgot. 

StiU  I  must  yield  those  worthies  merit. 
Who  chasten,  with  unsparing  spirit, 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  them  ; 
And  though  myself  may  be  the  next, 
By  critic  sarcasm  to  be  vex'd, 

I  really  will  not  fight  them.' 

Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  well 
To  break  the  rudely  sounding  shell 

Of  such  a  young  beginner. 
He  who  ofiiends  at  pert  nineteen, 
Ere  thirty  may  become,  I  ween, 

A  very  harden'd  sinner. 

Now,  Clare,  I  must  return  to  you  ; 
And,  sure,  apologies  are  due  : 

Accept,  then,  my  concession. 
In  truth,  dear  Clare,  in  fancy's  flight 
I  soar  along  from  left  to  right ! 

My  muse  admires  digression. 

I  think  I  said  'twould  be  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state  ; — 

May  regal  smiles  attend  you  ! 
And  should  a  noble  monarch  reign. 
You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain, 

If  worth  can  recommend  you. 


'  A  bard  (horresco  referens)  defied  his  reviewer  to  mortal  com- 
bat. If  this  example  becomes  prevalent,  onr  periodical  censors 
must  be  dipped  in  the  river  Styx :  for  what  else  can  secure  them 
from  the  numerous  host  of  their  enraged  aseallants  f 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


421 


Yet  since  in  danger  courts  abound, 
Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round, 

From  snares  may  saints  preserve  you ; 
And  grant  your  love  or  friendship  ne'er 
From  any  claim  a  kindred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserve  you  1 

Not  for  a  moment  may  you  stray 
From  truth's  secure,  unerring  way  I 

May  no  delights  decoy  ! 
O'er  roses  may  your  footsteps  move. 
Your  smiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love, 

Your  tears  be  tears  of  joy  ! 

Oh  !  if  you  wish  that  happiness 

Your  coming  days  and  years  may  bless, 

And  virtues  crown  your  brow  ; 
Be  still  as  you  were  wont  to  be, 
Spotless  as  you've  been  known  to  me. 

Be  still  as  you  are  now.' 

And  though  some  trifling  share  of  praise. 
To  cheer  my  last  declining  days, 

To  me  were  doubly  dear  ; 
Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 
I'd  waive  at  once  a  poet's  fame. 

To  prove  a  prophet  here. 


LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH   AN   ELM   IN 
THE    CHURCHYARD   OF    HARROW." 

Spot  of  my  youth  !  whose  hoary  branches  sigh, 
Swept  by  the  breeze  that  fans  thy  cloudless  sky ; 
Where  now  alone  I  muse,  who  oft  have  trod, 

'  ['*  Of  all  I  have  ever  known,  Clare  has  always  been  the  least 
altered  in  every  thing  from  the  excellent  qnalities  and  kind  affec- 
tions which  attached  me  to  him  so  strongly  at  school.  I  sbonld 
hardly  have  thought  it  possible  for  society  (or  the  world,  as  it  is 
called)  to  leave  a  being  with  so  little  of  the  leaven  of  bad  pas- 
sions. I  do  not  speak  from  personal  experience  only,  but  from 
all  I  have  ever  heard  of  him  from  others,  during  absence  and  dis- 
tance."— Byron  Diary,  1S21.] 

'  On  losing  his  natural  daughter,  AUegra,  in  April,  1822,  Lord 


With  those  I  loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod ; 
With  those  who,  scatter'd  far,  perchance  deplore. 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before  : 
Oh  1  as  I  trace  again  thy  winding  hill. 
Mine  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still. 
Thou  drooping  Elm  !  beneath  whose  boughs  I  lay. 
And  frequent  mused  the  twilight  hours  away ; 
Where,  as  they  once  were  wont,  my  limbs  recline. 
But,  ah !  without  the  thoughts  which  then  were 
How  do  thy  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast,  [mine  : 
Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past, 
And  seem  to  whisper,  as  they  gently  swell, 
"  Take,  whilst  thou  can,  a  lingering,  last  farewell !" 

When  fate  shall  chill,  at  length,  this  fever'd  breast 
And  calm  its  cares  and  passions  into  rest. 
Oft  have  I  thought,  'twould  soothe  my  dying  hour, — 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her  power, — 
To  know  some  humbler  grave,  some  narrow  cell. 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell ; 
With  this  fond  dream,  methiuks, 'twere  sweet  to  die — 
And  here  it  linger'd,  here  my  heart  might  lie  ; 
Here  might  I  sleep  where  all  my  hopes  arose. 
Scene  of  my  youth,  and  couch  of  my  repose  ; 
Forever  stretch'd  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Press'd  by  the  turf  where  once  my  childhood  play'd ; 
Wrapp'd  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I  loved, 
Mix'd  with  the  earth  o'er  which  my  footsteps  moved ; 
Bless'd  by  the  tongues  that  charm'd  my  youthful  ear, 
Mourn'd  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledged  here  ; 
Deplored  by  those  in  early,  days  allied, 
And  imremember'd  by  the  world  beside. 

September  2, 1807. 

Byron  sent  her  remains  to  be  burled  at  Harrow,  "  where,"  he 
says,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Murray,  "I  once  hoped  to  have  laid  my 
own."  "There  is,"  he  adds,  "a  spot  in  the  churchyard,  near 
the  footpath,  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  looking  towards  Windsor, 
and  a  tomb  under  a  large  tree,  (bearing  the  name  of  Peachie  or 
Peachey,)  where  I  nsed  to  sit  for  hours  and  hours  when  a  boy. 
This  was  my  favorite  spot ;  but  as  I  wish  to  erect  a  tablet  to  her 
memory,  the  body  had  better  be  deposited  in  the  church  ,•"— and 
it  was  so  accordingly. 


422 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH   HEYIEWERS; 


A    SATIRE.' 


'  I  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry  mew  1 
Than  one  of  those  same  metre  ballad-mongers."— Shakspeabb. 

"  Such  shameless  bards  we  hare  ;  and  yet  'tis  true, 
There  are  as  mad,  abandoned  critics  too."— Pope. 


PREFACE.'! 

All  my  friends,  learned  and  unlearned,  have  urged 
me  not  to  publish  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I 
were  to  be  "  turned  from  the  career  of  my  humor  by 
quibbles  quick,  and  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,"  I  should 
have  complied  with  their  counsel.  But  I  am  not  to  be 
terrified  by  abuse,  or  bullied  by  reviewers,  with  or 
without  arms.  I  can  safely  say  that  I  have  attacked 
none  personally,  who  did  not  commence  on  the  offen- 
sive. An  author's  worts  are  public  property  :  he  who 
purchases  may  judge,  and  publish  his  opinion  if  he 
pleases ;  and  the  authors  I  have  endeavored  to  com- 
memorate may  do  by  me  as  I  have  done  by  them.  I 
dare  say  they  will  succeed  better  in  condemning  my 
scribblings,  than  in  mending  their  own.  But  my 
object  is  not  to  prove  that  I  can  write  well,  but,  if 
possible,  to  make  others  write  better. 

As  the  poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I 
expected,  I  have  endeavored  in  this  edition  to  make 
some  additions  and  alterations,  to  render  it  more 
worthy  of  public  perusal. 

In  the  first  edition  of  this  satire,  published  anony- 
mously,  fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles's  Pope 
were  written  by,  and  inserted  at  the  request  of,  an 
ingenious  friend  of  mine,=  who  has  now  in  the  press  a 
volume  of  poetry.  In  the  present  edition  they  are 
erased,  and  some  of  my  own  substituted  in  their  stead ; 
my  only  reason  for  this  being  that  which  I  conceive 
would  operate  with  any  other  person  in  the  same  man- 
ner,— a  determination  not  to  publish  with  my  name 
any  production,  which  was  not  entirely  and  exclusively 
my  own  composition. 

With  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  the 
poetical  persons  whose  performances  are  mentioned 
or  alluded  to  in  the  following  pages,  it  is  presumed  by 

'  The  first  edition  of  this  satire,  which  tlien  began  with  what  is 
now  the  ninety-seventh  line,  ("  Time  was,  ere  yet,"  etc.,)  appeared 
in  March,  1S09.  A  second,  to  which  the  author  prefixed  his  name, 
followed  in  October  of  that  year :  and  a  third  and  fourth  were 
called  for  during  his  first  pllgHmage,  in  1810  and  1811.  On  his 
return  to  England,  a  fifth  edition  was  prepared  for  the  press  by 
himself,  with  considerable  care,  but  suppressed,  and,  except  one 
copy,  destroyed,  when  on  the  eve  of  publication.  The  text  is  now 
printed  from  the  copy  that  escaped ;  on  casually  meeting  with 
which,  in  181G,  ho  reperused  the  whole,  and  wrote  on  the  margin 
some  annotations,  which  also  we  shall  preserve,— distinguishing 
them,  by  the  insertion  of  their  date,  from  those  affixed  to  the  prior 
editions.  The  first  of  theso  MS.  notes  of  1816  appears  on  the  fly- 
leaf, and  runs  thus :— "  The  binding  of  this  volume  is  consider- 
ably too  valuable  for  the  contents ;  and  nothing  bat  the  considera- 


the  author  that  there  can  be  little  difference  of  opinion 
in  the  public  at  large ;  though,  like  other  sectaries, 
each  has  his  separate  tabernacle  of  proselytes,  by  whom 
his  abilities  are  overrated,  his  faults  overlooked,  and 
his  metrical  canons  received  without  scruple  and  with- 
out consideration.  But  the  unquestionable  possession 
of  considerable  genius  by  several  of  the  writers  here 
censured  renders  their  mental  prostitution  more  to  be 
regretted.  Imbecility  may  be  pitied,  or,  at  worst, 
laughed  at  and  forgotten ;  perverted  powers  demand 
the  most  decided  reprehension.  No  one  can  wish  more 
than  the  author  that  some  known  and  able  writer  had 
undertaken  their  exposure;  but  Mr.  Gifford  has  de- 
voted himself  to  Massinger,  and,  in  the  absence  of  the 
regular  physician,  a  country  practitioner  may,  in  cases 
of  absolute  necessity,  be  allowed  to  prescribe  his  nos- 
trum to  prevent  the  extension  of  so  deplorable  an  epi- 
demic, provided  there  be  no  quackery  in  his  treatment 
of  the  malady.  A  caustic  is  here  offered  ;  as  it  is  to 
be  feared  nothing  sliort  of  actual  cautery  can  recover 
the  numerous  patients  afflicted  with  the  present  preva- 
lent and  distressing  rabies  for  rhyming. — As  to  the 
Edinburgh  Reviewers,  it  would  indeed  require  a  Her- 
cules to  crush  the  Hydra ;  but  if  the  author  succeeds 
in  merely  "  bruising  one  of  the  heads  of  the  serpent," 
though  his  own  hand  should  suffer  in  the  encounter, 
he  wiU  bo  amply  satisfied. 


ENGLISH  BARDS,  ETC. 

Still  must  I  hear  ?*— shall  hoarse  Fitzgeralds  bawl 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern  hall,' 
And  I  not  sing,  lest,  haply,  Scotch  reviews 
Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  muse  ? 


tion  of  its  being  the  property  of  another,  prevents  mo  from  con- 
signing this  miserable  record  of  misplaced  anger  and  indiscrimin- 
ate acrimony  to  the  flames." 

2  This  preface  was  written  for  the  second  edition,  and  printed 
with  it.  The  noble  author  had  left  this  country  previous  to  the 
publication  of  that  edition,  and  is  not  yet  tatumcX.— Note  to  the 
fourth  edition,  1811.— ["  Ho  is,  and  gone  again."— iorrf  B.  1816.] 

'  Mr.  Hobhouse. 

*  Imit. — 

"  Semper  ego  auditor  tantum  I  nunqaamne  reponam, 
VexatuB  totios  rauci  Theseido  Codri  J"—Juv.  Sat.  I. 

'  ["  Hoarse  I'Vugeratd."—''  lUght  enough ;  but  why  notice  such 
a  mountebank."— ijyron,  1816.] 

«  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  facetiously  termed  by  Cobbctt  the  "  Small  Beer 
Poet,"  inflicts  his  annual  tribute  of  verse  on  the  Literary  Eund : 


ENGLISH   BARDS   AND   SCOTCTH    REVIEWERS. 


423 


Prepare  for  rhyme — I'll  publish,  right  or  wrong, 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  satire  be  ray  song. 

Oh !  nature's  noblest  gift— my  gray  goose-quill  I 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will, 
Tom  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a  pen, 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men  ! 
The  pen  !  foredoom'd  to  aid  the  mental  throes 
Of  brains  that  labor,  big  with  verse  or  prose, 
Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics  may  deride. 
The  lover's  solace,  and  the  author's  pride. 
What  wits  !  what  poets  dost  thou  daily  raise  I 
How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise  ! 
Condemn'd  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite. 
With  all  the  pages  which  'twas  thine  to  write. 
But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen  1 
Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again. 
Our  task  complete,  like  Hamct's'  shall  be  free  ; 
Though  spum'd  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me : 
Then  let  us  soar  to-day  ;  no  common  theme. 
No  eastern  vision,  no  distemper'd  dream- 
Inspires — our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,  is  plain  ; 
Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  Vice  triumphant  holds  her  sov'reign  sway, 
Obey'd  by  all  who  naught  beside  obey  ; 
When  Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime. 
Bedecks  her  cap  with  bells  of  every  clime  ; 
When  knaves  and  fools  combined  o'er  all  prevail, 
And  weigh  their  justice  in  a  golden  scale ; 
E'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers. 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknown  to  other  fears. 
More  darkly  sin,  by  satire  kept  in  awe. 
And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  wit !  but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song  ; 
The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand. 

not  content  with  writing,  he  spoats  in  person,  after  the  company 
have  imbibed  a  reasonable  qn-intity  of  bad  port,  to  enable  them 
to  sustain  the  operation.— [For  the  long  period  of  thirty-two  years, 
this  harmless  poetaster  was  an  attendant  at  the  anniversary  din- 
ners of  the  Literary  Fund,  and  constantly  honored  the  occasion 
with  an  odo,  which  he  himself  recited  with  most  comical  dignity 
of  emphasis.  He  was  fortunate  in  having  for  his  patron  Viscount 
Dndley  and  Ward,  on  whose  death  without  a  will,  his  benevolent 
intentions  towards  the  bard  were  fulfilled  by  his  son,  the  late 
Earl  Dudley,  who  generously  sent  him  a  draft  for  5000^.  Fitzgerald 
died  In  1829.  Of  his  numerous  loyal  effusions  only  a  single  line 
has  survived  its  author ;  but  the  characteristics  of  his  style  have 
been  so  happily  hit  off  in  the  "  Rejected  Addresses  "—(a  work 
which  Lord  Byron  has  pronounced  to  be  "  by  far  the  best  thing  of 
the  kind  since  the  Rolliad,")— that  we  cannot  resist  the  temptation 
of  an  extract  :— 

"  Who  bnmt  (confound  his  soul  I)  the  houses  twain. 
Of  Covent  Garden  and  of  Dmry  Lane  ? 
Who,  while  the  British  squadron  lay  off  Cork, 
(God  bless  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  York  I) 
With  a  foul  earthquake  ravaged  the  Caraccas, 
And  raised  the  price  of  drygoods  and  tobaccos  f 
Who  makes  the  quartom  loaf  and  Lnddltos  rl«c  ? 


Still  there  are  follies,  e'en  for  me  to  chase, 

And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race  : 

Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fame  ; 

The  cry  is  up,  and  scribblers  are  my  game. 

Speed,  Pegasus  ! — ye  strains  of  great  and  small, 

Odo,  epic,  elegy,  have  at  you  all ! 

I  too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 

I  pour'd  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme, 

A  schoolboy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame ; 

I  printed — older  children  do  the  same. 

'Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print ; 

A  book's  a  book,  although  there's  nothing  in 't. 

Not  that  a  title's  sounding  charm  can  save 

Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave  : 

This  Lambe  must  own,  since  his  patrician  name 

Fail'd  to  preserve  the  spurious  farce  from  shame.* 

No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write,* 

Though  now  the  name  is  veil'd  from  public  sight. 

Moved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 

The  self-same  road,  but  make  my  own  review : 

Not  seek  great  Jeffrey's,  yet  like  him,  will  be 

Self-constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  ev'ry  trade 
Save  censure — critics  all  are  ready^  made. 
Take  hackney'd  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote  ; 
A  mind  well  skill'd  to  find  or  forge  a  fault ; 
A  turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt ; 
To  JeflErey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet : 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  sharper  hit ; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit ; 
Care  not  for  feeling — pass  your  proper  jest. 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ?  no — as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December — ice  in  June  ; 

Who  fills  the  butcher's  shops  with  large  bine  flics  ? 
■Who  thought  in  flames  St.  James's  court  to  pinch  f 
Who  burnt  the  wardrobe  of  poor  Lady  Finch  f — 
Why  he,  who  forging  for  this  isle  a  yoke, 
Reminds  me  of  a  line  I  lately  spoke— 
'  The  tree  of  freedom  is  the  British  oaTc.' 
Bless  every  man  possess'd  of  aught  to  give  I 
Long  may  Long  Tilncy  Wellesley  Long  Polo  live ! 
God  bless  the  army,  bless  their  coats  of  scarlet  I 
God  bless  the  navy,  bless  the  Princess  Charlotte  I 
God  bless  the  Guards,  though  worsted  Gallia  scoff  I 
God  bless  their  pig-tails,  though  they're  now  cut  off! 
And  oh  1  in  Downing-street  should  Old  Nick  revel, 
England's  prime  minister,  then  bless  the  Devil  I"] 

'  Cid  Hamet  BoncngcU  promises  repose  to  his  pen,  in  the  last 
chapter  of  Don  Quixote.  Oh  I  that  our  voluminous  gentry  would 
follow  the  example  of  Cid  Hamet  Bonengoll. 

2  ["  This  must  have  been  written  in  the  spirit  of  prophecy."— 
B.  1816.] 

'  This  Ingenuous  youth  is  mentioned  more  particularly,  with  hb 
production,  In  another  place. 

*  In  the  Edinburgh  Review.— ["  He's  a  very  good  fellow,  and, 
except  his  mother  and  sister,  the  best  of  the  set,  to  my  mind."— 
B.  1816.1 


424 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  com  in  chafif ; 

Believe  a  woman  or  an  epitaph, 

Or  any  other  thing  that's  false,  before 

You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves  are  sore  ; 

Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 

By  Jeffrey's  heart,  or  Lambc's  Boeotian  head.' 

To  these  young  tyrants,'  by  themselves  misplaced, 

Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  taste  ; 

To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe, 

And  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  as  law — 

While  these  are  censors,  'twould  be  sin  to  spare ; 

While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I  forbear  ? 

But  yet,  so  near  all  modem  worthies  run, 

'Tis  doubtful  whom  to  seek,  or  whom  to  shun  ; 

Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike. 

Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

Then  should  you  ask  me,s  why  I  venture  o'er 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before  ; 
If  not  yet  sicken'd  you  can  still  proceed : 
Go  on  ;  my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 
"  But    hold  !"     exclaims    a  friend, — "  here's    some 

neglect : 
This — that — and  t'  other  line  seem  incorrect." 
What  then  ?  the  self-same  blunder  Pope  has  got. 
And  careless  Dryden — "  Ay,  but  Pye  has  not :" — 
Indeed  ! — 'tis  granted,  faith  !— but  what  care  I  ? 
Better  to  err  with  Pope,  than  shine  with  Pye. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  degenerate  days* 
Ignoble  themes  obtain'd  mistaken  praise, 
When  sense  and  wit  with  poesy  allied, 
Ko  fabled  graces,  flourish'd  side  by  side ; 
From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew. 
And,  rear'd  by  taste,  bloom'd  fairer  as  they  grew. 

>  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Lambe  arc  the  alpha  and  omega,  the  first 
and  the  last  of  the  Edinburgh  Review ;  the  others  are  mentioned 
hereafter.— ["  This  was  not  just.  Neither  the  heart  nor  the  head 
of  these  gentlemen  are  at  all  what  they  are  here  represented.  At 
the  time  this  was  written,  I  was  personally  unacquainted  with 
cither."— B.  1816.] 

'  Imit.  '•  Stulta  est  Clementia,  cum  tot  ubique 

. occurras  periturae  parccre  chartos."— Jar.  Sat.  I. 

*  Imit.  *'  Cur  tamen  hoc  libeat  potius  decurrere  campo 

Per  quem  magnns  equos  Auruncse  flexit  alumnus ; 
Si  vacat,  et  placidi  rationem  admiittitis,  cdam."— 

Juv.  Sat.  I. 

*  [The  first  edition  of  the  Satire  opened  with  this  line,  and  Lord 
Byron's  original  Intention  was  to  prefix  the  following— 

"Arotjment. 
"  The  poet  considereth  times  past,  and  their  poesy — makes  a  sud- 
den transition  to  times  present— is  incensed  against  book-makers 
— revileth  Walter  Scott  for  cupidity  and  ballad-mongering,  with 
notable  remarks  on  Master  Southey— complaineth  that  Master 
Southey  hath  inflicted  three  poems,  epic  and  othcnvise,  on  the 
public— inveigheth  against  William  Wordsworth,  but  laudeth  Mis- 
ter Coleridge  and  his  elegy  on  a  young  ass— is  disposed  to  vitn- 
perate  Mr.  I,ewi8— and  greatly  rebukcth  Thomas  Little  (the  late) 
and  the  Lord  Strangford— recommendeth  Mr.  Hayley  to  turn  his 
attention  to  prose— and  exhorteth  the  Moravians  to  gloriiy  Mr. 
Grahame— sympathizeth  with  the  Kev.  William  Bowles— and  de- 
ploreth  the  melancholy  fate  of  James  Montgomery— breaketh  out 
into  invective  against  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers— calleth  them  hard 


Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a  Pope's  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in  vain  ; 
A  polish'd  nation's  praise  aspired  to  claim. 
And  raised  the  people's,  as  the  poet's  fame. 
Like  him  great  Dryden  pour'd  the  tide  of  song, 
In  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doubly  strong. 
Then  Congreve's  scenes  could  cheer,  or  Otway's 

melt — 
For  nature  then  an  English  audience  felt. 
But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace. 
When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  place  ? 
Yet  to  such  times  our  lingering  looks  are  cast, 
When  taste  and  reason  with  those  times  are  pass'd. 
Now  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  page, 
Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  the  age ; 
This  truth  at  least  let  satire's  self  allow. 
No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complain'd  of  now. 
The  loaded  press  beneath  her  labor  groans. 
And  printers'  devils  shake  their  weary  bones  ; 
While  Southey's  epics  cram  the  creaking  shelves, 
And  Little's  lyrics  shine  in  hot-press'd  twelves. 
Thus  saith  the  preacher :  "  Naught  beneath  the  sun 
Is  new ;"  yet  still  from  change  to  change  we  run  : 
What  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass  ! 
The  cow-pox,  tractors,  galvanism,  and  gas. 
In  turns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgar  stare, 
Till  the  swoln  bubble  burst — and  all  is  air  1 
Nor  less  new  schools  of  Poetry  arise. 
Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prize : 
O'er  taste  awhile  these  pseiido  bards  prevail; 
Each  country  book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 
And,  hurling  lawful  genius  from  the  throne. 
Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own ; 
Some  leaden  calf — ^but  whom  it  matters  not. 
From  soaring  Southey  down  to  grovelling  Stotti*  - 

names,  harpies  and  the  like— apostrophizeth  Jefl'rey,  and  propho- 
sieth— Episode  of  Jeffrey  and  Moore,  their  jeopardy  and  deliver- 
ance ;  portents  on  the  mom  of  the  combat ;  the  Tweed,  Tolbooth, 
Frith  of  Forth,  Beverally  shocked ;  descent  of  a  goddess  to  save 
Jeffrey ;  incorporation  of  the  bullets  with  his  sinciput  and  occi- 
put.—Edinburgh  Reviews  en  masse.— Lord  Aberdeen,  Herbert, 
Scott,  Hallam,  Pillans,  Lambe,  Sidney  Smith,  Brougham,  etc. — 
The  Lord  Holland  applauded  for  dinners  and  translations.— Tho 
Drama;  Skeflington,  Hook,  Reynolds,  Kenney,  Cherry,  etc. — 
Sheridan,  Colman,  and  Cumberland  called  upon  to  write.— Re- 
turn to  poesy — scribblers  of  all  sorts— lords  sometimes  rhyme  ; 
much  better  not— Haflz,  Rosa  Matilda,  and  X.Y.  Z.— Rogers,  Camp- 
bell,  Gifford,  etc.,  true  poets— Translators  of  the  Greek  Anthology 
— Crabbe— Darwin's  style — Cambridge— Seatonian  Prize— Smythe 
— Hodgson-Oxford— Richards— Poeta  loquitur— Conclusion."] 

*  Stott,  better  Imown  in  the  "  Morning  Post "  by  the  name  of 
Haflz.  This  person  is  at  present  the  most  profound  explorer  of 
the  bathos.  I  remember,  when  the  reigning  family  left  Portugal, 
a  special  Ode  of  Master  Stott' s,  beginning  thus:  (3toU  loquitur 
quoad  Hlbemia.)— 

"  Princely  offspring  of  Braganza, 
Erin  greets  thee  with  a  stanza,"  etc. 
Also  a  Sonnet  to  Rats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  a  most 
thundering  Ode,  commencing  as  follows  :— 

"  Oh  1  for  a  Lay,  loud  as  the  surge 
That  lashes  Lapland's  sounding  shore." 
Lord  have  mercy  on  us  I  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel"  was 
nothing  to  this. 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS, 


425 


Behold !  in  various  tlirongs  the  scribbling  crew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review : 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace. 
And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race  ; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode  ; 
And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road ; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along  ; 
For  simpering  folly  loves  a  varied  song, 
To  strange  mysterious  dulness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels' — may  they  be  the  last  !— 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast. 
"While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  may  Ustcn  to  the  sound  at  nights ; 
And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Horner's  brood. 
Decoy  young  border  nobles  through  the  wood, 
And  skip  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high. 
And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why ; 
While  high-bom  ladies  in  their  magic  cell. 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell. 
Dispatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave. 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Nest  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan. 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight. 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace ; 
A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 
And  think'st  thou,  Scott  1  by  vain  conceit  perchance, 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance. 
Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  may  combine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line  ? 
No  1  when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade. 
Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade. 
Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name, 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame : 
Still  for  stem  Mammon  may  they  toil  in  vain  ! 
And  sadly  gaze  on  gold  they  cannot  gain  ! 

'  See  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  passim.  Never  was  any 
plan  so  Incongruous  and  absurd  as  the  groundwork  of  this  produc- 
tion. The  entrance  of  Thunder  and  Lightning,  prologuizing  to 
Bayes*  tragedy,  unfortunately  takes  away  the  merit  of  originality 
from  the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the  Spirits  of  Flood  and  Fell 
in  the  first  canto.  Then  we  have  the  amiable  William  of  Delo- 
ralne,  "  a  stark,  moss-trooper,"  videlicet,  a  happy  compound  of 
poacher,  sheep-stealer,  and  highwayman.  The  propriety  of  his 
magical  lady's  injunction  not  to  read  can  only  be  equalled  by  his 
candid  acknowledgment  of  his  independence  of  the  trammels  of 
spelling,  althongh,  to  use  his  own  elegant  phrase,  "'twas  his 
neck-verse  at  Harribee,"  1.  e.  the  gallows.— The  biography  of  Gil- 
pin Homer,  and  the  marvellous  pedestrian  page,  who  travelled 
twice  as  fast  as  his  manter's  horse,  without  the  aid  of  seven- 
leagued  boots,  are  chtfs-d'cemre  in  the  Improvement  of  taste. 
For  incident  wc  have  the  invisible,  but  by  no  means  sparing  box 
on  the  ear  bestowed  on  the  page,  and  the  entrance  of  a  knight  and 
charger  into  the  castle,  under  the  very  natural  disguise  of  a  wain 
of  hay.  Marmion,  the  hero  of  the  latter  romance,  is  exactly  what 
William  of  Deloralne  would  have  been,  had  he  been  able  to  read 
and  write.  The  poem  was  manufactured  for  Messrs.  Constable, 
Murray  and  Miller,  worshipful  bookscllerr!,  in  consideration  of  the 


Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard  ! 
For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son. 
And  bid  a  long  "  good-night  to  3Iarmion."^ 

These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits  now ; 
These  are  the  bards  to  whom  the  muse  must  bow  ; 
While  Milton,  Drydcn,  Pope,  alike  forgot. 
Resign  their  hallow'd  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

The  time  has  been,  when  yet  the  muse  was  young, 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maro  sung, 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim. 
While  awe-struck  nations  hail'd  the  magic  name  ; 
The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years.' 
Empires  have  moulder'd  from  the  face  of  earth. 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give,      [birth) 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  vrith  us,  though  minor  bards  content, 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labor  spent : 
With  eagle  j)inion  soaring  to  the  skies. 
Behold  the  ballad-monger  Southey  rise  ! 
To  him  let  Camoens,  Milton,  Tasso  yield. 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the  field. 
First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance, 
The  scourge  of  England  and  the  boast  of  France  I 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch. 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche  ; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  pha?nix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,' 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wond'rous  son; 
Domdaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'er  knew. 
Immortal  hero !  all  thy  foes  o'ercome. 
Forever  reign— the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb  ! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face, 

receipt  of  a  sum  of  money ;  and  truly,  considering  the  inspiration, 
it  Is  a  very  creditable  production.  If  Mr.  Scott  will  write  for  hire, 
let  him  do  his  best  for  his  paymasters,  but  not  disgrace  his  genius, 
which  is  undoubtedly  great,  by  a  repetition  of  black-letter  ballad 
Imitations. 

'Good  night  to  Marmion"— the  pathetic  and  also  prophetic 
exclamation  of  Henry  Blount,  Esquire,  on  the  death  of  honest 
Marmion. 

3  As  the  Odyssey  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  story  of  the 
Diad,  they  may  almost  be  classed  as  one  grand  historical  poem.  In 
alluding  to  Milton  and  Tasso,  wo  consider  the  "  Paradise  Lost," 
and  "  Giemsalcmmo  Liberata,"  as  their  standard  ed'orts ;  since 
neither  the  "  Jerusalem  Conquered  "  of  the  Italian,  nor  the  "  Par- 
adise Regained"  of  the  English  bard,  obtained  a  proportionate 
celebrity  to  their  former  poems.  Query :  Which  of  Mr.  Southey's 
will  sun'ive? 

<  "Thalaba,"  Mr.  Southey's  second  poem,  la  written  in  open 
defiance  of  precedent  and'  poetry.  Mr.  3.  wished  to  produce 
something  novel,  and  succeeded  to  a  miracle.  "Joan  of  Arc" 
was  marvellous  enough,  but  "Thalaba"  was  one  of  those  poems 
"  which."  in  the  wonls  of  Porson,  "  will  be  real  when  Homer 
and  Virgil  are  forgotten,  but— no^  fill  then." 


426 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Well  wert  thou  doom'd  the  last  of  aU  thy  race  1 
Well  might  trumphant  genii  bear  thee  hence, 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense  ! 
Kow,  last  and  greatest,  Madoc  spreads  his  sails, 
Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  prince  in  Wales ; 
Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 
More  old  than  Mandeville's,  and  not  so  true. 
Oh,  Southey  1  Southey  I'  cease  thy  varied  song ! 
A  bard  may  chant  too  often  and  too  long : 
As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy,  spare  ! 
A  fourth,  alas  !  were  more  than  we  could  bear. 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say. 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plot  thy  weary  way; 
If  still  in  Berkley  ballads  most  uncivil, 
Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,' 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue : 
"  God  help  thee,"  Southey,'  and  thy  readers  too.* 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school. 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule. 
The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favorite  May,^ 
Who  warns  his  friend  "  to  shake  off  toil  and  trouble, 
And  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double  ;'' ' 
Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse  and  verse  is  merely  prose ; 


•  We  beg  Mr.  Sonthey's  pardon :  "Madoc  disdains  the  degrad- 
ing title  of  epic."  See  his  preface.  Wliy  is  epic  degraded  ?  and 
by  wliom  ?  Certainly  the  late  romanuts  of  Masters  Cottle,  Laureat 
Pyc,  Ogilvy,  Hole,  and  gentle  Mistress  Cowley,  have  not  exalted 
the  epic  mnao ;  but  as  Mr.  Southey's  poem  "  disdains  the  appel- 
lation," allow  us  to  ask— has  ho  substituted  anything  better  in  its 
stead?  or  must  he  be  content  to  rival  Sir  Hichard  Blackmore 
in  the  quantity  as  well  as  quality  of  his  verse  ? 

5  See  "The  Old  Woman  of  Berkley,"  a  ballad,  by  Mr.  Southey, 
wherein  an  aged  gentlewoman  is  carried  away  by  Beelzebub,  on  a 
"high-trotting  horse." 

'  The  last  line,  "  God  help  thee,"  is  an  evident  plagiarism  from 
the  Anti-jacobin  to  Mr.  Southey,  on  his  Dactylics.— [Lord  Byron 
here  alludes  to  Mr.  Gifford's  parody  on  Mr.  Southey's  Dactylics, 
which  ends  thus  ;— 

"  Ne'er  talk  of  ears  again  I  look  at  thy  spelling-book ; 
Dilworth  and  Dyche  are  both  mad  at  thy  quantities- 
Dactylics,  call'st  thou  'em  ?— '  God  help  thee,  silly  one.' "] 

*  Lord  Byron,  on  being  introduced  to  Mr.  Southey  in  1813,  at 
Holland  House,  describes  him  "  as  the  best-looking  bard  he  had 
seen  for  a  long  time." — "  To  have  that  poet's  head  and  shoulders, 
I  would,"  he  says,  "  almost  have  written  his  Sapphics.  He  is  cer- 
tainly a  prepossessing  person  to  look  on,  and  a  man  of  talent,  and 
all  that,  and  there  is  his  eulogy."  In  his  Journal,  of  the  same 
year,  he  says — "  Southey  I  have  not  seen  much  of.  His  appear- 
ance is  epic,  and  he  is  the  only  existing  entire  man  of  letters.  All 
the  others  have  some  pursuit  annexed  to  their  authorship. 
His  manners  are  mild,  but  not  those  of  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
bis  talents  of  the  first  order.  His  prose  is  perfect.  Of  his  poetiy 
there  are  various  opinions :  there  is,  perhaps,  too  much  of  it  for 
the  present  generation— posterity  will  probably  select.  He  has 
passages  equal  to  any  thing.  At  present,  he  Tama  party,  but  no 
public — except  for  his  prose  writings.  His  Life  of  Nelson  is 
beautiful."  Elsewhere,  and  later,  Lord  Byron  pronovmces 
Southey's  Don  Roderick  "  the  first  poem  of  our  time."] 

'  ["  Unjust."— B.  1816.] 

"  Lyrical  Ballads,  p.  4.—"  The  Tables  Turned."    Stanza  1. 

"  Up,  up,  my  Mend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  f 


Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain, 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane  : 
And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime. 
Thus,  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "  an  idiot  boy  ;" 
A  moon-struck,  silly  lad,  who  lost  his  way. 
And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day  ;' 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 
That  all  who  view  the  "  idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  ? 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
Yet  still  obscurity  's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  pixy  for  a  muse,' 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
So  well  the  s'abject  suits  his  noble  mind. 
He  brays,"  the  laureat  of  the  long-ear'd  kind.io 

Oh,  wonder-working  Lewis  1"  monk,  or  bard. 
Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a  churchyard  ! 

Up,  up,  ray  friend,  and  quit  your  books. 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double." 

'  Mr.  W.  in  his  preface  labors  hard  to  prove,  that  prose  and 
verse  are  much  the  same  ;  and  certainly  his  precepts  and  practice 
arc  strictly  conformable  : — 

"  And  thus  to  Betty's  questions,  ho 
Made  answer  like  a  traveller  bold. 
The  cock  did  crow,  to-whoo,  to-whoo, 
And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold,"  etc.,  p.  129. 

*  Coleridge's  Poems,  p.  11,  Songs  of  the  Pixies,  i.  e.,  Devon- 
shire fairies ;  p.  42,  we  have  "  Lines  to  a  young  Lady ;"  and  p. 
52,  "  Lines  to  a  young  Ass." 

'  [Thus  altered  by  Lord  Byron,  In  his  last  revision  of  the  satire. 
In  all  former  editions  the  line  stood, 

"  A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wond'rous  kind."] 

'  ">  ["fTnjtts^"  B.  1810.— In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  written  in 
1815,  Lord  Byron  says, — "  You  mention  my  '  Satire,'  lampoon,  or 
Whatever  you  or  others  please  to  call  it.  I  can  only  say,  that  it 
was  written  when  I  was  very  young  and  very  angry,  and  has  been 
a  thorn  in  my  side  ever  since :  more  particularly  as  almost  all  the 
persons  animadverted  upon  became  subsequently  my  acquaint- 
ances, and  some  of  them  my  friends ;  which  is  '  heaping  fire  upon 
an  enemy's  head,'  and  forgiving  me  too  readily  to  permit  me  to 
forgive  myself.  The  part  applied  to  you  is  pert,  and  petulant, 
and  shallow  enough ;  but,  although  I  have  long  done  every  thing  in 
my  power  to  suppress  the  circulation  of  the  whole  thing,  I  shall 
always  regret  the  wantonness  or  generality  of  many  of  its  at- 
tempted attacks."] 

'•  [Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  M.P.  for  Hindon,  never  distin- 
guished himself  in  Parliament,  but,  mainly  in  consequence  of 
the  clever  use  he  made  of  his  knowledge  of  the  German  language, 
then  a  rare  accomplishment,  attracted  much  notice  in  the  literary 
world,  at  a  very  early  period  of  his  life.  His  Tales  of  Terror ; 
the  drama  of  the  Castle  Spectre ;  and  the  romance  called  the 
Bravo  of  Venice,  (which  is,  however,  little  more  than  a  version 
from  the  Swiss  Zschocke  ;)  but  above  all  the  libidinous  and  impi- 
ous novel  of  The  Monk,  invested  the  name  of  Lewis  with  an  ex- 
traordinary degree  of  celebrity,  during  the  poor  period  which  in- 
tervened between  the  obscuration  of  Cowper,  and  the  full  display 
of  Sir  W'alter  Scott's  talents,  in  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minptrel." 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


427 


Lo  1  wreaths  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow, 

Thy  muse  a  sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou  ! 

Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou  tak'st  thy  stand 

By  gibb'ring  spectres  hail'd,  thy  kindred  band  ; 

Or  tracest  chaste  descriptions  on  thy  page. 

To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age  ; 

All  hail,  M.P.  1 '  from  whose  infernal  brain 

Thin  sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train  ; 

At  whose  command  "grim  women"  throng  in  crowds. 

And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds. 

With  "  small  gray  men,"  "  wild  yagers,"  and  what 

To  crown  with  honor  thee  and  Walter  Scott ;     [not 

Again  all  hail !  if  tales  like  thine  may  please, 

St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease  : 

Even  Satan's  self  with  thee  might  dread  to  dwell, 

And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  hell. 

Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta's  fire, 
With  sparkling  eyes,  and  cheek  by  passion  flush'd, 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  while  listening  dames  are 
'Tis  Little  !  young  Catullus  of  his  day,         [hush'd  ? 
As  sweet,  but  as  immoral,  in  his  lay  1 
Grieved  to  condemn,"  the  muse  must  still  be  just. 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  her  altar  bums  ; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns  : 
Yet  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o'er, 
She  bids  thee  ''  mend  thy  line,  and  sin  no  more." ' 

For  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song, 
To  whom  such  glittering  ornaments  belong, 
Hibernian  Strangford  !  with  thine  eyes  of  blue,* 
And  boasted  locks  of  red  or  auburn  hue, 
WTiosc  plaintive  strain  each  love-sick  miss  admires. 
And  o'er  harmonious  fustian  half  expires. 
Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  thy  author's  sense, 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  false  pretence. 

'  "  For  every  one  knows  little  Matt 's  an  M.P."— Seo  a  poem 
to  Mr.  Lewis,  in  "  The  Statesman,"  supposed  to  be  written  by 
Mr.  JekjU. 

=  [In  very  early  life,  "  Little's  Poems  "  were  Lord  Byron's  fav- 
orite study.  "  Heigho  I"  he  exclaims,  in  1820,  In  a  letter  to  Moore, 
"  I  believe  all  the  mischief  1  have  ever  done,  or  sung,  has  been 
owing  to  that  confounded  book  of  yours."] 

'  [Originally,  "  mend  thy  life,  and  sin  no  more."] 

*  The  reader,  who  may  wish  for  an  explanation  of  thin,  may 
refer  lo  "  Strangford's  Camoens,"  p.  127,  note  to  p.  56,  or  to  the  last 
page  of  the  Edinburgh  Keview  of  Strangford's  Camocns. 

'  It  is  also  to  be  remarked,  that  the  things  given  to  the  public 
as  poems  of  Camoens  are  no  more  to  be  found  in  the  original 
Portuguese,  than  in  the  Song  of  Solomon. 

•  Hayley's  two  most  notorious  verse  productions  are  "  Triumphs 
of  Temper,"  and  "  The  Triumph  of  Music."  lie  has  also  writ- 
ten much  comedy  in  rhyme,  epistles,  etc.,  etc.  As  he  is  rather  an 
elegant  writer  of  notes  and  biography,  let  ns  recommend  Pope's 
advice  to  Wycheriey  to  Mr.  H.'s  consideration,  viz.  "to  convert 
his  poetry  into  prose,"  which  may  be  easily  done  by  taking  away 
the  final  syllable  of  each  couplet. 

'  Mr.  Grahame  has  poured  forth  two  volnmcs  of  cant,  under  the 
name  of  "  Sabbath  Walks,"  and  "  Biblical  Pictures."— [This  very 
amiable  man,  and  pleasing  poet,  published  subsequently  "  The 
Birds  of  Srotland,"  and  other  pieces  ;  but  his  reputation  rnnts  on 


Think'st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a  higher  place, 

By  dressing  Camoens'  in  a  suit  of  lace  ? 

Mend,  Strangford  !  mend  thy  morals  and  thy  taste  ! 

Be  warm,  but  pure  ;  be  amorous,  but  be  chaste  : 

Cease  to  deceive ;  thy  pilfer'd  harp  restore, 

Nor  teach  the  Lusian  bard  to  copy  Moore. 

Behold  ! — ye  arts  !  one  moment  spare  the  text — 
Hayley's  last  work,  and  worst-^until  his  next ; 
Whether  he  spin  poor  couplets  into  plays, 
Or  damn  the  dead  with  purgatorial  praise, 
His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same. 
Forever  feeble  and  forever  tame. 
Triumphant  first  see  "Temper's  Triumphs"  shine  1 
At  least  I'm  sure  they  triumph'd  over  mine. 
Of  "  Music's  Triumphs,"  all  who  read  may  swear 
That  luckless  music  never  triumph'd  there.' 

Moravians,  rise  !  bestow  some  meet  reward 
On  dull  devotion — Lo  !  the  Sabbath  bard, 
Sepulchral  Grahame,'  pours  his  notes  sublime 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme  ; 
Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke, 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch  ; 
And,  undisturb'd  by  conscientious  qualms, 
Perverts  the  Prophets,  and  purloins  the  Psalms. 

Hail,  Sympathy  !  thy  soft  idea  brings' 
A  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things. 
And  shows,  still  whimpering  through  threescore  of 
The  maudlin  prince  of  mournful  sonneteers,    [years, 
And  art  thou  not  their  prince,  harmonious  Bowles  1 
Thou  first,  great  oracle  of  tender  souls  ? 
Whether  thou  sing'st  with  equal  ease,  and  grief, 
The  fall  of  empires,  or  a  yellow  leaf; 
Whether  thy  muse  most  lamentably  tells 
What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  bells,' 


Us  "  Sabbath."  He  began  life  as  an  advocate  at  the  Edinburgh 
bar ;  but  he  had  little  success  there,  and  being  of  a  melancholy 
and  very  devout  temperament,  entered  into  holy  orders,  and  re- 
tired to  a  curacy  near  Durham,  where  he  died  in  1811.] 

8  [Immediately  before  this  line,  we  find  in  the  original  manu- 
script, the  following,  which  Lord  Byron  good-naturedly  consented 
to  omit,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Dallas,  who  was,  no  doubt,  a  friend 
of  the  scribbler  they  refer  to  :— 

"  In  verse  most  stale,  unprofitable  flat- 
Come,  let  us  change  the  scene,  and  '  glean''  with  Pratt ; 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold, 
Condemn'd  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold : 
Degraded  man  I  again  resume  thy  trade— 
The  votaries  of  the  Muse  are  ill  repaid. 
Though  daily  puffs  once  more  invite  to  Iray 
A  new  edition  of  thy  '  Sympathy.'  " 

To  which  this  note  was  appended :—"  Mr.  Pratt,  once  a  Bath 
bookseller,  now  a  London  author,  has  written  as  much,  to  as  lit- 
tle purpose,  as  any  of  his  scribbling  cotemporaries.  Mr.  P.'b 
'  Sympathy'  is  in  rhyme  ;  but  his  prose  productions  are  the  most 
voluminous."  The  more  popular  of  these  last  were  entitled 
"  Gleanings."] 

»  See  Bowles's  "  Sonnet  to  Oxford,"  and  "  Stanzas  ou  hearing 
the  Bell^  of  Ostend." 


428 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


*!¥ 


Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a  friend 
In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend  ; 
Ah  1  how  much  juster  were  thy  muse's  hap. 
If  to  thy  bells'  thou  wouldst  but  add  a  cap  ! 
DeUghtful  Bowles  !  still  blessing  and  still  bless'd, 
All  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 
'Tis  thine,  with  gentle  Little's  moral  song. 
To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng  ! 
With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears, 
Ere  miss  as  yet  completes  her  infant  years  : 
But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain  ; 
She  quits  poor  Bowles  for  Little's  purer  strain. 
Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scomest  to  confine 
The  lofty  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine  ; 
"  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,'" 
Such  as  none  heard  before,  or  will  again  I 
Where  all  Discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood. 
Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud, 
By  more  or  less,  are  simg  in  every  book. 
From  Captain  Noah  down  to  Captain  Cook. 
Nor  this  alone  ;  but,  pausing  on  the  road, 
The  bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  ejaisode  :  = 
And  gravely  tells — attend,  each  beauteous  miss  ! — 
When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss. 
Bowles  !  in  thy  memory  let  this  precept  dwell, 
Stick  to  thy  sonnets,  man  !— at  least  they  sell.^ 

But  if  some  new-bom  whim,  or  larger  bribe. 
Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thee  for  a  scribe ; 
If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces  fear'd. 
Now,  prone  in  dust,  can  only  be  revered ; 
If  Pope,  whose  fame  and  genius,  from  the  first, 

'  "Awake  a  loader,"  etc.,  is  the  first  line  in  Bowles's  "  Spirit 
of  Discovery ;"  a  very  spirited  and  pretty  dwarf-epic.  Among 
other  exquisite  lines  we  have  the  following  :— 

A  kiss 
Stole  on  the  list'ning  silence,  never  yet 
Here  heard ;  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power,  etc. 

That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss ;  very  mnch  as- 
tonished, as  well  they  might  he,  at  such  a  phenomenon. — ["  Mis- 
quoted and  misimderstood  by  me ;  but  not  intentionally.  It  was 
not  the  '  woods,'  but  the  people  in  them  who  trembled — why. 
Heaven  only  knows — unless  they  were  overheard  making  the 
prodigious  smack." — jByron,  1816.] 

^  The  episode  above  alluded  to  is  the  story  of  "  Eobert  a  Ma- 
chin"  and  "Anna  d'Arfct,"  a  pair  of  constant  lovers,  who  per- 
formed the  kiss  above-mentioned,  that  startled  the  woods  of 
Madeira. 

'  ["Although,"  says  Lord  Byron,  1821,  "I  regret  having  pub- 
lished "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,'  the  part  which  I 
regret  the  least  is  that  which  regards  Mr.  Bowles,  with  reference 
to  Pope.  While  I  was  writing  that  publication,  in  1807  and  1803, 
Mr.  Hobhonse  was  desirous  that  I  should  express  our  mutual 
opinion  of  Pope,  and  of  Mr.  Bowles's  edition  of  his  works.  As 
I  had  completed  my  outline,  and  felt  la,":y,  I  requested  that  he 
would  do  so.  He  did  it.  His  fourteen  lines  on  Bowles's  Pope  are 
in  the  first  edition  of  '  Knglish  Bards,'  and  are  quite  as  severe, 
and  much  more  poetical,  than  my  own  in  the  second.  On  re- 
printing the  work,  as  I  put  my  name  to  it,  I  omitted  Mr.  Hob- 
house's  lines,  by  which  the  work  gained  less  than  Mr.  Bowles." 
—The  following  are  the  lines  written  by  Mr.  Hobhouse  :— 
"  Stick  to  thy  sonnets,  man  ! — at  least  they  sell. 
Or  take  the  only  path  that  open  lies 


Have  foil'd  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst, 
Do  thou  essay :  each  fault,  each  failing  scan ; 
The  first  of  poets  was,  alas  !  but  man. 
Rake  from  each  ancient  dunghill  ev'ry  pearl. 
Consult  Lord  Fanny,  and  confide  in  Curll  ;* 
Let  all  the  scandals  of  a  former  age 
Perch  on  thy  pen,  and  flutter  o'er  thy  page ; 
Aflfect  a  candor  which  thou  canst  not  feel. 
Clothe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal; 
Write,  as  if  St.  John's  soul  could  still  inspire, 
And  do  from  hate  what  Mailed  did  for  hire. 
Oh !  hadst  thou  hved  in  that  congenial  time. 
To  rave  with  Dennis,  and  with  Ralj^h  to  rhyme ;'' 
Throng'd  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head. 
Not  raised  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead ;' 
A  meet  reward  had  crown'd  thy  glorious  gains, 
And  link'd  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pains. 

Another  epic !  Who  inflicts  again 
More  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Boeotian  Cottle,  rich  Bristowa's  boast, 
Imports  old  stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast. 
And  sends  his  goods  to  market — all  alive  ! 
Lines  forty  thousand,  cantos  twenty-flve ! 
Fresh  fish  from  Helicon  !*  who'll  buy  ?  who'll  buy  ? 
The  precious  bargain's  cheap — in  faith,  not  I. 
Your  turtle-feeder's  verse  must  needs  be  flat. 
Though  Bristol  bloat  him  with  the  verdant  fat ; 
If  Commerce  fills  the  purse,  she  clogs  the  brain. 
And  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  lyre  in  vain. 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold, 
Condemn'd  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold. 

For  modem  worthies  who  would  hope  to  rise : 

Fix  on  some  well-kno\vn  name,  and,  bit  by  bit. 

Pare  off  the  merits  of  his  worth  and  wit ; 

On  each  alike  employ  the  critic's  Imife, 

And  when  a  comment  fails,  prefix  a  life  ; 

Hint  certain  failings,  faults  before  unknown, 

Eeriew  forgotten  lies,  and  add  your  own  ; 

Let  no  disease,  let  no  misfortune  'scape. 

And  print,  if  luckily  deformed,  a  shape. 

Thus  shall  the  world,  quite  undeceived  at  last, 

Cleave  to  their  present  wits,  and  quit  their  past ; 

Bards  once  revered  no  more  with  favor  view, 

But  give  their  modem  sonneteers  their  due ; 

Thus  with  the  dead  may  living  merit  cope. 

Thus  Bowles  may  triumph  o'er  the  shade  of  Pope."] 

<  Cnrll  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dunci.id,  and  was  a  bookseller. 
Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name  of  Lord  Hcrvey,  author  of  "  Lines 
to  the  Imitator  of  Horace." 

'  Lord  Bolingbroke  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  Pope  after  his  de- 
cease, because  the  poet  had  retained  some  copies  of  a  work  by 
Lord  Bolingbroke—"  the  Patriot  King,"— which  that  splendid  but 
malignant  genius  had  ordered  to  be  destroyed. 

«  Dennis  the  critic,  and  Ralph  the  rhymester.— 

"  Silence,  ye  wolves  I  while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  hov.-!?. 
Making  night  hideous :  answer  him,  ye  owls !" — Dunciad. 

''  See  Bowles's  late  edition  of  Pope's  "Worlcs,  for  which  he  re- 
ceived three  hundred  pouhds.  Thus  Mr.  B.  has  experienced  how 
much  easier  it  is  to  profit  by  the  reputation  of  another  than  to 
elevate  his  own. 

'  ["Fresh  fish  from  Helicon."—"  Helicon"  is  a  mountain,  and 
not  a  fish-pond.  It  should  have  boon  "  Hippocrene."— 5yro»,  181!!. ] 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


429 


Oh,  Amos  Cottle  ! — ^Phcebus  1  what  a  name, 
To  fill  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame ! — 
Oh,  Amos  Cottle !  for  a  moment  think 
What  meager  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink ! 
When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams, 
Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams  ? 
Oh,  pen  perverted !  paper  misapplied ! 
Had  Cottle'  still  adom'd  the  counter's  side. 
Bent  o'er  the  desk,  or  born  to  useful  toils, 
Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 
Plough'd,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb, 
He  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nor  I  of  him. 

As  Sisyphus  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the  huge  rock  whose  motions  ne'er  may  sleep. 
So  up  thy  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond,  heaves 
Dull  Maurice"  all  his  granite  weight  of  leaves : 
Smooth,  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain ! 
The  petrifactions  of  a  plodding  brain, 
That  ere  they  reach  the  top,  fall  lutabering  back  again. 

With  broken  lyre,  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 
Lo !  sad  Alcoeus  wanders  down  the  vale ; 
Though  fair  they  rose,  and  might  have  bloom'd  at 

last, 
His  hopes  have  perish'd  by  the  northern  blast : 
Nipp'd  in  the  bud  by  Caledonian  gales. 
His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails ! 
O'er  his  lost  works  let  clrissic  Sheffield  weep ; 
May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep  !' 

Yet  say !  why  should  the  bard  at  once  resign 
His  claim  to  favor  from  the  sacred  Nine  ? 
Forever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 
Of  northern  wolves,  that  still  in  darkness  prowl ; 
A  coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey,- 
By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way  ; 
Aged  or  yoimg,  the  living  or  the  dead, 
Ko  mercy  find — these  harpies  must  be  fed. 
Why  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field  ? 

'  Mr.  Cottle,  Amos,  Joseph,  I  don't  know  which,  but  one  or 
both,  oucc  Bollere  of  books  (hey  did  not  write,  and  now  writers 
of  books  they  do  not  sell,  have  published  a  pair  of  epics. 
"  Alfred,"— (poor  Alfred  1  Pye  has  been  at  him  too  1)—"  Alfred," 
and  the  "  Fall  of  Cambria." 

'  Mr.  Maurice  hath  manufactured  the  component  parts  of  a 
ponderous  quarto,  upon  the  beauties  of  "Kichmond  Hill,"  and 
the  like:— it  also  takes  in  a  charming  view  of  Tuniham  Green, 
Hammersmith,  Brentford,  Old  and  New,  and  the  parts  adjacent. — 
[The  Rev.  Thomas  Maurice  also  wrote  "Westminister  Abbey," 
and  other  poems,  the  "  History  of  Ancient  and  Modem  Hindos- 
tan,"  &c.,  and  liis  own  "Memoirs;  comprehending  Anecdotes 
of  Literary  Characters,  during  a  period  of  thirty  years  ;"— a  very 
amusing  piece  of  autobiography.  lie  died  in  1834,  at  his  apart- 
ments in  the  British  Museum ;  where  he  had  been  for  some  years 
assistant  keeper  of  MSS.] 

°  Poor  Montgomery,  though  praised  by  every  English  Review, 
has  been  bitterly  reviled  by  the  Edinburgh.  After  all,  the  bai'd 
of  SheHield  is  a  man  of  considerable  genius.  His  "Wanderer  of 
Switzerland  "  is  worth  a  thousand  "  Lyrical  Balkids,"  and  at  least 
fifty  "  degraded  oplcs." 


Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat, 

Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Arthur's  Seat  V 

Health  to  immortal  Jefirey,'  once,  in  name, 
England  could  boast  a  judge  almost  the  same  ; 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just. 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resign'd  his  trust, 
And  given  the  spirit  to  the  world  again, 
To  sentence  letters,  as  he  sentenced  men. 
With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black, 
With  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rack  ; 
Bred  in  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  law 
As  yet  hath  taught  him  is  to  find  a  flaw ; 
Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party  tool, 
Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before. 
His  scribbling  toils  some  recompence  may  meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  judgment-seat  ? 
Let  Jeffreys'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope. 
And  greeting  thus,  present  him  with  a  rope  : 
"  Heir  to  my  virtues !  man  of  equal  mind  ! 
Skill'd  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind, 
This  cord  receive,  for  thee  reserved  with  care. 
To  wield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear." 

Health  to  great  Jefirey  !  Heaven  preserve  his  life 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  sacred  in  its  future  Avars, 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars  ! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day  ? 
That  ever  glorious,  almost  fatal  fray. 
When  Little's  leadless  pistol  met  his  eye, 
And  Bow-street  myrmidons  stood  laughing  by  ?• 
Oh,  day  disastrous  !  On  her  firm-set  rock, 
Dunedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock  ; 
Dark  roU'd  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 
Low  groan'd  the  startled  whirlwinds  of  the  north  ; 
Tweed  ruffled  half  his  waves  to  form  a  tear, 
The  other  half  pursued  its  calm  career;' 
Arthur's  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base, 
The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  place. 

*  Arthur's  Seat ;  the  hill  which  overhangs  Edinburgh. 

»  [Mr.  Jeffrey,  who,  after  the  first  Kamber  or  two,  succeeded 
the  Eev.  Sydney  Smith  in  the  editorship  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
retired  from  his  critical  post  some  little  time  before  ho  was  ap- 
pointed Lord  Advocate  for  Scotland.] 

"  In  1808,  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Moore  met  at  Chalk-Farm.  Tlie 
duel  was  prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  magistracy ;  and, 
on  examination,  the  balls  of  the  pistols  were  found  to  have  eva- 
porated. This  incident  gave  occasion  to  much  waggery  In  the 
daily  prints.  [The  above  note  was  struck  out  of  the  fifth  edition, 
and  the  following,  after  being  submitted  to  Mr.  Moore,  substituted 
in  its  place  :— "  I  am  informed  that  Mr.  Moore  published  at  the 
time  a  disavowal  of  the  statements  in  the  newspapers,  as  far  as 
regarded  liimsclf ;  and,  injustice  to  him,  I  mention  this  circum- 
stance. As  I  never  heard  of  it  before,  I  cannot  state  the  particn- 
lars,  and  was  only  made  acquainted  with  the  fact  very  lately." — 
November  4, 1811.] 

'  The  Tweed  here  behaved  with  proper  decorum ;  it  would  have 
been  highly  reprehensible  In  the  English  half  of  the  river  to  have 
shown  the  smallest  fymptora  of  apprehentlon. 


430 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  Tolbooth  felt — for  marble  sometimea  can, 

On  such  occasion,  feci  as  much  as  man — 

The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms. 

If  Jeffrey  died,  except  within  her  arms  :' 

Kay,  last,  not  least,  on  that  portentous  mom, 

The  sixteenth  story,  where  himself  was  born, 

His  patrimonial  garret,  fell  to  ground, 

And  pale  Edina  shudder'd  at  the  sound : 

Strew'd  were  the  streets  around  with  milk-white 

reams, 
Flow'd  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams  ; 
This  of  his  candor  seem'd  the  sable  dew 
That  of  his  valor  show'd  the  bloodless  hue; 
And  all  with  justice  decm'd  the  two  combined. 
The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 
But  Caledonia's  goddess  hover'd  o'er 
The  field,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  Moore ; 
From  either  pistol  snatch'd  the  vengeful  lead, 
And  straight  restored  it  to  her  favorite's  head ; 
That  head,  with  greater  than  magnetic  pow'r. 
Caught  it,  as  DanaiJ  caught  the  golden  ehow'r. 
And  though  the  thickening  dross  will  scarce  refine, 
Augments  its  ore,  and  is  itself  a  mine. 
"  My  son,"  she  cried,  "  ne'er  thirst  for  gore  again, 
Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen ; 
O'er  politics  and  poesy  preside. 
Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Britannia's  guide. 

'  This  display  of  sympatliy  on  tlie  part  of  the  Tolbooth,  (the 
principal  prison  in  Edinburgh,)  which  truly  seems  to  have  been 
most  affected  on  this  occasion,  is  much  to  be  commended.  It  was 
to  bo  apprehended,  tliat  the  many  unhappy  criminals  executed  in 
the  front  might  have  rendered  the  edifice  more  callous.  She  is 
said  to  be  of  the  softer  sex,  because  her  delicacy  of  feeling  on  this 
day  was  truly  feminine,  though,  like  most  feminine  impulses,  per- 
haps a  little  selfish. 

^  His  lordship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a  member  of  the  Athe- 
nian Society,  and  reviewer  of  "  Qell's  Topography  of  Troy." — 
[Gleorgo  Hamilton  Gordon,  fourth  Earl  of  Aberdeen,  K.T.,  F.R.S., 
andP.S.A.  In  1822,  his  lordship  published  an  "  Inquiry  into  the 
Principles  of  Beauty  in  Grecian  Architecture."] 

*  Mr.  Herbert  is  a  translator  of  Icelandic  and  other  poetry.  One 
of  the  principal  pieces  is  a  "  Song  on  the  Recovery  of  Thor's 
Hammer : "  the  translation  is  a  pleasant  chant  in  the  vulgar 
tongue,  and  endeth  thus : — 

"  Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot. 
The  hammer^s  bruises  were  her  lot, 
Thus  Odin's  sou  his  hammer  got." 

[The  Hon.  William  Herbert,  brother  to  the  Earl  of  Carnarvon. 

He  also  published,  in  1811,  '*  Ilclga,"  a  poem  in  seven  cantos.] 

*  The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  the  reputed  author  of  Peter  Plj-m- 
ley's  Letters,  and  sundry  criticisms. 

'  Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knight's  "  Taste,"  and  was  ex- 
ceedingly severe  on  some  Greek  verses  therein.  It  was  not  dis- 
covered that  the  lines  were  Pindar's  till  the  press  rendered  it 
impossible  to  cancel  the  critique,  which  still  stands  an  everlasting 
monument  of  Hallam's  ingenuity.— JVo<«  added  to  second  edition. 
—The  said  Hallam  is  Incensed  because  he  is  Msely  accused,  see- 
ing that  he  never  dineth  at  Holland  House.  If  this  be  true,  1  am 
sorry— not  for  having  said  so,  but  on  his  account,  as  I  understand 
his  lordship's  feasts  are  preferable  to  his  compositions.  If  he  did 
not  review  Lord  Holland's  performance,  I  am  glad,  because  it  must 
have  been  painful  to  read,  and  irksome  to  praise  it.  If  Mr.  Hallam 
will  tell  me  who  did  review  it,  the  real  name  shall  find  a  place  In 
the  text ;  provided,  nevertheless,  the  said  name  be  of  tfl  o  orthodox 
musical  syllables,  and  will  come  into  the  verse:  till  then,  Hallam 
must  stand  for  want  of  a  better.— [It  cannot  be  necessary  to  vin 


For  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit, 
Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  wit, 
So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign, 
Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 
Behold,  a  chosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan, 
And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 
First  in  the  oat-fed  phalanx  shall  be  seen 
The  traveU'd  thane  Athenian  Aberdeen.^ 
Herbert  shall  wield  Thor's  hammer,'  and  sometimes. 
In  gratitude,  thou'lt  praise  his  rugged  rhyrhes  ; 
Smug  Sydney*  too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek. 
And  classic  Hallam,^  much  renown'd  for  Greek ; 
Scott  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence  lend. 
And  paltry  Pillans"  shall  traduce  his  friend  ; 
While  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votary,  Lambe,' 
Damn'd  like  the  devil,  devil-like  will  damn. 
Known  be  thy  name,  unbounded  be  thy  sway  ! 
Thy  Holland's  banquets  shall  each  toil  repay ; 
While  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes 
To  Holland's  hirelings  and  to  learning's  foes. 
Yet  mark  one  caution  ere  thy  next  Review 
Spread  its  light  wings  of  saffron  and  of  blue. 
Beware   lest    blundering   Brougham'  destroy    the 

sale. 
Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowers  to  kail." 
Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  goddess  kiss'd 
Her  son,  and  vanish'd  in  a  Scottish  mist." 

cate  the  great  author  of  the  "  Middle  Ages  "  and  the  "  Constitu- 
tional History  of  England  "  from  the  insinuations  of  the  juvenile 
poet.] 

'  Pillans  is  a  tutor  at  Eton.— [Mr.  Pillans  became  afterwards 
Rector  of  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh  and  was  for  some  vears 
Professor  of  Humanity  in  that  University.  There  was  not.  It  is 
believed,  the  slightest  foundation  for  the  charge  in  the  text.] 

'  The  Hon.  George  Lambe  reviewed  "  Beresford's  Miseries," 
and  Is,  moreover,  author  of  a  farce  enacted  with  much  applause 
at  the  ?riory,  Stanmore ;  and  damned  with  great  expedition  at 
the  late  theatre,  Covent  Garden.  It  was  entitled  "  ^Vhistle  for 
It."— [Mr.  Lambe  was,  in  1818,  the  successful  candidate  for  the 
representation  of  Westminster,  in  opposition  to  Mr.  Hobhouso ; 
who,  however,  defeated  him  in  the  followiug  year.  In  1891,  Mr. 
Lambe  published  a  translation  of  Catullus.  In  1832,  he  was  ap- 
pointed Under  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home  Bcpartmeut,  his 
chief  being  his  brother.  Lord  Melbourne.    He  died  in  1833.] 

8  Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.  xxv.  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  through 
out  the  article  concerning  Don  Pedro  de  Cevallos,  has  displayed 
more  politics  than  policy ;  many  of  the  worthy  burgesses  of  Edin- 
burgh being  so  incensed  at  the  infamous  principles  it  evinces,  as 
to  have  withdrawn  their  subscriptions. — [Here  followed,  in  tho 
first  edition — ''  The  name  of  this  personage  is  pronounced  Broom 
in  the  south,  but  the  truly  northern  and  musical  pronunciation  is 
Bbough-am,  in  two  syllables ;"  but  for  this  Lord  B.  substituted 
in  the  second  edition : — "  It  seems  that  Mr.  Brougham  is  not  a 
Pict,  as  I  supposed,  but  a  Borderer,  and  his  name  is  pronounced 
Broom,  from  Trent  to  Tay :— so  be  it."] 

•  I  ought  to  apologize  to  the  worthy  deities  for  introducing  a 
new  goddess  with  short  petticoats  to  their  notice ;  but,  alas ! 
what  was  to  be  done?  I  could  not  say  Caledonia's  genius,  it 
being  well  known  there  is  no  such  genius  to  be  found  from  Clack- 
manan  to  Caithness  ;  yet,  without  supernatural  agency,  how  was 
Jeffrey  to  be  saved?  The  national  "  kelpies  "  are  too  upoetical, 
and  the  "brownies"  and  "gude  neighbors"  (spirits  of  a  good 
disposition)  refused  to  extricate  him.  A  goddess,  therefore,  has 
been  called  for  the  purpose ;  and  great  ought  to  bo  the  gratitude 
of  Jeffrey,  seeing  it  is  the  only  communlcition  he  ever  held,  or  is 
likely  to  hold,  with  anjlhing  heavenly. 


ENGLISH   BARDS  AND   SCOTCH   REVIEWERS. 


431 


Then  prosper  Jefirey  !  pertest  of  the  train 
Whom  Scotland  pampers  with  her  fiery  grain ! 
Wliatever  blessing  waits  a  genuine  Scot, 
In  double  portion  swells  thy  glorious  lot ; 
For  thee  Edina  culls  her  evening  sweets, 
And  showers  their  odors  on  thy  candid  sheets. 
Whose  hue  and  fragrance  to  thy  work  adhere — 
This  scents  its  pages,  and  that  gilds  its  rear,' 
Lo  !  blushing  Itch,  coy  nymph,  enamor'd  grown. 
Forsakes  the  rest,  and  cleaves  to  thee  alone  : 
And,  too  unjust  to  other  Pictish  men. 
Enjoys  thy  person,  and  inspires  thy  pen  1 
Elustrious  Holland  !  hard  would  be  his  lot, 
His  hirelings  mention'd,  and  himself  forgot !' 
Holland,  with  Henry  Petty'  at  his  back, 
The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 
Bless'd  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland  House, 
Wliere  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  carouse  1 
Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof 
Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  kept  aloof. 
See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork. 
Resume  his  pen,  review  his  Lordship's  work, 
And,  grateful  for  the  dainties  on  his  plate, 
Declare  his  landlord  can  at  least  translate  1* 
Dunedin  !  view  thy  children  vnth  delight. 
They  write  for  food — and  feed  because  they  write  : 
And  lest,  when  heated  with  the  unusual  grape. 
Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  escape. 
And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  cheek. 
My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique  ; 
Breathes  o'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul, 
Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole.' 

Now  to  the  Drama  turn  —Oh  !  motley  sight  1 
What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eyes  invite  I 

'  See  the  color  of  the  hack  binding  of  the  Edinburgh  Review. 
'  ["  Bod  cnongh,  and  on  mistaken  gronnds  too."— B.  1816.] 
'  [Lord  Henry  Petty ;   subseqaently  Marquia  of  Lansdowue.] 

*  Lord  Holland  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Lope  de  Vega, 
inserted  in  his  life  of  the  author.  Both  are  bcpraised  by  his  dis- 
in'erested  guests. 

*  Certain  it  is,  her  ladyship  is  suspected  of  having  displayed  her 
matchless  wit  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  However  that  may  be, 
we  know,  from  good  authority,  that  the  manuscripts  are  submitted 
to  her  perusal — no  doubt,  for  correction. 

*  In  the  melo-drama  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  clapped 
into  a  barrel  on  the  stage ;  a  new  asylum  for  distressed  heroes. — 
[In  the  original  MS.  the  note  stands  thus : — "  In  the  melo-drama 
of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  clapped  into  a  barrel  on  the  stage, 
and  Count  Evxard  in  the  fortress  hides  himself  in  a  green-house 
built  expressly  for  the  occasion.  'Tis  a  pity  that  Theodore  Hook, 
who  is  really  a  man  of  talent,  should  confine  his  genius  to  such 
paltry  productions  as  the  '  Fortress,'  '  Music  Mad,'  etc.,  etc." 

'  All  these  are  favorite  expressions  of  Mr.  Reynolds,  and  promi- 
nent in  his  comedies,  living  and  defunct.— [The  reader  is  referred 
to  Mr.  Reynolds'  Autobiography,  published  In  1826,  for  a  fiiU 
account  of  his  voluminous  writings  for  the  stage.] 
"  [Mr.  Kenncy,  the  author  of  many  successful  dramas.] 
»  Mr.  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  new  manager  of  Drury  Lane  theatre, 
stripped  the  tragedy  of  Bonduca  of  the  dialogue,  and  exhibited 
the  scenes  as  the  spectacle  of  Caractacns.    Was  this  worthy  of 


Puns,  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pent,« 
And  Dibdin's  nonsense  yield  complete  content. 
Though  now,  thank  Heaven  !  the  Rosciomania's  o'er, 
And  full-grown  actors  are  endured  once  more  1 
Yet  what  avail  their  vain  attempts  to  please. 
While  British  critics  suffer  scenes  like  these  ; 
While  Rejmolds  vents  his  "  dammes  !"   "  poohs  1" 

and  "  zounds !"' 
And  common-place  and  common  sense  confounds  ? 
While  Kenney's  "  World  " — ah  !  where  is  Kenney's' 

wit?— 
Tires  the  sad  gallery,  luUs  the  listless  pit ; 
And  Beaumont's  pilfer'd  Caratach  affords 
A  tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words  ?' 
Who  but  must  mourn,  while  these  are  all  the  rage, 
The  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage  I 
Heavens  !  is  all  sense  of  shame  and  talent  gone  ? 
Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit  ? — none  ! 
Awake,  George  Colman  !'°  Cumberland,  awake  1" 
Ring  the  alarum  bell !  let  folly  quake  ! 
Oh,  Sheridan  !  if  ajight  can  move  thy  pen. 
Let  Comedy  assume  her  throne  again  ; 
Abjure  the  mummery  of  the  German  schools ; 
Leave  new  Kzarros  to  translating  fools  ; 
Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age. 
One  classic  drama,  and  reform  the  stage. 
Gods  !  o'er  those  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her  head. 
Where  Garrick  trod,  and  Siddons  lives  to  tread  ?" 
On  those  shall  Farce  display  Buffoon'ry's  mask, 
And  Hook  conceal  his  heroes  in  a  cask  ? 
Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From  Cherry,  Skeffington,  and  Mother  Goose  ? 
While  Shakspeare,  Otway,  Massinger,  forgot, 
On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot  ? 
Lo  !  with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proclaim 

his  sire  ?  or  of  himself  ?— [Thomas  Sheridan,  who  united  much  of 
the  convivial  wit  of  his  parent  to  many  amiable  qualities,  received, 
after  the  termination  of  his  theatrical  management,  the  appoint- 
ment of  colonial  paymaster  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  where  ho 
died  in  September,  1817,  leaving  a  widow,  whose  novel  of  "Car- 
well  "  has  obtained  much  approbation,  and  several  children ; 
among  others,  the  accomplished  authoress  of  "  Rosalie  "  and  other 
poems,  now  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Norton.] 

'°  [Lord  Byron  entertained  a  high  opinion  of  George  Colman  s 
convivial  powers — "  If  I  had,"  he  says,  "  to  choose,  and  could  not 
have  both  at  a  time,  I  should  say, '  Let  me  begin  the  evening  with 
Sheridan,  and  finish  it  with  Colman.'  Sheridan  for  dinner,  and 
Colman  for  supper ;  Sheridan  for  claret  or  port,  but  Colman,  for 
everything.  Sheridan  was  a  grenadier  company  of  life-guards, 
but  Colman  a  whole  regiment— of  HgM  infantry,  to  be  sure,  but 
still  a  regiment.    Mr.  Colman  died  in  October,  1836."] 

"  [Richard  Cumberland,  the  well-known  author  of  the  "West 
Indian,"  the  "  Observer,"  and  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  auto- 
biographies, died  in  1811.] 

'"  [In  all  editions  previous  to  the  fifth,  it  was,  "  Kemble  lives  to 
tread."  Lord  Byron  used  to  say,  that,  "  of  actors,  Cooke  was  the 
most  natural,  Kemble  the  most  supernatural,  Kean  the  medium 
between  the  two ;  but  that  Mrs.  Siddons  was  worth  them  all  put 
together."  Such  effect,  however,  had  Kean's  acting  on  his  mind, 
that  once,  on  seeing  him  play  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  he  was  seized 
with  a  sort  of  convulsive  fit.  John  Kemble  died  in  1S23,— his 
illustrious  sister  in  1830.1 


iS2 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


The  riyal  candidates  for  Attic  fame  ! 
In  grim  array  though  Lewis'  spectres  rise, 
Still  SkefEngton  and  Goose  divide  the  prize.' 
And  sure  great  Skeffington  must  claim  our  praise, 
For  skirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays 
Renown'd  alike ;  whose  genius  ne'er  confines 
Her  flight  to  garnish  Greenwood's  gay  designs  \' 
Nor  sleeps  with  "  Sleeping  Beauties,"  but  anon 
lu  five  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on,' 
While  poor  John  Bull,  bevrilder'd  vntli  the  scene, 
Stares,  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean  ; 
But  as  some  hands  applaud,  a  venal  few  ! 
Rather  than  sleep,  why  John  applauds  it  too. 

.      Such  are  we  now.    Ah !  wherefore  should  we  turn 
To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  mourn  ? 
Degenerate  Britons  !  are  ye  dead  to  shame. 
Or,  kind  to  dullness,  do  you  fear  to  blame  ? 
Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
Watch  each  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  face  ; 
Well  may  they  smile  on  Italy's  buffoons, 
And  worship  Catalani's  pantaloons,* 
Since  their  own  drama  yields  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  humor  than  grimace. 

Then  let  Ausonia,  skiU'd  in  every  art 
To  soften  manners,  but  corrupt  the  heart. 
Pour  her  exotic  foUies  o'er  the  town. 
To  sanction  Vice,  and  hunt  Decorum  down  : 
Let  wedded  strumpets  languish  o'er  Deshayes, 
And  bless  the  promise  which  his  form  displays  ; 
While  Gayton  bounds  before  th'  enraptured  looks 
Of  hoary  marquises  and  stripling  dukes  : 
Let  high-bom  lechers  eye  the  lively  Presle 
Twirl  her  light  limbs,  that  spurn  the  needless  veil ; 
Let  Angiolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow. 
Wave  the  white  arm,  and  point  the  pliant  toe  ; 
CoUini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song. 
Strain  her  fair  neck,  and  charm  the  listening  throng  I 
Whet  not  your  scythe,  suppressors  of  our  vice  ! 
Reforming  saints  !  too  delicately  nice  ! 
By  whose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save, 
Ko  Sunday  tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave  ; 

•  [Dlbdin's  pantomime  of  Mother  Goose  had  a  run  of  nearly  a 
hundred  nights,  and  brought  more  than  twenty  thousands  pounds 
to  the  treasury  of  Covent  Garden  theatre.] 

^  Mr.  Greenwood  is,  we  believe,  scene-painter  to  Drury  Lane 
theatre— as  such,  Mr.  Skeffington  is  much  indebted  him. 

'  Mr.  [afterwards  Sir  Lnmley]  Skeffington  is  the  illustrious  au- 
thor of  the  "  Sleeping  Beauty  ;"  and  some  comedies,  particularly 
"Maids  and  Bachelors ;"  Baccalaurii  baculo  magis  quam  lauro  digni. 

•  Naldi  and  Catalan!  require  little  notice  ;  for  the  visage  of  the 
one  and  the  salary  of  the  other,  will  enable  us  long  to  recollect 
these  amusing  vagabonds.  Besides,  we  are  still  black  and  blue 
from  the  squeeze  on  the  first  night  of  tho  lady's  appearance  in 
trousers. 

'  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a  street  for  a  man, 
I  beg  leave  to  state,  that  it  is  the  institution,  and  not  the  duke  of 
that  name,  which  is  here  alluded  to.  A  gentlemen,  with  whom  I 
am  slightly  acquainted,  lost  in  the  Argyle  Kooms  several  thousand 
pounds  at  backgammon.    It  is  but  justice  to  ths  manager  in  this 


And  beer  undrawn,  and  beards  unmown,  display 
Your  holy  reverence  for  the  Sabbath-day. 

Or  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile 
Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argyle  !' 
Where  yon  proud  palace.  Fashion's  hallow'd  fane 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 
Behold  the  new  Petronius"  of  the  day. 
Our  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play  ! 
There  the  hired  eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir. 
The  melting  lute,  the  soft  lascivious  lyre. 
The  song  from  Italy,  the  step  from  Prance, 
The  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance. 
The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  flush  of  wine, 
For  fops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  lords  combine : 
Each  to  his  humor — Comus  all  allows  ; 
Champaign,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbor's  spouse. 
Talk  not  to  us,  ye  star\dng  sons  of  trade  ! 
Of  piteous  ruin,  which  ourselves  have  made ; 
In  Plenty's  sunshine  Fortune's  minions  bask. 
Nor  think  of  poverty,  except  "  en  masque," 
When  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 
Appears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsiro  was. 
The  curtain  drojsp'd,  the  gay  btirletta  o'er, 
The  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor ; 
Now  round  the  room  the  circling  dow'gers  sweep, 
Now  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap  ; 
The  first  in  Icngthen'd  line  majestic  swim. 
The  last  display  the  free  unfetter'd  limb  ! 
Those  for  Hibemia's  lusty  sons  repair 
With  art  the  charms  which  nature  could  not  spare ; 
These  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight. 
Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night. 

Oh  !  bless'd  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease, 
Where,  all  forgotten  but  the  power  to  please. 
Each  maid  may  give  a  loose  to  genial  thought, 
Each  swain  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught ; 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  retum'd  from  Spain, 
Cuts  the  Uglit  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main  ; 
The  jovial  caster  's  set,  and  seven  's  the  nick. 
Or — done  ! — a  thousand  on  the  coming  trick  ! 
If,  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire. 


Instance  to  to  say,  that  some  degree  of  disapprobation  was  mani- 
fested ;  but  why  are  the  implements  of  gaming  allowed  in  a  place 
devoted  to  the  society  of  both  sexes  f  A  pleasant  thing  for  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  those  who  are  blessed  or  cursed  with  such 
connections,  to  hear  the  billiard-tables  rattling  in  one  room,  and 
the  dice  in  another  I  That  this  is  the  case  I  myself  can  testify, 
as  a  late  unworthy  member  of  an  institution  which  materially 
affects  the  morals  of  the  higher  orders,  while  the  lower  may  not 
even  move  to  the  sound  of  a  tabor  and  fiddle,  without  a  chance  of 
indictment  for  riotous  behavior.— [Conceiving  the  foregoing  note, 
together  with  the  line  in  the  text,  to  convey  a  reflection  upon  his 
conduct,  as  manager  of  the  Argyle  institution,  Colonel  Greville, 
demanded  an  explanation  of  Lord  Byron.  The  matter  was  re- 
ferred to  Mr.  Leckie  (the  author  of  a  work  on  Sicilian  affiiirs)  on 
the  part  of  Colonel  Greville,  and  to  Mr.  Moore  on  the  part  of  Lord 
Byron ;  by  whom  it  was  amicably  settled.] 

'  Petronius, "  Arbiter  elegantiarum  "  to  Nero, "  and  a  very  pretty 
fellow  in  his  day,"  as  Mr.  Congreve's  "Old  Bachelor"  saith  of 
Hannib.il. 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


433 


And  all  your  hope  or  wish  is  to  expire, 

Here's  Powell's  pistol  ready  for  your  life, 

And,  kinder  still,  two  Pagets  for  your  wife  ;' 

Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race. 

Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace  ; 

While  none  but  menials  o'er  the  bed  of  death, 

Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breatli ; 

Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all. 

The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  bravvl, 

To  live  like  Clodius,  and  like  Falkland  fall.' 

Truth  !  rouse  some  genuine  bard,  and  guide  his 
To  drive  this  pestilence  from  out  the  land,      [hand. 
E'en  I — least  thinking  of  a  thoughtless  throng, 
Just  skill'd  to  know  the  right  and  choose  the  wrong, 
Freed  at  that  age  when  reason's  shield  is  lost, 
To  fight  my  course  through  passion's  countless  host. 
Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flow'ry  way 
Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray — 
E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 
Such  scenes,  such  men,  destroy  the  public  weal ; 
Although  some  kind,  censorious  friend  will  say 
"  What  art  thou  better,  meddUng  fool,  than  they  V 
And  every  brother  rake  will  smile  to  see 
That  miracle,  a  moralist  in  me. 
No  matter — when  some  bard  in  virtue  strong, 
Gifford,  perchance,  shall  raise  the  chastening  song, 
Then  sleep  my  pen  forever  !  and  my  voice 
Be  only  heard  to  hail  him,  and  rejoice  ; 
Rejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise,  though  I 
May  feel  the  lash  that  Virtue  must  applj'. 

As  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals 
From  silly  Hafiz  up  to  simple  Bowles,  3 

'  [The  original  reading  was,  "  a  Paget  for  your  wife."] 

'  I  knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  well.  On  Sunday  night  I  heheld 
him  presiding  at  his  own  table,  in  all  the  honest  pride  of  hospital- 
ity ;  on  Wednesday  morning,  at  three  o'clock,  I  eaw  stretched 
before  me  all  that  remained  of  courage,  feeling,  and  a  host  of  pas- 
sions. He  was  a  gallant  and  successful  officer ;  his  faults  were 
the  faults  of  a  sailor— as  such,  Britons  will  forgive  them.  He  died 
like  a  brave  man  in  a  better  cause  ;  for  liad  lie  fallen  in  like  man- 
ner on  the  deck  of  the  frigate  to  which  he  was  just  appointed,  his 
last  moments  would  have  been  held  up  by  his  countrymen  as  an 
example  to  succeeding  heroes.  [Lord  Falkland  was  killed  in  a 
duel  by  Mr.  Powell,  In  1809.  It  was  not  by  words  only  that  Lord 
Byron  gave  proof  of  sympathy  on  the  melancholy  occasion. 
Though  his  own  difficulties  pressed  on  him  at  the  time,  he  con- 
trived to  administer  relief  to  the  widow  and  children  of  his  friend.] 

=  What  would  be  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Anacreon,  Hafiz, 
could  he  rise  from  his  splendid  sepulchre  at  Sheeraz,  (where  he 
reposes  with  Ferdousi  and  Sadl,  the  oriental  Homer  and  Catullus,) 
and  behold  his  name  assumed  by  one  Stott  of  Dromore,  the  most 
impudent  and  execrable  of  literary  poachers  for  the  daily  prints  ? 

«  [Miles  Peter  Andrews,  many  years  M.P.  for  Bewdley,  Colonel 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales's  Volunteers,  proprietor  of  a  gunpowder 
manufactory  at  Dartford,  author  of  numerous  prologues,  epilogues, 
and  farces,  and  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Baviad.    He  died  in  1814.] 

•  [In  the  original  manuscript  we  find  these  lines  :— 

"  In  these,  our  times,  with  daily  wonders  big, 
A  letter'd  peer  is  like  a  letter'd  pig ; 
Both  know  their  alphabet,  but  who,  from  thence. 
Infers  tliat  peers  or  pigs  have  manly  sense  f 
Still  less  that  such  should  woo  the  graceful  Nine : 
Parnassus  was  not  made  for  lords  and  swine."] 

•  [On  being  told  that  it  was  believed  he  alluded  to  Lord  Carlisle's 

55 


Why  should  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode, 

In  broad  St.  Giles's  or  in  Tottenham-road  ? 

Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 

To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond-street  or  the  Square  ? 

If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite. 

Most  wisely  doom'd  to  shun  the  public  sight. 

What  harm  ?     In  spite  of  evei-y  critic  elf. 

Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself; 

Miles  Andrews'  still  his  strength  in  couplets  tfy. 

And  live  in  i)rologues,  though  his  dramas  die. 

Lords  too  are  bards,  such  things  at  times  befall, 

And  'tis  some  praise  in  peers  to  write  at  all. 

Yet,  did  or  taste  or  reason  sway  the  times. 

Ah  !  who  would  take  their  titles  with  their  rhymes  ?' 

Roscommon  !  Sheffield  !  with  your  spirits  fled. 

No  future  laurels  deck  a  noble  head  ; 

No  muse  will  cheer,  with  renovating  sinile, 

The  paralyric  puling  of  Carlisle.' 

The  puny  schoolboy  and  his  early  lay 

Men  pardon,  if  his  follies  pass  away ; 

But  who  forgives  the  senior's  ceaseless  verse. 

Whose  hail's  grow  hoai-y  as  his  rhymes  grow  worse  ? 

What  heterogeneous  honors  deck  the  peer  I 

Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitrc,  pamphleteer  !' 

So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  age. 

His  scenes  alone  had  damn'd  our  sinking  stage ; 

But  managers  for  once  cried,  "  Hold,  enough  !" 

Nor  drugg'd  their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuff. 

Yet  at  their  judgment  let  his  lordship  laugh. 

And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf : 

Yes  !  doff  that  covering,  where  morocco  shines. 

And  hang  a  calf-skin'  on  those  recreant  lines.' 


nenouB  disorder  in  this  line.  Lord  Byron  exckiimed,— " I  thank 
heaven  I  did  not  know  it;  and  would  not,  could  not,  if  Iliad.  Imust 
naturally  be  the  last  person  to  be  pointed  on  defects  or  maladies." 
'  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an  eighteen-peiiny 
pamphlet  on  the  state  of  the  stage,  and  offers  his  plan  for  build- 
ing a  new  theatre.  It  is  to  be  hoped  his  lordship  will  be  permitted 
to  bring  forward  anything  for  the  stage— except  his  own  tragedies. 
«  "  Doff  that  lion's  hide, 

And  liang  a  calf-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs." 

Shak.  King  John. 
Lord  Carlisle's  works,  most  resplendently  hound,  form  a  conspic- 
uous omrment  to  his  book-shelves  :— 

"  The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella." 
»  ["  Wrong  also— the  provocation  was  not  sufficient  to  Justify 
the  acerbity."- B.  1816.]— Lord  Byron  greatly  regretted  the  sar- 
casms he  had  published  against  his  noble  relation,  under  the  mis- 
taken impression  that  Lord  Carlisle  had  intentionally  slighted 
him.    In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Eogcrs,  written  in  1814,  he  asks,- "Is 
there  any  chance  or  possibility  of  making  it  up  with  Lord  Carlisle, 
as  I  feel  disposed  to  do  anything  reasonable  or  unreasonable  to 
effect  it."    And  in  the  third  canto  of  Childo  Harold,  he  thus  ad- 
verts to  the  fate  of  the  Hon.  Frederick  Howard,  Lord  Carlisle's 
youngest  son,  one  of  those  who  fell  gloriously  at  Waterloo  :— 
"  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  flies  along. 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lowcr'd. 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thiiio,  young,  gallant  Howard  I" 


404 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


With  you,  ye  Druids  !  rich  in  native  lead, 
Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread  ; 
With  you  I  war  not :  Gifford's  heavy  hand 
Has  crush'd,  without  remorse,  your  numerous  band. 
On  "  all  the  talents  "  vent  your  venal  spleen ; 
Want  is  your  plea,  let  pity  be  your  screen. 
Let  monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  crew. 
And  Melville's  Mantle'  prove  a  blanket  too  ! 
One  «ommon  Lethe  waits  each  hapless  bard. 
And,  peace  be  with  you  I  'tis  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Dunciads  only  give 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  morning  live ; 
But  now  at  once  your  fleeting  labors  close. 
With  names  of  greater  note  in  bless'd  repose. 
Far  be  't  from  me  imkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  Eosa's  prose  in  masquerade, 
Whose  strains,  the  faithful  echoes  of  her  mind, 
Leave  wondering  comprehension  far  behind.^ 
Though  Crusca's  bards  no  more  our  journals  fill. 
Some  stragglers  skirmish  round  the  columns  still ; 
Last  of  the  howling  host  which  once  was  Bell's, 
Matilda  snivels  yet,  and  Hafiz  yells  ; 
And  Merry's  Metaphors  appear  anew, 
Chain'd  to  the  signature  of  O.  P.  Q.^ 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a  stall,* 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl. 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of  shoes, 
St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  muse, 
Heavens !  how  the  vulgar  stare !  how  crowds  applaud  1 
How  ladies  read,  and  Uterati  laud !' 
If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should  jpass  his  jest. 


'  "  Melville's  Mantle,"  a  parody  on  "  Elijah's  Mantle,"  a  poem. 

'  This  lovely  little  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the  noted  Jew  King, 
Geoms  to  be  a  follower  of  the  Delia  Crusca  school,  and  has  pub- 
ILshed  two  volumes  of  very  respectable  absurdities  in  rhyme,  as 
times  go ;  besides  simdry  novels  in  the  style  of  the  first  edition 
of  the  Monk. — ['•  She  since  married  the  Morning  Post — an  exceed- 
ing good  match  ;  and  is  now  dead — which  is  better." — B.  1816.] 

»  These  are  the  signatures  of  various  worthies  who  figure  in  the 
poetical  departments  of  the  newspapers. 

*  [Joseph  Blackett,  the  shoemaker.  He  died  at  Seaham,  in  1810. 
His  poems  were  afterwards  collected  by  Pratt ;  and,  oddly  enough, 
hia  principal  patroness  was  Miss  Milbank,  then  a  perfect  stranger 
to  Lord  Byron.  In  a  letter  written  to  Dallas,  on  board  the  Volage 
frigate,  at  sea,  in  June,  1811,  he  says,—"  I  see  that  yours  and 
Pratt's  protege,  Blackett,  the  cobbler,  is  dead,  in  spite  of  his 
rhymes,  and  is  probably  one  of  the  instances  where  death  has 
saved  a  man  from  damnation.  Tou  were  the  niin  of  that  poor 
fellow  amongst  you ;  had  it  not  been  for  his  patrons,  he  might 
now  have  been  in  very  good  plight,  shoe-  (not  verse-)  making ;  but 
you  have  made  him  immortal  with  a  vengeance ;  who  would  think 
that  anybody  would  be  such  a  blockhead  as  to  sin  against  an  ex- 
press proverb,—'  Ne  Butor  ultra  crepidam  I' 

'  But  spare  him,  ye  Critics,  hia  follies  are  past, 
For  the  Cobbler  is  come,  as  he  ought,  to  his  last.^ — 
Which  two  lines  with  a  scratch  under  last,  to  show  where  the 
joke  lies,  I  beg  that  you  will  prevail  on  Miss  Milbank  to  have 
Inserted  on  the  tomb  of  her  departed  Blackett."] 

*  ["  This  was  meant  for  poor  Blackett,  who  was  then  patronized 
by  A.  J.  B."  (Lady  Byron;)  "but  that  I  did  not  know,  or  this 
would  not  have  been  written,  at  least  I  think  not."— B.  1816.1 

'  Oapel  Lost,  Esq.,  the  Msecenas  of  shoemakers,  and  preface- 
writer-general  to  distressed  versemen ;  a  kind  of  gratis  accoucheur 
to  those  who  wish  to  be  delivered  of  rhyme,  but  do  not  know  how 


'Tis  sheer  ill-nature — don't  the  world  know  best  ? 

Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme, 

And  Capel  LoSt'  declares  'tis  quite  sublime. 

Hear,  then,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade  1 

Swains  !  quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade  ! 

Lo  !  Burns'  and  Bloomfleld,  nay,  a  greater  far, 

Gifford  was  bom  beneath  an  adverse  star. 

Forsook  the  labors  of  a  servile  state, 

Stemm'd  the  rude  storm,  and  triumph'd  over  fate  : 

Then  why  no  more  ?  if  Phcebus  smiled  on  you, 

Bloomfleld  !  why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too  ?' 

Him  too  the  mania,  not  the  muse,  has  seized  ; 

Not  inspiration,  but  a  mind  diseased  : 

And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode, 

No  common  be  enclosed  without  an  ode. 

Oh  !  since  increased  reflnement  deigns  to  smile 

On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  isle, 

Let  poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole. 

Alike  the  rustic,  and  mechanic  soul ! 

Ye  tuneful  cobblers  !  still  your  notes  prolong. 

Compose  at  once  a  sUpper  and  a  song  ; 

So  shall  the  fair  your  handiwork  peruse. 

Your  sonnets  sure  shall  please — ^perhaps  your  shoes. 

May  Moorland  weavers'  boast  Pindaric  skill. 

And  tailors'  lays  be  longer  than  their  biU  ! 

While  punctual  beaux  reward  the  grateful  notes. 

And  pay  for  poems — when  they  pay  for  coats. 

To  the  famed  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  duo. 
Neglected  genius  !  let  me  turn  you. 
Come  forth,  oh,  Campbell !'°  give  thy  talents  scope  ; 

to  bring  forth.— [The  poet  Bloomfleld  owed  his  first  celebrity  to 
the  notice  of  Capel  Lofft  and  Thomas  Hill,  Esquires,  who  read  his 
"  Farmer's  Boy,"  in  manuscript,  recommended  it  to  a  publisher, 
and  by  their  influence  in  society  and  literature,  soon  drew  general 
attention  to  its  merits.  It  is  distressing  to  remember  that,  after 
all  that  had  been  done  by  the  zeal  of  a  few  friends,  the  public 
sympathy  did  not  rest  permanently  on  the  amiable  Bloomfleld, 
who  died  in  extreme  poverty  in  1823.] 

'  "  Bead  Bums  to-day.  What  would  he  have  been  if  a  patri- 
cian ?  We  should  liave  had  more  polish — less  force— just  as  much 
Terse,  but  no  immortality — a  divorce  and  a  duel  or  two,  the  which 
had  he  survived,  as  hia  potations  must  have  been  less  spirituous, 
he  might  have  lived  as  long  as  Sheridan,  and  outlived  as  much  as 
poor  Brinsley."— ^yroa  Journal,  1813.] 

"  See  Nathaniel  Bloomfleld' s  ode,  elegy,  or  whatever  he  or  any 
one  else  chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  enclosure  of  "Honington 
Green." 

»  Vide  "  Recollections  of  a  Weaver  In  the  Moorlands  of  Staf- 
fordsWre." 

'°  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  mind  of  the  reader  the 
authors  of  "The  Pleasures  of  Memory"  and  "The  Pleasures  of 
Hope,"  the  most  beautiful  didactic  poems  in  our  language,  if  we 
except  Pope's  "Essay  on  Man;"  but  so  many  poetasters  have 
started  up,  that  even  the  names  of  Campbell  and  Rogers  are  be- 
come strange. — [Beneath  this  note  of  Lord  Byron  scribbled,  in  1816 : 
"  Pretty  Miss  Jacqueline 
Bad  a  nose  aquiline. 
And  would  assert  rude 
Things  of  Miss  Gertrude, 
While  Mr.  Marmion 
Led  a  great  army  on, 
Making  Eehama  look 
Like  a  fierce  Mameluke."] 


«;■ 


V^/^f/  (Hu^mJ 


iishcrs,  NcW-York 


ENGLISH    BARDS    AND    SCOTCH    REVIEWERS. 


435 


Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope  ? 
And  thou,  melodious  Rogers  !'  rise  at  last, 
Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past ; 
Arise  I  let  bless'd  remembrance  still  inspire, 
And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallow'd  lyre  ; 
Restore  ApoUo  to  his  vacant  throne, 
Assert  thy  country's  honor  and  thine  own." 
What !  must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 
Where  her  last  hopes  with  pious  Cowper  sleep  ? 
Unless,  perchance,  from  his  cold  bier  she  turns. 
To  deck  the  turf  that  wraps  her  minstrel,  Bums  ! 
No  I  though  contempt  hath  mark'd  the  spurious 
The  race  who  fhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food,  [brood. 
Yet  still  some  genuine  sons  'tis  hers  to  boast. 
Who,  least  affecting,  still  effect  the  most : 
Feel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  feel — 
Bear  witness  Gifford,^  Sotheby,*  Macneil/ 

"  Why  slumbers  Gifford  ?"   once  was  asked  in 
Why  slumbers  Gifford  ?  let  us  ask  again.       [vain ;« 
Are  there  no  foUies  for  his  pen  to  purge  ?' 
Are  there  no  fools  whose  backs  demand  the  scourge  ? 
Are  there  no  sins  for  Satire's  bard  to  greet  ? 
Stalks  not  gigantic  Vice  in  every  street  ? 
Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  pollution's  path, 
And  'scape  alike  the  law's  and  muse's  wrath  2 
Nor  blaze  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime  ? 
Arouse  thee,  Gifford  1  be  thy  promise  claim'd. 
Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed. 

Unhappy  White  ! '  while  life  was  in  its  spring. 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  swept  that  soaring  lyre  away, 

•  ["  I  have  been  reading,"  says  Lord  Byron,  In  1813,  "  Memory 
again,  and  Hope  together,  and  retain  all  my  preference  of  the 
former.  His  elegance  is  really  wonderful— there  is  no  snch  a 
tiling  as  a  vulgar  line  in  his  bools."] 

'  ["  Rogers  has  not  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  first  poems,  but 
has  still  very  great  merit."— B.  1816.] 

'  Gifford,  author  of  the  Baviad  and  Mrevlad,  the  first  satiies  of 
the  day,  and  translator  of  Juvenal. 

*  Sotheby,  translator  of  Wieland's  Oberon  and  Virgil's  Geor- 
gics,  and  author  of  "  Saul,"  an  epic  poem.— [Mr.  Sotheby  after- 
wards essentially  raised  his  reputation  by  various  original  poems, 
acd  a  translation  of  the  Iliad.    He  died  in  1834.] 

'  Macneil,  whose  poems  are  deservedly  popular,  particularly 
"Scotland's  Scaith,"  and  the  "Waea  of  War,"  of  which  ton 
thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one  month.— [Hector  Macneil  died 
in  1818.] 

'  [Lord  Byron  here  alludes  to  the  masterly  poem  of  "  New  Mor- 
ality," (the  joint  production  of  Mr.  Canning  and  Mr.  Frere,)  In 
the  Anti-jacobin,  in  which  Gifford  is  thus  apostrophized  :— 

"  Bethinic  thee,  Gifford,  when  some  future  ago 
Shall  trace  the  promise  of  thy  playful  page  ; 
'  The  hand  which  brush'd  a  swarm  of  foois  away, 
Should  rouse  to  grasp  a  more  reluctant  prey  1' 
Think,  then,  will  pleaded  indolence  excuse 
The  tame  secession  of  thy  languid  muse  ? 
Ah  I  where  is  now  tliat  promise  f  why  so  long 
Sleep  the  keen  shafts  of  satire  and  of  song  ? 
Oh  !  come,  with  taste  and  virtue  at  thy  side, 
With  ardent  zeal  Inflamed,  and  patriot  pride ; 
With  keen  poetic  glance  direct  the  blow, 
And  empty  all  thy  quiver  on  the  foe — 


Which  else  had  sounded  an  immortal  lay. 

Oh,  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone. 

When  Science'  self  destroy'd  her  favorite  son  ! 

Yes,  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit. 

She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 

'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow. 

And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low  I 

So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 

No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 

View'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart. 

And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quiver'd  in  his  heart ; 

Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel, 

He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impell'd  the  steel ; 

While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest 

Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast.'" 

There  be,  who  say,  in  these  enlighten'd  days, 
That  splendid  lies  are  all  the  poet's  praise  ; 
That  strain'd  invention,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Alone  impels  the  modem  bard  to  sing  : 
'Tis  true,  that  all  who  rhyme — nay,  all  who  write, 
Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  genius — trite  ; 
Yet  Truth  sometimes  will  lend  her  noblest  fires. 
And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires  : 
This  fact  in  Virtue's  name  let  Crabbe'"  attest ; 
Though  nature's  stemest  painter,  yet  the  best." 

And  here  let  Shee '"  and  Genius  find  a  place, 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace  ; 
To  guide  whose  hand  the  sister  arts  combine, 
And  trace  the  poet's  or  the  painter's  line  ; 

No  pause— no  rest— till  weltering  on  tlie  ground 

The  poisonous  hydra  lies,  and  pierced  with  many  a  wound."] 

'  Mr.  Gifford  promised  publicly  that  the  Baviad  and  Msevlad 
should  not  be  his  last  original  works :  let  him  remember,  "Mox 
in  reluctantes  dracones."— [Mr.  Gifford  became  the  editor  of  the 
Quarterly  Review,— which  thenceforth  occupied  most  of  his  time, 
—a  few  months  after  the  first  appearance  of  this  satire  in  1809.] 

s  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge,  in  October,  1806,  In 
consequence  of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies  that 
would  have  matured  a  mind  which  disease  and  poverty  could  not 
impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed  rather  than  subdued. 
His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  impress  the  reader 
with  the  liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a  period  was  allotted  to  tal- 
ents which  would  have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he  was 
destined  to  assume. 

•  [Mr.  Southey'B  delightflil  Life  of  Klrko  White  Is  in  everyone's 
hands.] 

i»  ["I  consider  Crabbe  and  Coleridge  as  the  first  of  these  times. 
In  point  of  power  and  genius."— B.  1816.] 

II  [This  eminent  poet  and  excellent  man  died  at  his  rectory  of 
Trowbridge,  In  February,  1831,  aged  seventy-eight.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  the  late  Lord  Stowell,  ho  was  the  last  surviving  cele- 
brated man  mentioned  by  Boswoll  in  connection  witli  Johnson, 
who  revised  his  poem  of  the  "  Village."  His  other  works  are  the 
"  Library,"  the  "  Newspaper,"  the  "  Borough,"  a  collection  of 
"  Poems  "  which  Charies  Fox  read  in  manuscript  on  his  death- 
bed •  "  Tales,"  and  also  "  Tales  of  tho  Hall."  He  left  various 
poetical  pieces  in  MS.,  and  a  collective  edition  of  his  works  was 
published  In  1834,  preceded  by  an  interesting  memoir,  written 
by  his  son.] 

IS  Mr.  Shee,  author  of  "Rhymes  on  Art," and  "ElemenU  of 
Art."— [Subsequently  Sir  Martin  Shee,  ond  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy.! 


436 


BYKON'S  WORKS. 


Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvass  glow, 
Or  pour  the  easy  rhyme's  harmonious  flow  ; 
While  honors,  doubly  merited,  attend 
The  poet's  rival,  but  the  painter's  friend. 

Bless'd  is  the  man  who  dares  approach  the  bower 
Where  dwelt  the  Muses  at  their  natal  hour  ; 
Whose  steps  have  press'd,  whose  eye  has  mark'd  afar, 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and  war. 
The  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o'er, 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore. 
But  doubly  bless'd  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallow'd  feelings  for  those  classic  lands  ; 
Who  rends  the  veil  of  ages  long  gone  by. 
And  views  their  remnants  with  a  poet's  eye  ! 
Wright ! '  'twas  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  glory,  and  to  sing  them  too  ; 
And  sure  no  common  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  bards  ! «  who  snatch'd  to  light 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modern  sight ; 
Whose  mingling  taste  combined  to  cull  the  wreath 
Where  Attic  flowers  Aonian  odors  breathe. 
And  aU  their  renovated  fragrance  flung. 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  thy  native  tongue  ; 
Now  let  those  minds,  that  nobly  could  transfuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse. 
Though  soft  the  echo,  scorn  a  borrow'd  tone  : 
Resign  Achaia's  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  with  just  applause, 
Restore  the  muse's  violated  laws  ; 
But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin's  pompous  chime. 
That  mighty  master  of  unmeaning  rhyme, 

'  Walter  Kodwell  Wright,  late  consul  general  for  the  Seven  Is- 
lands, is  author  of  a  very  beautiful  poem,  just  published:  it  is  en- 
titled "  Horse  lonicse,"  and  is  descriptive  of  the  isles  and  the  ad- 
jacent coast  of  Greece.— [To  the  third  edition,  which  came  out 
in  1816,  was  added  an  .xcellent  translation  of  the  "  Orcste"  of 
Alfleri.  After  his  return  to  England,  Mr.  Wright  was  chosen  Ee- 
corder  of  Bury  St.  Edmunds,] 

'  The  translators  of  the  Anthology,  Bland  and  Merivalo,  have 
since  published  separate  poems,  which  evince  genius  that  only 
requires  opportunity  to  attain  eminence.— [The  late  Eev.  Robert 
Bland  published,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Merivale,  "  Collections 
fVom  the  Greek  Anthology."  He  also  wrote  "  Edwy  and  Elgiva," 
the  "  Four  Slaves  of  Cythera,"  etc.  In  1814,  Mr.  Merivale  pub- 
lished "  Orlando  in  Eoncevalles  ;"  and  in  the  following  year,  "An 
Ode  on  the  Delivery  of  Europe."  He  was  afterwards  one  of  the 
Commissioners  of  the  new  Bankruptcy  Court.] 
"  The  neglect  of  the  "Botanic  Garden"  is  some  proof  of  re- 
"  turning  taste.    The  scenery  is  its  sole  recommendation. 

*  Messrs.  Lamb  and  Lloyd,  the  most  Ignoble  followers  of  Sonthey 
and  Co.— [In  1798,  Charles  Lamb  and  Charles  Lloyd  published  in 
conjunction  a  volume,  entitled,  "  Poems  in  Bl.ink  Verse."  Mr. 
Lamb  was  also  the  author  of  "  John  Woodville,"  "  Tales  from 
Rhakspeare,"  the  "  Essays  of  Ella,"  etc.  He  died  in  1833.  Mr. 
Lloyd  has  also  published  "  Edward  Oliver,"  a  novel,  "Kugas  Ca- 
noroi,"  and  a  translation  of  Alfleri's  Tragedies.] 

'  By-thc-by,  I  hope  that  in  Mr.  Scott's  next  poem,  his  hero  or 
heroine  will  be  less  addicted  to  "  Gramarye,"  and  more  to  gram- 
mar, than  the  Lady  of  the  Lay  and  her  bravo,  William  of  Dolo- 
raine. 

•  ["  TJnjust."— 2?2/ron,  1816.] 


Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adorn'd  than  clear. 
The  eye  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear ; 
In  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass. 
But  now,  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass  ; 
While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around 
Evaporate  in  similes  and  sound  : 
Him  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die  : 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  oflFends  the  eye.' 

Yet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  Wordsworth  stoop. 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group. 
Whose  verse,  of  all  but  childish  prattle  void. 
Seems  blessed  harmony  to  Lamb  and  Lloyd  :* 
Let  them — but  hold,  my  muse,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A  strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach  : 
The  native  genius  with  their  being  given 
Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

And  thou,  too,  Scott ! »  resign  to  minstrel  rude 
The  wilder  slogan  of  a  border  feud  : 
Let  others  spin  their  meager  lines  for  hire  ; 
Enough  for  genius,  if  itself  inspire  ! 
Let  Southey  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse. 
Prolific  every  spring,  be  too  profuse  ; 
Let  simple  Wordsworth"  chime  his  childish  verse, 
And  brother  Coleridge  lull  the  babe  at  nurse  ; 
Let  spectre-mongering  Lewis  aim,  at  most, 
To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost ; 
Let  Moore  still  sigh ;  let  Strangford  steal  from  Moore, 
And  swear  that  CamoSns  sang  such  notes  of  yore  ; 
Let  Hayley  hobble  on,  Montgomery  rave. 
And  godly  Qrahame  chant  a  stupid  stave ; 
Let  sonneteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine, 
And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line  ; 
Let  Stott,  Carhsle,'  Matilda,  and  the  rest 


'  It  may  bo  asked  why  I  have  censured  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  ray 
guardian  and  relative,  to  whom  I  dedicated  a  volume  of  puerile 
poems  a  few  years  ago  ?— The  guardianship  was  nominal,  at  least 
as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover ;  the  relationship  I  cannot 
help,  and  am  very  sorry  for  it ;  but  as  his  lordship  seemed  to  for- 
get it  on  a  very  essential  occasion  to  me,  I  shall  not  burden  my 
memory  with  the  recollection.    I  do  not  think  that  personal  dif- 
ferences sanction  the  unjust  condemnation  of  a  brother  scribbler  • 
but  I  see  no  reason  why  they  should  act  as  a  preventive,  when  the 
author,  noble  or  ignoble,  has,  for  a  series  of  years,  beguiled  a 
"  discerning  public  "  (as  the  advertisements  have  it)  with  divers 
reams  of  most  orthodox,  Imperial  nonsense.    Besides,  I  do  not 
step  aside  to  vituperate  the  earl ;  no— his  works  come  fairly  in 
review  with  those  of  other  patrician  literati.    If,  before  I  escaped 
from  my  teens,  I  said  any  thing  in  favor  of  his  lordship's  paper 
books,  it  was  in  the  way  of  dutiful  dedication,  and  more  from  the 
advice  of  others  than  my  own  judgment,  and  I  seize  the  nrst  op- 
portunity of  pronouncing  my  sincere  recantation.    I  have  l-.eard 
that  some  persons  conceive  me  to  be  under  obligalions  to  Lord 
Carlisle :  if  so,  I  shall  be  most  particularly  happy  to  learn  what 
they  are,  and  when  conferred,  that  they  may  be  duly  appreciated 
and  pnblicly  acknowledged.    What  I  have  humbly  advanced  as  an 
opinion  on  his  printed  things,  I  am  prepared  to  support,  if  neces- 
sary, by  quotations  from  elegies,  eulogies,  odes,  episodes,  and  cer- 
tain facetious  and  dainty  tragedies  bearing  hia  name  and  mark  :— 
"What  can  ennoble  knaves,  or  fools,  or  cowards  ? 
Alas  1  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards." 
So  says  Pope.    Amen !— ["  Much  too  savage,  whatever  the  foun- 
dation might  be."— B.  1818.] 


ENGLISH   BARDS  AND   SCOTCH   REVIEWERS. 


437 


Of  Grub-street,  and  of  Grosvenor-place  the  best, 
Scrawl  on,  till  death  release  us  from  the  strain, 
Or  Common  Sense  assert  her  rights  again. 
But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  praise, 
Shouldst  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays  : 
Thy  country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  nine, 
Demand  a  hallow'd  harp — that  harp  is  thine. 
Say  1  will  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 
The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field, 
Than  the  wild  foray  of  a  plundering  clan, 
Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man  ? 
Or  Marmion's  acts  of  darkness,  fitter  food 
For  Sherwood's  outlaw  tales  of  Robin  Hood  ? 
Scotland  !  stiU  proudly  claim  thy  native  bard, 
•  And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward  ! 
Yet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live. 
But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give  ; 
Be  known,  perchance,  when  Albion  is  no  more. 
And  tcU  the  tale  of  what  she  was  before ; 
To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall, 
And  save  her  glory,  though  his  country  fall. 

Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poet's  hope, 
To  conquer  ages,  and  with  time  to  cope  ? 
New  eras  spread  their  wings,  new  nations  rise. 
And  other  victors  fill  the  applauding  skies  ; 
A  few  brief  generations  fleet  along, 
Whose  sons  forget  the  poet  and  his  song  : 
E'en  now,  what  once-loved  minstrels   scarce   may 
The  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  name  !      [claim 
When  fame's  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  noblest  blast, 
Though  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at  last ; 
And  glory,  like  the  phoenix'  'midst  her  fires, 
Exhales  her  odors,  blazes,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons. 
Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  puns  ? 
Shall  these  approach  the  muse  ?  ah,  no  !  she  flies. 
Even  from  the  tempting  ore  of  Seaton's  prize  ; 
Though  printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 

'  [The  devil  take  that  phrenix  I  How  came  it  there  ?  "— B.  1816.] 
'  ["The  Rev.  Charles  James  Uoare  published,  in  1S03,  the 

"Shipwreclt  of  St.  Paul,"  a  Scatonian  prize  poem.] 
'  [The  Hcv.  Charles  Iloyle,  author  of  "  Exodus,"  an  epic  in 

thirteen  boolcs,  and  seveial  other  Scatonian  prize  poems.] 

•  The  "  Games  of  Hoyle,"  well  known  to  the  votaries  of  whist, 
chest,  etc.,  are  not  to  be  superseded  by  the  vagaries  of  his  poet- 
ical namesake,  whose  poem  comprised,  as  expressly  stated  in  the 
advertisement,  ail  the  "plagues  of  Egypt." 

'  ["  Right  enoogh :  this  was  well  deserved,  and  well  laid  on."— 
B.  1810.] 

•  This  person,  who  has  lately  betrayed  the  most  rabid  symptoms 
of  confirmed  authorship,  is  writer  of  a  poem  denominated  the 
"Art  of  Pleasing,"  "as  lucusanon  lucendo,"  containing  little 
pleasantry  and  less  jwetry.  lie  also  acts  as  monthly  stipendiary 
ana  collector  of  calumnies  for  the  "  Satirist."  If  this  unfortunate 
young  man  would  exchange  the  magazines  for  the  mathematics, 
and  endeavor  to  take  a  decent  degreo  In  his  university,  it  might 
erentunlly  prove  more  serviceable  than  his  present  Falary.— [Mr. 
Bewson  Clarke  was  also  the  author  of  "  The  Sauntercr,"  and  a 
"History  of  the  Campaign  In  Kussia."] 


With  rhyme  by  Hoare,'  and  epic  blank  by  Hoyle ;' 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upheld  by  whist. 
Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list.* 
Ye  !  who  in  Granta's  honors  would  surpass. 
Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a  full-grown  ass  ; 
A  foal  well  worthy  of  her  ancient  dam. 
Whose  Helicon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 

There  Clarke,  still  striving  piteously  "to  please  " 
Forgetting  dogg'rcl  leads  not  to  degrees, 
A  would-be  satirist,  a  hired  buflfoon, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon,5 
Condemn'd  to  drudge,  the  meanest  of  the  mean. 
And  furbish  falsehoods  for  a  magazine. 
Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind  ; 
Himself  a  living  libel  on  mankind.* 

Oh,  dark  asylum  of  a  Vandal  race  ! ' 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning,  and  disgrace  ! 
So  lost  to  Phoebus,  that  nor  Hodgson's*  verse 
Can  make  thee  better,  nor  poor  Hewson'a"  worse,i<> 
But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 
The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave  ; 
On  her  green  banks  a  greener  wreath  she  wove, 
To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  her  classic  grove ; 
Where  Richards  wakes  a  genuine  poet's  fires. 
And  modern  Britons  glory  in  their  sires." 

For  me,  who,  thus  unask'd,  have  dared  to  tell 
My  coimtry,  what  her  sons  should  know  too  well, 
Zeal  for  her  honor  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age  ; 
No  just  applause  her  honor'd  name  shall  lose. 
As  first  in  freedom,  dearest  to  the  muse. 
Oh,  would  thy  bards  but  emulate  thy  fame. 
And  rise  more  worthy,  Albion,  of  thy  name  1 
What  Athens  was  in  science,  Rome  in  power. 
What  Tyro  appear'd  in  her  meridian  hour, 
'Tis  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion  !  to  have  been — 
Earth's  chief  dictatress,  ocean's  lovely  queen  : 

'  "  Into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Probus  transported  a  con- 
siderable body  of  Vandals."— Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  ii., 
p.  &3.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  assertion ; 
the  breed  is  stiil  in  high  perfection. 

'  This  gentleman's  name  requires  no  praise ;  the  man  who  in 
translation  displays  unquestionable  genius  may  be  well  expected 
to  excel  in  original  composition,  of  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  wo 
shall  soon  see  a  splendid  specimen. — [Besides  a  translation  of 
Juvenal,  Mr.  Hodgson  has  published  "  Lady  Jane  Grey,"  "  Sir 
Edgar,"  and  "The  Friends,"  a  poem  in  four  books.  He  also 
translated,  in  conjunction  with  Dr.  Butler,  Lucien  Bonaparte's 
unreadable  epic  of  "  Cliarlemagne."] 

"  Hewson  Clarke,  etq.,  as  it  is  written. 

"  [Originally,— 
"  So  sunk  in  dullness,  and  so  lost  In  shame, 
Tliat  Smythe  and  Hodgson  scarce  redeem  thy  name."] 

"  The  "Aboriginal  Britons,"  an  excellent  poem  by  Itlchards. 
[The  Rev.  George  Richards,  D.  D.,  has  also  sent  from  the  press 
"  Songs  of  the  Aboriginal  Bards  of  Britain,"  "  Modem  Franco," 
two  volameii  of  Miscellaneous  Poems,  and  Bampton  Lectures 
"  On  tlie  Divine  Orixiu  of  Prophecy."] 


438 


BYRONS'    WORKS. 


But  Rome  decay'd,  and  Athens  strew'd  the  plain, 
Aud  Tyre's  proud  piers  lie  shatter'd  in  the  main ; 
Like  these,  thy  strength  may  sink,  in  ruin  hurl'd, 
And  Britain  fall,  the  bulwark  of  the  world. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra's  fate. 
With  warning  ever  scoflF'd  at,  till  too  late ; 
To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine, 
And  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a  name  Uke  thine.' 

Then,  hapless  Britain  !  be  thy  rulers  bless'd. 
The  senate's  oracles,  the  people's  jest ! 
Still  hear  thy  motley  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense. 
While  Canning's  colleagues  hate  him  for  his  wit, 
And  old  dame  Portland"  fills  the  place  of  Pitt. 

Yet  once  again,  adieu  !  ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale  ; 
And  Afric's  coast  and  Calpe's  adverse  height. 
And  Stamboul's  minarets  must  greet  my  sight : 
Thence  shall  I  stray  through  beauty's  native  clime,> 
Where  Kaflf*  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crown'd  with 

snows  sublime. 
But  should  I  back  return,  no  tempting  press" 
Shall  drag  my  journal  from  the  desk's  recess  : 
Let  coxcombs,  printing  as  they  come  from  far, 
Snatch  his  own  wreath  of  ridicule  from  Carr ;" 
Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin'  still  pursue 
The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  virtu ; 
Waste  useless  thousands  on  their  Phidian  freaks, 
Misshapen  monuments  and  maim'd  antiques  ; 
And  make  their  grand  saloons  a  general  mart 
For  all  the  mutilated  blocks  of  art. 
Of  Darden  tours  let  dilettanti  tell, 
I  leave  topography  to  rapid'  Gell ;' 
And,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 
To  stun  the  public  ear— at  least  with  prose. 

Thus  far  I've  held  my  undisturb'd  career. 
Prepared  for  rancor,  steel'd  'gainst  selfish  fear  : 
This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdain'd  to  own — 


>  With  this  verse  the  satire  originally  ended. 

'  A  friend  of  mine  being  asked,  why  his  Grace  of  Portland  was 
likened  to  an  old  woman  f  replied,  "  he  supposed  it  was  because 
he  was  past  bearing."  His  Grace  is  now  gathered  to  his  grand- 
mothers, where  he  sleeps  as  sound  as  ever ;  but  even  his  sleop 
was  better  than  his  coUeagnes'  waking.    1811. 

»  Georgia.  4  Mount  Caucasus. 

'  These  four  lines  originally  stood, — 

"  But  should  I  back  return,  no  letter'd  sage 
Shall  drag  my  common-place  book  on  the  stage ; 
Let  vain  Valentla*  rival  luckless  Carr, 
And  equal  him  whose  work  he  sought  to  mar." 


*  Lord  Valentla  (whose  tremendous  travels  are  forthcoming, 
with  due  decorations,  graphical,  topographical,  typographical.)  de- 
posed, on  Sir  John  Carr's  unlncky  suit,  that  Mr.  Dubois's  satire 
prevented  his  purchase  of  the  "  Stranger  in  Ireland."— O,  fle,  my 
lord  I  has  your  lordship  no  more  feeling  for  a  fellow-tourist  ?— but 
"two  of  a  trade."  they  say,  etc. 


Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown  ; 
My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud, 
My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow'd  ; 
And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away  : — 
Cheer  on  the  pack  !  the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 
Unscared  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne  house. 
By  Lamb's  resentment,  or  by  Holland's  spouse. 
By  Jeffrey's  harmless  pistol,  Hallam's  rage, 
Edina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page  ; 
Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blows  enough. 
And  feel  they  too  "are  penetrable  stuff:" 
And  though  I  hope  not  hence  unscathed  to  go. 
Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a  stubborn  foe. 
The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  soimd  would  fall 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall ; 
Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawl'd  beneath  my  eyes  : 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since  youth, 
Pve  leam'd  to  think,  and  sternly  speak  the  truth  ; 
Leam'd  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree, 
And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me  ; 
To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss. 
Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hiss  : 
Nay  more,  though  all  my  rival  rhymesters  frown, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  poetaster  down ; 
And,  arm'd  in  proof,  the'  gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  southern  dunce. 
Thus  much  I've  dared ;  if  my  incondite  lay 
Hath  wrong'd  these  righteous  times,  let  others  say  : 
This,  let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to  spare. 
Yet  rarely  blames  imjustly,  now  declare. 

POBTCRIPT  TO  THB   SECOND  EDITION. 

I  HATH  been  informed,  since  the  present  edition  went  to  the 
press,  that  my  tmsty  and  well-beloved  cousins,  the  Edinburgh 
Reviewers,  are  preparing  a  most  vehement  critique  on  my  poor, 
gentle,  uivresisilng  Muse,  whom  they  have  already  so  bo-deviled 
with  their  ungodly  ribaldry : 

"  Tantffine  animis  coelestibus  ine  !" 
I  suppose  I  must  say  of  Jeffrey  as  Sir  Andrew  Agnecheek  Balth, 
"An  I  had  known  he  was  so  cunning  of  fence,  I  had  seen  htm 
damned  ere  I  had  fought  him."  What  a  pity  it  is  that  I  shall  be 
beyond  the  Bosphorus  before  the  next  number  has  passed  the 
Tweed  I    But  I  yet  hope  to  light  my  pipe  with  it  in  Persia. 


•  [In  a  letter  written  fi'om  Gibraltar  to  his  fi-iend  Hodgson,  Lord 
Byron  says,— "I  have  seen  Sir  John  Carr  at  Seville  and  Cadiz, 
and,  like  Swift's  barber,  have  been  down  on  my  knees  to  beg  he 
would  not  pnt  me  into  black  and  white."] 

'  Lord  Elgin  would  fain  persuade  ns  that  all  the  figures,  with 
and  without  noses,  in  his  stoneshop,  are  the  work  of  Phidias  I 
"Credat  JudxusI" 

«  [The  original  epithet  was  "  classic."  Lord  Byron  altered  it 
in  the  fifth  edition,  and  added  this  note :— "  '  Rapid,'  Indeed  1  He 
topographized  King  Priam's  dominions  in  three  days  1  I  called 
him  'classic"  before  I  saw  the  Troad,  but  since  have  learned  bet- 
ter than  to  tack  to  his  name  what  don't  belong  to  it."] 

•  Mr.  Cell's  Topography  of  Troy  and  Ithaca  cannot  fail  to  en- 
sure the  approbation  of  every  man  possessed  of  classical  taste,  as 
as  well  for  the  information  Mr.  Gell  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the 
reader,  as  for  the  ability  and  research  the  respective  works  dis- 
play.—["  Since  seeing  the  plain  of  Troy,  my  opinions  are  some- 
what changed  as  to  the  above  note.  Gell's  snney  was  hasty  and 
superficial."— B.  181G.] 


HINTS   FROM    HORACE. 


439 


My  northern  Wends  have  accused  mo,  with  Justice,  of  person- 
ality towards  their  great  literary  anthropophagus,  JeflVcy ;  but 
what  else  was  to  be  done  with  him  and  his  dirty  pack,  who  feed  by 
"  lying  and  slandering,"  and  slake  their  thirst  by  "evil  speaking  ?" 
I  have  adduced  facts  already  well  known,  and  of  Jeffrey's  mind  I 
have  stated  my  free  opinion,  nor  has  he  thence  sustained  any 
injury ;— what  scavenger  was  ever  soiled  by  being  pelted  with 
mud  f  It  may  bo  said  that  I  quit  England  because  I  have  censured 
there  "  persons  of  honor  and  wit  about  town ;"  but  I  am  coming 
back  again,  and  their  vengeance  will  keep  hot  till  my  return. 
Those  who  know  me  can  testily  that  my  motives  for  leaving  Eng- 
land are  very  different  from  fears,  literary  or  personal :  those  who 
do  not,  may  one  day  be  convinced.  Since  the  publication  of  this 
thing,  my  name  has. not  been  concealed  ;  I  have  been  mostly  in 
London,  ready  to  answer  for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  ex- 
pectation of  sundry  cartels ;  but,  alas  I  "  the  age  of  chivalry  Is 
over,"  or,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  there  is  no  spirit  now-a-daya. 

There  is  a  youth  ycleped  Hcwson  Clarke,  (subaudi  esjvire,)  a 
sizer  of  Emanuel  College,  and,  I  believe,  a  denizen  of  Berwick- 
upon-Tweed,  whom  I  have  introduced  in  these  pages  to  much 
better  company  than  he  has  been  accustomed  to  meet :  he  is,  not- 
withstanding, a  very  sad  dog,  and  for  no  reason  that  I  can  dis- 


cover, except  a  personal  quarrel  with  a  bear,  kept  by  me  at 
Cambridge  to  sit  for  a  feilowship,  and  whom  the  jealousy  of 
his  Trinity  contemporaries  prevented  ttom  success,  has  been 
abusing  me,  and,  what  is  worse,  the  defenceless  innocent  above- 
mentioned,  in  the  "  Satirist,"  for  one  year  and  some  months.  I 
am  utterly  unconscious  of  having  given  him  any  provocation ; 
indeed,  I  am  guiltless  of  having  heard  his  name  till  coupled  with 
the  "  Satirist."  He  has  therefore  no  reason  to  complain,  and  I 
dare  say  that,  like  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  ho  is  rather  pleated  than 
otherwise.  1  have  now  mentioned  all  who  have  done  me  the 
honor  to  notice  me  and  mine,  that  is,  my  bear  and  my  book, 
except  the  editor  of  the  "  Satirist,"  who,  it  seems,  is  a  gentleman 
—God  wot  I  I  wish  ho  could  impart  a  little  of  his  gentility  to  his 
subordinate  scribblers,  1  hear  that  Mr.  Jemingham  is  about  to 
take  up  the  cudgels  for  his  Mjecenas,  Lord  Carlisle.  I  hope  not ; 
he  was  one  of  the  few,  who,  in  the  very  short  intercourse  I  had 
with  him,  treated  me  with  kindness  when  a  boy ;  and  whatever 
he  may  say  or  do,  "  pour  on,  I  will  endure."  I  have  nothing 
further  to  add,  save  a  general  note  of  thanksgiving  to  readers, 
purchasers,  and  publishers ;  and,  in  the  words  of  Scott,  I  wish 
"  To  all  and  each  a  fair  good  night. 
And  rosy  dreams  and  slumbers  light.*' 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE: 

BEINQ  AX  AIXUBION  DC  ENSUSB  TEB8E  TO  THB  EPISTLE  "AS  PI80NES,  SX  ABTE  POETICA,"  AND  INTEHSXD  AB 
A  IZqUSL  TO  "  ENGLISH  BABDS  AND  SCOTCH  BETIEWIIBS." 


"  Ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 

Eeddere  qua:  ferrum  valet,  exsors  ipsa  secandi." 

Hob.  Z>6  Arte  PoeUca. 

"  Rhymes  are  difficult  things— they  are  stubborn  things,  sir." 

FiEiDiNa's  Amelia. 


Athbns.    Capuchin  Content,  March  12, 1811. 
Wno  would  not  laugh,  if  La-wrencc,  hired  to  grace 
His  costly  convass  with  each  flatter'd  face, 
Abused  his  art,  till  Nature,  with  a  blush, 
Saw  cits  grow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush  ? 
Or,  should  some  limner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 
A  maid  of  honor  to  a  mermaid's  tail  ? 
Or  low  Dubost — as  once  the  world  has  seen — 
Degrade  God's  creatures  in  his  graphic  spleen  ? 
Not  all  that  forced  politeness,  which  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends.' 
Believe  me,  Moschus,^  like  that  picture  seems 
The  book  which,  sillier  than  a  sick  man's  dreams, 
Displays  a  crowd  of  figures  incomplete. 
Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  feet.' 

Poets  and  painters,  as  all  artist  know, 

1  In  an  English  newspaper,  which  finds  its  way  abroad  whore- 
ever  there  are  Englishmen,  I  read  an  account  of  this  dirty  dauber's 

caricature  of  Mr.  H as  a  "1>  ast,"  and  the  consequent  action, 

etc.  The  circumstance  is,  probably,  too  well  known  to  require 
further  comment.— [The  gentleman  here  alluded  to  was  Thomas 
Hope,  Esq.,  the  author  of  "  yinastasius,"  and  one  of  the  most 
munificent  patrons  of  art  this  country  ever  possessed.  Having, 
somehow,  offended  an  unprincipled  French  painter,  by  name 
Dubost,  tliat  adventurer  revenged  himself  by  a  picture  called 
"  Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  in  which  Mr.  Hope  and  his  lady  were 
represented  according  to  the  well-known  fairy  story.  The  picture 
hod  too  much  malice  not  to  succeed ;  and,  to  the  disgrace  of  John 


May  shoot  a  little  with  a  lengthen'd  bow ; 
We  claim  this  mutual  mercy  for  our  task, 
And  grant  in  turn  the  pardon  which  we  ask ; 
But  make  not  monsters  spring  from  gentle  dams — 
Birds  breed  not  vipers,  tigers  nurse  not  lambs. 

A  labor'd,  long  exordium,  sometimes  tends 
(Like  patriot  speeches)  but  to  paltry  ends ; 
And  nonsense  in  a  lofty  note  goes  down 
As  pertness  passes  with  a  legal  gown  : 
Thus  many  a  bard  describes  in  pompous  strain 
The  clear  brook  babbling  through  the  goodly  plain ; 
The  groves  of  Granta,  and  her  Gothic  halls    [walls ; 
King's  Coll.,  Cam's  stream,  stain'd  windows,  and  old 
Or,  in  advent'rous  numbers,  neatly  aims 
To  paint  a  rainbow,  or — the  river  Thames.* 

Bull,  the  exhibition  of  it  is'said  to  have  fetched  thirty  potmda  in 
a  day.  A  brother  of  Mrs.  Hope  thrust  his  sword  through  the  can- 
vass ;  and  M.  Dubost  had  the  consolation  to  get  five  pounds  dam- 
ages. The  affair  made  much  noise  at  the  time ;  though  Mr.  Hope 
had  not  then  placed  himself  on  that  seat  of  literary  eminence 
which  he  afterwards  attained.  Probably,  indeed,  no  man's  repu- 
tation in  the  worid  was  ever  so  suddenly  and  completely  altered, 
as  his  was  by  the  appearance  of  his  magnificent  romance.  He 
died  in  1833.] 
'  ["  MoschuB."— In  the  original  MS.,  "  Hobhonse."] 

•  [The  opening  of  the  poem  U,  with  reference  to  the  original, 
Ingenious.— MooBE.] 

*  "  Where  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense."— Pope. 


440 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


You  sketch  a  tree,  and  so  perhaps  may  shine- 
But  daub  a  shipwreck  like  an  alehouse  sign  ; 
You  plan  a  vase — it  dwindles  to  a  pot ; 
Then  glide  down  Grub-street — fasting  and  forgot ; 
Laugh'd  into  Lethe  by  some  quaint  Review, 
Whose  wit  is  never  troublesome  till — true. 

In  fine,  to  whatsoever  you  aspire, 
Let  it  at  least  be  simple  and  entire. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  rhyming  tribe 
(Give  ear,  my  friend,  for  thou  hast  been  a  scribe) 
Are  led  astray  by  some  peculiar  lure. 
I  labor  to  be  brief — become  obscure  ; 
One  falls  while  following  elegance  too  fast ; 
Another  soars,  inflated  with  bombast ; 
Too  low  a  third  crawls  on,  afraid  to  ily. 
He  spins  his  subject  to  satiety  ; 
Absurdly  varying,  he  at  last  engraves 
Fish  in  the  woods,  and  boars  beneath  the  waves  1 

Unless  your  care 's  exact,  your  judgment  nice. 
The  flight  from  folly  leads  but  into  vice  ; 
None  are  complete,  all  wanting  in  sortu;  part. 
Like  certain  tailors,  limited  in  art. 
For  gallygaskins  Slowshears  is  your  man  ; 
But  coats  must  claim  another  artisan.' 
Now  this  to  me,  I  own,  seems  much  the  same 
As  Vulcan's  feet  to  bear  Apollo's  frame ; 
Or,  with  a  fair  complexion,  to  expose 
Black  eyes,  black  ringlets,  but — a  bottle  nose  ! 

Dear  authors  !  suit  your  topics  to  your  strength. 
And  ponder  well  your  subject,  and  its  length  ; 
Nor  lift  your  load,  before  you're  quite  aware 
What  weight  your  shoulders  will,  or  will  not,  bear. 
But  lucid  Order,  and  Wit's  siren  voice, 
Await  the  poet,  skilful  in  his  choice ; 
With  native  eloquence  he  soars  along, 
Grace  in  his  thoughts,  and  music  in  his  song. 

Let  judgment  teach  him  wisely  to  combine 
With  future  parts  the  now  omitted  line : 
This  shall  the  author  choose,  or  that  reject, 
Precise  in  style,  and  cautious  to  select ; 
Nor  slight  applause  will  candid  pens  aflbrd 
To  him  who  furnishes  a  wanting  word. 
Then  fear  not,  if  'tis  needful,  to  produce 
Some  term  unknown,  or  obsolete  in  use, 
(As  Pitt^  has  furnish'd  us  a  word  or  two, 

'  Mere  common  mortals  were  commonly  content  with  one  tailor 
and  with  one  bill,  but  the  more  particular  gentlemen  found  it  im- 
possible to  confide  their  lower  garments  to  the  makers  of  their 
body  clothes.  I  speak  of  the  beginning  of  1809 :  what  reform 
may  have  since  taken  place,  I  neither  know,  nor  desire  to  know. 

"  Mr.  Pitt  was  liberal  in  his  additions  to  our  parliamentary 
tongue :  as  may  be  seen  in  many  publications,  particularly  the 
Edinburgh  Review. 


Which  lexicographers  declined  to  do,) 

So  you  indeed,  with  care — (but  be  content 

To  take  this  license  rarely,) — may  invent. 

New  words  find  credit  in  these  latter  days 

If  neatly  grafted  on  a  Gallic  phrase. 

What  Chaucer,  Spenser  did,  we  scarce  refuse 

To  Dryden's  or  to  Pope's  maturer  muse. 

If  you  can  add  a  little,  say  why  not. 

As  well  as  WilUam  Pitt,  and  Walter  Scott  ? 

Since  they,  by  force  of  rhyme  and  force  of  lungs, 

Enrich'd  our  island's  ill-united  tongues  ; 

'Tis  then — and  shall  be — lawful  to  present 

Reform  in  writing,  as  in  parliament. 

As  forests  shed  their  foliage  by  degrees. 
So  fade  expressions  which  in  season  please ; 
And  we  and  ours,  alas  !  are  due  to  fate. 
And  works  and  words  but  dwindle  to  a  date. 
Though  as  a  monarch  nods,  and  commerce  calls. 
Impetuous  rivers  stagnate  in  canals  ; 
Though    swamps   subdued,   and  marshes   drain'd, 

sustain 
The  heavy  ploughshare  and  the  yeUow  grain. 
And  rising  ports  along  the  busy  shore 
Protect  the  vessel  from  old  Ocean's  roar, 
All,  all  must  perish ;  but,  surviving  last. 
The  love  of  letters  half  preserves  the  past. 
True,  some  decay,  yet  not  a  few  revive ;' 
Though  those  shall  sink,  which  now  appear  to  thrive, 
As  custom  arbitrates,  whose  shifting  sway 
Our  life  and  language  must  alike  obey. 

The  immortal  wars  which  gods  and  angels  wage, 
Are  they  not  shown  in  Milton's  sacred  page  ? 
His  strain  will  teach  what  numbers  best  belong 
To  themes  celestial  told  in  epic  song. 

The  slow,  sad  stanza  wiU  correctly  paint 
The  lover's  anguish,  or  the  friend's  complaint. 
But  which  deserves  the  laurel — rhyme  or  blank  ? 
Which  holds  on  Helicon  the  higher  rank  ? 
Let  squabbling  critics  by  themselves  dispute 
This  point,  as  puzzling  as  a  Chancery  suit. 

Satiric  rhyme  first  sprang  from  selfish  spleen. 
You  doubt — see  Dryden,  Pope,  St.  Patrick's  dean.* 

Blank  verse  is  now,  with  one  consent,  allied 
To  Tragedy,  and  rarely  quits  her  side. 
Though  mad  Almanzor  rhjrmed  in  Dryden's  days, 

'  Old  ballads,  old  plays,  and  old  women's  stories  are  at  present 
in  as  much  request  as  old  wine  or  new  speeches.  In  fact,  this  is 
the  millennium  of  black  letter :  thanks  to  our  Hebcrs,  Webers, 
and  Scotts  I 

*  "  Mac  Flecknoe,"  the  "  Dunciad,"  and  all  Swift's  lampooning 
ballads.  Whatever  their  other  works  may  be,  these  originated  in 
personal  feelings,  and  angry  retort  on  unworthy  rivals ;  and 
though  the  ability  of  these  satires  elevates  the  poetical,  their  poig- 
nancy detracts  from  the  personal  character  of  the  writers. 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


441 


No  sing-song  hero  rants  in  modem  plays ; 

While  modest  Comedy  her  verse  foregoes 

For  jest  and  pun^  in  very  middling  prose. 

Not  that  our  Bens  or  Beaumonts  show  the  worse, 

Or  lose  one  point,  because  they  wrote  in  verse. 

But  so  Thalia  pleases  to  appear, 

Poor  virgin !  <lamn'd  some  twenty  times  a  year  ! 

Whate'er  the  scene  ;  let  this  advice  have  weight : — 
Adapt  your  language  to  your  hero's  state. 
At  times  Melpomene  forgets  to  groan. 
And  brisk  Thalia  takes  a  serious  tone ; 
Nor  unregarded  will  the  act  pass  by 
WLere  angry  Townly^  lifts  his  voice  on  high. 
Again,  our  Shakspeare  limits  verse  to  kings, 
When  common  prose  will  serve  for  common  things  ; 
And  lively  Hal  resigns  heroic  ire, 
To  "  holloing  Hotspur  "j  and  the  sceptred  sire. 

'Tis  not  enough,  ye  bards,  with  aU  your  art. 
To  polish  poems  ; — they  must  touch  the  heart : 
Where'er  the  scene  be  laid,  where'er  the  song, 
Still  let  it  bear  the  hearer's  soul  along ; 
Command  your  audience  or  to  smile  or  weep, 
Whiche'er  may  please  you — any  thing  but  sleep. 
The  poet  claims  our  tears  ;  but,  by  his  leave. 
Before  I  shed  them,  let  me  see  him  grieve. 

If  banish'd  Romeo  feign'd  nor  sigh  nor  tear, 
Lull'd  by  his  languor,  I  should  sleep  or  sneer. 
Sad  words,  no  doubt,  become  a  serious  face, 
And  men  look  angry  in  the  proper  place. 
At  double  meanings  folks  seem  wondrous  sly. 
And  sentiment  prescribes  a  pensive  eye  ; 
For  nature  form'd  at  first  the  inward  man, 
And  actors  copy  nature — when  they  can. 
She  bids  the  beating  heart  with  rapture  bound. 
Raised  to  the  stars,  or  levell'd  with  the  ground; 
And  for  expression's  aid,  'tis  said,  or  sung, 
She  gave  our  mind's  interpreter — the  tongue, 
Who,  worn  with  use,  of  late  would  fain  dispense 
(At  least  in  theatres)  wth  common  sense  ; 

'  With  all  the  vnlgar  applause  and  critical  abhorrence  of  p:in», 
they  have  Aristotle  on  their  side  ;  who  permits  them  to  oratoia, 
and  gives  them  consequence  by  a  grave  disquisition. 
^  [In  Vanbrugh's  comedy  of  the  "  Provolced  Husband."] 
'  "  And  in  his  ear  I'll  hollo  Mortimer  1" — 1  Henry  IV. 

*  {^^  Johnson.  Pray,  Mr.  Bayes,  who  is  that  Drawcansir?  Bayes. 
Why,  Sir,  a  great  hero,  that  frights  his  mistress,  snubs  up  kings, 
baffles  armies,  and  docs  what  he  will,  without  regard  to  numbers, 
good  sense,  or  iutiiee."— Rehearsal. 

•  About  two  years  ago  a  young  man,  named  Tovmsend,  was  an- 
uonnccd  by  Mr.  Cumberland  (in  a  review  since  deceased)  as  being 
engaged  on  an  epic  poem  to  bo  entitled  ''  Armageddon."  The 
plan  and  specimen  promise  much ;  but  I  hope  neither  to  offend 
Mr.  Townsond,  nor  his  friends,  by  recommending  to  his  attention 
the  lines  of  Horace  to  which  these  rhymes  allude.  If  Mr.  Tov/n- 
send  succeeds  in  his  undertaking,  as  there  is  reason  to  hope,  how 
much  will  the  world  bo  Indebted  to  Mr.  Cumberland  for  bringing 
him  before  the  public  I  But,  till  that  eventful  day  arrives,  it  may 
be  donbtcd  whether  the  premature  display  of  his  plan  (Bubllme  as 
the  ideas  confessedly  are)  has  not,— by  raising  expectation  too 

5fi 


O'erwhelm  with  sound  the  boxes,  gallery,  pit, 
And  raise  a  laugh  with  any  thing — but  wit. 

To  skilful  writers  it  will  much  import. 
Whence  spring  their  scenes,  from  common  Ufe  or 

court ; 
Whether  they  seek  applause  by  smile  or  tear. 
To  draw  a  "  Lying  Valet,"  or  a  "  Lear," 
A  sage,  or  rakish  youngster  wild  from  school, 
A  wandering  "  Peregrine,"  or  plain  "  John  Bull ;" 
All  persons  please  when  nature's  voice  prevails, 
Scottish  or  Irish,  bom  in  Wilts  or  Wales. 

Or  follow  common  fame,  or  forge  a  plot. 
Who  cares  if  mimic  heroes  lived  or  not  ? 
One  precept  serve  to  regulate  the  scene : — 
Make  it  appear  as  if  it  might  have  heen. 

If  some  Drawcansirs  you  aspire  to  draw, 
Present  him  raving  and  above  all  lav?  : 
If  female  furies  in  your  scheme  are  plann'd, 
Macbeth's  fierce  dame  is  ready  to  your  hand ; 
For  tears  and  treachery,  for  good  and  evil, 
Constance,  King  Richard,  Hamlet,  and  the  Devil  1 
But  if  a  new  design  you  dare  essay. 
And  freely  wander  from  the  beaten  way, 
True  to  your  characters,  till  all  be  pass'd. 
Preserve  consistency  from  first  to  last. 

'Tis  hard  to  venture  where  our  betters  fail, 
Or  lend  fresh  interest  to  a  twice-told  tale  ; 
And  yet,  jjerchance,  'tis  wiser  to  prefer 
A  hackney'd  plot,  than  choose  a  new,  and  err ; 
Yet  copy  not  too  closely,  but  record, 
More  justly,  thought  for  thought  than  word  for  word. 
Nor  trace  your  prototype  through  narrow  ways. 
But  only  follow  where  he  meiits  praise. 

For  you,  young  bard !  whom  luckless  fate  may 
To  tremble  on  the  nod  of  all  who  read,  [lead 

Ere  your  first  score  of  cantos'time  unrolls, 
Beware — for  God's  sake,  don't  begin  like  Bowles  I' 

high,  or  diminishing  curiosity,  by  developing  his  argument, — 
rather  incurred  the  hazard  of  injuring  Mr.  Townsend's  future 
prospects.  Mr.  Cumberland  (whose  talents  I  shall  not  depreciate 
by  the  humble  tribute  of  my  praise)  and  Mr.  Townsend  must  not 
suppose  mo  actuated  by  unworthy  motives  in  this  suggestion.  I 
wish  the  author  all  the  success  he  can  wish  himself,  and  shall  bo 
truly  happy  to  see  epic  poetry  weighed  up  from  the  bathos  where 
it  lies  sunken  with  Southey,  Cottle,  Cowley,  (Mrs.  or  Abraham,) 
Ogilvy,  Wilkio,  Pyc,  and  all  the  "dull  of  past  and  present  days." 
Even  If  he  is  not  a  Milton,  he  may  be  better  than  Blo.ckmore ;  if 
not  an  Ilomer,  an  Antimachus.  I  should  deem  myself  presump- 
tuous, as  a  young  man,  in  offering  advice,  were  it  not  addressed 
to  one  still  younger.  Mr.  Townsend  has  the  greatest  difflculties 
to  encounter ;  but  in  conquering  them  he  will  find  employment ; 
in  having  conquered  them,  his  reward.  I  know  too  well  "tho 
scribbler's  scoff,  the  critic's  contumely ;"  and  1  am  afraid  time 
will  teach  Mr.  Townsend  to  know  them  better.  Those  who  suc- 
ceed, and  Ihose  who  do  no,  must  bear  this  alike,  and  It  is  hard  to 
say  which  have  most  of  it.  I  trust  that  Mr.  Townsend's  shaic 
will  be  from  envy ;— ho  will  soon  know  mankind  well  enough  not 
to  attribute  this  e-xprcssion  to  malice. 


442 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


"  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain," — 

And  pray,  what  follows  from  his  boiling  brain  ? — 

He  sinks  to  Southey's  level  in  a  trice, 

"Whose  epic  mountains  never  fail  in  mice  1 

Kot  so  of  yore  awoke  your  mighty  sire 

The  temper'd  warblings  of  his  master-lyre  ; 

Soft  as  the  gentler  breathing  of  the  lute, 

"  Of  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit " 

He  speaks,  but,  as  his  subject  swells  along. 

Earth,  heaven,  and  Hades  echo  with  the  song ; 

Still  to  the  midst  of  things  he  hastens  on. 

As  if  we  witness'd  all  already  done  ; 

Leaves  on  his  path  whatever  seems  too  mean 

To  raise  the  subject,  or  adorn  the  scene  ; 

Gives,  as  each  page  improves  upon  the  sight, 

Not  smoke  from  brightness,  but  from  darkness — 

light ; 
And  truth  and  fiction  with  such  art  compounds, 
"We  know  not  where  to  fix  their  several  bounds. 
If  you  would  please  the  public,  deign  to  hear 
What  soothes  the  many-headed  monster's  ear ; 
If  your  heart  triumph  when  the  hands  of  all 
Applaud  in  thunder  at  the  curtain's  foil. 
Deserve  those  plaudits — study  nature's  page, 
And  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age  ; 
"While  varying  man  and  varying  years  unfold 
Life's  little  tale,  so  oft,  so  vainly  told  : 
Observe  his  simple  childhood's  dawning  days, 
His  pranks,  his  prate,  his  playmates,  and  his  plays  ; 
TiU  time  at  length  the  mannish  tyro  weans. 
And  prurient  vice  outstrips  his  tardy  teens  ! 

Behold  him  Freshman  !  forced  no  more  to  groan 
O'er  Virgil's'  devilish  verses  and — his  own  ; 
Prayers  arc  too  tedious,  lectures  too  abtruse, 
He  flies  from  Tavell's  frown  to  "  Fordham's  Mews  ;" 
(Unlucky  Tavell  !^  doom'd  to  daily  cares 
By  pugiUstic  pupils,  and  by  bears,') 
Fines,  tutors,  tasks,  conventions  threat  in  vain, 
Before  hounds,  hunters,  and  Newmarket  plain. 
Rough  with  his  elders,  with  his  equals  rash. 
Civil  to  sharpers,  prodigal  of  cash  ; 
Constant  to  naught — save  hazard  and  a  whore, 
Yet  cursing  both — for  both  have  made  him  sore  ; 
Unread,  (unless,  since  books  beguile  disease, 
The  p — X  becomes  his  passage  to  degrees  ;) 
Fool'd,  pillaged,  dunn'd,  he  wastes  his  term  away, 

>  Harvey,  the  circulator  of  the  circulation  of  the  Wood,  nsed  to 
fling  away  Virgil  in  his  ecstasy  of  admiration,  and  say,  "  the  book 
had  a  devil."  Now,  such  a  character  as  I  am  copying  would  prob- 
ably fling  it  away  also,  bnt  rather  wish  that  the  devil  had  the  book ; 
not  from  dislike  to  the  poet,  but  a  well-founded  horror  of  hexame- 
ters. Indeed,  the  public  school  penance  of  "  Long  and  Short"  is 
enough  to  beget  an  antipathy  to  poetry  for  the  residue  of  a  man's 
life,  and,  perhaps,  so  far  may  be  an  advantage. 

"  "  Infandum,  reglna,  jubes  renovare  dolorem."  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Tavell  (to  whom  I  mean  no  aflVont)  will  understand  me ;  and  it  la 
no  matter  whether  anyone  else  does  or  no.— To  the  above  events, 


And,  unexpell'd  perhaps,  retires  M.A. ; 
Master  of  arts  !  as  hells  and  chibs'^  proclaim, 
"Where  scarce  a  blackleg  bears  a  brighter  name  1 

Launch'd  into  life,  extinct  his  early  fire, 
He  apes  the  selfish  prudence  of  his  sire  ; 
Marries  for  money,  chooses  friends  for  rank, 
Buys  land,  and  shrewdly  trusts  not  to  the  Bank ; 
Sits  in  the  Senate ;  gets  a  son  and  heir ; 
Sends  him  to  Harrow,  for  himself  was  there. 
Mute,  though  he  votes,  unless  when  call'd  to  cheer. 
His  son  's  so  sharp — he'll  see  the  dog  a  peer  ! 

Manhood  declines — age  palsies  every  limb  ; 
He  quits  the  scene — or  else  the  scene  quits  him  ; 
Scrapes  wealth,  o'er  each  departing  penny  grieves, 
And  avarice  seizes  all  ambition  leaves  ; 
Counts  cent  per  cent,  and  smiles,  or  vainly  frets. 
O'er  hoards  diminish'd  by  young  Hopeful's  debts  ; 
"Weighs  well  and  wisely  what  to  sell  or  buy. 
Complete  in  all  life's  lessons^but  to  die ; 
Peevish  and  spiteful,  doting,  hard  to  please, 
Commending  every  time,  save  times  like  these ; ' 
Crazed,  querulous,  forsaken,  half  forgot. 
Expires  unwept — is  buried — let  him  rot  I 

But  from  the  Drama  lot  me  not  digress. 
Nor  spare  my  precepts,  though  they  please  you  less. 
Though  woman  weep,  and  hardest  hearts  are  stirr'd, 
"When  what  is  done  is  rather  seen  than  heard. 
Yet  many  deeds  preserved  in  history's  page. 
Are  better  told  than  acted  on  the  stage  ; 
The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye, 
And  horror  thus  subsides  to  sympathy. 
True  Briton  all  besides,  I  here  am  French — 
Bloodshed  'tis  surely  better  to  retrench  ; 
The  gladiatorial  gore  we  teach  to  flow 
In  tragic  scene  disgusts,  though  but  in  show  ; 
"We  hate  the  carnage  while  we  see  the  trick. 
And  find  small  sympathy  in  being  sick. 
Not  on  the  stage  the  regicide  Macbeth 
Appals  an  audience  with  a  monarch's  death  ; 
To  gaze  when  sable  Hubert  threats  to  sear 
Young  Arthur's  eyes,  can  ours  or  nature  bear  ? 
A  halter'd  heroine'  Johnson  sought  to  slay — 
"We  saved  Irene,  but  half  damn'd  the  play. 
And  (Heaven  be  praised  !)  our  tolerating  times 
Stint  metamorphoses  to  pantomimes ; 

"qnceque  ipse  miserrima  vidi,  et  quorum  pars  magna  fui,"  "all 
times  and  terms  bear  testimony." 

'  [The  Rev.  G.  F.  Tavell  was  a  fellow  and  tutor  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  during  Lord  Byron's  residence,  and  owed  this 
notice  to  the  zeal  with  which  he  had  protested  against  some  juve- 
nile vagaries,  snfiiclently  explained  in  Mr.  Moore's  Notices.] 

*  "  Hell,"  a  gaming-house  so-called,  where  you  risk  little,  and 
are  cheated  a  good  deal.  "Clnb,"  a  pleasant  purgatory,  where 
you  lose  more,  and  are  not  supposed  to  be  cheated  at  all. 

»  "  Irene  had  to  speak  two  lines  with  the  bowstring  round  hor 
neck ;  but  the  audience  cried  out '  Murder  1'  and  she  was  obliged 
to  go  off  the  stage  alive."— 5osa;drs  Johtison. 


HINTS    P^ROM    HORACE. 


443 


And  Lewis'  scl^  with  all  his  sprites,  would  quake 
To  change  Earl  Osmond's  negro  to  a  snake  ! 
Because,  in  scenes  exciting  joy  or  grief, 
We  loathe  the  action  which  exceeds  belief: 
And  yet,  God  knows  !  what  may  not  authors  do, 
"Whose  postscripts  prate  of  dyeing  "  heroines  blue  ?'" 

Above  aU  things,  Dan  Poet,  if  you  can. 
Eke  out  your  acts,  I  pray,  with  mortal  man  ; 
Nor  call  a  ghost,  unless  some  cursed  scrape 
Must  open  ten  trap-doors  for  your  escape. 
Of  all  the  monstrous  things  I'd  fain  forbid, 
I  loathe  an  opera  worse  than  Dennis  did  ; 
Where  good  and  evil  persons,  right  or  wrong, 
Rage,  love,  and  aught  but  moralize,  in  song. 
Hail,  last  memorial  of  our  foreign  friends, 
Which  Gaul  allows,  and  still  Hesperia  lends  ! 
Napoleon's  edicts  no  embargo  lay 
On  whores,  spies,  singers  wisely  shipp'd  away. 
Our  giant  capital,  whose  squares  arc  spread, 
Where  rustics  eam'd,  and  now  may  beg,  their  bread. 
In  all  iniquity  is  grown  so  nice. 
It  scorns  amusements  which  arc  not  of  price. 
Hence  the  pert  shopkeeper,  whose  throbbing  car 
Aches  with  orchestras  which  he  pays  to  hear. 
Whom  shame,  not  sympathy,  forbids  to  snore. 
His  anguish  doubling  by  his  own  ''  encore  ;" 
Squeezed  in  "  Fop's  Alley,"  jostled  by  the  beaux. 
Teased  with  his  hat,  and  trembling  for  his  toes  ; 
Scarce  wrestles  through  the  night,  nor  tastes  of  ease, 
Till  the  dropp'd  curtain  gives  a  glad  release  : 
Wliy  this,  and  more,  he  suffers — can  ye  guess  ? — 
Because  it  costs  him  dear,  and  makes  him  dress  ! 

So  prosper  eunuchs  from  Etruscan  schools  ; 
Give  us  but  fiddlers,  and  they're  sure  of  fools  ! 
Ere  scenes  were  play'd  by  many  a  reverend  clerk,^ 
(What  harm,  if  David  danced  before  the  ark  ?) 
In  Christmas  revels,  simple  country  folks        [jokes. 
Were  pleased  with  morrice-mumm'ry,  and  coarse 
Improving  years,  with  things  no  longer  known, 
Produced  blithe  Punch  and  merry  3Iadamc  Joan, 
Who  still  frisk  on  with  feats  so  lewdly  low, 
'Tis  strange  Benvolio'  suffers  such  a  show  ; 
Suppressing  peer !  to  whom  each  vice  gives  place. 
Oaths,  boxing,  begging, — all,  save  rout  and  race. 

Farce  foUow'd  Comedy,  and  reach'd  her  prime, 
In  ever-laughing  Foote's  fantastic  time  : 

'  In  the  postscript  to  the  "Castle  Spectre,"  Mr.  Lewis  tells  us, 
that  though  blacks  were  unknown  in  England  at  the  period  of  his 
action,  yet  he  has  made  the  anachronism  to  set  off  the  scene ;  and 
If  ho  could  have  produced  the  effect  "by  making  his  heroine 
blue,"— I  quote  him—"  blue  he  would  have  made  her  1" 

^  "  The  first  theatrical  representations,  entitled  '  Mysteries  and 
Moralities,'  were  generally  enacted  at  Christmas,  by  monks,  (as 
the  only  persons  who  could  read,)  and  latterly  by  the  clergy  and 
students  of  the  universities.  The  dramatis  personsE  were  usually 
Adam,  Pater  Coelestis,  Faith,  Vice,"  etc.,  etc. 

>  Benvolio  does  not  bet ;  but  every  man  who  maintains  race- 
borsea  Is  a  promoter  of  all  tin  concomitant  evils  of  the  turf. 


Mad  wag  !  who  pardon'd  none,  nor  spared  the  best. 
And  turn'd  some  very  serious  things  to  jest. 
Nor  church  nor  state  escaped  his  public  sneers, 
Arms  nor  the  gown,  priests,  lawyers,  volimteers, 
"  Alas,  poor  Yorick  !"  now  forever  mute  ! 
Whoever  loves  a  laugh  must  sigh  for  Foots. 

We  smile,  perforce,  when  histrionic  scenes 
Ape  the  swoln  dialogue  of  kings  and  queens. 
When  "  Chrononhotonthologos  must  die," 
And  Arthur  struts  in  mimic  majesty. 

Moschus  !  with  whom  once  more  I  hope  to  sit, 
And  smile  at  folly,  if  we  can't  at  wit ; 
Yes,  friend  !  for  thee  I'll  quit  my  cynic  cell. 
And  bear  Swift's  motto,  "  Vive  la  bagatelle  !" 
Which  charm'd  our  days  in  each  .^gean  clime. 
As  oft  at  home,  with  revelry  and  rhyme. 
Then  may  Euphrosyne,  who  sped  the  past. 
Soothe  thy  life's  scenes,  nor  leave  thee  in  the  last ; 
But  find  in  tldne,  like  pagan  Plato's  bed,* 
Some  merry  manuscript  of  mimes,  when  dead. 

Now  to  the  Drama  let  us  bend  our  eyes, 
Where  fetter'd  by  whig  Walpole  low  she  lies  ; 
Corruption  foil'd  her,  for  she  fear'd  her  glance ; 
Decorum  left  her  for  an  opera  dance  ! 
Yet  Chesterfield,'  whose  polish'd  pen  inveighs 
'Gainst  laughter,  fought  for  freedom  to  our  plays  ; 
Uncheck'd  by  megrims  of  patrician  brains, 
And  damning  dulncss  of  lord  chamberlains. 
Repeal  that  act !'  again  let  Humor  roam. 
Wild  o'er  the  stage — we've  time  for  tears  at  home  ; 
Let  "Archer"  plant  the  horns  on  "  Sullen's"  brows. 
And  "Estifania"  gull  her  "  Copper'"  spouse  ; 
The  moral's  scant — but  that  may  be  excused. 
Men  go  not  to  be  lectured,  but  amused. 
He  whom  our  plays  dispose  to  good  or  ill 
Must  wear  a  head  in  want  of  Willis'  skill ; 
Ay,  but  Macheath's  example — ^psha  ! — no  more  ! 
It  form'd  no  thieves — the  thief  was  form'd  before  ; 
And,  spite  of  puritans  and  Collier's  curse,' 
Plays  make  mankind  no  better,  and  no  worse. 
Then  spare  our  stage,  ye  methodistic  men  ; 
Nor  bum  damn'd  Drury  if  it  rise  again. 
But  why  to  brain-scorch'd  bigots  thus  appeal  ? 
Can  heavenly  mercy  dwell  with  earthly  zeal  ? 


Avoiding  to  bet  Is  a  little  Pharisaical.  Is  It  an  exculpation  ?  1 
think  not.  I  never  yet  heard  a  bawd  praised  for  chastity,  because 
ehe  hersdf  did  not  commit  fornication  1 

*  Under  Plato's  pillow  a  volume  of  the  iP,ims  of  Sophron  was 
found  the  day  he  died.— Fi(i«  Barthclemi,  De  Pauw,  or  Diogenes 
Laurtius,  if  agreeable.  Pe  Pauw  calls  it  a  jest-book.  Cumberland, 
in  his  Observer,  terms  it  moral,  like  the  sayings  of  Pnblius  Sjtus. 

» His  speech  on  the  Licensing  Act  is  one  of  his  most  eloquent 
efforts. 

» Michael  Perez,  tho  "  Copper  Captain,"  in  "Rale  a  Wife  ar.,! 
have  a  Wife." 

'  Jerry  Collier's  controversy  with  Consreve,  etc.,  on  the  subject 
of  the  drama,  I-"  too  well  known  to  require  ftirther  comment. 


444 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


For  times  of  fire  and  fagot  let  them  hope  I 

Times  dear  alike  to  puritan  or  pope. 

As  pious  Calvin  saw  Servetus  blaze, 

So  would  new  sects  on  newer  victims  gaze. 

E'en  now  the  songs  of  Solyma  begin  ; 

Faith  cants,  perplex'd  apologies  of  sin  ! 

While  the  Lord's  servant  chastens  whom  he  loves. 

And  Simeon'  kicks,  where  Baxter  only  "  shoves." " 

Whom  nature  guides,  so  writes,  that  every  dunce 
Enraptured,  things  to  do  the  same  at  once ; 
But  after  inky  thumbs  and  bitten  nails. 
And  twenty  scatter'd  quires,  the  coxcomb  fails. 

Let  Pastoral  be  dumb ;  for  who  can  hope 
To  match  the  youthful  eclogues  of  our  Pope  ? 
Yet  his  and  Phillips'  faults,  of  different  kind. 
For  art  too  rude,  for  nature  too  refined, 
Instruct  how  hard  the  medium  'tis  to  hit 
'Tmxt  too  much  polish  and  too  coarse  a  ■ndt. 

A  vulgar  scribbler,  certes,  stands  disgraced 
In  this  nice  age,  when  all  aspire  to  taste ; 
The  dirty  language,  and  the  noisome  jest, 
Which  pleased  in  Swift  of  yore,  wc  now  detest ; 
Proscribed  not  only  in  the  world  polite. 
But  even  too  nasty  for  a  city  knight ! 

Peace  to  Swift's  faults !  his  wit  hath  made  them 
Unmatch'd  by  all,  save  matchless  Hudibras  !    [pass, 
Whose  author  is  perhaps  the  first  we  meet. 
Who  from  our  couplet  lopp'd  two  final  feet ; 
Nor  less  in  merit  than  the  longer  Hne, 
This  measure  moves  a  favorite  of  the  Nine. 
Though  at  first  view  eight  feet  may  seem  in  vain 
Form'd,  save  in  ode,  to  bear  a  serious  strain. 
Yet  Scott  has  shown  our  wondering  isle  of  late 
This  measure  shrinks  not  from  a  theme  of  weight. 
And,  varied  skilfully,  surpasses  far 
Heroic,  rhyme,  but  most  in  love  and  war. 
Whose  fluctuations,  tender  or  sublime. 
Are  curb'd  too  much  by  long-recurring  rhyme. 

But  many  a  skilful  judge  abhors  to  see. 
What  few  admire — irregularity. 
This  some  vouchsafe  to  pardon ;  but  'tis  hard 
When  such  a  word  contents  a  British  bard. 

And  must  the  bard  his  glowing  thoughts  confine. 
Lest  censure  hover  o'er  some  faulty  line  ? 


'  Mr.  Simeon  is  the  very  bully  of  beliefs,  and  castigator  of 
"  good  works."  He  is  ably  supported  by  John  Stickles,  a  laborer 
in  the  same  vineyard :— but  I  say  no  more,  for,  according  to 
Johnny  in  full  congregation,  '^no  hopes  for  them  as  laughs."— 
[TheEev.  Charles  Simeon,  fellow  of  King's  College,  Cambridge,— 
a  zealous  Calvinist,  who,  in  consequence  of  his  zeal,  has  been  en- 
gaged in  sundry  warm  disputations  with  other  divines  of  the  uni- 
versity. Besides  m.iny  single  sermons,  he  has  published  "  Helps 
to  Composition,  or  500  Skeleton  Sermons,"  in  five  volumes  ;  and 
"  HoriE  Homileticffi,  or  Discourses  (in  the  form  of  skeletons)  upon 
the  whole  Scripture,"  in  eleven  volumes.] 


Remove  whate'er  a  critic  may  suspect. 
To  gain  the  paltry  suffi-agc  of  "  correct .'" 
Or  prune  the  spirit  of  each  daring  phrase, 
To  fly  from  error,  not  to  merit  praise  ? 

Ye,  who  seek  finish'd  models,  never  cease, 
By  day  and  night,  to  read  the  works  of  Greece. 
But  oiu"  good  fathers  never  bent  their  brains 
To  heathen  Greek,  content  with  native  strains. 
The  few  who  read  a  page,  or  used  a  pen. 
Were  satisfied  with  Chaucer  and  old  Ben  ; 
The  jokes  and  numbers  suited  to  their  taste 
Where  quaint  and  careless,  anything  but  chaste ; 
Yet  whether  right  or  wrong  the  ancient  rules, 
It  will  not  do  to  call  our  fathers  fools  ! 
Though  you  and  I,  who  eruditely  know 
To  separate  the  elegant  and  low. 
Can  also,  when  a  hobbling  line  appears. 
Detect  with  fingers,  in  default  of  ears. 

In  sooth  I  do  not  know,  or  greatly  care 
To  learn,  who  our  first  English  strollers  were ; 
Or  if,  till  roofs  received  the  vagrant  art, 
Our  Muse,  like  that  of  Thespis,  kept  a  cart ; 
But  this  is  certain,  since  our  Shakspeare's  days, 
There's  pomp  enough,  if  little  else,  in  plays ; 
Nor  will  Melpomene  ascend  her  throne 
Without  high  heels,  white  plume,  and  Bristol  stone. 

Old  comedies  still  meet  with  much  applause, 
Though  too  licentious  for  dramatic  laws  : 
At  least,  wo  moderns,  wisely,  'tis  confess'd. 
Curtail,  or  silence,  the  lascivious  jest. 

Whate'er  their  follies,  and  their  faults  beside, 
Our  enterprising  bards  pass  naught  untried ; 
Nor  do  they  merit  slight  applause  who  choose 
An  Engh'sh  subject  for  an  English  muse. 
And  leave  to  minds  which  never  dare  invent 
French  flippancy  and  German  sentiment. 
Where  is  that  living  language  which  could  claim 
Poetic  more,  as  philosophic,  fame. 
If  all  our  bards,  more  patient  of  delay. 
Would  stop,  like  Pope,  to  polish  by  the  way? 

Lords  of  the  quill,  whose  critical  assaults 
O'erthrow  whole  quartos  with  their  quires  of  faults, 

-  "'Baxter's  Shove  to  heavy-a — d  Christians" — the  veritable 
title  of  a  book  once  in  good  repute,  and  likely  enough  to  be  so 
again.— [Richard  Baxter  is  described  by  Granger  as  "a  man  fa- 
mous for  weakness  of  body  and  strength  of  mind  ;  for  having  the 
strongest  sense  of  religion  himself,  and  exciting  a  sense  of  it  in 
the  thoughtless  and  profligate ;  for  preaching  more  sermons,  en- 
gaging in  more  controversies,  and  writing  more  books,  than  any 
other  non-conformist  of  hia  age."  Dr.  Barrow  says,  "  his  practi- 
cal writings  were  never  mended,  bis  controversial  seldom  con- 
futed." On  Boswell's  asking  Johnson  which  of  them  ho  should 
read,  tte  Doctor  rsplied,  "  Any  of  them  ;  they  are  all  good." 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


445 


Who  soon  detect,  and  mark  where'er  we  fail, 
And  prove  our  marble  with  two  nice  a  nail  1 
Democritus  himself  was  not  so  bad  ; 
He  only  thouyhf,  but  you  would  make,  us  mad  1 

But  truth  to  say,  most  rhymers  rarely  guard 
Against  that  ridicule  they  deem  so  hard  ; 
In  person  negligent,  they  wear,  from  sloth, 
Beards  of  a  week,  and  nails  of  annual  growth ; 
Eeside  in  garrets,  fly  from  those  they  meet. 
And  walk  in  alleys,  rather  than  the  street. 

With  little  rhyme,  less  reason  if  you  please, 
The  name  of  poet  may  be  got  with  ease, 
So  that  not  tuns  of  helleboric  juice 
Shall  ever  turn  your  head  to  any  use ; 
Write  but  like  Wordsworth,  live  beside  a  lake. 
And  keep  your  bushy  locks  a  year  from  Blake ;' 
Then  print  your  book,  once  more  return  to  town. 
And  boys  shall  hunt  your  bardship  up  and  down. 

Am  I  not  wise,  if  such  some  poets'  plight. 
To  purge  in  spring — like  Bayes' — before  I  write  ? 
If  this  precaution  soften'd  not  my  bile, 
I  know  no  scribbler  with  a  madder  style  ; 
But  since  (perhaps  my  feelings  are  too  nice) 
I  cannot  purchase  fame  at  such  a  price, 
I'll  labour  gratis  as  a  grinder's  wheel, 
And,  blunt  myself,  give  edge  to  others'  steel, 
isor  write  at  all,  unless  to  teach  the  art 
To  those  rehearsing  for  the  poet's  part ; 
From  Horace  show  the  pleasing  paths  of  song. 
And  from  my  own  example — what  is  wrong. 

Though  modem  practice  sometimes  differs  quite, 
'Tis  just  as  well  to  think  before  you  write ; 
Let  every  book  that  suits  your  theme  be  read. 
So  shall  you  trace  it  to  the  fountain-head. 
He  who  has  leam'd  the  duty  which  he  owes 
To  friends  and  country,  and  to  pardon  foes ; 
Who  models  his  deportment  as  may  best 
Accord  with  brother,  sire,  or  stranger  guest ; 
Who  takes  our  laws  and  worship  as  they  are. 
Nor  roars  reform  for  senate,  church  and  bar; 
In  practice,  rather  than  loud  precept,  wise, 
Bids  not  his  tongue,  but  heart  philosophize  : 

■  As  famons  a  tonsor  as  Licinos  himself,  and  better  paid,  and 
may,  like  bim,  be  one  day  a  senator,  having  a  better  qnallllcatlon 
than  one  half  of  the  heads  he  crops,  viz.— independence. 

^  ["  Bayes.  Pray,  Sir,  how  do  you  do  when  you  write  1  Smith. 
Faith,  Sir,  for  the  toost  part  I'm  in  pretty  good  health.  Bayes.  I 
mean  what  do  yoa  do  when  yon  write  ?  Smith.  I  take  pen.  Ink, 
and  paper,  and  sit  down.  Bayes.  Now  I  write  standing — that's 
one  thing  ;  and  then  another  thing  is,  with  what  do  you  prepare 
yourself?  Smith.  Prepare  myself!  what  the  devil  docs  the  fool 
mean  ?  Bayea.  Why,  I"ll  tell  you  what  I  do.  If  I  am  to  write 
Ihmillar  things,  as  sonnets  to  Armlda,  and  the  like,  I  make  use  of 
slewed  prunes  only  ;  but  when  I  have  a  grand  design  in  hand,  I 
over  take  physic  and  let  blood  ;  for  when  yon  wonld  have  pure 


Such  is  the  man  the  poet  should  rehearse, 
Ab  joint  exemplar  of  his  life  and  verse. 

Sometimes  a  sprightly  wit,  and  tale  well  told. 
Without  much  grace,  or  weight,  or  art,  vrill  hold 
A  longer  empire  o'er  the  public  mind 
Than  sounding  trifles,  empty,  though  refined. 

Unhappy  Greece !  thy  sons  of  ancient  days 
The  muse  may  celebrate  with  perfect  praise. 
Whose  generous  children  narrow'd  not  their  hearts 
With  commerce,  given  alone  to  arms  and  arts. 
Our  boys  (save  those  whom  public  schools  compel 
To  "  long  and  short "  before  they're  taught  to  spell) 
From  frugal  fathers  soon  imbibe  by  rote, 
"  A  penny  saved,  my  lad,  's  a  penny  got." 
Babe  of  a  city  birth  !  from  sixpence  take 
The  third,  how  much  will  the  remainder  make  ? — 
"  A  groat." — "  Ah,  bravo  !  Dick  hath  done  the  sum  ! 
He'll  swell  my  fifty  thousand  to  a  plum." 

They  whose  young  souls  receive  this  rust  betimes, 
'Tis  clear,  are  fit  for  anything  but  rhymes  ; 
And  Locke  will  tell  you,  that  the  father  's  right 
Who  hides  all  verses  from  his  children's  sight ; 
For  poets,  (says  this  sage,'  and  many  more,) 
Make  sad  mechanics  with  their  lyric  lore ; 
And  Delphi  now,  however  rich  of  old. 
Discovers  little  silver,  and  less  gold. 
Because  Parnassus,  though  a  mount  di\ane. 
Is  poor  as  Irus,*  or  an  Irish  mine." 

Two  objects  always  should  the  poet  move. 
Or  one  or  both, — to  please  or  to  improve. 
Whate'er  you  teach,  be  brief,  if  you  design 
For  our  remembrance  your  didactic  line  ; 
Redundance  places  memory  on  the  rack. 
For  brains  may  be  o'crloaded,  like  the  back. 

Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  like  truth. 
And  fairy  fables  bubbles  none  but  youth  : 
Expect  no  credit  for  too  wondrous  tales. 
Since  Jona^  only  springs  alive  from  whales  ! 

Young  men  with  aught  but  elegance  dispense  ; 
Maturcr  years  require  a  little  sense. 
To  end  at  once : — that  bard  for  all  is  fit 
Who  mingles  well  instruction  with  his  wit ; 

swiftness  of  thought,  and  flery  flights  of  fancy,  yon  must  have  a 
care  of  the  pensive  part.    In  fine,  you  must  purge."— iJeAear^o^.] 

'  I  have  not  the  original  by  me,  but  the  Italian  translation  nms 
as  iollows  : — •'  E  una  cosa  a  mlo  credere  molto  stravagantc,  che 
un  padre  dcsidert,  o  permctta,  che  suo  figliuolo  coltiW  o  pcrfezicni 
questo  talento."  A  little  further  on :  "  SI  trovano  dl  rado  ncl 
Pamaso  le  miniere  d'  oro  e  d'  irgento. "—Educaj^one  del  FanduUl 
M  Slgnor  Locke. 

<  "  Iro  pauperior :"  this  is  the  same  beggar  who  boxed  with 
Ulysses  for  a  pound  of  kid's  ft-y.  which  he  lost,  and  half  a  dozen 
teeth  besides.— See  Odyssey,  b.  18. 

*  The  Irish  gold  mine  of  Wicklow,  which  yields  just  ore  enough 
to  swear  by,  or  gild  a  bad  guinea. 


446 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


For  him  reviews  shall  smile,  for  him  o'erflow 
The  patronage  of  Paternoster-row ; 
His  book,  with  Longman's  liberal  aid,  shall  pass, 
(Who  ne'er  despises  books  that  bring  him  brass  ;) 
Through  three  long  weeks  the  taste  of  London  lead, 
And  cross  St.  George's  Channel  and  the  Tweed. 

But  everything  has  faults,  nor  is  't  unknown 
That  harps  and  fiddles  often  lose  their  tone, 
And  wayward  voices,  at  their  owner's  call. 
With  all  his  best  endeavors,  only  squall ; 
Dogs  blink  their  covey,  flints  withhold  the  spark, 
And  double-barrels  (damn  them  \)  miss  their  mark.' 

Where  frequent  beauties  strike  the  reader's  view, 
We  must  not  quarrel  for  a  blot  or  two ; 
But  pardon  equally  to  books  or  men. 
The  slips  of  human  nature,  and  the  pen. 

Yet  if  an  author,  spite  of  foe  or  friend. 
Despises  all  advice  too  much  to  mend. 
But  ever  twangs  the  same  discordant  string, 
Give  him  no  quarter,  howsoe'er  he  sing. 
Let  Havard's"  fate  o'ertake  him,  who,  for  once, 
Produced  a  play  too  dashing  for  a  dunce  : 
At  first  none  deem'd  it  his ;  but  when  his  name 
Announced  the  fact — what  then  ?— it  lost  its  fame. 
Though  all  deplore  when  Milton  deigns  to  doze, 
In  a  long  work  'tis  fair  to  steal  repose. 

As  pictures,  so  shaU  poems  be  ;  some  stand 
The  critic  eye,  and  please  when  near  at  hand  ; 

1  As  Mr.  Pope  took  the  liberty  of  damning  Homer,  to  "wliom  he 
was  under  great  obligations—"  And  Homer  (flamn  him  !)  calls  " 
— it  may  be  presumed  that  anybody  or  anything  may  be  damned 
In  vcrfo  by  poetical  license ;  and,  in  case  of  accident,  I  beg  leave 
to  plead  so  illustrions  a  precedent. 

2  For  the  story  of  Billy  Havard's  tragedy,  see  "  Davios's  Life  of 
Garrick."  I  believe  it  is  "  Regnlus,"  or  "  Charles  the  First." 
The  moment  it  was  known  to  be  his  the  theatre  thinned,  and  the 
bookseller  refused  to  give  the  customary  sum  for  the  copyright. — 
["  Havard,"  says  Davies,  "  was  reduced  to  great  straits,  and  in 
order  to  retrieve  his  affairs,  the  story  of  Charles  the  First  was 
proposed  to  him  as  a  proper  subject  to  engage  the  public  atten- 
tion. Havard's  desire  of  ease  was  known  to  be  superior  to  his 
thirst  for  fame  or  money  ;  and  Giffard,  the  manager,  insisted  upon 
the  power  of  locking  him  up  till  the  work  was  finished.  To  this 
he  consented  ;  and  Giffard  actually  turned  the  key  upon  him,  and 
let  him  out  at  his  pleasure,  till  the  play  was  completed.  It  was 
acted  with  great  emolument  to  the  manager,  and  some  degree  of 
reputation,  as  well  as  gain,  to  the  author.  It  drew  large  crowds 
to  the  theatre ;  curiosity  was  excited  with  respect  to  the  author : 
that  was  a  secret  to  be  kept  from  the  people ;  but  Havard's  love 
of  fame  would  not  suffer  it  to  be  concealed  longer  than  the  tenth 
or  twelfth  night  of  acting  the  play.  The  moment  Havard  put  on 
the  Bword  and  tie-wig,  the  genteel  dress  of  the  times,  and  pro- 
fessed himself  to  be  the  writer  of '  Charles  the  First,'  the  audiences 
were  thinned,  and  the  bookseller  refused  to  give  the  usual  sum  of 
a  hundred  pounds  for  the  copyright."] 

'  To  the  Eclectic  or  Christian  Reviewers  I  liavc  to  return  thanks 
for  the  fervor  of  that  charity  which,  in  1809,  induced  them  to 
express  a  hope  that  a  thing  then  published  by  me  might  lead  to 
certain  consequences,  which,  although  natural  enough,  surely  came 
but  rashly  from  reverend  lips.  I  refer  them  to  their  own  pages, 
where  they  congratulated  themselvcB  on  the  prospect  of  a  tilt 


But  others  at  a  distance  strike  the  sight ; 
This  seeks  the  shade,  but  that  demands  the  light, 
Nor  dreads  the  connoisseur's  fastidious  view. 
But,  ten  times  scrutinized,  is  ten  times  new. 

Parnassian  pilgrims  !  ye  whom  chance,  or  choice. 
Hath  led  to  listen  to  the  Muse's  voice. 
Receive  this  counsel,  and  be  timely  wise  ; 
Pew  reach  the  summit  which  before  you  lies. 
Our  church  and  state,  our  courts  and  camps,  concede 
Reward  to  very  moderate  heads  indeed  ! 
In  these  plain  common  sense  will  travel  far ; 
AU  are  not  Erskines  who  mislead  the  bar ; 
But  poesy  between  the  best  and  worst 
No  medium  knows  ;  you  must  be  last  or  first ; 
For  middling  poets'  miserable  volumes 
Are  damn'd  alike  by  gods,  and  men,  and  columns. 

Again,  my  Jefirey  ! — as  that  sound  inspires, 
How  wakes  my  bosom  to  its  wonted  fires  1 
Fires,  such  as  gentle  Caledonians  feel 
When  Southrons  writhe  upon  their  critic  wheel, 
Or  mild  Electics,'  when  some,  worse  than  Turks, 
Would  rob  poor  Faith  to  decorate  "  good  works." 
Such  are  the  genial  feelings  thou  canst  claim — 
My  falcon  flies  not  at  ignoble  game. 
Mightiest  of  all  Dunedin's  beasts  of  chase  I 
For  thee  my  Pegasus  would  mend  his  pace. 
Arise,  my  Jefirey  !  or  my  inkless  pen 
ShaU  never  blunt  its  edge  on  meaner  men  ; 
Till  thee  or  thine  mine  evil  eye  discerns, 

between  Mr.  Jeffrey  and  myself,  from  which  some  great  good  was 
to  accrue,  provided  one  or  both  were  knocked  on  the  head.  Hav- 
ing survived  two  years  and  a  half  those  "  Elegies  "  which  they 
were  kindly  preparing  to  review,  I  have  no  peculiar  gusto  to  give 
them  "  so  joyful  a  trouble,"  except,  indeed,  "  upon  compulsion, 
Hal ;"  but  if,  as  David  says  in  the  "  Rivals,"  it  should  come  to 
"bloody  sword  and  gun  fighting,"  "we  won't  run,  will  we.  Sir 
Lucius  ?"  I  do  not  know  what  I  had  done  to  these  Eclectic  gentle- 
men :  my  works  are  their  lawful  perquisite,  to  be  hewn  in  pieces 
like  Agag,  if  It  seem  meet  Unto  them :  but  why  they  should  be  in 
such  a  hurry  to  kill  off  their  author,  I  am  ignorant.  "  The  race  is 
not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong :"  and  now, 
as  these  Christians  have  "  smote  me  on  one  cheek,"  I  hold  them 
up  the  other ;  and,  in  return  for  their  good  wishes,  give  them  an 
opportunity  of  repeating  them.  Had  any  other  set  of  men  ex- 
pressed such  sentiments,  I  should  have  smiled,  and  left  them  to 
the  "  recording  angel ;"  but  from  the  phariseos  of  Christianity 
decency  might  be  expected.  I  can  assure  these  brethren,  that, 
publican  and  sinner  as  I  am,  I  would  not  have  treated  "mine  ene- 
my's dog  thus."  To  show  them  the  superiority  of  my  brotherly 
love,  if  ever  the  Reverend  Messrs.  Simeon  or  Eamsden  should  be 
engaged  in  such  a  conflict  as  that  in  which  they  requested  me  to 
fall,  I  hope  they  may  escape  with  being  "  winged  "  only,  and  that 
Heaviside  may  be  at  hand  to  extract  the  ball.— [The  following  is 
the  charitable  passage  in  the  Eclectic  Review  of  which  Lord  Byron 
speaks :  "  If  the  noble  lord  and  the  learned  advocate  have  the 
courage  requisite  to  sustain  their  mutual  insults,  we  shall  prob- 
ably soon  bear  the  explosions  of  another  kind  of  paper-\ynT,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  ever-memorable  duel  which  the  latter  is  said  to 
have  fought,  or  Eeemed  to  fight,  with  '  Little  Moore.'  We  confess 
there  is  sid&cient  provocation,  if  not  in  the  critique  at  least  in  the 
satire,  to  urge  a  '  man  of  honor '  to  defy  his  assailant  to  mortal 
combat.    Of  this  we  shall  no  doubt  hear  more  in  due  time."] 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


447 


Alas  !  I  cannot  "  strike  at  wretched  kernes." 

Inhuman  Saxon  !  wilt  thou  then  resign 

A  muse  and  heart  by  choice  so  wholly  thine  ? 

Dear,  d — d  contemner  of  my  schoolboy  songs, 

Hast  thou  no  vengeance  for  my  manhood's  wrongs  ? 

If  unprovoked  thou  once  could  bid  me  bleed, 

Hast  thou  no  weapon  for  my  daring  deed  ? 

What  1  not  a  word  ! — and  am  I  then  so  low  ? 

Wilt  thou  forbear,  who  never  spared  a  foe  ? 

Hast  thou  no  wrath,  or  wish  to  give  it  vent  ? 

No  wit  for  nobles,  dunces  by  descent  ? 

No  jest  on  "  minors,"  quibbles  on  a  name, 

Nor  one  facetious  paragraph  of  blame  ? 

Is  it  for  this  on  Iliou  I  have  stood. 

And  thought  of  Homer  less  than  Holyrood  ? 

On  shore  of  Euxine  or  jEgean  sea 

My  hate,  untravell'd,  fondly  tum'd  to  thee. 

Ah  !  let  me  cease  ;  in  vain  my  bosom  bums. 

From  Corydon  unkind  Alexis  turns  :> 

Thy  rhymes  are  vain  ;  thy  Jcfirey  then  forego. 

Nor  woo  that  anger  which  he  will  not  show. 

What  then  ? — Edina  starves  some  lanker  son. 

To  write  an  article  thou  canst  not  shun  ; 

Some  less  fastidious  Scotchman  shall  be  found. 

As  bold  in  Billingsgate,  though  less  renown'd. 

As  if  at  table  some  discordant  dish 
Should  shock  our  optics,  such  as  frogs  for  fish  ; 
As  oil  in  lieu  of  butter  men  decry. 
And  poppies  please  not  in  a  modern  pie  ; 
If  all  such  mixtures  then  be  half  a  crime, 
We  must  have  excellence  to  reUsh  rhyme. 


•  Invenies  alinm,  si  te  hie  fastidit  Alexin. 

'  Mr.  Soutliey  has  lately  tied  anotlier  eanister  to  lii3  tail  in  the 
"  Curse  of  Kehama,"  mangre  the  neglect  of  Madoc,  etc.,  and  has 
In  one  instance  had  a  wonderful  effect.  A  literary  friend  of  mine, 
walking  out  one  lovely  evening  last  summer,  on  the  eleventh 
bridge  of  the  Paddington  canal,  was  •alarmed  by  the  cry  of  "one 
in  jeopardy :"  he  rushed  along,  collected  a  body  of  Irish  hay- 
iimkera,  (.supping  on  buttermilk  in  an  adjacent  paddock,)  procured 
three  rakes,  one  eel-spear,  and  a  landing-net,  and  at  last  ^orresco 
referens)  pulled  out— his  own  publisher.  The  unfortunate  man 
was  gone  forever,  and  so  was  a  large  quarto  wherewith  he  had 
taken  the  leap,  which  proved,  on  inquiry,  to  have  been  Mr.  South- 
ey'9  last  work.  Its  "alacrity  of  sinking"  was  so  great,  that  it 
has  never  since  been  heard  of;  though  some  maintain  that  it  is 
at  this  moment  concealed  at  Alderman  Birch's  jMstry  premises, 
Comhill.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  coroner's  inquest  brought  in  a 
verdict  of  "  Felo  do  bibliopola  "  against  a  "  quarto  nnkno^vn  ;" 
and  circumstantial  evidence  being  since  strong  against  the  "  Curse 
of  Kehama,"  (of  which  the  above  words  are  an  exact  description,) 
it  will  be  tried  by  iU  peers  next  session,  in  Grub-street.— Arthur, 
Alfred,  Davideis,  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  Exodus,  Exodia,  Epig- 
onlad.  Calvary,  Fall  of  Cambria,  Siege  of  Acre,  Don  Roderick, 
and  Tom  Thumb  the  Great,  arc  the  names  of  the  twelve  jurors! 
The  judges  are  Pye,  Bowles,  and  the  bellman  of  St.  Sepulchre's! 
The  same  advocates,  pro  and  con,  will  bo  employed  as  arc  now 
engaged  in  Sir  Francis  Burdett's  celebrated  cause  in  the  Scotch 
courts.  The  public  anxiously  await  the  result,  and  all  live  pub- 
liahers  will  bo  subpoenaed  as  witnesses.— But  Mr.  Soulhey  has 
published  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama,"— an  Inviting  title  to  quibblcrs. 
By  the  by,  it  is  a  good  deal  beneath  Scott  and  Campbell,  and  not 
much  above  Southoy,  to  allow  the  booby  Ballantyne  to  entitle 
them,  in  the  Edinburgh  Annual  Register  (of  which,  by  the  by, 
Southey  is  editor)  "  the  grand  poetical  triumvirate  of  the  day."' 


Mere  roast  and  boil'd  no  epicure  invites  ; 
Thus  poetry  disgusts,  or  else  delights. 

Who  shoot  not  flying  rarely  touch  a  gun  : 
Will  he  who  swims  not  to  the  river  nm  ? 
And  men  unpractised  in  exchanging  knocks 
Must  go  to  Jackson  ere  they  dare  to  box. 
Whate'er  the  weapon,  cudgel,  fist,  or  foil, 
None  reach  expertness  without  years  of  toil ; 
But  fifty  dunces  can,  with  perfect  ease. 
Tag  twenty  thousand  couplets,  when  they  please. 
Why  not  ?— shall  I,  thus  quaUfied  to  sit 
For  rotten  boroughs,  never  show  my  wit  ? 
Shall  I,  whose  fathers  with  the  quorum  sate. 
And  hved  in  freedom  on  a  fair  estate  ; 
Who  left  me  heir,  with  stables,  kennels,  packs, 
To  all  their  income,  and  to — twice  its  tax  ; 
Whose  form  and  pedigree  have  scarce  a  fault, — 
Shall  I,  I  say,  suppress  my  Attic  salt  ? 

Thus  think  "  the  mob  of  gentlemen  ;"  but  you. 
Besides  all  this,  must  have  some  genius  too. 
Be  this  your  sober  judgment,  and  a  rule. 
And  print  not  piping  hot  from  Southey's  school, 
Who,  (ere  another  Thalaba  appears,) 
I  trust,  wiU  spare  us  for  at  least  nine  years. 
And  hark  ye,  Southey  !^  pray— but  don't  be  vex'd— 
Bum  all  your  last  three  works— and  half  the  next. 
But  why  this  vain  advice  ?  once  published,  books 
Can  never  be  recall'd — from  pastry-cooks  ! 
Though  "  Madoc,"  with  "  PuceUo,"^  instead  of  punk, 
May  travel  back  to  Quito — on  a  trunk  !' 


But,  on  second  thoughts,  it  can  be  no  great  degree  of  praise  to 
be  the  one-eyed  leaders  of  the  blind,  though  they  might  as  well 
keep  to  themselves  "  Scott's  thirty  thousand  copies  sold,"  which 
must  sadly  discomfit  poor  Southey's  unsaleables.  Poor  Soutliey, 
it  should  seem,  is  the  "  Lepidus  "  of  this  poetical  triumvirate.  I 
am  only  surprised  to  see  him  in  such  good  company. 

"  Such  things,  we  Imow,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare. 
But  wonder  how  the  devil  Ae  came  there." 
The  trio  are  well  defined  in  the  sixth  proposition  of  Euclid: 
"  Because,  in  the  triangles  D  B  C,  A  C  B,  D  B  is  equal  to  A  C,  aud 
B  C  common  to  both  ;  the  two  sides  D  B,  B  C,  are  equal  to  the 
two  A  C,  C  B,  each  to  each,  and  the  angle  D  B  C  is  equal  to  the 
angle  ABC:  therefore  the  base  D  C  is  equal  to  the  base  A  B, 
and  the  triangle  D  B  C  (Mr.  Southey)  is  equal  to  the  triangle  A 
C  B,  the  less  to  the  greater,  which  is  absurd,  etc.— The  editor  of 
the  Edinburgh  Register  will  find  the  rest  of  the  theorem  hard  by 
his  stabling ;  he  has  only  to  cross  the  river ;  'tis  the  first  turn- 
pike t'  other  side  "  Pons  Asinorum."* 

'  Voltaire's  "  Pncelle "  is  not  quite  so  immaculate  as  Mr. 
Southey's  "Joan  of  Arc,"  and  yet  I  am  afraid  the  Frenchman 
has  both  more  truth  and  poetry  too  on  his  side— (they  rarely  go 
together)— than  our  patriotic  minstrel,  whoso  first  essay  was  in 
praise  of  a  fanatical  French  strumpet,  whose  title  of  witch  would 
be  correct  with  the  change  of  the  first  letter. 

*  Like  Sir  Bland  Burgcs's  "  Richard  ;"  the  tenth  book  of  which 
I  read  at  Malta,  on  a  trunk  of  Eyre's,  19  Cockspur-street.  If  this 
bo  doubted,  I  sliali  buy  a  portmanteau  to  quote  from. 

*  Tills  Latin  has  sorely  puzzled  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 
Ballantyne  said  it  meant  the  "  Bridge  of  Berwick,"  but  Southey 
claimed  it  as  half  English  ;  Scott  swore  it  was  the  "  Brig  o'  Stir- 
ling ;"  he  had  just  passed  two  King  James's  and  a  dozen  Doug- 
lasses over  it.  At  last  it  was  decided  by  Jeffrey,  that  it  meant  no- 
thing more  nor  lets  than  the  "  counter  of  Archy  Constable's  shop." 


448 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Orpheus,  we  learn  from  Ovid  and  Lempriere, 
Led  all  wild  beasts  but  women  by  the  car  ; 
And-had  he  fiddled  at  the  present  hour, 
We'd  seen  the  lions  waltzing  in  the  Tower ; 
And  old  Amphion,  such  were  minstrels  then. 
Had  built  St.  Paul's  without  the  aid  of  Wren. 
Verse  too  was  justice,  and  the  bards  of  Greece 
Did  more  than  constables  to  keep  the  peace  ; 
Abolish'd  cuckoldom  with  much  applause, 
Call'd  county  meetings,  and  enforced  the  laws. 
Cut  down  crown  influence  with  reforming  scythes, 
And  served  the  church — without  demanding  tithes  ; 
And  hence,  throughout  all  Hellas  and  the  East, 
Each  poet  was  a  prophet  and  a  priest. 
Whose  old-establish'd  board  of  joint  controls 
Included  kingdoms  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

Next  rose  the  martial  Homer,  Epic's  prince. 
And  fighting  's  been  in  fashion  ever  since. 
And  old  Tyrtxus,  when  the  Spartans  warr'd, 
(A  limping  leader,  but  a  lofty  bard,) 
Though  wall'd  Ithome  had  resisted  long, 
Reduced  the  fortress  by  the  force  of  song. 

When  oracles  prevail'd,  in  times  of  old. 
In  song  alone  Apollo's  will  was  told  : 
Then  if  your  verse  is  what  all  verse  should  be, 
And  gods  were  not  ashamed  on  't,  why  should  we  ? 

The  Muse,  like  mortal  females,  may  be  woo'd  ; 
In  turns  she'll  seem  a  Paphian  or  a  prude  ; 
Fierce  as  a  bride  when  first  she  feels  aflright, 
Mild  as  the  same  upon  the  second  night ; 
Wild  as  the  wife  of  alderman  or  peer. 
Now  for  his  grace,  and  now  a  grenadier  ! 
Her  eyes  beseem,  her  heart  belies,  her  zone. 
Ice  in  a  crowd,  and  lava  when  alone. 

If  verse  be  studied  with  some  show  of  art, 

'  ["  PoUio.'"— la  the  original  MS.  "  Sogers.'''] 

3  "  Turn  quoqae  marmorca  caput  a  cervice  reviilsum, 

Gurgite  cam  medio  portaus  (Eagrins  Ilebras, 

Voiveret  Earydicen  vox  ipsa,  et  frijida  lingua ; 

All,  miscram  Eurydicen  1  anima  fagiente  vocabat ; 

Eurydiccn  toto  refercbant  Uumine  ripoe." — Georgic.  iv.  623. 

'  I  beg  Nathaniel's  pardon :  ho  is  not  a  cobbler ;  it  is  a  tailor, 

but  bogged  Capei  Lofft  to  sinli  the  profession  in  his  preface  to  two 

pair  of  panta psha !— of  cantos,  which  he  wished  the  public  to 

try  on  ;  but  tho  sieve  of  a  patron  lot  it  out,  and  so  far  saved  the 
expense  of  an  advertisement  to  his  country  customers.— Merry's 
"  Moorlields  whine  "  waa  nothing  to  all  this. 

*  Tliis  well-meaning  gentleman  has  spoiled  some  exccliynt  shoe- 
makers, and  been  accessory  to  the  poetical  undoing  of  many  of 
the  industrious  poor.  Nathaniel  Bloomfleld  and  his  brother  Bobby 
have  set  all  Somersetshire  singing ;  nor  has  the  malady  confined 
Itself  to  one  county.  Pratt  too  (who  once  was  wiser)  has  caught 
the  contagion  of  patronage,  and  decoyed  a  poor  fellow  named 
Blackett  into  poetry  ;  but  he  died  during  tlie  operation,  leaving 
one  child  and  two  volumes  of  "  Remains,"  utterly  destitute.  The 
girl,  if  she  don't  take  a  poetical  twist,  and  come  forth  as  a  shoe- 
making  Sappho,  may  do  well ;  but  the  "  tragedies  "  are  as  rickety 
as  if  they  had  been  the  offspring  of  an  Earl  or  a  Scatonian  prize 
poet.    Tho  patrons  of  this  poor  lad  are  certainly  answerable  for 


Kind  Nature  always  will  perform  her  part ; 
Though  without  genius,  and  a  native  vein 
Of  wit,  we  loathe  an  artificial  strain — 
Yet  art  and  nature  join'd  will  win  the  prize. 
Unless  they  act  like  us  and  our  allies. 

The  youth  who  trains  to  ride,  or  run  a  race, 
Must  bear  privations  with  unruflled  face. 
Be  call'd  to  labor  when  he  thinks  to  dine. 
And  harder  still,  leave  wenching  and  his  wine. 
Ladies  who  sing,  at  least  who  sing  at  sight. 
Have  foUow'd  music  through  her  farthest  flight ; 
But  rhymers  tell  you  neither  more  nor  less, 
"  I've  got  a  pretty  poem  for  the  press ;" 
And  that's  enough  ;  then  write  and  print  so  fast ; — 
If  Satan  take  the  hindmost,  who'd  be  last  ? 
They  storm  the  types,  they  publish,  one  and  all. 
They  leap  the  counter,  and  they  leave  the  stall. 
Provincial  maidens,  men  of  high  command, 
Yea,  baronets  have  ink'd  the  bloody  hand  ! 
Cash  cannot  quell  them  ;  Pollio'  play'd  this  prank, 
(Then  Phoebus  first  found  credit  in  a  bank  !) 
Not  all  the  living  only,  but  the  dead, 
Fool  on,  as  fluent  as  an  Orpheus'  head :' 
Damn'd  all  their  days,  they  posthumously  thrive — 
Dug  up  from  dust,  though  buried  when  alive  1 
Reviews  record  this  epidemic  crime. 
Those  Books  of  Martyrs  to  the  rage  for  rhyme. 
Alas  !  wo  worth  the  scribbler  !  often  seen 
In  Morning  Post,  or  Monthly  Magazine. 
There  lurk  his  earlier  lays  ;  but  soon,  hot-press'd. 
Behold  a  quarto  1 — Tarts  must  tell  the  rest. 
Then  leave,  ye  wise,  the  lyre's  precarious  chords 
To  muse-mad  baronets,  or  madder  lords, 
Or  country  Crispins,  now  grown  somewhat  stale, 
Twin  Doric  minstrels,  drunk  with  Doric  ale  ! 
Hark  to  those  notes,  narcotically  soft. 
The  cobbler-laureates"  sing  to  Capel  Lofll  !< 

his  end ;  and  it  ought  to  be  an  indictable  offence.  But  this  is  the 
least  they  have  done ;  for,  by  a  refinement  of  barbarity,  they  have 
made  the  (late)  man  posthumously  ridiculous,  by  printing  what  he 
would  have  had  sense  enough  never  to  print  himself.  Certes,  these 
rakers  of  "  Remains  "  come  under  the  statute  against  "  resurrec- 
tion men."  What  does  it  signify  whether  a  poor  dear  dead  dunce 
is  to  be  stuck  up  in  Surgeons'  or  in  Stationers'  Hall  f  Is  it  so  bad 
to  unearth  his  bones  as  his  blunders  t  It  is  not  better  to  gibbet  his 
body  on  a  heath,  than  his  soul  in  an  octavo  ?  "  We  know  what 
we  are,  but  we  know  not  wliat  we  may  be ;"  and  it  is  to  be  hoped 
we  never  shall  know,  if  a  man  who  has  passed  through  life  with  a 
sort  of  eclat,  is  to  find  himself  a  mountebank  on  the  other  side  of 
Styx,  and  made,  like  poor  Joe  Blackett,  the  laughing-stock  of 
purgatoiy.  The  plea  of  publicaiion  is  to  provide  for  the  child ; 
now,  might  not  some  of  this  "  Sutor  ultra  Crepidam's  "  friends 
and  seducers  have  done  a  decent  action  without  inveigling  Pratt 
into  biography  ?  And  then  his  inscription  split  into  so  many 
modicums  1— "  To  the  Duchess  of  Somnch,  the  Right  Hon.  So- 
and-So,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Somebody,  these  vohimes  are,  etc., 
etc."— why,  this  is  doling  out  the  "  soft  milk  of  dedication  "  in 
gills,— there  is  but  a  quart,  and  he  divides  it  among  a  dozen. 
Wliy,  Pratt,  hadst  thou  not  a  puff  left?  Dost  thou  think  six 
families  of  distinction  can  share  this  in  quiet  ?  There  is  a  child, 
a  book,  and  a  dedication :  send  the  girl  to  her  grace,  tho  volumes 
to  tho  grocer,  and  tho  dedication  to  the  devil. 


HINTS    FROM    HORACE. 


449 


Till,  lo  !  that  modern  Midas,  as  he  hears, 
Adds  an  ell  growth  to  his  egregious  cars  ! 

There  lives  one  druid,  who  prepares  in  time, 
'Gainst  future  feuds  his  poor  revenge  of  rhyme  ; 
Racks  his  dull  memory,  and  his  duUer  muse. 
To  publish  faults  which  friendship  should  excuse. 
If  friendship  's  nothing,  self-regard  might  teach 
More  polish'd  usage  of  his  parts  of  speech. 
But  what  is  shame,  or  what  is  aught  to  him  ? 
lie  vents  his  spleen,  or  gratifies  his  whim. 
Some  fancied  slight  has  roused  his  lurking  hate. 
Some  folly  cross'd,  some  jest,  or  some  debate  ; 
Up  to  his  den  Sir  Scribbler  hies,  and  soon 
The  gather'd  gall  is  voided  in  lampoon. 
Perhaps    at   some    pert    speech  you've    dared  to 

frown, 
Perhaps  your  poem  may  have  pleased  the  town  : 
If  so,  alas  !  'tis  nature  in  the  man — 
May  Heaven  forgive  you,  for  he  never  can  ! 
Then  be  it  so ;  and  may  his  withering  bays 
Bloom  fresh  in  satire,  though  they  fade  in  praise  ! 
While  his  lost  songs  no  more    shall    steep   and 

stink. 
The  dullest,  fattest  weeds  on  Lethe's  brink. 
But  springing  upwards  from  the  sluggish  mould. 
Be  (what  they  never  were  before) — be  sold  ! 
Should  some  rich  bard,  (but  such  a  monster  now. 
In  modern  physics,  we  can  scarce  allow,) 
Should  some  pretending  scribbler  of  the  court. 
Some  rhyming  peer' — there's  plenty  of  the  sort' — 
All  but  one  poor  dependant  priest  withdrawn, 
(Ah  !  too  regardless  of  his  chaplain's  yawn  !) 
Condemn  the  unlucky  curate  to  recite 
Their  last  dramatic  work  by  candle-light. 
How  would  the  preacher  turn  each  rueful  leaf. 
Dull  as  his  sermons,  but  not  half  so  brief! 
Yet,  since  'tis  promised  at  the  rector's  death, 
He'll  risk  no  living  for  a  little  breath. 

'  [In  the  original  MS  — 

"  Some  rhyming  peer— Carlisle  or  Carysfort." 
To  which  is  subjoined  this  note:— "Of  'John  Joshua,  Earl  of 
Carysfort,'  I  know  nothing  at  present,  hut  from  an  advertisement 
In  an  old  newspaper  of  certain  Poems  and  Tragedies  by  his  lord- 
ship, which  I  saw  by  accident  in  the  Morea.  Being  a  rhymer  hlm- 
uelf,  he  will  forgive  the  liberty  I  talse  with  his  name,  seeing,  as  he 
must,  how  very  commodions  it  is  at  the  close  of  that  couplet ;  and 
as  for  what  follows  and  goes  before,  let  him  place  it  to  the  account 
of  the  other  Thane ;  since  I  cannot,  under  these  circumstances, 
augur  pro  or  con  the  contents  of  his  '  foolscap  crown  octavos.' " — 
John  Joshua  Prohy,  first  Earl  of  Carysfort,  was  joint  postmaster- 
general  in  1803,  envoy  to  Berlin  In  1806,  and  ambassador  to  Peters- 
burgh  In  1807.  Besides  his  poems,  he  published  two  pamphlets, 
to  show  the  necessity  of  universal  suffrage  and  short  parliaments. 
He  died  in  1828.] 

'  Here  vrill  Mr.  Gifford  allow  me  to  introduce  once  more  to  Us 
notice  the  sole  survivor,  the  "  nitlmus  Homanomm,"  the  last  of 
the  Crascanti  I— "  Edwin  "  the  "  profound,"  by  our  Lady  of  Pun- 
ishment 1  here  he  is,  as  lively  as  In  the  days  of  "  well  said  Baviad 
the  Correct."  I  thought  Fitzgerald  had  been  the  tall  of  poesy ; 
bat,  alas !  he  is  only  the  penultimate. 

67 


Then  spouts  and  foams,  and  erics  at  every  line, 

(The  Lord  forgive  him  !)  "  Bravo !  grand !  divine !" 

Hoarse  with  those  praises,  (which,  by  flatt'ry  fed, 

Dependence  barters  for  her  bitter  broad,) 

He  strides  and  stamps  along  with  creaking  boot. 

Till  the  floor  echoes  his  emphatic  foot ; 

Then  sits  again,  then  rolls  his  pious  eye, 

As  when  the  dying  vicar  wiU  not  die  1 

Nor  feels,  forsooth,  emotion  at  his  heart ; — 

But  all  dissemblers  overact  their  part. 

Ye,  who  aspire  to  "  build  the  lofty  rhyme," 
BeUeve  not  all  who  laud  your  false  "  sublime  ;" 
But  if  some  friend  shall  hear  your  work,  and  say, 
"  Expunge  that  stanza,  lop  that  line  away," 
And,  after  fruitless  efforts,  you  return 
Without  amendment,  and  he  answers,  "  Bum  !" 
That  instant  throw  your  paper  in  the  fire. 
Ask  not  his  thoughts,  or  follow  his  desire ; 
But  if  (true  bard  !)  you  scorn  to  condescend, 
And  will  not  alter  what  you  can't  defend. 
If  you  will  breed  this  bastard  of  your  brains,' — 
We'll  have  no  words — ^I've  only  lost  my  pains. 

Yet,  if  you  only  prize  your  favorite  thought, 
As  critics  kindly  do,  and  authors  ought ; 
If  your  cool  friend  annoy  you  now  and  then, 
And  cross  whole  pages  with  his  plaguy  pen ; 
No  matter,  throw  your  ornaments  aside, — 
Better  let  him  than  aU  the  world  deride. 
Give  light  to  passages  too  much  in  shade. 
Nor  let  a  doubt  obscm-e  one  verse  you've  made  ; 
Your  friend  's  "  a  Johnson,"  not  to  leave  one  word, 
However  trifling,  which  may  seem  absurd ; 
Such  erring  trifles  lead  to  serious  ills. 
And  furnish  food  for  critics,'  or  their  quills. 


A  FAMILIAB  EPISTLE  TO  THB  KDITOB  OP  THE  MORNINO 
CnRONICLE. 

"  What  reams  of  paper,  floods  of  Ink," 
Do  some  men  spoil,  who  never  think ! 
And  so  perhaps  you'll  say  of  me. 
In  which  your  readers  may  agree. 
Still  1  write  on,  and  tell  you  why ; 
Nothing 's  so  bad,  you  can't  deny, 
Bat  may  Instruct  or  entertain 
Without  the  risk  of  giving  pain,  etc.,  etc. 

ON   SOME  MODERN  QUACKS   AND  REFORMISTS. 

In  tracing  of  the  human  mind 

Through  all  its  various  courses. 
Though  strange,  'tis  true,  we  often  find 

It  knows  not  its  resources : 

And  men  through  life  assume  a  part 
For  which  no  talents  they  possess, 
Yet  wonder  that,  with  all  their  art. 
They  meet  no  better  with  success,  etc.,  etc. 
'  "Bastard  of  your  frraim."— Minerva  being  the  first  by  Jupi- 
ter's headpiece,  and  a  variety  of  equally  unaccountable  partnri- 
tlons  upon  earth,  such  as  Madoc,  etc.,  etc. 
>  "  A  crust  for  the  critics."- jBay<»,  t»  the  "  Seheartal." 


450 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


As  the  Scotch  fiddle,  with  its  touching  tune, 
Or  the  sad  influence  of  the  angry  moon, 
All  men  avoid  bad  writers'  ready  tongues. 
As  yawning  waiters  fly'  Fitzscribble's'  lungs  ; 
Yet  on  he  mouths — ten  minutes — tedious  each 
As  prelate's  homily,  or  placeman's  speech  ; 
Long  as  the  last  years  of  a  lingering  lease, 
When  riot  pauses  until  rents  increase. 
While  such  a  minstrel,  muttering  fustian,  strays 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  unfrequented  ways, 
If  by  some  chance  he  walks  into  a  well. 
And  shouts  for  succor  with  stentorian  yell, 
"  A  rope  !  help.  Christians,  as  ye  hope  for  grace  !" 
Nor  woman,  man,  nor  child  will  stir  a  pace  ; 
For  there  his  carcass  he  might  freely  fling, 
From  phrenzy,  or  the  humor  of  the  thing. 
Though  this  has  happen'd  to  more  bards  than  one  ; 
I'll  tell  you  Budgell's  story, — and  hare  done. 

Budgell,  a  rogue  and  rhymester,  for  no  good, 
(Unless  his  case  be  much  misunderstood,) 


When  teased  with  creditors'  continual  claims, 
"  To  die  Uke  Cato,"^  leapt  into  the  Thames  ! 
And  therefore  be  it  lawful  through  the  town 
For  any  bard  to  poison,  hang,  or  drown. 
Who  saves  the  intended  suicide  receives 
Small  thanks  from  him  who  loathes  the  Ufe  he 
And,  sooth  to  say,  mad  poets  must  not  lose  [leaves ; 
The  glory  of  that  death  they  freely  chose. 

Nor  is  it  certain  that  some  sorts  of  verse 
Prick  not  the  poet's  conscience  as  a  curse  ; 
Dosed'  with  vile  drams  on  Sunday  he  was  found, 
Or  got  a  child  on  consecrated  ground  ! 
And  hence  is  haunted  with  a  rhyming  rage — 
Fear'd  like  a  bear  just  bursting  from  his  cage. 
If  free,  all  fly  his  versifying  fit. 
Fatal  at  once  to  simpleton  or  wit, 
But  him,  unhappy  !  whom  he  seizes, — Mm 
He  flays  with  recitation  limb  by  Umb  ; 
Probes  to  the  quick  where'er  he  makes  his  breach. 
And  gorges  like  a  lawyer — or  a  leech. 


THE    CURSE    OF    MINERVA.' 


"  Pallas  te  hoc  vulnere,  Pallas 

Immolat,  et  poenam  scelerato  ex  Banguine  Bomit."— .iSInxid,  lib.  xli. 


Athens,  Capuohin  Contbnt,  March  17, 1811. 
Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run. 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sim  ; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright. 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ; 
O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws. 
Gilds  the  green  wave  that  trembles  as  it  glows  ; 
On  old  ^gina's  rock  and  Hydra's  isle 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile  ; 
O'er  his  own  regions  Ungering  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast,  the  mountain-shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis  ! 

'  And  the  "  waiters "  are  the  only  fortunate  people  who  can 
"fly"  from  them;  all  the  rest,  viz.  the  sad  Buhscribers  to  the 
"Literary  Fund,"  being  compelled,  by  courtesy,  to  eit  out  the 
recitation  without  a  hope  of  exclaiming,  "  Sic  "  (that  is,  by  chok- 
ing Fitz  with  bad  wine,  or  worse  poetry)  "  me  servavit  Apollo  I" 

»  ["  Fltzscribble,"  originally  "  Fitzgerald."] 

'  On  his  table  were  foimd  these  words :  "  What  Cato  did,  and 
Addison  approved,  cannot  be  wrong."  But  Addison  did  not  "  ap- 
prove ;"  and  if  he  had,  it  would  not  have  mended  the  matter.  He 
had  invited  his  daughter  on  the  same  water  party ;  but  Miss  Bud- 
gell, by  some  accident,  escaped  this  last  paternal  attention.  Thus 
fell  the  sycophant  of  "  Attlcus,"  and  the  enemy  of  Pope !— [Eu- 
stace Budgell,  a  fHend  and  relative  of  Addison's,  "leapt  into  the 
Thames  "  to  escape  a  prosecution,  on  account  of  forging  the  will 
of  Dr.  Tindal ;  in  which  Eustace  had  provided  himself  with  a 
legacy  of  two  thousand  pounds.    To  this  Pope  alludes— 

"  Let  Budgell  cliarge  low  Grub-street  on  my  quill, 
And  write  whate'er  he  please— except  my  will."] 


Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 
More  deeply  purpled,  meet  his  mellowing  glance. 
And  tendercst  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep. 
Behind  his  Delphian  rock  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When,  Athens  !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's'  latest  day. 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hiU, 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 

*  If  "  dosed  with,"  etc.,  be  censured  as  low,  I  beg  leave  to  refer 
to  the  original  for  something  still  lower ;  and  if  any  reader  will 
translate  "Minxerit  In  patrios  cineres,  etc.,  into  a  decent  coup- 
let, I  will  insert  said  couplet  in  lieu  of  the  present. 

['  This  fierce  philippic  on  Lord  Elgin,  whose  collection  of  Athe- 
nian marbles  was  ultimately  purchased  for  the  nation,  in  1816,  at 
the  cost  of  thirty-five  thousand  pounds,  was  written  at  Athens,  in 
March,  1811,  and  prepared  for  publication  along  with  the  "Hints 
from  Horace ;"  but,  like  that  satire,  suppressed  by  Lord  Byron, 
from  motives  which  the  reader  will  easily  understand.  It  was 
first  given  to  the  world  in  1828.  Few  can  wonder  that  Lord  By- 
ron's feelings  should  have  been  powerfully  excited  by  the  specta- 
cle of  the  despoiled  Parthenon  ;  but  it  is  only  due  to  Lord  Elgin 
to  keep  in  mind,  that,  had  those  precious  marbles  remained,  they 
must,  in  all  likelihood,  have  perished  forever  amidst  the  miser- 
able scenes  of  violence  which  Athens  has  since  witnessed.] 

•  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset,  (the 
hour  of  execution,)  notwithstaudiug  the  entreaties  of  his  disci- 
ples to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 


THE    CURSE    OF    MINERVA. 


451 


But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes  ; 
Qloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before  ; 
But  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithoeron's  head, 
The  cup  of  wo  was  quaff'd — the  spirit  fled ; 
The  soul  of  him  that  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly, 
Who  lived  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die. 

But,  lo  1  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign ;' 
No  murky  vajwr,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  or  girds  her  glowing  form ; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray. 
And  bright  around,  with  quivering  beams  beset. 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide, 
Wliere  meek  Cephisus  sheds  his  scanty  tide. 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque. 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk, ' 
And  sad  and  sombre  mid  the  holy  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fane,  yon  solitary  palm  ; 
All,  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye. 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  jEgean,  heard  no  more  afar. 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  expanse  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mix'd  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 
That  frown,  where  gentler  ocean  deigns  to  smile. 

As  thus,  within  the  walls  of  Pallas'  fane, 
I  mark'd  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main, 
Alone,  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore. 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poets'  lore ; 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  tum'd  to  scan. 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man. 
The  past  retum'd,  the  present  seem'd  to  cease. 
And  Glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece  ! 

Hours  roU'd  along,  and  Dian's  orb  on  high 
Had  gain'd  the  centre  of  her  softest  sky ; 
And  yet  unwearied  stiU  my  footsteps  trod 
O'er  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a  vanish'd  god  : 
But  chiefly,  Pallas  !  thine ;  when  Hecate's  glare, 
Check'd  by  thy  columns,  fell  more  sadly  fair 
O'er  the  chill  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 


'  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own  coun- 
try ;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  bat  in  snmmer  of  less  dura- 
tion. 

'  The  Idosk  is  a  Turidsh  summer-house  ;  the  palm  is  without 
the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseus. 
l)etween  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  Intervenes.  Cephisus'  stream 
is  indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissns  has  no  stream  at  all. 


Long  had  I  mused,  and  treasured  every  trace 
The  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  race. 
When,  lo  !  a  giant  form  before  me  strode. 
And  Pallas  hail'd  me  in  her  own  abode  ! 

Yes,  'twas  Minerva's  self;  but,  ah  !  how  changed 
Since  o'er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  slie  ranged  1 
Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  command. 
Her  form  appear'd  from  Phidias'  plastic  hand  : 
Gone  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow. 
Her  idle  oegis  bore  no  Gorgon  now ; 
Her  helm  was  dinted,  and  the  broken  lance 
Seem'd  weak  and  shaftless  e'en  to  mortal  glance  ; 
The  olive  branch,  which  still  she  deign'd  to  clasp, 
Shrunk  from  her  touch,  and  wither'd  in  her  grasp  ; 
And,  ah  !  though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky, 
Celestial  tears  bedimm'd  her  large  blue  eye  ; 
Round  the  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow. 
And  mourn'd  his  mistress  with  a  shriek  of  wo  1 

"  Mortal !" — 'twas  thus  she  spake—"  that  blush  of 
Proclaims  thee  Briton,  once  a  noble  name  ;     [shame 
First  of  the  mighty,  foremost  of  the  free. 
Now  honor'd  less  by  all,  and  least  by  me  : 
Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found. 
Seek'st  thou  the  cause  of  loathing  ?— look  around. 
Lo  !  here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 
I  saw  successive  tyrannies  expire. 
'Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Goth,' 
Thy  country  sends  a  spoiler  worse  than  both. 
Survey  this  vacant,  violated  fane  ; 
Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain  : 
These  Cecrops  placed,  this  Pericles  adorn'd,< 
That  Adrian  rear'd  when  drooping  Science  mourn'd. 
Wliat  more  I  owe  let  gratitude  attest — 
Know,  Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest. 
That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunderer  came, 
The  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name  : 
For  Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads, 
Below,  his  name — above,  behold  his  deeds 
Be  ever  hail'd  with  equal  honor  here 
The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer  : 
Arms  gave  the  first  his  right,  the  last  had  none, 
But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won. 
So  when  the  lion  quits  his  fell  repast. 
Next  prowls  the  wolf,  the  filthy  jackal  last : 
Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood  the  former  make  their  own, 
The  last  poor  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 
Yet  still  the  gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  cross'd  : 
See  here  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost ! 


»  [In  the  original  MS.— 

"  Ah,  Athens  I  scarce  escaped  from  Turk  and  Goth  : 
Hell  sends  a  paltry  Scotchman  worse  than  both."] 
*  This  is  spoken  of  the  city  in  general,  and  not  of  the  Acropolis 
In  particular.  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  by  some  supposed 
the  Pantheon,  was  finished  by  Hadrian ;  sixteen  columns  are  stand- 
ing, of  the  most  beautiful  marble  ond  architecture. 


452 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


Another  name  with  his  pollutes  my  shrine  1 
Behold  where  Dian's  beams  disdain  to  shine  ! 
Some  retribution  still  might  Pallas  claim, 
When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva's  shame.'" 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  reply, 
To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye  : 
"  Daughter  of  Jove  !  in  Britain's  injured  name, 
A  true-born  Britain  may  the  deed  disclaim. 
Frown  not  on  England ;  England  owns  him  not : 
Athena,  no  1  thy  plunderer  was  a  Scot. 
Ask'st  thou  the  difference  ?    From  fair  Phyle's  tow- 
Survey  Boeotia  ; — Caledonia  's  ours.  [ers 
And  well  I  know  within  that  bastard  land" 
Hath  Wisdom's  goddess  never  held  command  ; 
A  barren  soil,  where  Nature's  germs,  confined 
To  stem  sterility,  can  stint  the  mind  ; 
Whose  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth. 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth  ; 
Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist ; 
A  land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist. 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy  plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzly  brain, 
Till,  burst  at  length,  each  watery  head  o'erflows. 
Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows. 
Then  thousand  schemes  of  petulance  and  pride 
Dispatch  her  scheming  children  far  and  wide  : 
Some  east,  some  west,  some  everywhere  but  north 
In  quest  of  lawless  gain,  they  issue  forth. 
And  thus — accursed  be  the  day  and  year  I — 
She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 
Yet  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth 
As  dull  Boeotia  gave  a  Pindar  birth  ; 
So  may  her  few,  the  Ictter'd  and  the  brave. 
Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  of  the  grave. 
Shake  off  the  sordid  dust  of  such  a  land. 
And  shine  like  children  of  a  happier  strand  ; 
As  once,  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place. 
Ten  names  (if  found)  had  saved  a  wretched  race." 

"Mortal!"  the  blue-eyed  maid  resumed,  "once 
Bear  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore,      [more 
Though  fallen,  alas  !  this  vengeance  yet  is  mine. 
To  turn  my  counsels  far  from  lands  like  thine. 
Hear  then  in  silence  Pallas'  stern  behest ; 
Hear  and  believe,  for  Time  will  tell  the  rest. 

"  First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  this  deed 
My  curse  shall  light, — on  him  and  all  his  seed : 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire. 
Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire  : 
If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace. 


'  His  lordship's  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no  longer  boars  it, 
are  carved  conspicnonely  on  the  Parthenon ;  above,  in  a  part  not 
far  distant,  are  the  torn  remnants  of  the  basso  relievos,  destroyed 
in  a  vain  attempt  to  remove  them. 

"  "  Irish  bastards,"  according  to  Sir  Cailaghan  O'Brallaghan. 

•  [In  1816,  thirty-five  thousand  pounds  were  voted  by  Parliament 
for  the  purchase  of  the  Elgin  marbloi".] 


Believe  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  race  : 

Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate. 

And  Folly's  praise  repay  for  Wisdom's  hate  ; 

Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  tell. 

Whose  noblest,  native  gusto  is — to  sell : 

To  sell,  and  make — may  Shame  record  the  day  ! — 

The  state  receiver  of  his  pilfer'd  prey.' 

Meantime,  the  flattering,  feeble  dotard.  West, 

Europe's  worst  dauber,  and  poor  Britain's  best, 

With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er. 

And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore.* 

Be  all  the  bruisers  cuU'd  from  aU  St.  Giles', 

That  art  and  nature  may  compare  their  styles  ; 

Wliile  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare. 

And  marvel  at  his  lordship's  '  stone  shop  "  there. 

Round  the  throng'd  gate  shall  sauntering  coxcombs 

To  lounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep  ;  [creep, 

While  many  a  languid  maid,  with  longing  sigh. 

On  giant  statues  casts  the  curious  eye  ; 

The  room  with  transient  glance  appears  to  skim. 

Yet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb  ; 

Mourns  o'er  the  difference  of  ??ow  and  then  ; 

Exclaims,  '  These  Greeks  indeed  were  proper  men  1' 

Draws  sly  comparisons  of  these,  with  those, 

And  envies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux. 

When  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  like  these  I 

Alas  !  Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules  ! 

And  last  of  all,  amidst  the  gaping  crew. 

Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view, 

In  silent  indignation  mix'd  with  grief, 

Admires  the  plunder,  but  abhors  the  thief. 

Oh,  loathed  in  life,  nor  jjardon'd  in  the  dust, 

May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust ! 

Link'd  with  the  fool  that  fired  the  Ephesian  dome, 

Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb. 

And  Eratostratus  and  Elgin  shine 

In  many  a  branding  page  and  burning  line ; 

Alike  reserved  for  aye  to  stand  accursed, 

Perchance  the  second  blacker  than  the  first. 

"  So  let  him  stand,  through  ages  yet  unbom, 
Fix'd  statue  on  the  pedestal  of  Scorn  ; 
Though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait, 
But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate  : 
Hers  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 
To  do  what  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done. 
Look  to  the  Baltic^blazing  from  afar. 
Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war.' 
Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid. 
Or  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made  ; 
Far  from  such  councils,  from  the  faithless  field 

<  Mr.  West,  on  seeing  the  "  Elgin  Collection,"  (I  suppose  we 
shall  liear  of  the  "  Abershaw  "  and  "  Jack  Shephard  "  collection,) 
declares  himself  "  a  mere  tyro  "  in  art. 

»  Poor  Crib  was  sadly  puzzled  when  the  marbles  were  first  ei- 
hibited  at  Elgin  House ;  he  asked  if  it  was  not  "  a  stone  shop  1" 
—He  was  right ;  it  is  a  shop. 

•  [The  afiiir  of  Copenhagen.] 


THE    CURSE    OF    MINERVA. 


453 


She  fled — but  left  bcliincl  her  Gorgon  shield  ! 
A  fatal  gift,  that  turn'd  your  friends  to  stone, 
And  left  lost  AUjion  hated  and  alone. 

"  Look  to  the  East,  where  Ganges'  swarthy  race 
Shall  shake  your  tyrant  empire  to  its  base  ; 
Lo  !  there  Rebellion  rears  her  ghastly  heivl, 
And  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead  ; 
Till  Indus  rolls  a  deep  purpurea!  flood. 
And  claims  his  long  arrear  of  northern  blood. 
So  may  ye  perish  ! — Pallas,  when  she  gave 
Your  free-bom  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 

"  Look  on  your  Sjjain  ! — she  clasps  the  hand  she 
hates, 
But  boldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates. 
Bear  witness,  bright  Barossa  !  thou  canst  tell 
Whose  were  the  sons  that  bravely  fought  and  fell. 
But  Lusitania,  kind  and  dear  ally. 
Can  spare  a  few  to  fight,  and  sometimes  fly. 
Oh  glorious  field  !  by  Famine  fiercely  won. 
The  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done  ! 
But  when  did  Pallas  teach,  that  one  retreat 
Retrieved  three  long  olympiads  of  defeat  ? 

"  Look  last  at  home — ye  love  not  to  look  there  ; 
On  the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair  : 
Tour  city  saddens  :  loud  though  Revel  howls, 
Here  Famine  faints,  and  yonder  Rapine  prowls. 
See  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft ; 
No  misers  tremble  when  there's  nothing  left. 
'  Ijless'd  paper  credit ;'  who  shall  dare  to  sing  ? 
It  clogs  like  lead  Corruption's  weary  wing. 
Yet  Pallas  pluck'd  each  premier  by  the  ear, 
AVho  gods  and  men  alike  disdain'd  to  hear  ; 
But  one,  repentant  o'er  a  bankrupt  state, 
On  Pallas  calls, — but  calls,  alas  ?  too  late  : 
Then  raves  for  *  * ;  to  that  Mentor  bends. 
Though  ho  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends. 
Him  senates  hear,  whom  never  yet  they  heard. 
Contemptuous  once,  and  now  no  less  absurd. 
So,  once  of  yore,  each  reasonable  frog 
Swore  faith  and  fealty  to  his  sovereign  '  log.' 
Thus  hail'd  your  rulers  their  patrician  clod. 
As  Egypt  chose  an  onion  for  a  god. 

"  Now  fare  ye  well !  enjoy  your  little  hour  ; 
Go,  grasp  the  shadow  of  your  vanish'd  power ; 
Gloss  o'er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme  ; 
Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a  dream. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind, 


'  Blcga'd  paper  credit  1  last  and  best  supply, 
That  lends  Corruption  llghtiir  wings  to  fly.' 


-Pope. 


And  pirates  barter  all  that's  left  behind.' 

No  more  the  hirelings,  purchased  ne;ir  ami  far, 

Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war. 

The  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay 

Droops  o'er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away ; 

Or,  back  returning,  sees  rejected  stores 

Rot  piecemeal  on  his  own  encumber'd  shores  : 

The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  rusting  loom. 

And  desperate  mans  him  'gainst  the  coming  doom. 

Then  in  the  senate  of  your  sinking  state 

Show  me  the  man  whose  counsels  may  Imve  weight. 

Vain  is  each  voice  where  tones  could  once  command  ; 

E'en  factions  cease  to  chann  a  factious  land  : 

Yet  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister  isle, 

And  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual  pile. 

"  'Tis  done,  'tis  past,  since  Pallas  warns  in  vain  ; 
The  Furies  seize  her  abdicated  reign  : 
Wide  o'er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling  brands, 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands. 
But  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remains. 
And  Gaul  shall  weej)  ere  Albion  wear  her  chains. 
The  banner'd  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files, 
O'er  whose  gay  trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles  ; 
The  brazen  trump,  the  si)irit-stirring  drum, 
That  bid  the  foe  defiance  ere  they  come  ; 
The  hero  bounding  at  his  country's  call, 
The  glorious  death  that  consecrates  his  fall. 
Swell  the  young  heart  with  visionary  charms. 
And  bid  it  antedate  the  joys  of  arras. 
But  know,  a  lesson  you  may  yet  be  taught. 
With  death  alone  are  laurels  cheaply  bought : 
Not  in  the  conflict  Havoc  seeks  delight, 
His  day  of  mercy  is  the  day  of  fight. 
But  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  won, 
Though  drench'd  with  gore,  his  woes  are  but  begun  : 
His  deeper  deeds  as  yet  ye  know  by  name  ; 
The  slaughter'd  peasant  and  the  ravish'd  dame, 
The  rifled  mansion  and  the  foe-reap'd  field, 
111  suit  with  souls  at  home,  untaught  to  yield. 
Say  with  what  eye  along  the  distant  down 
Would  flying  burghers  mark  the  blazing  town  ? 
How  view  the  column  of  ascending  flames 
Shako  his  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames  ? 
Nay,  frown  not,  Albion  !  for  the  torch  was  thine 
That  lit  such  pyres  from  Tagus  to  the  Rhine  : 
Now  should  they  burst  on  thy  devoted  coast, 
Go,  ask  thy  bosom  who  deserves  them  most. 
The  law  of  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life. 
And  she  who  raised,  in  vain  regrets,  the  strife." 

5  Tlio  Deal  and  Dover  trafflckers  In  specie. 


464 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


THE   WALTZ 


AK    AP08TR0PHIC    HYMN. 


'  Qoalis  in  Eurote  ripis,  aut  per  jttga  Cynthi, 
Exercet  Diana  choro8."  Vibgil. 

"  Such  on  Enrotas'  banlis,  or  Cynlliia'g  height, 
Diana  seems ;  and  bo  she  charms  the  sight, 
When  in  the  dance  the  graceful  goddess  leads 
The  quire  of  nymphs,  and  overtops  their  heads." 

Drtden's  Virgil. 


TO  THE  PUBLISHER. 
Sin, — I  am  a  country  gentleman  of  a  midland  county. 
I  might  have  been  a  parliament-man  for  a  certain  bor- 
ottgh  :  having  had  the  offer  of  as  many  votes  as  Gen- 
eral T.  at  the  general  election  in  1812.'  But  I  was  all 
for  domestic  happiness  ;  as,  fifteen  years  ago,  on  a  visit 
to  London,  I  married  a  middle-aged  maid  of  honor. 
We  lived  happily  at  Hornem  Hall  till  last  season,  when 
my  wife  and  I  were  invited  by  the  Countess  of  Waltz- 
away  (a  distant  relation  of  my  spouse)  to  pass  the  win- 
ter in  town.  Thinking  no  harm,  and  our  girls  being 
come  to  a  marriageable  (or,  as  they  call  it,  marketable) 
age,  and  having  besides  a  Chancery  suit  inveterately 
entailed  upon  the  family  estate,  we  came  up  in  our  old 
chariot, — of  which,  by  the  by,  my  wife  grew  so  much 
ashamed  in  less  than  a  week,  that  I  was  obliged  to 
buy  a  second-hand  barouche,  of  which  I  might  mount 
the  box,  Mrs.  H.  says,  if  I  could  drive,  but  never  see 
the  inside — that  place  being  reserved  for  the  Honor- 
able Augustus  Tiptoe,  her  partner-general  and  opera- 
knight.  Hearing  great  praises  of  Mrs.  H.'s  dancing, 
(she  was  famous  for  birthnight  minuets  in  the  latter 
end  of  the  last  century,)  I  unbooted,  and  went  to  a  ball 
at  the  Countess's,  expecting  to  see  a  country  dance,  or, 
at  most,  cotillions,  reels,  and  all  the  old  paces  to  the 
newest  tunes.  But,  j  udge  of  my  surprise,  on  arriving, 
to  see  poor  dear  Mrs.  Hornem  with  her  arms  half  round 
the  loins  of  a  huge  hussar-looking  gentleman  I  never 
set  eyes  on  before  ;  and  his,  to  say  truth,  rather  more 
than  half  round  her  waist,  turning  round,  and  round, 

and  round,  to  a  d d  see-saw  up-and-down  sort  of 

tune,  that  reminded  me  of  the  "  Black-joke,"  only  more 
"  affetuoso,"  till  it  made  me  quite  giddy  with  wonder- 
ing they  were  not  so.  By-and-by  they  stopped  a  bit, 
and  I  thought  they  would  sit  or  fall  down  : — but  no ; 
with  Mrs.  H.'s  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  quam  familiar- 
iter,"'  (as  Terence  said,  when  I  was  at  school,)  they 
walked  about  a  minute,  and  then  at  it  again,  like  two 

'  State  of  the  poll.  Oast  day,)  5. 

"  My  Latin  is  all  forgotten,  if  a  man  can  be  said  to  have  forgot- 
ten what  he  never  remembered ;  but  I  bought  my  title-page  motto 
of  a  Catholic  priest  for  a  three-BhUling  banli  token,  after  much 


cockchafers  spitted  on  the  same  bodkin.  I  asked  what 
all  this  meant,  when,  with  a  loud  laugh,  a  child  no  older 
than  our  Wilhelmina  (a  name  I  never  heard  but  in  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  though  her  mother  would  call  her 
after  the  Princess  of  Swappenbach)  said,  "  Lord  !  Mr. 
Hornem,  can't  you  see  they  are  valtzing  1"  or  waltzing, 
(I  forgot  which  ;)  and  then  up  she  got,  and  her  mother 
and  sister,  and  away  they  went,  and  round-abouted  it 
till  supper-time.  Now  that  I  know  what  it  is,  I  like 
it  of  all  things,  and  so  does  Mrs.  H.,  (though  I  have 
broken  my  shins,  and  four  times  overturned  Mrs.  Horn- 
em's  maid,  in  practising  the  preliminary  steps  in  a 
morning.)  Indeed,  so  much  do  I  like  it,  that  having  a 
turn  for  rhyme,  tastily  displayed  in  some  election  bal- 
lads, and  songs  in  honor  of  all  the  victories,  (but  till 
lately  I  have  had  little  practice  in  that  way.)  I  sat 
down,  and  with  the  aid  of  William  Fitzgerald,  Esq., 
and  a  few  hints  from  Dr.  Busby,  (whose  recitations  I 
attend,  and  am  monstrous  fond  of  Master  Busby's  man- 
ner of  delivering  his  father's  late  successful  "  Drury 
Lane  Address,")  I  composed  the  following  hymn, 
wherewithal  to  make  my  sentiments  known  to  the 
public ;  whom,  nevertheless,  I  heartily  despise,  as.  well 
as  the  critics. 

I  am.  Sir,  yours,  etc.,  etc., 

HORACE  HORNEM. 


THE  WALTZ. 

Muse  of  the  many-twinkling  feet !'  whose  charms 
Are  now  extended  up  from  legs  to  arms  ; 
Terpsichore  1 — too  long  misdeem'd  a  maid — 
Reproachful  term — bestow'd  but  to  upbraid — 
Henceforth  in  all  the  bronze  of  brightness  shine, 
The  least  a  vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 
Far  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude  ; 


haggling  for  the  even  sixpence.    I  grudged  the  money  to  a  papist, 
being  all  for  the  memory  of  Perceval  and  "  No  popery,"  and  quite 
regretting  the  downfall  of  the  pope,  because  we  can't  bum  htm 
any  more. 
'  "  Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet."— Gbat. 


THE  WALTZ. 


455 


Mock'd,  yet  triumphant ;  sneer'd  at,  unsubdued  ; 

Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  fly, 

If  but  thy  coats  are  reasonably  high  ; 

Thy  breast — if  bare  enough — requires  no  shield  ; 

Dance  forth — sans  armor  thou  shalt  take  the  field, 

And  own — impregnable  to  most  assaults, 

Thy  not  too  lawfully  begotten  "  "Waltz." 

Hail,  nimble  nymph  !  to  whom  the  young  hussar, 
The  whisker'd  votary  of  waltz  and  war. 
His  night  devotes,  despite  of  spur  and  boots  ; 
A  sight  unmatch'd  since  Orpheus  and  his  brutes  : 
Hail,  spirit-stirring  Waltz ! — beneath  whose  banners 
A  modem  hero  fought  for  modish  manners  ; 
On  Hounslow's  heath  to  rival  Wellesley's'  fame, 
Cock'd — flred — and  miss'd  his  man — but  gain'd  his 

aim; 
Hail,  moving  Muse  !  to  whom  the  fair  one's  breast 
Gives  all  it  can,  and  bids  us  take  the  rest. 
Oh  !  for  the  flow  of  Busby,  or  of  Fitz, 
The  latter's  loyalty,  the  former's  wits. 
To  "  energize  the  object  I  pursue,"^ 
And  give  both  BeUal  and  his  dance  their  due  ! 

Imperial  Waltz  I  imported  from  the  Rhine, 
(Famed  for  the  growth  of  pedigrees  and  wine,) 
Long  be  thine  import  from  all  duty  free. 
And  hock  itself  be  less  esteem'd  than  thee  : 
In  some  few  qualities  aUke — for  hock 
Improves  our  cellar — tliou  our  living  stock. 
The  head  to  hock  belongs — thy  subtler  art 
Intoxicates  alone  the  heedless  heart : 
Through  the  full  veins  thy  gentler  poison  swims, 
And  wakes  to  wantonness  the  willing  limbs. 


'  To  rival  Lord  Wellesley's,  or  his  nephew's,  as  the  reader 
pleases : — the  one  gained  a  pretty  woman,  whom  he  deserved,  by 
fighting  for;  and  the  other  has  heen  fighting  in  the  Peninsula 
many  a  long  day,  *'  by  Shrewsbury  clock,"  without  gaining  any- 
thing in  that  country  but  the  title  of  "  the  Great  Lord,"  and  "  the 
Lord ;"  which  savors  of  profanation,  having  been  hitherto  applied 
only  to  that  Being  to  whom  "  Te  Deume "  for  carnage  are  the 
raulsest  blasphemy.— It  is  to  be  presumed  the  general  will  one  day 
return  to  his  Sabine  farm ;  there 

"  To  tame  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain. 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain  1" 
The  Lord  Peterljorongh  conquered  continents  in  a  summer ;  we 
do  more — we  contrive  both  to  conquer  and  lose  them  in  a  shorter 
season.  If  the  "  great  Lord's  "  Cincinnatian  progress  in  agricul- 
ture be  no  speedier  than  the  proportional  average  of  time  in 
Pope's  couplet,  it  will,  according  to  the  liunners'  proverb,  be 
"  ploughing  with  dogs." 

By  the  by— one  of  this  UlnstriouB  person's  new  titles  Is  forgot- 
ten—it is,  however,  worth  rememliering- "  Salvador  del  mundo  /" 
credite!  posteri!  If  this  be  the  appellation  annexed  by  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula  to  the  name  of  a  man  who  has  not 
yet  saved  them — query— are  they  worth  saving,  even  in  this  world  ? 
for,  according  to  the  mildest  modifications  of  any  ChristUn  creed, 
those  three  words  make  the  odds  much  against  them  in  the  next. 
"  Saviour  of  the  world,"  quotha  I— it  were  to  be  vrished  that  he, 
or  any  one  else,  could  save  a  comer  of  it— his  country.  Yet  this 
stupid  misnomer,  althoi;gh  it  shows  the  near  connection  between 
snperstition  and  impiety,  ta  far  ba3  Us  nae  tiat  it  proves  there 


Oh,  Germany !  how  much  to  thee  we  owe, 
As  heaven-born  Pitt  can  testify  below, 
Ere  cursed  confederation  made  thee  France's, 

And  only  left  us  thy  d d  debts  and  dances  ! 

Of  subsidies  and  Hanover  bereft, 
We  bless  thee  still — for  George  the  Third  is  left  1 
Of  kings  the  best — and  last,  not  least  in  worth, 
For  graciously  begetting  George  the  Fourth. 
To  Germany,  and  highnesses  serene. 
Who  owe  us  millions — don't  we  owe  the  queen  ? 
To  Germany,  what  owe  we  not  besides  ? 
So  oft  bestowing  Brunswickers  and  brides  ; 
Who  paid  for  vulgar,  with  her  royal  blood. 
Drawn  from  the  stem  of  each  Teutonic  stud  : 
Who  sent  us — so  be  pardon'd  all  her  faults — 
A  dozen  dukes,  some  kings,  a  queen — and  Waltz. 

But  peace  to  her — ^her  emperor  and  diet, 
Though  now  transferr'd  to  Buonaparte's  "  fiat !" 
Back  to  my  theme — O  Muse  of  motion  !  say, 
How  first  to  Albion  found  thy  Waltz  her  way  ? 

Borne  on  the  breath  of  hyperborean  gales, 
From  Hamburg's  port,  (while  Hamburg  yet  had 
Ere  yet  unlucky  Fame — compeU'd  to  creep    \inaih,) 
To  snowy  Gottenburg — ^was  chill'd  to  sleep  ; 
Or,  starting  from  her  slumbers,  deign'd  arise, 
Heligoland  !  to  stock  thy  mart  with  Ues  ; 
While  unbumt  Moscow'  yet  had  news  to  send, 
Nor  owed  her  fiery  exit  to  a  friend. 
She  came — Waltz  came — and  with  her  certain  sets 
Of  true  despatches,  and  as  true  gazettes  ; 
Then  flamed  of  Austerlitz  the  bless'd  despatch. 
Which  Moniteur  nor  Morning  Post  can  match  ; 
And — almost  crush'd  beneath  the  glorious  news — 


can  be  little  to  dread  from  those  Catholics  (inquisitorial  Catholics 
too)  who  can  confer  such  an  appellation  on  a  Protestant.  I  sup- 
pose next  year  he  will  be  entitled  the  "  Virgin  Mary :"  if  so,  Lord 
George  Gordon  himself  would  have  nothing  to  object  to  such 
liberal  bastards  of  our  Lady  of  Babylon. 

» [Among  the  addresses  sent  in  to  the  Drary  Lane  Committee 
was  one  by  Dr.  Busby,  which  began  by  asking— 
"  When  enei^zlng  objects  men  pursue, 
What  are  tlie  prodigies  they  cannot  do  ?"] 

'  The  patriotic  arson  of  onr  amiable  allies  cannot  be  sufllciently 
commended— nor  subscribed  for.  Amongst  other  details  omitted 
in  the  various  despatches  of  our  eloquent  ambassador,  he  did  not 
state  (being  too  much  occupied  with  the  exploits  of  Colonel 

C ,  in  swimming  rivers  frozen,  and  galloping  over  roads 

impassable)  that  one  entire  province  perished  by  famine  in  the 
most  melancholy  manner,  as  follows :— In  General  Kostopchin's 
consummate  conflagration,  the  consumption  of  tallow  and  train 
oil  was  so  great,  that  the  market  was  inadequate  to  the  demand : 
and  thus  one  hundred  and  thirty-three  thousand  persons  were 
starved  to  death,  by  being  reduced  to  wholesome  diet  I  The  lamp- 
lighters of  London  have  since  subscribed  a  pint  (of  oil)  a  piece, 
and  the  tallow-chandlers  have  unanimously  voted  a  quantity  of 
best  molds  (four  to  the  pound)  to  the  relief  of  the  survlviag 
Scytnians ;— the  scarcity  will  soon,  by  such  exertions,  and  a 
proper  attention  to  the  Quality  rather  than  the  quantity  of  pro- 
vision, be  totally  alleviated.  It  is  said,  in  return,  that  the  un- 
touched Ukraine  has  subsciibed  sixty  thousand  beeves  for  a  day's 
moot  to  our  sutlcriug  launufacturers. 


456 


BYRONS'    WORKS. 


Ten  plays,  and  forty  tales  of  Kotzebue'3  ; 

One  envoy's  letters,  six  composers'  airs. 

And  loads  from  Frankfort  and  from  Leipsic  fairs  ; 

Meiner's  four  volumes  upon  womankind. 

Like  Lapland  witches  to  ensure  a  wind  ; 

Brunck's  heaviest  tome  for  ballast,  and  to  back  it, 

Of  Heyn6,  such  as  should  not  sink  the  packet. 

Fraught  with  this  cargo— and  her  fairest  freight, 
Delightful  Waltz,  on  tiptoe  for  a  mate, 
The  welcome  vessel  reach'd  the  genial  strand, 
And  round  her  flock'd  the  daughters  of  the  land. 
Kot  decent  David,  when,  before  the  ark. 
His  grand  pas-seul  excited  some  remark  ; 
Not  love-lorn  Quixote,  when  his  Sancho  thought 
The  knight's  fandango  friskier  than  it  ought : 
Not  soft  Hcrodias,  when,  with  winning  tread, 
Her  nimble  feet  danced  off  another's  head ; 
Not  Cleopatra  on  her  galley's  deck, 
Display'd  so  much  of  leg,  or  more  of  necl; 
Than  thou,  ambrosial  Waltz,  when  first  the  moon 
Beheld  thee  twirling  to  a  Saxon  tune  ! 

To  you,  ye  husbands  of  ten  years  1  whose  brows 
Ache  with  the  annual  tributes  of  a  spouse ; 
To  you  of  nine  years  less,  who  only  bear 
The  budding  sprouts  of  those  that  you  shall  wear. 
With  added  ornaments  around  them  roU'd 
Of  native  brass,  or  law-awarded  gold ; 
To  you,  ye  matrons,  ever  on  the  watch 
To  mar  a  son's,  or  make  a  daughter's,  match  ; 
To  you,  ye  children  of— whom  chance  accords — 
Always  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  their  lords  ; 
To  you,  ye  single  gentlemen,  who  seek 
Torments  for  life,  or  pleasures  for  a  week  ; 
As  Love  or  Hymen  your  endeavors  guide. 
To  gain  your  own,  or  snatch  another's  bride  ; — 
To  one  and  all  the  lovely  stranger  came. 
And  every  ball-room  echoes  with  her  name. 

Endearing  Waltz — to  thy  more  melting  tune 
Bow  Irish  jig,  and  ancient  rigadoon. 
Scotch  reels,  avaunt  1  and  country-dance,  forego 
Your  future  claims  to  each  fantastic  toe  1 
Waltz — Waltz  alone — both  legs  and  arms  demands, 
Liberal  of  feet,  and  lavish  of  her  hands  ; 
Hands  which  may  freely  range  in  public  sight 


'  Dancing  girls— who  do  for  hire  what  Waltz  doth  gratis. 

=  It  cannot  be  complained  now,  as  in  the  Lady  Baussitre's  time, 
of  the  "  Sienr  de  la  Croix,"  that  there  be  "  no  whiskers ;"  but 
how  far  these  are  Indications  of  valor  in  the  field,  or  elsewhere, 
may  stUl  be  questionable.  Much  may  be,  and  hath  been  avouched 
on  both  sides.  In  the  olden  time  philosophers  had  whiskers,  and 
soldiers  none— Sclpio  himself  was  shaven- Hannibal  thought  his 
one  eye  handsome  enough  without  a  beard ;  but  Adrian,  the  em- 
peror, wore  a  beard  (having  warts  on  his  chin,  which  neither  the 
empress  Sabina  nor  even  the  courtiers  could  abide)— Turenne  had 
whiskers,  Marlborough  none— Bonaparte  is  unwhiskered,  the  Re- 
gent whiskered ;   '^  argal "  greatness  of  mind  and  whiskers  may 


Where  ne'er  before— but— pray  "  put  out  the  light." 
Methinks  the  glare  of  yonder  chandelier 
Shines  much  too  far — or  I  am  much  too  near ; 
And  true,  though  strange— Waltz  whispers  this  re- 
"  My  slippery  steps  are  safest  in  the  dark  1"    [mark, 
But  here  the  Muse  with  due  decorum  halts, 
And  lends  her  longest  petticoat  to  Waltz. 

Observant  travellers  of  every  time  ! 
Ye  quartos  jDublish'd  upon  every  clime  1 
Oh  say,  shall  dull  Romaika's  heavy  round, 
Fandango's  wriggle,  or  Bolero's  bound  ; 
Can  EgyiJt's  Almas' — tantalizing  group — 
Columbia's  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop — 
Can  aught  from  cold  Kamschatka  to  Cape  Horn 
With  Waltz  compare,  or  after  Waltz  be  borne  ? 
Ah,  no  1  from  Morier's  pages  down  to  Gait's, 
Each  tourist  pens  a  paragraph  for  "  Waltz." 

Shades  of  those  belles  whose  reign  began  of  yore, 
With  George  the  Third's — and  ended  long  before ! — 
Though  in  your  daughters'  daughters  yet  you  thrive, 
Burst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  alive  1 
Back  to  the  ball-room  speed  your  spectred  host : 
Fool's  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost. 
No  treacherous  powder  bids  conjecture  quake ; 
No  stilf-starch'd  stays  make  meddling  fingers  ache ; 
(Transferr'd  to  those  ambiguous  things  that  ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,'  women  in  their  shape ;) 
No  damsel  faints  when  rather  closely  press'd, 
But  more  caressing  seems  when  most  caress'd ; 
Superfluous  hartshorn,  and  reviving  salts, 
Both  banish'd  by  the  sovereign  cordial  "  Waltz." 

Seductive  Waltz  ! — though  on  thy  native  shore 
Even  Werter's  self  proclaim'd  thee  half  a  whore ; 
Werter — to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined, 
Yet  warm,  not  wanton  ;  dazzled,  but  not  blind — 
Though  gentle  Genlis,  in  her  strife  with  Sttiel, 
Would  even  proscribe  thee  from  a  Paris  ball ; 
The  fashion  hails— from  countesses  to  queens. 
And  maids  and  valets  waltz  behind  the  scenes  ; 
Wide  and  more  wide  thy  witching  circle  spreads, 
And  turns — if  nothing  else — at  least  our  heads  ; 
With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  bounce, 
And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can't  pronounce. 


or  may  not  go  together :  but  certainly  the  different  occurrences, 
since  the  growth  of  the  last  mentioned,  go  further  in  behalf  of 
whiskers  than  the  anathema  of  Anselm  did  against  long  hair  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  I. — Formerly,  red  was  a  favorite  color.  See 
Lodowlck  Barrey's  comedy  of  Ram  Alley,  1661 :  Act  I.  Scene  1. 

"  'Taffeta.  Now  for  a  wager— What  colored  beard  comes  next 
by  the  window  ? 

"  Adriana.  A  black  man's,  T  think. 

"  Taffeta.  I  think  not  so :  I  think  red,  for  that  is  most  in 
fashion." 

There  is  "  nothing  new  under  the  sun ;"  but  red,  then  a/aror- 
Ue,  has  now  subsided  iuto  a  favorite" e  color. 


THE    WALTZ. 


45  V 


Gods  !  bow  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalts, 
And  rh3'me  finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of  "  Waltz !" 

Bless'd  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  debut  : 
The  court,  the  Regent,  like  herself  wore  new ;' 
New  face  for  fnends,  for  foes  some  new  rewards  ; 
New  ornaments  for  black  and  royal  guards  ; 
New  laws  to  hang  the  rogues  that  roar'd  for  bread ; 
New  coins  (most  new)'  to  follow  those  that  fled ; 
New  victories — nor  can  we  prize  them  less. 
Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success  ; 
New  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well, 
That  most  survivors  envy  those  who  fell ; 
New  mistresses — no,  old — and  yet  'tis  true, 
Though  they  be  old,  the  thinff  is  something  new  ; 
Each  new,  quite  new — (except  some  ancient  tricks,)' 
New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broomsticks,  all  new 
With  vests  or  ribands — deck'd  alike  in  hue,  [sticks  ! 
New  troopers  strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in  blue  ; 

So  saith  the  Muse  :  my *  what  say  you  ? 

Such  was  the  time  when  Waltz  might  best  maintain 

Her  new  preferments  in  this  novel  reign  ; 

Such  was  the  time,  nor  ever  yet  was  such ; 

Hoops  are  reo  mare,  and  petticoats  not  much  : 

Morals  and  minuets,  virtue  and  her  stays. 

And  tell-tale  powder — all  have  had  their  days. 

The  boll  begins — the  honors  of  the  house 

First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  si)ouse. 

Some  potentate — or  royal  or  serene — 

With  Kent's  gay  grace,  or  sapient  Gloster's  mien. 

Leads  forth  the  ready  dame,  whose  rising  flush 

Might  once  have  been  mistaken  for  a  blush. 

From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosom  free, 

That  spot  where  hearts'  were  once  supposed  to  be ; 

Round  all  the  confines  of  the  yielded  waist. 

The  strangest  hand  may  wander  undisplaced  ; 

The  lady's  in  return  may  grasp  as  much 

As  princely  paunches  ofier  to  her  touch. 

Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they  trip, 

One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip  ; 

The  other  to  the  shoulder  no  less  royal 


'  An  anachronism— ^Paltz  and  the  battle  of  AnsterUtz  are  be^ 
fore  said  to  have  opened  the  ball  together :  the  hard  means,  (if  he 
means  any  thing,)  Waltz  was  not  so  mnch  in  vogiie  till  the  Regent 
attained  the  acme  of  his  popularity.  Waltz,  the  comet,  whiskers, 
and  the  new  government,  illuminated  heaven  and  earth,  in  all 
their  glory,  mach  about  the  same  time ;  of  these  the  comet  only 
has  disappeared ;  the  other  three  continue  to  astonish  us  still.— 
Printer's  Devil. 

'  Amongst  others  a  newnlnepence — a  creditable  coin  now  forth- 
coming, worth  a  pound,  in  paper,  at  the  fairest  calculation. 

'  "  Oh,  that  right  should  thus  overcome  might .'"  Who  docs 
not  remember  the  "  delicate  inveBtlgation  "  is  the  "  Merry  Wlws 
of  Windsor  ?"— 

"Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near;  if  I  suspect  without  cause,  why 
then  make  sport  at  me :  then  let  me  be  your  jest ;  I  desire  It. 
How  now  ?  whither  bear  you  this  ? 

"Mrs.  Ford.  What  have  you  to  do  whither  they  beat  it?— yoa 
were  best  meddle  with  huck-washing." 

*  The  gentle,  or  ferocious,  reader  may  fill  up  the  blank  as  be 


Ascending  with  affection  truly  loyal  1 
Thus  front  to  front  the  partners  move  or  stand. 
The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand  ; 
And  aU  in  turn  may  follow  in  their  rank. 
The  Earl  of — Asterisk — and  Lady — Blank  ; 
Sir — Such-a-one — with  those  of  fashion's  host. 
For  whose  bless'd  surnames — vide  "  Morning  Post," 
(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late. 
Search  Doctors'  Commons  six  months  from  my  date), 
Thus  all  and  each,  in  movement  swift  or  slow, 
The  genial  contact  gently  undergo ; 
Till  some  might  marvel,  with  the  modest  Turk, 
If  "nothing  follows  all  this  palming  work?'" 
True,  honest  Mirza  ! — you  may  trust  my  rhyme- 
Something  does  follow  at  a  fitter  time  ; 
The  breast  thus  publicly  resign'd  to  man, 

In  private  may  resist  him if  it  can. 

« 
O  ye  who  loved  ovu"  grandmothers  of  yore, 
Fitzpatrick,  Sheridan,  and  many  more  ! 
And  thou,  my  Prince  !  whose  sovereign  taste  and 
It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still !  [will 

Thou  ghost  of  Queensbury  !  whose  judging  sprite 
Satan  may  spare  to  peep  a  single  night. 
Pronounce — if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss 
Asmodeus  struck  so  bright  a  stroke  as  this  ? 
To  teach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise,  • 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  and  languish  in  the  eyes  ; 
Rush  to  the  heart,  and  lighten  through  the  frame, 
With  half-told  wish  and  ill-dissembled  flame  : 
For  prurient  nature  still  will  storm  the  breast — 
Who,  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest  2 

But  ye — who  never  felt  a  single  thought 
For  what  our  morals  are  to  be,  or  ought ; 
Wlio  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap. 
Say — would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so  cheap  ? 
Hot  from  the  hands  promiscuously  applied. 
Round  the  slight  waist,  or  down  the  glowing  side, 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form. 
From  this  lewd  grasp  and  lawless  contact  warm  ? 


pleases— there  are  several  dissyllabic  names  at  his  service,  (being 
already  in  the  Regent's :)  it  would  not  be  fair  to  back  any  pecu- 
liar initial  against  the  alphabet,  as  every  month  will  add  to  the 
list  now  entered  for  the  sweepstakes :— a  distinguished  consonant 
is  said  to  be  the  fevorite,  much  against  the  wishes  of  the  krum- 
ingones. 

»  "  We  have  changed  all  that,"  says  the  Mock  Doctor— 'tis  all 
gone— Asmodeus  knows  where.  After  all,  it  is  of  no  great  im- 
portance how  women's  hearts  are  disposed  of;  they  have  nature's 
privilege  to  distribute  them  as  absurdly  as  possible.  But  there 
are  also  some  men  with  hearts  so  thoroughly  bad,  as  to  remind 
08  of  those  phenomena  often  mentioned  in  natural  history ;  viz. 
a  mass  of  solid  stone— only  to  be  opened  by  force— and  when  di- 
vided, you  discover  a  toad  in  the  centre,  lively,  and  with  the  repu- 
tation of  being  venomous. 

•  In  Turkey  a  pertinent,  here  an  impertinent  and  superfluous, 
question— literally  put,  as  in  the  text,  by  a  Persian  to  Morlcr,  on 
seeing  a  waltz  In  Pent— Fi<i«  Morler's  Trsvels. 


458 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


At  once  love's  most  endearing  thought  resign, 
To  press  the  hand  so  press'd  by  none  but  thine ; 
To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another's  ardent  look  without  regret ; 
Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint, 
Come  near  enough — if  not  to  touch — to  taint ; 
If  such  thou  lovest — love  her  then  no  more. 
Or  give — like  her — caresses  to  a  score  ; 
Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 


Voluptuous  Waltz  !  and  dare  I  thus  blaspheme  i 
Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme 
Terpsichore,  forgive  ! — at  every  ball 
My  wife  noio  waltzes — and  my  daughters  shall ; 
My  son — (or  stop — 'tis  needless  to  inquire — 
These  little  accidents  should  ne'er  transpire  ; 
Some  ages  hence  our  genealogic  tree 
Will  wear  as  green  a  bough  for  him  as  me) — 
Waltzing  shall  rear,  to  make  our  name  amends, 
Grandsons  for  me — in  heirs  to  all  his  friends. 


ODE    TO    NAPOLEON    BONAPARTE. 


"  Ezpende  Annibalem : — quot  libras  In  dace  summo 
Invenies  f"  Jdtenai.,  Sat.  x. 

*'  The  Emperor  Nepos  was  acknowledged  by  the  Senate,  by  the  Italians,  and  by  the  Provinciala  of  Ganl ;  his  moral  rirtnes  and 
military  talents  were  loudly  celebrated ;  and  those  who  derived  any  private  benefit  from  his  government  annoonced  in  prophetic 
strains  the  restoration  of  public  felicity. 


By  this  shameful  abdication,  he  protracted  his  life  a  few  years,  in  a  very  ambiguous  state,  between  an  Emperor  and  an  Exile,  till 
."—Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.,  p.  220. 


'Tis  done — but  yesterday  a  King  I 

And  arm'd  with  Kings  to  strive — 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing  : 

So  abject — yet  aUve  ! 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones. 
Who  strew'd  our  earth  with  hostile  bones. 

And  can  he  thus  survive  ? 
Since  he,  miscall'd  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man  !  why  scourge  thy  kind 

Who  bow'd  so  low  the  knee  ? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  unquestion'd, — power  to  save,- 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave. 

To  those  that  worshipp'd  thee  ; 
Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
^^bition's  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson — ^it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  Philosophy  can  preach. 

And  vainly  preach'd  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway. 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triumph,  and  the  vanity, 
The  rapture  of  the  strife—' 


'  "Certaminis  yaurfio  "—the  expression  of  Attila  in  his  ha- 
rangue to  his  army,  previoos  to  the  battle  of  Chalons,  given  in 
I  assiodoms. 


The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life ; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife — 
AH  quell'd  I — Dark  Spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  1 

The  Desolator  desolate  ! 

The  Victor  overthrown ! 
The  Arbiter  of  others'  fate  - 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own  !  ' 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope. 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince — or  live  a  slave —    ■ 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave  !    ■ 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak, 
Dream'd  not  of  the  rebound  ; 

Chain'd  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke — 
Alone — ^how  look'd  he  round  ? 

Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength. 

An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length. 
And  darker  fate  hast  fotmd  : 

He  fell,  the  forest  prowlers'  prey ; 

But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away  !  • 

The  Roman,  when  his  burning  heart 
Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 

Threw  down  the  dagger — dared  depart. 
In  savage  grandeur,  home — 

He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 

Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 
Yet  left  him  such  a  doom  I 


ODE    TO    NAPOLEON    BONAPARTE. 


459 


His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon'd  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway 

Had  lost  its  quickening  spell, 
Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 

An  empire  for  a  cell ; 
A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 
A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds. 

His  dotage  trifled  well : 
Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 
A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou — from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung — 
Too  late  thou  leav'at  the  high  command  . 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung  • 
All  Evil  Spirit  as  thou  art,  • 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been . 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean  ; 

And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own  ! 
And  Monarchs  bow'd  the  trembling  limb. 

And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne  ! 
Fair  Freedom  !  we  may  hold  thee  dear. 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh,  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind  !  ■ 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more. 

Or  deepen  every  stain  : 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honor  dies,    i 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise,    i 

To  shame  the  world  again —        i 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height,  • 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night  ? 

Weigh'd  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay  ; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality  I  are  just 

To  aU  that  pass  away  : 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great    • 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate, , 

To  dazzle  and  dismay  : 
Nor  deem'd  Contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

'  [Dionyslas  the  Younger,  eetecmed  a  greater  tyrant  than  his 
flither,  on  beln;  for  the  second  time  banished  from  Syracuse,  re- 
tired to  Corinth,  where  he  was  obliKod  to  turn  ochoolmastcr  for  a 
enbslstence.] 


Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 
llovf  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour ! 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  Homicide  ?    • 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem  ; 
'Tis  worth  thy  vanish'd  diadem  ! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  suUen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea  ;  • 

That  element  may  meet  thy  smile —     ' 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee  ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand, 
In  loitering  mood  upon  the  sand. 

That  Earth  is  now  as  free  ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue'  hath  now 
Transferr'd  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timour  !  in  his  captive's  cage' 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine, 
While  brooding  in  thy  prison'd  rage  ? 

But  one — "  The  world  was  mine  !" 
Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 
All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 

Life  vdll  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  forth— 
So  long  obcy'd — so  little  worth  ! 

Dr,  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven,* 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven,    - 

His  vulture  and  his  rock  ! 
Foredoom'd  by  God — by  man  accursed,  ■ 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 

The  very  Fiend's  arch  mock  ;* 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride. 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died  1    * 

There  was  a  day — there  was  an  hour, 
While  earth  was  Gaul's — Gaul  thine— 

Wlien  that  immeasurable  power 
Unsated  to  resign 

Had  been  an  act  of  purer  fame. 

Than  gathers  round  Marengo's  name. 
And  gilded  thy  decline, 

Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time, . 

Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime. 

But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a  king, 

And  don  the  purple  vest, — 
As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 


»  The  cage  of  Bajazet,  by  order  of  Tamerlane. 
•  Promethens. 

<    "  The  very  fiend's  arch  mock- 
To  lip  a  wanton,  and  suppose  her  chaste."— Bhakspiabb. 


460 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Remembrance  from  thy  breast.    - 
■yVTiere  is  that  faded  garment  ?  where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear, 

The  star — the  string — the  crest  ? 
Vam  froward  child  of  empire  !  say, 
Are  all  thy  playthings  snatch'd  away  ? 

Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose, 


When  gazing  on  the  Great ; ' 
Wliere  neither  guilty  glory  glows. 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes — one — the  first — the  last — the  best — 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envj  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeath  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  One  ! 


HEBREW    MELODIES. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  subsequent  poems  were  written  at  the  request 
of  my  friend,  the  Hon.  Douglas  Kinnaird,  for  a  Selec- 
tion of  Hebrew  Melodies,  and  have  been  published, 
with  the  mueic,  arranged  by  Mr.  Braham  and  Mr. 
Nathan. 

January,  1815. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress. 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face  ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express. 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


THE  HARP  THE  MONARCH  HHNSTREL 

SWEPT. 

The  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept, 
The  King  of  men,  the  loved  of  Heaven, 

Which  Music  hallow'd  while  she  wept 
O'er  tones  her  heart  of  hearts  had  given. 
Redoubled  be  her  tears,  its  chords  are  riven  ! 

It  soften'd  men  of  iron  mould. 

It  gave  them  virtues  not  their  own ; 

No  ear  so  dull,  no  soul  so  cold, 
That  felt  not,  fired  not  to  the  tone. 
Till  David's  lyre  grew  mightier  than  his  throne. 


It  told  the  triumphs  of  our  King, 

It  wafted  glory  to  our  God ! 
It  made  our  gladden'd  valleys  ring. 

The  cedars  bow,  the  mountains  nod ; 

Its  sound  aspired  to  Heaven  and  there  abode ! 
Since  then,  though  heard  on  earth  no  more, 

Devotion  and  her  daughter  Love, 
Still  bid  the  bursting  spirit  soar 

To  sounds  that  seem  as  from  above. 

In  dreams  that  day's  broad  light  can  not  remove. 


IF  THAT  HIGH  WORLD. 

If  that  high  world,  which  lies  beyond 

Our  own,  surviving  Love  endears  ; 
If  there  the  cherish'd  heart  be  fond. 

The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears — 
How  welcome  those  untrodden  spheres ! 

How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die  ! 
To  soar  from  earth  and  find  all  fears 

Lost  in  thy  light — ^Eternity  I 

It  must  be  so  :  'tis  not  for  self 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink ; 
And  striving  to  o'erleap  the  gulf, 

Yet  cling  to  Being's  severing  link. 
Oh  1  in  the  future  let  us  think 

To  hold  each  heart  the  heart  that  shares ; 
With  them  the  immortal  waters  drink. 

And  soul  in  soul  grow  deathless  theirs  ! 


THE  WILD  GAZELLE. 

The  wild  gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 

Exulting  yet  may  boimd, 
And  drink  from  all  the  living  rills 

That  gush  on  holy  ground ; 
Its  airy  step  and  glonous  eye 
May  glance  in  tameless  transport  by  : 

A  step  as  fleet,  an  eye  more  bright. 
Hath  Judah  witness'd  there  ; 


0-, 


o 
o 


^ 


l. 


HEBREW   MELODIES. 


461 


And  o'er  her  scenes  of  lost  delight 

Inhabitants  more  fair. 
The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 
But  Judah's  statelier  maids  are  gone ! 

More  bless'd  each  palm  that  shades  those  plains 

Than  Israel's  scatter'd  race  ; 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  sohtary  grace : 
It  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birth. 
It  wiU  not  live  in  other  earth. 

Bnt  we  must  wander  witheringly. 

In  other  lands  to  die ; 
And  where  our  fathers'  ashes  be, 

Oiu:  own  may  never  lie ; 
Our  temple  hath  not  left  a  stone, 
And  Mockery  sits  on  Salem's  throne. 


OH !  WEEP  FOR  THOSE. 

Oh  I  weep  for  those  that  wept  by  Babel's  stream, 
Whose  shrines  are  desolate,  whose  land  a  dream  ; 
Weep  for  the  harp  of  Judah's  broken  shell ; 
Mourn — where  their  God  hath  dwelt  the  godless 
dweU! 

And  where  shall  Israel  lave  her  bleeding  feet  ? 
And  when  shall  Zion's  songs  again  seem  sweet  ? 
And  Judah's  melody  once  more  rejoice 
The  hearts  that  leap'd  before  its  heavenly  voice  ? 

Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast. 
How  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest ! 
The  wild-dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
Mankind  their  country — Israel  but  the  grave ! 


ON  JORDAN'S  BANKS. 

On  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab's  camels  stray. 

On  Sion's  hill  the  False  One's  votaries  pray. 

The  Baal-adorer  bows  on  Sinai's  steep — 

Yet  there — even  there — Oh  God  !  thy  thunders  sleep : 

There — where  thy  finger  scorch'd  the  tablet  stone  ! 
There — where  thy  shadow  to  thy  people  shone, 
Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire : 
Thyself— none  living  see  and  not  expire  ! 

Oh  !  in  the  lightning  let  thy  glance  appear ; 
Sweep  from  his  shiver'd  hand  the  oppressor's  spear : 
How  long  by  tyrants  shaU  thy  land  be  trod  ! 
How  long  thy  temple  worshipless,  O  God  ! 


JEPHTHA'S  DAUGHTER. 

SnicB  our  country,  our  God — oh,  my  sire  I 
Demand  that  thy  daughter  expire ; 


Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow — 
Strike  the  bosom  that's  bared  for  thee  now  ! 

And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more : 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low. 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow  ! 

And  of  this,  oh,  my  father !  be  sure — 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 
As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow. 
And  the  last  thought  that  soothes  me  below. 

Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  lament. 
Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent ! 
I  have  won  the  great  battle  for  thee. 
And  my  father  and  country  are  free  ! 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gush'd. 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is  hush'd. 
Let  my  memory  still  be  thy  pride. 
And  forget  not  I  smiled  as  I  died ! 


OH!  SNATCH'D  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY'S  BLOOM. 

Oh  1  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom. 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb  ; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year ; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  drciim. 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread ; 
Fond  wretch !  asif  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead  1 

Away  h  wc  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress : 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  ? 
And  thou— who  tell'st  me  to  forget. 
Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet 


MY  SOUL  IS  DARK. 

My  soul  is  dark—  oh  t  quickly  string 

The  harp  I  yet  can  brook  to  hear  ; 
And  let  thy  gentle  fingers  fling 

Its  melting  murmurs  o'er  mine  car. 
If  in  this  heart  a  hope  be  dear. 

That  sound  shall  charm  it  forth  again  : 
If  in  these  eyes  there  lurk  a  tear, 

'Twill  flow,  and  cease  to  bum  my  brain. 

But  bid  the  strain  be  wild  and  deep. 
Nor  let  thy  notes  of  joy  be  first : 


462 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


I  tell  thee,  minstrel,  I  must  weep, 
Or  else  this  hea^-y  heart  will  burst ; 

For  it  hath  been  by  sorrow  nursed. 
And  ached  in  sleepless  silence  long ; 

And  now  'tis  doom'd  to  know  the  worst. 
And  break  at  once — or  yield  to  song. 


I  SAW  THEE  WEEP. 

I  SAW  thee  weep — the  big  bright  tear 

Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue  ; 
And  then  methought  it  did  appear 

A  violet  dropping  dew : 
I  saw  thee  smile — the  sapphire's  blaze 

Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine  ; 
It  could  not  match  the  living  rays 

That  fill'd  that  glance  of  thine. 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow  dye, 
Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky, 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart ; 
Tlieir  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind 

That  lightens  o'er  the  heart. 


THY  DAYS  ARE  DONE. 

Tht  days  are  done,  thy  fame  begun  ; 

Thy  country's  strains  record 
The  triumphs  of  her  chosen  Son, 

The  slaughters  of  his  sword  I 
The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 

The  freedom  he  restored ! 

Though  thou  art  fall'n,  while  we  are  free 
Thou  shalt  not  taste  of  death  ! 

The  generous  blood  that  flow'd  from  thee 
Disdain'd  to  sink  beneath  : 

Within  our  veins  its  currents  be, 
Thy  spirit  on  our  breath  ! 

Thy  name,  our  charging  hosts  along, 

Shall  be  the  battle-word  1 
Thy  fall,  the  theme  of  choral  song 

Prom  virgin  voices  pour'd  I 
To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  be  deplored. 


80K&  OF   SAUL  BEFORE  HIS  LAST 
BATTLE. 
Wahriobs  and  chiefs !  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in  your  path, 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Oath  ! 


Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  meet. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part, 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  Ijeart ! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway. 
Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to-day  1 


A  U  L. 


Thou  whose  spell  can  raise  the  dead. 

Bid  the  prophet's  form  appear. 
"  Samuel,  raise  thy  buried  head  ! 
King,  behold  the  phantom  seer  !" 
Earth  yawn'd  ;  he  stood  the  centre  of  a  cloud  : 
Light  changed  its  hue,  retiring  from  his  shroud. 
Death  stood  all  glassy  in  his  fixed  eye  ; 
His  hand  was  wither'd,  and  his  veins  were  dry  ; 
His  foot,  in  bony  whiteness,  glitter'd  there. 
Shrunken  and  sinewless,  and  ghastly  bare  ; 
From  lips  that  moved  not,  and  unbreathing  frame, 
Like  cavern'd  winds,  the  hollow  accents  came. 
Saul  saw,  and  fell  to  earth,  as  falls  the  oak. 
At  once,  and  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke. 
"  Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted  ? 
Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead  ? 
Is  it  thou,  O  King  ?    Behold, 
Bloodless  are  these  limbs,  and  cold  : 
Such  are  mine  ;  and  such  shaU  be 
Thine  to-morrow,  when  with  me  : 
Ere  the  coming  day  is  done, 
Such  shalt  thou  be,  such  thy  son. 
Fare  thee  well,  but  for  a  day. 
Then  we  mix  our  mouldering  clay. 
Thou,  thy  race,  lie  pale  and  low, 
Kerced  by  shafts  of  many  a  bow ; 
And  the  falchion  by  thy  side 
To  thy  heart  thy  hand  shall  guide  : 
Crownless,  breathless,  headless  fall, 
Son  and  sire,  the  house  of  Saul  1" 


"ALL. IS  VANITY,  8AITH  THE  PREACHER." 

Fame,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine, 

And  health  and  youth  possess'd  me ; 
My  goblets  blush'd  from  every  vine. 

And  lovely  forms  caress'd  mc  ; 
I  sunn'd  my  heart  in  beauty's  eyes, 

And  felt  my  soul  grow  tender ; 
All  earth  can  give,  or  mortal  prize. 

Was  mine  of  regal  splendor. 

I  strive  to  number  o'er  what  days 

Remembrance  can  discover. 
Which  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 


HEBREW   MELODIES. 


463 


Would  lure  me  to  live  oyer. 
There  rose  no  day,  there  roll'd  no  hour 

Of  pleasure  unembitter'd  ; 
And  not  a  trapping  deck'd  my  power 

That  gall'd  not  while  it  glitter'd. 

The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 

And.spells,  is  won  from  harming ; 
But  that  which  coils  around  the  heart. 

Oh  !  who  hath  power  of  charming  ? 
It  will  not  list  to  wisdom's  lore. 

Nor  music's  voice  can  lure  it ; 
But  there  it  stings  for  evermore 

The  soul  that  must  endure  it. 


WHEN    COLBNESS    WRAPS    THIS    SUFFER- 
ING CLAY. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay. 

Ah  !  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darken'd  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way  2 
Or  fin  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecay'd, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all. 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  display'd. 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 

So  darkly  of  departed  years. 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds. 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  Creation  peopled  earth. 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back ; 
And  where  the  furthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
While  sun  is  quench'd  or  system  breaks, 

Fix'd  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  Love,  Hope,  Hate,  or  Fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure  : 
An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing, 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thought  shall  fly, 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing. 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


VISION  OF  BEL8HAZZAR. 

The  King  was  on  his  throne. 
The  Satraps  throng'd  the  hall ; 


A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 
O'er  that  high  festival.  ' 

A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 
In  Judah  deem'd  divine — 

Jehovah's  vessels  hold 
The  godless  Heathen's  wine. 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall. 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall. 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand  : 
The  fingers  of  a  man  ; — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook. 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice  ; 
All  bloodless  wax'd  his  look. 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear. 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear. 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good. 

But  here  they  have  no  skill ; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore  ; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage, 

They  saw — but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  king's  command. 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view ; 
He  read  it  on  that  night, — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made. 

His  kingdom  pass'd  away, 
He,  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay, 
The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state, 

His  canopy  the  stone  : 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate  1 

The  Persian  on  his  throne  !" 


\ 


SUN  OP  THE   SLEEPLESS? 

Sun  of  the  sleepless  1  melancholy  star  ! 
Whose  tearful  beam  glows  tremulously  far, 
That  show'st  the  darkness  thou  canst  not  dispel. 


464 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


How  like  art  thou  to  joy  remember'd  well ! 
So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other  days, 
Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its  powerless  rays. 
A  night-beam  Sorrow  watcheth  to  behold, 
Distinct,  but  distant — clear — but  oh,  how  cold  ! 


WERE    MY    30S0M    AS    FALSE    AS    THOU 
DEEM'ST  IT  TO  BE. 

Weke  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st  it  to  be, 

I  need  not  have  wander'd  from  far  Galilee  ; 

It  was  but  abjuring  my  creed  to  efface 

The  curse  which,  thou  say'st  is  the  crime  of  my  race  : 

If  the  bad  never  triumph,  then  God  is  with  thee ! 
K  the  slave  only  sin,  thou  art  spotless  and  free  ! 
If  the  exile  on  earth  is  an  outcast  on  high, 
Live  on  in  thy  faith,  but  in  mine  I  will  die. 

I  have  lost  for  that  faith  more  than  thou  canst  bestow. 
As  the  God  who  permits  thee  to  prosper  doth  know ; 
In  his  hand  is  my  heart  and  my  hope — and  in  thine 
The  land  and  the  life  which  for  Him  I  resign. 


^ 


HEROD'S  LAMENT  FOR  MARIAMNE. 

Oh,  Mariamne  !  now  for  thee 

The  heart  for  which  thou  bled'st  is  bleeding, 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony, 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 
Oh,  Mariamne  !  where  art  thou  3 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  bitter  pleading. 
Ah  1  couldst  thou — thou  wouldst  pardon  now. 

Though  Heaven  were  to  my  prayer  unheeding. 

And  is  she  dead  ? — and  did  they  dare 

Obey  my  phrensy's  jealous  raving  ? 
My  wrath  but  doom'd  my  own  despair  : 

The  sword  that  smote  her 's  o'er  me  waving. — 
But  thou  art  cold,  my  murder'd  love ! 

And  this  dark  heart  is  vainly  craving 
For  her  who  soars  alone  above. 

And  leaves  my  soul  unworthy  saving. 

She's  gone,  who  shared  my  diadem ; 

She  sunk,  with  her  my  joys  entombing  ; 
I  swept  that  flower  from  Judah's  stem. 

Whose  leaves  for  me  alone  were  blooming ; 
And  mine's  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  hell. 

This  bosom's  desolation  dooming ; 
And  I  have  earned  those  tortures  well. 

Which  unconsumed  are  still  consuming ! 


Twas  thy  last  sun  went  down,  andtheflames  of  thy  fall 
Flash'd  back  on  the  last  glance  I  gave  to  thy  waU. 

I  look'd  for  thy  temple,  I  look'd  for  my  home, 
And  forgot  for  a  moment  my  bondage  to  come ; 
I  beheld  but  the  death-fire  that  fed  on  thy  fane. 
And  the  fast  fetter'd  hands  that  made  vengeance  in 
vain. 

On  many  an  eve,  the  high  spot  whence  I  gazed 
Had  reflected  the  last  beam  of  day  as  it  blazed  ; 
Wliile  I  stood  on  the  height,  and  beheld  the  decline 
Of  the  rays  from  the  mountain  that  shone  on  thy 
shrine. 

And  now  on  that  mountain  I  stood  on  that  day, 
But  I  mark'd  not  the  twilight  beam  melting  away  ; 
Oh  !  would  that  the  lightning  had  glared  in  its  stead. 
And  the  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  conquerer's  head  1 

But  the  gods  of  the  Pagan  shall  never  profane 
The  shrine  where  Jehovah  disdain'd  not  to  reign  ; 
And  scatter'd  and  scom'd  as  thy  people  may  be 
Our  worshi^j,  O  Father,  is  only  for  thee. 


ON   THE    DAY   OF    THE   DESTRUCTION   OF 
JERUSALEM  BY  TITUS. 

From  the  last  hill  that  looks  on  thy  once  holy  dome 
I  beheld  thee,  O  Sion  !  when  rendcr'd   to  Rome  : 


BY"    THE   RIVERS    OF    BABYLON   WE    SAT 
DOWN  AND  WEPT. 

We  sat  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 

When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters. 
Made  Salem's  high  places  his  prey ; 

And  ye,  O  her  desolate  daughters  1 
Were  scatter'd  all  weeping  away. 

While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  roll'd  on  in  freedom  below. 

They  demanded  the  song ;  but,  oh  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shah  know  1 

May  this  right  hand  be  wither'd  forever, 
Ere  it  string  our  high  harp  for  the  foe  t 

On  the  willow  that  harp  is  suspended, 
O  Salem  !  its  sound  should  be  free ; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended 
But  left  me  that  token  of  thee  : 

And  ne'er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me  ! 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold. 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the 

sea. 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 


DOMESTIC    PIECES. 


465 


like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  greien, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath 

blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill. 
And  their  heart  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew 
stiU! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roU'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  8ur£ 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 


And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  1 


A  SPIRIT  PASS'D  BEFORE  ME. 

FROM   JOB. 

A  BPiBiT  pass'd  before  me  :  I  beheld 

The  face  of  immortality  unveil'd — 

Deep  sleep  came  down  on  every  eye  save  mine — 

And  there  it  stood, — aU  formless — ^but  divine : 

Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake  ; 

And  as  my  damp  hair  stiffen'd,  thus  it  spake : 

"  Is  man  more  just  than  God  ?  Is  man  more  pure 
Than  He  who  deems  even  Seraphs  insecure  ? 
Creatures  of  clay — vain  dwellers  in  the  dust ! 
The  moth  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just  ? 
Things  of  a  day  !  you  wither  ere  the  night, 
Heedless  and  blind  to  Wisdom's  wasted  light !" 


DOMESTIC    PIECES-1816 


FARE  THEE  WELL. 


"  Alas !  they  have  been  fricnda  in  youth ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  tnxlh. 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above ; 
And  lire  is  thomy ;  and  youth  is  vain : 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  wo  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain ; 

But  never  either  fonnd  another 

To  free  the  hoUow  heart  from  paining — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining. 

Like  cltfi's,  wliich  had  been  rent  asunder. 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shan  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  bath  been." 

CoLERLDss's  ChristoM. 


Fabb  thee  well !  and  if  forever. 

Still  forever,  fare  thee  well  : 
Even  though  unforgiving,  never 

'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain. 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again : 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over. 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show  1 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
Twss  not  well  to  spurn  it  bo. 
.50 


Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee — 
Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow. 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 
Founded  on  another's  wo : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 
Could  no  other  arm  fee  found,  ^ 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 
To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 

Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not ; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay ; 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth — 
Still  must  mine,  thought  bleeding,  beat ; 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is — that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 

Than  the  wail  above  the  dead ; 
Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 

Wake  us  from  a  widow'd  bed. 

And  when  thou  would  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow. 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father !" 
Thoragh  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 


^66 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  press'd, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  bless'd  1 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  never  more  mayest  see. 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 
All  my  madness  none  can  know  ; 

AU  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest. 
Wither,  yet  with  thee  they.go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken ; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee — by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now : 

But  'tis  done — all  words  are  idle — 

Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 
But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 

Force  their  way  without  the  will. — 

Fare  thee  well ! — thus  disunited. 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 

March  17. 1816. 


A    SKETCH. 

"Honest  I  honest  lago  I 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil,  I  cannot  kill  thee." 

^  *  SHAKarEABE. 

BoKN  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred. 

Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress'  head ; 

Next — for  some  gracious  service  unexpress'd, 

And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  guess'd — 

Raised  from  the  toilet  to  the  table, — where 

Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chair. 

With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  imabash'd, 

She  dines  from  off  the  plate  she  lately  wash'd. 

Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie — 

The  genial  confidante,  and  general  spy — 

Who  could,  ye  gods  !  her  next  employment  guess — 

An  only  infant's  earliest  governess  ! 

She  taught  the  child  to  read,  and  taught  so  well. 

That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  learn'd  to  spell. 

An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows. 

As  many  a  nameless  slander  deftly  shows  : 

What  she  had  made  the  pupil  of  her  art. 

None  know — but  that  high  Soul  secured  the  heart. 

And  panted  for  the  truth  it  could  not  hear. 

With  longing  breast  and  undeluded  ear. 

Foil'd  was  perversion  by  that  youthful  mind. 

Which  Flattery  fool'd  not — Baseness  could  not  blind. 


Deceit  infect  not — nor  Contagion  soil — 

Indulgence  weaken — nor  Example  spoil — 

Nor  master'd  Science  tempt  her  to  look  down 

On  humbler  talents  with  a  pitying  frown — 

Nor  Genius  swell — nor  Beauty  render  vain — 

Nor  Envy  ruffle  to  retaliate  pain — 

Nor  Fortime  change — Pride  raise — nor  Passion  bow 

Nor  Virtue  teach  austerity — ^till  now. 

Serenely  purest  of  her  sex  that  live. 

But  wanting  one  sweet  weakness — to  forgive. 

Too  shock'd  at  faults  her  soul  can  never  know, 

She  deems  that  all  could  be  like  her  below  : 

Foe  to  all  vice,  yet  hardly  Virtue's  friend, 

For  Virtue  pardons  those  she  would  amend. 

But  to  the  theme  : — now  laid  aside  too  long. 
The  baleful  burden  of  this  honest  song — 
Though  all  her  former  functions  are  no  more. 
She  rules  the  circle  which  she  served  before. 
If  mothers — none  know  why — before  her  quake  ; 
If  daughters  dread  her  for  the  mother's  sake  ; 
If  early  habits — those  false  links,  which  bind 
At  times  the  loftiest  to  the  meanest  mind — 
Have  given  her  power  too  deeply  to  instil 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will ; 
If  like  a  snake  she  steal  within  your  walls. 
Till  the  black  slime  betray  her  as  she  crawls  ; 
If  like  a  viper  to  the  heart  she  wind, 
And  leave  the  venom  there  slie  did  not  find  ; 
What  marvel  that  this  hag  of  hatred  works 
Eternal  evil  latent  as  she  lurks. 
To  make  a  Pandemonium  where  she  dwells, 
And  reign  the  Hecate  of  domestic  hells  ? 
Skill'd  by  a  touch  to  deepen  scandal's  tints 
With  all  the  kind  mendacity  of  hints,         [smiles- 
While  mingling  truth  with  falsehood — sneers  with 
A  thread  of  candor  with  a  web  of  wiles  ; 
A  plain  blunt  show  of  briefly-spoken  seeming, 
To  hide  her  bloodless  heart's  soul-harden'd  schem- 
A  lip  of  lies — a  face  form'd  to  conceal ;  [ing ; 

And,  without  feeling,  mock  at  all  who  feel : 
With  a  vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown ; 
A  cheek  of  parchment — and  an  eye  of  stone. 
Mark,  how  the  channels  of  her  yellow  blood 
Ooze  to  her  skin,  and  stagnate  there  to  mud, 
Cased  like  the  centipede  in  safiron  mail, 
Or  darker  greenness  of  the  scorpion's  scale— 
(For  drawn  from  reptiles  only  may  we  trace 
Congenial  colors  in  that  soul  or  face) — 
Look  on  her  features  !  and  behold  her  mind 
As  in  a  mirror  of  itself  defined  : 
Look  on  the  picture  I  deem  it  not  o'ercharged — 
There  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged  : 
Yet  true  to  "  Nature's  journeymen,"  who  made 
This  monster  when  their  mistress  left  off  trade — 
This  female  dog-star  of  her  little  sky. 
Where  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 


DOMESTIC    PIECES. 


467 


Oh  !  wretcli  without  a  tear — ^without  a  thought, 
Save  joy  above  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought — 
The  time  shall  come,  nor  long  remote,  when  thou 
Shalt  feel  far  more  than  thou  inflictest  now  ; 
Feel  for  thy  vile  self-loving  self  in  vain. 
And  turn  thee  howling  in  unpitied  pain. 
May  the  strong  curse  of  crush'd  affections  light 
Back  on  thy  bosom  with  reflected  blight  1 
And  make  thee  in  thy  leprosy  of  mind 
As  loathsome  to  thyself  as  to  mankind  t 
Till  all  thy  self-thoughts  curdle  into  hate. 
Black — as  thy  will  for  others  would  create  : 
Till  thy  hard  heart  be  calcined  into  dust. 
And  thy  soul  welter  in  its  hideous  crust. 
Oh,  may  thy  grave  be  sleepless  as  the  bed — 
The  widow'd  couch  of  fire,  that  thou  hast  spread  ! 
Then,  when  thou  fain  wouldst  weary  Heaven  with 

prayer, 
Look  on  thine  earthly  victims — and  despair  ! 
Down  to  the  dust ! — and,  as  thou  rott'st  away, 
Even  worms  shall  perish  on  thy  poisonous  clay. 
But  for  the  love  I  bore,  and  still  must  bear, 
To  her  thy  malice  from  all  ties  would  tear — 
Thy  name — thy  human  name — to  every  eye 
The  climax  of  all  scorn  should  hang  on  high. 
Exalted  o'er  thy  less  abhorr'd  compeers — 
And  festering  in  the  infamy  of  years. 

March  29, 1816. 


STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA. 

AVhen  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark, 
And  reason  half  withheld  her  ray — 

And  hope  but  shed  a  dying  spark 
Which  more  misled  my  lonely  way  ; 

In  that  deep  midnight  of  the  mind, 
And  that  internal  strife  of  heart, 

When  dreading  to  be  deem'd  too  kind. 
The  weak  despair — the  cold  depart ; 

When  fortune  changed — and  love  fled  far, 
And  hatred's  shafts  flew  thick  and  fast, 

Thou  wert  the  solitary  star 
Which  rose,  and  set  not  to  the  last. 

Oh  1  bless'd  be  thine  unbroken  light  I 
That  watch'd  me  as  a  seraph's  eye. 

And  stood  between  me  and  the  night, 
Forever  shining  sweetly  nigh. 

And  when  the  cloud  upon  us  came. 

Which  strove  to  blacken  o'er  thy  ray- 
Then  purer  spread  its  gentle  flame. 
And  dash'd  the  darkness  all  away. 

Still  may  thy  spirit  dwell  on  mine, 
And  teach  it  what  to  brave  or  brook— 


There's  more  in  one  soft  word  of  thine 
Than  in  the  world's  defied  rebuke. 

Thou  stood'st,  as  stands  a  lovely  tree. 
That  still  unbroke,  though  gently  bent, 

Still  waves  with  fond  fidelity 
Its  boughs  above  a  monument. 

The  winds  might  rend — the  skies  might  jwur. 
But  there  thou  w^ert — and  still  wouldst  be, 

Devoted  in  the  stormiest  hour 
To  shed  thy  weeping  leaves  o'er  me. 

But  thou  and  thine  shall  know  no  blight. 

Whatever  fate  on  me  may  fall ; 
For  heaven  in  sunshine  will  requite 

The  kind — and  thee  the  most  of  alL 

Then  let  the  ties  of  baffled  lovo 
Be  broken — thine  will  never  break ; 

Thy  heart  can  feel — but  will  not  move  ; 
Thy  soul,  though  soft,  will  never  shake. 

And  these,  when  all  was  lost  beside. 
Were  found  and  still  are  fix'd  in  thee ; — • 

And  bearing  still  a  breast  so  tried, 
Earth  is  no  desert— ev'n  to  mo. 


STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA. 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny 's  over. 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find ; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me. 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  beUeve  it  beguiling. 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine ; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believe  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shiver'd, 

And  its  fragments  are  simk  in  the  wave. 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver'd 

To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me  : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn— 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think — not  of  them. 


468 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake. 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slander'd,  thou  never  couldst  shake, — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me. 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'Twas  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  : 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perish'd. 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall. 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherish'd 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing. 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree. 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing. 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 

July  24, 1816. 


EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTA. 

My  sister  !  my  sweet  sister  !  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine  ; 
Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same — 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny, — 
A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 

The  first  were  nothing — ^had  I  still  the  last. 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 
•  But  otheV  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast. 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress  ; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  fate  of  yore,— 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 
I  have  sustain'd  my  share  of  worldly  shocks. 
The  fault  was  mine ;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox  ; 
I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 
The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  wo. 


Sline  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward. 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which  marr'd 
The  gift, — a  fate,  or  will,  that  walk'd  astray ; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard. 
And  thought  of  shaking  ofl'  my  bonds  of  clay  : 
But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive. 
If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outhved,  and  yet  I  am  not  old  ; 
And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  roU'd 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away : 
Something — I  know  not  what — does  still  uphold 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience  ;— not  in  vain, 
Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me, — or  perhaps  a  cold  despair. 
Brought  on  when  iUs  habitually  recur, — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  jiurer  air, 
(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer. 
And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 
Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 
The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 
In  happy  childhood ;  trees,  and  flowers,  and  brooks 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books. 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 
My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks  ; 
And  even  at  moments  I  could  think  I  see 
Some  living  thing  to  love — but  none  like  thee. 

Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation  ; — to  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date  ; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire  : 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate. 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire, 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

Oh  1  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  ! — but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 
There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show  — 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy. 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter'd  eye. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake,' 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 


1  The  Lake  of  Newstead  Abbey. 


DOMESTIC    PIECES. 


409 


Leman's  is  fair ;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore  : 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make, 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they 
Resign'd  forever,  or  divided  far.  [are 

The  world  is  all  before  me ;  I  but  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply — 
It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 
To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  ^-ith  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  no-,v  shall  be 
My  sister — till  I  look  again  on  thee. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one  ; 
And  that  I  would  not ; — for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun 
The  earliest — even  the  only  paths  for  me — 
Had  I  but  sooner  leam'd  the  crowd  to  shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be  ; 
The  passions  which   have  torn  me  would  have 
/had  not  sufFer'd,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept,   [slept ; 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I,  to  do  ? 
Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame  ; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  mc  grew. 
And  made  mo  all  which  they  can  make — a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue  ; 
Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over — I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care  ; 
I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day  ; 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were  ; 
My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils  ;  for  I  had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  fiU'd  a  century, 
Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  pass'd  me  by. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 
Not  thankless, — for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal. 
And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  farther. — Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around. 
And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine ; 
We  were  and  are — I  am,  even  as  thou  art — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign  ; 


It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart, 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 
We  are  entwined — let  death  come  slow  or  fast. 
The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last ! 


LINES 

ON   nEAMNa   THAT   LADY   BYRON   WAS   ILL. 

And  thou  wert  sad — ^yet  I  was  not  with  thee  ! 

And  thou  wert  sick,  and  yet  I  was  not  near  ; 
Methought  that  joy  and  health  alone  could  be 

Where  I  was  not — and  pain  and  sorrow  here. 
And  is  it  thus  ? — it  is  as  I  foretold. 

And  shall  be  more  so  ;  for  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wreck'd  heart  lies  cold. 

While  heaviness  collects  the  shatter'd  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benumb'd,  and  wish  to  be  no  more. 

But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

I  am  too  well  avenged  ! — but  'twas  my  right ; 

Whate'er  my  sins  might  be,  thou  wert  not  sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite — 

Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument. 
Mercy  is  for  the  merciful — if  thou 
Hast  been  of  such,  'twill  be  accorded  now. 
Thy  nights  are  banish'd  from  the  realms  of  sleep  !— 

Yes  !  they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shalt  feel 

A  hollow  agony  which  will  not  heal, 
For  thou  art  pillow'd  on  a  curse  too  deep  ; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  wo  as  real ! 
I  have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee  ; 

For  'gainst  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend. 

And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend  ; 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability  [shielded, 

Hadst    naught    to  dread — in    thy  own   weakness 
And  in  my  love,  which  hath  but  too  much  yielded, 

And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I  should  not  spare — 
And  thus  upon  the  world — trust  in  thy  truth — 
And  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungovem'd  youth — 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that  are — 
Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  thou  built 
A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt ! 
The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord. 
And  hew'd  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword. 
Fame,  peace,  and  hope — and  all  the  better  life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart, 
Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife, 
And  found  a  nobler  duty  than  to  part. 
But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice. 

Trafficking  with  them  in  a  purpose  cold, 

For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold — 
And  buying  other's  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  cntcr'd  into  crooked  ways, 


470 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise, 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee — but  at  times. 
And  with  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes, 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible. 
Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 

In  Janus-spirits— the  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence — the  pretext 


Of  Prudence,  with  advantages  annex'd — 
The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend, 
No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end— 

All  found  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won — 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  hast  done  ! 

September,  1S16. 


MONODY 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHT  HON.  R.  B.  SHERIDAN. 

BFOKIN  AT  SBUBT-LANS  THEATBE. 


When  the  last  sunshine  of  expiring  day 

In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away. 

Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 

Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower  ? 

With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes 

AVhile  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause, 

Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 

Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime. 

Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and  deep. 

The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak  but 

A  holy  concord — and  a  bright  regret,  [weep 

A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set  ? 

'Tis  not  harsh  sorrow — but  a  tenderer  wo. 

Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below. 

Felt  without  bitterness — bilt  full  and  clear, 

A  sweet  dejection — a  transparent  tear, 

Unmix'd  with'  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 

Shed  without  shame — and  secret  without  pain. 

Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 
When  Summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills, 
So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes, 
When  all  of  Genius  which  can  perish  dies. 
A  mighty  Spirit  is  eclipsed — a  Power 
Hath  pass'd  from  day  to  darkness — to  whose  hour 
Of  light  no  likeness  is  bequeath'd — no  name. 
Focus  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  Fame  ! 
The  flash  of  Wit — the  bright  Intelligence, 
The  beam  of  Song — the  blaze  of  Eloquence, 
Set  with  their  Sun — but  still  have  left  behind 
The  enduring  produce  of  immortal  Mind  ; 
Fruits  of  a  genial  morn,  and  glorious  noon, 
A  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 
But  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole. 
These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul. 
Which  all  embraced — and  lighten'd  over  all, 
To  cheer — ^to  pierce — to  please — or  to  appal. 
From  the  charm'd  council  to  the  festive  board. 
Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord ; 
In  whose  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied,       [pride. 
The  praised — the  proud — who  made  his  praise  their 


When  the  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan 
Arose  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man. 
His  was  the  thunder — his  the  avenging  rod, 
The  wrath — the  delegated  voice  of  God  1       [blazed 
Which  shook  the  nations  through  his   lips — and 
Till  vanquish'd  senates  trembled  as  they  praised. 

And  here,  oh  !  here,  where  yet  all  young  and  warm, 
The  gay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm. 
The  matchless  dialogue — the  deathless  wit. 
Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit ; 
The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life,  that  bring 
Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring ; 
These  wondrous  beings  of  his  Fancy,  wrought 
To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought. 
Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet, 
Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat ; 
A  halo  of  the  light  of  other  days,  y 

Which  still  the  splendor  of  its  orb  betrays. 

But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  Wisdom  yields  a  base  delight. 
Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  bom  their  own. 
Still  let  them  pause — ah  !  little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seem'd  Vice  might  be  but  Wo. 
Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 
Is  fix'd  forever  to  detract  or  praise  ; 
Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name. 
And  Folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  Fame. 
The  secret  enemy  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stands  sentinel — accuser — judge — and  spy. 
The  foe — the  fool — the  jealous — and  the  vain. 
The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  others'  pain. 
Behold  the  host !  delighting  to  deprave, 
Who  track  the  steps  of  Glory  to  the  grave, 
Watch  every  fault  that  daring  Genius  owes 
Half  to  the  ardor  which  its  birth  bestows, 
Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie. 
And  pile  the  pyramid  of  Calumny  1 
These  are  his  portion — but  if  join'd  to  these 


THE    DREAM. 


471 


Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Disease, 
If  the  high  Spirit  must  forget  to  soar, 
And  stoop  to  strive  with  Misery  at  the  door. 
To  soothe  Indignity — and  face  to  face 
Meet  sordid  Rage — and  wrestle  with  Disgrace, 
To  find  in  Hope  but  the  renew'd  caress. 
The  serijcnt-fold  of  further  Faithlessness  : — 
If  such  may  be  the  ills  which  men  assail, 
AVhat  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  ? 
Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given 
Bear  hearts  electric — charged  with  fire  from  Heaven, 
Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn. 
By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne,     , 
Driven  o'er  the  lowering  atmosphere  that  nursed 
Thoughts  which  have  turn'd  to  thunder — scorch — 
and  burst. 

But  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene 
Such  things  should  be — if  such  have  ever  been  ; 
Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task. 
To  give  the  tribute  Glory  need  not  ask, 


To  mourn  the  vanish'd  beam — and  add  our  mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  delight. 
Ye  Orators  !  whom  yet  our  councils  yield, 
Mourn  for  the  veteran  Hero  of  your  field  ! 
The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  Three  ! 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  Immortality  ! 
Ye  Bards  !  to  whom  the  Drama's  Muse  is  dear. 
He  was  your  Master — emulate  him  liere  1 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence  ! 
He  was  your  brother — bear  his  ashes  hence. 
While  Powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless  range, 
Complete  in  kind — as  various  in  their  change. 
While  Eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and  Mirth, 
That  humbler  Harmonist  of  care  on  Earth, 
Survive  within  our  souls — while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  Merit's  proud  pre-eminence. 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness — long  in  vain. 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain. 
Sighing  that  Nature  form'd  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die — in  moulding  Sheridan. 

DiODATi,  July  17, 1818. 


THE    DREAM 


OcR  life  is  twofold  :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence  :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world. 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality. 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts. 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils. 
They  do  divide  our  being  ;  they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity  ; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future  ;  they  have  power — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will. 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by. 
The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows — Are  they  so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?     What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ? — The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years,    . 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

n. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 


Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such. 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base. 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ; — the  hill 
Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  flx'd. 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful : 
And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge. 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth. 
And  that  was  shining  on  him  ;  he  had  look'd 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away  ; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers  : 
She  was  his  voice  ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her. 
But  trembled  on  her  words  :  she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  foUow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers. 
Which  color'd  all  his  objects  : — he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life. 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts. 
Which  terminated  all :  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 


472 


BYRON  'S   WORKS. 


And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  those  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him ;  to  her  he  was 

Even  as  a  brother — but  no  more  ;  'twas  much, 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him ; 

Herself  the  sohtary  scion  left 

Of  a  time-honor'd  race. — It  was  a  name  [why  ? 

Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not — and 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved 

Another  ;  even  now  she  loved  another. 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 

Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 

Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

III. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd  : 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake  ; — he  was  alone, 
And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  :  anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  lean'd 
His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 
With  a  convulsion — ^then  arose  again. 
And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
"What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet :  as  he  paused. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there  ; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved, — she  knew 
For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 
Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  and  vrith  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand  ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came  : 
He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 
Retir'd,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 
For  they  did  part  vrith  mutual  smiles  ;  he  pass'd 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way ; 
And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

IV. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  :  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home. 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams  :  he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 


A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruin'd  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them  ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while. 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around  : 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky. 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful. 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better  : — in  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  home. 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty, — but  behold  1 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief. 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife. 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye. 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  be  2— she  had  all  she  loved. 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish. 
Or  ill-repress'd  aflUction,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. 

VI. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  wanderer  was  return'd.— I  saw  him  stand 

Before  an  altar — ^with  a  gentle  bride  ; 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 

•the  starlight  of  his  boyhood ; — as  he  stood 

Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 

The  selfsame  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 

That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ;  and  then — 

As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came. 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  oivn  words, 

And  all  things  reel'd  around  him  ;  he  could  see 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom'd  hall,  [been— 

And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place. 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour. 

And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 

And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light : 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 


THE  LAMENT   OF    TASSO. 


473 


VII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  Jiis  love  ; — Oh  !  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wander'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things  ; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 
Ana  this  the  world  calls  phrenzy ;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 
AVhat  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

VIII. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore. 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 


Or  were  at  war  with  him ;  he  was  a  mark 

For  blight  and  desolation,  compass'd  round 

With  Hatred  and  Contention  ;  Pain  was  mix'd 

In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until. 

Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days. 

He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power. 

But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment ;  he  Uved 

Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 

And  made  him  friends  of  mountains :  with  the  stars 

And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 

He  held  his  dialogues  !  and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 

To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  open'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 

A  marvel  and  a  secret — Be  it  so. 

I.X 

My  dream  was  past ;  it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reaUty — the  one 

To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 

Jrdy,  ISiC. 


THE    LAMENT    OF   TASSO. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

At  Ferrara,  in  the  Library,  are  preserved  the  origi- 
nal MSS.  of  Tasso's  Gierusalemme  and  of  Guarini's 
Pastor  Fldo,  with  letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian  to 
Ariosto,  and  the  inkstand  and  chair,  the  tomb  and  the 
house,  of  the  latter.  But,  as  misfortune  has  a  greater 
interest  for  posterity,  and  little  or  none  for  the  cotemp- 
orary,  the  cell  where  Tasso  was  confined  in  the  hospi- 
tal of  St.  Anna  attracts  a  more  fixed  attention  than  the 
residence  or  the  monument  of  Ariosto — at  least  it  had 
this  effect  on  me.  There  are  two  inscriptions,  one  on 
the  outer  gate,  the  second  over  the  cell  itself,  inviting, 
unneceesarily,  the  wonder  and  the  indignation  of  the 
spectator.  Ferrara  is  much  decayed,  and  depopulated  ; 
the  castle  still  exists  entire  ;  and  I  saw  the  court  where 
Parisina  and  Hugo  were  beheaded,  according  to  the 
annal  of  Qibbon. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


Long  years  ! — It  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to  bear 
And  eagle-spirit  of  a  child  of  Song — 
Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong ; 
Imputed  madness,  prison'd  soUtude, 
And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 
When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 
Parches  the  heart ;  and  the  abhorred  grate, 
Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 
60 


Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the  brain, 

With  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain  ; 

And  bare,  at  once.  Captivity  display'd 

Stands  scoffing  through  the  never-open'd  gate. 

Which  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  day> 

And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  eat  alonQ 

Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone  ; 

And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey. 

Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 

Which  is  my  lair,  and — it  may  be — my  grave. 

AU  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear, 

But  must  be  borne.    I  stoop  not  to  despair ; 

For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony. 

And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 

The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall. 

And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall ; 

And  revell'd  among  men  and  things  divine. 

And  pour'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 

In  honor  of  the  sacred  war  for  Him, 

The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven, 

For  he  has  strengthen'd  me  in  heart  and  limb. 

That  through  this  suflferance  I  might  be  forgiven, 

I  have  employ'd  my  penance  to  record 

How  Salem's  shrine  was  won  and  how  adored. 

11. 
But  this  is  o'er — my  pleasant  task  Is  done  : — 
My  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years  1 
If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears, 


474 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Know,  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me  none. 

But  thou,  my  young  creation  !  my  soul's  child  ! 

Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled. 

And  woo'd  me  from  myself  with  tby  sweet  sight. 

Thou  too  art  gone — and  so  is  my  delight : 

And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 

With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 

Thou  too  art  ended — what  is  left  me  now  ? 

For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear — and  how  ? 

I  know  not  that — but  in  the  innate  force 

Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 

I  have  not  sunk,  for  I  had  no  remorse, 

Nor  cause  for  such  :  they  call'd  me  mad — and  why  ? 

Oh,  Leonora  !  wilt  not  thou  reply  ? 

I  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 

^0  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art ; 

But  still  my  phrenzy  was  not  of  the  mind ; 

I  knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 

Not  less  because  I  suflFer  it  unbent. 

That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind, 

Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  mankind  ; 

But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will, 

My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  stiU ; 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away, 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful ;  'tis  their  fate 

To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay. 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate. 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour ; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

III. 

Above  me,  hark  !  the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  minds  and  bodies  in  captivity. 

And  hark  I  the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl, 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy  I 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  phrenzy  foul, 

Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o'er-labor'd  mind, 

And  dim  the  little  light  that's  left  behind 

With  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrant  will 

Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill : 

With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  class'd, 

'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have 

pass'd ; 
'Mid  sights  and  sounds  like  these  my  life  may  close : 
So  let  it  be — for  then  I  shall  repose. 

IV. 
I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet ; 
I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  forget, 
But  it  revives — Oh,  would  it  were  my  lot 
To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot ! — 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 
In  this  vast  lazar-house  of  many  woes  ? 
Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind, 
Nor  words  a  language,  nor  ev'n  men  mankind  ; 
Where  cries  reply  to  curses,  shrieks  to  blows, 
XsxA  each  is  tortured  Ui.Ms  separate  hell— 


For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes — 

Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall, 

Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods  ; — 

While  all  can  hear,  none  heed  his  neighbor's  call — 

None  I  save  that  one,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all. 

Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these. 

Nor  bound  between  Distraction  and  Disease. 

Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me  here  1 

Wlio  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men. 

Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own. 

Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career. 

Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  lear  ! 

Would  I  not  pay  them  back  these  pangs  again. 

And  teach  them  inward  Sorrow's  stifled  groan  ? 

The  struggle  to  be  calm,  and  cold  distress, 

Which  undermines  our  stoical  success  ? 

No  ! — still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive — I 

Have  pardon'd  princes'  insults,  and  would  die. 

Yes,  Sister  of  my  Sovereign  !  for  thy  sake 

I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast. 

It  hath  no  business  where  thou  art  a  guest ; 

Thy  brother  hates — but  I  can  not  detest ; 

Thou  pitiest  not — but  I  can  not  forsake. 

V. 
Look  on  a  love  which  knows  not  to  despair, 
But  all  unquench'd  is  stiU  my  better  part. 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart, 
As  dwells  the  gather'd  lightning  in  its  cloud, 
Encompass'd  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud. 
Till  struck, — forth  flies  the  all-ethereal  dart ! 
And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name 
The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  frame, 
And  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 
Flit  by  me  ; — ^they  are  gone — I  am  the  same. 
And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew  ; 
I  knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I  knew 
A  princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a  bard ; 
I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself,  its  own  reward  ; 
And  if  my  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alas  ! 
Were  punish'd  by  the  silentness  of  thine, 
And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine. 
Thou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine, 
Worshipp'd  at  holy  distance,  and  around 
Hallow'd  and  meekly  kiss'd  the  saintly  ground  ; 
Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  Love 
Had  robed  thee  with  a  glory,  and  array'd 
Thy  lineaments  in  beauty  that  dismay'd — 
Oh  !  not  dismay'd — but  awed,  like  One  above  I 
And  in  that  sweet  severity  there  was 
A  something  which  all  softness  did  surpass — 
I  know  not  how — thy  genius  master'd  mine — 
My  star  stood  still  before  thee  : — if  it  were 
Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design, 
That  sad  fatality  hath  cost  me  dear  ; 
But  them  art  dearest  still,  and  I  should  be 


THE   LAMENT    OF    TASSO. 


47o 


Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me — but  for  thee. 
The  very  love  which  lock'd  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lighten'd  half  its  weight ;  and  for  the  rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigor  to  sustain, 
And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast, 
And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  Pain. 

VI. 

It  is  no  marvel — from  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love, — which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth ; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 

Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers. 

And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise. 

Where  I  did  lay  mc  down  within  the  shade 

Of  waving  trees,  and  dream'd  uncounted  hours, 

Tliough  I  was  chid  for  wandering  ;  and  the  wise 

Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and  said 

Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made. 

And  such  a  truant  boy  would  end  in  wo. 

And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a  blow  ; — 

And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  weep, 

But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haunt 

Retum'd  and  wept  alone,  and  dream'd  again 

The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sleep. 

And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 

With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain  ; 

And  the  whole  heart  exhaled  into  one  want. 

But  undefined  and  wandering,  till  the  day 

I  found  the  thing  I  sought — and  that  was  thee ; 

And  then  I  lost  my  being  all  to  be 

Absorb'd  in  thine — the  world  was  pass'd  away — 

Th(m  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  me  ! 

VII. 

I  loved  all  Solitude — but  little  thought 
To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant ; — had  I  been 
Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 
My  mind  like  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave. 
But  who  hath  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me  rave  } 
Perchance  in  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wreck'd  sailor  on  his  desert  shore  ; 
The  world  is  all  before  him — mine  is  here, 
Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  bier. 
What  though  he  perish,  he  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a  dying  glance  upbraid  the  sky — 
I  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof. 
Although  'tis  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roof. 

VIII. 

Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline, 
But  with  a  sense  of  its  decay : — I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine. 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  mo 


With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free  ; 
But  much  to  one,  who  long  hath  suffer'd  so, 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narro^vness  of  place. 
And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  Man, 
But  Spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them — all  Earth 
Abandons — Heaven  forgets  me  ; — in  the  dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  Powers  of  Evil  can, 
It  may  be,  tempt  me  further, — and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
Like  steel  in  tempering  fire  ?  because  I  loved  ? 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see. 
Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 

IX. 
I  once  was  quick  in  feeling — that  is  o'er  ; — 
My  scars  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dash'd 
My  brain  against  these  bars,  as  the  sun  flash'd 
In  mockery  through  them  ; — If  I  bear  and  bore 
The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 
AYliich  hath  no  words,-^'tis  that  I  would  not  die 
And  sanction  with  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 
Which  snared  mc  hero,  and  with  the  brand  of  shame 
Stamp  Madness  deep  into  my  memory. 
And  woo  Compassion  to  a  blighted  name. 
Sealing  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 
No — it  shall  be  immortal ! — and  I  make 
A  future  temple  of  my  present  cell, 
AVhich  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  my  sake. 
While  thou,  Ferrara  !  when  no  longer  dwell 
The  ducal  chiefs  within  thee,  shalt  fall  down, 
And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thy  hearthless  halls, 
A  poet's  wreath  shall  be  thine  only  crown, — 
A  poet's  dungeon  thy  most  far  renown, 
Wliile  strangers  wonder  o'er  thy  unpeopled  walls  ! 
And  thou,  Leonora  ! — thou — who  wert  ashamed 
That  such  as  I  could  love — who  blush'd  to  hear 
To  less  than  monarclis  that  thou  couklst  be  dear, 
Go  !  tell  thy  brother,  that  my  heart,  untamed 
By  grief,  years,  weariness — and  it  may  he 
A  taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  me — 
From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this. 
Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss, 
Adores  thee  still ; — and  add — that  when  the  towcr» 
And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours 
Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  arc  forgot. 
Or  left  imtended  in  a  dull  repose. 
This — this — shall  be  a  consecrated  spot ! 
But  thou— when  all  that  birth  and  beauty  throws 
Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct — shalt  have 
One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershades  my  grave. 
No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart. 
As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 
Ye3,  Leonora  I  it  shall  be  our  fate 
To  be  entwined  forever — but  too  late  ! 


476 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


ODE    ON   VENICE. 


Dn,  Venice  !  Venice  !  when  thy  marble  walls 

Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  halls, 

A  loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea  ! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee. 
What  should  thy  sons  do  ? — anything  but  weep  : 
And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 
In  contrast  with  their  fathers — as  the  slime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep. 
Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide  foam, 
That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home. 
Are  they  to  those  that  were  ;  and  thus  they  creep, 
Crouching   and   crab-like,  through  their   sapping 
Oh  !  agony — that  centuries  should  reap         [streets. 
No  mellower  harvest !    Thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  wealth  and  glory  turn'd  to  dust  and  tears  ; 
And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets. 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets  : 
And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears. 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum, 
"With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats 
The  echo  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song. 
That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the  throng 
Of  gondolas — and  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overheating  of  the  heart, 
And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
Of  sweet  sensations,  battling  with  the  blood. 
But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors, 
The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay. 
When  Vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoften'd  terrors. 
And  Mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay  ; 
And  Hope  is  nothing  but  a  false  delay. 
The  sick  man's  lightning  half  an  hour  ere  death. 
When  faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  Pain, 
And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 
Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  Death  is  winning, 
Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away ; 
Yet  so  reUeving  the  o'er-tortured  clay, 
To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath. 
And  freedom  the  mere  numbness  of  his  chain  ; — 
And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  again 
He  feeb  his  spirits  soaring — albeit  weak. 
And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek ; 
And  as  he  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps. 
That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps, 
^nd  80  the  film  comes  o'er  him — and  the  dizzy 


Chamber  swims  round   and  round — and   shadows 

busy. 
At  which  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam. 
Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream. 
And  all  is  ice  and  blackness, — and  the  earth 
That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  birth. 

11. 

There  is  no  hope  for  nations  ! — Search  the  page 

Of  many  thousand  years — the  daily  scene, 
Tlie  flow  and  ebb  of  each  recurring  age. 
The  everlasting  to  he  which  hath  heen. 
Hath  taught  us  naught  or  little  :  still  we  lean 
On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and  wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air ; 
For  'tis  our  nature  strikes  us  down :  the  beasts 
Slaughtered  in  hourly  hecatombs  for  feasts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order — they  must  go     [slaughter. 
Even  where  their  driver  goads  them,  though  to 
Ye  men,  who  pour  your  blood  for  kings  as  water, 
What  have  they  given  your  children  in  return  ? 
A  heritage  of  servitude  and  woes, 
A  blindfold  bondage,  where  your  hire  is  blows. 
What !  do  not  yet  the  red-hot  ploughshares  bum, 
O'er  which  you  stumble  in  a  false  ordeal, 
And  deem  this  proof  of  loyalty  the  real ; 
Kissing  the  hand  that  guides  you  to  your  scars. 
And  glorying  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars  ? 
All  that  your  sires  have  left  you,  all  that  Time 
Bequeaths  of  free,  and  History  of  sublime. 
Spring  from  a  different  theme ! — Ye  see  and  read. 
Admire  and  sigh,  and  then  succumb  and  bleed ! 
Save  the  few  spirits,  who,  despite  of  all. 
And  worse  than  all,  the  sudden  crimes  engender'd 
By  the  down  thundering  of  the  prison  wall. 
And  thirst  to  swallow  the  sweet  waters  tender'd, 
Gushing    from    Freedom's    fountains — ^when    the 

crowd, 
Madden'd  with  centuries  of  drought,  are  loud. 
And  trample  on  each  other  to  obtain 
The  cup  which  brings  oblivion  of  a  chain 
Heavy  and  sore, — in  which  long  yoked  they  plough'd 
The  sand, — or  if  there  sprung  the  yellow  grain, 
'Twas  not  for  them,  their  necks  were  too  much  bow'd. 
And  their  dead  palates  chew'd  the  cud  of  pain  : — 
Yes  !  the  few  spirits — who  despite  of  deeds 
Which  they  abhor,  confound  not  with  the  cause 
Those  momentary  starts  from  Nature's  laws. 
Which,  like  the  pestilence  and  earthquake,  smite 
But  for  a  term,  then  jaass,  and  leave  the  earth 
With  all  her  seasons  to  repair  the  blight 


-da 

Si; 


K  a  ^  B 


I  -J  t 

;  s  e 

a  1. 


^ 


t 


MORGANTE   MAGGIORE, 


477 


"With  a  few  summers,  and  again  put  forth 
Cities  and  generations — fair,  when  free — 
For,  Tyranny,  there  blooms  no  bud  for  thee ! 

m. 

Glory  and  Empire  1  once  upon  these  towers 

With  Freedom— godlike  Triad  !  how  ye  sate  ! 
The  league  of  mightiest  nations,  in  those  hours 
When  Venice  was  an  envy,  might  abate. 
But  did  not  quench,  her  spirit — in  her  fate 
All  were  enwrapp'd  :  the  feasted  monarchs  knew 

And  loved  their  hostess,  nor  could  learn  to  hate, 
Although  they  humbled — with  the  kingly  few 
The  many  felt,  for  from  all  days  and  cUmes 
She  was  the  voyager's  worship; — even  her  crimes 
Were  of  the  softer  order — bom  of  Love, 
She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fatten'd  on  the  dead. 
But  gladden'd  where  her  harmless  conquests  spread; 
For  these  restored  the  Cross,  that  from  above 
Hallow'd  her  sheltering  banners,  which  incessant 
Flew  between  earth  and  the  unholy  Crescent, 
Which,  if  it  waned  and  dwindled,  Earth  may  thank 
The  city  it  has  clothed  in  chains,  which  clank 
Now,  creaking  in  the  ears  of  those  who  owe 
The  name  of  Freedom  to  her  glorious  struggles  ; 
Yet  she  but  shares  with  them  a  common  wo. 

And  call'd  the  "  kingdom  "  of  a  conquering  foe, 

Cut  knows  what  all — and,  most  of  all,  we  know 

With  what  set  gilded  terms  a  tyrant  juggles  1 

IV. 
The  name  of  Commonwealth  is  pass'd  and  gone 
O'er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  globe  • 
Venice  is  crush'd,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 


A  sceptre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe ; 

If  the  free  Switzer  yet  bestrides  alone 

His  chainless  mountains,  'tis  but  for  a  time, 

For  tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown. 

And  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 

The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.    One  great  clime, 

Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean 

Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 

Of  Freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for,  and 

Bequeath'd— a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 

And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land. 

Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's  motion, 

As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand 

Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science — 

Still  one  great  clime,  in  full  and  free  defiance. 

Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquer'd  and  sublime, 

Above  the  far  Atlantic  ! — She  has  taught 

Her  Esau-brethren  that  the  haughty  flag. 

The  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 

May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands  have  bought 

Rights  cheaply  earn'd  with  blood.— Still,  still,  forever 

Better,  though  each  man's  life-blood  were  a  river. 

That  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  than  creep 

Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 

Damm'd  like  the  dull  canal  with  locks  and  chains, 

And  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep. 

Three  paces,  and  then  faltering : — better  be 

Where  the  extinguish'd  Spartans  still  are  free, 

In  their  proud  charnel  of  Thermopyla;, 

Than  stagnate  in  our  marsh, — or  o'er  the  deep 

Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add. 

One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had, 

One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee ! 


THE    MORGANTE    MAGGIORE 


OF    PULCI. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 
The  Morgante  Maggiore,  of  the  first  canto  of  which 
this  translation  is  offered,  divides  with  the  Orlando 
Innamorato  the  honor  of  having  formed  and  suggested 
the  style  and  story  of  Ariosto.  The  great  defects  of 
Boiardo  were  his  treating  too  seriously  the  narratives 
of  chivalry,  and  his  harsh  stylo.  Ariosto,  in  his  con- 
tinuation, by  a  judicious  mixture  of  the  gayety  of 
Pulci,  has  avoided  the  one  ;  and  Bemi,  in  his  reforma- 
tion of  Boiardo's  poem,  has  corrected  the  other.  Pulci 
may  be  considered  as  the  precursor  and  model  of  Bemi 
•  altogether,  as  he  has  partly  been  to  Ariosto,  however 
inferior  to  both  his  copyists.  He  is  no  less  the  founder 
of  a  new  styleof  poetry  very  lately  sprung  up  in  England. 
I  allude  to  that  of  the  ingenious  Whistlecraft.  The 
serious  poems  on  Roncesvalles  in  the  same  language, 
and  more  particularly  the  excellent  one  of  Mr.  Merivale, 
are  to  be  traced  to  the  same  source.    It  has  never  yet 


been  decided  entirely  whether  Pulci's  intention  was  or 
was  not  to  deride  the  religion  which.is  one  of  his  fa- 
vorite topics.  It  appears  to  me,  that  such  an  intention 
would  have  been  no  less  hazardous  to  the  poet  than  to 
the  priest,  particularly  in  that  age  and  coimtry  ;  and 
the  permission  to  publish  the  poem,  and  its  reception 
among  the  classics  of  Italy,  prove  that  it  neither  was 
nor  is  so  interpreted.  That  he  intended  to  ridicule  the 
monastic  life,  and  suffered  his  imagination  to  play  with 
the  simple  dullness  of  his  converted  giant,  seems  evi- 
dent enough;  but  surely  it  were  as  unj  ust  to  accuse 
him  of  irreligion  on  this  account,  as  to  denounce  Field- 
ing for  his  Parson  Adams,  Barnabas,  Thwackum,  Sup- 
ple, and  the  Ordinary  in  Jonathan  Wild, — or  Scott,  for 
the  exquisite  use  of  his  Covenanters  in  the  "  Tales  of 
my  Landlord." 

In  the  following  translation  I  have  used  the  liberty  of 
the  original  with  the  proper  names ;  as  Pulci  uses  Qan, 


478 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Ganellon,  or  Qanellone  ;  Carlo,  Carlomagno,  orCarlo- 
mano ;  Rondel,  or  Rondello,  etc.,  as  it  suits  his  conve- 
nience ;  so  lias  the  ti-anslator.  In  other  respects  the 
version  is  faithful  to  the  best  of  the  translator's  ability 
in  combining  his  interpretation  of  the  one  language 
with  the  not  very  easy  task  of  reducing  it  to  the  same 
versification  in  the  other.  The  reader,  on  comparing 
it  with  the  original,  is  requested  to  remember  that  the 
antiquated  language  of  Pnlci,  however  pure,  is  not  easy 
to  the  generality  of  Italians  themselves,  from  its  great 
mixture  of  Tuscan  proverbs ;  and  he  may  therefore  be 
more  indulgent  to  the  present  attempt.  How  far  the 
translator  has  succeeded,  and  whether  or  no  he  shall 
continue  the  work,  are  questions  which  the  public  vrill 
decide.  He  was  induced  to  make  the  experiment  partly 
by  his  love  for,  and  partial  intercourse  with,  the  Italian 
language,  of  which  it  is  so  easy  to  acquire  a  slight 
knowledge,  and  with  which  it  is  so  nearly  impossible 
for  a  foreigner  to  become  accurately  conversant.  The 
Italian  language  is  like  a  capricious  beauty,  who 
accords  her  smiles  to  all,  her  favors  to  few,  and  some- 
times least  to  those  who  have  courted  her  longest.  The 
translator  wished  also  to  present  in  an  English  dress  a 
part  at  least  of  a  poem  never  yet  rendered  into  a 
northern  language  ;  at  the  same  time  that  it  has  been 
the  original  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  productions 
on  this  side  of  the  Alps,  as  well  as  of  those  recent  ex- 
periments in  poetry  in  England  which  have  been  al- 
ready mentioned. 


THE  MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


CANTO  THE  FIBBT. 


In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  next  God  ; 

God  was  the  Word,  the  Word  no  less  was  he : 
This  was  in  the  beginning,  to  my  mode 

Of  thinking,  and  without  him  naught  could  be : 
Therefore,  just  Lord !  from  out  thy  high  abode. 

Benign  and  pious,  bid  an  angel  flee. 
One  only,  to  be  my  companion,  who 
Shall  help  my  famous,  worthy,  old  song  through. 

II. 
And  thou,  O  Virgin  !  daughter,  mother,  bride 

Of  the  same  Lord,  who  gave  to  you  each  key 
Of  heaven,  and  hell,  and  every  thing  beside. 

The  day  thy  Gabriel  said  "  All  hail  1"  to  thee. 
Since  to  thy  servants  pity  's  ne'er  denied. 

With  flowing  rhymes,  a  pleasant  style  and  free, 
Be  to  my  verses  then  benignly  kind. 
And  to  the  end  illuminate  my  mind. 

III. 
'Twas  in  the  season  when  sad  Philomel 

Weeps  with  her  sister,  who  remembers  and 
Deplores  the  ancient  woes  which  both  befell, 


And  makes  the  nymphs  enamor'd,  to  the  hand 
Of  Phaeton  by  Phoebus  loved  so  well 

His  car  (but  temper'd  by  his  sire's  command) 
Was  given,  and  on  the  horizon's  verge  just  now 
Appear'd,  so  that  Tithonus  scratch'd  his  brow 

IV. 
When  I  prepared  my  bark  first  to  obey. 

As  it  should  still  obey,  the  helm,  my  mind, 
And  carry  prose  or  rhyme,  and  this  my  lay 

Of  Charles  the  Emperor,  whom  you  will  find 
By  several  pens  already  praised ;  but  they 

Who  to  difiuse  his  glory  were  inclined. 
For  all  that  I  can  see  in  prose  or  verse. 
Have  understood  Charles  badly,  and  wrote  worse. 

V. 
Leonardo  Aretino  said  already, 

That  if,  like  Pepin,  Charles  had  had  a  writer 
Of  genius  quick,  and  diligently  steady. 

No  hero  would  in  history  look  brighter ; 
He  in  the  cabinet  being  always  ready. 

And  in  the  field  a  most  victorious  fighter. 
Who  for  the  church  and  Christian  faith  had  wrought, 
Certes  far  more  than  yet  is  said  or  thought. 

VI. 
You  still  may  see  at  Saint  Liberatore 

The  abbey,  no  great  way  from  Manopell, 
Erected  in  the  Abruzzi  to  his  glory. 

Because  of  the  great  battle  in  which  fell 
A  pagan  king,  according  to  the  story, 

And  felon  people  whom  Charles  sent  to  hell : 
And  there  are  bones  so  many,  and  so  many, 
Kear  them  Giusaffa's  would  seem  few,  if  any. 

VII. 
But  the  world,  blind  and  ignorant,  don't  prize 

His  virtues  as  I  wish  to  see  them  :  thou, 
Florence,  by  his  great  bounty  don't  arise. 

And  hast,  and  may  have,  if  thou  wilt  allow, 
All  proper  customs  and  true  courtesies  : 

Whate'er  thou  hast  acquired  from  them  till  now 
With  knightly  courage,  treasure,  or  the  lance. 
Is  sprung  from  out  the  noble  blood  of  France. 

VIII. 
Twelve  paladins  had  Charles  in  court,  of  whom 

The  wisest  and  most  famous  was  Orlando  ; 
Him  traitor  Gan  conducted  to  the  tomb 

In  Roncesvalles,  as  the  villain  plann'd  too, 
While  the  horn  rang  so  loud,  and  knell'd  the  doom 

Of  their  sad  rout,  though  he  did  all  knight  can  do ; 
And  Dante  in  his  comedy  has  given 
To  him  a  happy  seat  with  Charles  in  heaven. 

IX. 
'Twas  Christmas  day ;  in  Paris  all  his  court 
Charles  held ;   the  chief,  I  say,  Orlando  was, 


MORGANTE    MAGGIORE. 


410 


The  Dane ;  Astolfo  there  too  did  resort, 

Also  Ansuigi,  the  gay  time  to  pass 
In  festival  and  iu  triumphal  sport, 

The  much-renown'd  St.  Dennis  being  the  cause  ; 
Angiolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Oliver, 
And  gentle  Bclinghieri  too  came  there  : 

X. 

Avolio,  and  Arino,  and  Othone 
Of  Normandy,  and  Richard  Paladin, 

Wise  Hamo,  and  the  ancient  Salamone, 
Walter  of  Lion's  Mount  and  Baldoviu, 

Who  was  the  son  of  the  sad  Ganellone, 
Were  there,  exciting  too  much  gladness  in 

The  son  of  Pepin  : — when  his  knights  came  hither, 

He  groan'd  with  joy  to  see  them  altogether. 

XI. 

But  watchful  Fortune,  lurking,  takes  good  heed 
Ever  some  bar  'gainst  our  intents  to  bring : 

While  Charles  reposed  him  thus,  in  word  and  deed 
Orlando  ruled  court,  Charles,  and  every  thing  ; 

Cursed  Gan,  with  envy^ bursting,  had  such  need 
To  vent  his  spite,  that  thus  with  Charles  the  king 

One  day  he  openly  began  to  say, 

"  Orlando  must  we  always  then  obey  ? 

XII, 

"  A  thousand  times  I've  been  about  to  say, 
Orlando  too  presumptuously  goes  on ; 

Here  are  we,  counts,  kings,  dukes,  to  own  thy  sway, 
Hamo,  and  Otho,  Ogier,  Solomon, 

Each  have  to  honor  thee  and  to  obey  ; 

But  he  has  too  much  credit  near  the  throne. 

Which  we  won't  suffer,  but  are  quite  decided 

By  such  a  boy  to  be  no  longer  guided. 

XIII. 

"  And  even  at  Aspramont  thou  didst  begin 
To  let  him  know  he  was  a  gallant  knight. 

And  by  the  fount  did  much  the  day  to  win ; 
But  I  know  who  that  day  had  won  the  fight 

If  it  had  not  for  good  Gherardo  been  : 
The  victory  was  Almonte's  else  ;  his  sight 

He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 

In  fact  and  fairness  are  his  earning,  Charles. 

XIV. 

"  If  thou  rememberest  being  in  Gascony, 
When  there  advanced  the  nations  out  of  Spain, 

The  Christian  cause  had  suffer'd  shamefully, 
Had  not  his  valor  driven  them  back  again. 

Best  speak  the  truth  when  there's  a  reason  why : 
Know  then,  O  emperor  !  that  all  complain : 

Aa  for  myself,  I  shall  repass  the  mounts 

O'er  which  I  cross'd  with  two  and  sixty  counts. 


XV. 

"  'Tis  fit  thy  grandeur  should  dispense  relief, 
So  that  each  here  may  have  his  proper  part, 

For  the  whole  court  is  more  or  less  in  grief : 
Perhaps  thou  deem'st  this  lad  a  Mars  in  heart  ?" 

Orlando  one  day  heard  this  speech  in  brief, 
As  by  himself  it  chanced  he  sate  apart : 

Displeased  he  was  with  Gan  because  he  said  it. 

But  much  more  still  that  Charles  should  give  liir 

credit. 

XVI. 

And  with  the  sword  he  would  have  murder'd  Gan, 
But  Oliver  thrust  in  between  the  pair, 

And  from  his  hand  extracted  Durlindan, 
And  thus  at  length  they  separated  were. 

Orlando,  angry  too  with  Carloman, 
Wanted  but  little  to  have  slain  him  there  ; 

Then  forth  alone  from  Paris  went  the  chief. 

And  burst  and  madden'd  with  disdain  and  grief. 

XVII. 

From  Ermellina,  consort  of  the  Dane, 
He  took  Cortana,  and  then  took  Rondell, 

And  on  towards  Brara  prick'd  him  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  when  she  saw  him  coming,  Aldabelle 

Stretch'd  forth  her  arms  to  clasp  her  lord  again  : 
Orlando,  in  whose  brain  all  was  not  well, 

As  "  Welcome,  my  Orlando,  home,"  she  said, 

Raised  up  his  sword  to  smite  her  on  the  head, 

XVIII. 
Like  him  a  fury  counsels ;  his  revenge 

On  Gan  in  that  rash  act  he  seem'd  to  take, 
Which  Aldabella  thought  extremely  strange ; 

But  soon  Orlando  found  himself  awake ; 
And  his  spouse  took  his  bridle  on  this  change, 

And  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  spake 
Of  every  thing  which  pass'd  without  demur, 
And  then  reposed  himself  some  days  with  her. 

XIX. 
Then  full  of  wrath  departed  from  the  place, 

And  far  as  pagan  countries  roam'd  astray, 
And  while  he  rode,  yet  still  at  every  pace 

The  traitor  Gan  remember'd  by  the  way ; 
And  wandering  on  in  error  a  long  space, 

An  abbey  which  in  a  lone  desert  lay, 
'Midst  glens  obscure,  and  distant  lands,  he  found, 
Which  form'd  the  Christian's  and  the  pagan's  bound. 

XX. 

The  abbot  was  call'd  Clermont,  and  by  blood 
Descended  from  Anglante  :  under  cover 

Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood. 
But  certain  savage  giants  look'd  him  over ; 

One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood, 
And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover 

Second  and  third,  with  certain  slings,  and  throw 

In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 


480 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


XXI. 

The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no  more, 
Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood ; 

Orlando  knock'd,  but  none  would  ope,  before 
Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seem'd  good  ; 

Enter'd,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 
Him  who  was  born  of  Mary's  holiest  blood. 

And  was  baptized  a  Christian  ;  and  then  show'd 

How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  his  road. 

XXII. 

Said  the  abbot,  "  You  are  welcome  ;  what  is  mine 
We  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  believe 

With  us  in  Mary  Mother's  Son  divine  ; 
And  that  you  may  not,  cavalier,  conceive 

The  cause  of  our  delay  to  let  you  in 
To  be  rusticity,  you  shall  receive 

The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barr'd  to  you  : 

Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 

XXIII. 

"  When  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  came 
These  mountains,  albeit  that  they  are  obscure, 

As  you  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 
They  seem'd  to  promise  an  asylum  sure  : 

From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fierce  to  tame, 
'Twas  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure  ; 

But  now,  if  here  we'd  stay,  we  needs  must  guard 

Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  ward. 

XXIV. 

"  These  make  us  stand,  in  fact,  upon  the  watch  ; 

For  late  there  have  appear'd  three  giants  rough  ; 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 

I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff; 
When  force  and  malice  with  some  genius  match. 

You  know,  they  can  do  all — me  are  not  enough  : 
And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 
I  know  not  what  to  do,  till  matters  change. 

XXV. 

"  Our  ancient  fathers  living  the  desert  in. 
For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed  ; 

Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  'tis  certain 
That  manna  was  rain'd  down  from  heaven  instead ; 

But  here  'tis  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in  [bread. 

Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  shower'd  down  for 

From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster. 

And  flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

"  The  third,  Morgante,  's  savagest  by  far ;  he 
Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  and  oaks, 

And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury ; 
And  all  that  I  can  do  but  more  provokes." 

While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 
A  3tone  from  ome  of  their  gigantic  strokes, 


Which  nearly  crush'd  Rondell,  came  tumbling  over, 
So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  cover. 

XXVII. 

"  For  God-sake,  cavalier,  come  in  with  speed  ; 

The  manna 's  falling  now,"  the  abbot  cried. 
"  This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  horse  should  feed. 

Dear  abbot,"  Roland  unto  him  replied. 
"  Of  restiveness  he'd  cure  him  bad  he  need  ; 

That  stone  seems  with  good  will  and  aim  applied." 
The  holy  father  said,  "  I  don't  deceive  ; 
They'll  one  day  fling  the  mountain,  I  believe." 

XXVIII. 

Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  Rondello, 
And  also  made  a  breakfast  of  his  own  : 

"  Abbot,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  find  that  fellow 
Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  corner  stone." 

Said  the  abbot,  "  Let  not  my  advice  seem  shallow ; 
As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone  ; 

I  would  dissuade  you,  baron,  from  this  strife. 

As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  lose  your  life. 

XXIX. 

"  That  Passamont  has  in  his  hand  three  darts — 
Such  slings,  clubs,  ballast-stones,  that  yield  you 
must; 

You  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  hearts 
Than  us,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just : 

If  go  you  wiD,  guard  well  against  their  arts. 
For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust." 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  This  I'll  see,  be  sure, 

And  walk  the  wild  on  foot  to  be  secure." 

XXX. 

The  abbot  sign'd  the  great  cross  on  his  front, 
"  Then  go  you  with  God's  benison  and  mine  :" 

Orlando,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mount, 
As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kejjt  the  line 

Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont ; 
Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  this  design, 

Survey'd  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant. 

Then  ask'd  him,  "  If  he  wish'd  to  stay  as  servant  ?" 

XXXI. 

And  promised  him  an  office  of  great  ease ; 
But,  said  Orlando,  "  Saracen  insane  1 

I  come  to  kill  you,  if  it  shall  so  please 
God,  not  to  serve  as  footboy  in  your  train  ; 

You  with  his  monks  so  oft  have  broke  the  peace- 
Vile  dog  !  'tis  past  his  patience  to  sustain." 

The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  furious, 

When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious, 

XXXII. 
And  being  retum'd  to  where  Orlando  stood,       [ing 
Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and  swing- 


MORGANTE    MAGGIORE. 


481 


The  cord,  he  hurl'd  a  stone  with  strength  so  rude, 
As  show'd  a  sample  of  his  skill  in  slinging ; 

It  roll'd  on  Count  Orlando's  helmet  good 

And  head,  and  set  both  head  and  helmet  ringing, 

So  that  he  swoon'd  with  pain  as  if  he  died. 

But  more  than  dead,  he  seem'd  so  stupeiied. 

XXXIII. 

Then  Passamont,  who  thought  him  slain  outright, 
Said,  "  I  will  go,  and  while  he  lies  along, 

Disarm  me  :  why  such  craven  did  I  fight  2" 
But  Christ  his  servants  ne'er  abandons  long, 

Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight 

As  to  desert  would  almost  be  a  wrong. 

While  the  giant  goes  to  put  oif  his  defences, 

Orlando  has  recall'd  his  force  and  senses  : 

XXXIV. 

And  loud  he  shouted,  "  Giant,  where  dost  go  ? 

Thou  thought'st  me  doubtless  for  the  bier  outlaid ; 
To  the  right  about — without  wings  thou'rt  too  slow 

To  fly  my  vengeance — currish  renegade  ! 
'Twas  but  by  treachery  thou  laid'st  me  low  :" 

The  giant  his  astonishment  betray'd. 
And  turn'd  about,  and  stopp'd  his  journey  on, 
And  then  he  stoop'd  to  pick  up  a  great  stone. 

XXXV. 

Orlando  had  Cortana  bare  in  hand  ; 

To  split  the  head  in  twain  was  what  he  schemed : 
Cortana  clave  the  skull  like  a  true  brand, 

And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeem'd, 
Yet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay  he  bann'd. 

And  most  devoutly  Macon  still  blasphemed ; 
But  while  his  crude,  rude  blasphemies  he  heard, 
Orlando  thank'd  the  Father  and  the  "Word, — 

XXXVL 

Saying,  "  What  grace  to  me  thou  'st  this  day  given  1 
And  I  to  thee,  O  Lord  I  am  ever  bound. 

I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven. 
Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  down'd. 

All  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even  ; 
Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  naught  be 

I  pray  thee  take  heed  of  me,  till  I  can  [found  : 

At  least  return  once  more  to  Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And  having  said  thus  much,  he  went  his  way ; 

And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below. 
Doing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 

To  root  from  out  a  Ijank  a  rock  or  two. 
Orlando,  when  he  reach'd  him,  loud  'gan  say, 

"How  think'st  thou,  glutton,  such   a   stone   to 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring,  [throw  ?" 
He  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling, 
61 


XXXVIII. 

And  hurl'd  a  fragment  of  a  size  so  large. 
That  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfiU'd  its  mission. 

And  Roland  not  avail'd  him  of  his  targe. 

There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a  physician. 

Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge. 
And  in  his  bulky  bosom  made  incision 

With  all  his  sword.     The  lout  fell ;  but  o'erthrown. 

However  by  no  means  forgot  Macone.  [he 

XXXIX. 

Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode, 

Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and  earth. 
And  stretch'd  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode. 

And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  berth. 
Orlando  knock'd,  and  knock'd  again,  to  goad 

The  giant  from  his  sleep  ;  and  he  came  forth 
The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing. 
For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumbering. 

XI.. 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  serpent  had  attack'd  him  ; 

And  Mahomet  he  call'd ;  but  Mahomet 
Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  back'd  him  ; 

But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 
At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  rack'd  him  ; 

And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  regret — 
"  Who  knocks  here  ?"  grumbling  all  the  while,  said 
"  That,"  said  Orlando,  "  you  will  quickly  see.       [he. 

XLI. 
"  I  come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers. 

Sent  by  the  miserable  monks — repentance  ; 
For  Providence  divine,  in  you  and  others. 

Condemns  the  evil  done  my  new  acquaintance, 
'Tis  writ  on  high — your  wrong  must  pay  another's  ; 

From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sentence. 
Know  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 
I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster." 

XLII. 

Morgante  said,  "  Oh,  gentle  cavalier  I 

Now  by  thy  God  say  me  no  villany ; 
The  favor  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear. 

And  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy." 
Replied  Orlando,  "  So  much  to  your  ear 

I  by  my  faith  disclose  contentedly  ; 
Christ  I  adore,  who  is  the  genuine  Lord, 
And,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored." 

XLIII. 

The  Saracen  rcjoin'd  in  humble  tone, 
"  I  have  had  an  extraordinary  vision ; 

A  savage  serpent  fell  on  mc  alone. 
And  Macon  would  not  pity  my  condition ; 

Hence  to  thy  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 
Upon  the  cross,  prefcrr'd  I  my  petition  ; 


482 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Hia  timely  succor  set  me  safe  and  free, 
And  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  be." 

Lxrv. 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  Baron  just  and  pious, 
If  this  good  wish  your  heart  can  really  move 

To  the  true  God,  you  will  not  then  deny  us 
Eternal  honor,  you  will  go  above, 

And,  if  you  please,  as  friends  we  will  ally  us, 
And  I  will  love  you  with  a  perfect  love. 

Your  idols  are  vain  liars,  full  of  fraud  : 

The  only  true  God  is  the  Christian's  God. 

LXV. 

"  The  Lord  descended  to  the  virgin  breast 
Of  Mary  Mother,  sinless  and  divine  ; 

If  you  acknowledge  the  Redeemer  bless'd, 

Without  whom  neither  sun  nor  star  can  shine, 

Abjure  bad  Macon's  false  and  felon  test. 
Tour  renegado  god,  and  worship  mine, — 

Baptize  yourself  with  zeal,  since  yourepent." 

To  which  Morgante  answer'd,  "  I'm  content." 

LXVI. 

And  then  Orlando  to  embrace  him  flew, 
And  made  much  of  his  convert,  as  he  cried, 

"  To  the  abbey  I  will  gladly  marshal  you." 
To  whom  Morgante,  "  Let  us  go,"  replied ; 

"  I  to  the  friars  have  for  peace  to  sue." 
"Which  thing  Orlando  heard  with  inward  pride, 

Saying,  "  My  brother,  so  devout  and  good. 

Ask  the  abbot  pardon,  as  I  wish  you  would : 

LXVII. 

"  Since  God  has  granted  your  illumination, 
Accepting  you  in  mercy  for  his  own. 

Humility  should  be  your  first  oblation." 

Morgante  said, "  For  goodness'  sake,  make  known. 

Since  that  your  God  is  to  be  mine — ^your  station. 
And  let  your  name  in  verity  be  shown  ; 

Then  will  I  every  thing  at  your  command  do." 

On  which  the  other  said,  he  was  Orlando. 

.  LXVIII. 
"  Then,"  quoth  the  giant,  "  blessed  be  Jesu 

A  thousand  times  with  gratitude  and  praise  ! 
Oft,  perfect  baron  !  have  I  heard  of  you 

Through  all  the  different  periods  of  my  days  : 
And,  as  I  said,  to  be  your  vassal  too 

I  wish,  for  your  great  gallantry  always." 
Thus  reasoning,  they  continued  much  to  say. 
And  onwards  to  the  abbey  went  their  way. 

LXIX. 

And  by  the  way  about  the  giants  dead 
Orlando  with  Morgante  reason'd  :  "  Be, 

For  their  decease,  I  pray  you,  comforted  ; 
And,  since  it  is  God's  pleasure,  pardon  me ; 


A  thousand  wrongs  unto  the  monks  they  bred, 

And  our  true  Scripture  soundeth  openly, 
Good  is  rewarded,  and  chastised  the  ill, 
Which  the  Lord  never  faileth  to  fulfill : 

L. 

"  Because  his  love  of  justice  unto  all 

Is  such,  he  wills  his  judgment  should  devour 

All  who  have  sin,  however  great  or  small ; 
But  good  he  weE  remembers  to  restore. 

Nor  without  justice  holy  could  we  call 
Him,  whom  I  now  require  you  to  adore. 

All  men  must  make  his  wiU  their  wishes  sway, 

And  quickly  and  spontaneously  obey. 

LI. 
"  And  here  our  doctors  are  of  one  accord, 

Coming  on  this  point  to  the  same  conclusion, — 
That  in  their  thoughts  who  praise  in  heaven  the 

If  pity  e'er  was  guilty  of  intrusion  [Lord. 

For  their  unfortvmate  relations  stored 

In  hell  below,  and  damn'd  in  great  confusion, — 
Their  happiness  would  be  reduced  to  naught, 
And  thus  unjust  the  Almighty's  self  be  thought. 

LII. 
"  But  they  in  Christ  have  firmest  hope,  and  all 

Which  seems  to  him,  to  them  too  must  appear 
Well  done  ;  nor  could  it  otherwise  befall : 

He  never  can  in  any  purpose  err. 
If  sire  or  mother  suffer  endless  thrall. 

They  don't  disturb  themselves  for  him  or  her  ; 
What  pleases  God  to  them  must  joy  inspire ; — 
Such  is  the  observance  of  the  eternal  choir." 

LIII. 

"  A  word  unto  the  wise,"  Morgante  said, 
"  Is  wont  to  be  enough,  and  you  shall  see 

How  much  I  grieve  about  my  brethren  dead ; 
And  if  the  will  of  God  seem  good  to  me. 

Just,  as  you  tell  me,  'tis  in  heaven  obey'd — 
Ashes  to  ashes, — merry  let  us  be  ! 

I  will  cut  off  the  hands  from  both  their  trunks, 

And  carry  them  unto  the  holy  monks. 

LIV. 

"  So  that  all  persons  may  be  sure  and  certain 
That  they  are  dead,  and  have  no  further  fear 

To  wander  solitary  this  desert  in. 
And  that  they  may  perceive  my  spirit  clear 

By  the  Lord's  grace,  who  hath  withdrawn  the  curtain 
Of  darkness,  making  his  bright  reahn  appear." 

He  cut  his  brethren's  hands  off'  at  these  words, 

And  left  them  to  the  savage  beasts  and  birds. 

LV. 

Then  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together. 
Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt. 


MORGANTE   MAGGIORE. 


483 


The  monks,  who  knew  not  yet  the  fact,  ran  thither 
To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout, 

Saying  with  tremor,  "  Please  to  tell  us  whether 
You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out  ?" 

The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant, 

Too  greatly  fear'd,  at  first,  to  be  compliant. 

X.VI. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  thus  agitated. 

Said  quickly,  "  Abbot,  be  thou  of  good  cheer ; 
He  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated. 

And  hath   renounced  his  Macon  false ;"  which 
Morgante  -with  the  hands  corroborated,  [here 

A  proof  of  both  the  giants'  fate  quite  clear  : 
Thence,  with  due  thanks,  the  abbot  God  adored. 
Saying,  "  Thou  hast  contented  me,  O  Lord  I" 

LVII. 

He  gazed  ;  Morgante's  height  he  calculated. 
And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  size  ; 

And  then  he  said,  "  Ob,  giant  celebrated  ! 
Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  arise. 

How  you  could  tear  and  fling  the  trees  you  late  did. 
When  I  behold  your  form  with  my  own  eyes. 

You  now  a  true  and  perfect  friend  will  show 

Yourself  to  Christ,  as  once  you  were  a  foe. 

LVIII. 

"  And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  once  named. 
Long  persecuted  sore  the  faith  of  Christ, 

Till,  one  day,  by  the  Spirit  being  inflamed, 

'  Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thus  2'  said  Christ ; 

And  then  from  his  oficnce  he  was  reclaim'd, 
And  went  forever  after  preaching  Christ, 

And  of  the  faith  became  a  trump,  whose  sounding 

O'er  the  whole  earth  is  echoing  and  rebounding. 

LIX. 

"  So,  my  Morgante,  you  may  do  likewise ; 

He  who  repents — thus  writes  the  Evangelist — 
Occasions  more  rejoicing  in  the  skies 

Than  ninety-nine  of  the  celestial  list. 
You  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 

With  just  zeal  for  the  Lord,  that  you'll  exist 
Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore  ; 
But  you  were  lost  and  damn'd  to  hell  before  !" 

LX. 

And  thus  great  honor  to  Morgante  paid 
The  abbot :  many  days  they  did  repose. 

One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  both  stray'd. 
And  saunter'd  here  and  there,  where'er  they  chose. 

The  abbot  show'd  a  chamber,  where  array'd 
Much  armor  was,  and  hung  up  certain  bows ; 

And  one  of  these  Morgante  for  a  whim 

Girt  on,  though  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 


LXI. 
There  being  a  want  of  water  in  the  place, 

Orlando,  like  a  worthy  brother,  said, 
"  Morgante,  I  f  ould  wish  you  in  this  case 

To  go  for  water."     "  You  shall  be  obey'd 
In  all  commands,"  was  the  reply,  "  straightways." 

Upon  his  shoulder  a  great  tub  he  laid. 
And  went  out  on  his  way  unto  a  fountain. 
Where  he  was  wont  to  drink  below  the  mountain. 

LXII. 

Arrived  there,  a  prodigious  noise  he  hears, 
Which  suddenly  along  the  forest  spread ; 

Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 
An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifts  his  head ; 

And  lo  !  a  monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears. 
And  onward  rushes  with  tempestuous  tread, 

And  to  the  fountain's  brink  precisely  pours  ; 

So  that  the  giant 's  join'd  by  all  the  boars. 

hXIII. 
Morgante  at  a  venture  shot  an  arrow, 

Which  pierced  a  pig  precisely  in  the  ear. 
And  pass'd  unto  the  other  side;  quite  thorough ; 

So  that  the  boar,  defunct,  lay  tripp'd  up  near. 
Anotlier,  to  revenge  his  fellow  farrow. 

Against  the  giant  rush'd  in  fierce  career, 
And  reach'd  the  passage  with  so  swift  a  foot, 
Morgante  was  not  now  in  time  to  shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving  that  the  pig  was  on  him  close, 
He  gave  him  such  a  punch  upon  the  head, 

As  floor'd  him  so  that  he  no  more  arose. 
Smashing  the  very  bone  ;  and  he  fell  dead 

Next  to  the  other.    Having  seen  such  blows, 
The  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fled ; 

Morgante  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took,  [shook. 

Full  from  the  spring,  which  neither  swerved  nor 

I.XV. 
The  tun  was  on  one  shoulder,  and  there  were 

The  hogs  on  t'  other,  and  he  brush'd  ajiace 
On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near, 

Kor  spill'd  one  drop  of  water  in  his  race. 
Orlando,  seeing  him  so  soon  appear 

With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimful  vase, 
Marvell'd  to  see  his  strength  so  very  great ; 
So  did  the  abbot,  and  set  wide  the  gate. 

LXVI. 

The  monks,  who  saw  the  water  fresh  and  good, 
Rejoiced,  but  much  more  to  perceive  the  pork ; — 

All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food : 

They  lay  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 

With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a  mood. 
That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  their  fork, 


484 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear, 
For  all  the  fasts  are  now  left  in  arrear. 

LXVII. 

As  though  they  wish'd  to  burst  at  once,  they  ate ; 

And  gorged  so  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  been 
In  water ;  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat. 

Perceiving  that  they  all  were  pick'd  too  clean. 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honor  great, 

A  few  days  after  this  convivial  scene. 
Gave  to  Morgante  a  fine  horse,  well  train'd, 
Which  he  long  time  had  for  himself  maintain'd. 

LXVIII. 

The  horse  Morgante  to  a  meadow  led. 
To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof, 

Thinking  that  he  a  back  of  iron  had. 

Or  to  skim  eggs  unbroke  was  light  enough  ; 

But  the  horse,  sinking  with  the  pain,  fell  dead. 
And  burst,  while  cold  on  earth  lay  head  and  hoof. 

Morgante  said,  "  Get  up,  thou  sulky  cur  !" 

And  still  continued  pricking  with  the  spur. 

LXIX. 

But  finally  he  thought  fit  to  dismount. 
And  said,  "  I  am  as  light  as  any  feather. 

And  he  has  burst ; — ^to  this  what  say  you,  count  ?" 
Orlando  answer'd,  "  Like  a  ship's  mast  rather 

You  seem  to  me,  and  with  the  truck  for  front : — 
Let  him  go ;  Fortune  wills  that  we  together 

Should  march,  but  you  on  foot  Morgante  still." 

To  which  the  giant  answer'd,  "  So  I  will. 

LXX. 

"  When  there  shall  be  occasion,  you  will  see 
How  I  approve  my  courage  in  the  fight." 

Orlando  said,  "  I  really  think  you'll  be. 
If  it  should  prove  God's  will,  a  goodly  knight ; 

Nor  will  you  napping  there  discover  me. 
But  never  mind  your  horse,  though  out  of  sight 

'Twere  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood, 

If  but  the  mSans  or  way  I  understood." 

LXXI. 

The  giant  said,  "  Then  carry  him  I  will. 
Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack — 

To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill ; 
But  lend  a  hand  to  place  him  on  my  back." 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  If  my  counsel  still 
May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  undertake 

To  lift  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  who. 

As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do  to  you. 

I.XXII. 

"  Take  care  he  don't  revenge  himself,  though  dead. 
As  Nessus  did  of  old  beyond  all  cure. 

I  don't  know  if  the  fact  you've  heard  or  read ; 
But  he  will  make  you  burst,  you  may  be  sure." 


"  But  help  him  on  my  back,"  Morgante  said, 

"  And  you  shall  see  what  weight  I  can  endure. 
In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey. 
With  all  the  bells,  I'd  carry  yonder  belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The  abbot  said,  "The  steeple  may  do  well, 
But,  for  the  bells,  you've  broken  them,  I  wot." 

Morgante  answer'd,  "  Let  them  pay  in  hell 
The  penalty  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot ;" 

And  hoisting  up  the  horse,  from  where  he  fell, 
He  said,  "  Now  look  if  I  the  gout  have  got, 

Orlando,  in  the  legs — or  if  I  have  force  ;" — 

And  then  he  made  two  gambols  with  the  horse. 

LXXIV. 

Morgante  was  like  any  mountain  framed  : 

So  if  he  did  this,  'tis  no  prodigy  ; 
But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed. 

Because  he  was  one  of  his  family  ; 
And  fearing  that  he  might  be  hurt  or  maim'd. 

Once  more  he  bade  him  lay  his  burden  by  : 
"  Put  down,  nor  bear  him  further  the  desert  in," 
Morgante  said,  "  I'll  carry  him  for  certain." 

LXXV. 

He  did ;  and  stow'd  him  in  some  nook  away. 
And  to  the  abbey  then  retum'd  with  speed. 

Orlando  said,  "  Why  longer  do  we  stay  ? 
Morgante,  here  is  naught  to  do  indeed." 

The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day. 
And  said,  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 

To  leave  his  reverence  ;  but  for  this  decision 

He  wish'd  to  have  his  pardon  and  permission. 

LXXVL 

The  honors  they  continued  to  receive 
Perhaps  exceeded  what  his  merits  claim'd 

He  said,  "  I  mean,  and  quickly,  to  retrieve 
The  lost  days  of  time  past,  which  may  be  blamed ; 

Some  days  ago  I  should  have  ask'd  your  leave. 
Kind  father,  but  I  reaUy  was  ashamed. 

And  know  not  how  to  show  my  sentiment. 

So  much  I  see  you  with  our  stay  content. 

LXXVII. 

"  But  in  my  heart  I  bear  through  every  clime, 
The  abbot,  abbey,  and  this  soUtude — 

So  much  I  love  you  in  so  short  a  time  : 
For"  me,  from  heaven  reward  you  with  all  good 

The  God  so  true,  the  eternal  Lord  sublime  ! 
Whose  kingdom  at  the  last  hath  open  stood. 

Meantime  we  stand  expectant  of  your  blessing. 

And  recommend  us  to  your  prayers  with  pressing." 

LXXVIII. 
Now  when  the  abbot  Count  Orlando  heard. 
His  heart  grew  soft  with  inner  tenderness, 


THE    PROPHECY   OF   DANTE. 


485 


Such  fervor  in  his  bosom  bred  each  word ; 

And,  "  Cavalier,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have  less 
Courteous  and  kind  to  your  great  worth  appear'd, 

Thaik  fits  me  for  such  gentle  blood  to  express, 
I  know  I  have  done  too  little  in  this  case  ; 
But  blame  our  ignorance,  and  this  poor  place. 

LXXIX. 
"  We  can  indeed  but  honor  you  with  masses, 

And  sermons,  thanksgivings,  and  pater-nosters, 
Hot  suppers,  dinners,  (fitting  other  places 

In  verity  much  rather  than  the  cloisters  ;) 
But  such  a  love  for  you  my  heart  embraces. 

For  thousand  virtues  which  your  bosom  fosters, 
That  wheresoe'er  you  go  I  too  shall  be. 
And,  on  the  other  part,  you  rest  with  me. 

LXXX. 
"  This  may  involve  a  seeming  contradiction  ; 

But  you  I  know  are  sage,  and  feel,  and  taste. 
And  understand  my  speech  with  full  conviction. 

For  your  just  pious  deeds  may  you  be  graced 
"With  the  Lord's  great  reward  and  benediction. 

By  whom  you  were  directed  to  this  waste  : 
To  his  high  mercy  is  our  freedom  due, 
For  which  we  render  thanks  to  him  and  you. 

LXXXI. 

"  You  saved  at  once  our  life  and  soul :  such  fear 
The  giants  caused  us,  that  the  way  was  lost, 

By  which  we  could  pursue  a  fit  career 
In  search  of  Jesus  and  the  saintly  host ; 

And  your  departure  breeds  such  sorrow  here. 
That  comfortless  we  all  are  to  our  cost ; 

But  months  and  years  you  would  not  stay  in  sloth, 

Nor  are  you  form'd  to  wear  our  sober  cloth  ; 

LXXXII. 
"  But  to  bear  arms,  and  wield  the  lance  ;  indeed, 

With  these  as  much  is  done  as  with  this  cowl ; 
In  proof  of  which  the  Scripture  you  may  read. 

This  giant  up  to  heaven  may  bear  his  soul 
By  your  compassion  :  now  in  peace  proceed. 

Your  state  and  name  I  seek  not  to  unroll ; 


But,  if  I'm  ask'd,  this  answer  shall  be  given, 
That  here  an  angel  was  sent  down  from  heaven. 

LXXXIII. 
"  If  you  want  armor  or  aught  else,  go  in, 

Look  o'er  the  wardrobe,  and  take  what  you  choose, 
And  cover  with  it  o'er  this  giant's  skin." 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  If  there  should  lie  loose 
Some  armor,  ere  our  journey  we  begin, 

Which  might  be  tum'd  to  my  companion's  use, 
The  gift  would  be  acceptable  to  me." 
The  abbot  said  to  him,  "  Come  in  and  see." 

LXXXIV. 

And  in  a  certain  closet,  where  the  waU 
Was  cover'd  with  old  armor  like  a  crust. 

The  abbot  said  to  them,  "  I  give  you  all." 
Morgante  rummaged  piecemeal  from  the  dust 

The  whole,  which,  save  one  cuirass,  was  too  small, 
And  that  too  had  the  mail  inlaid  with  rust. 

They  wonder'd  how  it  fitted  him  exactly. 

Which  ne'er  had  suited  others  so  compactly. 

LXXXV. 
'Twas  an  immeasurable  giant's,  who 

By  the  great  Milo  of  Agrante  fell. 
Before  the  abbey  many  years  ago. 

The  story  on  the  wall  was  figured  well 
In  the  last  moment  of  the  abbey's  foe. 

Who  long  had  waged  a  war  implacable  : 
Precisely  as  the  war  occurr'd  they  drew  him, 
And  there  was  Milo  as  he  overthrew  him. 

LXXXVI. 
Seeing  this  history.  Count  Orlando  said 

In  his  own  heart,  "  Oh,  God,  who  in  the  sky 
Know'st  aU  things  !  how  was  Milo  hither  led  ? 

Who  caused  the  giant  in  this  place  to  die  ?" 
And  certain  letters,  weeping,  then  he  read. 

So  that  he  could  not  keep  his  visage  dry, — 
As  I  will  tell  in  the  ensuing  story. 
From  evil  keep  you  the  high  King  of  glory  I 


THE    PROPHECY    OF    DANTE. 


*  *Tl8  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore. 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before." — Campbell. 


DEDICATION. 
Lady  I  if  for  the  cold  and  cloudy  clime 
A^ere  I  was  bom,  but  where  I  would  not  die, 
Of  the  great  Poet-Sire  of  Italy 


I  dare  to  build  the  imitative  rhyme, 
Harsh  Runic  copy  of  the  South's  sublime, 
Tnou  art  the  cause  ;  and  howsoever  I 
Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony, 


486 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


Thy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  Beauty  and  of  Youth, 

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

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

Ah  I  to  what  eifort  would  it  not  persuade  ? 

EAVEmui,  June  21, 1819. 

PEEFACE. 

In  the  course  of  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Ravenna  in 
summer  of  1819,  it  was  suggested  to  the  author  the 
that  having  composed  something  on  the  subject  of 
Tasso's  confinement,  he  should  do  the  same  on  Dante's 
exile, — the  tomb  of  the  poet  forming  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal objects  of  interest  in  that  city,  both  to  the  native 
and  to  the  stranger. 

"  On  this  hint  I  spake,"  and  the  result  has  been  the 
following  four  cantos,  in  terza  rima,  now  offered  to  the 
reader.  If  they  are  understood  and  approved,  it  is  my 
purpose  to  continue  the  poem  in  various  other  cantos, 
to  its  natural  conclusion  in  the  present  age.  The 
reader  is  requested  to  suppose  that  Dante  addresses 
him  in  the  interval  between  the  conclusion  of  the 
Divina  Commedia  and  his  death,  and  shortly  before 
the  latter  event,  foretelling  the  fortunes  of  Italy  in 
general  in  the  ensuing  centuries.  In  adopting  this 
plan  I  have  had  in  my  mind  the  Cassandra  of  Lyco- 
phron,  and  the  Prophecy  of  Nereus  by  Horace,  as  well 
as  the  Prophecies  of  Holy  Writ.  The  measure  adopted 
is  the  terza  rima  of  Dante,  which  I  am  not  aware  to 
have  seen  hitherto  tried  in  our  language,  except  it  may 
be  by  Mr.  Hayley,  of  whose  translation  I  never  saw  but 
one  extract,  quoted  in  the  notes  to  Caliph  Vathek  ;  so 
that — if  I  do  not  err — this  poem  may  be  considered  as 
a  metrical  experiment.  The  cantos  are  short,  and 
about  the  same  length  of  those  of  the  poet,  whose 
name  I  have  borrowed,  and  most  probably  taken  in 
vain. 

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

He  may  also  pardon  my  failure  the  more,  as  I  am 
not  quite  sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my  suc- 
cess, since  the  Italians,  with  a  pardonable  nationality, 
are  particularly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left  them  as  a 


nation— their  literature  ;  and  in  the  present  bitterness 
of  the  classic  and  romantic  war,  are  but  ill-disposed  to 
permit  a  foreigner  even  to  approve  or  imitate  them, 
without  finding  some  fault  with  his  ultramontane  pre- 
sumption. I  can  easily  enter  into  all  this,  knowing 
what  would  be  thought  in  England  of  an  Italian  imi- 
tator of  Milton,  or  if  a  translation  of  Monti,  or  Pinde- 
monte,  or  Arici,  should  bo  held  up  to  the  rising  genera- 
tion as  a  model  for  their  future  poetical  essays.  But  I 
perceive  that  I  am  deviating  into  an  address  to  the 
Italian  reader,  when  my  business  is  with  the  English 
one  ;  and  be  they  few  or  many,  I  must  take  my  leave 
of  both. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


CANTO    THE    FIRST. 


Okce  more  in  man's  frail  world  !  which  I  had  left 
So  long  that  'twas  forgotten  ;  and  I  feel 
The  weight  of  clay  again, — too  soon  bereft 

Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 
My  earthly  sorrows,  and  to  God's  own  skies 
Lift  me  from  that  deep  gulf  without  repeal, 

Where  late  my  ears  rung  with  the  damned  cries 
Of  souls  in  hopeless  bale  ;  and  from  that  place 
Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 

Pure  from  the  fire  to  join  the  angelic  race  ; 
Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice'  bless'd 
My  spirit  with  her  light ;  and  to  the  base 

Of  the  eternal  Triad  !  first,  last,  best, 
Mysterious,  three,  sole,  infinite,  great  God  I 
Soul  universal !  led  the  mortal  guest, 

Unblasted  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 

From  star  to  star  to  reach  the  almighty  throne. 
Oh,  Beatrice  !  whose  sweet  limbs  the  sod 

So  long  hath  press'd,  and  the  cold  marble  stone, 
Thou  sole  pure  seraph  of  my  earliest  love. 
Love  so  ineffable,  and  so  alone, 

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

Had  wander'd  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 
Relieved  her  wing  tiU  found  ;  without  thy  light 
My  paradise  had  still  been  incomplete. 

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

Still  in  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 
With  the  world's  war,  and  years,  and  banishment, 
And  tears  for  thee,  by  other  woes  untaught ; 

For  mine  is  not  a  nature  to  be  bent 

By  tyrannous  faction,  and  the  brawling  crowd. 
And  though  the  long,  long  conflict  hath  been  spent 

In  vain,  and  never  more,  save  when  the  cloud 

'  The  reader  is  requested  to  adopt  the  Italian  pronunciation  ol 
Beatrice,  Bounding  all  the  syllables. 


THE   PROPHECY    OF    DANTE. 


487 


Which  overhangs  the  Apennine,  my  mind's  eye 
Pierces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 

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

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

Destruction  face  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 

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

I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure  ; 

Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  my  name 
May  form  a  monument  not  aU  obscure. 

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

And  make  men's  fickle  breath  the  wind  that  blows 
Their  sail,  and  deem  it  glory  to  be  class'd 
With  conquerors,  and  virtue's  other  foes, 

In  bloody  chronicles  of  ages  past. 
I  would  have  had  my  Florence  great  and  free  : 
Oh,  Florence  1  Florence  1  unto  me  thou  wast 

Like  that  Jerusalem  which  the  Almighty  He 
Wept  over,  "  but  thou  wouldst  not ;''  as  the  bird 
Gathers  its  young,  I  would  have  gather'd  thee 

Beneath  a  parent  pinion,  hadst  thou  heard 
My  voice  ;  but  as  the  adder,  deaf  and  fierce, 
Against  the  breast  that  cherish'd  thee  was  stirr'd 

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

To  him  who  for  that  country  would  expire, 
But  did  not  merit  to  expire  5y  her. 
And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ire. 

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

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

Me  breath,  but  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 
Me  forth  to  breathe  elsewhere,  so  reassume 
My  indignant  bones,  because  her  angry  gust 

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

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

The  man  who  fought,  toil'd,  travell'd,  and  each  part 
Of  a  true  citizen  fulfill'd,  and  saw 
For  his  reward  the  GuelTs  ascendant  art 


'  "  Ut  el  quia  predictonim  ullo  tempore  In  fortiam  dlcti  com- 
mnnis  porvenerlt,  tatts  penenlem  igne  comburatur.  He  quod 
moriatur."  Second  ecntence  of  Florence  against  Dante,  and 
the  fourteen  accused  with  him. 


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

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

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

Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  was  mine, 
And  still  is  hallow'd  by  thy  dust's  return, 

Which  would  protect  the  murderess  like  a  shrine 

And  save  ten  thousand  foes  by  thy  sole  um. 

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

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

My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph, — let  them  go  I 
Such  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 
Who  long  have  suffer'd  more  than  mortal  wo. 

And  yet  being  mortal  still,  have  no  repose 
But  on  the  pillow  of  Revenge — Revenge, 
Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood,  and  waking  glows 

With  the  oft-baffled,  slakeless  thirst  of  change. 
When  we  shall  mount  again,  and  they  that  trod 
Be  trampled  on,  while  Death  and  At6  range 

O'er  humbled  heads  and  sever'd  necks — Great  God  ! 
Take  these  thoughts  from  me — to  thy  hands  I  yield 
My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 

Will  fall  on  those  who  smote  me, — be  my  shield  I 
As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain, 
In  turbulent  cities,  and  the  tented  field — 

In  toil,  and  many  troubles  borne  in  vain 
For  Florence.     I  appeal  from  her  to  Thee  1 
Thee,  whom  I  late  saw  in  thy  loftiest  reign, 

Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 
And  live  was  never  granted  until  now. 
And  yet  thou  hast  permitted  this  to  me. 

Alas  !  with  what  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  come  back, 
Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  and  low, 

The  heart's  quick  throb  upon  the  mental  rack, 
Long  day,  and  dreary  night ;  the  retrospect 
Of  half  a  century  bloody  and  black, 

And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 
Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  less  hard  to  bear, 
For  I  have  been  too  long  and  deeply  wreck'd 

On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  Despair, 
To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 
Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare  ; 

Nor  raise  my  voice — for  who  would  heed  my  wail  1 
I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age. 
And  yet  my  harpings  ^ill  unfold  a  tale 

Which  shall  preserve  these  times  when  not  a  page 
Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 
An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 


488 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Did  not  my  verse  embalm  fuU  many  an  act 

Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it :  'tis  the  doom 
Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rack'd 

In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume 
Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone; 
Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb. 

And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they  have 
known 
The  name  of  him — who  now  is  but  a  name, 
And  wasting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  stone, 

Spread  his — by  him  unheard,  unheeded — fame  ; 
And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear :  to  die 
Is  nothing ;  but  to  wither  thus — to  tame 

My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity — 
To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 
A  common  sight  to  every  common  eye, 

A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den, 
Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  things 
That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften  pain — 

To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings 
"Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a  crown — 
To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 

Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks  down 
On  Arno,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be, 
Within  my  all  inexorable  town. 

Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she. 

Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 
Destruction  for  a  dowry — this  to  see 

And  feel,  and  know  without  repair,  hath  taught 
A  bitter  lesson ;  but  it  leaves  me  free  : 
I  have  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought. 

They  made  an  exile — not  a  slave  of  me. 


CANTO    TDK    SECOKO. 


The  Spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  old,  [thought 

When  words  were  things  that  came  to  pass,  and 
Flash'd  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold 

Their  children's  children's  doom  already  brought 
Forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be, 
The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half-wrought 

Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality  ; 
What  the  great  Seers  of  Israel  wore  within. 
That  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me. 

And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din 
Of  conflict  none  will  hear,  or  hearing  heed 
This  voice  from  out  the  Wilderness,  the  sin 

Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed, 
The  only  guerdon  I  have  ever  known. 
Hast  thou  not  bled  ?  and  hast  thou  still  to  bleed, 

Italia?  Ah  !  to  me  such  things,  foreshown 
With  dim  sepulchral  light,  bid  me  forget 
In  thine  irreparable  wrongs  my  own ; 

We  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  yet 
Thou'rtmine — myboncsshallbewithin  thy  breast, 


My  soul  within  thy  language,  which  once  set 

With  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  West. 
But  I  will  make  another  tongue  arise 
As  lofty  and  more  sweet,  in  which  express'd 

The  hero's  ardor,  or  the  lover's  sighs. 

Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  theme 
That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skies, 

Shall  realize  a  poet's  proudest  dream. 
And  make  thee  Europe's  nightingale  of  song. 
So  that  all  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 

The  note  of  meaner  birds,  and  every  tongue 

Confess  its  barbarism  when  compared  with  thine. 
This  shalt  thou  owe  to  him  thou  didst  so  wrong. 

The  Tuscan  Bard,  the  banish'd  Ghibelline. 
Wo  1  wo  !  the  veil  of  coming  centuries 
Is  rent, — a  thousand  years  which  yet  supine 

Lie  like  the  ocean  waves  ere  winds  arise, 
Heaving  in  dark  and  sullen  undulation. 
Float  from  eternity  into  these  eyes  ; 

The  storms  yet  sleep,  the  clouds  still  keep  their  station, 
The  unborn  earthquake  yet  is  in  the  womb, 
The  bloody  chaos  yet  exjjects  creation. 

But  all  things  are  disposing  for  thy  doom  ; 
The  elements  await  but  for  the  word, 
"  Let  there  be  darkness  !"  and  thou  grow'st  a  tomb. 

Yes  !  thou,  so  beautiful,  shalt  feel  the  sword. 
Thou,  Italy  !  so  fair  that  Paradise, 
Revived  in  thee,  blooms  forth  to  man  restored : 

Ah  !  must  the  sons  of  Adam  lose  it  twice  ? 
Thou,  Italy !  whose  ever  golden  fields, 
Plough'd  by  the  sunbeams  solely,  would  suffice 

For  the  world's  granary ;  thou,  whose  sky  heaven 
gilds 
With  brighter  stars,  and  robes  with  deeper  blue  ; 
Thou,  in  whose  pleasant  places  Summer  builds 

Her  palace,  in  whose  cradle  Empire  grew. 
And  form'd  the  Eternal  City's  ornaments 
From  spoils  of  kings  whom  freemen  overthrew 

Birthplace  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  saints. 

Where  earthly  first,  then  heavenly  glory  made 
Her  home ;  thou,  aU  which  fondest  fancy  paints, 

And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portray'd 
In  feeble  colors,  when  the  eye — from  the  Alp 
Of  horrid  snow,  and  rock,  and  shaggy  shade 

Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 
Nods  to  the  storm — dilates  and  dotes  o'er  thee, 
And  wistfully  implores,  as  'twere,  for  help 

To  see  thy  sunny  fields,  my  Italy, 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 
The  more  approach'd,  and  dearest  were  they  free. 

Thou — thou  must  wither  to  each  tyrant's  will : 
The  Goth  hath  been — ^the  German,  Prank,  and  Hun 
Are  yet  to  come, — and  on  the  imperial  hill 

Ruin,  already  proud  of  the  deeds  done 
By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awaits  the  new, 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while  lost  and  won 

Rome  at  her  feet  lies  bleeding ;  and  the  hue 


THE    PROPHECY    OF    DANTE. 


489 


Of  human  sacrifice  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue, 

And  deepens  into  red  the  safirou  water 

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

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

And  bird,  wolf,  vulture,  more  humane  than  they 
Are  ;  these  but  gorge  the  flesh  and  lap  the  gore 
Of  the  departed,  and  then  go  their  way ; 

But  those,  the  human  savages,  explore 
All  paths  of  torture,  and  insatiate  yet, 
With  Ugolino  hunger  prowl  for  more. 

Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and  set; 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead,  which  late 
Beneath  the  traitor  Prince's  banner  met, 

Hath  left  its  leader's  ashes  at  the  gate ; 
Had  but  the  royal  Rebel  lived,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  but  his  involved  thy  fate. 

Oh  !  Rome,  the  spoiler  or  the  spoil  of  France, 
From  Brennus  to  the  Bourbon,  never,  never 
Shall  foreign  standard  to  thy  walls  advance, 

But  Tiber  shall  become  a  mournful  river. 

Oh  !  when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and  Po, 
Crush  them,  ye  rocks  1  floods  whelm  them,  and 

Why  sleep  the  idle  avalanches  so,  [forever! 

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

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

Her  sandy  ocean,  and  the  sea  waves'  sway 

Roll'd  over  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands, — why. 
Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they  2 

And  you,  ye  men  !  Romans,  who  dare  not  die. 
Sons  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 
Those  who  o'erthrew  proud  Xerxes,  where  yet  lie 

The  dead  whose  tomb  Oblivion  never  knew. 
Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopylae  ? 
Their  passes  more  alluring  to  the  view 

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

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

Yet  aids  the  warrior  worthy  of  his  birth 

In  a  soil  where  the  mothers  bring  forth  men : 
Not  so  with  those  whose  souls  are  little  worth ; 

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

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

Against  Oj^ression  ;  but  how  vain  the  toil,     [bring 
62 


While  still  Division  sows  the  seeds  of  wo 
And  weakness,  till  the  stranger  reaps  the  spoil. 

Oh  !  my  own  beauteous  land !  so  long  laid  low. 
So  long  the  grave  of  thy  own  children's  hopes, 
When  there  is  but  required  a  single  blow 

To  break  the  chain,  yet — yet  the  Avenger  stops. 
And  Doubt  and  Discord  step  'twixt  thine  andthea 
And  join  their  strength  to  that  which  with  thee, 
copes ; 

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

Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  one  deed Unite. 

CANTO  THE  Tnino. 


From  out  the  mass  of  never-dying  iU, 

The  Plague,  the   Prince,  the   Stranger  and  the 
Vials  of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill  [Sword, 

And  flow  again,  I  cannot  all  record 

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

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

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

Athwart  the  sound  of  archangelic  songs. 
And  Italy,  the  martyr'd  nation's  gore. 
Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 

Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore : 
Like  to  a  harpstring  stricken  by  the  wind 
The  sound  of  her  lament  shall,  rising  o'er 

The  seraph  voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 
Meantime  I,  humblest  of  thy  sons,  and  of 
Earth's  dust  by  immortality  refined 

To  sense  and  suflering,  though  the  vain  may  scofi", 
And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 
Before  the  storm  because  its  breath  is  rough, 

To  thee,  my  country !  whom  before,  as  now, 
I  loved  and  love,  devote  the  mournful  lyre 
And  melancholy  gift  high  powers  allow 

To  read  the  future  ;  and  if  now  my  fire 
Is  not  as  once  it  shone  o'er  thee,  forgive  1 
I  but  foretell  thy  fortunes — then  expire ; 

Think  not  that  I  would  look  on  them  and  live. 
A  spirit  forces  me  to  sec  and  speak. 
And  for  my  guerdon  grants  not  to  survive ; 

My  heart  shall  be  pour'd  over  thee  and  break : 
Yet  for  a  moment,  ere  I  must  resume        ' 
Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take 

Over  the  gleams  that  flash  athwart  thy  gloom 
A  softer  glimpse ;  some  stars  shine  through  thy 
And  many  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb     [night. 

Leans  sculptured  Beauty,  which  Death  cannot  blight ; 


490 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise 
To  give  thee  honor,  and  the  earth  delight ; 

Thy  soil  shall  still  be  pregnant  with  the  wise, 
The  gay,  the  learn'd,  the  generous,  and  the  brave. 
Native  to  thee  as  summer  to  thy  skies, 

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

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

Oh  !  more  than  these  illustrious  far  shall  be 
The  being — and  even  yet  he  may  be  bom — 
The  mortal  saviour  who  shall  set  them  free, 

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

Thy  moral  morn,  too  long  with  clouds  defaced, 
And  noxious  vapors  from  Avernus  risen. 
Such  as  all  they  must  breathe  who  are  debased 

By  servitude,  and  have  the  mind  in  prison. 
Yet  through  this  centuried  eclipse  of  wo 
Some  voices  shall  be  heard,  and  earth  shall  listen ; 

Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I  show. 
And  make  it  broader  ;  the  same  brilliant  sky 
Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  shall  bid  them 

And  raise  their  notes  as  natural  and  high  ;      [glow. 
Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers  ;  they  shall  sing 
Many  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty, 

But  few  shall  soar  upon  that  eagle's  wing, 
And  look  in  the  sun's  face  with  eagle's  gaze. 
All  free  and  fearless  as  the  feather'd  king. 

But  fly  more  near  the  earth  ;  how  many  a  phrase 
Sublime  shall  lavish'd  be  on  some  small  prince 
In  all  the  prodigality  of  praise  ! 

And  language,  eloquently  false,  evince 
The  harlotry  of  genius,  which,  like  beauty, 
Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self-reverence. 

And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a  duty. 
He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrant's  hall' 
As  guest  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a  booty, 

And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  inthral 
A  captive,  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone — * 
The  soul's  emasculation  saddens  all 

His  spirit ;  thus  the  bard  too  near  the  throne 
Quails  from  his  inspiration,  bound  to  phase, — 
How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone  ! 

To  smooth  the  verse  to  suit  his  sovereign's  ease 
And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 
Aught  save  his  eulogy,  and  find,  and  seize. 

Or  force,  or  forge  fit  argument  of  song  !  [trebles, 
Thus  trammell'd,  thus  condemn'd  to  Flattery's 
He  toils  through  all,  still  trembling  to  be  wrong  : 

For  fear  some  noble  thoughts,  like  heavenly  rebels, 

'  Alexander  of  Parma,  Spinola,  Pescara,  Eugene  of  Savoy, 
Montecucco. 
'  CoIamlMis,  Americas  Vcepaslas,  Sebastian  Cabot. 


Should  rise  up  in  high  treason  to  his  brain, 
He  sings,  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  with  pebbles 

In  's  mouth,  lest  truth  should  stammer  thro'  his 
But  out  of  the  long  file  of  sonneteers  [strain. 
There  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sing  in  vain. 

And  he,  their  prince,"  shall  rank  among  my  peers. 
And  love  shall  be  his  torment ;  but  his  grief 
Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears. 

And  Italy  shall  hail  him  as  the  Chief 
Of  Poet-lovers,  and  his  higher  song 
Of  Freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a  leaf. 

But  in  a  farther  age  shall  rise  along 
The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  than  he ; 
The  world  which  smiled  on  him  shall  do  them 

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

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

Pleasure  shall,  like  a  butterfly  new  caught, 
Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o'er  his  theme, 
And  Art  itself  seem  into  Nature  wrought 

By  the  transparency  of  his  bright  dream. — 
The  second,  of  a  tenderer,  sadder  mood. 
Shall  pour  his  soul  out  o'er  Jerusalem ; 

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

Revive  a  song  of  Sion,  and  the  sharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triumph  of  the  brave 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 

Their  hearts  from  their  great  purpose,  until  wave 
The  red-cross  banners  where  the  first  red  Cross 
Was  crimson'd  from  his  veins  who  died  to  save, 

Shall  be  his  sacred  argument ;  the  loss 
Of  years,  of  favor,  freedom,  even  of  fame 
Contested  for  a  time,  while  the  smooth  gloss 

Of  courts  would  slide  o'er  his  forgotten  name, 
And  call  captivity  a  kindness,  meant 
To  shield  him  from  insanity  or  shame. 

Such  shall  be  his  meet  guerdon  1  who  was  sent 
To  be  Christ's  Laureate — they  reward  him  well ! 
Florence  dooms  me  but  death  or  punishment, 

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

But  this  meek  man,  who  with  a  lover's  eye 
Will  look  on  earth  and  heaven,  and  who  will 

deign 
To  embalm  with  his  celestial  flattery 

As  poor  a  thing  as  e'er  was  spawn'd  to  reign. 
What  will  he  do  to  merit  such  a  doom  ? 

3  A  verse  from  the  Greek  tragedians,  witli  which  Pompey  took 
leave  of  Cornelia  on  entering  the  boat  in  which  he  was  slain. 
*  The  verse  and  sentiment  arc  taken  from  Homer. 
» Petrarch. 


THE   PROPHECY   OF   DANTE. 


491 


Perhaps  he'll  lore,  and  is  not  love  in  vain 

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

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

A  heritage  enriching  aU  who  breathe 
"With  the  wealth  of  a  genuine  poet's  soul. 
And  to  the  country  a  redoubled  wreath 

Unmatch'd  by  time  ;  not  Hellas  can  unroll 

Through  her  olympiads  two  such  names,  though  one 
Of  hers  be  mighty ; — and  is  this  the  whole 

Of  such  men's  destiny  beneath  the  sun  ? 

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

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

Conduct  ?  shall  their  bright  plumage  on  the  rough 
Storm  be  still  scatter'd  ?     Yes,  and  it  must  be; 
For,  form'd  of  far  too  penetrable  stuflF, 

These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 

Back  to  their  native  mansion  !  soon  they  find 
Earth's  mist  with  their  pure  pinions  not  agree. 

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

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

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

Who  could  resist  themselves  even,  hardest  care  1 
And  task  most  hopeless ;  but  some  such  have 
And  if  my  name  amongst  the  number  were,  [been, 

That  destiny  austere,  and  yet  serene. 
Were  prouder  than  more  dazzling  fame  unbless'd; 
The  Alp's  sno\»  summit  nearer  heaven  is  seen 

Than  the  volcano's  fierce  eruptive  crest. 

Whose  splendor  from  the  black  abyss  is  flung , 
While  the  scorch'd  mountain,  from  whose  burning 

A  temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrung,  [breast 

Shines  for  a  night  of  terror,  then  repels 
Its  fire  back  to  the  hell  from  whence  it  spning. 

The  hell  which  in  its  entrails  ever  dwells. 


CAXTO  TUB   rOUUTB. 


Maijt  are  poets  who  have  never  penn'd 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  best : 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  not  lend 

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

>  The  Cupola  of  St.  Petor'n. 


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

Many  are  poets,  but,  without  the  name. 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  good  or  ill ;  and  aim 

At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate. 
And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men. 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  too  lato, 

Finding  the  pleasure  given  repaid  with  pain. 
And  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the  bestower. 
Who,  having  lavish'd  his  high  gift  in  vain, 

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

Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay 
Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 
The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay. 

Are  bards ;  the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  wear 
More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 
Than  aught  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  bear ; 

One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  Ufe  may  glow. 
Or  deify  the  canvas  till  it  shine 
With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below, 

That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 
Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 
Transfused,  transfigurated :  and  the  line 

Of  poesy,  which  peoples  but  the  air 

With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thought  reflected, 
Can  do  no  more :  then  let  the  artist  share 

The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 
Faints  o'er  the  labor  unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair  and  Genius  are  too  oft  connected. 

Within  the  ages  which  before  me  pass 
Art  shaU  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway 
Which  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias 

She  held  in  Hellas'  unforgotten  day. 
Ye  shall  be  taught  by  Ruin  to  revive 
The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay. 

And  Roman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 
In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  hands. 
And   temples,  loftier  than  the  old  temples,  give 

New  wonders  to  the  world ;  and  while  still  stands 
The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaven  shall  soar 
A  dome,'  its  image,  while  the  base  expands 

Into  a  fane  surpassing  all  before, 

Such  as  all  flesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  in :  ne'er 
Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a  door 

As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair. 
And  lay  their  sins  at  his  huge  gate  of  heaven. 
And  the  bold  Architect  unto  whose  care 

The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given. 
Whom  all  arts  shall  acknowledge  as  their  lord, 
Whether  into  the  marble  chaos  driven 

His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew,"  at  whose  word 


*  Tbe  statue  of  Hoses  on  the  monnment  of  Jnllns  n. 


492 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Israel  left  Egypt,  stop  the  waves  in  stone, 

Or  hues  of  Hell  be  by  his  pencil  pour'd 

Over  the  damn'd  before  the  Judgment-throne,' 
Such  as  I  saw  them,  such  as  all  shall  see, 
Or  fanes  be  built  of  grandeur  yet  unknown,    [me," 

The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts   shall  spring  from 
The  GhibeUine,  who  traversed  the  three  realms 
Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 

Amidst  the  clash  of  swords,  and  clang  of  helms, 
The  age  which  I  anticipate,  no  less 
Shall  be  the  Age  of  Beauty,  and  while  whelms 

Calamity  the  nations  with  distress, 
The  genius  of  my  country  shall  arise, 
A  cedar  towering  o'er  the  wilderness. 

Lovely  in  all  its  branches  to  all  eyes. 
Fragrant  as  fair,  and  recognized  afar, 
Wafting  its  native  incense  through  the  skies. 

Sovereigns  shall  pause  amidst  their  sport  of  war, 
Wean'd  for  an  hour  from  blood,  to  turn  and  gaze 
On  canvass  or  on  stone  ;  and  they  who  mar 

All  beauty  upon  earth,  compell'd  to  praise. 

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

To  tyrants  who  but  take  her  for  a  toy 
Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prostitute 
Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,^  who  but  employ 

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

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

Stands  sleek  and  slavish,  bowing  at  his  door. 
O  Power  that  rulest  and  inspirest !  how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  whose  earthly  power 

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

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

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

And  wear  a  deeper  brand  and  gaudier  chain  ? 
Or  if  their  destiny  be  bom  aloof 
From  lowliness,  or  tempted  thence  in  vain, 

•  The  Last  Judgment,  in  the  Slstlne  Chapel. 

'  I  have  read  somewhere  (If  I  do  not  err,  for  I  cannot  recollect 
where)  that  Dante  was  so  great  a  favorite  of  Michael  Angelo's, 


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

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

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

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

As  swept  off  sooner ;  in  all  deadly  things 

Which  make  men  hate  themselves,  and  one  another 
In  discord,  cowardice,  cruelty,  all  that  springs 

Prom  Death  the  Sin-bom's  incest  with  his  "mother, 
In  rank  oppression  in  its  rudest  shape, 
The  faction  Chief  is  but  the  Sultan's  brother. 

And  the  worst  despot's  far  less  human  ape  : 
Florence  1  when  this  lone  spirit,  which  so  long 
Yearn'd  as  the  captive  toiling  at  escape. 

To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  wrong. 
An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners, 
Who  has  the  whole  world  for  a  dungeon  strong, 

Seas,  mountains,  and  the  horizon's  verge  for  bars. 
Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  of  earth 
Where — whatsoe'er  his  fate— he  still  were  hers, 

His  country's,  and  might  die  where  he  had  birth — 
Florence  !  when  this  lone  spirit  shall  return 
To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth, 

And  seek  to  honor  with  an  empty  urn 
The  ashes  thou  shalt  ne'er  obtain — Alas  ! 
"  What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people  ?"    Stem 

Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 
The  limits  of  man's  common  malice,  for 
AU  that  a  citizen  could  be  I  was  ; 

Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war, 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warr'd  with  me. — 'Tis  done 
I  may  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 

Built  up  between  us,  and  will  die  alone, 
Beholding  with  the  dark  eye  oi  a  seer 
The  evil  days  to  gifted  souls  foreshown, 

Foretelling  them  to  those  who  wiU  not  hear. 
As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come 
When  Truth  shall  strike  their  eyes  through  many 
a  tear. 

And  make  them  own  the  Prophet  in  his  tomb. 

that  he  had  designed  the  whole  of  the  Divina  Commedia ;  hut 
that  the  volume  containing  these  studies  was  lost  by  sea. 

'  See  the  treatment  of  Michael  Angelo  by  Julius  II,,  and  bis 
neglect  hy  Leo  X. 


FRANCESCA    OF    RIMINI. 


493 


FRANCESCA    OF    RIMINI. 


FROM   THE   INFERNO   OF   DANTE. 


"  The  land  where  I  was  bom  sits  by  the  seas, 
Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 
With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 

Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends. 
Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta'en 
From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 

Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 

Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  please,  so  strong, 
That,  as  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 

Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along. 

But  Caina  waits  for  him  our  life  who  ended  :" 
These  were  the  accents  utter'd  by  her  tongue. — 

Since  I  first  listen'd  to  these  souls  offended, 
I  bow'd  my  visage,  and  so  kept  it  till — 

-  "  What  think'st  thou  ?"  said  the  bard ;  when  I  un- 
bended. 

And  recommenced  :  "  Alas  !  unto  such  ill 
How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  strong  ecstasies, 
Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil !" 

And  then  I  tum'd  unto  their  side  my  eyes, 
And  said,  "  Francesca,  thy  sad  destinies 
Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 


But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 
By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose, 
So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognize  ?" 

Then  she  to  me  :  "  The  greatest  of  all  woes 
Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days 
In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows. 

But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  preys 
Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 
I  will  do  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  says. — 

We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh. 
Of  Lancilot,  how  love  enchain'd  him  too. 
We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 

But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 
All  o'er  discolor'd  by  that  reading  were  ; 
But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew  ; 

When  we  read  the  long-sigh'd-for  smile  of  her, 
To  be  thus  kiss'd  by  such  devoted  lover. 
He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 

Kiss'd  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 
Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote  ! 
That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover." — 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot. 
The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralls 
I  swoon'd  as  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote. 

And  fell  down  even  as  a  dead  body  falls. 


THE    BLUES 


A     LITERARY     ECLOGUE, 


"Niminm  ne  crede  colori."— Vibgil. 
O  trust  not,  ye  beautiful  creatures,  to  hue, 
Though  your  hair  were  as  red  as  your  stockings  are  blue. 


ECLOGUE   FIRST. 

London — Before  the  Door  of  a  Lecture  Room. 

Enter  Tkact,  meeting  Iskeu. 

Ink.  You're  too  late. 

Tra.  Is  it  over  ? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  hour. 

But  the  benches  are  cramm'd,  like  a  garden  in  flower, 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles,  who  have  made  it  the 
fashion ;  [passion  " 

So,  instead  of  "  beaux  arts,"  we  may  say  "  la  helle 
For  learning,  which  lately  has  taken  the  lead  in 
The  world,  and  set  all  the  fine  gentlemen  reading. 


Tra.  I  know  it  too  well,  and  have  worn  out  my 
patience 
With  studying  to  study  your  new  publications. 
There's  Vamp,  Scamp,  and  Mouthy,  and  Wordswords 
With  their  damnable [and  Co. 

Inh.  Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  you  know 

Whom  you  speak  to  ? 

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

Inl-.  And  think  you  that  I 

Can  stand  tamely  in  silepce  to  hear  you  decry 
The  Muses  ? 

Tra.  Excuse  me :  I  meant  no  ofifence 


494 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


To  the  Nine  ;  through  the  number  who  make  some 
pretence 

To  their  favors  is  such ^but  the  subject  to  drop, 

I  am  just  piping  hot  from  a  publisher's  shop, 
(Next  door  to  the  pastry-cook's  ;  so  that  when  I 
Cannot  find  the  new  volume  I  wanted  to  buy- 
On  the  bibliopole's  shelves,  it  is  only  two  paces. 
As  one  finds  every  author  in  one  of  those  places  ;) 
Where  I  just  had  been  skimming  a  charming  critique, 
So  studded  with  wit,  and  so  sprinkled  with  Greek  ! 
Wliere  your  friend — you  know  who — has  just  got 

such  a  threshing. 
That  it  is,  as  the  phrase  goes,  extremely  "  ref resiling. "" 
Wliat  a  beautiful  word  I 

Ink.  Very  true ;  'tis  so  soft 

And  80  cooling — they  use  it  a  little  too  oft ; 
And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  last — but  no  matter. 
So  they've  cut  up  our  friend  then  ? 

Tra.  Not  left  him  a  tatter — 

Not  a  rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputation. 
Which  they  call  a  disgrace  to  the  age  and  the  nation. 

Itik.  I'm  sorry  to  hear  this  !  for  friendship,  you 

know [so. 

Our  poor  friend  ! — but  I  thought  it  would  terminate 
Our  friendship  is  such,  I'll  read  nothing  to  shock  it. 
You  don't  happen  to  have  the  Review  in  your 
pocket  ? 

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

Ink.  Let  us  join  them. 

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

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

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  till  you  hear  him  ? 

Ink.  I  heard 

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

Tra.  I  have  had  no  great  loss  then  ? 

Ink.  Loss  ! — such  a  palaver ! 

I'd  inoculate  sooner  my  wife  with  the  slaver 
Of  a  dog  when  gone  rabid,  than  listen  two  hours 
To  the  torrent  of  trash  which  around  him  he  pours, 
Pump'd  up  with  such  eflTort,  disgorged  with  such 

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

Tra.  /  make  you  !  [neighbor. 

Ink.  Yes,  you  1  I  said  nothing  until 

You  compell'd  me,  by  speaking  the  truth  — 

Tra.  To  speak  ill  ? 

Is  that  your  deduction  ? 

Ink.  When  speaking  of  Scamp  ill, 

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


Miss  Lilac ! 

The  Blue  1 


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

Ink.  Pfaj)  then,  let  us  retire. 

Tra.  I  would,  but 

Ink.  There  must  be  attraction  much  higher 

Than  Scamp,  or  the  Jews'  harp  he  nicknames  his 
To  call  yov,  to  this  hotbed.  [Ij^re, 

Tra.  I  own  it — 'tis  true — 

A  fair  lady 

Ink.  A  spinster  ? 

Tra. 

Ink. 
The  heiress  ? 

Tra.  The  angel ! 

Ink.  The  devil  1  why,  man  ! 

Pray  get  out  of  this  hobble  as  fast  as  you  can. 
You  wed  with  Miss  Lilac  !  'twould  be  your  perdi- 
She's  a  poet,  a  chymist,  a  mathematician.         [tion : 

Tra.  I  say  she's  an  angel. 

Ink,  Say  rather  an  angle. 

If  you  and  she  marry,  you'll  certainly  wrangle. 
I  say  she's  a  Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  the  ether. 

Tra.  And  is  that  any  cause  for  not  coming  to- 
gether ?  [ance 

Ink.  Humph  !  I  can't  say  I  know  any  happy  alli- 
Which  has  lately  sprung  up  from  a  wedlock  with 

science. 
She's  so  leam'd  in  all  things,  and  fond  of  concerning 
Herself  in  aU  matters  connected  with  learning, 
That 

Tra.        What  ? 

Ink.  I  perhaps  may  as  well  hold  my  tongue ; 

But  there's  five  hundred  people  can  tell  you  you're 
wrong. 

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

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

Tra.  Why,  Jack,  I'U  be  frank  with  you — some- 
The  girl's  a  fine  girl.  [thing  of  both. 

Ink.  And  you  feel  nothing  loth 

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

Tra.  Let  her  live,  and  as  long  as  she  likes  ;  I  de- 
mand [hand. 
Nothing  more  than  the  heart  of  her  daughter  and 

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

Tra.  A  propos — ^Will  you  write  me  a  song  now 

Ink.  To  what  purpose  ?  [and  then  ? 

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

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

Tra.  I  own  it ;  and  yet,  in  these  times,  there's  no 
For  the  heart  of  the  fair  like  a  stanza  or  two  ;  [lure 
And  so,  as  I  can't,  will  you  furnish  a  few  1 

Ink.  In  your  name  ? 

Tra.  In  my  name.    I  will  copy  them  out, 


THE    BLUES. 


495 


To  slip  into  her  hand  at  the  very  next  rout. 

Inh.  Are  you  so  far  advanced  as  to  hazard  this  ? 

Tra.  Why, 

Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a  Blue-stocking's  eye, 
So  far  as  to  tremble  to  tell  her  in  rhyme 
Wliat  I've  told  her  in  prose,  at  the  least  as  sublime  ? 

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

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

Ink,  As  sublime  ! — Mr.  Tracy — I've  nothing  to  say. 

Stick  to  prose — As  sublime  ! ! — but  I  ■nash  you  good 

day.  [wrong ; 

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

Ink.  As  sublime  !  ! 

Tra.  I  but  used  the  expression  in  haste. 

Ink.  That  may  be,  Mr.  Tracy,  but  shows  damn'd 
bad  taste. 

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

Ink.  I  see  what  you'd  be  at : 

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

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

Ink.  Why  that 

To  be  sure  makes  a  difference. 

Tra.  I  know  what  is  what : 

And  you,  who're  a  man  of  the  gay  world,  no  less 
Than  a  poet  of  t'  other,  may  easily  guess 
That  I  never  could  mean,  by  a  word,  to  oifend 
A  genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend. 

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

Tra.  You  knew. 

And  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy. 

Ink.  That 's  my  bookseller's  business  ;  I  care  not 
Indeed  the  best  poems  at  first  rather  fail,  [for  sale. 
There  were  Renegade's  epics,  and  Botherby's  plays,* 
And  my  own  grand  romance 

Tra.  Had  its  fuU  share  of  praise. 

I  myself  saw  it  puif'd  in  the  "  Old  Girl's  Review ;" 

Ink.  What  Review  ? 

Tra.  'Tis  the  English  "  Journal  de  Trevoux  ;" 

A  clerical  work  of  our  Jesuits  at  home. 
Have  you  never  yet  seen  it  ? 

Ink.  That  pleasure  's  to  come. 

Tra.  Make  haste  then. 

Ink.  Why  so  ? 

Tra.  I  have  heard  people  say 

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

Ink.  Well,  that  is  a  sign  of  some  sjnrit. 

Tra.  No  doubt. 

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

'  [Meesre.  Bonthcy  and  Sothcby.] 


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

the  moon, 
(Where  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of  his  wits,) 
And  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturing  fits, 
I'm  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle's  collation. 
To  partake  of  a  luncheon  and  learn'd  conversation  : 
'Tis  a  sort  of  revmion  for  Scamp,  on  the  days 
Of  his  lecture,  to  treat  him  with  cold  tongue  and 

praise. 
And  I  own,  for  my  own  part,  that  'tis  not  unpleasant. 
Will  you  go  ?    There  's  Miss  Lilac  will  also  be  prcs- 

Tra.  That  "  metal 's  attractive."  [ent. 

Ink.  No  doubt — to  the  pocket. 

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

Ink.  Very  true;  let  us  go,  then,  before  they  can  come. 
Or  else  we'll  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their  levy, 
On  the  rack  of  cross  questions,  by  all  the  blue  bevy. 
Hark  !  Zounds,  they'll  be  on  us ;  I  know  by  the 
Of  old  Botherby's  spouting  ex-cathedra  tone,  [drone 
Ay  1  there  he  is  at  it.  Poor  Scamp  1  better  join 
Your  friends,  or  he'll  pay  you  back  in  your  own  coin. 

Tra.  AU  fair ;  'tis  but  lecture  for  lecture. 

Ink.  That 's  clear, 

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

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

'Tis  high  time  for  a  "/Sic  me  servavit  Apollo." 
And  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  on  our  kibes. 
Blues,  dandies,  and    dowagers,  and    second-hand 

scribes. 
All  flocking  to  moisten  their  exquisite  throttles 
With  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  Lady  Bluebottle's. 

[Exit  Teacy. 

ECLOGUE    SECOND. 

An  Apartment  in  the  House  of  Lady  Bltjbbottle — 
A  Table  Prepared. 

SiB  RiCHAHD  Bluebottle  solus. 

Was  there  ever  a  man  who  was  married  so  sorry  ? 
Like  a  fool,  I  must  needs  do  the  thing  in  a  hurry. 
My  life  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  destroy'd ; 
My  days,  which  once  pass'd  in  so  gentle  a  void, 
Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  be  employ'd : 
The  twelve,  do  I  say  ? — of  the  whole  twenty-four, 
Is  there  one  which  I  dare  call  my  own  any  more  ? 
What  with  driving  and  visiting,  dancing  and  dining, 
Wliat  with  learning  and  teaching,  and  scribbling 

and  shining 
In  science  and  art,  I'll  be  cursed  if  I  know 
Myself  from  my  wife  ;  for  although  we  are  two. 
Yet  she  somehow  contrives  that  all  things  shall  be 
In  a  style  which  proclaims  us  eternally  one.      [done 
But  the  thing  of  all  things  which  distresses  me  more 


496 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Than  the  bills  of  the  week,  (though  they  trouble  me 
Is  the  numerous,  humorous,  backbiting  crew  [sore,) 
Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  white,  black,  and  blue, 
"Who  are  brought  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to  my  cost — 
For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defray'd  by  the  host — 
No  pleasure  !  no  leisure  !  no  thought  for  my  pains. 
But  to  hear  a  vile  jargon  which  addles  my  brains  : 
As  matter  and  chatter,  gleaned  out  of  reviews. 
By  the  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail,  of  those  they  call 
"  Blots  ;" 

A  rabble  who  know  not But  soft,  here  they  come  1 

Would  to  God  I  were  deaf !  as  I'm  not,  I'll  be  dumb. 

Enter  Lady  Bluebottle,  Miss  Lilac,  Lady  Blue- 
mount,  Mr.  Bothekby,  Inkel,  Tracy,  Miss 
Mazarine,  and  others,  with  Scamp  the  Lecturer, 
etc.,  etc. 

Lady  Blueb.  Ah  !  Sir  Richard,  good  morning ;  I've 
brought  you  some  friends. 

Sir  Rich,  (bows,  and  afterwards  aside.)  If  friends, 
they're  the  first. 

Ladp  Blueb.  But  the  luncheon  attends. 

I  pray  ye  be  seated,  sans  ceremonie. 
Mr.  Scamp,  you're  fatigued ;  take  your  chair  there, 
next  me.  [  They  all  sit. 

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

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Tracy — 

Lady  Bluemount — Miss  Lilac — be  pleased,  pray,  to 
And  you,  Mr.  Botherby —  [place  ye  ; 

Both.  Oh,  my  dear  lady  1 

I  obey. 

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Inkel,  I  ought  to  upbraid  ye  : 
You  were  not  at  the  lecture. 

Lnh.  Excuse  me,  I  was  ; 

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

Lady  Blueb.  To  be  sure  it  was  broiling  :  but  then 
You  have  lost  such  a  lecture  ! 

Both.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  ?  there  are  two  more. 

Both.  Because 

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

lnh.  Oh,  if  that  be  the  test, 

I  allow  our  friend  Scamp  hath  this  day  done  his  best. 
Miss  Lilac,  permit  me  to  help  you ; — a  wing  ? 

Miss.  Lil.  No  more,  sir,  I  thank  you.    Who  lec- 

Both.  Dick  Dunder.  [tures  next  spring  ? 

lnh  That  is,  if  he  lives. 

Miss  Lil.  And  why  not  ? 

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

Lady  Bliiem.  With  pleasure. 

Ink.  How  does  your  friend  Wordswords,  that  Win- 
dermere treasure  ? 


>  [Mr.  WordBworth  was  collector  of  sUmp6  for  Camberland  and 
Westmoreland.] 


Does  he  stick  to  his  lakes,  like  the  leeches  he  sings. 
And  their  gatherers,  as  Homer  sung  warriors  and 

Lady  Blueb.  He  has  just  got  a  place.  [kings  ? 

Ink.  As  a  footman  % 

Lady  Bluem.  For  shame  I 

Nor  profane  with  your  sneers  so  poetic  a  name. 

lnh.  Nay,  I  meant  him  no  evil,  but  pitied  his  mas- 
For  tlie  poet  of  pedlers  'twere,  sure,  no  disaster  [ter ; 
To  wear  a  new  livery ;  the  more,  as  'tis  not  [coat. 
The  first  time  he  has  turn'd  both  his  creed  and  his 

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

Lady  Blueb.  Never  mind  our  fiiend  Inkel ;  we  all 
'Tis  his  way.  [know,  my  dear, 

Sir  Rich.  But  this  place 

lnh.  Is  perhaps  like  friend  Scamp's, 

A  lecturer's. 

Lady  Blueb.  Excuse  me — 'tis  one  in  "the  Stamps ;" 
He  is  made  a  collector.' 

Tra.  Collector  1 

Sir  Rich.  How  ? 

Miss  Lil.  What  ? 

lnh.  I  shall  think  of  him  oft  when  I  buy  a  new 
There  his  works  will  appear [hat 

Lady  Bleum.  Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges. 

lnh.  I  sha'n't  go  so  far — I  can  have  them  at 

Lady  Blueb.  Oh,  fie  !  [Grange's." 

Miss  Lil.  And  for  shame  1 

Lady  Bluem.  You're  too  bad. 

Both.  Very  good ! 

Lady  Bluem.  How  good  ? 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  naught — 'tis  his  phrase. 

Lady  Bluem.  He  grows  rude. 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nothing  ;  nay,  ask  him. 

Lady  Bluem.  Pray,  sir  !  did  you  mean 

What  you  say  ? 

lnh.  Never  mind  if  he  did;  'twill  be  seen 

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

Both.  Sir! 

lnh.  Pray  be  content  with  your  portion  of  praise ; 
'Twas  in  your  defence. 

Both.  If  you  please,  with  submission, 

I  can  make  out  my  own. 

Ink.  It  would  be  your  perdition. 

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

Both.  At  last?  [pass'd 

lnh.  Why  I  thought — that's  to  say — there  had 
A  few  green-room  whispers,  which  hinted  —  you 
That  the  taste  of  the  actors  at  best  is  so  so.    [know. 

Both.  Sir,  the  green-room  's  in  rapture,  and  so  's 
the  committee.  ["  pity 

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

'  Grange  is,  or  was,  a  Camous  pastry^iook  aod  fruiterer  In  Pic- 
cadilly. 


THE    BLUES. 


497 


I  doabt  if  you'll  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 

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

Inl:  Well,  time  enough  yet,  when  the  play  's  to  be 
Is  it  cast  yet  ?  [play'd. 

Both.  The  actors  are  fighting  for  parts. 

As  is  usual  in  that  most  litigious  of  arts. 

Lady  Blueb.  We'll  all  make  a  party,  and  go  the 
first  night. 

Tra.  And  you  promised  the  epilogue,  Inkel. 

Ink.  Not  quite. 

However,  to  save  my  ftiend  Botherby  trouble, 
I'll  do  what  I  can,  though  my  pains  must  be  double. 

Tra.  Why  so  ? 

Inh.  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  before. 

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

Ink.  Never  mind  mine  ; 

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

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

Ink.  Yes,  ma'am  ;  and  a  fugitive  reader  sometimes. 
On  Wordswords,  for  instance,  I  seldom  alight. 
Or  on  Mouthey,  his  friend,  without  taking  to  flight. 

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

Ink.  I've  no  sort  of  objection. 

So  I'm  not  of  the  party  to  take  the  infection. 

Lady  Blueb.    Perhaps  they  have  doubts  that  they 
ever  will  take  ? 

Ink.  Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  those  of  the  lake 
Have  taken  already,  and  still  will  continue 
To  take — what  they  can,  from  a  groat  to  a  guinea. 
Of  pension  or  place ; — but  the  subject  's  a  bore. 

Lady  Bluem.  Well,  sir,  the  time's  coming. 

Ink.  Scamp !  don't  you  feel  sore  ? 

What  say  you  to  this  ? 

Scamp.  They  have  merit,  I  own ; 

Though  their  system's  absurdity  keeps  it  unknown. 

Ink.  Then  why  not  unearth   it  in  one  of  your 
lectures  ?  [my  strictures. 

Scamp.  It  is  only  time  past  which  comes  under 

Lady  Blueb.    Come,   a  truce  with  all  tartness : — 
the  joy  of  my  heart 
Is  to  see  Nature's  triumph  o'er  all  that  is  art. 
Wild  Nature  1 — Grand  Shakspeare ! 

Both.  And  down  Aristotle  1 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir  George'  thinks  exactly  with  Lady 
Bluebottle ; 


>  [The  late  Sir  George  Beanmont— a  constant  Mend  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth.] 

'  [It  was  not  the  present  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  bnt  James,  the  first 
oarl,  who  offered  to  build,  and  completely  furnish  and  man,  a  ship 
of  Bcventy-fonr  guns,  towards  the  close  of  the  American  war,  for 
G3 


And  my  Lord  Seventy-four,"  who  protects  our  dear 

Bard, 
And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest  regard 
For  the  poet,  who,  singing  of  pedlers  and  asses. 
Has  found  out  the  way  to  dispense  with  Parnassus. 

7'ra.  And  you.  Scamp ! — 

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

Ink.    Don't  call  upon   Scamp,  who's  already  so 

harass'd  [all  schools. 

With  old  schools,  and  new  schools,  and  no  schools,  and 

Tra.  Well,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  some  must  be 
I  should  like  to  know  who.  [fools- 

Ink.  And  I  should  not  be  sorry 

To  know  who  are  not : — it  would  save  us  some  worry. 

Lady  Blueb.  A  truce  with  remark,  and  let  nothing 
control 
This  "  feast  of  our  reason,  and  flow  of  the  soul." 
Oh  !  my  dear  Mr.  Botherby !  sympathize ! — I 
Now  feel  such  a  rapture,  I'm  ready  to  fly, 
I  feel  so  elastic — "«o  buoyant — so  buoyant  1''^' 

Ink.  Tracy !  open  the  window. 

Tra.  I  wish  her  much  joy  on't. 

Both.  For  God's  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle,  check 
This  gentle  emotion,  so  seldom  our  lot  [not 

Upon  earth.  Give  it  way ;  'tis  an  impulse  which  lifts 
Our  spirits  from  earth  ;  the  sublimest  of  gifts ; 
For  which  poor  Prometheus  was  chain'd  to  his  moun- 
tain; 
'Tis  the  source  of  all  sentiment — feeling's  true  foun- 
tain : 
'Tis  the  vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth  ;  'tis  the  gas 
Of  the  soul :  'tis  the  seiring  of  shades  as  they  pass. 
And  making  them  substance :  'tis  something  divine : 

Ink.  Shall  I  help  you,  my  friend,  to  a  little  more 
wine  ? 

Both.  I  thank  you  ;  not  any  more,  sir,  till  I  dine. 

Ink.  A  propos — Do  you  dine  with  Sir  Humphry* 
to-day  ? 

Tra.    I  should  think  with  Duke  Humphry  was 
more  in  your  way. 

Ink.  It  might  be  of  yore ;  but  we  authors  now  look 
To  the  knight,  as  a  landlord,  much  more  than  the 

Duke. 
The  truth  is,  each  writer  now  quite  at  his  ease  is. 
And   (except  with   his  publisher)  dines  where  he 

pleases. 
But  'tis  now  nearly  five,  and  I  must  to  the  Park. 

Tra.  And  I'll  take  a  turn  with  you  there  till  'tis 
And  you,  Scamp —  [dark. 

Scamp.  Excuse  me ;  I  must  to  my  notes, 

For  my  lecture  next  week. 

Ink.  He  must  mind  whom  he  quotes 

Out  of  "  Elegant  Extracts." 

service  of  his  country,  at  his  own  expense;— hence  the  toubfiqutt 
in  the  text.] 

>  Fact  from  life,  with  the  words. 

•  [The  late  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  PresldeMt  of  the  Royal  Society.] 


498 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Lady  Blueb.  Well,  now  we  break  up ; 

But  remember  Miss  Diddle'  invites  us  to  sup.  [again, 

Ink.  Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we  all  meet 
For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champagne  ! 

Tra.  And  the  sweet  lobster  salad ! 

Both.  I  honor  that  meal ; 

For  'tis  then  that  our  feelings  most  genuinely — feel. 

Ink.  True ;  feeling  is  truest  then.,  far  beyond 
question ; 

'  [The  late  Miss  Lydia  White,  whose  hospitable  flinctlons  have 
not  yet  been  snpplled  to  the  circle  of  London  artists  and  literati— 
au  accomplished,  clever  and  truly  amiable,  but  very  eccentric  lady. 


I  wish  to  the  gods  'twas  the  same  with  digestion  I 
Lady  Blueb.  Pshaw  I — never  mind  that ;  for  one 
moment  of  feeling 
Is  worth — God  knows  what. 
Ink.  'Tis  at  least  worth  concealing 

For  itself,  or  what  follows But  here  comes  your 

carriage. 
Sir  Bkh.  (aside.)  I  wish   all  these  j)eople   were 
d d  with  my  marriage !  [Exeunt. 

The  name  in  the  text  could  only  have  been  suggested  by  the  jing- 
ling resemblance  it  bears  to  Lydia.] 


THE    VISION    OF    JUDOMENT. 

BY    QUEVEDO    REDIVIVUS. 

BU0QK8TZD    BY    THE    COMPOSITION    SO    KKTITLBD    BT    THE    AUTHOR    OF    **WAT    TYLKB." 


"  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment  I  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word." 


PREFACE. 

It  hath  been  wisely  said,  that  "One  fool  makes 
many  ;"  and  it  hath  been  pootically  observed, 

"  That  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  treaA."— Pope. 

If  Mr.  Southey  had  not  rushed  in  where  he  had  no 
business,  and  where  he  never  was  before,  and  never 
will  be  again,  the  following  poem  would  not  have  been 
written.  It  is  not  impossible  that  it  may  be  as  good  as 
his  own,  seeing  that  it  cannot,  by  any  species  of  stupid- 
ity, natural  or  acquired,  be  worse.  The  gross  flattery, 
the  dull  impudence,  the  renegado  intolerance  and  im- 
pious cant,  of  the  poem  by  the  author  of  "  Wat  Tyler," 
are  something  so  stupendous  as  to  form  the  sublime  of 
himself — containing  the  quintessence  of  his  own  attri- 
butes. 

So  much  for  his  poem — a  word  on  his  preface.  In 
this  preface  it  has  pleased  the  magnanimous  Laureate 
to  draw  the  picture  of  a  supposed  "  Satanic  School,"  the 
which  he  doth  recommend  to  the  notice  of  the  legisla- 
ture ;  thereby  adding  to  his  other  laurels  the  ambition 
of  those  of  an  informer.  If  there  exists  anywhere,  ex- 
cepting in  his  imagination,  such  a  School,  is  he  not 
suflBclently  armed  against  it  by  his  own  intense  vanity  ? 
The  truth  is,  that  there  are  certain  writers  whom  Mr. 
S.  imagines,  like  Scrub,  to  have  "talked  of  Mw/  for 
they  laughed  consumedly." 

I  think  I  know  enough  of  most  of  the  writers  to 
whom  he  is  supposed  to  allude,  to  assert,  that  they,  in 
their  individual  capacities,  have  done  more  good,  in  the 
charities  of  life,  to  their  fellow-creatures  in  any  one 
year,  than  Mr.  Southey  has  done  harm  to  himself  by 
his  absurdities  in  his  whole  life ;  and  this  is  saying  a 
great  deal.    But  I  have  a  few  questions  to  ask. 


Istly,  Is  Mr.  Southey  the  author  of  "  Wat  Tyler?" 

2dly,  Was  he  not  refused  a  remedy  at  law  by  the 
highest  judge  of  his  beloved  England,  because  it  was 
a  blasphemous  and  seditious  publication  ? 

3dly,  Was  he  not  entitled  by  William  Smith,  in  full 
parliament,  "  a  rancorous  renegado  V 

4thly,  Is  he  not  poet  laureate,  with  his  own  lines  on 
Martin  the  regicide  staring  him  in  the  face  ? 

And,  5thly,  Putting  the  four  preceding  items  to- 
gether, with  what  conscience  dare  he  call  the  attention 
of  the  laws  to  the  publications  of  others,  be  they  what 
they  may  1 

I  say  nothing  of  the  cowardice  of  such  a  proceeding  ; 
its  meaness  speaks  for  itself;  but  I  wish  to  touch  upon 
the  motive,  which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  that 
Mr.  S.  has  been  laughed  at  a  little  in  some  recent  publi- 
cations, as  he  was  of  yore  in  the  "  Anti-jacobin  "  by  his 
present  patrons.  Hence  all  this  "  skimble-scamble  stuff" 
about  "  Satanic,"  and  so  forth.  However,  it  is  worthy 
of  him — "  gualis  ab  incepto." 

If  there  is  any  thing  obnoxious  to  the  political  opin- 
ions of  a  portion  of  the  public  in  the  following  poem, 
they  may  thank  Mr.  Southey.  He  might  have  written 
hexameters,  as  he  has  written  every  thing  else,  for 
aught  that  the  writer  cared — had  they  been  upon 
another  subject.  Buttoattempt  tocanonize  amonarch, 
who,  whatever  were  his  household  virtues,  was  neither 
a  successful  nor  a  patriot  king, — inasmuch  as  several 
years  of  his  reign  passed  in  war  with  America  and  Ire- 
land, to  say  nothing  of  the  aggression  upon  France, — 
like  all  other  exaggeration,  necessarily  begets  opposi- 
tion. In  whatever  manner  he  may  be  spoken  of  in 
this  new  "  Vision,"  his  public  career  wiU  not  be  more 
favorably  transmitted  by  history.  Of  his  private  virtues 


THE    VISION    OF   JUDGMENT. 


490 


(although  a  little  expensive  to  the  nation)  there  can  be 
no  donbt. 

With  regard  to  the  supernatural  personages  treated 
of,  I  can  only  say  that  I  know  as  much  about  them, 
and  (as  an  honest  man)  have  a  better  right  to  talk  of 
them,  than  Robert  Southey.  I  have  also  treated  them 
more  tolerantly.  The  way  in  which  that  poor  insane 
creature,  the  Laureate,  deals  about  his  judgments  in 
the  next  world,  is  like  his  own  judgment  in  this.  If 
it  was  not  completely  ludicrous,  it  would  be  something 
worse.     I  don't  think  that  there  is  much  more  to  say 

at  present. 

QUEVEDO   EEBIVIVUS. 

P.  S. — It  is  possible  that  some  readers  may  object,  in 
these  objectionable  times,  to  the  freedom  with  which 
saints,  angels,  and  spiritual  persons  discourse  in  this 
"  Vision."  But,  for  precedents  upon  such  points,  I  must 
refer  him  to  Fielding's  "  Journey  from  this  World  to 
to  the  next,"  and  to  the  Visions  of  myself,  the  said 
Quevedo,  in  Spanish  or  translated.  The  reader  is  also 
requested  to  observe,  that  no  doctrinal  tenets  are  insist- 
ed upon  or  discussed  ;  that  the  person  of  the  Deity  is 
carefully  withheld  from  sight,  which  is  more  than  can 
be  said  for  the  Laureate,  who  hath  thought  proper  to 
make  him  talk,  not  "  like  a  school  divine,"  but  like  the 
unscholarlike  Mr.  Southey.  The  whole  action  passes 
on  the  outside  of  heaven  ;  and  Chaucer's  Wife  of  Bath, 
Pulci's  Morgante  Maggiore,  Swift's  Tale  of  a  Tub,  and 
the  other  works  above  referred  to,  are  cases  in  point  of 
the  freedom  with  which  saints,  etc.,  may  be  permitted 
to  converse  in  works  not  intended  to  be  serious. 

Q.  n. 

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

(Prince  Gebir  having  doscended  Into  the  Infernal  regions,  the 
Bhades  of  U»  royal  ancestors  aro,  at  hU  request,  called  up  to  his 
Tiew ;  and  he  exclaims  to  his  ghostly  guide)— 

"  Aroar,  what  wretch  that  nearest  us  1  what  wretch 
Is  that  with  eyebrows  white  and  slanting  brow? 
Listen  1  him  yonder,  who,  bound  down  supine, 
Shrinks  yelling  from  that  sword  there,  engine-hnngf 
He  too  amongst  my  ancesters  I    I  hate 
Tha  despot,  but  the  dastard  I  despise. 
Was  ho  onr  countryman  V 


"  Alas,  O  king  I 
Iberia  bore  him,  but  the  breed  accursed 
Inclement  winds  blew  lighting  from  northeast." 
"  He  was  a  warrior  then,  nor  fear'd  the  gods  ?" 
"  Gebir,  he  fear'd  the  demons,  not  the  gods, 
Though  them  Indeed  his  daily  face  adored  ; 
And  was  no  warrior,  yet  the  thousand  lives 
Squandered,  as  stones  to  exercise  a  sling, 
And  the  tame  cruelty  and  cold  caprice — 
Oh,  madness  of  mankind  1  address'd,  adored  1"— 

Gebir,  p.  28. 

I  omit  noticing  some  edifying  Ithyphallics  of  Sa- 
vagius,  wishing  to  keep  the  proper  veil  over  them,  if 
his  grave  but  somewhat  indiscreet  worshipper  will  suf- 
fer it ;  but  certainly  these  teachers  of  "  great  moral 
lessons  "  are  apt  to  be  found  in  strange  company. 


THE  VISIOX  OF  JUDGMENT. 


Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate  : 
His  keys  were  rusty,  and  the  l.ock  was  dull, 

So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late  ; 
Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full, 

But  since  the  Gallic  era  "eighty-eight " 

The  devils  had  ta'en  a  longer,  stronger  pull, 

And  "  a  pull  all  together,"  as  they  say 

At  sea — which  drew  most  souls  another  way. 


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

Excepting  to  wind  up  tho  sun  and  moon, 
Or  curb  a  runaway  young  star  or  two, 

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

Splitting  some  planet  with  its  beautiful  tail, 

As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton  whale, 

III. 
The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high. 

Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  below ; 
Terrestrial  business  fiU'd  naught  in  the  sky 

Save  the  recording  angel's  black  bureau  ; 
Who  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multiply 

With  such  rapidity  of  \-ice  and  wo. 
That  he  had  stripp'd  off  both  his  wings  in  quills. 
And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills, 

IV. 
His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years, 

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

For  some  resource  to  turn  himself  about, 
And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers, 

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


500 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


V. 
This  was  a  handsome  board — at  least  for  heaven; 

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

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

Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  "Waterloo, 
They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust — 
The  page  was  so  besmear'd  with  blood  and  dust. 

VI. 
This  by  the  way ;  'tis  not  mine  to  record 

What  angels  shrink  from  :  even  the  very  devil 
On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr'd. 

So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  revel : 
Though  he  himself  had  sharpen'd  every  sword. 

It  almost  quench'd  his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 
(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deserves  insertion — 
'Tis,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion.) 

VII. 
Let's  skip  a  few  short  years  of  hollow  peace, 

Which  peopled  earth  no  better,  hell  as  wont. 
And  heaven  none — they  form  the  tyrant's  lease. 

With  nothing  but  new  names  subscribed  upon  't : 
Twill  one  day  finish  :  meantime  they  increase, 

"  With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,"  and  all  in  front 
Like  Saint  John's  foretold  beast ;  but  ours  are  bom 
Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 

VIII. 
In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn' 

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

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

A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone ! 
He  died — ^but  left  his  subjects  still  behind, 
One  half  as  mad — and  t'  others  no  less  blind. 

IX. 

.  He  died  ! — ^his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth  ; 
His  burial  made  some  pomp ;  there  was  some 
profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 

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

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


Form'd  a  sepulchral  melodrame.    Of  all 

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


'  [George  HI.  died  the  29tli  of  Jatraary,  1820,— a  year  in  which 
tbe  reralatlonar}'  spirit  brolie  out  rjl  over  the  Eoutb  of  Europe.] 


Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  wo. 
There  throbb'd  not  there  a  thought  which  pierced 
the  pall ; 

And  when  the  gorgeous  cofiin  was  laid  low, 
It  seem'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

XI. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !  It  might 
Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 

The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 
Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air ; 

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

As  the  mere  milUon's  base  unmummied  clay — 

Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 

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

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

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

In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still. 
Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncommon, 
Of  constancy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman. 

XIII. 
"  God  save  the  king !"    It  is  a  large  economy 

In  God  to  save  the  like  ;  but  if  he  will 
Be  saving,  all  the  better  ;  for  not  one  am  I 

Of  those  who  think  damnation  better  still : 
I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 

In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  future  ill 
By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  restriction, 
The  eternity  of  hell's  hot  jurisdiction. 

XIV. 

I  know  this  is  unpopular ;  I  know 

'Tis  blasphemous  ;  I  know  one  may  be  damn'd 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so  ; 

I  know  my  catechism  ;  I  know  we  are  cramm'd 
With  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o'erflow ; 

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

XV. 

God  help  us  aU  1  God  help  me  too !    I  am, 
God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can  wish, 

And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn, 
Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a  late  hook'd  fish, 

Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb  ; 
Not  that  I'm  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish 

As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry, 

Of  almost  everybody  born  to  die. 


THE    VISION    OF   JUDGMENT. 


601 


XVI. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

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

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

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

XVII. 
But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 

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

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

An  earthly  peacock's  tail,  with  heavenly  dyes ; 
To  which  the  saint  replied,  "  WeU,  what's  the  matter  ? 
Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter  ?" 

xviir. 

"  No,"  quoth  the  cherub ;   "  George  the  Third  is 
dead."  [apostle ; 

"  And  who  is  George  the  Third  ?"  replied  the 
"What    George?   what    Third r     "The    king    of 
England,"  said 

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

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

XIX. 
"  He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of  France ;' 

That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a  crown 
On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 

A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs — like  my  own : 
If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once 

When  I  cut  ears  ofl",  I  had  cut  him  down  ; 
But  having  but  my  l-eys,  and  not  my  brand, 
I  only  knock'd  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

XX. 

"  And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl, 

That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  took  him  in  ; 
And  there  he  sits  by  St.  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl ; 

'  [Lonis  XVI.,  guillotined  In  Jannary,  1793.]  [pavement 

•  ["  Then  I  beheld  the  King.    From  a  clond  which  cover'd  the 

His  reverend  form  uprose :  heavenward  hie  face  was  directed. 

Heavenward  his  cyea  were  raised,  and  heavenward  his  arms 

were  extended. 
Presently  one  approach'd  to  greet  blm  with  joyftil  obeisance ; 
He  of  whom,  in  an  hour  of  wo,  the  assassin  bereaved  us 
When  his  councils  most,  and  his  resolute  virtue,  was  needed. 
Thou !  said  the  Monarch,  here  ?     Thou,  Perceval  summon'd 

before  me?— 
Then,  as  his  walcen'd  mind  to  the  weal  of  the  country  reverted, 
What  of  bis  son,  ho  ask'd,  what  coarse  by  the  Prince  had  been 

foUow'd  ? 


That  fellow  Paul — the  parvenu !  The  skin 
Of  saint  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 

In  heaven,  and  upon  earth  redeem'd  his  sin, 
So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 
Better  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 

XXI. 
"  But  had  it  come  up  here  upon  its  shoulders. 

There  would  have  been  a  different  tale  to  tell : 
The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints  beholders 

Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  Uke  a  spell ; 
And  so  this  very  foolish  head  heaven  solders 

Back  on  its  trunk :  it  may  be  very  well, 
And  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 
Whatever  has  been  wisely  done  below." 

XXII. 

The  angel  answer'd,  "  Peter  !  do  not  pout  : 
The  king  who  comes  has  head  and  all  entire, 

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

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

Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue — 

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

XXIII. 
While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 

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

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

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

XXIV. 
But  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host 

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

Whose    barren   beach  with  frequent  wrecks  ia 
paved ; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest-toss'd ; 

Fierce  and  unfathomable  thoughts  engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face, 
And  v!?iere  he  gazed  a  gloom  pervaded  space. 


Right   in  his  father's  steps  hath  the  Regent  trod,  was  the 

answer : 
Firm  hath  he  proved  and  wise,  at  a  time  when  weakness  or 

error 
Would  liave  sunk  na  in  shame    and  to  ruin  Iiave  huri'd  ua 

beadiong. — 
Peace  is  obtain'd  then  at  last,  with  safety  and  honor  I  the 

Monarch 
Cried,  and  he  cUisp'd  his  liands,— I  thank  thee,    O   merciful 

Father  ! 
Peace   hath  been  won  by  the  swotd,  the  fitlthlU  misister 

answer'^ 
ParU  hath,"  &c.— £bu(A«y.] 


602 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


XXV. 
As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 

Ne'er  to  be  cnter'd  more  by  him  or  Sin, 
With  such  a  glance  of  supernatural  hate. 

As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within  ; 
He  patter'd  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate. 

And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin  : 
Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor. 
Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 

XXVI. 
The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together, 

Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon  ;  and  they  felt 
A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather. 

And  form'd  a  circle  like  Orion's  belt 
Around  their  poor  old  charge ;  who  scarce  knew 
whither 

His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they  gently  dealt 
With  royal  manes,  (for  by  many  stories. 
And  true,  we  learn  the  angels  are  all  Tories.) 

XXVII. 
As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 

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

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

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

XXVIII. 
And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 

A  beautiful  and  mighty  Thing  of  Light," 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 

Victorious  from  some  world-o'erthrowing  fight : 
My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 

With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving 
Johanna  Southcote,  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

XXIX. 
'Twas  the  archangel  Michael :  all  men  know 
The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  since 

'  [See  Captain  Sir  Edward  Parry's  Voyage,  in  1819-20,  for  the 
Discovery  of  a  Northwest  passage. — "  I  believe  it  is  almost  im- 
possible for  words  to  give  an  idea  of  the  beauty  and  variety  which 
this  magniflcent  phenomenon  displayed.  The  luminous  arch  had 
broken  into  irregular  masses,  streaming  with  much  rapidity  in 
different  directions,  varying  continually  In  shape  and  interest,  and 
extending  themselves  from  north,  by  the  east,  to  north.  At  one 
time  a  part  of  the  arch  near  the  zenith  was  bent  into  convolutions 
resembling  those  of  a  snake  in  motion,  and  undulating  rapidly, 
an  appearence  which  we  had  not  before  observed.  The  end 
towards  the  north  was  also  bent  like  a  shepherd's  crook.  The 
usual  pale  light  of  the  aurora  strongly  resembled  that  produced 
by  the  combustion  of  phosphorus ;  a  very  slight  tinge  of  red  was 
noticed  on  this  occasion,  when  the  aurora  was  most  vivid,  but  no 
other  colors  were  visible."  P.  135.] 

'  ["  Thus  as  he  spake,  methought  the  surrounding  space  dilated ; 
Over  head  I  beheld  the  infinite  ether ;  beneath  us 
Lay  the  solid  expanse  of  the  firmament  spread  like  a  pavement, 


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

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

One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits ; 

But  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 

XXX. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good; 

A  goodly  work  of  Him  from  whom  all  glory 
And  good  arise  ;  the  portal  pass'd — he  stood ; 
Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saints  hoary — 
(I  say  young,  begging  to  be  understood 

By  looks,  not  years ;  and  should  be  very  sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  St.  Peter, 
But  merely  that  they  seem'd  a  little  sweeter.) 

XXXI. 
The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bow'd  down  before 

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

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

No  thought,  save  for  his  Maker's  service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high  ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

XXXII. 

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

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

There  was  a  high,  immortal,  proud  regret 
In  cither's  eye,  as  if  'twere  less  their  will 

Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 

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

XXXIII. 
But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space :  we  know 

From  Job,  that  Satan  hath  the  power  to  pay 
A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so ; 

And  that  "  the  sons  of  God,"  like  those  of  clay. 

Wheresoever  I  look'd,  there  was  light  and  glory  around  me ; 
Brightest  it  seem'd  In  the  East,  where  the  New  Jerusalem 

glitter'd. 
Eminent  on  a  hill,  there  stood  the  Celestial  City ; 
Beaming  afer  It  shone ;  its  towers  and  cupolas  rising 
High  in  the  air  serene,  with  the  brightness  of  gold  in  the 

furnace, 
Where  on  their  breadth  the  splendor  lay  intense  and  quiescent : 
Part  with  a  firier  glow,  and  a  short  quick  tremulous  motion, 
Like  the  burning  pyropus ;  and  turrets  and  pinnacles  sparlded, 
Playing  in  Jets  of  light,  with  a  diamond-like  glory  corascant. 
Drawing  near,  I  beheld  what  over  the  portal  was  written : 
This  is  the  Gate,"  etc.— Smithey.] 

s  [Johanna  Southcote,  the  aged  lunatic,  who  fancied  herself, 
and  was  believed  by  many  thousand  followers,  to  be  with  child  of 
a  new  Messiah,  died  in  1815.  There  is  a  fuUaccotmt  of  her  in  the 
Quarterly  Ueview,  vol.  xxlv.  p.  496.] 


THE    VISION    OF   JUDGMENT. 


503 


Must  keep  him  company ;  and  we  might  show 

From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of  Good  and  Evil — but  'twould  take  up  hours. 

XXXIV. 
And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tract, 

To  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic, 
If  Job  be  allegory  or  a  fact. 

But  a  true  narrative ;  and  thus  I  pick 
From  out  the  whole  but  such  an  such  an  act, 

As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of  trick. 
"Tis  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 
And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

XXXV. 
The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 

The  gate  of  heaven ;  like  eastern  thresholds  is 
The  place  where  Death's  grand  cause  is  argued  o'er. 

And  souls  dfespatch'd  to  that  world  or  to  this ; 
And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 

A  civil  aspect :  though  they  did  not  kiss. 
Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 
There  pass'd  a  mutual  glance  of  great  poUteness. 

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

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

The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend. 
He  tum'd  as  to  an  equal  not  too  low. 

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

XXXVII. 
He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

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

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

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

XXXVIII. 
Michael  began :  "  What  wouldst  thou  with  this  man. 

Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord  ?  What  iU 
Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began. 

That  thou  canst  claim  him?  Speak!  and  dothy  will. 
If  it  be  just :  if  in  his  earthly  span 

He  hath  been  greatly  faiUng  to  fulfil 


'  [No  salst  in  the  course  of  bis  religions  warfare  was  more  sen- 
sible of  the  nnbappy  Jailute  of  pious  resolves  than  Dr.  Jobnson : 
be  said  one  day,  tAlklngtoan  acquaintance  on  this  subject, '  Sir, 


His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  saj', 

And  he  is  thine ;  if  not,  let  him  have  way." 

XXXIX. 

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

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

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

Were  of  his  weaknesses ;  yet  on  the  throne 

He  rcign'd  o'er  millions  to  serve  me  alone. 

XL. 

"  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine  ;  it  was. 
Once,  more  thy  Master's :  but  I  triumph  not 

In  this  poor  planet's  conquest ;  nor,  alas ! 
Need  He  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot : 

With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which  pass 
In  worship  round  Him,  He  may  have  forgot 

Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things : 

I  think  few  worth  damnation  save  their  kings, — 

XLI. 

"  And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 
Assert  my  right  as  lord ;  and  even  had 

I  such  an  Inclination,  'twere  (as  you 

Well  know)  superfluous ;  they  are  grown  so  bad. 

That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 
Than  leave  them  to  themselves :  so  much  more  mad 

And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse. 

Heaven  cannot  make  them  better,  nor  I  worse. 

XLII. 
"  Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again,      [worm 

When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  poor 
Began  in  youth's  first  bl(X)m  and  flush  to  reign. 

The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  different  form. 
And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 

Of  ocean  call'd  him  king :  through  many  a  storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time  ; 

For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 

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

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

How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm ; 
How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold. 

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

XLIV. 
"  'Tis  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  first  to  last, 


bell  is  paved  with  good  Intentions.' ' 
1835.] 


-BoneeU,  vol.  v.  p.  305,  ed. 


504 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


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

Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  rule 
Of  monarchs — from  the  bloody  rolls  amass'd 

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

XLV. 
"  He  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the  free  : 

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

round  George   the  Third  their  first   opponent. 
History  was  ever  stain'd  as  his  will  be  [Whose 

With  national  and  individual  woes  ? 
I  grant  his  household  abstinence  ;  I  grant 
His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want ; 

XLVI. 
"  I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort ;  own 

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

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

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

XtVII. 
"  The  New  World  shook  him  off;  the  Old  yet  groans 

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

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

Wlio  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  forgot 
A  lesson  which  shall  be  re-taught  them,  wake 
Upon  the  thrones  of  earth  ;  but  let  them  quake  I 

XLVIII. 
"  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 

The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth,  implored 
A  part  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old, — 

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

Must  be  your  souls,  if  you  have  not  abhorr'd 
The  foe  to  Catholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  nation. 

XLIX. 
"  True  !  he  aUow'd  them  to  prayQod  :  but  as 

■  [George  III.'s  determination  against  the  Catliolic  claims.] 


[- 


■  "  From  the  opposite  region, 


Heavy  and  sulphurous  clouds  rollM  on,  and  completed  the  circle. 
There  with  the  Spirits  accursed,  in  congenial  darkness  enveloped, 
Were  the  Souls  of  the  Wicked,  who,  wilful  in  guilt  and  error, 
Chose  the  service  of  sin,  and  now  were  abiding  its  wages. 
Change  of  place  to  them  brought  no  reprieval  from  anguish  ; 
They  in  their  c\1l  thoughts  and  desires  of  impotent  malice. 


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

With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe." 
But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place. 

And  cried,  "  You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw  : 
Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelph, 
While  I  am  guard,  may  I  be  damn'd  myself  1 

L. 
"  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchange 

My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  royal  bedlam  bigot  range 

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

The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure ;' 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 
I'll  try  to  coax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven." 

LI. 
Here  Michael  interposed  :  "  Good  saint !  and  devil ! 

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

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

Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say  ? — "  No." — "  If  you  please, 
I'll  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses." 

LII. 
Then  Satan  tum'd  and  waved  his  swarthy  hand, 

Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  qualities 
Clouds  farther  oflf  than  we  can  understand, 

Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies ; 
Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 

In  all  the  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 
Let  oflF  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mentions 
As  one  of  Satan's  most  sublime  inventions.' 

LIII. 
This  was  a  signal  unto  such  damn'd  souls 

As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 
Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 

Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come ;  no  station 
Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 

Of  hell  assign'd  ;  but  where  their  inclination 
Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game. 
They  may  range  freely — being  damn'd  the  same. 

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

Envy,  and  hate,  and  blasphemous  rage,  and  remorse  unavailing. 
Carried  a  hell  within,  to  which  all  outer  affliction. 
So  it  abstracted  the  sense,  might  be  deem'd  a  remission  of  torment. 
At  the  edge  of  the  cloud,  the  Princes  of  Darkness  were  marshall'd ; 
Dimly  descried  within  were  wings  and  truculent  faces ; 
And  in  the  thick  obscure  there  struggled  a  mutinous  uproar, 
Railing,  and  fury,  and  strife,  that  the  whole  deep  body  of  darkness 
RoH'd  like  a  troubled  sea,  with  a  wide  and  a  manifold  motion." 

[Souihey. 


THE    VISION    OF    JUDGMENT. 


505 


It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 
Stuck  in  their  loins  ;'  or  like  to  an  "  entre  " 

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

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

LV. 
Wlien  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell — 

About  ten  million  times  the  distance  reckon'd 
From  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 

How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a  second, 
For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel  f con'd. 

The  fogs  of  London,  through  which,  dimly  bea- 
The  weathercocks  are  gilt  some  thrice  a  year, 
If  that  the  summer  is  not  too  severe  :' — 

LVI. 
I  say  that  I  can  tell — 'twas  half  a  minute  : 

I  know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more  time 
Ere,  pack'd  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it ; 

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

'Gainst  Satan's  couriers  bound  for  their  own  clime. 
The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 
To  reach  its  goal — the  devil  not  half  a  day. 

LVII. 
Upon  the  verge  of  space,  about  the  size 

Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appear'd, 
(I've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 

In  the  iEgean,  ere  a  squall ;)  it  near'd, 
And,  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise  ; 

Like  an  aerial  ship  it  tack'd,  and  steer'd. 
Or  was  steer'd,  (I  am  doubtful  of  the  grammar 
Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza  stammer ; — 

LVIII. 

But  take  your  choice ;)  and  then  it  grew  a  cloud ; 

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

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

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

'  [A  gold  or  gilt  key,  peeping  from  below  the  skirts  of  the  coat, 

marks  a  lord  chamberlain.] 
'  [An  allusion  to  Horace  Walpole's  expression  In  a  letter—"  The 

summer  has  set  in  with  Its  umal  tererity."] 
'  ["  On  the  cerulean  floor  by  that  dread  circle  surrounded. 
Stood  the  soul  of  the  King  alone.    In  fi'ont  was  the  Presence 
Veil'd  with  excess  of  light ;  and  behind  was  the  blackness  of 
darkness ;  [ation— 

When  the  trumpet  was  blown,  and  the  Angel  made  proclam- 
Lo,  where  the  King  appears  1  Come  forward,  ye  who  arntign  him  1 
Forth  from  the  lurid  cloud  a  Demon  came  at  the  summons. 
It  was  the  Spirit  by  whom  his  rlghteons  reign  had  been  troubled ; 
(i4 


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

Who  damn'd  away  his  eyes  as  heretofore  :  [wull  ?" 
There  Paddy  brogued  "  By  Jasus  !" — "  What's  your 

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

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

LX. 

Besides  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch,  and  Dane  ; 

In  short,  a  universal  shoal  of  shades, 
From  Otaheite's  isle  to  Salisbury  Plaiu, 

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

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

LXI. 
When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  first  grew  pale. 

As  angels  can  ;  next,  like  Italian  twilight. 
He  tum'd  all  colors — as  a  peacock's  tail, 

Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  skylight 
In  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  stale. 

Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  by  night, 
Or  a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 
Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green  and  blue. 

LXII. 
Then  he  address'd  himself  to  Satan  :  "  Why — 

My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem  you,  though 
Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 

I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  a  personal  foe  ; 
Our  difference  is  political,  and  I 

Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below. 
You  know  my  great  respect  for  you  :  and  this 
Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss — 

LXIII. 
"  Why,  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  you  abuse 

My  caU  for  witnesses  ?    I  did  not  mean 
That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell  produce  ; 

'Tis  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  clean, 
True  testimonies  are  enough  :  we  lose 

Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 

Likest  in  form  uncouth  to  the  hideous  Idols  whom  India 
(Long  by  guilty  neglect  to  hellish  delusions  abandoned,) 
Worships  with  horrible  rites  of  self-destruction  and  torture. 
Many-headed  and  monstrous  the  Fiend ;  with  numberless  faces, 
Numberless  bestial  ears  erect  to  all  rumors,  and  restless,  [arrows. 
And  with  numberless  mouths  which  were  filled  with  lies  as  with 
Clamors  arose  as  he  came,  a  conftision  of  turbulent  voices, 
Maledictions,  and  blatant  tongues,  and  viperous  hisses ; 
And  in  the  hubbub  of  senseless  sounds  the  watchwords  of 

diction,— 
Freedom,  Invaded  Rights,  Corraption,  and  War,  and  Oppre«- 
Londly  enounced  were  heard."— iSk>tt<ft«y.]  [slon — 


506 


BYEON'S  WORKS, 


The  accusation  and  defence  :  if  we 
Hear  both,  'twill  stretch  our  immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan  replied,  "  To  me  the  matter  is 

Indifferent,  in  a  personal  point  of  view  : 

I  can  have  fifty  better  souls  than  this 
With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  through 

Already ;  and  I  merely  argued  his 

Late  majesty  of  Britain's  case  with  you 

Upon  a  point  of  form  :  you  may  dispose 

Of  him  ;  I've  kings  enough  below,  God  knows  1" 

LXV. 

Thus  spoke  the  Demon,'  (late  call'd  "  multifaced  " 
By  multo-scribbling  Southey.)    "  Then  we'll  call 

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

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

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

But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well  as  any." 

LXVI. 

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

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

By  people  in  the  next  world  ;  where  unite 

All  the  costumes  since  Adam's,  right  or  wrong, 

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

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 


C 


•  "  But  when  he  stood  In  the  Presence, 


Then  was  the  Fiend  dismay'd,  though  with  impudence  clothed 
as  a  garment ;  [ter'd 

And  the  lying  tongues  were  mnte,  and  the  lips,  which  had  scat- 
Accusation  and  slander,  were  utill.    No  time  for  evasion  [hling 
This,  in  the  Presence  he  stood  :  no  place  for  flight ;  for  dissem- 
No  possibility  there.    From  the  souls  on  the  edge  of  the  dark- 
ness, [hade  them 
Two  he  produced,  prime  movers  and  agents  of  mischief,  and 
Show  themselves  faithful  now  to  the  cause  for  which  they  had 
lahor'd.  [now 
Wretched  and  guilty  souls,  where  now  their  audacity  ?    Where 
Are  the  insolent  tongues  so  ready  of  old  at  rejoinder  ? 
Where  the  lofty  pretences  of  public  virtue  and  freedom  ?  [vective. 
Where  the  gibe,  and  the  jeer,  and  the  threat,  the  envenom'd  in- 
Calnmny,  falsehood,  fraud,  and  the  whole  ammunition  of  malice  ? 
Wretched  and  guilty  souls,  they  stood  in  the  face  of  their  Sove- 
reign,                                                                        [injured, 
Conscious  and  self-condemn'd ;  confronted  with  him  they  had 
At  the  Judgment-seat*  they  stood." — S&uthey.] 
*  [In  reference  to  this  part  of  Mr.  Southey's  poem,  the  Eclectic 
Reviewer,  wc  believe  the  late  Rev.  Robert  Hall,  said — "Mr. 
Southey's  'Vision  of  Judgment'  is  unquestionably  a  profane 
poem.    The  assertion  will  stagger  those  only  who  do  not  consider 
what  is  the  import  of  the  word.    Profaneness  is  the  irreverent 
use  of  sacred  names  and  things.    A  burlesque  of  things  sacred, 
whether  intentional  or  not,  is  profaneness.    To  apply  the  language 
of  Scripture  in  a  ludicrous  connection  is  to  profene  it.    The  mum- 
mery of  prayer  on  the  stage,  though  in  a  serious  play,  is  a  gross 
profanation  of  sacred  things.    And  all  acts  which  come  under  the 
taking  of  God's  name  in  vain  are  acts  of  profaneness.    According 
to  this  definition  of  the  word,  the  Laureate's  '  Vision  of  Jud''- 


LXVII. 
The  spirit  look'd  around  upon  the  crowds 

Assembled,  and  exclaim'd,  "  My  friends  of  all 
The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these  clouds ; 

So  let 's  to  business  :  why  this  general  call  ? 
If  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  shrouds. 

And  'tis  for  an  election  that  they  bawl. 
Behold  a  candidate  with  untum'd  coat ! 
Saint  Peter,  may  I  count  upon  your  vote  ?" 

LXVIII. 
"  Sir,"  replied  Michael,  "  you  mistake  ;  these  things 

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

Is  the  tribunal  met :  so  now  you  know." 
"  Then  I  presume  those  gentlemen  with  vrings," 

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

LXIX. 

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

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

To  Uft  itself  against  the  loftiest."—"  Some," 

Said  Wilkes,  "  don't  wait  to  see  them  laid  in  lead, 

For  such  a  liberty — and  I,  for  one. 

Have  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath  the  sun." 

LXX. 
"  Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 

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

ment '  is  a  poem  grossly  and  unpardonably  profane.  Mr.  Sonthey's 
intention  was,  we  are  well  persuaded,  very  far  from  being  irre- 
ligious ;  and,  indeed,  the  profaneness  of  the  poem  partly  arises 
from  the  ludicrous  effect  produced  by  the  bad  taste  and  imbecility 
of  the  performance,  for  which  his  intentions  are  clearly  not  an- 
swerable. Whatever  liberties  a  poet  may  claim  to  take,  in  repre- 
sentations partly  allegorical,  with  the  invieible  realities  of  the 
world  to  come,  the  ignis  fatuus  of  political  zeal  has,  in  this  in- 
stance, carried  Mr.  Sonthey  far  beyond  any  assignable  bounds  of 
poetical  license.  It  would  have  been  enough  to  celebrate  the 
apotheosis  of  the  monarch ;  but,  when  he  proceeds  to  travestie 
the  final  judgment,  and  to  convert  the  awful  tribunal  of  Heaven 
into  a  drawing-room  levee,  where  he,  the  Poet  Laureate,  takes 
upon  himself  to  play  the  part  of  a  lord  in  waiting,  presenting  one 
Georgian  worthy  after  another  to  kiss  hands  on  promotion,— what 
should  be  grave  is.  Indeed,  turned  to  farce."] 

'  [  "  Beholding  the  foremost. 

Him  by  the  cast  of  his  eye  oblique,  I  knew  as  the  firebrand 
Whom  the  unthinking  populace  held  for  their  idol  and  hero, 
Lord  of  Misrule  in  his  day.  But  how  was  that  countenance  alter'd 
Where  emotion  of  fear  or  of  shame  had  never  been  witness'd ; 
That  invincible  forehead  abash'd ;  and  those  eyes  wherein  malice 
Once  had  been  wont  to  shine  with  wit  and  hilarity  temper'd. 
Into  how  deep  a  gloom  their  mournful  expression  had  settled  I 
Little  availed  it  now  that  not  from  a  purpose  malignant, 
Not  with  evil  intent,  he  had  chosen  the  service  of  evil. 
But  of  his  own  desires  the  slave,  with  profligate  impulse. 
Solely  by  selfishness  moved,  and  reckless  of  aught  that  might 
Could  he  plead  in  only  excuse  a  confession  of  baseness  ?  [follow 
Could  he  hide  the  extent  of  his  guilt ;  or  hope  to  atone  for 
Faction  excited  at  home,  when  all  old  feuds  were  abated ; 
Insurrection  abroad,  and  the  train  of  woes  that  had  folloW'd  I 


THE    VISION    OF  JUDGMENT. 


507 


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

Besides,  I  beat  him  hollow  at  the  last. 
With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons  :  in  the  sky 

I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 

His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 

LXXI. 

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

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

To  see  him  punish'd  here  for  their  excess, 

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

Their  place  below  :  for  me,  I  have  forgiven, 

And  vote  his  '  habeas  corpus  '  into  heaven." 

LXXII. 

"  "Wilkes,"  said  the  Devil,  "  I  understand  all  this  ; 

You  turn'd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you  died,' 
And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 

To  grow  a  whole  one  on  the  other  side 
Of  Charon's  ferry ;  you  forget  that  his 

Reign  is  concluded ;  whatsoe'er  betide. 
He  won't  be  sovereign    more :    you've   lost    your 

labor. 
For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neighbor. 

LXXIII. 

"  However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 
When  I  beheld  you  in  your  jesting  way. 

Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 
Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day. 

With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
His  pupil ;  I  knew  what  to  think,  I  say  : 

■  That  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds  farther  ills  ; 

I'll  have  him  gag(fcL — 'twas  one  of  his  own  bills. 


Discontent  and  disloyalty,  lilce  the  teeth  of  the  dragon, 
He  had  sown  on  the  winds ;  they  had  ripen'd  beyond  the  At- 
Thence  in  natural  birth,  sedition,  revolt,  revolution,  [lantic  ;* 
France  had  received  the  seeds,  and  reap'd  the  harvest  of  horrors ; 
Where — where  should  the  plague  be  stay'd  ?  Oh,  most  to  be 
They  of  all  souls  in  bale,  who  see  no  term  to  the  evil  [pitied 
They  by  their  guilt  have  raised,  no  end  to  their  inner  upbraid- 
Him  I  could  not  choose  but  know,"  etc. — Sauthey^  [ings  1 

•  ["  Our  new  world  has  generally  the  credit  of  having  first 
lighted  the  torch  which  was  to  illuminate,  and  soon  set  in  a 
blaze,  the  finest  part  of  Gnrope ;  yet  I  think  the  first  flint  was 
■track,  and  the  first  spark  elicited,  by  the  patriot  John  Wilkes,  a 
few  years  before.  In  a  time  of  profound  peace,  the  restless  spirit 
of  men,  deprived  of  other  objects  of  public  curiosity,  seized  with 
avidity  on  those  questions  which  were  then  agitated  with  so  mnch 
violence  in  England,  touching  the  rights  of  the  people  and  of  the 
government,  and  the  nature  of  power.  The  end  of  the  political 
drama  was  in  favor  of  what  was  called,  and  in  some  respects  was, 
the  liberty  of  the  people.  Encouraged  by  the  success  of  this  great 
comedian,  the  curtain  was  no  sooner  dropped  on  the  scene  of  Eu- 
rope, than  new  actors  hastened  to  raise  it  again  in  America,  and 
to  give  the  world  a  new  play,  infinitely  more  interesting  and  more 
brilliant  than  the  flr»t."--jr.  Simond.] 


LXXIV. 
"  Call  Junius  !'"    From  the  crowd  a  shadow  stalk'd, 

And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general  squeeze, 
So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk'd 

In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease, 
But  were  all  ramm'd,  and  jamm'd,  (but  to  be  balk'd, 

As  we  shall  see.)  and  jostled  hands  and  knees, 
Like  wind  compress'd  and  pent  within  a  bladder, 
Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

LXXV. 

The  shadow  came — a  tall,  thin,  gray-hair'd  figure. 
That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth  ; 

Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigor. 
But  naught  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth  : 

Now  it  wax'd  little,  then  again  grew  bigger. 
With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth  ; 

But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 

Changed  every  instant — to  what,  none  could  say. 

LXXVI. 

The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 

Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features  were ; 

The  Devil  himself  seem'd  puzzled  even  to  guess  ; 
They  varied  like  a  dream — now  here,  now  there ; 

And  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press. 
They  knew  him  perfectly ;  and  one  could  swear 

He  was  his  father :  upon  which  another 

Was  sure  he  was  his  mother's  cousin's  brother  : 

LXXVII. 

Another,  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  knight. 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  man-midwife  :'  but  the  wight 

Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  oft  as  they  their  minds  :  though  in  full  sight 

He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased ; 


'  [For  the  political  history  of  John  Wilkes,  who  died  chamber, 
lain  of  the  city  of  London,  we  must  refer  to  any  history  of  the 
reign  of  George  in.  His  profligate  personal  character  is  abun- 
dantly displayed  in  the  collection  of  his  letters,  published  by  hU 
daughUr!  since  his  death,] 

^  ["  Who  might  the  other  be,  his  comrade  in  guilt  and  in  suflTering, 
Brought  to  the  proof  like  him,  and  sbrinlung  like  him  ttom  the 

trial f 
Nameless  the  Libeller  lived,  and  shot  bis  arrows  in  darkness ; 
Undetected  he  pass'd  to  the  grave,  and,  leaving  behind  him 
Noxious  works  on  earth,  and  the  pest  of  an  evil  example. 
Went  to  the  world  beyond,  where  no  offences  are  hidden. 
Mask'd  had  he  been  in  his  life,  and  now  a  visor  of  iron, 
Riveted  round  his  head,  had  abolish'd  his  features  forever. 
Speechless  the  slanderer  stood,  and  turn'd  his  face  from  the 
Iron-bound  as  it  was,  ...  so  Insupportably  dreadftil  [Monarch. 
Soon  or  late  to  conscious  guilt  is  the  eye  of  the  injured." 

SouUuy.'] 
•  [Among  the  various  persons  to  whom  the  Letters  of  Junius 
have  been  attributed  we  find  the  Duke  of  Portland,  Lord  George 
Sackville,  Sir  Philip  Francis,  Mr.  Burke,  Mr.  Dunning,  the  Rev, 
John  Home  Tooka,  Mr.  Hugh  Boyd,  Dr.  WUmot,  etc.] 


608 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  man  was  a  phantasmagoria  in 
Himself — he  was  so  volatile  and  thin." 

LXXVIII. 
The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  one, 

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

It  varied,  till  I  don't  think  his  own  mother 
(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 

Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  t'  other ; 
Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task, 
At  this  epistolary  "  Iron  mask.'" 

LXXIX. 
For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem — 

"  Three  gentlemen  at  once,"  (as  sagely  says 
Good  Mrs.  Malaprop  ;)  then  you  might  deem 

That  he  was  not  even  one  ;  now  many  rays 
"Were  flashing  round  him  ;  and  now  a  thick  steam 

Hid  from  sight — like  fogs  on  London  days  : 
Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people's  fancies, 
And  certes  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis.' 

LXXX. 
I've  an  hypothesis — 'tis  quite  my  own  ; 

I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne, 

And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer. 
On  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown  : 

It  is — my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear  ! 
'Tis  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call 
Was  really,  truly,  nobody  at  all. 

LXXXI. 
I  don't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 

"Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily  view 
Them  written  without  heads  ;  and  books,  we  see. 

Are  flll'd  as  well  without  the  latter  too  : 
And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 

For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due. 
Their  author,  like  the  Niger's  mouth,  will  bother 
The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author. 

'  ["  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  Why  should  Junius  be  dead  f 
If  suddenly  apoplexed,  would  he  rest  in  his  grave  without  send- 
ing his  tiiuAov  to  shout  in  the  ears  of  posterity  '  Junius  was  X. 
Y.  Z.,  Esq.,  buried  ia  the  parish  of  *  *  *  *  ♦.'  Repair  his  monu- 
ment, ye  churchwardens  1  Print  a  new  edition  of  his  Letters,  ye 
booksellers  I  Impossible,— the  man  nmet  be  alive,  and  will  never 
die  without  the  disclosure.  I  like  him ;— he  was  a  good  hater."— 
Byron  Diary,  Nov.  23, 1813.    Sir  Philip  Francis  died  in  Dec.  1818.] 

''  [The  mystery  of  "  I'homme  au  masque  de  fer,"  the  everlast- 
ing pnz2le  of  the  last  century,  has  at  length,  in  general  opinion, 
been  cleared  up,  by  a  French  work  published  in  1825,  and  which 
formed  the  basis  of  an  entertaining  one  in  English  by  Lord  Dover, 
gee  Quarterly  Beview,  vol.  xxxiv.  p.  19.] 

'  [That  the  work  entitled  "  The  Identity  of  Junius  with  a  Dis- 
tipguished  Living  Cliaracter  established,"  proves  Sir  Philip  Fran- 
cis to  be  Junius,  we  will  not  affirm  ;  but  this  we  can  safely  assert ; 
that  it  accnpiijtates  such  a  mass  of  circumstantial  evidence  as  ren- 
ders it  extremely  difficult  to  believe  he  is  not,  and  that,  if  so  many 
coincidences  shall  be  found  to  have  misled  us  in  this  case,  our 
fialth  in  all  conclusions  drawn  from  proofs  of  a  similar  kind  may 
henceforth  be  shaken. — ^Mackintds^.] 


LXXXII. 

"  And  who  and  what  art  thou  ?"  the  Archangel  said. 

"  For  that  you  may  consult  my  title-page," 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  shade  : 

"  If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now." — "  Canst  thou  upbraid," 

Continued  Michael,  "  George  Rex,  or  allege 
Aught  further  2"  Junius  answer'd,  "  You  had  better 
First  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter  : 

LXXXIII. 

"  My  charges  upon  record  wiU  outlast 
The  brass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb." 

"  Repent'st  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  "  of  some  past 
Exaggeration  ?  something  which  may  doom 

Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true  ?    Thou  wast 
Too  bitter — is  it  not  so  ? — in  thy  gloom 

Of  passion  ?" — "  Passion  !"  cried  the  phantom  dim, 

"  I  loved  my  country,  and  I  hated  him." 

LXXXIV. 

"  "What  I  have  written,  I  have  written  :  let 
The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine  !"    So  spoke 

Old  "  Nominis  Umbra  ;"*  and  while  speaking  yet, 
Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke.' 

Then  Satan  said  to  Michael,  "  Don't  forget    [Tooke, 
To  call  George  "Washington,"  and  John  Home 

And  Franklin  ;" — but  at  this  time  there  was  heard 

A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 

At  length  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 

Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post. 
The  devil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 

His  way,  and  look'd  as  if  his  journey  cost 
Some  trouble.    "When  his  burden  down  he  laid, 

"  "What 's  this  ?"  cried  Michael ;  "  why,  'tis  not  a 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  the  incubus ;  "  but  he  [ghost  ?" 
Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  afiair  to  me. 


*  The  well-known  motto  of  Junius  is,  "  Stat  nominis  umira."'i 
'  ["  Caitiffs,  are  ye  dumb  f  cried  the  multifeced  Demon  in  anger ; 
Think  ye  then  by  shame  to  shorten  the  term  of  your  peuance  ? 
Back  to  your  penal  dens  I — And  with  horrible  grasp  gigantic 
Seizing  the  guilty  pair,  he  swung  them  aloft,  and  in  vengeance 
Hurrd  them  all  abroad,  far  into  the  sulphurous  darkness. 
Sons  of  faction,  be  wam'd  1    And  ye,  ye  Slanderers  I  learn  ye 
Justice,  and  bear  in  mind  that  after  death  there  is  judgment. 
WhirUng,  away  they  flew  I    Nor  long  himself  did  he  tarry,    . 
Ere  from  the  ground  where  he  stood,  caught  up  by  a  vehement 
whirlwind,  [thunder 

He  too  was  hurried  away :   and  the  blast  with  lightning  and 
Volleying  aright  and  aleft  amid  the  accumulate  blackness, 
Scatter'd  its  inmates  accursed,  and  beyond  the  limits  of  ether 
Drove  the  hircme  host  obscene,  they  howling  and  groaning 
Fell  precipitate  down  to  their  dolorous  place  of  endurance." — 

[Smithey. 

'  [ "  The  roll  of  the  thunder  [adamantine 

Ceased,  and  all  sounds  were  hush'd,  till  again  from  the  gate 
Was  the  voice  of  the  Angel  heard  through  the  silence  of  Heaven. 
Ho !  he  exclaim'd  King  George  of  £ngland  standeth  in  Judgment  I 


THE    VISION    OF   JUDGMENT. 


609 


LXXXVI. 
"  Confound  the  renegado  1    I  hare  sprain'd 

My  left  wing,  he  's  so  heavy  ;  one  would  think 
Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain'd. 

But  to  the  point ;  while  hovering  o'er  the  brink 
Of  Skiddaw,'  (where  as  usual  it  still  rain'd,) 

I  saw  a  taper,  far  below  me,  wink, 
And  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  libel — 
Ko  less  on  history  than  the  Holy  Bible. 

LXXXVll. 
"  The  former  is  the  devil's  scripture,  and 

The  latter  yours,  good  Michael ;  so  the  affair 
Belongs  to  all  of  us,  you  understand. 

I  snatch'd  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there, 
And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand  : 

I've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air — 
At  least  a  quarter  it  can  hardly  be  : 
I  dare  say  that  his  wife  is  still  at  tea." 

LXXXVIII. 
Here  Satan  said,  "  I  know  this  man  of  old, 

And  have  expected  him  for  some  time  here  ; 
A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold, 

Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere : 
But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 

Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus  dear : 
"We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being  bored 
With  carriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 

LXXXIX. 

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

The  very  business  you  are  now  upon, 
And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the  Fates. 

Who  knows  to  what  his  ribaldry  may  run. 
When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's,  prates  ?" 

HeU  bath  been  damb  ia  bis  presence.  Ye  wbo  on  eartb  arraignM 

bim. 
Come  ye  before  bim  now,  and  bere  accnse  or  absolve  him  I 

....    From  tbe  Souls  of  tbe  Blessed, 
Some  wore  there  tben  wbo  advanced ;  and  more  from  the  skirts 

of  the  meeting, 
Spirits  wbo  had  not  yet  accomplish'd  their  purification, 
Yet  being  cleansed  from  pride,  from  faction  and  error  deliver'd. 
Purged  of  tbe  film  wherewith  the  eye  of  the  mind  is  clouded, 

They,  in  their  better  state,  saw  all  things  clear 

One  alone  rcmain'd,  when  the  rest  bad  retired  to  their  station, 
bilently  he  bad  stood,  and  still  unmoved  and  in  silence. 
With  a  steady  mien,  regarded  the  face  of  the  Monarch. 
Thoughtful  awhile  he  gazed : — 

'  Here  then  at  the  Gate  of  Heaven  we  are  met  1'  said  the  Spirit ; 
'  King  of  England  !  albeit  in  life  opposed  to  each  other. 
Here  we  meet  at  last.    Not  unprepared  for  the  meeting 
Ween  I ;  for  we  had  both  outlived  all  enmity,  rendering 
Each  to  each  that  justice  which  each  from  each  bad  withholden. 
In  tbe  course  of  events,  to  thee  I  seem'd  as  a  Rebel,  [truly. 

Thou  a  Tyrant  to  me ; — so  strongly  doth  circumstance  rule  men 
During  evil  days,  when  right  and  wrong  are  confounded  I" 
'  Washington  I'  said  the  Monarch,  '  well  liast  thou  spolicn,  and 
Just  to  thyself  and  to  me.    On  them  is  the  guilt  of  the  contest 
Wbo,  for  wicked  ends,  with  foul  arts  of  faction  and  Ihlsehood, 
Kindled  and  fed  the  flame :  but  verily  they  tiave  their  guerdon. 
Thou  and  I  are  ft-ee  from  offence.'— 


"  Let 's  hear,"  quoth  Michael,  "  what  he  has  to  say ; 
You  know  we're  bound  to  that  in  every  way." 

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

By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below, 
Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  and  hem,  and  pitch 

His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  wo 
To  all  tmhappy  hearers  within  reach 

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

XCI. 

But  ere  the  spavin'd  dactyls  could  be  spurr'd 

Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay. 
Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loudly  through  their  long  array ; 
And  Michael  rose  ere  he  could  get  a  word 

Of  all  his  founder'd  verses  under  way,  [best — 
And  cried,  "  For  God's  sake,  stop,  my  friend  !  'twere 
Non  Di,  non  hominei — you  know  the  rest  I"* 

XCII. 
A  general  bustle  spread  throughout  the  throng. 

Which  seem'd  to  hold  all  verse  in  detestatien  ; 
The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 

When  upon  service ;  and  the  generation 
Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 

Before,  to  profit  by  a  new  occasion ;  [what !' 

The  monarch,  mute  till  then,  exclaim'd  "  What ! 
Pye'  come  again  ?    No  more — no  more  of  that  1" 

XCIII. 

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

When  Castlereagh  has  been  up  long  enough, 
(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  state. 

When  that  Spirit  withdrew,  the  Monarch  around  the  assembly 
Look'd,  but  none  else  came  forth,"  etc.— Ibid.] 
'  [Mr.  Southey's  residence  is  on  the  shore  of  Derwentwatcr, 
near  tbe  mountain  Skiddaw.] 

a  [ "  Mcdiocribus  esse  poelis 

Non  Di,  non  homines,  non  concessere  columnie." — Horace.'] 

'  [Tbe  king's  trick  of  repeating  bis  words  in  this  way  was  a 
fertile  source  of  ridicule  to  Peter  Pindar,  (Dr.  Wolcot ;)  for  ex- 
ample— 

"  The  conquering  monarch,  stopping  to  take  breath 
Amidst  the  regiments  of  death. 

Now  tum'd  to  Whilbread  with  complacence  ronnd ; 
And,  merry,  thus  address'd  the  man  of  beer  ;— 
'  Whitbread,  is  't  true  ?    I  bear,  I  bear. 

You're  of  an  ancient  family— rcnown'd— 
What  f    What  f    I'm  told  that  you're  a  limb 
Of  Pym,  the  famous  fellow  Pym : 
What,  Whitbread,  is  it  true  what  people  say  f 
Son  of  a  roundhead  are  you  ?  ho!  f  hoe  f  ha;  f 
Thirtieth  of  January  don't  you  feed  f 
Yes,  yes,  you  eat  calf's  head,  you  eat  calf's  head  I'  "  ] 
*  [Henry  James  Pye,  the  predecessor  of  Mr.  Southey  in  the 
poet-laurcateship,  died  in  1813.  He  was  the  author  of  many  works, 
besides  his  official  Odes,  among  others,  "Alfred,"  an  epic  poem — 
all  of  which  have  been  long  fince  defunct.    Pye  was  a  man  of 
good  family  in  Berkshire,  sat  some  time  in  Parliament,  and  was 
eminently  respectable  in  every  thing  bnt  his  poetry.] 


510 


BYROX'S    WORKS. 


I  mean  the — the  slaves  Juar  note  ;)  some  cried,  "  Off, 
As  at  a  farce,  till,  grown  quite  desperate,      [off !" 
The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray'd  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 

XCIV. 

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

A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  the  face. 
With  a  hook  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which  gave 

A  smart  and  sharper-looking  sort  of  grace 
To  his  whole  aspect,  w^hich,  though  rather  grave, 

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

XCV. 

Then  Michael  blew  his  trump,  and  stiU'd  the  noise. 
With  one  still  greater,  as  is  yet  the  mode 

On  earth  besides  ;  except  some  grumbling  voice. 
Which  now  and  then  will  make  a  slight  inroad 

Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  twice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  overcrow'd  ; 

And  now  the  bard  could  plead  his  own  bad  cause. 

With  all  the  attitudes  of  self-applause. 

XCVI. 

He  said — (I  only  give  the  heads) — he  said. 
He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbUng  ;  'twas  his  way 

Upon  all  topics  ;  'twas,  besides,  his  bread. 

Of  which  he  butter'd  both  sides  ;  'twould  delay 

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

To  name  his  works — he  would  but  cite  a  few —  [loo." 

"Wat  Tyler"— "Rhymes  on  Blenheim"— "Water- 

XCVII. 

He  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide  ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever  ; 
He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide, 

And  then  against  them  bitterer  than  ever ; 
For  pantisocracy  he  once  had  cried 

Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  'twas  clever ; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  anti-jacobin — 
Had  tum'd  his  coat — and  would  have  tum'd  his  skin. 

XCVIII. 

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

Reviewing'  "  the  ungentle  craft,"  and  then 
Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawl'd — 

Fed,  paid,  and  pamper'd  by  the  very  men 
By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been  maul'd : 

He  had  WTitten  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  prose, 

And  more  of  both  than  anybody  knows. 

1  See  "Life  of  Henrv  Klrke  White." 


XCIX. 
He  had  written  Wesley's  Ufe  : — here  turning  round 

To  Satan,  "  Sir,  I'm  ready  to  write  yours, 
In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound. 

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

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

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

With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My  offer,  what  says  IVIichael  ?    There  are  few 

Whose  memoirs  could  be  render'd  more  divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work  ;  not  so  new 

As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet.  By  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  of  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 

CI. 

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

Now  you  shall  judge,  all  people  ;  yes,  you  shall 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 

Be  guided  who  shall  enter  heaven  or  fall. 
I  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 

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

CII. 
He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS. ;  and  no 

Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints, 
Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent ;  so 

He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents  ; 
But  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  show 

Had  vanish'd,  with  variety  of  scents. 
Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang, 
Like  lightning,  off  from  his  "  melodious  twang." 

cm. 

Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  spell ;  [ions  ; 

The  angels  stopp'd  their  ears  and  plied  their  pin- 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down  to  hell ; 

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

And  I  leave  every  man  to  his  opinions  ;) 
Michael  took  refuge  in  his  trump — but,  lo  ! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not  blow  1 

CIV. 
Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 

For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys, 
And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  poet  down ; 

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

A  different  web  being  by  the  Destinies 
Woven  for  the  Laureate's  final  wreath,  whene'er 
Reform  shall  happen  eithei-  here  or  there. 


THE  AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


511 


CV. 

He  first  sank  to  the  bottom— like  bis  works, 
But  soon  rose  to  the  surface — like  himself; 

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

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

In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  "Life"  or  "Vision," 

As  Welborn  says—"  the  devil  tum'd  precisian." 


cvr. 

As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
Of  this  true  dream,  the  telescope  is  gone 

Which  kept  my  optics  free  from  all  delusion. 
And  show'd  me  what  I  in  my  turn  have  shown  ; 

All  I  saw  farther,  in  the  last  confusion. 
Was,  that  King  George  slipp'd  into  heaven  for 

And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  to  a  calm,        [one  ; 

I  left  him  practising  the  hundredth  psalm. 


THE    AGE    OE    BRONZE: 

OR,    CARMEN    8ECULARE   ET    ANNUS    HAUD   MIRABILI8. 


"  Impar  Congresew  Achllli.' 


I. 

The  "good  old  times" — all  times  when  old  are 

good — 
Are  gone ;  the  present  might  be  if  they  would ; 
Great  things  have  been,  and  are,  and  greater  stiU 
Want  little  of  mere  mortals  but  their  will : 
A  wider  space,  a  greener  field,  is  given 
To  those  who  play  their  "  tricks  before  high  heaven." 
I  know  not  if  the  angels  weep,  but  men 
Have  wept  enough — for  what  ? — to  weep  again  1 

II. 
All  is  exploded — be  it  good  or  bad. 
Reader  ! — remember  when  thou  wert  a  lad. 
Then  Pitt  was  all ;  or,  if  not  all,  so  much, 
His  very  rival  almost  deem'd  him  such. 
.  We,  we  have  seen  the  intellectual  race 
Of  giants  stand,  like  Titans,  face  to  face — 
Athos  and  Ida,  with  a  dashing  sea 
Of  eloquence  between,  which  flow'd  all  free, 
As  the  deep  billows  of  the  .^gean  roar 
Betwixt  the  Hellenic  and  the  Phrygian  shore. 
But  where  are  they — the  rivals  1  a  few  feet 
Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  winding  sheet. 
How  peaceful  and  how  powerful  is  the  grave. 
Which  hushes  all !  a  calm,  unstormy  wave, 
Which  oversweeps  the  world.    The  theme  is  old 
Of  "  dust  to  dust  •"  but  half  its  tale  untold  : 
Time  tempers  not  its  terrors — still  the  worm 
Winds  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  its  form. 
Varied  above,  but  still  alike  below  ; 
The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow, 
Though  Cleopatra's  mummy  cross  the  sea 
O'er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Antony  ; 
Though  Alexander's  urn  a  show  be  grown. 
On  shores  he  wept  to  conquer,  though  unknown — 


How  vain,  how  worse  than  vain,  at  length  appear 
The  madman  s  wisn,  fne  Macedonian's  tear ! 
He  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer — half  the  earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  his  death,  and  birth, 
And  desolation  ;  while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 
He  "  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer  !"  he  who  ne'er 
Conceived  the  globe,  he  panted  not  to  spare  1 
With  even  the  busy  Northern  Isle  unknown, 
Which  holds  his  um,  and  never  knew  his  throne, 

III. 
But  where  is  he,  the  modem,  mightier  far, 
AVlio,  bom  no  king,  made  monarchs  draw  his  car ; 
The  new  Sesostris,  whose  unhamess'd  kings. 
Freed  from  the  bit,  believe  themselves  with  wings. 
And  spum  the  dust  o'er  which  they  crawl'd  of  late, 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain's  state  ? 
Yes  !  where  is  he,  the  champion  and  the  child 
Of  all  that 's  great  or  little,  wise  or  wild  ?  [thrones  ? 
Whose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes  were 
Whose  table  earth — whose  dice  were  human  bones  ? 
Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle. 
And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile. 
Sigh  to  behold  the  eagle's  lofty  rage 
Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage  ; 
Smile  to  survey  the  queller  of  the  nations 
Now  daily  squabbling  o  er  disputed  rations  ; 
Weep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  he  dines. 
O'er  curtail'd  dishes  and  o'er  stinted  wines  ; 
O'er  petty  quarrels  upon  petty  things. 
Is  this  the  man  who  scourged  or  feasted  kings  ? 
Behold  the  scales  in  which  his  fortune  hangs, 
A  surgeon's  statement,  and  an  earl's  harangues  ! 
A  bust  delay'd,  a  book  refused,  can  shake 
The  sleep  of  him  who  kept  the  world  awake. 


612 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Is  this  indeed  the  tamer  of  the  great, 

Kow  slave  of  all  could  tease  and  irritate — 

The  paltry  jailer  and  the  prying  spy, 

The  staring  stranger  with  his  note-book  nigh  ? 

Plunged  in  a  dungeon,  he  had  still  been  great ; 

How  low,  how  little  was  this  middle  state. 

Between  a  prison  and  a  palace,  where 

How  few  could  feel  for  what  he  had  to  bear  ! 

Vain  his  complaint, — my  lord  presents  his  bill, 

His  food  and  wine  were  doled  out  duly  still : 

Vain  was  his  sickness,  never  was  a  clime 

So  free  from  homicide — to  doubt 's  a  crime  ; 

And  the  stiff  surgeon,  who  maintain'd  his  cause. 

Hath  lost  his  place,  and  gain'd  the  world's  applause. 

But  smile — though  all  the  pangs  of  brain  and  heart 

Disdain,  defy,  the  tardy  aid  of  art ; 

Though,  save  the  few  fond  friends  and  imaged  face 

Of  that  fair  boy  his  sire  shall  ne'er  embrace, 

None  stand  by  his  low  bed — though  even  the  mind 

Be  wavering,  which  long  awed  and  awes  mankind ; 

Smile — for  the  fetter'd  eagle  breaks  his  chain. 

And  higher  worlds  than  this  are  his  again. 

IV. 

How,  if  that  soaring  spirit  still  retain 
A  conscious  twihght  of  his  blazing  reign, 
How  must  he  smile,  on  looking  down,  to  see, 
The  little  that  he  was  and  sought  to  be  ! 
What  though  his  name  a  wider  empire  found 
Than  his  ambition,  though  with  scarce  a  bound ; 
Though  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse, 
He  tasted  empire's  blessings  and  its  curse  ; 
Though  kings,  rejoicing  in  their  late  escape 
From  chains,  would  gladly  be  their  tyrant's  ape  ; 
How  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  yon  lone  grave, 
The  proudest  sea-mark  that  o'ertops  the  wave  ! 
What  though  his  jailer,  duteous  to  the  last. 
Scarce  deem'd  the  coffin's  lead  could  keep  him  fast. 
Refusing  one  poor  line  along  the  lid. 
To  date  the  birth  and  death  of  all  it  hid  ; 
That  name  shall  hallow  the  ignoble  shore, 
A  talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore  : 
The  fleets  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 
Shall  hear  their  sea-boys  hail  it  from  the  mast ; 
When  Victory's  GaUic  column  shall  but  rise. 
Like  Pompey's  pillar,  in  a  desert's  skies. 
The  rocky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 
Shall  crown  the  Atlantic  like  the  hero's  bust. 
And  mighty  nature  o'er  his  obsequies 
Do  more  than  niggard  envy  still  denies. 
But  what  are  these  to  him  ?    Can  Glory's  lust 
Touch  the  freed  spirit  or  the  fetter'd  dust  ? 
Small  care  hath  he  of  what  his  tomb  consists  ; 
Naught  if  he  sleeps — nor  more  if  he  exists  : 
Alike  the  better-seeing  shade  will  smile 
On  the  rude  cavern  of  the  rocky  isle, 
As  if  his  ashes  found  their  latest  home 


In  Rome's  Pantheon  or  Gaul's  mimic  dome. 

He  wants  not  this  ;  but  France  shall  feel  the  want 

Of  this  last  consolation,  though  so  scant ; 

Her  honor,  fame,  and  faith  demand  his  bones 

To  rear  above  a  pyramid  of  thrones  ; 

Or  carried  onward  in  the  battle's  van, 

To  form,  like  Guesclin's  dust,  her  talisman. 

But  be  it  as  it  is — the  time  may  come 

His  name  shall  beat  the  alarm,  hke  Ziska's  drum. 


Oh,  heaven  !  of  which  he  was  in  power  a  feature ; 

Oh,  earth  !  of  which  he  was  a  noble  creature  ; 

Thou  isle  !  to  be  remember'd  long  and  well. 

That  saw'st  the  unfledged  eaglet  chip  his  shell ! 

Ye  Alps,  which  view'd  him  in  his  dawning  flights 

Hover,  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fights  ! 

Thou  Rome,  who  saw'st  thy  Cajsar's  deeds  outdone  ! 

Alas  1  why  pass'd  he  too  the  Rubicon — 

The  Rubicon  of  man's  awaken'd  rights. 

To  herd  with  vulgar  kings  and  parasites  ? 

Egypt !  from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 

Forgotten  Pharaohs  from  their  long  repose, 

And  shook  within  their  pyramids  to  hear 

A  new  Cambyses  thundering  in  their  ear ; 

While  the  dark  shades  of  forty  ages  stood 

Like  startled  giants  by  Nile's  famous  flood ; 

Or  from  the  pjrramid's  tall  pinnacle 

Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  hell. 

With  clashing  hosts,  who  strew'd  the  barren  sand 

To  re-manure  the  uncultivated  land  ! 

Spain  I  which,  a  moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 

Beheld  his  banner  flouting  thy  Madrid  ! 

Austria  !  which  saw  thy  twice-ta'en  capital 

Twice  spared  to  be  the  traitress  of  his  fall ! 

Ye  race  of  Frederic  ! — Frederics  but  in  name 

And  falsehood — heirs  to  all  except  his  fame ; 

Who,  crush'd  at  Jena,  crouch'd  at  Berlin,  fell 

First,  and  but  rose  to  follow  !    Ye  who  dwell 

Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 

The  unpaid  amount  of  Catherine's  bloody  debt  1 

Poland  !  o'er  which  the  avenging  angel  pass'd. 

But  left  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a  waste. 

Forgetting  all  thy  still  enduring  claim. 

Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguish'd  name, 

Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long  flowing  tear, 

That  soimd  that  crashes  in  the  tyrant's  ear — 

Kosciusko  1     On — on — on — the  thirst  of  war 

Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfs  and  of  their  czar. 

The  half  barbaric  Moscow's  minarets 

Gleam  in  the  sun,  but  'tis  a  sun  that  sets  ! 

Moscow  !  thou  limit  of  his  long  career. 

For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  his  frozen  tear 

To  see  in  vain — lie  saw  thee — how  ?  with  spire 

And  palace  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 

To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match, 

To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage  thatch, 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


513 


To  this  the  merchant  flung  his  hoarded  store, 

The  prince  his  hall — and  Moscow  was  no  more  ! 

Subliracst  of  volcanoes  !  Etna's  flame 

Pales  before  thine,  and  quenchless  Hecla  's  tame  ; 

Vesuvius  shows  his  blaze,  a  usual  sight 

For  gaping  tourists,  from  his  hackney'd  height ; 

Thou  stand'st  alone  unrivall'd,  till  the  fire 

To  come,  in  which  all  empires  shall  expire. 

Thou  other  element !  as  strong  and  stem. 
To  teach  a  lesson  conquerors  will  not  learn  ! — 
Whose  icy  wing  flapp'd  o'er  the  faltering  foe. 
Till  fell  a  hero  with  each  flake  of  snow ; 
How  did  thy  numbing  beak  and  silent  fang 
Pierce,  till  hosts  perish'd  with  a  single  pang. 
In  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  banks 
For  the  gay  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks  ! 
In  vain  shall  France  recall  beneath  her  vines 
Her  youth — their  blood  flows  faster  than  her  wines  ; 
Or  stagnant  in  their  human  ice  remains 
In  frozen  mummies  on  the  Polar  plains. 
In  vain  will  Italy's  broad  sun  awaken 
Her  offspring  chill'd  ;  its  beams  are  now  forsaken. 
Of  all  the  trophies  gather'd  from  the  war. 
What  shall  return  ?— the  conqueror's  broken  car  I 
The  conqueror's  yet  unbroken  heart !     Again 
The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 
Lutzen,  where  fell  the  Swede  of  victory,' 
Beholds  him  conquer,  but,  alas  !  not  die  : 
Dresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  once  more 
Before  their  sovereign — sovereign  as  before  ; 
But  there  exhausted  Fortune  quits  the  field. 
And  Leipsic's  treason  bids  the  unvanquish'd  yield  ; 
The  Saxon  jackal  leaves  the  lion  side 
To  turn  the  bear's,  and  wolf's,  and  fox's  guide ; 
And  backward  to  the  den  of  his  despair 
The  forest  monarch  shrinks,  but  finds  no  lair  ! 

Oh,  ye  I  and  each,  and  all  1    Oh,  France !  who  found 
Thy  long  fair  fields,  plough'd  up  as  hostile  ground, 
Disputed  foot  by  foot,  till  treason,  still 
His  only  victor,  from  Montmartre's  hill 
Look'd  down  o'er  trampled  Paris  !  and  thou  Isle,' 
Which  see'st  Etruria  from  thy  ramparts  smile. 
Thou  momentary  shelter  of  his  pride, 
Till  woo'd  by  danger,  his  yet  weeping  bride  ! 
Oh,  France  !  retaken  by  a  single  march, 
Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumphal  arch  ! 
Oh,  bloody  and  most  bootless  Waterloo  I 
Which  proves  how  fools  may  have  their  fortune  too. 
Won  half  by  blunder,  half  by  treachery  : 
Oh,  dull  Saint  Helen  !  with  thy  jailer  nigh — 

'  [Gnstavns  Adolphns  fell  at  tbe  great  battle  of  Lutzen,  in  No- 
vember, 1632.] 

'  [The  Isle  of  Elba.] 

'  I  refer  the  reader  to  thefirtJtaddrCPS  of  rroincthciis  in  Jvschy- 
lo°,  when  be  is  left  alone  l)y  lii:i  utteudaots,  and  before  the  arrival 
of  Ibe  Choruii  of  Sea-nymplis. 
65 


Hear !  hear  Prometheus'  from  his  rock  appeal 

To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 

His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear 

A  name  eternal  as  the  rolling  year ; 

He  teaches  them  the  lesson  taught  so  long, 

So  oft,  so  vainly — learn  to  do  no  wrong  ! 

A  single  step  into  the  right  had  made 

This  man  the  Washington  of  worlds  betray'd : 

A  single  step  into  the  wrong  has  given 

His  name  a  doubt  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  ; 

The  reed  of  Fortune,  and  of  thrones  the  rod, 

Of  Fame  the  Moloch  or  the  demigod ; 

His  country's  Ca;sar,  Europe's  Hannibal, 

Without  their  decent  dignity  of  fall. 

Yet  Vanity  herself  had  better  taught 

A  surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sought, 

By  pointing  out  on  history's  fruitless  page 

Ten  thousand  conquerors  for  a  single  sage. 

While  Franklin's  quiet  memory  climbs  to  heaven, 

Calming  the  lightning  which  he  thence  hath  riven. 

Or  drawing  from  the  no  less  kindled  earth 

Freedom  and  peace  to  that  which  boasts  his  birth  ; 

Wliile  Washington's  a  watchword,  such  as  ne'er 

Shall  sink  while  there  's  an  echo  left  to  air : 

While  even  the  Spaniard's  thirst  of  gold  and  war 

Forgets  Piznrro  to  shout  Bolivar  ! 

Alas  !  why  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 

Which  wafted  freedom  gird  a  tyrant's  grave — 

The  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave. 

Who  bursts  the  chains  of  millions  to  renew 

The  very  fetters  which  his  arm  broke  through, 

And  crush'd  the  rights  of  Europe  and  his  own, 

To  flit  between  a  dungeon  and  a  throne  ? 

VI. 
But  'twill  not  be — the  spark  's  awaken'd — lo  ! 
The  swarthy  Spaniard  feels  his  former  glow ; 
The  same  high  spirit  which  beat  back  the  Moor 
Through  eight  long  ages  of  alternate  gore 
Revives — and  where  ?  in  that  avenging  clime 
Where  Spain  was  once  synonymous  with  crime. 
Where  Cortes'  and  Pizarro's  banner  flew. 
The  infant  world  redeems  her  name  of  "  Ketcy 
'Tis  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh. 
To  kindle  souls  within  degraded  flesh. 
Such  as  repulsed  the  Persian  from  the  shore    [more. 
Where  Greece  vas — No  !  she  still  is  Greece  once 
One  common  cause  makes  myriads  of  one  breast, 
Slaves  of  the  east,  or  helots  of  the  west ; 
On  Andes'  and  on  Athos'  peaks  unfurl'd. 
The  self-same  standard  streams  o'er  either  world  : 
The  Athenian  wears  again  Ilarmodius'  sword  ;* 


•  [The  famous  hymn,  ascribed  to  CalUstratus  :— 
"  Covcr'd  with  myrtle-wreaths,  I'll  wear  my  sword 
Like  brave  HarmodiuR,  and  his  patriot  friend, 
Ari!-:togeiton,  who  the  laws  restored, 
The  tyrant  slew,  and  bade  oppre:>bion  end,^^  etc] 


514 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


The  Chili  chief  abjures  liis  foreign  lord  ; 

The  Spartan  knows  himself  once  more  a  Greek, 

Young  Freedom  plumes  the  crest  of  each  cacique  ; 

Debating  despots,  hemm'd  on  either  shore. 

Shrink  vainly  from  the  roused  Atlantic's  roar  ; 

Through  Calpe's  strait  the  rolling  tides  advance, 

Sweep  slightly  by  the  half-tamed  land  of  France, 

Dash  o'er  the  old  Spaniard's  cradle,  and  would  fain 

Unite  Ausonia  to  the  mighty  main  : 

But  driven  from  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye, 

Break  o'er  th'  ^gean,  mindful  of  the  day 

Of  Salamis  ! — there,  there  the  waves  arise. 

Not  to  be  lull'd  by  tyrant  victories. 

Lone,  lost,  abandon'd  in  their  utmost  need 

By  Christians,  unto  whom  they  gave  their  creed. 

The  desolated  lands,  the  ravaged  isle. 

The  foster'd  feud  encouraged  to  beguile, 

The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 

Prolong'd  but  in  the  hope  to  make  a  prey  ;' — 

These,  these  shall  tell  the  tale,  and  Greece  can  sliow 

The  false  friend  worse  than  the  infuriate  foe. 

But  this  is  well ;  Greeks  only  should  free  Greece, 

Not  the  barbarian,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 

How  should  the  autocrat  of  bondage  be 

The  king  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free  i 

Better  still  serve  the  haughty  Mussulman, 

Than  swell  the  Cossaque's  prowling  caravan  ; 

Better  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await. 

The  slave  of  slaves,  before  a  Russian  gate, — 

Numbcr'd  by  hordes,  a  human  capital, 

A  live  estate,  existing  but  for  thrall. 

Lotted  by  thousands,  as  a  meet  reward 

For  the  first  courtier  in  the  Czar's  regard ; 

While  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 

His  sleep,  sans  dreaming  of  Siberia's  wastes ; 

Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair, 

And  drive  the  camel  than  purvey  the  bear. 

VII. 

But  not  alone  within  the  hoariest  clime 

Where    Freedom    dates    her    birth  with    that   of 

Time, 
And  not  alone  where,  plunged  in  night,  a  crowd 
Of  Incas  darken  to  a  dubious  cloud. 
The  da\vn  revives  :  renown'd,  romantic  Spain 
Holds  back  the  invader  from  her  soil  again. 
Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde 
Demand  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sword ; 
Not  now  the  Vandal  or  the  Visigoth 
Pollute  the  plains,  alike  abhorring  both  ; 
Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 
The  warlike  fathers  of  a  thousand  years. 
That  peed  is  sown  and  reap'd,  as  oft  the  Moor 


•  [For  the  first  authentic  account  ol'  the  liussian  intrigues  in 
Greece,  in  the  year  alluded  to,  eec  "  Gordon's  Klstory  of  the  Greek 
ReTolntioin  (1«:3>,)  vol.  i] 


Sighs  to  remember  on  his  dusky  shore. 

Long  in  the  peasant's  song  or  poet's  page 

Has  dwelt  the  memory  of  Abcncerrage  ; 

The  Zegri,  and  the  captive  victors,  flung 

Back   to   the  barbarous   realm   from  whence  they 

sprung. 
But  these  are  gone — their  faith,  their  swords,  their 

sway. 
Yet  left  more  anti-Christian  foes  than  they  : 
The  bigot  monarch  and  the  butcher  priest. 
The  Inquisition,  with  her  burning  feast. 
The  faith's  red  "auto,"  fed  with  human  fuel. 
While  sate  the  Catholic  Moloch,  calmly  cruel, 
Enjoying,  with  inexorable  eye. 
That  fiery  festival  of  agony  ! 
The  stern  or  feeble  sovereign,  one  or  both 
By  turns  ;  the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was  sloth  : 
The  long  degenerate  noble  ;  the  debased 
Hidalgo,  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced. 
But  more  degraded ;  the  unpeopled  realm  ; 
The  once  proud  navy  which  forgot  the  helm  ; 
The  once  impervious  phalanx  disarray'd  ; 
The  idle  forge  that  form'd  Toledo's  blade  ; 
The  foreign  wealth  that  flow'd  on  ev'ry  shore, 
Save  hers  who  eam'd  it  with  the  natives'  gore ; 
The  very  language  which  might  vie  with  Rome's, 
And  once  was  known  to  nations  like  their  homes, 
Neglected  or  forgotten  : — such  was  Spain  ; 
But  such  she  is  not,  nor  shall  be  again. 
These  worst,  these  Jiome  invaders,  felt  and  feel 
The  new  Numantine  soul  of  old  Castile. 
Up  !  up  again  I  undaunted  Tauridor  ! 
The  bull  of  Phalaris  renews  his  roar  ; 
Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo  !  not  in  vain 
Revive  the  cry — "lago  !  and  close  Spain  1'" 
Yes,  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  romid. 
And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found, — 
The  exterminating  war,  the  desert  plain. 
The  streets  without  a  tenant,  save  the  slain  ; 
The  wild  sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 
Of  vulture-plumed  guerrillas,  on  the  stoop 
For  their  incessant  prey  ;  the  desperate  wall 
Of  Saragossa,  mightiest  in  her  fall ; 
The  man  nerved  to  a  spirit,  and  the  maid 
Waving  her  more  than  Amazonian  blade ; 
The  knife  of  Aragon,'  Toledo's  steel ; 
The  famous  lance  of  chivalrous  Castile  ; 
The  unerring  rifle  of  the  Catalan ; 
The  Andalusian  courser  in  the  van  ; 
The  torch  to  make  a  Moscow  of  Madrid ; 
And  in  each  heart  the  spirit  of  the  Cid  : — 
Such  have  been,  such  shall  be,  such  are.    Advance, 
And  win — not  Spain,  but  thine  own  freedom,  France ! 


=  ["  Santiago  y  eerra  Espana  I"  the  old  Spanish  war-cry.] 
2  The  Aragonians  are  peculiarly  dexterous  in  the  use  of  this 
weapon,  and  displayed  it  particularly  in  former  French  wnrs. 


THE  AGE    OF    BRONZE. 


515 


VIII. 
But,  lo  !  a  Congress  ! '     What !  that  hallow'd  name 
AVhich  freed  tl>e  Atlantic  ?    May  we  hope  the  same 
For  outworn  Europe  ?    With  the  sound  arise, 
Like  Samuel's  shade  to  Saul's  monarchic  eyes. 
The  prophets  of  young  Freedom,  summon'd  far 
From  climes  of  Washington  and  Bolivar ; 
Henry,  the  forest-born  Demosthenes, 
Whose  thunder  shook  the  Philip  of  the  seas ;" 
And  stoic  Franklin's  energetic  shade, 
Robed  in  the  lightnings  which  his  hand  allay'd ; 
And  Washington,  the  tyrant-tamer,  wake, 
To  bid  us  blush  for  these  old  chains,  or  break. 
But  tcho  compose  this  senate  of  the  few 
That  should  redeem  tiie  many  2      Who  renew 
This  consecrated  name,  till  now  assign'd 
To  councils  held  to  benefit  mankind  ? 
Who  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call  ? 
The  blest  Alliance,  which  says  three  are  all ! 
An  earthly  trinity  !  which  wears  the  shape 
Of  heaven's,  as  man  is  uiimick'd  by  the  ape. 
A  pious  unity  !  in  puipose  one — 
To  melt  three  fools  to  a  Napoleon. 
Why,  Egypt's  gods  were  rational  to  these  ; 
Their  dogs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees. 
And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed. 
Cared  little,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed  ; 
But  these,  more  hungry,  must  have  something  more, 
The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore. 
Ah  !  how  much  happier  were  good  .iEsop's  frogs 
Than  we  !  for  ours  are  animated  logs, 
With  ponderous  malice  swaying  to  and  fro, 
And  crushing  nations  with  a  stupid  blow ; 
AH  duly  anxious  to  leave  little  work 
Unto  the  revolutionary  stork. 

IX. 
TTirice  blest  Verona  !  since  the  holy  three 
With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee ; 
Honor'd  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets 
The  vaunted  tomb  of  "  all  the  Capulets  ;" 
Thy  Scaligers — for  what  was  "  Dog  the  Great," 
"  Can  Grande,"  (which  I  venture  to  translate,) 
To  these  sublimer  pugs  ?     Thy  poet  too, 
Catullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new ; 
Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate ; 
And  Dante's  e.xile  shclter'd  by  thy  gate  ; 
Thy  good  old  man,  whose  world  was  all  within 
Thy  wall,  nor  knew  the  country  held  him  in  : 
Would  that  the  royal  guests  it  girds  about 
Were  so  far  like,  as  never  to  get  out ! 
Ay,  shout  I  inscribe  !  rear  monuments  of  shame, 
To  tell  Oppression  that  the  world  is  tame  ! 

'  [The  Congress  of  the  Sovereigns  of  Russia,  Anslrla,  F.'nssia, 
etc.,  etc.,  which  assembled  at  Verona,  in  the  autumn  of  1852.] 

'  [Patrick  Henry,  of  Virginia,  a  leading  member  of  the  Ameri- 
can Congrefifl,  died  In  June,  1797.  Lord  Byron  alludes  to  his  fa- 
mous speech  iu  n^w,  lu  which,  on  saylujr.  "  Cfesar  lia'i  his  Rrutns 


Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage. 

The  comedy  is  not  upon  the  stage  ; 

The  show  is  rich  iu  ribandry  and  stars, 

Then  gaze  upon  it  through  thy  dungeon  bars  ; 

Clap  thy  permitted  palms,  kind  Italy, 

For  thus  much  still  thy  fetter'd  hands  are  free  ! 

X. 

Resplendent  sight !    Behold  the  coxcomb  Czar, 
The  autocrat  of  waltzes  and  of  war  ! 
As  eager  for  a  plaudit  as  a  realm, 
And  just  as  fit  for  flirting  as  the  helm  ; 
A  Calmuck  beauty  with  a  Cossack  wit. 
And  generous  spirit,  when  'tis  not  frost-bit ; 
Now  half  dissolving  to  a  liberal  thaw. 
But  harden'd  back  whene'er  the  morning  's  raw  ; 
With  no  objection  to  true  liberty. 
Except  that  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 
How  well  the  imperial  dandy  prates  of  peace  1 
How  fain,  if  Greeks  would  be  his  slaves,  free  Greece  ! 
How  nobly  gave  he  back  the  Poles  their  Diet, 
Then  told  pugnacious  Poland  to  be  quiet ! 
How  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraine, 
With  all  her  pleasant  pulks,  to  lecture  Sjjain  I 
How  royally  show  off  in  proud  Madrid 
His  goodly  person,  from  the  South  long  hid ; 
A  blessing  cheaply  purchased,  the  world  knows. 
By  having  Muscovites  for  friends  or  foes. 
Proceed,  thou  namesake  of  great  Philip's  son  1 
La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  beckons  on  ; 
And  that  which  Scythia  was  to  him  of  yore 
Find  with  thy  Scythians  on  Iberia's  shore. 
Yet  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth. 
Thy  predecessor  on  the  banks  of  Pruth  ; 
Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thine, 
Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine. 
Spain,  too,  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  and  defiles — 
The  bear  may  rush  into  the  lion's  toils. 
Fatal  to  Gotha  are  Xeres'  sunny  fields  ; 
Think'st  thou  to  thee  Napoleon's  victor  yields  ? 
Better  reclaim  thy  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 
To  ploughshares,  shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir  hordes, 
Redeem  thy  realms  from  slavery  and  the  knout, 
Than  follow  headlong  in  the  fatal  route. 
To  infest  the  clime  wliose  skies  and  laws  are  pure 
With  thy  foul  legions.     Spain  wants  no  manure  : 
Her  soil  is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe  ; 
Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  ago ; 
And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher  prey  ? 
Alas  1  thou  wilt  not  conquer,  but  purvey. 
j  I  am  Diogenes,  though  Russ  and  Ilun 
i  Stand  between  mine  and  many  a  myriad's  sun  ; 


\  —Charles  the  First  had  his  Cromwell— and  George  the  Third " 

t  Henry  was  interrupted  with  a  ehont  of  "  Treason  1  treason  !  I"— 
i  but  coolly  finished  the  sentence  with- "George  the  Third  may 
profit  by  their  example."] 


516 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


But  were  I  not  Diogenes,  I'd  wander 
Rather  a  -worm  than  such  an  Alexander  ! 
Be  slaves  who  will,  the  cynic  shall  be  free  ; 
His  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  Sinope  : 
StiU  wiU  he  hold  his  lantern  up  to  scan 
The  face  of  monarchs  for  an  "  honest  man." 

XI. 
And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all-prolific  land 
Oine  plus  ultra  ultras  and  their  band 
Of  mercenaries  ?  and  her  noisy  chambers 
And  tribune,  which  each  orator  first  clambers 
Before  he  finds  a  voice,  and  when  'tis  found, 
Hears  "  the  lie"  echo  for  his  answer  round  ? 
Our  British  Commons  sometimes  deign  to  "  hear  !" 
A  Gallic  senate  hath  more  tongue  than  ear ; 
Even  Constant,  their  sole  master  of  debate. 
Must  fight  next  day  his  speech  to  vindicate. 
But  this  costs  little  to  true  Franks,  who  had  rather 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  father, 
"What  is  the  simple  standing  of  a  shot. 
To  listening  long,  and  intcri'upting  not  ? 
Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 
When  TuUy  fulmined  o'er  each  vocal  dome, 
Demosthenes  has  sanction'd  the  transaction, 
In  saying  eloquence  meant  "  Action,  action  !" 

XII. 
But  where  's  the  monarch  ?  hath  he  dined  ?  or  yet 
Groans  beneath  indigestion's  heavy  debt  ? 
Have  revolutionary  pates  risen, 
And  turn'd  the  royal  entrails  to  a  prison  ? 
Have  discontented  movements  stirr'd  the  troops  ? 
Or  have  no  movements  foUow'd  traitorous  soups  ? 
Have  Carbonaro  cooks  not  carbonadoed 
Each  course  enough  ?  or  doctors  dire  dissuaded 
Repletion  ?    Ah  !  in  thy  dejected  looks 
I  read  all  France's  treason  in  her  cooks  ! 
Good  classic  Louis  !  is  it,  canst  thou  say, 
Desirable  to  be  the  Desire  2 
Why  wouldst  thou  leave   calm  Hartwell's    green 

abode,' 
Apician  table,  and  Horatian  ode, 
To  rule  a  people  who  will  not  be  ruled, 
And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than  school'd  ? 
Ah  !  thine  was  not  the  temper  or  the  taste 
For  thrones  ;  thee  table  sees  the  better  placed ; 
A  mild  Epicurean,  form'd,  at  best. 
To  be  a  kind  host  and  as  good  a  guest. 
To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 
One  Mlf  the  poet's,  all  the  gourmand's  art ; 
A  scholar  always,  now  and  then  a  wit. 
And  gentle  when  digestion  may  permit  ;— 
But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free  ; 
The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee. 

'  [Hartwell,  in  Buckinghamshire— the  residence  of  LouisXYHI., 
during  the  latter  years  of  the  Emigration.] 


XIII. 
Shall  noble  Albion  pass  without  a  phrase 
From  a  bold  Briton  in  her  wonted  praise  ?     [isles — 
"Arts  —  arms  —  and  George — and  glory  — and  the 
And  happy  Britain — wealth — and  Freedom's  smiles. 
White  cliflis,  that  held  invasion  fur  aloof — 
Contented  subjects,  all  alike  tax-proof— 
Proud  Wellington,  with  eagle  beak  so  curl'd, 
That  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the  world  !" 

And  Waterloo — and  trade — and (liush  !  not  yet 

A  syllable  of  imposts  or  of  debt) 

And  ne'er  (enough)  lamented  Castlereagh, 
Whose  penknife  slit  a  goose-quill  t'  other  day — 
And  '  pilots  who  have  weather'd  every  storm  '^ — 
(But,  no,  not  even  for  rhyme's  sake,  name  Reform.") 
These  are  the  themes  thus  sung  so  oft  before, 
Methinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more  ; 
Found  in  so  many  volumes  far  and  near, 
There  's  no  occasion  you  should  find  them  here. 
Yet  something  may  remain  perchance  to  chime 
With  reason,  and,  what 's  stranger  still,  with  rhyme. 
Even  this  thy  genius.  Canning  !  may  permit. 
Who,  bred  a  statesman,  still  was  born  a  wit, 
And  never,  even  in  that  dull  House,  couldst  tame 
To  unleaven'd  prose  thine  own  poetic  flame  ; 
Our  last,  our  best,  our  only  orator, 
Even  I  can  praise  thee — Tories  do  no  more  : 
Nay,  not  so  much  ; — they  hate  thee,  man,  because 
Thy  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes. 
The  hounds  will  gather  to  their  huntsman's  hallo. 
And  where  he  leads  the  duteous  pack  will  follow  ; 
But  not  for  love  mistake  their  yelling  cry  ; 
Their  yelp  for  game  is  not  a  eulogy  ; 
Less  faithful  far  than  the  four-footed  pack, 
A  dubious  scent  would  lure  the  bipeds  back. 
Thy  saddle-girths  are  not  yet  quite  secure. 
Nor  royal  stallion's  feet  extremely  sure  ; 
The  unwieldly  old  white  horse  is  apt  at  last 
To  stumble,  kick,  and  now  and  then  stick  fast 
With  his  great  self  and  rider  in  the  mud ; 
But  what  of  that  ?  the  animal  shows  blood. 

XIV. 
Alas,  the  country  !  how  shall  tongue  or  pen 
Bewail  her  now  wncountry  gentlemen  ? 
The  last  to  bid  the  cry  of  warfare  cease, 
The  first  to  make  a  malady  of  peace. 
For  what  were  all  these  country  patriots  born  ? 
To  hunt,  and  vote,  and  raise  the  price  of  corn  ? 
But  com,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  fall. 
Kings,  conquerors,  and  markets  most  of  all. 
And  must  ye  fall  with  every  ear  of  grain  ? 
Why  would  you  trouble  Bonaparte's  reign  ? 

2  "  Naso  suapondit  adunco."— Jfoface. 

The  Koman  applies  It  to  one  who  merely  was  imperious  to  his  ac- 
quaintance. 

3  ["The  Pilot  that  weather'd  the  storm,"  is  the  burden  of  a 
spug,  in  honor  of  Pitt,  by  Mr.  'aiming.] 


THE    AGE    OF    BRONZE, 


317 


He  was  your  great  Triptolemus  ;  his  vices 
Destroy'd  but  realms,   and   still    maintain'd  your 
He  amplified  to  every  lord's  content  [prices, 

The  grand  agrarian  alchymy,  high  rent. 
Why  did  the  tyrant  stumble  on  the  Tartars, 
And  lower  wheat  to  such  desix>nding  quarters  ? 
Why  did  you  chain  him  on  yon  isle  so  lone  ? 
The  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his  throne. 
True,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt, 
But  what  of  that  ?  the  Gaul  may  bear  the  guilt ; 
But  Ijread  was  high,  the  fanner  paid  his  way. 
And  acres  told  upon  the  appointed  day. 
But  where  is  now  the  goodly  audit  ale  ? 
The  purse-proud  tenant,  never  known  to  fail  ? 
The  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  hand  ? 
The  marsh  reclaim'd  to  most  improving  land  ? 
The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease  ? 
The  doubling  rental  ?    What  an  evil 's  peace  I 
In  vain  the  prize  excites  the  ploughman's  skill, 
In  vain  the  Commons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 
The  hinded  interes! — (you  may  understand 
The  phrase  much  better  leaving  out  the  lamr) 
The  land  self-interest  groans  from  shore  to  shore, 
For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 
Up,  up  again,  ye  rents  !  exalt  your  notes, 
Or  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  votes, 
And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice. 
Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market  price  ; 
For  ah  !  "  the  loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so  high, 
Are  gone — their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry, 
And  naught  remains  of  all  the  millions  spent, 
Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 
They  who  are  not  so,  Jiad  their  turn — and  turn 
About  still  ilows  from  Fortune's  equal  urn  ; 
Now  let  their  virtue  be  its  own  reward. 
And  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prepared. 
See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm. 
Farmers  of  war,  dictators  of  the  farm  ; 
Their  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hireling  hands. 
Their  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands  ; 
Safe  in  their  bams,  these  Sabine  tillers  sent 
Their  brethren  out  to  battle — why  ?  for  rent ! 
Year  after  year  they  voted  cent,  per  cent.,        [rent ! 
Blood,  sweat,  and  tear-wrung  millions — why  ?  for 
They  roar'd,  they  dined,  they  drank,  they  swore  they 

meant 
To  die  for  England — why  then  live  ? — for  rent ! 
The  peace  has  made  one  general  malecontent 
Of  these  high-market  patriots  ;  war  was  rent ! 
Their  love  of  country,  millions  all  misspent. 
How  reconcile  ?  by  reconciling  rent ! 
And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent  ? 
No  :  down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rent ! 
Their  good,  ill,  health,  wealth,  joy,  or  discontent. 
Being,  end,  aim,  religion — rent,  rent,  rent  1 
Thou  sold'st  thy  birthright,  Esau  !  for  a  mess  ; 
Thou  shouldst  have  gotten  more,  or  eaten  les3  ; 


Now  thou  hast  swill'd  thy  pottage,  thy  demands 
Are  idle  ;  Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 
Such,  landlords  !  was  your  appetite  for  war. 
And,  gorged  with  blood,  you  grumble  at  a  scar  ! 
What !   would  they  spread  their  earthquake  even 

o'er  cash  ? 
And  when  land  crumbles,  bid  firm  paper  crash  ? 
So  rent  may  rise,  bid  bank  and  nation  fall. 
And  found  on  'Change  a  Fundling  Hospital  ? 
Lo  I  Mother  Church,  while  all  religion  writhes. 
Like  Niobe,  weeps  o'er  her  offspring,  Tithes  ; 
The  prelates  go  to — where  the  saints  have  gone, 
And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one ; 
Church,  state,  and  faction  wrestle  in  the  dark, 
Toss'd  by  the  deluge  in  their  common  ark. 
Shorn  of  her  bishops,  banks,  and  dividends, 
Another  Babel  soars — but  Britain  ends 
And  why  ?  to  pamper  the  self-seeking  wants, 
And  proj)  the  hill  of  these  agrarian  ants. 
"  Go  to  these  ants,  thou  sluggard,  and  be  wise ;" 
Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice. 
Till  taught  to  feel  the  lesson  of  their  pride, 
The  price  of  taxes  and  of  homicide  ; 
Admire  tlieir  justice,  which  would  fain  deny 
The  debt  of  nations  :— pray  icho  mmle  it  high  ? 

XV. 

Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  shifting  rocks, 

The  new  Symplcgades — the  crushing  Stocks, 

Where  Midas  might  again  his  wish  behold 

In  real  paper  or  imagined  gold. 

That  magic  palace  of  Alcina  shows 

More  wealth  than  Britain  ever  had  to  lose. 

Were  all  her  atoms  of  unleaven'd  ore, 

And  all  her  pebbles  from  Pactolus'  shore. 

There  Fortune  plays,  while  Rumor  holds  the  stake, 

And  the  world  trembles  to  bid  brokers  break. 

How  rich  is  Britain  !  not  indeed  in  mines. 

Or  peace  or  plenty,  com  or  oils,  or  wines ; 

No  land  of  Canaan,  full  of  milk  and  honey, 

Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money  : 

But  let  us  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse. 

Was  ever  Christian  land  so  rich  in  Jews  ? 

Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King  John, 

And  now,  ye  kings  !  they  kindly  draw  your  own ; 

All  states,  all  things,  all  sovereigns  they  control, 

And  waft  a  loan  "  from  Indus  to  the  pole." 

The  banker — broker — baron — brethren,  speed 

To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  their  need. 

Nor  these  alone  ;  Columbia  feels  no  less 

Fresh  speculations  follow  each  success  ; 

And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 

Her  mild  percentage  from  exhausted  Spain. 

Not  without  Abraham's  seed  can  Russia  march  ; 

'Tis  gold,  not  steel,  that  rears  the  conqueror's  arch. 

Two  Jews,  a  chosen  people,  can  command 

In  every  realm  their  scripture-promised  land  : — 


518 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


Two  Jews  keep  down  the  Romans,  and  uphold 
The  accursed  Hun,  more  brutal  than  of  old  : 
Two  Jews — but  not  Samaritans — direct 
The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect. 
What  is  the  happiness  of  earth  to  them  ? 
A  congress  forms  their  "  New  Jerusalem," 
Where  baronies  and  orders  both  invite — 
Oh,  holy  Abraham  !  dost  thou  see  the  sight  ? 
Thy  followers  mingling  with  these  royal  swine. 
Who  spit  not  "  on  their  Jewish  gaberdine," 
But  honor  them  as  portion  of  the  show — 
(Where  now,  oh,  pope  !  is  thy  forsaken  toe  ? 
Could  it  not  favor  Judah  with  some  kicks  ? 
Or  has  it  ceased  to  "  kick  against  tlie  pricks  ?") 
On  Shylock's  shore  beliold  them  stand  afresh. 
To  cut  from  nations'  hearts  their  "  pound  of  flesh." 

XVI. 
Strange  sight  this  Congress  !  destined  to  unite 
All  that 's  incongruous,  all  that 's  opposite. 
I  speak  not  of  the  Sovereigns — they're  alike, 
A  common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike  : 
But  those  who  sway  the  puppets,  pull  the  strings. 
Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 
Jews,  authors,  generals,  charlatans,  combine. 
While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design  : 
There  Mcttemich,  power's  foremost  parasite, 
Cajoles  ;  there  Wellington  forgets  to  fight ; 
There  Chateaubriand  forms  new  books  of  martyrs  ;' 
And  subtle  Greeks'  intrigue  for  stupid  Tartars  ; 
There  Montmorenci,  the  sworn  foe  to  charters,' 
Turns  a  diplomatist  of  great  eclat. 
To  furnish  articles  for  the  "  Debats  ;" 
Of  war  so  certain — yet  not  quite  so  sure 
As  his  dismissal  in  the  "Moniteur." 
Alas  !  how  could  his  cabinet  thus  err  ? 
Can  peace  be  worth  an  ultra-minister  ? 
He  falls  indeed,  perhaps  to  rise  again, 
"  Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain."^ 

XVII. 
Enough  of  this — a  sight  more  mournful  woos 
The  averted  eye  of  the  reluctant  muse. 
The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride, 
The  imperial  victim — sacrifice  to  pride  ; 
The  mother  of  the  hero's  hope,  the  boy. 
The  young  Astyanax  of  modern  Troy ;' 

'  Monsieur  Cliatcaabriand,  who  has  not  forgotten  the  author  in 
the  minister,  received  a  liandsomc  compliment  at  Verona  from  a 
literary  sovereig^i:  ^'Ah!  Monsieur  C,  are  you  related  to  that 
Chateaubriand  who— who— who  has  written  eometAing  ?"  (ecrit 
guelgue  chose  !)  It  is  said  tliat  the  author  of  Atala  repented  him 
for  a  moment  of  his  legitimacy. 

^  [Count  Capo  d'Istrias— afterwards  President  of  Greece.  The 
count  was  murdered  in  September,  1831,  by  the  brother  and  eon 
of  a  Mainotc  chief  whom  he  had  imprisoned.] 

'  [The  Duke  de  Montmorenci-Laval.] 

*  [From  Pope's  verses  on  Lord  Peterborough.]— 
*'  And  he,  whose  lightning  pierced  the  Il>erian  lines. 
Now  forms  my  quincunx,  and  now  ranks  my  vines. 


The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 

That  earth  has  yet  to  see,  or  e'er  hath  seen  ; 

She  flits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  the  hour. 

The  theme  of  pity,  and  the  wreck  of  power. 

Oh,  cruel  mockery  !     Could  not  Austria  spare 

A  daughter  ?     What  did  France's  widow  there  ? 

Her  fitter  place  was  by  St.  Helen's  wave. 

Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon's  grave. 

But,  no, — she  still  must  hold  a  petty  reign, 

Flank'd  by  her  formidable  chamberlain  ; 

The  martial  Argus,  whose  not  hundred  eyes 

]\Iust  watch  her  through  these  paltry  pageantries  ;« 

What  though  she  share  no  more,  and  shared  in  vain, 

A  sway  surpassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 

AVhich  swept  from  Moscow  to  the  southern  seas  ; 

Yet  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  cheese. 

Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort. 

To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mimic  court. 

But  she  appears  !     Verona  sees  lier  shorn 

Of  all  her  beams — while  nations  gaze  and  mourn — 

Ere  yet  her  husband's  ashes  have  had  time 

To  chill  in  their  inliospitable  clime  ; 

(If  e'er  those  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold  ; — 

But,  no, — their  embers  soon  will  burst  the  mould ;) 

She  comes ! — the  Andromache,  (but  not  Racine's, 

Nor  Homer's,) — Lo  !  on  Pyrrhus'  arm  she  leans  ! 

Yes  !  the  right  arm,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 

Which  cut  her  lord's  half-shatter'd  sceptre  through, 

Is  ofler'd  and  accepted  !     Could  a  slave 

Do  more  ?  or  less  ? — and  he  in  his  new  grave  I 

Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  strife, 

And  the  «j-empress  grows  as  ex  a  wife  ! 

So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts  ! 

Why  spare  men's  feelings;  when  their  own  are  jests  ? 

XVIII. 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  I  turn  home. 

And  sketch  the  group — the  picture  's  yet  to  come. 

My  muse  'gan  weep,  but,  ere  a  tear  was  spilt. 

She  caught  Sir  William  Curtis  in  a  kilt ! 

Wliile  throng'd  the  chiefs  of  every  Highland  clan 

To  liail  their  brother,  Vich  Ian  Alderman  ! 

Guidhall  grows  Gael,  and  echoes  with  Erse  roar, 

While  all  the  Common  Council  cry  "  Claymore  !" 

To  see  proud  Albyn's  tartans  as  a  belt 

Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a  city  Celt,' 

Or  tames  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain. 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquered  Spain."] 

'  Napoleon  Franjois  Charles  Joseph,  Duke  of  Reichstadt,  died 
at  the  palace  of  Schonbrunn,  July  22,  1832,  having  just  attained 
Ills  twenty-first  year.] 

'  [Count  Neipperg,  chamberlain  and  second  husband  to  Maria- 
Louisa,  had  but  one  eye.    The  count  died  in  1831.] 

»  [George  the  Fourth  is  said  to  have  been  somewhat  annoyed, 
on  entering  the  levee-room  at  Ilolyrood  (August,  1822,)  in  lull 
Stuart  tartan,  to  see  only  one  figure  similarly  attired  (and  of  similar 
hulk)— that  of  Sir  William  Curtis.  The  city  knight  had  every 
thing  complete— even  the  knife  stuck  in  the  garter.    Ho  acked  Iho 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


61S> 


She  burst  into  a  laughter  so  extreme, 
That  I  awoke — and  lo  !  it  was  no  dream  ! 

King,  if  he  did  not  tliinlc  him  well  dressed.    "  Yes  I"  replied  his 
Majesty,  "  only  you  have  no  tpoon  in  yonr  /u»e."    The  devonrer 


Here,  reader,  will  we  pause  : — if  there 's  no  harm  in 
This  first — you'll  have,  perhaps,  a  second  "  Carmen." 

of  turtle  had  a  fine  engraving  cicruted  of  himself  in  his  Celtic 
attire.] 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES.    1807-1824. 


THE   ADIEU. 

■WKITTEN   UKDEK  THE  IMPKESSION   THAT   THE 
AXJTHOR   WOULD   SOON   DIE. 

Adieu,  thou  Hill ! '  where  early  joy 

Spread  roses  o'er  my  brow  ; 
Where  Science  seeks  each  loitering  boy 

With  knowledge  to  endow. 
Adieu,  my  youthful  friends  or  foes. 
Partners  of  former  bliss  or  woes  ; 

No  more  through  Ida's  paths  we  stray ; 
Soon  must  I  share  the  gloomy  cell. 
Whose  ever-slumbering  inmates  dwell 

Unconscious  of  the  day. 

Adieu,  ye  hoary  Regal  Fanes, 

Ye  spires  of  Granta's  vale, 
Where  Learning  robed  in  sable  reigns, 

And  Melancholy  pale. 
Te  comrades  of  the  jovial  hour. 
Ye  tenants  of  the  classic  bower. 

On  Cama's  verdant  margin  placed. 
Adieu  !  while  memory  still  is  mine. 
For,  offerings  on  Oblivion's  shrine. 

These  scenes  must  be  effaced. 

Adieu,  ye  mountains  of  the  clime 

Where  grew  my  youthful  years  ; 
Where  Loch  na  Garr  in  snows  sublime 

His  giant  summit  rears, 
why  did  my  childhood  wander  forth 
From  you,  ye  regions  of  the  North, 

With  sons  of  pride  to  roam  ? 
Why  did  I  quit  my  Highland  cave, 
Marr's  dusky  heath,  and  Dee's  clear  wave. 

To  seek  a  Sotheron  home  ? 

Hall  of  my  Sires  !  a  long  farewell — 

Yet  why  to  thee  adieu  ? 
Thy  vaults  will  echo  back  my  knell. 

Thy  towers  my  tomb  will  view : 
The  faltering  tongue  which  sung  thy  fall. 
The  former  glories  of  thy  Hall, 

Forgets  its  wonted  simple  note — 
But  yet  the  Lyre  retains  the  strings, 

'  [Harrow.] 

'  [The  river  Crete,  at  Southwell.] 


And  sometimes,  on  iEolian  wings. 
In  dying  strains  may  float. 

Fields,  which  surround  yon  rustic  cot. 

While  yet  I  linger  here. 
Adieu  !  you  are  not  now  forgot, 

To  retrospection  dear. 
Streamlet ! "  along  whose  rippling  surge. 
My  youthful  limbs  were  wont  fo  urge 

At  noontide  heat  their  pliant  course ; 
Plunging  with  ardor  from  the  shore, 
Thy  springs  will  lave  these  limbs  no  more, 

Deprived  of  active  force. 

And  shall  I  here  forget  the  scene. 

Still  nearest  to  my  breast  ? 
Rocks  rise,  and  rivers  roll  between 

The  spot  which  passion  bless'd  ; 
Yet,  Mary,'  all  thy  beauties  seem 
Fresh  as  in  Love's  bewitching  dream. 

To  me  in  smiles  display'd  ; 
Till  slow  disease  resigns  his  prey 
To  Death,  the  parent  of  decay. 

Thine  image  cannot  fade. 

And  thou,  my  Friend  !*  whose  gentle  love. 

Yet  thrills  my  bosom's  chords. 
How  much  thy  friendship  was  above 

Description's  power  of  words  ! 
Still  near  my  breast  thy  gift  I  wear 
Wliich  sparkled  once  with  Feeling's  tear, 

Of  Love  the  pure,  the  sacred  gem  ; 
Our  souls  were  equal,  and  our  lot 
In  that  dear  moment  quite  forgot ; 

Let  Pride  alone  condemn  ! 

AH,  all  is  dark  and  cheerless  now  ! 

No  smile  of  Love's  deceit 
Can  warm  my  veins  with  wonted  glow, 

Can  bid  Life's  pulses  beat : 
Not  e'en  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
Can  wake  my  faint,  exhausted  frame. 

Or  crown  with  fancied  wreaths  my  head. 
Mine  is  a  short  inglorious  race, — 


'  [Mury  Duff.] 

'  [Eddlcstonc,  the  Cambridge  chorister.] 


620 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


To  bumble  in  the  dust  my  face, 
And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

Oh,  Fame  I  thou  goddess  of  my  heart ; 

On  him  who  gains  thy  praise, 
Pointlefjs  must  fall  the  Spectre's  dart, 

Consumed  in  Glory's  blaze  ; 
But  me  she  beckons  from  the  earth. 
My  name  obscure,  unmark'd  my  birth. 

My  life  a  short  and  vulgar  dream  ; 
Lost  in  the  dull,  ignoble  crowd, 
My  hopes  recline  within  a  shroud. 

My  fate  is  Lethe's  stream. 

When  I  repose  beneath  the  sod, 

Unheeded  in  the  clay. 
Where  once  my  playful  footsteps  trod, 

Where  now  my  head  must  lay  ; 
Tlie  meed  of  pity  will  be  shed 
In  dew-drops  o'er  ray  narrow  bed. 

By  nightly  skies,  and  storms  alone  ; 
No  mortal  eye  will  deign  to  steep 
With  tears  the  dark  sepulchral  deep 

Which  hides  a  name  unknown. 

Forget  this  world,  my  restless  sprite, 

Turn,  turn  thy  thoughts  to  Heaven  : 
There  must  thou  soon  direct  thy  flight. 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 
To  bigots  and  to  sects  unknown. 
Bow  down  beneath  the  Almighty's  Throne ; 

To  Him  address  thy  trembling  prayer  : 
He,  who  is  merciful  and  just. 
Will  not  reject  a  child  of  dust. 

Although  his  meanest  care. 

Father  of  Light !  to  Thee  I  call. 

My  soul  is  dark  within  : 
Thou,  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fall. 

Avert  the  death  of  sin. 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star, 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war. 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky. 
My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive ; 
And,  since  I  soon  must  cease  to  live, 

Instruct  me  how  to  die. 

1807.    [First  pablished,  1S32.] 


TO  A  VAIN  LADY. 

Ah,  heedless  girl  1  why  thus  disclose 
What  ne'er  was  meant  for  other  ears  : 

Why  thus  destroy  thine  own  repose, 
And  dig  the  source  of  future  tears  ? 

Oh,  thou  wilt  weep,  imprudent  maid, 
While  lurking  envious  foes  will  smile, 


For  all  the  follies  thou  hast  said 
Of  those  who  spoke  but  to  beguile. 

Vain  girl !  thy  ling'ring  woes  are  nigh. 
If  thou  believ'st  what  striplings  say  : 

Oh,  from  the  deep  temptation  fly. 
Nor  fall  the  specious  spoiler's  prey. 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  boast. 
The  words  man  utters  to  deceive  ? 

Thy  peace,  thy  hope,  thy  all  is  lost, 
If  thou  canst  venture  to  believe. 

While  now  amongst  thy  female  peers 
Thou  tell'st  again  the  soothing  talc, 

Canst  thou  not  mark  the  rising  sneers 
Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil  ? 

These  talcs  in  secret  silence  hush. 
Nor  make  thyself  the  public  gaze  : 

Wliat  modest  maid  without  a  blush 
Recounts  a  flattering  coxcomb's  praise  ? 

Will  not  the  laughing  boy  despise 
Her  who  relates  each  fond  conceit — 

Who,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  eyes. 
Yet  cannot  sec  the  slight  deceit  3 

For  she  who  takes  a  soft  delight 
These  amorous  nothings  in  revealing, 

Must  credit  all  we  say  or  write. 
While  vanity  prevents  concealing. 

Cease,  if  you  prize  your  beauty's  reign  I 

No  jealousy  bids  me  reprove  : 
One,  who  is  thus  from  nature  vain, 

I  pity,  but  I  cannot  love. 

January  15, 1807.    [Fir.?t  publiehcd,  1832.] 


TO    ANNE. 

Oh,  Anne !  your  ofiences  to  me  have  been  grievous ; 

I  thought  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  could 
save  you  1 
But  woman  is  made  to  command  and  deceive  us — 

I  look'd  in  your  face,  and  I  almost  forgave  you. 

I  vow'd  I  could  ne'er  for  a  moment  respect  you. 
Yet  thought  that  a  day's  separation  was  long  : 

When  we  met,  I  determined  again  to  suspect  you — 
Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was  wrong. 

I  swore,  in  a  transport  of  young  indignation. 
With  fervent  contempt  evermore  to  disdain  you  ; 

I  saw  you — my  anger  became  admiration  ; 
And  now,  all  my  wish,  all  my  hope,  's  to  regain 
you. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


521 


With  beauty  like  yours,  oh,  how  vain  the  contention  1 
Thus  lowly  I  sue  for  forgiyeness  before  you  ; — 

At  once  to  conclude  such  a  fruitless  dissension,  [you ! 

Be  false,  my  sweet  Anne,  when  I  cease  to  adore 

January  16, 1807.    [First  published,  1832.] 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Oh,  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  fates  have  decreed. 
The  heart  which  adores  you  should  wish  to  dis- 
sever ; 

Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  indeed  ; — 
To  bear  me  from  love  and  from  beauty  forever. 

Your  frowns,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which  alone 
Could  bid  me  from  fond  admiration  refrain ; 

By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  o'crthrown, 
Till  smiles  should  restore  me  to  rapture  again. 

As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined. 
The  rage  of  the  tempest  united  must  weather, 

My  love  and  my  life  were  by  nature  design'd 
To  flourish  alike,  or  to  perish  together. 

Then  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have  de- 
Your  lover  should  bid  you  a  lasting  adieu  ;  [creed 

Till  Fate  can  ordain  that  his  bosom  shall  bleed. 
His  soul,  his  existence,  are  centred  in  you. 

1807.     [First  pubiislied,  1832.] 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  A  SONNET  BEGINNING, 

"  '  SAD   IS  MY  VESSS,'  YOtJ  SAT,  '  AND  YET  NO  TEAK.'  " 

TiiY  verse  is  '•  sad  "  enough,  no  doubt : 
A  devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty  ! 

Why  we  should  weep  I  can't  find  out. 
Unless  for  thee  we  weep  in  pity. 

Yet  there  is  one  I  pity  more  ; 

And  much,  alas  !  I  think  he  needs  it : 
For  he,  I'm  sure,  will  suffer  sore, 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it. 

Thy  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  magic, 
May  once  be  read — but  never  after  : 

Yet  their  effect 's  by  no  means  tragic. 
Although  by  far  too  dull  for  laughter. 

But  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed, 
And  of  no  common  pang  complain — 

If  you  would  make  us  weep  indeed, 
Tell  us,  you'll  read  them  o'er  again. 

March  8, 1807.    [First  published,  1832.] 


ON  FINDING  A  FAN. 

In  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt. 

This  might,  perhaps,  have  fann'd  the  flame  ; 
But  now  his  heart  no  more  will  melt, 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 
tiO 


As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 
The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 

And  bade  them  bum  with  fiercer  glow. 
Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in  night, 

Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires — 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers — 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires, 
Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

The  first,  though  not  a  spark  survive. 
Some  careful  hand  may  teach  to  bum  ; 

The  last,  alas  !  can  ne'er  survive ; 
No  touch  can  bid  its  warmth  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  again. 
Not  always  doom'd  its  heat  to  smother. 

It  sheds  (so  wayward  fates  ordain) 
Its  former  warmth  around  another. 

1807.    [First  published,  1832.] 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

Thou  Power  !  who  hast  ruled  me  through  infancy's 
days,  [part ; 

Young  offspring  of  Fancy,  'tis  time  we  should 
Then  rise  on  the  gale  this  the  last  of  my  lays, 

The  coldest  effusion  which  springs  from  my  heart. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more, 

Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee  to  sing ; 

The  feelings  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee  to  soar, 
Are  wafted  far  distant  on  Apathy's  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowing  Lj're, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  forever ; 

No  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could  inspire. 
My  visions  are  flown,  to  return, — alas,  never  I 

When  drain'd  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  bowl. 
How  vain  is  the  effort  delight  to  prolong  I 

When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul. 
What  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengthen  my  song  ? 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone, 

Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must  resign  ? 

Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  are  flown  ? 
Ah,  no  !  for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  mine. 

Can  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I  live  but  to  love  ? 

Ah,  surely  affection  ennobles  the  strain  ! 
But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move, 

Wlien  I  scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  them  again  ? 

Can  I  sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have  done. 
And  raise  my  loud  hnqj  to  the  fame  of  my  Sires  ? 

For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tone  ! 
For  Heroes'  exploit's  how  unequal  my  fires  ! 


522 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Untoucli'd,  tben,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast — 
'Tis  hush'd ;  and  my  feeble  endeavors  are  o'er ; 

And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the  past, 
When  they  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vibrate  no 
more. 

And  soon  shall  its  wild  erring  notes  be  forgot, 
Since  early  affection  and  love  are  o'ercast : 
Oh  !  bless'd  had  my  fate  been,  and  happy  my  lot, 
Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the  dearest,  the 
last! 

[meet ; 

Farewell,  my  young  Muse  !  since  w^e  now  can  ne'er 

If  our  songs  have  been  languid,  they  surely  are  few ; 

Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be  sweet — 

The  present — which  seals  our  eternal  Adieu. 

1807.    [First  pnbUfihed,  1832.] 


TO  AN  OAK  AT  NEWSTEAD. 

Young  Oak !  when  I  planted  thee  deep  In  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine ; 

That  thy   dark -waving    branches    would   flourish 
around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

Such,  such  was  my  hope,  when,  in  infancy's  years, 
On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I  rear'd  thee  with  pride : 

They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears, — 
Thy  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can 
hide. 

I  left  thee,  my  Oak,  and,  since  that  fatal  hour, 
A  stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  my  sire ; 

Till  manhood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the  power. 
But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expire. 

Oh  !  hardy  thou  wert — even  now  little  care 

Might  revive  thy  young  head,  and  thy  wounds 
gently  heal : 

But  thou  wert  not  fated  affection  to  share — 
For  who  could  suppose  that  a  Stranger  would  feel  ? 

Ah,  droop  not,  my  Oak  !  lift  thy  head  for  a  while  ; 

Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall  run, 
The  hand  of  thy  Master  will  teach  thee  to  smile, 

When  Infancy's  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak  !  tow'r  aloft  from  the  weeds, 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  assist  thy  decay. 

For  still  in  thy  bosom  are  life's  early  seeds, 

And  still  may  thy  branches  their  beauty  display. 

Oh  !  yet,  if  maturity's  years  may  be  thine. 
Though  /  shall  lie  low  in  the  cavern  of  death, 

On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day-beam  of  ages  may  shine, 
Uninjm-ed  by  time,  or  the  rude  winter's  breath. 

'  Some  years  ago,  v.hcn  at  Harrow,  a  frieml  of  the  author  en- 
^Taved  on  a  particular  spot  (he  nnaics  of  bolh,  ivHh  a  fjw  addi- 
tional worda,  OS  a  meaiorial.    Afierward:.,  f,n  rec«iving  eorae  ical 


For  centuries  still  may  thy  boughs  lightly  wave 
O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  in  thy  canopy  laid  ; 

While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  his  grave. 
The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy  shade. 

And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot. 
He  wiU  tell  them  in  whispers  more  softly  to  tread. 

Oh  !  siurely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  forgot : 
Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing  prime, 
Perhaps  he  has  pour'd  forth  his  young  simple  lay. 

And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  losl  in  the  hours  of  Eternity's  day. 

1807.     [First  published,  1832] 


OK  REVISITING  HARROW.. 

Heiie  once  engaged  the  stranger's  view 
Young  Friendship's  record  simply  traced ; 

Few  were  her  words, — but  yet,  though  few, 
Resentment's  hand  the  line  defaced. 

Deeply  she  cut — but  not  erased, 

The  characters  were  still  so  plain. 
That  Friendship  once  retum'd,  and  gazed, — 

Till  Memory  hail'd  the  words  again. 

Repentance  placed  them  as  before  ; 

Forgiveness  join'd  her  gentle  name  ; 
So  fair  the  inscription  seem'd  once  more 

That  Friendship  thought  it  still  the  same. 

Thus  might  the  Record  now  have  been  ; 

But,  ah,  in  spite  of  Hope's  endeavor, 
Or  Friendship's  tears,  Pride  rush'd  between, 

And  blotted  out  the  line  forever. 

SeptemHer,  ISO", 


EPITAPH    ON    JOHN    ADAJIS,    OP    SOUTH- 
WELL, 

A  CAKRIER,  WHO  DIED  OP  DRUNKENNESS. 

John  Adams  lies  here  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 
A  Carrier  who  carried  his  can  to  his  mouth  well ; 
He  carried  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast, 
He  could  carry  no  more — so  was  carried  at  last ; 
For,  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for  one, 
He  could  not  carry  off, — so  he  's  now  carri-on. 

September,  1807. 

TO    MY    SON. 

Those  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blue, 
Bright  as  thy  mother's  in  their  hue  ; 
Those  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away. 
Recall  a  scene  of  former  joy, 
And  touch  thy  father's  heart,  my  Boy  1 

or  imagined  injury,  the  author  dentroyed  the  frail  record  before  he 
left  Harrow.  On  revifitiug  the  phce  iu  1807,  he  wrote  under  it 
theTie  btanzaf*. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


523 


And  tUou  canst  lisp  a  father's  name — 
Ab,  'William,  were  thine  own  the  same, — 
No  self-reproach — but,  let  me  cease — 
My  care  for  thee  shall  pm-cliase  peace  ; 
Thy  mother's  shade  shall  smile  in  joy, 
And  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Boy  ! 

Her  lowly  grave  the  turf  has  press'd, 
And  thou  hast  known  a  stranger's  breast. 
Derision  sneers  upon  thy  birth. 
And  yields  thee  scarce  a  name  on  earth  ; 
Yet  shall  not  these  one  hope  destroy, — 
A  Father's  heart  is  thine,  my  Boy  ! 

Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown, 
Must  I  fond  Nature's  claim  disown  ? 
Ah,  no — though  moralists  reprove, 
I  hail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love, 
Fair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy — 
A  Father  guards  thy  birth,  my  Boy  ! 

Oh,  'twill  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace, 
Ere  age  has  wrinkled  o'er  my  face. 
Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run, 
At  once  a  brotlicr  and  a  son ; 
And  all  my  wane  of  years  employ 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Boy  ! 

Although  so  young  thy  heedless  sire, 
Youth  will  not  damp  parental  fire ; 
And,  wert  thou  stiU  less  dear  to  me. 
"While  Helen's  form  revives  in  thee. 
The  breast,  which  beat  to  former  joy. 
Will  ne'er  desert  its  pledge,  my  Boy  ! 

1807.    [First  published,  1830.] 


FAREWELL!    IF  EVER   FONDEST  PRAYER. 

Faeewell  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  other's  weal  avail'd  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air. 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
'Twere  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh  : 

Oh  !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
Wlicn  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word — Farewell  I — Farewell  I 

These  lips  are  mute,  tliese  eyca  arc  dry  : 

But  in  my  breast  and  in  my  brain. 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by. 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain. 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel : 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain — 

I  only  feel — Farewell  1 — Farewell  1 


BRIGHT  BE  THE  PLACE  OF  THY  SOUL. 

Bkioht  be  the  place  of  thy  soul ! 

No  loveUer  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 


On  earth  thou  wort  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be ; 
And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine. 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb  ! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be  : 
There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 

In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 

Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest : 

But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see  ; 
For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  bless'd  ? 

1808. 


WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED. 

When  we  tv/o  parted 

In  silence  and  tears. 
Half  broken-hearted 

To  sever  for  years. 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold. 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Simk  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  nov;'. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame ; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

VHiy  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee. 

Who  knew  thee  too  well : — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee. 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
Thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 


624 


BYRON  'S    WORKS. 


If  I  should  meet  tliee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ?- 

With  silence  and  tears. 


1808. 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND. 

Few  years  have  pass'd  since  thou  and  I 
Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name, 

And  childhood's  gay  sincerity 
Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 


But  now,  like  me,  too  weU  thou  know'st 
What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall ; 

And  those  who  once  have  loved  the  most 
Too  soon  forget  they  loved  at  all. 

And  such  the  change  the  heart  displays, 
So  frail  is  early  friendship's  reign, 

A  month's  brief  lapse,  perhaps  a  day's, 
Will  view  thy  mind  estranged  again. 

If  so,  it  never  shaU  be  mine 
To  mourn  the  loss  of  such  a  heart ; 

The  fault  was  Nature's  fault,  not  thine, 
Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thou  art. 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide, 
So  human  feelings  ebb  and  flow ; 

And  who  would  in  a  breast  confide, 
Where  stormy  passions  ever  glow  ? 

It  boots  not  that,  together  bred. 
Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy, 

My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled ; 
Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

And  when  we  bid  adieu  to  youth. 
Slaves  to  the  specious  world's  control. 

We  sigh  a  long  farewell  to  truth ; 
That  world  corrupts  the  noblest  souL 

Ah,  joyous  season  !  when  the  mind 
Dares  all  things  boldly  but  to  lie ; 

When  thought  ere  spoke  is  unconfined. 
And  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 

Not  so  in  Man's  maturer  years. 
When  Man  himself  is  but  a  tool ; 

When  interest  sways  our  hopes  and  fears, 
And  all  must  love  and  hate  by  rule. 

With  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same. 
We  learn  at  length  our  faults  to  blend ; 

And  those,  and  those  alone,  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 


Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man  : 
Can  we  then  'scape  from  folly  free  ? 

Can  we  reverse  the  general  plan, 
Nor  be  what  aU  in  turn  must  be  ? 

No ;  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 

Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  been  ; 

Man  and  the  world  so  much  I  hate, 
I  care  not  when  I  quit  the  scene. 

But  thou,  with  spirit  frail  and  light, 
Wilt  shine  awhile,  and  pass  away ; 

As  glow-worms  sparkle  through  the  night, 
But  dare  not  stand  the  test  of  day. 

Alas  !  whenever  folly  calls 

Where  parasites  and  princes  meet, 

(For  cherish'd  first  in  royal  halls. 
The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet,) 

Ev'n  now  thou'rt  nightly  seen  to  add 
One  insect  to  the  fluttering  crowd ; 

And  still  thy  trifling  heart  is  glad 
To  join  the  vain,  and  court  the  proud. 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  fair. 
Still  simpering  on  with  eager  haste, 

As  flies  along  the  gay  parten-e. 
That  taint  the  flowers  they  scarcely  taste. 

But  say,  what  nymph  will  prize  the  flame 
Which  seems,  as  marshy  vapors  move. 

To  flit  along  from  dame  to  dame, 
An  ignis-fatuus  gleam  of  love  ? 

What  friend  for  thee,  howe'er  inclined. 
Will  deign  to  own  a  kindred  care  ? 

Wlio  will  debase  his  manly  mind. 
For  friendship  every  fool  may  share  ? 

In  time  forbear ;  amidst  the  throng 
No  more  so  base  a  thing  be  seen  ; 

No  more  so  idly  pass  along  : 
Be  something,  any  thing,  but — mean. 


1808. 


LINES   INSCRIBED   UPON  A   CUP   FORMED 
FROM  A   SKULL. 

Start  not — nor  deem  my  spirit  fled  : 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull, 
From  which,  imlike  a  living  head. 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quafi"'d,  like  thee  : 
I  died  :  let  earth  my  bones  resign  : 

Fill  up — thou  canst  not  injure  me  ; 
The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


525 


Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 

Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood ; 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 
The  drink  of  gods,  than  reptile's  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hath  shone. 

In  aid  of  others'  let  me  shine ; 
And  when,  alas  !  our  brains  are  gone. 

What  nobler  substitute  than  wine  ? 

Quaff  while  thou  canst :  another  race. 
When  thou  and  thine,  like  me,  are  sped, 

May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace. 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Wliy  no — since  through  life's  little  day 
Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce  ? 

Redeem'd  from  worms  and  wasting  clay, 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 

Newstead  Abbet,  1808. 


WELL!    THOU   ART   HAPPY. 

Well  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too  ; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  I  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband  's  bless'd — and  'twill  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass — Oh  1  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not ! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child, 
I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break ; 

But  when  the  imconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it, — and  repress'd  my  sighs, 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see ; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu  !  I  must  away : 

While  thou  art  bless'd  I'll  not  repine ; 
But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay  ; 

My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame  ; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side. 
My  heart  in  all, — save  hope, — the  same. 

Yet  was  I  calm  :  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thriU  before  thy  look  ; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime — 
We  met, — and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 


I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face. 
Yet  met  with  no  confusion  there  : 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace ; 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

Away  1  away  I  my  early  dream 
Remembrance  never  must  awake  : 

Oh,  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream  ? 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break. 

Kovember  2, 1808. 


INSCRIPTION    ON    THE    MONUMENT   OP   A 
NEWFOUNDLAND   DOG. 

When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth. 

Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth. 

The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  wo, 

And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below  ; 

When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen. 

Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been  : 

But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend. 

The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 

Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 

Wlio  labors,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 

Unhonor'd  fulls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth. 

Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth  : 

While  man,  vain  insect !  hopes  to  be  forgiven. 

And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 

Oh,  man  !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 

Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power, 

Wlio  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 

Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 

Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat. 

Thy  smiles  hyiiocrisy,  thy  words  deceit ! 

By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name. 

Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 

Ye  !  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn. 

Pass  on — it  honors  none  you  wish  to  mourn  : 

To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise  ; 

I  never  knew  but  one, — and  here  he  lies. 

Newstead  Abbet,  November  30, 1808. 


TO   A  LADY. 

ON  BBINQ  ASKED  MY  BEASON  FOK  QUITTISO  ENO- 
LAND  IN  THE  BPItraO. 

When  Man,  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers, 
A  moment  linger'd  near  the  gate, 

Each  scene  recall'd  the  vanish'd  hours, 
And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

But,  wandering  on  through  distant  climes. 
He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief ; 

Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times. 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 


526 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Thus,  lady  !  will  it  be  with  me, 

And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more  : 

For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before. 

In  flight  I  shall  be  surely  wise, 
Escaping  from  temptation's  snare  ; 

I  cannot  view  my  paradise 
Without  the  wish  of  dwelling  there. 

December  2, 1808. 


REMIND   3IE   NOT,    REMIND   ME   NOT. 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not. 

Of  those  beloved,  those  vanish'd  hours. 
When  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thee  ; 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot. 
Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers, 
And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be. 


Can  I  forget — canst  thou  forget, 
When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair. 

How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  move  ? 
Oh,  by  my  soul,  I  see  thee  yet. 
With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  fair, 
And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

Wlien  thus  reclining  on  my  breast, 
Those  eyes  threw  back  a  glance  so  sweet, 
As  half  reproach'd  yet  rais'd  desire. 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  press'd, 
And  still  our  glowing  lips  would  meet. 
As  if  in  kisses  to  expire. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  close. 
And  bid  their  lids  each  other  seek. 
Veiling  the  azure  orbs  below ; 
While  their  long  lashes'  darken'd  gloss 
Seem'd  stealing  o'er  thy  brilliant  cheek. 
Like  raven's  plumage  smooth'd  on  snow. 

I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  return'd, 

And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 

Was  sweeter  in  its  fantasy. 
Than  if  for  other  hearts  I  burn'd. 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  could  beam 

In  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  teU  me  not,  remind  me  not. 

Of  hours  which,  though  forever  gone. 
Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore. 
Till  thou  and  I  shall  be  forgot, 

And  senseless  as  the  mouldering  stone 
Which  tells  tliat  we  shall  be  no  more. 


THERE  WAS  A  TIME,  I  NEED  NOT  NAME. 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name. 

Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be, 
When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 

As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
Confess'd  a  love  which  equall'd  mine, 

Though  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung. 
Unknown  and  thus  unfelt  by  thine. 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this — 
To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flown  ; 

Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss. 
But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew, 

When  late  I  heard  thy  lips  declare, 
In  accents  once  imagined  true. 

Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes  ;  my  adored,  yet  most  unkind  ! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  'tis  doubly  sweet  to  find 

Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes  !  'tis  a  glorious  thought  to  me. 

Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 
Whate'er  thou  art  or  e'er  shalt  be. 

Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine. 


AND  WILT  THOU  WEEP  WHEN  I  AM  LOW? 

And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady  !  sjjeak  those  words  again  : 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so — 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 

My  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone. 
My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast ; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  gleam  of  peace 

Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine  ; 

And  for  awhile  my  sorrows  cease. 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

Oh,  lady  !  blessed  be  that  tear — 

It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep  : 
Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 

To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  may  steep.' 

Sweet  lady  !  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine  ; 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


527 


But  beauty's  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A  wretch  created  to  repine. 

Yet  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady  I  speak  those  words  again  ; 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so-p 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 


FILL   THE   GOBLET  AGAIN. 

A   SONG. 

Fill  the  goblet  again  1  for  I  never  before  [core  ; 
Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its 
Let  us  drink: — who  would  not? — since,  through 

life's  varied  round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply ; 
I  have  bask'd  in  the  beam  of  a  dark-rolling  eye  ; 
I  have  loved  ! — who  has  not  ? — ^but  what  heart  can 

declare, 
That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart  '8  in  its 

spring. 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends ! — who  has  not  ?— but  what  tongue 

will  avow. 
That  friends,  rosy  wine  !  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange. 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam — thou  never 

canst  change  : 
Thou  grow'st  old — who  does  not? — but  on  earth 

what  appears,  [years  ? 

AVhose  virtues,  like   thiue,  still  increase  with  its 

Yet  if  bless'd  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow. 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below,    [alloy  ; 
We  are  jealous  I — who  's  not  ? — thou  hast  no  such 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  pass'd, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 
There  we  find — do  we  not  ? — in  the  flow  of  the  soul. 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  open'd  on  earth, 
And  Misery's  triumph  commenced  over  Jlirth,  [kiss, 
Hope  was  left, — was  she  not  ? — but  the  goblet  we 
And  care  not  for  Hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape  !  for  when  summer  is  flown. 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own  : 
Wc  must  die — who  shall  not  ? — May  our  sins  be  for- 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven.         [given. 


STANZAS   TO   A   LADY   ON   LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

'Tis  done — and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail ; 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast. 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh'ning  blast ; 
And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I  be  what  I  have  been. 
And  could  I  see  what  I  have  seen — 
Could  I  repose  upon  the  breast 
AVhich  once  my  wannest  wishes  bless'd — 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

'Tis  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery  ; 
And  I  have  striven,  but  in  vain, 
Never  to  think  of  it  again  : 
For  though  I  fly  from  Albion, 
I  still  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird,  without  a  mate, 
My  weary  heart  is  desolate  ; 
I  look  around,  and  cannot  trace 
One  friendly  smile  or  welcome  face, 
And  ev'n  in  crowds  am  still  alone. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam. 

And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home  ; 

Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting-place  ; 

My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 

But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest,  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  hearth. 
Where  friendship's  or  love's  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  wo  ; 
But  friend  or  leman  I  have  none, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

I  go — but  wheresoe'er  I  flee, 
There  's  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me ; 
There  's  not  a  kind  congenial  heart. 
Where  I  can  claim  the  meanest  part ; 
Nor  thou,  who  hast  my  hopes  undone, 
Wilt  sigh,  although  I  love  but  one. 

To  think  of  every  early  scene. 

Of  what  we  arc,  and  what  we've  been. 

Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  wo — 

But  mine,  alas  !  has  stood  the  blow ; 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun. 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 


628 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 
And  why  that  early  love  was  cross'd, 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most ; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

I've  tried  another's  fetters  too. 
With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view  ; 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as  well. 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

'Twould  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view. 

And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu  ; 

Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 

For  him  that  wanders  o'er  the  deep  ; 

His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 

Yet  still  he  loves,  and  loves  Ijut  one.  isoD. 


LINES    TO    MR.    HODGSON. 

WRITTEN   ON   BOARD    THE   LISBON   PACKET. 

Huzza  !  Hodgson,  we  are  going, 

Our  embargo  's  off  at  last ; 
Favorable  breezes  blowing 

Bend  the  canvass  o'er  the  mast. 
From  aloft  the  signal 's  streaming, 
Hark  !  the  farewell  gun  is  fired  ; 
Women  screeching,  tars  blaspheming. 
Tell  U3  that  our  time  's  expired. 
Here  's  a  rascal 
Come  to  task  all, 
Prying  from  the  custom-house  ; 
Trunks  unpacking 
Cases  cracking, 
Not  a  comer  for  a  mouse 
'Scapes  unsearch'd  amid  the  racket, 
Ere  we  sail  on  board  the  Packet. 

Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  mooring, 
.    And  all  hands  must  ply  the  oar ; 
Baggage  from  the  quay  is  lowering. 
We're  impatient,— put  from  shore. 
"  Have  a  care  !  that  case  holds  liquor — 

Stop  the  boat — I'm  sick — O  Lord  !'' 
"  Sick,  ma'am,  damme,  you'll  be  sicker. 
Ere  you've  been  an  hour  on  board." 
Thus  are  screaming 
Men  and  women, 
Gemmen,  ladies,  servants,  Jacks  ; 
Here  entangling, 
All  are  wrangling. 
Stuck  together  close  as  wax. 
Such  the  general  noise  and  racket. 
Ere  wc  reach  the  Lisbon  Packet. 


Now  we've  reach'd  her,  lo  1  the  captain, 

Gallant  Kidd,  commands  the  crew  ; 
Passengers  their  berths  are  clapp'd  in. 

Some  to  grumble,  some  to  spew. 
"  Iley  day  !  call  you  that  a  cabin  ? 

Why  'tis  hardly  three  feet  square ; 
Not  enough  to  stow  Queen  Mab  in — 
Who  the  deuce  can  harbor  there  ?" 
"  Who,  sir  ?  plenty — 
Nobles  twenty 
Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill." — 
"  Did  they  ?  Jesus, 
How  you  squeeze  us  ! 
AVould  to  God  they  did  so  still : 
Then  I'd  'scape  the  heat  and  racket 
Of  the  good  ship,  Lisbon  Packet." 

Fletcher  !  Murray  !  Bob !  where  are  you  ? 

Stretch'd  along  the  deck  like  logs — 
Bear  a  hand,  you  jolly  tar,  you  ! 

Here  's  a  rope's  end  for  the  dogs. 
Ilobhouse  muttering  fearful  cursee, 

As  the  hatchway  down  he  rolls. 
Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses. 
Vomits  forth — and  damns  our  souls. 
"  Here  's  a  stanza 
On  Braganza — 
Help  !" — "  A  couplet  I" — "  No,  a  cup 
Of  warm  water —  " 
"  What's  the  matter  ?" 
"  Zounds  !  my  liver  's  coming  up  ; 
I  shall  not  sunive  the  racket 
Of  this  brutal  Lisbon  Packet." 

Now  at  length  we're  off  for  Turkey, 

Lord  knows  when  we  shall  come  back  1 
Breezes  foul  and  tempests  murky 

May  unship  us  in  a  crack. 
But,  since  life  at  most  a  jest  is. 

As  philosophers  allow. 
Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is, 
Then  laugh  on — as  I  do  now. 
Laugh  at  all  things, 
Great  and  small  things, 
Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore  ; 
Wliile  we're  quaffing. 
Let 's  have  laughing — 
Who  the  deril  cares  for  more  ? — 
Some  good  wine  !  and  who  would  lack  it, 
Ev'n  on  board  the  Lisbon  Packet  ? 

Falmouth  Eoads,  Jtme  30, 1809. 
[First  publiahed,  1833.] 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM,  AT 
MALTA. 

As  o'er  tlie  cold  sci^ulchral  stone 
Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by ; 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


529 


Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 
May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye  ! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year, 

Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead, 
And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 

September  14, 1809. 


TO    FLORENCE. 

On,  Lady  I  when  I  left  the  shore, 
The  distant  shore  which  gave  me  birth, 

I  hardly  thought  to  grieve  once  more. 
To  quit  another  spot  on  earth  : 

Yet  here,  amidst  this  barren  isle, 
Where  panting  Nature  droops  the  head, 

■Wlierc  only  thou  art  seen  to  smile, 
I  view  my  parting  hour  with  dread. 

Though  far  from  Albin's  craggy  shore, 

Divided  by  the  dark  blue  main ; 
A  few,  brief,  rolling  seasons  o'er. 

Perchance  I  view  her  cliffs  again : 

But  whcresoe'er  I  now  may  roam. 
Through  scorching  cKmc,  and  varied  sea. 

Though  Time  restore  me  to  my  home, 
I  ne'er  shall  bend  mine  eyes  on  thee  : 

On  thee,  in  whom  at  once  conspire 
All  charms  which  heedless  hearts  can  move. 

Whom  but  to  see  is  to  admire. 
And,  oh  !  forgive  the  word — to  love. 

Forgive  the  word,  in  one  who  ne'er 
With  such  a  word  can  more  offend ; 

And  since  thy  heart  I  cannot  share. 
Believe  me,  what  I  am,  thy  friend. 

And  who  so  cold  as  look  on  thee. 
Thou  lovely  wand'rer,  and  be  less  ? 

Nor  be,  what  man  should  ever  be. 
The  friend  of  Beauty  in  distress  ? 

Ah  !  who  would  think  that  form  had  pass'd 
Through  Danger's  most  destructive  path. 

Had  braved  the  death-wing'd  tempest's  blast. 
And  'scaped  a  tyrant's  fiercer  wrath  ? 

Lady  !  when  I  shall  view  the  walls 
Where  free  Byzantium  once  arose. 

And  Stamboul's  Oriental  halls 
The  Turkish  tyrants  now  enclose  ; 

Though  mightiest  in  the  lists  of  fame, 
That  glorious  city  still  shall  be ; 
67 


On  me  'twill  hold  a  dearer  claim, 
As  spot  of  thy  nativity : 

And  though  I  bid  thee  now  farewell. 
When  I  behold  that  wondrous  scene. 

Since  where  thou  art  I  may  not  dwell, 
'Twill  soothe  to  be  where  thou  hast  been. 

September,  1809. 


STANZAS. 

COMPOSED   DUKINO   A  TBCUKDEK-STORM. 

Chill  and  mirk  is  the  nightly  blast. 

Where  Pindus'  mountains  rise. 
And  angry  clouds  are  pouring  fast 

The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone,  our  hope  is  lost, 
•   And  lightnings,  as  they  play, 
But  show  where  rocks  our  path  have  cross'd, 
Or  gild  the  torrent's  spray. 

Is  yon  a  cot  I  saw,  though  low  ? 

When  lightning  broke  the  gloom — 
How  welcome  were  its  shade  ! — ah,  no  ! 

'Tis  but  a  Turkish  tomb. 

Through  sounds  of  foaming  waterfalls, 

I  hear  a  voice  exclaim — 
My  way-worn  countryman,  who  calls 

On  distant  England's  name. 

A  shot  is  fired — by  foe  or  friend  ? 

Another — 'tis  to  tell 
The  mountain  peasants  to  descend, 

And  lead  us  where  they  dwell. 

Oh  1  who  in  such  a  night  will  dare 

To  tempt  the  wilderness  ? 
And  who  'mid  thunder  peals  can  hear 

Our  signal  of  distress  ? 

And  who  that  heard  our  shouts  would  rise 

To  try  the  dubious  road  ? 
Nor  rather  deem  from  nightly  cries 

That  outlaws  were  abroad. 

Clouds  burst,  skies  flash,  oh,  dreadful  hour ! 

More  fiercely  pours  the  storm  ! 
Tct  here  one  thought  has  still  the  power 

To  keep  my  bosom  warm. 

While  wand'ring  through  each  broken  path. 

O'er  brake  and  craggy  brow ; 
WTiile  elements  exhaust  their  wrath, 

Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou  ? 


5S0 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea, 
Tiiy  bark  hath  long  been  gone  : 

Oh,  may  the  storm  that  pours  on  me, 
Bow  down  my  head  alone  ! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc, 

When  last  I  press'd  thy  lip  ; 
A.nd  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock, 

Impell'd  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe ;  nay,  long  ere  now 
Hast  trod  the  shore  of  Spain  ; 

'Twere  hard  if  aught  so  fair  as  thou 
Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  I  now  remember  thee 

In  darkness  and  in  dread, 
As  in  those  hours  of  revelry 

Which  mirth  and  music  sped  ; 

Do  thou,  amid  the  fair  white  walls, 

If  Cadiz  yet  be  free. 
At  times  from  out  her  latticed  halls 

Look  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea  ; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso's  isles, 

Endear'd  by  days  gone  by ; 
To  others  give  a  thousand  smiles, 

To  me  a  single  sigh. 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 

The  paleness  of  thy  face, 
A  half-form'd  tear,  a  transient  spark 

Of  melancholy  grace. 

Again  thou'lt  smile,  and  blushing  shun 

Some  coxcomb's  raillery ; 
Nor  own  for  once  thou  thought'st  on  one. 

Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sigh  alike  are  vain, 

When  sever'd  hearts  repine. 
My  spirit  flies  o'er  mount  and  main. 

And  mourns  in  search  of  thine. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  IN  PASSING  THE  AlIBKACIAN  GULP. 

Thbough  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen. 
Full  beams  the  moon  on  Actium's  coast ; 

And  on  these  waves,  for  Egypt's  queen. 
The  ancient  world  was  won  and  lost. 

And  now  upon  the  scene  I  look. 
The  azure  grave  of  many  a  Roman  ; 

Where  stern  Ambition  once  forsook 
His  wavering  crown  to  follow  woman. 


Florence  !  whom  I  will  love  as  well 

As  ever  yet  was  said  or  sung, 
(Since  Orpheus  sang  his  spouse  from  hell,) 

Whilst  thou  art  fair  and  I  am  young ; 

Sweet  Florence  I  those  were  pleasant  times. 
When  worlds  were  staked  for  ladies'  eyes : 

Had  bards  as  many  realms  as  rhymes. 
Thy  charms  might  raise  new  Antonies. 

Though  Fate  forbids  such  things  to  be 
Yet,  by  thine  eyes  and  ringlets  curl'd  ! 

I  cannot  lose  a  world  for  thee. 
But  would  not  lose  thee  for  a  world. 

Nonembsr  14, 1809. 


THE  SPELL  IS  BROKE,  THE  CHARM  IS 
FLOWN  I 

■WRITTEN  AT  ATHENS,  JANUARY   18,  1810. 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown  ! 

Thus  is  it  with  hfe's  fitful  fever  : 
We  madly  smile  when  we  should  groan  ; 

Delirium  is  our  best  deceiver. 

Each  lucid  interval  of  thought 
Recalls  the  woes  of  Nature's  charter, 

And  he  that  acts  as  wise  men  ought. 
But  lives,  as  saints  have  died,  a  martyr. 


WRITTEN    AFTER    SWIMMING    FROM 
SESTOS  TO  ABYDOS. 

If,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember  ?) 

To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont ! 

If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'd, 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth. 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  pour'd. 

Fair  Venus  !  how  I  pity  both  I 

For  ine,  degenerate  modern  wretch. 
Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch. 
And  think  I've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  cross'd  the  rapid  tide. 

According  to  the  doubtful  story. 
To  woo, — and — Lord  knows  what  beside, 

And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory ; 

'Twere  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best : 
Sad  mortals  !  thus  the  gods  still  plague  you  ! 

He  lost  his  labor,  I  my  jest  ; 
For  he  was  drown'd,  and  I've  the  ague. 

Uay  a,  1810. 


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UMB  OP  ATHKMa.  KRE  Wk       .:  , 

r.IVK,  OH.  CIVK  ME  BACK  MY  HhlAH'l'; 

Oli.HlNCi'    'IMA'.     Wl-S.    If.FT  MY  BR6;Ab'T, 
••  ■  -AX:-;   THf.  RTSBT: 


Johnsoa.Jty  *  Company.  PuWisbers.NewYork 


% 


# 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


S31 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  TRAVELLERS' 
BOOK  AT  ORCHOMENUS. 

IN   THIS   BOOK   A   TRAVELLEn   HAD    WRITTEN  : 

"  Fair  Albion,  smiling,  sees  her  son  depart 
To  trace  the  birth  and  nursery  of  art : 
Noble  his  object,  glorious  is  his  aim  ; 
He  comes  to  Athens,  and  he  writes  his  name." 

BSNEATH  Wmcn   LORD    BYRON    INSERTED   THE 
FOLLOWrNG : — 

The  modest  bard,  like  many  a  bard  unknown, 
Rhymes  on  our  names,  but  wisely  hides  his  own  ; 
But  yet,  whoe'er  he  be,  to  say  no  worse, 
His  name  would  bring  more  credit  than  his  verse. 

1810. 


MAID  OP  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PXRT. 

Zut)  /iov,  au;  dyairu. 
Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part. 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart  1 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

ZuT)  /ioD,  our  (Ij-OTTW. 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  ^gean  wind ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

ZuTj  /iov,  (Tuf  uya~Ci. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  wo, 

ZwT?  /ioijj  ffaf  uya~C}. 

Maid  of  Athens  1  I  am  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  hold  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?    No  ! 
Zuij  fcov,  C'j£  uya~C), 

AthK!»«,  1810. 


TRANSLATION 

OP  THE  nurse's  dole  IN  THE  MEDEA  OF  EURIPIDES. 

Oh,  how  I  wish  that  an  embargo 

Had  kept  in  port  the  good  ship  Argo  I 

Who,  still  unlaunch'd  from  Grecian  docks, 

Had  never  pass'd  the  Azure  rocks  ; 

But  now  I  fear  her  trip  will  be  a 

Damn'd  business  for  my  Miss  Medea,  etc.,  etc. 

Jiint.  1810. 


MY   EPITAPH. 

TouTH,  Nature,  and  relenting  Jove, 
To  keep  my  lamp  in  strongly  strove ; 
But  Romanelli  was  so  stout. 
He  beat  all  three — and  Ueto  it  ou'. 

Oct.,  1810. 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  AN  EPITAPH. 

Kind  Reader  1  take  your  choice  to  cry  or  laugh  ; 

Here  Harold  lies — but  where  's  his  Epitaph  ? 

If  such  you  seek,  try  Westminster,  and  view 

Ten  thousand  just  as  fit  for  him  as  you. 

Athens. 


LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH  A  PICTURE. 

Dear  object  of  defeated  care ! 

Though  now  of  Love  and  thee  bereft. 
To  reconcile  mo  with  despair. 

Thine  image  and  my  tears  are  left. 

'Tis  said  with  Sorrow  Time  can  cope ; 

But  this  I  feel  can  ne'er  be  true  ! 
For  by  the  death-blow  of  my  Hope 

My  Memory  immortal  grew. 

Athens,  January,  1811. 


TRANSLATION    OF    THE    FAMOUS 
WAR  SONG, 

"  Aev'rc  TraWff  tCiv  'EAAr/vuv." 

Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise  ! 

The  glorious  hour  's  gone  forth, 
And,  worthy  of  such  ties. 

Display  who  gave  us  birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons  of  Greeks  !  let  us  go 
In  arms  against  the  foe, 
Till  their  hated  blood  shall  flow 
In  a  river  past  our  feet. 

Then  manfully  despising 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  yoke, 
Let  your  country  gee  you  rising. 

And  all  her  chains  are  broke. 
Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages, 

Behold  the  coming  strife  ! 
Hellenes  of  past  ages. 

Oh,  start  again  to  life  ! 
At  the  sound  of  my  trumpet,  breaking 

Your  sloop,  oh,  join  with  me  ! 
And  the  seven-hill'd  city  seeking. 

Fight,  conquer,  till  we're  free. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  etc. 


GREEK 


532 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  slumbers 

Lethargic  dost  thou  lie  ? 
Awake,  and  join  thy  numbers 

With  Athens,  old  ally  I 
Leonjdas  recalling, 

That  chief  of  ancient  song, 
Who  saved  ye  once  from  falling. 

The  terrible  !  the  strong  ! 
Who  made  that  bold  diversion 

In  old  Thermopyloe, 
And  warring  with  the  Persian 

To  keep  his  country  free  ; 
With  his  three  hundred  waging 

The  battle,  long  he  stood. 
And  like  a  lion  raging, 

Expired  in  seas  of  blood. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  etc. 


TRANSLATION  OP  THE  ROIIAIC   SONG. 

'QpatuTaTT/  \uj]dij,"  &c. 
I  ENTER  thy  garden  of  roses. 

Beloved  and  fair  Ilaidge, 
Each  morning  where  Flora  reposes. 

For  surely  I  see  her  in  thee. 
Oh,  Lovely  !  thus  low  I  implore  thee, 

Receive  this  fond  truth  from  my  tongue, 
Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Yet  trembles  for  what  it  has  sung ; 
As  the  branch,  at  the  bidding  of  Nature, 

Adds  fragrance  and  fruit  to  the  tree, 
Through  her  eyes,  through  her  every  feature, 

Shines  the  soul  of  the  young  Haidfie. 

But  the  loveliest  garden  grows  hateful 

When  Love  has  abandon'd  the  bowers  ; 
Bring  me  hemlock — since  mine  is  ungrateful, 

That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 
The  poison,  when  pour'd  from  the  chalice. 

Will  deeply  embitter  the  bowl ; 
But  when  drunk  to  escape  from  thy  malice. 

The  draught  shall  be  sweet  to  my  soul. 
Too  cruel !  in  vain  I  implore  thee 

My  heart  from  these  horrors  to  save  : 
Will  naught  to  my  bosom  restore  thee  ? 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances 

Secure  of  his  conquest  before. 
Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances. 

Hast  pierced  through  my  heart  to  its  core. 
Ah,  tell  me,  my  soul  I  must  I  perish 

By  pangs  which  a  smile  would  dispel  ? 
Would  the  hope,  which  thou  once  bad'st  me  cher- 

For  torture  repay  me  too  well  ?  [ish. 

Now  sad  is  the  garden  of  roses, 

Beloved  but  false  Haidee  ! 


There  Flora  all  wither'd  reposes, 
And  mourns  o'er  thine  absence  with  me. 


ON    PARTING. 

The  kiss,  dear  maid  !  thy  lip  has  left 

Shall  never  part  from  mine. 
Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams, 

An  equal  love  may  see  : 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone  ; 
Nor  one  memorial  for  a  breast. 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write — to  tell  the  tale 

My  pen  were  doubly  weak  : 
Oh  !  what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  could  speak  ? 

By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  wo, 

That  heart,  no  longer  free. 
Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 

And  silent,  ache  for  thee. 


March,  1811. 


EPITAPH   FOR   JOSEPH  BLACKETT, 

LATE   POET   AKD    SUOEMAKEB. 

Stranqek  !  behold,  interr'd  together, 

The  souls  of  learning  and  of  leather. 

Poor  Joe  is  gone,  but  left  liis  all  : 

You'll  find  his  relics  in  a  stall. 

His  works  were  neat,  and  often  found 

Well  stitch'd,  and  with  morocco  bound. 

Tread  Ughtly — where  the  bard  is  laid 

He  cannot  mend  the  shoe  he  made ; 

Yet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole, 

With  verse  immortal  as  his  sole. 

But  still  to  business  he  held  fast, 

And  stuck  to  Phoebus  to  the  last. 

Then  who  shall  say  so  good  a  fellow 

Was  only  "  leather  and  prunella  ?" 

For  character — he  did  not  lack  it ; 

And  if  ho  did,  'twere  shame  to  "  Black-it." 

Malta,  May  10, 1811. 


FAREWELL  TO  MALTA. 

Adieu,  ye  joys  of  La  Valctte  ! 

Adieu,  sirocco,  sun,  and  sweat ! 

Adieu,  thou  palace  rarely  enter'd  ! 

Adieu,  ye  mansions  where — I've  ventured  I 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


533 


Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs  ! 

(How  surely  he  who  mounts  you  swears  !) 

Adieu,  ye  merchants  often  failing  ! 

Adieu,  thou  mob  forever  railing  ! 

Adieu,  ye  packets — without  letters  ! 

Adieu,  ye  fools — ^who  ape  your  betters  ! 

Adieu,  thou  damned'st  quarantine. 

That  gave  me  fever,  and  the  spleen  ! 

Adieu  that  stage  which  makes  us  yawn,  Sirs, 

Adieu  his  Excellency's  dancers  ! 

Adieu  to  Peter — whom  no  fault 's  in. 

But  could  not  teach  a  colonel  waltzing ; 

Adieu,  ye  females  fraught  with  graces  I 

Adieu  red  coats,  and  redder  faces  ! 

Adieu  the  supercilious  air 

Of  all  that  strut  "  en  militaire  !" 

I  go — but  God  knows  when,  or  why, 

To  smoky  towns  and  cloudy  sky. 

To  things  (the  honest  truth  to  say) 

As  bad — but  in  a  different  way. 

Farewell  to  these,  but  not  adieu, 
Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue  ! 
While  either  Adriatic  shore. 
And  fallen  chiefs,  and  fleets  no  more. 
And  nightly  smiles,  and  daily  dinners. 
Proclaim  you  war  and  women's  winners. 
Pardon  my  Muse,  who  apt  to  prate  is. 
And  take  my  rhyme — because  'tis  "  gratis." 

And  now  I've  got  to  Mrs.  Fraser, 
Perhaps  you  think  I  mean  to  praise  her — 
And  were  I  vain  enough  to  think 
My  praise  was  worth  this  drop  of  ink, 
A  line — or  two — were  no  hard  matter, 
As  here,  indeed,  I  need  not  flatter : 
But  she  must  be  content  to  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine, 
"With  lively  air,  and  open  heart, 
And  fashion's  ease,  without  its  art; 
Her  hours  can  gayly  glide  along. 
Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. 

And  now,  O  Malta  !  since  thou  'st  got  us, 
Thou  little  military  hothouse  ! 
I'll  not  offend  with  words  uncivil. 
And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  Devil, 
But  only  stare  from  out  my  casement. 
And  ask,  for  what  is  such  a  place  meant  ? 
Then,  in  my  solitary  nook, 
Return  to  scribbling,  or  a  book. 
Or  take  my  physic  while  I'm  able, 
(Two  spoonfuls  hourly  by  the  label,) 
Prefer  my  nightcap  to  my  beaver. 
And  bless  the  gods — I've  got  a  fever  ! 

JI/ay2C,  1311.     [First  publlsbcd,  18S3.1 


TO  DIVES. 


A    FKAGMENT. 


Unhappy  Dives  !  in  an  evil  hour 
'Gainst  Nature's  voice  seduced  to  deeds  accursed  1 
Once  Fortune's  minion,  now  thou  feel'st  her  power ; 
Wrath's  vial  on  thy  lofty  head  hath  burst. 
In  Wit,  in  Genius,  as  in  Wealth  the  first. 
How  wondrous  bright  thy  blooming  mom  arose  ! 
But  thou  wert  smitten  with  th'  unhallowd  tliirst 
Of  Crime  unnamed,  and  thy  sad  noon  must  close 
In  scorn,  and  solitude  unsought,  the  worst  of  woes. 
1811.    [First  published,  1832.] 


ON  MOORE'S   LAST   OPERATIC   FARCE,  OR 
FARCICAL  OPERA. 
Good  plays  are  scarce, 
So  Moore  writes  farce  : 
The  poet's  fame  grows  brittle — 
We  knew  before 
That  Little 's  Moore, 
But  now  'tis  Moore  that 's  little. 

Sept.  14, 1811.    [First  published,  1830.] 


EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND, 

IN   ANSWER   TO  SOME  LINES   EXUORTINO  THE  AUTHOR 
TO  BE   CnEERFtJL,  AND  TO   "  BANISH   CARE." 

"  Oh  !  banish  care  " — such  ever  be 
The  motto  of  thy  revelry  I 
Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights, 
Renew  those  riotous  delights. 
Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair 
Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  "  banish  care." 
But  not  in  morn's  reflecting  hour, 
When  present,  past,  and  future  lower, 
When  all  I  loved  is  changed  or  gone. 
Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one, 
Whose  every  thought — but  let  them  pass — 
Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  I  was. 
But,  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 
Place  in  a  heart  that  ne'er  was  cold. 
By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere. 
By  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear. 
Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 
Speak — speak  of  any  thing  but  love. 

'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear. 
The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear ; 
And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail ; 
But  mine  has  suffer'd  more  than  well 
'Twould  suit  philosophy  to  tell. 
I've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride, — 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side, — 


534 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Haye  seen  the  infant,  -which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled, 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  lier  child ; — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain, 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain  ; 
And  /  have  acted  well  my  part, 
And  made  my  check  belie  my  heart, 
Return'd  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave  ;  — 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design. 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine ; 
And  show'd,  alas  !  in  each  caress 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

But  let  this  pass — I'll  whine  no  more, 
Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore ; 
The  world  befits  a  busy  brain, — 
I'll  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 
But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year, 
"When  Britain's  "  May  is  in  the  sere," 
Thou  hear'st  of  one,  whose  deepening  crimes 
Suit  with  the  sablest  of  the  times  ; 
O  f  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways. 
Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men's  praise ; 
One,  who  in  stern  ambition's  pride, 
Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside  ; 
One  rank'd  in  some  recording  page 
With  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age ; — 
Him  wilt  thou  hnoic — and  knowing  pause, 
Nor  with  the  effect  forget  the  cause. 

Nbttstead  Abbet,  Oct.  11, 1811. 
[First  published,  1830.] 


TO    THYRZA. 

WrrnoDT  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot. 
And  say,  what  Truth  might  well  have  said, 

By  all,  save  one,  perchance  forgot. 
Ah  !  wherefore  art  thou  lowly  laid  ? 

By  many  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain  ; 
The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee, 

To  bid  us  meet — no — ne'er  again  1 

Could  this  have  been — a  word,  a  look. 
That  softly  said,  "  We  part  in  peace," 

Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook. 
With  fainter  signs,  thy  soul's  release. 

And  didst  thou  not,  since  Death  for  thee 
Prepared  a  light  and  pangless  dart. 

Once  long  for  him  thou  ne'er  shalt  see. 
Who  held,  and  holds  thee  in  his  heart  1 


Oh  I  who  like  him  had  watch'd  thee  here  ? 

Or  sadly  mark'd  thy  glazing  eye, 
In  that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear. 

When  silent  sorrow  fears  to  sigh, 

Till  all  was  past !     But  when  no  more 
'Twas  thine  to  reck  of  human  wo, 

Affection's  heart-drops,  gushing  o'er. 
Had  flow'd  as  fast— as  now  they  flow. 

Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 
In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers. 

Ere  call'd  but  for  a  time  away, 

Afiection's  mingling  tears  were  ours  ? 

Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside ; 

The  smile  none  else  might  understand ; 
The  whisper'd  thought  of  hearts  allied, 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand ; 

The  kiss,  so  guiltless  and  refined, 
That  Love  each  warmer  vnsh  forbore ; 

Those  eyes  proclaim'd  so  pure  a  mind. 
Even  passion  blush'd  to  plead  for  more. 

The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice, 
"When  prone,  unlike  thee,  to  repine ; 

The  song,  celestial  from  thy  voice. 
But  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine ; 

The  pledge  we  wore — I  wear  it  still. 
But  where  is  thine  ? — Ah  !  where  art  thou  ? 

Oft  have  I  borne  the  weight  of  ill. 
But  never  bent  beneath  till  now  1 

AVell  hast  thou  left  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  cup  of  wo  for  me  to  drain. 
If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb, 

I  would  not  wish  thee  here  again  ; 

But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  fitter  sphere. 
Impart  some  portion  of  thy  bliss. 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  here. 

Teach  me — too  early  taught  by  thee  I 
To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven  : 

On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me  ; 
It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven  ! 

October  n,\si\. 


AWAY,  AWAY,  YE  NOTES  OF   WO  ! 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  wo  ! 

Be  silent,  thou  once  soothing  strain. 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence — for,  oh  ! 

I  dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  speak  of  brighter  days — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas  I 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


535 


I  must  not  think,  I  may  not  gaze, 
Oa  what  I  am — on  what  I  was. 

The  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet 

Is  hush'd,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled  ; 
And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 

A  dirge,  an  anthem  o'er  the  dead  ! 
Yes,  Thj-rza  !  yes,  they  breathe  of  thee, 

Beloved  dust !  since  dust  thou  art ; 
And  all  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart ! 

'Tis  silent  all !— but  on  my  ear 

The  well-remember'd  echoes  thrill ; 
I  hear  a  voice  I  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  well  bo  still : 
Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  'twill  shake ; 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone. 
Till  consciousness  will  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyrza  !  waking  as  in  sleep. 

Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream ; 
A  star  that  trembled  o'er  the  deep, 

Then  turn'd  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 
But  he  who  through  life's  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veil'd  in  wrath, 
Will  long  lament  the  vanish'd  ray 

That  acatter'd  gladness  o'er  his  path. 

December  6, 1811. 


ONE   STRUGGLE  MORE,  AND  I  AM  FREE. 

OsE  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  paugs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain  ; 
One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee. 

Then  back  to  busy  life  again. 
It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before  : 
Though  every  joy  is  fled  below. 

What  future  grief  can  touch  mc  more  ? 

Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring ; 

Man  was  not  form'd  to  live  alone  : 
I'll  be  that  light,  unmeaning  thing, 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 
It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear. 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 
Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here  ; 

Thou  'rt  nothing, — all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vain  my  Ijtb  would  lightly  breathe  ! 

The  smile  that  sorrow  fain  would  wear 
But  mocks  the  wo  that  lurks  beneath, 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 


Though  pleasure  fires  the  maddening  soul 
The  heart — the  heart  is  lonely  still  1 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  soothed  to  gaze  upon  the  sky ; 
For  then  I  docm'd  the  heavenly  light 

Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye  : 
And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon. 

When  sailing  o'er  the  iEgean  wave, 
"  Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon — " 

Alas,  it  gleara'd  upon  her  grave  ! 

When  strctch'd'on  fever's  sleepless  bed. 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
"  'Tis  comfort  still,"  I  faintly  said, 
"  That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains  :" 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A  boon  'tis  idle  then  to  give, 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 
My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live  ! 

My  Tliyrza's  pledge  in  better  days. 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  new  ! 
How  difierent  now  thou  mect'st  my  gaze  ! 

How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow's  hue  I 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent— ah,  were  mine  as  still ! 
Though  cold  as  e'en  the  dead  can  be. 

It  feels,  it  sickens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge  I  thou  mournful  token  I 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast  1 
Still,  still,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou'rt  press'd  1 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes, 

More  hallow'd  when  its  hope  is  fled  : 
Oh  I  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ? 


EUTHANASIA. 

Whek  Time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead. 

Oblivion  !  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep  or  wish  the  coming  blow  ; 

No  maiden,  with  dishevell'd  hair. 
To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  wo. 

But  silent  let  mc  sink  to  earth. 
With  no  oflScious  mourners  near  : 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  tear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs, 


536 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Sfight  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  her  who  lives  and  him  w^ho  dies. 

'Twere  sweet,  my  Psyche  !  to  the  last 

Thy  features  still  serene  to  see  : 
Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past, 

E'en  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  vain  the  wish — for  Beauty  still 

Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbing  breath  ; 

And  woman's  tears,  produced  at  will, 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour. 
Without  regret,  without  a  groan  ; 

For  thousands  Death  hath  ceased  to  lower. 
And  pain  been  transient  or  unknown. 

"  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,"  alas  ! 

Where  all  have  gone,  and  all  must  go  ! 
To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 

Ere  born  to  life  and  living  wo  1 

Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free. 

And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'Tis  something  better  not  to  be. 


AND  THOU  ART  DEAD,  AS  YOUNG 
AS  FAIR. 

"  neu,  qaanto  minns  est  cnm  rcliqnis  versari  qaam  tal 
meminlgsc  1" 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare. 

Too  soon  retum'd  to  Earth  ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed. 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth. 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low, 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
'Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou. 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 


The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal. 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine  : 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey  ; 
Though  by  no  liand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away : 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to-day ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade ; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  mom 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade  : 
Thy  day  witliout  a  cloud  hath  pass'd. 
And  thou  wcrt  lovely  to  the  last ; 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  tliey  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed ; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head ; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain. 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free. 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain. 

Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Tlian  aught,  except  its  living  years. 

February,  1812. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


537 


IF 


SOMETDIES  IN  THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN. 

If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men 

Thine  image  from  my  breast  may  fade, 
The  lonely  hour  presents  again 

The  semblance  of  thy  gentle  shade  : 
And  now  that  sad  and  silent  hour 

Thus  much  of  thee  can  still  restore, 
And  sorrow  unobserved  may  pour 

The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  before. 

Oh,  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile 

I  waste  one  thought  I  owe  to  thee. 
And,  self-condemn'd,  appear  to  smile, ' 

Unfaithful  to  thy  memory  ! 
Nor  deem  that  memory  less  dear, 

That  then  I  seem  not  to  repine  ; 
I  would  not  fools  should  overhear 

One  sigh  that  should  be  wholly  thine. 

If  not  the  goblet  pass  unquaff 'd. 

It  is  not  drain'd  to  banish  care  ; 
The  cup  must  hold  a  deadlier  draught, 

That  brings  a  Lethe  for  despair. 
And  could  Oblivion  set  my  soul 

From  all  her  troubled  visions  free, 
I'd  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 

That  drown'd  a  single  thought  of  thee. 

For  wert  thou  vanish'd  from  my  mind, 

Where  could  my  vacant  bosom  turn  ? 
And  who  would  then  remain  behind 

To  honor  thine  abandon'd  Urn  ? 
No,  no — it  is  my  sorrow's  pride 

That  last  dear  duty  to  fulfil ; 
Though  all  the  world  forget  beside, 

'Tis  meet  that  I  remember  still. 

For  well  I  know,  that  such  had  been 

Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmoum'd  shall  quit  this  mortal  scene. 

Where  none  regarded  him,  but  thou  : 
And,  oh,  I  feel  in  tJiat  was  given 

A  blessing  never  meant  for  me  ; 
Thou  wert  too  like  a  dream  of  Heaven, 

For  earthly  Love  to  merit  thee. 

March  14, 1813. 


ON   A   CORNELIAN   HEART   WHICH   WAS 
BROKEN. 

Ill-fated  Heart !  and  can  it  be. 
That  thou  shouldst  thus  be  rent  in  twain  ? 

Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thee 
Alike  been  all  employed  in  vain  ? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shatter'd  part. 
And  every  fragment  dearer  grown, 
08 


Since  he  who  wears  thee  feels  thou  art 

A  fitter  emblem  of  Am  own. 

MarOi  10, 1812. 


FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

Mqix,  beauty  and  poet,  has  two  little  crimes  ; 
She  makes  her  own  face,  and  does  not  make  her 
rhymes. 

LINES   TO   A   LADY  WEEPING. 

Weep,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
A  Sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay ; 

Ah  !  happy  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away  ! 

Weep — for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears — 
Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles  ; 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Repaid  thee  by  thy  people's  smiles  ! 

March,  1812. 


THE   CHAIN   I   GAVE. 

From  the  T-urldsh. 

The  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound  ; 

The  heart  that  offer'd  both  was  true. 
And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  speU, 
Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine  ; 

And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, — 
Alas  !  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link. 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch  ; 

That  lute  was  sweet — tiU  thou  couldst  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

Let  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  sluver'd  in  his  grasp, 

Wlio  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 
Restring  the  chorda,  renew  the  clasp. 

When  thou  wert  changed,  they  alter'd  too ; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute. 
'Tis  past — to  them  and  thee  adieu — 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  gilent  lute. 


LINES   WRITTEN   ON  A   BLANK  LEAF 
THE   "PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY." 

Absent  or  present,  still  to  thee. 
My  friend,  what  magic  spells  belong  ! 

As  all  can  tell,  who  share,  like  me. 
In  turn  thy  converse,  and  thy  song. 


OP 


538 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


But  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come 
By  Friendship  ever  deem'd  too  nigh, 

And  "  Memory  "  o'er  her  Druid's  tomb 
Shall  weep  that  aught  of  thee  can  die, 

How  fondly  will  she  then  repay 
Thy  homage  oflfer'd  at  her  shrine, 

And  blend,  while  ages  roll  away. 
Her  name  immortally  with  thifie  ! 

AprU  19, 1813. 


ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE  OPENING  OP  DBUBT-LANE  THEATBE, 
SATURDAY,   OCTOBER   10,   1812. 

In  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sigh'd, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust,  the  Drama's  tower  of  pride  ; 
In  one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 
Apollo  sink,  and  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 

Ye  who  beheld,  (oh,  sight  admired  and  mourn'd. 
Whose  radiance  mock'd  the  ruin  it  adom'd  !) 
Through  clouds  of  fire  the  massy  fragments  riven. 
Like  Israel's  pillar,  chase  the  night  from  heaven ; 
Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
Shake  its  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thaines, 
While  thousands,  throng'd  around  the  burning  dome. 
Shrank  back  appall'd  and  trembled  for  their  home. 
As  glared  the  volumed  blaze,  and  ghastly  shone 
The  skies,  with  lightnings  awful  as  their  own. 
Till  blackening  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurp'd  the  Muse's  realm,  and  mark'd  her  fall ; 
Say — shall  this  new,  nor  less  aspiring  pile, 
Rear'd  where  once  rose  the  mightiest  in  our  isle, 
Know  the  same  favor  which  the  former  knew, 
A  shrine  for  Shakspeare — worthy  him  and  you  ? 

Yes — it  shall  be — the  magic  of  that  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  time,  the  torch  of  flame ; 
On  the  same  spot  still  consecrates  the  scene, 
And  bids  the  Drama  le  where  she  hath  teen  : 
This  fabric's  birth  attests  the  potent  spell — 
Indulge  our  honest  pride,  and  say.  How  well ! 

As  soars  this  fane  to  emulate  the  last. 
Oh  !  might  we  draw  our  omens  from  the  past. 
Some  hour  propitious  to  our  prayers  may  boast 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  lost. 
On  Drury  first  your  Siddons'  thrilling  art 
O'erwhelm'd  the  gentlest,  storm'd  the  sternest  heart. 
On  Drury,  Garrick's  latest  laurels  grew  ; 
Here  your  last  tears  retiring  Roscius  drew, 
Sigh'd  his  last  thanks,  and  wept  his  last  adieu  : 
But  still  for  living  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom. 
That  only  waste  their  odors  o'er  the  tomb. 
Such  Drury  claim'd  and  claims — nor  you  refuse 
One  tribute  to  revive  his  slumbering  muse ; 


With  garlands  deck  your  own  Menander's  head  1 
Nor  hoard  your  honors  idly  for  the  dead  I 

Dear  are  the  days  which  made  our  annals  bright, 
Ere  Garrick  fled,  or  Brinsley  ceased  to  write. 
Heirs  to  their  labors,  like  all  high-bom  heirs. 
Vain  of  our  ancestry  as  they  of  theirs  ; 
While  thus  Remembrance  borrows  Banquo's  glass 
To  claim  the  sceptred  shadows  as  they  pass. 
And  we  the  mirror  hold,  where  imaged  shine 
Immortal  names,  emblazon'd  on  our  line, 
Pause — ere  their  feebler  offspring  you  condemn, 
Reflect  how  hard  the  task  to  rival  them  ! 

Friends  of  the  stage  !  to  whom  both  Players  and 
Must  sue  alike  for  pardon  or  for  praise,  [Plays 

Whose  judging  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 
The  boundless  power  to  cherish  or  reject ; 
If  e'er  frivolity  has  led  to  fame, 
And  made  us  blush  that  you  forbore  to  blame ; 
If  e'r  the  sinking  stage  could  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  it  dare  not  mend, 
All  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refute. 
And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mute ! 
Oh  !  since  your  fiat  stamps  the  Drama's  laws. 
Forbear  to  mock  us  with  misplaced  applause  ; 
So  pride  shall  doubly  nerve  the  actor's  powers. 
And  reason's  voice  be  echo'd  back  by  ours  ! 

This  greeting  o'er,  the  ancient  rule  obey'd, 
The  Drama's  homage  by  her  herald  paid. 
Receive  our  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 
Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win  your 
The  curtain  rises — may  our  stage  unfold  [own. 

Scenes  not  unworthy  Drury's  days  of  old  ! 
Britons  our  judges,  Nature  for  our  guide. 
Still  may  we  please — long,  long  may  you  preside  ! 


PARENTHETICAL   ADDRESS. 

BY  DR.   PLAGIARY. 

Bcdf  stolen,  with  acknoTvlodgments,  to  be  spoken  in  an  inarticu- 
late voice  by  Master  P.  at  the  opening  of  the  next  new  theatre. 
Stolen  i>art3  marlied  with  the  inverted  commas  of  quotation— 

thus  " ". 

"  When  energizing  objects  men  pursue," 
Then  Lord  knows  what  is  writ  by  Lord  knows  who, 
"  A  modest  monologue  you  here  survey," 
Hiss'd  from  the  theatre  the  "  other  day," 
As  if  Sir  Fretful  wrote  "  the  slumberous"  verse. 
And  gave  his  son  "  the  rubbish  "  to  rehearse. 
"  Yet  at  the  thing  you'd  never  be  amazed," 
Knew  you  the  rumpus  which  the  author  raised  ; 
"  Nor  even  here  your  smiles  would  be  repress'd," 
Knew  you  these  lines — the  badness  of  the  best. 
"Flame!  fire!  and  flame!!"  (words  borrow'd  from 
Lucretius,) 


OCCASIONAL    PIECES. 


530 


"  Dread  metaphors  which  open  wounds"  like  issues  1 
"  And  sleeping  pangs  awake — and — but  away," 
(Confound  me  if  I  know  what  next  to  say.) 
"  Lo  Hope  reviving  re-expands  her  wings," 
And  Master  G —  recites  what  Doctor  Busby  sings  ! 
"  If  mighty  things  with  small  we  may  compare," 
(Translated  from  the  grammar  for  the  fair  I) 
Dramatic  "  spirit  drives  a  conquering  car," 
And  burn'd  poor  Moscow  like  a  tub  of  "  tar." 
"  This  spirit  Wellington  has  shown  in  Spain," 
To  furnish  melodrames  for  Drury  Lane. 
"Another  Marlborough  points  to  Blenheim's  story," 
And  George  and  I  will  dramatize  it  for  ye. 

"In  arts  and  sciences  our  isle  hath  shone," 

(This  deep  discovery  is  mine  alone.) 

"Oh,  British  poesy,  whose  powers  inspire" 

My  verse — or  I'm  a  fool — and  Fame  's  a  liar, 

"Thee  we  invoke,  your  sister  arts  implore" 

With  "  smiles,"  and  "  lyres,"  and  "  pencils,"  and 

much  more. 
These,  if  we  win  the  Graces,  too,  we  gain 
Disgraces,  too  !  "  inseparable  train  I"  [Cupid," 

"  Three  who  have  stolen  their  witching  airs  from 
(You  all  know  what  I  mean,  unless  you're  stupid  :) 
"  Harmonious  throng  "  that  I  have  kept  in  petto. 
Now  to  produce  in  a  "  divine  sestetto  "  .' .' 
"  While  Poesy,"  with  these  delightful  doxies, 
"  Sustains  her  part"  in  aU  the  "  upper"  boxes  ! 
"  Thus  lifted  gloriously,  you'll  soar  along," 
Borne  in  the  vast  balloon  of  Busby's  song  ; 
"  Shine  in  your  farce,  masque,  scenery,  and  play," 
(For  this  last  line  George  had  a  holiday.) 
"  Old  Drury  never,  never  soar'd  so  high," 
So  says  the  manager,  and  so  say  I. 
"  But  hold,  you  say,  this  self-complacent  boast ;" 
Is  this  the  poem  which  the  public  lost  ? 
"True — true — that  lowers  at  once  our  mounting 
But  lo  ! — the  papers  print  what  you  deride,  [pride ;" 
"  'Tis  ours  to  look  on  you — you  hold  the  prize," 
'Tis  twenty  guineas,  as  they  advertise  1 
"A  double  blessing  your  rewards  impart" — 
I  wish  I  had  them,  then,  with  all  my  heart. 
"  Our  twofold  feeling  owns  its  twofold  cause," 
Wliy  son  and  I  both  beg  for  your  applause. 
"When  in  your  fostering  beams  you  bid  us  live," 
My  next  subscription  list  shall  say  how  much  you 

givel 

October,  1812. 

VERSES   FOUND   IN  A  SUMMER-HOUSE 
AT   HALES-OWEN. 

When  Dryden's  fool,  "  imknowing  what  he  sought," 
His  hours  in  whistling  spent, "  for  want  of  thought," 
This  guiltless  oaf  his  vacancy  of  sense 
Supplied,  and  amply  too,  by  innocence  ; 


Did  modem  swains,  possess'd  of  Cymon's  powers, 
In  Cymon's  manner  waste  their  leisure  hours, 
Th'  offended  guests  would  not,  with  blushing,  see 
These  fair  green  walks  disgraced  by  infamy. 
Severe  the  fate  of  modem  fools,  alas  ! 
When  vice  and  folly  mark  them  as  they  pass. 
Like  noxious  reptiles  o'er  the  whiten'd  wall. 
The  filth  they  leave  still  points  out  where  they  crawl. 


REMEMBER   THEE!    REIMEMBER    THEE 

Remember  thee  !  remember  thee  1 
Till  Lethe  quench  life's  burning  stream 

Remorse  and  shame  shall  cling  to  thee, 
And  haunt  thee  like  a  feverish  dream  1 

Remember  thee  !  Ay,  doubt  it  not. 
Thy  husband  too  shall  think  of  thee  : 

By  neither  shalt  thou  be  forgot, 
Thou/aZ««  to  him,  ih.0Vi  Jiend  to  me  ! 


TO   TIME. 

Time  !  on  whose  arbitrary  wing 
The  varying  hours  must  flag  or  fly, 

Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring. 
But  drag  or  drive  us  on  to  die — 

Hail  thou  !  who  on  my  birth  bestow'd 
Those  boons  to  all  that  know  thee  known ; 

Yet  better  I  sustain  thy  load, 
For  now  I  bear  the  weight  alone. 

I  would  not  one  fond  heart  should  share 
The  bitter  moments  thou  hast  given ; 

And  pardon  thee,  since  thou  couldst  spare 
All  that  I  loved,  to  peace  or  heaven. 

To  them  be  joy  or  rest,  on  me 
Thy  future  ills  shall  press  in  vain  : 

I  nothing  owe  but  years  to  thee, 
A  debt  already  paid  in  pain. 

Yet  even  that  pain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  power : 
The  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 

In  joy  I've  sigh'd  to  think  thy  flight 
Would  soon  subside  from  swift  to  slow ; 

Thy  cloud  could  overcast  the  light, 
But  could  not  add  a  night  to  wo  ; 

For  then,  however  drear  and  dark. 

My  soul  was  suited  to  thy  sky  ; 
One  star  alone  shot  forth  a  spark 

To  prove  thee — not  Eternity. 


540 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


That  beam  hatli  sunk,  and  now  tbou  art 
A  blank ;  a  thing  to  count  and  curse, 

Through  each  dull  tedious  trifling  part, 
Which  all  regret,  yet  all  rehearse. 

One  scene  even  thou  canst  not  defonn  ; 

The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed 
When  future  wanderers  bear  the  storm 

Which  we  shall  sleep  too  sound  to  heed : 

And  I  can  smile  to  think  how  weak 
Thine  eflforts  shortly  shall  be  shown, 

When  all  the  vengeance  thou  canst  wreak 
Must  fall  upon — a  nameless  stone. 


TRAKSLATION  OF  A  ROMAIC  LOVE  SONG. 

Ah  !  Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt. 
Which  rends  my  heart  with  ceaseless  sigh. 
While  day  and  night  roll  darkling  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  hear  my  wo, 
I  faint,  I  die  beneath  the  blow. 
That  Love  had  arrows,  well  I  knew ; 
Alas  !  I  find  them  poison'd  too. 

Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net 
Which  Love  around  your  haunts  hath  set ; 
Or,  circled  by  his  fatal  fire, 
Your  hearts  shall  bum,  your  hopes  expire. 

A  bird  of  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  through  many  a  smiling  spring ; 
But  caught  within  the  subtle  snare 
I  burn,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 

Who  ne'er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain. 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pity  pain. 
The  cold  repulse,  the  look  askance. 
The  lightning  of  Love's  angry  glance. 

In  flattering  dreams  I  deem'd  thee  mine ; 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoped,  decline  ; 
Like  melting  wax,  or  withering  flower, 
I  feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 

My  light  of  life  !  ah  !  tell  me  why 

That  pouting  lip,  and  alter'd  eye  ? 

My  bird  of  love  I  my  beauteous  mate  ! 

And  art  thou  changed,  and  canst  thou  hate  ? 

Mine  eyes  like  wintry  streams  o'erflow : 
What  wretch  with  me  would  barter  wo  ? 
My  bird  1  relent :  one  note  could  give 
A  charm,  to  bid  thy  lover  live. 


My  curdling  blood,  my  madd'ning  brain, 
In  silent  anguish  I  sustain ; 
And  stiU  thy  heart,  without  partaking 
One  pang,  exults — while  mine  is  breaking. 

Pour  me  the  poison  ;  fear  not  thou  ! 
Thou  canst  not  murder  more  than  now : 
I've  lived  to  curse  my  natal  day. 
And  Love,  that  thus  can  lingering  slay. 

My  wounded  soul,  my  bleeding  breast, 
Can  patience  preach  thee  into  rest  ? 
Alas  !  too  late,  I  dearly  know 
That  joy  is  harbinger  of  wo. 


THOU  ART  NOT  FALSE,  BUT  THOU 
ART  FICKLE. 

Tnou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  flcklc. 
To  those  thyself  so  fondly  sought ; 

The  tears  that  thou  hast  forced  to  trickle 
Are  doubly  bitter  from  that  thought : 

'Tis  this  which  breaks  the  heart  thou  grievcst, 

Too  well  thou  lov'st — too  soon  thou  leavest. 

The  wholly  false  the  heart  despises. 

And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit ; 
But  she  who  not  a'thought  disguises, 

Whose  love  is  as  sincere  as  sweet, — 
When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly. 
It  feels  what  mine  has  felt  so  newly. 

To  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  sorrow 
Is  doom'd  to  all  who  love  or  live  ; 

And  if,  when  conscious  on  the  morrow. 
We  scarce  our  fancy  can  forgive. 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  only. 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely. 

What  must  they  feel  whom  no  false  vision, 
But  truest,  tenderest  passion  warm'd  ? 

Sincere,  but  swift  in  sad  transition ; 
As  if  a  dream  alone  had  charm'd  ? 

Ah  1  sure  such  grief  is  fancy's  scheming. 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming  ! 


ON   BEING   ASKED   WHAT   WAS   THE 
"ORIGIN   OF   LOVE." 

The  "  Origin  of  Love  !" — Ah  !  why 

That  cruel  question  ask  of  me, 
When  thou  mayst  read  in  many  an  eye 

He  starts  to  life  on  seeing  thee  ? 

And  shouldst  thou  seek  his  end  to  know : 
My  heart  forbodes,  my  fears  -foresee, 

He'll  linger  long  in  silent  wo  ; 
But  live — until  I  cease  to  be. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


541 


REJVIEMBER   HIM,   WHOM   PASSION'S 
POWER. 

Remember  him,  -whom  passion's  power 
Severely,  deeply,  vainly  proved  : 

Remember  thou  that  dangerous  hour 

When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved. 

That  yielding  breast,  that  melting  eye, 
Too  much  invited  to  be  bless'd : 

That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleading  sigh, 
The  wilder  wish  reproved,  repress'd. 

Oh  !  let  me  feel  that  all  I  lost 

But  saved  thee  aU  that  conscience  frfars  ; 
And  blush  for  every  pang  it  cost 

To  spare  the  vain  remorse  of  years. 

Yet  think  of  this  when  msuiy  a  tongue, 
Whose  busy  accents  whisper  blame. 

Would  do  the  heart  that  loved  thee  wrong. 
And  brand  a  nearly  blighted  name. 

Think  that,  whate'er  to  others,  thou 

Hast  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued : 

I  bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now. 
Even  now,  in  midnight  solitude. 

O  God  !  that  we  had  met  in  time, 
Our  hearts  as  fond,  thy  hand  more  free ; 

When  thou  hadst  loved  without  a  crime. 
And  I  been  less  unworthy  thee  t 


For  may  thy  days,  as  heretofore. 
From  this  our  gaudy  world  be 

And  that  too  bitter  moment  o'er. 
Oh,  may  such  trial  be  thy  last ! 


This  heart,  alas  !  perverted  long. 
Itself  destroy'd  might  there  destroy  ; 

To  meet  thee  in  the  glittering  throng. 
Would  wake  Presumption's  hope  of  joy. 

Then  to  the  things  whose  bliss  or  wo. 
Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthless  all, 

That  world  resign — such  scenes  forego, 
Where  those  who  feel  must  surely  fall. 

Thy  youth,  thy  charms,  thy  tenderness. 
Thy  soul  from  long  seclusion  pure  ; 

From  what  even  here  hath  pass'd,  may  guess 
What  here  thy  bosom  must  endure. 

Oh  !  pardon  that  imploring  tear, 
Since  not  by  Virtue  shed  in  vain. 

My  phrenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear ; 
For  me  they  shall  not  weep  again. 


Though  long  and  mournful  must  it  be. 
The  thought  that  we  no  more  may  meet ; 

Yet  I  deserve  the  stern  decree. 

And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet. 

Still,  had  I  loved  thee  less,  my  heart 
Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  thine  ; 

It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part. 
As  if  its  guilt  had  made  thee  mine. 


1813. 


ON   LORD   THURLOW'S   POEMS. 

When  Thurlow  this  damn'd  nonsense  sent, 

(I  hope  I  am  not  violent,) 

Nor  men  nor  gods  knew  what  he  meant. 

And  since  not  ev'n  our  Rogers'  praise 

To  common  sense  his  thoughts  could  raise— 

Wliy  would  they  let  him  print  his  lays  ? 

^  ^  Uli  ^  Hfi 

>{!  He  ^  >!C  )ti 

To  me,  divine  Apollo,  grant — O  ! 
Hermilda's  first  and  second  canto, 
I'm  fitting  up  a  new  portmanteau  ; 

And  thus  to  furnish  decent  lining. 

My  own  and  others'  bays  I'm  twining — 

So,  gentle  Thurlow,  throw  me  thine  in. 


TO    LORD    THURLOW. 

'*  I  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down, 
Then  thus  to  form  Apollo's  crown 
Let  every  other  bring  his  own." 

Lord  T/iurlow'e  lines  to  Mr.  Bogera. 

"  /  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down." 
Thotj  "lay  thy  branch  of  laurel  down  !" 

Why,  what  thou'st  stole  is  not  enow ; 
And,  were  it  lawfully  thine  own. 

Does  Rogers  want  it  most,  or  thou  ? 
Keep  to  thyself  thy  wither'd  bough, 

Or  send  it  back  to  Doctor  Donne  : 
Were  justice  done  to  both,  I  trow, 

He'd  have  but  little,  and  thou — none. 

''■'Then  thus  to  form  Apollo's  crown.'''' 
A  crown  I  why,  twist  it  how  you  will, 
Thy  chaplet  must  be  foolscap  still. 
Wlien  next  you  visit  Delphi's  town, 

Inquire  amongst  your  fellow-lodgers. 
They'll  toll  you  Phcobus  gave  his  crown. 

Some  years  before  your  birth,  to  Rogcre. 

"  Let  every  other  bring  hia  own." 
When  coals  to  Newcastle  are  carried, 
And  owls  sent  to  Athens,  as  wonders, 


«42 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


From  his  spouse  when  the  Regent 's  unmarried, 
Or  Liverpool  weeps  o'er  his  blunders  ; 

When  Tories  and  Whigs  cease  to  quarrel, 
When  Castlereagh's  wife  has  an  heir, 

Then  Rogers  shall  ask  us  for  laurel. 
And  thou  shalt  have  plenty  to  spare. 


TO   THOMAS   MOORE. 

WKITTEN  THE  EVENING  BEFOSE  HIS  VISIT  TO  MR. 
LEIGH  HUNT  IN  HOKSEMONGER-LANE  JAIL,  MAY 
19,  1813. 

0  you,  who  in  all  names  can  tickle  the  town, 
Anacreon,  Tom  Little,  Tom  Moore,  or  Tom  Brown, — 
For  hang  me  if  I  know  of  which  you  may  most 

brag,  [Bag ; 

Your  Quarto  two-pounds,  or  your  Two-penny  Post 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

But  now  to  my  letter, — to  yonrs  'tis  an  answer — 
To-morrow  be  with  me,  as  soon  as  you  can,  sir. 
All  ready  and  dress'd  for  proceeding  to  spunge  on 
(According  to  compact)  the  wit  in  the  dungeon — 
Pray  Phoebus  at  length  our  political  malice 
May  not  get  us  lodgings  within  the  same  palace  ! 

1  suppose  that  to-night  you're  engaged  with  some 

codgers. 
And  for  Sotheby's  Blues  have  deserted  Sam  Rogers ; 
And  I,  though  with  cold  I  have  nearly  my  death  got, 
Must  put  on  my  breeches,  and  wait  on  the  Heathcote, 
But  to-morrow,  at  four,  we  will  both  play  the  Seurra, 
And  you'll  be  Catullus,  the  Regent  Mamurra. 

[First  published  1830.] 


ntPROMPTU,  IN  REPLY  TO  A  FRIEND. 

When,  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits. 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high, 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits. 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye  ; 
Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink  : 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well ; 
Back  to  my  breast  the  wanderers  shrink, 

And  droop  within  their  silent  cell. 

September,  1813. 


SONNET  TO  GENEVRA. 

Thine  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fjiir  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — caught 
From  contemplation — where  serenely  wrought. 

Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair — 

Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air, 
That — but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloy'd  and  stainless  thought — 

I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 

With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colors  blent. 

When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  born, 


(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent,) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn — 

Such  seem'st  thou — but  how  much  more  excellent ! 
With  naught  Remorse  can  claim — nor  Virtue  scorn. 

December  17, 1813. 


SONNET,    TO    THE    SAME. 

Thy  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  wo. 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush. 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow  : 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes — but,  oh  1 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending. 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress  ; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 

December  17, 1813. 


FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE. 

"  TU  Ml  CHAMA8." 

In  moments  to  delight  devoted, 

"  My  life  !"  with  tendercst  tone,  you  cry  ; 

Dear  words  1  on  which  my  heart  had  doted, 
If  youth  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 

To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  roll, 
Ah  !  then  repeat  those  accents  never ; 

Or  change  "  my  life  I"  into  "  my  soul  1" 
Which,  like  my  love,  exists  forever. 

ANOTHER  VERSION. 

You  call  me  still  your  life.    Oh,  change  the  word- 
Life  is  as  transient  as  the  inconstant  sigh  : 

Say  rather  I'm  your  soul ;  more  just  that  name. 
For,  like  the  soul,  my  love  can  never  die. 


THE    DEVIL'S    DRIVE. 

AN   UNFINISHED   RHAPSODY. 

The  Devil  return'd  to  hell  by  two. 

And  he  stay'd  at  home  till  five  ; 
When  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in  ragoUt, 

And  a  rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  stew. 
And  sausages  made  of  a  self-slain  Jew — 
And  bethought  himself  what  next  to  do, 

"  And,"  quoth  he,  "  I'll  take  a  drive. 
I  walk'd  in  the  morning,  I'll  ride  to-night ; 
In  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight, 

And  I'll  see  how  my  favorites  thrive. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


543 


"And  what  shall  I  ride  in  ?"  quoth  Lucifer  then — 

"  If  I  foUow'd  my  taste,  indeed, 
I  should  mount  in  a  wagon  of  wounded  men, 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 
But  these  will  be  fumish'd  again  and  again, 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed ; 
To  see  my  manor  as  much  as  I  may. 
And  watch  that  no  souls  shall  be  poach'd  away. 

"I  have  a  state-coach  at  Carlton  House, 

A  chariot  in  Seymour  Place  ; 
But  they're  lent  to  two  friends,  who  make  me  amends 

By  driving  my  favorite  pace ; 
And  they  handle  their  reins  with  such  a  grace, 
I  have  something  for  both  at  the  end  of  their  race. 

"  So  now  for  the  earth  to  take  my  chance." 

Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he ; 
And  making  a  jump  from  Moscow  to  France, 

He  stepp'd  across  the  sea. 
And  rested  his  hoof  on  a  turnpike  road, 
Ko  very  great  way  from  a  bishop's  abode. 

But  first  as  he  flew,  I  forgot  to  say. 
That  he  hover'd  a  moment  upon  his  way 

To  look  upon  Leipsic  plain ; 
And  so  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  sulphury  glare, 
And  so  soft  to  his  ear  was  the  cry  of  despair, 

That  he  perch'd  on  a  mountain  of  slain ; 
And  he  gazed  with  delight  from  its  growing  height. 
Nor  often  on  earth  had  he  seen  such  a  sight. 

Nor  his  work  done  half  so  well : 
For  the  field  ran  so  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead. 

That  it  blushed  like  the  waves  of  hell ! 
Then  loudly,  and  wildly,  and  long  laugh'd  he : 
"  Methinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  me  ?  " 


But  the  softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 

Was  the  sound  of  a  widow  sighing  : 
And  the  sweetest  sight  was  the  icy  tear. 
Which  horror  froze  in  the  blue  eye  clear 

Of  a  maid  by  her  lover  lying — 
As  round  her  fell  her  long  fair  hair ; 
And  she  look'd  to  heaven  with  that  phrenzied  air, 
Which  seem'd  to  ask  if  a  God  were  there ! 
And,  stretch'd  by  the  wall  of  a  ruin'd  hut. 
With  its  hollow  cheek,  and  eyes  half  shut, 

A  child  of  famine  dying  : 
And  the  carnage  begun,  when  resistance  is  done. 

And  the  fall  of  the  vainly  flying  ! 


But  the  Devil  has  reach 'd  our  clifis  so  white, 
And  what  did  he  there,  I  pray  ? 

If  his  eyes  were  good,  he  but  saw  by  night 
Wliat  wc  sec  every  day : 


But  he  made  a  tour,  and  kept  a  journal 

Of  all  the  wondrous  sights  nocturnal. 

And  he  sold  it  in  shares  to  the  Men  of  the  Hot/;, 

Who  bid  pretty  well — but  they  cheated  him,  though  1 

The  Devil  first  saw,  as  he  thought,  the  Mail, 

Its  coachman  and  his  coat ; 
So  instead  of  a  pistol  he  cock'd  his  tail, 

And  seized  him  by  the  throat : 
"  Aha  I"  quoth  he,  "  what  have  we  here  ? 
'Tis  a  new  barouche,  and  an  ancient  peer  1" 

So  he  sat  him  on  his  box  again. 

And  bade  him  have  no  fear, 
But  be  true  to  his  club  and  stanch  to  his  rein, 

His  brothel,  and  his  beer ; 
"  Next  to  seeing  a  lord  at  the  council  board, 
I  would  rather  see  him  here." 

****** 

The  Devil  gat  next  to  Westminster, 

And  he  turned  to  "the  room"  of  the  Commons; 
But  he  heard,  as  he  purposed  to  enter  there. 

That  "  the  Lords  "  had  received  a  summons ; 
And  he  thought,  as  a  "  quondam  aristocrat," 
He  might  peep  at  the  peers,  though  to  hear  them 

were  flat ; 
And  he  walk'd  up  the  house  so  like  one  of  our  own. 
That  they  say  that  he  stood  pretty  near  the  throne. 

He  saw  the  Lord  Liverpool  seemingly  wise, 

The  Lord  Westmoreland  certainly  silly. 
And  Johnny  of  Norfolk — a  man  of  some  size — 

And  Chatham,  so  like  his  friend  Billy ; 
And  he  saw  the  tears  in  Lord  Eldon's  eyes. 
Because  the  Catholics  would  not  rise, 
In  spite  of  his  prayers  and  his  prophecies  ; 
And  he  heard — which  set  Satan  himself  a  staring — 
A  certain  Chief  Justice  say  something  like  swearing  ; 
And  the  Devil  was  shock'd — and  quoth  he,  "  I  must 
For  I  find  we  have  much  better  manners  below :  [go. 
If  thus  he  harangues  when  he  passes  my  border, 
I  shall  hint  to  friend  Moloch  to  call  him  to  order." 


WINDSOR    POETICS. 

Lines  composed  on  the  occasion  of  hia  Royal  nighnees  the  Prince 
Regent  being  seen  standing  between  the  coffins  of  Henry  Vni. 
and  Charles  I.,  in  the  royal  Tanit  at  Windsor. 

Famed  for  contemptuous  breach  of  sacred  ties. 
By  headless  Charles  see  heartless  Henry  lies  ; 
Between  them  stands  another  sceptred  thing — 
It  moves,  it  reigns — in  all  but  name,  a  king  : 

Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife, 
— In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  Ufe  : 
Justice  and  death  have  mix'd  their  dust  in  vain, 


544 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


!Each  royal  vampire  wakes  to  life  again. 

Ah,  wliat  can  tombs  avail ! — since  these  disgorge 

The  blood  and  dust  of  both — to  mould  a  George. 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

I  SPEAK  not,  I  trace  not,  I  breathe  not  thy  name. 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guilt  in  the 
fame :  [part 

But  the  tear  which  now  burns  on  my  cheek  may  im- 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence  of  heart. 

Too  brief  for  our  passion,  too  long  for  our  peace 
Were  those  hours — can  their  joy  or  their  bitterness 
cease  3  [chain, — 

We   repent — we   abjure — we  will   break   from   our 
We  will  part, — we  will  fly  to — unite  it  again  ! 

Oh,  thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt ! 
Forgive  me,  adored  one  ! — forsake,  if  thou  wilt ; — 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  undebased, 
And  man  shall  not  break  it — whatever  thou  mayst. 

And  stem  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee. 

This  soul,  in  its  bitterest  blackness,  shall  be  ; 

And  our  days  seem  as  swift,  and  our  moments  more 

sweet, 
With  thee  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  our  feet. 

One  sigh  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  love, 
Shall  turn  me  or  fix,  shall  reward  or  reprove  ; 
And  the  heartless  may  wonder  at  all  I  resign — 
Thy  lip  shall  reply,  not  to  them,  but  to  mine. 

May,  1814. 


ADDRESS    INTENDED   TO   BE   RECITED    AT 
THE   CALEDONIAN   IIEETING. 

Who  hath  not  glow'd  above  the  page  where  fame 
Hath  flx'd  high  Caledon's  unconquer'd  name  ; 
The  mountain-land  which  spurn'd  the  Roman  chain, 
And  baffled  back  the  fiery-crested  Dane, 
Whose  bright  claymore  and  hardihood  of  hand. 
No  foe  could  tame — no  tyrant  could  cammand  ? 
That  race  is  gone — ^but  still  their  children  breathe. 
And  glory  crowns  them  with  redoubled  wreath  : 
O'er  Gael  and  Saxon  mingling  banners  shine, 
And,  England  !  add  their  stubborn  strength  to  thine. 
The  blood  which  flow'd  with  Wallace  flows  as  free, 
But  now  'tis  only  shed  for  fame  and  thee  ! 
Oh  I  pass  not  by  the  northern  veteran's  claim. 
But  give  support— the  world  hath  given  him  fame  1 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 
While  checrly  following  where  the  mighty  led — 


Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguish'd  sod 
Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumph  trod. 
To  us  bequeath — 'tis  all  their  fate  allows — 
The  sireless  offspring  and  the  lonely  spouse  : 
She  on  high  Albyn's  dusky  hills  may  raise 
The  tearful  eye  in  melancholy  gaze. 
Or  view,  while  shadowy  auguries  disclose 
The  Highland  seer's  anticipated  woes. 
The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form 
Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm ; 
While  sad,  she  chants  the  solitary  song. 
The  soft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  long — 
For  him,  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 
The  Coronach's  wild  requiem  to  the  brave  ! 

'Tis  Heaven— not  man — must  charm  away  the  wo. 
Which  bursts  when  Nature's  feelings  newly  flow  ; 
Yet  tenderness  and  time  may  rob  the  tear 
Of  half  its  bitterness  for  one  so  dear ; 
A  nation's  gratitude  perchance  may  spread 
A  thomless  pillow  for  the  widow'd  head ; 
May  lighten  well  her  heart's  maternal  care. 
And  wean  from  penury  the  soldier's  heir. 

J/ay,  1814. 


FRAGMENT  OF   AN    EPISTLE    TO   THOMAS 
MOORE. 

"  What  say  If'' — not  a  syllable  further  in  prose  ; 
I'm  your  man  "  of  all  measures,"  dear   Tom, — so 

here  goes  ! 
Here  goes,  for  a  swim  on  the  stream  of  old  Time, 
On  those  buoyant  supporters,  the  bladders  of  rhyme. 
If  our  weight  breaks  them  down,  and  we  sink  in 

the  flood. 
We  are  smother'd,  at  least,  in  respectable  mud. 
Where  the  Divers  of  Bathos  lie  drown'd  in  a  heap, 
And  Southey's  last  Psean  has  pillow'd  his  sleep ;  [sey. 
That  "  Felo  de  se  "  who,  half  drunk  with  his  malm- 
Walk'd  out  of  his  depth  and  was  lost  in  a  calm  sea. 
Singing  "  Glory  to  God  "  in  a  spick  and  span  stanza. 
The  like  (since  Tom  Stemhold  was  choked)  never 

man  saw. 

The  papers  have  told  you,  no  doubt,  of  the  fusses, 
The  fetes,  and  the  gapings  to  get  at  these  Russes,— 
Of  his  Majesty's  suite,  up  from  coachman  to  Het- 

man, — 
And  what  dignity  decks  the  flat  face  of  the  great  man. 
I  saw  him,  last  week,  at  two  balls  and  a  party, — 
For  a  prince,  his  demeanor  was  rather  too  hearty. 
You  know,  ice  are  used  to  quite  different  graces. 

The  Czar's  look,  I  own,  was  much  brighter  and 

But  then  he  is  sadly  deficient  in  whisker ;    [brisker, 

And  wore  but  a  starless  blue  eoat,  and  in  kersey- 

-merc  breeches  whisk'd  round,  in  a  waltz  with  the 

Jersey, 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


646 


Who,  lovely  as  ever,  seem'd  just  as  delighted 
With  majesty's  presence  as  those  she  invited. 
****** 
****** 

June,  1814. 


CONDOLATORY  ADDRESS 

TO    SARAH    COUKTESS    OP    JEUSEY,    ON    THE    PRIKCE 
regent's  returning  her  picture  to  MRS.  MEE. 

When  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord, 
Whom  servile  Rome  obey'd,  and  yet  abhorr'd, 
Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust, 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave,  or  just ; 
What  most  admired  each  scrutinizing  eye 
Of  all  that  deck'd  that  passing  pageantry  ? 
Wliat  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering  air  ? 
The  thought  of  Brutus — for  his  was  not  there  ! 
That  absence  proved  his  worth, — that  absence  fix'd 
His  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmix'd ; 
And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure. 
Than  all  a  gold  Colossus  could  secure. 

If  thus,  fair  Jersey,  our  desiring  gaze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amaze. 
Amidst  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveliness. 
Bright  though  they  bo,  thine  own  had  render'd  less  ; 
If  he,  that  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  father's  crown,  and  of  his  wits, 
If  his  corrupted  eye,  and  withcr'd  heart. 
Could  with  thy  gentle  image  bear  depart ; 
That  tasteless  shame  be  hh,  and  ours  the  grief, 
To  gaze  on  Beauty's  band  without  its  chief: 
Yet  comfort  still  one  selfish  thought  imparts. 
We  lose  the  portrait,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose  ? 
A  garden  with  all  flowers — except  the  rose  ; — 
A  fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream ; 
A  night,  with  every  star,  save  Dian's  beam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  present  forms  shall  be, 
That  turn  from  tracing  them  to  dream  of  thee  ; 
And  more  on  that  recall'd  resemblance  pause, 
Than  all  he  sJiall  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Long  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine. 
With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine  : 
The  symmetry  of  youth — the  grace  of  mien — 
The  eye  that  gladdens — and  the  brow  serene  ; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair,     [fair  1 
Wliich  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  more  than 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throws 
A  spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  repose. 
But  turn  to  ga/.e  again,  and  find  anew 
Some  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 
These  are  not  lesscn'd,  these  are  still  as  bright. 
Albeit  too  dazzling  for  a  dotard's  sight ; 
And  those  must  wait  till  ev'ry  charm  is  gone, 
To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none  : — 
.  That  dull,  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  pass'd  the  portrait  by ; 
t)9 


Who  rack'd  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  Freedom's  loveliness,  and  thine. 

Augutt,  13U. 


TO  BELSHAZZAR. 

Belshazzar  !  from  the  banquet  turn, 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall ; 
Behold  !  while  yet  before  thee  bum 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall. 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall 

Crown'd  and  anointed  from  on  high  ; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  all — 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die  ? 

Go  !  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow — 

Gray  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them ; 
Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now. 

More  than  thy  very  diadem. 
Where  thou  hast  tarnish'd  every  gem  : — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by. 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  ev'n  slaves  contemn  ; 

And  learn  like  better  men  to  die ! 

Oh  !  early  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decay'd, 

And  left  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  see  thee  moves  the  scorner's  mirth  : 

But  tears  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth — 

Unfit  to  govern,  live,  or  die. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
SIR  PETER  PARKER,  BART. 

There  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die, 

A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave ; 

But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry. 

And  Triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

For  them  is  Sorrow's  purest  sigh 
O'er  Ocean's  heaving  bosom  sent : 

In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie. 
All  earth  becomes  their  monument  1 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page. 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue  : 
The  present  hours,  the  future  age. 

For  them  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 

Grows  hush'd,  their  7iame  the  only  sound; 

Wliile  deep  Remembrance  pours  to  Worth 
The  goblet's  tributary  round. 


546 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


A  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not, 

Lamented  by  admiring  foes — 
Who  would  not  sliare  their  glorious  lot ; 

Who  would  not  die  the  death  they  chose  2 

And,  gallant  Parker  !  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  be  ; 

And  early  valor,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

But  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 

In  wo,  that  glory  cannot  quell ; 
And  shuddering  hear  of  victory, 

Wlieie  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  fell. 

Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  thee  less  ? 

When  cease  to  hear  thy  cherish'd  name  ? 
Time  cannot  teach  forgetfulucss. 

While  Grief's  full  heart  is  fed  by  Fame. 

Alas  !  for  them,  though  not  for  thee. 
They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more  ; 

Deep  for  the  dead  the  grief  must  be, 
Who  ne'er  gave  cause  to  mourn  before. 

October  1814. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

"  O  Lachrymarnm  fon?,  tcnero  sacro8 
Diicentium  ortus  ex  animo :  quatcr 
Feltx  1  in  imo  qui  BCalentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nymplia,  senslt." 

Gray's  Foemala. 

TuEKE  's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it 

takes  away. 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's 

duU  decay ; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone, 

which  fades  so  fast. 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth 

itself  be  past. 

Tlien  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of 
happiness 

Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  ex- 
cess : 

The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points 
in  vain 

The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall  never 
stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death 

itself  comes  down ; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its 

own; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our 

tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  utiU,  'tis  where  the 

ice  appears. 


Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth 

distract  the  breast. 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their 

former  hope  of  rest ; 
'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreath, 
All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn   and 

gray  beneath. 

Oh,  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt, — or  be  what  I  have 

been. 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many  a  van- 

ish'd  scene ; 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish 

though  they  be, 

So  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 

flow  to  me. 

MarcK,  1815. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee  ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me  : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing. 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep  ; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep  : 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee  ; 

With  a  fuU  but  soft  emotion. 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 


ON  NAPOLEON'S  ESCAPE  FROM  ELBA. 

Once  fairly  set  out  on  his  party  of  pleasure. 
Taking  towns  at  his  liking,  and  crowns  at  his  leisure, 
From  Elba  to  Lyons  and  Paris  he  goes. 
Making  halh  for  the  ladies,  and  hows  to  his  foes. 

March  27, 1815. 


ODE  PROM  THE  FRENCH. 


We  do  not  curse  thee,  Waterloo  ! 
Though  Freedom's  blood  thy  plain  bedew ; 
There  'twas  shed,  but  is  not  sunk — 
Rising  from  each  gory  trunk. 
Like  the  water-spout  from  ocean, 
With  a  strong  and  growing  motion — 
It  soars,  and  mingles  in  the  air. 
With  that  of  lost  Labedov6re — 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


547 


With  that  of  him  whose  honor'd  grave 

Contains  the  "  bravest  of  the  brave." 

A  crimson  cloud  it  spreads  and  glows, 

But  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose ; 

When  'tis  full  'twill  burst  asunder— 

Kevcr  yet  was  heard  such  thunder     . 

As  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder — 

Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning 

As  o'er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ning ! 

Like  the  Wormwood  Star  foretold 

By  the  sainted  Seer  of  old, 

Show'ring  down  a  fiery  flood, 

Turning  rivers  into  blood. 

The  chief  has  fallen,  but  not  by  you. 

Vanquishers  of  Waterloo  ! 

When  the  soldier  citizen 

Sway'd  not  o'er  his  fellow-men — 

Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 

Where  Glory  smiled  on  Freedom's  son — 

Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded. 

With  that  youthful  chief  competed  ? 

Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated. 
Till  lone  Tyranny  commanded  ? 
Till,  goaded  by  ambition's  sting. 
The  Hero  suuk  into  the  King  ? 
Then  he  fell : — so  perish  all, 
W^ho  would  men  by  man  enthrall  1 

III. 
And  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume  I 
Whose  realm  refused  thee  ev'n  a  tomb  ;• 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding. 
Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame   . 
For  a  meanly  royal  name  ; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears, 
Who  thy  blood-ljought  title  bears. 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 
On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks 
Like  a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 
While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing. 
Shone  and  sliiver'd  fast  around  thee — 
Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee  : 
Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 
By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow  ? 
Once — as  the  Moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 
It  roird  in  air,  the  warrior's  guide  ; 
Through  the  smoke-created  night 
Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  fight. 
The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 
To  catch  that  crest's  ascendency — 
And  as  it  onward  rolling  rose. 
So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 
There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lav  thickest, 


Strcw'd  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest — 
(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her. 
Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast  ?) 
"While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain  ; 
There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging  1 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again  1 

IV. 
O'er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march. 
Weeps  Triumph  o'er  each  levell'd  arch — 
But  let  Freedom  rejoice. 
With  her  heart  in  her  voice  ; 
Put  her  hand  on  her  sword, 
Doubly  shall  she  be  adored ; 
France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught  - 
The  "  moral  lesson  "  dearly  bought — 
Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  throne. 
With  Capet  or  Napoleon  ! 
But  in  equal  rights  and  laws. 
Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause — 
Freedom,  sucli  as  God  hath  given 
Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven, 
With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth, 
Though  Guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth  ; 
With  a  fierce  and  lavish  hand 
Scattering  nations'  wealth  like  sand  ; 
Pouring  nations'  blood  like  water. 
In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter  1 

V. 

But  the  heart  and  the  mind, 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communion — 
And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union  ? 
The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued — 
Man  may  die — the  soul 's  renew'd  : 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  heir  ; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  forever  bounding  spirit — 
"When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble. 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble, 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat  ? 
Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 
Must  thou  go,  my  glorious  Chief, 

Sever'd  from  thy  faithful  few  ? 
Who  can  tell  thy  warrior's  grief, 

Maddening  o'er  that  long  adieu  ? 
Woman's  love,  and  friendship's  zeal. 

Dear  as  both  have  been  to  me — 
What  are  they  to  all  I  feel, 

With  a  soldier's  faith  for  thee  ? 


548 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Idol  of  the  soldier's  soul ! 
'  First  in  fight,  but  mightiest  now : 
Many  could  a  world  control ; 

Thee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 
By  thy  side  for  years  I  dared 

Death  ;  and  envied  those  who  fell, 
When  their  dying  shout  was  heard. 

Blessing  him  they  served  so  well. 

Would  that  I  were  cold  with  those, 

Since  this  hour  I  live  to  see  ; 
When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 

Scarce  dare  trust  a  man  with  thee. 
Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free  ! 

Oh  !  although  in  dungeons  pent, 
AU  their  chains  were  light  to  me, 

Gazing  on  thy  soul  unbent. 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him 

Kow  so  deaf  to  duty's  prayer. 
Were  his  borrow'd  glories  dim. 

In  his  native  darkness  share  ? 
Were  that  world  this  hour  his  own. 

All  thou  calmly  dost  resign. 
Could  he  purchase  with  that  throne 

Hearts  like  those  which  still  are  thine  ? 

My  chief,  my  king,  my  friend,  adieu  I 

Never  did  I  droop  before ; 
Never  to  my  sovereign  sue. 

As  his  foes  I  now  implore  : 
All  I  ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave  ; 
Sharing  by  the  hero's  side 

His  fall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 


ON  THE   STAR  OP  "THE  LEGION  OF 
HONOR." 

FKOM  THE  FKEKCH. 

Star  of  the  brave  ! — whose  beam  hath  shed 
Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead — 
'Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit  1 
Which  millions  rush'd  in  arms  to  greet, — 
Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth  ! 
Why  rise  in  Heaven  to  set  on  Earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form'd  thy  rays  ; 
Eternity  flash'd  through  thy  blaze  ; 
The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honor  here ; 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes. 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  roU'd  thy  stream  of  blood. 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood  ; 


Earth  rock'd  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space  ; 
And  the  shorn  Sun  grew  dim  in  air, 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 
'  A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue, 
■  Of  three  bright  colors,  each  divine. 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign  ; 

For  Freedom's  hand  had  blended  them. 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraph's  eyes ; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light : 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave  !  thy  ray  is  pale, 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail ! 
But,  oh,  thou  Rainbow  of  the  free  ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away. 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead ; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array ; 
And  soon,  oh,  Goddess  !  may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee  1 


NAPOLEON'S   FAREWELL. 

FEOM  THE   TKENCH. 

Fabeweli.  to  the  Land,  where  the  gloom  of  my  Glory 
Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name- 
She  abandons  me  now— but  the  page  of  her  story,     . 
The  brightest  or  blackest,  is  fiU'd  with  my  fame. 
I  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquish'd  me  only 
When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far  ; 
I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus 
The  last  single  Captive  to  millions  in  war.     [lonely. 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  !  when  thy  diadem  crown'd 

me, 
I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth, — 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  I  found 
Decay'd  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth,  [thee. 
Oh  !  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 
In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were 

won—  [blasted, 

Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was 
Had  still  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  victory's  sun  1 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


64a 


Farewell  to  tbee,  France  ! — but  when  Liberty  rallies 
■Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then — 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys  ; 
Though  witber'd,  thy  tear  will  unfold  it  again — 
Yet,  yet,  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us, 
And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice — 
There  arc  links  ■which  must  break  in  the  chain  that 

has  bound  us, 
2'hen.  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice  1 


ENDORSEMENT  TO  THE  DEED  OF  SEPARA- 
TION, IN  THE  APRIL  OP  1816. 

A  TEAK  ago  you  swore,  fond  she  ! 

"  To  love,  to  honor,"  and  so  forth  ; 
Such  was  the  vow  you  pledged  to  me, 

And  here  's  exactly  what  'tis  worth. 


DARKNESS. 

I  HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguish'd,  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 

Swimg  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air ; 

Mom  came  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no 

And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread       [day. 

Of  this  their  desolation  ;  and  all  hearts 

Were  chill'd  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light : 

And  they  did  live  by  watchfircs — and  the  thrones. 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings — the  huts, 

The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

"Were  burnt  for  beacons  ;  cities  were  consumed, 

And  men  were  gathcr'd  round  their  blazing  homes 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face  ; 

Hajjpy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanoes,  and  their  mountain-torch  : 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contain'd  ; 

Forests  were  set  on  fire — but  hour  by  hour 

They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling  trunks 

Extinguish'd  with  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 

Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them  ;  some  lay  down 

And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept ;  and  some  did  rest 

Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world ;  and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust. 

And  gnash'd  their  teeth  and  howl'd  :  the  wild  birds 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground,    [shriek'd, 

And  flap  their  useless  wings  ;  the  wildest  brutes 

Came  tame  and  tremulous  ;  and  vipers  crawl'd 

And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 


Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slain  for  food  : 

And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 

Did  glut  himself  again ; — a  meal  was  bought 

With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 

Gorging  himself  in  gloom  :  no  love  was  left ; 

All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 

Immediate  and  inglorious  ;  and  the  pang 

Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails — men 

Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh  ; 

The  meager  by  the  meager  were  devour'd. 

Even  dogs  assail'd  their  masters,  all  save  one. 

And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 

The  birds  and  beasts  and  famish'd  men  at  bay. 

Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 

Lured  their  lank  jaws  ;  himself  sought  out  no  foo<l, 

But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 

And  a  quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 

Which  answer'd  not  with  a  caress — he  died. 

The  crowd  was  famish'd  by  degrees  ;  but  two 

Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive. 

And  they  were  enemies  :  they  met  beside 

The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 

Where  had  been  heap'd  a  mass  of  holy  things 

For  an  unholy  usage  ;  they  raked  up. 

And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold   skeleton 

The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath        [hands 

Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 

Which  was  a  mockery ;  then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 

Each  other's  aspects — saw,  and  shriek'd,  and  died — 

Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died. 

Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 

Famine  had  written  Fiend.    The  world  was  void, 

The  populace  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 

Seasonless,  herblcss,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless — 

A  lump  of  death, — a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still. 

And  nothing  stirr'd  within  their  silent  depths  ; 

Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal;  as  they  dropp'd 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge — 

The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave. 

The  Moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before ; 

The  winds  were  witlier'd  in  the  stagnant  air, 

And  the  clouds  perish'd  !    Darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them — She  was  the  Universe. 

DiODATi,  Jidy,  1816. 


CHURCHILL'S   GRAVE. 

I  STOOD  beside  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 

The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 
The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres,  and  gazed 

With  not  the  less  of  sorrow  and  of  awe 
On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone. 
With  name  no  clearer  than  the  names  unknown, 
Wliich  lay  unread  around  it ;  and  I  ask'd 


.550 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  gardner  of  tliat  ground,  wliy  it  miglit  be 
That  for  tliis  plant  strangers  his  memory  task'd 

Tlirongh  the  thick  deaths  of  half  a  century  ? 
And  thus  he  answer'd — "Well,  I  do  not  know 
Why  frequent  travelers  turn  to  pilgrims  so  ; 
He  died  before  my  day  of  Sextonship, 

And  I  had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave." 
And  is  this  all  ?  'I  thought, — and  do  we  rip 

The  veil  of  Immortality  ?  and  crave 
I  know  not  what  of  honor  and  of  light 
Through  unborn  ages,  to  endure  this  blight  ? 
So  soon,  and  so  successless  ?    As  I  said, 
The  Architect  of  all  on  which  we  tread. 
For  earth  is  but  a  tombstone,  did  essay 
To  extricate  remembrance  from  the  clay. 
Whose  minglings  might  confuse  a  Newton's  thought. 

Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one. 
Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers  ; — as  he  caught 
As  'twere  the  twilight  of  a  former  sun, 
Thus  spoke  he, — "  I  believe  the  man  of  whom 
You  wot,  who  lies  in  this  selected  tomb. 
Was  a  most  famous  writer  in  his  day. 
And  therefore  travelers  step  from  out  their  way 
To  pay  him  honor, — and  myself  whate'er 

Your  honor  pleases," — then  most  pleased  I  shook 
From  out  my  pocket's  avaricious  nook 
Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  'twere 
Perforce  I  gave  this  man,  though  I  could  spare 
So  much  but  inconveniently  : — Ye  smile, 
I  see  ye,  ye  profane  ones  !  all  the  while, 
Because  my  homely  phrase  the  truth  would  tell. 
You  are  the  fools,  not  I — for  I  did  dwell 
With  a  deep  thought,  and  with  a  soften'd  eye, 
On  that  old  Sexton's  natural  homily 
In  which  there  was  Obscurity  and  Fame, — 
The  Glory  and  the  Nothing  of  a  Name. 

DiosATi,  1816. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Titan  !  to  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  sufferings  of  mortality. 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality. 
Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise  ; 
What  was  thy  pity's  recompense  ? 
A  silent  suffering,  and  intense ; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain, 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain. 
The  agony  they  do  not  show 
The  suffocating  sense  of  wo. 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness. 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 

Titan  !  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 
Between  the  suffering  and  the  will, 


Which  torture  where  they  cannot  kill, 
And  the  inexorable  Heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  Fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  Hate, 
Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate, 
Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die  : 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 
Was  thine — and  thou  hast  borne  it  well. 
All  that  the  Thunderer  wrung  from  thco 
Was  but  the  menace  which  flung  back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack ; 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  well  foresee. 
But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell ; 
And  in  thy  Silence  was  his  Sentence, 
And  in  his  Soul  a  vain  repentance. 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled. 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trembled. 

Thy  godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind. 

To  render  with  thy  precepts  less 

The  sum  of  human  wretchedness. 
And  strengthen  Man  with  his  own  mind  ; 
But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high. 
Still  in  thy  patient  energy, 
In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 

Of  thine  impenetrable  Spirit, 
Which  Earth  and  Heaven  could  not  convulse, 

A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit : 
Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 

To  Mortals  of  their  fate  and  force  ; 
Like  thee,  Man  is  in  part  divine, 

A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source  ; 
And  Man  in  portions  can  foresee 
His  own  funereal  destiny  ; 
His  wretchedness,  and  his  resistance. 
And  his  sad  unallied  existence  : 
To  which  his  Spirit  may  oppose 
Itself — and  equal  to  all  woes. 

And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense, 
Which  even  in  torture  can  descry 

Its  own  concentred  recompense. 
Triumphant  where  it  dares  defy. 
And  making  Death  a  Victory. 

DioDATi,  Jtdy,  1818. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Could  I  remount  the  river  of  my  years 

To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  tears, 

I  would  not  trace  again  the  stream  of  hours 

Between  their  outworn  banks  of  wither'd  flowprs. 

But  bid  it  flow  as  now — until  it  glides 

Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides.    *    *    • 

What  is  this  Death  ?— a  quiet  of  the  heart  ? 
The  whole  of  that  of  which  we  are  a  part  ? 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


551 


Tor  life  is  but  a  vision — what  I  see 

From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 

Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  life  to  me. 

Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

And  being  so — the  absent  are  the  dead, 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  1 

Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 

A  dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  inrcst 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 

With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest. 

How  Alhama's  city  fell : 

The  absent  are  the  dead — for  they  are  cold, 

In  the  lire  the  scroll  he  threw, 

And  ne'er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold  ; 

And  the  messenger  he  slow. 

And  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless, — or  if  yet 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

The  unforgotten  do  not  all  forget. 

Since  thus  diyided — equal  must  it  bo 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 

If  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea ; 

And  through  the  street  directs  his  course  ; 

It  may  be  both — but  one  day  end  it  must 

Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 

In  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

The  under-earth  inhabitants — are  they 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

But  mingled  millions  decomposed  to  clay  ? 

The  ashes  of  a  thousand  ages  spread 

When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gain'd, 

Wherever  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread  ? 

On  the  moment  he  ordain'd 

Or  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 

That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 

Each  in  his  incommunicative  cell  ? 

With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Or  have  they  their  own  language  ?  and  a  sense 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  1 

Of  breathless  being  ?— darken'd  and  intense 

As  midnight  in  her  solitude  ? — 0  Earth  ! 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 

Where  are  the  past  ? — and  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? 

Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar. 

The  dead  are  thy  inheritors — and  we 

Tiiat  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 

But  bubbles  on  thy  surface  ;  and  the  key 

Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain. 

Of  thy  profundity  is  in  the  grave, 

Wo  is  me,  Alliama  I 

The  ebon  portal  of  thy  peopled  cave. 

Where  I  would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 

Our  elements  resolved  to  things  untold, 

That  bloody  Mars  recall'd  them  there. 

And  fathom  hidden  wonders,  and  explore 

One  by  one,  and  two  by  two. 

The  essence  of  great  bosoms  now  no  more.    *    *    * 

To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

DioDATi,  July,  1816. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  1 

SONNET   TO   LA.KE   LEM.!lN. 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our  Gibbon — and  De  Stael — 

In  these  words  the  king  before. 

Leman  !  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore. 

"  Wherefore  call  on  us,  0  King  ? 

Thy  shore  of  names  like  these !  wert  thou  no  more. 

What  may  mean  this  gathering  ?" 

Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall : 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all. 

But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  lore 

"  Friends  1  ye  have,  alas  !  to  know 

Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 

Of  a  most  disastrous  blow, 

Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 

That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 

Wliere  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous  ;  but  by  thee^ 

Have  obtain'd  Alhama's  hold." 

How  much  more.  Lake  of  Beauty  1  do  we  feel, 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea. 

, 

The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal. 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 

Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 

With  his  beard  so  white  to  see. 

Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real  1 

"  Good  King  !  thou  art  justly  served. 

DiODATi,  July,  1816. 

Good  King  !  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Wo  is  me,  Alliama  ! 

A   VERY   MOURNFUL   BALLAD 

"  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour. 

ON  THE   SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA, 

The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower ; 

Which,  in  the  Arabic  language,  it  lo  the  following  purport. 

And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 

The  Moorish  King  rides  up  and  down 

Of  Cordova  the  Chivalry. 

Through  Oranada's  royal  town  ; 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  I 

552 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


"  And  for  this,  O  King  !  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement : 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law ; 
And  Granada  must  be  won. 
And  thyself  with  her  undone." 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Fire  flash'd  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes. 
The  Monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answer'd,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Wo  is  mc,  Alhama  ! 

"  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  :" — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  King,  and  doom'd  him  dead. 
Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Moor  Alfixqui !     Moor  Alfaqui ! 
Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 
The  King  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama's  loss  displeased. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra's  loftiest  stone  ; 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law. 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Cavalier,  and  man  of  worth  ! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ; 
Let  the  Moorish  Monarch  know, 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs. 
And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys  ; 
And  if  the  King  his  land  hath  lost. 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  I 

"  Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives  ; 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth,  or  fame. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour. 

Of  all  the  land  the  loveUest  flower ; 


Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay, 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day." 
Wo  is  mc,  Alliama  ! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said. 
They  sevcr'd  from  the  trunk  his  liead ; 
And  to  the  Alhambra's  wall  with  speed 
'Twas  carried,  as  the  King  decreed. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep  : 
Granada's  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  1 

And  from  the  windows  o'er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls  ; 
The  King  weeps  as  a  woman  o'er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  I 


TRANSLATION   FROM   VITTORELLI. 

ON  A  NUN. 

Sonnet  composed  in  the  name  of  a  fiither,  whose  daughter  had 
recently  died  shortly  after  her  marriage  ;  and  addressed  to  the 
father  of  her  who  had  lately  taken  the  veil. 

Of  two  fair  virgins,  modest,  though  admired, 

Heaven  made  us  happy,  and  now,  wretched  sires ; 

Heaven  for  a  nobler  doom  their  worth  desires, 

And  gazing  upon  either,  both  required. 
Mine,  while  the  torch  of  Hymen  newly  fired 

Becomes  extinguish'd,  soon — too  soon — expires  ; 

But  thine,  within  the  closing  grate  retired, 

Eternal  captive,  to  her  God  aspires. 
But  thou  at  least  from  out  the  jealous  door. 

Which  shuts  between  your  never-meeting  eyes, 

Mayst  hear  her  sweet  and  pious  voice  once  more  : 
I  to  the  marble,  where  mi/  daughter  lies, 

Rush, — the  swoln  flood  of  bitterness  I  pour,  [plies. 

And  knock,  and  knock,  and  knock — but  none  re- 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

Brigiit  be  the  place  of  thy  soul  I 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control. 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 
On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be ; 
And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb  1 
May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be  I 

There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom, 
In  aujjht  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


653 


Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest : 

But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see  ; 
For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  bless'd  ? 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness  ; 

But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past, 
And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bless  : 

They  rose  the  first — they  set  the  last ; 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 

"Was  once  our  only  Hope  to  be, 
And  all  that  Hope  adored  and  lost 

Hath  melted  into  Memory. 

Alas  !  it  is  delusion  all : 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar, 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall, 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 


TO   THOMAS   MOORE. 

Mt  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here  's  a  double  health  to  thee  I 

Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me. 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate  ; 

And,  whatever  sky  's  above  me. 
Here  's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink. 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine. 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  1 

Jvly,  1817. 


ON  THE  BUST  OF  HELEN,  BY  CANOVA. 

In  this  beloved  marble  Ndew, 

Above  the  works  and  thoughts  of  man. 
What  nature  could,  but  wonld  not,  do. 

And  beauty  and  Canova  can,  ! 
Beyond  imagination's  power. 

Beyond  the  Bard's  defeated  art, 
TO 


With  immortality  her  dower. 
Behold  the  Helen  of  the  heart ! 

Nmembtr,  1810. 

SONG  FOR  THE  LUDDITES. 

As  the  Liberty  lads  o'er  the  sea 
Bought  their  freedom,  and  cheaply,  with  blood. 
So  we,  boys,  we 
Will  die  fighting,  or  live  free, 
And  down  with  all  kings  but  King  Ludd  ! 

When  the  web  that  we  weave  is  complete. 
And  the  shuttle  exchanged  for  the  sword, 

We  will  fling  the  winding-sheet 

O'er  the  despot  at  our  feet. 
And  dye  it  deep  in  the  gore  he  has  pour'd. 

Though  black  as  his  heart  its  hue. 
Since  his  veins  are  corrupted  to  mud, 

Yet  this  is  the  dew 

Which  the  tree  shall  renew 

Of  Liberty,  planted  by  Ludd  1 

Ikcember,  1818. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

What  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh,  Thomas  Moore  ? 
What  are  you  doing  nov^. 

Oh,  Thomas  Moore  ? 
Sighing  or  suing  now. 
Rhyming  or  wooing  now. 
Billing  or  cooing  now, 
■WTiich,  Thomas  Moore  ? 

But  the  Carnival 's  coming. 

Oh,  Thomas  Moore ! 
The  Carnival 's  coming. 

Oh,  Thomas  Moore  ! 
Masking  and  humming. 
Fifing  and  drumming, 
Guitarring  and  strumming. 
Oh,  Thomas  Moore ! 


SO,  WE'LL  GO  NO  MORE  A  ROVING. 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night. 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 


654 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Thougli  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  retnrns  too  soon, 

Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 


1817. 


VERSICLES. 

1  READ  the  ''  Christabel ;" 

Very  well : 
I  read  the  "  Mssionary ;" 

Pretty — very : 
I  tried  at  "  Ilderim  :" 

Ahem ! 
I  read  a  sheet  of  "  Marg'ret  of  Anjou  /" 

Can  you ? 
I  tum'd  a  page  of  Scott's  "  "Waterloo ;" 

Pooh !  pooh  I 
I  look'd    at  Wordsworth's    milk-white  ''  Rylstone 

HiUo !  [Doe :" 

Etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

March,  ISUT. 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

To  hook  the  reader,  you,  John  Murray, 
Have  publish'd  "  Anjou's  Margaret," 
Which  won't  be  sold  off  in  a  hurry, 
(At  least,  it  has  not  been  as  yet ;) 
And  then,  still  further  to  bewilder  em. 
Without  remorse  you  set  up  "  Ildcrim  ;" 

So  mind  you  don't  get  into  debt. 
Because  as  how,  if  you  should  fail. 
These  books  would  be  but  baddish  bail. 

And  mind  you  do  not  let  escape 
These  rhymes  to  Morning  Post  or  Pen-y, 
Which  would  be  very  treacherous — very, 

And  get  me  into  such  a  scrape  ! 
For,  firstly,  I  should  have  to  sally, 
AU  in  my  little  boat,  against  a  Galley  ; 
And,  should  I  chance  to  slay  the  Assyrian  wight, 
Have  next  to  combat  with  the  female  knight. 

March  23, 1817. 


EPISTLE  FROM  MR.  MURRAY  TO  DR. 
POLIDORI. 

Dear  Doctor,  I  have  read  your  play. 
Which  is  a  good  one  in  its  way, — 
Purges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels. 
And  drenches  handkerchiefs  like  towels 
With  tears,  that,  in  a  flux  of  grief, 
Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shatter'd  nerves  and  quicken'd  pulses. 
Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 

I  like  your  moral  and  machinery  ; 
Your  plot,  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery  ; 


Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart ; 

The  play's  concoction  full  of  art ; 

Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries, 

All  stab,  and  everybody  dies. 

In  short,  your  tragedy  would  be 

The  very  thing  to  hear  and  see ; 

And  for  a  piece  of  publication. 

If  I  decline  on  this  occasion. 

It  is  not  that  I  am  not  sensible 

To  merits  in  themselves  ostensible, 

But— and  I  grieve  to  speak  it — plays 

Are  drugs— mere  drugs,  sir — now-a-days. 

I  had  a  heavy  loss  by  "  Manuel," — 

Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual, — 

And  Sotheby,  with  his  "  Orestes," 

(Which,  by  the  by,  the  author's  best  is,) 

Has  lain  so  very  long  on  hand, 

That  I  despair  of  all  demand. 

I've  advertised,  but  see  ray  books. 

Or  only  watch  my  shopman's  looks  ; — 

Still  Ivan,  Ina,  and  such  lumber. 

My  back-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encumber. 

There  's  Byron,  too,  who  once  did  better, 
Has  sent  me,  folded  in  a  letter, 
A  sort  of — it 's  no  more  a  drama 
Than  Damley,  Ivan,  or  Kehama  : 
So  alter'd  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 
I  think  he  's  lost  his  wits  at  Venice. 
In  short,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t'other, 
I  dare  not  venture  on  another. 
I  write  in  haste  ;  excuse  each  blunder ; 
The  coaches  through  the  street  so  thunder  1 
My  room 's  so  full — we've  Gifford  here 
Reading  MS.,  with  Hookham  Frere, 
Pronouncing  on  the  nouns  and  particle* 
Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Articles. 

The  Quarterly — Ah,  sir,  if  you 
Had  but  the  genius  to  review ! — 
A  smart  critique  upon  St.  Helena, 
Or  if  you  only  would  but  tell  in  a 

Short  compass but,  to  resume  : 

As  I  was  saying,  sir,  the  room — 

The  room  's  so  full  of  wits  and  bards, 

Crabbes,  Campbells,  Crokers,  Freres,  and  Wards, 

And  others,  neither  bards  nor  wits  ; 

My  humble  tenement  admits 

All  persons  in  the  dress  of  gent.. 

From  Mr.  Hammond  to  Dog  Dent. 

A  party  dines  with  me  to-day, 
All  clever  men,  who  make  their  way ; 
Crabbe,  Malcolm,  Hamilton,  and  Chantrey, 
Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 
They're  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  De  StaOl's  late  dissolution. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


556 


Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance — 
Pray  Heaven,  she  tell  the  truth  of  France  ! 
Thus  run  our  time  and  tongues  away. — 
But,  to  return,  sir,  to  your  play  : 
Sorry,  sir,  but  I  can  not  deal, 
Unless  'twere  acted  by  O'Neill. 
My  hands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 
I'm  almost  dead,  and  always  dizzy  ; 
And  so,  with  endless  truth  and  hurry, 
Dear  Doctor,  I  am  yours, 
Avffuit,i8i-.  John  Murtiay. 


EPISTLE   TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

My  dear  Mr.  Murray, 
You're  in  a  damn'd  hurry 

To  set  up  this  ultimate  Canto ; 
But  (if  they  don't  rob  us) 
You'll  see  Mr.  Hobhousc 

Will  bring  it  safe  in  his  portmanteau. 

For  the  Journal  you  hint  of. 
As  ready  to  print  off, 

No  doubt  you  do  right  to  commend  it ; 
But  as  yet  I  have  writ  off 
The  devil  a  bit  of 

Our  "  Beppo  :" — whea  copied,  I'll  send  it. 

Then  you've  *  *  *  *  'g  Tour, — 
2^0  great  things,  to  be  sure, — 

You  could  hardly  begin  with  a  less  work ; 
For  the  pompous  rascallion. 
Who  don't  speak  Italian 

Nor  French,  must  have  scribbled  by  guesswork. 

You  can  make  any  loss  up 
With  "  Spence  "  and  his  gossip, 

A  work  which  must  surely  succeed  ; 
Then  Queen  Mary's  Epistle-craft, 
With  the  new  "Fytte"  of  "  Whistlecraft," 

Must  make  people  purchase  and  read. 

Then  you've  General  Gordon, 
Who  girded  his  sword  on, 

To  serve  with  a  Muscovite  master ; 
And  help  him  to  polish 
A  nation  so  owlish. 

They  thought  shaving  their  beards  a  disaster. 

For  the  man,  "  poor  and  shrewd," 
With  whom  you'd  conclude 

A  compact  without  more  delay. 
Perhaps  some  such  pen  is 
Still  extant  in  Venice  ; 

But  please,  sir,  to  mention  your  pay. 

Venici,  January  8, 1818. 


I 


TO   MR.   MURRAY. 

Strahan,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times. 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhymes, 
For  thee  the  bard  up  Pindus  climbs. 
My  Murray. 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb, 
The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come  ; 
Thou  printest  all— and  scUest  some — 
My  Murray. 

Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
The  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen, — 
But  where  is  thy  new  Magazine, 
My  Murray  ? 

Along  thy  sprucest  bookshelves  shine 
The  works  thou  deemest  most  divine — 
The  "  Art  of  Cookery,"  and  mine. 
My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  I  wist. 
And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist ; 
And  then  thou  hast  the  "  Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I  should  conclude 
Without  "  the  Board  of  Longitude," 
Although  this  narrow  paper  would. 
My  Murray. 

Venicb,  March  28, 1818. 


ON  THE   BIRTH   OF   JOHN  WILLIAM 
RIZZO   HOPPNER. 

His  father's  sense,  his  mother's  grace, 
In  him,  I  hope,  will  always  fit  so  ; 

With — still  to  keep  him  in  good  case — 
The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizzo. 

Ftbruary,  1818. 


STANZAS   TO    THE   PO. 

IlivEB,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls. 
Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she 

■Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me ; 

What  if  thy  deep  and  amjile  stream  should  bo 
{      A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 
;  The  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee, 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed  ! 

What  do  I  say — a  mirror  of  my  heart  ? 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong  ? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art ; 

And  such  as  thou  art  were  my  passions  long. 


556 


BYROX'S   WORKS. 


Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them, — not  forever ; 

To  make  thy  sire's  sway  by  a  kingdom  less, — 

Thou  overflow'st  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye 

TTiis  is  to  be  a  monarch,  and  repress 

Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river  I 

Envy  into  unutterable  praise. 

Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk  away, 

Dismiss  thy  guards,  and  trust  thee  to  such  traits, 

For  who  would  lift  a  hand,  except  to  bless  ? 

Hut  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again, 

Were  it  not  easy,  sir,  and  is  't  not  sweet 

Borne  in  our  unchanged  career,  we  move ; 

To  make  thyself  beloved  ?  and  to  be 

Thou  tendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 

Omnipotent  by  mercy's  means  ?  for  thus 

And  I — to  loving  one  I  should  not  love. 

Thy  sovereignty  would  grow  but  more  complete ; 

A  despot  thou,  and  yet  thy  people  free. 

The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 

And  by  the  heart,  not  hand,  enslaving  us. 

Her  native  walls,  and  murmur  at  her  feet ; 

Bologna,  Augvet  12, 1819. 

Her  eyes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  shall  breathe 

The  twilight  air,  unharm'd  by  summer's  heat. 

.      EPIGRAM. 

She  will  look  on  thee, — I  have  look'd  on  thee. 

FBOM  THE  FRENCH  OF  BUI-HIEBES. 

Full  of  that  thought :  and,  from  that  moment, 

Thy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see,       [ne'er 

If,  for  silver  or  for  gold, 

Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  licr  1 

You  could  melt  ten  thousand  pimples 

Into  half  a  dozen  dimples. 

Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream — 

Then  your  face  we  might  behold. 

Yes  I  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now  : 

Looking,  doubtless,  much  more  snugly  ; 

Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream. 

Yet  even  then  'twould  be  d d  ugly. 

That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow  1 

AugvH  12, 1819. 

The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more : 

STANZAS. 

Will  she  return  by  whom  that  wave  shall  sweep  ? — 

CoiJLD  Love  forever 
Run  like  a  river. 
And  Time's  endeavor 

Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore, 
I  by  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 

Be  tried  in  vain — 

Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth, 

No  other  pleasure 

But  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot. 

With  this  could  measure  ; 

As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

And  like  a  treasure 

We'd  hug  the  chain. 

A  stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  land. 

But  since  our  sighing 

Bom  far  beyond  the  mountains,  but  his  blood 

Ends  not  in  dying. 

Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fann'd 

And,  form'd  for  flying. 

By  the  black  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

Love  plumes  his  wing  ; 

Then  for  this  reason 

My  blood  is  all  meridian  ;  were  it  not. 

Let 's  love  a  season ; 

I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be, 

But  let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 

In  spite  of  tortures,  ne'er  to  be  forgot. 

A  slave  again  of  love, — at  least  of  thee. 

When  lovers  parted 

Feel  broken-hearted, 

'Tis  vain  to  struggle— let  me  perish  young — 

And,  all  hopes  thwarted, 

Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved ; 

Expect  to  die ; 

To  dust  if  I  return,  from  dust  I  sprung. 

A  few  years  older. 

And  then,  at  least,  my  heart  can  ne'er  be  moved. 

Ah  1  how  much  colder 

April,  1819. 

They  might  behold  her 

For  whom  they  sigh  1 

BONNET   TO   GEORGE   THE  FOURTH, 

When  link'd  together, 

In  every  weather. 

ON  THE  BEPEAI,  OP  LOBD  EDWAKD  FITZGERAI.D's 

They  pluck  Love's  feather 

FOBFEITUBE. 

From  out  his  wing — 

To  be  the  father  of  the  fatherless, 

He'll  stay  forever. 

To  stretch  the  hand  from  the  throne's  height,  and 

But  sadly  shiver 

His  oflBpring,  who  expired  in  other  days      [raise 

Without  his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spring. 

OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


BS1 


Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  is  action — 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  reign, 
Obscures  his  glory, 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

Quits  with  disdain. 
Still,  still  advancing. 
With  banners  glancing. 
His  power  enhancing, 

He  must  move  on — 
Repose  but  cloys  him. 
Retreat  destroys  him. 
Love  brooks  not  a  degraded  throne. 

"Wait  not,  fond  lover  I 
Till  years  are  over. 
And  then  recover. 

As  from  a  dream. 
Wliile  each  bewailing 
The  other's  failing, 
With  wrath  and  railing. 

All  hideous  seem — 
While  fii'st  decreasing, 
Yet  not  quite  ceasing. 
Wait  not  till  teasing 

AU  passion  blight : 
If  once  diminish'd 
Love's  reign  is  finished — 
Then  part  in  friendship,— and  bid  good-night. 

So  shall  Affection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connection 

Bring  back  with  joy  : 
You  had  not  waited 
Till,  tired  or  hated. 
Your  passions  sated 

Begau  to  cloy. 
Your  last  embraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces — 
The  same  fond  faces 

As  through  the  past ; 
And  eyes,  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors 
Reflect  but  rapture — not  least  though  last. 

True,  separations 

Ask  more  than  patience  ; 

What  desperations 

From  such  have  risen  ! 
But  yet  remaining, 
What  is  't  but  chaining 
Hearts  which,  once  waning, 

Beat  'gainst  their  prison  t 
Time  can  but  clov  love, 


And  use  destroy  love : 
The  winged  boy.  Love, 

Is  but  for  boys — 
You'll  find  it  torture 
Though  sharper,  shorter. 
To  wean,  and  not  wear  out  your  joys. 


Ifll9. 


ON   MY   WEDDING-DAY. 

Here  's  a  happy  new  year  !  but  with  reason 

I'll  beg  you'll  permit  me  to  say — 
Wish  me  manj/  returns  of  the  smson, 

But  as/ejfl  as  you  please  of  the  day. 

January  2, 1620. 


EPITAPH   FOR   WILLIAM   PITT. 

With  death  doom'd  to  grapple, 

Beneath  this  cold  slab,  he 
Who  lied  in  the  Chajjel 

Now  lies  in  the  Abbey. 


January,  1820. 


EPIGRAM. 


Ik  digging  up  your  bones,  Tom  Paine, 
Will.  Cobbett  has  done  well : 

You  visit  him  on  earth  again. 
He'll  visit  you  in  hell. 


Januavij,  1820. 


STANZAS. 


When  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to  light  for  at  homo, 
Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neighbors  ; 

Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece  and  of  Rome, 
And  get  knock'd  on  the  head  for  his  labors. 

To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan, 

And  is  always  as  nobly  requited ; 
Then  battle  for  freedom  wherever  you  can. 

And,  if  not  shot  or  hang'd,  you'll  get  knighted. 

November,  18-30. 


EPIGRAM. 

The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay, 
Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull ; 

Each  tugs  it  a  diflferent  way, 
And  the  greatest  of  aU  is  John  Bull. 


THE    CHARITY    BALL. 

What  matter  the  pangs  of  a  husband  and  father, 
If  his  sorrows  in  exile  be  great  or  be  small, 

So  the  Pharisee's  glories  around  her  she  gather, 
And  the  saint  patronizes  her  "  charity  ball !" 


558 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


What  matters — a  heart  which,  though  faulty,  was 
feeling, 
Be  driven  to  excesses  which  once  could  appal — 
That  the  sinner  should  suffer  is  only  fair  dealing. 
As  the  saint  keeps  her  charity  back  for  "the 
ball!"' 


EPIGRAM   ON   ]tfY   WEDDING-DAY. 

TO  PENELOPE. 

This  day,  of  all  our  days,  has  done 

The  worst  for  me  and  you  : — 

'Tis  just  six  years  since  we  were  one, 

Andjive  since  we  were  two. 

January  2, 1821. 


ON   MY   THIRTY-THIRD   BIRTH-DAY. 

JAKUAKY   22,  1821. 

Thkough  life's  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 
I  have  dragg'd  to  three  and  thirty. 
What  have  these  years  left  to  me  ? 
Nothing — except  thirty-three. 


EPIGRAM, 

ON    THE    braziers'    COMPANY   HAVING   RESOLVED   TO 
PRESENT    AN   ADDRESS   TO   QUEEN   CAROLINE. 

The  braziers,  it  seems,  are  preparing  to  pass 
An  address,  and  present  it  themselves  all  in  brass  ; — 
A  superfluous  pageant — for,  by  the  Lord  Hariy  1 
They'll  find  where  they're  going  much  more  than 
they  carry. 


MARTIAL,  Lib.  I.  Erio.  1. 

"  Hie  est,  quem  legis,  ille.  quern  requlria. 
Tola  notus  in  orbe  Martialis,"  etc. 

He  unto  whom  thou  art  so  partial. 
Oh,  reader !  is  the  well-known  Martial, 
The  Epigrammatist :  while  living, 
Give  him  the  fame  thou  wouldst  be  giving ; 
So  shall  he  hear,  and  feel,  and  know  it- 
Post-obits  rarely  reach  a  poet. 


BOWLES   AND    CAMPBELL. 
To  the  tune  of  "  Wbj,  liow  now,  saucy  jade  ?" 
Why,  how  now,  saucy  Tom  ? 

If  you  thus  must  ramble, 
I  v.'ill  publish  some 

Remarks  on  Mister  Campbell. 


ANSWER. 
Why,  how  now,  Billy  Bowles  ? 
Sure  the  priest  is  maudlin  ! 


(  To  the  puhlic)  How  can  you,  d — n  your  souls  ! 

Listen  to  his  twaddling  ! 

February,  22, 1821. 


EPIGRAMS. 

On,  Castlereagh  !  thou  art  a  patriot  now ; 
Cato  died  for  his  country,  so  didst  thou  : 
He  perish'd  rather  than  see  Rome  enslaved. 
Thou  cutt'st  thy  throat  that  Britain  may  be  saved  ! 


So  Castlereagh  has  cut  his  throat ! — The  worst 
Of  this  is, — that  his  own  was  not  the  first. 


So  Ue  has  cut  his  throat  at  last ! — He  !    Who  } 
The  man  who  cut  his  country's  long  ago. 


EPITAPH. 

Posterity  will  ne'er  survey 
A  nobler  grave  than  this  : 

Here  lie  the  bones  of  Castlereagh  : 
Stop,  traveler . 


JOHN   KEATS. 

Who  kiU'd  John  Keats  ? 

"  I,"  says  the  Quarterly, 
So  savage  and  Tartarly ; 

"  'Twas  one  of  my  feats." 

Who  shot  the  arrow  ? 

"  The  poet-priest  Milman, 
(So  ready  to  kill  man,) 

Or  Southey  or  Barrow." 


July,  1821. 


THE    CONQUEST. 


[This  fragment  was  found  among  Lord  Byron's  papers,  after 
his  departure  from  Genoa  for  Greece.] 

March  8-9, 1823. 

The  Son  of  Love  and  Lord  of  War  I  sing ; 

Him  who  bade  England  bow  to  Normandy, 
And  left  the  name  of  conqueror  more  than  king 

To  his  unconquerable  dynasty. 
Not  fann'd  alone  by  Victory's  fleeting  wing. 

He  rear'd  his  bold  and  brilliant  throne  on  high : 
The  Bastard  kept,  like  lions,  his  prey  fast. 

And  Britain's  bravest  victor  was  the  last. 


'  These  lines  were  written  on  reading  in  the  newspapers,  that  ] 
Lady  Byron  Iiad  been  patroness  of  a  hall  in  aid  of  some  charity  j 
at  Hinckley. 


TO   MR.   MURRAY. 

Fob  Orford  and  for  Waldegrave 

You  give  much  more  than  me  you  gave  ; 

Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave, 

My  Murray. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


659 


Because  if  a  live  dog,  'tis  said, 
Be  worth  a  lion  fairly  sped, 
A  live  lard  must  be  worth  tico  dead, 
My  Slurray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 
Verse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prose, — 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those, 
My  Murray. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm'd, 
So,  it  you  icill,  /shan't  be  shamm'd. 
And  if  you  won't,  you  may  be  damm'd, 
My  Murray. 


THE   IRISH   AVATAR. 

"  And  Ireland,  like  a  bastinadoed  elephant,  kneeling  to  receive 
the  paltry  riier."— Outran. 

Eee  the  daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her  grave. 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o'er  the 
tide, 
Lo  I  George  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the  wave, 
To  the  long-cherish'd  isle  which  he  loved  like 
his — bride. 

True,  the  great  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are  gone, 
The  rainbow-like   epoch  where  Freedom  could 

For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won,  [pause 
Which  betray'd  not,  or  crush'd  not,  or  wept  not 
her  cause. 

True,  the  chains  of  the  Catholic  clank  o'er  his  rags. 
The  castle  still  stands,  and  the  senate  's  no  more, 

And  the  famine  which  dwelt  on  her  freedomless 
Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore,  [crags 

To  her  desolate  shore — where  the  emigrant  stands 
For  a  moment  to  gaze  ere  he  flies  from  his  hearth ; 

Tears  fall  on  his  chain,  though  it  drops  from  his 
hands. 
For  the  dungeon  he  quits  is  the  place  of  his  birth. 

But  he  comes  !  the  Messiah  of  royalty  comes  ! 

Like  a  goodly  Leviathan  roU'd  from  the  waves  ! 
Then  receive  him  as  best  such  an  advent  becomes, 

With  a  legion  of  cooks,  and  an  army  of  slaves  ! 

He  comes  in  the  promise  and  bloom  of  threescore, 
To  perform  in  the  pageant  the  sovereign's  part — 

But  long  live  the  shamrock  which  shadows  him  o'er ! 
Could  the  green  in  his  hat  be  transferr'd  to  his 
heart ! 

Could  that  long-M'itlicr"d  sjwt  but  be  verdaut  again. 
And  a  new  spring  of  noble  affections  arise- 


Then  might  freedom  forgive  thee  this  dance  in  thy 

chain,  [skies. 

And  this  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens  the 

Is  it  madness  or  meanness  which  clings  to  thee  now  ? 

Were  he  God — as  he  is  but  the  commonest  clay. 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his  brow — 

Such  servile  devotion  might  shame  him  away. 

Ay,  roar  in  his  train  !  let  thine  orators  lash 
Their  fanciful  spirits  to  pamper  his  pride — 

Not  thus  did  thy  Grattan  indignantly  flash 
His  soul  o'er  the  freedom  implored  and  denied. 

Ever  glorious  Grattan  !  the  best  of  the  good  ! 

So  simple  in  heart,  so  sublime  in  the  rest ! 
With  all  which  Demosthenes  wanted  endued, 

And  his  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possess'd. 

Ere  Tully  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome,  [gun — 

Though  uncquall'd,  preceded,  the  task  was  be- 
But  Grattan  sprung  up  like  a  god  from  the  tomb 
Of  ages,  the  first,  last,  the  saviour,  the  one  ! 

With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the  brute  ; 

With  the  fire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  mankind  ; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute, 

And  Corruption  shrunk  scorch'd  from  the  glance 
of  his  mind. 

But  back  to  our  theme !  Back  to  despots  and 
slaves  I 

Feasts  fumish'd  by  Famine  I  rejoicings  by  Pain  I 
True  freedom  but  welcomes,  while  slavery  still  raves, 

When  a  week's  saturnalia  hath  loosen'd  her  chain. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendor  thy  wreck  can  afford 
(As  the  bankrupt's  profusion  his  ruin  would  hide) 

Gild  over  the  palace,  Lo  I  Erin,  thy  lord  !        [nied  ! 
Kiss  his  foot  with  thy  blessing,  his  blessings  de- 

Or  if  freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last. 
If  the  idol  of  brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clay. 

Must  what  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be  class'd 
With  what  monarchs  ne'er  give,  but  as  wolves 
yield  their  prey  ? 

Each  brute  hath  its  nature,  a  king's  is  to  re'irin, — 
To  reign  !  in  that  word  sec,  ye  ages,  comprised 

The  cause  of  the  curses  all  annals  contain, 
From  Casar  the  dreaded  to  George  the  despised  I 

Wear,  Fingal,  thy  trapping  !  O'Connell,  proclaim 
His  accomplishments  !     Jlis  !  !  !  and  thy  country 

convince 
Half  an  age's  contempt  was  an  error  of  fame. 

And  that  "  Hal  is  the  rascaliest,  sweetest  young 

prince !" 


S60 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Will  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  Fingal,  recall 
The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catholic  limbs  ? 

Or,  has  it  not  bound  thee  the  fastest  of  all  [hymns  ? 
The   staves,  who   now  hail   their   betrayer  with 

Ay  I  "  Build  him  a  dwelling  !"  let  each  give  his  mite! 

Till,  like  Babel,  the  new  royal  dome  hath  arisen  ! 
Let  thy  beggars  and  helots  their  pittance  imite — 

And  a  palace  bestow  for  a  poorhouse  and  prison  ! 

Spread — spread,  for  Yitellius,  the  royal  repast, 
Till  the  gluttonous  despot  be  stuff'd  to  the  gorge ! 

And  the  roar  of  his  drunkards  proclaim  him  at  last 
The  Fourta  of  the  fools  and  oppressors  call'd 
"  George  I" 

Let  the  tables  be  loaded  with  feasts  till  they  groan  ! 

Till  they  groan  like  the  people,  through  ages  of  wo ! 
Let  the  wine  flow  around  the  old  Bacchanal's  throne. 

Like  their  blood  which  has  flow'd,  and  which  yet 
has  to  flow. 

But  let  not  his  name  be  thine  idol  alone — 
On  his  right  hand  behold  a  Sejanus  appears  I 

Tliine  own  Castlereagh  !  let  him  still  be  thine  own  1 
A  wretch  never  named  but  with  curses  and  jeers  ! 

Till  now,  when  the  isle  which  should  blush  for  his 

birth, 

Deep,  deep  as  the  gore  which  he  shed  on  her  soil. 

Seems  proud  of  the  reptile  which  crawl'd  from  her 

earth,  [smile. 

And  for  murder  repays  him  with  shouts  and  a 

Without  one  single  ray  of  her  genius,  without 
The  fancy,  the  manhood,  the  fire  of  her  race — 

The  miscreant  who  well  might  plunge  Erin  in  doubt 
If  she  ever  gave  birth  to  a  being  so  base. 

If  she  did — let  her  long-boasted  proverb  be  hush'd, 
Which  proclaims  that  from  Erin  no  reptile  can 
spring — 

See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  full  flush'd. 
Still  warming  its  folds  in  the  breast  of  a  king  ! 

Shout,  drink,  feast,  and  flatter  !  Oh,  Erin  !  how  low 
Wert  thou  sunk  by  misfortune  and  tyranny,  till 

Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  hath  plunged  thee  below 
The  depth  of  thy  deep  in  a  deeper  gulf  still. 

My  voice,  though  but  humble,  was  raised  for  thy  right. 
My  vote,  as  a  freeman's,  still  voted  thee  free, 

This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm  in  thy  fight. 
And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  a  throb  still 
for  t?ies  I 

Yes,  I  loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art  not  my 

land,  [sons, 

I  ha.v«  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls  in  thy 


And  I  wept  with  the  world  o'er  the  patriot  band 
Who  are  gone,  but  I  weep  them  no  longer  as  once. 

For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar, — 
Thy  Grattan,  thy  Curran,  thy  Sheridan,  all 

Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloquent  war. 
And  redeem'd,  if  they  have  not  retarded,  thy  falL 

Yes,  happy  are  they  in  their  cold  English  graves  ! 

Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of  to-day — 
Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers  and  chain-kissing  slaves 

Be  stamp'd  in  the  turf  o'er  their  fetterless  clay. 

Till  now  I  had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shore. 
Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  liberties 
fled,  [core 

There  was  something  so  warm  and  sublime  in  the 
Of  an  Irishman's  heart,  that  I  envy — thy  dead. 

Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an  hour 

My  contempt  for  a  nation  so  servile,  though  sore, 
Which  though  trod  like  the  worm  T>'ill  not  turn 
upon  power, 
'Tia  the  glory  of  Grattan,  and  genius  of  Moore  ! 

/SepU?nber,  1821. 


STANZAS. 

WRITTEN   ON   THE    KOAD    BETWEEN   FLOKENCB 
AND  PISA. 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story. 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory  ; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

Wliat  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is 

wrinkled  ? 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled. 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary ! 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  ouhj  give  glory  ? 

0  Fame  ! — if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  tliy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases. 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee : 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround 

thee  ; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my 

1  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory.      [story, 

November,  1821. 


STANZAS. 

TO    A    HINDOO    AIR. 

Oh  1 — my  lonely — lonely — ^lonely — Pillow  ! 
Where  is  my  lover  ?  where  is  my  lover  ? 


Canto  i. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


561 


Is  it  bis  bark  wbich  my  dreary  dreams  discover  ? 
Far — far  away  1  and  alone  along  tbe  billow  ? 

Oh  ! — my  lonely — lonely— lonely— Pillow  1 
Why  must  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow  lay  ? 
How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly, 

And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  willow  1 

Oh,  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow  1  [ing, 

Rend  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  break- 
En  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee  waking  ; 

Let  me  not  die  tiU  he  comes  back  o'er  the  billow. 

Then  if  thou  wilt — no  more  my  lonely  Pillow, 
[n  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him. 
And  then  expire  of  the  joy — ^but  to  behold  him  ! 

Oh,  my  lone  bosom  ! — oh,  my  lonely  Pillow  ! 


IMPROMPTU. 

Beneath  Blessington's  eyes 

The  reclaim'd  Paradise 
Should  be  free  as  the  former  from  evil ; 

But,  if  the  new  Eve 

For  an  Apple  should  grieve, 
What  mortal  would  not  play  the  Devil  ? 


1823. 


TO   THE   COUNTESS   OF    BLESSINGTON 

YoTT  have  ask'd  for  a  verse  : — the  request 
In  a  rhymer  'twere  strange  to  deny  ; 

But  my  Hippocrene  was  but  my  breast, 
And  my  feelings  (its  fountain)  are  dry. 

Were  I  now  as  I  was,  I  had  sung 
What  Lawrence  has  painted  so  well ; 

But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue, 
And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  my  shell. 

I  am  ashes  where  once  I  was  fire. 
And  the  bard  in  my  bosom  is  dead  ; 

What  I  loved  I  now  merely  admire, 
And  my  heart  is  as  gray  as  my  head. 

My  life  is  not  dated  by  years — 

There  are  moments  which  act  as  a  plough  ; 
And  there  is  not  a  furrow  appears 

But  is  deep  in  my  soul  as  my  brow. 

Let  the  young  and  the  brilliant  aspire 

To  sing  what  I  gaze  oh  in  vain  ; 
For  sorrow  has  torn  from  my  lyre 

The  string  which  was  worthy  the  strain. 

71 


ON  THIS   DAY   I   COMPLETE    MY   THIUTY- 
;  SIXTH   YEAR. 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 
1  Since  others  it  has  ceased  to  move  ; 

[      Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
!  Still  let  mo  love  ! 

I      My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone  ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle  ; 

No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 

A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share. 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus — and  'tis  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  jiotc. 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see  ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  !  (not  Greece — she  u  awake  !) 

Awake,  my  spirit  1    Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake. 
And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 

Unworthy  manhood  ! — unto  thee 
Indifierent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth,  why  lire  ? 

The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here  : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — leas  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground. 
And  take  thy  rest. 

MiOBOLONOHi,  January  22, 1821. 


562 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


DON   JUAN. 


"  Dlfflcile  est  proprie  communia  dicere." — Hob. 
"  Dost  thon  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  Calces  and  Ale  ?— Yes,  by  Saint  Anno,  and  Ginger  Ehal!  be  hot 
i'  the  mouth,  too  1''— Shakspeabe,  Twelfth  Night,  or  What  Tou  Will. 


DEDICATION. 
I. 
Bob  Southet  !  You're  a  poet — Poet-laureate, 

And  representative  of  all  the  race, 
Although  'tis  true  that  you  turn'd  out  a  Tory  at 

Last, — yours  has  lately  been  a  common  case, — 
And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade  !  what  are  ye  at  ? 

With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place  ? 
A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 
Like  "  four  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a  pye ; 

II. 
"  Wliich  pye  being  open'd  they  began  to  sing," 

(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good,) 
"  A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 

Or  Regent,  who  admires  such  kind  of  food ; — 
And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing. 

But  like  a  hawk  encumber'd  with  his  hood, — 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation — 
I  wish  he  would  explain  his  Explanation. 

III. 
You,  Bob  !  arc  rather  insolent,  you  know, 

At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below. 

And  be  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish  ; 
And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so. 

And  tumble  downward  like  the  flying  fish 
Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  high.  Bob, 
And  faU,  for  lack  of  moisture,  quite  a-dry,  Bob  ! 

IV. 
And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "  Excursion," 

(I  think  the  quarto  holds  five  hundred  pages,) 
Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  version 

Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  sages  ; 
'Tis  poetry — at  least  by  his  assertion, 

And  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star  rages — 
And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 
To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

V. 

You  —Gentlemen  !  by  dint  of  long  seclusion 
From  better  company,  have  kept  your  own 


«  WordBworth's  place  may  be  in  the  Customs— it  is,  I  thinlc,  in 
that  of  the  Excise— besides  another  at  Lord  Lonsdale's  table, 
where  this  poetical  charlatan  and  political  parasite  licks  np  the 


At  Keswick,  and,  through  still  continued  fusion 
Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have  grown 

To  deem  as  a  most  logical  conclusion. 
That  Poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone  : 

There  is  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion,  [ocean. 

Which  makes  me  wish  you'd  change  your  lakes  for 

VI. 
I  would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought, 

Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a  vice, 
For  all  the  glory  your  conversion  brought. 

Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been  its  price. 
You  have  your  salary  ;  was  't  for  that  you  wrought  ? 

And  Wordsworth  has  his  place  in  the  Excise.' 
You're  shabby  fellows — true — ^but  poets  still, 
And  duly  seated  on  the  immortal  hill. 

VII. 
Your  bays  may  hide  the  baldness  of  your  brows — 

Perhaps  some  virtuous  blushes  ; — let  them  go- 
To  you  I  envy  neither  fruit  nor  boughs — 

And  for  the  fame  you  would  engross  below. 
The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 

Scope  to  all  such  as  feel  the  inherent  glow  : 
Scott,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Moore,  and  Crabljc,  will  try 
'Gainst  you  the  question  with  posterity. 

VIII. 

For  me,  who,  wandering  with  pedestrian  Muses, 
Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged  steed, 

I  wish  your  fate  may  yield  ye,  when  she  chooses. 
The  fame  you  envy,  and  the  skill  you  need ; 

And  recollect  a  poet  nothing  loses 

In  giving  to  his  brethren  their  full  meed 

Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  present  days 

Is  not  the  certain  path  to  future  praise. 

IX. 

He  that  reserves  his  laurels  for  posterity 

(Wlio  does  not  often  claim  the  bright  reversion) 

Has  generally  no  great  crop  to  spare  it,  he 
Being  only  injured  by  his  own  assertion  ; 

And  although  liere  and  there  some  glorious  rarity 
Arise  like  Titan  from  the  sea's  immersion, 

crumbs  with  a  hardened  alacrity ;  the  converted  Jacobin  having 
long  subsided  into  the  clo^vni8h  sycophant  of  the  worst  priy  udices 
of  the  aristocracy. 


Canto  i. 


DON  JUAN. 


663 


The  major  part  of  such  appellants  go 

To — God  knows  where — for  no  one  else  can  know. 


If,  fallen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 
Milton  appeal'd  to  the  Avenger,  Time, 

If  Time,  the  Avenger,  execrates  his  wrongs. 
And  makes  the  word  "  Miltonic  "  mean  suhlime, 

He  deign'd  not  to  belie  his  soul  in  songs, 
Kor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a  crime ; 

He  did  not  loathe  the  Sire  to  laud  the  Son, 

But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

XI. 

Think'st  thou,  could  he — the  blind  Old  Man — arise 
Like  Samuel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze  once  more 

The  blood  of  monarchs  with  his  prophecies, 
Or  be  alive  again — again  all  hoar 

With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless  eyes. 

And  heartless  daughters — worn — and  pale' — and 

Would  he  adore  a  sultan  ?  he  obey  [poor ; 

The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlereagh  V 

XII. 
Cold-blooded,  smooth-faced,  placid  miscreant  1 

Dabbling  its  sleek  young  hands  in  Erin's  gore. 
And  thus  for  wider  caniage  taught  to  pant, 

Transferr'd  to  gorge  upon  a  sister  shore, 
The  vulgarest  tool  that  Tyranny  could  want. 

With  just  enough  of  talent,  and  no  more, 
To  lengthen  fetters  by  another  fix'd. 
And  otter  poison  long  already  mix'd. 

XIII. 
An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately  vile. 
That  even  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not  praise, 

Nor  foes — all  nations— condescend  to  smile,— 
Nor  even  a  sprightly  blunder's  spark  can  blaze 

From  that  Ixion  grindstone's  ceaseless  toil. 
That  turns  and  turns  to  give  the  world  a  notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  motion. 

XIV. 
A  bungler  even  in  its  disgusting  trade. 

And  botching,  patching,  leaving  still  behind 
Something  of  which  its  masters  are  afraid. 

States  to  be  curb'd,  and  thoughts  to  be  confined, 
Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be  made — 

Cobbling  at  manacles  for  all  mankind — 

'  "Pale,  but  not  cadaverous :"— Milton's  two  elder  daughters 
arc  said  to  have  robbed  him  of  hi?  books,  besides  cheating  and 
plaguing  him  in  the  economy  of  his  house,  etc.,  etc.    His  feelings 
on  such  an  outrage,  both  as  a  parent  and  a  scholar,  must  have 
been  singularly  painful.    Ilavley  compares  him  to  Lear.    See  part 
third.  Life  of  Milton,  by  W.  Uayley,  (or  Ilailey,  as  spelt  in  the 
edition  Ijefore  me.) 
'Or,— 
**  Would  he  subside  into  a  hackney  I.aurcatc — 
A  Bcribbling,  self-sold,  sottl-htred,  scoruM  lacariotf 
I  doubt  ir  "  Laureate  "  and  *'  Iscariot "  be  ^food  thymes,  but  must 


A  tinkering  slave-maker,  who  mends  old  chains, 
With  God's  and  man's  abhorrence  for  its  gains. 

XV. 

If  we  may  judge  of  matter  by  the  mind, 

Emasculated  to  the  marrow.  It 
Hath  but  two  objects,  how  to  serve,  and  bind. 

Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  men  may  fit, 
Eutropius  of  its  many  masters,' — ^blind 

To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit, 
Fearless — because  no  feeling  dwells  in  ice, 
Its  very  courage  stagnates  to  a  vice. 

XVI. 

Where  shall  I  turn  me  not  to  vieio  its  bonds, 

For  I  will  never  feel  them  ; — Italy  ! 
Thy  late  reviving  Roman  soul  desponds         [thee — 

Beneath  the    lie  this   State-thing  breathed  o'er 
Thy  clanking  chain,  and  Erin's  yet  green  wounds. 

Have  voices — tongues  to  cry  aloud  for  me. 
Europe  has  slaves — allies — kings — armies  still, 
And  Southey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime — Sir  Laureate — I  proceed  to  dedicate, 
In  honest  simple  verse,  this  song  to  you. 

And  if  in  flattering  strains  I  do  not  predicate, 
'Tis  that  I  still  retain  my  "  buff  and  blue  ;" 

My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate  : 
Apostacy  's  so  fashionable,  too, 

To  keep  one  creed  's  a  task  grown  quite  Herculean ; 

Is  it  not  so,  my  Tory,  ultra-Julian  2* 

Venice,  Sept.  16, 1818. 


DON   JUAN, 


C.\XTO    THE    FIRST. 


I  WANT  a  hero  :  an  uncommon  want. 

When  every  year  and  month  sends  forth  a  new 
Till,  after  cloying  the  gazettes  with  cant,  [one, 

The  age  discovers  he  is  not  the  true  one  ; 
Of  such  as  these  I  should  not  care  to  vaunt, 

I'll  therefore  take  our  ancient  friend  Don  Juan — 
We  all  have  seen  him,  in  the  pantomime, 
Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere  his  time. 


say,  as  Ben  Jonson  did  to  Sylvester,  who  challenged  bim  to  rhyme 

with— 

"  I,  John  Sylvester, 
Lay  with  your  sister." 
Jonson  answered—"  I,  Ben  Jonson,  lay  with  your  wife."    Sylvca. 
ter  answered,-"  That  is  not  rhyme."—"  No,"  said  Ben  Jonson ; 
"  but  it  is  Crve." 

»  For  the  character  of  Eutropius,  the  eunilch  and  minlatcr  at 
the  court  of  Arcadius,  sec  Gibbon. 

*  I  allude  not  to  our  friend  Landor's  hero,  the  traitor  Count 
Julian,  but  to  Gibbon's  hero,  vulgarly  yclept  "  The  Apostate." 


564 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


II. 

Vernon,"  the  butclier  Cumberland,'  "Wolfe,"  Ha-wke,« 
Prince  Ferdinand,'  Granby,"  Burgoyne,'  Keppel,' 

Evil  and  good,  have  had  their  tithe  of  talk,  [Howe,' 
And  fiird  their  sign -posts  then,  like  Wellesley  now ; 

Each  in  their  turn  like  Banquo's  monarchs  stalk. 
Followers  of  fame,  "  nine  farrow  "  of  that  sow  : 

France,  too,  had  Buonaparte  and  Dumourier 

Recorded  in  the  Moniteur  and  Courier. 


III. 

Barnave,i»  Brissot,"  Condorcet,"  Mirabeau," 
Petion,"  Clootz,"  Danton,"  Marat,"  La  Fayette," 

Were  French,  and  famous  people,  as  we  know ; 
And  there  were  others,'  scarce  forgotten  yet, 

Joubert,'"   Hoche,'°    Marceau,''   Lannes,'''   Desaix,'' 
With  many  of  the  military  set,  [Moreau,»< 

'  [Admiral  Vemon,  who  served  with  considerable  distinction  in 
the  navy,  particularly  in  the  capture  of  Porto  Bello,  died  in  1751.] 

'  [Second  son  of  George  n,,  distinguished  himself  at  the  bat- 
tles of  Dettingen  and  Fontenoy,  and  still  more  so  at  that  of  Cul- 
loden,  where  he  defeated  the  Chevalier,  in  1746.  The  Duke,  how- 
ever, obscured  his  fame  by  the  cruel  abuse  which  he  made,  or 
Buffered  his  soldiers  to  malje,  of  the  victory.    lie  died  in  1765.] 

'  [General  Wolfe,  the  brave  commander  of  the  expedition 
against  Quebec,  terminated  his  career  in  the  moment  of  victory, 
whilst  fighting  against  the  Frencli  in  1759.] 

'  [In  1759,  Admiral  Lord  Ilawke  totally  defeated  the  French 
fleet  equipped  at  Brest  for  the  invasion  of  England.  In  1765  he 
was  appointed  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty ;  and  died,  full  of 
honors,  in  1781.] 

'  [Ferdinand,  Duke  of  Branswick,  who  gained  the  victory  of 
Minden.  lu  1702,  he  drove  the  French  out  of  Hesse.  He  died  in 
1792.] 

•  [Son  of  the  third  Duke  of  Rutland— signalized  himself  in 
1745,  on  the  invasion  by  Prince  Charles  ;  and  was  constituted,  in 
1759,  commander  of  the  British  forces  in  Germany.  lie  died  in 
1770.] 

^  [An  English  general  ofliccr  and  dramatist,  who  distinguislied 
himself  in  the  defence  of  Portugal,  in  1763,  against  the  Spaniards, 
and  also  in  America  by  tlie  capture  of  Ticonderoga  ;  but  was  at 
last  obliged  to  surrender,  with  his  army,  to  General  Gates.  Died 
in  1799.] 

'  [Second  son  of  the  Earl  of  Albemarle.  Placed  at  the  head  of 
the  Cliannel  fleet,  he  partially  engaged,  in  1778,  the  French  fleet 
oS'  Ushant,  which  contrived  to  escape  :  he  was,  in  consequence, 
tried  by  a  court-martial,  and  honorably  acquitted.  He  died  in 
1786.] 

'  [Lord  Howe  distinguished  himself  on  many  occasions  during 
the  American  war.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the  French  war,  he 
took  the  command  of  the  English  fleet,  and,  bringing  the  enemy 
to  an  action  on  the  1st  of  June,  1794,  obtained  a  splendid  victory. 
He  died  in  1799.] 

"  Bamave,  one  of  the  most  active  promoters  of  the  French 
revolution,  was  in  1791  appointed  president  of  the  Constituent 
Assembly.  On  the  flight  of  the  royal  family,  he  was  sent  to  con- 
duct them  to  Paris.    He  was  guillotined,  Nov.  1793.] 

'•  [Brissot  do  Warville,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  published  several 
tracts,  for  one  of  which  he  was,  in  1784,  thrown  into  the  Bastile. 
He  was  one  of  the  principal  instigators  of  the  revolt  of  the  Champ 
de  Mars,  in  July,  17S9.    He  was  led  to  the  guillotine,  Oct.,  1793.] 

'^  [Condorcet  wai),  in  1792,  appointed  president  of  the  Legisla- 
tive Assembly.  Having,  in  1793,  attacked  the  new  Constitution, 
he  was  denounced.  Being  thrown  into  prison,  he  was  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning  found  dead,  apparently  from  poison.  His  works 
are  collected  in  twenty-one  volumes.] 

"  [Mirabeau,  so  well  known  ns  cue  of  the  chief  promoters  of 
and  actors  in,  the  Fri-nch  revolution,  died  in  1791.] 


Exceedingly  remarkable  at  times, 
But  not  at  all  adapted  to  my  rhymes. 

IV. 
Nelson  was  once  Britannia's  god  of  war. 

And  still  should  be  so,  but  the  tide  is  tum'd  ; 
There  's  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgar, 

'Tis  with  our  hero  quietly  inurn'd  ; 
Because  the  army 's  grown  more  popular. 

At  which  the  naval  people  are  concern'd  ; 
Besides,  the  prince  is  all  for  the  land-service. 
Forgetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jervis. 

V. 
Brave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon 

And  since,  exceeding  valorous  and  sage,     [none  ; 
A  good  deal  like  him  too,  though  quite  the  same 

But  then  they  shone  not  on  the  poet's  page, 


'*  [Petion,  mayor  of  Paris  in  1791,  took  an  active  part  in  the  im- 
prisonment of  the  king.  Becoming,  in  1793,  an  object  of  sus- 
picion to  Robespierre,  he  took  refuge  in  the  department  of  tho 
Calvados ;  where  his  body  was  found  in  a  field,  half-devoured  by 
wolves.] 

"  [John  Baptiste  (better  known  nnder  the  appellation  of  Ana- 
charsis)  Clootz.  Ill  1790,  at  the  bar  of  the  National  Convention, 
he  described  himself  as  "  the  orator  of  the  human  race."  Being 
suspected  by  Robespierre,  he  was,  in  1794,  condemned  to  death. 
On  the  scaflbld  he  begged  to  be  decapitated  the  last,  as  he  wished 
to  make  some  observations  essential  to  the  establishment  of  cer- 
tain principles,  while  the  heads  of  the  others  were  falling ;  a  re- 
quest obligingly  complied  with.] 

*"  [Danton  played  a  very  important  part  during  the  first  years  of 
the  French  revolution.    After  the  fall  of  the  king,  he  was  made  . 
Minister  of  Justice.     His  violent  measures  led  to  the  bloody 
scenes  of  September,  1792.    Being  denounced  to  the  Committee 
of  Safety,  he  ended  his  career  on  the  guillotine,  in  1794.] 

"  [This  wretch  figured  among  the  actors  of  the  10th  August,  and 
in  the  assassinations  of  September,  1792.  In  May,  1793,  he  was 
denounced,  and  delivered  over  to  the  revolutionary  tribunal,  which 
acquitted  him ;  but  his  bloody  career  was  arrested  by  the  knife  of 
an  assassin,  in  the  person  of  Charlotte  Cordii. 

*8  [Of  all  these  "  famous  people,"  the  General  was  the  last  sur- 
vivor.   He  died  in  1834.] 

'•  [Jonbert  distinguished  himself  at  the  engagements  of  Laono, 
Montenotte,  Millesimo,  Cava,  Montcbello,  Rivoli,  and  especially 
in  the  Tyrol.  He  was  afterwards  opposed  to  Suwarrow,  and  was 
killed,  in  1799,  at  Novi.] 

'"'  [In  1796,  Hoche  was  appointed  to  the  command  of  the  ex- 
pedition against  Ireland,  and  sailed  In  December  from  Brest ;  but, 
a  storm  dispersing  the  fleet,  the  plain  failed.  After  his  return,  he 
received  the  command  of  the  army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse ; 
but  died  suddenly,  in  September,  1797,  it  was  supposed  of  poison. 

"  [General  Marceau  first  distinguished  himself  in  La  Vendee. 
He  was  killed  by  a  rifle-ball  at  Alterkerchen.] 

''  [Lannes,  Duke  of  Montehello,  distinguished  himself  at  Mil- 
lesimo, Lodi,  Aboukir,  Acre,  Montehello,  Austerlitz,  Jena,  Pul- 
tusk,  Preuss  Eylau,  Friedland,  Tudela,  Saragossa,  Echmuhl,  and, 
lastly,  at  Esling ;  where,  in  May,  1809,  he  was  killed  by  a  cannon- 
shot.] 

"  [At  the  taking  of  Malta,  and  at  the  battles  of  Chebreiss  and 
of  the  Pyramids,  Desaix  displayed  the  greatest  bravery.  He  was 
mortally  wounded  by  a  cannon-ball  at  Marengo,  just  as  victory 
declared  for  the  French.] 

2»  [One  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  republican  generals. 
In  1813,  on  hearing  of  the  reverses  of  Napoleon  in  Russia,  he 
joined  the  allied  armies.  He  was  struck  by  a  cannon-ball  at  the 
battle  of  Dresden,  in  1813.] 


Canto  i. 


DON  JUAN 


565 


And  so  have  been  forgotten : — I  condemn  none, 

But  can't  find  any  in  the  present  age 
Fit  for  my  poem,  (that  is,  for  my  new  one ;) 
So,  as  I  said,  I'll  take  my  friend  Don  Juan. 

VI. 

Most  epic  poets  plunge  "  in  mcdias  res," 

(Horace  makes  this  the  heroic  turnpike  road,) 

And  then  your  hero  tells,  whene'er  you  please, 
"What  -went  before — by  way  of  episode. 

While  seated  after  dinner  at  his  ease. 
Beside  his  mistress  in  some  soft  abode, 

Palace,  or  garden,  paradise,  or  cavern. 

Which  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a  tavern. 

VII. 

That  is  the  usual  method,  but  not  mine — 
My  way  is  to  begin  with  the  beginning ; 

The  regularity  of  my  design 

Forbids  all  wandering  as  the  worst  of  sinning. 

And  therefore  I  shall  open  with  a  line 

(Although  it  cast  me  half  an  hour  in  spinning) 

Narrating  somewhat  of  Don  Juan's  father. 

And  also  of  his  mother,  if  you'd  rather. 

VIII. 

In  Seville  was  he  bom,  a  pleasant  city, 

Famous  for  oranges  and  women — he 
Who  has  not  seen  it  will  be  much  to  pity. 

So  says  the  proverb — and  I  quite  agree  ; 
Of  all  the  Spanish  towns  is  none  more  pretty, 

Cadiz  perhaps — but  that  you  soon  may  see  ; — 
Don  .Juan's  parents  lived  beside  the  river, 
A  noble  stream,  and  call'd  the  Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His  father's  name  was  Jose — Don,  of  course, 
A  true  Hidalgo,  free  from  every  stain 

Of  Moor  or  Hebrew  blood,  he  traced  his  source 
Through  the  most  Gothic  gentlemen  of  Spain  ; 

A  better  cavalier  ne'er  mounted  horse. 
Or,  being  mounted,  e'er  got  down  again. 

Than  Jose,  who  begot  our  hero,  who 

Begot — but  that 's  to  come Well,  to  renew  : 

X. 

His  mother  was  a  learned  lady,  famed 

For  every  branch  of  every  science  known — 

In  every  Christian  language  ever  named, 
With  virtues  equall'd  by  her  wit  alone 

She  made  the  cleverest  people  quite  ashamed, 
And  even  the  good  with  inward  envy  groan, 

Finding  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded 

In  their  own  way  by  all  the  things  that  she  did. 

*  [Proresgor  Feinai^le.  of  lladcn,  who,  in  1812,  under  the  espe- 
cial patronage  of  the  '*  Uluea,^'  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  at 
the  Royal  In{>lliution,  on  Mnemouicb.] 


XI. 
Her  memory  was  a  mine  :  she  knew  by  heart 

All  Calderon  and  greater  part  of  Lop6, 
So  that  if  any  actor  miss'd  his  part 

She  could  have   served  him  for  the  prompter's 
For  her  Feinagle's  were  a  useless  art,'  [copy ; 

And  he  himself  obliged  to  shut  up  shop — he 
Could  never  make  a  memory  so  fine  as 
That  which  adom'd  the  brain  of  Donna  Inez. 

XII. 
Her  favorite  science  was  the  mathematical, 

Her  noblest  virtue  was  her  magnanimity. 
Her  wit  (she  sometimes  tried  at  wit)  was  Attic  all. 

Her  serious  sayings  darkcn'd  to  subUmity  ; 
In  short,  in  all  things  she  was  fairly  what  I  call 

A  prodigy — her  morning  dress  was  dimity. 
Her  evening  silk,  or,  in  the  summer,  muslin, 
And  other  stuffs,  witli  which  I  won't  stay  puzzling. 

XIII. 
She  knew  the  Latin — that  is,  "  the  Lord's  prayer," 

And  Greek — the  alphabet — I'm  nearly  sure ; 
She  read  some  French  romances  here  and  there, 

Although  her  mode  of  speaking  was  not  pure ; 
For  native  Spanish  she  had  no  great  care, 

At  least  her  conversation  was  obscure  ; 
Her  thoughts  were  theorems,  her  words  a  problem. 
As  if  she  deem'd  that  mystery  would  ennoble  'em. 

XIV. 
She  liked  the  English  and  the  Hebrew  tongue. 

And  said  there  was  analogy  between  'em  ; 
She  proved  it  somehow  out  of  sacred  song. 

But  I  must  leave  the  proofs  to  those  who've  seen 
But  this  I  heard  her  say,  and  can't  be  wrong,    ['em, 

And  all  may  think  which  way  their  judgments 
lean  'em,  [am,' 

"  'Tis  strange — the  Hebrew  noun  which  means  '  I 
The  Enghsh  always  use  to  govern  d — n." 

XV. 

Some  women  use  their  tongues — she  look\l  a  lecture, 
Each  eye  a  sermon,  and  her  brow  a  homily. 

An  aU-in-all  sufficient  self-director. 

Like  the  lamented  late  Sir  Samuel  Romilly,' 

The  Law's  expounder,  and  the  State's  corrector. 
Whose  suicide  was  almost  an  anomaly — 

One  sad  example  more,  that  "  All  is  vanity," — 

(The  jury  brought  their  verdict  in  "  Insanity.") 

XVI. 
In  short,  she  was  a  walking  calculation. 

Miss    Edgeworth's    novels    stepping  from  their 
Or  Mrs.  Trimmer's  books  on  education,         [covers. 

Or  "  Coelebs'  Wife  "  set  out  in  quest  of  lovers, 

'  [Sir  Samuel  Romllly  lost  his  lady  on  the  29th  of  October,  and 
committed  suicide  on  the  2d  of  November,  1818. 
•  [Hannah  Moore's  "  Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,"  etc. 


5C0 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Morality's  prim  personification, 

In  which  not  Envy's  self  a  flaw  discovers  ; 
To  others'  share  let  "  female  errors  fall," 
For  she  had  not  even  one — the  worst  of  all. 

XVII. 
Oh  1  she  was  perfect  past  all  parallel — 

Of  any  modern  female  saint's  comparison  ; 
So  far  above  the  cunning  powers  of  hell, 

Her  guardian  angel  had  given  up  his  garrison  ; 
Even  her  minutest  motions  went  as  well 

As  those  of  the  best  time-piece  made  by  Harrison : 
In  virtue  nothing  earthly  could  surpass  her, 
Save  thine  "  incomparable  oil,"  Macassar  1 

XVIH. 
Perfect  she  vras,  but  as  perfection  is 

Insipid  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours, 
"Where  our,  first  parents  never  learn'd  to  kiss 

Till  they  were  exiled  from  their  earlier  bowers, 
Wliere  all  was  peace,  and  innocence,  and  bliss, 

(I  wonder  how  they  got  through  the  twelve  hours,) 
Don  Jose,  like  a  lineal  son  of  Eve, 
Went  plucking  various  fruit  without  her  leave. 

XIX. 

He  was  a  mortal  of  the  careless  kind. 

With  no  great  love  for  learning,  or  the  learn'd, 

AVho  chose  to  go  where'er  he  had  a  mind. 
And  never  dream'd  his  lady  was  conceru'd  ; 

The  world,  as  usual,  wickedly  inclined 
To  see  a  kingdom  or  a  house  o'erturn'd, 

¥/liisper'd  he  had  a  mistress,  some  said  two  ; 

But  for  domestic  quarrels  one  will  do. 

XX. 

Now  Donna  Inez  had,  with  all  her  merit, 
xV  great  opinion  of  her  own  good  qualities  ; 

Neglect,  indeed,  requires  a  saint  to  bear  it. 
And  such,  indeed,  she  was  in  her  moralities  ; 

But  then  she  had  a  devil  of  a  spirit. 

And  sometimes  mix'd  up  fancies  with  realities. 

And  let  few  opportunities  escape 

Of  getting  her  liege  lord  into  a  scrape. 

XXI. 

This  was  an  easy  matter  with  a  man 

Oft  in  the  wrong,  and  never  on  his  guard  ; 

And  even  the  wisest,  do  the  best  they  can. 

Have  moments,  hours,  and  days,  so  unprepared. 

That  you  might  "  brain  them  with  their  lady's  fan ;" 
And  sometimes  ladies  hit  exceeding  hard. 

And  fans  turn  into  falchions  in  fair  hands. 

And  why  and  wherefore  no  one  understands. 

XXII. 

'Tis  pity  learned  virgins  ever  wed 
With  persons  of  no  sort  of  education. 


Or  gentlemen,  who,  though  well  born  and  bred, 
Grow  tired  of  scientific  conversation  : 

I  don't  choose  to  say  much  upon  this  head, 
I'm  a  plain  man,  and  in  a  single  station. 

But — Oh  !  ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual. 

Inform  us  truly,  have  they  not  hcn-peck'd  you  all  ? 

XXIII. 

Don  Jose  and  his  lady  quarrell'd — why, 

Not  any  of  the  many  could  divine. 
Though  several  thousand  people  chose  to  try, 

'Twas  surely  no  concern  of  theirs  nor  mine  ; 
I  loathe  that  low  vice — curiosity  ; 

But  if  there  's  any  thing  in  which  I  shine, 
'Tis  in  arranging  all  my  friends'  affairs. 
Not  having,  of  my  own,  domestic  cares. 

XXIV. 
And  so  I  interfered,  and  with  the  best 

Intentions,  but  their  treatment  was  not  kind ; 
I  think  the  foolish  people  were  possess'd. 

For  neither  of  them  could  I  ever  find. 
Although  their  porter  afterwards  confess'd — 

But  that 's  no  matter,  and  the  worst 's  behind, 
For  little  Juan  o'er  me  threw,  down  stairs, 
A  pail  of  housemaid's  water  unawares. 

XXV. 
A  little  curly-headed,  good-for-nothing. 

And  mischief-making  monkey  from  his  birth  ; 
His  parents  ne'er  agreed  except  in  doting 

Upon  the  most  unquiet  imp  on  earth  ; 
Instead  of  quarrelling,  had  they  been  but  both  in 

Their  senses,  they'd  have  sent  young  master  forth 
To  school,  or  had  him  soundly  whipp'd  at  home, 
To  teach  him  manners  for  the  time  to  come. 

XXVI. 
Don  Jose  and  the  Donna  Inez  led 

For  some  time  an  unhappy  sort  of  life, 
Wishing  each  other,  not  divorced,  but  dead ; 

They  lived  respectably  as  man  and  wife, 
Their  conduct  was  exceedingly  well-bred. 

And  gave  no  outward  signs  of  inward  strife, 
Until  at  length  the  smother'd  fire  broke  out. 
And  put  the  business  past  all  kind  of  doubt. 

XXVII. 

For  Inez  call'd  some  druggists,  and  jshysicians, 
And  tried  to  prove  her  loving  lord  was  mad, 

But  as  he  had  some  lucid  intermissions. 
She  next  decided  he  was  only  lad  ; 

Yet  when  they  ask'd  her  for  her  depositions, 
No  sort  of  explanation  could  be  had, 

Save  that  her  duty  both  to  man  and  God 

Required  this  conduct — which  seem'd  very  odd. 

XXVIII. 
She  kept  a  journal,  where  his  faults  were  noted, 
And  open'd  certain  trunks  of  books  and  letters, 


Canto  i. 


DON  JUAN. 


607 


All  which  might,  if  occasion  served,  be  quoted  : 
And  then  she  had  all  Seville  for  abettors, 

Besides  her  good  old  grandmother,  (who  doted  ;) 
The  hearers  of  her  case  became  repeaters. 

Then  advocates,  inquisitors,  and  judges. 

Some  for  amusement,  others  for  old  grudges. 

XXIX. 

And  then  this  best  and  meekest  woman  bore 
With  such  serenity  her  husband's  woes, 

Just  as  the  Spartan  ladies  did  of  yore. 

Who  saw  their  spouses  kill'd,  and  nobly  chose 

Never  to  say  a  word  about  them  more — 
Calmly  she  heard  each  calumny  that  rose. 

And  saw  ft  is  agonies  with  such  sublimity, 

That  all  the  world  csclaim'd,  "What  magnanimity !" 

XXX. 

No  doubt  this  patience,  when  the  world  is  damning 
Is  philosophic  in  our  former  friends  ;  [us, 

'Tis  also  pleasant  to  be  deem'd  magnanimous. 
The  more  so  in  obtaining  our  own  ends  ; 

And  what  the  lawyers  call  a  "  mabis  animus  " 
Conduct  like  this  by  no  means  comjirehends  ; 

Revenge  in  person  's  certainly  no  virtue. 

But  then  'tis  not  mi/  fault,  if  others  hurt  you. 

XXXI. 

And  if  our  quarrels  should  rip  up  old  stories, 
And  help  them  with  a  lie  or  two  additional, 

i'm  not  to  blame,  as  you  well  know — no  more  is 
Any  one  else — they  were  become  traditional ; 

Besides,  their  resurrection  aids  our  glories         [all : 
By  contrast,  which  is  what  we  just  were  wishing 

And  science  profits  by  this  resurrection — 

Dead  scandals  form  good  subjects  for  dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their  friends  had  tried  at  reconciliation. 

Then  their  relations,  who  made  matters  worse 

('Twere  hard  to  tell  upon  a  like  occasion 
To  whom  it  may  be  best  to  have  recourse — 

I  can't  say  much  for  friend  or  yet  relation  :) 
The  lawyers  did  tlieir  utmost  for  divorce, 

But  scarce  a  fee  was  paid  on  either  side 

Before,  unluckily,  Don  Jose  died. 

XXXIII. 

He  died  :  and  most  unluckily,  because, 
According  to  all  hints  I  could  collect 

From  counsel  learned  in  those  kind  of  laws, 

(Although  their  talk  's  obscure  and  circumspect,) 

His  death  contrived  to  spoil  a  charming  cause ; 
A  thousand  pities  also  with  respect 

To  public  feeling,  which  on  this  occasion, 

Was  manifested  in  a  great  sensation. 


XXXIV. 

But,  ah  !  he  died  ;  and  buried  with  him  lay 
The  public  feeling  and  the  lawyers'  fees  : 

His  house  was  sold,  his  servants  sent  away, 
A  Jew  took  one  of  his  two  mistresses, 

A  priest  the  other — at  least  so  they  say  : 
I  ask'd  the  doctors  after  his  disease — 

He  died  of  the  slow  fever  call'd  the  tertian, 

And  left  his  widow  to  her  own  aversion. 

XXXV. 
Yet  J6se  ^as  an  honorable  man. 

That  I  must  say,  who  knew  him  very  well ; 
Therefore  his  frailties  I'll  no  further  scan. 

Indeed  there  were  not  many  more  to  teU  : 
And  if  his  passions  now  and  then  outran 

Discretion,  and  were  not  so  peacablo 
As  Numa's  (who  was  also  named  Pompilius,) 
He  had  been  ill  brought  up,  and  was  born  bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er  might  be  his  worthlessness  or  worth, 
Poor  fellow  !  he  had  many  things  to  wound  him. 

Let'  s  own — since  it  can  do  no  good  on  earth — 
It  was  a  trying  moment  that  which  found  him 

Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth. 

Where  all  bis  household  gods  lay  shiver'd  round 

No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride,      [him. 

Save  death  or  Doctors'  Commons — so  he  died. 

XXXVII. 
Dying  intestate,  Juan  was  sole  heir 

To  a  chancery  suit,  and  messuages,  and  lands, 
Which,  with  a  long  minority  and  care. 

Promised  to  turn  out  well  in  proper  hands  : 
Inez  became  sole  guardian,  which  was  fair. 

And  answer'd  but  to  nature's  just  demands  ; 
An  only  son  left  with  an  only  mother 
Is  brought  up  much  more  wisely  than  another. 

XXXVIII. 
Sagest  of  women,  even  of  widows,  she 

Resolved  that  Juan  should  be  quite  a  paragon, 
And  worthy  of  the  noble  pedigree  : 

(His  sire  was  of  Castile,  his  dame  from  Aragon.) 
Then  for  accomplishments  of  chivalry. 

In  case  our  lord  the  king  should  go  to  war  again. 
He  leam'd  the  arts  of  riding,  fencing,  gunnery, 
And  how  to  scale  a  fortress — or  a  nunnery. 

XXXIX. 
But  that  which  Donna  Inez  most  desired. 

And  saw  into  herself  each  day  before  all 
The  learned  tutors  whom  for  him  she  hired. 

Was,  that  his  breeding  should  be  strictly  moral : 
Much  into  all  his  studies  she  inquired, 

And  so  they  were  submitted  first  to  her,  all. 
Arts,  sciences,  no  branch  was  made  a  mystery 
To  Juan's  eyes,  excepting  natural  history. 


568 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto 


XL.  m 

The  languages,  especially  the  dead, 

The  sciences,  and  most  of  all  the  abstruse. 
The  arts,  at  least  all  such  as  could  be  said 

To  be  the  most  remote  from  common  use. 
In  all  these  he  was  much  and  deeply  read  ; 

But  not  a  page  of  any  thing  that 's  loose, 
Or  hints  continuation  of  the  species. 
Was  ever  suffer'd,  lest  he  should  grow  vicious. 

XLI. 
His  classic  studies  made  a  little  puzzle. 

Because  of  filthy  loves  of  gods  and  goddesses. 
Who  in  the  earlier  ages  raised  a  bustle. 

But  never  put  on  pantaloons  or  bodices  ; 
His  reverend  tutors  had  at  times  a  tussle, 

And  for  their  ^neids,  Iliads,  and  Odysseys, 
Were  forced  to  make  an  odd  sort  of  apology, 
For  Donna  Inez  dreaded  tlie  Mythology. 

XLII. 
Ovid  's  a  rake,  as  half  his  verses  show  him, 

Anacreon's  morals  are  a  still  worse  sample, 
Catullus  scarcely  has  a  decent  poem, 

I  don't  think  Sappho's  Ode  a  good  example, 
Although  Longinus  tells  us  there  is  no  hymn 

Where  the  sublime  soars  forth  on  wings  more  ample ; 
But  Virgil's  songs  are  pure,  except  that  horrid  one 
Beginning  with  "  Formosum  Pastor  Corydon." 

XUII. 
Lucretius'  irreligion  is  too  strong 

For  early  stomachs,  to  prove  wholesome  food  • 
I  can't  help  thinking  Juvenal  was  wrong. 

Although  no  doubt  his  real  intent  was  good. 
For  speaking  out  so  plainly  in  his  song. 

So  much  indeed  as  to  be  downright  rude ; 
And  then  what  proper  person  can  be  partial 
To  all  those  nauseous  epigrams  of  Martial  ? 

XLIV. 
Juan  was  taught  from  out  the  best  edition 

Expurgated  by  learned  men,  who  place. 
Judiciously,  from  out  the  schoolboy's  vision. 

The  grosser  parts  ;  but,  fearful  to  deface 
Too  much  their  modest  bard  by  this  omission, 

And  pitying  sore  his  mutilated  case, 
They  only  add  them  all  in  an  appendix,' 
Which  saves,  in  fact,  the  trouble  of  an  index  ; 

XLV. 
For  there  we  have  them  all  "  at  one  fell  swoop," 
Instead  of  being  scatter'd  through  the  pages  ; 

'  Fact  I  There  is,  or  was,  Buch  an  edition,  with  all  the 
obnoxious  epigrams  of  Martial  placed  by  themselves  at  the 
end. 

'  See  his  Confessions,  1.  i.  c.  Ir.  By  the  representation  which 
St.  Augustine  gives  of  himself  in  his  youth,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he 


They  stand  forth  marshall'd  in  a  handsome  troop, 
To  meet  the  ingenuous  youth  of  future  ages, 

Till  some  less  rigid  editor  shall  stoop 

To  call  them  back  into  their  separate  cages, 

Instead  of  standing  staring  all  together, 

Like  garden  gods — and  not  so  decent  either. 

XLVI. 

The  Missal  too  (it  was  the  family  Missal) 

Was  ornamented  in  a  sort  of  way 
Which  ancient  mass-books  often  are,  and  this  all 

Kinds  of  grotesques  illumined  ;  and  how  they. 
Who  saw  those  figures  on  the  margin  kiss  all. 

Could  turn  their  optics  to  the  text  and  pray. 
Is  more  than  I  know — But  Don  Juan's  mother 
Kept  this  herself,  and  gave  her  son  another. 

XLVII. 
Sermons  he  read,  and  lectures  he  endured, 

And  homilies,  and  lives  of  all  the  saints  ; 
To  Jerome  and  to  Chrysostom  inured, 

He  did  not  take  such  studies  for  restraints  ; 
But  how  faith  is  acquired,  and  then  ensured. 

So  well  not  one  of  the  aforesaid  paints 
As  Saint  Augustine  in  his  fine  Confessions, 
Which  make  the  reader  envy  his  transgressions.'' 

XLVIII. 
This,  too,  was  a  seal'd  book  to  little  Juan — 

I  can't  but  say  that  his  mamma  was  right. 
If  such  an  education  was  the  true  one. 

She  scarcely  trusted  him  from  out  her  sight ; 
Her  maids  were  old,  and  if  she  took  a  new  one, 

You  might  be  sure  she  was  a  perfect  fright, 
She  did  this  during  even  her  husbands  life — 
I  recommend  as  much  to  every  wife. 

XLIX. 

Young  Juan  wax'd  in  goodliness  and  grace  ; 

At  six  a  charming  child,  and  at  eleven 
With  all  the  promise  of  as  fine  a  face 

As  e'er  to  man's  maturer  growth  was  given : 
He  studied  steadily,  and  grew  apace. 

And  seem'd,  at  least,  in  the  right  road  to  heaven, 
For  half  his  days  were  pass'd  at  church,  the  other 
Between  his  tutors,  confessor,  and  mother. 

L. 
At  six,  I  said,  he  was  a  charming  child, 

At  twelve  he  was  a  fine,  but  quiet  boy; 
Although  in  infancy  a  little  wild. 

They  tamed  him  down  amongst  them  :  to  destroy 
His  natural  spirit  not  in  vain  they  toil'd, 

At  least  it  seem'd  so  ;  and  his  mother's  joy 


was  what  we  should  call  a  rake.  He  avoided  the  school  as  tho 
plague ;  he  loved  nothing  but  gaming  and  public  shows ;  he 
robbed  his  father  of  every  thing  he  could  find ;  he  invented  a 
thousand  lies  to  escape  tho  rod,  which  they  were  obligel  lu 
make  use  of  to  punish  his  irregularities. 


Canto  i. 


DON    JUAN. 


569 


Was  to  declare  how  sage,  and  still,  and  steady, 
Her  young  philosopher  was  grown  ah-cady. 


U. 
I  had  my  doubts,  perhaps  I  hare  them  still. 

But  what  I  say  is  neither  hero  nor  there  : 
I  knew  his  father  well,  and  have  some  skill 

In  character — but  it  would  not  be  fair 
From  sire  to  son  to  augur  good  or  ill : 

He  and  his  wife  were  an  ill-sorted  pair — 
But  scandal 's  my  aversion — I  protest 
Against  all  e\-il  speaking,  even  in  jest. 

LII. 
For  my  part  I  say  nothing — nothing — but 

This  I  will  say— my  reasons  are  my  own — 
That  if  I  had  an  only  son  to  put 

To  school,  (as  God  be  praised  that  I  have  none,) 
'Tis  not  with  Donna  Inez  I  would  shut 

Him  up  to  learn  his  catechism  alone. 
No — no — I'd  send  him  out  betimes  to  college, 
For  there  it  was  I  pick'd  up  my  own  knowledge. 

LIU. 
For  there  one  Icams — 'tis  not  for  mc  to  boast, 

Though  I  acquired — but  I  pass  over  that. 
As  well  as  all  the  Greek  I  since  have  lost : 

I  say  that  there  's  the  place — but  "  Veibum  sat," 
I  think  I  pick'd  up  too,  as  well  as  most. 

Knowledge  of  matters — but  no  matter  what — 
I  never  married — but,  I  think,  I  know 
That  sons  should  not  be  educated  so. 

LIV. 
Young  Juan  now  was  sixteen  years  of  age. 

Tall,  handsome,  slender,  but  well  knit :  he  seem'd 
Active,  though  not  so  sprightly,  as  a  page  ; 

And  everybody  but  his  mother  deem'd 
Him  almost  man  ;  but  she  flew  in  a  rage 

And  bit  her  lips  (for  else  she  might  have  scrcam'd) 
If  any  said  so,  for  to  be  precocious 
"Was  in  her  eyes  a  thing  the  most  atrocious. 

LV. 
Amongst  her  numerous  acquaintance,  all 

Selected  for  discretion  and  devotion, 
There  was  the  Donna  Julia,  whom  to  call 

Pretty  were  but  to  give  a  feeble  notion 
Of  many  charms  in  her  as  natural 

As  sweetness  to  the  flower,  or  salt  to  ocean. 
Her  zone  to  Venus,  or  his  bow  to  Cupid, 
(But  this  last  simile  is  trite  and  stupid.) 

LVI. 
The  darkness  of  her  Oriental  eye 

Accorded  with  her  Moorish  origin ; 
(Her  blood  wa,s  not  all  Spanish,  by  the  by  ; 
In  Spain,  you  know,  this  is  ar  sort  of  sin.) 
72 


When  proud  Granada  fell,  and,  forced  to  fly, 

Boabdil  wept,  of  Donna  Julia's  kin  • 
Some  went  to  Africa,  some  stay'd  in  Spain, 
Her  great-great-grandraamma  chose  to  remain. 

I.A'II. 
;  She  married  (I  forget  the  pedigree) 
I      With  an  Hidalgo,  who  transmitted  dovra 
I  His  blood  less  noble  than  such  blood  should  be  ; 
At  such  alliances  his  sires  would  frown. 
In  that  point  so  precise  in  each  degree 

That  they  bred  in.  and  in,  as  might  be  shown, 
Marrying  their  cousins — nay,  their  aunts,  and  nieces, 
Which  always  spoils  the  breed,  if  it  increases. 

LVIII. 
This  heathenish  cross  restored  the  breed  again, 

Ruin'd  its  blood,  but  much  improved  its  flesh  ; 
For  from  a  root  the  ugliest  in  Old  Spain 

Sprung  up  a  branch  as  beautiful  as  fresh  ; 
The  sons  no  more  were  short,  the  daughters  plain  : 

But  there  's  a  rumor  which  I  fain  would  hush, 
'Tis  said  that  Donna  Julia's  grandmamma 
Produced  her  Don  more  heirs  at  love  than  law. 

LIX. 

However  this  might  be,  the  race  went  on 
Improving  still  through  every  generation, 

Until  it  centred  in  an  only  son, 

Who  left  an  only  daughter ;  my  naiTation 

May  have  suggested  that  this  single  one 
Could  be  but  JuUa,  (whom  on  this  occasion 

I  shall  have  much  to  speak  about,)  and  she 

Was  married,  charming,  chaste,  and  twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her  eye  (I'm  very  fond  of  handsome  eyes) 
Was  large  and  dark,  suppressing  half  its  fire 

Until  she  spoke,  then  through  its  soft  disguise 
Plash'd  an  expression  more  of  pride  than  ire. 

And  love  than  either  ;  and  there  would  arise 
A  something  in  them  which  was  not  desire. 

But  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 

Which  struggled  through  and  chasten'd  down  the 
whole. 

LXI. 
Her  glossy  hair  was  cluster'd  o'er  a  tarow 

Bright  with  intelligence,  and  fair,  and  smooth  ; 
Her  eyebrow's  shape  was  like  the  aiirial  bow. 

Her  check  all  purple  with  the  beam  of  youth, 
Mounting,  at  times,  to  a  transparent  glow, 

As  if  her  veins  ran  lightning  ;  she,  in  sooth, 
Possess'd  an  air  and  grace  by  no  means  common  : 
Her  stature  tall— I  hate  a  dumpy  woman. 

LXII. 
Wedded  she  was  some  years,  and  to  a  man 
Of  fifty,  and  such  husbands  are  in  plenty ; 


570 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Cattto  1. 


And  yet,  I  think,  instead  of  such  a  onk 
'Twere  better  to  have  two  of  flve-and-twenty, 

Especially  in  countries  near  the  sun  : 

And  now  I  think  on  't,  "  mi  vien  in  mente," 

Ladies  even  of  the  most  uneasy  virtue 

Prefer  a  spouse  whose  age  is  short  of  thirty. 

LXUI. 
'Tis  a  sad  thing,  I  cannot  choose  but  say, 

And  all  the  fault  of  that  indecent  sun. 
Who  cannot  leave  alone  our  helpless  clay. 

But  will  keep  baking,  broiling,  burning  on. 
That  howsoever  people  fast  and  pray. 

The  flesh  is  frail,  and  so  the  soul  undone  : 
What  men  call  gallantry,  and  gods  adultery. 
Is  much  more  common  where  the  climate  's  sultry. 

LXIV. 
Happy  the  nations  of  the  moral  North  ! 

Where  all  is  virtue,  and  the  winter  season 
Sends  sin,  without  a  rag  on,  shivering  forth, 

('Twas  snow  that  brought  St.  Anthony'  to  reason ;) 
Where  juries  cast  up  what  a  wife  is  worth. 

By  laying  whate'er  sum,  in  mulct,  they  please  on 
The  lover,  who  must  pay  a  handsome  price. 
Because  it  is  a  marketable  vice. 

LXV. 

Alfonso  was  the  name  of  Julia's  lord, 
A  man  well  looking  for  his  years,  and  who 

Was  neither  much  beloved  nor  yet  abhorr'd  : 
They  lived  together  as  most  peojjle  do. 

Suffering  each  other's  foibles  by  accord, 
And  not  exactly  either  07te  or  two — 

Yet  he  was  jealous,  though  he  did  not  show  it, 

For  jealousy  dislikes  the  world  to  know  it. 

LXVI. 
Julia  was — yet  I  never  could  see  why — 

With  Donna  Inez  quite  a  favorite  friend  ; 
Between  their  tastes  there  was  small  sympathy. 

For  not  a  line  had  Julia  ever  penn'd  : 
Some  people  whisper  (but,  no  doubt  they  lie. 

For  malice  still  imputes  some  private  end) 
That  Inez  had,  ere  Don  Alfonso's  marriage. 
Forgot  with  liim  her  very  prudent  carriage  ; 

LXVII. 
And  that  still  keeping  up  the  old  connection, 

"Which  time  had  lately  reuder'd  much  more  chaste. 
She  took  his  lady  also  in  affection, 

And  certainly  this  course  was  much  the  best : 
She  flatter'd  Julia  with  her  sage  protection, 

And  complimented  Don  Alfonso's  taste ; 
And  if  she  could  not  (who  can  ?)  silence  scandal, 
At  least  she  left  it  a  more  slender  handle. 


'  For  the  particulars  of  St.  Anthony's  recipe  for  hot  Wood  In 
cold  weather,  ecc  Mr.  Alban  Butlcr°«  "  Lives  of  the  Saints.'' 


LXVIII. 
I  can't  tell  whether  Julia  saw  the  affair 

With  other  people's  eyes,  or  if  her  own 
Discoveries  made,  but  none  could  be  aware 

Of  this,  at  least  no  symptom  e'er  was  shown ; 
Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  or  did  not  care, 

Indifferent  from  the  first,  or  callous  grown  : 
I'm  really  puzzled  what  to  think  or  say. 
She  kept  her  counsel  in  so  close  a  way. 

LXIX. 
Juan  she  saw,  and,  as  a  pretty  child, 

Caress'd  him  often — such  a  thing  might  be 
Quite  innocently  done,  and  harmless  styled, 

When  she  had  twenty  years,  and  thirteen  he  ; 
But  I  am  not  so  sure  I  should  have  smiled 

When  he  was  sixteen,  Julia  twenty-three  ; 
These  few  short  years  make  wondrous  alterations, 
Particularly  amongst  sunburnt  nations. 

LXX, 
Whate'er  the  cause  might  be,  they  had  become 

Changed ;  for  the  dame  grew  distant,  the  youth  shy, 
Tlieir  looks  cast  down,  their  greetings  almost  dumb, 

And  much  embarrassment  in  either  eye  ; 
There  surely  v/ill  )je  little  doubt  with  some 

That  Donna  Julia  knew  the  reason  why. 
But  as  for  Juan,  he  had  no  more  notion 
Tlian  he  who  never  saw  the  sea  of  ocean. 

I.XXI. 
Yet  Julia's  very  coldness  still  was  kind. 

And  tremulously  gentle  her  small  hand 
Withdrew  itself  from  his,  but  left  behind 

A  little  pressure,  thrilling,  and  so  bland 
And  slight,  so  very  slight,  that  to  the  mind 

'Twas  but  a  doubt ;  but  ne'er  magician's  wand 
Wrought  change  with  all  Armida's  fairy  art 
Like  what  this  light  touch  left  on  Juan's  heart. 

LXXII. 
And  if  she  met  him,  though  she  smiled  no  more, 

She  look'd  a  sadness  sweeter  than  her  smile. 
As  if  her  heart  had  deeper  thoughts  in  store 

She  must  not  own,  but  cherish'd  more  the  while 
For  that  compression  in  its  burning  core  ; 

Even  innocence  itself  has  many  a  wile. 
And  will  not  dare  to  trust  itself  with  truth. 
And  love  is  taught  hypocrisy  from  youth. 

LXXIII. 
But  j)assion  most  dissembles,  yet  betrays 

Even  by  its  darkness  ;  as  the  blackest  sky 
Foretells  the  heaviest  tempest,  it  displays 

Its  workings  through  the  vainly  guarded  eye, 
And  in  whatever  aspect  it  arrays 

Itself,  'tis  still  the  same  hypocrisy  ; 
Coldness  or  anger,  even  disdain  or  hate, 
Arc  masks  it  often  wears,  and  still  tob  late. 


Canto  i. 


DON    JUAN. 


671 


LXXIV. 

Then  there  were  sighs,  the  deeper  for  suppression, 
And  stolen  glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft, 

And  burning  blushes,  though  for  no  transgression, 
Tremblings  when  met,  and  restlessness  when  left ; 

All  these  are  little  preludes  to  possession, 
Of  which  young  passion  cannot  be  bereft, 

And  merely  tend  to  show  how  great  love  is 

Embarrass'd  at  first  starting  with  a  novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor  Julia's  heart  was  in  an  awkward  state  ; 

She  felt  it  going,  and  resolved  to  make 
The  noblest  efforts  for  herself  and  mate. 

For  honor's,  pride's,  religion's,  virtue's  sake 
Her  resolutions  were  most  truly  great. 

And  almost  might  have  made  a  Tarquin  quake  : 
She  pray'd  the  Virgin  Mary  for  her  grace. 
As  being  the  best  judge  of  a  lady's  case. 

LXXVI. 

She  vow'd  she  never  would  see  Juan  more. 
And  next  day  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother, 

And  look'd  extremely  at  the  opening  door, 
Wliich,  by  the  Virgin's  grace,  let  in  another  ; 

Grateful  she  was,  and  yet  a  little  sore — 
Again  it  opens,  it  can  be  no  other, 

'Tis  surely  Juan  now — No  !  I'm  afraid 

That  night  the  Virgin  was  no  further  pray'd. 

lAXVII. 

She  now  determined  that  a  virtuous  woman 
Should  rather  face  and  overcome  temptation. 

That  flight  was  base  and  dastardly,  and  no  man 
Should  ever  give  her  heart  the  least  sensation  ; 

That  is  to  say,  a  thought  beyond  the  common 
Preference,  that  we  nmst  feel  upon  occasion. 

For  people  who  are  pleasanter  than  others. 

But  then  they  only  seem  so  many  brothers. 

LXXVIII. 
And  even  if  by  chance — and  who  can  tell  ? 

The  devil 's  so  very  sly — she  should  discover 
That  all  within  was  not  so  very  well. 

And,  if  still  free,  that  such  or  such  a  lover 
Might  please  perhaps,  a  virtuous  wife  can  quell 

Such  thoughts,  and  be  the  better  when  they're 
And  if  the  man  should  ask,  'tis  but  denial :  [over ; 
I  recommend  young  ladies  to  make  trial. 

LXXIX. 

And  then  there  are  such  things  as  love  divine. 
Bright  and  immaculate,  unmix'd  and  pure, 

Such  as  the  angels  think  so  very  line. 

And  matrons,  who  would  be  no  less  secure, 

Platonic,  perfect,  "just  such  love  as  mine ;" 
Thus  Julia  said — and  thought  so.  to  Imj  sure  ; 


And  so  rd  have  her  think,  were  I  the  man 
On  whom  her  reveries  celestial  ran. 

lAXX. 
Such  love  is  innocent,  and  may  exist 

Between  young  persons  without  any  danger. 
A  hand  may  first,  and  then  a  lip  be  kiss'd  ; 

For  my  part,  to  such  doings  I'm  a  stranger. 
But  hedr  these  freedoms  form  the  utmost  list 

Of  all  o'er  which  such  love  may  be  a  ranger 
If  people  go  beyond,  'tis  quite  a  crime. 
But  not  my  fault — I  tell  them  all  in  time. 

LXXXI. 
Love,  then,  but  love  within  its  proper  limits. 

Was  Julia's  innocent  determination 
In  young  Don  Juan's  favor,  and  to  him  its 

Exertion  might  be  useful  on  occasion  ; 
And,  lighted  at  too  pure  a  shrine  to  dim  its 

Ethereal  lustre,  with  what  sweet  persuasion 
He  might  be  taught,  by  love  and  her  together — 
I  really  don't  know  what,  nor  Julia  either. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught  with  this  fine  intention,  and  well  fenced 

In  mail  of  proof — her  purity  of  soul, 
She,  for  the  future  of  her  strength  con\'iuced, 

And  that  her  honor  was  a  rock,  or  mole. 
Exceeding  sagely  from  that  hour  dispensed 

With  any  kind  of  troublesome  control ; 
But  whether  Julia  to  the  task  was  equal 
Is  that  which  must  bo  mention'd  in  the  sequel. 

i  Lxxxin. 

Her  plan  she  deem'd  both  innocent  and  feasible. 

And,  surely,  with  a  stripling  of  sixteen 
Not  scandal's  fangs  could  fix  on  much  that's  seizable, 

Or  if  they  did  so,  satisfied  to  mean 
Nothing  but  what  was  good,  her  breast  was  pcace- 

A  quiet  conscience  makes  one  so  serene  !    [able — 
Christians  have  burnt  each  other,  quite  persuaded 
That  aU  the  Aj>ostle3  would  have  done  as  they  did. 

LXXXIV. 
And  if  in  the  mean  time  her  husband  died,      [cross 

But  Heaven  forbid  that  such  a  thought  should 
Her  brain,  though  in  a  dream  !  (and  then  she  sigh'd) 

Never  could  she  survive  that  common  loss  ; 
But  just  suppose  that  moment  should  betide, 

I  only  say  suppose  it — iiUer  nos. 
(This  should  be  entre  noun,  for  Julia  thought 
In  French,  but  then  the  rhyme  would  go  for  naught.) 

bXXXV. 

I  only  say,  suppose  this  supposition : 
Juan  being  then  grown  up  to  man's  estate 

Would  fully  suit  a  widow  of  condition, 

Even  seven  years  hence  it  would  not  be  too  late ; 


572 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


And  in  the  interim  (to  pursue  this  vision) 

The  mischief,  after  all,  could  not  be  great. 
For  he  would  learn  the  rudiments  of  love, 
I  mean  the  seraph  way  of  those  above. 

LXXXVI. 
So  much  for  Julia.    Now  we'll  turn  to  Juan. 

Poor  little  fellow  1  he  had  no  idea 
Of  his  own  case,  and  never  hit  the  true  one  ; 

In  feelings  quick  as  Ovid's  Miss  Medea,' 
He  puzzled  over  what  he  found  a  new  one. 

But  not  as  j'et  imagined  it  could  be  a 
Thing  quite  in  course,  and  not  at  all  alarming, 
Which,  with  a  little  patience,  might  grow  charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent  and  pensive,  idle,  restless,  slow. 
His  home  deserted  for  the  lonely  wood. 

Tormented  with  a  wound  he  could  not  know, 
His,  like  all  deep  grief,  plunged  in  solitude  : 

I'm  fond  myself  of  solitude  or  so. 

But  then,  I  beg  it  may  be  understood. 

By  solitude  I  mean  a  sultan's,  not 

A  hermit's,  with  a  harem  for  a  grot. 

LXXXVIII. 

"  Oh,  Love  !  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 
Where  transjiort  and  security  entwine,- 

Here  is  the  emijire  of  thy  perfect  bliss. 
And  here  thou  art  a  god  indeed  divine." 

The  bard  I  quote  from  does  not  sing  amiss," 
With  the  exception  of  the  second  line, 

For  that  same  twining  "transport  and  security" 

Are  twisted  to  a  phrase  of  some  obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 
The  poet  meant,  no  doubt,  and  thus  appeals 

To  the  good  sense  and  senses  of  mankind. 
The  very  thing  which  everybody  feels, 

As  all  have  found  on  trial,  or  may  find, 
That  no  one  likes  to  be  disturb'd  at  meals 

Or  love.    I  won't  say  more  about  "  entwined" 
Or  "  transport,"  as  we  knew  all  that  before. 
But  beg  "  Security"  will  bolt  the  door. 

XC. 
Young  Juan  v/ander'd  by  the  glassy  brooks. 

Thinking  unutterable  things  ;  he  threw 
Himself  at  length  within  the  leafy  nooks 

Where  the  wild  branch  of  the  cork  forest  grew ; 
There  poets  find  materials  for  their  books. 

And  every  now  and  then  we  read  them  through, 

'  See  Ovid,  de  Art.  Amand.  1.  ii. 

"  CampbeH'B  Gertrude  of  Wyoming— (I  think)— the  opening  of 
Canto  Second— but  quote  from  memory.  | 

["  Juan  Boscan  Almogava,  of  Barcelona,  died  about  the  year  ] 
1513.  In  concert  with  his  friend  Garciiasso,  he  introduced  the  | 
Italian  style  into  Castilian  poetry,  and  commenced  his  labors  by  I 
writing  sonnets  in  the  manner  of  Petrarch.]  ! 


So  that  their  plan  and  prosody  are  eligible. 
Unless,  like  Wordsworth,  they  prove  unintelligible. 

XCI. 
He,  Juan,  (and  not  Wordsworth,)  so  pursued 

His  self-communion  with  his  own  high  soul, 
Until  his  mighty  heart,  in  its  great  mood. 

Had  mitigated  part,  though  not  the  whole 
Of  its  disease  ;  he  did  the  best  he  could 

With  things  not  very  subject  to  control, 
And  tum'd,  without  perceiving  his  condition, 
Like  Coleridge,  into  a  metaphysician. 

XCII. 

He  thought  about  himself,  and  the  whole  earth, 
Of  man  the  wonderful,  and  of  the  stars, 

And  how  the  deuce  they  ever  could  have  birth  ; 
And  then  he  thought  of  earthquakes,  and  of  wars, 

How  many  miles  the  moon  might  have  in  girth, 
Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  many  bars 

To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  boundless  skies ; — 

And  then  he  thought  of  Donna  Julia's  eyes. 

XCIII. 

In  thoughts  like  these  true  wisdom  may  discern 
Longings  sublime,  and  aspirations  high. 

Which  some  are  born  with,  but  the  most  part  leam 
To  plague  themselves  withal,  they  know  not  why ; 

'Twas  strange  that  one  so  young  should  thus  con- 
His  brain  about  the  action  of  the  sky  ;  [cem 

If  T/oii  think  'twas  philosophy  that  this  did, 

I  can't  help  thinking  puberty  assisted. 

XCIV. 
He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers. 

And  heard  a  voice  in  all  the  winds  ;  and  then 
He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal  bowers. 

And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men  : 
He  miss'd  the  pathway,  he  forgot  the  hours. 

And  when  he  look'd  upon  his  watch  again. 
He  foimd  how  much  old  Time  had  been  a  winner — 
He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 

XCV. 

Sometimes  he  turn'd  to  gaze  upon  his  book, 
Boscan,'  or  Garciiasso ;' — by  the  M'ind 

Even  as  the  page  is  rustled  while  we  look, 
So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  mind 

Over  the  mystic  leaf  his  soul  was  shook. 
As  if  'twere  one  whereon  magicians  bind 

Their  spells,  and  give  them  to  the  passing  gale, 

According  to  some  good  old  woman's  tale. 

[■'  Garciiasso  de  la  Vega,  of  a  noble  family  at  Toledo,  was  a  war- 
rior as  well  as  a  poet.  After  serving  with  distinction  in  Germany, 
Africa,  and  Provence,  ho  was  killed,  in  1530,  by  a  stone  thrown 
from  a  tower,  which  fell  upon  his  head  as  he  was  leading  on  his 
battalion.] 


^wina-  (2J^aA/?Ji 


HE   THOUGHT  AEODT  HIU3ELF  AND    THE  "WHOLE  EARTH 
OF  lUN    THE   WDNDEREUL.ASD    OF   THE    ST.^RS. 

Sai)   HOW  THE    DEUCE   THEY  EITR   COULD    HA\'E    BIRTH 
.MiD  THEN   HE    THOUOHT  OF    EARTHQUAKES,  AKD  OF  W.«JIS 

H0«-  MANY   MILES  THE  MOON   MIGHT  RWE   IN  OIRTH. 
OF   AIH    HALLOONS.ASD   OF  THE    MANY  E.\H3 

TO  PERFECT    RNOU'LEDOE  OF    THE  EOUNBLESS    SKIES 

ANF.  THEN   HE   THOUGHT   OF  DONNA   JULU'S   EYES 


inpany.  Publishers,  New"E!rk 


Canto  i. 


DON    JUAN. 


573 


XCVI. 

Thus  would  he  while  his  lonely  hours  away 
Dissatisfied,  nor  knowing  what  he  wanted  ; 

Nor  glowing  revery,  nor  poet's  lay, 

Could  yield  Ids  spirit  that  for  which  it  panted, 

A  bosom  whereon  he  his  head  might  lay, 

And  hear  the  heart  beat  with  the  love  it  granted, 

With several  other  things,  which  I  forget. 

Or  which,  at  least,  I  need  not  mention  yet. 

XCVII. 
Those  lonely  walks,  and  lengthening  reveries, 

Could  not  escape  the  gentle  Julia's  eyes  ; 
She  saw  that  Juan  was  not  at  his  ease  ; 

But  that  which  chiefly  may,  and  must  surprise, 
Is,  that  the  Donna  Inez  did  not  tease 

Her  only  son  with  question  or  surmise  ; 
Wliether  it  was  she  did  not  see,  or  would  not. 
Or,  like  all  very  clever  people,  could  not. 

XCVIII. 

This  may  seem  strange,  but  yet  'tis  very  common  ; 

For  instance — gentlemen,  whose  ladies  take 
Leave  to  o'erstep  the  written  rights  of  woman. 

And  break  the Which  commandment  is  't  they 

(I  have  forgot  the  number,  and  think  no  man  [break  ? 

Should  rashly  quote,  for  fear  of  a  mistake.) 
I  say,  when  these  same  gentlemen  are  jealous. 
They  make  some  blunder,  which  their  ladies  tell  us. 

XCIX. 
A  real  husband  always  is  suspicious, 

But  still  no  less  suspects  in  the  wrong  place, 
Jealous  of  some  one  who  had  no  such  wishes. 

Or  pandering  blindly  to  his  own  disgrace. 
By  harboring  some  dear  friend  extremely  vicious  ; 

The  last  indeed  's  infallibly  the  case  : 
And  when  the  spouse  and  friend  are  gone  off  wholly. 
He  wonders  at  their  vice,  and  not  his  folly. 

C. 

Thus  parents  also  are  at  times  short-sighted  : 

Though  watchful  as  the  lyn.x,  they  ne'er  discover, 

The  while  the  wicked  world  beholds  delighted, 
Young  Hopeful's  mistress,  or  Miss  Fanny's  lover, 

Till  some  confounded  escapade  has  blighted 
The  plan  of  twenty  years,  and  all  is  over  ; 

And  then  the  mother  cries,  the  father  swears, 

And  wonders  why  the  devil  he  got  heirs. 

CI. 
But  Inez  was  so  anxious,  and  so  clear 

Of  sight,  that  I  must  think,  on  this  occasion. 
She  had  some  other  motive  much  more  near 

For  leaving  Juan  to  this  new  temptation. 
But  what  that  motive  was,  I  sha'n't  say  here  ; 

Perhaps  to  lini.sh  Juan's  education, 


Perhaps  to  open  Don  Alfonso's  eyes, 

In  case  he  thought  his  wife  too  great  a  prize. 

CII. 

It  was  ujwn  a  day,  a  summer's  day  ; — 

Summer  's  indeed  a  very  dangerous  season, 

And  so  is  spring  about  the  end  of  Slay  ; 
The  sun,  no  doubt,  is  the  prevailing  reason  ; 

But  whatsoe'er  the  cause  is,  one  may  say. 

And  stand  convicted  of  more  truth  than  treason. 

That  there  are  months  which  nature  grows  more 
merry  in, — 

March  has  its  hares,  and  May  must  have  its  heroine. 

cm. 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  day — the  sixth  of  June : 

I  like  to  be  particular  in  dates. 
Not  only  of  the  age,  and  year,  but  moon ; 

They  are  a  sort  of  post-house,  where  the  Fates 
Change  horses,  making  history  change  its  tune, 
'     Then  spur  away  o'er  empires  and  o'er  states. 
Leaving  at  last  not  much  besides  chronology, 
Excepting  the  post-obits  of  theology. 

CIV. 

'Twas  on  the  sixth  of  June,  about  the  hour 
Of  half-past  six — -perhaps  still  nearer  seven — 

When  Julia  sate  within  as  pretty  a  bower 
As  e'er  held  houri  in  that  heathenish  heaven 

Described  by  Mahomet,  and  Anacreon  Moore, 
To  whom  the  lyre  and  laurels  have  been  given, 

With  all  the  trophies  of  triumphant  song — 

He  won  them  well,  and  may  he  wear  them  long  ! 

CV. 
She  sate,  but  not  alone  ;  I  know  not  well 

How  this  same  interview  had  taken  place. 
And  even  if  I  knew,  I  should  not  tell — 

People  should  hold  their  tongues  in  any  case  ; 
No  matter  how  or  why  the  thing  befell. 

Cut  there  were  she  and  Juan,  face  to  face — 
When  two  such  faces  are  so,  'twould  be  wise, 
But  very  difficult,  to  shut  their  eyes. 

CVI. 

How  beautiful  she  look'd  !  her  conscious  heart 
Glow'd  in  her  cheek,  and  yet  she  felt  no  wrong. 

Oh,  Love  !  how  perfect  is  thy  mystic  art. 

Strengthening  the  weak,  and  trampling  on  the 

How  self-deceitful  is  the  sagest  part  [strong. 

Of  mortals  whom  thy  lure  hath  led  along — 

The  precipice  she  stood  on  was  immense. 

So  was  her  creed  in  her  own  innocence. 

CVII. 
She  thought  of  her  own  strength,  and  Juan's  youth, 
And  of  the  folly  of  all  prudish  fears, 


674 


BYROX'S    WORKS. 


Cai!ito  i. 


Victorious  virtue,  and  domestic  truth, 
And  then  of  Don  Alfonso's  fifty  j'ears  : 

I  wish  these  last  had  not  occurr'd,  in  sooth, 
Because  that  number  rarely  much  endears, 

And  through  all  climes,  the  snowy  and  the  sunny, 

Sounds  ill  in  love,  whate'er  it  may  in  monej'. 

CVIII. 

Wlien  people  say,  "I've  told  yon  fifty  times," 
They  mean  to  scold,  and  very  often  do  ; 

When  poets  say,  "I've  written _;i/i!j/  rhymes," 

They  make  you  dread  that  they'll  recite  them  too; 

In  gangs  of  fifty,  thieves  commit  their  crimes  ; 
Kt  fifty  love  for  love  is  rare,  'tis  true. 

But  then,  no  doubt,  it  equally  as  true  is, 

A  good  deal  may  be  bought  ioT fifty  Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia  had  honor,  virtue,  truth,  and  love 
For  Don  Alfonso ;  and  she  inly  swore 

By  all  the  vows  below  to  powers  above. 

She  never  would  disgrace  the  ring  she  wore. 

Nor  leave  a  wish  which  wisdom  might  reprove  ; 
And  while  she  ponder'd  this,  besides  much  more. 

One  band  on  Juan's  carelessly  was  thrown. 

Quite  by  mistake — she  thought  it  was  her  own  ; 

ex. 

Unconsciously  she  lean'd  upon  the  other. 

Which  play'd  within  the  tangles  of  her  hair ; 

And  to  contend  with  thoughts  she  could  not  smother 
She  seem'd,  by  the  distraction  of  her  air. 

'Twas  surely  very  wrong  in  Juan's  mother 
To  leave  together  this  imprudent  pair. 

She  who  for  many  years  had  watch'd  her  son  so — 

I'm  very  certain  mine  would  not  have  done  so. 

CXI. 
The  hand  which  still  held  Juan's,  by  degrees 

Gently,  but  palpably  conflrm'd  its  grasp. 
As  if  it  said,  "  Detain  mc,  if  you  please  ;" 

Yet  there  's  no  doubt  she  only  meant  to  clasp 
His  fingers  with  a  pure  Platonic  squeeze  ; 

She  would  have  shrunk  as  from  a  toad,  or  asp, 
Had  she  imagined  such  a  thing  could  rouse 
A  feeling  dangerous  to  a  prudent  spouse. 

CXII. 

I  cannot  know  what  Juan  thought  of  this. 

But  what  he  did,  is  much  what  you  would  do  ; 

His  young  lip  thank'd  it  with  a  grateful  kiss. 
And  then,  abash'd  at  its  own  joy,  withdrew 

In  deep  despair,  lest  he  had  done  amiss, — 
Love  is  so  very  timid  when  'tis  new  : 

She  blush'd,  and  frown'd  not,  but  she  strove  to  speak, 

And  held  her  tongue,  her  voice  was  grown  sq  weak. 


CXIII. 

The  sun  set,  and  up  rose  the  yellow  moon  : 
The  devil  's  in  the  moon  for  mischief;  they 

Who  call'd  her  chaste,  methinks,  began  too  soon 
Their  nomenclature  ;  there  is  not  a  day. 

The  longest,  not  the  twenty-first  of  June, 
Sees  half  the  business  in  a  wicked  way. 

On  which  three  single  hours  of  moonshine  smile — 

And  then  she  looks  so  modest  all  the  while  I 

CXIV. 
There  is  a  dangerous  silence  in  that  hour, 

A  stillness,  which  leaves  room  for  the  full  soul 
To  open  all  itself,  without  the  power 

Of  calling  wholly  back  its  self-control ; 
The  silver  light  which,  hallowing  tree  and  tower. 

Sheds  beauty  and  deep  softness  o'er  the  whole, 
Breathes  also  to  the  heart,  and  o'er  it  throws 
A  loving  languor,  which  is  not  repose. 

CXV. 

And  Julia  sate  with  Juan,  half  embraced 
And  half  retiring  from  the  glowing  arm, 

Which  trembled  like  the  bosom  where  'twas  placed ; 
Yet  still  she  must  have  thought  there  was  no  harm, 

Or  else  'twere  easy  to  withdraw  her  waist ; 
But  then  the  situation  had  its  charm. 

And  then God  knows  what  next — I  can't  go  on ; 

I'm  almost  sorry  that  I  e'er  begun. 

CXVI. 

Oh,  Plato  !  Plato  !  you  have  paved  the  way, 
With  your  confounded  fantasies,  to  more 

Immoral  conduct  by  the  fancied  sway 

Your  system  feigns  o'er  the  controUess  core 

Of  human  hearts,  than  all  the  long  array 
Of  poets  and  romancers  : — You're  a  bore, 

A  charlatan,  a  co.xcomb — and  have  been. 

At  best,  no  better  than  a  go-betT/een. 

CXVII. 
And  Julia's  voice  was  lost,  cxcejit  in  sighs. 
Until  too  late  for  useful  conversation  ; 
The  tears  were  gushing  from  her  gentle  eyes, 

I  wish,  indeed,  they  had  not  had  occasion ; 
But  who,  alas  !  can  love,  and  then  be  wise  ? 

Not  that  remorse  did  not  oppose  temptation  ; 
A  little  still  she  strove,  and  much  repented. 
And  whispering  "I  will  ne'er  consent" — consented. 

CXVIII. 
'Tis  said  that  Xerxes  ofFer'd  a  reward 

To  those  who  could  invent  him  a  new  pleasure  . 
Methinks,  the  requisition  's  rather  hard. 

And  must  have  cost  his  majesty  a  treasure  • 
For  my  part,  I'm  a  moderate-minded  bard, 

Fond  of  a  little  love,  (which  I  call  leisure ;) 


Cabto  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


675 


I  care  not  for  new  pleasures,  as  the  old 
Are  quite  enough  for  me,  so  they  but  hold. 

CXIX. 
Oh,  Pleasure  I  you  are  indeed  a  pleasant  thing, 

Although  one  must  be  damn'd  for  you,  no  doubt ! 
I  make  a  resolution  every  spring 

Of  reformation,  ere  the  year  run  out, 
But  somehow,  this  my  vestal  vow  takes  wing. 

Yet  still,  I  trust,  it  may  bo  kept  throughout : 
I'm  very  sorry,  very  much  ashamed, 
And  mean,  next  winter,  to  be  quite  reclaim'd. 

CXX. 
Here  my  chaste  Muse  a  liberty  must  take — 

Start  not !  still  chaster  reader — she'll  be  nice  hence- 
Forward,  and  there  is  no  great  cause  to  quake ; 

This  liberty  is  a  poetic  license. 
Which  some  irregularity  may  make 

In  the  design,  and  as  I  have  a  high  sense 
Of  Aristotle  and  the  Rules,  'tis  fit 
To  beg  his  pardon  when  I  err  a  bit. 

CXXI. 

This  license  is  to  hoi)c  the  reader  will 
Suppose  from  June  the  sixth,  (the  fatal  day. 

Without  whose  epoch  my  poetic  skill 

For  want  of  facts  would  all  be  thrown  away,) 

But  keeping  Julia  and  Don  Juan  still 

In  sight,  that  several  months  have  pass'd  ;  we'll 

'Twas  in  November,  but  I'm  not  so  sure  [say 

About  the  day — the  era  's  more  obscure. 

CXXII. 
We'll  talk  of  that  anon. — 'Tis  sweet  to  hear 

At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier, 

By  distance  mellow'd,  o'er  the  waters  sweep ; 
Tis  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 
From  leaf  to  leaf;  'tis  sweet  to  view  on  high 
The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

CXXIII. 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark 

Bay  decp-mouth'd  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 

Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  be  awaken'd  by  the  lark. 

Or  luU'd  by  falling  waters  ;  sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds. 
The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

CXXIV. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grapes 

In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth. 
Purple  and  gushing  :  sweet  are  our  escapes 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 


Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps, 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-bom's  birth, 
Sweet  is  revenge — especially  to  women. 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

CXXV. 

Sweet  is  a  legacy,  and  passing  sweet 
The  unexpected  deatli  of  some  old  lady, 

Or  gentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 

Who've  made  "  us  youth  "  wait  too — too  long  al- 

For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country  seat,  [ready. 

Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady. 

That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mol)  its 

Next  owner  for  their  double-damn'd  post-obits. 

CXXVI. 
'Tis  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels. 

By  blood  or  ink  ;  'tis  sweet  to  put  an  end 
To  strife  ;  'tis  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  quarrels, 

Particularly  -with  a  tiresome  friend  : 
Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels  ; 

Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 
Against  the  world  ;  and  dear  the  schoolboy  spot 
We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  all. 
Is  first  and  passionate  love — it  stands  alone, 

Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  fall ; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  pluck'd — all's 

And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall     [known — 
Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown, 

No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 

Fire  which  Prometheus  filch'd  for  us  from  heaven. 

CXXVIII. 
Man  's  a  strange  animal,  and  makes  strange  use 

Of  his  own  nature,  and  the  various  arts. 
And  likes  particularly  to  produce 

Some  new  experiment  to  show  his  parts ; 
This  is  the  age  of  oddities  let  loose. 

Where  different  talents  find  their  different  marts  ; 
You'd  best  begin  with  truth,  and  when  you've  lost 
Labor,  there 's  a  sure  market  for  imposture,      [your 

CXXLX. 
What  opposite  discoveries  we  have  seen  ; 

(Signs  of  true  genius,  and  of  empty  pockets.) 
One  makes  new  noses,  one  a  guillotine. 

One  breaks  your  bones,  one  sets  them  in  their 
But  vaccination  certainly  has  been  [sockets  ; 

A  kind  antithesis  to  Congreve's  rockets. 
With  which  the  Doctor  paid  off  an  old  pox. 
By  borrowing  a  new  one  from  an  ox. 

CXXX. 
Bread  Las  been  made  (indifierent)  from  potatoes  ; 
I      And  galvanism  has  set  some  cArpses  grinning. 


576 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


But  has  not  answer'd  like  the  apparatus 

Of  the  Humane  Society's  beginning, 
By  whicli  men  are  unsuffocated  gratis  : 

What  wondrous  new  machines  have  late  been  spin- 
I  said  the  small-pox  has  gone  out  of  late  ;  [ning  ! 
Perhaps  it  may  be  follow'd  by  the  great. 

CXXXI. 

'Tis  said  the  great  came  from  America ; 

Perhaps  it  may  set  out  on  its  return, — 
The  population  there  so  spreads,  they  say 

'Tis  grown  high  time  to  thin  it  in  its  turn, 
With  war,  or  plague,  or  famine,  any  way, 

So  that  civilization  they  may  learn  ; 
And  which  in  ravage  the  more  loathsome  evil  is — 
Their  real  lues,  or  our  pseudo-syphilis  ? 

CXXXII. 

This  is  the  patent  age  of  new  inventions 
For  killing  bodies,  and  for  savtng  souls, 

All  propagated  with  the  best  intentions 

Sir  Humphry  Davy's  lantern,  by  which  coals 

Are  safely  mined  for  in  the  mode  he  mentions, 
Tombuctoo  travels,  voyages  to  the  Poles 

Are  ways  to  benefit  mankind,  as  true. 

Perhaps,  as  shooting  them  at  Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man 's  a  phenomenon,  one  knows  not  what, 
And  wonderful  beyond  all  wondrous  measure ; 

'Tis  pity  though,  in  this  sublime  world,  that 

Pleasure  's  a  sin,  and  sometimes  sin  's  a  pleasure ; 

Few  mortals  know  what  end  they  would  be  at, 
But  whether  glory,  power,  or  love,  or  treasure. 

The  path  is  through  perplexing  ways,  and  when 

The  goal  is  gain'd,  we  die,  you  know — and  then 

CXXXIV. 

What  then  ? — I  do  not  know,  no  more  do  you — 
And  so  good  night.    Return  we  to  our  story : 
.  'Twas  in  November,  when  fine  days  are  few. 
And  the  far  mountains  wax  a  little  hoary. 

And  clap  a  white  cape  on  their  mantles  blue  : 
And  the  sea  dashes  round  the  promontory. 

And  the  loud  breaker  boils  against  the  rock, 

And  sober  suns  must  set  at  five  o'clock. 

CXXXV. 
'Twas,  as  the  watchmen  say,  a  cloudy  night ; 

No  moon,  no  stars,  the  wind  was  low  or  loud 
By  gusts,  and  many  a  sparkling  hearth  was  bright 

With  the  piled  wood,  round  which  the  family  crowd ; 
There's  something  cheerful  in  that  sort  of  light. 

Even  as  a  summer  sky's  without  a  cloud  : 
I'm  fond  of  fire,  and  cricket's  and  all  that, 
A  lobster  salad,  and  champagne,  and  chat. 


CXXXVI. 

'Twas  midnight — Donna  Julia  was  in  bed. 
Sleeping,  most  probably, — when  at  her  door 

Arose  a  clatter  might  awake  the  dead. 
If  they  had  never  been  awoke  before, 

And  that  they  have  been  so  we  all  have  read. 
And  are  to  be  so,  at  the  least,  once  more ; — 

The  door  was  fastcn'd,  but  with  voice  and  fist    [hist  1 

First  knocks  were  heard,  then  "  Madam — Madam — 

CXXXVII. 

"  For  God's  sake.  Madam — Madam — ^here's  my  mas- 
With  more  than  half  the  city  at  his  back —    [ter, 

Was  ever  heard  of  such  a  cursed  disaster  ! 
'Tis  not  my  fault — I  kept  good  watch — Alack  1 

Do  pray  undo  the  bolt  a  little  faster — 

They're  on  the  stair  just  now,  and  in  a  crack 

Will  all  be  here  ;  perhaps  he  yet  may  fly — 

Surely  the  window's  not  so  very  high  I" 

cxxxvm. 

By  this  time  Don  Alfonso  was  arrived, 
■  With  torches,  friends,  and  servants  in  great  num- 
The  major  part  of  them  had  long  been  wived,  [ber ; 

And  therefore  paused  not  to  disturb  the  slumber 
Of  any  wicked  woman,  who  contrived 

By  stealth  her  husband's  temples  to  encumber : 
Examples  of  this  kind  arc  so  contagious. 
Were  one  not  punish'd,  all  would  be  outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I  can't  tell  how,  or  why,  or  what  suspicion 
Could  enter  into  Don  Alfonso's  head  ; 

But  for  a  cavalier  of  his  condition 
It  surely  was  exceedingly  ill-bred. 

Without  a  word  of  previous  admonition, 
To  hold  a  levee  round  his  lady's  bed, 

And  summon  lackeys,  arm'd  with  fire  and  sword, 

To  prove  himself  the  thing  he  most  abhorr'd. 

CXL. 

Poor  Donna  Julia  !  starting  as  from  sleep, 
(Mind — that  I  do  not  say — she  had  not  slept,) 

Began  at  once  to  scream,  and  yawn,  and  weep ; 
Her  maid  Antonia,  who  was  an  adept, 

Contrived  to  fling  the  bedclothes  in  a  heap, 
As  if  she  had  just  now  from  out  them  crept : 

I  can't  tell  why  she  should  take  all  this  trouble 

To  prove  her  mistress  had  been  sleeping  double. 

CXLI. 
But  Julia  mistress,  and  Antonia  maid, 

Appear'd  like  two  poor  harmless  women,  who 
Of  goblins,  but  still  more  of  men  afraid. 

Had  thought  one  man  might  be  deterr'd  by  two, 
And  therefore  side  by  side  were  gently  laid. 

Until  the  hours  of  absence  should  run  through, 


Caitto  I, 


DON    JUAN. 


511 


And  truant  husband  should  return,  and  say, 
"  My  dear,  I  was  the  first  who  came  away." 

CXLII. 

Now  Julia  found  at  length  a  voice,  and  cried, 
"  In  heaven's  name,  Don  Alfonso,  what  d'  ye  mean  ? 

Has  madness  seized  you  ?  would  that  I  had  died 
Ere  such  a  monster's  victim  I  had  been  ! 

What  may  this  midnight  violence  betide, 
A  sudden  fit  of  drunkenness  or  spleen  ? 

Dare  you  suspect  me,  whom  the  thought  would  kill? 

Search,  then,  the  room  !" — Alfonso  said,  "  I  will." 

C'XLIII. 

He  search'd,  they  search'd,  and  rummaged   every- 
where. 

Closet  and  clothes'  press,  chest  and  window-seat, 
And  found  much  linen,  lace,  and  several  pair 

Of  stockings,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  complete, 
"With  other  articles  of  ladies  fair. 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat : 
Arras  they  prick'd  and  curtains  with  their  swords, 
And  wounded  several  shutters,  and  some  boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under  the  bed  they  search'd,  and  there  they  found — 
No  matter  what — is  was  not  that  they  sought ; 

They  open'd  windows,  gazing  if  the  ground 

Had  signs  or  footmarks,  but  the  earth  said  naught ; 

And  then  they  stared  each  others'  faces  round : 
'Tis  odd,  not  one  of  all  these  seekers  thought, 

And  seems  to  me  almost  a  sort  of  blunder. 

Of  looking  in  the  bed  as  weU  as  under. 

CXLV. 

During  this  inquisition,  Julia's  tongue  [cried. 

Was  not  asleep — "  Yes,  search  and  search,"  she 

"  Insult  on  insult  heap,  and  wrong  on  wrong  ! 
It  was  for  this  that  I  became  a  bride  ! 

For  this  in  silence  I  have  suffer'd  long 
A  husband  like  Alfonso  at  my  side  ; 

But  now  I'll  bear  no  more,  nor  here  remain, 

K  there  be  law  or  lawyers  in  all  Spain. 

CXLVI. 

"  Yes,  Don  Alfonso  !  husband  now  no  more, 
If  ever  you  indeed  deserved  the  name, 

Is 't  worthy  of  your  years  ? — you  have  threescore — 
Fifty,  or  sixty,  it  is  all  the  same — 

Is  't  wise  or  fitting,  causeless  to  explore 
For  facts  against  a  virtuous  woman's  fame  ? 

Ungrateful,  pcijured,  barbarous  Don  Alfonso, 

How  dare  you  think  your  lady  would  go  on  go  ? 

'  The  SpanUb  "  Cortcjo  "  is  much  the  same  as  the  Italian  "  Cay- 
alier  Serventc." 
*  Donna  Julia  here  made  a  mistake.    Count  O'Kcilljr  did  not 
l-.i 


CXLTII. 

"  Is  it  for  this  I  have  disdain'd  to  hold 

The  common  privileges  of  my  sex  ? 
That  I  have  chosen  a  confessor  so  old 

And  deaf,  that  any  other  it  would  vex. 
And  never  once  he  has  had  cause  to  scold, 

But  found  my  very  innocence  perplex 
So  much,  he  always  doubted  I  was  married — 
How  sorry  you  will  be  when  I've  miscarried  1 

CXLVIII. 
"  Was  it  for  this  that  no  Cortejo'  e'er 

I  yet  have  chosen  from  out  the  youth  of  Seville  ? 
Is  it  for  this  I  scarce  went  anywhere. 

Except  to  bull-fights,  mass,  play,  rout,  and  revel  ? 
Is  it  for  this,  whate'er  ray  suitors  were, 

I  favor'd  none — nay,  was  almost  uncivil  ? 
Is  it  for  this  that  General  Count  O'Reilly, 
Who  took  Algiers,"  declares  I  used  him  vilely  i 

CXLIX. 
"  Did  not  the  Italian  Musico  Cazzani 

Sing  at  my  heart  six  months  at  least  in  vain  ? 
Did  not  his  counti^man.  Count  Comiani, 

Call  me  the  only  virtuous  wife  in  Spain  ? 
Were  there  not  also  Russians,  English,  many  ? 

The  Count  Strongstroganofl'  I  put  in  pain. 
And  Lord  Mount  Coffeehouse,  the  Irish  peer. 
Who  kill'd  himself  for  love  (with  wine)  last  year. 

CL. 
"  Have  I  not  had  two  bishops  at  my  feet  ? 

The  Duke  of  Ichar,  and  Don  Fernan  Nunez ; 
And  is  it  thus  a  faithful  wife  you  treat  ? 

I  wonder  in  what  q\iartcr  now  the  moon  is  : 
I  praise  your  vast  forbearance  not  to  beat 

Me  also,  since  the  time  so  opportune  is — 
Oh,  valiant  man  !  with  sword  drawn  and  cock'd  trig- 
Now,  tell  me,  don't  you  cut  a  pretty  figure  ?       [gor, 

CLI. 
"  Was  it  for  this  you  took  your  sudden  journey, 

Under  pretence  of  business  indispensable 
With  that  sublime  of  rascals  your  attorney, 

WTiom  I  see  standing  there,  and  looking  sensible 
Of  having  play'd  the  fool  ?  though  both  I  spurn,  he 

Deserves  the  worst,  his  conduct 's  less  defensible, 
Because,  no  doubt,  'twas  for  his  dirty  fee. 
And  not  from  any  love  to  you  or  me. 

CLII. 

"  If  he  comes  here  to  take  a  deposition. 
By  all  means  let  the  gentleman  proceed  ; 

You've  made  the  apartment  in  a  fit  condition  : — 
There's  pen  and  ink  for  you,  sir,  when  you  need — 

talte  Algiers— but  Algiers  very  nearly  took  him :  he  and  his  army 
and  fleet  retreated  with  great  loss,  and  not  much  credit,  from  be- 
fore that  city,  in  the  year  1"5. 


6YS 


BYRON'S    WORKS 


Caxto  I. 


Let  every  thing  be  noted  with  precision, 

I  would  not  you  for  nothing  should  be  fee'd — 
But,  as  my  maid 's  undress'd,  pray  turn  your  spies  out." 
"Oh !"  sobb'd  Antonia,  "I  could  tear  their  eyes  out." 

CLIII. 
"  There  is  the  closet,  there  the  toilet,  there 

The  antechamber — search  thera  under,  over ; 
There  is  the  sofa,  there  the  great  arm-chair. 

The  chimney — which  would  really  hold  a  lover. 
I  wish  to  sleep,  and  beg  you  will  take  care 

And  make  no  further  noise,  till  you  discover 
The  secret  cavern  of  this  lurking  treasure — 
And  when  'tis  found,  let  me,  too,  have  that  pleasure. 

CLIV. 
"  And  now,  Hidalgo  !  now  that  you  have  thrown 

Doubt  upon  me,  confusion  over  all, 
Pray  have  the  courtesy  to  make  it  known 

Who  is  the  man  you  search  for  ?  how  d'  ye  call 
Him  ?  what's  his  lineage  ?  let  him  Ijut  be  shown — 

I  hope  he's  young  and  handsome— is  he  tall  ? 
Tell  me — and  be  assured,  that  since  you  stain 
My  honor  thus,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain. 

CLV. 
"  At  least,  perhaps,  he  has  not  sixty  years, 

At  that  age  he  would  be  too  old  for  slaughter, 
Or  for  so  young  a  husband's  jealous  fears — 

(Antonia  !  let  me  have  a  glass  of  water.) 
I  am  ashamed  of  having  shed  these  tears, 

They  are  unworthy  of  my  father's  daughter  ; 
My  mother  dream'd  not  in  my  natal  hour, 
That  I  should  faU  into  a  monster's  power. 

CLVI. 
"  Perhaps  'tis  of  Antonia  you  are  jealous. 

You  saw  that  she  was  sleeping  by  my  side. 
When  you  broke  iu  upon  us  with  your  fellows  : 

Look  where  you  please — we've   nothing,  sir,  to 
Only  another  time,  I  trust,  you'll  tell  us,  [liide  ; 

Or  for  the  sake  of  decency  abide 
A  moment  at  the  door,  that  we  may  be 
Dress'd  to  receive  so  much  good  company. 

CLVII. 
"  And  now,  sir,  I  have  done,  and  say  no  more  ; 

The  little  I  have  said  may  serve  to  show 
The  guileless  heart  in  silence  may  grieve  o'er 

The  wrongs  to  whose  exposure  it  is  slow  : — 
I  leave  you  to  your  conscience  as  before, 

'Twill  one  day  ask  you  icliij  you  used  me  so  ? 
God  grant  you  feel  not  then  the  bitterest  grief ! — 
Antonia!  where'a  my  pocket-handkerchief  ?" 

CLVIII. 

She  ceased,  and  turn'd  upon  her  pillow  ;  pale  [tears. 
She  lay,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  through  their 


Like  skies  that  rain  and  lighten  ;  as  a  veil, 

Waved  and  o'ershading  her  wan  cheek,  appears 

Her  streaming  hair ;  the  black  curls  strive,  but  fail. 
To  hide  the  glossy  shoulder,  which  uprears 

Its  snow  through  all ; — her  soft  lips  lie  apart. 

And  louder  than  her  breathing  beats  her  heart. 

CLIX. 

The  Senhor  Don  Alfonso  stood  confused ; 

Antonia  bustled  round  the  ransack'd  room, 
And,  turning  up  her  nose,  with  looks  abused 

Her  master,  and  his  myrmidons,  of  whom 
Not  one,  except  the  attorney,  was  amused ; 

He,  like  Achates,  faithful  to  the  tomb. 
So  there  were  quarrels,  cared  not  for  the  cause, 
Knowing  they  must  be  settled  by  the  laws. 

CLX. 

With  prying  snub-nose,  and  small  eyes,  he  stood, 
Following  Antonia's  motions  here  and  there. 

With  much  suspicion  in  his  attitude  ; 
For  reputations  he  had  little  care  ; 

So  that  a  suit  or  action  were  made  good, 
Small  pity  had  he  for  the  young  and  fair, 

And  ne'er  believed  in  negatives,  till  these 

Were  proved  by  competent  false  witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But  Don  Alfonso  stood  with  downcast  looks. 
And,  truth  to  say,  he  made  a  foolish  figure  ; 

Wlien,  after  searching  in  five  hundred  nooks. 
And  treating  a  young  wife  with  so  much  rigor. 

He  gain'd  no  point,  except  some  self-rebukes, 
Added  to  these  his  lady  with  such  vigor 

Had  pour'd  upon  him  for  the  last  half  hour. 

Quick,  thick,  and  heavy — as  a  thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 
At  first  he  tried  to  hammer  an  excuse. 

To  which  the  sole  reply  was  tears,  and  sobs, 
And  indications  of  hysterics,  whose 

Prologue  is  always  certain  throes,  and  throbs, 
Gasps,  and  whatever  else  the  owners  choose  : 

Alfonso  saw  his  wife,  and  thought  of  Job's  ; 
He  saw  too,  in  perspective,  her  relations. 
And  then  he  tried  to  muster  all  his  patience. 

CLXIir. 

He  stood  in  act  to  speak,  or  rather  stammer. 
But  sage  Antonia  cut  him  short  before 

The  anvil  of  his  speech  received  the  hammer. 
With  "  Pray,  sir,  leave  the  room,  and  say  no  more. 

Or  madam  dies." — Alfonso  muttcr'd,  "  D — n  her," 
But  nothing  else,  the  time  of  words  was  o'er ; 

He  cast  a  rueful  look  or  two,  and  did. 

He  knew  not  wherefore,  that  which  he  was  bid. 


Canto  i. 


DON    JUAN. 


579 


CLXIV. 

Witli  him  retired  liis  '■^ posse  eojnilatus," 
The  attorney  last,  who  linger'd  near  the  door 

Reluctantly,  still  tarrying  there  as  late  as 
Antonia  let  him — not  a  little  sore 

At  this  most  strange  and  unexplain'd  "  Jiiahts'^ 
In  Don  Alfonso's  facts,  which  just  now  wore 

An  awkward  look  ;  as  he  revolved  the  case, 

The  door  was  fasten'd  in  his  legal  face. 

CLXV. 

No  sooner  was  it  bolted,  than — Oh  shame  ! 

Oh  sin  !  Oh  sorrow  !  and  Oh  womankind  ! 
How  can  you  do  such  tilings  and  keep  your  fame,      i 

Unless  this  world,  and  t'other  too,  be  blind  ? 
Nothing  so  dear  as  an  unfllch'd  good  name  ! 

But  to  proceed — for  there  is  more  behind : 
With  much  heartfelt  reluctance  be  it  said, 
Young  Juan  slipp'd  half-smother'd,  from  the  bed. 

CLXVI. 

He  had  been  hid — I  don't  pretend  to  say 
How,  nor  can  I  indeed  describe  the  where — 

Young,  slender,  and  pack'd  easily,  he  lay, 
No  doubt,  in  little  compass,  round  or  square  ; 

But  pity  him  I  neither  must  nor  may 
His  suffocation  by  that  pretty  pair  ; 

'Twere  better,  sure,  to  die  so,  than  be  shut 

With  maudlin  Clarence  in  his  Malmsey  butt. 

CLXVII. 

And,  secondly,  I  pity  not,  because 

He  had  no  business  to  commit  a  sin, 
Forbid  by  heavenly,  fined  by  human  laws. 

At  least  'twas  rather  early  to  begin  ; 
But  at  sixteen  the  conscience  rarely  gnaws 

So  much  as  when  we  call  our  old  debts  in 
At  sixty  years,  and  draw  the  accounts  of  evil, 
And  find  a  deuced  balance  with  the  devil. 

CLXVIII. 

Of  his  position  I  can  give  no  notion  : 
'Tis  written  in  the  Hebrew  Chronicle, 

How  the  physicians,  leaving  pill  and  potion, 
Prescribed,  by  way  of  blister,  a  young  belle, 

When  old  King  David's  blood  grew  dull  in  motion. 
And  that  the  medicine  answer'd  very  well ; 

Perhaps  'twas  in  a  different  way  applied. 

For  David  lived,  but  Juan  nearly  died. 

CLXIX. 
What's  to  be  done  ?  Alfonso  will  be  back 

The  moment  he  has  sent  his  fools  away. 
Antonia's  skill  was  put  upon  the  rack, 

But  no  device  could  be  brought  into  play — 
And  how  to  parry  the  renew'd  attack  ? 

Besides,  it  wanted  but  few  hours  of  day : 


Antonia  puzzled  ;  Julia  did  not  speak. 

But  press'd  her  bloodless  lip  to  Juan's  check. 

CLXX. 

He  tum'd  his  lip  to  hers,  and  with  his  hand 
Call'd  back  the  tangles  of  her  wandering  hair  ; 

Even  then  their  lovo  they  could  not  aU  command, 
And  half  forgot  their  danger  and  despair  : 

Antonia's  patience  now  was  at  a  stand — 

"  Come,  come,  'tis  no  time  now  for  fooling  there," 

She  whisper'd,  in  great  wrath — "  I  must  deposite 

This  pretty  gentleman  within  the  closet : 

CLXXT, 
"  Pray,  keep  your  nonsense  for  some  luckier  night — 

Who  can  have  put  my  master  in  this  mood  ? 
What  will  become  on  't — I'm  in  such  a  fright. 

The  devil 's  in  the  urchin,  and  no  good — 
Is  this  a  time  for  giggling  ?  this  a  plight  ? 

Why,  don't  you  know  that  it  may  end  in  blood  ? 
You'll  lose  your  life,  and  I  shall  lose  my  place. 
My  mistress  all,  for  that  half-girlish  face. 

CLXXII. 
"  Had  it  but  boon  for  a  stout  cavalier 

Of  twenty-five  or  thirty — (come,  make  haste) 
But  for  a  child,  what  piece  of  work  is  here  1 

I  really,  madam,  wonder  at  your  taste — 
(Come,  sir,  get  in) — my  master  must  be  near  : 

There,  for  the  present,  at  the  least,  he's  fast. 
And  if  we  can  but  till  the  morning  keep 
Our  counsel — (Juan,  mind,  you  must  not  sleep.)" 

CLXXIII. 
Now,  Don  Alfonso  entering,  but  alone. 

Closed  the  oration  of  the  trusty  maid  : 
She  loiter'd,  and  he  told  her  to  be  gone. 

An  order  somewhat  sullenly  obey'd  ; 
However,  present  remedy  was  none. 

And  no  great  good  seem'd  answer'd  if  she  stay'd ; 
Regarding  both  with  slow  and  sidelong  view, 
She  snuff'd  the  candle,  curtsied,  and  withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 
Alfonso  paused  a  minute — then  begun 

Some  strange  excuses  for  his  late  proceeding ; 
He  would  not  justify  what  he  had  done. 

To  say  the  best,  it  was  extreme  ill-breeding ; 
But  there  were  ample  reasons  for  it,  none 

Of  which  he  specified  in  this  his  pleading  : 
His  speech  was  a  fine  sample,  on  the  whole. 
Of  rhetoric,  which  the  learn'd  call  "  rigmarole.'''' 

CLXXV. 
Julia  said  naught ;  though  all  the  while  there  rose 

A  ready  answer,  which  at  once  enables 
A  matron,  who  her  husband's  foible  knows, 

By  a  few  timely  words  to  turn  the  tables, 


580 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Which,  if  it  does  not  silence,  still  must  pose, — 
Even  if  it  should  comprise  a  pack  of  fables  ; 
'Tis  to  retort  with  firmness,  and  when  he 
Suspects  with  one,  do  you  reproach  with  t?t7'ee. 

CLXXVI. 
Julia,  in  fact,  had  tolerable  grounds, — 

Alfonso's  loves  with  Inez  v^ere  well  known  ; 
But  whether  'twas  that  one's  own  guilt  confounds — 

But  that  can't  be,  as  has  been  often  shown, 
A  lady  with  apologies  abounds  ; — 

It  might  be  that  her  silence  sprang  alone 
From  delicacy  to  Don  Juan's  ear, 
To  whom  she  knew  his  mother's  fame  was  dear. 

CLXXVII. 
There  might  be  one  more  motive,  which  makes  two ; 

Alfonso  ne'er  to  Juan  had  alluded — 
Mention'd  his  jealousy,  but  never  who 

Had  been  the  happy  lover,  he  concluded, 
Conceal'd  amongst  his  premises  ;  'tis  true. 

His  mind  the  more  o'er  this  its  mystery  brooded  ; 
To  speak  of  Inez  now  were,  one  may  say, 
Like  throwing  Juan  in  Alfonso's  way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A  hint,  in  tender  cases,  is  enough  ; 

Silence  is  best,  besides  there  is  a  tact — 
(That  modem  phrase  appears  to  me  sad  stuff, 

But  it  will  serve  to  keep  my  verse  compact — ) 
Which  keeps,  when  push'd  by  questions  rather  rough, 

A  lady  always  distant  from  the  fact : 
The  charming  creatures  lie  with  such  a  grace. 
There's  nothing  so  becoming  to  the  face. 

CLXXIX. 
They  blush,  and  we  believe  them  ;  at  least  I 

Have  always  done  so ;  'tis  of  no  great  use, 
In  any  case,  attempting  a  reply. 

For  then  their  eloquence  grows  quite  profuse ; 
And  when  at  length  they're  out  of  breath,  they  sigh, 

And  cast  their  languid  eyes  down,  and  let  loose 
A  tear  or  two,  and  then  we  make  it  up  ; 
And  then — and  then — and  then — sit  down  and  sup. 

CLXXX. 
Alfonso  closed  his  speech,  and  begg'd  her  pardon. 

Which  Julia  half  withheld,  and  then  half  granted. 
And  laid  conditions  he  thought  very  hard  on. 

Denying  several  little  things  he  wanted : 
He  stood  like  Adam  lingering  near  his  garden. 

With  useless  penitence  perplex'd  and  haimted, 
Beseeching  she  no  further  would  refuse, 
Wlien,  lo  !  he  stumbled  o'er  a  pair  of  shoes. 

CLXXXI. 
A  pair  of  shoes  ! — what  then  ?  not  much,  if  they 
Are  such  as  fit  with  ladies'  feet,  but  these 


(No  one  can  tell  how  much  I  grieve  to  say) 
Were  masculine  ;  to  see  them,  and  to  seize. 

Was  but  a  moment's  act.  Ah  !  well-a-day  ! 
My  teeth  begin  to  chatter,  my  veins  freeze  ! 

Alfonso  first  examined  well  their  fashion. 

And  then  flew  out  into  another  passion. 

CLXXXII. 
He  left  the  room  for  hia  relinquish'd  sword. 

And  Julia  instant  to  the  closet  flew. 
"  Fly,  Juan,  fly  !  for  heaven's  sake — not  a  word — ■ 

The  door  is  open — you  may  yet  slip  through 
The  passage  you  so  often  have  explored — 

Here  is  the  garden-key — Flj' — fly — Adieu  ! 
Haste — haste  1  I  hear  Alfonso's  hurrying  feet — 
Day  has  not  broke — there's  no  one  in  the  street."" 

CLXXXIII. 

None  can  say  that  this  was  not  good  advice, 
The  only  mischief  was,  it  came  too  late ; 

Of  all  experience  'tis  the  usual  price, 
A  sort  of  income-tax  laid  on  by  fate  : 

Juan  had  reach'd  the  room-door  in  a  trice, 
And  might  have  done  so  by  the  garden-gate. 

But  met  Alfonso  in  his  dressing-gown. 

Who  threaten'd  death — so  Juan  knock'd  him  down. 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire  was  the  scuflle,  and  out  went  the  light  ; 

Antonia  cried  out  "  Rape  !"  and  Julia  "  Fire  I" 
But  not  a  servant  stirr'd  to  aid  the  fight. 

Alfonso,  pommell'd  to  his  heart's  desire, 
Swore  lustily  he'd  be  revenged  this  night ; 

Aud  Juan,  too,  blasphemed  an  octave  higher ; 
His  blood  was  up  :  though  young,  he  was  a  Tartar, 
And  not  at  all  disposed  to  prove  a  martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's  sword  had  dropp'd  ere  he  could  draw  it, 
And  they  continued  battling  hand  to  hand, 

For  Juan  very  luckily  ne'er  saw  it ; 

His  temper  not  being  under  great  command, 

If  at  that  moment  he  had  chanced  to  claw  it, 
Alfonso's  days  had  not  been  in  the  land 

Much  longer. — Think  of  husbands',  lovers'  lives  1 

And  how  ye  may  be  doubly  widows — wives  ! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso  grappled  to  detain  the  foe, 

And  Juan  throttled  him  to  get  away. 
And  blood  ('twas  from  the  nose)  began  to  flow ; 

At  last,  as  they  more  faintly  wrestling  lay, 
Juan  contrived  to  give  an  awkward  blow. 

And  then  his  only  garment  quite  gave  way : 
He  fled,  like  Joseph,  leaving  it ;  but  there, 
I  doubt,  all  likeness  ends  between  the  pair. 


Oanxo  I. 


DON  JUAN, 


581 


CLXXXVII. 

Lights  came  at  length,  and  men,  and  maids,  who 
An  awkward  spectacle  their  eyes  before ;     [found 

Antonia  in  hysterics,  Julia  swoon'd, 

Alfonso  leaning,  breathless,  by  the  door ; 

Some  half-torn  drapery  scatter'd  on  the  ground, 
Some  blood,  and  several  footsteps,  but  no  more  : 

Juan  the  gate  gain'd,  tum'd  the  key  about. 

And  liking  not  the  inside,  lock'd  the  out. 

CLXXXVIII. 
Here  ends  this  canto. — Need  I  sing,  or  say, 

How  Juan,  naked,  favor'd  by  the  night. 
Who  favors  what  she  should  not,  found  his  way, 

And  reach'd  his  home  in  an  unseemly  jjlight  ? 
The  pleasant  scandal  which  arose  next  day. 

The  nine  days'  wonder  which  was  brought  to 
And  how  Alfonso  sued  for  a  divorce,  [light. 

Were  in  the  English  newspapers,  of  course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If  you  would  like  to  see  the  whole  proceedings, 
The  depositions,  and  the  cause  at  full, 

The  names  of  all  the  witnesses,  the  pleadings 
Of  counsel  to  nonsuit,  or  to  annul, 

There's  more  than  one  edition,  and  the  readings 
Are  various,  but  they  none  of  them  are  dull 

The  best  is  that  in  short-hand  ta'en  by  Gurney, 

Who  to  Madrid  on  purpose  made  a  journey. 

CXC. 
But  Donna  Inez,  to  divert  the  train 

Of  one  of  the  most  circulating  scandals 
That  had  for  centuries  been  known  in  Spain, 

At  least  since  the  retirement  of  the  Vandals, 
First  vow'd  (and  never  had  she  vow'd  in  vain) 

To  Virgin  Mary  several  pounds  of  candles  : 
And  then,  by  the  advice  of  some  old  ladies. 
She  sent  her  son  to  be  shipp'd  off  from  Cadiz. 

CXCI. 

She  had  resolved  that  he  should  travel  through 

All  European  climes,  by  land  or  sea. 
To  mend  his  former  morals,  and  get  new, 

Especially  in  France  and  Italy, 
(At  least  this  is  the  thing  most  people  do.) 

Julia  was  sent  into  a  convent :  she 
Grieved,  but,  perhaps,  her  feelings  may  be  better 
Shown  in  the  following  copy  of  her  Letter : — 

CXCII. 
"  They  tell  me  'tis  decided ;  you  depart : 

'Tis  wise — 'tis  well,  but  not  the  less  a  pain  ; 
I  have  no  further  claim  on  your  young  heart. 

Mine  is  the  victim,  and  would  be  again  ; 
To  love  too  much  has  been  the  only  art 

I  used ; — I  write  in  haste,  and  if  a  stain 


Be  on  this  sheet,  'tis  not  what  it  appears  ; 
My  eyeballs  burn  and  throb,  but  have  no  tears. 

CXCIII. 
'•  I  loved,  I  love  you,  for  this  love  have  lost 

State,  station,  heaven,  mankind's,  my  own  esteem, 
And  yet  can  not  regret  what  it  hath  cost, 

So  dear  is  still  the  memory  of  that  dream  ; 
Yet,  if  I  name  my  guilt,  'tis  not  to  boast. 

None  can  deem  harshlicr  of  me  than  I  deem  : 
I  trace  this  scrawl  because  I  cannot  rest — 
I've  nothing  to  reproach,  or  to  request. 

CXCIV. 
"  Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 

'Tis  woman's  whole  existence  ;  man  may  range 
The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart, 

Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 
Pride,  fame,  ambition,  to  fill  up  his  heart. 

And  few  there  are  whom  these  cannot  estrange  ; 
Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one, 
To  love  again,  and  be  again  undone. 

CXCV. 
"  You  will  proceed  in  pleasure,  and  in  pride, 

Beloved  and  loving  many  ;  all  is  o'er 
For  me  on  earth,  except  some  years  to  hide 

My  shame  and  sorrow  deep  in  my  heart's  core  I 
These  I  could  bear,  but  cannot  cast  aside 

The  passion  which  still  rages  as  before, — 
And  so  farewell — forgive  me,  love  me — No, 
That  word  is  idle  now — but  let  it  go. 

CXCVI. 

"  My  breast  has  been  all  weakness,  is  so  yet ; 

But  still  I  think  I  can  collect  my  mind  ; 
My  blood  still  rushes  where  my  spirit 's  set, 

As  roll  the  waves  before  the  settled  wind ; 
My  heart  is  feminine,  nor  can  forget — 

To  all,  except  one  image,  madly  blind  ; 
So  shakes  the  needle,  and  so  stands  the  pole, 
As  vibrates  my  fond  heart  to  my  fix'd  souL 

CXCVII. 

"  I  have  no  more  to  say,  but  linger  still. 
And  dare  not  set  my  seal  upon  this  sheet. 

And  yet  I  may  as  well  the  task  fulfil. 
My  misery  can  scarce  be  more  complete  ; 

I  had  not  lived  till  now,  could  sorrow  kill ; 

Death  shuns  the  wretch  who  fain  the  blow  would 

And  I  must  even  survive  this  last  adieu,  [meet, 

And  bear  with  life,  to  love  and  pray  for  you  !" 

CXCVIII. 
This  note  was  written  upon  gilt-edged  paper 

AVith  a  neat  little  crow-quill,  slight  and  new  ; 
Her  small  white  hand  could  hardly  reach  the  taper. 

It  trembled  as  magnetic  needles  do, 


582 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


Canto  i 


And  yet  she  did  not  let  one  tear  escape  her ; 

The  seal  a  sun-flower ;  '■^Elle  vous  suit  partout" 
The  motto  cut  upon  a  white  cornelian  ; 
The  wax  was  superfine,  its  hue  vermillion. 

CXCIX. 

This  was  Don  Juan's  earliest  scrape ;  but  whether 
I  shall  proceed  with  his  adventure  is 

Dependent  on  the  public  altogether ; 

We'll  see,  however,  what  they  say  to  this, 

Their  favor  in  an  author's  cap  's  a  feather. 

And  no  great  mischief 's  done  by  their  caprice  ; 

And  if  their  approbation  we  experience. 

Perhaps  they'll  have  some  more  about  a  year  hence. 

CC. 

My  poem  's  epic,  and  is  meant  to  be 

Divided  in  twelve  books  ;  each  book  containing, 
With  love,  and  war,  a  heavy  gale  at  sea, 

A  list  of  ships,  and  captains,  and  kings  reigning. 
New  characters  ;  the  episodes  are  three  : 

A  panoramic  view  of  hell  's  in  training. 
After  the  style  of  Virgil  and  of  Homer, 
So  that  my  name  of  Epic  's  no  misnomer. 

C'CI. 

All  these  things  will  be  specified  in  time, 
With  strict  regard  to  Aristotle's  rules. 

The  Vade  Mee.um  of  the  true  sublime. 

Which  makes  so  many  poets,  and  some  fools  : 

Prose  poets  like  blank-verse,  I'm  fond  of  rhyme, 
Good  workmen  never  quarrel  with  their  tools  ; 

I've  got  new  mythological  machinery, 

And  very  handsome  supernatural  scenery. 

ecu. 
There 's  only  one  slight  difibrcnce  between 

Me  and  my  epic  brethren  gone  before. 
And  here  the  advantage  is  my  own,  I  ween  ; 

(Not  that  I  have  not  several  merits  more, 
But  this  will  more  peculiarly  be  seen  ;) 

They  so  embellish,  that  'tis  quite  a  bore 
Their  labyrinth  of  fables  to  thread  through, 
Whereas  this  story  's  actually  true. 

CCIII. 

If  any  person  doubt  it,  I  appeal 

To  history,  tradition,  and  to  facts, 
To  newspapers,  whose  truth  all  know  and  feel, 

To  plays  in  five,  and  operas  in  three  acts  ;' 
All  these  confirm  my  statement  a  good  deal. 

But  that  which  more  completely  faith  exacts 
Is,  that  myself,  and  several  now  in  Seville, 
Saw  Juan's  last  elopement  with  the  devil. 


'  ["  To  newspapers,  to  sermons,  which  the  zeal 

Of  pioHs  men  have  publialicd  on  his  acts."— MS.] 


CCIV. 
If  ever  I  should  condescend  to  prose, 

I'll  write  poetical  commandments,  which 
Shall  supersede  beyond  all  doubt  all  those 

That  went  before  ;  in  these  I  shall  enrich 
My  text  with  many  things  that  no  one  knows, 

And  carry  precept  to  the  highest  pitch  : 
I'll  call  the  work  "  Longinus  o'er  a  Bottle, 
Or,  Every  Poet  his  own  Aristotle." 

CCV. 

Thou  shalt  believe  in  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  set  up  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Because  the  first  is  crazed  beyond  all  hope,  [Southey ; 

The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  quaint  and  mouthy; 
With  Crabbo  it  may  be  difficult  to  cope. 

And  Campbell's  Hippocrene  is  somewhat  drouthy : 
Thou  shalt  not  steal  from  Samuel  Rogers,  nor 
Commit — flirtation  with  the  muse  of  Moore. 

CCVI. 

Thou  shalt  not  covet  Mr.  Sotheby's  Muse, 
His  Pegasus,  nor  any  tiling  that 's  his  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness  like  "the  Blues" — 
(There's  one,  at  least,  is  very  fond  of  this  ;) 

Thou  shalt  not  write,  in  short,  but  what  I  choose  : 
This  is  true  criticism,  and  you  may  kiss — 

Exactly  as  you  please,  or  not, — the  rod  ; 

But  if  you  don't,  I'U  lay  it  on,  by  G— d  1 

CCVII. 

If  any  person  should  presume  to  assert 

This  story  is  not  moral,  first,  I  pray, 
That  they  will  not  cry  out  before  they're  hurt. 

Then  that  they'll  read  it  o'er  again,  and  say, 
(But,  doubtless,  nobody  will  be  so  pert,) 

That  this  is  not  a  moral  tale,  though  gay  : 
Besides,  in  Canto  Twelfth,  I  mean  to  show 
The  very  place  where  wicked  people  go, 

CCVIII. 

If,  after  all,  there  should  be  some  so  blind 
To  their  o^vn  good  this  warning  to  despise, 

Led  by  some  tortuosity  of  mind. 
Not  to  believe  my  verse  and  their  own  eyes, 

And  cry  that  they  "  the  moral  cannot  find," 
I  tell  him,  if  a  clergyman,  he  lies  ; 

Should  captains  the  remark,  or  critics,  make. 

They  also  lie  too — under  a  mistake. 

CCIX. 
The  public  approbation  I  expect, 

And  beg  they'll  take  my  word  about  the  moral, 
Which  I  with  their  amusement  will  connect, 

(So  children  cutting  teeth  receive  a  coral ;) 
Meantime  they'll  doubtless  please  to  recollect 

My  epical  pretensions  to  the  laurel : 


Canto  i. 


DON    JUAN. 


683 


For  fear  some  prudish  readers  should  grow  skittish, 
I've  bribed  my  grandmother's  review — the  British. 

CCX. 
I  sent  it  in  a  letter  to  the  Editor, 

Who  thank'd  me  duly  by  return  of  post — 
I'm  for  a  handsome  article  his  creditor ; 

Yet,  if  my  gentle  Muse  he  please  to  roast, 
And  break  a  promise  after  having  made  it  her. 

Denying  the  receipt  of  what  it  cost, 
And  smear  his  page  with  gall  instead  of  honey, 
All  I  can  say  is— that  he  had  the  money. 

ccxr. 

I  think  that  with  this  holy  new  alliance 

I  may  ensure  the  public,  and  defy 
All  other  magazines  of  art  or  science. 

Daily,  or  monthly,  or  three  monthly  ;  I 
Have  not  essay'd  to  multiply  their  clients. 

Because  they  tell  me  'twere  in  vain  to  try, 
And  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  and  Quarterly 
Treat  a  dissenting  author  very  martyrly. 

CCXII. 

"  JVoH  ego  hoc  fcrrcm  calida  juvcnta 

Consule  Planeo,"  Horace  said,  and  so 
Say  I ;  by  which  quotation  there  is  meant  a 

Hint  that  some  six  or  seven  good  years  ago 
(Long  ere  I  dreamt  of  dating  from  the  Brenta) 

I  was  most  ready  to  return  a  blow. 
And  would  not  brook  at  all  this  sort  of  thing 
In  my  hot  youth — ^when  George  the  Third  was  King. 

CCXIII. 
But  now  at  thirty  years  my  hair  is  gray — 

(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  Uke  at  forty  ? 
I  thought  of  a  peruke  the  other  day — ) 

My  heart  is  not  much  greener  ;  and,  in  short,  I 
Have  squander'd  my  whole  summer  while  'twas  May, 

And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  to  retort ;  I 
Have  spent  my  life,  l5oth  interest  and  principal. 
And  deem  not,  what  I  deem'd,  my  soul  invincible. 

CCXIV. 
No  more — no  more — Oh  I  never  more  on  me 

The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like  dew, 
Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 

Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and  new. 
Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o'  the  bee, 

Think'st  thou  the  honey  with  tliose  objects  grew  ? 
Alas  !  "twas  not  in  them,  but  in  thy  power 
To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a  flower. 

CCXV. 
No  more — no  more — Oh  !  never  more,  my  heart, 

Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my  universe  I 
Once  all  in  all,  but  now  a  thing  apart. 

Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my  curse  : 


The  illusion  's  gone  forever,  and  thou  art 
Insensible,  I  trust,  but  none  the  worse. 
And  in  thy  stead  I've  got  a  deal  of  judgment, 
Though  heaven  knows  how  it  over  found  a  lodgment. 

CCXVI. 
My  days  of  love  arc  over  ;  me  no  more 

The  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less  of  widow. 
Can  make  the  fool  of  which  they  made  before, — 

In  short,  I  must  not  lead  the  life  I  did  do ; 
The  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is  o'er, 

The  copious  use  of  claret  is  forbid  too. 
So  for  a  good  old-gcntlcmanly  vice, 
I  think  I  must  take  up  with  avarice. 

CCXVII. 

Ambition  was  my  idol,  which  was  broken 
Before  the  shrines  of  Sorrow,  and  of  Pleasure ; 

And  the  two  last  have  left  mc  many  a  token. 
O'er  which  reflection  may  be  made  at  leisure  : 

Now,  like  Friar  Bacon's  brazen  head,  I've  spoken, 
"  Time  is,  Time  was,  Time  's  past :" — a  chymic 
treasure 

Is  glittering  youth,  which  I  have  spent  betimes — 

My  heart  in  passion,  and  my  head  on  rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

What  is  the  end  of  Fame  J  'tis  but  to  fill 
A  certain  portion  of  uncertain  paper  : 

Some  liken  it  to  climbing  up  a  hill, 
Whose  summit,  like  all  hills,  is  lost  in  vapor ; 

For  this  men  write,  speak,  preach,  and  heroes  kill. 
And  bards  bum  what  they  call  their  "  midnight 

To  have,  when  the  original  is  dust,  [taper," 

A  name,  a  wretched  picture,  and  worse  bust. 

CCXIX. 
What  arc  the  hopes  of  man  ?    Old  Egypt's  King 

Cheops  erected  the  first  pyramid 
And  largest,  thinking  it  was  just  the  thing 

To  keep  his  memory  whole,  and  mummy  hid  ; 
But  somebody  or  other  rummaging 

Burglariously  broke  his  coffin's  lid  : 
Let  not  a  monument  give  you  or  me  hopes, 
Since  not  a  pinch  of  dust  remains  of  Cheops. 

CCXX. 
But  I  being  fond  of  true  philosophy. 

Say  very  often  to  myself,  "  Alas  ! 
All  things  that  have  been  bom  were  bom  to  die, 

And  flesh  (which  Death  mows  down  to  hay)  is 
You've  pass'd  your  youth  not  so  unpleasantly,  [grass ; 

And  if  you  had  it  o'er  again — 'twould  pass — 
So  thank  your  stars  that  matters  are  no  worse. 
And  read  your  Bible,  sir,  and  mind  your  purse." 

CCXXI. 
But  for  the  present,  gentle  reader  !  and 

Still  gentler  purchaser  1  the  bard — that's  I — 


ff84 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Must,  with  permission,  shake  you  by  the  hand. 
And  so  your  humble  servant,  and  good-b'ye  ! 

We  meet  again,  if  we  should  understand 
Each  other ;  and  if  not,  I  shall  not  try 

Your  patience  further  than  by  this  short  sample — 

'Twere  Tvell  if  others  foUow'd  my  example. 

CCXXII. 
"  Go,  little  book,  from  this  my  solitude  ! 

I  cast  thee  on  the  waters — go  thy  ways  ! 
And  if,  as  I  believe,  thy  vein  be  good, 

The  world  will  find  thee  after  many  days." 
When  Southcy  's  read  and  Wordsworth  understood, 

I  can't  help  putting  in  my  claim  to  praise — 
The  four  first  rhymes  are  Southey's  every  line  : 
For  God's  sake,  reader  !  take  them  not  for  mine. 


DON    JUAN, 


CANTO    THK    SECONI>. 


Oh,  ye  !  who  teach  the  ingenuous  youth  of  nations, 
Holland,  France,  England,  Germany,  or  Spain, 

I  pray  ye  flog  them  upon  all  occasions. 

It  mends  their  morals,  never  mind  the  pain  : 

The  best  of  mothers  and  of  educations 
In  Juan's  case  were  but  employ'd  in  vain. 

Since,  in  a  way  that's  rather  of  the  oddest,  he 

Became  divested  of  his  native  modesty, 

II. 
Had  he  but  been  placed  at  a  public  school. 

In  the  third  form,  or  even  in  the  fourth. 
His  daily  task  had  kept  his  fancy  cool, 

At  least,  liad  he  been  nurtured  in  the  north  ; 
Spain  may  prove  an  exception  to  the  rule, 

But  then  exceptions  always  prove  its  worth — 
A  lad  of  sixteen  causing  a  divorce 
Puzzled  his  tutors  very  much,  of  course. 

III. 
I  can't  say  that  it  puzzles  me  at  all. 

If  all  things  be  considered  :  first,  there  was 
His  lady-mother,  mathematical, 

A never  mind ; — his  tutor,  an  old  ass  ; 

A  pretty  woman — (that's  quite  natural,  . 

Or  else  the  thing  had  hardly  came  to  pass  ;) 
A  husband  rather  old,  not  much  in  unity 
With  his  young  wife — a  time,  and  opportunity. 

IV. 

Well— well,  the  world  must  turn  upon  its  axis. 
And  all  mankind  turn  with  it,  heads  or  tails, 

And  live  and  die,  make  love  and  pay  our  taxes. 
And  as  the  veering  wind  shifts,  shift  our  sails ; 


The  king  commands  us,  and  the  doctor  quacks  us. 

The  priest  instructs,  and  so  our  life  exhales, 
A  little  breath,  love,  wine,  ambition,  fame. 
Fighting,  devotion,  dust, — perhaps  a  name. 

V. 
I  said,  that  Juan  had  been  scut  to  Cadiz — 

A  pretty  town,  I  recollect  it  well — 
"Tis  there  the  mart  of  the  colonial  trade  is, 

(Or  was,  before  Peru  learn'd  to  rebel,) 
And  such  sweet  girls— I  mean,  such  graceful  ladies, 

Their  very  walk  would  make  your  bosom  swell ; 
I  can't  describe  it,  though  so  much  it  strike, 
Nor  liken  it — I  never  saw  the  like  : 

VI. 
An  Arab  horse,  a  stately  stag,  a  barb 

New  broke,  a  cameleopard,  a  gazelle, 
No — none  of  these  will  do ;—  and  then  their  garb  ! 

Their  veil  and  petticoat — Alas  !  to  dwell 
Upon  such  things  would  very  near  absorb 

A  canto — then  their  feet  and  ankles, — well. 
Thank  Heaven  I've  got  no  metaphor  quite  ready, 
(And  so,  my  sober  Muse — come,  let's  be  steady — 

VII. 

Chaste  Muse  ! — well,  if  you  must,  you  must) — the  veil 
Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand. 

While  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart : — All  sunny  land 

Of  love  !  when  I  forget  you,  may  I  fail 

To say  my  prayers — but  never  was  there  plann'd 

A  dress  through  which  the  eyes  give  such  a  volley, 

Excepting  the  Venetian  Fazzioli. 

VIII. 
But  to  our  tale  :  the  Donna  Inez  sent 

Her  son  to  Cadiz  only  to  embark  ; 
To  stay  there  had  not  answcr'd  her  intent, 

But  why  ? — we  leave  the  reader  in  the  dark — 
'Twas  for  a  voyage  that  the  young  man  was  meant, 

As  if  a  Spanish  ship  were  Noah's  ark. 
To  wean  him  from  the  wickedness  of  earth, 
And  send  him  like  a  dove  of  promise  forth. 

I.X. 
Don  Juan  bade  his  valet  pack  his  things 

According  to  direction,  then  received 
A  lecture  and  some  money  :  for  four  springs 

He  was  to  travel ;  and  though  Inez  grieved, 
(As  every  kind  of  parting  has  its  stings,) 

She  hoped  he  would  improve — perhaps  believed  : 
A  letter,  too,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 
Of  good  advice — and  two  or  three  of  credit. 


In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away. 
Brave  Inez  now  set  up  a  Sunday  school 


Canto  ii. 


DON  JUAN, 


585 


For  naughty  children,  who  would  rather  play 
(Like  truant  rogues)  the  devil,  or  the  fool ; 

Infants  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that  day. 
Dunces  were  whipp'd,  or  set  upon  a  stool : 

The  great  success  of  Juan's  education, 

Spnrr'd  her  to  teach  another  generation. 

XI. 

Juan  embark'd — the  ship  got  under  way. 

The  wind  was  fair,  the  water  passing  rough  : 

A  devil  of  a  sea  rolls  in  that  bay. 

As  I,  who've  cross'd  it  oft,  know  well  enough  ; 

And  standing  upon  the  deck,  the  dashing  spray 
Flies  in  one's  face,  and  makes  it  weather-tough. 

And  there  he  stood  to  take,  and  take  again. 

His  first — perhaps  his  last — farewell  of  Spain. 

XII. 

I  can't  but  say  it  is  an  awkward  sight 

To  see  one's  native  land  receding  through 

The  growing  waters  ;  it  unmans  one  quite. 
Especially  when  life  is  rather  new  : 

I  recollect  Great  Britain's  coast  looks  white. 
But  almost  every  other  country  's  blue. 

When  gazing  on  them,  mystified  by  distance. 

We  enter  on  our  nautical  existence. 

XIII. 

So  Juan  stood,  bewilder'd  on  the  deck 

The  wind  sung,  cordage  strain'd,  and  sailors  swore. 
And  the  ship  crcak'd,  the  town  became  a  speck. 

From  which  away  so  fair  and  fast  they  bore. 
The  best  of  remedies  is  a  beef-steak 

Against  sea-sickness  :  try  it,  sir,  before 
You  sneer,  and  I  assure  you  this  is  true. 
For  I  have  found  it  answer — so  may  you. 

XIV. 

Don  Juan  stood,  and,  gazing  from  the  stem. 
Beheld  his  native  Spain  receding  far  : 

First  partings  form  a  lesson  hard  to  learn. 
Even  nations  feel  this  when  they  go  to  war ; 

There  is  a  sort  of  unexprcss'd  concern, 

A  kind  of  shock  that  sets  one's  heart  ajar  : 

At  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 

And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple. 

XV. 

But  Juan  had  got  many  things  to  leave, 
His  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  no  wife. 

So  that  he  had  much  better  cause  to  grieve, 
Than  many  persons  more  advanced  in  life  ; 

And  if  we  now  and  then  a  sigh  must  heave 
At  quitting  even  those  we  quit  in  strife, 

No  doubt  we  weep  for  those  the  heart  endears — 

That  is,  till  deeper  griefs  congeal  our  tears. 
74 


XVI. 

So  Juan  wept,  as  wept  the  captive  Jews 
By  Babel's  waters,  still  remembering  Sion  : 

I'd  weep, — but  mine  is  not  a  weeping  Muse, 

And  such  light  griefs  are  not  a  thing  to  die  on ; 

Young  men  should  travel,  if  but  to  amuse 
Themselves  ;  and  the  next  time  their  servants  tie 

Behind  their  carriages  their  new  portmanteau,    [on 

Perhaps  it  may  be  lined  with  this  my  canto. 

XVII. 

And  Juan  wept,  and  much  he  sigh'd  and  thought, 
While  his  salt  tears  dropp'd  into  the  salt  sea, 

"  Sweet  to  the  sweet ;"  (I  like  so  much  to  quote ; 
You  must  excuse  this  extract, — 'tis  where  she, 

The  Queen  of  Denmark,  for  Ophelia  brought 
Flowers  to  the  grave ;)  and,  sobbing  often,  he 

Reflected  on  his  present  situation. 

And  seriously  resolved  on  reformation. 

XVIII. 

"  Farewell,  my  Spain  !  a  long  farewell !"  he  cried, 
"  Perhaps  I  may  revisit  thee  no  more. 

But  die,  as  many  an  exiled  heart  hath  died, 
Of  its  own  thirst  to  see  again  thy  shore  : 

Farewell,  where  Guadalquivir's  waters  glide  ! 
Farewell,  my  mother  !  and,  since  all  is  o'er. 

Farewell,  too,  dearest  Julia ! — (here  he  drew 

Her  letter  out  again,  and  read  it  through.) 

XIX. 

"  And,  oh  !  if  e'er  I  should  forget,  I  swear — 
But  that's  impossible,  and  cannot  be — 

Sooner  shall  this  blue  ocean  melt  to  air. 
Sooner  shall  earth  resolve  itself  to  sea, 

Than  I  resign  thine  image,  oh,  my  fair  ! 
Or  think  of  any  thing  excepting  thee  ; 

A  mind  diseased  no  remedy  can  physic — 

(Here  the  ship  gave  a  lurch,  and  he  grew  sea-sick.) 

XX. 

"  Sooner  shall  heaven  kiss  earth — (here  he  fell  sicker) 
Oh,  Julia  !  what  is  every  other  wo  ?— 

(For  God's  sake  let  me  have  a  glass  of  liquor ; 
Pedro,  Battista,  help  me  down  below.) 

Julia,  my  love  ! — (you  rascal,  Pedro,  quicker) — • 
Oh,  Julia  ! — (this  cursed  vessel  pitches  so) — 

Beloved  Julia,  hear  mc  still  beseeching  !" 

(Here  he  grew  inarticulate  with  retching.) 

XXI. 
He  felt  that  chilling  heaviness  of  heart. 

Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas  !  attends. 
Beyond  the  best  apothecary's  art. 

The  loss  of  love,  the  triJachery  of  friends. 
Or  death  of  those  we  dote  on,  when  a  part 

Of  us  dies  with  them  as  each  fond  hope  ends  : 


686 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ir. 


No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more  pathetic, 
But  the  sea  acted  as  a  strong  emetic. 

XXII. 
Love  's  a  capricious  power  :  I've  known  it  hold 

Out  through  a  fever  caused  by  its  own  heat, 
But  be  much  puzzled  by  a  cough  and  cold. 

And  find  a  quinsy  very  hard  to  treat ; 
Against  all  noble  maladies  he  's  bold, 

But  vylgar  illnesses  don't  like  to  meet, 
Kor  that  a  sneeze  should  interrupt  his  sigh. 
Nor  inflammations  redden  his  blind  eye. 

XXIII. 

But  worst  of  all  is  nausea,  or  a  pain 
About  the  lower  region  of  the  bowels  ; 

Love,  who  heroically  breathes  a  vein, 

Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  towels. 

And  purgatives  are  dangerous  to  his  reign. 

Sea-sickness  death  :  his  love  was  perfect,  how  else 

Could  Juan's  passion,  while  the  billows  roar. 

Resist  his  stomach,  ne'er  at  sea  before  ? 

XXIV. 

The  ship,  call'd  the  most  holy  "  Trinidada," 
Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn  ; 

For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncada 
Were  settled  long  ere  Juan's  sire  was  bom  : 

They  were  relations,  and  for  them  he  had  a 
Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  mom 

Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  by 

His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 

XXV. 
His  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 

A  tutor,  the  licentiate  Pedrillo, 
Who  several  languages  did  understand. 

But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his  pillow, 
And,  rocking  in  his  hammock,  long'd  for  land. 

His  headache  being  increased  by  every  billow  ; 
And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole  made 
His  berth  a  little  damp,  and  him  afraid. 

XXVI. 
'Twas  not  without  some  reason,  for  the  wind 

Increased  at  night,  until  it  blew  a  gale  ; 
And  though  'twas  not  much  to  a  naval  mind, 

Some  landsmen  would  have  look'd  a  little  pale. 
For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a  different  kind  : 

At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  sail. 
For  the  sky  show'd  it  would  come  on  to  blow, 
And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a  mast  or  so. 

XXVII. 
At  one  o'clock  the  wind  with  sudden  shift 

Threw  the  ship  right  into  the  trough  of  the  sea. 
Which  struck  her  aft,  and  made  an  awkward  rift. 

Started  the  stem- post,  also  shattcr'd  t'jc 


Whole  of  her  stem-frame,  and,  ere  she  could  lift 

Herself  from  out  her  present  jeopardy. 
The  rudder  tore  away  :  'twas  time  to  sound 
The  pumps,  and  there  were  four  feet  water  found. 

XXVIII. 
One  gang  of  people  instantly  was  put 

Upon  the  pumps,  and  the  remainder  set 
To  get  up  part  of  the  cargo,  and  what  not ;. 

But  they  could  not  come  at  the  leak  as  yet ; 
At  last  they  did  get  at  it  really,  but 

Still  their  salvation  was  an  even  bet : 
The  water  rush'd  through  in  a  way  quite  puzzling. 
While  they  thrust  sheets,  shirts,  jackets,  bales  of 
muslin, 

XXIX. 

Into  the  opening  ;  but  all  such  ingredients     [down, 
Would  have  been  vain,  and  they  must  have  gone 

Despite  of  all  the  efforts  and  expedients. 

But  for  the  pumps  ;  I'm  glad  to  m.ike  them  known 

To  all  the  brother  tars  who  may  have  need  hence. 
For  fifty  tons  of  water  were  upthrown 

By  them  per  hour,  and  they  had  all  been  undone. 

But  for  the  maker,  Mr.  Mann,  of  London. 

XXX. 
As  day  advanced  the  weather  seem'd  to  abate. 

And  then  the  leak  they  reckon'd  to  reduce. 
And  keep  the  ship  afloat,  though  three  feet  yet 

Kept  two  hand  and  one  chain  pump  stiU  in  use. 
The  wind  blew  fresh  again  :  as  it  grew  late 

A  squall  came  on,  and  while  some  guns  broke  loose, 
A  gust — which  all  descriptive  power  transcends — 
Laid  with  one  blast  the  ship  on  her  beam  ends. 

XXXI. 

They  she  lay,  motionless,  and  seem'd  upset ; 

The  water  left  the  hold,  and  wash'd  the  decks, 
And  made  a  scene  men  do  not  soon  forget ; 

For  they  remember  battles,  fires,  and  wrecks, 
Or  any  other  thing  that  brings  regret, 

Or  breaks  their  hopes,  or  hearts,  or  heads,  or  necks  1 
Thus  drownings  are  much  talk'd  of  by  the  divers. 
And  swimmers,  who  may  chance  to  be  survivors. 

XXXII. 
Immediately  the  masts  were  cut  away. 

Both  main  and  mizen  ;  first  the  mizen  went, 
The  mainmast  foUow'd ;  but  the  ship  still  lay 

Like  a  mere  log,  and  baffled  our  intent. 
Foremast  and  bowsprit  were  cut  down,  and  they 

Eased  her  at  last,  (although  we  never  meant 
To  part  with  all  till  every  hope  was  blighted,) 
And  then  with  violence  the  old  ship  righted. 

XXXIII. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed,  while  this 

Was  going  on,  some  people  were  unquiet, 


Canto  ii. 


DON    JUAN. 


687 


That  passengers  would  find  it  much  anaiss 
To  lose  their  lives,  as  well  as  spoil  their  diet ; 

Tliat  even  the  able  seaman,  deeming  his 
Daj-s  nearly  o'er,  might  be  disposed  to  riot, 

As  upon  such  occasions  tars  will  ask 

For  grog,  and  sometimes  drink  rum  from  the  cask. 

XXXIV. 
There's  naught,  no  doubt,  so  much  the  spirit  calms 

As  rum  and  true  religion  :  thus  it  was,      [psalms, 
Some    plundcr'd,  some  drank    spirits,  some    sung 

The  high  wind  made  the  treble,  and  as  bass  [qualms 
The  hoarse  harsh  waves  kept  time  ;  fright  cured  the 

Of  all  the  luckless  landsmen's  sea-sick  maws  ; 
Strange  sounds  of  wailing,  blasphemy,  devotion, 
Clamor'd  in  chorus  to  the  roaring  ocean. 

XXXV. 

Perhaps  more  mischief  had  been  done,  but  for 
Our  Juan,  who,  with  sense  beyond  his  years, 

Got  to  the  spirit-room,  and  stood  before 
It  with  a  pair  of  pistols  ;  and  their  fears. 

As  if  Death  were  more  dreadful  by  his  door 
Of  fire  than  water,  spite  of  oaths  and  tears. 

Kept  still  aloof  the  crew,  who,  ere  they  sunk, 

Thought  it  would  be  becoming  to  die  drunk. 

XXXVI. 
"  Give  us  more  grog,"  they  cried,  "  for  it  will  be 

All  one  an  hour  hence."     Juan  answer'd,  "  Ko  ! 
'Tis  true  that  death  awaits  both  you  and  me. 

But  let  us  die  like  men,  not  sink  below 
Like  brutes  :" — and  thus  his  dangerous  post  kept  he. 

And  none  liked  to  anticipate  the  blow ; 
And  even  Pedrillo,  his  most  reverend  tutor, 
Was  for  some  rum  a  disappointed  suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The  good  old  gentleman  was  quite  aghast, 
And  made  a  loud  and  pious  lamentation ; 

Repented  aU  his  sins,  and  made  a  last 
Irrevocable  vow  of  reformation  ; 

Nothing  should  tempt  him  more  (this  peril  pass'd) 
To  quit  his  academic  occupation. 

In  cloisters  of  the  classic  Salamanca, 

To  follow  Juan's  wake,  like  Sancho  Panca. 

XXXVIII. 
But  now  there  came  a  flash  of  hope  once  more  ; 

Day  broke,  and  the  wind  luU'd :  the  masts  were 
gone. 
The  leak  increased ;  shoals  round  her,  but  no  shore, 

The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 
They  tried  the  pumps  again,  and  though  before 

Their  desperate  efforts  seem'd  all  useless  grown, 
A  gUmpse  of  sunshine  set  some  hands  to  bale — 
The  stronger  pumij'd,  the  weaker  thrumm'd  a  sail. 


XXXTX. 

Under  the  vessel's  keel  the  sail  was  pass'd, 
And  for  the  moment  it  had  some  effect ; 

But  with  a  leak,  and  not  a  stick  of  mast. 
Nor  rag  of  canvass,  what  could  they  expect  ? 

But  still  'tis  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 
'Tis  never  too  late  to  be  wholly  wreck'd  : 

And  though  'tis  true  that  man  can  only  die  once, 

'Tis  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

XL. 
There  winds  and  waves  had  htirl'd  them,  and  from 
thence. 

Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  away ; 
For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dispense, 

And  never  had  as  yet  a  quiet  day 
On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even  commence 

A  jurymast  or  rudder,  or  could  say 
The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by  good  luck, 
Still  swaip — though  not  exactly  Uke  a  duck. 

XL!. 
The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps,  was  rather  less, 

But  the  ship  labor'd  so,  they  scarce  could  hope 
To  weather  out  much  longer ;  the  distress 

Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope 
For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 

Was  scant  enough  :  in  vain  the  telescope 
Was  used — nor  sail  nor  shore  appear'd  in  sight. 
Naught  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

XLII. 

Again  the  weather  threaten'd, — again  blew 
A  gale,  and  in  the  fore  and  after  hold 

Water  appear'd ;  yet,  though  the  people  knew 
All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some  bold, 

Until  the  chains  and  leathers  were  worn  through 
Of  all  our  pumps  : — a  wreck  complete  she  roll'd, 

At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 

Like  human  beings  during  civil  war. 

XLIII. 
Then  came  the  cariienter,  at  last,  with  tears 

In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain  he 
Could  do  no  more  :  he  was  a  man  in  years. 

And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a  stormy  sea, 
And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 

That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be. 
But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children, — 
Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering. 

XLIV. 
The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 

Fast  by  the  head  ;  and,  all  distinction  gone, 
Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a  vow 

Of  candles  to  their  saints — but  there  were  none 
To  pay  them  with  ;  and  some  look'd  o'er  the  bow  ; 

Some  hoisted  out  the  boats  ;  and  there  tvas  one 


688 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  n. 


That  begg'd  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution, 

Who  told  him  to  be  damn'd — in  his  confusion. 

XLV. 

Some  lash'd  them  in  their  hammocks  ;  some  put  on 
Their  best  clothes,  as  if  going  to  a  fair  ; 

Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  the  sun. 
And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and,  howling,  tore  their 

And  others  went  on  as  they  had  begun,  [hair ; 

Getting  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware, 

That  a  tight  boat  wiU  live  in  a  rough  sea. 

Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee. 

XLVI. 
The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition. 

Having  been  several  days  in  great  distress, 
'Twas  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 

As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering  less  : 
Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition ; 

Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's  stress : 
Two  casks  of  biscuit,  and  a  keg  of  butter. 
Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter. 

XLVU. 
But  in  tlie  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 

Some  pounds  of  bread,  though  injured  by  the  wet ; 
Water,  a  twenty-gallon  cask  or  so  ; 

Six  flasks  of  wine  ;  and  they  contrived  to  get 
A  portion  of  their  beef  up  from  below. 

And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met. 
But  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a  luncheon — 
Then  there  was  rum,  eight  gallons  in  a  puncheon. 

XLVIII. 
The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace,  had 

Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale  ; 
And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad. 

As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  sail, 
And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  young  lad 

Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship's  rail ; 
And  two  boats  could  not  hold,  far  less  be  stored, 
To  save  one  half  the  people  then  on  board. 

XLIX. 
'Twas  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 

Over  the  waste  of  waters  ;  like  a  veil. 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 

Of  one  whose  face  is  mask'd  but  to  assail. 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown. 

And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale. 
And  the  dim  desolate  deep :  twelve  days  had  Pear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 


Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft. 
With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 

A  sort  of  thing  at  which  one  would  have  laugh'd. 
If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be. 


Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have  quaff'd. 

And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee, 
Half  epileptical,  and  half  hysterical : — 
Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 

LI. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hencoops,  spars. 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast  loose, 

That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use  : 

There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few  stars. 
The  boats  put  off  o'ercrowded  with  their  crews  ; 

She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port, 

And,  going  down  head  foremost — sunk,  in  short. 

LII. 
Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell — 

Then  shriek'd  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave, — 
Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  dreadful  yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave  ; 
And  the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a  hell. 

And  down  she  suck'd  with  her  the  whirling  wave, 
Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 
And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

LIII. 
And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rush'd. 

Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 
Of  echoing  thunder ;  and  then  all  was  hush'd. 

Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 
Of  billows  ;  but  at  intervals  there  gush'd. 

Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 
A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

LXV. 
The  boats,  as  stated,  had  got  off  before. 

And  in  them  crowded  several  of  the  crew  ; 
And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly  more 

Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it  blew. 
There  was  slight  chance  of  reacliing  any  shore ; 

And  then  they  were  too  many,  though  so  few — 
Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  in  the  boat. 
Were  counted  in  them  when  they  got  afloat. 

LV. 
All  the  rest  perish'd :  near  two  hundred  souls 

Had  left  their  bodies  ;  and  what 's  worse,  alas  ! 
Wlien  over  Catholics  the  ocean  rolls. 

They  must  wait  several  weeks  before  a  mass 
Takes  off  one  peck  of  purgatorial  coals. 

Because,  till  people  know  what 's  come  to  pass. 
They  won't  lay  out  their  money  on  the  dead — 
It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that's  said. 

LVI. 
Juan  got  into  the  long-boat,  and  there 
Contrived  to  help  Pedrillo  to  a  place ; 


Canto  ii. 


DON  JUAN, 


689 


It  seem'd  as  if  they  had  exchanged  their  care, 

For  Juan  wore  the  magisterial  face 
Which  courage  gives,  while  poor  Pcdrillo's  pair 

Of  eyes  were  crying  for  their  owner's  case  : 
Battista,  though,  (a  name  call'd  shortly  Tita,) 
Was  lost  by  getting  at  some  aqua-vita. 

LVII. 
Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he  tried  to  save. 

But  the  same  cause,  conducive  to  his  loss. 
Left  him  so  drunk,  he  jump'd  into  the  wave. 

As  o'er  the  cutter's  edge  he  tried  to  cross. 
And  so  he  found  a  wine-and-watery  grave  ; 

They  could  not  rescue  him  although  so  close. 
Because  the  sea  ran  higher  every  minute. 
And  for  the  boat — the  crew  kept  crowding  in  it. 

LVIII. 

A  small  old  spaniel, — which  had  been  Don  Jose's, 
His  father's,  whom  he  loved,  as  ye  may  think, 

For  on  such  things  the  memory  reposes 

With  tenderness — stood  howling  on  the  brink, 

Knowing,  (dogs  have  such  intellectual  noses  !) 
No  doubt,  the  vessel  was  about  to  sink  ; 

And  Juan  caught  him  up,  and  ere  he  stepp'd 

Off,  threw  him  in,  then  after  him  he  leap'd. 

LIX. 

He  also  stuff'd  his  money  where  he  could 

About  his  person,  and  Pedrillo's  too, 
Who  let  him  do,  in  fact,  whate'er  he  would, 

Not  knowing  what  himself  to  say,  or  do, 
As  every  rising  wave  his  dread  rcnew'd ; 

But  Juan,  trusting  they  might  still  get  through. 
And  deeming  there  were  remedies  for  any  ill, ' 
Thus  re-embark'd  his  tutor  and  his  spaniel. 

LX. 

'Twas  a  rough  night,  and  blew  so  stiffly  yet. 
That  the  sail  was  becalm'd  between  the  seas, 

Though  on  the  wave's  high  top  too  much  to  set, 
They  dared  not  take  it  in  for  all  the  breeze  : 

Each  sea  curl'd  o'er  the  stem,  and  kept  them  wet. 
And  made  them  bale  without  a  moment's  ease, 

So  that  themselves  as  well  as  hopes  were  damp'd, 

And  the  poor  little  cutter  quickly  swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine  souls  more  went  in  her  :  the  long-boat  still 
Kept  above  water,  with  an  oar  for  mast. 

Two  blankets  stitch'd  together,  answering  ill 
Instead  of  sail,  were  to  the  oar  made  fast ; 

Though  every  wave  roU'd  menacing  to  fill. 
And  present  peril  all  before  surpass'd, 

They  grieved  for  those  who  perish'd  with  the  cutter, 

And  also  for  the  biscuit-caska  and  butter. 


LXII. 
The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a  sure  sign 

Of  the  continuance  of  the  gale  :  to  run 
Before  the  sea  until  it  should  grow  fine, 

Was  all  that  for  the  present  could  be  done  : 
A  few  tea-spoonfuls  of  their  rum  and  wine 

Were  served  out  to  the  people,  who  begun 
To  faint,  and  damaged  bread  wet  through  the  bags, 
And  most  of  them  had  little  clothes  but  rags. 

LXIII. 

They  counted  thirty,  crowded  in  a  space 
Which  left  scarce  room  for  motion  or  exertion ; 

They  did  their  best  to  modify  their  case,  [sion, 

One  half  sate  up,  though  numb'd  with  the  immer- 

While  t'other  half  were  laid  down  in  their  place. 
At  watch  and  watch  ;  thus,  shivering  like  the  ter- 

Ague  in  its  cold  fit,  they  fiU'd  their  boat,  [tian 

With  nothing  but  the  sky  for  a  great  coat. 

LXIV. 

'Tis  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 

Prolongs  it :  this  is  obvious  to  physicians. 

When  patients,  neither  plagued  with  friends  nor 
Survive  through  very  desperate  conditions,  [wife, 

Because  they  still  can  hope,  nor  shines  the  knife 
Nor  shears  of  Atropos  before  their  visions  : 

Despair  of  all  recovery  spoils  longevity, 

And  makes  men's  miseries  of  alarming  brevity. 

LXV. 

'Tis  said  that  persons  living  on  annuities 

Are  longer  lived  than  others, — God  knows  why, 

Unless  to  plague  the  grantors, — yet  so  true  it  is, 
That  some,  I  really  think,  do  never  die  : 

Of  any  creditors  the  worst  a  Jew  it  is, 
And  that 's  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply  : 

In  my  young  days  they  lent  me  cash  that  way, 

Which  I  found  very  troublesome  to  pay. 

LXVI. 
'Tis  thus  with  people  in  an  open  boat. 

They  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear, 
More  than  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought, 

And  stand  like  rocks  the  tempest's  wear  and  tear ; 
And  hardship  still  has  been  the  sailor's  lot. 

Since  Noah's  ark  went  cruising  here  and  there  ; 
She  had  a  curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo, 
Like  the  first  old  Greek  privateer,  the  Argo. 

LXVII. 
But  man  is  a  carnivorous  production. 

And  must  have  meals,  at  least  one  meal  a  day ; 
He  cannot  live,  like  woodcocks,  upon  suction. 

But,  like  the  shark  and  tiger,  must  have  prey : 
Although  his  anatomical  construction 

Bears  vegetables,  in  a  grumbling  way, 


600 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Tour  laboring  people  think  beyond  all  question, 
Beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  better  for  digestion. 

LXVIII. 
And  thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  crew ; 

For  on  the  third  day  there  came  on  a  calm. 
And  though  at  first  their  strength  it  might  renew, 

And  lying  on  their  weariness  like  balm, 
LuU'd  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  the  blue 

Of  ocean,  when  they  woke  they  felt  a  qualm. 
And  fell  all  ravenously  on  their  provision. 
Instead  of  hoarding  it  with  due  precision. 

LXIX. 
The  consequence  was  easily  foreseen — 

They  ate  up  all  they  had,  and  drank  their  wine, 
In  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  and  then 

On  what,  in  feet,  next  day  were  they  to  dine  ? 
They  hoped  the  wind  would  rise,  these  foolish  men  ! 

And  carry  them  to  shore  ;  these  hopes  were  fine. 
But  as  they  had  but  one  oar,  and  that  brittle. 
It  would  have  been  more  wise  to  save  their  victual. 

LXX. 

The  fourth  day  came,  but  not  a  breath  of  air. 
And  Ocean  slumber'd  like  an  imwean'd  child  : 

The  fifth  day,  and  their  boat  lay  floating  there. 
The  sea  and  sky  were  blue,  and  clear,  and  mild — 

With  their  one  oar  (I  wish  they  had  had  a  pair) 
What  could  they  do  ?  and  hunger's  rage  grew 

So  Juan's  spaniel,  spite  of  his  entreating,        [wild  : 

Was  kill'd,  and  portion'd  out  for  present  eating. 

LXXI. 
On  the  sixth  day  they  fed  upon  his  hide. 

And  Juan,  who  had  still  refused,  because 
The  creature  was  his  father's  dog  that  died. 

Now  feeling  all  the  vulture  in  his  jaws, 
With  some  remorse  received  (though  first  denied) 

As  a  great  favor  one  of  the  fore-paws. 
Which  he  divided  with  Pedrillo,  who 
Dcvour'd  it,  longing  for  the  other  too. 

LXXII. 

The  seventh  day,  and  no  wind — the  burning  sun 
Blister'd  and  scorch'd,  and,  stagnant  on  the  sea. 

They  lay  like  carcasses  ;  and  hope  was  none. 
Save  in  the  breeze  that  came  not ;  savagely 

They  glared  upon  each  other — all  was  done. 
Water,  and  wine,  and  food, — and  you  might  see 

The  longings  of  the  cannibal  arise 

(Although  they  spoke  not)  in  their  wolfish  eyes. 

LXXIII. 
At  length  one  whisper'd  his  companion,  who 

Whisper'd  another,  and  thus  it  went  round, 
And  then  into  a  hoarser  murmur  grew 

An  ominous,  and  wild,  and  desperate  sound ; 


And  when  his  comrade's  thought  each  sufferer  knew, 
'Twas  but  his  own,  suppress'd  till  now,  he  found  : 
And  out  they  spoke  of  lots  for  flesh  and  blood, 
And  who  should  die  to  be  his  fellows'  food. 

LXXIV. 
But  ere  they  came  to  this,  they  that  day  shared 

Some  leathern  caps,  and  what  remain'd  of  shoes  ; 
And  then  they  look'd  around  them,  and  dcspair'd, 

And  none  to  be  the  sacrifice  would  choose  ; 
At  length  the  lots  were  torn  up,  and  prepared, 

But  of  materials  that  much  shock  the  Muse- 
Having  no  paper,  for  the  want  of  better. 
They  took  by  force  from  Juan  Julia's  letter. 

LXXV. 
The  lots  were  made,  and  mark'd,  and  mix'd,  and 

In  silent  horror,  and  their  distribution     [handed, 
LuU'd  even  the  savage  hunger  which  demanded, 

Like  the  Promethean  vulture,  this  pollution  ; 
Kone  in  particular  had  sought  or  plann'd  it, 

'Twas  nature  gnaw'd  them  to  this  resolution. 
By  which  none  were  permitted  to  be  neuter — 
And  the  lot  fell  on  Juan's  luckless  tutor. 

LXXVI. 
He  but  requested  to  be  bled  to  death  : 

The  surgeon  had  his  instruments,  and  bled 
Pedrillo,  and  so  gently  ebb'd  his  breath, 

You  hardly  could  perceive  when  he  was  dead. 
He  died  as  bom,  a  Catholic  in  faith. 

Like  most  in  the  belief  in  which  they  're  bred. 
And  first  a  little  crucifix  he  kiss'd. 
And  then  held  out  his  jugular  and  wrist. 

LXXVII. 
The  surgeon,  as  there  was  no  other  fee. 

Had  his  first  choice  of  morsels  for  his  pains  ; 
But  being  thirstiest  at  the  moment,  he 

Prcferr'd  a  draught  from  the  fast-flowing  veins : 
Part  was  divided,  part  thrown  in  the  sea. 

And  such  things  as  the  entrails  and  the  brains 
Regaled  two  sharks,  who  follow'd  o'er  the  billow — 
The  sailors  ate  the  rest  of  poor  Pedrillo. 

LXXVIII. 
The  sailors  ate  him,  all  save  three  or  four, 

Who  were  not  quite  so  fond  of  animal  food ; 
To  these  was  added  Juan,  who,  before 

Refusing  his  own  spaniel,  hardly  could 
Peel  now  his  appetite  increased  much  more  ; 

'Twas  not  to' be  expected  that  he  should, 
Even  in  extremity  of  their  disaster. 
Dine  with  them  on  his  pastor  and  his  master. 

LXXIX. 
'Twas  better  that  he  did  not ;  for,  in  fact. 
The  consequence  was  awful  in  the  extreme ; 


Canto  ii. 


DON    JUAN. 


591 


For  they,  who  were  most  ravenous  in  the  act, 
Went  raging  mad — Lord !  how  they  did  blaspheme ! 

And  foam  and  roll,  with  strange  convulsions  rack'd. 
Drinking  salt-water  like  a  mountain-stream, 

Tearing,  and  grinning,  howling,  screeching,  swear- 

And,  with  hyajna-laughter,  died  despairing.       [ing 

LXXX. 

Their  numbers  were  much  thinn'd  by  this  infliction, 
And  all  the  rest  were  thin  enough,  Heaven  knows ; 

And  some  of  them  had  lost  their  recollection. 

Happier  than  they  who  still  perceived  their  woes ; 

But  others  pondcrd  on  a  new  dissection. 
As  if  not  wam'd  sufficiently  by  those 

YTho  had  already  perish'd,  suffering  madly, 

For  having  used  their  appetites  so  sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And  next  they  thought  upon  the  master's  mate, 
As  fattest ;  but  he  saved  himself,  because. 

Besides  being  much  averse  from  such  a  fate. 
There  were  some  other  reasons  :  the  first  was. 

He  had  been  rather  indisposed  of  late  ; 

And  that  which  chiefly  proved  his  saving  clause, 

Was  a  small  present  made  to  him  at  Cadiz, 

By  general  subscription  of  the  ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of  poor  Pedrillo  something  still  remain'd, 
But  was  used  sparingly, — some  were  afraid. 

And  others  still  their  appetites  constrain'd. 
Or  but  at  times  a  little  supper  made  ; 

All  except  Juan,  who  throughout  abstain'd, 
Chewing  a  piece  of  bamboo,  and  some  lead  ; 

At  length  they  caught  two  boobies,  and  a  noddy. 

And  then  tliey  left  off  eating  the  dead  body. 

LXXXIII. 

And  if  Pedrillo's  fate  should  shocking  be, 

Remember  Ugolino  condescends 
To  eat  the  head  of  his  arch-enemy 

Tlie  moment  after  he  politely  ends 
His  tale  :  if  foes  be  food  in  hell,  at  sea 

'Tis  surely  fair  to  dine  upon  our  friends. 
When  shipwreck's  short  allowance  grows  too  scanty. 
Without  being  much  more  horrible  than  Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And  the  same  night  there  fell  a  shower  of  rain, 
For  which  their  mouths  gaped,  like  the  cracks  of 
earth 

Wlien  dried  to  summer  dust;  till  taught  by  pain. 
Men  really  Icnow  not  what  good  water 's  worth  ; 

If  you  had  been  in  Turkey  or  in  Spain, 

Or  wth  a  famish'd  boat's-crew  had  your  berth, 

Or  in  the  desert  heard  the  camel's  bell. 

You'd  wish  yourself  where  Trutli  is — in  a  well. 


LXXXV. 
It  pour'd  down  torrents,  but  they  were  no  richer 

Until  they  found  a  ragged  piece  of  sheet. 
Which  served  them  as  a  sort  of  spongy  pitcher. 

And  when  they  dcem'd  its  moisture  was  complete. 
They  wrung  it  out,  and  though  a  thirsty  ditcher 

Might  not  have  thought  the  scanty  draught  so 
As  a  full  pot  of  porter,  to  their  thinking  [sweet 

They  ne'er  till  now  had  known  the  joys  of  drinking. 

LXXXVI. 
And  their  baked  lips,  with  many  a  bloody  crack, 

Suck'd  in  the  moisture,  which  like  nectar  stream'd ; 
Their  throats  were  ovens,  their  swoln  tongues  were 
black. 

As  the  rich  man's  in  hell,  who  vainly  scream'd ; 
To  beg  the  beggar,  who  could  not  rain  back 

A  drop  of  dew,  when  every  drop  had  seem'd 
To  taste  of  heaven — If  this  be  true,  indeed, 
Some  Christians  have  a  comfortable  creed. 

■   LXXXVII. 
There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly  crew, 

And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 
Was  more  robust  and  hardy  to  the  view. 

But  he  died  early  ;  and  when  he  was  gone. 
His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire,  who  threw 

One  glance  at  him,  and  said,  "  Heaven's  will  bo 
I  can  do  nothing,"  and  he  saw  him  thrown  [done  ! 
Into  the  deep  without  a  tear  or  groan. 

LXXXVIII. 
The  other  father  had  a  weaklier  child. 

Of  a  soft  cheek,  and  aspect  delicate  ; 
But  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  with  a  mild 

And  patient  spirit  held  aloof  his  fate  ; 
Little  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smiled, 

As  if  to  win  a  part  from  off  the  weight 
He  saw  increasing  on  his  father's  heart, 
With  the  deep  deadly  thought,  that  they  must  part. 

LXXXIX. 

And  o'er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  raised 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the  foam 

From  his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on  him  gazed,     [come, 
And  when  the  wish'd-for  shower  at  length  was 

And  the  boy's  eyes,  which  the  dull  film  half  glazed, 
Brighten'd,  and  for  a  moment  seem'd  to  roam, 

He  squeezed  from  out  a  rag  some  drops  of  rain 

Into  his  dying  child's  mouth — but  in  vain. 

XC. 

The  boy  expired — the  father  held  the  clay. 
And  look'd  upon  it  long,  and  when  at  last 

Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burden  lay 
Stiff  on  his  heart,  and  jjulse  and  hope  were  past, 

He  watch'd  it  wistfully,  until  away 
'Twas  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein  'twast  cast ; 


502 


BYKON'S  WORKS. 


CAirro  II. 


Then  he  himself  sunk  down  all  dumb  and  shivering, 
And  gave  no  sign  of  life,  save  his  limbs  quivering. 

XCI. 

Now  ovcriiead  a  rainbow,  bursting  through 

The  scattering  clouds,  shone,  spanning  the  dark 

Resting  its  bright  base  on  the  quivering  blue;  [sea, 
And  all  within  its  arch  appear'd  to  bo 

Clearer  than  that  without,  and  its  wide  hue 
Wax'd  broad  and  waving,  like  a  banner  free. 

Then  changed  like  to  a  bow  that 's  bent,  and  then 

Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  these  shipwreck'd  men. 

XCII. 
It  changed,  of  course  ;  a  heavenly  cameleon, 

The  airy  child  of  vapor  and  the  sun. 
Brought  forth  in  purple,  cradled  in  vermilion. 

Baptized  in  molten  gold,  and  swathed  in  dun. 
Glittering  Uke  crescents  o'er  a  Turk's  pavilion, 

And  blending  every  color  into  one. 
Just  like  a  black  eye  in  a  recent  scuffle, 
(For  sometimes  we  must  box  without  the  muffle.) 

XCIII. 
■Our  shipwreck'd  seamen  thought  it  a  good  omen — • 

It  is  as  well  to  think  so,  now  and  then  ; 
'Twas  an  old  custom  of  the  Greek  and  Roman, 

And  may  become  of  great  advantage  when 
Folks  are  discouraged  ;  and  most  surely  no  men 

Had  greater  need  to  nerve  themselves  again 
Than  these,  and  so  this  rainbow  look'd  like  hope — 
Quite  a  celestial  kaleidoscope. 

XCIV. 
About  this  time  a  beautiful  white  bird, 

Webfooted,  not  unlike  a  dove  in  size 
And  plumage,  (probably  it  might  have  crr'd 

Upon  its  course,)  pass'd  oft  before  their  eyes, 
And  tried  to  perch,  although  it  saw  and  heard 

The  men  within  the  boat,  and  in  this  guise 
It  came  and  went,  and  flutter'd  round  them  till 
Night  fell : — this  seem'd  a  better  omen  stilL 

XCV. 
But  in  this  case  I  also  must  remark, 

'Twas  well  this  bird  of  promise  did  not  perch, 
Because  the  tackle  of  our  shatter'd  bark 

Was  not  so  safe  for  roosting  as  a  church  ; 
And  had  it  been  the  dove  from  Noah's  ark. 

Returning  there  from  her  successful  search. 
Which  in  their  way  that  moment  chanced  to  fall. 
They  would  have  eat  her,  olive-branch  and  all. 

XCVI. 

With  twilight  it  again  came  on  to  blow, 
But  not  with  violence  ;  the  stars  shone  out. 

The  boat  made  way ;  yet  now  they  were  so  low, 
They  knew  not  where  nor  what  they  were  about ; 


Some  fancied  they  saw  land,  and  some  said  "  No  !" 

The  frequent  fog-banks  gave  them  cause  to  doubt — 
Some  swore  that  they  heard  breakers,  others  guns, 
And  all  mistook  about  the  latter  once. 

XCVII. 

As  morning  broke,  the  light  wind  died  away, 
When  he  who  had  the  watch  sung  out  and  swore. 

If  'twas  not  land  that  rose  with  tho  sun's  ray, 
He  wish'd  that  land  he  never  might  see  more  : 

And  the  rest  rubb'd  their  eyes  and  saw  a  bay. 
Or  thought  they  saw,  and  shaped  their  course  for 

For  shore  it  was,  and  gradually  grew  [shore  ; 

Distinct,  and  high,  and  palpable  to  view. 

XCVIII. 
And  then  of  these  some  part  burst  into  tears. 

And  others,  looking  with  a  stupid  stare. 
Could  not  yet  separate  their  hopes  from  fears, 

And  seem'd  as  if  they  had  no  further  care ; 
While  a  few  pray'd — (the  first  time  for  some  years) — 

And  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  three  were 
Asleep  :  they  shook  them  by  the  hand  and  head, 
And  tried  to  awaken  them,  but  found  them  dead. 

XCIX. 

The  day  before,  fast  sleeping  on  the  water, 
They  found  a  turtle  of  the  hawk's-bill  kind, 

And  by  good  fortune,  gliding  softly,  caught  her. 
Which  yielded  a  day's  life,  and  to  their  mind 

Proved  even  still  a  more  nutritious  matter. 
Because  it  left  encouragement  behind  : 

They  thought  tliat  in  such  perils,  more  than  chance 

Had  sent  them  this  for  their  deUvcrance. 


The  land  appear'd  a  high  and  rocky  coast, 
And  higher  grew  the  mountains  as  they  drew, 

Set  by  a  current,  toward  it :  they  were  lost 
In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 

To  what  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been  toss'd, 
So  changeable  had  been  the  winds  that  blew ; 

Some  thought  it  was  Mount  .iEtna,  some  the  high- 

Of  Candia,  Cyprus,  Rhodes,  or  other  islands,  [lands 

CI. 
Meantime  the  current,  with  a  rising  gale, 

Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome  shore. 
Like  Charon's  bark  of  spectres,  dull  and  pale  : 

Their  living  freight  was  now  reduced  to  four. 
And  three  dead,  whom  their  strength  could  not  avail 

To  heave  into  the  deep  witli  those  before, 
Though  the  two   sharks   still   foUow'd   them,  and 
The  spray  into  their  faces  as  they  splash'd.    [dash'd 

CI  I. 

Famine,  despair,  cold,  thirst,  and  heat,  had  done 
Their  work  on  them  by  turns,  and  thinn'd  them  to 


Canto  n. 


DON    JUAN, 


693 


Such  things  a  mother  had  not  known  her  sou 
Amidst  the  skeletons  of  that  gaunt  crew ; 

By  night  chill'd,  by  day  scorch'd,  thus  one  by  one 
They  perish'd,  until  withcr'd  to  these  few, 

But  chiefly  by  a  species  of  self-slaughter, 

In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  salt  water, 

cm. 

As  they  drew  nigh  the  land,  which  now  was  seen 
Unequal  in  its  aspect  here  and  there, 

They  felt  the  freshness  of  its  growing  green. 
That  waved  in  forest-tops,  and  smooth'd  the  air, 

And  fell  upon  their  glazed  eyes  like  a  screen 
From  glistening  waves,  and  skies  so  hot  andbarc — 

Lovely  seem'd  any  object  that  should  sweep 

Away  the  vast,  salt,  dread,  eternal  deep. 

CIY. 
The  shore  look'd  wild,  without  a  trace  of  man. 

And  girt  by  formidable  waves  ;  but  they 
Were  mad  for  land,  and  thus  their  course  they  ran. 

Though  right  ahead  the  roaring  breakers  lay  : 
A  reef  between  them  also  now  began 

To  show  its  boiling  surf  and  bounding  spray, 
But  finding  no  place  for  their  landing  better. 
They  ran  the  boat  for  shore, — and  overset  her. 

CV. 

But  in  his  native  stream,  the  Guadalquivir, 
Juan  to  lave  his  youthful  limbs  was  wont ; 

And  having  leam'd  to  swim  in  that  sweet  river. 
Had  often  turn'd  the  art  to  some  account : 

A  better  swimmer  you  could  scarce  see  ever. 
He  could,  perhaps,  have  pass'd  the  Hellespont, 

As  once  (a  feat  on  which  ourselves  we  prided) 

Leandcr,  Mr.  Ekenhead,  and  I  did. 

cvr. 

So  here,  though  faint,  emaciated,  and  stark, 
He  buoy'd  his  boyish  limbs,  and  strove  to  ply 

With  the  quick  wave,  and  gain,  ere  it  was  dark, 
The  beach  which  lay  before  him,  high  and  dry  : 

The  greatest  danger  here  was  from  a  shark. 
That  carried  ofl'  his  neighbor  by  the  thigh  ; 

As  for  the  other  two,  they  could  not  swim, 

So  nobody  arrived  on  shore  but  him. 

cvir. 

Nor  yet  had  he  arrived  but  for  the  oar. 
Which,  providentially  for  him,  was  w.osh'd 

Just  as  his  feeble  arms  could  strike  no  more, 

And  the  bard  wave  o'erwhelm'd  him  as  'twas 

Within  his  grasp ;  he  clung  to  it,  and  sore   [dash'd. 
The  waters  beat  while  he  thereto  was  la,sh'd  ; 

At  last,  with  swimming,  wading,  scrambling,  ho 

Roll'd  on  the  beach,  half-Bcnseless,  from  the  sea : 
Y5 


CVIII. 

There,  breathless,  with  his  digging  nails  he  clung 
Fast  to  the  sand,  lest  the  returning  wave. 

From  whose  reluctant  roar  his  life  he  wrung. 
Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate  grave  : 

And  there  he  lay,  full  length,  where  he  was  flung. 
Before  the  entrance  of  a  cliff'- worn  cave, 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain. 

And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps,  in  vain. 

CIX. 

With  slow  and  staggering  effort  he  arose. 
But  sunk  again  upon  his  bleeding  knee 

And  quivering  hand ;  and  then  he  look'd  for  those 
Who  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea  : 

But  none  of  them  appcar'd  to  share  his  woes. 
Save  one,  a  corpse,  from  out  the  famish'd  three, 

Who  died  two  days  before,  and  now  had  found 

An  unknown  barren  beach,  for  burial  ground. 

ex. 

And  as  he  gazed,  his  dizzy  brain  spun  fast. 
And  down  he  sunk ;  and  as  he  sunk,  the  sand 

Swam  round  and  round,  and  all  his  senses  pass'd : 
He  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  stretch'd  hand 

Droop'd  dripping  on  the  oar,  (their  jury-mast,) 
And,  like  a  wither'd  lily,  on  the  land 

His  slender  frame  and  pallid  aspect  lay. 

As  fair  a  thing  as  e'er  was  form'd  of  clay. 

CXI. 
How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 

He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him. 
And  Time  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 

For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim  ; 
And  how  this  heavy  faintness  pass'd  away 

He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb, 
And  tingling  vein,  seem'd  throbbing  back  to  life. 
For  Death,  though  vanquish'd,  still  retired  with  strife. 

CXII. 

His  eyes  he  open'd,  shut,  again  unclosed. 

For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness  ;  he  thought 

He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 
And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o'erwrought, 

And  wish'd  it  death  in  which  he  had  reposed, 
And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back  were  brought. 

And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eyes  was  seen 

A  lovely  female  face  of  seventeen. 

CXIII. 
'Twas  bending  close  o'er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 

Seem'd  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath  ; 
And  chafing  him,  the  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 

Recall'd  his  answering  spirits  back  from  death  ; 
And,  bathing  his  chill  temi)les,  tried  to  soothe 

Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath' 


594 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Its  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 
To  these  Idnd  efforts  made  a  low  reply. 

CXIV. 
Then  was  the  cordial  pour'd,  and  mantle  flung 

Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs  ;  and  the  fair  arm 
Raised  higher  the  faint  head  which  o'er  it  hung  ; 

And  her  transparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 
Pillow'd  his  death-like  forehead  ;  then  she  wrung 

His  dewy  curls,  long  drench'd  by  every  storm  ; 
And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  throb  that  drew 
A  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom — and  hers,  too. 

CXV. 
And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave, 

The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant, — one 
Young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 

And  more  robust  of  figure, — then  begun 
To  kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 

Light  to  the  rocks  that  roof'd  them,  which  the  sun 
Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 
She  was,  appear'd  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

CXVI. 
Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 

That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair. 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roll'd 

In  braids  behind  ;  and  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould, 

They  nearly  reach'd  her  heel ;  and  in  her  air 
There  was  a  something  which  bespoke  command, 
As  one  who  Vv'as  a  lady  in  the  land. 

CXVII. 
Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn  ;  but  her  eyes 

Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue. 
Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 

Deepest  attraction  ;  for  when  to  the  view 
Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies. 

Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew  ; 
'Tis  as  the  snake  late  coil'd,  who  pours  his  length. 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

CXVIII. 
Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheek's  pure  dye 

Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun  ; 
Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips  !  that  make  us  sigh 

Ever  to  have  seen  such  ;  for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary, 

A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  aU's  done — 
I've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real. 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal. 

CXIX. 
I'll  toll  you  why  I  say  so,  for  'tis  just 

One  should  not  rail  without  a  decent  cause : 
There  was  an  Irish  lady,  to  whose  bust 

I  ne'er  saw  justice  done,  and  yet  she  was 


A  frequent  model ;  and  if  e'er  she  must 

Yield  to  stem  Time  and  Nature's  wrinkling  laws, 
They  will  destroy  a  face  which  mortal  thought 
Ne'er  compass'd,  nor  less  mortal  chisel  wrought. 

CXX. 
And  such  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  cave  : 

Her  dress  was  very  different  from  the  Spanish, 
Simpler,  and  yet  of  colors  not  so  grave  ; 

For,  as  you  know,  the  Spanish  women  banish 
Bright  hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet,  while  wave 

Around  them  (what  I  hope  will  never  vanish) 
The  basquina  and  the  mantilla,  they 
Seem  at  the  same  time  mystical  and  gay. 

CXXI. 
But  with  our  damsel  this  was  not  the  case  : 

Her  dress  was  many-color'd,  finely  spun  ; 
Her  locks  curl'd  negligently  round  her  face, 

But  through  them  gold  and  gems  profusely  shone : 
Her  girdle  sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 

Flow'd  in  her  veil,  and  many  a  precious  stone 
Flash'd  on  her  little  hand  ;  but,  what  was  shocking, 
Her  small  snow  feet  had  slippers,  but  no  stocking. 

CXXII. 
The  other  female's  dress  was  not  unlike 

But  of  inferior  materials  :  she 
Had  not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike, 

Her  hair  had  silver  only,  bound  to  be 
Her  dowry  ;  and  her  veil,  in  form  alike. 

Was  coarser  ;  and  her  air,  though  firm,  less  free  ; 
Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long  ;  her  eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,  and  of  smaller  size. 

CXXIII. 

And  these  two  tended  him,  and  cheer'd  him  both 
With  food  and  raiment,  and  those  soft  attentions, 

Which  are — (as  I  must  owti) — of  female  growth, 
And  have  ten  thousand  deUcate  inventions  : 

They  made  a  most  superior  mess  of  broth, 
A  thing  which  poesy  but  seldom  mentions. 

But  the  best  dish  that  e'er  was  cook'd  since  Homer's 

Achilles  order'd  dinner  for  new-comers. 

CXXIV. 
I'll  tell  you  who  they  were,  this  female  pair. 

Lest  they  should  seem  princesses  in  disguise ; 
Besides,  I  hate  all  mystery,  and  that  air 

Of  clap-trap,  which  your  recent  poets  prize  : 
And  so,  in  short,  the  girls  they  really  were 

They  shall  appear  before  your  curious  eyes. 
Mistress  and  maid  ;  the  first  was  only  daughter 
Of  an  old  man,  who  lived  upon  the  water. 

CXXV. 

A  fisherman  he  had  been  iu  his  youth. 
And  still  a  sort  of  fisherman  was  he ; 


Canto  ii. 


DON    JUAN. 


596 


But  other  speculations  were,  in  sooth, 
Added  to  his  connection  with  the  sea, 

Perhaps  not  so  respectable,  in  truth  : 
A  little  smuggling,  and  some  piracy, 

Left  him,  at  last,  the  sole  of  many  masters 

Of  an  ill-gotten  million  of  piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A  fisher,  therefore,  was  he, — though  of  men, 
Like  Peter  the  Apostle, — and  he  fish'd 

For  wandering  merchant-vessels,  now  and  then. 
And  sometimes  caught  as  many  as  he  wish'd  ; 

The  cargoes  he  confiscated,  and  gain 

He  sought  in  the  slave-market  too,  and  dish'd 

Full  many  a  morsel  for  that  Turkish  trade. 

By  which,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  may  be  made. 

CXXVII. 

He  was  a  Greek,  and  on  his  isle  had  built 
(One  of  the  wild  and  smaller  Cyclades) 

A  very  handsome  house  from  out  his  guilt. 
And  there  he  lived  exceedingly  at  ease  ; 

Heaven  knows  what  cash  he  got  or  blood  he  spilt, 
A  sad  old  fellow  was  he,  if  you  please  ; 

But  this  I  know,  it  was  a  spacious  building. 

Full  of  barbaric  carving,  paint,  and  gilding. 

CXXVIII. 
He  had  an  only  daughter,  call'd  Haidee, 

The  greatest  heiress  of  the  Eastern  Isles  ; 
Besides,  so  very  beautiful  was  she. 

Her  dowry  was  as  nothing  to  her  smiles  : 
Still  in  her  teens,  and  like  a  lovely  tree. 

She  grew  to  womanhood,  and  between  whiles 
Rejected  several  suitors,  just  to  learn 
How  to  accejjt  a  better  in  his  turn. 

CXXIX. 
And  walking  out  upon  the  beach,  below 

The  cliff,  towards  sunset,  on  that  day  she  found. 
Insensible,— not  dead,  but  nearly  so, — 

Don  Juan,  almost  famish'd,  and  half  drown'd  ; 
But  being  naked,  she  was  shock'd,  you  know. 

Yet  deem'd  herself  in  common  pity  bound, 
As  far  as  in  her  lay,  "  to  take  him  in, 
A  stranger"  dying,  with  so  white  a  skin. 

cxxx. 

But  taking  him  into  her  father's  house 
Was  not  exactly  the  best  way  to  save, 

But  like  conveying  to  the  cat  the  mouse. 
Or  people  in  a  trance  into  their  grave  ; 

Because  the  good  old  man  had  so  much  "  voi'tr," 
Unlike  the  honest  Arab  thieves  so  brave, 

He  would  have  hospitably  cured  the  stranger. 

And  sold  him  instantly  when  out  of  danger. 


CXXXI. 

And  therefore,  with  her  maid,  she  thought  it  best 

(A  virgin  always  on  her  maid  relies) 
To  place  him  in  the  cave  for  present  rest : 

And  when,  at  last,  he  open'd  his  black  eyes. 
Their  charity  increased  about  their  guest ; 

And  their  compassion  grew  to  such  a  size. 
It  open'd  half  the  tumpike-gates  to  heaven — 
(St.  Paul  says,  'tis  the  toll  which  must  be  given.) 

CXXXII. 
They  made  a  fire, — but  such  a  fire  as  they 

Upon  the  moment  could  contrive  with  such 
Materials  as  were  cast  up  round  the  bay, — 

Some  broken  planks,  and  oars,  that  to  the  tcuch 
Were  nearly  tinder,  since  so  long  they  lay 

A  mast  was  almost  crumbled  to  a  crutch  ; 
But,  by  God's  grace,  here  wrecks  were  in  such  plenty. 
That  there  was  fuel  to  have  fumish'd  twenty. 

CXXXIII. 
He  had  a  bed  of  furs,  and  a  pelisse. 

For  Haidde  stripp'd  her  sables  off  to  make 
His  couch  ;  and,  that  he  might  be  more  at  ease. 

And  warm,  ia  case  by  chance  he  should  awake. 
They  also  gave  a  petticoat  apiece. 

She  and  her  maid, — and  promised  by  daybreak 
To  pay  him  a  fresh  visit,  with  a  dish 
For  breakfast,  of  eggs,  coffee,  bread,  and  fish. 

CXXXIV. 
And  thus  they  left  him  to  his  lone  repose  : 

Juan  slept  like  a  top,  or  like  the  dead, 
Who  sleep  at  last,  perhaps,  (God  only  knows,) 

Just  for  the  present ;  and  in  his  luU'd  head 
Not  even  a  vision  of  his  former  woes 

Throbb'd  in  accursed  dreams,  which  sometimes 
spread 
Unwelcome  visions  of  our  former  years. 
Till  the  eye,  cheated,  opens  thick  with  tears. 

CXXXV. 
Young  Juan  slept  all  dreamless  : — but  the  maid, 

Who  smooth'd  his  pillow,  as  she  left  the  den 
Look'd  back  upon  him,  and  a  moment  stay'd. 

And  tum'd,  believing  that  he  caU'd  again. 
He  slumber'd  ;  yet  she  thought,  at  least  she  said, 

(The  heart  will  slip,  even  as  the  tongue  and  pen,) 
He  had  pronounced  her  name — but  she  forgot 
That  at  this  moment  Juan  knew  it  not. 

CXXXVI. 
And  pensive  to  her  father's  house  she  went, 

Enjoining  silence  strict  to  Zoe,  who 
Better  than  her  knew  what,  in  fact,  she  meant, 

She  being  wiser  by  a  year  or  two  : 
A  year  or  two 's  an  age  when  rightly  spent, 

And  Zoe  spent  hers,  as  most  women  do, 


596 


BYRON'S    WORKS, 


Canto  ii. 


In  gaining  all  that  useful  sort  of  knowledge 
■Which  is  acquired  in  Nature's  good  old  college. 

CXXXVII. 
The  morn  broke,  and  found  Juan  slumbering  still 

Fast  in  his  cave,  and  nothing  clash'd  upon 
His  rest ;  the  rushing  of  the  neighboring  rill. 

And  the  young  beams  of  the  excluded  sun. 
Troubled  him  not,  and  he  might  sleep  his  fill ; 

And  need  he  had  of  slumber  yet,  for  none 
Had  suffer'd  more — his  hardships  were  comparative 
To  those  related  in  my  gran-dad's  "  Narrative." 

CXXXVIII. 
Not  so  Haidee  :  she  sadly  toss'd  and  tumbled. 

And  started  from  her  sleep,  and,  turning  o'er, 
Dream'd  of  a  thousand  wrecks,  o'er  which  she  stum- 
bled, 

And  handsome  corpses  strew'd  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  woke  her  maid  so  early  that  she  grumbled, 

And  call'd  her  father's  old  slaves  up,  who  swore 
In  several  oaths — Armenian,  Turk,  and  Greek — 
They  knew  not  what  to  think  of  such  a  freak. 

CXXXIX. 
But  up  she  got,  and  up  she  made  them  get. 

With  some  pretence  about  the  sim,  that  makes 
Sweet  skies,  just  when  he  rises,  or  is  set ; 

And  'tis,  no  doubt,  a  sight  to  see  when  breaks 
Bright  Phoebus,  while  the  mountains  still  are  wet 

With  mist,  and  every  bird  with  him  awakes, 
And  night  is  flung  off  like  a  mourning  suit 
Worn  for  a  husband, — or  some  other  brute. 

CXL. 
I  say,  the  sun  is  a  most  glorious  sight, 

I've  seen  him  rise  full  oft,  indeed  of  late 
I  have  sat  up  on  purpose  all  the  night. 

Which  hastens,  as  physicians  say,  one's  fate  ; 
And  so  all  ye,  who  would  be  in  the  right 

In  health  and  purse,  begin  your  day  to  date 
From  daybreak,  and  when  cofiin'd  at  fourscore, 
Engrave  upon  the  plate,  you  rose  at  four. 

CXLI. 
And  Haidee  met  the  morning  face  to  face  ; 

Her  own  was  freshest,  though  a  feverish  flush 
Had  dyed  it  with  the  headlong  blood,  whose  race 

From  heart  to  cheek  is  curb'd  into  a  blush, 
Like  1^0  a  torrent  which  a  mountain's  base. 

That  overpowers  some  Alpine  river's  rush, 
Checks  to  a  lake,  whose  waves  in  circles  spread  ; 
Or  the  Red  Sea — but  the  sea  is  not  red. 

CXLII. 
And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came. 

And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps  drew, 
While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame. 

And  yovmg  Aurora  kiss'd  her  lips  with  dew, 


Taking  her  for  a  sister ;  just  the  same 

Mistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two. 
Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair, 
Had  all  the  advantage,  too,  of  not  being  air. 

CXLIir. 
And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidde  stcpp'd 

All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That  like  an  infant  Juan  sweetly  slept ; 

And  then  she  stopp'd,  and  stood  as  if  in  awe, 
(For  sleep  is  awful,)  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapp'd  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw, 
Should  reach  his  blood,  then  o'er  him  still  as  death 
Bent,  with  hush'd  lips,  that  drank  his  scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIV. 
And  thus  like  to  an  angel  o'er  the  dying 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  lean'd  ;  and  there 
All  tranquilly  the  shipwreck'd  boy  was  Ijing, 

As  o'er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air : 
But  Zoe  the  mean  time  some  eggs  was  frying. 

Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 
Must  breakfast,  and  betimes — lest  they  should  ask  it, 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket. 

CXLY. 
She  knew  that  the  best  feelings  must  have  victual, 

And  that  a  shipwreck'd  youth  would  hungry  be  ; 
Besides,  being  less  in  love,  she  yawn'd  a  little, 

And  felt  her  veins  chill'd  by  the  neighboring  sea  ; 
And  so,  she  cook'd  their  breakfast  to  a  tittle  ; 

I  can't  say  that  she  gave  them  any  tea. 
But  there  were  eggs,  fruit,  coffee,  bread,  fish,  houey, 
With  Scio  wine, — and  all  for  love,  not  money. 

CXLVI. 
And  Zoe,  when  the  eggs  were  ready,  and 

The  coffee  made,  would  fain  have  waken'd  Juan  ; 
But  Haidee  stopp'd  her  with  her  quick  small  hand, 

And  without  word,  a  sign  her  finger  drew  on 
Her  lip,  which  Zoe  needs  must  understand  ; 

And,  the  first  breakfast  spoil'd,  prepared  a  new  one, 
Because  her  mistress  would  not  let  her  break 
That  sleep  which  seem'd  as  it  would  ne'er  awake. 

CXLVII. 
For  still  he  lay,  and  on  his  thin  worn  cheek 

A  purple  hectic  play'd  like  dying  day 
On  the  snow-tops  of  distant  hills ;  the  streak 

Of  sufferance  yet  upon  his  forehead  lay,      [weak  ; 
Where  the  blue  veins  look'd  shadowy,  shrunk,  and 

And  his  black  curls  were  dewy  with  the  spray. 
Which  weigh'd  upon  them  yet,  all  damp  and  salt, 
Mix'd  with  the  stony  vapors  of  the  vault. 

CXLVIir. 
And  she  bent  o'er  him,  and  he  lay  beneath, 
Hush'd  as  the  babe  upon  its  mother's  breast, 


Canto  n. 


DON  JUAN. 


697 


Droop'd  as  the  willow  when  no  winds  can  breathe, 
Luird  like  the  depth  of  ocean  when  at  rest. 

Fair  as  the  crowning  rose  of  the  whole  wreath, 
Soft  as  the  callow  cygnet  in  its  nest ; 

In  short,  he  was  a  very  pretty  fellow. 

Although  his  W0C3  had  turn'd  him  rather  yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He  woke  and  gazed,  and  would  have  slept  again, 
But  the  fair  face  which  met  his  eyes  forbade 

Those  eyes  to  close,  though  weariness  and  pain 
Had  further  sleep  a  further  pleasure  made  ; 

For  woman's  face  was  never  forra'd  in  vain 
For  Juan,  so  that  even  when  he  pray'd 

He  turn'd  from  grisly  saints,  and  martyrs  hairy, 

To  the  sweet  portraits  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 

CL. 

And  thus  upon  his  elbow  he  arose. 

And  look'd  upon  the  lady,  in  whose  cheek 

The  pale  contended  with  the  purple  rose, 
As  with  an  effort  she  began  to  speak ; 

Her  eyes  were  eloquent,  her  words  would  pose, 
Although  she  told  him,  in  good  modern  Greek, 

With  an  Ionian  accent,  low  and  sweet, 

That  he  was  faint,  and  must  not  talk,  but  eat. 

CLI. 

Now  Juan  could  not  understand  a  word. 
Being  no  Grecian  ;  but  he  had  an  ear. 

And  her  voice  was  the  warble  of  a  bird. 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  delicately  clear. 

That  finer,  simpler  music  ne'er  was  heard  ; 
The  sort  of  sound  we  echo  with  a  tear. 

Without  knowing  why — an  overpowering  tone, 

Whence  Melody  descends  as  from  a  throne. 

CLII. 

And  Juan  gazed  as  one  who  is  awoke 
By  a  distant  organ,  doubting  if  he  be 

Not  yet  a  dreamer,  till  the  spell  is  broke 
By  the  watchman,  or  some  such  reality, 

Or  by  one's  early  valet's  cursed  knock  ; 
At  least  it  is  a  heavy  sound  to  me. 

Who  like  a  morning  slumber — for  the  night 

Shows  stars  and  women  in  a  better  light. 

CLIII. 

And  Juan,  too,  was  help'd  out  from  his  dream, 
Or  sleep,  or  whatsoe'er  it  was,  by  feeling 

A  most  prodigious  appetite  :  the  steam 
Of  Zoe's  cookery  no  doubt  was  stealing 

Upon  his  senses,  and  the  kindling  beam 

Of  the  new  fire  which  Zoe  kept  up,  kneeling 

To  stir  lier  viands,  made  him  quite  awake  * 

And  long  for  food,  but  chiefly  a  beefsteak. 


CLIV. 
But  beef  is  r4re  within  these  oxless  isles  ; 

Goat's  flesh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid,  and  mut- 
ton ; 
And,  when  a  holiday  upon  them  smiles, 

A  joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  they  put  on  : 
But  this  occurs  but  seldom,  between  whiles. 

For  some  of  these  are  rocks  with  scarce  a  hut  on, 
Others  are  fair  and  fertile,  among  which 
This,  though  not  large,  was  one  of  the  most  rich. 

CLV. 
I  say  that  beef  is  rare,  and  can't  help  thinking 

That  the  old  fable  of  the  Minotaur — 
From  which  our  modern  morals,  rightly  shrinking, 

Condemn  the  royal  lady's  taste  who  wore 
A  cow's  shape  for  a  mask — was  only  (sinking 

The  allegory)  a  mere  type,  no  more. 
That  Pasiphae  promoted  breeding  cattle. 
To  make  the  Cretans  bloodier  in  battle. 

CLVI. 
For  we  all  know  that  English  people  are 

Fed  upon  beef — I  won't  say  much  of  beer, 
Because  'tis  liquor  only,  and  being  far 

From  this  my  subject,  has  no  business  here  ; 
We  know,  too,  they  are  very  fond  of  war, 

A  pleasure — like  all  pleasures — rather  dear ; 
So  were  the  Cretans— from  which  I  infer. 
That  beef  and  battles  both  were  owing  to  her. 

CLVII. 
But  to  resume.    The  languid  Juan  raised 

His  head  upon  his  elbow,  and  he  saw 
A  sight  on  which  he  had  not  lately  gazed. 

As  all  his  latter  meals  had  been  quite  raw. 
Three  or  four  things,  for  which  the  Lord  be  praised, 

And,  feeling  still  the  famish'd  vulture  gnaw. 
He  fell  upon  whate'er  was  offer'd,  like 
A  priest,  a  shark,  an  alderman,  or  pike. 

CLVIII. 
He  ate,  and  he  was  well  supplied  :  and  she. 

Who  watch'd  him  like  a  mother,  would  have  fed 
Him  past  all  bounds,  because  she  smiled  to  see 

Such  appetite  in  one  she  had  deem'd  dead  : 
But  Zoe,  being  older  than  HaidCe, 

Knew  (by  tradition,  for  she  ne'er  had  road) 
That  famish'd  people  must  be  slowly  nursed. 
And  fed  by  spoonfuls,  else  they  always  burst. 

CLIX. 
And  80  she  took  the  liberty  to  state. 

Rather  by  deeds  than  words,  because  the  case 
Was  urgent,  that  the  gentleman,  whose  fate 

Had  made  her  mistress  quit  her  bed  to  trace 
The  sea-shore  at  this  hour,  must  leave  his  plate, 

Unless  he  wish'd  to  die  upon  the  place — 


598 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


She  snatch'd  it,  and  refused  another  morsel, 
Saying,  he  had  gorged  enough  to  make  a  horse  ill. 

CLX. 
Next  they — ^he  being  naked,  save  a  tattcr'd 

Pair  of  scarce  decent  trousers — went  to  work, 
And  in  the  fire  his  recent  rags  they  scatter'd. 

And  dress'd  him,  for  the  present,  like  a  Turk, 
Or  Greek — that  is,  although  it  not  much  matter'd, 

Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk, — 
They  fumish'd  him,  entire,  except  some  stitches, 
With  a  clean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breeches. 

CLXI. 
And  then  fair  Haidee  tried  her  tongue  at  speaking, 

But  not  a  word  could  Juan  comprehend. 
Although  he  listcn'd  so  that  the  young  Greek  in 

Her  earnestness  would  ne'er  have  made  an  end ; 
And,  as  he  interrupted  not,  went  eking 

Her  speech  out  to  her  protCgfi  and  friend, 
Till  pausing  at  the  last  her  breath  to  take, 
She  saw  he  did  not  imderstand  Romaic. 

CLXII. 
And  then  she  had  recourse  to  nods,  and  signs. 

And  smiles,  and  sparkles  of  the  speaking  eye, 
And  read  (the  only  book  she  could)  the  lines 

Of  his  fair  face,  and  found,  by  sympathy, 
The  answer  eloquent,  where  the  soul  shines 

And  darts  in  one  quick  glance  a  long  reply ; 
And  thus  in  every  look  she  saw  express'd 
A  world  of  words,  and  things  at  which  she  guess'd. 

CLXIII. 
And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes, 

And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 
A  lesson  in  her  tongue  ;  but  by  surmise, 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her  look : 
As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book, 
Thus  Juan  learn'd  his  alpha  beta  better 
From  HaidGe's  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

CLXIV. 

'Tis  pleasing  jto  be  school'd  in  a  strange  tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes — that  is,  I  mean. 

When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are  young, 
As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  I  have  been ; 

They  smile  so  when  one 's  right,  aziA  when  one 's  wrong 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  intervene 

Pressure  of  hands,  perhaps  even  a  chaste  kiss  ; — 

I  learu'd  the  little  that  I  know  by  this  : 

CLXV. 
That  is,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  and  Greek, 

Italian  not  at  all,  having  no  teachers  ; 
Much  English  I  can  not  pretend  to  speak. 

Learning  that  language  chiefly  from  its  preachers. 


Barrow,  South,  Tillotson,  whom  every  week 

I  study,  also  Blair,  the  highest  reachers 
Of  eloquence  in  piety  and  prose — 
I  hate  your  poets,  so  read  none  of  those. 

CLXVI. 
As  for  the  ladies,  I  have  naught  to  say, 

A  wanderer  from  the  British  world  of  fashion. 
Where  I,  like  other  "  dogs,  have  had  my  day," 

Like  other  men,  too,  may  have  had  my  passion — 
But  that,  like  other  things,  has  pass'd  away. 

And  all  her  fools  whom  I  could  lay  the  lash  on : 
Foes,  friends,  men,  women,  now  are  naught  to  me, 
But  dreams  of  what  has  been,  no  more  to  be. 

CLXTII. 

Return  we  to  Don  Juan.    He  begun 
To  hear  new  words,  and  to  repeat  them  ;  but 

Some  feelings,  universal  as  the  sun. 
Were  such  as  could  not  in  his  breast  be  shut 

More  than  within  the  bosom  of  a  nun  : 

He  was  in  love, — as  you  would  be,  no  doubt. 

With  a  young  benefactress, — so  was  she. 

Just  in  the  way  we  very  often  see. 

CLXVIII. 
And  every  day  by  daybreak — rather  early 

For  Juan,  who  was  somewhat  fond  of  rest — 
She  came  into  the  cave,  but  it  was  merely 

To  see  her  bird  reposing  in  his  nest ; 
And  she  would  softly  stir  his  locks  so  curly, 

Without  disturbing  her  yet  slumbering  guest, 
Breathing  all  gently  o'er  his  cheek  and  mouth. 
As  o'er  a  bed  of  roses  the  sweet  south. 

CLXIX. 
And  every  mom  his  color  freshlicr  came. 

And  every  day  help'd  on  his  convalescence ; 
'Twas  well,  because  health  in  the  human  frame 

Is  pleasant,  besides  being  true  love's  essence. 
For  health  and  idleness  to  passion's  flame 

Are  oil  and  gunpowder  ;  and  some  good  lessons 
Are  also  learn'd  from  Ceres  and  from  Bacchus, 
Without  whom  Venus  will  not  long  attack  us. 

CLXX. 

While  Venus  fills  the  heart,  (without  heart  really 
Love,  though  good  always,  is  not  quite  so  good,) 

Ceres  presents  a  plate  of  vermicelli, — 
For  love  must  be  sustain'd  like  flesh  and  blood, — 

While  Bacchus  pours  out  wine,  or  hands  a  jelly : 
Eggs,  oysters,  too,  are  amatory  food ; 

But  who  is  their  purveyor  from  above 

Heaven  knows, — ^it  may  be  Neptune,  Pan,  or  Jove. 

CLXXI. 
When  Juan  woke  he  found  some  good  things  ready, 
A  bath,  a  breakfast,  and  the  finest  eyes 


Canto  u. 


DON    JUAN. 


599 


That  ever  made  a  youthful  heart  less  steady, 
Besides  her  maid's,  as  pretty  for  their  size  ; 

But  I  have  spoken  of  all  this  already — 
And  repetition  's  tiresome  and  unwise, — 

Well — Juan,  after  bathing  iu  the  sea, 

Came  always  back  to  coflfee  and  Haidfie. 

CLXXII. 
Both  were  so  young,  and  one  so  innocent, 

That  bathing  pass'd  for  nothing  ;  Juan  seem'd 
To  her,  as  'twere,  the  kind  of  being  sent. 

Of  whom  these  two  years  she  had  nightly  dream'd, 
A  something  to  be  loved,  a  creature  meant 

To  be  her  happiness,  and  whom  she  dcem'd 
To  render  happy  ;  all  who  joy  would  win 
Must  share  it, — Happiness  was  born  a  twin. 

CLXXIII. 
It  was  such  pleasure  to  behold  him,  such 

Enlargement  of  existence  to  partake 
Nature  with  him,  to  thrill  beneath  his  touch, 

To  watch  him  slumbering,  and  to  see  him  wake  : 
To  live  with  him  forever  were  too  much  ; 

But  then  the  thought  of  parting  made  her  quake  : 
He  was  her  own,  her  ocean-treasure,  cast 
Like  a  rich  wreck — her  first  love,  and  her  last. 

CLXXIV. 
And  thus  a  moon  roU'd  on,  and  fair  Haidfie 

Paid  daily  visits  to  her  boy,  and  took 
Such  plentiful  precautions,  that  still  he 

Remain'd  unknown  within  his  craggy  nook  ; 
At  last  her  father's  prows  put  out  to  sea, 

For  certain  merchantmen  upon  the  look, 
Not  as  of  yore  to  carry  off  an  lo. 
But  three  Ragusau  vessels,  bound  for  Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then  came  her  freedom,  for  she  had  no  mother, 
So  that,  her  father  being  at  sea,  she  was 

Free  as  a  married  woman,  or  such  other 
Female,  as  where  she  likes  may  freely  pass. 

Without  even  the  incumbrance  of  a  brother, 
The  freest  she  that  ever  gazed  on  glass  ; 

I  speak  of  Christian  lands  in  this  comparison. 

Where  wives,  at  least,  are  seldom  kept  in  garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now  she  prolong'd  her  visits  and  her  talk, 

(For  they  must  talk,)  and  he  had  leam'd  to  say 

So  much  as  to  propose  to  take  a  walk, — 
For  little  had  he  wander'd  since  the  day 

On  which,  like  a  young  flower  snapp'd  from  the 
stalk. 
Drooping  and  dewy  on  the  beach  he  lay, — 

And  thus  they  walk'd  out  in  the  aflcmooD, 

And  saw  the  sun  set  opposite  the  moon. 


CLXXVII. 
It  was  a  wild  and  breaker-beaten  coast, 

With  cliflFs  above,  and  a  broad  sandy  shore. 
Guarded  by  shoals  and  rocks  as  by  a  host. 

With  here  and  there  a  creek,  whose  aspect  wore 
A  better  welcome  to  the  tempest- toss'd  ; 

And  rarely  ceased  the  haughty  billow's  roar. 
Save  on  the  dead  long  summer  days,  which  make 
The  outstretch'd  ocean  glitter  like  a  lake. 

CLXXVIII. 
And  the  small  ripple  split  upon  the  beach 

Scarcely  o'erpass'd  the  cream  of  your  champagne, 
When  o'er  the  brim  the  sparkling  bumpers  reach, 

That  spring-dew  of  the  spirit !  the  heart's  rain  ! 
Few  things  surpass  old  wine  ;  and  they  may  preach 

Who  please, — the  more  because  they  preach  in 
vain, — 
Let  us  have  wine  and  women,  mirth  and  laughter, 
Sermons  and  soda-water  the  day  after. 

CLXXIX. 
Man,  being  reasonable,  must  get  drunk  ; 

The  best  of  life  is  but  intoxication  : 
Glory,  the  grape,  love,  gold,  in  these  are  sunk 

The  hopes  of  all  men,  and  of  every  nation  ; 
Without  their  sap,  how  branchless  were  the  trunk 

Of  life's  strange  tree,  so  fruitful  on  occasion  : 
But  to  return, — Get  very  drunk ;  and  when 
You  wake  with  headache,  you  shall  see  what  then. 

CLXXX. 
Ring  for  your  valet — bid  him  quickly  bring 

Some  hock  and  soda-water,  then  you'll  know 
A  pleasure  worthy  Xerxes  the  great  king  ; 

For  not  the  bless'd  sherbet,  sublimed  with  snow, 
Nor  the  first  sparkle  of  the  desert-spring, 

Nor  Burgundy  in  all  its  sunset  glow. 
After  long  travel,  ennui,  love,  or  slaughter. 
Vie  with  that  draught  of  hock  and  soda-water. 

CLXXXI. 
The  coast — I  think  it  was  the  coast  that  I 

Was  just  describing — Yes,  it  teas  the  coast — 
Lay  at  this  period  quiet  as  the  sky, 

The  sands  untumbled,  the  blue  waves  untoss'd, 
And  all  was  stillness,  save  the  sea-bird's  cry, 

And  dolphin's  leap,  and  little  billow  cross'd 
By  some  low  rock  or  shelve,  that  made  it  fret 
Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet. 

CLXXXII. 
And  forth  they  wander'd,  her  sire  being  gone. 

As  I  have  said,  upon  an  expedition  ; 
And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she  had  none, 

Save  Zoe,  who,  although  with  due  precision 
She  waited  on  her  lady  with  the  sun. 

Thought  daily  service  was  her  only  mission. 


600 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Bringing  warm  water,  wreathing  her  long  tresses, 
And  asking  now  and  then  for  cast-off  dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 
It  was  the  cooling  hour,  just  when  the  rounded 

Red  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  azure  hill, 
Which  then  seems  as  if  the  whole  earth  it  bounded. 

Circling  all  nature,  hush'd,  and  dim,  and  still. 
With  the  far  mountain-crescent  half  surrounded 

On  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  calm  and  chill 
Upon  the  other,  and  the  rosy  sky 
With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  thus  they  wandcr'd  forth,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Over  the  shining  pebbles  and  the  shells. 

Glided  along  the  smooth  and  hardcn'd  sand, 
And  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 

Work'd  by  the  storms,  yet  work'd  as  it  were  plann'd. 
In  hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roofs  and  cells. 

They  turn'd  to  rest ;  and,  each  clasp'd  by  an  arm, 

Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight's  purple  charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They  look'd  up  to  the  sky,  whose  floating  glow 
Spread  like  a  rosy  ocean,  vast  and  bright ; 

They  gazed  upon  the  glittering  sea  below, 

Wlience  the  broad  moon  rose  circling  into  sight ; 

They  heard  the  waves'  splash,  and  the  wind  so  low, 
And  saw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darting  light 

Into  each  other — and,  beholding  this, 

Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a  kiss  ; 

CLXXXVI. 
A  long,  long  kiss,  a  kiss  of  youth,  and  love, 

And  beauty,  all  concentrating  like  rays 
Into  one  focus,  kindled  from  above ; 

Such  kisses  as  belong  to  early  days. 
Where  heart,  and  soul,  and  sense,  in  concert  move, 

And  the  blood  's  lava,  and  the  pulse  a  blaze,    • 
Each  kiss  a  heart-quake, — for  a  kiss's  strength, 
I  think  it  must  be  reckon'd  by  its  length. 

CLXXXVII. 
By  length  I  mean  duration ;  theirs  endured  [reckon'd ; 

Heaven  knows  how  long — no  doubt  they  never 
And  if  they  had,  they  could  not  have  secured 

The  sum  of  their  sensations  to  a  second  : 
They  had  not  spoken  ;  but  they  felt  allured, 

As  if  their  souls  and  lips  each  other  beckon'd. 
Which,  being  join'd,  like  swarming  bees  they  clung — 
Their  hearts  the  flowers  from  whence  the  honey 
sprung. 

CLXXXVIxI. 

They  were  alone,  but  not  alone  as  they 

Who  shut  in  chambers  think  it  loneliness  ; 

The  silent  ocean,  and  the  starlit  bay. 
The  twilight  glow,  which  momently  grew  less, 


The  voiceless  sands,  and  dropping  caves,  that  lay 
I      Around  them,  made  them  to  each  other  press, 
I  As  if  there  were  no  life  beneath  the  sky 
i  Save  theirs,  and  that  their  life  could  never  die. 

I  CLXXXIX. 

They  fear'd  no  eyes  nor  cars  on  that  lone  beach. 
They  felt  no  terrors  from  the  night,  they  were 

All  in  all  to  each  other  :  though  their  speech 

Was  broken  words,  they  th  ouijli  t  a  language  there, — 

And  all  the  burning  tongues  the  passions  teach 
Found  in  one  sigh  the  best  interpreter 

Of  nature's  oracle — first  love, — that  all 

Which  Eve  has  left  her  daughters  since  her  falL 

CXC. 
Haidee  spoke  not  of  scruples,  ask'd  no  vowa. 

Nor  offer'd  any  ;  she  had  never  heard 
Of  plight  and  promises  to  be  a  spouse. 

Or  perils  by  a  loving  maid  incurr'd  ; 
She  was  all  which  pure  ignorance  allows. 

And  flew  to  her  young  mate  like  a  young  bird ; 
And,  never  having  dreamt  of  falsehood,  she 
Had  not  one  word  to  say  of  constancy. 

CXCI. 
She  loved,  and  was  beloved — she  adored, 

And  she  was  worshipp'd ;  after  nature's  fashion, 
Their  intense  souls,  into  each  other  pour'd. 

If  souls  could  die,  had  perish'd  in  that  passiou, — 
But  by  degrees  their  senses  were  restored. 

Again  to  be  o'ercome,  again  to  dash  on ; 
And,  beating  'gainst  his  bosom,  Haidiie's  heart 
Felt  as  if  never  more  to  beat  apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas  !  they  were  so  young,  so  beautiful. 
So  lonely,  loving,  helpless,  and  the  hour 

Was  that  in  which  the  heart  is  always  full, 
And,  having  o'er  itself  no  further  power. 

Prompts  deeds  eternity  can  not  annul. 
But  pays  off  moments  in  an  endless  shower 

Of  hell  fire — all  prepared  for  people  giving 

Pleasure  or  pain  to  one  another  living, 

CXCIII. 
Alas  !  for  Juan  and  Haidee  !  they  were 

So  loving  and  so  lovely — till  then  never. 
Excepting  our  first  parents,  such  a  pair 

Had  run  the  risk  of  being  damn'd  forever : 
And  HaidCe,  being  devout  as  well  as  fair. 

Had,  doubtless,  heard  about  the  Stygian  river, 
And  hell  and  purgatory — but  forgot 
Just  in  the  vei-y  crisis  she  should  not. 

CXCIV. 
They  look  upon  each  other,  and  their  eyes 
Gleam  in  the  moonlight ;  and  her  white  arfli  clasps 


^iij^:my  Qmco^  a^n€^  <yck^^ 


rULV  \-,\:.V.i    V\-<y^  THE  GIXfTEHINU   SEA  ilELCIW, 

wHENo:  thf;  BROArrMonti  kjose  ciRfJUKO  dtto  sight 

THt;V  HKAHD  THE   WAIT.S    SFTASH   A^Ti    THE  WWiJ  SO  LC»W 
IN10  EACH  OTHBh- 


DonJuan  Canto  3 


Jolmson  .Fry  J^  Company,  Pu"blisliers  .Ne-wYork . 


Canto  ii. 


DON  JUAN. 


601 


Round  Juan's  head,  and  his  around  her  lies 
Half  buried  in  the  tresses  -which  it  grasps ; 

She  sits  upon  his  knee,  and  drinks  his  sighs, 
He  hers,  until  they  end  in  broken  gasps  ; 

And  thus  they  form  a  group  that 's  quite  antique, 

Half  naked,  loving,  natural,  and  Greek. 

CXCV. 
And  when  those  deep  and  burning  moments  pass'd. 

And  Juan  sunk  to  sleep  within  her  arms, 
She  slept  not,  but  all  tenderly,  though  fast, 

Sustain'd  his  head  upon  her  bosom's  charms  ; 
And  now  and  then  her  eye  to  heaven  is  cast. 

And  then  on  the  pale  cheek  her  breast  now  warms, 
Pillow'd  on  her  o'erflowing  heart,  which  pants 
With  all  it  granted,  and  with  all  it  grants. 

CXCVI. 
An  infant  when  it  gazes  on  a  light, 

A  child  the  moment  when  it  drains  the  breast, 
A  devotee  when  soars  the  Host  in  sight. 

An  Arab  with  a  stranger  for  a  guest, 
A  sailor  when  the  prize  has  struck  in  fight, 

A  miser  filling  liis  most  hoarded  chest. 
Feel  rapture  ;  but  not  such  true  joy  are  reaping 
As   they  who  watch   o'er  what  they  love   while 
sleeping. 

CXCVII. 
For  there  it  lies  so  tranquil,  so  beloved, 

All  that  it  hath  of  life  with  us  is  living ; 
So  gentle,  stirless,  helpless,  and  unmoved. 

And  all  unconscious  of  the  joy  'tis  giving ; 
All  it  hath  felt,  inflicted,  pass'd,  and  proved, 

Ilush'd  into  depths  beyond  the  watcher's  diving ; 
There  lies  the  thing  we  love  with  all  its  errors 
And  all  its  charms,  like  death  without  its  terrors. 

CXCVIII. 
The  lady  watch'd  her  lover — and  that  hour 

Of  Love's,  and  Kight's,  and  Ocean's  solitude, 
O'erflow'd  her  soul  with  their  united  power ; 

Amidst  the  barren  sand  and  rocks  so  rude 
She    and    her    wave-worn    love    had   made    their 
bower. 

Where  naught  upon  their  passion  could  intrude, 
And  all  the  stars  tliat  crowded  the  blue  space 
Saw  nothing  happier  than  her  glowing  face. 

CXCIX. 
Alas  !  the  love  of  women  !  it  is  known 

To  be  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing ; 
For  all  of  theirs  upon  that  die  is  thrown. 

And  if  'tis  lost,  life  hath  no  more  to  bring 
To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone, 

And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger's  spring. 
Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing ;  yet,  as  real 
Torture  is  theirs,  what  they  inflict  they  feel. 
76 


cc. 

They  are  right ;  for  man,  to  man  so  oft  unjust. 
Is  always  so  to  women ;  one  sole  bond 

Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust ; 

Taught  to  conceal,  their  bursting  hearts  despond 

Over  their  idol,  till  some  wealthier  lust 
Buys  them  in  marriage — and  what  rests  beyond  ? 

A  thankless  husband,  next  a  faithless  lover, 

Then  dressing,  nursing,  praying,  and  all 's  over. 

CCI. 
Some  take  a  lover,  some  take  drams  or  prayers. 

Some  mind  their  household,  others  dissipation, 
Some  run  away,  and  but  exchange  their  cares. 

Losing  the  advantage  of  a  virtuous  station ; 
Few  changes  e'er  can  better  their  affairs, 

Tlieirs  being  an  unnatural  situation. 
From  the  dull  palace  to  the  dirty  hovel : 
Some  play  the  devil,  and  then  write  a  novel. 

con. 

Haid6e  was  Nature's  bride,  and  knew  not  this  ; 

HaidCe  was  Passion's  child,  born  where  the  sun 
Showers  triple  light,  and  scorches  even  the  kiss 

Of  his  gazelle-eyed  daughters  ;  she  was  one 
Made  but  to  love,  to  feel  that  she  was  his 

Who  was  her  chosen  ;  what  was  said  or  done 
Elsewhere  was  nothing. — She  had  naught  to  fear, 
Hope,  care,  nor  love,  beyond,  her  heart  beat  liere. 

CCIII. 

And  oh  !  that  quickening  of  the  heart,  that  beat  1 
How  much  it  costs  us  !  yet  each  rising  throb 

Is  in  its  cause  as  its  efiect  so  sweet, 
That  Wisdom,  ever  on  the  watch  to  I'ob 

Joy  of  its  alchemy,  and  to  repeat 

Fine  truths  ;  even  Conscience,  too,  has  a  tough  job 

To  make  us  understand  each  good  old  maxim. 

So  good — I  wonder  Castlereagh  don't  tax  'era. 

CCIV. 

And  now  'twas  done — on  the  lone  shore  were  plighted 
Their  hearts  ;  the  stars,  their  nuptial  torches,  shed 

Beauty  upon  the  beautiful  they  lighted  : 
Ocean  their  witness,  and  the  cave  their  bed 

By  their  own  feelings  hallow'd  and  united. 
Their  priest  was  Solitude,  and  they  were  wed  : 

And  they  were  happy,  for  to  their  young  eyes 

Each  was  an  angel,  and  earth  paradise. 

CCV. 

Oh,  Love  !  of  whom  great  Caesar  was  the  suitor, 

Titus  the  master,  Antony  the  slave, 
Horace,  Catullus,  scholars,  Ovid  tutor, 

Sappho  the  sage  blue-stocking,  in  whose  grave 
All  those  may  leap  who  rather  would  be  neuter — 

(Leucadia's  rock  still  overlooks  the  wave) — 


602 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Ob,  Love  !  thou  art  the  very  god  of  evil, 
For,  after  all,  ive  cannot  call  thee  devil. 

CCVI. 

Thou  mak'st  the  chaste  connubial  state  precarious, 
And  jestcst  with  the  brows  of  mightiest  men  : 

Cscsar  and  Pompey,  Mahomet,  Belisarius, 

Have  much  cmploy'd  the  muse  of  history's  pen  : 

Their  lives  and  fortunes  v.'ere  extremely  various. 
Such  worthies  Time  will  never  see  again  ; 

Yet  to  these  four  in  three  things  the  same  luck  holds. 

They  all  were  heroes,  conquerors,  and  cuckolds. 

CCVII. 

Thou  mak'st  philosophera  ;  there  's  Epicurus 

And  Aristippus,  a  material  crew  ! 
"Who  to  immoral  courses  would  allure  us 

By  theories  quite  practicable  too  ; 
If  only  from  the  devil  they  would  insure  us. 

How  pleasant  were  the  maxim,  (not  quite  new,) 
"  Eat,  drink,  and  love,  what  can  the  rest  avail  us  ?" 
So  said  the  royal  sage  Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 

But  Juan  !  had  he  quite  forgotten  Julia  ? 

And  should  he  have  forgotten  her  so  soon  ? 
I  can't  but  say  it  seems  to  me  most  truly  a 

Perplexing  question  ;  but,  no  doubt,  the  moon 
Does  these  things  for  us,  and  whenever  newly  a 

Palpitation  rises,  'tis  her  boon, 
Else  how  the  devil  is  it  that  fresh  features 
Have  such  a  charm  for  us  poor  human  creatures  ? 

CCIX. 

I  hate  inconstancy — I  loathe,  detest, 

Abhor,  condemn,  abjure  the  mortal  made 

Of  such  quicksilver  clay  that  in  his  breast 
No  permanent  foundation  can  be  laid  ; 

Love,  constant  love,  has  been  my  constant  guest,        I 
And  yet  last  night,  being  at  a  masquerade, 

I  saw  tire  prettiest  creature,  fresh  from  Milan, 

Which  gave  me  some  sensations  like  a  villain. 

CCX. 

But  soon  Philosophy  came  to  my  aid, 
And  whisper'd,  "  Think  of  every  sacred  tie  !" 

"  I  will,  my  dear  Philosophy  !"  I  said,  [eye  I 

"  But  then  her  teeth,  and  then,  oh.  Heaven  !  her 

I'll  just  inquire  if  she  be  wife  or  maid, 
Or  neither — out  of  curiosity." 

"  Stop  I"  cried  Philosophy,  with  air  so  Grecian, 

(Though  she  was  masquedthen  as  a  fair  Venetian  ;) 

CCXI. 
"  Stop  !"  so  I  stopp'd.— But  to  return  :  that  which 
Men  call  inconstancy  is  nothing  more 


Than  admiration  due  where  nature's  rich 
Profusion  with  young  beauty  covers  o'er 

Some  favor'd  object ;  and  as  in  the  niche 
A  lovely  statue  we  almost  adore, 

This  sort  of  adoration  of  the  real 

Is  but  a  heightening  of  the  "  beau  ideal." 

CCXII. 

Tis  the  perception  of  the  beautiful, 

A  fine  extension  of  the  faculties, 
Platonic,  universal,  wonderful,  [skies. 

Drawn  from  the  stars,  and  filter'd  through  the 
Without  which  life  would  be  extremely  dull ; 

In  short,  it  is  the  use  of  our  own  eyes. 
With  one  or  two  small  senses  added,  just 
To  hint  that  flesh  is  form'd  of  fiery  dust. 

CCXIII. 
Yet  'tis  a  painful  feeling,  and  unwilling. 

For  surely  if  we  always  could  perceive 
In  the  same  object  graces  quite  as  killing 

As  when  she  rose  upon  us  like  an  Eve, 
'Twould  save  us  many  a  heartache,  many  a  shilling, 

(For  we  must  get  them  anyhow,  or  grieve,) 
Whereas  if  one  sole  lady  pleased  forever. 
How  pleasant  for  the  heart,  as  well  as  liver ! 

CCXI  v. 
The  heart  is  like  the  sky,  a  part  of  heaven. 

But  changes  night  and  day,  too,  like  the  sky ; 
Now  o'er  it  clouds  and  thunder  must  be  driven, 

And  darkness  and  destruction  as  on  high  : 
But  when  it  hath  been  scorch'd,  and  pierced,  and 
riven. 

Its  storms  expire  in  water-drops  ;  the  eye 
Pours  forth  at  last  the  heart's  blood  turn'd  to  tears 
Which  make  the  English  climate  of  our  years. 

CCXV. 
The  liver  is  the  lazaret  of  bile. 

But  very  rarely  executes  its  function, 
For  the  first  passion  stays  there  such  a  while. 

That  all  the  rest  creep  in  and  form  a  junction, 
Like  knots  of  vipers  on  a  dunghill's  soil, 

Rage,  fear,  hate,  jealousy,  revenge,  compunction. 
So  that  all  mischiefs  spring  up  from  this  entrail. 
Like  earthquakes  from  the  hidden  fire  call'd  "  central." 

CCXVI. 
In  the  mean  time,  Avithout  proceeding  more 

In  this  anatomy,  I've  finish'd  now 
Two  hundred  and  odd  stanzas  as  before, 

That  being  about  the  number  I'll  allow 
Each  canto  of  the  twelve,  or  twenty-four ; 

And,  laying  do-\vn  my  pen,  I  make  my  bow, 
Leaving  Don  Juan  and  HaidCc  to  plead 
For  them  and  theirs  with  all  who  deign  to  read. 


i 


CAiTTO  111. 


DON    JUAN. 


603 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO    THE    TniRD. 


I. 


Hail,  Muse  !  et  cetera . — We  loft  Juan  sleeping, 
Pillow'd  upon  a  fair  and  happy  breast, 

And  watch'd  by  eyes  that  never  yet  knew  weeping. 
And  loved  by  a  j'oung  heart,  too  deeply  bless'd 

To  feel  the  jjoison  tljrough  her  spirit  creeping, 
Or  know  who  rested  there  ;  a  foe  to  rest 

Had  soil'd  the  current  of  lier  sinless  years, 

And  tum'd  her  pure  heart's  purest  blood  to  tears  ! 

il. 
Oh,  Love  !  what  is  it  in  this  world  of  ours 

Which  makes  it  fatal  to  be  loved  ?    Ah,  why 
With  cypress  branches    hast  thou  wreathed   thy 
bowers, 

And  made  thy  best  interpreter  a  sigh  ? 
As  those  who  dote  on  odors  pluck  the  flowers. 

And  place  them  on  their  breast — but  place  to  die — 
Thus  the  frail  beings  we  would  fondly  cherish 
Are  laid  within  our  bosoms  but  to  perish. 

III. 
In  her  first  passion  woman  loves  her  lover. 

In  all  the  others  all  she  loves  is  love, 
Which  grows  a  habit  she  can  ne'er  get  over. 

And  fits  her  loosely — like  an  easy  glove, 
As  you  may  find,  whene'er  you  like  to  prove  her  : 

One  man  alone  at  first  her  heart  can  move ; 
She  then  prefers  him  in  the  plural  number. 
Not  finding  that  the  additions  much  encumber. 

IV. 
I  know  not  if  the  fiiult  be  men's  or  theirs ; 

But  one  thing  's  pretty  sure ;  a  woman  planted 
(Unless  at  once  she  plunge  for  life  in  prayers) — 

After  a  decent  time  must  be  gallanted  ; 
Although,  no  doubt,  her  first  of  love  affairs 

Is  that  to  which  her  heart  is  whoUy  granted ; 
Yet  there  arc  some,  they  say,  who  have  had  7ione, 
But  those  who  have  ne'er  end  with  only  one. 

V. 
'Tis  melancholy,  and  a  fearful  sign 

Of  human  frailty,  folly,  also  crime. 
That  love  and  marriage  rarely  can  combine. 

Although  they  both  are  born  in  the  same  clime  ; 
Marriage  from  love,  like  vinegar  from  wine — 

A  sad,  sour,  sober  beverage — by  time 
Is  sharpen'd  from  its  high  celestial  flavor 
Down  to  a  very  homely  household  savor. 

VI. 
There  's  something  of  antipathy,  as  'twere, 
Between  their  present  and  their  future  state ; 


A  kind  of  flattery  that 's  hardly  fair 
Is  used  until  the  truth  arrives  too  late — 

Yet  what  can  people  do,  except  despair  ? 

The  same  things  change  their  names  at  such  a  rate ; 

For  instance — passion  in  a  lover 's  glorious, 

But  in  a  husband  is  pronounced  uxorious. 

VII. 
Men  grow  ashamed  of  being  so  very  fond ; 

They  sometimes  also  get  a  little  tired, 
(But  that,  of  course,  is  rare,)  and  then  despond : 

The  same  things  cannot  always  be  admired, 
Yet  'tis  "  so  nominated  in  the  bond," 

That  both  are  tied  till  one  shall  have  expired. 
Sad  thought !  to  lose  the  spouse  that  was  adorning 
Our  days,  and  put  one's  servants  into  mourning. 

Via. 

There  's  doulstless  something  in  domestic  doings 
Which  forms,  in  fact,  true  love's  antithesis  ; 

Romances  paint  at  full  length  people's  wooings, 
But  only  give  a  bust  of  marriages  ; 

For  no  one  cares  for  matrimonial  cooings. 
There 's  nothing  wrong  in  a  connubial  kiss  : 

Think  you,  if  Laura  had  been  Petrarch's  wife. 

He  would  have  written  sonnets  all  his  life  ? 

IX. 

All  tragedies  are  finish'd  by  a  death, 
All  comedies  are  ended  by  a  marriage ; 

The  future  states  of  both  are  left  to  faith, 
For  authors  fear  description  might  disparage 

The  worlds  to  come  of  both,  or  fall  beneath,  [riage ; 
And  then  both  worlds  would  punish  their  miscar- 

So  leaving  each  their  priest  and  prayer-book  ready, 

They  say  no  more  of  Death  or  of  the  Lady. 

X. 

The  only  two  that  in  my  recollection 

Have  sung  of  heaven  and  hell,  or  marriage,  are 

Dante  and  Milton,  and  of  both  the  affection 
Was  hapless  in  their  nuptials,  for  some  bar 

Of  fault  or  temper  ruin'd  the  connection, 

(Such  things,  in  fact,  it  don't  ask  much  to  mar ;) 

But  Dante's  Beatrice  and  Milton's  Eve 

Were  not  drawn  from  their  spouses,  you  conceive. 

XI. 
Some  persons  say  that  Dante  meant  theology 

By  Beatrice,  and  not  a  mistress — I, 
Although  my  opinion  may  require  apology. 

Deem  this  a  commentator's  fantasy. 
Unless  indeed  it  was  from  his  own  knowledge  he 

Decided  thus,  and  show'd  good  reason  why ; 
I  think  that  Dante's  more  abstruse  ecstatics 
Meant  to  personify  the  mathematics. 


604 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  lu. 


XII. 
HaidSe  and  Juan  were  not  married,  but 

The  fault  was  theirs,  not  mine  :  it  is  not  fair, 
Chaste  reader,  then,  in  any  way  to  put 

The  blame  on  me,  unless  you  wish  they  were ; 
Then  if  you'd  have  them  wedded,  please  to  shut 

The  book  which  treats  of  this  erroneous  pair. 
Before  the  consequences  grow  too  awful ; 
'Tis  dangerous  to  read  of  loves  unlawful. 

XIII. 
Yet  they  were  happy, — happy  in  the  illicit 

Indulgence  of  their  innocent  desires  ; 
But  more  imprudent  grown  with  every  visit, 

Haidfie  forgot  the  island  was  her  sire's  ; 
When  we  have  what  we  like,  'tis  hard  to  miss  it, 

At  least  in  the  beginning,  ere  one  tires ; 
Thus  she  came  often,  not  a  moment  losing. 
Whilst  her  piratical  papa  was  cruising. 

XIV. 
Let  not  his  mode  of  raising  cash  seem  strange, 

Although  he  fleeced  the  flags  of  every  nation, 
For  into  a  prime  minister  but  change 

His  title,  and  'tis  nothing  but  taxation  ; 
But  he,  more  modest,  took  an  humbler  range 

Of  life,  and  in  an  honester  vocation 
Pursued  o'er  the  high  seas  his  watery  journey, 
And  merely  practised  as  a  sea-attorney. 

XV. 
The  good  old  gentleman  had  been  detain'd 

By  winds  and  waves,  and  some  important  cap- 
tures ; 
And,  in  the  hope  of  more,  at  sea  remain'd, 

Although  a  squall  or  two  had  damp'd  his  raptures 
By  swamping  one  of  the  prizes  ;  he  had  chain'd 

His  prisoners,  dividing  them  like  chapters 
In  number'd  lots  ;  they  all  had  cufi"s  and  collars. 
And  averaged  each  from  ten  to  a  hundred  dollars. 

XVI. 
Some  he  disposed  of  ofi"  Cape  Matapan, 

Among  his  friends  the  Mainots  ;  some  he  sold 
To  his  Tunis  correspondents,  save  one  man 

Toss'd  overboard  unsaleable  (being  old)  ; 
Tlie  rest — save  here  and  there  some  richer  one, 

Reserved  for  future  ransom  in  the  hold. 
Were  link'd  alike,  as  for  the  common  people  he 
Had  a  large  order  from  the  Dey  of  Tripoli. 

XVII. 
The  merchandise  was  served  in  the  same  way. 

Pieced  out  for  diflferent  marts  in  the  Levant, 
Except  some  certain  portions  of  the  prey, 

Light  classic  articles  of  female  want, 
French  stuflfs,  lace,  tweezers,  toothpicks,  teapot,  tray, 

Guitars  and  castanets  from  Alicant, 


All  which  selected  from  the  spoil  he  gathers, 
Robb'd  for  his  daughter  by  the  best  of  fathers. 

XVIII. 
A  monkey,  a  Dutch  mastiflf,  a  mackaw, 

Two  parrots,  with  a  Persian  cat  and  kittens, 
He  chose  from  several  animals  he  saw — 

A  terrier,  too,  which  once  had  been  a  Briton's, 
Who  dying  on  the  coast  of  Ithaca,  [tance : 

The  peasants  gave  the  poor  dumb  thing  a  pit- 
These  to  secure  in  this  strong  blowing  weather, 
He  caged  in  one  huge  hamper  all  together. 

XIX. 
Then  having  settled  his  marine  affairs. 

Dispatching  single  cruisers  here  and  there. 
His  vessel  having  need  of  some  repairs. 

He  shaped  his  course  to  where  his  daughter  fair 
Continued  still  her  hospitable  cares  ; 

But  that  part  of  the  coast  being  shoal  and  bare, 
And  rough  with  reefs  which  ran  out  many  a  mile, 
His  port  lay  on  the  other  side  o'  the  isle. 

XX. 

And  there  he  went  ashore  without  delay, 
Having  no  custom-house  or  quarantine 

To  ask  him  awkward  questions  on  the  way, 
About  the  time  and  place  where  he  had  been  : 

He  left  his  ship  to  be  hove  down  next  day, 
With  orders  to  the  people  to  careen  ; 

So  that  all  hands  were  busy  beyond  measure. 

In  getting  out  goods,  ballast,  guns,  and  treasure. 

XXI. 
Arriving  at  the  summit  of  a  hill 

Wliich  overlook'd  the  white  walls  of  his  home. 
He  stopp'd. — What  singular  emotions  fill 

Their  bosoms  who  have  been  induced  to  roam  ! 
With  fluttering  doubts  if  all  be  well  or  ill — 

With  love  for  many,  and  with  fears  for  some  ; 
All  feelings  which  o'erleap  the  years  long  lost 
And  bring  our  hearts  back  to  their  starting-post. 

XXII. 

The  approach  of  home  to  husbands  and  to  sires. 
After  long  traveling  by  land  or  water, 

Most  naturally  some  small  doubt  inspires — • 
A  female  family  's  a  serious  matter ; 

(None  trusts  the  sex  more,  or  so  much  admires — 
But  they  hate  flattery,  so  I  never  flatter ;) 

Wives  in  their  husbands'  absences  grow  subtler, 

And  daughters  sometimes  run  off  with  the  butler. 

XXIII. 
An  honest  gentleman  at  his  return 

May  not  have  the  good  fortune  of  Ulysses  ; 
Not  all  lone  matrons  for  their  husbands  mourn. 

Or  show  the  same  dislike  to  suitors'  kisses  ; 


Cakto  m. 


DON  JUAN, 


605 


The  odds  are  that  he  finds  a  handsome  urn 

To  his  memory — and  two  or  three  young  misses 
Bom  to  some  friend,  who  holds  his  wife  and  riches — 
And  that  his  Argus  bites  him  by — the  breeches. 

XXIV. 
If  single,  probably  his  plighted  fair 

Has  in  his  absence  wedded  some  rich  miser ; 
But  all  the  better,  for  the  happy  pair 

May  quarrel,  and  the  lady  growing  wiser, 
He  may  resume  his  amatory  care 

As  cavalier  servente,  or  despise  her  ; 
And  that  his  sorrow  may  not  be  a  dumb  one. 
Write  odes  on  the  Inconstancy  of  Woman. 

XXV. 

And  oh  !  ye  gentlemen  who  have  already 
Some  chaste  liaison  of  the  kind — I  mean 

An  honest  friendship  with  a  married  lady — 
The  only  thing  of  this  sort  ever  seen 

To  last — of  all  connections  the  most  steady, 

And  the  true  Hymen,  (the  first 's  but  a  screen) — 

Yet  for  all  that  keep  not  too  long  away, 

I've  known  the  absent  wrong'd  four  times  a  day. 

XXVI. 
Lambro,  our  sea-solicitor,  who  had 

Much  less  experience  of  dry  land  than  ocean. 
On  seeing  his  own  chimney-smoke,  felt  glad ; 

But  not  knowing  metaphysics,  had  no  notion 
Of  the  true  reason  of  his  not  being  sad. 

Or  that  of  any  other  strong  emotion  ; 
He  loved  his  child,  and  would  have  wept  the  loss  of 

her. 
But  knew  the  cause  no  more  than  a  philosopher. 

XXVII. 
He  saw  his  white  walls  shining  in  the  sun, 

His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green  ; 
He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run. 

The  distant  dog-bark  ;  and  perceived  between 
The  umbrage  of  the  wood  so  cool  and  dun 

The  moving  figures,  and  the  sparkling  sheen 
Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm) — and  various  dyes 
Of  color'd  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 

XXVIII. 
And  as  the  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears. 

Surprised  at  these  unwonted  signs  of  idling, 
He  hears — alas  !  no  music  of  the  spheres. 

But  an  unhallow'd,  earthly  sound  of  fiddling ! 
A  melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  cars, 

The  cause  being  past  his  guessing  or  unriddling ; 
A  pipe,  too,  and  a  drum,  and  shortly  after, 
A  most  uuoricutal  roar  of  laughter. 

XXIX. 

And  still  more  nearly  to  the  place  advancing. 
Descending  rather  quickly  the  declivity. 


Through  the  waved  branches,  o'er  the  greensward 
glancing, 

'Midst  other  indications  of  festivity. 
Seeing  a  troop  of  his  domestics  dancing 

Like  dervises,  who  turn  as  on  a  pivot,  he 
Perceived  it  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance  so  martial. 
To  which  the  Levantines  are  very  partial. 

XXX. 
And  further  on  a  troop  of  Grecian  girls. 

The  first  and  tallest  her  white  kerchief  waving, 
Were  strung  together  like  a  row  of  pearls,  [ing 

Link'd  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing  ;  each  too  hav- 
Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls — 

(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  poets  raving ;) 
Their  leader  sang — and  bounded  to  her  song. 
With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  throng. 

XXXI. 

And  here,  assembled  cross-legg'd  round  their  trays, 
Small  social  parties  just  begun  to  dine  ; 

Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze, 
And  flasks  of  Samian  and  of  Chian  wine. 

And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase  ; 
Above  them  their  dessert  grew  on  its  vine ; 

The  orange  and  pomegranate  nodding  o'er 

Dropp'd  in  their  lips,  scarce  pluck'd,  their  mellow 
store. 

XXXII. 
A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white  ram. 

There  wreathe  Ms  venerable  horns  with  flowers  ; 
While  peaceful  as  if  still  an  unwean'd  lamb, 

The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 
His  sober  head,  majestically  tame, 

Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 
His  brow,  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then 
Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back  again. 

XXXIII. 

Their  classical  profiles,  and  glittering  dresses, 
Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks. 

Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses, 
The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speaks, 

The  innocence  which  happy  childhood  blesses. 
Made  quite  a  picture  of  these  little  Greeks  ; 

So  that  the  philosophical  beholder  [older. 

Sigh'd  for  their  sakes — that  they  should  e'er  grow 

XXXIV. 
Afar,  a  dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 

To  a  sedate  gray  circle  of  old  smokers 
Of  secret  treasures  found  in  hidden  vales. 

Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers, 
Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  and  cure  bad  ails, 

Of  rocks  bewitch'd  that  open  to  the  knockers, 
Of  magic  ladies  who,  by  one  sole  act, 
Transform'd  their  lords  to  beasts,  (but  that  'a  a  fact.) 


606 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Ganto  III. 


XXXV. 

Here  was  no  lack  of  innocent  diversion 

For  the  imagination  or  the  senses, 
Song,  dance,  wine,  music,  stories  from  the  Persian, 

All  pretty  pastimes  in  which  no  oifence  is  ; 
But  Lambro  saw  all  these  things  with  aversion. 

Perceiving  in  his  absence  such  expenses, 
Dreading  that  climax  of  all  human  ills. 
The  inflammation  of  his  weekly  bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah  !  what  is  man  !  what  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner — 

A  day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
Is  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner  ; 

Pleasure  (whene'er  she  sings,  at  least)  's  a  siren, 
That  lures,  to  flay  alive,  the  young  beginner  ; 

Lambro's  reception  at  the  people's  banquet 

Was  such  as  fire  accords  to  a  wet  blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being  a  man  who  seldom  used  a  word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 

(In  general  he  surprised  men  with  the  sword) 
His  daughter — had  not  sent  before  to  advise 

Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  stirr'd  ; 
And  long  he  paused  to  reassure  his  eyes, 

In  fact  much  more  astonish'd  than  delighted, 

To  find  so  much  good  company  invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He  did  not  know  (alas  1  how  men  will  lie) 
That  a  report  (especially  the  Greeks) 

Avouch 'd  his  death,  (such  people  never  die,) 
And  put  his  house  in  mourning  several  weeks, — 

But  now  their  eyes  and  also  lips  were  dry ; 
The  bloom,  too,  had  return'd  to  HaidCe's  cheeks. 

Her  tears,  too,  being  return'd  into  their  fount. 

She  now  kept  house  upon  her  own  account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence  all  this  rice,  meat,  dancing,  wine,  and  fiddling 
Which  turn'd  the  isle  into  a  place  of  pleasure  ; 

The  servants  all  were  getting  drunk  or  idling, 
A  life  which  made  them  happy  beyond  measure. 

Her  father's  hospitality  seem'd  middling,  [ure ; 

Compared  with  what  Haid6e  did  with  his  treas- 

'Twas  wonderful  how  things  went  on  improving. 

While  she  had  not  one  hour  to  spare  from  loving. 

XL. 
Perhaps  you  think  in  stumbling  on  this  feast 

He  flew  into  a  pascion,  and  in  fact 
There  was  no  mighty  reason  to  be  pleased  ; 

Perhaps  you  prophesy  some  sudden  act. 
The  whip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 

To  teach  his  people  to  be  more  exact. 


And  that,  proceeding  at  a  very  high  rate, 
He  showed  the  roya\  penc?tnnts  of  a  pu'ate. 

XLI. 

You're  wrong. — He  was  the  mildest  manner'd  man 
That  ever  scuttled  ship  or  cut  a  throat ; 

With  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman. 
You  never  could  divine  his  real  thought ; 

No  courtier  could,  and  scarcely  woman  can 
Gird  more  deceit  within  a  petticoat ; 

Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life's  variety. 

He  was  so  great  a  loss  to  good  society. 

XIJI. 

Advancing  to  the  nearest  dinner  tray, 
Tapping  the  shoulder  of  the  nighest  guest. 

With  a  peculiar  smile,  which,  by  the  way, 
Boded  no  good,  whatever  it  cxprcss'd. 

He  ask'd  the  meaning  of  this  holiday ; 
The  vinous  Greek  to  whom  he  had  address'd 

His  question,  much  too  merry  to  divine 

The  questioner,  fiU'd  up  a  glass  of  wine, 

XLIII. 

And  without  turning  his  facetious  head. 
Over  his  shoulder,  with  a  Bacchant  air, 

Presented  the  o'erflowing  cup,  and  said, 

"  Talking  's  dry  work,  I  have  no  time  to  spare." 

A  second  hiccup'd,  "  Our  old  master  's  dead. 
You'd  better  ask  our  mistress  who  's  his  heir." 

"  Our  mistress  1"  quoth  a  third  :  "  Our  mistress  ! — 
pooh  ! — 

You  mean  our  master — not  the  old,  but  new." 

XLIV. 
These  rascals,  being  new  comers,  knew  not  whom 

They  thus  address'd — and  Lambro's  visage  fell — 
And  o'er  his  eye  a  momentary  gloom 

Pass'd,  but  he  strove  quite  courteously  to  quell 
The  expression,  and  endeavoring  to  resume 

His  smile,  requested  one  of  them  to  tell 
The  name  and  quality  of  his  new  patron 
Who  seem'd  to  have  turn'd  Haidec  into  a  matron. 

XLV. 
"  I  know  not,"  quoth  the  fellow,  "  who  or  what 

He  is,  nor  whence  he  came — and  little  care  ; 
But  this  I  know,  that  this  roast  capon 's  fat. 

And  that  good  wine  ne'er  wash'd  down  better 
And  if  you  arc  not  satisfied  with  that,  [fare  ; 

Direct  your  questions  to  my  neighbor  there  ; 
He'll  answer  all  for  better  or  for  worse, 
For  none  likes  more  to  hear  himself  converse." 

XLVI. 
I  said  that  Lambro  was  a  man  of  patience. 
And  certainly  he  show'd  the  best  of  breeding, 


Canto  in. 


DON  JUAN. 


607 


Which  scarce  even  France,  the  paragon  of  nations, 
E'er  saw  her  most  polite  of  sons  exceeding  ; 

He  bore  these  sneers  against  his  near  relations, 
His  own  anxiety,  his  heart,  too,  bleeding, 

The  insults,  too,  of  every  servile  glutton, 

Wlio  all  the  time  was  eating  up  his  mutton. 

XLVII. 

Now  in  a  person  used  to  much  command — 
To  bid  men  come,  and  go,  and  come  again — 

To  see  his  orders  done,  too,  out  of  hand — 

Whether  the  word  was  death,  or  but  the  chain — 

It  may  seem  strange  to  find  his  manners  bland ; 
Yet  such  things  arc,  which  I  can  not  explain. 

Though  doubtless  he  who  can  command  himself 

Is  good  to  govern — almost  as  a  Guelf. 

XLVIII. 

Not  that  he  was  not  sometimes  rash  or  so, 
But  never  in  his  real  and  serious  mood ; 

Then  calm,  concentrated,  and  still,  and  slow, 
He  lay  coil'd  like  the  boa  in  the  wood  ; 

With  him  it  never  was  a  word  and  blow. 
His  angry  word  once  o'er,  he  shed  no  blood. 

But  in  his  silence  there  was  much  to  rue. 

And  his  one  blow  left  little  work  for  two. 

XLIX. 

He  ask'd  no  further  questions,  and  proceeded 
On  to  the  house,  but  by  a  private  way. 

So  that  the  few  who  met  him  hardly  heeded. 
So  little  they  expected  him  that  day  ; 

If  love  paternal  in  his  bosom  pleaded 
For  Ilaidec's  sake,  is  more  than  I  can  say. 

But  certainly  to  one  deem'd  dead,  returning. 

This  revel  scem'd  a  curious  mode  of  mourning. 

L. 

If  all  the  dead  could  now  return  to  life, 

(Which  God  forbid  I)  or  some,  or  a  great  many. 

For  instance,  if  a  husband  or  his  wife. 
(Nuptial  examples  arc  as  good  as  any,) 

No  doubt  whate'er  might  be  their  former  strife, 
The  present  weather  would  be  much  more  rainy— 

Tears  shed  into  the  grave  of  the  connection 

Would  share  most  probably  its  resurrection. 

1,1. 

He  enter'd  in  the  house  no  more  his  home, 
A  thing  to  human  feelings  the  most  trying. 

And  harder  for  the  heart  to  overcome. 

Perhaps,  than  even  the  mental  pangs  of  dying ; 

To  find  our  hearthstone  turn'd  into  a  tomb. 

And  round  its  once  warm  precincts  palely  lying 

The  ashes  of  our  hopes,  is  a  deep  grief, 

Beyond  a  single  gentleman's  belief 


LII. 

He  enter'd  in  the  house — his  home  no  more. 
For  without  hearts  there  is  no  home  ; — and  felt 

The  solitude  of  passing  his  own  door 

Without  a  welcome  ;  there  he  long  had  dwelt. 

There  his  few  peaceful  days  Time  had  swept  o'er, 
There  his  worn  bosom  and  keen  eye  would  melt 

Over  the  innocence  of  that  sweet  child, 

His  only  shrine  of  feelings  undefiled. 

LIII. 

He  was  a  man  of  a  strange  temperament, 
j      Of  mild  demeanor  though  of  savage  mood, 
;  Moderate  in  all  his  habits,  and  content 
With  temperance  in  pleasure,  as  in  food. 
Quick  to  receive,  and  strong  to  bear,  and  meant 

For  something  better,  if  not  wholly  good ; 
His  country's  wrongs  and  his  despair  to  save  her 
Had  stung  him  from  a  slave  to  an  enslaver. 

IJV. 

The  love  of  power,  and  rapid  gain  of  gold. 
The  hardness  by  long  habitude  produced. 

The  dangerous  life  in  which  he  had  grown  old, 
The  mercy  he  had  granted  oft  abused. 

The  sights  he  was  accustom'd  to  behold. 
The  wild  seas,  and  wild  men  with  whom  he  cruised, 

Had  cost  his  enemies  a  long  repentance, 

And  made  him  a  good  friend,  but  bad  acquaintance. 

LV. 

But  something  of  the  spirit  of  old  Greece 
Flash'd  o'er  his  soul  a  few  heroic  rays, 

Such  as  lit  onward  to  the  Golden  Fleece 
His  predecessors  in  the  Colchian  days  ; 

'Tis  true  he  had  no  ardent  love  for  peace — 
Alas  !  his  country  show'd  no  path  to  praise  : 

Hate  to  the  world  and  war  with  every  nation 

He  waged,  in  vengeance  of  her  degradation. 

LVI. 
Still  o'er  his  mind  the  influence  of  the  clime 

Shed  its  Ionian  elegance,  which  show'd 
Its  power  unconsciously  full  many  a  time, — 

A  taste  seen  in  the  choice  of  his  abode, 
A  love  of  music  and  of  scenes  sublime, 

A  pleasure  in  the  gentle  stream  that  flow'd 
Past  him  in  crystal,  and  a  joy  in  flowers, 
Bedew'd  his  spirit  in  his  calmer  hours. 

LVII. 
But  whatsoe'er  he  had  of  love  reposed 

On  that  beloved  daughter ;  she  had  been 
The  only  thing  which  kept  his  heart  unclosed 

Amidst  the  savage  deeds  he  had  done  and  seen, 
A  lonely  pure  aflfection  unopposed  : 

There  wanted  but  the  loss  of  this  to  wean 


608 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Cakto  in. 


His  feelings  from  all  milk  of  human  kindness, 
And  turn  him  like  the  Cyclops  mad  with  bhndness. 

LVIII. 
The  cubless  tigress  in  her  jungle  raging 

la  dreadful  to  the  shepherd  and  the  flock ; 
The  ocean  when  its  yeasty  war  is  waging 

Is  awful  to  the  vessel  near  the  rock ; 
But  violent  things  will  sooner  bear  assuaging, 

Their  fury  being  spent  by  its  own  shock, 
Than  the  stern,  single,  deep,  and  wordless  ire 
Of  a  strong  human  heart,  and  in  a  sire. 

LIX. 
It  is  hard  although  a  common  case 

To  find  our  children  running  restive — they 
In  whom  our  brightest  days  we  would  retrace. 

Our  little  selves  re-form'd  in  finer  clay, 
Just  as  old  ago  is  creeping  on  apace, 

And  clouds  come  o'er  the  sunset  of  our  day. 
They  kindly  leave  us,  though  not  quite  alone, 
But  in  good  company — the  gout  or  stone. 

LX. 
Yet  a  fine  family  is  a  fine  thing, 

(Provided  they  don't  come  in  after  dinner ;) 
'Tis  beautiful  to  see  a  matron  bring 

Her  children  up,  (if  nursing  them  don't  thin  her,) 
Like  cherubs  round  an  altar-piece  they  cling 

To  the  fireside,  (a  sight  to  touch  a  sinner,) 
A  lady  with  her  daughters  or  her  nieces 
Shine  like  a  guinea  and  seven-shilling  pieces. 

LXI. 
Old  Lambro  pass'd  unseen  a  private  gate. 

And  stood  within  his  hall  at  eventide  ; 
Meantime  the  lady  and  her  lover  sate 

At  wassail  in  their  beauty  and  their  pride  : 
An  ivory  inlaid  table  spread  with  state 

Before  them,  and  fair  slaves  on  every  side ; 
Gems,  gold,  and  silver,  form'd  the  service  mostly, 
Mother  of  pearl  and  coral  the  less -costly. 

LXII. 
The  dinner  made  about  a  hundred  dishes  ; 

Lamb  and  pistachio-nuts — in  short,  all  meats, 
And  saffron  soups,  and  sweetbreads  ;  and  the  fishes 

Were  of  the  finest  that  e'er  flounced  in  nets, 
Dress'd  to  a  Sybarite's  most  pamper'd  wishes  ; 

The  beverage  was  various  sherbets 
Of  raisin,  orange,  and  pomegranate  juice,  [use. 

Squeezed  through  the  rind,  which  makes  it  best  for 

LXIII. 
There  were  ranged  round,  each  in  its  crystal  ewer. 

And  fruits,  and  date-bread  loaves  closed  the  re- 
And  Mocha's  berry,  from  Arabia  pure,  [piist, 

In  small  fine  China  cups,  came  in  at  last ; 


Gold  cups  of  filigree  made  to  secure 

The  hand  from  burning  underneath  them  placed, 
Cloves,  cinnamon,  and  saffron  too  were  boil'd 
Up  with  the  coffee,  which  (I  think)  they  spoil'd. 

LXIV. 
The  hangings  of  the  room  were  tapestry,  made 

Of  velvet  panels,  each  of  different  hue, 
And  thick  with  damask  flowers  of  silk  inlaid ; 

And  round  them  ran  a  yellow  border  too  ; 
The  upper  border,  richly  wrought,  display'd, 

Embroider'd  delicately  o'er  with  blue. 
Soft  Persian  sentences,  in  lilac  letters. 
From  poets,  or  the  moralists  their  betters. 

LXV. 
These  Oriental  writings  on  the  wall. 

Quite  common  in  those  countries,  are  a  kind 
Of  monitors  adapted  to  recall. 

Like  skulls  at  Memphian  banquets,  to  the  mind 
The  words  which  shook  Belshazzar  in  his  hall, 

And  took  his  kingdom  from  him  :  You  will  find, 
Though  sages  may  pour  out  their  wisdom's  treas- 
Thcre  is  no  sterner  moralist  than  Pleasure.         [ure, 

LXTI. 
A  beauty  at  the  season's  close  grown  hectic, 

A  genius  who  has  drunk  himself  to  death, 
A  rake  tum'd  mcthodistic,  or  Eclectic — 

(For  that 's  the  name  they  like  to  pray  beneath) — 
But  most,  an  alderman  struck  apoplectic. 

Are  things  that  really  take  away  the  breath, — 
And  show  that  late  hours,  wine,  and  love  are  able 
To  do  not  much  less  damage  than  the  table. 

LXVII. 
Haidfie  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  border'd  with  pale  blue ; 
Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 

Of  the  apartment — and  appear'd  quite  new  ; 
The  velvet  cushions  (for  a  throne  more  meet) 

Were  scarlet,  from  whose  glowing  centre  grew 
A  sun  emboss'd  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  Ught  to  issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain. 

Had  done  their  work  of  splendor ;  Indian  mats 

And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to  stain. 
Over  the  floors  were  spread  ;  gazelles  and  cats. 

And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such  like  things,  that 
gain 
Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favorites — (that 's 

To  say,  by  degradation) — mingled  there 

As  plentiful  as  in  a  court,  or  fair. 

LXIX. 

There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors  and 
The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 


Canto  ni. 


DON   JUAN. 


609 


With  mother  of  pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand, 
Or  were  of  tortoise-shell  or  rare  woods  made, 

Fretted  with  gold  or  silver : — by  command, 
The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 

With  viands  and  sherbets  in  ice — and  wine — 

Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

LXX. 

Of  all  the  dresses  I  select  Haidfie's  : 
She  wore  two  jelicks — one  was  of  pale  yellow ; 

Of  azure,  pink,  and  white  was  her  chemise — 

'Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a  little  bil- 

With  buttons  form'd  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas,  [low ; 
All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick's  fellow, 

And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracan  that  bound  her. 

Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon,  flow'd  round  her. 

LXXI. 
One  large  gold  bracelet  clasp'd  each  lovely  arm, 

Lockless — so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold, 
That  the  hand  stretch'd  and  shut  it  without  harm. 

The  limb  which  it  adom'd  its  only  mould 
So  beautiful — its  very  shape  would  charm  ; 

And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  its  hold. 
The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in.' 

LXXII. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 

A  like  gold  bar  above  her  instep  roll'd,^      [hand ; 

Announced  her  rank ;   twelve  rings  were  on  her 
Her  hair  was  starr'd  with  gems ;  her  veil's  fine 

Below  her  breast  was  fasten'd  with  a  band         [fold 
Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  told ; 

Her  orange  silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furl'd 

Above  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 

I.XXIir. 
Her  hair's  long  auburn  waves  down  to  her  heel 

Flow'd  like  an  Alpine  torrent  which  the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  morning  light, — and  would  conceal 

Her  person'  if  allow'd  at  large  to  run. 
And  still  they  seem  resentfully  to  feel 

The  silken  fillet's  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds  whene'er  some  Zephyr  caught  began 
To  ofier  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 

LXXIV. 
Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life, 

The  very  air  seem'd  lighter  from  her  eyes, 
They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife 

With  all  we  can  image  of  the  skies, 

■  Thin  drcBs  Is  Mooriuli,  and  llie  bracelots  and  bar  arc  worn  In 
the  manner  described.  The  reader  will  perceive  hereafter,  that  as 
the  mother  of  Haldce  was  of  Fez,  her  daughter  wore  the  garb  of 
the  country. 

'  The  bar  of  gold  above  the  Instep  Is  a  mark  of  sovereign  rank 
In  the  women  of  the  families  of  the  deys,  and  is  worn  as  such  by 
their  female  relatives. 


And  pure  as  Pysche  ere  she  grew  a  wife — 

Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties ; 
Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 
It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

LXXV. 
Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  night,  were  tinged, 

(It  is  the  country's  custom,)  but  in  vain  ; 
For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  fringed, 

The  glossy  rebels  mock'd  the  jetty  stain. 
And  in  their  native  beauty  stood  avenged : 

Her  nails  were  touch'd  with  henna  ;  but  again 
The  gower  of  art  was  tum'd  to  nothing,  for 
They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

LXXVI. 
The  henna  should  be  deeply  dyed  to  make 

The  skin  reUeved  appear  more  fairly  fair ; 
She  had  no  need  of  this,  day  ne'er  will  break 

On  moimtain  tops  more  heavenly  white  than  her ; 
The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake. 

She  was  so  like  a  vision  ;  I  might  err. 
But  Shakspeare  also  say,  'tis  very  silly 
"  To  gild  refined  gold,  or  paint  the  lily." 

LXXVII. 

Juan  had  on  a  shawl  of  black  and  gold. 
But  a  white  baracan,  and  so  transparent 

The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold. 
Like  small  stars  through  the  milky  way  apparent ; 

His  turban,  furl'd  in  many  a  graceful  fold. 
An  emerald  aigrette  with  HaidCe's  hair  in  't 

Surmoimted,  as  its  clasp,  a  glowing  crescent, 

Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  incessant. 

LXXVIII. 
And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite. 

Dwarfs,  dancing  girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a  poet. 
Which  made  their  new  establishment  complete ; 

The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to  show  it : 
His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet — 

And  for  his  theme — he  seldom  sung  below  it. 
He  being  paid  to  satirize  or  flatter. 
As  the  psalm  says,  "  inditing  a  good  matter." 

LXXIX. 
He  praised  the  present,  and  abused  the  past 

Reversing  the  good  custom  of  old  days. 
An  Eastern  anti-jacobin  at  last 

He  tum'd,  preferring  pudding  to  nn  praise — 
For  some  few  years  his  lot  had  been  o'ercast 

By  his  seeming  independent  in  his  lays. 


'  This  is  no  exaggeration :  they  were  four  women  whom  I  re- 
member to  have  seen,  who  possessed  their  hair  in  this  profusion  ; 
of  these,  three  were  English,  the  other  was  a  Levantine.  Their 
hair  w^as  of  that  length  and  quantity,  that,  when  let  down,  it  al- 
most entirely  shaded  the  person,  so  as  nearly  to  render  dress  a 
superfluity.  Of  these,  only  one  had  dark  lialr ;  the  Oriental's  bad, 
perhaps,  the  lightest  color  of  the  four. 


CIO 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  in. 


But  now  he  sung  the  Sultan  and  the  Pacha     [shaw. 
With  truth  like  Southey,  and  with  Terse  like  Cra- 

LXXX. 
He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  many  changes, 

And  always  changed  as  true  as  any  needle ; 
His  polar  star  being  one  which  rather  ranges, 

And  not  the  fix'd — he  knew  the  way  to  wheedle  : 
So  vile  he  'scaped  the  doom  which  oft  avenges  ; 

And  being  fluent,  (save  indeed  when  fec'd  ill,) 
He  lied  with  such  a  fervor  of  intention — 
There  was  no  doubt  he  earn'd  his  laureate  pension. 

LXXXI. 
But  he  had  genius, — when  a  turncoat  has  it, 

The  "  Vates  irritabilis  "  takes  care 
That  without  notice  few  full  moons  shall  pass  it ; 

Even  good  men  like  to  make  the  public  stare  : — 
But  to  my  subject — ^let  me  sec — what  was  it  ? 

Oh  ! — the  Third  Canto — and  the  pretty  pair — 
Their  loves,  and  feasts,  and  house,  and  dress,  and 
Of  living  in  their  insular  abode.  [mode 

LXXXII. 
Their  poet,  a  sad  trimmer,  but  no  less 

In  company  a  very  pleasant  fellow, 
Had  been  the  favorite  of  full  many  a  mess  [low ; 

Of  men,  and  made  them  speeches  when  half  mel- 
And  though  his  meaning  they  could  rarely  guess, 

Yet  still  they  deign'd  to  hiccup  or  to  bellow 
The  glorious  meed  of  popular  applause, 
Of  which  the  first  ne'er  knows  the  second  cause. 

LXXXIII. 
But  now  being  lifted  into  high  society. 

And  having  pick'd  up  several  odds  and  ends 
Of  free  thoughts  in  his  travels  for  variety, 

He  deem'd,  being  in  a  lone  isle,  among  friends. 
That  without  any  danger  of  a  riot,  he 

Might  for  long  lying  make  himself  amends  ; 
And  singing  as  he  sung  in  his  warm  youth, 
Agree  to  a  short  armistice  with  truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He  had  travcll'd  'mongst  the  Arabs,  Turks,  and 
Franks, 

And  knew  the  self-loves  of  the  different  nations  ; 
And  having  lived  with  people  of  all  ranks, 

Had  something  ready  upon  most  occasions — 
Wliich  got  him  a  few  presents  and  some  thanks. 

He  varied  with  some  skill  his  adulations  ; 
To  "  do  at  Rome  as  Romans  do,"  a  piece 
Of  conduct  was  which  he  observed  in  Greece. 

LXXXV. 
Thus,  usually,  when  he  was  ask'd  to  sing. 
He  gave  the  different  nations  sometliing  national ; 

'  The  vrimi  ^OKapov  of  the  Greek  poets  were  Bupposed  to 
have  beea  the  Cape  de  Verd  Islands  or  the  Canaries. 


'Twas  all  the  same  to  him — "  God  save  the  king," 
Or  "  fa  ira,"  according  to  the  fashion  all : 

His  muse  made  increment  of  any  thing, 
From  the  high  lyric  down  to  the  low  rational ; 

If  Pindar  sang  horse-races,  what  should  hinder 

Himself  from  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar  ? 

LXXXVI. 

In  France,  for  instance,  he  would  write  a  chanson  ; 

In  England  a  six  canto  quarto  tale  ; 
In  Spain,  he'd  make  a  ballad  or  romance  on 

The  last  war — much  the  same  in  Portugal ; 
In  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he'd  prance  on 

Would  be  old  Goethe's — (see  what  says  De  Stael ;) 
In  Italy  he'd  ape  the  "  Trccentisti  ;" 
In  Greece,  he'd  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like  this 't  ye : 


The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phcebus  sprung  ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet. 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 


The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Bless'd." 

3. 
The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone,  .% 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 


A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations  ; — all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they  ? 

5. 
And  where  are  they  2  and  where  art  thou, 

My  country  ?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 


Cakto  III. 


DON    JITAN. 


611 


6. 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

7. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  bless'd  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ? — Our  fathera  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae  ! 


What,  sileni  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  !  no  ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head. 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come  !" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


In  vain — in  vain  ;  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  I 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

10. 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

11. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these  1 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  : 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

13. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Cliersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend  ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  1 

Oh  !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  1 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 


18. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heraclcidau  blood  might  own. 

14. 
Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 

They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells  : 
In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks. 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  ; 
But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud. 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

15. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  t 
Om-  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 

I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 
But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

18. 
Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep. 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  liear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die  : 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  I 

LXXXVII. 
Thus  sung,  or  would,  or  could,  or  should  have  sung, 

The  modem  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse ; 
If  not  like  Orpheus  quite,  when  Greece  was  young, 

Yet  in  these  times  ho  might  have  done  much  worse : 
His  strain  display'd  some  feeling — right  or  wrong ; 

And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source 
Of  others'  feeling  ;  but  they  are  such  liars. 
And  take  all  colors — like  the  hands  of  dyers. 

LXXXVIIL 
But  words  are  things,  and  a  small  drop  of  ink, 

Falling  like  dew,  upon  a  thought,  produces  [think; 
That  which   makes   thousands,  perhaps    millions, 

'Tis  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which  man  uses 
Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting  link 

Of  ages  ;  to  what  straits  old  Time  reduces 
Frail  man,  when  paper — even  a  rag  like  this. 
Survives  himself,  his  tomb,  and  all  that 's  his. 

LXXXIX. 

And  when  his  bones  arc  dust,  his  grave  a  blank, 
His  station,  generation,  even  his  nation. 

Become  a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 
In  chronological  commemoration, 


612 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ni 


Some  dull  MS.  oblivion  long  has  sank, 

Or  graven  stone  found  in  a  barrack's  station 
In  digging  the  foundation  of  a  closet, 
May  turn  his  name  up,  as  a  rare  deposite. 

XC. 
And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile  ; 

'Tis  something,  nothing,  words,  illusion,  wind — 
Depending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 

Than  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  behind : 
Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to  Hoyle  : 

The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in  giving  knocks. 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

XCI. 
Milton  's  the  prince  of  poets — so  we  say ; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine  : 
An  independent  being  in  his  day — 

Leam'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine ; 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way. 

We're  told  this  great  high  priest  of  all  the  Nine 
Was  whipp'd  at  college — a  harsh  sire — odd  spouse. 
For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house.' 

XCII. 
All  these  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts,  [bribes  ; 

Like  Shakspeare's  stealing  deer.  Lord  Bacon's 
Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Ca;sar's  earliest  acts ; 

Like  Bums,  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well  describes ;) 
Like  Cromwell's  pranks ; — but  although  truth  ex- 

These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes,  [acts 
As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story. 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

XCIII. 
All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 

He  prated  to  the  world  of  "  Pantisocrasy  ;" 
Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhired,  who  then 

Season'd  his  pedler  poems  with  democracy ; 
Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 

Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy  ; 
When  he  and  Southey,  following  the  same  path, 
Espoused  two  partners,  (milliners  of  Bath.) 

XCIV. 
Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  figure, 

Tlie  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geography  : 
Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  rigor. 

Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare  biography  ; 
Wordsworth  last  quarto,  by  the  way,  is  bigger 

Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typography ; 
A  drowsy  frouzy  poem,  call'd  the  "  Excursion," 
Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

XCV. 
He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dike 
Between  his  own  and  others'  intellect ; 
>  See  Johnson's  Utv  of  Milton. 


But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followers,  like 
Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh,  and  her  sect, 

Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 
The  public  mind, — so  few  are  the  elect ; 

And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  virginities 

Have  proved  but  dropsies,  taken  for  divinities. 

XCVI. 
But  let  me  to  my  story  :  I  must  own. 

If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression — 
Leaving  my  people  to  proceed  alone. 

While  I  soliloquize  beyond  expression ; 
But  these  are  my  addresses  from  the  throne, 

Which  put  ofi"  business  to  the  ensuing  session  : 
Forgetting  each  omission  is  a  loss  to 
The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

XCVII. 
I  know  that  what  our  neighbors  call  "  lonffuettrg" 

(We've  not  so  good  a  woi-d,  but  have  the  thinff, 
In  that  complete  perfection  which  ensures 

An  epic  from  Bob  Southey  every  spring — ) 
Form  not  the  true  temptation  which  allures 

The  reader ;  but  'twould  not  be  hard  to  bring 
Some  fine  examples  of  the  epopee, 
To  prove  its  grand  ingredient  is  ennui. 

XCVIII. 
We  learn  from  Horace,  "  Homer  sometimes  sleeps  ;" 

We   feel  without   him,  Wordsworth   sometimes 
wakes : 
To  show  with  what  complacency  he  creci)s. 

With  his  dear  ^^Woffoners,"  around  his  lakes. 
He  wishes  for  "a  boat"  to  sail  the  deeps — 

Of  ocean  ? — Ko,  of  air  ;  and  then  he  makes 
Another  outcry  for  "  a  little  boat," 
And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  well  afloat. 

XCIX. 
If  he  must  fain  sweep  o'er  the  ethereal  plain. 

And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  "  Wagon," 
Could  he  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles'  Wain  ? 

Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon  ? 
Or  if  too  classic  for  his  vulgar  brain. 

He  fear'd  his  neck  to  venture  such  a  nag  on, 
And  he  must  needs  mount  nearer  to  the  moon, 
Could  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a  balloon  ? 


"Pedlers,"  and  "Boats,"  and  "Wagons  !"    Oh  !  ye 
shades 

Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this  1 
That  trash  of  such  sort  not  alone  evades 

Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos'  vast  abyss 
Floats  scumlike  uppermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 

Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves  may  hiss — 
The  "  little  boatman  "  and  his  "  Peter  Bell " 
Can  sneer  at  him  who  drew  "  Achitophel !" 


Ca^tto  III. 


DON    JFAN. 


613 


CI. 

T  our  tale. — The  feast  was  over,  the  slaves  gone, 
The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retired ; 

The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 
And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired  ; 

The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone. 
The  rosy  flood  of  twilight's  sky  admired ; — 

Ave  Maria  !  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 

That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest  thee  ' 

CII. 

Ave  Maria  !  blessed  be  the  hour 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power. 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft. 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower. 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft. 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air. 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem'd  stirr'd  with  prayer. 

cm. 

Ave  Maria  !  'tis  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  'tis  the  hour  of  love  1 
Ave  Maria  !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  oh,  that  face  so  fair ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty  dove — 
What  though  'tis  but  a  pictured  image  ? — strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol, — 'tis  too  like. 

CIV. 

Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to  say. 
In  nameless  print — that  I  have  no  devotion  ; 

But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray. 
And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  properest  notion 

Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way ; 
My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean, 

Earth,  air,  stars, — all  that  springs  from  the  great 
Whole, 

Who  hath  produced,  and  will  receive  the  soul. 

CV. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight ! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow'd  o'er. 

To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood. 
Evergreen  forest !  which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee  1 

CVI. 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine. 
Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song. 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine. 
And  vesper  bell's  that  rose  the  boughs  along ; 


The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line. 
His    hell-dogs,   and   their    chase,   and   the   fair 
throng 
Which  leam'd  from  this  example  not  to  fly 
From  a  true  lover, — shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 

cvir. 

Oh,  Hesperus  !  thou  bringest  all  good  things — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabor'd  steer ; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

CVIII. 
Soft  hour !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the 
heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When    they  from    their    sweet    friends    are    torn 
apart ; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay ; 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns  ? 
Ah  !  surely  notlung  dies  but  something  mourns  1 

CIX. 

When  Nero  perish'd  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroy'd, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoy'd. 

Some  hands  unseen  strew'd  flowers  upon  his  tomb  : 
Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 

Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 

Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 

ex. 

But  I'm  digressing ;  what  on  earth  has  Nero, 

Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons. 
To  do  with  the  transactions  of  my  hero. 

More  than  such  madmen's  fellow  man — the  moon's  I 
Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero. 

And  I  grown  one  of  many  "  wooden  spoons  " 
Of  verse,  (the  name  with  which  we  Cantabs  please 
To  dub  the  last  of  honors  in  degrees.) 

CXI. 
I  feel  this  tediousness  will  never  do — 

'Tis  being  too  epic,  and  I  must  cut  down 
(In  copying)  this  long  canto  into  two ; 

They'll  never  find  it  out,  unless  I  own 
The  fact,  excej^ting  some  experienced  few ; 

And  then  as  an  improvement  'twill  be  shown  : 
I'll  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the  critic  is 
From  Aristotle  passim. — See  noi^rt/ojr. 


614 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


Canto  iv. 


DON    J  U  A  K 


CANTO   TUB    FOORTH. 


I. 


Nothing  so  difficult  as  a  beginning 

In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end  ; 
For  oftentimes  when  Pegasus  seems  winning 

The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we  tend. 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurl'd  from  heaven  for  sinning ; 

Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to  mend. 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar  too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we  are. 

II. 

But  Time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their  level. 
And  sharp  Adversity,  will  teach  at  last 

Man, — and,  as  we  would  hope, — perhaps  the  devil. 
That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast : 

While  youth's  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins  revel, 
We  know  not  this — the  blood  flows  on  too  fast ; 

But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the  ocean, 

We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 

III. 
As  boy,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow. 

And  wish'd  that  others  held  the  same  opinion  ; 
They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more  mellow. 

And  other  minds  acknowledged  my  dominion  : 
Now  my  sere  fancy  "  falls  into  the  yellow 

Leaf,"  and  Imagination  droops  her  pinion. 
And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o'er  my  desk 
Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  burlesque. 

IV. 
And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 

'Tis  that  I  may  not  weep ;  and  if  I  weep, 
'Tis  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 

Itself  to  apathy,  for  we  must  steep 
Our  hearts  first  in  the  depths  of  Lethe's  spring, 

Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will  sleep  : 
Thetis  baptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx  ; 
A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix. 

V. 
Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 

Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land, 
And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line  : 

I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand 
My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very  fine  ; 

But  the  fact  is  that  I  have  nothing  plann'd. 
Unless  it  were  to  be  a  moment  merry, 
A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary. 

VI. 

To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime 
This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic ; 


Pulci  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme. 

Who  sang  when  chivalry  was  more  Quixotic, 

And  reveU'd  in  the  fancies  of  the  time. 
True  knights,  chaste  dames,  huge  giants,  kings 
despotic ; 

But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 

I  chose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 

VII. 

How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know  ; 

Perhaps  no  better  than  they  have  treated  mo. 
Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show 

Not  what  they  saw,  but  what  they  wish'd  to  see  : 
But  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so  ; 

This  is  a  liberal  age,  and  thoughts  are  free  : 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  mc  by  the  ear, 
And  tells  me  to  resume  my  story  here. 

VIII. 

Young  Juan  and  his  lady-love  were  left 
To  their  own  hearts'  most  sweet  society ; 

Even  Time  the  pitiless  in  sorrow  cleft 
With  his  rude  scythe  such  gentle  bosoms  ;  he 

Sigh'd  to  behold  them  of  their  hours  bereft. 
Though  foe  to  love  ;  and  yet  they  could  not  be 

Meant  to  grow  old,  but  die  in  happy  spring, 

Before  one  charm  or  hope  had  taken  wing. 

IX. 
Their  faces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 

Pure  blood  to  stagnate,  their  great  hearts  to  fail ; 
The  blank  gray  was  not  made  to  blast  their  hair, 

But  like  the  cUmes  that  know  nor  snow  nor  hail 
They  were  all  summer  :  lightning  might  assail 

And  shiver  them  to  ashes,  but  to  trail 
A  long  and  snake-like  life  of  dull  decay 
Was  not  for  them — they  had  too  little  clay. 

X. 

They  were  alone  once  more ;  for  them  to  bo 
Thus  was  another  Eden  ;  they  were  never 

Weary,  unless  when  separate  :  the  tree 

Cut  from  its  forest  root  of  years — the  river 

Damm'd  from  its  fountain — the  child  from  the  knee 
And  breast  maternal  wean'd  at  once  forever, — 

Would  wither  less  tlian  these  two  torn  apart  ; 

Alas  !  there  is  no  instinct  like  the  heart — 

XI. 
The  heart — which  may  be  broken  :  happy  they  ! 

Thrice  fortunate  1  who  of  that  fragile  mould. 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay. 

Break  with  the  first  fall :  they  can  ne'er  behold 
The  long  year  link'd  with  heavy  day  on  day. 

And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never  told  ; 
While  life's  strange  principle  will  often  lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 


Canto  rv. 


DON  JUAN. 


615 


XII. 

"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  was  said  of  yore, 
And  many  deaths  do  they  escape  by  this  :  [more — 

The  death  of  friends,  and  that  which  slays  even 
The  death  of  friendship,  love,  youth,  all  that  is, 

Except  mere  breath  ;  and  since  the  silent  shore 
Awaits  at  last  even  those  who  longest  miss 

The  old  archer's  shafts,  perhaps  the  early  grave 

Which  men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save. 

xin. 

Haidee  and  Juan  thought  not  of  the  dead. 

The  heavens,  and  earth,  and  air,  seem'd  made  for 
them  : 
They  found  no  fault  with  Time,  save  that  he  fled ; 

They  saw  not  in  themselves  aught  to  condemn  : 
Each  was  the  other's  mirror,  and  but  read 

Joy  sparkling  in  their  dark  eyes  like  a  gem. 
And  knew  such  brightness  was  but  the  reflection 
Of  their  exchanging  glances  of  alfection. 

XIV. 

The  gentle  pressure,  and  the  thrilling  touch. 
The  least  glance  better  understood  than  words, 

Which  still  said  all,  and  ne'er  could  say  too  much  ; 
A  language,  too,  but  like  to  that  of  birds. 

Known  but  to  them,  at  least  appearing  such 
As  but  to  lovers  a  true  sense  affords  ; 

Sweet  playful  phrases,  which  would  seem  absurd 

To  tlwse  who  have  ceased  to  hear  such,  or  ne'er  heard. 

XV. 
All  these  were  theirs,  for  they  were  children  still, 

And  children  still  they  should  have  ever  been  ; 
They  were  not  made  in  the  real  world  to  fill 

A  busy  character  in  the  dull  scene. 
But  like  two  beings  born  from  out  a  rill, 

A  nymph  and  her  beloved,  all  unseen 
To  pass  their  lives  in  fountains  and  on  flowers. 
And  never  knew  the  weight  of  human  hours. 

XVI. 
Moons  changing  had  roll'd  on,  and  changeless  found 

Those  their  bright  rise  had  lighted  to  such  joys 
As  rarely  they  beheld  throughout  their  round  ; 

And  these  were  not  of  the  vain  kind  which  cloys, 
For  theirs  were  buoyant  spirits,  never  bound 

By  the  mere  senses  ;  and  that  which  destroys 
Most  love,  possession,  unto  them  appear'd 
A  thing  which  each  endearment  more  endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oil,  beautiful !  and  rare  as  beautiful ! 

But  theirs  was  love  in  which  the  mind  delights 
To  lose  itself,  when  the  old  world  grows  dull. 

And  we  are  sick  of  its  hack  sounds  and  sights. 
Intrigues,  adventures  of  the  common  school, 

Its  petty  passions,  marriages,  and  flights, 


Where  Hymen's  torch  but  brands  one  strumpet  more, 
Whose  husband  only  knows  her  not  a  wh — re. 

XVIII. 
Hard  words ;    harsh    truth  ;    a   truth  which  many 

Enough. — The  faithful  and  the  fairy  pair,  [know. 
Wlio  never  found  a  single  hour  too  slow, 

What  was  it  made  them  thus  exempt  from  care  ? 
Young  innate  feelings  all  have  felt  below. 

Which  perish  in  the  rest,  but  in  them  were 
Inherent ;  what  we  mortals  call  romantic. 
And  always  envy,  though  we  deem  it  frantic. 

XIX. 
This  is  in  others  a  factitious  state. 

An  opium  dream  of  too  much  youth  and  reading, 
But  was  in  them  their  nature  or  their  fate  : 

Ko  novels  e'er  had  set  their  young  hearts  bleeding, 
For  Haidee's  knowledge  was  by  no  means  great. 

And  Juan  was  a  boy  of  saintly  breeding ; 
So  that  there  was  no  reason  for  their  loves 
More  than  for  those  of  nightingales  or  doves. 

XX. 

They  ga?cd  upon  the  sunset ;  'tis  an  hour 
Dear  unto  all,  but  dearest  to  their  eyes. 

For  it  had  made  them  what  they  were  :  the  power 
Of  love  had  first  o'erwhelmcd  them  from  such 

When  happiness  had  been  their  only  dower,   [skies, 
And  twilight  saw  them  link'd  in  passion's  ties  ; 

Charm 'd  with  each  other,  all  things  charm'd  that 
brought 

The  past  still  welcome  as  the  present  thought. 

XXI. 

I  know  not  why,  but  in  that  hour  to-night. 
Even  as  they  gazed,  a  sudden  tremor  came, 

And  swept,  as  'twere,  across  their  hearts'  delight, 
Like  the  wind  o'er  a  harp-string,  or  a  flame, 

Wlien  one  is  shook  in  sound,  and  one  in  sight ; 
And  thus  someboding  flash'd  through  either  frame. 

And  call'd  from  Juan's  breast  a  faint  low  sigh. 

While  one  new  tear  arose  in  Haidee's  eye. 

XXII. 

That  large  black  prophet  eye  seem'd  to  dilate 
And  follow  far  the  disappearing  sun, 

As  if  their  last  day  of  a  happy  date 
With  his  broad,  bright,  and  dropping  orb  were 

Juan  gazed  on  her  as  to  ask  his  fate —  [gone  ; 

He  felt  a  grief,  but  knowing  cause  for  none, 

His  glance  inquired  of  hers  for  some  excuse 

For  feelings  causeless,  or  at  least  abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She  turn'd  to  him,  and  smiled,  but  iu  that  sort 
Which  makes  not  others  smile ;  then  turn'd  aside : 

Whatever  feeling  shook  her,  it  seem'd  short. 
And  master'd  by  her  wisdom  or  her  pride ; 


616 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


Wlien  Juan  spoke,  too — it  might  be  in  sport — 

Of  this  their  mutual  feeling,  she  replied — 
"If  it  should  be  so, — but — it  cannot  be — 
Or  I  at  least  shall  not  survive  to  see." 

XXIV. 
Juan  would  question  further,  but  she  press'd 

His  lip  to  hers,  and  silenced  him  with  this. 
And  then  dismiss'd  the  omen  from  her  breast, 

Defying  augury  with  that  fond  kiss  ; 
And  no  doubt  of  all  methods  'tis  the  best : 

Some  people  prefer  wine — 'tis  not  amiss ; 
I  have  tried  both  ;  so  those  who  would  a  part  take, 
May  choose  between  the  headache  and  the  heartache. 

XXV. 

One  of  the  two,  according  to  your  choice, 
Woman  or  wine,  you'll  have  to  undergo  ; 

Both  maladies  are  taxes  on  our  joys  : 

But  which  to  choose,  I  really  hardly  know ; 

And  if  I  had  to  give  a  casting  voice, 

For  both  sides  I  could  many  reasons  show, 

And  then  decide,  without  great  wrong  to  either. 

It  were  much  better  to  have  both  than  neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan  and  Haidee  gazed  upon  each  other 

With  swimming  looks  of  speechless  tenderness, 

Which  mix'd  all  feelings,  friend,  child,  lover,  broth- 
All  that  the  best  can  mingle  and  express  [er. 

When  two  pure  hearts  are  pour'd  in  one  another, 
And  love  too  much,  and  yet  can  not  love  less ; 

But  almost  sanctify  the  sweet  excess 

By  the  immortal  wish  and  power  to  blesa. 

XXVII. 
Mix'd  in  each  other's  arms,  and  heart  in  heart,  [long 

Why  did  they  not  then  die  ? — they  had  lived  tod 
Should  an  hour  come  to  bid  them  breathe  apart ; 

Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things  or  wrong ; 
The  world  was  not  for  them,  nor  the  world's  art 

For  beings  passionate  as  Sappho's  song  ; 
Love  was  born  with  thera,  in  them,  so  intense, 
It  was  their  very  spirit — not  a  sense. 

XXVIII. 
They  should  have  lived  together  deep  in  woods, 

Unseen  as  sings  the  nightingale  ;  they  were 
Unfit  to  mix  in  these  thick  solitudes 

Call'd  social,  haunts  of  Hate,  and  Vice,  and  Care : 
How  lonely  every  freeborn  creature  broods  1 

The  sweetest  song-birds  nestle  in  a  pair ; 
The  eagle  soars  alone ;  the  gull  and  crow 
Flock  o'er  their  carrion,  just  like  men  below. 

XXIX. 

Now  pillow'd  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 
Haid£e  and  Juan  their  siesta  took, 


A  gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep. 
For  ever  and  anon  a  sometliing  shook 

Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his  frame  would  creep ; 
And  Haidce's  sweet  lips  murmur'd  like  a  brook 

A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 

Stirr'd  with  her  dream,  as  rose-leaves  with  the  air ; 

XXX. 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 
Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 

Walks  o'er  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dream. 
The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind — 

O'erpowering  us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 
Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can  bind ; 

Strange  state  of  being  !  (for  'tis  still  to  be) 

Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  seaVd  eyes  to  see. 

XXXI. 
She  dream'd  of  being  alone  on  the  sea-shore, 

Chain'd  to  a  rock  ;  she  knew  not  how,  but  stir 
She  could  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  loud  roar 

Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening 
her; 
And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seem'd  to  pour. 

Until  she  sobb'd  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were 
Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high — 
Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 

XXXII. 

Anon— she  was  released,  and  then  she  stray'd 
O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleeding  feet. 

And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made  ; 
And  something  roll'd  before  her  in  a  sheet. 

Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe'er  afraid  : 
'Twas  white  and  indistinct,  nor  stopp'd  to  meet 

Her  glance  nor  grasjj,  for  still  she  gazed  and  grasp'd, 

And  ran,  but  it  escap'd  her  as  she  clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 
The  dream  changed  : — in  a  cave  she  stood,  its  walls 

Were  hung  with  marble  icicles  ;  the  work 
Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls, 

Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  breed 
and  lurk ; 
Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 

Of  her  black  eyes  seem'd  turn'd  to  tears,  and  mirk 
The  sharp  rocks  look'd  below  each  drop  they  caught. 
Which  froze  to  marble  as  it  fell, — she  thought. 

XXXIV. 
And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless  at  her  feet, 

Pale  as  the  foam  that  froth'd  on  his  dead  brow. 
Which  she  essay'd  in  vain  to  clear,  (how  sweet 

Were  once  her  cares,  how  idle  seem'd  they  now  !) 
Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 

Of  his  quench'd  heart ;  and  the  sea  dirges  low 
Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song. 
And  that  brief  dream  appcar'd  a  life  too  long. 


Canto  it. 


DON    JUAN. 


617 


XXXV. 
And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  face 

Faded,  or  altcr'd  into  something  new — 
Like  to  her  father's  features,  till  each  trace 

More  like  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect  grew — 
With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace  ; 

And  starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view  ? 
Oh !  Powers  of  Heaven !  what  dark  eye  meets  she 
'Tis— 'tis  her  father's— flx'd  upon  the  pair  !    [there  ? 

XXXVI. 
Tlien  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell. 

With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 
Him  whom  she  deem'd  a  habitant  where  dwell 

The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death,  to  be 
Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too  well : 

Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haid6e, 

It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind 

I  have  seen  such — but  must  not  call  to  mind. 

XXXVII. 
Up  Juan  sprung  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 

And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  wall 
Snatch'd  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to  wreak 

Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all : 
Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forbore  to  speak. 

Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  "  Within  my  call, 
A  thousand  cimeters  await  the  word  ; 
Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword." 

XXXVIII. 
And  Ilaidee  clung  around  him  ;  "  Juan,  'tis — 

'Tis  Lambro — 'tis  my  father  !     Kneel  with  me — 
He  will  forgive  us — yes — it  must  be — yes. 

Oh  !  dearest  father,  in  this  agony 
Of  pleasure  and  of  pain — even  while  I  kiss 

Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 
That  doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial  joy  ? 
Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this  boy." 

XXXIX. 
nigh  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 

Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his  eye — 
Not  always  signs  with  him  of  calmest  mood  : 

He  look'd  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply ; 
Then  turn'd  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the  blood 

Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to  die ; 
In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood,  in  act  to  spring 
On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might  bring. 

XL. 
"  Young  man,  your  sword ;"  so  Lambro  once  more 
said : 
Juan  replied,  "  Not  while  this  arm  is  free." 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with  dread. 

And  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 
Keplicd,  "  Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own  head." 
Then  look'd  close  at  the  flint,  as  if  to  see 
78 


'Twas  fresh — for  he  had  lately  used  the  lock — 
And  next  proceeded  quietly  to  cock. 

XLI. 
It  has  a  strange  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 

That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 
A  moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to  bear 

Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or  so ; 
A  gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near. 

If  you  have  got  a  former  friend  for  foe  ; 
But  after  being  fired  at  once  or  twice, 
The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice. 

XLII. 
Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 

Had  stopp'd  this  Canto,  and  Don  Juan's  breath, 
When  HaidCe  threw  herself  her  boy  before ; 

Stem  as  her  sire  :  "  On  me,"  she  cried,  "  let  death 
Descend — the  fault  is  mine  ;  this  fatal  shore 

He  found — but  sought  not.    I  have  pledged  my 
faith  ; 
I  love  him — I  will  die  with  him  :  I  knew 
Your  nature's  firmness — know  your  daughter's  too." 

XLIII. 

A  minute  past, -and  she  had  been  all  tears, 
And  tenderness,  and  infancy  ;  but  now 

She  stood  as  one  who  champion'd  human  fears — 
Pale,  statue-like,  and  stem,  she  woo'd  the  blow ; 

And  tall  beyond  her  sex,  and  their  compeers, 
She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 

A  fairer  mark  ;  and  with  a  fix'd  eye  scann'd 

Her  father's  face — but  never  stopp'd  his  hand. 

XLIV. 
He  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him  ;  'twas  strange 

How  like  they  look'd  !    the  expression  was  the 
Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  change  [same ; 

In  the  large  dark  eye's  mutual-darted  flame  ; 
For  she,  too,  was  as  one  who  could  avenge, 

If  cause  should  be — a  lioness,  though  tame, 
Her  father's  blood  before  her  father's  face 
Boil'd  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

XLV. 
I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 

Their  stature,  differing  but  in  sex  and  years  ; 
Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hand 

There  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood  wears  ; 
And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 

In  fix'd  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears. 
And  sweet  sensations,  should  have  welcomed  both, 
Show  what  the  passions  are  in  their  full  growth. 

XLVI. 
The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 

His  weapon,  and  replaced  it ;  but  stood  still, 
And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 

"  Not  /,"  he  said, "  have  sought  this  stranger's  ill ; 


613 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  rv. 


Not  /  have  made  this  desolation  :  few 

Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to  kill ; 
But  I  must  do  my  duty — how  thou  hast 
Done  thine,  the  present  Touches  for  the  past. 

XLVII. 
''  Let  him  disarm  ;  or,  by  my  father's  head, 

His  own  shall  roll  before  you  like  a  ball !" 
He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said, 

And  blew,  another  answer'd  to  the  call. 
And  rushing  in  disorderly,  though  led, 

And  arm'd  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all, 
Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank  ; 
He  gave  the  word, — "  Arrest  or  slay  the  Frank." 

XLVIII. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 

His  daughter ;  while  compress'd  within  his  clasp, 
'Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew  ; 

In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's  grasp — 
His  arms  were  like  a  serpent's  coil :  then  flew 

Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp. 
The  file  of  pirates  ;  save  the  foremost,  who 
Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half  cut  through. 

XLIX. 

The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open  ;  but 
The  third,  a  wary,  cool  old  sworder,  took 

The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 
His  own  well  in  ;  so  well,  ere  you  could  look 

His  man  was  floor'd,  and  helpless  at  his  foot. 
With  the  blood  running  like  a  little  brook 

From  two  smart  sabre  gashes,  deep  and  red — 

One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 


And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment :  with  a  sign 

Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the  shore. 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail  at  nine. 

They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 

Until  they  reach'd  some  galliots,  placed  in  line  ; 

On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  hatches. 

They  stow'd  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the  watches. 

LI. 
The  world  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes. 

And  here  was  one  exceedingly  unpleasant : 
A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's  goods. 

Handsome  and  young,  enjoying  all  the  present. 
Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 

On  such  a  thing  is  suddenly  to  sea  sent, 
Wounded  and  chain'd,  so  that  he  cannot  move. 
And  all  because  a  lady  fell  in  love. 

LII. 
Here  I  must  leave  him,  for  I  grow  pathetic, 

Moved  by  the  Chinese  njiuph  of  tears,  green  tea  ! 


Than  whom  Cassandra  was  not  more  prophetic ; 

For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 
I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic. 

That  I  must  have  recourse  to  black  Bohea  : 
'Tis  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious. 
For  tea  and  cofiise  leave  us  much  more  serious. 

LIII. 

Unless  when  qualified  with  thee,  Cogniac  ! 

Sweet  Na'iad  of  the  Phlegethontic  rill ! 
Ah  !  why  the  liver  wilt  thou  thus  attack. 

And  make,  like  other  nymphs,  thy  lovers  ill  ? 
I  would  take  refuge  in  weak  punch,  but  rack, 

(In  each  sense  of  the  word,)  whene'er  I  fill 
My  mild  and  midnight  beakers  to  the  brim. 
Wakes  me  next  morning  with  its  synonym. 

LIV. 

I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present,  safe — 

Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded ; 

Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 

Of  those  with  which  his  Haidue's  bosom  bounded ! 

She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe. 
And  then  give  way,  subdued  because  surrounded ; 

Her  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid,  from  Fez, 

Wliere  all  is  Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 

I.V. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 
In  marble  fonts ;    there  grain,  and  flower,  and 
fruit, 

Gush  from  the  earth  until  tlie  land  runs  o'er ; 
But  there,  too,  many  a  poison-tree  has  root, 

And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar. 
And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel's  foot, 

Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan  ; 

And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 

LVI. 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human  clay  is  kindled  ;  full  of  power 

For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth. 
The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's  hour, 

And  like  the  soil  beneath  it  will  bring  forth  : 
Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's  dower ; 

But  her  large  dark  eye  show'd  deep  Passion's  force, 

Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

LVII. 
Her  daughter,  temper'd  with  a  milder  ray, 

Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fair, 
Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder  they  display 

Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air. 
Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way  ; 

But  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 
The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins. 
Even  as  the  Simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 


Canto  ir. 


DON  JtTAN. 


619 


Lvin. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he  himself  o'erniaster'd  and  cut  down  ; 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 
Whore  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own ; 

Thus  much  she  view'd  an  instant  and  no  more, — 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan  ; 

On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 

Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  fell'd. 

LIX. 
A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 

Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o'er ; 
And  her  head  droop'd  as  when  the  lily  lies 

O'ercharged  with  rain :  her  summon'd  handmaids 
bore 
Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes ; 

Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store, 
But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ. 
Like  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 

LX. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though  chill — 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  Ups  were  red ; 

She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seem'd  absent  still ; 
No  hideous  sign  proclaim'd  her  surely  dead  ; 

Corruption  came  not  in  each  mind  to  kill 
All  hope  ;  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 

New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seem'd  full  of  soul — 

She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 

LXI. 
The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 

When  exquisitely  chisell'd,  still  lay  there. 
But  fix'd  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect  throws 

O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  forever  fair  ; 
O'er  the  Laocoon's  all  eternal  throes. 

And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air, 
Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame. 
Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. — 

LXII. 
She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake. 

Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seem'd  something  new, 
A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 

Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  her  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 

Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still  true 
Brouglit  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  cause, 
For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

LXIII. 

She  look'd  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye, 
On  many  a  token  without  knowing  what ; 

She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why  ; 
And  reck'd  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat ; 

Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not ;  not  a  sigh 
Relieved  her  thoughts ;  dull  silence  and  quick  chat 


Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served  ;  she  gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

LXIV. 
Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not ; 

Her  father  watch'd,  she  turn'd  her  eyes  away ; 
She  recognized  no  being,  and  no  spot, 

However  dear  or  cherish'd  in  their  day ; 
They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot. 

Gentle,  but  without  memory  she  lay  ;  [ing 

At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain  be  wean- 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  wax'd  full  of  fearful  meaning. 

LXV. 
And  then  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp ; 

The  harper  came,  and  tuned  his  instrument ; 
At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp. 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent, 
Then  to  the  waU  she  turn'd  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her  heart  re- 
And  he  begun  a  long  low  island  song  [sent ; 

Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 

In  time  to  his  old  tune  ;  he  changed  the  theme. 

And  sung  of  love ;  the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 
Her  recollection  ;  on  her  flash'd  the  dream 

Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  he  so  being  ;  in  a  gushing  stream 

The  tears  rush'd  forth  from  her  o'erclouded  brain, 

Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

LXVII. 
Short  solace,  vain  relief ! — thought  came  too  quick, 

And  whirl'd  her  brain  to  madness  ;  she  arose 
As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick, 

And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes  ; 
But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek. 

Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its  close  ; — 
Hers  was  a  phrensy  which  disdain'd  to  rave. 
Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

LXVlil. 
Yet  she  betray'd  at  times  a  gleam  of  sense  ; 

Nothing  could  make  her  meet  her  father's  face, 
Though  on  all  other  things  with  looks  intense 

She  gazed,  but  none  she  ever  could  retrace  ; 
Food  she  refused,  and  raiment ;  no  pretence 

Avail'd  for  either ;  neither  change  of  place. 
Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give  her 
Senses  to  sleep — the  power  seem'd  gone  forever. 

LXIX. 
Twelve  days  and  nights  she  wither'd  thus  ;  at  last, 

Without  a  groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 
A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  pass'd  : 

And  they  who  watch'd  her  nearest  could  not  know 


620 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 

Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 
Glazed  o'er  her  eyes — the  beautiful,  the  black — 
Oh  1  to  possess  such  lustre — and  then  lack  !' 

LXX. 

She  died,  but  not  alone  ;  she  held  within 
A  second  principle  of  life,  which  might 

Have  dawn'd  a  fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin  ; 
But  closed  its  little  being  without  light, 

And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom  and  bough  lie  wither'd  with  one  blight ; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  Heaven  descend  above 

The  bleeding  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 

LXXI. 
Thus  lived — ^thus  died  she ;  never  more  on  her 

Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.     She  was  not  made 
Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to  bear. 

Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 
By  age  in  earth  :  her  days  and  pleasures  were 

Brief,  but  delightful — such  as  had  not  staid 
Long  with  her  destiny ;  but  she  sleeps  well 
By  the  sea-shore,  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 

LXXII. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare. 

Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  pass'd  away ; 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there. 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  himian  clay  ; 

Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair, 
Ko  stone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say 

What  was  ;  no  dirge,  except  the  hollow  sea's, 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 
But  many  a  Greek  maid  in  a  loving  song 

Sighs  o'er  her  name  ;  and  many  an  islander 
With  her  sire's  story  makes  the  night  less  long ; 

Valor  was  his,  and  beauty  dwelt  with  her  : 
If  she  loved  rashly,  her  life  paid  for  wrong — 

A  heavy  price  must  all  pay  who  thus  err. 
In  some  shape  ;  let  none  think  to  fly  the  danger. 
For  soon  or  late  Love  is  his  own  avenger. 

LXXIV. 
But  let  me  change  this  theme,  which  grows  too  sad. 

And  lay  this  sheet  of  sorrows  on  the  shelf; 
I  don't  much  like  describing  people  mad, 

For  fear  of  seeming  rather  touch'd  myself — 
Besides,  I've  no  more  on  this  head  to  add  ; 

And  as  my  Muse  is  a  capricious  elf. 
We'll  put  about,  and  try  another  tack 
With  Juan,  left  half-kill'd  some  stanzas  back. 

•  ["  And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 
And  looking  on  it  with  a  lack-lustre  eye." 

As  You  Like  It.] 


LXXV. 

Wounded  and  fetter'd,  "  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined," 
Some  days  and  nights  elapsed  before  that  he 

Could  altogether  call  the  past  to  mind  ; 
And  when  he  did,  he  found  himself  at  sea, 

Sailing  six  knots  an  hour  before  the  wind ; 
The  shores  of  Ilion  lay  beneath  their  lee — 

Another  time  he  might  have  liked  to  see  'em. 

But  now  was  not  much  pleased  with  Cape  Sigaum. 

LXXVI. 
There,  on  the  green  and  village-cotted  hill,  is 

(Flank'd  by  the  Hellespont,  and  by  the  sea) 
Entomb'd  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  Achilles ; 

They  say  so — (Bryant  says  the  contrary  :) 
And  further  downward,  tall  and  towering  still,  is 

The  tumulus — of  whom  ?  Heaven  knows  ;  't  may 
be 
Patroclus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilaus  ; 
All  heroes,  who  if  living  still  would  slay  ua. 

LXXVII. 
High  barrows,  without  marble,  or  a  name, 

A  vast,  untill'd,  and  mountain-skirted  plain. 
And  Ida  in  the  distance,  still  the  same. 

And  old  Scamander,  (if  'tis  he,)  remain  ;  . 
The  situation  seems  still  form'd  for  fame — 

A  hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again 
With  ease  ;  but  where  I  sought  for  Ilion's  walls, 
The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls  ; 

LXXVIII. 
Troops  of  imtended  horses  ;  here  and  there 

Some  little  hamlets,  with  new  names  uncouth  ; 
Some  shepherds,  (unlike  Paris,)  led  to  stare 

A  moment  at  the  European  youth 
Whom  to  the  spot  their  schoolboy  feelings  bear ; 

A  Turk,  with  beads  in  hand,  and  pipe  in  mouth, 
Extremely  taken  with  his  own  religion. 
Are  what  I  found  there — but  the  devil  a  Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 
Don  Juan,  here  permitted  to  emerge 

From  his  dull  cabin,  found  himself  a  slave ; 
Forlorn,  and  gazing  on  the  deep  blue  surge, 

O'ershadow'd  there  by  many  a  hero's  grave  ; 
Weak  still  with  loss  of  blood,  he  scarce  could  urge 

A  few  brief  questions  ;  and  the  answers  gave 
No  very  satisfactory  information 
About  his  past  or  present  situation. 

LXXX. 

He  saw  some  fellow  captives,  who  appear'd 

To  be  Italians,  as  they  were  in  fact ; 
From  them  at  least,  their  destiny  he  heard, 

Which  was  an  odd  one  ;  a  troop  going  to  act 
In  Sicily — all  singers,  duly  rear'd 

In  their  vocation ;  had  not  been  attack'd 


Canto  iv. 


DON    JUAN. 


621 


In  sailing  from  Livomo  by  the  pirate, 
But  sold  by  the  impresario  at  no  high  rate.i 

LXXXI. 
By  one  of  these,  the  buffo  of  the  party, 

Juan  was  told  about  their  curious  case  ; 
For  although  destined  to  the  Turkish  mart,  he 

Still  kept  his  spirits  up — at  least  his  face  ; 
The  little  fellow  really  look'd  quite  hearty. 

And  bore  with  him  some  gayety  and  grace. 
Showing  a  much  more  reconciled  demeanor. 
Than  did  the  prima  donna  and  the  tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  their  hapless  story. 
Saying,  "  Our  MachiaveUan  impresario, 

Making  a  signal  off  some  promontory, 

Hail'd  a  strange  brig  ;  Corpo  di  Caio  Mario  1 

We  were  transferr'd  on  board  her  in  a  hurry. 
Without  a  single  scudo  of  salario  ; 

But  if  the  Sultan  has  a  taste  for  song, 

We  will  revive  our  fortunes  before  long. 

LXXXIII. 
"  The  prima  donna,  though  a  little  old. 

And  haggard  with  a  dissipated  life, 
And  subject,  when  the  house  is  thin,  to  cold. 

Has  some  good  notes  ;  and  then  the  tenor's  wife. 
With  no  great  voice,  is  pleasing  to  behold  ; 

Last  carnival  she  made  a  deal  of  strife 
By  carrying  off  Count  Cesare  Cicogna 
From  an  old  Roman  princess  at  Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 
"  And  then  there  are  the  dancers  ;  there  's  the  Nini, 

With  more  than  one  profession,  gains  by  all ; 
Then  there  '9  that  laughing  slut  the  Pelegrini, 

She,  too,  was  fortunate  last  carnival, 
And  made  at  least  five  hundred  good  zecchini. 

But  spends  so  fast,  she  has  not  now  a  paul ; 
And  then  there  's  the  Grotesca — such  a  dancer  ! 
Where  men  have  souls  or  bodies  she  must  ■answer. 

LXXXV. 
"  As  for  the  figuranti,  they  are  like 

The  rest  of  all  that  tribe  ;  with  here  and  there 
A  pretty  person,  which  perhaps  may  strike. 

The  rest  are  hardly  fitted  for  a  fair ; 
Tliere  's  one,  though  tall  and  stiffcr  than  a  pike. 

Yet  has  a  sentimental  kind  of  air 
Which  might  go  far,  but  she  don't  dance  with  vigor ; 
The  more 's  the  pity,  with  her  face  and  figure. 


■  This  is  a  dct.  A  few  years  ago  a  man  engaged  a  company  for 
some  foreign  theatre,  embarked  them  at  an  Italian  port,  and  carry- 
ing them  to  Algiers,  sold  them  all.  One  of  the  women,  returned 
from  her  captivity,  I  beard  sing,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  in  Ros- 
sini's opera  of  "  L'ltaliana  In  Algieri,"  in  Venice,  in  the  hegin- 
Dlng  of  1817. 


LXXXVI. 

"  As  for  the  men,  they  are  a  middling  set ; 

The  musico  is  but  a  crack'd  old  basin. 
But  being  qualified  in  one  way  yet. 

May  the  seraglio  do  to  set  his  face  in, 
And  as  a  servant  some  preferment  get ; 

His  singing  I  no  further  trust  can  place  in  : 
From  all  the  Pope"  makes  yearly  'twould  perplex 
To  find  three  perfect  pipes  of  the  third  sex. 

LXXXVII. 
"  The  tenor's  voice  is  spoilt  by  affectation. 

And  for  the  bass,  the  beast  can  only  bellow  ; 
In  fact;  he  had  no  singing  education. 

An  ignorant,  noteless,  timeless,  tuneless  fellow, 
But  being  the  prima  donna's  near  relation. 

Who  swore  his  voice  was  very  rich  and  mellow, 
They  hired  him,  though  to  hear  him  you'd  believe 
An  ass  was  practising  recitative. 

LXXXVIIL 

"  'Twould  not  become  myself  to  dwell  upon 
My  own  merits,  and  though  young, — I  see.  Sir — 

Have  got  a  travell'd  air,  which  speaks  you  one  [you 
To  whom  the  opera  is  by  no  means  new : 

You've  heard  of  Raucocanti  ? — I'm  the  man  ; 
The  time  may  come  when  you  may  hear  me  too  ; 

You  was  not  last  year  at  the  fair  of  Lugo, 

But  next,  when  I'm  engaged  to  sing  there — do  go. 

LXXXIX. 
"  Our  baritone  I  almost  had  forgot, 

A  pretty  lad,  but  bursting  with  conceit : 
With  graceful  action,  science  not  a  jot, 

A  voice  of  not  great  compass,  and  not  sweet, 
He  always  is  complaining  of  his  lot, 

Forsooth,  scarce  fit  for  ballads  in  the  street ; 
In  lovers'  parts  his  passion  more  to  breathe. 
Having  no  heart  to  show,  he  shows  his  teeth." 

XC. 
Here  Raucocanti's  eloquent  recital 

Was  interrupted  by  the  pirate  crew. 
Who  came  at  stated  moments  to  invite  all 

The  captives  back  to  their  sad  berths  ;  each  threw 
A  rueful  glance  upon  the  waves,  (which  bright  all 

From  the  blue  skies  derived  a  double  blue. 
Dancing  all  free  and  happy  in  the  sun,) 
And  then  went  down  the  hatchway  one  by  one. 

XCI. 
They  heard  next  day — that  in  the  Dardanelles, 

Waiting  for  his  Sublimity's  firmfin. 
The  most  imperative  of  sovereign  spells. 

Which  everybody  does  without  who  can, 

'  It  is  strange  that  it  should  be  the  Pope  and  the  Sultan,  who  are 
the  chief  encouragera  of  this  branch  of  trade— women  being  pro- 
hibited as  singers  at  St.  Peter's,  and  not  deemed  trust-worthy  a» 
guardians  of  the  harem. 


622 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


More  to  secure  them  in  their  naval  cells, 

Lady  to  lady,  well  as  man  to  man, 
"Were  to  be  chain'd  and  lotted  out  per  couple, 
For  the  slave  market  of  Constantinople. 

XCII. 
It  seems  when  this  allotment  was  made  out, 

There  chanced  to  be  an  odd  male,  and  odd  female, 
Who  (after  some  discussion  and  some  doubt. 

If  the  soprano  might  be  deem'd  to  be  male. 
They  placed  him  o'er  the  women  as  a  scout) 

Were  link'd  together,  and  it  happen'd  the  male 
Was  Juan, — who,  an  awkward  thing  at  his  age, 
Pair'd  off  with  a  Bacchante's  blooming  visage. 

XCIII. 

With  Raucocanti  lucklessly  was  chain'd 
The  tenor ;  these  two  hated  with  a  hate 

Found  only  on  the  stage,  and  each  more  pain'd 
With  this  his  tuneful  neighbor  than  his  fate  ; 

Sad  strife  arose,  for  they  were  so  cross-grain'd. 
Instead  of  bearing  up  without  debate, 

That  each  pull'd  different  ways  with  many  an  oath, 

"  Arcades  ambo,"  id  est — blackguards  both. 

XCIV. 
Juan's  companion  was  a  Romagnole, 

But  bred  within  the  march  of  old  Ancona, 
With  eyes  that  look'd  into  the  very  soul, 

(And  other  chief  points  of  a  "  bella  donna,") 
Bright — and  as  black  and  burning  as  a  coal ; 

And  through  her  clear  brunette  complexion  shone  a 
Great  wish  to  please — a  most  attractive  dower, 
Especially  when  added  to  the  power. 

xcv. 
But  all  that  power  was  wasted  upon  him, 

For  sorrow  o'er  each  sense  held  stem  command ; 
Her  eye  might  flash  on  his,  but  found  it  dim  ; 

And  though  thus  chain'd,  as  natural  her  hand 
Touch'd  his,  nor  that — nor  any  handsome  limb 

(And  she  had  some  not  easy  to  withstand) 
Could  stir  his  pulse,  or  make  his  faith  feel  brittle. 
Perhaps  his  recent  wounds  might  help  a  little. 

XCVI. 
No  matter  ;  we  should  ne'er  too  much  inquire. 

But  facts  are  facts  :  no  knight  could  be  more  true. 
And  firmer  faith  no  ladye-love  desire  ; 

We  will  omit  the  proofs,  save  one  or  two  : 
'Tis  said  no  one  in  hand  "  can  hold  a  fire 

By  thought  of  frosty  Caucasus  ;"  but  few, 
I  really  think ;  yet  Juan's  then  ordeal 
Was  more  triumphant,  and  not  much  less  real. 

XCVII. 
Here  I  might  enter  on  a  chaste  description. 
Having  withstood  temptation  in  my  youth, 


But  hear  that  several  people  take  exception 
At  the  first  two  books  having  too  much  truth  ; 

Therefore  I'll  make  Don  Juan  leave  the  ship  soon. 
Because  the  publisher  declares,  in  sooth, 

Through  needles'  eyes  it  easier  for  the  camel  is 

To  pass,  than  those  two  cantos  into  families. 

xcviir. 

'Tis  all  the  same  to  me  ;  I'm  fond  of  yielding. 
And  therefore  leave  them  to  the  purer  page 

Of  Smollett,  Prior,  Ariosto,  Fielding, 

Who  say  strange  things  for  so  correct  an  age  ; 

I  once  had  great  alacrity  in  wielding 
My  pen,  and  liked  poetic  war  to  wage. 

And  recollect  the  time  when  all  this  cant 

Would  have  provoked  remarks  which  now  it  shan't. 

XCIX. 

As  boys  love  rows,  my  boyhood  liked  a  squabble  ; 

But  at  this  hour  I  wish  to  part  in  peace. 
Leaving  such  to  the  literary  rabble. 

Whether  my  verse's  fame  be  doom'd  to  cease. 
While  the  right  hand  which  wrote  it  still  is  able, 

Or  of  some  centuries  to  take  a  lease  ; 
The  grass  upon  my  grave  will  grow  as  long. 
And  sigh  to  midnight  winds,  but  not  to  song. 

C. 
Of  poets  who  come  down  to  us  through  distance 

Of  time  and  tongues,  the  foster-babes  of  Fame, 
Life  seems  the  smallest  portion  of  existence ; 

Where  twenty  ages  gather  o'er  a  name, 
'Tis  as  a  snowball  which  derives  assistance 

From  every  flake,  and  yet  rolls  on  the  same. 
Even  till  an  iceberg  it  may  chance  to  grow ; 
But,  after  all,  'tis  nothing  but  cold  snow. 

CI. 

And  so  great  names  are  nothing  more  than  nominal. 

And  love  of  glory  's  but  an  airy  lust. 
Too  often  in  its  fury  overcoming  all 

Who  would  as  'twere  identify  their  dust 
From  out  the  wide  destruction,  which,  entombing  all. 

Leaves  nothing  till  "  the  coming  of  the  just " — 
Save  change  :  I've  stood  upon  Achilles'  tomb, 
And  heard  Troy  doubted ;  time  will  doubt  of  Rome. 

CII. 
The  very  generations  of  the  dead 

Are  swept  away,  and  tomb  inherits  tomb, 
Until  the  memory  of  an  age  is  fled. 

And,  buried,  sinks  beneath  its  offspring's  doom  : 
Where  are  the  epitaphs  our  fathers  read  ? 

Save  a  few  glean'd  from  the  sepulchral  gloom 
Which  once-named  myriads  nameless  Ue  beneath, 
And  lose  their  own  in  universal  death. 


OA2ITO  in. 


DON    JUAN. 


623 


GUI. 
I  canter  by  the  spot  each  afternoon 

Where  pcrish'd  in  his  fame  the  hero-boy, 
"WTio  lived  too  long  for  men,  but  died  too  soon 

For  human  vanity,  the  young  De  Foix  ! 
A  broken  pillar,  not  uncouthly  hewn. 

But  which  neglect  is  hastening  to  destroy, 
Records  Ilavenna's  carnage  on  its  face. 
While  weeds  and  ordure  rankle  round  the  base. 

CIV. 

I  pass  each  day  where  Dante's  bones  are  laid :. 

A  little  cupola,  more  neat  than  solemn. 
Protects  his  dust,  but  reverence  here  is  paid 

To  the  bard's  tomb,  and  not  the  warrior's  column : 
The  time  must  come,  when  both  alike  decay'd, 

The  chieftain's  trophy,  and  the  poet's  volume, 
Will  sink  where  lie  the  songs  and  wars  of  earth, 
Before  Pelides'  death,  or  Homer's  birth. 

CV. 

With  human  blood  that  column  was  cemented, 
With  human  filth  that  column  is  defiled. 

As  if  the  peasant's  coarse  contempt  were  vented 
To  show  his  loathing  of  the  spot  he  soil'd  : 

Thus  is  the  trophy  used,  and  thus  lamented 

Should  ever  be  those  bloodhounds,  from  whose 

Instinct  of  gore  and  glory  earth  has  known       [wild 

Those  sufl"erings  Dante  saw  in  hell  alone. 

CVI. 
Yet  there  will  still  be  bards  :  though  fame  is  smoke. 

Its  fumes  are  frankincense  to  human  thought ; 
And  the  unquiet  feelings,  which  first  woke 

Song  in  the  world,  will  seek  what  then  they  sought ; 
As  on  the  beach  the  waves  at  last  are  broke. 

Thus  to  their  extreme  verge  the  passions  brought 
Dash  into  poetry,  which  is  but  passion. 
Or  at  least  was  so  ere  it  grew  a  fashion. 

CVII. 
If  in  the  course  of  such  a  life  as  was 

At  once  adventurous  and  contemplative. 
Men  who  partake  all  passions  as  they  pass, 

Acquire  the  deep  and  bitter  power  to  give 
Their  images  again  as  in  a  glass. 

And  in  such  colors  that  they  seem  to  live  ; 
You  may  do  right  forbidding  them  to  show  'cm. 
But  spoil  (I  think)  a  very  pretty  poem. 

CVIII. 
Oh  !  ye,  who  make  the  fortunes  of  all  books  ! 

Benign  Ceruleans  of  the  second  sex  ! 
Who  advertise  new  poems  by  your  looks, 

Your  "  imprimatur  "  will  ye  not  annex  ? 
What !  must  I  go  to  the  oblivious  cooks  ? 

Those  Cornish  plunderers  of  Parnassian  wrecks  ? 


Ah  !  must  I  then  the  only  minstrel  be. 
Proscribed  from  tasting  your  Castalian  tea  ! 

CIX. 

What !  can  I  prove  "  a  lion  "  then  no  more  ? 

A  ball-room  bard,  a  foolscap,  hot-press  darling  ? 
To  bear  the  compliments  of  many  a  bore, 

And  sigh,  "  I  can't  get  out,"  like  Yorick's  starling ; 
Why  then  I'll  swear,  as  poet  Wordy  swore, 

(Because  the  world  won't  read  him,  always  snarl- 
That  taste  is  gone,  that  fame  is  but  a  lottery,  [ing,) 
Drawn  by  the  blue-coat  misses  of  a  coterie. 

ex. 

Oh  I  "  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue," 
As  some  one  somewhere  sings  about  the  sky, 

And  I,  ye  learned  ladies,  say  of  you  ; 
They  say  your  stockings  arc  so — (Heaven  knows 
why, 

I  have  examined  few  pair  of  that  hue  ;) 
Blue  as  the  garters  which  serenely  lie 

Round  the  Patrician  left-legs,  which  adorn 

The  festal  midnight,  and  the  levee  mom. 

CXI. 

Yet  some  of  you  are  most  seraphic  creatures — 
But  times  are  alter'd  since,  a  rhyming  lover. 

You  read  my  stanzas,  and  I  read  your  features  : 
And— but  no  matter,  all  those  things  are  over  ! 

Still  I  have  no  dislike  to  learned  natures. 
For  sometimes  such  a  world  of  virtues  cover ; 

I  knew  one  woman  of  that  purple  school. 

The  loveliest,  chastest,  best,  but — quite  a  fool. 

CXII. 

Humboldt,  "  the  first  of  travellers,"  but  not 
The  last,  if  late  accoimts  be  accurate. 

Invented,  by  some  name  I  have  forgot, 
As  well  as  the  subUme  discovery's  date. 

An  airy  instrument,  with  which  he  sought, 
To  ascertain  the  atmospheric  state, 

By  measuring  "  the  intensity  of  Hue  ;" 

Oh,  Lady  Daphne  !  let  me  measure  you  ! 

CXIII. 

But  to  the  narrative  : — The  vessel  bound 

With  slaves  to  sell  off  in  the  capital, 
After  the  usual  process,  might  be  found 

At  anchor  under  the  seraglio  wall ; 
Her  cargo,  from  the  plague  being  safe  and  sound, 

Were  landed  in  the  market,  one  and  all. 
And  there  with  Georgians,  Russians,  and  Circassians, 
Bought  up  for  difierent  purposes  and  passions. 

CXIV. 

Some  went  olT  dearly  ;  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
For  one  Circassian,  a  sweet  girl,  were  given, 


624 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


Canto  r. 


Warranted  virgin  ;  beauty's  brightest  colors 
Had  dcck'd  her  out  in  all  the  hues  of  heaven : 

Her  sale  sent  home  some  disappointed  bawlers, 
Who  bade  on  till  the  hundreds  reach'd  eleven  ; 

But  when  the  offer  ivent  beyond,  they  knew 

'Twas  for  the  Sultan,  and  at  once  vithdrew. 

CXV. 
Twelve  negresses  from  Nubia  brought  a  price 

Which  the  West  Indian  market  scarce  could  bring ; 
Though  Wilberforce,  at  last,  has  made  it  twice 

Wliat  'twas  ere  Abolition ;  and  the  thing 
Need  not  seem  very  wonderful,  for  vice 

Is  always  much  more  splendid  than  a  king  : 
The  virtues,  even  the  most  exalted,  Charity, 
Are  saving — vice  spares  nothing  for  a  rarity. 

CXVI. 
But  for  the  destiny  of  this  young  troop, 

How  some  were  bought  by  pachas,  some  by  Jews, 
How  some  to  burdens  were  obliged  to  stoop, 

And  others  rose  to  the  command  of  crews 
As  renegadoes  ;  while  in  hapless  group, 

Hoping  no  very  old  vizier  might  choose, 
The  females  stood,  as  one  by  one  they  pick'd  'em 
To  make  a  mistress,  or  fourth  wife,  or  victim  : 

CXVII. 
All  this  must  be  reserved  for  further  song ; 

Also  our  hero's  lot,  howe'cr  unpleasant, 
(Because  this  Canto  has  become  too  long,) 

Must  be  postponed  discreetly  for  the  present ; 
I'm  sensible  redundancy  is  wrong. 

But  could  not  for  the  muse  of  me  put  less  in  't : 
And  now  delay  the  progress  of  Don  Juan, 
Till  what  is  caU'd  in  Ossian  the  fifth  Duan. 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO    THE    FIFTH. 


When  amatory  poets  sing  their  loves 

In  liquid  lines  mellifluously  bland. 
And  pair  their  rhymes  as  Venus  yokes  her  doves, 

They  little  think  what  mischief  is  in  hand ; 
The  greater  their  success  the  worse  it  proves, 

As  Ovid's  verse  may  give  to  understand  ; 
Even  Petrarch's  self,  if  judged  with  due  severity, 
Is  the  Platonic  pimp  of  all  posterity. 

n. 

I  therefore  do  denounce  all  amorous  writing, 
Except  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  attract ; 

Plain — simple — short,  and  by  no  means  inviting, 
But  with  a  moral  to  each  error  tack'd, 


Form'd  rather  for  instructing  than  delighting. 
And  with  all  passions  in  their  turn  attack'd ; 
Now,  if  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  shod  ill. 
This  poem  will  become  a  moral  model. 

III. 

The  European  with  the  Asian  shore 

Sprinkled  with  palaces  ;  the  ocean  stream 

Here  and  there  studded  with  a  seventy-four ; 
Sophia's  cupola  with  golden  gleam  ; 

The  cypress  groves  ;  Olympus  high  and  hoar ; 
The  twelve  isles,  and  the  more  than  I  could  dream, 

Far  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 

Which  charm'd  the  charming  Mary  Montagu. 

IV. 

I  have  a  passion  for  the  name  of  "  Mary," 
For  once  it  was  a  magic  sound  to  me. 

And  still  it  half  calls  up  the  realms  of  fairy. 
Where  I  beheld  what  never  was  to  be ; 

All  feelings  changed,  but  this  was  last  to  vary, 
A  spell  from  which  even  yet  I  am  not  quite  free  : 

But  I  grow  sad — and  let  a  tale  grow  cold, 

Which  must  not  be  pathetically  told. 

V. 

The  wind  swept  down  the  Euxine,  and  the  wave 
Broke  foaming  o'er  the  blue  Symplegades ; 

'Tis  a  grand  sight  from  oflF  "  the  Giant's  Grave  " 
To  watch  the  progress  of  those  rolling  seas 

Between  the  Bosphorus,  as  they  lash  and  lave 
Europe  and  Asia,  you  being  quite  at  ease  ; 

There  's  not  a  sea  the  passenger  e'er  pukes  in. 

Turns  up  more  dangerous  breakers  than  the  Euxine. 

VI. 
'Twas  a  raw  day  of  Autumn's  bleak  beginning, 

When  nights  are  equal,  but  not  so  the  days  ; 
The  Parca;  then  cut  short  the  further  spinning 

Of  seamen's  fates,  and  the  loud  tempests  raise 
The  waters,  and  repentance  for  past  sinning 

In  all,  who  o'er  the  great  deep  take  their  ways  : 
They  vow  to  amend  their  lives,  and  yet  they  don't ; 
Because  if  drown'd,  they  can't — if  spared,  they  won't. 

VII. 
A  crowd  of  shivering  slaves  of  every  nation, 

And  age,  and  sex,  were  in  the  market  ranged ; 
Each  bevy  with  the  merchant  in  his  station  : 

Poor  creatures  !  their  good  looks  were  sadly  chang- 
All  save  the  blacks  seem'd  jaded  with  vexation,  [ed. 

From  friends,  and  home,  and  freedom  far  estrang- 
The  negroes  more  philosojihy  display'd —  [ed  ; 

Used  to  it,  no  doubt,  as  eels  are  to  be  flay'd. 

VIII. 
Juan  was  juvenile,  and  thus  was  full. 
As  most  at  his  age  are,  of  hope  and  health ; 


Canto  v. 


DON  JUAN 


625 


Tet  I  most  own,  he  look'd  a  little  dull, 

And  now  and  then  a  tear  stole  down  by  stealth  ; 

Perhaps  his  recent  loss  of  lilood  might  pull 
His  spirit  down  ;  and  then  the  loss  of  wealth, 

A  mistress,  and  sueh  comfortable  quarters. 

To  be  put  up  for  auction  amongst  Tartars, 

IX. 
Were  things  to  shake  a  stoic  ;  ne'ertheless, 

Upon  the  whole  his  carriage  was  serene  : 
His  figure,  and  the  splendor  of  his  dress, 

Of  which  some  gilded  remnants  still  were  seen, 
Drew  all  eyes  on  him,  giving  them  to  guess 

He  was  above  the  vulgar  by  his  mien  ; 
And  then,  though  pale,  he  was  so  very  handsome ; 
And  then — they  calculated  on  his  ransom. 

X. 
Like  a  backgammon  board  the  place  was  dotted 

With  whites  and  blacks,  in  groups  on  show  for 
sale. 
Though  rather  more  irregularly  spotted  : 

Some  bought  the  jet,  while  others  chose  the  pale. 
It  chanced  amongst  the  other  people  lotted, 

A  man  of  thirty,  rather  stout  and  hale, 
"With  resolution  in  his  dark  gray  eye. 
Next  Juan  stood,  till  some  might  choose  to  buy. 

XI. 
He  had  an  English  look  ;  that  is,  was  square 

In  make,  of  a  complexion  white  and  ruddy. 
Good  teeth,  with  curling  rather  dark  brown  hair, 

And,  it  might  be  from  thought,  or  toil,  or  study. 
An  open  brow  a  little  mark'd  with  care  : 

One  arm  had  on  a  bandage  rather  bloody  ; 
And  there  he  stood  with  such  sang-froid,  that  greater 
Could  scarce  be  shown  even  by  a  mere  spectator. 

XII. 
But  seeing  at  his  elbow  a  mere  lad, 

Of  a  high  spirit  evidently,  though 
At  present  weigh'd  down  by  a  doom  which  had 

O'erthrown  even  men,  he  soon  began  to  show 
A  kind  of  blunt  compassion  for  the  sad 

Lot  of  so  young  a  partner  in  the  wo, 
Which  for  himself  he  seem'd  to  deem  no  worse 
Than  any  other  scrape,  a  thing  of  course. 

XIII. 

"  My  boy  !"  said  he,  "  amidst  this  motley  crew 
Of  Georgians,  Russians,  Nubians,  and  what  not. 

All  ragamuffins  differing  but  in  hue. 
With  whom  it  is  our  luck  to  cast  our  lot. 

The  only  gentlemen  seem  I  and  you  ; 
So  let  us  be  acquainted,  as  we  ought : 

If  I  could  yield  you  any  consolation, 

'Twould  give  me  pleasure. — Pray,  what  is  your  na- 
tion 2" 
79 


XIV. 
Wlien  Juan  answer'd — "  Spanish  !"  he  replied, 

"  I  thought,  in  fact,  you  could  not  be  a  Greek ; 
Those  servile  dogs  are  not  so  proudly  eyed  : 

Fortune  has  iilay'd  you  here  a  pretty  freak,* 
But  that 's  her  way  with  all  men,  tiU  they're  tried ; 

But  never  mind, — she'll  turn,  perhaps,  next  week ; 
She  has  served  me  also  much  the  same  as  you. 
Except  that  I  have  found  it  nothing  new." 

XV. 
"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Juan,  "  if  I  may  presume,     [rare — 

What  brought  you  here  ?" — "  Oh  !  nothing  very 
Six  Tartars  and  a  drag-chain "  — "  To  this  doom 

But  what  conducted,  if  the  question  's  fair. 
Is  that  which  I  would  learn." — "  I  served  for  some 

Months  with  the  Russian  army  here  and  there, 
And  taking  lately,  by  Suwarrow's  bidding, 
A  town,  was  ta'en  myself  instead  of  Widdin." 

XVI. 
"  Have  you  no  fnends  ?" — "  I  had — but,  by  God'a 
blessing. 

Have  not  been  troubled  with  them  lately.    Now 
I  have  answer'd  all  your  questions  without  pressing. 

And  you  an  equal  courtesy  should  show." 
"  Alas  !"  said  Juan,  "  'twere  a  tale  distressing. 

And  long  besides." — "  Oh  !  if  'tis  really  so, 
You're  right  on  both  accounts  to  hold  your  tongue  ; 
A  sad  tale  saddens  doubly,  when  'tis  long. 

XVII. 
"  But  droop  not :  Fortune  at  your  time  of  life. 

Although  a  female  moderately  fickle. 
Will  hardly  leave  you  (as  she  's  not  your  wife) 

For  any  length  of  days  in  such  a  pickle. 
To  strive,  too,  with  our  fate  were  such  a  strife 

As  if  the  corn-sheaf  should  oppose  the  sickle  : 
Men  are  the  sport  of  circumstances,  when 
The  circumstances  seem  the  sport  of  men." 

XVIII. 
"  'Tis  not,"  said  Juan,  "  for  my  present  doom 

I  mourn,  but  for  the  past ; — I  loved  a  maid  :" — 
He  paused,  and  his  dark  eye  grew  full  of  gloom  ; 

A  single  tear  upon  his  eyelash  staid 
A  moment,  and  then  dropp'd ;  "  but  to  resume, 

'Tis  not  my  present  lot,  as  I  have  said. 
Which  I  deplore  so  much  ;  for  I  have  borne 
Hardships  which  have  the  hardiest  overworn, 

XIX. 

"  On  the  rough  deep.    But  this  last  blow — "  and 
He  stopp'd  again,  and  turn'd  away  his  face,  [here 

"  Ay,"  quoth  his  friend,  "  I  thought  it  would  appear 
That  there  had  been  a  lady  in  the  case  ; 

And  these  are  things  which  ask  a  tender  tear. 
Such  as  I,  too,  would  shed  if  in  your  place  : 


626 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto    v. 


I  cried  upon  my  first  wife's  dying  day, 
And  also  when  my  second  ran  away : 

XX. 
"  My  third " — "  Your  third  !"  quoth  Juan,  turn- 
ing round ; 

"  You  scarcely  can  be  thirty  :  have  you  three  2" 
"  No — only  two  at  present  above  ground : 

Surely  'tis  nothing  wonderful  to  see 
One  person  thrice  in  holy  wedlock  bound  !"      [she  ? 

'•  Well,  then,  your  third,"  said  Juan  ;  "  what  did 
She  did  not  run  away,  too, — did  she,  sir  ?"  [her." 
"No,  faith."— " What  then?"— "I  ran  away  from 

XXI. 

"  You  take  things  coolly,  sir,"  s.nid  Juan.    "  'Why," 
Replied  the  other,  "  what  can  a  man  do  ? 

There  still  are  many  rainbows  in  your  sky. 

But  mine  have  vanish'd.    All,  when  life  is  new. 

Commence  with  feelings  warm,  and  prospects  high ; 
But  time  strips  our  illusions  of  their  hue. 

And  one  by  one  in  turn,  some  grand  mistake 

Casts  off  its  bright  skin  yearly  like  the  snake. 

XXII. 

"  'Tis  true,  it  gets  another  bright  and  fresh. 

Or  fresher,  brighter ;  but  the  year  gone  through, 

This  skin  must  go  the  way,  too,  of  all  flesh, 
Or  sometimes  only  wear  a  week  or  too  ; — 

Loves 's  the  first  net  which  spreads  its  deadly  mesh; 
Ambition,  Avarice,  Vengeance,  Glory,  glue 

The  glittering  lime-twigs  of  our  latter  days. 

Where  still  we  flutter  on  for  pence  or  praise." 

XXIII. 
"  All  this  is  very  fine,  and  may  be  true," 

Said  Juan ;  "  but  I  really  don't  see  how 
It  betters  present  times  with  me  or  you." 

"  No  ?"  quoth  the  other  ;  "  yet  you  will  allow 
By  setting  things  in  their  right  point  of  view. 

Knowledge,  at  least,  is  gain'd ;  for  instance,  now, 
We  know  what  slavery  is,  and  our  disasters 
May  teach  us  bettor  to  behave  when  masters." 

XXIV. 
"  Would  we  were  masters  now,  if  but  to  try 

Their  present  lessons  on  our  Pagan  friends  here," 
Said  Juan, — swallowing  a  heart-burning  sigh  : 

"  Heaven  help  the  scholar  whom  his  fortune  sends 
here !" 
"  Perhaps  we  shall  be  one  day,  by  and  by," 

Rejoin'd  the  other,  "  when  our  bad  luck  mends  ; 
Meantime  (yon  old  black  eunuch  seems  to  eye  us) 
I  wish  to  G — d  that  somebody  would  buy  us. 

XXV. 
"  But  after  all,  what  is  our  present  state  ? 

'Tis  bad,  and  may  bo  Ijcttcr — all  men's  lot ; 
Most  men  are  slaves,  none  more  so  than  the  great, 


To  their  own  whims  and  passions,  and  what  not ; 
Society  itself,  which  should  create 

Kindness,  destroys  what  little  we  had  got : 
To  feel  for  none  is  the  true  social  art 
Of  the  world's  stoics — men  without  a  heart." 

XXVI. 
Just  now  a  black  old  neutral  personage 

Of  the  third  sex  stepp'd  up,  and  peering  over 
The  captives  seem'd  to  mark  their  looks  and  age. 

And  capabilities,  as  to  discover 
If  they  were  fitted  for  the  purposed  cage  ; 

No  lady  e'er  is  ogled  by  a  lover. 
Horse  by  a  blackleg,  broadcloth  by  a  tailor. 
Fee  by  a  counsel,  felon  by  a  jailer, 

XXVII. 
As  is  a  slave  by  his  intended  bidder. 

'Tis  pleasant  purchasing  our  fellow-creatures ; 
And  all  are  to  be  sold,  if  you  consider 

Their  passions,  and  are  dex'trous ;  some  by  fea- 
Are  bought  up,  others  by  a  warhke  leader,       [tures 

Some  by  a  place— as  tend  their  years  or  natures  ; 
The  most  by  ready  cash — but  all  have  prices. 
From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  vices. 

XXVIII. 
The  eunuch  having  eyed  them  o'er  with  care, 

Turn'd  to  the  merchant,  and  began  to  bid 
First  but  for  one,  and  after  for  the  pair  ; 

They  haggled,  wrangled,  swore,  too — so  they  did  I 
As  though  they  were  in  a  mere  Christian  fair 

Cheapening  an  ox,  an  ass,  a  lamb,  or  kid  ; 
So  that  their  bargain  sounded  like  a  battle 
For  this  superior  yoke  of  human  cattle. 

XXIX. 

At  last  they  settled  into  simple  grumbling. 
And  pulling  out  reluctant  purses,  and 

Turning  each  piece  of  silver  o'er,  and  tumbling 
Some  dovm,  and  weighing  others  in  their  hand, 

And  by  mistake  sequins  with  paras  jumbling, 
Until  the  sum  was  accurately  seann'd, 

And  then  the  merchant  giving  change,  and  signing 

Receipts  in  full,  began  to  think  of  dining. 

XXX. 
I  wonder  if  his  appetite  was  good  ? 

Or,  if  it  were,  if  also  his  digestion  ?  [trude, 

Methinks  at  meals  some  odd  thoughts  might  in- 

And  conscience  ask  a  curious  sort  of  question. 
About  the  right  divine  how  far  we  should 

Sell  flesh  and  blood.    When  dinner  has  oppress'd 
I  think  it  is  perhaps  the  gloomiest  hour  [one. 

Which  turns  up  out  of  the  sad  twenty-four. 

XXXI. 
Voltaire  says  "  No  :"  he  tells  you  that  Candide 
Found  life  most  tolerable  after  meals ; 


Canto  v. 


DON    JFAN. 


627 


He  's  wrong — unless  man  wore  a  pig,  indeed, 
Repletion  rather  adds  to  what  he  feels, 

Unless  he  's  drank,  and  then  no  doubt  he  's  freed 
From  his  own  brain's  oppression  while  it  reels. 

Of  food  I  think  with  Philip's  son,  or  rather 

Amnion's,  (ill  pleased  with  one  world  and  one  father ;) 

XXXII. 
I  think  with  Alexander,  that  the  act 

Of  eating,  with  another  act  or  two. 
Makes  us  feel  our  mortality  in  fact 

Redoubled ;  when  a  roast  and  a  ragout. 
And  fish,  and  soup,  by  some  side  dishes  back'd, 

Can  give  us  either  pain  or  pleasure,  who 
Would  pique  himself  on  intellects,  whose  use 
Depends  so  much  upon  the  gastric  juice  ? 

xxxin. 

The  other  evening,  ('twas  on  Friday  last) — 

This  is  a  fact,  and  no  poetic  fable — 
Just  as  my  great -coat  was  about  me  cast. 

My  hat  and  gloves  still  lying  on  the  table, 
I  heard  a  shot — 'twas  eight  o'clock  scarce  past — 

And,  running  out  as  fast  as  I  was  able,' 
I  found  the  military  commandant 
Stretch'd  in  the  street,  and  able  scarce  to  pant. 

XXXIV. 
Poor  fellow!  for  some  reason,  surely  bad, 

Tliey  had  slain  him  with  flve'slugs  ;  and  left  him 
To  perish  on  the  i^avement :  so  I  had  [there 

Him  borne  into  the  house  and  up  the  stair. 
And  sti-ipp'd,  and  look'd  to, But  why  should  I 

More  circumstances  ?  vain  was  every  care  ;     [add 
The  man  was  gone  :  in  some  Italian  quarrel 
Kiird  by  five  bullets  from  an  old  gun-barrel. 

XXXV. 
I  gazed  upon  him,  for  I  knew  him  well ; 

And  though  I  have  seen  many  corpses,  never 
Saw  one,  whom  such  an  accident  befell,    [and  liver, 

So  calm ;  though  pierced  through  stomach,  heart. 
He  seem'd  to  sleep, — for  you  could  scarcely  tell 

(As  he  bled  inwardly,  no  hideous  river 
Of  gore  divulged  the  cause)  that  he  was  dead : 
So  as  I  gazed  oa  him,  I  thought  or  said — 

XXXVI. 

"  Can  this  be  death  ?  then  what  is  life  or  death  ? 

Speak  !"  but  he  spoke  not :  "  wake  !"  but  still  he 
slept : — 
'•  But  yesterday  and  who  had  mightier  breath  ? 

A  thousand  warriors  by  his  word  were  kept 
In  avre  :  he  said,  as  the  centurion  saith, 

'  Go,'  and  he  goeth  ;  '  come,'  and  forth  he  stepp'd. 

■  The  aseassination  alluded  to  took  place  on  the  8th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1820,  In  the  etrccts  of  Ravenna,  not  a  hundred  paces  from 
the  residence  of  the  writer.  The  circumstancea  were  a»  des^cribed. 


The  trump  and  bugle  till  he  spake  were  dumb — 
And  now  naught  left  him  but  the  muffled  drum." 

xxxvn. 
And  they  who  waited  once  and  worshipp'd — they 

With  their  rough  faces  throng'd  about  the  bed 
To  gaze  once  more  on  the  commanding  clay 

Which  for  the  last,  though  not  the  first,  time  bled : 
And  such  an  end  1  that  he  who  many  a  day 

Had  faced  Najjoleon's  foes  until  they  fled, — 
The  foremost  in  the  charge  or  in  the  sally, 
Should  now  be  butchcr'd  in  a  civic  alley. 

XXXVIII. 

The  scars  of  his  old  wounds  were  near  his  new, 
Those  honorable  scars  which  brought  him  fame ; 

Aud  horrid  was  the  contrast  to  the  view 

But  let  me  quit  the  theme  ;  as  such  things  claim 

Perhaps  even  more  attention  than  is  due 
From  me  :  I  gazed  (as  oft  I  have  gazed  the  same) 

To  try  if  I  could  wrench  aught  out  of  death 

Which  should  confirm,  or  shake,  or  make  a  faith  ; 

XXXIX. 
But  it  was  all  a  mystery.    Here  wc  arc, 

And  there  we  go  : — but  where  f  five  bits  of  lead, 
Or  three,  or  two,  or  one,  send  very  far  ! 

And  is  this  blood,  then,  form'd  but  to  be  shed  ? 
Can  every  element  our  elements  mar  ? 

And  air — earth — water — fire  live — and  we  dead  ? 
ire,  whose  minds  comprehend  all  things  ?  No  more  ; 
But  let  us  to  the  story  as  before. 

XL. 
The  purchaser  of  Juan  and  acquaintance 

Bore  off  his  bargains  to  a  gilded  boat,        [thence 
Embark'd   himself  and   them,  and   off  they  went 

As  fast  as  oars  could  pull  and  water  float ; 
They  look'd  like  persons  being  led  to  sentence, 

Wondering  what  next,  till  the  caique'  was  brought 
Up  in  a  little  creek  below  a  wall 
O'ertopp'd  with  cypresses,  dark-green  and  tall. 

XLI. 
Here  their  conductor  tapping  at  the  wicket 

Of  a  small  iron  door,  'twas  opcn'd,  and 
He  led  them  onward,  first  through  a  low  thicket 

Flank'd  by  large  groves,  which  tower'd  on  either 
hand  : 
They  almost  lost  their  way,  and  had  to  pick  it — 

For  night  was  closing  ere  they  came  to  land. 
The  eunuch  made  a  sign  to  those  on  board. 
Who  row'd  off,  Icu^dng  them  without  a  word. 

XLII. 
As  they  were  plodding  on  their  winding  way 
Through  orange  bowers,  and  jasmine,  and  so  forth : 

'  The  light  and  elegant  wherries  plying  about  the  quays  of  Con- 
etanetinople  are  eo  called. 


628 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  v. 


(Of  which  I  might  haye  a  good  deal  to  say, 
There  being  no  such  profusion  in  the  North 

Of  oriental  plants,  "  et  cetera," 
But  that  of  late  your  scribblers  think  it  worth 

Their  while  to  rear  whole  hotbeds  in  their  works. 

Because  one  poet  travel'd  'mongst  the  Tui-ks  :) 

XLIII. 
As  they  were  threading  on  their  way,  there  came 

Into  Don  Juan's  head  a  thought,  which  he 
Whisper'd  to  his  companion  : — 'twas  the  same 

Which  might  have  then  occurr'd  to  you  or  me. 
"Methinks," — said  he, — "it  would  be  no   great 
shame 

If  we  should  strike  a  stroke  to  set  us  free ; 
Let 's  knock  that  old  black  fellow  on  the  head." 
And  march  away — 'twere  easier  done  than  said." 

XLIV. 
"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  and  when  done,  what  then  ? 

now  get  out  ?  how  the  devil  got  we  in  ? 
And  when  we  once  were  fairly  out,  and  when 

From  Saint  Bartholomew  we  have  saved  our  skin. 
To-morrow  'd  see  us  in  some  other  den. 

And  worse  off  than  we  hitherto  have  been  ; 
Besides,  I'm  hungry,  and  just  now  would  take, 
Like  Esau,  for  my  birthright  a  beefsteak. 

XLV. 
"  "We  must  be  near  some  place  of  man's  abode ; — 

For  the  old  negro's  confidence  in  creeping. 
With  his  two  captives,  by  so  queer  a  road, 

Shows  that  he  thinks  his  friends  have  not  been 
sleeping ; 
A  single  cry  would  bring  them  all  abroad : 

'Tis  therefore  better  looking  before  leaping — 
And  there,  you  see,  this  turn  has  brought  us  through. 
By  Jove,  a  noble  palace  1 — lighted  too." 

XLVI. 
It  was  indeed  a  wide  extensive  building 

Which  open'd  on  their  view,  and  o'er  the  front 
There  seem'd  to  be  besprent  a  deal  of  gilding 

And  various  hues,  as  is  the  Turkish  wont, — 
A  gaudy  taste ;  for  they  are  little  skill'd  in 

The  arts  of  which  these  lands  were  once  the  font : 
Each  villa  on  the  Bosphorus  looks  a  screen 
New  painted,  or  a  pretty  opera-scene. 

XLVII. 
And  nearer  as  they  came,  a  genial  savor 

Of  certain  stews,  and  roast-meats,  and  pilaus. 
Things  which  in  hungry  mortals'  eyes  find  favor. 

Made  Juan  in  his  harsh  intentions  pause. 
And  put  himself  upon  his  good  behavior : 

His  friend,  too,  adding  a  new  saving  clause. 


'  ["  Guide  des  Voyageurs,"  "  Directions  for  Travellers,"  etc.— 
"  Bhymes,  Incidental  and  Humorons,"  "  Rhyming  Reminiscences," 
"  Effusions  in  Rhyme,"  etc.—"  Lady  Morgan's  Tour  in  Italy," 


Said,  "  In  Heaven's  name  let 's  get  some  supper  now, 
And  then  I'm  with  you,  if  you're  for  a  row." 

XLVIII. 
Some  talk  of  an  appeal  unto  some  passion. 

Some  to  men's  feelings,  others  to  their  reason ; 
The  last  of  these  was  never  much  the  fashion, 

For  reason  thinks  all  reasoning  out  of  season. 
Some  speakers  whine,  and  others  lay  the  lash  on. 

But  more  or  less  continue  still  to  tease  on. 
With  arguments  according  to  their  "  forte ;" 
But  no  one  ever  dreams  of  being  short. — 

XIJX. 
But  I  digress  :  of  all  appeals, — although 

I  grant  the  power  of  pathos,  and  of  gold. 
Of  beauty,  flattery,  threats,  a  shilling, — no 

Method 's  more  sure  at  moments  to  take  hold 
Of  the  best  feelings  of  mankind,  which  grow 

More  tender,  as  we  every  day  behold. 
Than  that  all-softening,  overpowering  knell. 
The  tocsin  of  the  soul — the  dinner-bell. 


Turkey  contains  no  bells,  and  yet  men  dine ; 

And  Juan  and  his  friend,  albeit  they  heard 
No  Christian  knoll  to  table,  saw  no  line 

Of  lackeys  usher  to  the  feast  prepared. 
Yet  smelt  roast-meat,  beheld  a  huge  fire  shine. 

And  cooks  in  mqtion  with  their  clean  arms  bared, 
And  gazed  around  them  to  the  left  and  right, 
With  the  prophetic  eye  of  appetite. 

hi. 
And  giving  up  all  notions  of  resistance. 

They  foUow'd  close  behind  their  sable  guide. 
Who  little  thought  that  his  own  crack'd  existence 

Was  on  the  point  of  being  set  aside  : 
He  motion'd  them  to  stop  at  some  small  distance, 

And  knocking  at  the  gate,  'twas  open'd  wide. 
And  a  magnificent  large  hall  display'd 
The  Asian  pomp  of  Ottoman  parade. 

LII. 
I  won't  describe  ;  description  is  my  forte. 

But  every  fool  describes  in  these  bright  days 
His  wondrous  journey  to  some  foreign  court. 

And  spawns  his  quarto,  and  demands  your  praise — 
Death  to  his  publisher,  to  him  'tis  sport ; 

While  Nature,  tortured  twenty  thousand  ways. 
Resigns  herself  with  exemplary  patience         [tions.' 
To  guide-books,  rhymes,  tours,  sketches,  illustra- 

LIII. 
Along  this  hall,  and  up  and  down,  some,  squatted 
Upon  their  hams,  were  occupied  at  chess  ; 


"  Tour  through  Istria,"  etc.,  etc.—"  Sketches  of  Italy,"  "  Sketches 
of  Modem  Greece,"  etc.,  etc.— The  last  is  a  playful  allusion  to  his 
friend  Mr.  Hobhouse's  "  Illustrations  of  Childe  Harold."] 


Canto  v. 


DON  JUAN. 


629 


Others  in  monosyllable  talk  chatted, 

And  some  seem'd  much  in  love  with  their  own 
And  divers  smoked  superb  pipes  decorated     [dress, 

With  amber  mouths  of  greater  price  or  less  ; 
And  several  strutted,  others  slept,  and  some 
ftepared  for  supper  with  a  glass  of  rum. 

LIV. 
As  the  black  eunuch  enter'd  with  his  brace 

Of  purchased  Infidels,  some  raised  their  eyes 
A  moment  without  slackening  from  their  pace ; 

But  those  who  sate,  ne'er  stirr'd  in  anywise  : 
One  or  two  stared  the  captives  in  the  face, 

Just  as  one  views  a  horse  to  guess  his  price  ; 
Some  nodded  to  the  negro  from  their  station, 
But  no  one  troubled  him  with  conversation. 

LV. 

He  leads  them  through  the  hall,  and,  without  stop- 
On  through  a  farther  range  of  goodly  rooms,  [ping, 

Splendid  but  silent,  save  in  one,  where,  dropping," 
A  marble  fountain  echoes  through  the  glooms 

Of  night,  which  robe  the  chamber,  or  where  popping 
Some  female  head  most  curiously  presumes 

To  thrust  its  black  eyes  through  the  door  or  lattice, 

As  wondering  what  the  devil  noise  that  is. 

LVI. 

Some  faint  lamps  gleaming  from  the  lofty  walls 
Gave  light  enough  to  hint  their  fiirther  way. 

But  not  enough  to  show  the  imperial  halls 
In  all  the  flashing  of  their  full  array ; 

Perhaps  there  's  nothing — I'll  not  say  appals, 
But  saddens  more  by  night  as  well  as  day, 

Than  an  enormous  room  without  a  soul 

To  break  the  lifeless  splendor  of  the  whole. 

LVII. 
Two  or  three  seem  so  little,  oiu  seems  nothing : 

In  deserts,  forests,  crowds,  or  by  the  shore, 
There  solitude,  we  know,  has  her  full  growth  in 

The  spots  which  were  her  realms  for  evermore  ; 
But  in  a  mighty  hall  or  gallery,  both  in 

More  modem  buildings  and  those  built  of  yore, 
A  kind  of  death  comes  o'er  us  all  alone. 
Seeing  what 's  meant  for  many  with  but  one. 

LVIII. 
A  neat,  snug  study  on  a  winter's  night, 

A  book.  Mend,  single  lady,  or  a  glass 
Of  claret,  sandwich,  and  an  appetite. 

Are  things  which  make  an  English  evening  pass ; 
Though  ceries  by  no  means  so  grand  a  sight 

As  is  »  theatre  lit  up  by  gas. 
I  pass  my  evenings  in  long  galleries  solely  ; 
And  that 's  the  reason  I'm  so  melancholy. 

'  A  common  fUralture.  I  recollect  being  received  by  All  Pacha 
In  a  larije  room,  paved  with  marble,  containing  a  marble  baeln, 
and  a  (onntaiu  playlnpr  In  the  centre,  etc.,  etc. 


LIX. 

Alas  !  man  makes  that  great  which  makes  him  little  : 
I  grant  you  in  a  church  'tis  very  well ;        [brittle. 

What  speaks  of  Heaven  should  by  no  means  be 
But  strong  and  lasting,  till  no  tongue  can  tell 

Tlieir  names  who  rear'd  it ;  but  huge  houses  fit  ill — 
And  huge  tombs  worse — mankind,  since  Adam 

Methinks  the  story  of  the  tower  of  Babel  [fell : 

Might  teach  them  this  much  better  than  I'm  able. 

I.X. 
Babel  was  Nimrod's  hunting-box,  and  then 

A  town  of  gardens,  walls,  and  wealth  amazing, 
Wliere  Nebuchodonosor,  king  of  men, 

Reign'd,  till  one  summer's  day  he  took  to  grazing, 
And  Daniel  tamed  the  Uons  in  their  don. 

The  people's  awe  and  admiration  raising ; 
'Twas  famous,  too,  for  Thisbe  and  for  Pyramus, 
And  the  calumniated  queen  Semiramis — " 

LXI. 
That  injured  Queen,  by  chroniclers  so  coarse 

Has  been  accused  (I  doubt  not  by  conspiracy) 
Of  an  improper  friendship  for  her  horse, 

(Love,  like  religion,  sometimes  runs  to  heresy  :) 
This  monstrous  tale  had  probably  its  source 

(For  such  exaggerations  here  and  there  I  see) 
In  writing  "  Courser  "  by  mistake  for  "  Courier  :" 
I  wish  the  case  could  come  before  a  jury  here. 

LXII. 
But  to  resume, — should  there  be  (what  may  not 

Be  in  these  days  ?)  some  infidels,  who  don't, 
Because  they  can't  find  out  the  very  spot 

Of  that  same  Babel,  or  because  they  won't, 
(Though  Claudius  Rich,  Esquire,  some  bricks  has 

And  written  lately  two  memoirs  upon  't,)         [got, 
Believe  the  Jews,  those  unbelievers,  who 
Must  be  believed,  though  they  believe  not  you. 

LXIII. 
Yet  let  them  think  that  Horace  has  express'd 

Shortly  and  sweetly  the  masonic  folly 
Of  those,  forgetting  the  great  place  of  rest. 

Who  give  themselves  to  architecture  wholly  ; 
We  know  where  things  and  men  must  end  at  best : 

A  moral  (like  all  morals)  melancholy. 
And  "  Et  sepulchri  immemor  struis  domos  " 
Shows  that  we  build  when  we  should  but  entomb  us. 

LXIV. 
At  last  they  reach'd  a  quarter  most  retired. 

Where  echo  woke  as  if  from  a  long  slumber ; 
Though  full  of  all  things  which  could  be  desired, 

One  wonder'd  what  to  do  with  such  a  number 


»  Babylon  was  enlarged  by  Nimrod,  strengthened  and  beautified 
by  Nebachodonosor,  and  rcbnilt  by  Semiramia. 


630 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  v. 


Of  articles  which  nobody  required ; 

Here  wealth  had  done  its  utmost  to  encumber 
With  furniture  an  exquisite  apartment,  [meant. 

Which   puzzled  Nature   much   to  know  what  Art 

LXV. 
It  seem'd,  however,  but  to  open  on 

A  range  or  suite  of  further  chambers,  which 
Might  lead  to  heaven  knows  where  ;  but  in  this  one 

The  movables  were  jjrodigally  rich  : 
Sofas  'twas  half  a  sin  to  sit  upon, 

So  costly  were  they ;  carpets  every  stitch 
Of  workmanship  so  rare,  they  made  you  wish 
You  could  glide  o'er  them  Uke  a  golden  fish. 

LXVI. 
The  black,  however,  without  hardly  deigning    [der, 

A  glance  at  that  which  wrapp'd  the  slaves  in  won- 
Tranipled  what  they  scarce  trod  for  fear  of  staining, 

As  if  the  milky  way  their  feet  was  under 
With  all  its  stars ;  and  with  a  stretch  attaining 

A  certain  press  or  cupboard  niched  in  yonder — 
In  that  remote  recess  which  you  may  see — 
Or  if  you  don't  the  fault  is  not  in  me,— 

LXVII. 

I  wish  to  be  perspicuous  ;  and  the  black, 

I  say,  unlocking  the  recess,  pull'd  forth 
A  quantity  of  clothes  fit  for  the  back 

Of  any  Mussulman,  whate'er  his  worth  ; 
And  of  variety  there  was  no  lack — 

And  yet,  though  I  have  said  there  was  no  dearth, — 
He  chose  himself  to  point  out  what  he  thought 
Most  proper  for  the  Christians  he  had  bought. 

LXVIII. 
The  suit  he  thought  most  suitable  to  each 

Was,  for  the  elder  and  the  stouter,  first 
A  Candiote  cloak,  which  to  the  knee  might  reach, 

And  trousers  not  so  tight  that  they  would  burst, 
But  such  as  fit  an  Asiatic  breech  ; 

A  shawl,  whose  folds  in  Cashmere  had  been  nursed, 
Shppers  of  safiron,  dagger  rich  and  handy  ; 
In  short,  all  things  which  form  a  Turkish  Dandy. 

LXIX. 
While  he  was  dressing,  Baba,  their  black  friend. 

Hinted  the  vast  advantages  which  they 
Might  probably  attain  both  in  the  end. 

If  they  would  but  pursue  the  proper  way 
Which  Fortune  plainly  scem'd  to  recommend ; 

And  then  he  added,  that  he  needs  must  say, 
"  'Twould  greatly  tend  to  better  their  condition. 
If  they  would  condescend  to  circumcision. 

LXX. 
"  For  his  own  part,  he  really  should  rejoice 

To  see  them  true  believers,  but  no  less 
Would  leave  his  proposition  to  their  choice." 

The  other,  thanking  him  for  this  excesa 


Of  goodness,  in  thus  leaving  them  a  voice 

In  such  a  trifle,  scarcely  could  express 
"  Sufficiently  "  (he  said)  "  his  approbation 
Of  all  the  customs  of  this  polish'd  nation. 

LXXI. 
"  For  his  own  share — he  saw  but  small  objection 

To  so  respectable  an  ancient  rite ; 
And,  after  swallowing  down  a  slight  refection. 

For  which  he  own'd  a  present  appetite. 
He  doubted  not  a  few  hours  of  reflection 

Would  reconcile  him  to  the  business  quite." 
"  WiU  it  ?"  said  Juan,  sharply  :  "  Strike  me  dead, 
But  they  as  soon  shall  circumcise  my  head  ! 

LXXII. 
"  Cut  off  a  thousand  heads,  before " — "  Now, 

Replied  the  other,  "  do  not  interrupt :  [pray," 

You  put  me  out  in  what  I  had  to  say. 

Sir  ! — as  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  have  supp'd, 
I  shall  perpend  if  your  proposal  may 

Be  such  as  I  can  properly  accept ; 
Provided  always  your  great  goodness  still 
Remits  the  matter  to  our  own  free-wiD." 

LXXIII. 
Baba  eyed  Juan,  and  said,  "  Be  so  good 

As  dress  yourself —  "  and  pointed  out  a  suit 
In  which  a  Princess  with  great  pleasure  would 

Array  her  limbs  ;  but  Juan  standing  mute, 
As  not  being  in  a  masquerading  mood. 

Gave  it  a  slight  kick  with  his  Christian  foot ; 
And  when  the  old  negro  told  him  to  "  Get  ready,"    ■ 
Replied,  "  Old  gentleman,  I'm  not  a  lady." 

LXXIV. 

"  What  you  may  be,  I  neither  know  nor  care," 
Said  Baba  ;  "  but  pray  do  as  I  desire  : 

I've  no  more  time  nor  many  words  to  spare." 
"  At  least,"  said  Juan,  "  sure  I  may  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  odd  travesty  2" — "  Forbear," 
Said  Baba,  "  to  be  curious  ;  'twill  transpire, 

No  doubt,  in  proper  place,  and  time,  and  season  : 

I've  no  authority  to  tell  the  reason." 

LXXV. 
"  Then  if  I  do,"  said  Juan,  "  I'll  be "— "  Hold !" 

Rejoin'd  the  negro,  "  pray  be  not  i>rovoking  ; 
This  spirit 's  well,  but  it  may  wax  too  bold. 

And  you  will  find  us  not  too  fond  of  joking." 
"  Wliat,  sir  !"  said  Juan,  "  shall  it  e'er  be  told 

That  I  unsex'd  my  dress  ?"     But  Baba,  stroking 
The  things  down,  said,  "  Incense  me,  and  S,fall 
Those  who  will  leave  you  of  no  sex  at  all. 

LXXVI. 
"  I  ofi'er  you  a  handsome  suit  of  clothes  : 
A  woman's,  true  ;  but  then  there  is  a  cause 


Canto  v. 


DON  JUAN, 


631 


Whjjr  you  should  weaf  them." — "  What,  though  my 
soul  loathes 

The  effeminate  garb  ?" — thus,  after  a  short  pause, 
Sigh'd  Juan,  muttering  also  some  slight  oaths, 

"  What  the  devil  shall  I  do  with  all  this  gauze  ?" 
Thus  he  profanely  term'd  the  finest  lace 
Which  e'er  set  off  a  marriage-morning  face. 

LXXVII. 
And  then  he  swore ;  and,  sighing,  on  he  slipp'd 

A  pair  of  trousers  of  flesh-color'd  silk  ; 
Next  with  a  virgin  zone  he  was  equipp'd, 

Which  girt  a  slight  chemise  as  white  as  milk  ; 
But  tugging  on  his  petticoat,  he  tripp'd. 

Which — as  we  say — or,  as  the  Scotch  say,  whili, 
(The  rhyme  obliges  me  to  this  ;  sometimes 
Monarchs  are  less  imperative  than  rhymes) — 

LXXVIII. 
Wliilk,  which,  (or  what  you  jjlease,)  was  owing  to 
His  garment's  novelty,  and  his  being  awkward  : 
And  yet  at  last  he  managed  to  get  through 

His  toilet,  though  no  doubt  a  little  backward : 
The  negro  Baba  helja'd  a  little  too, 
-  Wlien  some  untoward  part  of  raiment  stuck  hard ; 
And,  wrestling  both  his  arms  into  a  gown. 
He  paused,  and  took  a  survey  up  and  down. 

LXXIX. 
One  difficulty  still  remaiu'd — his  hair 

Was  hardly  long  enough  ;  but  Baba  found 
So  many  false  long  ti'csscs  all  to  spare, 

That  soon  his  head  was  most  completely  crown'd. 
After  the  manner  then  in  fashion  there  ; 

And  this  addition  with  such  gems  was  bound 
As  suited  the  ensemble  of  his  toilet, 
While  Baba  made  him  coml)  his  head  and  oil  it. 

LXXX. 
And  now  being  femininely  all  array'd. 

With  some  small  aid  from  scissors,  paint,  and 
tweezers. 
He  look'd  in  almost  all  respects  a  maid. 

And  Baba  smilingly  exclaim'd,  "  You  see,  sirs, 
A  perfect  transformation  here  display'd  ; 

And  now,  then,  you  must  come  along  with  mc,  sirs. 
That  is — the  Lady :"  clapping  his  hands  twice, 
Four  blacks  were  at  his  elbow  in  a  trice. 

LXXXI. 
"  You,  sir,"  said  Baba,  nodding  to  the  one, 

"  Will  please  to  accompany  those  gentlemen 
To  supper  ;  but  you,  worthy  Cliristian  nun. 

Will  follow  me  :  no  trifling,  sir ;  for  when 
I  say  a  thing,  it  must  at  once  be  done. 

What  fear  you  ?  think  you  this  a  lion's  den  ? 
Why,  'tis  a  palace  ;  where  the  truly  wise 
Anticipate  the  Prophet's  paradise. 


LXXXII. 
"  You  fool !  I  tell  you  no  one  means  you  harm." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  Juan  said,  "  for  them  ; 
Else  they  shall  feel  the  weight  of  this  my  arm. 

Which  is  not  quite  so  light  as  you  may  deem. 
I  yield  thus  far ;  but  soon  will  break  the  charm 

If  any  take  me  for  that  which  I  seem  : 
So  that  I  trust  for  everybody's  sake, 
That  this  disguise  may  lead  to  no  mistake." 

LXXXIII. 
"  Blockhead !  come  on,  and  see,"  quoth  Baba ;  while 

Don  Juan,  turning  to  his  comrade,  who 
Though  somewhat  grieved,  could  scarce  forbear  a 

Upon  the  metamorphosis  in  view, —  [smile 

"  Farewell !"  they  mutually  exclaim'd  :  "  this  soil 

Seems  fertile  in  adventures  strange  and  new ; 
One  's  tum'd  half  Mussulman,  and  one  a  maid, 
By  this  old  black  enchanter's  unsought  aid." 

LXXXIV. 
"  Farewell !"  said  Juan  :  "  should  we  meet  no  more, 

I  wish  you  a  good  appetite." — "  Farewell !" 
Replied  the  other ;  "  though  it  grieves  me  sore  ; 

When  wo  next  meet  we'U  have  a  tale  to  tell : 
Wc  needs  must  follow  when  Fate  puts  from  shore. 

Keep  your  good  name  ;  though  Eve  herself  once 
fell."  [carry  me, 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  maid,  "  the  Sultan's  self  shan't 
Unless  his  Highness  promises  to  marry  me." 

LXXXV. 
And  thus  they  parted,  each  by  separate  doors  ; 

Baba  led  Juan  onward  room  by  room 
Through  glittering  galleries  and  o'er  marble  floors, 

Till  a  gigantic  portal  through  the  gloom. 
Haughty  and  huge,  along  the  distance  lowers  ; 

And  wafted  far  arose  a  rich  perfume  : 
It  seem'd  as  though  they  came  upon  a  shrine. 
For  all  was  vast,  still,  fragrant,  and  divine. 

LXXXVI. 

The  giant  door  was  broad,  and  bright,  and  high. 
Of  gilded  bronze,  and  carved  in  curious  guise  ; 

Warriors  thereon  were  battling  furiously  , 

Here  stalks  the  victor,  there  the  vanquish'd  lies  ; 

Tliere  captives  led  in  triumph  droop  the  eye. 
And  in  perspective  many  a  squadron  flies  : 

It  seems  the  work  of  times  before  the  line 

Of  Rome  transplanted  fell  with  Constantine. 

LXXXVII. 
This  massy  portal  stood  at  the  wide  close 

Of  a  huge  hall,  and  on  its  cither  side 
Two  little  dwarfs,  the  least  you  could  suppose. 

Were  sate,  like  ugly  imps,  as  if  allied 
In  mockery  to  the  enormous  gate  which  rose 

O'er  them  in  almost  pyramidic  pride  ; 


632 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  t. 


The  gate  so  splendid  was  in  all  its  features,^ 
You  never  thought  about  those  little  creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 
Until  you  nearly  trod  on  them,  and  then 

You  started  back  in  horror  to  survey 
The  wondrous  hidcousness  of  those  small  men. 

Whose  color  was  not  black,  nor  white,  nor  gray. 
But  an  extraneous  mixture,  which  no  pen 

Can  trace,  although  perhaps  the  pencil  may ; 
They  were  misshapen  pigmies,  deaf  and  dumb — 
Monsters,  who  cost  a  no  less  monstrous  sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their  duty  was — for  they  were  strong,  and  though 
They  look'd  so  little,  did  strong  things  at  times— 

To  ope  this  door,  which  they  could  really  do. 
The  hinges  being  as  smooth  as  Rogers'  rhymes ; 

And  now  and  then,  with  tough  strings  of  the  bow. 
As  is  the  custom  of  those  Eastern  climes, 

To  give  some  rebel  Pacha  a  cravat : 

For  mutes  are  generally  used  for  that. 

XC. 
They  spoke  by  signs — that  is,  spoke  not  at  all ; 

And  looking  like  two  incubi,  they  glared 
As  Baba  with  his  fingers  made  them  fall 

To  heaving  back  the  portal  folds  :  it  scared 
Juan  a  moment,  as  this  pair  so  small, 

With  shrinking  serpent  optics  on  him  stared ; 
It  was  as  jf  their  Uttle  looks  could  poison 
Or  fascinate  whome'er  they  fix'd  their  eyes  on. 

XCI. 
Before  they  enter'd,  Baba  paused  to  hint 

To  Juan  some  slight  lessons  as  his  guide  : 
"  If  you  could  just  contrive,"  he  said,  "  to  stint 

That  somewhat  manly  majesty  of  stride, 
'Twould  be  as  well,  and, — (though  there 's  not  much 
in't) 

To  swing  a  little  less  from  side  to  side. 
Which  has  at  times  an  aspect  of  the  oddest ; — 
And  also  could  you  look  a  little  modest, 

XCII. 
"  'Twould  be  convenient ;  for  these  mutes  have  eyes 

Like  needles,  which  may  pierce  those  petticoats  ; 
And  if  they  should  discover  your  disguise. 

You  know  how  near  us  the  deep  Bosphorus  floats ; 
And  you  and  I  may  chance,  ere  morning  rise. 

To  find  our  way  to  Marmora  without  boats, 
Stjtch'd  up  in  sacks — a  mode  of  navigation 
A  good  deal  practised  here  upon  occasion."'" 

'  Features  of  a  gate— a  ministerial  metaphor :  "  the  fenture 
Tipou  which  this  question  hinges.^^  See  the  "  Fudfie  Family,"  or 
hear  Castlereagh. 

'  A  few  years  ago  the  wife  of  Muchtar  Paclia  complained  to  his 
Cither  of  his  eon's  supposed  infldelity :  he  naked  with  whom,  and 


XCIII. 
With  this  encouragement,  he  led  the  way 

Into  a  room  still  nobler  than  the  last ; 
A  rich  confusion  form'd  a  disarray 

In  such  sort,  that  the  eye  along  it  cast 
Could  hardly  carry  any  thing  away. 

Object  on  object  flash'd  so  bright  and  fast ; 
A  dazzling  mass  of  gems,  and  gold,  and  glitter, 
Magnificently  mingled  in  a  litter. 

XCIV. 
Wealth  had  done  wonders — taste  not  much  ;  such 

Occur  in  Orient  palaces,  and  even  [things 

In  the  more  chasten'd  domes  of  Western  kings 

(Of  which  I've  also  seen  some  six  or  seven) 
Where  I  can't  say  or  gold  or  diamond  flings 

Great  lustre,  there  is  much  to  be  forgiven  ; 
Groups  of  bad  statues,  tables,  chairs,  and  pictures. 
On  which  I  cannot  pause  to  make  my  strictures. 

xcv. 

In  this  imperial  hall,  at  distance  lay 

Under  a  canopy,  and  there  reclined. 
Quite  in  a  confidential  queenly  way, 

A  lady ;  Baba  stopp'd,  and  kneeling  sign'd 
To  Juan,  who  though  not  much  used  to  pray. 

Knelt  down  by  instinct,  wondering  in  his  mind 
Wliat  all  this  meant :  while  Baba  bow'd  and  bended 
His  head,  until  the  ceremony  ended. 

XCVI. 
The  lady  rising  up  with  such  an  air 

As  Venus  rose  with  from  the  wave,  on  them 
Bent  like  an  antelope  a  Paphian  pair 

Of  eyes,  which  put  out  each  surrounding  gem  ; 
And  raising  up  an  arm  as  moonlight  fair. 

She  sign'd  to  Baba,  who  first  kiss'd  the  hem 
Of  her  deep  puqjle  robe,  and  speaking  low, 
Pointed  to  Juan,  who  remain'd  below. 

XCVII. 
I  Her  presence  was  as  lofty  as  her  state  ; 
j      Her  beauty  of  that  overpowering  kind 
Whose  force  description  only  would  abate  : 

I'd  rather  leave  it  much  to  your  own  mind. 
Than  lessen  it  by  what  I  could  relate 

Of  form  and  features  ;  it  would  strike  you  blind 
Could  I  do  justice  to  the  full  detail ; 
So,  luckily  for  both,  my  phrases  fail. 

XCVIII. 
Thus  much  however  I  may  add, — her  years 

Were  ripe,  they  might  make  six-and-twenty  springs, 

Bhe  had  the  harharity  to  give  in  a  list  of  the  twelve  handsomest 
women  in  Yanina.  They  were  seized,  fastened  up  in  eaclis,  and 
drowned  in  the  lalje  the  eame  night.  One  of  the  guards  who  was 
present  informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a  cry,  or 
showed  a  symptom  of  terror  at  so  sadden  a  "  wrench  from  all  we 
know,  from  all  we  love." 


Canto  v. 


DON  JUAN. 


63i> 


But  there  are  forms  which  Time  to  touch  forbears, 
And  turns  aside  his  scythe  to  vulgar  things, 

Such  as  was  Marj''s  Queen  of  Scots  ;  true — tears 
And  love  destroy  ;  and  sapping  sorrow  wrings 

Charms  from  the  charmer,  yet  some  never  grow 

Ugly ;  for  instance — Ninon  de  I'Enclos. 

XCIX. 

She  spake  some  words  to  her  attendants,  who 
Composed  a  choir  of  girls,  ten  or  a  dozen. 

And  were  all  clad  alike  ;  like  Juan,  too, 
Wlio  wore  their  uniform,  by  Baba  chosen  ; 

They  form'd  a  very  nymph-like  looking  crew, 

"Which  might  have  caU'd  Diana's  chorus  "  cousin," 

As  far  as  outward  show  may  correspond  ; 

I  won't  be  bail  for  anything  beyond. 


They  bow'd  obeisance  and  -withdrew,  retiring. 
But  not  by  the  same  door  through  which  came  in 

Baba  and  Juan,  which  last  stood  admiring, 
At  some  small  distance,  all  he  saw  within 

This  strange  saloon,  much  fitted  for  inspiring 
Marvel  and  praise  ;  for  both  or  none  things  win  ; 

And  I  must  say,  I  ne'er  could  see  the  very 

Great  happiness  of  the  "  Nil  Admirari." 

cr. 

"  Not  to  admire,  is  all  the  art  I  know 

(Plain  truth,  dear  Murray,  needs  few  flowers  of 
speech) 
To  make  men  happy,  or  to  keep  them  so ;" 

(So  take  it  in  the  very  words  of  Creech.) 
Thus  Horace  wrote  we  all  know  long  ago  ; 

And  thus  Pope  quotes  the  precept  to  re-teach 
From  his  translation  ;  but  had  none  admired, 
Would  Pope  have  sung,  or  Horace  been  inspired  ? 

CII. 

Baba,  when  all  the  damsels  were  withdrawn, 
Motion'd  to  Juan  to  approach,  and  then 

A  second  time  desired  him  to  kneel  down. 
And  kiss  the  lady's  foot ;  which  maxim  when 

He  heard  repeated,  Juan  with  a  frown 
Drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  again. 

And  said,  "  It  grieved  him,  but  he  could  not  stoop 

To  any  shoe,  unless  it  shod  the  Pope." 

cm. 

Baba,  indignant  <at  this  ill-timed  pride, 

Made  fierce  remonstrances,  and  then  a  threat 

He  mutter'd  (but  the  last  was  given  aside) 
About  a  bow-string — quite  in  vain  ;  not  yet 

Would  Juan  bend,  though  'twere  to  Mahomet's  bride ; 
There  's  nothing  in  the  world  like  etiquette 

In  kingly  chambers  or  imperials  halls, 

As  oteo  at  the  race  and  county  balls. 
80 


CIV. 
He  stood  like  Atlas,  with  a  world  of  words 

About  his  ears,  and  nathless  would  not  bend ; 
The  blood  of  all  his  line's  Castilian  lords 

Boil'd  in  his  veins,  and  rather  than  descend 
To  stain  his  pedigree  a  thousand  swords 

A  thousand  times  of  him  had  made  an  end  ; 
At  length  perceiving  the  ^'/oot  "  could  not  stand, 
Baba  proposed  that  he  should  kiss  the  hand. 

CV. 
Here  was  an  honorable  compromise, 

A  half-way  house  of  diplomatic  rest. 
Where  they  might  meet  in  much  more  peaceful 

And  Juan  now  his  willingness  express'd     [guise  ; 
To  use  all  fit  and  proper  courtesies, 

Adding,  that  this  was  commonest  and  best, 
For  through  the  South  the  custom  still  commands 
The  gentleman  to  kiss  the  lady's  hands. 

CVI. 
And  he  advanced,  though  with  but  a  bad  grace, 

Though  on  more  thorouffh-hred'  or  fairer  fingers 
No  lips  e'er  left  their  transitory  trace  : 

On  such  as  these  the  lip  too  fondly  lingers. 
And  for  one  kiss  would  fain  imprint  a  brace. 

As  you  wiU  see,  if  she  you  love  shall  bring  hers 
In  contact ;  and  sometimes  even  a  fair  stranger's 
An  almost  twelvemonth's  constancy  endangers. 

CVII. 
The  lady  eyed  him  o'er  and  o'er,  and  bade 

Baba  retire,  which  he  obey'd  in  style. 
As  if  well  used  to  the  retreating  trade  ; 

And  taking  hints  in  good  part  all  the  while, 
He  whisper'd  Juan  not  to  be  afraid, 

And  looking  on  him  with  a  sort  of  smile. 
Took  leave,  with  such  a  face  of  satisfaction 
As  good  men  wear  who  've  done  a  virtuous  action. 

CVIII. 
When  he  was  gone,  there  was  a  sudden  change  : 

I  know  not  what  might  be  the  lady's  thought. 
But  o'er  her  bright  brow  flash'd  a  tumult  strange. 

And  into  her  clear  cheek  the  blood  was  brought. 
Blood-red  as  sunset  summer  clouds  which  range 

Theverge  of  Heaven;  andin  her  large  eyes  wrought 
A  mixture  of  sensations,  might  be  scann'd. 
Of  half  voluptuousness  and  half  command. 

CIX. 
Her  form  had  all  the  softness  of  her  sex. 

Her  features  all  the  sweetness  of  the  devil, 
When  he  put  on  the  cherub  to  perplex 

Eve,  and  paved  (God  knows  how)  the  road  to  evil ; 

'■  There  is  nothing,  perhaps,  more  diHtincUvc  of  birth  than  tlio 
band.  It  ia  olmoBt  the  only  il^a  o!  bIo<xl  which  aristocracy  can 
generate. 


634 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  v. 


The  sun  himself  was  scarce  more  free  from  specks 

Than  she  from  aught  at  which  the  eye  could  cavil ; 
Yet,  somehow,  there  was  something  somewhere  want- 
As  if  she  rather  orderd  than  was  granting—      [ing, 

ex. 

Something  imperial,  or  imperious,  threw 
A  chain  o'er  all  she  did ;  that  is,  a  chain 

Was  thrown  as  'twere  about  the  neck  of  you — 
And  rajiture's  self  will  seem  almost  a  pain 

AVith  aught  which  looks  like  despotism  in  view  : 
Our  souls  at  least  are  free,  and  'tis  in  vain 

We  would  against  them  make  the  flesh  obey — 

The  spirit  in  the  end  will  have  its  way. 

CXI. 
Her  very  smile  was  haughty,  though  so  sweet ; 

Her  very  nod  was  not  an  inclination  ; 
There  was  a  self-will  even  in  her  small  feet. 

As  though  they  were  quite  conscious  of  her  sta- 
They  trod  as  upon  necks  ;  and  to  complete    [tion — 

Her  state,  (it  is  the  custom  of  her  nation,) 
A  poniard  deck'd  her  girdle,  as  the  sign 
She  was  a  sultan's  bride,  (thank  Heaven,  not  mine !) 

CXII. 
"  To  hear  and  to  obey  "  had  been  from  birth 

The  law  of  all  around  her  ;  to  fulfil 
All  fantasies  which  yielded  joy  or  mirth, 

Had  been  her  slaves'  chief  pleasure,  as  her  will ; 
Her  blood  was  high,  her  beauty  scarce  of  earth  : 

Judge,  then,  if  her  caprices  e'er  stood  still ; 
Had  she  but  been  a  Cliristian,  I've  a  notion 
We  should  have  found  out  the  "  perpetual  motion." 

CXIII. 
Whate'er  she  saw  and  coveted  was  brought ; 

Whate'er  she  did  not  see,  if  she  supposed 
It  might  be  seen,  with  diligence  was  sought,  [closed. 

And  when  'twas  found  straightway  the  bargain 
There  was  no  end  unto  the  things  she  bought. 

Nor  to  the  trouble  which  her  fancies  caused  ; 
Yet  even  her  tyranny  had  such  a  grace. 
The  women  pardon'd  all  except  her  face. 

CXIV. 

Juan,  the  latest  of  her  whims,  had  caught 
Her  eye  in  passing  on  his  way  to  sale  ; 

She  order'd  him  directly  to  be  bought. 
And  Baba,  who  had  ne'er  been  known  to  fail 

In  any  kind  of  mischief  to  be  wrought. 
At  all  such  auctions  know  how  to  prevail : 

She  had  no  prudence,  but  he  had  ;  and  this 

Explains  the  garb  wliich  Juan  took  amiss. 

CXV. 
His  youth  and  features  favor'd  the  disguise. 
And.  should  you  ask  how  she,  a  sultan's  bride, 


Could  risk  or  compass  such  strange  fantasies. 
This  I  must  leave  sultanas  to  decide  : 

Emperors  are  only  husbands  in  wives'  eyes. 
And  kings  and  consorts  oft  are  mystified. 

As  we  may  ascertain  with  due  precision. 

Some  by  experience,  others  by  tradition. 

CXVI. 

But  to  the  main  point,  where  we  have  been  tend- 
She  now  conceived  all  difficulties  pass'd,    [ing  : — 

And  deem'd  herself  extremely  condescending 
When,  being  made  her  property  at  last, 

Without  more  preface,  in  her  blue  eyes  blending 
Passion  and  power,  a  glance  on  him  she  cast. 

And  merely  saying,  "  Cliristian,  canst  thou  love  ?" 

Conceived  that  phrase  was  quite  enough  to  move. 

CXVII. 

And  so  it  was,  in  proper  time  and  place  ; 

But  Ju.an,  who  had  still  his  mind  o'erflowing 
With  Haidee's  isle  and  soft  Ionian  face. 

Felt  the   warm  blood,   which   in   his   face   was 
glowing. 
Rush  back  upon  his  heart,  which  fill'd  ajoace. 

And  left  his  cheeks  as  pale  as  snowdrops  blowing : 
These  words  went  through  his  soul  like  Arab-spears, 
So  that  he  spoke  not,  but  burst  into  tears. 

CXVIII. 

She  was  a  good  deal  shock'd ;  not  shock'd  at  tears. 
For  women  shed  and  use  them  at  their  liking  ; 

But  there  is  something  when  man's  eye  appears 
Wet,  still  more  disagreeable  and  striking  : 

A  woman's  tear-drop  melts,  a  man's  half  scars, 
Like  molten  lead,  as  if  you  thrust  a  pike  in 

His  heart  to  force  it  out,  for  (to  be  shorter) 

To  them  'tis  a  relief,  to  us  a  torture. 

CXIX. 
And  she  would  have  consoled,  but  knew  not  how : 

Having  no  equals,  nothing  which  had  e'er 
Infected  her  with  sympathy  till  now. 

And  never  having  dreamt  what  'twas  to  bear 
Aught  of  a  serious,  sorrowing  kind,  although 

There  might  arise  some  pouting  petty  care 
To  cross  her  brow,  she  wonder'd  how  so  near 
Her  eye  another's  eyes  could  shed  a  tear. 

CXX. 
But  nature  teaches  more  than  power  can  spoil, 

And,  when  a  strong  although  a  strange  sensation 
Moves — female  hearts  are  such  a  genial  soil. 

For  kinde?  feelings,  whatsoe'er  their  nation, 
They  naturally  pour  the  "  wine  and  oil," 

Samaritans  in  every  situation  ; 
And  thus  Gulbeyaz,  though  she  knew  not  why. 
Felt  an  odd  glistening  moisture  in  her  eye. 


Canto  v. 


DON    JUAN. 


635 


CXXI. 

But  tears  must  stop  like  all  things  else  ;  and  soon 
Juan,  who  for  an  instant  had  been  moved 

To  such  a  sorrow  by  the  intrusive  tone 

Of  one  who  dared  to  ask  if  "  he  liad  loved," 

Call'd  back  the  stoic  to  his  eyes,  which  shone 
Bright  with  the  very  weakness  he  reproved  ; 

And  although  sensitive  to  beauty,  he 

Felt  most  indignant  still  at  not  being  free. 

CXXH. 

Gulbeyaz,  for  the  first  time  in  her  days. 
Was  much  embarrass'd,  never  having  met 

In  all  her  life  with  aught  save  prayers  and  praise  ; 
And  as  she  also  risk'd  her  life  to  get 

Him  whom  she  meant  to  tutor  in  love's  ways 
Into  a  comfortable  t  te-il-t  te, 

To  lose  the  hour  would  make  her  quite  a  martyr. 

And  they  had  wasted  now  almost  a  quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I  also  would  suggest  the  fitting  time, 

To  gentlemen  in  any  such  like  case, 
That  is  to  say — in  a  meridian  clime. 

With  us  there  is  more  law  given  to  the  chase, 
But  here  a  small  delay  forms  a  great  crime  : 

So  recollect  that  the  extremest  grace 
Is  just  two  minutes  for  your  declaration — 
A  moment  more  would  hurt  your  reputation. 

CXXIV. 

Juan's  was  good  ;  and  might  have  been  stiU  better. 
But  he  had  got  HaidCe  into  his  head  : 

However  strange,  he  could  not  yet  forget  her. 
Which  made  him  seem  exceedingly  ill-bred. 

Gulbeyaz,  who  look'd  on  him  as  her  debtor 
For  having  had  him  to  her  palace  led. 

Began  to  blush  up  to  the  eyes,  and  then 

Grow  deadly  pale,  and  then  blush  back  again. 

C'XXV. 

At  length,  in  an  imperial  way,  she  laid 

Her  hand  on  his,  and  bending  on  him  eyes. 

Which  needed  not  an  empire  to  persuade, 
Look'd  into  his  for  love,  where  none  replies  : 

Her  brow  grew  black,  but  she  would  not  upljraid, 
That  being  the  last  thing  a  proud  woman  tries  ; 

She  rose,  and  pausing  one  chaste  moment,  threw 

Herself  upon  his  breast,  and  there  she  grew. 

CXXVI. 
This  was  an  awkward  test,  as  Juan  found, 

But  he  was  steel'd  by  sorrow,  wrath,  and  pride  : 
With  gentle  force  her  white  arms  he  unwound. 

And  seated  her  all  drooping  by  his  side. 
Then  rising  haughtily  he  glanced  around. 

And  looking  coldly  in  her  face,  be  cried, 


•'  The  prison'd  eagle  will  not  pair,  nor  I 
Serve  a  Sultana's  sensual  phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

"  Tliou  ask'st,  if  I  can  love  ?  be  this  the  proof 
How  much  I  hare  loved— that  I  love  not  thee  ! 

In  this  vile  garb,  the  distafi',  web,  and  woof. 
Were  fitter  for  me  :  Love  is  for  the  free  ! 

I  am  not  dazzled  by  this  splendid  roof; 

Whate'er  thy  power,  and  great  it  seems  to  be  ; 

Heads  bow,  knees  bend,  eyes  watch  around  a  throne. 

And  liands  obey — our  hearts  arc  still  our  own." 

CXXVIII. 

This  was  a  truth  to  us  extremely  trite  ; 

Not  so  to  her,  who  ne'er  had  heard  such  things  : 
She  deem'd  her  least  command  must  yield  delight. 

Earth  being  only  made  for  queens  and  kings. 
If  hearts  lay  on  the  left  side  or  the  right 

She  hardly  knew,  to  such  perfection  brings 
Legitimacy  its  born  votaries,  when 
Aware  of  their  due  royal  rights  o'er  men. 

CXXIX. 
Besides,  as  has  been  said,  she  was  so  fair 

As  even  in  a  much  humbler  lot  had  made 
A  kingdom  or  confusion  anywhere. 

And  also,  as  may  be  presumed,  she  laid 
Some  stress  on  charms,  which  seldom  are,  if  e'er, 

By  their  possessors  thrown  into  the  shade  : 
She  thought  hers  gave  a  double  "  right  divine  ;" 
And  half  of  that  opinion  's  also  mine. 

cxxx. 

Remember,  or  (if  you  can  not)  imagine, 
Ye,  who  have  kept  your  chastity  when  young. 

While  some  more  desperate  dowager  has  been  waging 
Love  with  you,  and  been  in  the  dog-days  stung 

By  your  refusal,  recollect  her  raging  1 
Or  recollect  all  that  was  said  or  sung 

On  such  a  subject ;  then  suppose  the  face 

Of  a  young  downright  beauty  in  the  case, 

CXXXI. 

Suppose, — but  you  already  have  supposed. 
The  spouse  of  Potiphar,  the  Lady  Booby, 

Phffidra,  and  all  which  story  has  disclosed 
Of  good  examples  ;  pity  that  so  few  by 

Poets  and  private  tutors  are  exposed. 
To  educate — ye  youth  of  Europe — you  by  ! 

But  when  you  have  supposed  the  few  we  know, 

You  can't  suppose  Gulbeyaz'  angry  brow. 

CXXXII. 
A  tigress  robb'd  of  young,  a  lioness. 

Or  any  interesting  beast  of  prey. 
Are  similes  at  hand  for  the  distress 

Of  ladies,  who  can  not  have  their  own  way ; 


636 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  v. 


But  though  my  turn  -will  not  be  served  with  less, 

These  don't  express  one  half  what  I  should  say  : 
For  what  is  stealing  young  ones,  few  or  many. 
To  cutting  short  their  hopes  of  having  any  ? 

CXXXIII. 
The  love  of  offspring  's  nature's  general  law, 

From  tigresses  and  cubs  to  ducks  and  ducklings  ; 
There 's  nothing  whets  the  beak,  or  arms  the  claw 

Like  an  invasion  of  their  babes  and  sucklings  ; 
And  all  who  've  seen  a  human  nursery,  saw 

How  mothers   love  their  children's  squalls  and 
chucklings  ; 
This  strong  extreme  effect  (to  tire  no  longer 
Tour  patience)  shows  the  cause  must  still  be  stronger. 

CXXXIV. 
If  I  said  fire  flash'd  from  Qulbeyaz'  eyes, 

'Twere  nothing — for  her  eyes  flash'd  always  fire ; 
Or  said  her  cheeks  assumed  the  deepest  dyes, 

I  should  but  bring  disgrace  upon  the  dyer, 
So  supernatural  was  her  passion's  rise  ; 

For  ne'er  till  now  she  knew  a  check'd  desire  : 
Even  ye  who  know  what  a  check'd  woman  is 
(Enough,  God  knows !)  would  much  fall  short  of  this. 

CXXXV. 
Her  rage  was  but  a  minute's,  and  'twas  well — 

A  moment's  more  had  slain  her  ;  but  the  while 
It  lasted  'twas  like  a  short  glimpse  of  hell : 

Naught 's  more  sublime  than  energetic  bile. 
Though  horrible  to  see  yet  grand  to  tell, 

Like  ocean  warring  'gainst  a  rocky  isle  ; 
And  the  deep  passions  flashing  through  her  form 
Made  her  a  beautiful  embodied  storm. 

CXXXVI. 

A  vulgar  tempest  'twere  to  a  typhoon 
To  match  a  common  fury  with  her  rage, 

And  yet  she  did  not  want  to  reach  the  moon, 
Like  moderate  Hotspur  on  the  immortal  page  ; 

Her  anger  pitch'd  into  a  lower  time. 
Perhaps  the  fault  of  her  soft  sex  and  age — 

Her  wish  was  but  to  "  kill,  kill,  kill,"  like  Lear's, 

And  then  her  thirst  for  blood  was  quench'd  in  tears. 

CXXXVII. 
A  storm  it  raged,  and  like  the  storm  it  pass'd, 

(Pass'd  without  words — in  fact  she   could  not 
And  then  her  sex's  shame  broke  in  at  last,  [speak ;) 

A  sentiment  till  then  in  her  but  weak. 
But  now  it  flow'd  in  natural  and  fast. 

As  water  through  an  unexpected  leak, 
For  she  felt  humbled — and  humiliation 
Is  sometimes  good  for  peoi^le  in  her  station. 

CXXXVIII. 
It  teaches  them  that  they  are  flesh  and  blood, 
It  also  gently  hints  to  them  that  others. 


Although  of  clay,  are  yet  not  quite  of  mud ; 

That  urns  and  pipkins  are  but  fragile  brothers, 
And  works  of  the  same  pottery,  bad  or  good, 

Though  not  all  born  of  the  same  sires  and  mothers : 
It  teaches — Heaven  knows  only  what  it  teaches, 
But  sometimes  it  may  mend,  and  often  reaches. 

CXXXIX. 
Her  first  thought  was  to  cut  off  Juan's  head  ; 

Her  second,  to  cut  only  his — acquaintance ; 
Her  third,  to  ask  him  where  he  had  been  bred ; 

Her  fourth,  to  rally  him  into  repentance  ; 
Her  fifth,  to  call  her  maids  and  go  to  bed  ; 

Her  sixth,  to  stab  herself;  her  seventh,  to  sen- 
The  lash  to  Baba  : — but  her  grand  resource  [tence 
Was  to  sit  down  again,  and  cry  of  course. 

CXL. 
She  thought  to  stab  herself,  but  then  she  had 

The  dagger  close  at  hand,  which  made  it  awk- 
ward; 
For  Eastern  stays  are  little  made  to  pad. 

So  that  a  poniard  pierces  if  'tis  stuck  hard : 
She  thought  of  killing  Juan — but,  poor  lad  ! 
Though  he  deserved  it  well  for  being  so  back- 
ward. 
The  cutting  off  his  head  was  not  the  art 
Most  Ukely  to  attain  her  aim — his  heart. 

CXLI. 
Juan  was  moved  :  he  had  made  up  his  mind 

To  be  impaled,  or  quarter'd  as  a  dish 
For  dogs,  or  to  be  slain  with  pangs  refined. 

Or  thrown  to  lions,  or  made  baits  for  fish, 
And  thus  heroically  stood  resign'd, 

Rather  than  sin, — except  to  his  own  wish  : 
But  all  his  great  preparatives  for  dying 
Dissolved  like  snow  before  a  woman  crying. 

CXLII. 
As  through  his  palms  Bob  Acres'  valor  oozed. 

So  Juan's  virtue  ebb'd,  I  know  not  how  ; 
And  first  he  wonder'd  why  he  had  refused ; 

And  then,  if  matters  could  be  made  up  now  ; 
And  next  his  savage  virtue  he  accused, 

Just  as  a  friar  may  accuse  his  vow, 
Or  as  a  dame  repents  her  of  her  oath, 
Which  mostly  ends  in  some  small  breach  of  both. 

CXLIII. 
So  he  began  to  stammer  some  excuses  ; 

But  words  are  not  enough  in  such  a  matter. 
Although  you  borrow'd  all  that  e'er  the  Muses 

Have  sung,  or  even  a  dandy's  dandiest  chatter, 
Or  all  the  figures  Castlereagh  abuses  ; 

Just  as  a  languid  smile  began  to  flatter 
His  peace  was  making,  but  before  he  ventured 
Further,  old  Baba  rather  briskly  enter'd. 


Canto  v. 


DON    JUAN. 


637 


CXLIV. 
"  Bride  of  the  Sun  !  and  Sister  of  the  Moon  !" 

('Twas  thus  he  spake,)  "  and  Empress  of  the  Earth ! 
Whose  frown  would  put  the  spheres  all  out  of  tune, 

Whose  smile  makes  all  t!ie  planets  dance  with  mirth, 
Your  slave  brings  tidings — he  hopes  not  too  soon — 

Wliich  your  sublime  attention  may  be  worth  : 
The  Sun  himself  has  sent  me  like  a  ray, 
To  hint  that  he  is  coming  up  this  way." 

CXLV. 
"  Is  it,"  exclaim'd  Gulbeyaz,  "  as  you  say  ? 

I  wish  to  heaven  he  would  not  shine  till  morning ! 
But  bid  my  women  form  the  milky  way.  [ing — 

Hence,  my  old  comet !  give  the  stars  due  warn- 
And,  Christian  !  mingle  with  them  as  you  may. 

And  as  you'd  have  me  pardon  your  past  scorn- 
Here  they  were  interrupted  by  a  humming    [ing " 

Sound,  and  then  by  a  cry,  "  The  Sultan  's  coming  !" 

CXLVI. 
First  came  her  damsels,  a  decorous  file. 

And  then  his  Highness'  eunuchs,  black  and  white ; 
The  train  might  reach  a  quarter  of  a  mile  : 

His  majesty  was  always  so  polite 
As  to  announce  his  visits  a  long  while 

Before  he  came,  especially  at  night ; 
For  being  the  last  wife  of  the  Emperor, 
She  was  of  course  the  favorite  of  the  four. 

CXLVII. 
His  Highness  was  a  man  of  solemn  port, 

Shawl'd  to  the  nose,  and  bearded  to  the  eyes, 
Snatch'd  from  a  prison  to  preside  at  court. 

His  lately  bowstrung  brother  caused  his  rise  ; 
He  was  as  good  a  sovereign  of  the  sort 

As  any  mention'd  in  the  histories 
Of  Cantemir,  or  KnoUes,  where  few  shine 
Save  Solyman,  the  glory  of  their  line.' 

CXLVIII. 
He  went  to  mosque  in  state,  and  said  Ms  prayers 

With  more  than  "  Oriental  scrupulosity ;" 
He  left  to  his  vizier  all  state  affairs. 

And  show'd  but  little  royal  curiosity  ; 
I  know  not  if  he  had  domestic  cares — 

No  process  proved  connubial  animosity  ; 
Four  wives  and  twice  five  hundred  maids,  unseen, 
Were  ruled  as  calmly  as  a  Christian  queen. 

CXLIX. 
If  now  and  then  there  happen'd  a  slight  slip. 
Little  was  heard  of  criminal  or  crime ; 

^  It  may  not  be  unworthy  of  remark,  that  Bacon,  in  his  essay  on 
*^  Empire,'^  hints  that  Solyman  was  the  la^t  of  his  line ;  on  what 
snthority,  I  Imow  not.  These  are  his  words :— "  The  destruction 
of  Mastapha  wa^^  so  fatal  to  Solyman's  line  ;  as  the  snccession  of 
the  Turks  from  Solyman  until  this  day  ia  suspected  to  be  untme, 


The  story  scarcely  pass'd  a  single  lip — 
The  sack  and  sea  had  settled  all  in  time. 

From  which  the  secret  nobody  could  rip  : 

The  Public  knew  no  more  than  does  this  rhyme ; 

No  scandals  made  the  daily  press  a  curse — 

Morals  were  better,  and  the  fish  no  worse. 

CL. 
He  saw  with  his  own  eyes  the  moon  was  round, 

Was  also  certain  that  the  earth  was  square. 
Because  he  had  joumcy'd  fifty  miles,  and  found 

No  sign  that  it  was  circular  anywhere  ; 
His  empire  also  was  without  a  bound : 

'Tis  true,  a  little  troubled  here  and  there. 
By  rebel  pachas,  and  encroaching  giaours. 
But  then  they  never  came  to  "  the  Seven  Towers  ;" 

CLI. 
Except  in  shape  of  envoys,  who  were  sent 

To  lodge  there  when  a  war  broke  out,  according 
To  the  true  law  of  nations,  which  ne'er  meant 

Those  scoundrels,  who  have  never  had  a  sword  in 
Their  dirty  diplomatic  hands,  to  vent 

Their  spleen  in  making  ctrife,  and  safely  wording 
Their  lies,  yclep'd  despatches,  without  risk  or 
The  singeing  of  a  single  inky  whisker. 

CLII. 
He  had  fifty  daughters  and  four  dozen  sons. 

Of  whom  all  such  as  came  of  age  were  stow'd. 
The  former  in  a  palace,  where  like  nuns 

They  lived  till  some  Bashaw  was  sent  abroad. 
When  she,  whose  turn  it  was,  was  wed  at  once. 

Sometimes  at  six  years  old — though  this  seems 
odd 
'Tis  true  ;  the  reason  is,  that  the  Bashaw 
Must  make  a  present  to  his  sire-in-law. 

CLIII. 
His  sons  were  kept  in  prison,  till  they  grew 

Of  years  to  fill  a  bowstring  or  the  throne. 
One  or  the  other,  but  which  of  the  two 

Could  yet  be  known  unto  the  fates  alone  ; 
Meantime  the  education  they  went  through 

Was  princely,  as  the  proofs  have  always  shown  : 
So  that  the  heir  apparent  still  was  found 
No  less  deserving  to  be  hang'd  than  crown'd. 

CLIV. 
His  Majesty  saluted  his  fourth  spouse 

With  all  the  ceremonies  of  his  rank. 
Who  clear'd  her  sparkling  eyes  and  smooth'd  her 
brows, 
As  suits  a  matron  who  has  play'd  a  prank ; 

and  of  strange  blood  ;  for  that  Selymus  the  Second  was  thought  to 
be  supposititious."  But  Bacon,  in  his  historical  authorities.  Is 
often  inaccurate.  I  could  gire  half  a  dozen  instances  bom  bis 
Apopthegms  only. 


638 


BYKON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  v. 


These  must  seem  doubly  mindful  of  their  vows, 

To  save  the  credit  of  their  breaking  bank  : 
To  no  men  arc  such  cordial  greetings  given, 
As  those  Tvhose  wives  have  made  them  fit  for  heaven. 

CLV. 

His  Highness  cast  around  his  great  black  eyes. 
And  looking,  as  he  always  look'd,  perceived 

Juan  amongst  the  damsels,  in  disguise. 

At    which    he    soem'd   no    whit    surprised    nor 
grieved, 

But  just  remark'd  with  air  sedate  and  wise. 
While  still  a  fluttering  sigh  Gulbeyaz  heaved, 

"  I  see  you've  bought  another  girl ;  'tis  pity 

That  a  mere  Christian  should  be  half  so  pretty." 

CLA'I. 

This  compliment,  which  drew  all  eyes  upon 

The    new-bought    virgin,   made   her   blush    and 
shake. 

Her  comrades,  also,  thought  themselves  undone — 
Oh  !  Mahomet !  that  his  Majesty  should  take 

Such  notice  of  a  giaour,  while  scarce  to  one 
Of  them  liis  lips  imperial  ever  spake  ! 

There  was  a  general  whisj)er,  toss,  and  wriggle, 

But  etiquette  forbade  them  all  to  giggle. 

CLVII. 

The  Turks  do  well  to  shut — at  least,  sometimes — 
The  women  up — because,  in  sad  reality. 

Their  chastity  in  these  unhappy  climes 
Is  not  a  thing  of  that  astringent  quality. 

Which  in  the  North  prevents  precocious  crimes. 
And  makes  our  snow  less  pure  than  our  morality  ; 

The  sun,  which  yearly  melts  the  polar  ice. 

Has  quite  the  contrary  effect  on  vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus  in  the  East  they  are  extremely  strict. 
And  wedlock  and  a  padlock  mean  the  same  ; 

Excepting  only  when  the  former 's  pick'd 
It  ne'er  can  be  replaced  in  proper  frame  ; 

SpoiVd,  as  a  pipe  of  claret  is  when  prick'd  : 
But  then  their  own  polygamy  's  to  blame  ; 

Why  don't  they  knead  two  virtuous  souls  for  life 

Into  that  moral  centaur,  man  and  wife  ? 

CLIX. 

Thus  far  our  chronicle  ;  and  now  we  pause, 
Though  not  for  want  of  matter  ;  but  'tis  time, 

According  to  the  ancient  epic  laws. 

To  slacken  sail,  and  anchor  with  our  rhyme. 

Let  this  fifth  canto  meet  with  due  applause, 
The  sixth  shall  have  a  touch  of  the  sublime  ; 

Meanwhile,  as  Homer  sometimes  sleeps,  perhaps 

You'll  pardon  to  my  Muse  a  few  short  naps. 


DON    JUAN. 

PREFACE  TO  CANTOS  VI.,  VII.  AND  VIII. 

The  details  of  the  siege  of  Ismail  in  two  of  the  fol- 
lowing cantos  (j.  e,  the  seventh  and  eighth)  are  taken 
from  a  French  Work,  entitled  "  Histoire  de  la  Nouvelle 
Eussio."  Some  of  the  incidents  attributed  to  Don  Juan 
really  occurred,  particularly  the  circumstance  of  his 
saving  the  infant,  which  was  the  actual  case  of  the  lato 
Due  de  Richelieu,  then  a  young  volunteer  in  the  Rus- 
sian service,  and  afterward  the  founder  and  benefactor 
of  Odessa,  where  his  name  and  memory  can  never  cease 
to  be  regarded  witli  reverence. 

In  the  course  of  these  cantos,  a  stanza  or  two  will  be 
found  relative  to  the  late  Marquis  of  Londonderry,  but 
written  some  time  before  his  decease.  Had  that  per- 
son's oligarchy  died  with  him,  they  would  have  been 
suppressed ;  as  it  is,  I  am  aware  of  nothing  in  the  man- 
ner of  his  death  or  of  his  life  to  prevent  the  free  ex- 
pression of  the  opinions  of  all  whom  his  whole  exist- 
ence was  consumed  in  endeavoring  to  enslave.  That 
lie  was  an  amiable  man  in  private  life,  may  or  may  not 
be  true  ;  but  with  this  the  public  have  nothing  to  do  ; 
and  as  to  lamenting  his  death,  it  will  be  time  enough 
when  Ireland  has  ceased  to  mourn  for  his  birth.  As  a 
minister,  I,  for  one  of  millions,  looked  upon  him  as  the 
most  despotic  in  intention,  and  the  weakest  in  intellect, 
that  ever  tyrannized  over  a  country.  It  is  tlie  first  time 
indeed  since  the  Normans,  that  England  has  been  in- 
sulted by  a  minister  (at  least)  who  could  not  speak 
Englisli,  and  that  Parliament  permitted  itself  to  be 
dictated  to  in  the  language  of  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Of  the  manner  of  his  death  little  need  be  said,  ex- 
cept that  if  a  poor  radical,  such  as  Waddington  or 
Watson,  had  cut  his  throat,  he  would  have  been 
buried  in  a  cross-road,  with  the  usual  appurtenances 
of  the  stake  and  mallet.  But  the  minister  was  an  ele- 
gant lunatic — a  sentimental  suicide — he  merely  cut  the 
"  carotid  artery,"  (blessings  on  their  learning  !)  and  lo  I 
the  pageant,  and  the  Abbey !  and  "  the  syllables  of  dolor 
yelled  forth  "  by  the  newspapers — and  the  harangue 
of  the  Coroner  in  a  eulogy  over  the  bleeding  body 
of  the  deceased — (an  Antony  worthy  of  such  a  Cajsar) 
— and  the  nauseous  and  atrocious  cant  of  a  degraded 
crew  of  conspirators  against  all  that  is  sincere  and 
honorable.  In  his  death  he  was  necessarily  one  of  two 
things  by  the  law — a  felon  or  a  madman — and  in  either 
case  no  great  subject  for  panegyric.  In  his  life  he  was 
— what  all  tlie  world  knows,  and  half  of  it  will  feel  for 
years  to  come,  unless  his  death  prove  a  "  moral  lesson  " 
to  the  surviving  Sejani  of  Europe.  It  may  at  least 
serve  as  some  consolation  to  the  nations,  that  their 
oppressors  are  not  happy,  and  in  some  instances  judge 
so  j  ustly  of  their  own  actions  as  to  anticipate  the  sen- 
tence of  mankind.  Let  us  hear  no  more  of  this  man  ; 
and  let  Ireland  remove  the  ashes  of  her  Grattan  from 
the  sanctuary  of  Westminster.  Shall  the  patriot  of 
humanity  repose  by  the  Werther  of  politics  ! 

With  regard  to  the  objections  which  have  been  made 
on  another  score  to  the  already  published  cantos  of  this 


Canto  vi. 


DON    JUAN, 


639 


poem,  I  shall  content  myself  with  two  quotations  from 
Voltaire  : — "  La  pudeur  s'cst  enfuite  dcs  cceurs,  et  s'est 
refugiee  sur  les  Uvres."  ..."  Plus  les  raceurs  sont  di5- 
pravos,  plus  les  expressions  deviennent  mesun'^es  ;  on 
croit  rcgaprner  en  langage  cc  qu'on  a  perdu  en  vertu." 
This  is  the  real  fact,  as  ap))licable  to  the  degraded 
and  hypocritical  mass  which  leavens  the  present  Eng- 
lish generation,  and  is  the  only  answer  they  deserve. 
The  hackneyed  and  lavished  title  of  Blasphemer — 
which,  with  Radical,  Liberal,  Jacobin,  Reformer,  etc., 
are  the  changes  which  the  hirelings  are  daily  ringing 
in  the  ears  of  those  who  will  listen — should  be  wel- 
come to  all  who  recollect  on  lehom  it  was  originally  be- 
stowed. Socrates  and  Jesus  Christ  wore  put  to  death 
publicly  as  hlqsphemcrs,  and  so  have  been  and  may  be 
many  who  dare  to  oppose  the  most  notorious  abuses  of 
the  name  of  God  and  the  mind  of  man.  But  persecu- 
tion is  not  refutation,  nor  even  triumph :  "the  wretched 
infidel,"  as  he  is  called,  is  probably  happier  in  his  prison 
than  the  proudest  of  his  assailants.  With  his  opinions 
I  have  nothing  to  do— they  may  be  right  or  wrong — but 
he  has  suffered  for  them,  and  that  very  suffering  for  con- 
science' sake  will  make  more  proselytes  to  deism  than  the 
example  of  heterodox'  Prelates  to  Christianity,  suicide 
statesmen  to  oppression,  or  over-pensioned  homicides 
to  the  impious  alliance  which  insults  the  world  with 
the  name  of  "  Holy !"  I  have  no  wish  to  trample  on 
the  dishonored  or  the  dead  ;  but  it  would  be  well  if  the 
adherents  to  the  classes  from  whence  those  persons 
sprung  should  abate  a  little  of  the  cant  which  is  the 
crying  sin  of  this  double-dealing  and  false-speaking 

time  of  selfish  spoilers,  and but  enough  for  the 

present. 
Pisa.  July,  182.i. 

CA.N'TO    THE    tilXTU. 


I. 

"  TnEKE  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 

"Whicli, — taken  at  the  flood," — you  know  the  rest,^ 
And  most  of  us  have  found  it  now  and  then  ; 

At  least  we  think  so,  though  but  few  have  guess'd 
The  moment,  till  too  late  to  come  again. 

But  no  doubt  every  thing  is  for  the  best— 
Of  which  the  surest  sign  is  in  the  end  : 
Wlien  things  are  at  tlie  worst  they  sometimes  mend. 

II. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  women 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads — God  knows 
Those  navigators  must  be  able  seamen  [where : 

Whose  charts  lay  down  its  current  to  a  hair ; 
Not  all  the  reveries  of  Jacob  Behmen 

With  its  strange  whirls  and  eddies  can  compare  : 

'  When  Lord  Sandwich  said  "  he  did  not  Icnow  the  difference 
between  orthodoxy  and  heterodoxy,"  Warburton,  the  bishop,  re- 
plied, '•  Ortliodoxy,  my  lord,  is  my  doxy,  and  heterodoxy  is  an- 
other man's  doxy."  A  prelate  of  the  present  day  has  discovered, 
it  teems,  a  third  Icind  of  doxy,  which  has  not  greatly  exalted  in 
Uic  eycit  of  the  elect  that  wtiicb  Uentbam  calls  "  Cliurch-of-Eng- 
landism." 


Men  with  their  heads  reflect  on  this  and  that — 
But  women  with  their  hearts  on  heaven  knows  what  1 

IIL 
And  yet  a  headlong,  headstrong,  downright  she. 

Young,  beautiful,  and  daring — who  would  risk 
A  throne,  the  world,  the  universe,  to  be 

Beloved  in  her  own  way,  and  rather  whisk 
The  stars  from  out  the  sky,  than  not  be  free 

As  are  the  billows  when  the  breeze  is  brisk — 
Though  such  a  she  's  a  devil,  (if  that  there  be  one,) 
Yet  she  would  make  full  many  a  Manichean. 

IV. 
Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 

By  commonest  ambition,  that  when  passion 
O'erthrows  the  same,  we  readily  forget, 

Or  at  the  least  forgive,  the  loving  rash  one. 
If  Antony  be  well  remember'd  yet, 

'Tis  not  his  conquests  keep  his  name  in  fashion, 
But  Actium,  lost  for  Cleopatra's  eyes. 
Outbalances  all  Cajsar's  victories. 


He  died  at  fifty  for  a  queen  of  forty ; 

I  wish  their  years  had  been  fifteen  and  twenty. 
For  then  wealth,  kingdoms,  worlds  are  but  a  sport — I 

Remember  when,  though  I  had  no  great  plenty 
Of  worlds  to  lose,  yet  still,  to  pay  my  court,  1 

Gave  what  I  had — a  heart :  as  the  world  went,  I 
Gave  what  was  worth  a  world ;  for  worlds  could  never 
Restore  me  those  pure  feelings,  gone  forever. 

VI. 
'Twas  the  boy's  "  mite,"  and  like  the  "  widow's,"  may 

Perhaps  be  weigh'd  hereafter,  if  not  now  ; 
But  whether  such  things  do  or  do  not  weigh, 

All  who  have  loved,  or  love,  will  still  allow 
Life  has  naught  like  it.     God  is  love,  they  say, 

And  Love 's  a  god,  or  was  before  the  brow 
Of  earth  was  wrinkled  by  the  sins  and  tears 
Of — but  Chronology  best  knows  the  years. 

VII. 
We  left  our  hero  and  third  heroine  in 

A  kind  of  state  more  awkward  than  uncommon, 
For  gentlemen  must  sometimes  risk  their  skin 

For  that  sad  tempter,  a  forbidden  woman  : 
Sultans  too  much  abhor  this  sort  of  sin. 

And  don't  agree  at  all  with  the  wise  Roman, 
Heroic,  stoic  Cato,  the  sententious. 
Who  lent  his  lady  to  his  friend  Hortengius.' 

2  Sec  Shakspeare,  Julius  Cffipar,  Act  iv.  bc.  ill. 

'  Cato  gave  np  his  wife  Martia  to  his  friend  Ilortonsias ;  bnt, 
on  the  death  of  the  latter,  took  her  back  again.  This  conduct 
was  ridiculed  by  the  Uomans,  who  observed,  that  Martia  entered 
the  houfe  of  Ilortensius  very  poor,  but  returned  to  the  bed  of 
Cato  loaded  with  treasures.— Plctarou, 


640 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  vi. 


VIII. 
I  know  Gulbeyaz  was  extremely  wrong ; 

I  own  it,  I  deplore  it,  I  condemn  it ; 
But  I  detest  all  fiction  even  in  song. 

And  so  must  tell  the  truth,  howe'er  you  blame  it. 
Her  reason  being  weak,  her  passions  strong, 

She  thought  that  her  lord's  heart  (even  could  she 
Was  scarce  enough  ;  for  he  had  fifty-nine  [claim  it) 
Years,  and  a  fifteen-hundredth  concubine. 

IX. 
I'm  not,  like  Cassio,  "  an  arithmetician," 

But  by  "  the  bookish  theoric  "  it  appears. 
If  'tis  summ'd  up  with  feminine  precision. 

That,  adding  to  the  account  his  Highness'  years, 
The  fair  Sultana  err'd  from  inanition  ; 

For  were  the  Sultan  just  to  all  his  dears, 
She  could  but  claim  the  fifteen-hundredth  part 
Of  what  should  be  monopoly — the  heart. 

X. 

It  is  observed  that  ladies  are  litigious 

Upon  all  legal  objects  of  possession. 
And  not  the  least  so  when  they  are  religious. 

Which  doubles  what  they  think  of  the  transgres- 
With  suits  and  prosecutions  they  besiege  us,   [sion  ; 

As  the  tribunals  show  through  many  a  session, 
When  they  suspect  that  any  one  goes  shares 
In  that  to  which  the  law  makes  them  sole  heirs. 

XI. 
Now,  if  this  holds  good  in  a  Christian  land, 

The  heathen  also,  though  with  lesser  latitude, 
Are  apt  to  carry  things  with  a  high  hand, 

And  take,  what  kings  call  an  "  imposing  attitude ;" 
And  for  their  rights  connubial  make  a  stand,  [tude : 

When  their  liege  husbands  treat  them  with  ingrati- 
And  as  four  wives  must  have  quadruple  claims, 
The  Tigris  hath  it.<»  jealousies  like  Thames. 

XII. 
Gulbeyaz  was  the  fourth,  and  (as  I  said) 

The  favorite ;  but  what's  favor  amongst  four  ? 
Polygamy  may  well  be  held  in  dread, 

Not  only  as  a  sin  but  as  a  lore  : 
Most  wise  men  with  one  moderate  woman  wed, 

Will  scarcely  find  philosophy  for  more  ; 
And  all  (except  Mahometans)  forbear 
To  make  the  nuptial  couch  a  "  Bed  of  Ware." 

XIII. 
His  Highness,  the  sublimest  of  mankind, — 
So  styled  according  to  the  usual  forms 

'  "  Your  wonn  is  your  only  emperor  for  diet :  we  fkt  all  crea- 
tures else,  to  fat  us  ;  and  we  fat  ourselves  for  maggots.    Your  fat  i 
ting,  and  your  lean  beggar,  is  but  variable  service :  two  dishes 
but  to  one  table :  that's  the  eady—Jffamlet. 

»  See  Waverley. 

'  "  The  blessed  Francis,  being  strongly  solicited  one  day  by  the 


Of  every  monarch,  till  they  are  consign'd 
To  those  sad  hungry  j.icobins  the  worms,' 

Who  on  the  very  loftiest  kings  have  dined, — 
His  Highness  gazed  upon  Gulbeyaz'  charms. 

Expecting  all  the  welcome  of  a  lover, 

(A  "  Highland  welcome "=  all  the  v,'idc  world  over.) 

XIV. 
Now  here  we  should  distinguish  ;  for  howe'er 

Kisses,  sweet  words,  embraces,  and  all  that. 
May  look  like  what  is — neither  here  nor  there, 

They  are  put  on  as  easily  as  a  hat, 
Or  rather  bonnet,  which  the  fair  sex  wear, 

Trimm'd  cither  heads  or  hearts  to  decorate. 
Which  form  an  ornament,  but  no  more  part 
Of  heads,  than  their  caresses  of  the  heart. 

XV. 
A  slight  blush,  a  soft  tremor,  a  calm  kind 

Of  gentle  feminine  delight,  and  shown 
More  in  the  eyelids  than  the  eyes,  rcsign'd 

Rather  to  hide  what  pleases  most  unknown, 
Are  the  best  tokens  (to  a  modest  mind) 

Of  love,  when  seated  on  his  loveliest  throne, 
A  sincere  woman's  breast, — for  oyer-ioarm 
Or  over-cold  annihilates  the  charm. 

XVI. 
For  over-warmth,  if  false,  is  worse  than  truth  ; 

If  true,  'tis  no  great  lease  of  its  own  fire  ; 
For  no  one,  save  in  very  early  youth. 

Would  like  (I  think)  to  trust  all  to  desire, 
Which  is  but  a  precarious  bond,  in  sooth, 

And  apt  to  be  transferr'd  to  the  first  buyer 
At  a  sad  discount :  while  your  over  chilly 
Women,  on  t'other  hand,  seem  somewhat  silly. 

XVII. 
That  is,  we  cannot  i)ardon  their  bad  taste. 

For  so  it  seems  to  lovers  swift  or  slow. 
Who  fain  would  have  a  mutual  flame  confess'd, 

And  see  a  sentimental  passion  glow, 
Even  were  St.  Francis'  paramour  their  guest, 

In  his  monastic  concubine  of  snow  ; — ' 
In  short,  the  maxim  for  the  amorous  ttibe  is 
Horatian,  "  Medio  tu  tutissimus  ibis." 

XVIII. 
The  "  tu  "  's  too  much, — but  let  it  stand, — the  verse 

Requires  it,  that's  to  say,  the  English  rhyme. 
And  not  the  pink  of  old  hexameters  ; 

But,  after  all,  there's  neither  tune  nor  time 


emotions  of  the  flesh,  pulled  off  his  clothes  and  scourged  himself 
soundly ;  being  after  this  inflamed  with  a  wonderflil  fervor  of 
mind,  he  plunged  his  naked  body  into  a  great  heap  of  snow.  The 
devil,  being  overcome,  retired  immediately,  and  the  holy  man 
returned  victorious  into  his  cell."— See  Butler's  Mv6s  of  the 
Saints. 


Canto  vi. 


DON    JUAN. 


641 


In  the  last  line,  -which  cannot  well  be  worse. 

And  was  thrust  in  to  close  the  octave's  chim>' 
I  own  no  prosody  can  ever  rate  it 
As  a  rule,  but  truth  may,  if  you  translate  it. 

XIX. 
If  fair  Gulbeyaz  ovcidid  her  part, 

I  know  not — it  succeeded,  and  success 
Is  much  in  mott  things,  not  less  in  the  heart 

Than  other  articles  of  female  dress. 
Self-love  in  man,  too,  beats  all  female  art ; 

They  lie,  we  lie,  all  lie,  but  love  no  less : 
And  no  one  virtue  yet,  except  starvation. 
Could  stop  the  worst  of  vices — propagation. 

X.X. 

We  leave  the  royal  couple  to  repose  : 

A  bed  is  not  a  throne,  and  they  may  sleep, 

Whate'er  their  dreams  be,  if  of  joys  or  woes  : 
Yet  disappointed  joys  are  woes  as  deep 

As  any  man's  clay  mixture  undergoes. 
Our  least  of  sorrows  are  such  as  we  weej) ; 

'Tis  the  vile  daily  drop  on  drop  which  weare 

The  soul  out  (like  the  stone)  with  petty  cares. 

XXI. 

A  scolding  wife,  a  sullen  son,  a  bill 

To  pay,  unpaid,  protested,  or  discounted 

At  a  per-centage  ;  a  child  cross,  dog  ill, 

A  favorite  horse  fallen  lame  just  as  he's  mounted, 

A  bad  old  woman  making  a  worse  will. 

Which  leaves  you  minus  of  the  cash  you  counted 

As  certain ; — these  are  paltry  things,  and  yet 

I've  rarely  seen  the  man  they  did  not  fret. 

XXII. 

I'm  a  philosopher ;  confound  them  all ! 

Bills,  beasts,  and  men,  and — no  !  not  womankind ! 
With  one  good  hearty  curse  I  vent  my  gall. 

And  then  my  stoicism  leaves  naught  behind 
Which  it  can  either  pain  or  evil  call. 

And  I  can  give  my  whole  soul  up  to  mind ; 
Though  what  u  soul  or  mind,  their  birth  or  growth. 
Is  more  than  I  know — the  deuce  take  them  both  ! 

XXIII. 

So  now  all  things  are  d — ^n'd  one  feels  at  ease. 

As  after  reading  Athanasius'  curse. 
Which  doth  your  true  believer  so  much  please  : 

I  doubt  if  any  now  could  make  it  worse 
O'er  his  worst  enemy  when  at  his  knees, 

'Tis  so  sententious,  positive,  and  terse, 
And  decorates  the  book  of  Common  Prayer, 
As  doth  a  rainbow  the  just  clearing  air. 

'  Caligula— see  SnetoniuB.    "  Being  in  a  rage  at  Ihe  people,  for 
favoring  a  party  in  the  Circenaian  games  in  oppot-ition  to  him,  he 
cried  oat,  '  I  wish  the  Roman  people  had  hut  one  neck.' " 
81 


XXIV. 
Gulbej'az  ana  her  lord  were  sleeping,  or 

At  least  one  of  them  ! — Oh,  the  heavy  night, 
When  wicked  wives,  who  love  some  bachelor 

Lie  down  in  dudgeon  to  sigh  for  the  light 
Of  the  gray  morning,  and  look  vainly  for 

Its  twinkle  through  the  lattice  dusky  quite — 
To  toss,  to  tumble,  doze,  revive,  and  quake 
Lest  their  too  lawful  bedfellow  should  wake  I 

XXV. 

These  are  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 

Also  beneath  the  canopy  of  beds, 
Four-posted  and  silk  curtain'd,  which  are  given 

For  rich  men  and  their  brides  to  lay  their  heads 
Upon,  in  sheets  white  as  what  bards  call  "  driven 

Snow."    Well !  'tis  aU  hap-hazard  when  one  weds. 
Gulbeyaz  was  an  empress,  but  had  been 
Perhaps  as  wretched  if  a  peaMni's  quean. 

XXVI. 
Don  Juan  in  his  feminine  disguise, 

With  all  the  damsels  in  their  long  array. 
Had  bow'd  themselves  before  th'  imperial  eyes, 

And  at  the  usual  signal  taken  their  way 
Back  to  their  chambers,  those  long  galleries 

In  the  seraglio,  where  the  ladies  lay 
Their  delicate  limbs  ;  a  thousand  bosoms  there 
Beating  for  love,  as  the  caged  bird's  for  air. 

XXVII. 
I  love  the  sex,  and  sometimes  would  reverse 

The  tyrant's'  wish,  "  that  mankind  only  had 
One  neck,  which  he -.vith  one  fell  stroke  might  pierce." 

My  wish  is  quite  as  wide,  but  not  so  bad. 
And  much  more  tender  on  the  whole  than  fierce ; 

It  being  (not  now,  but  only  while  a  lad) 
That  womankind  had  but  one  rosy  mouth. 
To  kiss  them  all  at  once  from  North  to  South. 

XXVIII. 
Oh,  enviable  Briareus  !  with  thy  hands 

And  heads,  if  thou  hadst  all  things  multiplied 
In  such  proportion  ! — But  my  Muse  withstands 

The  giant  thought  of  being  a  Titan's  bride. 
Or  traveling  in  Patagonian  lands  ; 

So  let  us  back  to  Lilliput,  and  guide 
Our  hero  through  the  labyrinth  of  love, 
In  which  we  left  him  several  lines  above. 

XXIX. 
He  went  forth  with  the  lovely  Odalisques,' 

At  the  given  signal  join'd  to  their  array ; 
And  though  he  certainly  ran  many  risks. 

Yet  he  could  not  at  times  keep,  by  the  way, 
(Although  the  consequences  of  such  frisks 

Are  worse  than  the  worst  damages  men  pay 

»  The  ladies  of  the  seraglio. 


Gi/ 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  vi. 


In  moral  England,  where  the  thing  's  a  tax,) 
From  ogling  all  their  charms  from  breasts  to  backs. 

XXX. 

Still  he  forgot  not  his  disguise  : — along 
The  galleries  from  room  to  room  they  walk'd, 

A  virgin-like  and  edifying  throng. 
By  eunuchs  flank'd ;  while  at  their  head  there 
stalk'd 

A  dame  who  kept  up  discipline  among 

The  female  ranks,  so  that  none  stirr'd  or  talk'd, 

Without  her  sanction  on  their  she-parades  : 

Her  title  was  "  the  Mother  of  the  Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether  she  was  a  "  mother,"  I  know  not, 

Or  whether  they  were  "maids"  who  call'dher  mo- 

But  this  is  her  seraglio  title,  got  [ther ; 

I  know  not  how,  but  good  as  any  other ; 

So  Cantemir'  can  tell  you,  or  De  Tott : 
Her  oiBce  was  to  keep  aloof  or  smother 

All  bad  propensities  in  fifteen  hundred  [der'd. 

Young  women,  and  correct  them  when  they  blun- 

XXXII. 
A  goodly  sinecure,  no  doubt !  but  made 

More  easy  by  the  absence  of  all  men — 
Except  his  majesty, — who  with  her  aid, 

And  guards,  and  bolts,  and  walls,  and  now  and 
A  slight  example,  just  to  cast  a  shade  [then 

Along  the  rest,  contrived  to  keep  this  den 
Of  beauties  cool  as  an  Italian  convent, 
Where  all  the  passions  have,  alas  1  but  one  vent. 

XXXIII. 

And  what  is  that  ?    Devotion,  doubtless — how 
Could  you  ask  such  a  question  ? — but  we  will 

Continue.     As  I  said,  this  goodly  row 
Of  ladies  of  all  countries  at  the  vrill 

Of  one  good  man,  with  stately  march  and  slow. 
Like  water-lilies  floating  down  a  rill^ 

Or  rather  lake — for  rills  do  not  run  slowly, — 

Paced  on  most  maiden-like  and  melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But  when  they  reach'd  their  own  apartments,  there, 
Like  birds,  or  boys,  or  bedlamites  broke  loose. 

Waves  at  spring-tide,  or  women  anywhere 

When  freed  from  bonds,  (which  are  of  no  great 

After  all,)  or  like  Irish  at  a  fair,  [use 

Their  guards  being  gone,  and  as  it  were  a  truce 

Establish'd  between  them  and  bondage,  they 

Began  to  sing,  dance,  chatter,  smile,  and  play. 

'  rDemetrius  Cantemir,  a  prince  of  Moldavia  ;  whose  "  HiBtory 
of  the  Growth  and  Decay  of  the  Ottoman  Empire  "  was  translated 
Into  English  by  Tindal.    He  died  in  1723.] 

'  "  It  IB  in  the  adjacent  climates  of  Georgia,  Mingrclia,  and  Cir- 
cassia,  that  nature  has  placed,  at  least  to  our  eyes,  the  model  of 


XXXV. 
Their  talk,  of  course,  ran  most  on  the  new  comer  ; 

Her  shape,  her  hair,  her  air,  her  every  thing  : 
Some  thought  her  dress  did  not  so  much  become 

Or  wonder'd  at  her  ears  without  a  ring  ;  [her. 

Some  said  her  years  were  getting  nigh  their  summer. 

Others  contended  they  were  but  in  spring  ; 
Some  thought  her  rather  masculine  in  height. 
While  others  wish'd  that  she  had  been  so  quite. 

XXXVI. 
But  no  one  doubted  on  the  whole,  that  she 

Was  what  her  dress  bespoke,  a  damsel  fair. 
And  fresh,  and  ''  beautiful  exceedingly," 

Who  with  the  brightest  Georgians^  might  com- 
pare : 
They  wonder'd  how  Gulbeyaz,  too,  could  be 

So  silly  as  to  buy  slaves  who  might  share 
(If  that  his  Highness  wearied  of  his  bride) 
Her  throne  and  power,  and  every  thing  beside. 

XXXVII. 
But  what  was  strangest  in  this  virgin  crew. 

Although  her  beauty  was  enough  to  vex. 
After  the  first  investigating  view, 

They  all  found  out  as  few,  or  fewer,  specks 
In  the  fiiir  form  of  their  companion  new. 

Than  is  the  custom  of  the  gentle  sex. 
When  they  survey,  with  Christian  eyes  or  Heathen, 
In  a  new  face,  "  the  ugliest  creature  breathing." 

XXXVIII. 
And  yet  they  had  their  little  jealousies, 

Like  all  the  rest ;  but  upon  this  oocasion, 
Whether  there  are  such  things  as  sympathies 

Without  our  knowledge  or  our  approbation, 
Although  they  could  not  see  through  his  disguise, 

All  felt  a  soft  kind  of  concatenation. 
Like  magnetism,  or  devilism,  or  what 
You  ijlcase— we  will  not  quarrel  about  that : 

XXXIX. 

But  certain  'tis  they  all  felt  for  their  new 
Companion  something  newer  still,  as  'twere 

A  sentimental  friendship  through  and  through, 
Extremely  pure,  which  made  them  all  concur 

In  wishing  her  their  sister,  save  a  few 
Who  wish'd  they  had  a  brother  just  like  her. 

Whom,  if  they  were  at  home  in  sweet  Circassia, 

They  would  prefer  to  Padisha'  or  Pacha. 

XL. 
Of  those  who  had  most  genius  for  this  sort 
Of  sentimental  friendship,  there  were  three, 

beanty,  in  the  sliape  of  the  limbs,  the  color  of  the  skin,  the  sym- 
metry of  the  features,  and  the  expression  of  the  countenance : 
the  men  arc  formed  for  action,  the  women  for  love." — Gibbon. 

=  Padisha  is  the  Turkish  title  of  the  Grand  Signior. 


CAIfTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


043 


Lolah,  Katinka,  and  Dudfi ;  in  short, 
(To  save  description,)  fair  as  fair  can  bo 

Were  they,  according  to  the  best  report. 
Though  differing  in  stature  and  degree. 

And  clime  and  time,  and  country  and  complexion  ; 

They  all  alike  admired  their  now  connection. 

XLI. 
Lolah  was  dusk-  as  India  and  as  warm  ; 

Katinka  was  a  Georgian,  white  and  red. 
With  great  blue  eyes,  a  lovely  hand  and  arm, 

And  feet  so  small  they  scarce  seem'd  made  to 
tread. 
But  rather  skim  the  earth  ;  while  DudCi's  form 

Look'd  more  adapted  to  be  put  to  bed. 
Being  somewhat  large,  and  languishing,  and  lazy, 
Yet  of  a  beauty  that  would  drive  you  crazy. 

XLII. 
A  kind  of  sleepy  Venus  seem'd  Dudil, 

Yet  very  fit  to  "  murder  sleep  "  in  those 
Who  gazed  upon  her  cheek's  transcendent  hue, 

Her  Attic  forehead,  and  her  Phidian  nose  : 
Few  angles  were  there  in  her  form,  'tis  true, 

Thinner  she  might  have  been,  and  yet  scarce  lose ; 
Yet,  after  all,  'twould  puzzle  to  say  where 
It  would  not  spoil  some  separate  charm  to  pare. 

XLIII. 
She  was  not  violently  lively,  but 

Stole  on  your  spirit  like  a  May-day  breaking ; 
Tier  eyes  were  not  too  sparkling,  yet,  half-shut. 

They  put  beholders  in  a  tender  taking  ; 
She  look'd  (this  simile  's  quite  new)  just  cut 

From  marble,  like  Pygmalion's  statue  waking, 
The  mortal  and  the  marble  still  at  strife. 
And  timidly  expanding  into  life. 

XLIV. 
Lolah  demanded  the  new  damsel's  name — 

"  Juanna." — Well,  a  pretty  name  enough. 
Katinka  ask'd  her  also  whence  she  came — 

"  From  Spain."—"  But  where  is  Spain  2"—"  Don't 
ask  such  stuff, 
Nor  show  your  Georgian  ignorance — for  shame  !" 

Said  Lolah,  with  an  accent  rather  rough, 
To  poor  Katinka  :  "  Spain's  an  island  near 
Morocco,  betwixt  Egypt  and  Tangier." 

XLV. 
Dudfi  said  nothing,  but  sat  down  beside 

Juanna,  playing  with  her  veil  or  hair ; 
And  looking  at  her  steadfastly,  she  sigh'd, 

As  if  she  pitied  her  for  being  there, 
A  pretty  stranger  without  friend  or  guide. 

And  all  abash'd,  too,  at  the  general  stare 
Which  welcomes  hapless  strangers  in  all  places, 
With  kind  remarks  upon  their  mien  and  faces. 


XLVI. 
But  here  the  Mother  of  the  Maids  drew  near, 

With,  "  Ladies,  it  is  time  to  go  to  rest. 
I'm  puzzled  what  to  do  with  you,  my  dear," 

She  added  to  Juanna,  their  new  guest : 
"Your  coming  has  been  unexpected  here, 

And  every  couch  is  occupied ;  you  had  best 
Partake  of  mine ;  but  by  to-morrow  early 
We  will  have  all  things  settled  for  you  fairly." 

XLVII. 
Here  Lolah  interposed — "  Mamma,  you  know 

You  don't  sleep  soundly,  and  I  cannot  bear 
That  anybody  should  disturb  you  so ; 

I'll  take  Juanna  ;  we're  a  slenderer  pair 
Than  you  would  make  the  half  of; — don't  say  no ; 

And  I  of  your  young  charge  will  take  due  care." 
But  here  Katinka  interfered,  and  said, 
"  She  also  had  compassion  and  a  bed." 

XLVIII. 
"  Besides,  I  hate  to  sleep  alone,"  quoth  she. 

The  matron  froTvn'd  :  "  Why  so  2"—"  For  fear  of 
Replied  Katinka ;  "  I  am  sure  I  see  [ghosts," 

A  phantom  upon  each  of  the  four  posts  ; 
And  then  I  have  the  worst  dreams  that  can  be. 

Of  Guebres,Giaours,  and  Ginns,  and  Gouls  in  hosts." 
The  dame  replied,  "  Between  your  dreams  ahd  you, 
I  fear  Juanna's  dreams  would  be  but  few. 

XLIX. 
"  You,  Lolah,  must  continue  still  to  lie 

Alone,  for  reasons  which  don't  matter ;  you 
The  same,  Katinka,  until  by  and  by ; 

And  I  shall  place  Juanna  with  DudCi, 
Who's  quiet,  inofiensive,  silent,  shy, 

And  will  not  toss  and  chatter  the  night  through. 
What  say  you,  child  ?" — Dudfi  said  nothing,  as 
Her  talents  were  of  the  more  silent  class  ; 


But  she  rose  up,  and  kiss'd  the  matron's  brow 
Between  the  eyes,  and  Lolah  on  both  cheeks, 

Katinka,  too  ;  and  with  a  gentle  bow 

(Court'sies  are  neither  used  by  Turks  nor  Greeks) 

She  took  Juanna  by  the  hand  to  show 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  left  to  both  their  piques. 

The  others  pouting  at  the  matron's  preference 

Of  Dudfi,  though  they  held  their  tongues  from  def- 
erence. 

LI. 
It  was  a  spacious  chamber,  (Oda  is 

The  Turkish  title,)  and  ranged  round  the  wall 
Were  couches,  toilets — and  much  more  than  this 

I  might  describe,  as  I  have  seen  it  all, 
But  it  suffices — little  was  amiss  ; 

'Twas  on  the  whole  a  nobly  fumish'd  hall, 


644 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  vi. 


With  all  things  ladies  want,  save  one  or  two, 
And  even  those  were  nearer  than  they  knew. 

LII. 
Dudii,  as  has  been  said,  was  a  sweet  creature. 

Not  very  dashing,  but  extremely  winning. 
With  the  most  regulated  charms  of  feature. 

Which  painters  cannot  catch  hko  faces  sinning 
Against  proportion — the  wild  strokes  of  nature 

Which  they  hit  off  at  once  in  the  beginning, 
Full  of  expression,  right  or  wrong,  that  strike. 
And  pleasing,  or  unpleasing,  still  are  like. 

LIII. 
But  she  was  a  soft  landscape  of  mild  earth. 

Where  all  was  harmony,  and  calm,  and  quiet. 
Luxuriant,  budding  ;  cheerful  without  mirth. 

Which  if  not  happiness,  is  much  more  nigh  it 
Than  are  your  mighty  passions  and  so  forth, 

Which  some  call  "  the  sublime ;"  I  wish  they'd  try 
I've  seen  your  stormy  seas  and  stormy  women,  [it : 
And  pity  lovers  rather  more  than  seamen. 

LIV. 
But  she  was  pensive  more  than  melancholy. 

And  serious  more  than  pensive,  and  serene. 
It  may  be,  more  than  either — not  unholy  [been. 

Her  thoughts,  at  least  till  now,  appear  to  have 
The  strangest  thing  was,  beauteous,  she  was  wholly 

Unconscious,  albeit  turn'd  of  quick  seventeen, 
That  she  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  short,  or  tall ; 
She  never  thought  about  herself  at  all. 

LV. 
And  therefore  was  she  kind  and  gentle  as 

The  Age  of  Gold,  (when  gold  was  yet  unknown. 
By  which  its  nomenclature  came  to  pass  ; 

Thus  most  appropriately  has  been  shown, 
"  Lucus  a  non  lucendo,"  not  what  was, 

But  what  was  not ;  a  sort  of  style  that's  grown 
Extremely  common  in  this  age,  whose  metal 
The  devil  may  decompose,  but  never  settle  : 

LVI. 
I  think  it  may  be  of  "  Corinthian  Brass," 

Which  was  a  mixture  of  all  metals,  but 
The  brazen  uppermost.)     Kind  reader  !  pass 

This  long  parenthesis  :  I  could  not  shut 
It  sooner  for  the  soul  of  me,  and  class 

My  faults  even  with  your  own !  which  meaneth, 
A  kind  construction  upon  them  and  me  :  [Put 

But  that  you  won't — tlien  don't— I'm  not  less  free. 

LVII. 
'Tis  time  we  should  return  to  plain  narration. 

And  thus  my  narrative  proceeds  : — Dudii, 
With  every  kindness  short  of  ostentation, 

Show'd  Juan,  or  Juanna,  through  and  through 


This  labyrinth  of  females,  and  each  station 

Described — what 's  strange — in  words  extremely 
I've  but  one  simile,  and  that 's  a  blunder,  [few : 

For  wordless  woman,  which  is  «i/«n<  thunder. 

LVIII. 
And  next  she  gave  her  (I  say  lier,  because 

The  gender  still  was  epicene,  at  least 
In  outward  show,  which  is  a  saving  clause) 

An  outline  of  tho  customs  of  the  East, 
With  all  their  chaste  integrity  of  laws. 

By  which  the  more  a  harem  is  increased. 
The  stricter  doubtless  grow  the  vestal  duties 
Of  any  supernumerary  beauties. 

LIX. 
And  then  she  gave  Juanna  a  chaste  kiss  : 

DudCi  was  fond  of  kissing — which  I'm  sure 
That  nobody  can  ever  take  amiss. 

Because  'tis  pleasant,  so  that  it  be  pure. 
And  between  females  means  no  more  than  this — 

That  they  have  nothing  better  near,  or  newer. 
"  Kiss"  rhymes  to  "  bliss"  in  fact  as  well  as  verse — 
I  wish  it  never  led  to  something  worse. 

LX. 
In  perfect  innocence  she  then  unmade 

Her  toilet,  which  cost  little,  for  she  was 
A  child  of  Nature,  carelessly  array'd  : 

If  fond  of  a  chance  ogle  at  her  glass, 
'Twas  like  the  fawn,  which,  in  the  lake  display'd, 

Beholds  her  own  shy,  shadowy  image  pass, 
When  first  she  starts,  and  then  returns  to  peep, 
Admiring  this  new  native  of  the  deep. 

LXI. 
And  one  by  one  her  articles  of  dress 

Were  laid  aside  :  but  not  before  she  offer'd 
Her  aid  to  fair  Juanna,  whose  excess 

Of  modesty  declined  the  assistance  proffer'd  : 
Which  pass'd  well  oif — as  she  could  do  no  less ; 

Though  by  this  politesse  she  rather  sufFer'd; 
Pricking  her  fingers  with  those  cursed  pins. 
Which  surely  were  invented  for  our  sins, — 

LXII. 
Making  a  woman  like  a  porcupine. 

Not  to  be  rashly  touch'd.    But  still  more  dread, 
Oh,  ye  1  whose  fate  it  is,  as  once  'twas  mine, 

In  early  youth,  to  turn  a  lady's  maid  ; — 
I  did  my  very  boyish  best  to  shine 

In  tricking  her  out  for  a  masquerade  : 
The  pins  were  placed  sufficiently,  but  not 
Stuck  all  exactly  in  the  proper  spot. 

LXIII. 
But  these  are  foolish  things  to  all  the  wise. 
And  I  love  wisdom  more  than  she  loves  me  ; 


Canto  vi. 


DON    JUAN. 


645 


My  tendency  is  to  philosophize 
On  most  things,  from  a  tyrant  to  a  tree  ; 

But  still  the  spouseless  virgin  Knmdedge  flies. 
What  are  we  ?  and  whence  came  we  ?  what  shall 

Our  ultimate  existence  ?    Wliat's  our  present  ?     [be 

Are  questions  answerless,  and  yet  incessant. 

LXIV. 
There  was  deep  silence  in  the  chamber :  dim 

And  distant  from  each  other  bum'd  the  lights, 
And  slumber  hover'd  o'er  each  lovely  limb 

Of  the  fair  occupants  :  if  there  be  sprites,    [trim, 
They  should  have  walk'd  there  in  their  sprightliest 

By  way  of  change  from  their  sepulchral  sites. 
And  shown  themselves  as  ghosts  of  better  taste 
Than  haunting  some  old  ruin  or  wild  waste. 

LXV. 

Many  and  beautiful  lay  those  around. 

Like  flowers  of  different  hue,  and  clime,  and  root. 
In  some  exotic  garden  sometimes  found, 

With  cost,  and  care,  and  warmth  induced  to  shoot. 
One  with  her  auburn  tresses  lightly  bound. 

And  fair  brows  gently  drooping,  as  the  fruit 
Kods  from  the  tree,  was  slumbering  with  soft  breath. 
And  lips  apart,  which  show'd  the  pearls  beneath. 

LXVI. 
One  with  her  flush'd  cheek:  laid  on  her  white  arm, 

And  raven  ringlets  gather'd  in  dark  crowd 
Above  her  brow,  lay  dreaming  soft  and  warm ; 

And  smiling  through  her  dream,  as  through  a  cloud 
The  moon  breaks,  half  unveil'd  each  further  charm. 

As,  slightly  stirring  in  her  snowy  shroud, 
Her  beauties  seized  the  unconscious  hour  of  night 
All  bashfully  to  struggle  into  light. 

LXVII. 
This  is  no  bull,  although  it  sounds  so ;  for 
'Twas  night,  but  there  were  lamps,  as  hath  been 
said. 
A  third's  all  pallid  aspect  offer'd  more 

The  traits  of  sleeping  sorrow,  and  betray'd 
Through  the  heaved  breast  the  dream  of  some  far 
Beloved  and  deplored ;  while  slowly  stray'd  [shore 
(As  night-dew,  on  a  cypress  glittering,  tinges 
The  black  bough)  tear-drops  through  her  eyes'  dark 
fringes. 

LXVIII. 

A  fourth  as  marble,  statue-like  and  still, 

Lay  in  a  breathless,  hush'd,  and  stony  sleep ; 

White,  cold,  and  pure,  as  looks  a  frozen  rill, 
Or  the  snow  minaret  on  an  Alpine  steep, 

Or  Lot's  wife  done  in  salt, — or  what  you  will ; — 
My  similes  are  gather'd  in  a  heap, 

So  pick  and  choose — perhaps  you'll  be  content 

With  a  carved  lady  on  a  monument. 


LXIX. 

And  lo  1  a  fifth  appears  ; — and  what  is  she  ? 

A  lady  of  a  "  certain  age,"  which  means 
Certainly  aged — what  her  years  might  be 

I  know  not,  never  counting  past  their  teens  ; 
But  there  she  slept,  not  quite  so  fair  to  see, 

As  ere  that  awful  period  intervenes 
Which  lays  both  men  and  women  on  the  shelf, 
To  meditate  upon  their  sins  and  self. 

LXX. 
But  all  this  time  how  slept,  or  dream'd,  DudCi  ? 

With  strict  inquiry  I  could  ne'er  discover, 
And  scorn  to  add  a  syllable  untrue ; 

But  ere  the  middle  watch  was  hardly  over, 
Just  when  the  fading  lamps  waned  dim  and  blue, 

And  phantoms  hover'd,  or  might  seem  to  hover 
To  those  who  like  their  company,  about 
The  apartment,  on  a  sudden  she  scream'd  out ; 

LXXI. 
And  that  so  loudly,  that  upstarted  all 

The  Oda,  in  a  general  commotion  : 
Matron  and  maids,  and  those  whom  you  may  call 

Neither,  came  crowding  like  the  waves  of  ocean. 
One  on  the  other,  throughout  the  whole  hall, 

All  trembling,  wondering,  without  the  least  notion 
More  than  I  have  myself  of  what  could  make 
The  calm  Dudfi  so  turbulently  wake. 

LXXII. 
But  wide  awake  she  was,  and  round  her  bed, 

With  floating  draperies  and  with  flying  hair. 
With  eager  eyes,  and  light  but  hurried  tread, 

And  bosoms,  arms,  and  ankles  glancing  bare. 
And  bright  as  any  meteor  ever  bred 

By  the  North  Pole, — they  sought  her  cause  of 
care. 
For  she  seem'd  agitated,  flush'd,  and  frighten'd, 
Her  eye  dilated  and  her  color  heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 

But  what  was  strange — and  a  strong  proof  how  great 
A  blessing  is  sound  sleep — Juanna  lay 

As  fast  as  ever  husband  by  his  mate 
In  holy  matrimony  snores  away. 

Not  all  the  clamor  broke  her  happy  state 
Of  slumber,  ere  they  shook  her, — so  they  say 

At  least, — and  then  she,  too,  unclosed  her  eyes, 

And  yawn'd  a  good  deal  with  discreet  surprise. 

LXXIV. 
And  now  commenced  a  strict  investigation. 

Which,  as  all  spoke  at  once,  and  more  than  once 
Conjecturing,  wondering,  asking  a  narration, 

Alike  might  puzzle  either  wit  or  dunce 
To  answer  in  a  very  clear  oration. 

DudCi  had  never  pass'd  for  wanting  sense, 


646 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  vi. 


But,  being  "  no  orator  as  Brutus  is," 
Could  not  at  first  expound  wliat  was  amiss. 

LXXV. 

At  length  she  said,  that  in  a  slumber  sound 
She  dream'd  a  dream,  of  walking  in  a  wood — 

A  "  wood  obscure,"  like  that  where  Dante  found 
Himself  in  at  the  age  when  all  grow  good  ; 

Life's    half-way   house,  where  dames  with  virtue 
crown'd 
Run  much  less  risk  of  lovers  turning  rude  ; 

And  that  this  wood  was  full  of  pleasant  fruits, 

And  trees  of  goodly  growth  and  spreading  roots  ; 

LXXVI. 
And  in  the  midst  a  golden  apple  grew, — 

A  most  prodigious  pippin — but  it  hung 
Rather  too  high  and  distant ;  that  she  threw 

Her  glances  on  it,  and  then,  longing,  flung 
Stones  and  whatever  she  could  pick  up,  to 

Bring  down  the  fruit,  which  still  perversely  clung 
To  its  own  bough,  and  dangled  yet  in  sight. 
But  alwaj's  at  a  most  provoking  height ; — - 

LXXVII. 
That  on  a  sudden,  when  she  least  had  hope, 

It  fell  down  of  its  own  accord  before 
Her  feet ;  that  her  first  movement  was  to  stoop 

And  pick  it  up,  and  bite  it  to  the  core  ; 
That  just  as  her  young  lip  began  to  ope 

Upon  the  golden  fruit  the  vision  bore, 
A  bee  flew  out,  aud  stung  her  to  the  heart. 
And  so — she  awoke  with  a  great  scream  and  start. 

LXXVIII. 
All  this  she  told,  with  some  confusion  and 

Dismay,  the  usual  consequence  of  dreams 
Of  the  unpleasant  kind,  with  none  at  hand 

To  expound  their  vain  and  visionary  gleams. 
Fve  known   some  odd  ones  which   seem'd  really 

Prophetically,  or  that  which  one  deems     [plann'd 
A  "  strange  coincidence,"  to  use  a  phrase 
By  which  such  things  are  settled  now-a-days. 

LXXIX. 

The  damsels,  who  had  thoughts  of  some  great  harm. 

Began,  as  is  the  consequence  of  fear, 
To  scold  a  little  at  the  false  alarm 

That  broke  for  nothing  on  their  sleeping  car. 
The  matrdn,  too,  was  wroth  to  leave  her  warm 

Bed  for  the  dream  she  had  been  obliged  to  hear. 
And  chafed  at  poor  Dudti,  who  only  sigh'd. 
And  said,  tliat  she  was  sorry  she  had  cried. 

LXXX. 
"  I've  heard  of  stories  of  a  cock  and  bull ; 

But  visions  of  an  apple  and  a  bee, 
To  take  us  from  our  natural  rest,  and  pull 

The  whole  Oda  from  their  beds  at  half-past  three. 


Would  make  us  think  the  moon  is  at  its  full. 
You  surely  are  unwell,  child  !  we  must  see, 
To-morrow,  what  his  Highness's  physician 
Will  say  to  this  hysteric  of  a  vision. 

LXXXI. 

"  And  poor  Juanna,  too,  the  child's  first  night 
Within  these  walls,  to  be  broke  in  upon 

With  such  a  clamor — I  had  thought  it  right 
That  the  young  stranger  should  not  lie  alone. 

And,  as  the  quietest  of  all,  she  might 

With  you,  Dudfi,  a  good  night's  rest  have  known; 

But  now  I  must  transfer  her  to  the  charge 

Of  Lolah — though  her  couch  is  not  so  large." 

LXXXII. 
Lolah's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  proposition ; 

But  poor  Dudti,  with  large  drops  in  her  own. 
Resulting  fi-om  the  scolding  or  the  vision. 

Implored  that  present  pardon  might  be  shown 
For  this  first  fault,  and  that  on  no  condition 

(She  added  in  a  soft  and  piteous  tone) 
Juanna  should  be  taken  from  her,  and 
Her  future  dreams  should  aU  be  kept  in  hand. 

LXXXIII. 
She  promised  never  more  to  have  a  dream, 

At  least  to  dream  so  loudly  as  just  now  ; 
She  wonder'd  at  herself  how  she  could  scream — 

'Twas  foolish,  nervous,  as  she  must  allow, 
A  fond  hallucination,  and  a  theme 

For  laughter — but  she  felt  her  spirits  low, 
And  begg'd  they  would  excuse    her ;    she'd    get 

over 
This  weakness  in  a  few  hours,  and  recover. 

LXXXIV. 
And  here  Juanna  kindly  interposed. 

And  said  she  felt  herself  extremely  well 
Where  she  then  was,  as  her  sound  sleep  disclosed, 

When  all  around  rang  like  a  tocsin  beU ; 
She  did  not  find  herself  the  least  disposed 

To  quit  her  gentle  partner,  and  to  dwell 
Apart  from  one  who  had  no  sin  to  show. 
Save  that  of  dreaming  once  ''  mal-it-propos." 

LXXXV. 

As  thus  Juanna  spoke,  Dudti  turn'd  round 
And  hid  her  face  within  Juanna's  breast ; 

Her  neck  alone  was  seen,  but  that  was  found 
The  color  of  a  budding  rose's  crest. 

I  can't  tell  why  she  blush'd,  nor  can  expound 
The  mystery  of  this  rupture  of  their  rest ; 

All  that  I  know  is,  that  the  facts  I  state 

Are  true  as  truth  has  ever  been  of  late. 

LXXXVI. 

And  so  good  night  to  them, — or,  if  you  will, 

Good  morrow — for  the  cock  had  crow'd,  and  light 


Canto  vi. 


DON  JUAN. 


647 


Began  to  clothe  each  Asiatic  hill, 

And  the  mosque  crescent  struggled  into  sight 
Of  the  long  caravan,  which  in  the  chill 

Of  dewy  dawn  wound  slowly  round  each  height, 
That  stretches  to  the  stony  belt,  which  girds 
Asia,  where  Kafif  looks  down  upon  the  Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With  the  first  ray,  or  rather  gray  of  mom, 
Gulbeyaz  rose  from  restlessness  ;  and  pale 

As  Passion  rises,  with  its  bosom  worn, 
Array'd  herself  with  mantle,  gem,  and  veil. 

The  nightingale  that  sings  with  the  deep  thorn, 
Which  fable  places  in  her  breast  of  wail, 

Is  lighter  far  of  heart  and  voice  than  those 

Whose  headlong  passions  form  their  proper  woes. 

LXXXVIIL 

And  that's  the  moral  of  this  composition. 
If  people  would  but  see  its  real  drift ; — 

But  that  they  will  not  do  without  suspicion, 
Because  all  gentle  readers  have  the  gift 

Of  closing  'gainst  the  light  their  orbs  of  vision  ; 
While  gentle  writers  also  love  to  lift 

Their  voices  'gainst  each  other,  which  is  natural, 

The  numbers  are  too  great  for  them  to  flatter  all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose  the  sultana  from  a  bed  of  splendor. 
Softer  than  the  soft  Sybarite's,  who  cried 

Aloud  because  his  feelings  were  too  tender 
To  brook  a  ruffled  rose-leaf  by  his  side, — 

So  beautiful  that  art  could  little  mend  her, 
Though    pale  with  conflicts  between    love  and 
pride ; — 

So  agitated  was  she  with  her  error. 

She  did  not  even  look  into  the  mirror. 

XC. 

Also  arose  about  the  self-same  time, 

Perhaps  a  little  later,  her  great  lord, 
Master  of  thirty  kingdoms  so  sublime, 

And  of  a  wife  by  whom  he  was  abhorr'd ; 
A  thing  of  much  less  import  in  that  clime — 

At  least  to  those  of  incomes  which  afford 
The  filling  up  their  whole  connubial  cargo — 
Than  where  two  wives  are  under  an  embargo. 

XCI. 

He  did  not  think  much  on  the  matter,  nor 

Indeed  on  any  other :  as  a  man 
He  liked  to  have  a  handsome  paramour 

At  hand,  as  one  may  like  to  have  a  fan, 
And  therefore  of  Circassians  had  good  store, 

As  an  amusement  after  the  Divan  ; 
Though  an  unusual  fit  of  love,  or  duty. 
Had  made  him  lately  bask  in  his  bride's  beauty. 


XCII. 
And  now  he  rose  ;  and  after  due  ablutions 

Exacted  by  the  customs  of  the  East, 
And  prayers  and  other  pious  evolutions. 

He  drank  six  cups  of  coffee  at  the  least. 
And  then  withdrew  to  hear  about  the  Russians, 

Whose  victories  had  recently  increased 
In  Catherine's  reign,  whom  glory  still  adores, 
As  greatest  of  all  sovereigns  and  w s. 

XCIII. 
But  oh,  thou  grand  legitimate  Alexander  ! 

Her  son's  son,  let  not  this  last  phrase  offend 
Thine   ear,  if  it  should  reach — and  no.w  rhymes 
wander 

Almost  as  far  as  Petersburgh,  and  lend 
A  dreadful  impulse  to  each  loud  meander 

Of  murmuring  Liberty's  wide  waves,  which  blend 
Their  roar  even  with  the  Baltic's — so  you  be 
Your  father's  son,  'tis  quite  enough  for  mo. 

XCIV. 
To  call  men  love-begotten  or  proclaim 

Their  mothers  as  the  antipodes  of  Timon, 
That  hater  of  mankind,  would  be  a  shame, 

A  Ubel,  or  whate'er  you  please  to  rhyme  on  : 
But  people's  ancestors  are  history's  game  ; 

And  if  one  lady's  slip  could  leave  a  crime  on 
All  generations,  I  should  like  to  know 
What  pedigree  the  best  would  have  to  show  ? 

XCV. 
Had  Catherine  and  the  sultan  understood 

Their  own  true  interests,  which  kings  rarely  know, 
Until  'tis  taught  by  lessons  rather  rude. 

There  was  a  way  to  end  their  strife,  although 
Perhaps  precarious,  had  they  but  thought  good, 

Without  the  aid  of  prince  or  plenipo  : 
She  to  dismiss  her  guards  and  he  his  harem. 
And  for  their  other  matters,  meet  and  share  'em. 

XCVI. 
But  as  it  was,  his  Highness  had  to  hold 

His  daily  coimcil  upon  ways  and  means 
How  to  encounter  with  this  martial  scold. 

This  modem  Amazon  and  queen  of  queans  : 
And  the  perplexity  could  not  be  told 

Of  all  the  pillars  of  the  state,  which  le.^'ns 
Sometimes  a  little  heavy  on  the  backs 
Of  those  who  cannot  lay  on  a  new  tax. 

XCVII. 
Meantime  Gulbeyaz,  when  her  king  was  goni 

Retired  into  her  boudoir,  a  sweet  place 
For  love  or  breakfast ;  private,  pleasing,  lone. 

And  rich  with  all  contrivances  which  grace 
Those  gay  recesses  : — many  a  precious  stone 

Spajkled  along  its  roof,  and  many  a  vase 


648 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  tt. 


Of  porcelain  held  in  the  fetter'd  flowers, 
Those  captive  soothers  of  a  captive's  hours. 

XCVIII. 
Mother  of  pearl,  and  porphyry,  and  marble, 

Vied  with  each  other  on  this  costly  spot ; 
And  singing  birds  without  were  heard  to  warble ; 

And  the  stain'd  glass  which  lighted  this  fair  grot 
Varied  each  ray ; — but  all  descriptions  garble 

The  true  effect,  and  so  we  had  better  not 
Be  too  minute ;  an  outline  is  the  best, — 
A  lively  reader's  fancy  does  the  rest. 

XCIX. 

And  here  'she  summon'd  Baba,  and  required 
Don  Juan  at  his  hands,  and  information 

Of  what  had  pass'd  since  aU  the  slaves  retired. 
And  whether  he  had  occupied  their  station ; 

If  matters  had  been  managed  as  desired, 
And  his  disguise  with  due  consideration 

Kept  up  ;  and  above  all,  the  where  and  how  [know. 

He  had  pass'd  the  night,  was  what  she  wish'd  to 


Baba,  with  some  embarrassment,  replied 
To  this  long  catechism  of  questions,  ask'd 

More  easily  than  answer'd, — that  he  had  tried 
His  best  to  obey  in  what  he  had  been  task'd  ; 

But  there  seem'd  something  that  he  wish'd  to  hide. 
Which  hesitation  more  betray'd  than  raask'd ; 

He  scratch'd  his  ear,  the  infallible  resource 

To  which  cmbarrass'd  people  have  recourse. 

CI. 
Gnlbeyaz  was  no  model  of  true  patience. 

Nor  much  disposed  to  wait  in  word  or  deed  ; 
She  liked  quick  answers  in  all  conversations ; 

And  when  she  saw  him  stumbling  like  a  steed 
In  lus  replies,  she  puzzled  him  for  fresh  ones  ; 

And  as  his  speech  grew  still  more  broken-kneed, 
Her  cheek  began  to  flush,  her  eyes  to  sparkle. 
And  her  proud  brow's  blue  veins  to  swell  and  darkle. 

CII. 

When  Baba  saw  these  symptoms,  which  he  knew 
To  bode  him  no  great  good,  he  deprecated 

Her  anger,  and  beseech'd  she'd  hear  him  through — 
He  could  not  help  the  thing  which  he  related  : 

Then  out  it  came  at  length,  that  to  Dudti 

Juan  was  given  in  charge,  as  hath  been  stated ; 

But  not  by  Baba's  fault,  he  said,  and  swore  on 

The  holy  camel's  hump,  besides  the  Koran. 

Clir. 
Tlie  chief  dame  of  the  Oda,  upon  whom 

The  discipline  of  the  whole  harem  bore. 
As  soon  as  they  re-enter'd  their  own  room. 

For  Baba's  function  stopp'd  short  at  the  door, 


Had  settled  all ;  nor  could  he  then  presume 

(The  aforesaid  Baba)  just  then  to  do  more, 
Without  exciting  such  suspicion  as 
Might  make  the  matter  still  worse  than  it  was. 

CIV. 
He  hoped,  indeed  he  thought,  he  could  be  sure 

Juan  had  not  betray'd  himself;  in  fact 
'Twas  certain  that  his  conduct  had  been  pure. 

Because  a  foolish  or  imprudent  act 
Would  not  alone  have  made  him  insecure, 

But  ended  in  his  being  found  out  and  sacFd, 
And  thrown  into  the  sea. — Thus  Baba  spoke 
Of  all  save  Dudu's  dream,  which  was  no  joke. 

CV. 
This  he  discreetly  kept  in  the  back  ground. 

And  talk'd  away — and  might  have  talk'd  tiU  now, 
For  any  further  answer  that  he  found. 

So  deep  an  anguish  wrung  Gulbeyaz'  brow  : 
Her  cheek   turn'd    ashes,  ears    rung,  brain  whirl'd 

As  if  she  had  received  a  sudden  blow,        [round, 
And  the  heart's  dew  of  pain  sprang  fast  and  chilly 
O'er  her  fair  front,  like  Morning's  on  a  lily. 

CVI. 
Although  she  was  not  of  the  fainting  sort, 

Baba  thought  she  would  faint,  but  there  he  err'd — 
It  was  but  a  convulsion,  which  though  short 

Can  never  be  described ;  we  all  have  heard. 
And  some  of  us  have  felt  thus  "  all  amort,''^ 

When  things  beyond  the  common  have  occurr'd — 
Gulbeyaz  proved  in  that  brief  agony 
What  she  could  ne'er  express — then  how  should  I  ? 

CVII. 
She  stood  a  moment  as  a  Pythoness 

Stands  on  her  tripod,  agonized,  and  full 
Of  inspiration  gather'd  from  distress, 

When  all  the  heart-strings  like  wild  horses  pull 
The  heart  asunder ; — then,  as  more  or  less 

Their  speed  abated  or  their  strength  grew  dull, 
She  sunk  down  on  her  seat  by  slow  degrees. 
And  bow'd  her  throbbing  head  o'er  trembling  knees. 

CVIII. 

Her  face  declined  and  was  unseen  ;  her  hair 
Fell  in  long  tresses  Uke  the  weeping  willow, 

Sweeping  the  marble  underneath  her  chair. 
Or  rather  sofa,  (for  it  was  all  pillow, 

A  low,  soft  ottoman,)  and  black  despair 

Stirr'd  up  and  down  her  bosom  like  a  billow. 

Which  rushes  to  some  shore  whose  shingles  check 

Its  farther  course,  but  must  receive  its  wreck. 

CIX. 
Her  head  hung  down,  and  her  long  hair  in  stooping 
Conceal'd  her  features  better  than  a  veil ; 


Cauto  VI. 


DON    JUAN 


649 


And  one  hand  o'er  the  ottoman  lay  drooping, 
White,  waxen,  and  as  alabaster  pale  : 

Would  that  I  were  a  painter  !  to  be  groui>ing 
All  that  a  poet  drags  into  detail ! 

Oh,  that  my  words  were  colors  !  but  their  tints 

May  serve  perhaps  as  outlines  or  slight  hints. 

ex. 

Baba,  who  knew  by  experience  when  to  talk 
And  when  to  hold  his  tongue,  now  held  it  till 

This  passion  might  blow  o'er,  nor  dared  to  balk 
Gulbeyaz'  taciturn  or  speaking  will. 

At  length  she  rose  up,  and  began  to  walk 
Slowly  along  the  room,  but  silent  still. 

And  her  brow  clear'd,  but  not  her  troubled  eye  ; 

The  wind  was  down,  but  stiU  the  sea  ran  high. 

CXI. 
She  stopp'd,  and  raised  her  head  to  speak — but  paused, 

And  then  moved  on  again  with  rapid  pace  ; 
Then  slacken'd  it,  which  is  the  march  most  caused 

By  deep  emotion  ; — you  may  sometimes  trace 
A  feeling  in  each  footstep,  as  disclosed 

By  Sallust  in  his  Catiline,  who,  chased 
By  all  the  demons  of  all  passions,  show'd 
Their  work  even  by  the  way  in  which  he  trode. 

CXII. 
Gulbeyaz  stopp'd  and  beckon'd  Baba  : — "  Slave  ! 

Bring  the  two  slaves  !"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 
But  one  which  Baba  did  not  like  to  brave. 

And  yet  he  shudder'd,  and  scem'd  rather  prone 
To  prove  reluctant,  and  begg'd  leave  to  crave 

(Though  he  well  knew  the  meaning)  to  be  shown 
What  slaves  her  highness  wish'd  to  indicate. 
For  fear  of  any  error,  like  the  late. 

CXIII. 
"  The  Georgian  and  her  paramour,"  replied 

The  imperial  bride — and  added,  "  Let  the  boat 
Be  ready  by  the  secret  portal's  side  : 

You  know  the  rest."    The  words  stuck  in  her 
Despite  her  injured  love  and  fiery  pride  ;       [throat. 

And  of  this  Baba  willingly  took  note. 
And  begg'd  by  every  hair  of  Mahomet's  beard. 
She  would  revoke  the  order  he  had  heard. 

CXIV. 
"  To  hear  is  to  obey,"  he  said ;  "  but  still, 

Sultana,  think  upon  the  consequence  : 
It  is  not  that  I  shallnot  all  fulfil 

Your  orders,  even  in  their  severest  sense  ; 
But  such  precipitation  may  end  ill, 

Even  at  your  own  imperative  expense  : 
I  do  not  mean  destruction  and  exposure, 
In  case  of  any  premature  disclosure  ; 

CXV. 
"  But  your  own  feelings.    Even  should  all  the  rest 
Be  hidden  by  the  rolling  waves,  which  hide 
82 


Already  many  a  once  love-beaten  breast 
Deep  in  the  caverns  of  the  deadly  tide — 

You  love  this  boyish,  new,  seraglio  guest, 
And  if  this  violent  remedy  be  tried — 

Excuse  my  freedom,  when  I  here  assure  you. 

That  killing  him  is  not  the  way  to  cure  you." 

CXVI. 

"What    dost   thou    know   of  love    or    feeling? — 
Wretch ! 

Begone  I"  she  cried,  with  kindling  eyes — "  and  do 
My  bidding  !"  Baba  vanish'd,  for  to  stretch 

His  own  remonstrance  further  he  well  knew 
Might  end  in  acting  as  his  own  "  Jack  Ketch  ;" 

And  though  he  wish'd  extremely  to  get  through 
This  awkward  business  without  harm  to  others. 
He  still  preferr'd  his  own  neck  to  another's. 

CXVII. 

Away  he  went  then  upon  his  commission. 

Growling  and  grumbling  in  good  Turkish  phrase 

Against  all  women  of  whate'er  condition. 
Especially  sultanas  and  their  ways  ; 

Their  obstinacy,  pride,  and  indecision. 
Their  never  knowing  their  own  mind  two  days. 

The  trouble  that  they  gave,  their  immorality. 

Which  made  him  daily  bless  his  own  neutrality. 

CXVIII. 

And  then  he  call'd  his  brethren  to  his  aid. 
And  sent  one  on  a  summons  to  the  pair. 

That  they  must  instantly  be  well  array'd. 
And  above  all  be  comb'd  even  to  a  hair, 

And  brought  before  the  empress,  who  had  made 
Inquiries  after  them  with  kindest  care  : 

At  which  Dudii  look'd  strange,  and  Juan  silly ; 

But  go  they  must  at  once,  and  will  I — nill  I. 

CXIX. 

And  here  I  leave  them  at  their  preparation 
For  the  imperial  presence,  wherein  whether 

Gulbeyaz  show'd  them  both  commiseration. 
Or  got  rid  of  the  parties  altogether. 

Like  other  angry  ladies  of  her  nation, — 
Are  things  the  turning  of  a  hair  or  feather 

May  settle  ;  but  far  be't  from  me  to  anticipate 

In  what  way  feminine  caprice  may  dissipate. 

CXX. 
I  leave  them  for  the  present  with  good  wishes. 

Though  doubts  of  their  well  doing,  to  arrange 
Another  part  of  history ;  for  the  dishes  • 

Of  this  our  banquet  we  must  sometimes  change ; 
And  trusting  Juan  may  escape  the  fishes. 

Although  his  situation  now  seems  strange. 
And  scarce  secure,  as  such  digressions  are  fair. 
The  Muse  will  take  a  little  touch  at  warfare. 


660 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  vii. 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO   TBE    SEVEXTIT. 


0  Love  !  O  Glory  !  what  are  ye  who  fly 
Around  us  ever,  rarely  to  alight  ? 

There  's  not  a  meteor  in  the  polar  sky 
Of  such  transcendent  and  more  fleeting  flight. 

Chill,  and  chain'd  to  cold  earth,  we  lift  on  high 
Our  eyes  in  search  of  either  lovely  light ; 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  colors  they 

Assume,  then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  way. 

11. 
And  such  as  they  are,  such  my  present  tale  is, 

A  nondescript  and  ever-varying  rhyme, 
A  versified  Aurora  Borealis, 

Which  flashes  o'er  a  waste  and  icy  clime. 
When  we  know  what  all  are,  we  must  bewail  us. 

But  ne'ertheless  I  hope  it  is  no  crime 
To  laugh  at  all  things — for  I  wish  to  know 
WMt,  after  all,  are  all  things — but  a  show  f 

III. 
They  accuse  me — Me — the  present  writer  of 

The  present  poem — of— I  know  not  what — 
A  tendency  to  underrate  and  scoff 

At  human  power  and  virtue,  and  all  that ; 
And  this  they  say  in  language  rather  rough. 

Good  God  !  I  wonder  what  they  would  be  at ! 

1  say  no  more  than  hath  been  said  in  DantC's 
Verse,  and  by  Solomon  and  by  Cervantes ; 

IV. 

By  Swift,  by  Machiavel,  by  Rochefoucault, 
By  FCnelon,  by  Luther,  and  by  Plato  ; 

By  TiUotson,  and  Wesley,  and  Rousseau, 
Who  knew  this  life  was  not  worth  a  potato. 

'Tis  not  their  fault,  nor  mine,  if  this  be  so — 
For  my  part,  I  pretend  not  to  be  Cato, 

Nor  even  Diogenes. — We  live  and  die. 

But  which  is  best,  you  know  no  more  than  L 


Socrates  said,  our  only  knowledge  was 

"  To  know  that  nothing  could  be  known ;"  a  pleas- 
Science  enough,  which  levels  to  an  ass  [ant 

Each  man  of  wisdom,  future,  past,  or  present. 
Newton,  (that  proverb  of  the  mind,)  alas  1 

Declared,  with  all  his  grand  discoveries  recent. 
That  he  himself  felt  only  "  like  a  youth 
Picking  up  shells  by  the  great  ocean — Truth." 

VI. 
Ecclesiastes  said,  "  that  all  is  vanity  " — 
Most  modern  preachers  say  the  same,  or  show  it 


By  their  examples  of  true  Christianity : 

In  short,  all  know,  or  very  soon  may  know  it ; 

And  in  this  scene  of  all-confess'd  inanity. 
By  saint,  by  sage,  by  preacher,  and  by  poet. 

Must  I  restrain  me,  through  the  fear  of  strife, 

From  holding  up  the  nothingness  of  Ufe  ? 

VII. 
Dogs,  or  men  ! — for  I  flatter  you  in  saying 

That  ye  are  dogs — your  betters  far — ye  may 
Read,  or  read  not,  what  I  am  now  essaying 

To  show  ye  what  ye  are  in  every  way. 
As  little  as  the  moon  stops  for  the  baying 

Of  wolves,  will  the  bright  muse  withdraw  one 
ray 
From  out  her  skies — then  howl  your  idle  wrath  ! 
While  she  still  silvers  o'er  your  gloomy  path. 

VIII. 

"  Fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars  "—I  am  not  sm-e 
If  this  be  the  right  reading — 'tis  no  matter ; 

The  fact 's  about  the  same,  I  am  secure  ; 
I  sing  them  both,  and  am  about  to  batter 

A  town  which  did  a  famous  siege  endure, 
And  was  beleaguer'd  both  by  land  and  water 

By  Souvarofi',  or  AngUcd  Suwarrow, 

Who  loved  blood  as  an  alderman  loves  marrow. 

IX. 

The  fortress  is  call'd  Ismail,  and  is  placed 
Upon  the  Danube's  left  branch  and  left  bank. 

With  buildings  in  the  Oriental  taste. 
But  still  a  fortress  of  the  foremost  rank. 

Or  was  at  least,  unless  'tis  since  defaced. 
Which  with  your  conquerors  is  a  common  prank  : 

It  stands  some  eighty  versts  from  the  high  sea. 

And  measures  round  of  toises  thousands  three. 


Within  the  extent  of  this  fortification 
A  borough  is  comprised  along  the  height 

Upon  the  left,  which  from  its  loftier  station 
Commands  the  city,  and  upon  its  site 

A  Greek  had  raised  arouud  this  elevation 
A  quantity  of  palisades  upi-ight, 

So  placed  as  to  impede  the  fire  of  those 

Who  held  the  place,  and  to  assist  the  foe's. 

XI. 

This  circumstance  may  serve  to  give  a  notion 
Of  the  high  talents  of  this  new  Vauban  : 

But  the  town  ditch  below  was  deep  as  ocean. 
The  rampart  higher  than  you'd  wish  to  hang  : 

But  then  there  was  a  great  want  of  precaution, 
(Prithee,  excuse  this  engineering  slang,) 

Nor  work  advanced,  nor  cover'd  way  was  there, 

To  hint  at  least  '•  Here  is  no  thoroughfare." 


Canto  vii. 


DON    JUAN. 


661 


Xil. 
But  a  stone  bastion,  with  a  narrow  gorge, 

And  walls  as  thick  as  most  skulls  bom  as  yet ; 
Two  batteries,  cap-a-pie,  as  our  St.  George, 

Casemated  one,  and  t'other  "  a.  barbette," 
Of  Danube's  bank  took  formidable  charge ; 

While  two  and  twenty  cannon  duly  set 
Rose  o'er  the  town's  right  side,  in  bristling  tier, 
Forty  feet  high,  upon  a  cavalier. 

XIII. 
But  from  the  riyer  the  town  's  open  quite, 

Because  the  Turks  could  never  be  persuaded 
A  Russian  vessel  e'er  would  heave  in  sight ; 

And  such  their  creed  was,  till  they  were  invaded, 
Wlien  it  grew  rather  late  to  set  things  right. 

But  as  the  Danube  could  not  well  be  waded, 
They  look'd  upon  the  Muscovite  flotilla. 
And  only  shouted,  "  Allah  1"  and  "  Bis  Millah  !" 

XIV. 

The  Russians  now  were  ready  to  attack  : 
But  oh,  ye  goddesses  of  war  and  glory  1 

How  shall  I  spell  the  name  of  each  Cossacque 
Who  were  immortal,  could  one  tell  their  story  ? 

Alas  !  what  to  their  memory  can  lack  ? 
Achilles'  self  was  not  more  grim  and  gory 

Than  thousands  of  this  new  and  polish 'd  nation. 

Whose  names  want  nothing  but — pronunciation. 

XV. 
Still  ni  record  a  few.  if  but  to  increase  [oflF, 

Our  euphony :  there  was  Strongenoff,  and  Strokon- 
Meknop,  Serge  Lwow,  Arsniew  of  modem  Greece, 

And  Tschitsshakoff,  and  Roguenoff,  and  Chokenoff, 
And  others  of  twelve  consonants  apiece ;       [enough 

And  more  might  be  found  out,  if  I  could  poke 
Into  gazettes  ;  but  Fame,  (capricious  strumpet,) 
It  seems,  has  got  an  ear  as  well  as  trumpet, 

XVI. 
And  cannot  tune  those  discords  of  narration, 

Which  may  be  names  at  Moscow,  into  rhyme  ; 
Yet  there  were  several  worth  commemoration, 

As  e'er  was  virgin  of  a  nuptial  chime ; 
Soft  words,  too,  fitted  for  the  peroration 

Of  Londonderry  drawling  against  time. 
Ending  in  "  ischskin,"  "  ousckin,"  "  iflfskchy,"  "  ous- 
Of  whom  we  can  insert  but  Rousamouski,         [ki," 

XVII. 
Scherematofif  and  Chrematoff,  Koklophti, 

Koclobski,  Kourakin,  and  Mouskin  Pouskin, 
All  proper  men  of  weapons,  as  e'er  scofT'd  high 

Against  a  foe,  or  ran  a  saV^re  through  skin  : 
Little  cared  they  for  Mahomet  or  Mufti, 

Unless  to  make  their  kettle-drums  a  new  skin 
Out  of  their  hides,  if  parchment  had  grown  dear, 
And  no  more  handy  substitute  been  near. 


XVIII. 
Then  there  were  foreigners  of  much  renown, 

Of  various  nations,  and  all  volunteers ; 
Kot  fighting  for  their  country  or  its  crown. 

But  wishing  to  be  one  day  brigadiers  : 
Also  to  have  the  sacking  of  a  town  ; 

A  pleasant  thing  to  young  men  at  their  years. 
'Mongst  them  were  several  EngUshmen  of  pith. 
Sixteen  call'd  Thomson,  and  nineteeen  named  Smith. 

XIX. 
Jack  Thomson  and  Bill  Thomson  ; — all  the  rest 

Had  been  call'd  "  Jemmi/,"  after  the  great  bard  : 
I  don't  know  whether  they  had  arms  or  crest, 

But  such  a  godfather  's  as  good  a  card. 
Three  of  the  Smiths  were  Peters  ;  but  the  best 

Amongst  them  all,  hard  blows  to  inflict  or  ward, 
Was  lie,  since  so  renown'd  "  in  country  quarters 
At  Halifax ;"  but  now  he  served  the  Tartars. 

XX, 

The  rest  were  Jacks  and  Gills  and  Wills  and  Bills, 
But  when  I've  added  that  the  elder  Jack  Smith 

Was  bom  in  Cumberland  among  the  hiUs, 

And  that  his  father  was' an  honest  blacksmith, 

I've  said  all  /  know  of  a  name  that  fills         [smith," 
Three  lines  of  the  disj)atch  in  taking  "  Schmack- 

A  village  of  Moldavia's  waste,  wherein 

He  fell,  immortal  in  a  bulletin. 

XXI. 
I  wonder  (although  Mars  no  doubt 's  a  god  I 

Praise)  if  a  man's  name  in  a  bulletin 
May  make  up  for  a  bullet  in  his  body  ? 

I  hope  this  Uttle  question  is  no  sin. 
Because,  though  I  am  but  a  simple  noddy, 

I  think  one  Shakspeare  puts  the  same  thought  in 
The  mouth  of  some  one  in  his  plays  so  doting, 
Which  many  people  pass  for  wits  by  quoting. 

XXII. 
Then  there  were  Frenchmen,  gallant,  young,  and  gay: 

But  I'm  too  great  a  patriot  to  record 
Their  Gallic  names  upon  a  glorious  day ; 

I'd  rather  tell  ten  Ues  than  say  a  word 
Of  truth  ; — such  truths  are  treason ;  they  betray 

Their  country ;  and  as  traitors  are  abhorr'd 
Who  name  the  French  in  English,  save  to  show  [foe. 
How  Peace  should  make  John  Bull  the  Frenchman's 

XXIII. 
The  Russians,  having  built  two  batteries  on 

An  isle  near  Ismail,  had  two  ends  in  view  ; 
The  first  was  to  bombard  it,  and  knock  down 

The  public  buildings  and  the  private  too. 
No  matter  what  poor  souls  might  be  undone. 

The  city's  shape  suggested  this,  'tis  true ; 
Form'd  like  an  amphitheatre,  each  dwelling 
Presented  a  fine  mark  to  throw  a  shell  in. 


652 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  vii. 


XXIV. 
The  second  object  was  to  profit  by 

The  moment  of  the  general  consternation, 
To  attack  the  Turks'  flotilla,  which  lay  nigh 

Extremely  tranquil,  anchor'd  at  its  station  ; 
But  a  third  motive  was  as  probably 

To  frighten  them  into  capitulation  ; 
A  phantasy  which  sometimes  seizes  warriors. 
Unless  they  are  game  as  bull-dogs  and  fox-terriers. 

XXV. 
A  habit  rather  blamable,  which  is 

That  of  despising  those  we  combat  with, 
Common  in  many  cases,  was  in  this 

The  cause  of  killing  Tchitchitzkoff  and  Smith  ; 
One  of  the  valorous  "  Smiths  "  whom  we  shall  miss 

Out  of  those  nineteen  who  late  rhymed  to  "  pith ;" 
But  'tis  a  name  so  spread  o'er,  "  Sir  "  and  "  Madam," 
That  one  would  think  the  first  who  bore  it  "  Adam." 

XXVI. 
The  Russian  batteries  were  incomplete. 

Because  they  were  constructed  in  a  hurry ; 
Thus  the  same  cause  which  makes  a  verse  want  feet, 

And  throws  a  cloud  o'er  Longman  and  John 
Murray, 
When  the  sale  of  new  books  is  not  so  fleet 

As  they  who  print  them  think  is  necessary. 
May  likewise  put  off  for  a  time  what  story 
Sometimes  calls  "  murder,"  and  at  others  "  glory." 

XXVII. 
Whether  it  was  their  engineer's  stupidity. 

Their  haste  or  waste,  I  neither  know  nor  care. 
Or  some  contractor's  personal  cupidity. 

Saving  his  soul  by  cheating  in  the  ware 
Of  homicide,  but  there  was  no  solidity 

In  the  new  batteries  erected  there ; 
They  either  miss'd,  or  they  were  never  miss'd. 
And  added  greatly  to  the  missing  list. 

XXVIII. 
A  sad  miscalculation  about  distance 

Made  all  their  naval  matters  incorrect ; 
Three  fireships  lost  their  amiable  existence 

Before  they  reach'd  a  spot  to  take  efiect : 
The  match  was  lit  too  soon,  and  no  assistance 

Could  remedy  this  lubberly  defect ; 
They  blew  up  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  [ever. 

While,  though  'twas  dawn,  the  Turks  slept  fast  as 

XXIX. 
At  seven  they  rose,  however,  and  survey'd 

The  Russ  flotilla  getting  under  way ; 
'Twas  nine,  when  still  advancing  undismay'd, 

Within  a  cable's  length  their  vessels  lay 
Off  Ismail,  and  commenced  a  cannonade. 

Which  was  retum'd  with  interest,  I  may  say. 


And  by  a  fire  of  musketry  and  grape, 

And  shells  and  shot  of  every  size  and  shape. 

XXX. 

For  six  hours  bore  they  without  intermission 

The  Turkish  fire,  and,  aided  by  their  own  [cision  : 

Land  batteries,  work'd  their  guns  with  great  pre- 
At  length  they  found  mere  cannonade  alone 

By  no  means  would  produce  the  town's  submission, 
And  made  a  signal  to  retreat  at  one. 

One  bark  blew  up,  a  second  near  the  works 

Running  aground,  was  taken  by  the  Turks. 

XXXI. 

The  Moslem,  too,  had  lost  both  ships  and  men  ; 

But  when  they  saw  the  enemy  retire. 
Their  Delhis  mann'd  some  boats,  and  sail'd  again, 

And  gall'd  the  Russians  with  a  heavy  fire, 
And  tried  to  make  a  landing  on  the  main ; 

But  here  the  effect  fell  short  of  their  desire  : 
Count  Damas  drove  them  back  into  the  water 
Pell-mell,  and  with  a  whole  gazette  of  slaughter. 

XXXII. 
"  If"  (says  the  historian  here)  "  I  could  report 

All  that  the  Russians  did  upon  this  day, 
I  think  that  several  volumes  would  fall  short, 

And  I  should  still  have  many  things  to  say  ;" 
And  so  he  says  no  more — but  pays  his  court 

To  some  distinguish'd  strangers  in  that  fray ; 
The  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  Langeron,  and  Damas, 
Names  great  as  any  that  the  roll  of  Fame  has. 

XXXIII. 
This  being  the  case,  may  show  us  what  Fame  is  : 

For  out  of  these  three  "preux  Chevcdiera,"  how 
Many  of  common  readers  give  a  guess 

That  such  existed  ?  (and  they  may  live  now 
For  aught  we  know.)     Renown  's  all  hit  or  miss  : 

There  's  fortune  even  in  fame,  we  must  allow. 
'Tis  true,  the  Memoirs  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne 
Have  half  withdrawn  from  him  oblivion's  screen. 

XXXIV. 
But  here  are  men  who  fought  in  gallant  actions 

As  gallantly  as  ever  heroes  fought, 
But  buried  in  the  heap  of  such  transactions 

Their  names  are  rarely  found,  nor  often  sought. 
Thus  even  good  fame  may  suffer  sad  contractions, 

And  is  extinguish'd  sooner  than  she  ought : 
Of  all  our  modem  battles,  I  will  bet 
You  can't  repeat  nine  names  from  each  Gazette. 

XXXV. 

In  short,  this  last  attack,  though  rich  in  glory, 
Show'd  that  somewhere,  somehow,  there  was  a  fault, 

And  Admiral  Ribas  (known  in  Russian  story) 
Most  strongly  recommended  an  assault ; 


Canto  til 


DON    JUAN. 


653 


In  which  he  was  opposed  by  young  and  hoary, 
Which  made  a  long  debate ;  but  I  must  halt, 
For  if  I  wrote  down  every  warrior's  speech, 
I  doubt  few  readers  e'er  would  mount  the  breach. 

XXXVI. 
There  was  a  man,  if  that  he  was  a  man. 

Not  that  his  manhood  could  be  call'd  in  question, 
For  had  he  not  been  Hercules,  his  span 

Had  been  as  short  in  youth  as  indigestion 
Made  his  last  ilhiess,  when,  all  worn  and  wan. 

He  died  beneath  a  tree,  as  much  unblest  on 
The  soil  of  the  green  province  he  had  wasted. 
As  e'er  was  locust  on  the  land  it  blasted. 

XXXVII. 

This  was  Potemkin— a  great  thing  in  days 
When  homicide  and  harlotry  made  great ; 

If  stars  and  titles  could  entail  long  praise. 
His  glory  might  half  equal  his  estate. 

This  fellow,  being  six  foot  high,  could  raise 
A  kind  of  phantasy  proportionate 

In  the  then  sovereign  of  the  Russian  people, 

Who  measured  men  as  you  would  do  a  steeple. 

XXXVIII. 
While  things  were  in  abeyance,  Ribas  sent 

A  courier  to  the  prince,  and  he  succeeded 
In  ordering  matters  after  his  own  bent ; 

I  cannot  tell  the  way  in  which  he  pleaded. 
But  shortly  he  had  cause  to  be  content. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  batteries  proceeded, 
And  fourscore  cannon  on  the  Danube's  border 
Were  briskly  fired  and  answer'd  in  due  order. 

XXXIX. 
But  on  the  thirteenth,  when  already  part 

Of  the  troops  were  embark'd,  the  siege  to  raise, 
A  courier  on  the  spur  inspired  new  heart 

Into  all  panters  for  newspaper  praise, 
As  well  as  dilettanti  in  war's  art. 

By  his  dispatches  couch'd  in  pithy  phrase  ; 
Announcing  the  appointment  of  that  lover  of 
Battles  to  the  command,  Field-Marshal  Souvaroff. 

XL. 

The  letter  of  the  prince  to  the  same  marshal 
Was  worthy  of  a  Spartan,  had  the  cause 

Been  one  to  which  a  good  heart  could  be  partial — 
Defence  of  freedom,  country,  or  of  laws  ; 

But  as  it  was  mere  lust  of  power  to  o'er-arch  all 
With  its  proud  brow,  it  merits  slight  applause. 

Save  for  its  style,  which  said,  all  in  a  trice, 

"  You  will  take  Ismail  at  whatever  price." 

XLI. 
"  Let  there  be  light !  said  God,  and  there  was  light  1" 
"  Let  there  be  blood !"  says  man,  and  there's  a  sea ! 


The  fiat  of  this  spoil'd  child  of  the  Night 
(For  Day  ne'er  saw  his  merits)  could  decree 

More  evil  in  an  hour,  than  thirty  bright 

Summers  could  renovate,  though  they  should  be 

Lovely  as  those  which  ripen'd  Eden's  fruit ; 

For  war  cuts  up  not  only  branch,  but  root. 

XLII. 
Our  friends  the  Turks,  who  with  loud"  AUahs"  now 

Began  to  signalize  the  Russ  retreat, 
Were  damnably  mistaken  ;  few  are  slow 

In  thinking  that  their  enemy  is  beat, 
(Or  beaten,  if  you  insist  on  grammar,  though 

I  never  think  about  it  in  a  heat,) 
But  here  I  say  the  Turks  were  much  mistaken, 
Who  hating  hogs,  yet  wish'd  to  save  their  bacon. 


XLIII. 

For,  on  the  sixteenth,  at  full  gallop,  drew 

In  sight  two  horsemen,  who  were  deem'd  Cos- 
sacques 

For  some  time,  till  they  came  in  nearer  view. 
They  had  but  little  baggage  at  their  backs. 

For  there  were  but  three  shirts  between  the  two  ; 
But  on  they  rode  upon  two  Ukraine  hacks, 

TiU,  in  approaching,  were  at  length  descried 

In  this  plain  pair,  Suwarrow  and  his  guide. 

XLIV. 

"  Great  joy  to  London  now  !"  says  some  great  fool, 
When  London  had  a  grand  illumination. 

Which  to  that  bottle-conjurer,  John  Bull, 
Is  of  all  dreams  the  first  hallucination  ; 

So  that  the  streets  of  color'd  lamps  are  full, 
That  Sage  (said  John)  surrenders  at  discretion 

His  purse,  his  soul,  his  sense,  and  even  his  nonsense, 

To  gratify,  like  a  huge  moth,  this  one  sense. 

XLV. 
'Tis  strange  that  he  should  farther  "  damn  his  eyes," 

For  they  are  damn'd  ;  that  once  all-famous  oath 
Is  to  the  devil  now  no  farther  prize. 

Since  John  has  lately  lost  the  use  of  both. 
Debt  he  calls  wealth,  and  taxes  Paradise  ; 

And  Famine,  with  her  gaunt  and  bony  growth. 
Which  stare  him  in  the  face,  he  won't  examine. 
Or  swears  that  Ceres  hath  begotten  Famine. 

XLVI. 

But  to  the  talc :— great  joy  unto  the  camp  ! 

To  Russian,  Tartar,  English,  French,  Cossacque, 
O'er  whom  Suwarrow  shone  like  a  gas  lamp, 

Presaging  a  most  luminous  attack  ; 
Or  like  a  wisp  ajong  the  marsh  so  damp. 

Which  leads  beholders  on  a  boggy  walk. 
He  flitted  to  and  fro  a  dancing  light, 
Which  all  who  saw  it  follow'd,  wrong  or  right. 


I 


654 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


Canto  vn. 


But  certes  matters  took  a  different  face ; 

There  was  enthusiasm  and  much  applause, 
The  fleet  and  camp  saluted  with  great  grace, 

And  all  presaged  good  fortune  to  their  cause. 
Within  a  cannon-shot  length  of  the  place 

They  drew,  constructed  ladders,  repair'd  flaws 
In  former  works,  made  new,  prepared  fascines. 
And  all  kinds  of  benevolent  machines. 

XLVIII. 
'Tis  thus  the  spirit  of  a  single  mind 

Makes  that  of  multitudes  take  one  direction, 
As  roll  the  waters  to  the  breathing  wind, 

Or  roams  the  herd  beneath  the  bull's  protection ; 
Or  as  a  little  dog  will  lead  the  blind. 

Or  a  bell-wether  form  the  flock's  connection 
By  tinkling  sounds,  when  they  go  forth  to  victual  ; 
Such  is  the  sway  of  your  great  men  o'er  little. 

XLIX. 
The  whole  camp  rung  with  joy ;  you  would  have 
tliought 

That  they  were  going  to  a  marriage  feast, 
(This  metaphor,  I  think,  holds  good  as  aught, 

Since  there  is  discord  after  both  at  least :) 
There  was  not  now  a  luggage  boy  but  sought 

Danger  and  spoil  with  ardor  much  increased  ; 
And  why  ?  because  a  little — odd — old  man, 
Stripp'd  to  his  shirt,  was  come  to  lead  the  van. 


But  so  it  was  ;  and  every  preparation 
Was  made  with  all  alacrity  :  the  first 

Detachment  of  three  columns  took  its  station. 
And  waited  but  the  signal's  voice  to  burst 

Upon  the  foe  :  the  second's  ordination 
Was  also  in  three  columns,  with  a  thirst 

For  glory  gaping  o'er  a  sea  of  slaughter  : 

The  third,  in  columns  two,  attack'd  by  water. 

LI. 
New  batteries  were  erected,  and  was  held 

A  general  council,  in  which  unanimity. 
That  stranger  to  most  councils,  here  i)revaird. 

As  sometimes  happens  in  a  great  extremity ; 
And  every  difiiculty  being  dispell'd. 

Glory  began  to  dawn  with  due  sublimity. 
While  Souvarofi",  determined  to  obtain  it, 
Was  teaching  his  recruits  to  use  the  bayonet.' 

LII. 
It  is  an  actual  fact,  that  he,  commander 

In  chief,  in  proper  person  dcign'd  to  drill 
The  awkward  squad,  and  could  aflbrd  to  squander 

His  time,  a  corporal's  duty  to  fulfil ; 


'  Fact :  Suwarrow  did  this  In  person. 


Just  as  you'd  break  a  sucking  salamander 
To  swallow  flame,  and  never  take  it  ill : 
He  show'd  them  how  to  mount  a  ladder  (which 
Was  not  like  Jacob's)  or  to  cross  a  ditch. 

LIII. 
Also  he  dress'd  up,  for  the  nonce,  fascines 

Like  men  with  turbans,  cimcters,  and  dirks. 
And  made  them  charge  with  bayonet  these  machines 

By  way  of  lesson  against  actual  Turks  ; 
And  when  well  practised  in  these  mimic  scenes. 

He  judged  them  proper  to  assail  the  woi'ks  ; 
At  which  your  wise  men  sneer'd  in  phrases  witty : 
He  made  no  answer  ;  but  he  took  the  city. 

LIV. 
Most  things  were  in  this  posture  on  the  eve 

Of  the  assault,  and  all  the  camp  was  in 
A  stern  repose  ;  which  you  would  scarce  conceive ; 

Yet  men  resolved  to  dash  through  thick  and  thin 
Are  very  silent  when  they  once  believe 

That  all  is  settled  : — there  was  little  din. 
For  some  were  thinking  of  their  home  and  friends, 
And  others  of  themselves  and  latter  ends. 

LT. 

Suwarrow  chiefly  was  on  the  alert, 

Surveying,  drilling,  ordering,  jesting,  pondering ; 
For  the  man  was,  we  safely  may  assert, 

A  thing  to  wonder  at  beyond  most  wondering ; 
Hero,  buffoon,  half-demon,  and  half-dirt. 

Praying,  instructing,  desolating,  plundering  ; 
Now  Mars,  now  Momus  ;  and  when  bent  to  storm 
A  fortress.  Harlequin  in  uniform. 

LVI. 
The  day  before  the  assault,  while  upon  drill — 

For  this  great  conqueror  play'd  the  corporal — 
Some  Cossacques,  hovering  like  hawks  round  a  hill, 

Had  met  a  party  towards  the  twilight's  fall. 
One  of  whom  spoke  their  tongue — or  well  or  ill, 

'Twas  much  that  he  was  understood  at  all ; 
But  whether  from  his  voice,  or  speech,  or  manner. 
They  found  that  he  had  fought  beneath  their  banner. 

LVII. 
Whereon  immediately  at  his  request  [quarters  ; 

They  brought  him   and  his   comrades  to  head- 
Their  dress  was  Moslem,  but  you  might  have  guess'd 

That  these  were  merely  masquerading  Tartars, 
And  that  beneath  each  Turkish-fashion'd  vest 

Lurk'd  Christianity  ;  which  sometimes  barters 
Her  inward  grace  for  outward  show,  and  makes 
It  diflicult  to  shun  some  strange  mistakes. 

LVIII. 
Suwarrow,  who  was  standing  in  his  shirt 
Before  a  company  of  Calmucks,  drilling, 


CAin'o  VII. 


DON  JUAN. 


656 


Exclaiming,  fooling,  swearing  at  the  inert, 
And  lecturing  on  the  noble  art  of  killing, — 

For  deeming  human  clay  but  common  dirt, 
This  great  philosopher  was  thus  instilling 

His  maxims,  which  to  martial  comprehension 

Proved  death  in  battle  equal  to  a  pension  ; — 

LIX. 
Suwarrow,  when  he  saw  this  company 

Of  Cossacqucs  and  their  prey,  turn'd  round  and 
Upon  them  his  slow  brow  and  piercing  eye  : —  [cast 

"  Whence  come  ye  ?" — "  From  Constantinople  last, 
Captives  just  now  escaped,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What  are  ye  ?" — "  What  you  see  us."  Briefly 
This  dialogue  ;  for  he  who  answcr'd  knew  [pass'd 
To  whom  he  spoke,  and  made  his  words  but  few. 

LX. 
"  Your  names  V' — "  Mine's  Johnson,  and  my  com- 
rade's Juan ; 

The  other  two  are  women,  and  the  third, 
Is  neither  man  nor  woman."    The  chief  threw  on 

The  party  a  slight  glance,  then  said, "  I  have  heard 
Tour  name  before,  the  second  is  a  new  one  : 

To  bring  the  other  three  here  wag  absurd  : 
But  let  that  pass  : — ^I  think  I  have  heard  your  name 
In  the  Nikolaiew  regiment  ?" — "  The  same." 

'      LXI. 
"You  served  at  Widdin  ?"— "  Yes."— «  You  led  the 
attack  ?" 

"  I  did."—"  What  next  ?"— "  I  really  hardly  know." 
"  You  were  the  first  i'  the  breach  ?" — "  I  was  not  slack 

At  least  to  foUow  those  who  might  be  so." 
"  What  foUow'd  ?" — "  A  shot  laid  me  on  my  biick. 

And  I  became  a  prisoner  to  the  foe." 
"  You  shall  have  vengeance,  for  the  town  surrounded 
Is  twice  as  strong  as  that  where  you  were  wounded. 

LXII. 

"  Where  will  you  servo  ?" — "  Where'er  you  please." — 
You  like  to  be  the  hope  of  the  forlorn,    ["  I  know 

And  doubtless  would  be  foremost  on  the  foe 
After  the  hardships  you've  already  borne. 

And  this  young  fellow — say  what  can  he  do  ? 
He  with  the  beardless  chin  and  garments  torn  S" 

"  Why,  general,  if  he  hath  no  greater  fault 

In  war  than  love,  he  had  better  lead  the  assault." 

LXIII. 
"  He  shall  if  that  he  dare."    Here  Juan  bow'd 

Low  as  the  compliment  deserved.    Suwarrow 
Continued  :  "  Your  old  regiment's  allow'd, 

By  special  providence,  to  lead  to-morrow. 
Or  it  may  be  to-night,  the  assault :  I  have  vow'd 

To  several  saints,  that  shortly  plough  or  harrow 
Shall  pass  o'er  what  was  Ismail,  and  its  tusk 
Be  tmimpeded  by  the  proudest  mosque. 


LXIV. 

"  So  now,  my  lads,  for  glory  !" — Here  he  turn'd 
And  drill'd  away  in  the  most  classic  Russian, 

Until  each  high,  heroic  bosom  bum'd 
For  cash  and  conquest,  as  if  from  a  cushion 

A  preacher  had  held  forth  (who  nobly  spum'd 
All  earthly  goods  save  tithes)  and  bade  them  push 

To  slay  the  Pagans  who  resisted,  battering  [on 

The  armies  of  the  Christian  Empress  Catherine. 

LXV. 
Johnson,  who  knew  by  this  long  colloquy 

Himself  a  favorite,  ventured  to  address 
Suwarrow,  though  engaged  with  accents  high 

In  his  resumed  amusement.     "  I  confess 
My  debt  in  being  thus  allow'd  to  die 

Among  the  foremost ;  but  if  you'd  express 
Explicitly  our  several  posts,  my  friend 
And  self  would  know  what  duty  to  attend." 

LXVI. 
"  Right  1  I  was  busy,  and  forgot.     Why,  you 

Will  join  your  former  regiment,  which  should  be 
Now  imder  arms.    Ho  1  Katskoff,  take  him  to — 

(Here  he  call'd  up  a  Polish  orderly) 
His  post,  I  mean  the  regiment  Nikolaiew : 

The  stranger  stripling  may  remain  with  me ; 
He's  a  fine  boy.    The  women  may  be  sent 
To  the  other  baggage,  or  to  the  sick  tent." 

LXVII. 
But  here  a  sort  of  scene  began  to  ensue  : 

The  ladies, — who  by  no  means  had  been  bred 
To  be  disposed  of  in  a  way  so  new. 

Although  their  harem  education  led 
Doubtless  to  that  of  doctrines  the  most  true. 

Passive  obedience, — now  raised  up  the  head. 
With  flashing  eyes  and  starting  tears,  and  flung 
Their  arms,  as  hens  their  wings  about  their  young, 

LXVIII. 
O'er  the  promoted  couple  of  brave  men 

Who  were  thus  honor'd  by  the  greatest  chief 
That  ever  peopled  hell  with  heroes  slain. 

Or  plunged  a  province  or  a  realm  in  grief. 
Oh,  foolish  mortals  1    Always  taught  in  vain  t 

Oh,  glorious  laurels  1  since  for  one  solo  leaf 
Of  thine  imaginary  deathless  tree. 
Of  blood  and  tears  must  flow  the  unebbing  sea. 

LXIX. 
Suwarrow,  who  had  small  regard  for  tears, 

And  not  much  sympathy  for  blood,  survey'd 
The  women  with  tlieir  hair  about  their  cars 

And  natural  agonies,  with  a  slight  shade 
Of  feeling  :  for  however  habit  sears 

Men's  hearts  against  whole  millions,  when  their 
Is  hutchery,  sometimes  a  single  sorrow  [trade 

Will  touch  even  heroes — and  such  was  Suwarrow. 


666 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  vii. 


LXX. 
He  said, — and  in  the  kindest  Calmuck  tone, — 

"  Why,  Johnson,  -what  the  devil  do  you  mean 
By  bringing  women  here  ?    Tliey  shall  be  shown 

AU  the  attention  possible,  and  seen 
In  safety  to  the  wagons,  where  alone 

In  fact  they  can  be  safe.    You  should  have  been 
Aware  this  kind  of  baggage  never  thrives  : 
Save  wed  a  year,  I  hate  recruits  with  wives." 

LXXI. 

"  May  it  please  your  excellency,"  thus  replied 
Our  British  friend, "  these  are  the  wives  of  others. 

And  not  our  own.    I  am  too  qualified 
By  service  with  my  military  brothers 

To  break  the  rules  by  bringing  one's  own  bride 
Into  a  camp  :  I  know  that  naught  so  bothers 

The  hearts  of  the  heroic  on  t,  charge. 

As  leaving  a  small  family  at  large. 

LXXII. 
"  But  these  are  but  two  Turkish  ladies,  who 

With  their  attendant  aided  our  escape, 
And  afterwards  accompanied  us  through 

A  thousand  perils  in  this  dubious  shape. 
To  me  this  kind  of  life  is  not  so  new  ; 

To  them,  poor  things,  it  is  an  awkward  scrape. 
I  therefore,  if  you  wish  me  to  fight  freely. 
Request  that  they  may  both  be  used  genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime  these  two  poor  girls,  with  swimming  eyes, 
Look'd  on  as  if  in  doubt  if  they  could  trust 

Their  own  protectors  ;  nor  was  their  surprise 
Less  than  their  grief  (and  truly  not  less  just) 

To  see  an  old  man,  rather  wild  than  wise 
In  aspect,  plainly  clad,  besmear'd  with  dust, 

Stripp'd  to  his  waistcoat,  and  that  not  too  clean. 

More  fear'd  than  all  the  sultans  ever  seen. 

LXXIV. 
For  every  thing  seem'd  resting  on  his  nod. 

As  they  could  read  in  all  eyes.     Now  to  them. 
Who  were  accustom'd,  as  a  sort  of  god, 

To  see  the  sultan,  rich  in  many  a  gem, 
Like  an  imperial  peacock  stalk  abroad 

(That  royal  bird,  whose  tail 's  a  diadem)    . 
With  all  the  pomp  of  power,  it  was  a  doubt 
How  power  could  condescend  to  do  without. 

LXXV. 
John  Johnson,  seeing  their  extreme  dismay, 

Though  little  versed  in  feelings  oriental. 
Suggested  some  sUght  comfort  in  his  way  : 

Don  Juan,  who  was  much  more  sentimental, 
Swore  they  should  see  him  by  the  dawn  of  day, 

Or  that  the  Russian  army  should  repent  all : 
And,  strange  to  say,  they  found  some  consolation 
In  this — for  females  like  exaggeration. 


LXXVI. 
And  then  with  teare,  and  sighs,  and  some  slight  kisses, 

They  parted  for  the  present — these  to  await. 
According  to  the  artillery's  hits  or  misses. 

What  sages  call  Chance,  Providence,  or  Fate — 
(Uncertainty  is  one  of  many  blisses, 

A  mortgage  on  Humanity's  estate) — 
While  their  beloved  friends  began  to  arm. 
To  burn  a  town  which  never  did  them  harm. 

LXXVII. 
Suwarrow, — who  but  saw  things  in  the  gross, 

Being  much  too  gross  to  see  them  in  detail, 
Who  calculated  life  as  so  much  dross. 

And  as  the  wind  a  widow'd  nation's  wail. 
And  cared  as  little  for  his  army's  loss 

(So  thaf  their  efibrts  should  at  length  prevail) 
As  wife  and  friends  did  for  the  boils  of  Job, — 
What  was  't  to  him  to  hear  two  women  sob  ? 

LXXVIII. 
Nothing. — The  work  of  glory  still  went  on 

In  preparations  for  a  cannonade 
As  terrible  as  that  of  Ilion, 

If  Homer  had  found  mortars  ready  made ; 
But  now,  instead  of  slaying  Priam's  son, 

We  only  can  but  talk  of  escalade,  [buUets ; 

Bombs,  drums,  guns,  bastions,  batteries,  bayonets. 
Hard  words,  which  stick  in  the  soft  Muses'  gullets. 

LXXIX. 
Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer  !  who  couldst  charm 

All  ears,  though  long  ;  all  ages,  though  so  short, 
By  merely  wielding  with  poetic  arm 

Arms  to  which  men  will  never  more  resort. 
Unless  gunpowder  should  be  found  to  harm 

Much  less  than  is  the  hope  of  every  court. 
Which  now  is  leagued  young  Freedom  to  annoy ; 
But  they  will  not  find  Liberty  a  Troy : — 

LXXX. 
Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer  !  I  have  now 

To  paint  a  siege,  wherein  more  men  were  slain, 
With  deadlier  engines  and  a  speedier  blow, 

Than  in  thy  Greek  gazette  of  that  campaign ; 
And  yet,  like  all  men  else,  I  must  allow. 

To  vie  with  thee  would  be  about  as  vain 
As  for  a  brook  to  cope  with  ocean's  flood ; 
But  still  we  modems  equal  you  in  blood ; 

LXXXI. 

If  not  in  poetry,  at  least  in  fact ; 

And  fact  is  truth,  the  grand  desideratum  ! 
Of  which  howe'er  the  Muse  describes  each  act. 

There  should  be  nc'ertheless  a  slight  substratum. 
But  now  the  town  is  going  to  be  attack'd ; 

Great  deeds  are  doing — how  shall  I  relate  'em  ? 
Souls  of  immortal  generals  !  Phoebus  watches 
To  color  up  his  rays  from  your  dispatches. 


Canto  vm. 


DON    JUAN. 


667 


LXXXII. 
Oh,  ye  great  bulletins  of  Bonaparte  ! 

Oh,  ye  less  grand  long  lists  of  kill'd  and  wounded ! 
Shade  of  Leonidas,  who  fought  so  hearty, 

When  my  poor  Greece  was  once,  as  now,  sur- 
rounded I 
Oh,  Coesar's  Commentaries  !  now  impart,  ye 

Shadows  of  glory  !  (lest  I  be  confounded) 
A  portion  of  your  fading  twilight  hues, 
So  beautiful,  so  fleeting,  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXIII. 
When  I  call  "  fading  "  martial  immortality, 

I  mean,  that  every  age  and  every  year, 
And  almost  every  day,  in  sad  reality. 

Some  sucking  hero  is  compell'd  to  rear, 
Who,  when  we  come  to  sum  up  the  totality 

Of  deeds  to  human  happiness  most  desir, 
Turns  out  to  be  a  butcher  in  great  business, 
Afflicting  young  folks  with  a  sort  of  dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 
Medals,  rank,  ribands,  lace,  embroidery,  scarlet, 

Arc  things  immortal  to  immortal  man, 
As  purple  to  the  Babylonian  harlot : 

A  uniform  to  boys  is  like  a  fan 
To  women  ;  there  is  scarce  a  crimson  varlet 

But  deems  himself  the  first  in  Glory's  van. 
But  Glory 's  glory  ;  and  if  you  would  find 
What  that  is — ask  the  pig  who  sees  the  wind  ! 

LXXXV. 

At  least  liefeeh  -it,  and  some  say  he  sees, 

Because  he  runs  before  it  like  a  pig  ; 
Or,  if  that  simple  sentence  should  displease. 

Say,  that  he  scuds  before  it  like  a  brig, 
A  schooner,  or — but  it  is  time  to  ease 

This  Canto,  ere  my  Muse  perceives  fatigue. 
The  next  shall  ring  a  peal  to  shake  all  people, 
Like  a  bob-major  from  a  village  steeple. 

LXXXVI. 
Hark  1  through  the  silence  of  the  cold,  dull  night. 

The  hum  of  armies  gathering  rank  on  rank  ! 
Lo  !  dusky  masses  steal  in  dubious  sight 

Along  the  leaguer'd  wall  and  bristling  bank 
Of  the  arm'd  river,  while  with  straggling  light 

The  stars  peep  through  the  vapors  dim  and  dank. 
Which  curl  in  curious  wreaths : — ^how  soon  the 
Of  Hell  shall  pall  them  in  a  deeper  cloak  !     [smoke 

LXXXTII. 
Here  pause  we  for  the  present — as  even  then 

That  awful  pause,  dividing  life  from  death, 
Struck  for  an  instant  on  the  hearts  of  men, 

Thousands  of  whom  were  drawing  their  last 
A  moment — and  all  will  be  life  again  !  [breath  I 

The  march  !  the  charge !  the  shouts  of  either 
Hurra  1  and  Allah  !  and — one  moment  more,  [faith  ! 
The  death-cry  drowning  in  the  battle's  roar. 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO  THE    EIGHTH. 


Oh,  blood  and  thunder  !  and  oh,  blood  and  wounds  1 
These  are  but  vulgar  oaths,  as  you  may  deem. 

Too  gentle  reader  I  and  most  shocking  sounds  : 
And  so  they  are ;  yet  thus  is  Glory's  dream 

Unriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 

At  present  such  things,  since  they  are  her  theme, 

So  be  they  her  inspirers  !     Call  them  Mars, 

Bellona,  what  you  will — they  mean  but  wars. 

II. 

All  was  prepared — the  fire,  the  sword,  the  men 
To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  areay. 

The  army,  like  a  lion  from  his  den, 

March'd  forth  with   nerve   and    sinews  bent  to 

A  human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen  [slay, — 

To  breathe  destruction  on  its  winding  way. 

Whose  heads  were  heroes,  which  cut  oflf  in  vain, 

Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 

III. 
History  can  only  take  things  in  the  gross ; 

But  could  we  know  them  in  detail,  perchance 
In  balancing  the  profit  and  the  loss, 

War's  merit  it  by  no  means  might  enhance. 
To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a  little  dross, 

As  hath  been  done,  mere  conquest  to  advance. 
The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 

IV. 

And  why  ?  because  it  brings  self-approbation  ; 

Whereas  the  other,  after  all  its  glare, 
Shouts,  bridges,  arches,  pensions  from  a  nation. 

Which  (it  may  be)  has  not  much  left  to  spare, 
A  higher  title,  or  a  loftier  station. 

Though  they  may  make  Corruption  gape  or  stare, 
Yet,  in  the  end,  except  in  Freedom's  battles. 
Are  nothing  but  a  child  of  Murder's  rattles. 


And  such  they  are, — and  such  they  will  be  found : 

Not  so  Leonidas  and  Washington, 
Whose  every  battle-field  is  holy  ground. 

Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds  un- 
How  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound  1     [done 

While  the  mere  victor's  may  appal  or  stun 
The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  will  be 
A  watchword  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 

VI. 
The  night  was  dark,  and  the  thick  mist  allow'd 
Naught  to  be  seen  save  the  artillery's  flame. 


658 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  viii. 


Which  arch'd  the  horizon  like  a  fiery  cloud, 
And  in  the  Danube's  waters  shone  the  same — 

A  mirror'd  hell !  the  volleying  roar,  and  loud 
Long  booming  of  each  peal  on  peal,  o'ercame 

The  ear  far  more  than  thunder ;  for  Heaven's  flashes 

Spare,  or  smite  rarely — man's  make  millions  ashes  ! 

VII. 
The  column  order'd  on  the  assault  scarce  pass'd 

Beyond  the  Russian  batteries  a  few  toises, 
When  up  the  bristling  Moslem  rose  at  last. 

Answering  the  Christian  thunders  with  like  voices ! 
Then  one  vast  fire,  air,  earth,  and  stream  embraced. 

Which  rock'd  as  'twere  beneath  the  mighty  noises ; 
While  the  whole  rampart  blazed  like  Etna,  when 
The  restless  Titan  hiccups  in  his  den. 

VIII. 

And  one  enormous  shout  of  "  Allah  !"  rose 
In  the  same  moment,  loud  as  even  the  roar 

Of  war's  most  mortal  engines,  to  their  foes 
Hurling  defiance  :  city,  stream,  and  shore 

Resounded  "  Allah  1"  and  the  clouds  which  close 
With  thickening  canopy  the  conflict  o'er, 

Vibrate  to  the  Eternal  name.    Hark  !  through 

All  sounds  it  pierceth,  "  Allah  1  Allah  !  Hu  !" 

IX. 
The  columns  were  in  movement  one  and  aU, 

But  of  the  portion  which  attack'd  by  water, 
Thicker  than  leaves  the  lives  began  to  fall. 

Though    led   by  Arsenicw,   that   great    son   of 
slaughter. 
As  brave  as  ever  faced  both  bomb  and  ball 
"  Carnage "  (so  Wordsworth  teUs   you)  "  is  God's 

daughter :" 
If  lie  speak  truth,  she  is  Christ's  sister,  and 
Just  now  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land. 


The  Prince  de  Ligne  was  wounded  in  the  knee  ; 

Count  Chapeau-Bras,  too,  had  a  ball  between 
His  cap  and  head,  which  proves  the  head  to  be 

Aristocratic  as  was  ever  seen, 
Because  it  then  received  no  injury 

More  than  the  cap ;  in  fact,  the  ball  could  mean 
No  harm  unto  a  right  legitimate  head  : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes  " — why  not  lead  to  lead  ? 

XI. 
Also  the  General  Markow,  Brigadier, 

Insisting  on  removal  of  the  prince 
Amidst  some  groaning  thousands  dying  near, — 

All  common  fellows,  who  might  writhe  and  wince, 
And  shriek  for  water  into  a  deaf  ear, — 

The  General  Markow,  who  could  thus  evince 
His  sympathy  for  rank,  by  the  same  token. 
To  teach  him  greater,  had  his  own  leg  broken. 


XII. 
Three  hundred  cannon  threw  up  their  emetic. 

And  thirty  thousand  muskets  flung  their  pills 
Like  hail,  to  maks  a  bloody  diuretic. 

Mortality  !  thou  hast  thy  monthly  bills  ; 
Thy  plagues,  thy  famines,  thy  physicians,  yet  tick, 

Like  the  death-watch,  within  our  ears  the  ills 
Past,  present,  and  to  come  ; — but  all  may  yield 
To  the  true  portrait  of  one  battle  field. 

XIII. 
There  the  still  varying  pangs,  which  multiply 

Until  their  very  number  makes  men  hard 
By  the  infinities  of  agony. 

Which  meet  the  gaze,  whate'er  it  may  regard — 
The  groan,  the  roll  in  dust,  the  all-white  eye 

Turn'd  back  within  its  socket, — these  reward 
Your  rank  and  file  by  thousands,  while  the  rest 
May  win  perhaps  a  riband  at  the  breast ! 

XIV. 
Yet  I  love  glory ; — glory  's  a  great  thing  : — 

Think  what  it  is  to  be  in  your  old  age 
Maintain'd  at  the  expense  of  your  good  king  : 

A  moderate  pension  shakes  fuU  many  a  sage. 
And  heroes  are  but  made  for  bards  to  sing, 

Which  is  stiU  better ;  thus  in  verse  to  wage 
Your  wars  eternally,  besides  enjoying 
Half-pay  for  life,  make  mankind  worth  destroying. 

XV. 
The  troops,  already  disembark'd,  push'd  on 

To  take  a  battery  on  the  right ;  the  others, 
Who  landed  lower  down,  their  landing  done, 

Had  set  to  work  as  briskly  as  their  brothers  : 
Being  grenadiers,  they  mounted  one  by  one, 

Cheerful  as  children  cUmb  the  breasts  of  mothers, 
O'er  the  intrenchment  and  the  paUsade, 
Quite  orderly,  as  if  upon  parade. 

XVI. 
And  this  was  admirable  ;  for  so  hot 

The  fire  was,  that  were  red  Vesuvius  loaded, 
Besides  its  lava,  with  all  sorts  of  shot 

And  shells  or  hells,  it  could  not  more  have  goaded. 
Of  oflicers  a  third  fell  on  the  spot, 

A  thing  which  victory  by  no  means  boded 
To  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  assault  : 
Hounds,  when  the  huntsman  tumbles,  are  at  fault. 

XVII. 
But  here  I  leave  the  general  concern, 

To  track  our  hero  on  his  path  of  fame  : 
He  must  his  laurels  separately  earn  ; 

For  fifty  thousand  heroes,  name  by  name. 
Though  all  deserving  equally  to  turn 

A  couplet,  or  an  elegy  to  claim, 
Would  form  a  lengthy  lexicon  of  glory, 
And  what  is  worse  still,  a  much  longer  story ; 


Canto  tiii. 


DON  JUAN. 


669 


XVIII. 
And  therefore  we  must  give  the  greater  number 

To  the  Gazette — which  doubtless  fairly  dealt 
By  the  deceased,  who  lie  in  famous  slumber 

In  ditches,  fields,  or  where'er  they  felt 
Their  clay  for  the  last  time  their  souls  encumber ; — 

Thrice  happy  he  whose  name  has  been  well  spelt 
In  the  dispatch  :  I  knew  a  man  whose  loss 
Was  printed  Grove,  although  his  name  was  Grose.' 

XIX. 
Juan  and  Johnson  join'd  a  certain  corps. 

And  fought  away  with  might  and  main,  not  know- 
The  way  which  they  had  never  trod  before,         [ing 

And  still  less  guessing  where  they  might  be  going ; 
But  on  they  march'd,  dead  bodies  trampling  o'er, 

Firing,  and  thrusting,  slashing,  sweating,  glowing. 
But  fighting  thoughtlessly  enough  to  win. 
To  their  two  selves,  one  whole  bright  bulletin. 

XX. 
Thus  on  they  wallow'd  in  the  bloody  mire 

Of  dead  and  dying  thousands, — sometimes  gaining 
A  yard  or  two  of  ground,  which  brought  them  nigher 

To  some  odd  angle  for  which  all  were  straining ; 
At  other  times,  repulsed  by  the  close  fire, 

Which  really  pour'd  as  if  all  hell  were  raining 
Instead  of  heaven,  they  stumbled  backwards  o'er 
A  wounded  comrade,  sprawling  in  his  gore. 

XXI. 
Though  'twas  Don  Juan's  first  of  fields,  and  though 

The  nightly  muster  and  the  silent  march 
In  the  chill  dark,  when  courage  does  not  glow 

So  much  as  under  a  triumphal  arch, 
Perhaps  might  make  him  shiver,  yawn,  or  throw 

A  glance  on  the  dull  clouds  (as  thick  as  starch. 
Which  stiflbn'd  heaven)  as  if  he  wish'd  for  day ; — 
Yet  for  all  this  he  did  not  run  away. 

XXII. 
Indeed  he  could  not.    But  what  if  he  had  ? 

There  have  ieen  and  are  heroes  who  begun 
With  something  not  much  better,  or  as  bad : 

Frederic  the  Great  from  Molwitz  deign'd  to  run 
For  the  first  and  last  time  ;  for,  Uke  a  pad. 

Or  hawk,  or  bride,  most  mortals  after  one 
Warm  bout  are  broken  into  their  new  tricks, 
And  fight  like  fiends  for  pay  or  politics. 

XXItl. 
He  was  what  Erin  calls,  in  her  sublime 
Old  Erse  or  Irish,  or  it  may  be  Punie  ; — 

'  A  ikct :  see  the  Waterloo  Gazettes.  I  recollect  remarking  at 
the  time  to  a  friend :— "  There  is  famet  a  man  Is  killed,  his  name 
iii  Grose,  and  they  print  It  Grove."  I  was  at  college  with  the  de- 
ceased, who  was  a  very  amlahle  and  clever  man,  and  his  society  iu 
great  rtqneet  for  hie  wit,  gayety,  and  "  Chansons  t  boire." 


(The  antiquarians'  who  can  settle  time. 
Which  settles  all  things,  Roman,  Greek,  or  Runic, 

Swear  that  Pat's  language  sprung  from  the  same  clime 
With  Hannibal,  and  wears  the  Tyrian  tunic 

Of  Dido's  alphabet ;  and  this  is  rational 

As  any  other  notion,  and  not  national ;) — 

XXIV. 
But  Juan  was  quite  ''  a  broth  of  a  boy," 

A  thing  of  impulse  and  a  child  of  song ; 
Now  swimming  in  the  sentiment  of  joy. 

Or  the  sensation,  (if  that  phrase  seem  wrong,) 
And  afterward,  if  he  must  needs  destroy. 

In  such  good  company  as  always  throng 
To  battles,  sieges,  and  that  kind  of  pleasure, 
Ko  less  delighted  to  employ  his  leisure  ; 

XXV. 
But  always  without  malice  :  if  he  warr'd 

Or  loved,  it  was  with  what  he  call'd  the  "  best 
Intentions,"  which  form  all  mankind's  trump  card, 

To  be  produced  when  brought  up  to  the  test. 
The  statesman,  hero,  harlot,  lawyer — ward 

Off  each  attack,  when  people  are  in  quest 
Of  their  designs,  by  saying  they  meant  well  ; 
'Tis  pity  "  that  such  meaning  should  pave  hell."' 

XXVI. 

I  almost  lately  have  begun  to  doubt 

Whether  hell's  pavement — if  it  be  so  paved — 

Must  not  have  latterly  been  quite  worn  out. 
Not  by  the  numbers  good  intent  hath  saved, 

But  by  the  mass  who  go  below  without 

Those  ancient  good  intentions,  which  once  shaved 

And  smooth'd  the  brimstone  of  that  street  of  hell. 

Which  bears  the  greatest  likeness  to  Pall  Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan,  by  some  strange  chance,  which  oft  divides 
Warrior  from  warrior  in  their  grim  career. 

Like  chastest  wives  from  constant  husbands'  sides 
Just  at  the  close  of  the  first  bridal  year, 

By  one  of  those  odd  turns  of  Fortune's  tides, 
Was  on  a  sudden  rather  puzzled  here, 

When,  after  a  good  deal  of  heavy  firing. 

He  found  himself  alone,  and  friends  retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I  don't  know  how  the  thing  occurr'd — it  might 
Be  that  the  greater  part  were  kill'd  or  woimded. 

And  that  the  rest  had  faced  unto  the  right 
About ;  a  circumstance  which  has  confounded 

Caesar  himself,  who,  in  the  very  sight 
Of  his  whole  army,  which  go  much  abounded 

'  See  General  Valancey  and  Sir  Lawrence  Parsons. 
»  The  Portuguese  proverb  says  that  "  hell  is  paved  with  good 
intentions." 


660 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  nn. 


In  courage,  was  obliged  to  snatch  a  shield, 
And  rally  back  his  Romans  to  the  field. 

XXIX. 

Juan,  who  had  no  shield  to  snatch,  and  was 
No  Caesar,  but  a  fine  young  lad,  who  fought 

He  knew  not  why,  arriving  at  this  pass, 
Btopp'd  for  a  minute,  as  perhaps  he  ought 

For  a  much  longer  time ;  then,  like  an  ass — 

(Start  not,  kind  reader,  since  great  Homer  thought 

This  simile  enough  for  Ajax,  Juan 

Perhaps  may  find  it  better  than  a  new  one  ;) — 

XXX. 
Then,  like  an  ass,  he  went  upon  his  way, 

And,  what  was  stranger,  never  look'd  behind ; 
But  seeing,  flashing  forward,  like  the  day 

Over  the  hills,  a  fire  enough  to  blind 
Those  who  dislike  to  look  upon  a  fray, 

He  stumbled  on,  to  try  if  he  could  find 
A  path,  to  add  his  own  slight  arm  and  forces 
To  corps,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving  then  no  more  the  commandant 

Of  his  own  corps,  nor  even  the  corps,  which  had 

Quite  disappear'd — the  gods  know  how  1  (I  can't 
Account  for  every  thing  which  may  look  bad 

In  history  ;  but  we  at  least  may  grant 
It  was  not  marvellous  that  a  mere  lad. 

In  search  of  glory,  should  look  on  before, 

Nor  care  a  pinch  of  snuff  about  his  corps  :) — 

XXXII. 
Perceiving  nor  commander  nor  commanded. 

And  left  at  large,  like  a  young  heir,  to  make 
His  way  to — where  he  knew  not — single-handed ; 

As  travellers  follow  over  bog  and  brake 
An  "  ignis  fatuus  ;"  or  as  sailors  stranded 

Unto  the  nearest  hut  themselves  betake ; 
So  Juan,  following  honor  and  his  nose, 
Rush'd  where  the  thickest  fire  announced  most  foes. 

XXXIII. 

He  knew  not  where  he  was,  nor  greatly  cared. 
For  he  was  dizzy,  busy,  and  his  veins 

FiU'd  as  with  Ughtning — for  his  spirit  shared 
The  hour,  as  is  the  case  with  lively  brains  ; 

And  where  the  hottest  fire  was  seen  and  heard, 
And  the  loud  cannon  peal'd  his  hoarsest  strains, 

He  rush'd,  while  earth  and  air  were  sadly  shaken 

By  thy  humane  discovery.  Friar  Bacon  ! 

XXXIV. 

And  as  he  rush'd  along,  it  came  to  pass  he 
Fell  in  with  what  was  late  the  second  column. 

Under  the  orders  of  the  General  Lascy, 
But  now  reduced,  as  is  a  bulky  volume 


Into  an  elegant  extract  (much  less  massy) 

Of  heroism,  and  took  his  place  with  solemn 
Air  'midst  the  rest,  who  kept  their  valiant  faces 
And  levell'd  weapons  still  against  the  glacis. 

XXXV. 
Just  at  this  crisis  up  came  Johnson  too. 

Who  had  "  retreated,"  as  the  phrase  is  when 
Men  rtm  away  much  rather  than  go  through 

Destruction's  jaws  into  the  devil's  den ; 
But  Johnson  was  a  clever  fellow,  who 

Knew  when  and  how  "  to  cut  and  come  again," 
And  never  ran  away,  except  when  running 
Was  nothing  but  a  valorous  kind  of  cunning. 

XXXVI. 
And  so,  when  all  his  corps  were  dead  or  dying, 

Except  Don  Juan,  a  mere  novice,  whose 
More  virgin  valor  never  dreamt  of  flying. 

From  ignorance  of  danger,  which  indues 
Its  votaries,  like  innocence  relying  [thews, — 

On  its  own  strength,  with  careless  nerves  and 
Johnson  retired  a  Uttle,  just  to  rally 
Those  who  catch  cold  in  "  shadows  of  Death's  valley." 

XXXVII. 

And  there,  a  little  shelter'd  from  the  shot. 
Which  rain'd  from  bastion,  battery,  parapet. 

Rampart,  wall,  casement,  house — for  there  was  not 
In  this  extensive  city,  sore  beset 

By  Christian  soldiery,  a  single  spot 

Which  did  not  combat  like  the  devil,  as  yet, — 

He  found  a  number  of  Chasseurs,  all  scatter'd 

By  the  resistance  of  the  chase  they  batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 
And  these  he  caU'd  on ;   and,  what 's  strange,  they 

Unto  his  call,  unlike  "  the  spirits  from  [came 

The  vasty  deep,"  to  whom  you  may  exclaim. 

Says  Hotspur,  long  ere  they  wiU  leave  their  home ; 
Their  reasons  were  imcertainty,  or  shame 

At  shrinking  from  a  bullet  or  a  bomb. 
And  that  odd  impulse,  which  in  wars  or  creeds 
Makes  men,  Uke  cattle,  follow  him  who  leads. 

'XXXIX. 

By  Jove  !  he  was  a  noble  fellow,  Johnson, 
And  though  his  name,  than  Ajax  or  Achilles, 

Sounds  less  harmonious,  underneath  the  sun  soon 
We  shall  not  see  his  likeness  :  he  could  kill  his 

Man  quite  as  quietly  as  blows  the  monsoon 

Her  steady  breath,  (which  some  months  the  same 

Seldom  he  varied  feature,  hue,  or  muscle,     [still  is ;] 

And  could  be  very  busy  vrithout  bustle ; 

XL. 
And  therefore,  when  he  ran  away,  he  did  so 
Ujwn  reflection,  knowing  that  behind 


Canto  viii. 


DON    JUAK. 


661 


He  would  find  others  who  would  fain  be  rid  so 
Of  idle  apprehensions,  which  like  wind 

Trouble  heroic  stomachs.     Though  their  lids  so 
Oft  are  soon  closed,  all  heroes  are  not  blind, 

But  when  they  light  upon  immediate  death, 

Retire  a  little,  merely  to  take  breath. 

XLI. 

But  Johnson  only  ran  off,  to  return 
With  many  other  warriors,  as  we  said, 

Unto  that  rather  somewhat  misty  bourn, 
Which  Hamlet  tells  us  is  a  pass  of  di'ead. 

To  Jack,  howe'er,  this  gave  but  slight  concern  : 
His  soul  (like  galvanism  upon  the  dead) 

Acted  upon  the  living  as  on  wire. 

And  led  them  back  into  the  heaviest  fire. 

XLII. 

Egad  !  they  found  the  second  time  what  they 
The  first  time  thought  quite  terrible  enough 

To  fly  from,  malgrg  all  which  people  say 
Of  glory,  and  all  that  immortal  stuff 

Which  fills  a  regiment  (besides  their  pay. 

That  daily  shilling  which  makes  warriors  tough) — 

They  found  on  their  return  the  self-same  welcome. 

Which  made  some  think,  and  others  know,  a  hell  came. 

XLiir. 

They  fell  as  thick  as  harvests  beneath  hail. 
Grass  before  scythes,  or  corn  below  the  sickle, 

Proving  that  trite  old  truth,  that  life  's  as  frail 
As  any  other  boon  for  which  men  stickle. 

The  Turkish  batteries  thrash'd  them  like  a  flail, 
Or  a  good  boxer,  into  a  sad  pickle 

Putting  the  very  bravest,  who  were  knock'd 

Upon  the  head,  before  their  guns  were  cock'd. 

XLIV. 

The  Turks  behind  the  traverses  and  flanks 
Of  the  next  bastion,  fired  away  like  devils. 

And  swept,  as  gales  sweep  foam  away,  whole  ranks  : 
However,  Heaven  knows  how,  the  Fate  who  levels 

Towns,  nations,  worlds,  in  her  revolving  pranks. 
So  order'd  it,  amidst  these  sulphury  revels. 

That  Johnson  and  some  few  who  had  not  scamper'd, 

Reach'd  the  interior  talus  of  the  rampart. 

XLV. 

First  one  or  two,  then  five,  six,  and  a  dozen. 
Came  mounting  quickly  up,  for  it  was  now 

All  neck  or  nothing,  as,  like  pitch  or  rosin, 

Flame  was  shower'd  forth  above,  as  well 's  below. 

So  that  you  scarce  could  say  who  best  had  chosen. 
The  gentlemen  that  were  the  first  to  show 

Their  martial  faces  on  the  pampet. 

Or  those  who  thought  it  brave  to  wait  as  yet. 


XLVI. 
But  those  who  scaled,  found  out  that  their  advance 

Was  favor'd  by  an  accident  or  blunder  : 
The  Greek  or  Turkish  Cohom's  ignorance 

Had  palisado'd  in  a  way  you'd  wonder 
To  see  in  forts  of  Netherlands  or  France — 

(Though    these    to  our    Gibraltar  must   knock 
Eight  in  the  middle  of  the  parapet  [under — 

Just  named,  these  jjalisades  were  primly  set : 

XLVII. 
So  that  on  either  side  some  nine  or  ton 

Paces  were  left,  whereon  you  could  contrive 
To  march  ;  a  great  convenience  to  our  men. 

At  least  to  all  those  who  were  left  alive. 
Who  thus  could  form  a  line  and  fight  again  ; 

And  that  which  farther  aided  them  to  strive 
Was,  that  they  could  kick  down  the  palisades. 
Which  scarcely  rose  much  higher  than  grass  blades. 

XLVIII. 
Among  the  first, — I  will  not  say  t\\e  first 

For  such  precedence  upon  such  occasions 
WiU  oftentimes  make  deadly  quarrels  burst 

Out  between  friends  as  well  as  allied  nations  : 
The  Briton  must  be  bold  who  really  durst 

Put  to  such  trial  John  Bull's  partial  patience. 
As  say  that  Wellington  at  Waterloo 
Was  beaten, — though  the  Prussians  say  so  too ; — 

XLIX. 
And  that  if  Blucher,  Bulow,  Gneisenau, 

And  God  knows  who  besides  in  "  au  "  and  "  ow," 
Had  not  come  up  in  time  to  cast  an  awe 

Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  fought  till  now 
As  tigers  combat  with  an  empty  craw. 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  had  ceased  to  show 
His  orders,  also  to  receive  his  pensions  ; 
Which  are  the  heaviest  that  our  history  mentions. 

L. 
But  never  mind ; — "  God  save  the  king  1"  and  kings  1 

For  if  he  don't,  I  doubt  if  men  will  longer — 
I  think  I  hear  a  little  bird,  who  sings 

The  people  by  and  by  will  be  the  stronger : 
The  veriest  jade  wiU  wince  whose  harness  wrings 

So  much  into  the  raw  as  quite  to  wrong  her 
Beyond  the  rules  of  posting, — and  the  mob 
At  last  fall  sick  of  imitating  Job. 

LI. 

At  first  it  grumbles,  then  it  swears,  and  then. 

Like  David,  flings  smooth  pebbles  'gainst  a  giant ; 

At  last  it  takes  to  weapons  such  as  men  [pliant. 

Snatch  when  despair  makes  human  hearts  loss 

Then  comes  the  "tug  of  war ;" — 'twill  come  again, 
I  rather  doubt ;  and  I  would  fain  say  "  fie  on  't," 

If  I  had  not  perceived  that  revolution 

Alone  can  save  the  earth  from  hell's  pollution. 


662 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  vth. 


LII. 
But  to  continue  : — I  say  not  the  first, 

But  of  the  first,  our  little  friend  Don  Juan 
Walk'd  o'er  the  walls  of  Ismail,  as  if  nursed       [one 

Amidst  such  scenes — though  this  was  quite  a  new 
To  him,  and  I  should  hope  to  mont.     The  thirst 

Of  glory,  which  so  pierces  through  and  through 
Pervaded  him — although  a  generous  creature,  [one. 
As  warm  in  heart  as  feminine  in  feature. 

LIII. 
And  here  he  was — ^who  upon  woman's  breast. 

Even  from  a  child,  felt  like  a  child  ;  howe'er 
The  man  in  all  the  rest  might  be  confess'd. 

To  him  it  was  Elysium  to  be  there  ; 
And  he  could  even  withstand  that  awkward  test 

Which  Rousseau  points  out  to  the  dubious  fair, 
"  Observe  your  lover  when  he  leaves  your  arms  ;" 
But  Juan  never  left  them,  wMle  they  had  charms, 

LIV. 
Unless  compelled  by  fate,  or  wave,  or  wind, 

Or  near  relations,  who  are  much  the  same. 
But  here  he  was ! — where  each  tie  that  can  bind 

Humanity  must  yield  to  steel  and  flame  : 
And  he  whose  very  body  was  all  mind. 

Flung  here  by  fate  or  circumstance,  which  tame 
The  loftiest,  hurried  by  the  time  and  place, 
Dash'd  on  like  a  spurr'd  blood-horse  in  a  race. 

LV. 
So  was  his  blood  stirr'd  while  he  found  resistance. 

As  is  the  hunter's  at  the  five-bar  gate. 
Or  double  post  and  rail,  where  the  existence 

Of  Britain's  youth  depends  upon  their  weight. 
The  lightest  being  the  safest :  at  a  distance 

He  hated  cruelty,  as  all  men  hate 
Blood,  until  heated — and  even  then  his  own 
At  times  would  curdle  o'er  some  heavy  groan. 

LVI. 
The  General  Lascy,  who  had  been  hard  press'd. 

Seeing  arrive  an  aid  so  opportune 
As  were  some  hundred  youngsters  all  abreast. 

Who  came  as  if  just  dropp'd  down  from  the  moon, 
To  Juan,  who  was  nearest  him,  address'd 

His  thanks,  and  hopes  to  take  the  city  soon. 
Not  reckoning  him  to  be  a  "  base  Bezonian," 
(As  Pistol  calls  it,)  but  a  young  Livonian. 

LVII. 
Juan,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  German,  knew 

As  much  of  German  as  of  Sanscrit,  and 
In  answer  made  an  inclination  to 

The  general  who  held  him  in  command ; 
For  seeing  one  with  ribands,  black  and  blue, 

Stars,  medals,  and  a  bloody  sword  in  hand. 
Addressing  him  in  tones  which  seem'd  to  thank, 
He  recognized  an  officer  of  rank. 


LVIII. 
Short  speeches  pass  between  two  men  who  speak 

No  common  language  ;  and  besides,  in  time 
Of  war  and  taking  towns,  when  many  a  shriek 

Rings  o'er  the  dialogue,  and  many  a  crime 
Is  perpetrated  ere  a  word  can  break 

Upon  the  ear,  and  sounds  of  horror  chime 
In   like  church-bells,  with  sigh,  howl,  groan,  yell. 
There  cannot  lie  much  conversation  there,     [prayer, 

LIX. 

And  therefore  all  we  have  related  in 

Two  long  octaves,  pass'd  in  a  little  minute  ; 

But  in  the  same  small  minute,  every  sin 
Contrived  to  get  itself  comprised  within  it. 

The  very  cannon,  deafen'd  by  the  din. 

Grew  dumb,  for  you  might  almost  hear  a  linnet. 

As  soon  as  thunder,  'midst  the  general  noise 

Of  human  nature's  agonizing  voice  ! 

LX. 
The  town  was  enter'd.     Oh,  eternity  ! — 

"  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town," 
So  Cowper  says — and  I  begin  to  be 

Of  his  opinion,  when  I  see  cast  down 
Rome,  Babylon,  Tyre,  Carthage,  Nineveh, 

All  walls  men  know,  and  many  never  known  ; 
And  pondering  on  the  present  and  the  past. 
To  deem  the  woods  shall  be  our  home  at  last : — 

LXI. 
Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer, 

Who  passes  for  in  life  and  death  most  lucky, 
Of  the  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare, 

The  General  Boon,  backwoodsman  of  Kentucky, 
Was  happiest  amongst  mortals  anywhere  ; 

For  killing  nothing  but  a  bear  or  buck,  he 
Enjoy'd  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 
Of  his  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze. 

LXII. 
Crime  came  not  near  him — she  is  not  the  child 

Of  solitude ;  Health  shrank  not  from  him — for 
Her  home  is  in  the  rarely  trodden  wild. 

Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  and  death  be  more 
Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  beguiled 

By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor- 
In  cities  caged.  The  present  case  in  point  I 
Cite  is,  that  Boon  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety ; 

LXIII. 
And  what's  still  stranger,  left  behind  a  name 

For  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng. 
Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  good  fame 

Without  which  glory 's  but  a  tavern  song — 
Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame. 

Which  hate  nor  envy  e'er  could  tinge  with  wrong ; 
An  active  hermit,  even  in  age  the  child 
Of  Nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  ran  wild. 


Canto  viir. 


DON  JUAN. 


663 


LXIV. 
'Tis  true  he  shrank  from  men  even  of  his  nation, 

When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees, — 
He  moved  some  hundred  miles  off,  for  a  station 

Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease  ; 
The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is,  that  you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  please ; 
But  where  he  met  the  individual  man, 
He  show'd  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

LXV. 
He  was  not  all  alone :  around  him  grew 

A  sylvan  tribe  of  children  of  the  chase. 
Whose  young,  unawaken'd  world  was  ever  new. 

Nor  sword  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a  trace 
On  her  unwrinklcd  brow,  nor  could  you  view 

A  frown  on  Nature's  or  on  human  face  ; — 
The  free-born  forest  found  and  kept  them  free. 
And  fresh  as  is  a  torrent  or  a  tree. 

LXVI. 
And  tall,  and  strong,  and  swift  of  foot  were  they, 

Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions, 
Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the  prey 

Of  care  or  gain  ;  the  green  woods  were  their  por- 
No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  gray,  [tions ; 

No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions  ; 
Simple  they  were,  not  savage  ;  and  their  rifles, 
Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

LXVII. 
Motion  Was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slumbers, 

And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil ; 
Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers  ; 

Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her  soil ; 
The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendor  which  encum- 

With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil ;         [bcrs, 
Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 
Of  this  unsighing  people  of  the  woods. 

LXVIII. 
So  much  for  Nature  : — by  way  of  variety, 

Now  back  to  thy  great  joys.  Civilization  ! 
And  the  sweet  consequence  of  large  society. 

War,  pestilence,  the  despot's  desolation. 
The  kingly  scourge,  the  lust  of  notoriety. 

The  millions  slain  by  soldiers  for  their  ration, 
The  scenes  like  Catherine's  boudoir  at  threescore. 
With  Ismail's  storm  to  soften  it  the  more. 

LXIX. 
The  town  was  enter'd  :  first  one  column  made 

Its  sanguinary  w.iy  good — then  another ; 
The  reeking  bayonet  and  the  flashing  blade 

Clash'd  'gainst  the  cimeter,  and  babe  and  mother 
With  distant  shrieks  were  heard  Heaven  to  upbraid : 

Still  closer  sulphury  clouds  began  to  smother 
The  breath  of  mom  and  man,  where  foot  by  foot 
The  madden'd  Turks  their  city  still  dispute. 


LXX. 
Koutousow,  he  who  afterward  beat  back 

(With  some  assistance  from  the  frost  and  snow) 
Napoleon  on  his  bold  and  bloody  track. 

It  happen'd  was  himself  beat  back  just  now : 
He  was  a  jolly  fellow,  and  could  crack 

His  jest  alike  in  face  of  friend  or  foe. 
Though  life,  and  death,  and  victory  were  at  stake ; 
But  here  it  seem'd  his  jokes  had  ceased  to  take : 

LXXI. 

For  having  thrown  himself  into  a  ditch, 
Follow'd  in  haste  by  various  grenadiers. 

Whose  blood  the  puddle  greatly  did  enrich, 
He  climb'd  to  where  the  parapet  appears 

But  there  his  project  reach'd  its  utmost  pitch, 
('Mongst  other  deaths  the  General  Ribaupierre's 

Was  much  regretted,)  for  the  Moslem  men 

Threw  them  all  down  into  the  ditch  again. 

LXXII. 
And  had  it  not  been  for  some  stray  troops  landing 

They  knew  not  where,  being  carried  by  the  stream 
To  some  spot,  where  they  lost  their  understanding. 

And  wander'd  up  and  down  as  in  a  dream. 
Until  they  reach'd,  as  daybreak  was  expanding. 

That  which  a  portal  to  their  eyes  did  seem, — 
The  great  and  gay  Koutousow  might  have  lain 
Where  three  parts  of  his  column  yet  remain. 

LXXIII. 
And  scrambling  round  the  rampart,  the  same  troops. 

After  the  taking  of  the  "  Cavalier," 
Just  as  Koutousow's  most  "forlorn"  of  "hopes" 

Took,  like  chameleons,  some  slight  tinge  of  fear, 
Open'd  the  gate  call'd  "  Kilia,"  to  the  groups 

Of  bafiled  heroes,  who  stood  shyly  near. 
Sliding  knee-deep  in  lately  frozen  mud. 
Now  thaw'd  into  a  marsh  of  human  blood. 

LXXIV. 
The  Kozacks,  or,  if  so  you  please,  Cossacques — 

(I  don't  much  pique  myself  upon  orthography. 
So  that  I  do  not  grossly  err  in  facts, 

Statistics,  tactics,  politics,  and  geography) — 
Having  been  used  to  serve  on  horses'  backs. 

And  no  great  dilettanti  in  topography 
Of  fortresses,  but  fighting  where  it  pleases 
Their  chiefs  to  order, — ^were  all  cut  to  pieces. 

LXXV. 

Their  column,  though  the  Turkish  batteries  thunder'd 
Upon  them,  ne'erthelcss  had  reach'd  the  rampart. 

And  naturally  thought  they  could  have  plunder'd 
The  city,  without  being  farther  hamper'd  ; 

But  as  it  happens  to  brave  men,  they  blunder'd — 
The  Turks  at  first  pretended  to  have  scamper'd, 

Only  to  draw  them  'twixt  two  bastion  comers,    [ers. 

From  whence  they  sallied  on  those  Christian  scorn- 


66'i 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  vin. 


LXXVI. 
Then  being  taken  by  the  tail — a  taking 

Fatal  to  bishops  as  to  soldiers — these 
Cossacques  were  all  cut  off  as  day  was  breaking, 

And  found  their  lives  were  let  at  a  short  lease — 
But  perish'd  without  shivering  or  shaking, 

Leaving  as  ladders  their  heap'd  carcasses 
O'er  which  Lieutenant-Colonel  Yesouskoi 
March'd  with  the  brave  battalion  of  Polouzki : — 

LXKVII. 
This  valiant  man  kill'd  aU  the  Turks  he  met, 

But  could  not  eat  them,  being  in  his  turn 
Slain  by  some  Mussulmans,  who  would  not  yet, 

Without  resistance,  see  their  city  bum. 
The  walls  were  won,  but  'twas  an  even  bet 

Which  of  the  armies  would  have  cause  to  mourn : 
'Twas  blow  for  blow,  disputing  inch  by  inch. 
For  one  would  not  retreat,  nor  t'other  flinch. 

LXXVIII. 
Another  column  also  suffer'd  much  : — 

And  here  we  may  remark  with  the  historian, 
Tou  should  but  give  few  cartridges  to  such 

Troops  as  are  meant  to  march  with  greatest  glory 
When  matters  must  be  carried  by  the  touch       [on  : 

Of  the  bright  bayonet,  and  they  all  should  hurry 
They  sometimes,  with  a  hankering  for  existence,  [on, 
Keep  merely  firing  at  a  foolish  distance. 

LXXIX. 
A  junction  of  the  General  Meknop's  men 

(Without  the  General,  who  had  fallen  some  time 
Before,  being  badly  seconded  just  then) 

Was  made  at  length  vrith  those  who  dared  to  climb 
The  death-disgorging  rampart  once  again  ; 

And  though  the  Turk's  resistance  was  sublime. 
They  took  the  bastion,  which  the  Seraskier 
Defended  at  a  price  extremely  dear. 

LXXX. 
Juan  and  Johnson,  and  some  volunteers 

Among  the  foremost,  offer'd  him  good  quarter, 
A  word  which  little  suits  with  Seraskiers, 

Or  at  least  suited  not  this  valiant  Tartar. 
He  died,  deserving  well  his  country's  tears, 

A  savage  sort  of  military  martyr. 
An  English  naval  officer,  who  wish'd 
To  make  him  prisoner,  was  also  dish'd : 

LXXXI. 

For  all  the  answer  to  his  proposition 
Was  from  a  pistol-shot  that  laid  him  dead ; 

On  which  the  rest,  without  more  intermission. 
Began  to  lay  about  with  steel  and  lead — 

The  pious  metals  most  in  requisition 
On  such  occasions  :  not  a  single  head 

Was  spared ; — three  thousand  Moslems  perish'd  here. 

And  sixteen  bayonets  pierced  the  Seraskier. 


LXXXII. 
The  city's  taken — only  part  by  part — 

And  Death  is  drunk  with  gore :  there 's  not  a  street 
Where  fights  not  to  the  last  some  desperate  heart. 

For  those  for  whom  it  soon  shall  cease  to  beat. 
Here  War  forgot  his  own  destructive  art 

In  more  destroying  Nature ;  and  the  heat 
Of  carnage,  hke  the  Nile's  sun-sodden  slime, 
Engender'd  monstrous  shapes  of  every  crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A  Russian  officer,  in  martial  tread 

Over  a  heap  of  bodies,  felt  his  heel 
Seized  fast,  as  if  'twere  by  the  serpent's  head 

Whose  fangs  Eve  taught  her  human  seed  to  feel ; 
In  vain  he  kick'd,  and  swore,  and  writhed,  and  bled, 

And  howl'd  for  help  as  wolves  do  for  a  meal — 
The  teeth  still  kept  their  gratifying  hold, 
As  do  the  subtle  snakes  described  of  old. 

LXXXIV. 
A  djring  Moslem,  who  had  felt  the  foot 

Of  a  foe  o'er  him,  snatch'd  at  it,  and  bit 
The  very  tendon  which  is  most  acute — 

(That  which  some  ancient  Muse  or  modem  wit 
Named  after  thee,  Achilles)  and  quite  through 't 

He  made  the  teeth  meet,  nor  relinquish'd  it 
Even  with  his  life — for  (but  they  lie)  'tis  said 
To  the  live  leg  still  clung  the  sever'd  head. 

LXXXV. 

However  this  may  be,  'tis  pretty  sure 
The  Russian  officer  for  life  was  lamed. 

For  the  Turk's  teeth  stuck  faster  than  a  skewer. 
And  left  him  'midst  the  invalid  and  maim'd : 

The  regimental  surgeon  could  not  cure 
His  patient,  and  perhaps  was  to  be  blamed 

More  than  the  head  of  the  inveterate  foe. 

Which  was  cut  off,  and  scarce  even  then  let  go. 

LXXXVI. 
But  then  the  fact 's  a  fact — and  'tis  the  part 

Of  a  true  poet  to  escape  from  fiction 
Whene'er  he  can ;  for  there  is  little  art 

In  leaving  verse  more  free  from  the  restriction 
Of  trath  than  prose,  unless  to  suit  the  mart 

For  what  is  sometimes  call'd  poetic  diction, 
And  that  outrageous  appetite  for  lies 
Which  Satan  angles  with  for  souls,  like  flies. 

LXXXVII. 

The  city's  taken,  but  not  render'd  ! — No  1 

There's  not  a  Moslem  that  hath  yielded  sword : 

The  blood  may  gush  out,  as  the  Danube's  flow 
Rolls  by  the  city  wall ;  but  deed  nor  word 

Acknowledge  aught  of  dread  of  death  or  foe  : 
In  vain  the  yell  of  victory  is  roar'd 

By  the  advancing  Muscovite — the  groan 

Of  the  last  foe  is  echo'd  by  his  own. 


Canto  viii. 


DON    JUAN. 


665 


LXXXVIII. 
The  bayonet  pierces  and  the  sabre  cleaves, 

And  human  lives  are  lavish'd  everywhere, 
As  the  year  closing  whirls  the  scarlet  leaves 

When  the  stripp'd  forest  bows  to  the  bleak  air, 
And  groans  ;  and  thus  the  peopled  city  grieves. 

Shorn  of  its  best  and  loveliest,  and  left  bare  ; 
But  still  it  falls  in  vast  and  awful  splinters. 
As  oaks  blown  down  with  all  their  thousand  winters. 

LXXXIX. 

It  is  an  awful  topic — but  'tis  not 

My  cue  for  any  time  to  be  terrific  ; 
For  checker'd  as  is  seen  our  human  lot 

With  good,  and  bad,  and  worse,  alike  prolific 
Of  melancholy  merriment,  to  quote 

Too  much  of  one  sort  would  be  soporific  ; — 
Without,  or  with,  offence  to  friends  or  foes, 
I  sketch  your  world  exactly  as  it  goes. 

XC. 
And  one  good  action  in  the  midst  of  crimes 

Is  "  quite  refreshing,"  in  the  afiected  phrase 
Of  these  ambrosial,  Pharisaic  times. 

With  all  their  pretty  milk-and-water  ways, 
And  may  serve  therefore  to  bedew  these  rhymes, 

A  little  scorch'd  at  present  with  the  blaze 
Of  conquest  and  its  consequences,  which 
Make  epic  poesy  so  rare  and  rich. 

XCI. 
Upon  a  taken  bastion,  where  there  lay 

Thousands  of  slaughter'd  men,  a  yet  warm  group 
Of  murder'd  women,  who  had  found  their  way 

To  this  vain  refuge,  made  the  good  heart  droop 
And  shudder ; — while,  as  beautiful  as  May, 

A  female  child  of  ten  years  tried  to  stoop 
And  hide  her  little  palpitating  breast 
Amidst  the  bodies  lull'd  in  bloody  rest. 

XCII. 
Two  villanous  Cossacques  pursued  the  child 

With  flashing  eyes  and  weapons :  match'd  with 
The  rudest  brute  that  roams  Siberia's  wild      [them, 

Has  feelings  pure  and  polish'd  as  a  gem, — 
The  bear  is  civilized,  the  wolf  is  mild  ; 

And  whom  for  this  at  last  must  we  condemn  ? 
Their  natures  ?  or  their  sovereigns,  who  employ 
All  arts  to  teach  their  subjects  to  destroy  ? 

XCIII. 
Their  sabres  glitter'd  o'er  her  little  head, 

Whence  her  fair  hair  rose  twining  with  affright. 
Her  hidden  face  was  plunged  amidst  the  dead 

When  Juan  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  sad  sight, 
I  shall  not  say  exactly  what  he  said, 

Because  it  might  not  solace  "  ears  polite ;" 
But  what  he  did,  was  to  lay  on  their  backs. 
The  readiest  way  of  reasoning  with  Cossacques. 
R4 


XCIV. 
One's  hip  he  slash'd,  and  split  the  other's  shoulder. 

And  drove  them  with  their  brutal  yells  to  seek. 
If  there  might  be  chirurgeons  who  could  solder 

The  wounds  they  richly  merited,  and  shriek 
Their  bafiled  rage  and  pain  ;  while  waxing  colder 

As  he  turn'd  o'er  each  pale  and  gory  cheek, 
Don  Juan  raised  his  little  captive  from 
The  heap  a  moment  more  had  made  her  tomb. 

XCV. 

And  she  was  chill  as  they,  and  on  her  face 

A  slender  streak  of  blood  announced  how  near 

Her  fate  had  been  to  that  of  all  her  race  ; 

For  the  same  blow  which  laid  her  mother  here 

Had  scarr'd  her  brow,  and  left  its  crimson  trace. 
As  the  last  link  with  aU  she  had  held  dear  ; 

But  else  unhurt,  she  open'd  her  large  eyes. 

And  gazed  on  Juan  with  a  wild  surprise. 

XCVI. 
Just  at  this  instant,  while  their  eyes  were  fix'd 

Upon  each  other,  with  dilated  glance, 
In  Juan's  look,  pain,  pleasure,  hope,  fear,  mix'd 

With  joy  to  save,  and  dread  of  some  mischance 
Unto  his  protegee  ;  while  hers,  transfix'd 

With  infant  ten'ors,  glared  as  from  a  trance, 
A  pure,  transparent,  pale,  yet  radiant  face. 
Like  to  a  lighted  alabaster  vase  ; — 

XCVII. 
Up  came  John  Johnson,  (I  will  not  say  "  Jack," 

For  that  were  vulgar,  cold,  and  common-place 
On  great  occasions,  such  as  an  attack 

On  cities,  as  hath  been  the  present  case  :) 
Up  Johnson  came,  with  hundreds  at  his  back. 

Exclaiming  : — "  Juan  !  Juan  !  On,  boy  !  brace 
Your  arm,  and  I'll  bet  Moscow  to  a  dollar. 
That  you  and  I  will  win  St.  George's  collar. 

XCVIII. 

"  The  Seraskier  is  knock'd  upon  the  head. 
But  the  stone  bastion  still  remains,  wherein 

The  old  Pacha  sits  among  some  hundreds  dead, 
Smoking  his  pipe  quite  calmly  'midst  the  din 

Of  our  artillery  and  his  own  :  'tis  said 
Our  kill'd,  already  piled  up  to  the  chin. 

Lie  round  the  battery  ;  but  still  its  batters, 

And  grape  in  voUeys,  like  a  vineyard,  scatters. 

XCIX. 
"  Then  up  with  me  !" — But  Juan  answer'd,  "  Look 

Upon  this  child — I  saved  her — must  not  leave 
Her  life  to  chance  ;  but  point  me  out  some  nook 

Of  safety,  where  she  less  may  shrink  and  grieve. 
And  I  am  with  you." — Whereon  Johnson  took 

A  glance  around — and  shrugg'd — and  twitch'd 

his  sleeve  [right ; 

And  black  silk  neckcloth — and  replied,  "You're 

Poor  thing  !  what 's  to  be  done  ?  I'm  puzzled  quite." 


660 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  tiii. 


Said  Juan — "  Whatsoever  is  to  be 
Done,  I'll  not  quit  her  till  slie  seems  secure 

Of  present  life  a  good  deal  more  than  we." — 
Quoth  Johnson — "  Neither  will  I  quite  ensure  ; 

But  at  the  least  you  may  die  gloriously." — 
Juan  replied — "  At  least  I  will  endure 

Whate'cr  is  to  be  borne — but  not  resign 

This  child,  who  is  parentless,  and  therefore  mine." 

CI. 

Johnson  said — "  Juan,  we've  no  time  to  lose ; 

The  child's  a  pretty  child — a  very  pretty — 
I  never  saw  such  eyes — but  hark  !  now  choose 

Between  your  fame  and  feelings,  pride  and  pity ; — 
Hark  1  how  the  roar  increases  ! — no  excuse 

Will  serve  when  there  is  plunder  in  a  city  ; — 
I  should  be  loth  to  march  without  you,  but, 
By  God  !  we'll  be  too  late  for  the  first  cut." 

cir. 

But  Juan  was  immovable  ;  until 

Johnson,  who  really  loved  him  in  his  way, 

Pick'd  out  amongst  his  followers  with  some  skill 
Such  as  he  thought  the  least  given  up  to  prey ; 

And  swearing  if  the  infant  came  to  ill 

That  they  should  all  be  shot  on  the  next  day ; 

But  if  she  were  deliver'd  safe  and  sound, 

They  should  at  least  have  fifty  rubles  round, 

cm. 

And  aU  allowances  besides  of  plunder 

In  fair  proportion  with  their  comrades  ; — then 

Juan  consented  to  march  on  through  thunder, 
Which  thinn'd  at  every  step  their  ranks  of  men  : 

And  yet  the  rest  rush'd  eagerly — no  wonder, 
For  they  were  heated  with  the  hope  of  gain, 

A  thing  which  happens  everywhere  each  day — 

No  hero  trusteth  wholly  to  half  pay. 

CIV. 

And  such  is  victory,  and  such  is  man  1 
At  least  nine-tenths  of  what  we  call  so ; — God 

May  have  another  name  for  half  we  scan 
As  human  beings,  or  his  ways  are  odd. 

But  to  our  subject :  a  brave  Tartar  khan — 
Or  "  sultan,"  as  the  author  (to  whose  nod 

In  prose  I  bend  my  humble  verse)  doth  call 

This  chieftain — somehow  would  not  yield  at  all : 

CV. 
But  flank'd  hyfive  brave  sons,  (such  is  polygamy. 

That  she  spawns  warriors  by  the  score,  where  none 
Are  prosecuted  for  that  false  crime  bigamy,) 

He  never  would  believe  the  city  won 
While  courage  clung  but  to  a  single  twig. — Am  I 

Describing  Priam's,  Peleus',  or  Jove's  son  ? 
Neither — but  a  good,  plain,  old,  temperate  man, 
Who  fought  with  his  five  children  in  the  van. 


CVI. 
To  talce  him  was  the  point. — The  truly  brave, 

When  they  behold  the  brave  oppress'd  with  odds, 
Are  touch'd  with  a  desire  to  shield  and  save ; — 

A  mixture  of  wild  beasts  and  demigods 
Are  they — now  furious  as  the  sweeping  wave, 

Now  moved  with  pity  :  even  as  sometimes  nods 
The  rugged  tree  unto  the  summer  wind, 
Compassion  breathes  along  the  savage  mind. 

CVII. 
But  he  would  not  be  taken,  and  replied 

To  all  the  propositions  of  surrender 
By  mowing  Christians  down  on  every  side, 

As  obstinate  as  Swedish  Charles  at  Bonder. 
His  five  brave  boys  no  less  the  foe  defied  ; 

Whereon  the  Russian  pathos  grew  less  tender, 
As  being  a  virtue,  like  terrestrial  patience, 
Apt  to  wear  out  on  trifling  provocations. 

CVIII. 
And  spite  of  Johnson  and  of  Juan,  who 

Expended  all  their  Eastern  phraseology 
In  begging  him,  for  God's  sake,  just  to  show 

So  much  less  fight  as  might  form  an  apology 
For  them  in  saving  such  a  desperate  foe — 

He  hew'd  away,  like  doctors  of  theology 
When  they  dispute  with  skeptics  ;  and  with  curses 
Struck  at  his  friends,  as  babies  beat  their  nurses. 

CIX. 
Nay,  he  had  wounded,  though  but  slightly,  both 

Juan  and  Johnson  ;  whereupon  they  fell. 
The  first  with  sighs,  the  second  with  an  oath. 

Upon  his  angry  sultanship,  pell-mell. 
And  all  around  were  grown  exceeding  wroth 

At  such  a  pertinacious  infidel, 
And  pour'd  upon  him  and  his  sons  like  rain, 
Which  they  resisted  like  a  sandy  plain 

ex. 

That  drinks  and  still  is  dry.     At  last  they  perish'd — 
His  second  son  was  levell'd  by  a  shot ; 

His  third  was  sabred ;   and  the  fourth,  most  cher- 
Of  all  the  five,  on  bayonets  met  his  lot ;         [ish'd 

The  fifth,  who,  by  a  Christian  mother  nourish'd, 
Had  been  neglected,  ill-used,  and  what  not, 

Because  deform'd,  yet  died  aU  game  and  bottom, 

To  save  a  sire  who  blush'd  that  he  begot  him. 

CXI. 
The  eldest  was  a  true  and  tameless  Tartar, 

As  great  a  scorn  or  of  the  Nazarenc 
As  ever  Mahomet  pick'd  out  for  a  martyr. 

Who  only  saw  the  black-eyed  girls  in  green, 
Who  make  the  beds  of  those  who  won't  take  quarter 

On  earth,  in  Paradise  ;  and  when  once  seen, 
Those  houris,  like  all  other  pretty  creatures. 
Do  just  whate'er  they  please,  by  dint  of  features. 


Canto  viii. 


DON    JUAN. 


667 


CXII. 

And  what  they  pleased  to  do  -with  the  young  khan 
In  heaven  I  know  not,  nor  pretend  to  guess  ; 

But  doubtless  they  prefer  a  fine  young  man 
To  tough  old  heroes,  and  can  do  no  less ; 

And  that's  the  cause  no  doubt  why,  if  we  scan 
A  iield  of  battle's  ghastly  wilderness. 

For  one  rough,  weather-beaten,  veteran  body, 

You'll  find  ten  thousand  handsome  coxcombs  bloody. 

CXIII. 
Your  houris  also  have  a  natural  pleasure 

In  lopping  off  your  lately  married  men. 
Before  the  bridal  hours  have  danced  their  measure 

And  the  sad,  second  moon  grows  dim  again. 
Or  dull  repentance  hath  had  dreary  leisure 

To  wish  him  back  a  bachelor  now  and  then. 
And  thus  your  houri  (it  may  be)  disputes 
Of  these  brief  blossoms  the  immediate  fruits. 

CXIV. 
Thus  the  young  khan,  with  houris  in  his  sight. 

Thought  not  upon  the  charms  of  four  young  brides. 
But  bravely  rush'd  on  his  first  heavenly  night. 

In  short,  howe'er  our  better  faith  derides, 
These  black-eyed  virgins  make  the  Moslems  fight. 

As  though  there  were  one  heaven  and  none  be- 
Whereas,  if  all  be  true  we  hear  of  heaven  [sides, — 
And  hell,  there  must  at  least  be  six  or  seven. 

CXV. 
So  fully  flash'd  the  phantom  on  his  eyes. 

That  when  the  very  lance  was  in  his  heart. 
He  shouted  "  Allah  !"  and  saw  Paradise 

With  all  its  veil  of  mystery  drawn  ai)  .rr, 
And  bright  eternity  without  disguise 

On  his  soul,  Uke  a  ceaseless  sunrise,  dart : — 
With  prophets,  houris,  angels,  saints,  descried 
In  one  voluptuous  blaze, — and  then  he  died  : 

CXVI. 
But  with  a  heavenly  rapture  on  his  face, 

The  good  old  khan,  who  long  had  ceased  to  see 
Houris,  or  aught  except  his  florid  race 

Who  grew  Uke  cedars  round  him  gloriously — 
Wlien  he  beheld  his  latest  hero  grace 

The  earth,  which  he  became  like  a  fell'd  tree. 
Paused  for  a  moment,  from  the  fight,  and  cast 
A  glance  on  that  slain  son,  his  first  and  last. 

CXVII. 
The  soldiers,  who  beheld  him  drop  his  point, 

Stopp'd  as  if  once  more  willing  to  concede 
Quarter,  in  case  he  bade  them  not  "  aroynt !" 

As  he  before  had  done.     He  did  not  heed 
Their  pause  nor  signs  :  his  heart  was  out  of  joint, 

And  shook  (till  now  unshaken)  like  a  reed. 
As  he  look'd  down  upon  his  children  gone, 
And  felt — though  done  wi^h  life — he  was  alone. 


CXVIII. 

But  'twas  a  transient  tremor : — with  a  spring 
Upon  the  Russian  steel  his  breast  he  flung. 

As  carelessly  as  hurls  the  moth  her  wing 

Against  the  light  wherein  she  dies  :  he  clung 

Closer,  that  all  the  deadlier  they  might  wring. 
Unto  the  bayonets  which  had  pierced  his  young ; 

And  throwing  back  a  dim  look  on  his  sons. 

In  one  wide  wound  pour'd  forth  his  soul  at  once. 

CXIX. 
'Tis  strange  enough — the  rough,  tough  soldiers,  who 

Spared  neither  sex  nor  age  in  their  career 
Of  carnage,  when  this  old  man  was  pierced  through, 

And  lay  before  them  with  his  children  near, 
Touch'd  by  the  heroism  of  him  they  slew, 

Were  melted  for  a  moment :  though  no  tear 
Flow'd  from  their  bloodshot  eyes,  all  red  with  strife, 
They  honor'd  such  determined  scorn  of  life. 

CXX. 

But  the  stone  bastion  still  kept  up  its  fire, 
Where  the  chief  pacha  calmly  held  his  post : 

Some  twenty  times  he  made  the  Russ  retire, 
And  baflled  the  assaults  of  all  their  host : 

At  length  he  condescended  to  inquire 
If  yet  the  city's  rest  were  won  or  lost ; 

And  being  told  the  latter,  sent  a  bey 

To  answer  Ribas'  summons  to  give  way. 

CXXI. 
In  the  mean  time,  cross-legg'd,  with  great  sang-froid, 

Among  the  scorching  ruins  he  sat  smoking 
Tobacco  on  a  little  carpet ; — Troy 

Saw  nothing  like  the  scene  around  : — yet  looking 
With  martial  stoicism,  naught  seem'd  to  annoy 

His  stern  philosophy  ;  but  gently  stroking 
His  beard,  he  pufi''d  his  pipe's  ambrosial  gales, 
As  if  he  had  three  lives,  as  well  as  tails. 

CXXII. 
The  town  was  taken — whether  he  might  yield 

Himself  or  bastion,  little  matter'd  now  : 
His  stubborn  valor  was  no  future  shield. 

Ismail's  no  more  !     The  crescent's  silver  bow 
Sunk,  and  the  crimson  cross  glared  o'er  the  field. 

But  red  with  no  redeeming  gore  :  the  glow 
Of  burning  streets,  like  moonlight  on  the  water. 
Was  imaged  back  in  blood,  the  sea  of  slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All  that  the  mind  would  shrink  from  of  excesses  ; 

All  that  the  body  perpetrates  of  bad  ; 
All  that  we  read,  hear,  dream,  of  man's  distresses  ; 

All  that  the  devil  would  do  if  run  stark  mad ; 
All  that  defies  the  worst  which  pen  expresses ; 

All  by  which  hell  is  peopled,  or  as  sad 


668 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  viii. 


As  hell — mere  mortals  who  their  power  abuse — 
Was  here  (as  heretofore  and  since)  let  loose. 

CXXIV. 
If  here  and  there  some  transient  trait  of  pity  [through 

"Was   shown,  and  some  more  noble  heart  broke 
Its  bloody  bond,  and  saved,  perhaps,  some  pretty 

Child,  or  an  aged,  helpless  man  or  two— 
What's  this  in  one  annihilated  city. 

Where  thousand  loves,  and  ties,  and  duties  grew  ? 
Cockneys  of  London  !  Muscadins  of  Paris  ! 
Just  ponder  what  a  pious  pastime  war  is. 

CXXV. 

Think  how  the  joys  of  reading  a  Gazette 
Are  purchased  by  all  agonies  and  crimes  : 

Or  if  these  do  not  move  you,  don't  forget 
Such  doom  may  be  your  own  in  after  times. 

Meantime  the  Taxes,  Castlereagh,  and  Debt, 
Are  hints  as  good  as  sermons,  or  as  rhymes. 

Bead  your  own  hearts  and  Ireland's  present  story. 

Then  feed  her  famine  fat  with  Wellesley's  glory. 

CXXVI. 
But  stm  there  is  unto  a  patriot  nation, 

Which  loves  so  well  its  country  and  its  king, 
A  subject  of  sublimest  exultation — 

Bear  it,  ye  Muses,  on  your  brightest  wing  ! 
Howe'er  the  mighty  locust,  Desolation, 

Strip  your  green  fields,  and  to  your  harvests  cling, 
Gaunt  famine  never  shall  approach  the  throne — 
Though  Ireland  starve,  great  George  weighs  twenty 
stone. 

CXXVII. 
But  let  me  put  an  end  unto  my  theme  : 

There  was  an  end  of  Ismail — hapless  town  ! 
Far  flash'd  her  burning  towers  o'er  Danube's  stream, 

And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down. 
The  horrid  war-whoop  and  the  shriller  scream 

Rose  still ;  but  fainter  were  the  thunders  grown  : 
Of  forty  thousand  who  had  mann'd  the  wall, 
Some  hundreds  breathed — the  rest  were  silent  all ! 

CXXVIII. 
In  one  thing  ne'ertheless  'tis  fit  to  praise 

The  Russian  army  upon  this  occasion, 
A  virtue  much  in  fashion  now-a-days. 

And  therefore  worthy  of  commemoration  : 
The  topic's  tender,  so  shall  be  my  phrase — 

Perhaps  the  season's  chill,  and  their  long  station 
In  winter's  depth,  or  want  of  rest  and  victual. 
Had  made  them  chaste ; — ^they  ravish'd  very  httle. 

CXXIX. 
Much  did  they  slay,  more  plunder,  and  no  less 

Might  here  and  there  occur  some  violation 
In  the  other  line  ; — but  not  to  such  excess 

As  when  the  French,  that  dissipated  nation, 


Take  towns  by  storm  :  no  causes  can  I  guess, 

Except  cold  weather  and  commiseration  ; 
But  all  the  ladies,  save  some  twenty  score. 
Were  almost  as  much  virgins  as  before. 

CXXX. 
Some  odd  mistakes,  too,  happen'd  in  the  dark, 

Wliich  show'd  a  want  of  lanterns,  or  of  taste — 
Indeed  the  smoke  was  such  they  scarce  could  mark 

Their  friends  from  foes, — besides,  such  things  from 
Occur,  though  rarely,  when  there  is  a  spark     [haste 

Of  light  to  save  the  venerable  chaste  : 
But  six  old  damsels,  each  of  seventy  years. 
Were  all  deflower'd  by  diflerent  genadiers. 

CXXXI. 

But  on  the  whole  their  continence  was  great ; 

So  that  some  disappointment  there  ensued 
To  those  who  had  felt  the  inconvenient  state 

Of  "  single  blessedness,"  and  thought  it  good 
(Since  it  was  not  their  fault,  but  only  fate. 

To  bear  these  crosses)  for  each  waning  prude 
To  make  a  Roman  sort  of  Sabine  wedding. 
Without  the  expense  and  the  suspense  of  bedding. 

CXXXII. 
Some  voices  of  the  buxom  middle-aged 

Were  also  heard  to  wonder  in  the  din 
(Widows  of  forty  were  these  birds  long  caged) 

"  Wherefore  the  ravishing  did  not  begin  1" 
But  while  the  thirst  for  gore  and  plunder  raged, 

There  was  small  leisure  for  superfluous  sin  ; 
But  whether  they  escaped  or  no,  lies  hid 
In  darkness — I  can  only  hope  they  did. 

CXXXIII. 
Suwarrow  now  was  conqueror — a  match 

For  Timour  or  for  Zinghis  in  his  trade. 
While  mosques  and  streets,  beneath  his  eyes,  like 
thatch 

Blazed,  and  the  cannon's  roar  was  scarce  allay'd, 
With  bloody  hands  he  wrote  his  first  dispatch ; 

And  here  exactly  follows  what  he  said  : — 
"  Glory  to  Ood  and  to  the  Empress  !"  {PowerB 
Eternal !  svch  names  mingled .')  "  Ismail 's  ours." 

CXXXIV. 
Methinks  these  are  the  most  tremendous  words. 

Since  "  Menu,  Menfi,  Tekel,"  and  "  Upharsin," 
Wliich  hands  or  pens  have  ever  traced  of  swords. 

Heaven  help  me  !  I'm  but  little  of  a  parson  : 
What  Daniel  read  was  short-hand  of  the  Lord's, 

Severe,  sublime  ;  the  prophet  wrote  no  farce  on 
The  fate  of  nations  ; — but  this  Russ  so  witty 
Could  rhyme,  like  Kero,  o'er  a  burning  city. 

CXXXV. 
He  wrote  this  Polar  melody,  and  set  it, 
Duly  accompanied  by  shrieks  and  groans, 


Canto  ix. 


DON  JIIAF. 


669 


Which  few  will  sing,  I  trust,  but  none  forget  it — 
For  I  will  teach,  if  possible,  the  stones 

To  rise  against  earth's  tyrants.     Never  let  it 
Be  said  that  we  still  truckle  unto  thrones  ; — 

But  ye — our  children's  children  1  think  how  we 

Show'd  wliat  things  were  before  the  world  was  free  ! 

CXXXVI. 

That  hour  is  not  for  us,  but  'tis  for  you : 

And  as,  in  the  great  joy  of  your  millennium, 

You  hardly  will  believe  such  things  were  true 

As  now  occur,  I  thought  that  I  would  pen  you 

But  may  their  very  memory  perish  too  1 —         ['em  ; 
Yet  if  perchance  remember'd,  still  disdain  you  'em 

More  than  you  scorn  the  savages  of  yore, 

'W^o  painted  their  lare  limbs,  but  not  with  gore. 

CXXXVII. 

And  when  you  hear  historians  talk  of  thrones, 
And  those  that  sate  upon  them,  let  it  be 

As  we  now  gaze  upon  the  mammoth's  bones, 
And  wonder  what  old  world  such  things  could 
see. 

Or  hieroglyphics  on  Egyptian  stones 
The  pleasant  riddles  of  futurity — 

Guessing  at  what  shall  happily  be  hid, 

As  the  real  purpose  of  a  pyramid. 

CXXXVIII. 

Reader  !  I  have  kept  my  word, — at  least  so  far 
As  the  first  Canto  promised.    You  liave  now 

Had  sketches  of  love,  tempest,  travel,  war — 
All  very  accurate,  you  must  allow. 

And  epic,  if  plain  truth  should  prove  no  bar ; 
For  I  have  drawn  much  less  with  a  long  bow 

Than  my  forerunners.     Carelessly  I  sing. 

But  Phoebus  lends  me  now  and  then  a  string, 

CXXXIX. 

"With  which  I  still  can  harp,  and  carp,  and  fiddle. 

What  farther  hath  befallen  or  may  befall 
The  hero  of  this  grand  poetic  riddle, 

I  by  and  by  may  tell  you,  if  at  all : 
But  now  I  choose  to  break  oif  in  the  middle. 

Worn  out  with  battering  Ismail's  stubborn  wall, 
While  Juan  is  sent  off  with  the  dispatch, 
For  which  all  Petersburgh  is  on  the  watch. 

CXL. 

This  special  honor  was  conferr'd,  because 

He  had  behaved  with  courage  and  humanity — 

Which  last  men  like,  when  they  have  time  to  pause 
From  their  ferocities  produced  by  vanity. 

His  little  captive  gain'd  him  some  applause 
For  saving  her  amidst  the  wild  insanity 

Of  carnage, — and  I  think  he  was  more  glad  in  her 

Safety,  than  his  new  order  of  St.  Vladimir. 


CXLI.  ♦ 

The  Moslem  orphan  went  with  her  protector, 

For  she  was  homeless,  houseless,  helpless  ;  all 
Her  friends,  like  the  sad  family  of  Hector, 

Had  perish'd  in  the  field  or  by  the  wall : 
Her  very  place  of  birth  was  but  a  spectre 

Of  what  it  had  been  ;  there  the  Muezzin's  call 
To  prayer  was  heard  no  more  I — and  Juan  wept. 
And  made  a  vow  to  shield  her,  which  he  kept. 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO   THB    NINTH. 


Oh,  Wellington  !  (or  "  Villainton  " — for  Fame 
Sounds  the  heroic  syllables  both  ways  ; 

France  could  not  even  conquer  your  great  name, 
But  punn'd  it  down  to  this  facetious  ghrase — 

Beating  or  beaten  she  will  laugh  the  same,) 

You  have  obtain'd  great  pensions  and  much  praise : 

Glory  like  yours  should  any  dare  gainsay. 

Humanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  "  Nay  !" 

II. 
I  don't  think  that  you  used  Kinnaird  quite  well 

In  Marinet's  affair — in  fact,  'twas  shabby, 
And  like  some  other  things  won't  do  to  tell 

Upon  your  tomb  in  Westminster's  old  abbey. 
Upon  the  rest  'tis  not  worth  while  to  dwell, 

Such  tales  being  for  the  tea-hours  of  some  tabby ; 
But  though  your  years  as  man  tend  fast  to  zero, 
In  fact  your  grace  is  still  but  a  young  hero. 

III. 
Though  Britain  owes  (and  pays  you  too)  so  much, 

Yet  Europe  doubtless  owes  you  greatly  more  : 
You  have  repair'd  Legitimacy's  crutch, 

A  prop  not  quite  so  certain  as  before  : 
The  Spanish,  and  the  French,  as  weU  as  Dutch, 

Have  seen,  and  felt,  how  strongly  you  restore  ; 
And  Waterloo  has  made  the  world  your  debtor, 
(I  wish  your  bards  would  sing  it  rather  better.) 

IV. 

You  are  "  the  best  of  cut-throats  :" — do  not  start ; 

The  phrase  is  Shakspeare's,  and  not  misapplied : — 
War's  a  brain-spattering,  windpipe-slitting  art, 

Unless  her  cause  by  right  be  sanctified. 
If  you  have  acted  once  a  generous  part. 

The  world,  not  the  world's  masters,  will  decide, 
And  I  shall  be  delighted  to  learn  who. 
Save  you  and  yours,  have  gain'd  by  Waterloo  ? 


I  am  no  flatterer — you've  supp'd  fuU  of  flattery : 
They  say  you  like  it  toi) — 'tis  no  great  wonder. 


670 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ix. 


He  whose  whole  life  has  been  assault  and  battery, 
At  last  may  get  a  little  tired  of  thunder  ; 

And  swallowing  eulogy  much  more  than  satire,  he 
May  like  being  praised  for  every  lucky  blunder, 

Call'd  "  Saviour  of  the  Nations  " — not  yet  saved, 

And  "  Europe's  Liberator  " — still  enslaved. 

VI. 

I've  done.    Now  go  and  dine  from  off  the  plate 
Presented  by  the  Prince  of  the  Brazils, 

And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate 
A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals  : 

He  fought,  but  has  not  fed  so  well  of  late. 

Some  hunger,  too,  they  say  the  people  feels  : — 

There  is  no  doubt  that  you  dessrve  your  ration, 

But  pray  give  back  a  little  to  the  nation. 

VII. 

I  don't  mean  to  reflect — a  man  so  great  as 
You,  my  lord  duke  !  is  far  above  reflection  : 

The  high  itoman  fashion,  too,  of  Cincinnatus, 
With  modem  history  has  but  small  connection  : 

Though  as  an  Irishman  you  love  potatoes. 

You  need  not  take  them  under  your  direction  ; 

And  half  a  million  for  your  Sabine  farm 

Is  rather  dear  ! — I'm  sure  I  mean  no  harm. 

VIII. 

Great  men  have  always  scom'd  great  recompenses  : 
Epaminondas  saved  his  Thebes,  and  died, 

Not  leaving  oven  his  funeral  expenses  :  [side, 

George  Washington  had  thanks  and  naught  be- 

Except  the  all-cloudless  glory  (which  few  men's  is) 
To  free  his  country  :  Pitt  too  had  his  pride. 

And  as  a  high-soul'd  minister  of  state  is 

Renown'd  for  ruining  Great  Britain  gratis. 

IX. 

Never  had  mortal  man  such  opportunity. 
Except  Napoleon,  or  abused  it  more  : 

You  might  have  freed  fallen  Europe  from  the  unity 
Of  tyrants,  and  been  bless'd  from  shore  to  shore  : 

And  now — what  is  your  fame  ?    Shall  the  Muse  tune 
it  ye? 
Now — that  the  rabble's  first  vain  shouts  are  o'er  ? 

Go  !  hear  it  in  your  famish'd  country's  cries  ! 

Behold  the  world  !  and  curse  your  victories  ! 


As  these  new  cantos  touch  on  warlike  feats. 

To  you  the  unflattering  Muse  deigns  to  inscribe 

Truths,  that  you  will  not  read  in  the  Gazettes, 
But  which,  'tis  time  to'teach  the  hireling  tribe 

Wlio  fatten  on  their  country's  gore,  and  debts, 
Must  be  recited,  and — without  a  bribe. 

You  did  great  things  ;  but  not  being  great  in  mind. 

Have  left  undone  the  greatest — and  mankind. 


XI. 

Death  laughs — Go  ponder  o'er  the  skeleton 

With  which  men  image  out  the  unknown  thing 

That  hides  the  past  world,  like  to  a  set  sun 

Which  still  elsewhere  may  rouse  a  brighter  spring — 

Death  laughs  at  all  you  weep  for  : — look  upon 
This  hourly  dread  of  all !  whose  ihrente/i'd  sting 

Turns  life  to  terror,  even  though  in  its  sheath  : 

Mark  !  how  its  lipless  mouth  grins  without  breath  ! 

XII. 

Mark  !  how  it  laughs  and  scorns  at  all  you  are  ! 

And  yet  loas  what  you  are  :  from  ear  to  ear 
It  laughs  not — there  is  now  no  fleshy  bar 

So  call'd  ;  the  Antic  long  hath  ceased  to  Tiear, 
But  still  he  smiles  ;  and  whether  near  or  far. 

He  strips  from  man  that  mantle,  (far  more  dear 
Than  even  the  tailor's,)  his  incarnate  skin. 
White,  black,  or  copper — the  dead  bones  will  grin. 

XIII. 

And  thus  Death  laughs, — ^it  is  sad  merriment. 
But  still  it  is  so  :  and  with  such  example 

Why  should  not  Life  be  equally  content 
With  his  superior,  in  a  smile  to  trample 

Upon  the  nothings  which  are  daily  spent 
Like  bubbles  on  an  ocean  much  less  ample 

Than  the  eternal  deluge,  which  devours 

Suns  as  rays — worlds  like  atoms— years  like  hours  ? 

XIV. 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be  1  that  is  the  question," 

Says  Shakspeare,  who  just  now  is  much  in  fashion. 

I  am  neither  Alexander  nor  Hephastion, 

Nor  ever  had  for  abstract  fame  much  passion  ; 

But  would  much  rather  have  a  sound  digestion 
Than  Bonaparte's  cancer  : — could  I  dash  on 

Through  fifty  victories  to  shame  or  fame. 

Without  a  stomach — what  were  a  good  name  ? 

XV. 

"  Oh,  dura  ilia  messorum  !" — •"  Oh, 
Ye  rigid  guts  of  reapers  !"  I  translate 

For  the  great  benefit  of  those  who  know 
What  indigestion  is — that  inward  fate 

Which  makes  all  Styx  through  one  small  liver  flow. 
A  peasant's  sweat  is  worth  his  lord's  estate  : 

Let  this  one  toil  for  bread— <Aa«  rack  for  rent, 

lie  who  sleeps  best  may  be  the  most  content. 

XVI. 
"  To  be,  or  not  to  be  !" — Ere  I  decide, 

I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  which  is  leing. 
'Tis  true  we  speculate  both  far  and  wide, 

And  deem,  because  we  see,  we  are  all-seeing  : 
For  my  part,  I'll  enlist  on  neither  side. 

Until  I  see  both  sides  for  once  agreeing. 


Canto  ix. 


DON    JUAN. 


671 


For  me,  I  sometimes  think  that  life  is  death, 
Rather  than  life  a  mere  aflair  of  breath. 

XVII. 
"  Quo  scais-je  ?"  wjis  the  motto  of  Montaigne, 

As  also  of  the  first  academicians  : 
That  all  is  dubious  which  man  may  attain. 

Was  one  of  their  most  favorite  positions. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  certainty,  that's  plain 

As  any  of  Mortality's  conditions  ; 
So  little  do  we  know  what  we're  about  in 
This  world,  I  doubt  if  doubt  itself  be  doubting. 

XVIII. 
It  is  a  pleasant  voyage  perhaps  to  float. 

Like  Pyrrho,  on  a  sea  of  speculation  ; 
But  what  if  carrying  sail  capsize  the  boat  ? 

Tour  wise  men  don't  know  much  of  navigation  ; 
And  swimming  long  in  the  abyss  of  thought 

Is  apt  to  tire  :  a  calm  and  shallow  station 
Well  nigh  the  shore,  where  one  stoops  down  and  gath- 
Some  pretty  shell,  is  best  for  moderate  bathers,  [ers. 

XIX. 

"  But  heaven,"  as  Cassio  says,  "  is  above  all — 
No  more  of  this,  then, — let  us  pray  !"    We  have 

Souls  to  save,  since  Eve's  slip  and  Adam's  fall. 
Which  tumbled  all  mankind  into  the  grave. 

Besides  fish,  beasts,  and  birds.    "  The  sparrow's  fall 
Is  special  providence,"  though  how  it  gave 

Offence,  we  know  not ;  probably  it  perch'd 

Upon  the  tree  which  Eve  so  fondly  search'd. 

XX. 

Oh,  ye  immortal  gods  1  what  is  theogony  ? 

Oh,  thou,  too,  mortal  man  !  what  is  philanthropy  ? 
Oh,  world  !  which  was  and  is,  what  is  cosmogony  ? 

Some  people  have  accused  me  of  misanthropy  ; 
And  yet  I  know  no  more  than  the  mahogany 

That  forms  this  desk,  of  what  they  mean ;  lyian- 
I  comprehend,  for  without  transformation  \thropy 
Men  become  wolves  on  any  slight  occasion. 

XXI. 
But  I,  the  mildest,  meekest  of  mankind, 

Like  Moses,  or  Melancthon,  who  have  ne'er 
Done  any  thing  exceedingly  unkind, — 

And  (though  I  could  not  now  and  then  forbear 
Following  the  bent  of  body  or  of  mind) 

Have  always  had  a  tendency  to  spare, — 
Wliy  do  they  call  me  misanthrope  ?    Because 
They  hate  me,  not  I  them : — and  here  we'll  pause. 

XXII. 

'Tis  time  we  should  proceed  with  our  good  poem, — 

For  I  maintain  that  it  is  really  good. 
Not  only  in  the  body  but  the  proem. 

However  little  both  are  understood 


Just  now, — but  by  and  by  the  Truth  will  show  'em 

Herself  in  her  sublimest  attitude : 
And  till  she  doth,  I  fain  must  be  content 
To  share  liei  beauty  and  her  banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our  hero  (and,  1  trust,  kind  reader  !  yours — ) 

Was  left  upon  his  way  to  the  chief  city 
Of  the  immortal  Peter's  polish 'd  boors. 

Who  still  have  shown  themselves  more  brave  than 
I  know  its  mighty  empire  now  allures  [witty. 

Much  flatteiy — even  "Voltaire's,  and  that 's  a  pity. 
For  me,  I  deem  an  absolute  autocrat 
Not  a  barbarian,  but  much  worse  than  that. 

XXIV. 
And  I  will  war,  at  least  in  words,  (and — should 

My  chance  so  happen — deeds,)  with  all  who  war 
With  Thought ; — and  of  Thought's  foes  by  far  most 

Tyrants  and  sycophants  have  been  and  are.  [rude, 
I  know  not  who  may  conquer :  if  I  could 

Have  such  a  prescience,  it  should  be  no  bar 
To  this  my  plain,  sworn,  downright  detestation 
Of  every  despotism  in  every  nation. 

XXV. 
It  is  not  that  I  adulate  the  people  : 

Without  me,  there  are  demagogues  enough, 
And  infidels,  to  pull  down  every  steeple. 

And  set  up  in  their  stead  some  proper  stuff. 
Whether  they  may  sow  skepticism  to  reap  hell. 

As  is  the  Christian  dogma  rather  rough, 
I  do  not  know ; — I  wish  men  to  be  free 
As  much  from  mobs  as  kings — from  you  as  me. 

XXVI. 
The  consequence  is,  being  of  no  party, 

I  shall  offend  all  parties  : — never  mind  ! 
My  words,  at  least,  are  more  sincere  and  hearty 

Than  if  I  sought  to  sail  before  the  wind. 
He  who  has  naught  to  gain  can  have  small  art :  he 

Wlio  neither  wishes  to  be  bound  or  bind, 
May  still  expatiate  freely,  as  will  I, 
Nor  give  my  voice  to  slavery's  jackal  cry. 

XXVII. 
That 's  an  appropriate  simile,  that  jackal ; — 

I've  heard  them  in  the  Ephesian  ruins  howl 
By  night,  as  do  that  mercenary  pack  all. 

Power's  base  purveyors,  who  for  pickings  prowl, 
And  scent  the  prey  their  masters  would  attack  all. 

However,  the  ijoor  jackals  are  less  foul 
(As  being  the  bravo  lion's  keen  providers) 
Than  human  insects,  catering  for  spiders. 

XXVIII. 
Raise  but  an  arm  1  'twill  brush  their  web  away, 
And  without  that,  their  poison  and  their  claws 


672 


BYRON'S    WORKS, 


Canto  ec 


Are  useless.     Mind,  good  people  !  -what  I  say— 
(Or  rather  peoples) — go  on  without  pause  ! 

The  web  of  these  tarantulas  eaeh  day 
Increases,  till  you  shall  make  common  cause  : 

None,  save  the  Spanish  fly  and  Attic  bee, 

As  yet  are  strongly  stinging  to  be  free. 

XXIX. 
Don  Juan,  who  had  shone  in  the  late  slaughter, 

Was  left  upon  his  way  with  the  dispatch. 
Where  blood  was  talk'd  of  as  we  would  of  water ; 

And  carcasses  that  lay  as  thick  as  thatch 
O'er  silenced  cities,  merely  served  to  flatter 

Fair  Catherine's  pastime — who  look'd  on  the  match 
Between  these  nations  as  a  main  of  cocks, 
Wherein  she  liked  her  own  to  stand  like  rocks. 

XXX. 

And  there  in  a  Tcibitha  he  roll'd  on, 

(A  cursed  sort  of  carriage  without  springs, 

Which  on  rough  roads  leaves  scarcely  a  whole  bone,) 
Pondering  on  glory,  chivalry,  and  kings. 

And  orders,  and  on  all  that  he  had  done — 
And  wishing  that  post-horses  had  the  wings 

Of  Pegasus,  or  at  the  least  post-chaises 

Had  feathers,  when  a  traveler  on  deep  ways  is. 

XXXI. 
At  every  jolt — and  they  were  many — still 

He  tum'd  his  eyes  upon  his  little  charge. 
As  if  he  wish'd  that  she  should  fare  less  ill 

Than  he,  in  these  sad  highways  left  at  large 
To  ruts,  and  flints,  and  lovely  Nature's  skill. 

Who  is  no  paver,  nor  admits  a  barge 
On  Tier  canals,  where  God  takes  sea  and  land, 
Fishery  and  farm,  both  into  his  own  hand. 

XXXII. 
At  least  he  pays  no  rent,  and  has  best  right 

To  be  the  first  of  what  we  used  to  call 
"  Gentlemen  fanners  " — a  race  worn  out  quite. 

Since  lately  there  have  been  no  rents  at  all, 
And  "  gentlemen  "  are  in  a  piteous  plight. 

And  "  farmers  "  can't  raise  Ceres  from  her  fall : 
She  fell  with  Bonajjarte — What  strange  thoughts 
Arise,  when  we  see  emperors  fall  with  oats  ! 

XXXIII. 
But  Juan  tum'd  his  eyes  on  the  sweet  child 

Whom  he  had  saved  from  slaughter — what  a 
Oh  !  ye  who  build  up  monuments,  defiled    [trophy  ! 

With  gore,  like  Nadir  Shah,  that  costive  sophy, 
Who,  after  leaving  Hindostan  a  wild. 

And  scarce  to  the  Mogul  a  cup  of  coffee 
To  soothe  his  woes  withal,  was  slain,  the  sinner  1 
Because  he  could  no  more  digest  his  dinner ;' — 

'  He  was  killeci  in  a  conspiracy,  after  his  temper  had  been  cx- 
a'iijeratea  by  his  extreme  costivity  to  a  degree  of  insanity. 


XXXIV. 

Oh,  ye  !  or  we  !  or  he  !  or  she  !  reflect 
That  one  life  saved,  especially  if  young 

Or  pretty,  is  a  thing  to  recollect 

Far  sweeter  than  the  greenest  laurels  sprung 

From  the  manure  of  human  clay,  though  deck'd 
With  all  the  praises  ever  said  or  sung  : 

Though  hymn'd  by  every  harp,  unless  within 

Your  heart  joins  chorus.  Fame  is  but  a  din. 

XXXV. 

Oh,  ye  great  authors  luminous,  voluminous  ! 

Ye  twice  ten  hundred  thousand  daily  scribes  ! 
Whose  pamphlets,  volumes,  newspapers,  iUumine  us ! 

Whether  you're  paid  by  government  in  bribes. 
To  prove  the  public  debt  is  not  consuming  us — 

Or,  roughly  treading  on  the  "  courtier's  kibes," 
With  clownish  heel,  your  popular  circulation 
Feeds  you  by  printing  half  the  realm's  starvation  ; — 

XXXVI. 

Oh,  ye  great  authors  ! — "  Apropos  des  bottes," — 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant  to  say. 

As  sometimes  have  been  greater  sages'  lots  ; — 
'Twas  something  calculated  to  allay 

All  wrath  in  barracks,  palaces,  or  cots  : 

Certes  it  would  have  been  but  thrown  away. 

And  that's  one  comfort  for  my  lost  advice. 

Although  no  doubt  it  was  beyond  all  price. 

XXXVII. 

But  let  it  go  : — ^it  wiU  one  day  be  found 
With  other  relics  of  "  a  former  world." 

When  this  world  shall  he  former,  underground. 
Thrown  topsy-turvy,  twisted,  crisp'd,  and  curl'd. 

Baked,  fried,  or  burnt,  tum'd  inside-out,  or  drown'd. 
Like  all  the  worlds  before,  which  have  been  hurl'd 

First  out  of,  and  then  back  again  to  chaos, 

The  superstratum  which  will  overlay  us. 

XXXVIII. 
So  Cuvier  says  ; — and  then  shall  come  again 

Unto  the  new  creation,  rising  out 
From  our  old  crash,  some  mystic,  ancient  strain 

Of  things  destroy'd  and  left  in  airy  doubt ; 
Like  to  the  notions  we  now  entertain 

Of  Titans,  giants,  fellows  of  about 
Some  hundred  feet  in  height,  not  to  say  miles, 
And  mammoths,  and  your  winged  crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think  if  then  George  the  Fourth  should  be  dug  up, 
How  the  new  worldlings  of  the  then  new  East 

Will  wonder  where  such  animals  could  sup  ! 
(For  they  themselves  will  be  but  of  the  least : 

Even  worlds  miscarry,  when  too  oft  they  pup, 
And  every  new  creation  hath  decreased 


Canto  ix. 


DON    JUAN. 


673 


Tn  size,  from  overworking  the  material — 

Men  are  but  maggots  of  some  huge  Earth's  burial.) 

XL. 
Hoio  -will — to  these  young  people,  just  thrust  out 

From  some  fresh  Paradise,  and  set  to  plough, 
And  dig,  and  sweat,  and  turn  themselves  about. 

And  plant,  and  reap,  and  spin,  and  grind,  and 
Till  all  the  arts  at  length  are  brought  about,      [sow, 

Especially  of  war  and  taxing — how, 
I  say,  wiU  these  great  relics,  when  they  see  'em. 
Look  like  the  monsters  of  a  new  museum  ? 

XLI. 
But  I  am  apt  to  grow  too  metaphysical : 

"  The  time  is  out  of  joint," — and  so  am  I ; 
I  quite  forget  this  poem  's  merely  quizzical, 

And  deviate  into  matters  rather  dry. 
1  ne'er  decide  what  I  shall  say,  and  this  I  call 

Much  too  poetical :  men  should  know  why 
They  write,  and  for  what  end  ;  but,  note  or  text, 
I  never  know  the  word  which  will  come  next. 

XLII. 
So  on  I  ramble,  now  and  then  narrating. 

Now  pondering  : — it  is  time  we  should  narrate. 
I  left  Don  Juan,  with  his  horses  baiting — 

Now  we'll  got  o'er  the  ground  at  a  great  rate. 
I  shall  not  be  particular  in  stating 

His  journey,  we've  so  many  tours  of  late  : 
Suppose  him  then  at  Petersburgh  ;  suppose 
That  pleasant  capital  of  painted  snows  ; 

XLIII. 
Suppose  him  in  a  handsome  uniform  ; 

A  scarlet  coat,  black  facings,  a  long  plume, 
Waving,  like  sails  new  shiver'd  in  a  storm, 

Over  a  cock'd  hat  in  a  crowded  room. 
And  brilUant  breeches,  bright  as  a  Cairn  Gorme, 

Of  yellow  casimerc  we  may  presume. 
White  stocking  drawn  uncurdled  as  new  milk 
O'er  limbs  whose  symmetry  set  off  the  silk  ; 

XLIV. 
Suppose  him  sword  by  side,  and  hat  in  hand, 

Made  up  by  youth,  fame,  and  an  army  tailor — 
That  great  enchanter,  at  whose  rod's  command 

Beauty  springs  forth,  and  Nature's  self  turns  paler. 
Seeing  how  Art  can  make  her  work  more  grand, 

(When  she  don't  pin  men's  limbs  in  like  a  jailer,) — 
Behold  him  placed  as  if  upon  a  pillar  !    He 
Seems  Love  tum'd  a  lieutenant  of  artillery. 

XLV. 
His  bandage  slipp'd  down  into  a  cravat ; 
His  wings  subdued  to  epaulettes  ;  his  quiver 

>  He  was  the  grande  passion  of  the  grand  Catbeiinc.    Sec  her 
Lives  nnder  the  head  of  "  Lanskoi." 


Shrunk  to  a  scabbard,  with  his  arrows  at 
His  side  as  a  small  sword,  but  sharp  as  ever ; 

His  bow  converted  into  a  cock'd  hat ; 

But  still  so  like,  that  Psyche  were  more  clever 

Than    some   wives,   (who   make  blunders    no   less 

If  she  had  not  mistaken  him  for  Cupid.        [stupid,) 

XLVI. 
The  courtiers  stared,  the  ladies  whisper'd,  and 

The  empress  smiled ;  the  rcigningfavorite  frown'd 
I  quite  forget  which  of  them  was  in  hand 

Just  then  ;  as  they  are  rather  numerous  found. 
Who  took  by  turns  that  difficult  command. 

Since  first  her  majesty  was  singly  crown'd  : 
But  they  were  mostly  nervous  six-foot  fellows, 
All  fit  to  make  a  Patagonian  jealous. 

XLVII. 
Juan  was  none  of  these,  but  slight  and  slim. 

Blushing  and  beardless  ;  and  yet  ne'ertheless 
There  was  a  something  in  his  turn  of  limb. 

And  still  more  in  his  eye,  which  seem'd  to  express, 
That  though  he  look'd  like  one  of  the  seraphim, 

There  lurk'd  a  man  beneath  the  spirit's  dress. 
Besides,  the  empress  sometimes  liked  a  boy. 
And  had  just  buried  the  fair-faced  Lanskoi.' 

XLVIII. 
No  wonder  then  that  Yermoloff,  or  Momonoff, 

Or  ScherbatofiF,  or  any  other  off 
Or  on,  might  dread  her  majesty  had  not  room  enough 

Within  her  bosom  (which  was  not  too  tough) 
For  a  new  flame  ;  a  thought  to  cast  of  gloom  enough 

Along  the  aspect,  whether  smooth  or  rough. 
Of  him  who,  in  the  language  of  his  station. 
Then  held  that  "  high  official  situation." 

XLIX. 
O,  gentle  ladies  1  should  you  seek  to  know 

The  import  of  this  diplomatic  phrase, 
Bid  Ireland's  Londonderry's  Marquess"  show 

His  parts  of  speech  ;  and  in  the  strange  displays 
Of  that  odd  string  of  words,  all  in  a  row. 

Which  none  divine,  and  every  one  obeys, 
Perhaps  you  may  pick  out  some  queer  no  meaning, 
Of  that  weak  wordy  harvest  the  sole  gleaning. 

L. 
I  think  I  can  explain  myself  without 

That  sad  inexplicable  beast  of  prey — 
That  Sphinx,  whose  words  would  ever  be  a  doubt 

Did  not  his  deeds  unriddle  them  each  day — 
That  monstrous  hieroglyphic — that  long  spout 

Of  blood  and  water,  leaden  Castlercagh  ! 
And  here  I  must  an  anecdote  relate. 
But  luckily  of  no  great  length  or  weight. 


'  This  was  written  long  before  the  suicide  of  that  person. 


674 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto    ix. 


LI. 

An  Englisli  lafly  ask'd  of  an  Italian, 
What  were  the  actual  and  official  duties 

Of  the  strange  thing,  some  women  set  a  value  on. 
Which  hovers  oft  about  some  married  beauties, 

Called  "  Cavalier  servente  ?"  a  Pygmalion 

Whose  statues  warm  (I  fear,  alas  !  too  true  'tis) 

Beneath  his  art.    The  dame,  press'd  to  disclose  them, 

Said — "  Lady,  I  beseech  you  to  suppose  them." 

LII. 

And  thus  I  supplicate  your  supposition. 
And  mildest,  matron-like  interpretation. 

Of  the  imperial  favorite's  condition. 
'Twas  a  high  place,  the  highest  in  the  nation 

In  fact,  if  not  in  rank  ;  and  the  suspicion 

Of  any  one's  attaining  to  his  station,  [ers. 

No  doubt  gave  pain,  where  each  new  pair  of  should- 

If  rather  broad,  made  stocks  rise  and  their  holders. 

LIII. 

Juan,  I  said,  was  a  most  beauteous  boy, 
And  had  retain'd  his  boyish  look  beyond 

The  usual  hirsute  seasons  which  destroy, 
With  beards  and  whiskers,  and  the  like,  the  fond 

Parisian  aspect,  which  upset  old  Troy 

And  founded  Doctors'  Commons  :— I  have  conn'd 

The  history  of  divorces,  which,  though  checker'd, 

Calls  Hion's  the  first  damages  on  record. 

LIV. 

And  Catherine,  who  loved  all  things,  (save  her  lord. 
Who  was  gone  to  his  place,)  and  pass'd  for  much. 

Admiring  those  (by  dainty  dames  abhorr'd) 
Gigantic  gentlemen,  yet  had  a  touch 

Of  sentiment ;  and  he  she  most  adored 
Was  the  lamented  Lanskoi,  who  was  such 

A  lover  as  had  cost  her  many  a  tear. 

And  yet  but  made  a  middling  grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh,  thou  "  teterrima  causa  "  of  all  "  belli  " — 
Thou  gate  of  life  and  death — thou  nondescript ! 

Whence  is  our  exit  and  our  entrance, — weU  I 
May  pause  in  pondering  how  aU  souls  are  dipp'd 

In  thy  perennial  fountain  ; — how  man/eZZ,  I  [stripp'd 
Know  not,  since   knowledge   saw   her  branches 

Of  her  first  fruit ;  but  how  he  falls  and  rises 

Since,  them  hast  settled  beyond  all  surmises. 

I.  VI. 
Some  call  thee  "  the  worst  cause  of  war,"  but  I 

Maintain  thou  art  the  hest ;  for  after  all 
From  thee  we  come,  to  thee  we  go,  and  why 

To  get  at  thee  not  batter  down  a  wall. 
Or  waate  a  world  ?  since  no  one  can  deny 

Thou  dost  replenish  worlds  both  great  and  small : 


With,  or  without  thee,  all  things  at  a  stand 
Are,  or  would  be,  thou  sea  of  life's  dry  land  ! 

LVII. 
Catherine,  who  was  the  grand  epitome 

Of  that  great  cause  of  war,  or  peace,  or  what 
You  please,  (it  causes  all  the  things  which  be. 

So  you  may  take  your  choice  of  this  or  that,) — 
Catherine,  I  say,  was  very  glad  to  see 

The  handsome  herald,  on  whose  plumage  sat 
Victory ;  and,  pausing  as  she  saw  him  kneel 
With  his  dispatch,  forgot  to  break  the  seal. 

LVIII. 
Then  recollecting  the  whole  empress,  nor 

Forgetting  quite  the  woman,  (which  composed 
At  least  three  parts  of  this  great  whole,)  she  tore 

The  letter  open  with  an  air  which  posed 
The  court,  that  watch'd  each  look  her  visage  wore. 

Until  a  royal  smile  at  length  disclosed 
Fair  weather  for  the  day.     Though  rather  spacious, 
Her  face  was  noble,  her  eyes  fine,  mouth  gracious. 

LIX. 

Great  joy  was  hers,  or  rather  joys  :  the  first 
Was  a  ta'en  city,  thirty  thousand  slain. 

Glory  and  triumph  o'er  her  aspect  burst. 
As  an  East  Indian  sunrise  on  the  main. 

These  quench'd  a  moment  her  ambition's  thirst — 
So  Arab  deserts  drink  in  summer's  rain : 

In  vain  ! — As  fall  the  dews  on  quenchless  sands. 

Blood  only  serves  to  wash  Ambition's  hands  1 

LX. 
Her  next  amusement  was  more  fanciful ; 

She  smiled  at  mad  Suwarrow's  rhymes,  who  threw 
Into  a  Russian  coui)let  rather  dull 

The  whole  gazette  of  thousands  whom  he  slew. 
Her  third  was  feminine  enough  to  annul 

The  shudder  which  runs  naturally  through 
Our  veins,  when  things  call'd  sovereigns  think  it 
To  kill,  and  generals  turn  it  into  jest.  [best 

LXI. 
The  two  first  feelings  ran  their  course  complete, 

And  lighted  first  her  eye,  and  then  her  mouth  : 
The  whole  court  look'd  immediately  most  sweet, 

Like  flowers  well  water'd  after  a  long  drouth  : — 
But  when  on  the  lieutenant  at  her  feet 

Her  majesty,  who  liked  to  gaze  on  youth 
Almost  as  much  as  on  a  new  dispatch, 
Glanced  mildly,  all  the  world  was  on  the  watch. 

LXII. 
Though  somewhat  large,  exuberant,  and  truculent, 

When  wroth — while  pleased,  she  was  as  fine  a  figure 
As  those  who  like  things  rosy,  ripe,  and  succulent, 

Would  wish  to  look  on,  while  they  are  in  vigor. 


Canto  ix. 


DON  JUAN. 


675 


She  could  repay  each  amatory  look  you  lent 

With  interest,  and  in  turn  was  wont  with  rigor 
To  exact  of  Cupid's  bills  the  full  amount 
At  sight,  nor  would  permit  you  to  discount. 

LXIII 

"With  her  the  latter,  though  at  times  convenient, 

Was  not  so  necessary  ;  for  they  tell 
That  she  was  handsome,  and  though  fierce  looWd 
lenient. 

And  always  used  her  favorites  too  well. 
If  once  beyond  her  boudoir's  precincts  in  ye  went. 

Your  "  fortune  "  was  in  a  fair  way  "  to  swell 
A  man,"  (as  Giles   says  ;')   for  though   she  would 
Nations,  she  liked  man  as  an  individual,  [widow  all 

LXIV. 

Wliat  a  strange  thing  is  man  !  and  what  a  stranger 
Is  woman  !    Wliat  a  whirlwind  is  her  head. 

And  what  a  whirlpool  full  of  depth  and  danger 
Is  aU  the  rest  about  her  !     Whether  wed, 

Or  widow,  maid,  or  mother,  she  can  change  her 
Mind  like  the  wind  :  whatever  she  has  said 

Or  done,  is  light  to  what  she'U  say  or  do  ; — 

The  oldest  thing  on  record,  and  yet  new  ! 

LXV. 
Oh,  Catherine  1  (for  of  all  interjections. 

To  thee  both  oh  !  and  ah,  !  belong  of  right 
In  love  and  war,)  how  odd  are  the  connections 

Of  human  thoughts,  which  jostle  in  their  flight ! 
Just  now  yours  were  cut  out  in  different  sections  : 

F'mt  Ismail's  capture  caught  your  fancy  quite  ; 
Next  of  new  knights,  the  fresh  and  glorious  batch  : 
And  thirdly  he  who  brought  you  the  dispatch  I 

LXVI. 
Shakspeare  talks  of  "  the  herald  Mercury 

New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ;" 
And  some  such  visions  cross'd  her  majesty. 

While  her  young  herald  knelt  before  her  still. 
'Tis  very  true  the  hill  seem'd  rather  high. 

For  a  lieutenant  to  climb  up  ;  but  skill  [blessing, 
Smooth'd  even  the  Simplon's  steep,  and  by  God's 
With  youth  and  health  all  kisses  are  "  heaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 
Her  majesty  look'd  down,  the  youth  look'd  up — 

And  so  they  fell  in  love ; — she  with  his  face, 
His  grace,  his  God-knows-what :  for  Cupid's  cup 

With  the  first  draught  intoxicates  apace, 
A  quintessential  laudanum  or  "  black  drop," 

Which  makes  one  drunk  at  once,  without  the  base 
Expedient  of  full  bumpers  ;  for  the  eye 
In  love  drinks  all  life's  fountains  (save  tears)  dry. 


'  "  Hia  fortune  swells  him,  it  is  ranic,  he 's  married."— 5fr  GUet 
Ovareach ;  Massinosb's  Neio  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debtt. 


LXVIII. 
He,  on  the  other  hand,  if  not  in  love, 

Fell  into  that  no  less  imperious  passion. 
Self-love — which,  when  some  sort  of  thing  above 

Ourselves,  a  singer,  dancer,  much  in  fashion, 
Or  duchess,  princess,  empress,  "  deigns  to  prove  " 

('Tis  Pope's  phrase)  a  great  longing,  though  a  rash 
one. 
For  one  especial  person  out  of  many, — 
Makes  us  believe  ourselves  as  good  as  any. 

LXIX. 
Besides,  he  was  of  that  delighted  age 

Wliich  makes  all  female  ages  equal — when 
We  don't  much  care  with  whom  we  may  engage, 

As  bold  as  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den. 
So  that  we  can  our  native  sun  assuage 

In  the  next  ocean,  which  may  flow  just  then, 
To  make  a  twilight  in,  just  as  Sol's  heat  is 
Quench'd  in  the  lap  of  the  salt  sea,  or  Thetis. 

LXX. 
And  Catherine,  (we  must  say  thus  much  for  Catherine,) 

Though  bold  and  bloody,  was  the  kind  of  thing 
Whose  temporary  passion  was  quite  flattering. 

Because  each  lover  look'd  a  sort  of  king. 
Made  up  upon  an  amatory  pattern, 

A  royal  husband  in  all  save  the  ring — 
Which,  being  the  damn'dest  part  of  matrimonj', 
Seem'd  taking  out  the  sting  to  leave  the  honey. 

LXXI. 
And  when  you  add  to  this,  her  womanhood 

In  its  meridian,  her  blue  eyes  or  gray — 
(The  last,  if  they  have  soul,  are  quite  as  good. 

Or  better,  as  the  best  examples  say  : 
Napoleon's,  Mary's,  (queen  of  Scotland,)  should 

Lend  to  that  color  a  transcendent  ray ; 
And  Pallas  also  sanctions  the  same  hue. 
Too  wise  to  look  through  optics  black  or  blue) — 

LXXn. 
Her  sweet  smile,  and  her  then  majestic  figure, 

Her  plumpness,  her  imperial  condescension. 
Her  preference  of  a  boy  to  men  much  bigger, 

(Fellows  whom  Messalina's  self  would  pension,) 
Her  prime  of  life,  just  now  in  juicy  vigor. 

With  other  extras,  which  we  need  not  mention, — 
All  these,  or  any  of  these,  explain 
Enough  to  make  a  stripling  very  vain. 

LXXIII. 
And  that's  enough,  for  love  is  vanity. 

Selfish  in  its  beginning  as  its  end. 
Except  where  'tis  a  mere  insanity, 

A  maddening  spirit  which  would  strive  to  blend 
Itself  with  beauty's  frail  inanity. 

On  which  the  passion's  self  seems  to  depend : 


676 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  ix. 


And  hence  some  heathenish  philosophers 
Make  love  the  main-spring  of  the.universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides  Platonic  love,  besides  the  love 
Of  God,  the  love  of  sentiment,  the  loving 

Of  faithful  pairs— (I  needs  must  rhyme  with  dove, 
That  good  old    steamboat  -which  keeps  verses 
moving 

'Gainst  reason — Reason  ne'er  vras  hand-and-glove 
With  rhyme,  but  always  leant  less  to  improving 

The  sound  than  sense) — besides  all  these  pretences 

To  love,  there  are  those  things  which  words  name 
senses ; 

LXXV. 

Those  movements,  those  improvements  in  our  bodies 
Which  make  all  bodies  anxious  to  get  out 

Of  their  own  sand-pits,  to  mix  with  a  goddess, 
For  such  aU  women  are  at  first  no  doubt. 

How  beautiful  that  moment !  and  how  odd  is 
That  fever  which  precedes  the  languid  rout 

Of  our  sensations  !  What  a  curious  way 

The  whole  thing  is  of  clothing  souls  in  clay  I 

LXXVI. 
The  noblest  kind  of  love  is  love  Platonical, 

To  end  or  to  begin  with  ;  the  next  grand 
Is  that  which  may  be  christen'd  love  canonical. 

Because  the  clergy  take  the  thing  in  hand ; 
The  third  sort  to  be  noted  in  our  chronicle 

As  flourishing  in  every  Christian  land. 
Is,  when  chaste  matrons  to  their  other  ties 
Add  what  may  be  call'd  marriage  in  disguise. 

LXXVII. 
Well,  we  won't  analyze — our  story  must 

Tell  for  itself:  the  sovereign  was  smitten, 
Juan  much  flatter'd  by  her  love,  or  lust ; — 

I  cannot  stop  to  alter  words  once  written. 
And  the  two  are  so  mix'd  with  human  dust, 

That  he  who  names  one,  both  perchance  may  hit 
But  in  such  matters  Russia's  mighty  empress  [on  : 
Behaved  no  better  than  a  common  sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The  whole  court  melted  into  one  wide  whisper, 
And  all  lips  were  applied  unto  all  ears  ! 

The  elder  ladies'  wrinkles  curl'd  much  crisper 
As  they  beheld  ;  the  younger  cast  some  leers 

On  one  another,  and  each  lovely  lisper 
Smiled  as  she  talk'd  the  matter  o'er ;  but  tears 

Of  rivalship  rose  in  each  clouded  eye 

Of  all  the  standing  army  who  stood  by. 

LXXIX. 
All  the  ambassadors  of  all  the  powers 
Inquired,  Who  was  this  very  new  young  man, 


Who  promised  to  be  great  in  some  few  hours  ? 

Which  is  full  soon,  (though  life  is  but  a  span.) 
Already  they  beheld  the  silver  showers 

Of  rubles  rain,  as  fast  as  specie  can, 
Upon  his  cabinet,  besides  the  presents 
Of  several  ribands,  and  some  thousand  peasants.' 

LXXX. 

Catherine  was  generous, — all  such  ladies  are  : 
Love,  that  great  opener  of  the  heart  and  all 

The  ways  that  lead  there,  be  they  near  or  far. 
Above,  below,  by  turnpikes  great  or  small, — 

Love — (though  she  had  a  cursed  taste  for  war, 
And  was  not  the  best  wife,  unless  we  call 

Such  Clytemnestra,  though  perhaps  'tis  better 

That  one  should  die,  than  two  drag  on  the  fetter)— 

LXXXI. 
Love  had  made  Catherine  make  each  lover's  fortune, 

Unlike  our  own  half-chaste  Elizabeth, 
Whose  avarice  aU  disbursements  did  importune, 

If  history,  the  grand  liar,  ever  saith  [shorten, 

The  truth;   and  though  grief  her  old  age  might 

Because  she  put  a  favorite  to  death. 
Her  vile,  ambiguous  method  of  flirtation. 
And  stinginess,  disgrace  her  sex  and  station. 

LXXXII. 
But  when  the  levee  rose,  and  all  was  bustle 

In  the  dissolving  circle,  all  the  nations' 
Ambassadors  began  as  'twere  to  hustle 

Round  the  young  man  with  their  congratulations. 
Also  the  softer  silks  were  heard  to  rustle 

Of  gentle  dames,  among  whose  recreations 
It  is  to  speculate  on  handsome  faces, 
Especially  when  such  lead  to  high  places. 

LXXXIII. 
Juan,  who  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how, 

A  general  object  of  attention,  made 
His  answers  with  a  very  graceful  bow, 

As  if  bom  for  the  ministerial  trade. 
Though  modest,  on  his  unembarrass'd  brow 

Nature  had  written  "  gentleman."     He  said 
Little,  but  to  the  purpose ;  and  his  manner 
Flung  hovering  graces  o'er  him  like  a  banner. 

LXXXIV. 
An  order  from  her  majesty  consign'd 

Our  young  lieutenant  to  the  genial  care 
Of  those  in  office  :  all  the  world  look'd  kind, 

(As  it  will  look  sometimes  with  the  first  stare, 
Which  youth  would  not  act  ill  to  keep  in  mind,) 

As  also  did  Miss  Protasofif  then  there, 
Kamed  from  her  mystic  ofiice  "  I'Eprouveuse," 
A  term  inexplicable  to  the  Muse. 


'  A  EasBian  estate  is  always  Talued  by  the  number  of  the  slaves 
upon  it. 


Canto  x. 


DO]S[    JUAN. 


611 


LXXXV. 
With  her  then,  as  in  humble  duty  bound, 

Juan  retired, — and  so  will  I,  until 
3Iy  Pegasus  shall  tire  of  touching  ground. 

We  have  just  lit  on  a  "  heaven-kissing  hill," 
So  lofty  that  I  feel  my  brain  turn  round. 

And  all  my  fancies  whirling  like  a  mill ; 
Which  is  a  signal  to  my  nerves  and  brain. 
To  take  a  quiet  ride  in  some  green  lane. 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO  THE   TENTH. 


When  Newton  saw  an  apple  fall,  he  found 
In  that  slight  startle  from  his  contemplation — 

'Ti3  said  (for  I'll  not  answer  above  ground 
For  any  sage's  creed  or  calculation) — 

A  mode  of  proving  that  the  earth  tum'd  round 
In  a  most  natural  whirl,  called  "  gravitation ;" 

And  this  is  the  sole  mortal  who  could  grapple. 

Since  Adam,  with  a  fall,  or  with  an  apple. 

11. 
Man  fell  with  apples,  and  with  apj)les  rose. 

If  this  be  true  ;  for  we  must  deem  the  mode 
In  which  Sir  Isaac  Newton  could  disclose 

Through  the  then  unpaved  stars  the  turnpike  road, 
A  thing  to  counterbalance  human  woes  : 

For  ever  since  immortal  man  hath  glow'd 
With  all  kinds  of  mechanics,  and  full  soon 
Steam-engines  will  conduct  him  to  the  moon. 

III. 
And  wherefore  this  exordium  ? — Why,  just  now, 

In  taking  up  this  paltry  sheet  of  paper. 
My  bosom  underwent  a  glorious  glow, 

And  my  internal  spirit  cut  a  caper  : 
And  though  so  much  inferior,  as  I  know, 

To  those  who,  by  the  dint  of  glass  and  vapor. 
Discover  stars,  and  sail  in  the  wind's  eye, 
I  wish  to  do  as  much  by  poesy. 

IV. 

In  the  wind's  eye  I  have  sail'd,  and  sail ;  but  for 
The  stars,  I  own  my  telescope  is  dim ; 

But  at  least  I  have  shunn'd  the  common  shore. 
And  leaving  land  far  out  of  sight,  would  skim 

The  ocean  of  eternity  :  the  roar 

Of  breakers  has  not  daunted  my  slight,  trim. 

But  still  sea- worthy  skiff;  and  she  may  float 

Where  ships  have  founder'd,  as  doth  many  a  boat. 


We  left  our  hero,  Juan,  in  the  bloom 
Of  &voritism,  but  not  yet  in  the  blush  ;- 


And  far  be  it  from  my  Muses  to  presume 
(For  I  have  more  than  one  Muse  at  a  push) 

To  follow  him  beyond  the  drawing-room  : 
It  is  enough  that  Fortune  found  him  flush 

Of  youth,  and  vigor,  beauty,  and  those  things 

Which  for  an  instant  clip  enjoyment's  wings. 

VI. 
But  soon  they  grow  again  and  leave  their  nest. 

"  Oh  !"  saith  the  Psalmist,  "  that  I  had  a  dove's 
Mnions  to  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest !" 

And  who  that  recollects  young  years  and  loves, — 
Though  hoary  now,  and  with  a  withering  breast, 

And  palsied  fancy,  which  no  longer  roves  [rather 
Beyond  its  dimm'd  eye's  sphere, — but  would  much 
Sigh  like  his  son,  than  cough  like  his  grandfather  ? 

VII. 

But  sighs  subside,  and  tears  (even  widows')  shrink 
Like  Arno  in  the  summer,  to  a  shallow. 

So  narrow  as  to  shame  their  wintry  brink. 

Which  threatens  inundations  deep  and  yellow  I 

Such  difference  doth  a  few  months  make.    You'd 
think 
Grief  a  rich  field  which  never  would  lie  fallow ; 

No  more  it  doth,  its  ploughs  but  change  their  boys, 

Who  furrow  some  new  soil  to  sow  for  joys. 

VIII. 

But  coughs  will  come  when  sighs  depart — and  now 
And  then  before  sighs  cease  ;  for  oft  the  one 

Will  bring  the  other,  ere  the  lake-like  brow 
Is  rufl[led  by  a  wrinkle,  or  the  sun 

Of  life  reach'd  ten  o'clock  :  and  while  a  glow. 
Hectic  and  brief  as  summer's  day  nigh  done, 

O'erspreads  the  cheek  which  seems  too  pure  for  clay. 

Thousands  blaze,  love,  hope,  die, — ^how  happy  they  I — 

IX. 
But  Juan  was  not  meant  to  die  so  soon. 

We  left  him  in  the  focus  of  such  glory 
As  may  be  won  by  favor  of  the  moon 

Or  ladies'  fancies — rather  transitory 
Perhaps  ;  but  who  would  scorn  the  month  of  June, 

Because  December,  with  his  breath  so  hoary. 
Must  come  ?    Much  rather  should  he  court  the  ray. 
To  hoard  up  warmth  against  a  wintry  day. 


Besides,  he  had  some  qualities  which  fijc 
Middle-aged  ladies  even  more  than  young  : 

The  former  know  what 's  what ;  while  new-fledged 
chicks 
Know  little  more  of  love  than  wliat  is  sung 

In  rhymes,  or  dreamt  (for  fancy  will  play  tricks) 
In  visions  of  those  skies  from  whence  Love  sprung 

Some  reckon  women  by  their  suns  or  years, 

I  rather  think  the  moon  should  date  the  dears. 


678 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto 


XI. 
And  why  2  because  she's  changeable  and  chaste. 

I  know  no  other  reason,  -whatsoe'er 
Suspicious  people,  who  find  fault  in  haste, 

May  choose  to  tax  me  with  ;  which  is  not  fair, 
Nor  flattering  to  "  their  temper  or  their  taste," 

As  my  friend  Jeflrey  writes  with  such  an  air  : 
Hovrever,  I  forgive  him,  and  I  trust 
He  will  forgive  himself; — if  not,  I  must. 

XII. 
Old  enemies  who  have  become  new  friends 

Should  so  continue — 'tis  a  point  of  honor  ; 
And  I  know  nothing  which  could  make  amends 

For  a  return  to  hatred  :  I  would  shun  her 
Like  garlic,  howsoever  she  extends 

Her  hundred  arms  and  legs,  and  fain  outrun  her. 
Old  flames,  new  wives,  become  our  bitterest  foes — 
Converted  foes  should  scorn  to  join  with  those. 

XIII. 
This  were  the  worst  desertion  ; — renegadocs, 

Even  shuffling  Southey,  that  incarnate  lie. 
Would  scarcely  join  again  the  "  reformadoes,'" 

Whom  he  forsook  to  fill  the  laureate's  sty  ; 
And  honest  men  from  Iceland  to  Barbadoes, 

Whether  in  Caledon  or  Italy, 
Should  not  veer  round  with  every  breath,  nor  seize 
To  pain,  the  moment  when  you  cease  to  please. 

XIV. 
The  lawyer  and  the  critic  but  behold 

The  baser  sides  of  literature  and  life, 
And  naught  remains  unseen,  but  much  untold. 

By  those  who  scour  those  double  vales  of  strife. 
While  common  men  grow  ignorantly  old, 

The  lawyer's  brief  is  like  the  surgeon's  knife. 
Dissecting  the  whole  inside  of  a  question, 
And  with  it  all  the  process  of  digestion. 

XV. 
A  legal  broom  's  a  moral  chimney-sweeper, 

And  that's  the  reason  he  himself  's  so  dirty ; 
The  endless  soot'  bestows  a  tint  far  deeper 

Than  can  be  hid  by  altering  his  shirt ;  he 
Retains  the  sable  stains  of  the  dark  creeper. 

At  least  some  twenty-nine  do  out  of  thirty. 
In  all  their  habits  ; — not  so  you,  I  own ; 
As  Caesar  wore  his  robe  you  wear  your  gown. 

XVI. 
And  all  our  little  feuds,  at  least  all  mine, 
Dear  Jeflrey,  once  my  most  redoubted  foe, 

'  "Eeformers,"  or  rather  "  Eeformed."  Tbe  Baron  Bradwar- 
dine  in  Waverley  is  authority  for  the  word. 

'  Query,  ««</— Printer's  Devil. 

'  The  brig  of  Don,  near  the  "  auld  toun  "  of  Aberdeen,  with  its 
one  arch,  and  its  black  deep  salmon  stream  below,  is  in  my  mem- 
ory as  yesterday.  I  still  remember,  though  perhaps  I  may  mis- 
qnote,  the  awfal  proverb  which  made  me  pause  to  cross  it,  and 


(As  far  as  rhyme  and  criticism  combine 
To  make  such  puppets  of  us  things  below,) 

Are  over  :  Here's  a  health  to  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  !" 
I  do  not  know  you,  and  may  never  know 

Your  face — but  you  have  acted  on  the  whole 

Most  nobly,  and  I  own  it  from  my  soul. 

XVII. 
And  when  I  use  the  phrase  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  !" 

'Tis  not  address'd  to  you — the  more  's  the  pity 
For  me,  for  I  would  rather  take  my  wine  [city. 

With  you,  than  aught  (save  Scott)  in  your  proud 
But  somehow, — it  may  seem  a  schoolboy's  whine, 

And  yet  I  seek  not  to  be  grand  nor  witty. 
But  I  am  half  a  Scot  by  birth,  and  bred 
A  whole  one,  and  my  heart  flies  to  my  head, — 

XVIII. 
As  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  brings  Scotland  one  and  all, 

Scotch  plaids,  Scotch  snoods,  the  blue  hills,  and 
clear  streams, 
The  Dee,  the  Don,  Balgounie's  brig's  blaci  wall,' 

AU  my  boy  feelings,  all  my  gentler  dreams 
Of  what  I  titen  dreamt,  clothed  in  their  own  pall, 

Like  Banquo's  oflfspring  ; — floating  past  me  seems 
My  childhood  in  this  childisliness  of  mine  : 
I  care  not — 'tis  a  glimpse  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 

XIX. 
And  though,  as  you  remember,  in  a  fit 

Of  wrath  and  rhyme,  when  juvenile  and  curly, 
I  rail'd  at  Scots  to  show  my  wrath  and  wit. 

Which  must  be  own'd  was  sensitive  and  surly. 
Yet  'tis  in  vain  such  sallies  to  permit. 

They  cannot  quench  young  feelings  fresh  and  early : 
I  "  aeotcK'd  not  kill'd  "  the  Scotchman  in  my  blood. 
And  love  the  land  of  "  mountain  and  of  flood." 

XX. 

Don  Juan,  who  was  real,  or  ideal, — 

For  both  are  much  the  same,  since  what  men 
Exists  when  the  once  thinkers  are  less  real     [think 

Than  what  they  thought,  for  mind  can  never  sink, 
And  'gainst  the  body  makes  a  strong  appeal ; 

And  yet  'tis  very  puzzling  on  the  brink 
Of  what  is  caU'd  eternity,  to  stare. 
And  know  no  more  of  what  is  here,  than  there ; — 

XXI. 

Don  Juan  grew  a  very  polish'd  Russian — 

How  we  won't  mention,  why  we  need  not  say  : 

Few  youthful  minds  can  stand  the  strong  concussion 
Of  any  slight  temptation  in  their  way  ; 

yet  lean  over  It  with  a  childish  delight,  being  an  only  son,  at  least 
by  the  mother's  side.  The  saying  as  recollected  by  me  was 
this,  but  I  have  never  heard  or  seen  it  since  I  was  nine  years  of 
age:— 

*'  Brig  of  Balgounie,  black  's  your  wa'', 
Wi'  a  wife's  ae  son,  and  a  mear's  aefoal, 
•  Doun  ye  shall  fa'  1" 


Canto  x. 


DON    JUAK. 


670 


But  his  just  now  were  spread  as  is  a  cushion 

Smooth'd  for  a  monarch's  seat  of  honor  :  gay 
Damsels,  and  dances,  revels,  ready  money, 
Made  ice  seem  paradise,  and  winter  sunny. 

XXII. 

The  favor  of  the  empress  was  agreeable  ; 

And  though  the  duty  wax'd  a  little  hard, 
Young  people  at  his  time  of  life  should  be  able 

To  come  off  handsomely  in  that  regard. 
He  was  now  growing  up  like  a  green  tree,  able 

For  love,  war,  or  ambition,  which  reward 
Their  luckier  votaries,  till  old  age's  tedium 
Make  some  prefer  the  circulating  medium. 

XXIII. 
About  this  time,  as  might  have  been  anticipated, 

Seduced  by  youth  and  dangerous  examples, 
Don  Juan  grew,  I  fear,  a  little  dissipated ; 

Which  is  a  sad  thing,  and  not  only  tramples 
On  our  fresh  feelings,  but — as  being  participated 

With  all  kinds  of  incorrigible  samples 
Of  frail  humanity — must  make  us  selfish, 
And  shut  our  souls  up  in  us  like  a  shcU-flsh. 

XXIV. 
This  we  pass  over.    We  will  also  pass 

The  usual  progress  of  intrigues  between 
Unequal  matches,  such  as  are,  alas  1 

A  young  lieutenant's  with  a  not  old  queen. 
But  one  who  is  not  so  youthful  as  she  was 

In  all  the  royalty  of  sweet  seventeen. 
Sovereigns  may  sway  materials,  but  not  matter. 
And  wrinkles,  the  d d  democrats,  won't  flatter. 

XXV. 
And  Death,  the  sovereign's  sovereign,  though  the 
great 

Gracchus  of  all  mortality,  who  levels, 
With  bis  Agrarian  laws,'  the  high  estate 

Of  him  who  feasts,  and  fights,  and  roars,  and  revels. 
To  one  small  grass-grown  patch  (which  must  await 

Corruption  for  its  crop)  with  the  poor  devils 
Who  never  had  a  foot  of  land  till  now, — 
Death 's  a  reformer,  all  men  must  allow. 

XXVI. 
He  lived  (not  Death,  but  Juan)  in  a  hurry  [tcr. 

Of  waste,  and  haste,  and  glare,  and  gloss,  and  glit- 
In  this  gay  clime  of  bear-skins  black  and  furry — 

Which  (though  I  hate  to  say  a  thing  that 's  bitter) 
Peep  out  sometimes,  when  things  arc  in  a  flurry, 

Through  all  the  "  purple  and  fine  linen,"  fitter 
For  Babylon's  than  Russia's  royal  harlot — 
And  neutralize  her  outward  show  of  scarlet. 

>  Tibcrins  Gracchne,  being  tribune  of  the  people,  demanded  in 
their  name  the  execution  of  the  Agrarian  law ;  by  which  all  pcr- 


XXVII. 
And  this  same  state  we  won't  describe  :  we  would 

Perhaps  from  hearsay,  or  from  recollection  ; 
But  getting  nigh  grim  Dante's  "  obscure  wood," 

That  horrid  equinox,  that  hateful  section 
Of  human  years,  that  half-way  house,  that  rude 

Hut,  whence  wise  travelers  drive  with  circumspec- 
Life's  sad  post-horses  o'er  the  dreary  frontier  [tion 
Of  age,  and  looking  back  to  youth,  give  one  tear ; — 

XXVIII. 

I  won't  describe, — that  is,  if  I  can  help 
Description ;  and  I  won't  reflect, — that  is. 

If  I  can  stave  off  thought,  which — as  a  whelp 

Clings  to  its  teat — sticks  to  me  through  the  abyss 

Of  this  odd  labyrinth  ;  or  as  the  kelp 
Holds  by  the  rock ;  or  as  a  lover's  kiss 

Drains  its  first  draught  of  lips  : — ^but,  as  I  said, 

I  won^t  philosophize,  and  will  be  read. 

XXIX. 
Juan,  instead  of  courting  courts,  was  courted, — 

A  thing  which  happens  rarely ;  this  he  owed 
Much  to  his  youth,  and  much  to  his  reported 

Valor ;  much  also  to  the  blood  he  show'd. 
Like  a  racehorse ;  much  to  each  dress  he  sported, 

Which  set  the  beauty  off  in  which  he  glow'd. 
As  purple  clouds  befringe  the  sun ;  but  most 
He  owed  to  an  old  woman  and  Ms  post. 

XXX. 

He  wrote  to  Spain  : — and  all  his  near  relations, 
Perceiving  he  was  in  a  handsome  way. 

Of  getting  on  himself,  and  finding  stations 
For  cousins  also,  answer'd  the  same  day. 

Several  prepared  themselves  for  emigrations 
And  eating  ices,  were  o'erheard  to  say. 

That  with  the  addition  of  a  slight  pelisse, 

Madrid's  and  Moscow's  climes  were  of  a  piece. 

XXXI. 
His  mother,  Donna  Inez,  finding,  too, 

That  in  the  lieu  of  drawing  on  his  banker. 
Where  his  assets  were  waxing  rather  few,     [chor, — 

He  had  brought  his  spending  to  a  handsome  an- 
Replied,  "  that  she  was  glad  to  see  him  through 

Those  pleasures  after  which  wild  youth  will  hank- 
As  the  sole  sign  of  man's  being  in  his  senses  [er ; 
Is,  learning  to  reduce  his  past  expenses. 

XXXII. 

"  She  also  recommended  him  to  Qod, 
And  no  less  to  God's  Son,  as  well  as  Mother, 

Wam'd  him  against  Greek  worship,  which  looks  odd 
In  Catholic  eyes  ;  but  told  him,  too,  to  smother 


Bone  possesslDg  above  a  certain  number  of  acres  were  to  be  de- 
prived of  the  Burplus  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  citizens. 


680 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  x. 


Outward  dislike,  -which  don't  look  -well  abroad  ; 

Inform'd  him  that  he  had  a  little  brother 
Bom  in  a  second  wedlock  ;  and  above 
All,  praised  the  empress's  maternal  love. 

XXXIII. 
"  She  could  not  too  much  give  her  approbation 

Unto  an  empress,  who  preferr'd  young  men 
Whose  age,  and  what  was  better  still,  whose  nation 

And  climate,  stopp'd  all  scandal,  (now  and  then :) 
At  home  it  might  have  given  her  some  vexation  ; 

But  where  thermometers  sunk  down  to  ten, 
Or  five,  or  one,  or  zero,  she  could  never 
Believe  that  virtue  thaw'd  before  the  river." 

XXXIV. 
Oh,  for  B,  forty-parson  power'  to  chant 

Thy  praise.  Hypocrisy  !  Oh,  for  a  hymn 
Loud  as  the  virtues  thou  dost  loudly  vaunt. 

Not  practise  !    Oh,  for  trumps  of  cherubim  ! 
Or  the  ear-trumpet  of  my  good  old  aunt. 

Who,  though  her  spectacles  at  last  grew  dim. 
Drew  quiet  consolation  through  its  hint. 
When  she  no  more  could  read  the  pious  print. 

XXXV. 
She  was  no  hypocrite  at  least,  poor  soul, 

But  went  to  heaven  in  as  sincere  a  way 
As  anybody  on  the  elected  roll. 

Which  portions  out  upon  the  judgment  day 
Heaven's  freeholds,  in  a  sort  of  doomsday  scroll 

Such  as  the  conqueror  William  did  repay 
His  knights  with,  lotting  others'  properties 
Into  some  sixty  thousand  new  knights'  fees. 

XXXVI. 
I  can't  complain,  whose  ancestors  are  there, 

Emeis,  Radulphus — eight-and-forty  manors 
(If  that  my  memory  doth  not  greatly  err) 

Were  their  reward  for  following  Billy's  banners  ; 
And  though  I  can't  help  thinking  'twas  scarce  fair 

To  strip  the  Saxons  of  their  hydes,'  like  tanners  ; 
Yet  as  they  founded  churches  with  the  produce. 
You'll  deem,  no  doubt,  they  put  it  to  a  good  use. 

XXXVII. 

The  gentle  Juan  flourish'd,  though  at  times 
He  felt  like  other  plants  call'd  sensitive. 

Which  shrink  f\-om  touch,  as  monarchs  do  from 
Save  such  as  Southey  can  afford  to  give,  [rhymes. 

Perhaps  he  long'd  in  bitter  frosts  for  climes 
In  which  the  Neva's  ice  would  cease  to  live 

Before  May-day :  perhaps,  despite  his  duty. 

In  royalty's  vast  arms  he  sigh'd  for  beauty  : 

*  A  metaphor  taken  from  the  "  forty-horse  power  "  of  a  Bteam- 
engine.  That  mad  wag,  the  Reverend  Sydney  Smith,  sitting  by  a 
brother  clergyman  at  dinner,  observed  afterwards  that  his  dull 
neighbor  had  a  "  twelve-parmn  power"  of  conversation. 


XXXVIII. 

Perhaps — but,  sans  perhaps,  we  need  not  seek 
For  causes  young  or  old  :  the  canker-worm 

Will  feed  upon  the  fairest,  freshest  cheek, 
As  well  as  further  drain  the  wither'd  form  : 

Care,  like  a  housekeeper,  brings  every  week 
His  bills  in,  and  however  we  may  storm. 

They  must  be  paid :  though  six  days  smoothly  run, 

The  seventh  will  bring  blue  devils  or  a  dun. 

XXXIX. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  he  grew  sick  : 
The  empress  was  alarm'd,  and  her  physician 

(The  same  who  physick'd  Peter)  found  the  tick 
Of  his  fierce  pulse  betoken  a  condition 

Which  augur'd  of  the  dead,  however  quick 
Itself,  and  show'd  a  feverish  disposition ; 

At  which  the  whole  court  was  extremely  troubled, 

The  sovereign  shock'd,  and  all  his  medicines  doubled. 

XL. 
Low  were  whispers,  manifold  the  rumors  : 

Some  said  he  had  been  poison'd  by  Potemkin  ; 
Others  talk'd  learnedly  of  certain  tumors. 

Exhaustion,  or  disorders  of  the  same  kin  ; 
Some  said  'twas  a  concoction  of  the  humors. 

Which  with  the  blood  too  readily  will  claim  kin ; 
Others  again  were  ready  to  maintain, 
"  'Twas  only  the  fatigue  of  last  campaign." 

XLI. 
But  here  is  one  prescription  out  of  many : 

"  Sodae  sulphat.  3  vj.  3  &.  Mannse  optim. 
Aq.  fervent,  f.  |  ifs.  3  ij.  tinct.  Sennse 

Haustus  "  (And  here  the  surgeon  came  and  cupp'd 
"5  Pulv.  Com.  gr.  iij.  Ipecacuanha;"  [him) 

(With  more  beside  if  Juan  had  not  stopp'd  'em.) 
"  Bolus  PotasssB  Sulphuret.  sumendus." 
Et  haustus  ter  in  die  capiendus." 

XLII. 

This  is  the  way  physicians  mend  or  end  us, 
Secundum  artem  :  but  although  we  sneer 

In  health— when  ill,  we  call  them  to  attend  us, 
Without  the  least  propensity  to  jeer  : 

While  that  "  hiatus  maxims  deflendus  " 
To  be  flll'd  up  by  spade  or  mattock 's  near. 

Instead  of  gliding  graciously  down  Lethe, 

We  tease  mild  Baillie,  or  soft  Abemethy. 

XLIII. 
Juan  demurr'd  at  this  first  notice  to 

Quit ;  and  though  death  had  threaten'd  an  ejec- 
His  youth  and  constitution  bore  him  through,  [tion, 

And  sent  the  doctors  in  a  new  direction. 


2  "Hyde."— I  believe  a  hyde  of  land  to  be  a  legitimate  word, 
and,  as  such,  subject  to  the  tax  of  a  quibble. 


Canto  x. 


DON    JUAN. 


681 


But  still  his  state  was  delicate  :  the  hue 

Of  health  but  flicker'd  with  a  faint  reflection 
Along  his  wasted  cheek,  and  seem'd  to  gravel 
The  faculty — who  said  that  he  must  traveL 

XLIV. 
The  climate  was  too  cold,  they  said,  for  him, 

Mcridian-bom,  to  bloom  in.     This  opinion 
Made  the  chaste  Catherine  look  a  little  grim, 

Who  did  not  Uke  at  first  to  lose  her  minion  : 
But  when  she  saw  his  dazzling  eye  wax  dim. 

And  drooping  like  an  eagle's  with  dipt  pinion. 
She  then  resolved  to  send  him  on  a  mission, 
But  in  a  style  becoming  his  condition. 

XLV. 
There  was  just  then  a  kind  of  a  discussion, 

A  sort  of  treaty  or  negotiation 
Between  the  British  cabinet  and  Russian, 

Maintain'd  with  all  the  due  prevarication 
With  which  great  states  such  things  arc  apt  to 
push  on ; 

Sometimes  about  the  Baltic's  navigation, 
Hides,  train-oil,  tallow,  and  the  rights  of  Thetis, 
Which  Britons  deem  their  "  uti  possidetis." 

XLVI. 
So  Catherine,  who  had  a  handsome  way 

Of  fitting  out  her  favorites,  conferr'd 
This  secret  charge  on  Juan,  to  display 

At  once  her  royal-splendor,  and  reward 
His  services.    He  kiss'd  hands  the  next  day. 

Received  instructions  how  to  play  his  card. 
Was  laden  with  all  kinds  of  gifts  and  honors,  [nor's. 
Which  show'd  what  great  discernment  was  the  do- 

XLVII. 
But  she  was  lucky,  and  luck 's  all.    Your  queens 

Are  generally  prosperous  in  reigning ; 
Which  puzzles  us  to  know  what  Fortune  means. 

But  to  continue  :  though  her  years  were  waning 
Her  climacteric  teased  her  like  her  teens  ; 

And  though  her  dignity  brook'd  no  complaining. 
So  much  did  Juan's  setting  off  distress  her, 
She  could  not  find  at  first  a  fit  successor. 

XLVIII. 
But  time,  the  comforter,  will  come  at  last ; 

And  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  twice  that  num- 
Of  candidates  requesting  to  be  placed,  [ber 

Made  Catherine  taste  next  night  a  quiet  slumber : 
Not  that  she  meant  to  fix  again  in  haste. 

Nor  did  she  find  the  quantity  encumber, 
But  always  choosing  with  deliberation. 
Kept  the  place  open  for  their  emulation. 

XLIX. 
While  this  high  post  of  honor  's  in  abeyance, 
For  one  or  two  days,  reader,  we  request 
80 


You'll  mount  with  our  young  hero  the  conveyance 
Which  wafted  him  from  Petersburgh  :  the  best 

Barouche,  which  had  the  glory  to  display  once 
The  fair  czarina's  autocratic  crest. 

When,  a  new  Iphigene,  she  went  to  Tauris, 

Was  given  to  her  favorite,  and  now  hore  Im. 


A  bull-dog,  and  a  buUflnch,  and  an  ermine. 
All  private  favorites  of  Don  Juan  ; — for 

(Let  deeper  sages  the  true  cause  determine) 
He  had  a  kind  of  inclination,  or 

Weakness,  for  what  most  people  deem  mere  vermin, 
Live  animals  :  an  old  maid  of  threescore 

For  cats  and  birds  more  penchant  ne'er  display'd. 

Although  he  was  not  old,  nor  even  a  maid  ; — 

LI. 

The  animals  aforesaid  occupied 

Their  station  :  there  were  valets,  secretaries, 
In  other  vehicles  ;  but  at  his  side 

Sat  little  Leila,  who  survived  the  parries 
He  made  'gainst  Cossacque  sabres,  in  the  wide 

Slaughter  of  Ismail.  Though  my  wild  Muse  varies 
Her  note,  she  don't  forget  the  infant  girl 
Whom  he  preserved,  a  pure  and  living  pearl. 

LII. 

Poor  little  thing  !    She  was  as  fair  as  docile. 
And  with  that  gentle,  serious  character. 

As  rare  in  living  beings  as  a  fossile 
Man,    'midst    thy   mouldy   mammoths,    "  grand 
Cuvier  1" 

HI  fitted  was  her  ignorance  to  jostle 

With  this  o'erwhelming world, where  all  must  err: 

But  she  was  yet  but  ten  years  old,  and  therefore 

Was  tranquil,  though  she  knew  not  why  or  wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don  Juan  loved  her,  and  she  loved  him,  as 
Nor  brother,  father,  sister,  daughter  love. 

I  cannot  teU  exactly  what  it  was ; 
He  was  not  yet  quite  old  enough  to  prove 

Parental  feelings,  and  the  other  class, 
Call'd  brotherly  afiection,  could  not  move 

Hi»^ bosom, — for  ho  never  had  a  sister : 

Ah  1  if  he  had,  how  much  ho  would  have  miss'd  her  I 

LIT. 
And  still  loss  was  it  sensual ;  for  besides 

That  he  was  not  an  ancient  debauchee, 
(Wlio  Uke  sour  fruit,  to  stir  their  veins'  salt  tides, 

As  acids  rouse  a  dormant  alkali,) 
Although  Qtwill  happen  as  our  planet  guides) 

His  youth  was  not  the  chastest  that  might  be, 
There  was  the  purest  Platonism  at  bottom 
Of  all  his  feelings — only  he  forgot  'cm. 


682 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  x. 


LV. 

Just  now  there  was  no  peril  of  temptation  ; 

He  loved  the  infant  orphan  ho  had  saved, 
As  patriots  (now  and  then)  may  love  a  nation  ; 

His  pride,  too,  felt  that  she  was  not  enslaved 
Owing  to  him  ; — as  also  her  salvation  [paved. 

Through  his  means  and  the  church's  might  be 
But  one  thing  's  odd,  which  here  must  be  inserted, 
•  The  little  Turk  refused  to  be  converted. 

LVI. 

'Twas  strange  enough  she  should  retain  the  impres- 
sion [slaughter ; 

Through  such  a  scene  of  change,  and  dread,  and 
But  though  three  bishops  told  her  the  transgression. 

She  show'd  a  great  dislike  to  holy  water  ; 
She  also  had  no  passion  for  confession  ; 

Perhaps  she  had  nothing  to  confess  : — no  matter ; 
Whate'er  the  cause,  the  church  made  little  of  it — 
She  stiU  held  out  that  Mahomet  was  a  prophet. 

LVI  I. 

In  fact,  the  only  Christian  she  could  bear 

Was  Juan  ;  whom  she  seem'd  to  have  selected 

In  placeof  what  her  home  and  friends  once  icere. 
He  naturally  loved  what  he  protected  : 

And  thus  they  form'd  a  rather  curious  pair, 
A  guardian  green  in  years,  a  ward  connected 

In  neither  clime,  time,  blood,  with  her  defender  ; 

And  yet  this  want  of  ties  made  theirs  more  tender. 

LVIII. 

They  journey'd  on  through  Poland  and  through 
Warsaw, 

Famous  for  mines  of  salt  and  yokes  of  iron  : 
Through  Courland  also,  which  that  famous  farce  saw 

Which  gave  her   dukes   the  graceless   name   of 
"  Biron."  ' 
'Tis  the  same  landscape  which  the  modem  Mars  saw, 

Who  march'd  to  Moscow,  led  by  Fame,  the  siren  ! 
To  lose  by  one  month's  frost  some  twenty  years 
Of  conquest,  and  his  guard  of  grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let  this  not  seem  an  anti-climax  :^''  Oh, 

My  guard  !  my  old  guard  !"  exclaim'd  that  godof 

Think  of  the  Thunderer's  falling  down  below  [clay. 
Carotid-artery-cutting  Castlereagh  ! 

Alas  !  that  glory  should  be  chill'd  by  snow  ! 
But  should  we  wish  to  warm  us  on  our  way 

Through  Poland,  there  is  Kosciusko's  name 

Might  scatter  fire  through  ice,  like  Heola's  flame. 


'  In  the  Empress  Anne's  time,  Biren,  her  favorite,  assumed  the 
name  and  arms  of  the  "Birons"  of  France:  which  families  are 
yet  extant  with  that  of  England.  There  are  still  the  daughters  of 
Courland  of  that  name ;  one  of  them  I  remember  seeing  In  Eng- 
land in  the  blessed  year  of  the  Allies  (1814)— the  Dutchess  of  S. 


LX. 

From  Poland  they  came  on  through  Prussia  Proper, 
And  Konigsberg  the  capital,  whose  vaunt. 

Besides  some  veins  of  iron,  lead,  or  copper. 
Has  lately  been  the  great  Professor  Kant. 

Juan,  who  cared  not  a  tobacco-stopper 
About  philosophy,  pursued  his  jaunt 

To  Germany,  whose  somewhat  tardy  millions 

Have  princes  who  spur  more  than  their  postillions. 

LXI. 

And  thence  through  Berlin,  Dresden,  and  the  like, 
Until  he  reach'd  the  castellated  Rhine  : — 

Ye  glorious  Gothic  scenes  !  how  much  ye  strike 
All  phantasies,  not  even  excepting  mine  ; 

A  gray  wall,  a  green  ruin,  rusty  pike, 
Make  my  soul  pass  the  equinoctial  line 

Between  the  present  and  past  worlds,  and  hover 

Upon  their  airy  confine,  half-seas-over. 

LXII. 
But  Juan  pass'd  on  through  Slanheim,  Bonn, 

Which  Drachenfels  frowns  over  like  a  spectre 
Of  the  good  feudal  times  forever  gone, 

On  which  I  have  not  time  just  now  to  lecture. 
From  thence  he  was  drawn  onwards  to  Cologne, 

A  city  which  presents  to  the  inspector 
Eleven  thousand  maidenheads  of  bone, 
The  greatest  number  flesh  hath  ever  known.j 

LXIII. 
From  thence  to  Holland's  Hague  and  Helvoetsluys, 

The  water-land  of  Dutchmen  and  of  ditches. 
Where  juniper  expresses  its  best  juice. 

The  poor  man's  sparkling  substitute  for  riches. 
Senates  and  sages  have  condemn'd  its  use — 

But  to  deny  the  mob  a  cordial,  which  is 
Too  often  all  the  clothing,  meat,  or  fuel. 
Good  government  has  left  them,  seems  but  cruel. 

LXIV. 
Here  he  embark'd,  and  with  a  flowing  sail 

Went  bounding  for  the  island  of  the  free. 
Towards  which  the  impatient  wind  blew  half  a  gale ; 

High  dash'd  the  spray,  the  bows  dipp'd  in  the  sea. 
And  sea-sick  passengers  tum'd  somewhat  pale  ; 

But  Juan,  season'd,  as  he  well  might  be. 
By  former  voyages,  stood  to  watch  the  skifiB 
Which  pass'd,  or  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  cUAb. 

LXV. 
At  length  they  rose,  like  a  white  wall  along 
The  blue  sea's  border ;  and  Don  Juan  felt — 

to  whom  the  English  Duchess  of  Somerset  presented  me  as  a 
namesake. 

2  St.  Ursula  and  her  eleven  thousand  virgins  were  still  extant 
In  1816,  and  may  be  so  yet,  as  much  as  ever. 


Cakto  X. 


DON  JUAN. 


C83 


What  even  young  strangers  feel  a  little  strong 
At  the  first  sight  of  Albion's  chalky  belt — 

A  kind  of  pride  that  ho  should  be  among 
Those  haughty  shopkeepers,  who  sternly  dealt 

Their  goods  and  edicts  out  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  made  the  very  billows  pay  them  toll. 

LXVI. 

I've  no  great  cause  to  love  that  spot  of  earth, 

Which  holds  what  might  luive  "been  the  noblest 
nation ; 

But  though  I  owe  it  little  but  my  birth, 
I  feel  a  mix'd  regret  and  veneration 

For  its  decaying  fame  and  former  worth. 

Seven  years  (the  usual  term  of  transportation) 

Of  absence  lay  one's  old  resentments  level. 

When  a  man's  country  's  going  to  the  devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas  1  could  she  but  fully,  truly,  know 

How  her  great  name  is  now  throughout  abhorr'd : 
How  eager  all  the  earth  is  for  the  blow 

Which  shall  lay  bare  her  bosom  to  the  sword ; 
How  all  the  nations  deem  her  their  worst  foe, 

That  worst  than  worst  of  foen,  the  once  adored 
False  friend,  who  held  out  freedom  to  mankind. 
And  now  would  chain  them,  to  the  very  mind  :— 

LXVIII. 

Would  she  be  proud,  or  boast  herself  the  free. 
Who  is  but  first  of  slaves  ?    The  nations  are 

In  prison, — but  the  jailer,  what  is  he  ? 
No  less  a  victim  to  the  bolt  and  bar. 

Is  the  poor  privilege  to  turn  the  key 

Upon  the  captive,  freedom  ?    He's  as  far 

From  the  enjoyment  of  the  earth  and  air 

Who  watches  o'er  the  chain,  as  they  who  wear. 

LXIX. 

Don  Juan  now  saw  Albion's  earliest  beauties, 
Thy  cUfis,  dear  Dover  !  harbor,  and  hotel ; 

Thy  custom-house,  with  all  its  delicate  duties  ; 
Thy  waiters  running  mucks  at  every  bell ; 

Thy  packets,  all  whose  passengers  are  booties 
To  those  who  upon  land  or  water  dwell ; 

And  last,  not  least,  to  strangers  uninstructed. 

Thy  long,  long  bills,  whence  nothing  is  deducted. 

LXX. 

Juan,  though  careless,  young,  and  magnifique, 
And  rich  in  rubles,  diamonds,  cash,  and  credit. 

Who  did  not  Umit  much  his  bills  per  week. 
Yet  stared  at  this  a  little,  though  he  paid  it, — 

(His  Maggior  Duomo,  a  smart,  subtle  Greek, 
Before  him  summ'd  the  awful  scroll  and  read  it :) 

But  doubtless  as  the  air,  though  seldom  sunny. 

Is  free,  the  respiration  's  worth  the  money. 


LXXI. 

On  with  the  horses  !    Off  to  Canterbury  I 
Tramp,  tramp  o'er    pebble,  and  splash,  splash 
through  puddle ; 

Hurrah  I  Iiow  swiftly  speeds  the  post  so  merry  ! 
Not  Uke  slow  Germany,  wherein  they  muddle 

Along  the  road,  as  if  they  went  to  bury 

Their  fare  ;  and  also  pause  besides,  to  fuddle. 

With  "  schnapps  " — sad  dogs  !  whom  "  Hundsfot," 
or  "  Verflucter," 

Aflect  no  more  than  lightning  a  conductor. 

LXXir. 

Now  there  is  nothing  gives  a  man  such  spirits. 
Leavening  his  blood  as  cayenne  doth  a  curry, 

As  going  at  full  speed — no  matter  where  its 
Direction  be,  so  'tis  but  in  a  hurry. 

And  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  own  merits  ; 
For  the  less  cause  there  is  for  all  this  flurry. 

The  greater  is  the  pleasure  in  arriving 

At  the  great  end  of  travel — which  is  driving. 

LXXIII. 

They  saw  at  Canterbury  the  cathedral ; 

Black  Edward's  helm,  and  Becket's  bloody  stone. 
Were  pointed  out  as  usual  by  the  bcdral, 

In  the  same  quaint,  uninterested  tone  : — 
There 's  glory  again  for  you,  gentle  reader  !    All 

Ends  in  a  rusty  casque  and  dubious  bone. 
Half-solved  into  these  sodas  and  magnesias  ; 
Which  form  that  bitter  draught,  the  human  species. 

LXXIV. 
The  effect  on  Juan  was  of  course  sublime : 

Hebreathed  a  thousand  Cressys,  as  he  saw 
That  casque,  which  never  stoop'd  except  to  Time. 

Even  the  bold  Churchman's  tomb  excited  awe. 
Who  died  in  the  then  great  attempt  to  climb 

O'er  kings,  who  now  at  least  must  talk  of  law 
Before  they  butcher.    Little  Leila  gazed, 
And  ask'd  why  such  a  structure  had  been  raised  : 

LXXV. 

And  being  told  it  was  "  God's  house,"  she  said 
He  was  well  lodged,  but  only  wonder'd  how 

He  suffer'd  Infidels  in  his  homestead. 
The  cruel  Nazarenes,  who  had  laid  low 

His  holy  temples  in  the  lands  which  bred 
The  true  Believers  ; — and  her  infant  brow 

Was  bent  with  grief  that  Mahomet  should  resign 

A  mosque  so  noble,  flung  like  pearls  to  swine. 

LXXVI. 
On  !  on  !  through  meadows,  managed  like  a  garden, 

A  paradise  of  hops  and  high  production  ; 
For  after  years  of  travel  by  a  bard  in 

Countries  of  greater  heat,  but  lesser  suction, 


684 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  x. 


A  green  field  is  a  sight  whicli  makes  him  pardon 
The  absence  of  that  more  sublime  construction  ; 
Which  mixes  up  vines,  olives,  precipices. 
Glaciers,  volcanoes,  oranges,  and  ices. 

LXXVII. 
And  when  I  think  upon  a  pot  of  beer 

But  I  ■won't  weep  ! — and  so  drive  on,  postillions  ! 
As  the  smart  boys  spurr'd  fast  in  their  career, 

Juan  admired  these  highways  of  free  millions  ; 
A  country  in  all  senses  the  most  dear 

To  foreigner  or  native,  save  some  silly  ones. 
Who  "  kick  against  the  pricks  "  just  at  this  juncture, 
And  for  their  pains  get  only  a  fresh  puncture. 

LXXVIII. 

What  a  delightful  thing  's  a  turnpike  road  ! 

So  smooth,  so  level,  such  a  mode  of  shaving 
The  earth,  as  scarce  the  eagle  in  the  broad 

Air  can  accomplish,  with  his  wide  wings  waving. 
Had  such  been  cut  in  Phaeton's  time,  the  god 

Had  told  his  son  to  satisfy  his  craving 
With  the  York  mail ; — but  onward  as  we  roll, 
"  Surgit  amari  aliquid  " — the  toll ! 

LXXIX. 
Alas  !  how  deeply  painful  is  all  pa3rment  1     [purses. 

Take  lives,  take  wives,  take  aught  except  men's 
As  Machiavel  shows  those  in  purple  raiment, 

Such  is  the  shortest  way  to  general  curses. 
They  hate  a  murderer  much  less  than  a  claimant 

On  that  sweet  ore  which  everybody  nurses. — 
Kill  a  man's  family,  and  he  may  brook  it. 
But  keep  your  hands  out  of  his  breeches'  pocket : 

LXXX. 
So  said  the  Florentine  :  ye  monarchs,  hearken 

To  your  instructor.    Juan  now  was  borne, 
Just  as  the  day  began  to  wane  and  darken. 

O'er  the  high  hill,  which  looks  with  pride  or  scorn 
Toward  the  great  city. — Ye  who  have  a  spark  in 

Your  veins  of  Cockney  spirit,  smile  or  mourn 
According  as  you  take  things  well  or  ill ; — 
Bold  Britons,  we  are  now  on  Shooter's  Hill ! 

LXXXI. 
The  sun  went  down,  the  smoke  went  up,  as  from 

A  half-unquench'd  volcano,  o'er  a  space 
Which  well  beseem'd  the  "  Devil's  drawing-room," 

As  some  have  qualified  that  wondrous  place ; 
But  Juan  felt,  though  not  approaching  home, 

As  one  who,  though  he  were  not  of  the  race. 
Revered  the  soil,  of  those  true  sons  the  mother. 
Who  butcher'd  half  the  earth,  and  bulUed  t'other. 

LXXXII. 
A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping, 
Pirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 


Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 
In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 

Of  masts  ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 
On  tiptoe  through  their  sea-coal  canopy ; 

A  huge,  dun  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 

On  a  fool's  head—  and  there  is  London  Town  1 

LXXXIII. 

But  Juan  saw  not  this  :  each  wreath  of  smoke 
Appear'd  to  him  but  as  the  magic  vapor 

Of  some  alchymic  furnace,  from  whence  broke 
The  wealth  of  worlds,  (a  wealth  of  tax  and  paper :) 

The  gloomy  clouds,  which  o'er  it  as  a  yoke 
Are  bow'd,  and  put  the  sun  out  like  a  taper, 

Were  nothing  but  the  natural  atmosphere. 

Extremely  wholesome,  though  but  rarely  clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He  paused — and  so  will  I ;  as  doth  a  crew 
Before  they  give  their  broadside.    By  and  by, 

My  gentle  countrymen,  we  will  renew 

Our  old  acquaintance  ;  and  at  least  I'll  try 

To  tell  you  truths  you  will  not  take  as  true, 
Because  they  are  so  ; — a  male  Mrs.  Fry, 

With  a  soft  besom  will  I  sweep  your  halls. 

And  brush  a  web  or  two  from  off  the  walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh,  Mrs.  Fry  !    Why  go  to  Kewgate  ?    Why 
Preach  to  poor  rogues  ?    And  wherefore  not  begin 

With  Carlton,  or  with  other  houses  ?    Try 
Your  hand  at  harden'd  and  imperial  sin. 

To  mend  the  people  's  an  absurdity, 
A  jargon,  a  mere  philanthropic  din, 

Unless  you  make  their  betters  better  : — ^Fy  ! 

I  thought  you  had  more  religion,  Mrs.  Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach  them  the  decencies  of  good  threescore  ; 

Cure  them  of  tours,  hussar  and  highland  dresses ; 
Tell  them  that  youth  once  gone  returns  no  more. 

That  hired  huzzas  redeem  no  land's  distresses ; 
Tell  them  Sir  William  Curtis  is  a  bore. 

Too  dull  even  for  the  dullest  of  excesses, 
The  witless  Falstafif  of  a  hoary  Hal, 
A  fool  whose  bells  have  ceased  to  ring  at  all. 

LXXXVII. 

Tell  them,  though  it  may  be  perhaps  too  late 
On  life's  worn  confine,  jaded,  bloated,  sated, 

To  set  up  vain  pretences  of  being  great, 
'Tis  not  so  to  be  good ;  and  be  it  stated, 

The  worthiest  kings  have  ever  loved  least  state  : 
And  tell  them But  you  won't,  and  I  have  prated 

Just  now  enough  ;  but  by  and  by  I'll  prattle 

Like  Roland's  horn  in  Roncesvalles'  battle. 


Canto  xi. 


DON  JUAN. 


685 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO  THB    ELIVENTn. 


When  Bishop  Berkeley  said  "  there  was  no  matter," 
And  proved  it — 'twas  no  matter  what  he  said  : 

They  say  his  system  'tis  in  vain  to  batter, 
Too  subtle  for  the  airiest  human  head ; 

And  yet  who  can  believe  it  ?    I  would  shatter 
Gladly  all  matters  down  to  stone  or  lead, 

Or  adamant,  to  find  the  world  a  spirit. 

And  wear  my  head,  denying  that  I  wear  it. 

II. 
What  a  sublime  discovery  'twas  to  make  the 

Universe  universal  egotism, 
That  all 's  ideal — all  ourselves :  I'U  stake  the 

World  (be  it  what  you  will)  that  that 's  no  schism. 
O  Doubt !  —  if  thou  be'st  Doubt,  for  which  some 
take  thee. 

But  wliich  I  doubt  extremely — thou  sole  prism 
Of  the  Truth's  rays,  spoil  not  my  draught  of  spirit ! 
Heaven's  brandy,  though  our  brain  can  hardly  bear  it. 

III. 
Forever  and  anon  comes  Indigestion, 

(Not  the  most  "  dainty  Ariel ")  and  perplexes 
Our  soarings  with  another  sort  of  question  : 

And  that  which  after  all  my  spirit  vexes, 
Is,  that  I  find  no  spot  where  man  can  rest  eye  on. 

Without  confusion  of  the  sorts  and  sexes. 
Of  beings,  stars,  and  this  unriddled  wonder. 
The  world,  which  at  the  worst 's  a  glorious  blunder — 

IT. 
K  it  be  chance ;  or  if  it  be  according 

To  the  old  text,  still  better  : — lest  it  should 
Turn  out  so,  we'll  say  nothing  'gainst  the  wording. 

As  several  people  think  such  hazards  rude. 
They're  right ;  our  days  are  too  brief  for  affording 

Space  to  dispute  what  no  one  ever  could 
Decide,  and  eterylody  one  day  will 
Know  very  clearly — or  at  least  lie  still. 

V. 
And  therefore  wiU  I  leave  oflF  metaphysical 

Discussion,  which  is  neither  here  nor  there : 
If  I  agree  that  what  is,  is  ;  then  this  I  call 

Being  quite  perspicuous  and  extremely  fair ; 
The  truth  is,  I've  grown  lately  rather  phthisical : 

I  don't  know  what  the  reason  is — the  air 
Perhaps  ;  but  as  I  suiTer  from  the  shocks 
Of  illness,  I  grow  much  more  orthodox. 

VI. 
The  first  attack  at  once  proved  the  Divinity, 
(But  that  I  never  doubted,  nor  the  Devil ;) 


The  next,  the  Virgin's  mystical  virginity ; 

The  third,  the  usual  Origin  of  Evil ; 
The  fourth  at  once  establish'd  the  whole  Trinity 

On  so  uncontrovertible  a  level. 
That  I  devoutly  wish'd  the  three  were  four, 
On  purjjose  to  believe  so  much  the  more. 

VII. 

To  our  theme. — The  man  who  has  stood  on  the 
Acropolis, 

And  look'd  down  over  Attica  ;  or  he 
Who  has  sail'd  where  picturesque  Constantinople  is. 

Or  seen  Timbuctoo,  or  hath  taken  tea 
In  small-eyed  Cliina's  crockery-ware  metropolis, 

Or  sat  amidst  the  bricks  of  Nineveh, 
May  not  think  much  of  London's  first  appearance — 
But  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  it  a  year  hence  ? 

vm, 

Don  Juan  had  got  out  on  Shooter's  Hill ; 

Sunset  the  time,  the  place  the  same  declivity 
Which  looks  along  that  vale  of  good  and  ill 

Where  London  streets  ferment  in  fuU  activity ; 
While  every  thing  around  was  calm  and  still, 

Except  the  creak  of  wheels,  which  on  their  pivot 
Heard, — and  that  bee-like,  bubbling,  busy  hum  [he 
Of  cities,  that  boil  over  with  their  scum  : — 

IX. 
I  say,  Don  Juan,  wrapt  in  contemplation, 

Walk'd  on  behind  his  carriage,  o'er  the  summit, 
And  lost  in  wonder  of  so  great  a  nation. 

Gave  way  to  't,  since  he  could  not  overcome  it. 
"And  here,"  he  cried,  "is  Freedom's  chosen  station 

Here  peals  the  people's  voice,  nor  can  entomb  it 
Racks,  prisons,  inquisitions  ;  resurrection 
Awaits  it,  each  new  meeting  or  election. 


"  Here  are  chaste  wives,  pure  lives ;  here  people  pay 
But  what  they  please  ;  and  if  that  things  be  dear, 

'Tis  only  that  they  love  to  throw  away 
Their  cash,  to  show  how  much  they  have  a-year. 

Here  laws  are  all  inviolate  ;  none  lay 
Traps  for  the  traveler ;  every  highway  's  clear : 

Here — "  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knife,        [life  !" — 

With — "  Damn  your   eyes !    your   money  or  your 

XI. 

These  freeborn  sounds  proceeded  from  four  pads 
In  ambush  laid,  who  had  perceived  him  loiter 

Behind  his  carriage  ;  and,  like  handy  lads. 
Had  seized  the  lucky  hour  to  reconnoitre. 

In  which  the  heedless  gentleman  who  gads 
Upon  the  road,  unless  he  prove  a  fighter, 

May  find  himself  within  that  isle  of  riches 

Exposed  to  lose  his  life  as  well  as  breeches. 


686 


BYRON'S  WOKKS. 


Canto  xi. 


XII. 
Juan,  wlio  did  not  understand  a  word 

Of  English,  save  their  shibboleth,  "  God  damn  !" 
And  even  that  he  had  so  rarely  heard. 

He  sometimes  thought  'twas  only  their  "  Salam," 
Or  "  God  be  with  you  !" — and  'tis  not  absurd 

To  think  so  ;  for  half  English  as  I  am 
(To  my  misfortune)  never  can  I  say 
I  heard  them  wish  "  God  with  you,"  save  that  way ; — 

XIII. 
Juan  yet  quickly  understood  their  gesture, 

And  being  somewhat  choleric  and  sudden, 
Drew  forth  a  pocket  pistol  from  his  vesture. 

And  fired  it  into  one  assailant's  pudding — 
Who  fell,  as  rolls  an  ox  o'er  in  his  pasture. 

And  roar'd  out,  as  he  TVTithed  his  native  mud  in, 
Unto  his  nearest  follower  or  henchman,  [man  !" 

"  Oh,  Jack  !    I'm  floor'd  by  that  'ere  bloody  Freneh- 

XIV. 
On  which  Jack  and  his  train  set  off  at  speed. 

And  Juan's  suite,  late  scatter'd  at  a  distance. 
Came  up,  all  marvelling  at  such  a  deed, 

And  offering,  as  usual,  late  assistance. 
Juan,  who  saw  the  moon's  late  minion  bleed 

As  if  his  veins  would  pour  out  his  existence. 
Stood  calling  out  for  bandages  and  lint, 
And  wish'd  he  had  been  less  hasty  with  his  flint. 

XV. 

"  Perhaps,"  thought  he,  "  it  is  the  country's  wont 
To  welcome  foreigners  in  this  way :  now 

I  recollect  some  innkeepers  who  don't 
Differ,  except  in  robbing  with  a  bow, 

In  lieu  of  a  bare  blade  and  brazen  front. 
But  what  is  to  be  done  ?     I  can't  allow 

The  fellow  to  be  groaning  on  the  road  : 

So  take  Mm  up ;  I'll  help  you  with  the  load." 

XVI. 
But  ere  they  could  perform  this  pious  duty. 

The  dying  man  cried,  "  Hold  !  I've  got  my  gruel  1 
Oh  !  for  a  glass  of  max  !    We've  miss'd  our  booty ; 

Let  me  die  where  I  am  !"     And  as  the  fuel 
Of  life  shrunk  in  his  heart,  and  thick  and  sooty 

The  drops  fell  from  his  death-wound,  and  he  drew 
His  breath, — he  from  his  swelling  throat  untied  [iU 
A  kerchief,  crying,  "  Give  Sal  that !" — and  died. 

XVII. 
The  cravat  stain'd  with  bloody  drops  fell  down 

Before  Don  Juan's  feet :  he  could  not  tell 
Exactly  why  it  was  before  him  thrown. 

Nor  what  the  meaning  of  the  man's  farewell. 
Poor  Tom  was  once  a  kiddy  upon  town, 

A  thorough  varmint,  and  a  real  swell, 
Full  flash,  all  fancy,  until  fairly  diddled. 
His  pockets  first  and  then  his  body  riddled. 


XVIII. 
Don  Juan,  having  done  the  best  he  could 

In  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case. 
As  soon  as  "  Crowner's  quest "  allow'd,  pursued 

His  travels  to  the  capital  apace  ; — 
Esteeming  it  a  little  hard  he  should 

In  twelve  hours'  time,  and  very  little  space, 
Have  been  obliged  to  slay  a  freeborn  native 
In  self-defence  :  this  made  him  meditative. 

XIX. 
He  from  the  world  had  cut  off  a  great  man, 

Who  in  his  time  had  made  heroic  bustle. 
Who  in  a  row  like  Tom  could  lead  the  van. 

Booze  in  the  ken,  or  at  the  spellken  hustle  ? 
Wlio  queer  a  flat  ?     Who  (spite  of  Bow-street's  ban) 

On  the  high  toby-spice  so  flash  the  muzzle  ? 
Who  on  a  lark,  with  black-eyed  Sal,  (his  blowing,) 
So  prime,  so  swell,  so  nutty,  and  so  knowing  ? 

XX. 

But  Tom  's  no  more — and  so  no  more  of  Tom. 

Heroes  must  die  ;  and  by  God's  blessing  'tis 
Not  long  before  the  most  of  them  go  home. 

Hail !  Thamis,  hail !     Upon  thy  verge  it  is 
That  Juan's  chariot,  rolUng  like  a  drum 

In  thunder,  holds  the  way  it  can't  well  miss. 
Through  Kennington  and  all  the  other  "  tons," 
Wliich  make  us  wish  ourselves  in  town  at  once  ; — 

XXI. 
Through  Groves,  so  call'd  as  being  void  of  trees, 

(Like  lucus  from  no  light ;)   through  prospects 
named 
Mount  Pleasant,  as  containing  naught  to  please, 

Nor  much  to  climb  ;  through  little  boxes  framed 
Of  bricks,  to  let  the  dust  in  at  your  ease. 

With  "  To  be  let,"  upon  their  doors  proclaim'd ; 
Through  "  Rows,"  most  modestly  call'd  "  Paradise," 
Which  Eve  might  quit  without  much  sacrifice ; — 

XXII. 
Through  coaches,  drays,  choked  turnpikes,  and  a  whirl 

Of  wheels,  and  roar  of  voices,  and  confusion ; 
Here  taverns  wooing  to  a  pint  of  "  purl," 

There  mails  fast  flying  off  like  a  delusion  ; 
There  barbers'  blocks  with  periwigs  in  curl 

In  windows  ;  here  the  lamplighter's  infusion 
Slowly  distill'd  into  the  glimmering  glass, 
(For  in  those  days  we  had  not  got  to  gas — ;) 

xxin. 

Through  this,  and  much,  and  more,  is  the  approach 

Of  travellers  to  mighty  Babylon  : 
Whether  they  come  by  horse,  or  chaise,  or  coach, 

With  slight  exceptions,  aU  the  ways  seem  one. 
I  could  say  more,  but  do  not  choose  to  encroach 

Upon  the  Guide-book's  privilege.    The  sun 


Canto  xi. 


DON    JUAN. 


687 


r 


Had  set  some  time,  and  night  was  on  the  ridge 
Of  twilight,  as  the  party  cross'd  the  bridge. 

XXIV. 
That 's  rather  fine,  the  gentle  sound  of  Thamis — 

AVho  vindicates  a  moment,  too,  his  stream —  [me's." 
Though  hardly  heard  through  multifarious  "dam- 

The  lamps  of  Westminster's  more  regular  gleam, 
The  breadth  of  pavement,  and  yon  shrine  where 

A  spectral  resident — ^whose  pallid  beam     [fame  is 
In  shape  of  moonshine  hovers  o'er  the  pile — 
Make  this  a  sacred  part  of  Albion's  isle." 

XXV. 
The  Druids'  groves  are  gone — so  much  the  better : 

Stone-JFTcnge  is  not — but  what  the  devil  is  it  ? — 
But  Bedlam  still  exists  with  its  sage  fetter, 

That  madmen  may  not  bite  you  on  a  visit ; 
The  Bench  too  seats  or  suits  full  many  a  debtor  ; 

The  Mansion  House  too  (though  some  people  quiz 
To  me  appears  a  stiff  yet  grand  erection  ;  [it) 

But  then  the  Abbey  's  worth  the  whole  collection. 

XXVI. 

The  line  of  lights  too  up  to  Charing  Cross, 
Pall  Mall,  and  so  forth,  have  a  coruscation 

Like  gold  as  in  comparison  to  dross, 

Match'd  with  the  Continent's  illumination. 

Whose  cities  Night  by  no  means  deigns  to  gloss. 
The  French  were  not  yet  a  lamp-lighting  nation. 

And  when  they  grew  so — on  their  new-found  lantern, 

Instead  of  wicks,  they  made  a  wicked  man  turn. 

XXVII. 
A  row  of  gentlemen  along  the  streets 

Suspended  may  illuminate  mankind, 
As  also  bonfires  made  of  tountry-seats  ; 

But  the  old  way  is  best  for  the  purblind : 
The  other  looks  like  phosphorus  on  sheets, 

A  sort  of  ignis  fatuus  to  the  mind, 
Which,  though  'tis  certain  to  perplex  and  frighten. 
Must  bum  more  mildly  ere  it  can  enlighten. 

XXVIII. 
But  London 's  so  well  lit,  that  if  Diogenes 

Could  recommence  to  hunt  his  honest  man, 
And  found  him  not  amidst  the  various  progenies 

Of  this  enormous  city's  spreading  spawn, 
'Twere  not  for  want  of  lamps  to  aid  his  dodging  his 

Yet  undiscovcr'd  treasure.    What /can, 
I've  done  to  find  the  same  throughout  life's  journey, 
But  see  the  world  is  only  one  attorney. 

XXIX. 
Over  the  stones  still  rattling  up  Pall  Mall, 
Through  crowds  and  carriages,  but  waxing  thinner 


'  "  HelU,"  gaming-honses.  What  their  number  may  now  be  in 
this  life,  I  Icnow  not.  Before  I  was  of  age  I  knew  tlicm  pretty 
ficcurately,  both  "  gold  "  and  "  silver."    I  was  onco  nearly  called 


As  thunder'd  knockers  broke  the  long  seal'd  spell 
Of  doors  'gainst  duns,  and  to  an  early  dinner 

Admitted  a  small  party  as  night  fell, — 
Don  Juan,  our  young  diplomatic  sinner. 

Pursued  his  path,  and  drove  past  some  hotels, 

St.  James's  Palace  and  St.  James's  "  Hells.'" 

XXX. 

They  reach'd  the  hotel :  forth  stream'd  from  the  front 
A  tide  of  weU-clad  waiters,  and  around         [door 

The  mob  stood,  and  as  usual  several  score 
Of  those  pedestrian  Paphians  who  abound 

In  decent  London  when  the  daylight 's  o'er  ; 
Commodious  but  immoral,  they  are  found 

Useful,  like  Malthus,  in  promoting  marriage. — 

But  Juan  now  is  stepping  from  his  carriage 

XXXI. 
Into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  hotels. 

Especially  for  foreigners — and  mostly 
For  those  whom  favor  or  whom  fortune  swells, 

And  cannot  find  a  bill's  smaU  items  costly. 
There  many  an  envoy  either  dwelt  or  dwells, 

(The  den  of  many  a  diplomatic  lost  lie,) 
Until  to  some  conspicuous  square  they  pass. 
And  blazon  o'er  the  door  their  names  in  brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan,  whose  was  a  delicate  commission. 
Private,  though  publicly  important,  bore 

No  title  to  point  out  with  due  precision 
The  exact  afiair  on  which  he  was  sent  o'er. 

'Twas  merely  known,  that  on  a  secret  mission 
A  foreigner  of  rank  had  graced  our  shore. 

Young,  handsome,  and  accomplish'd,  who  was  said 

(In  whispers)  to  have  tum'd  his  sovereign's  head. 

XXXIII. 
Some  rumor  also  of  some  strange  adventures 

Had  gone  before  him,  and  his  wars  and  loves  ; 
And  as  romantic  heads  are  pretty  painters, 

And,  above  all,  an  Englishwoman's  roves 
Into  the  excursive,  breaking  the  indentures 

Of  sober  reason,  wheresoe'er  it  moves. 
He  found  himself  extremely  in  the  fashion. 
Which  serves  our  thinking  people  for  a  passion. 

XXXIV. 
I  don't  mean  that  they  are  passionless,  but  quite 

The  contrary  ;  but  then  'tis  in  the  head ; 
Yet  as  the  consequences  are  as  bright 

As  if  they  acted  with  the  heart  instead. 
What  after  all  can  signify  the  site 

Of  ladies'  lucubrations  ?  So  they  lead 
In  safety  to  the  place  for  which  you  start. 
What  matters  if  the  road  be  head  or  heart  ? 


oat  by  an  acquaintaucc,  because  when  he  asked  me  where  i 
thought  his  soul  would  bo  found  hereafter,  I  answered,  "  In  sil- 
ver Hell." 


688 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  xi. 


XXXV. 

Juan  presented  in  the  proper  place, 

To  proper  jjlacemen,  every  Russ  credential ; 

And  was  received  with  all  the  due  grimace, 
By  those  who  govern  in  the  mood  potential. 

Who,  seeing  a  handsome  stripling  with  smooth  face. 
Thought  (what  in  state  affairs  is  most  essential) 

That  they  as  easily  might  do  the  youngster. 

As  hawks  may  pounce  upon  a  woodland  songster. 

XXXVI. 
They  err'd,  as  aged  men  will  do  ;  but  by 

And  by  we  '11  talk  of  that ;  and  if  we  don't, 
'T  will  be  because  our  notion  is  not  high 

Of  politicians  and  their  double  front. 
Who  live  by  lies,  yet  dare  not  boldly  lie  : — 

Now  what  I  love  in  women  is,  they  won't 
Or  can't  do  otherwise  than  lie,  but  do  it 
So  well,  the  very  truth  seems  falsehood  to  it. 

XXXVII. 
And,  after  all,  what  is  a  lie  ?    'Tis  but 

The  truth  in  masquerade  ;  and  I  defy 
Historians,  heroes,  lawyers,  priests,  to  put 

A  fact  without  some  leaven  of  a  lie. 
The  very  shadow  of  true  Truth  would  shut 

Up  annals,  revelations,  poesy, 
And  prophecy— except  it  should  be  dated 
Some  years  before  the  incidents  related. 

XXXVIII. 
Praised  be  all  liars  and  all  lies  !    Who  now 

Cam  tax  my  mild  Muse  with  misanthropy  ? 
She  rings  the  world's  "  Te  Deum,"  and  her  brow 

Blushes  for  those  who  will  not : — but  to  sigh 
Is  idle  ;  let  us  like  most  others  bow, 

Kiss  hands,  feet,  any  part  of  majesty, 
After  the  good  example  of  "  Green  Erin,"  [ing. 

Whose  shamrock  now  seems  rather  worse  for  wear- 

XXXIX. 

Don  Juan  was  presented,  and  his  dress 
And  mien  excited  general  admiration — 

I  don't  know  which  was  more  admired  or  less  : 
One  monstrous  diamond  drew  much  observation. 

Which  Catherine  in  a  moment  of  "  ivresse  " 
(In  love  or  brandy's  fervent  fermentation) 

Bestow'd  upon  him,  as  the  pubUc  leam'd  ; 

And,  to  say  truth,  it  had  been  fairly  eam'd. 

XL. 

Besides  the  ministers  and  underlings. 
Who  must  be  courteous  to  the  accredited 

Diplomatists  of  rather  wavering  kings. 
Until  their  royal  riddle  's  fully  read. 

The  very  clerks, — those  somewhat  dirty  springs 
Of  office,  or  the  house  of  office,  fed 


By  foul  corruption  into  streams, — even  they 
Were  hardly  rude  enough  to  earn  their  pay : 

XLI. 
And  insolence  no  doubt  is  what  they  are 

Employ'd  for,  since  it  is  their  daily  labor. 
In  the  dear  offices  of  peace  or  war ;  [neighbor. 

And  should  you  doubt,  pray  ask  of  your  next 
When  for  a  passport,  or  some  other  bar 

To  freedom,  he  applied,  (a  grief  and  a  bore,) 
If  he  found  not  this  spawn  of  taxbom  riches. 
Like  lap-dogs,  the  least  civil  sons  of  b s. 

XLII. 

But  Juan  was  received  with  much  "  empressement :" — 
These  phrases  of  refinement  I  must  borrow  [man. 

Prom  our  next  neighbors'  land,  where,  like  a  chess- 
There  is  a  move  set  down  for  joy  or  sorrow. 

Not  only  in  mere  talking,  but  the  press.    Man 
In  islands  is,  it  seems,  downright  and  thorough, 

More  than  on  continents — as  if  the  sea 

(See  Billingsgate)  made  even  the  tongue  more  free. 

XLIII. 
And  yet  the  British  "  Damme  "  's  rather  Attic, 

Your  continental  oaths  arc  but  incontinent. 
And  turn  on  things  which  no  aristocratic       [anenf 

Spirit  would  name,  and  therefore  even  I  won't 
This  subject  quote  ;  as  it  would  be  schismatic 

In  politesse,  and  have  a  sound  afironting  in 't : 
But  "  Damme  "  's  quite  ethereal,  though  too  daring — 
Platonic  blasphemy 's  the  soul  of  swearing. 

XLIV. 
For  downright  rudeness,  ye  may  stay  at  home ; 

For  true  or  false  politeness  (and  scarce  that 
Now)  you  may  cross  the  blue  deep  and  white  foam — 

The  first  the  emblem  (rarely  though)  of  what 
You  leave  behind,  the  next  of  much  you  come 

To  meet.    However,  'tis  no  time  to  chat 
On  general  topics  :  poems  must  confine 
Themselves  to  unity,  like  this  of  mine. 

XLV. 
In  the  great  world, — which,  being  interpreted, 

Meaneth  the  west  or  worst  end  of  a  city, 
And  about  twice  two  thousand  people  bred 

By  no  means  to  be  very  wise  or  witty. 
But  to  sit  up  while  others  lie  in  bed, 

And  look  down  on  the  universe  with  pity, — 
Juan,  as  an  inveterate  patrician. 
Was  well  received  by  persons  of  condition. 

XLVI. 
He  was  a  bachelor,  which  is  a  matter 
Of  import  both  to  virgin  and  to  bride. 


'  "  Anent "  was  a  Scotch  phrase  meaning  "  concerning  " — '*  with  . 
regard  to :"  it  has  been  made  English  by  the  Scotch  novels ;  and, 
06  the  Frenchman  faid,  "  If  it  be  not,  might  to  be  English." 


Canto  xl 


DON    JUAN". 


689 


The  former's  hymeneal  hopes  to  flatter ; 

And  (should  she  not  hold  fast  by  love  or  pride) 
"Tis  also  of  some  moment  to  the  latter ; 

A  rib  's  a  thorn  in  a  wed  gallant's  side, 
Requires  decorum,  and  is  apt  to  double 
The  horrid  sin — and  what 's  still  worse,  the  trouble. 

XLVII. 
But  Juan  was  a  bachelor — of  arts, 

And  parts,  and  hearts  :  he  danced  and  sang,  and 
An  air  as  sentimental  as  Mozart's  [had 

Softest  of  melodies  ;  and  could  be  sad 
Or  cheerful,  without  any  ''  flaws  or  starts," 

Just  at  the  proper  time ;  and  though  a  lad. 
Had  seen  the  world — which  is  a  curious  sight. 
And  very  much  unlike  what  people  write. 

XLVIII. 
Fair  virgins  blush'd  upon  him  ;  wedded  dames 

Bloom'd  also  in  less  transitory  hues  ; 
For  both  commodities  dwell  by  the  Tliames, 

The  painting  and  the  painted ;  youth,  ceruse. 
Against  his  heart  preferr'd  their  usual  claims, 

Such  as  no  gentleman  can  quite  refuse  ; 
Daughters  admired  his  dress,  and  pious  mothers 
Inquired  his  income,  and  if  he  had  brothers. 

XLIX. 

The  milliners  who  furnish  "  drapery  Misses '" 
Throughout  the  season,  upon  speculation 

Of  pajrment  ere  the  honey-moon's  last  kisses 
Have  waned  into  a  crescent's  coruscation. 

Thought  such  an  opportunity  as  this  is. 
Of  a  rich  foreigner's  initiation. 

Not  to  be  overlook'd — and  gave  such  credit,         [it. 

That  future  bridegrooms  swore,  and  sigh'd,  and  paid 

L. 
The  Blues,  that  tender  tribe,  who  sigh  o'er  sonnets. 

And  with  the  pages  of  the  last  Review 
Line  the  interior  of  their  heads  or  bonnets. 

Advanced  in  all  their  azure's  highest  hue  : 
They  talk'd  bad  French  or  Spanish,  and  upon  its 

Late  authors  ask'd  him  for  a  hint  or  two ; 
And  which  was  softest,  Russian  or  Castilian  ? 
And  whether  in  his  travels  he  saw  Ilion  ? 

LI. 
Juan,  who  was  a  little  superficial, 

And  not  in  literature  a  great  Drawcansir, 
Examined  by  this  learned  and  especial 

Jury  of  matrons,  scarce  knew  what  to  answer : 


'  "  Drapery  Misses."— This  term  is  probably  any  thing  now  but  a 
mystery.  It  was,  however,  almost  so  to  me  when  I  first  returned 
from  the  East  in  1811,  '12.  It  means  a  pretty,  a  high-bora,  a 
foshionable  young  female,  well  inBtrncted  by  her  friends,  and  fur- 
nished by  her  milliner  with  a  wardrobe  npou  credit,  to  be  repaid, 
when  married,  by  the  hutbarul.  The  riddle  was  first  read  to  me 
by  a  yonng  and  pretty  heiress,  on  my  praising  the  "  drapery  "  of 
tbe  "  untocAered"  but "  pretty  virginities  "  (like  Mrs.  Anne  Page) 
87 


His  duties  warlike,  loving  or  official, 
His  steady  application  as  a  dancer. 
Had  kept  him  from  the  brink  of  Hippocrene, 
Which  now  he  found  was  blue  instead  of  green. 

LII. 
However,  he  replied  at  hazard,  with 

A  modest  confidence  and  calm  assurance. 
Which  lent  his  learned  lucubrations  pith. 

And  pass'd  for  arguments  of  good  endurance. 
That  prodigy.  Miss  Araminta  Smith, 

(Who  at  sixteen  translated  "  Hercules  Furens  " 
Into  as  furious  English,)  with  her  best  look, 
Set  down  his  sayings  in  her  common-place  book. 

LIII. 
Juan  knew  several  languages — as  well  [time 

He  might — and  brought  them  up  with  skiU,  in 
To  save  his  fame  with  each  accomplish'd  belle. 

Who  still  regretted  that  he  did  not  rhyme. 
There  wanted  but  this  requisite  to  swell 

His  qualities  (with  them)  into  sublime  : 
Lady  Fitz-Frisky,  and  Miss  Ma;via  Mannish, 
Both  long'd  extremely  to  be  sung  in  Spanish. 

LIT. 
However,  he  did  pretty  well,  and  was 

Admitted  as  an  aspirant  to  all 
The  coteries,  and,  as  in  Banquo's  glass, 

At  great  assemblies  or  in  parties  small, 
He  saw  ten  thousand  living  authors  pass. 

That  being  about  their  average  numeral ; 
Also  the  eighty  "  greatest  living  poets," 
As  every  paltry  magazine  can  show  its. 

LV. 
In  twice  five  years  the  "  greatest  living  poet," 

Like  to  the  champion  in  the  fisty  ring, 
Is  call'd  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show  it. 

Although  'tis  an  imaginary  thing. 
Even  I — albeit  I'm  sure  I  did  not  know  it. 

Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  to  be  king, — 
Was  reckon'd  a  considerable  time. 
The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

LVI. 
But  Juan  was  my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 

My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mount  Saint  Jean  seems  Cain : 
"  La  Belle  Alliance  "  of  dunces  down  at  zero. 

Now  that  the  Lion's  fall'n,  may  rise  again  : 
But  I  will  fall  at  least  as  fell  my  hero  ; 

Nor  reign  at  all,  or  as  a  monarch  reign ; 

of  the  then  day,  which  has  now  been  some  years  yesterday :  she 
assured  me  that  the  thing  was  common  in  London ;  and  as  her 
own  thousands,  and  blooming  looks,  and  rich  simplicity  of  array, 
put  any  suspicion  in  her  own  case  out  of  the  question,  I  confess  I 
gave  some  credit  to  the  allegation.  If  necessary,  authorities 
might  be  cited;  In  which  case  I  could  quote  both  "drapery" 
and  the  wearers.  Let  us  hope,  however,  that  it  is  now 
obsolete. 


690 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  xi. 


Or  to  some  lonely  isle  of  jailers  go, 

With  turncoat  Southey  for  my  turnkey  Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir  Walter  reign'd  before  me  ;  Moore  and  Campbell 
Before  and  after  ;  but  now  grown  more  holy, 

The  Muses  upon  Sion's  hiU  must  ramble 
With  poets  almost  Clergymen,  or  wholly ; 

And  Pegasus  has  a  psalmodic  amble 

Beneath  the  very  Reverend  Rowley  Powley, 

Who  shoes  the  glorious  animal  with  stilts, 

A  modem  Ancient  Pistol — by  the  hilts  ! 

LVIII. 
Still  he  excels  that  artificial  hard 

Laborer  in  the  same  vineyard,  though  the  vine 
Yields  him  but  vinegar  for  his  reward, — 

That  neutralized  duU  Dorus  of  the  Nine  ; 
That  swarthy  Sporus,  neither  man  nor  bard  ; 

That  ox  of  verse,  who  ploughs  for  every  line  : — 
Cambyses'  roaring  Romans  beat  at  least 
The  howling  Hebrews  of  Cybele's  priest. — 

LIX. 
Then  there's  my  gentle  Euphues  ;  who,  they  say, 

Sets  up  for  being  a  sort  of  moral  me  ; 
He  'II  find  it  rather  diflBcult  some  day 

To  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 
Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath  the  sway ; 

And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two  or  three  ; 
And  that  deep-mouth'd  BcEotian  "  Savage  Landor  " 
Has  taken  for  a  swan  rogue  Southey's  gander. 

LX. 
Joan  Keats,  who  was  kill'd  oflf  by  one  critique, 

Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great. 
If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 

Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late. 
Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 

Poor  fellow  !     His  was  an  untoward  fate ; 
'Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle. 
Should  let  itself  be  snuflF'd  out  by  an  article. 

LXI. 
The  list  grows  long  of  live  and  dead  pretenders 

To  that  which  none  will  gain — or  none  wiU  know 
The  conqueror  at  least ;  who,  ere  Time  renders 

His  last  award,  wiU  have  the  long  grass  grow 
Above  his  burnt-out  brain,  and  sapless  cinders. 

If  I  might  augur,  I  should  rate  but  low 
Their  chances  ; — they're  too  numerous,  like  the  thirty 
Mock  tyrants,  when  Rome's  annals  wax'd  but  dirty. 

LXII. 
This  is  the  literary  loiecr  empire, 

Where  the  prsetorian  bands  take  up  the  matter ; — 
A  "  dreadful  trade,"  like  his  who  "  gathers  samphire," 

Tlie  insolent  soldiery  to  soothe  and  flatter, 


With  the  same  feelings  as  you'd  coax  a  vampire. 
Now,  were  I  once  at  home,  and  in  good  satire, 
I'd  try  conclusions  with  those  Janizaries, 
And  show  them  what  an  intellectual  war  is. 

LXin. 
I  think  I  know  a  trick  or  two,  would  turn 

Their  flanks  ; — but  it  is  hardly  worth  my  while, 
With  such  small  gear  to  give  myself  concern  : 

Indeed  I've  not  the  necessary  bile  ; 
My  natural  temper 's  really  aught  but  stem, 

And  even  my  Muse's  worst  reproof 's  a  smile ; 
And  then  she  drops  a  brief  and  modern  curtsy. 
And  glides  away,  assured  she  never  hurts  ye. 

LXIV. 
My  Juan,  whom  I  left  in  deadly  peril 

Amongst  live  poets  and  blue  ladies,  pass'd 
With  some  small  profit  through  that  field  so  sterile. 

Being  tired  in  time,  and  neither  least  nor  last. 
Left  it  before  he  had  been  treated  very  ill ; 

And  henceforth  found  himself  more  gayly  class'd 
Amongst  the  higher  spirits  of  the  day. 
The  sun's  true  son,  no  vapor,  but  a  ray. 

LXV. 
His  morns  he  pass'd  in  business — which  dissected, 

Was  like  all  business,  a  laborious  nothing 
That  leads  to  lassitude,  the  most  infected 

And  Centaur  Nessus  garb  of  mortal  clothing; 
And  on  our  sofas  makes  us  lie  dejected. 

And  talk  in  tender  horrors  of  our  loathing 
All  kinds  of  toil,  save  for  our  country's  good — 
Which  grows  no  better,  though  'tis  time  it  should. 

LXVI. 
His  afternoons  he  pass'd  in  visits,  luncheons. 

Lounging,  and  boxing  ;  and  the  twilight  hour 
In  riding  round  those  vegetable  puncheons 

CaU'd  "  Parks,"  where  there  is  neither  fruit  nor 
Enough  to  gratify  a  bee's  slight  munchings ;  [flower 

But  after  all  it  is  the  only  "  bower," 
(In  Moore's  phrase)  where  the  fashionable  fair 
Can  form  a  slight  acquaintance  with  itesh  air. 

LXVII. 
Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awakes  the  world  ! 

Then  glare  the  lamps,  then  whirl  the  wheels,  then 

roar  [hurl'd 

Through   street  and  square   fast  flashing  chariots 

Like  hamess'd  meteors ;  then  along  the  floor 
Chalk  mimics  painting ;  then  festoons  are  twirl'd  ; 

Then  roU  the  brazen  thunders  of  the  door. 
Which  opens  to  the  thousand  happy  few 
An  earthly  paradise  of  "  Or  Molu." 

LXVIII. 
There  stands  the  noble  hostess,  nor  shall  sink 
With  the  three-thousandth  curtsy ;  there  the  waltz, 


Caitto  XI. 


DON    JUAN. 


691 


The  only  dance  which  teaches  girls  to  think, 
Makes  one  in  love  even  with  its  very  faults. 

Saloon,  room,  hall,  o'erflow  beyond  their  brink 
And  long  the  latest  of  arrivals  halts, 

'Jlidst  royal  dukes  and  dames  condemn'd  to  climb. 

And  gain  an  inch  of  staircase  at  a  time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice  happy  he  who,  after  a  survey 
Of  the  good  company,  can  win  a  corner, 

A  door  that's  iu  or  boudoir  out  of  the  way, 

Where  he  may  fix  himself  like  small  "  Jack  Hor- 

And  let  the  Babel  round  run  as  it  may,  [ner," 

And  look  on  as  a  mourner,  or  a  scomer, 

Or  an  approver,  or  a  mere  spectator. 

Yawning  a  Uttle  as  the  night  grows  later. 

LXX. 

But  this  won't  do,  save  by  and  by ;  and  he 
Who,  like  Don  Juan,  takes  an  active  share. 

Must  steer  with  care  through  all  that  glittering  sea 
Of  gems,  and  plumes,  and  pearls,  and  silks,  to 
where 

He  deems  it  is  his  proper  place  to  be  ; 
Dissolving  in  the  waltz  to  some  soft  air. 

Or  proudlier  prancing  with  mercurial  skill, 

Where  Science  marshals  forth  her  own  quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or,  if  he  dance  not,  but  hath  higher  views 
Ul>on  an  heiress  or  his  neighbor's  bride, 

Let  him  take  care  that  that  which  he  pursues 
Is  not  at  once  too  palpably  descried. 

FuU  many  an  eager  gentleman  oft  rues 
His  haste  :  impatience  is  a  blundering  guide, 

Amongst  a  people  famous  for  reflection, 

Who  like  to  play  the  fool  with  circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But,  if  you  can  contrive,  get  nest  at  supper. 
Or,  if  forestall'd,  get  opposite  and  ogle  : — 

Oh,  ye  ambrosial  moments  !  always  upper 
In  mind,  a  sort  of  sentimental  bogle, 

Which  sits  forever  upon  memory's  crupper 

The  ghost  of  vanish'd  pleasures  once  in  vogue  !  Ill 

Can  tender  souls  relate  the  rise  and  fall 

Of  hopes  and  fears  which  shake  a  single  ball. 

LXXIII. 

But  these  precautionary  hints  can  touch 
Only  the  common  run,  who  must  pursue, 

And  watch,  and  ward ;  whose  plans  a  word  too  much 
Or  little  overturns  ;  and  not  the  few 

Or  many  (for  the  number  's  sometimes  such) 
Whom  a  good  mien,  especially  if  new. 

Or  fame,  or  name,  for  wit,  war,  sense,  or  nonsense, 

Permits  whate'er  they  please,  or  did  not  long  since. 


LXXIV. 
Our  hero,  as  a  hero,  young  and  handsome. 

Noble,  rich,  celebrated,  and  a  stranger. 
Like  other  slaves  of  course  must  pay  his  ransom. 

Before  he  can  escape  from  so  much  danger 
As  will  environ  a  conspicuous  man.     Some 

Talk  about  poetry,  and  "  rack  and  manger," 
And  ugliness,  disease,  as  toil  and  trouble  ; — 
I  wish  they  knew  the  life  of  a  young  noble. 

LXXV. 
They  are  young,  but  know  not  youth — it  is  antici- 

Handsome  but  wasted,  rich  without  a  sou ;  [pated ; 
Their  vigor  in  a  thousand  arms  is  dissipated ; 

Their  cash  comes  from,  their  wealth  goes  to  a  Jew ; 
Both  senates  see  their  nightly  votes  participated 

Between  the  tyrant's  and  the  tribunes'  crew ; 
And  having  voted,  dined,  drank,  gamed,  and  whored, 
The  family  vault  receives  another  lord. 

LXXVI. 
"  Wliere  is  the  world  ?"   cries  Young,  at  eighty. — 
"  Where 

The  world  in  which  a  man  was  bom  ?    Alas  ! 
Where  is  the  world  of  eight  years  past  ?  '  Twaa  there — 

I  look  for  it — 'tis  gone,  a  globe  of  glass  ! 
Crack'd,  shiver'd,  vanish'd,  scarcely  gazed  on,  ere 

A  silent  change  dissolves  the  glittering  mass. 
Statesmen,  chiefs,  orators,  queens,  patriots,  kings, 
And  dandies,  aU  are  gone  on  the  wind's  wings, 

LXXVII. 

Where  is  Napoleon  the  Grand  ?  God  knows  : 
Wliere  little  Castlercagh  ?    The  devil  can  tell : 

■Wliere  Grattan,  Curran,  Sheridan,  all  those 
Who  bound  the  bar  or  senate  in  their  spell  ? 

Wliere  is  the  unhappy  Queen,  with  all  her  woes  ? 
And  where  the  Daughter,  whom  the  Isles  loved 
weU? 

Wliere  are  those  martyr'd  saints  the  Five  per  Cents  ? 

And  where — oh,  where  the  devil  are  the  Rents  ? 

LXXVIII. 
Where 's  Brummel  ?    Dish'd.    Where  's  Long  Pole 
Wellcsley  ?    Diddled.  [the  Third  2 

Where  's  Wliitbread  ?    Romilly  ?   Where's  George 
Where  is  his  will  ?  (That's  not  so  soon  unriddled.) 
And  where  is  "Pum"  the  Fourth,  our  "royal 
bird?" 
Gone  down,  it  seems,  to  Scotland  to  be  fiddled 

Unto  by  Sawney's  violin,  we  have  heard  : 
"  Caw  me,  caw  thee " — for  six  months  hath  been 

hatching 
This  scene  of  royal  itch  and  loyal  scratching. 

LXXIX. 
Where  is  Lord  This  ?    And  where  my  Lady  That  ? 
The  Honorable  Mistresses  and  Misses  ? 


692 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xi. 


Some  laid  aside  like  an  old  Opera  hat, 
Married,  unmarried,  and  remarried  :  (this  is 

An  evolution  oft  perform'd  of  late.) 

Where  are  the  Dublin  shouts — and  London  hisses  ? 

Where  are  the  Grenvilles  ?  Turn'd  as  usual  ?  Where 

My  friends  the  Whigs  ?    Exactly  where  they  were. 

LXXX. 
Where  are  the  Lady  Carolines  and  Franceses  ? 

Divorced  or  doing  thereanent.    Ye  annals 
So  brilliant,  where  the  list  of  routs  and  dances  is, — 

Thou  Morning  Post  sole  record  of  the  panels 
Broken  in  carriages,  and  aU  the  phantasies 

Of   fashion, — say  what   streams    now   fiU    those 
channels  ? 
Some  die,  some  fly,  some  languish  on  the  Continent, 
Because  the  times  have  hardly  left  them  one  tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some  who  once  set  their  caps  at  cautious  dukes, 
Have  taken  up  at  length  with  younger  brothers  ; 

Some  heiresses  have  bit  at  sharpers'  hooks  : 
Some  maids  have  been  made  wives,  some  merely 
mothers ; 

Others  have  lost  their  fi-esh  and  fairy  looks  : 
In  short  the  list  of  alterations  bothers. 

There's  little  strange  in  this,  but  something  strange  is 

The  unusual  quickness  of  these  common  changes. 

Lxxxn. 

Talk  not  of  seventy  years  as  age  ;  in  seven 

I  have  seen  more  changes,  down  irom  monarchs  to 

The  humblest  individual  under  heaven. 

Than  might  suffice  a  moderate  century  through. 

I  knew  that  naught  was  lasting,  but  now  even 
Change  grows  too  changeable,  without  being  new  : 

Naught 's  permanent  among  the  human  race, 

Except  the  Whigs  not  getting  into  place. 

LXXXIII. 
I  have  seen  Napoleon,  who  seem'd  quite  a  Jupiter, 

Shrink  to  a  Saturn.     I  have  seen  a  Duke 
(No  matter  which)  turn  politician  stupider. 

If  that  can  well  be,  than  his  wooden  look. 
But  it  is  time  that  I  should  hoist  my  "  blue  Peter," 

And  sail  for  a  new  theme : — I  have  seen — and  shook 
To  see  it — the  king  hiss'd,  and  then  caress'd ; 
But  don't  pretend  to  settle  which  was  best. 

LXXXIV. 
I  have  seen  the  Landholders  without  a  rap — 

I  have  seen  Joanna  Southcote — I  have  seen — 
The  House  of  Commons  turn'd  to  a  tax-trap — 

I  have  seen  that  sad  aifair  of  the  late  Queen— 
I  have  seen  crowns  worn  instead  of  a  fool's  cap — 

I  have  seen  a  Congress  doing  all  that's  mean — 
I  have  seen  some  nations  like  o'erloaded  asses. 
Kick  off  their  burdens — meaning  the  high  classes. 


LXXXV. 
I  have  seen  small  poets,  and  great  prosers,  and 

Interminable — not  eternal — speakers — 
I  have  seen  the  funds  at  war  with  house  and  land — 

I  have  seen  the  country  gentlemen  turn  squeakers — 
I  have  seen  the  people  ridden  o'er  like  sand 

By  slaves  on  horseback — I  have  seen  malt  liquors 
Exchanged  for  "  thin  potations  "  by  John  Bull — 
I  have  seen  John  half  detect  himself  a  fool. — 

LXXXVI. 

But  "  carpe  diem,"  Juan,  "  carpe,  carpe  !" 

To-morrow  sees  another  race  as  gay 
And  transient,  and  devour'd  by  the  same  harpy. 

"Life's  a  poor  player," — then  "play  out  the  play, 
Ye  villains  !"  and  above  all  keep  a  sharp  eye 

Much  less  on  what  you  do  than  what  you  say  : 
Be  hypocritical,  be  cautious,  be 
Not  what  you  seem,  but  always  what  you  see. 

LXXXVII. 
But  how  shall  I  relate  in  other  cantos 

Of  what  befell  our  hero  in  the  land. 
Which  'tis  the  common  cry  and  lie  to  vaunt  as 

A  moral  country  ?     But  I  hold  my  hand — 
For  I  disdain  to  write  an  Atalantis  ; 

But  'tis  as  well  at  once  to  understand, 
You  are  Tiot  a,  moral  people,  and  you  know  it, 
Without  the  aid  of  too  sincere  a  poet. 

LXXXVIII. 
What  Juan  saw  and  underwent  shall  be 

My  topic,  with  of  course  the  due  restriction 
Which  is  required  by  proper  courtesy  ; 

And  recollect  the  work  is  only  fiction. 
And  that  I  sing  of  neither  mine  nor  me, 

Though  every  scribe,  in  some  slight  turn  of  die- 
Will  hint  allusions  never  meant.  Ne'er  doubt  [tion, 
This — when  I  speak,  I  donH  hint,  but  speak  out. 

LXXXIX. 
Whether  he  married  with  the  third  or  fourth 

Oifspring  of  some  sage  husband-hunting  countess, 
Or  whether  with  some  virgin  of  more  worth 

(I  mean  in  Portime's  matrimonial  bounties) 
He  took  to  regularly  peopling  Earth, 

Of  which  your  lawful  awful  wedlock  fount  is, — 
Or  whether  he  was  taken  in  for  damages. 
For  being  too  excursive  in  his  homages, — 

XC. 
Is  yet  within  the  unread  events  of  time. 

Thus  far,  go  forth,  thou  lay,  which  I  will  back 
Against  the  same  given  quantity  of  rhyme, 

For  being  as  much  the  subject  of  attack 
As  ever  yet  was  any  work  sublime, 

By  those  who  love  to  say  that  white  is  black. 
So  much  the  better  ! — I  may  stand  alone. 
But  would  not  change  my  free  thoughts  for  a  throne. 


Canto  xii. 


DON  JUAN". 


693 


DO^    J  U  A  K 


CANTO   THE    TWELFTH. 


Of  all  the  barbarous  middle  ages,  that 
Which  ia  most  barbarous  is  the  middle  age 

Of  man  :  it  is — I  really  scarce  know  what ; 
But  when  we  hover  between  fool  and  sage, 

And  don't  know  justly  what  we  would  be  at — 
A  period  something  like  a  printed  page. 

Black  letter  upon  foolscap,  while  our  hair 

Grows  grizzled,  and  we  are  not  what  we  were ; — 

II. 

Too  old  for  youth, — too  young,  at  thirty-five. 

To  herd  with  boys,  or  hoard  with  good  three- 

I  wonder  people  should  be  left  alive  ;  [score, — 

But  since  they  are,  that  epoch  is  a  bore  : 

Love  lingers  stiU,  although  'twere  late  to  wive ; 
And  as  for  other  love,  the  illusion  's  o'er ; 

And  money,  that  most  pure  imagination. 

Gleams  only  through  the  dawn  of  its  creation. 

III. 
O  Gold  I    Why  call  we  misers  miserable  ? 

Theirs  is  the  pleasure  that  can  never  pall ; 
Theirs  is  the  best  bower  anchor,  the  chain  cable 

Which  holds  fast  other  pleasures  great  and  small. 
Te  who  but  see  the  saving  man  at  table, 

And  scorn  his  temperate  board,  as  none  at  all. 
And  wonder  how  the  wealthy  can  be  sparing,    [ing. 
Know  not  what  visions  spring  from  each  cheese-par- 

IV. 
Love  or  lust  makes  man  sick,  and  wine  much  sicker ; 

Ambition  rends,  and  gaming  gains  a  loss  ; 
But  making  money,  slowly  first,  then  quicker. 

And  adding  still  a  little  through  each  cross, 
(Which  will  come  over  things,)  beats  love  or  liquor. 

The  gamester's  counter,  or  the  statesman's  dross. 
O  Gold  1  I  still  prefer  thee  unto  paper. 
Which  makes  bank  credit  like  a  bark  of  vapor. 

V. 
Who  bold  the  balance  of  the  world  ?    Who  reign 

O'er  congress,  whether  royalist  or  liberal  ? 
Who  rouse  the  shirtless  patriots  of  Spain  ? 

(That  make  old  Europe's  journals  squeak  and 
gibber  all.) 
Who  keep  the  world,  both  old  and  new,  in  pain 

Or  pleasTire  ?   Who  make  politics  run  glibber  all  2 
The  shade  of  Bonaparte's  noble  daring  ? — 
Jew  Rothschild,  and  his  fellow-Christian,  Baring. 

VI. 
Those,  and  the  truly  liberal  Lafltte, 
Are  the  true  lords  of  Europe.    Every  loan 


Is  not  a  merely  speculative  hit. 
But  seats  a  nation  or  upsets  a  throne. 

Republics  also  get  involved  a  bit ; 

Columbia's  stock  hath  holders  not  unknown 

On  'Change  ;  and  even  thy  silver  soil,  Peru, 

Must  get  itself  discounted  by  a  Jew. 

VII. 
Why  call  the  miser  miserable  ?  as 

I  said  before  :  the  frugal  life  is  his. 
Which  in  a  saint  or  cynic  ever  was 

The  theme  of  praise  ;  a  hermit  would  not  miss 
Canonization  for  the  self-same  cause. 

And  wherefore  blame  gaunt  wealth's  austerities  ? 
Because,  you'll  say,  naught  calls  for  such  a  trial ; — 
Then  there's  more  merit  in  his  self-denial. 

VIII. 

He  is  your  only  poet ; — passion,  pure. 

And  sparkling  on  from  heap  to  heap,  displays, 

Possess'd,  the  ore,  of  which  mere  hopes  allure 
Nations  athwart  the  deep  :  the  golden  rays 

Flash  up  in  ingots  from  the  mine  obscure  ; 
On  him  the  diamond  pours  its  brilliant  blaze  ; 

While  the  mild  emerald's  beam  shades  down  the 

Of  other  stones,  to  soothe  the  miser's  eyes.        [dies 

IX. 
The  lands  on  either  side  are  his  :  the  ship 

From  Ceylon,  Inde,  or  far  Cathay,  unloads 
For  him  the  fragrant  produce  of  each  trip ; 

Beneath  his  cars  of  Ceres  groans  the  roads. 
And  the  vine  blushes  like  Aurora's  lip  ; 

His  very  cellars  might  be  kings'  abodes  ; 
While  he,  despising  every  sensual  call. 
Commands — the  intellectual  lord  of  all. 


Perhaps  he  hath  great  projects  in  his  mind. 
To  build  a  college,  or  to  found  a  race, 

A  hospital,  a  church, — and  leave  behind 
Some  dome  surmounted  by  his  meager  face  : 

Perhaps  he  fain  would  liberate  mankind 

Even  with  the  very  ore  which  makes  them  base  ; 

Perhaps  he  would  be  wealthiest  of  his  nation, 

Or  revel  in  the  joys  of  calculation. 

XI. 
But  whether  all,  or  each,  or  none  of  these 

May  be  the  hoarder's  principle  of  action. 
The  fool  will  call  such  mania  a  disease  : — 

What  is  his  own  ?     Go — look  at  each  transaction. 
Wars,  revels,  loves — do  these  bring  men, more  ease 
Than  the  mere  plodding  through  each  "  vulgar 
fraction  ?" 
Or  do  they  benefit  mankind  ?     Lean  miser  ! 
Let  spendthrifts'    heirs    inquire  of  yours — who's 
wiser? 


694 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xii. 


XII. 
How  beauteous  are  rouleaus  1  how  charming  chests 

Containing  ingots,  bags  of  dollars,  coins 
(Not  of  old  victors,  all  whose  heads  and  crests 

Weigh  not  the  thin  ore  where  their  visage  shines. 
But)  of  fine  unclipp'd  gold,  where  dully  rests 

Some  likeness,  which  the  glittering  cirque  confines, 
Of  modem,  reigning,  sterling,  stupid  stamp  : — 
Yes  !  ready  money  is  Aladdin's  lamp. 

XIII. 
"Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove, — for 
love 

Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love :" — so  sings  the 
Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove,  [bard  ; 

(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard.) 
Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  "  the  grove," 

At  least  it  rhymes  to  "  love  :"  but  I'm  prepared 
To  doubt  (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 
If  "  courts  "  and  "  camps  "  be  quite  so  sentimental. 

XIV. 
But  if  Love  don't.  Cash  does,  and  Cash  alone : 

Cash  rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  besides  ; 
Without  cash,  camps  were  thin,  and  courts  were  none  ; 

Without  cash,  Malthus  tells  you — "  take  no  brides." 
So  Cash  rules  Love  the  ruler,  on  his  own 

High  ground,  as  virgin  Cynthia  sways  the  tides  : 
And  as  for  "  Heaven  being  Love,"  why  not  say  honey 
Is  wax  ?    Heaven  is  not  Love,  'tis  Matrimony. 

XV. 

Is  not  all  love  prohibited  whatever. 

Excepting  marriage  ?  which  is  love,  no  doubt, 
After  a  sort ;  but  somehow  people  never  [out : 

With  the  same  thought  the  two  words  have  help'd 
Love  may  exist  with  marriage,  and  should  ever. 

And  marriage  also  may  exist  without ; 
But  love  sans  bans  is  both  a  sin  and  shame, 
And  ought  to  go  by  quite  another  name. 

XVI. 
Now  if  the  "  court,"  and  "  camp,"  and  "  grove,"  be 

Recruited  all  with  constant  married  men,  [not 
Who  never  coveted  their  neighbor's  lot, 

I  say  that  Kne  's  a  lapsus  of  the  pen  ; — 
Strange  too  in  my  "  buon  camerado  "  Scott 

So  celebrated  for  his  morals,  when 
My  Jeffrey  held  him  up  as  an  example 
To  me  ; — of  which  these  morals  are  a  sample. 

XVII. 
Well,  if  I  don't  succeed,  I  have  succeeded. 
And  that's  enough  ;  succeeded  in  my  youth, 

'  See  Mitford'a  Greece.  "  Groscia  Verax."  His  great  pleasure 
CODBists  in  praising  tyrants,  abusing  Plutarch,  spelling  oddly,  and 
writing  quaintly ;  and  what  is  strange,  after  all,  Ais  is  the  best 
modem  liistory  of  Greece  in  any  language,  and  he  is  perhaps  the 


The  only  time  when  much  success  is  needed  : 
And  my  success  produced  what  I,  in  sooth, 

Cared  most  about ;  it  need  not  now  be  pleaded — 
Whate'er  it  was,  'twas  mine  ;  I've  paid,  in  truth. 

Of  late,  the  penalty  of  such  success. 

But  have  not  learn'd  to  wish  it  any  less. 

XVIII. 
That  suit  in  Chancery, — which  some  persons  plead 

In  an  appeal  to  the  unborn,  whom  they, 
In  the  faith  of  their  procreative  creed, 

Baptize  posterity,  or  future  clay, — 
To  me  seems  but  a  dubious  kind  of  reed 

To  lean  on  for  support  in  any  way ; 
Since  odds  are  that  posterity  will  know 
No  more  of  them,  than  they  of  her,  I  trow. 

XIX. 
Why,  I'm  posterity — and  so  are  you  ; 

And  whom  do  we  remember  ?     Not  a  hundred. 
Were  every  memory  written  down  all  true,     [der'd ; 

The  tenth  or  twentieth  name  would  be  but  blun- 
Even  Plutarch's  Lives  have  but  pick'd  out  a  few. 

And  'gainst  those  few  your  annalists  have  thun- 
And  Mitford'  in  the  nineteenth  century  [der'd ; 

Gives,  with  Greek  truth,  the  good  old  Greek  the  he. 

XX. 
Good  people  all,  of  every  degree. 

Ye  gentle  readers  and  ungentle  writers. 
In  this  twelfth  Canto  'tis  my  wish  to  be 

As  serious  as  if  I  had  for  inditers 
Malthus  and  Wilberforce  : — the  last  set  free 

The  Negroes,  and  is  worth  a  million  fighters  ; 
While  WeUington  has  but  enslaved  the  Whites, 
And  Malthus  does  the  thing  'gainst  which  he  writes. 

XXI. 
I'm  serious — so  are  all  men  upon  paper ; 

And  why  should  I  not  form  my  speculation, 
And  hold  up  to  the  sun  my  little  taper  ? 

Mankind  just  now  seem  wrapp'd  in  meditation 
On  constitutions  and  steam-boats  of  vapor ; 

While  sages  write  against  all  procreation. 
Unless  a  man  can  calculate  his  means 
Of  feeding  brats  the  moment  his  wife  weans. 

XXII. 
That 's  noble  !    That 's  romantic  !    For  my  part, 

I  think  that  "  Philo-genitiveness  "  is — 
(Now  here 's  a  word  quite  after  my  own  heart. 

Though  there  's  a  shorter  a  good  deal  than  this. 
If  that  politeness  set  it  not  apart ; 

But  I  'm  resolved  to  say  naught  that 's  amiss — ) 

best  of  all  modem  historians  whatsoever.  Having  named  his 
pins,  it  is  but  fair  to  state  his  virtues — learning,  labor,  research, 
wrath,  and  partiality.  I  call  the  latter  virtues  in  a  writer,  because 
they  make  him  write  in  eamest. 


Canto  xii. 


DON  JUAN. 


695 


I  say,  methinks  that  "  Philo-genitiveness  " 
Might  meet  from  men  a  little  more  forgiveness. 

xxin. 

And  now  to  business. — O  my  gentle  Juan  ! 

Thou  art  in  London — in  that  pleasant  place, 
Where  every  kind  of  mischief's  daily  brewing, 

Which  can  await  warm  youth  in  its  wild  race. 
'Tis  true,  that  thy  career  is  not  a  new  one ; 

Thou  art  no  novice  in  the  headlong  chase 
Of  early  life ;  but  this  is  a  new  land. 
Which  foreigners  can  never  understand. 

XXIV. 
What  with  a  small  diversity  of  climate, 

Of  hot  or  cold,  mercurial  or  sedato, 
I  could  send  forth  my  mandate  like  a  primate 

Upon  the  rest  of  Europe's  social  state  ; 
But  thou  art  the  most  difficult  to  rhyme  at. 

Great  Britain,  which  the  Muse  may  penetrate. 
All  countries  have  their  "  Lions,"  but  in  thee 
There  is  but  one  superb  menagerie. 

XXV. 
But  I  am  sick  of  politics.     Begin, 

"  Paulo  Majora."     Juan,  undecided 
Amongst  the  paths  of  being  "  taken  in," 

Above  the  ice  had  like  a  skater  glided : 
When  tired  of  play,  he  flirted  without  sin 

With  some  of  those  fair  creatures  who  have  prided 
Themselves  on  innocent  tantalization. 
And  hate  aU  vice  except  its  reputation. 

XXVI. 
But  these  are  few,  and  in  the  end  they  make 

Some  devilish  escapade  or  stir,  which  shows 
That  even  the  purest  people  may  mistake 

Their  way  through   virtue's   primrose   paths  of 
And  then  men  stare,  as  if  a  new  ass  spake    [snows  ; 

To  Balaam,  and  from  tongue  to  ear  o'erflows 
Quicksilver  small  talk,  ending  (if  you  note  it) 
With  the  kind  world's  amen — "  Who  would  have 
thought  it  ?" 

XXVII. 
The  little  Leila,  with  her  orient  eyes. 

And  taciturn  Asiatic  disposition, 
(Which  saw  all  western  things  with  small  surprise, 

To  the  surprise  of  people  of  condition. 
Who  think  that  novelties  are  butterflies 

To  be  pursued  as  food  for  inanition,) 
Her  charming  figure  and  romantic  history 
Became  a  kind  of  fashionable  mystery. 

XXVIII. 
The  women  much  divided — as  is  usual 

Amongst  the  sex  in  little  things  or  great.      [all — 
Think  not,  fair  creatures,  that  I  mean  to  abuse  you 

I  have  always  liked  yon  better  than  I  state : 


Since  I  've  grown  moral,  still  I  must  accuse  you  all 

Of  being  apt  to  talk  at  a  great  rate  ; 
And  now  there  was  a  general  sensation 
Amongst  you,  about  Leila's  education. 

XXIX. 

In  one  jwint  only  were  you  settled — and 
You  had  reason  ;  't  was  that  a  young  child  of  grace, 

As  beautiful  as  her  own  native  land, 
And  far  away,  the  last  bud  of  her  race, 

Howe'er  our  friend  Don  Juan  might  command 
Himself  for  five,  four,  three,  or  two  years'  space, 

Would  be  much  better  taught  beneath  the  eye 

Of  peeresses  whose  follies  had  run  dry. 

XXX. 

So  first  there  was  a  generous  emulation. 
And  then  there  was  a  general  competition. 

To  undertake  the  orphan's  education. 
As  Juan  was  a  person  of  condition. 

It  had  been  an  affront  on  this  occasion 
To  talk  of  a  subscription  or  petition  ; 

But  sixteen  dowagers,  ten  unwed  she  sages. 

Whose  tale  belongs  to  "  Hallam's  Middle  Ages," 

XXXI. 
And  one  or  two  sad,  separate  wives,  without 

A  fruit  to  bloom  upon  their  withering  bough — 
Begg'd  to  bring  up  the  little  girl,  and  "  out," — 

For  that 's  the  phrase  that  settles  all  things  now. 
Meaning  a  virgin's  first  blush  at  a  rout, 

And  all  her  points  as  thorough-bred  to  show : 
And  I  assure  you,  that  like  virgin  honey 
Tastes  their  first  season,  (mostly  if  they  have  money.) 

XXXII. 
How  all  the  needy  honorable  misters. 

Each  out-at-elbow  peer,  or  desperate  dandy. 
The  watchful  mothers,  and  the  careful  sisters, 

(Who,  by  the  by,  when  clever,  are  more  handy 
At  making  matches,  where  "  't  is  gold  that  glisters," 

Than  their  he  relatives,)  like  flies  o'er  candy 
Buzz  round  "  the  Fortime  "  with  their  busy  battery. 
To  turn  her  head  with  waltzing  and  with  flattery  1 

XXXIII. 
Each  aunt,  each  cousin,  hath  her  speculation  ; 

Nay,  married  dames  wiU  now  and  then  discover 
Such  pure  disinterestedness  of  passion, 

I  've  known  them  court  an  heiress  for  their  lover. 
"  Tanteene  1"  Such  the  virtues  of  high  station, 

Even  in  the  hopeful  Isle,  whose  outlet 's  "  Dover  1" 
While  the  poor  rich  wretch,  object  of  these  cares. 
Has  cause  to  wish  her  sire  had  had  male  heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some  are  soon  bagg'd,  and  some  reject  three  dozen. 
'T  is  fine  to  see  them  scattering  refusals 


696 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xii. 


And  wild  dismay  o'er  every  angry  cousin, 
(Friends  of  the  party,)  who  begin  accusals, 

Such  as — "  Unless  Miss  (Blank)  meant  to  have  chosen 
Poor  Frederick,  why  did  she  accord  perusals 

To  his  billets  ?     Why  waltz  vdth  him  ?    Why,  I  pray 

Look  yes  last  night,  and  yet  say  no  to-day  ? 

XXXV. 

"  Why  ? — ^Why  ? — Besides,  Fred  really  was  attached; 

'T  was  not  her  fortune — he  has  enough  without ; 
The  time  win  come  she  '11  wish  that  she  had  snatch'd 

So  good  an  opportunity  no  doubt  :— 
But  the  old  marchioness  some  plan  had  hatch'd. 

As  I  '11  tell  Aurea  at  to-morrow's  rout : 
And  after  all  poor  Frederick  may  do  better — 
Pray  did  you  see  her  answer  to  his  letter  ?" 

XXXVI. 
Smart  uniforms  and  sparkling  coronets 

Are  spum'd  in  turn,  until  her  turn  arrives, 
After  male  loss  of  time,  and  hearts,  and  bets 

Upon  the  sweepstakes  for  substantial  wives  ; 
And  when  at  last  the  pretty  creature  gets 

Some  gentleman,  who  fights,  or  writes,  or  drives, 
It  soothes  the  awkward  squad  of  the  rejected 
To  find  how  very  badly  she  selected. 

XXXVII. 

For  sometimes  they  accept  some  long  pursuer, 

Worn  out  with  importunity ;  or  fall 
(But  here  perhaps  the  instances  are  fewer) 

To  the  lot  of  him  who  scarce  pursued  at  alL 
A  hazy  widower  turn'd  of  forty 's  sure' 

(If  't  is  not  vain  examples  to  recall) 
To  draw  a  high  prize  :  now,  howe'er  he  got  her,  I 
See  naught  more  strange  in  this  than  t'  other  lottery. 

XXXVIII. 

I,  for  my  part — (one  "  modem  instance  "  more, 
"  True,  't  is  a  pity — pity  't  is,  't  is  true  ") 

Was  chosen  from  out  an  amatory  score. 
Albeit  my  years  were  less  discreet  than  few ; 

But  though  I  also  had  reform'd  before 
Those  became  one  who  soon  were  to  be  two, 

I  'U  not  gainsay  the  generous  public's  voice, 

That  the  young  lady  made  a  monstrous  choice. 

XXXIX. 
Oh,  pardon  my  digression — or  at  least 

Peruse  !     'T  is  always  with  a  moral  end 
That  I  dissert,  hke  grace  before  a  feast : 

For  Uke  an  aged  aunt  or  tiresome  friend, 
A  rigid  guardian,  or  a  zealous  priest, 

My  Muse  by  exhortation  means  to  mend 
All  people,  at  all  times,  and  in  most  places. 
Which  puts  my  Pegasus  to  these  grave  paces. 


>  This  line  may  puzzle  the  commentators  more  than  the  present 
generation. 


XL. 

But  now  I  'm  going  to  be  immoral ;  now 
I  mean  to  show  things  really  as  they  are. 

Not  as  they  ought  to  be  ;  for  I  avow, 

That  till  we  see  what 's  what  in  fact,  we  're  far 

From  much  improvement  with  that  virtuous  plough 
Which  skims  she  surface,  leaving  scarce  a  scar 

Upon  the  black  loam  long  manured  by  Vice, 

Only  to  keep  its  com  at  the  old  price. 

XLI. 
But  first  of  little  Leila  we  '11  dispose ; 

For  like  a  day-dawn  she  was  young  and  pure. 
Or  like  the  old  comparison  of  snows, 

Which  are  more  pure  than  pleasant  to  be  sure. 
Like  many  people  everybody  knows 

Don  Juan  was  delighted  to  secure 
A  goodly  guardian  for  his  infant  charge, 
Who  might  not  profit  much  by  being  at  large. 

XLII. 
Besides,  he  had  found  out  he  was  no  tutor, 

(I  wish  that  others  would  find  out  the  same ;) 
And  rather  wish'd  in  such  things  to  stand  neuter, 

For  silly  wards  will  bring  their  guardians  blame : 
So  when  he  saw  each  ancient  dame  a  suitor 

To  make  his  little  wild  Asiatic  tame, 
Consulting  "  the  Society  for  Vice 
Suppression,"  Lady  Pinchbeck  was  his  choice. 

XLIII. 
Olden  she  was — but  had  been  very  young  ; 

Virtuous  she  was — and  had  been,  I  believe ; 
Although  the  world  has  such  an  evil  tongue 

That but  my  chaster  ear  will  not  receive 

An  echo  of  a  syllable  that 's  wrong : 

In  fact,  there 's  nothing  makes  me  so  much  grieve. 
As  that  abominable  tittle-tattle. 
Which  is  the  cud  eschew'd  by  human  cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover  I  've  remark'd,  (and  I  was  once 

A  slight  observer  in  a  modest  way,) 
And  so  may  every  one  except  a  dunce. 

That  ladies  in  their  youth  a  Uttle  gay. 
Besides  their  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  sense 

Of  the  sad  consequence  of  going  astray, 
Are  wiser  in  their  warnings  'gainst  the  wo 
Which  the  mere  passionless  can  never  know. 

XLV. 
While  the  harsh  prude  indemnifies  her  virtue 

By  railing  at  the  unknown  and  envied  passion, 
Seeking  far  less  to  save  you  than  to  hurt  you. 

Or,  what 's  still  worse,  to  put  you  out  of  fashion, — 
The  kinder  veteran  with  calm  words  will  court  you, 

Entreating  you  to  pause  before  you  dash  on ; 
Expoimding  and  illustrating  the  riddle 
Of  epic  Love's  beginning,  end,  and  middle. 


Canto  xii. 


DON    JUAN. 


697 


; 


XLVI. 

Now  whether  it  be  thus,  or  that  they  are  stricter, 
As  better  knowing  why  tliey  should  be  so, 

I  think  you  '11  find  from  many  a  family  picture, 
That  daughters  of  such  mothers  as  may  know 

The  world  by  experience  rather  than  by  lecture, 
Turn  out  much  better  for  the  Smithfield  Show 

Of  vestals  brought  into  the  marriage  mart. 

Than  those  bred  up  by  prudes  without  a  heart 

XLVII. 
I  said  that  Lady  Pinchbeck  had  been  talk'd  about — 

As  who  has  not,  if  female,  young,  and  pretty  ? 
But  now  no  more  the  ghost  of  Scandal  stalk'd  about ; 

She  merely  was  deem'd  amiable  and  witty, 
And  several  of  her  best  bon-mots  were  hawk'd  about : 

Then  she  was  given  to  charity  and  pity. 
And  pass'd  (at  least  the  latter  years  of  lifej 
For  being  a  most  exemplary  wife. 

XLVIII. 
High  in  high  circles,  gentle  in  her  own, 

She  was  the  mild  rej)rover  of  the  yoimg, 
Whenever — which  means  every  day — they  'd  shown 

An  awkward  inclination  to  go  wrong. 
The  quantity  of  good  she  did  's  unknown. 

Or  at  the  least  would  lengthen  out  my  song  : 
In  brief,  the  little  orphan  of  the  East 
Had  raised  an  interest  in  her,  which  increased. 

XLIX. 
Juan,  too,  was  a  sort  of  favorite  with  her, 

Because  she  thought  him  a  good  heart  at  bottom, 
A  little  spoil'd,  but  not  so  altogether ; 

Which  was  a  wonder,  if  you  think  who  got  him. 
And  how  he  had  been  toss'd,  he  scarce  knew  whither: 

Though  this  might  ruin  others,  it  did  not  him. 
At  least  entirely — for  he  had  seen  too  many 
Changes  in  youth,  to  be  surprised  at  any. 

L. 

And  these  vicissitudes  tell  best  in  youth  ; 

For  when  they  happen  at  a  riper  age, 
People  are  apt  to  blame  the  Fates,  forsooth, 

And  wonder  Providence  is  not  more  sage. 
Adversity  is  the  first  path  to  truth  : 

He  who  hath  proved  war,  storm,  or  woman's  rage. 
Whether  his  winters  be  eighteen  or  eighty, 
Hath  won  the  experience  which  is  deem'd  so  weighty. 

LI. 

How  far  it  profits  is  another  matter. — 
Our  hero  gladly  saw  his  little  charge 

Safe  with  a  lady,  whose  last  grown-up  daughter 
Being  long  married,  and  thus  set  at  large, 

Had  left  all  the  accomplishments  she  taught  her 
To  be  transmitted,  like  the  Lord  Mayor's  barge. 

To  the  next  comer ;  or — as  it  will  tell 

More  Muse-like — like  to  Cytherca's  shell, 
83 


LII. 
I  call  such  things  transmission  ;  for  there  is 

A  floating  balance  of  accomplishment. 
Which  forms  a  pedigree  from  Miss  to  Miss, 

According  as  their  minds  or  backs  are  bent. 
Some  waltz  ;  some  draw ;  some  fathom  the  abyss 

Of  metaphysics  ;  others  are  content 
With  music ;  the  most  moderate  shine  as  wits ; 
While  others  havQ  a  genius  tum'd  for  fits. 

LIII. 
But  whether  fits,  or  wits,  or  harpsichords, 

Theology,  fine  arts,  or  finer  stays. 
May  be  the  baits  for  gentlemen  or  lords 

With  regular  descent,  in  these  our  days. 
The  last  year  to  the  new  transfers  its  hoards  ; 

New  vestals  claim  men's  eyes  with  the  same  praise 
Of  "  elegant "  et  catera,  in  fresh  batches- 
All  matchless  creatures,  and  yet  bent  on  matches. 

LIV. 
But  now  I  will  begin  my  poem.    'T  is 

Perhaps  a  little  strange,  if  not  quite  new. 
That  from  the  first  of  Cantos  up  to  this 

I  've  not  begun  what  we  have  to  go  through. 
These  first  twelve  books  are  merely  flourishes, 

Preludios,  trying  just  a  string  or  two 
Upon  my  lyre,  or  making  the  pegs  sure  ; 
And  when  so,  you  shaU  have  the  overture. 

LV. 
My  Muses  do  not  care  a  pinch  of  ro;in 

About  what 's  called  success,  or  not  succeeding : 
Such  thoughts  are  quite  below  the  strain  they  've 
chosen ; 

'T  is  a  "  great  moral  lesson  "  they  are  reading. 
I  thought,  at  setting  off,  about  two  dozen 

Cantos  would  do  ;  but  at  Apollo's  pleading. 
If  that  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  founder'd, 
I  think  to  canter  gently  through  a  hundred. 

LVI. 
Don  Juan  saw  that  microcosm  on  stilts, 

Yclept  the  Great  World ;  for  it  is  the  least. 
Although  the  highest :  but  as  swords  have  hilts 

By  which  their  power  of  mischief  is  increased, 
When  man  in  battle  or  in  quarrel  tilts. 

Thus  the  low  world,  north,  south,  or  west,  or  east, 
Must  still  obey  the  high — ^which  is  their  handle, 
Their  moon,  their  sun,  their  gas,  their  farthing  candle. 

LVII. 
He  had  many  friends  who  had  many  wives,  and  was 

Well  look'd  upon  by  both,  to  that  extent 
Of  friendship  which  you  may  accept  or  pass. 

It  does  nor  good  nor  harm  ;  being  merely  meant 
To  keep  the  wheels  going  of  the  higher  class, 

And  draw  them  nightly  when  a  ticket 's  sent : 


698 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  xii. 


And  what  with  masquerades,  and  fetes,  and  balls, 
For  the  first  season  such  a  life  scarce  palls. 

LVIII. 
A  young  unmarried  man,  with  a  good  name 

And  fortune,  has  an  awkward  part  to  play ; 
For  good  society  is  but  a  game, 

"  The  royal  game  of  Goose,"  as  I  may  say. 
Where  everybody  has  some  separate  aim, 

An  end  to  answer,  or  a  plan  to  lay — 
The  single  ladies  wishing  to  be  double, 
The  married  ones  to  save  the  virgins  trouble. 

LIX. 
I  don't  mean  this  as  general,  but  particular 

Examples  may  be  found  of  such  pursuits  : 
Though  several  also  keep  their  pei-pendicular 

Like  poplars,  with  good  principles  for  roots  ; 
Yet  many  have  a  method  more  reticular — 

"  Fishers  for  men,"  like  sirens  with  soft  lutes ; 
For  talk  six  times  with  the  same  single  lady, 
And  you  may  get  the  wedding  dresses  ready. 

LX. 
Perhaps  you  '11  have  a  letter  from  the  mother. 

To  say  her  daughter's  feeUngs  are  trepann'd  ; 
Perhaps  you  'U  have  a  visit  from  the  brother. 

All  strut,  and  stays,  and  whiskers,  to  demand 
What  "  your  intentions  are  ?" — One  way  or  other 

It  seems  the  virgin's  heart  expects  your  hand  : 
And  between  pity  for  her  case  and  yours, 
You  '11  add  to  Matrimony's  list  of  cures. 

LXI. 
I  've  known  a  dozen  weddings  made  even  tltui 

And  some  of  them  high  names  :  I  have  also  known 
Young  men  who— though  they  hated  to  discuss 

Pretensions  which  they  never  dream'd  to  have 
Yet  neither  frighten'd  by  a  female  fuss,      [shown — 

Nor  by  mustachios  moved,  were  let  alone. 
And  lived,  as  did  the  broken-hearted  fair. 
In  happier  plight  than  if  they  form'd  a  pair. 

LXII. 
There 's  also  nightlj',  to  the  uninitiated, 

A  peril — not  indeed  like  love  or  marriage. 
But  not  the  less  for  this  to  be  depreciated  : 

It  is — I  meant  and  mean  not  to  disparage 
The  show  of  virtue  even  in  the  vitiated — 

It  adds  an  outward  grace  unto  their  carriage — 
But  to  denounce  the  amphibious  sort  of  harlot, 
"  Couleur  de  rose,"  who  's  neither  white  nor  scarlet. 

LXIII. 
Such  is  your  cold  coquette,  who  can't  say  "  No," 

And  won't  say  "Yes,"  and  keeps  you  on  and  oif-ing 
On  a  lee-shore,  till  it  begins  to  blow —         [scoflSng. 

Then  sees  your  heart  wreck'd  with  an  inward 


This  works  a^  world  of  sentimental  wo. 

And  sends  new  Werthers  yearly  to  their  cofiin ; 
But  yet  is  merely  innocent  flirtation, 
Not  quite  adultery,  but  adulteration. 

LXIV. 
"  Yc  gods,  I  grow  a  talker  !"    Let  us  prate. 

The  next  of  perils,  though  I  place  it  sternest, 
Is  when,  without  regard  to  "  church  or  state," 

A  wife  makes  or  takes  love  in  upright  earnest. 
Abroad,  such  things  decide  few  women's  fate — 

(Such,  early  traveller  !  is  the  truth  thou  leamest) — 
But  in  old  England,  when  a  young  bride  errs, 
Poor  thing  !  Eve's  was  a  trifling  case  to  hers. 

LXV. 
For  't  is  a  low,  newspaper,  humdrum,  lawsuit 

Country,  where  a  young  couple  of  the  same  ages 
Can't  form  a  friendship,  but  the  world  o'erawes  it. 

Then  there 's  the  vulgar  trick  of  those  d — d  dam- 
ages! 
A  verdict — grievous  foe  to  those  who  cause  it ! — 

Forms  a  sad  climax  to  romantic  homages  : 
Besides  those  soothing  speeches  of  the  pleaders, 
And  evidences  which  regale  all  readers. 

LXVI. 

But  they  who  blunder  thus  are  new  beginners  ; 

A  little  genial  sprinkling  of  hypocrisy 
Has  saved  the  fame  of  thousand  splendid  sinners. 

The  loveliest  oligarchs  of  our  gynocracy  ; 
You  may  see  such  at  all  the  balls  and  dinners, 

Among  the  proudest  of  our  aristocracy. 
So  gentle,  charming,  charitable,  chaste — 
And  all  by  having  tact  as  well  as  taste. 

LXVII. 
Juan,  who  did  not  stand  in  the  predicament 

Of  a  mere  novice,  had  one  safeguard  more  ; 

For  he  was  sick no,  't  was  not  the  word  sick  I 

meant — 

But  he  had  seen  so  much  good  love  before. 
That  he  was  not  in  heart  so  very  weak  ; — I  meant 

But  this  much,  and  no  sneer  against  the  shore 
Of  white  clifis,  white  necks,  blue  eyes,  bluer  stockings, 
Tithes,  taxes,  duns,  and  doors  with  double  knockings. 

LXVIII. 

But  coming  young  from  lands  and  scenes  romantic, 
Where  lives,notlawsuit8,mustbe  risk'd  for  Passion, 

And  Passion's  self  must  have  a  spice  of  frantic, 
Into  a  country  where  't  is  half  a  fashion, 

Seem'd  to  him  half  commercial,  half  pedantic, 
Howe'er  he  might  esteem  this  moral  nation  : 

Besides  (alas  I  his  taste — forgive  and  pity !) 

At  first  he  did  not  think  the  women  pretty. 


CaKTO    XII. 


DON  JUAN. 


C99 


LXIX. 
I  say  at  Jirat — for  he  found  out  at  Jait, 

But  by  degrees,  that  they  were  fairer  fivr 
Than  the  more  glowing  dumes  wliose  lot  is  cast 

Beneath  the  influence  of  the  eastern  star. 
A  furtlier  proof  we  should  not  judge  in  haste  ; 

Yet  inexperience  could  not  be  his  bar 
To  taste  : — the  truth  is,  if  men  would  confess, 
That  novelties  please  less  than  they  impress. 

LXX. 
Though  travell'd,  I  have  never  had  the  luck  to 

Trace  up  tliose  shuffling  negroes,  Kile  or  Niger, 
To  that  impracticable  place,  Timbuctoo, 

Where  Geography  finds  no  one  to  oblige  her 
With  such  a  chart  as  may  be  safely  stuck  to — 

For  Euroj)e  ploughs  in  Afric  like  "  bos  piger  :" 
But  if  I  had  been  at  Timbuctoo,  there 
No  doubt  I  should  be  told  that  black  is  fair. 

LXXI. 
It  is.    I  will  not  swear  that  black  is  white ; 

But  I  suspect  in  fact  that  white  is  black, 
And  the  whole  matter  rests  upon  eye-sight. 

Ask  a  blind  man,  the  best  judge.    You  '11  attack 
Perhaps  this  new  position — but  I'm  right ; 

Or  if  I'm  wrong,  I'll  not  be  ta'en  aback  : — 
He  hath  no  mom  nor  night,  but  all  is  dark 
Within  ;  and  w^hat  seest  thou  2    A  dubious  spark. 

LXXII. 
But  I'm  relapsing  into  metaphysics, 

That  labyrinth,  whose  clue  is  of  the  same 
Construction  as  your  cures  for  hectic  phthisics, 

Those  bright  moths  fluttering  round  a  dying  flame; 
And  this  reflection  brings  me  to  plain  physics. 

And  to  the  beauties  of  a  foreign  dame, 
Compared  with  those  of  our  pure  pearls  of  price. 
Those  polar  summers,  all  sun,  and  some  ice. 

LXXIir. 
Or  say  they  are  like  virtuous  mermaids,  whose 

Beginnings  are  fair  faces,  ends  mere  fishes  ; — 
Not  that  there  's  not  a  quantity  of  those 

Who  have  a  due  respect  for  their  own  wishes. 
Like  Russians  rushing  from  hot  baths  to  snows' 

Are  they,  at  bottom  virtuous  even  when  vicious  : 
They  warm  into  a  scrape,  but  keep  of  course, 
As  a  reserve,  a  plunge  into  remorse. 

LXXIV. 
But  this  has  naught  to  do  with  their  outsides. 

I  said  that  Juan  did  not  think  them  pretty 
At  the  first  blush  ;  for  a  fair  Briton  hides 

Half  her  attractions — ^probably  from  pity — 

'  The  RnssianB,  as  is  well  kiio\vn,  ran  out  from  their  hot  baths 
to  plunge  into  the  Neva ;  a  pleasant  practical  antithesis,  which  It 
seems  dees  them  no  barm. 


And  rather  calmly  into  the  heart  glides. 

Than  storms  it  as  a  foe  would  take  a  city ; 
But  once  there  (if  you  doubt  this,  prithee  try) 
She  keeps  it  for  you  like  a  true  ally. 

LXXV. 

She  cannot  step  as  docs  an  Arab  barb. 
Or  Andalusian  girl  from  mass  returning. 

Nor  wear  as  gracefully  as  Gauls  her  garb. 
Nor  in  her  eye  Ausonia's  glance  is  burning  ; 

Her  voice,  though  sweet,  is  not  so  fit  to  warb- 
le those  bravuras,  (which  I  still  am  learning 

To  like,  though  I  have  been  seven  years  in  Italy, 

And  have,  or  had,  an  ear  that  served  me  prettily  ;)— 

LXXVI. 
She  cannot  do  these  things,  nor  one  or  two 

Others,  in  that  ofi"-hand  and  dashing  style 
Which  takes  so  much — to  give  the  devil  his  due  ; 

Nor  is  she  quite  so  ready  with  her  smile. 
Nor  settles  all  things  in  one  interview, 

(A  thing  approved  as  saving  time  and  toil ;) — 
But  though  the  soil  may  give  you  time  and  trouble, 
Well  cultivated,  it  will  render  double. 

LXXVII. 
And  if  in  fact  she  takes  to  a  "  grande  passion," 

It  is  a  very  serious  thing  indeed  : 
Nine  times  in  ten  'tis  but  caprice  or  fashion, 

Coquetry,  or  a  wish  to  take  the  lead. 
The  pride  of  a  mere  child  with  a  new  sash  on, 

Or  wish  to  make  a  rival's  bosom  bleed  : 
But  the  tenth  instance  will  be  a  tornado,    • 
For  there's  no  saying  what  they  wiU  or  may  do. 

LXXVIII. 

The  reason 's  obvious  ;  if  there's  an  ^clat, 
They  lose  their  caste  at  once,  as  do  the  Parias  ; 

And  when  the  delicacies  of  the  law 
Have  flll'd  their  papers  with  their  comments  various, 

Society,  that  china  without  flaw, 
(The  hypocrite  !)  will  banish  them  like  Maiius, 

To  sit  amidst  the  ruins  of  their  guilt : 

For  Fame 's  a  Carthage  not  so  soon  rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 
Perhaps  this  is  as  it  should  be  ; — it  is 

A  comment  on  the  Gospel's  "  Sin  no  more. 
And  be  thy  sins  forgiven  :" — but  upon  this 

I  leave  the  saints  to  settle  their  own  score. 
Abroad,  though  doubtless  they  do  much  amiss, 

An  erring  woman  finds  an  opener  door 
For  her  return  to  Virtue — as  they  call 
That  lady,  who  should  be  at  home  to  all. 

LXXX. 
For  me,  I  leave  the  matter  where  I  find  it, 
Knowing  that  such  uneasy  virtue  leads 


700 


BYEON'S  WOKKS, 


Canto  xin. 


People  some  ten  times  less  in  fact  to  mind  it, 
And  care  but  for  discoveries  and  not  deeds. 

And  as  for  chastity,  you'll  never  bind  it 
By  all  the  laws  the  strictest  lawyer  pleads, 

But  aggravate  the  crime  you  have  not  prevented, 

By  rendering  desperate  those  who  had  else  repented. 

LXXXI. 
But  Juan  was  no  casuist,  nor  had  ponder'd 

Upon  the  moral  lessons  of  mankind  : 
Besides,  he  had  not  seen  of  several  hundred 

A  lady  altogether  to  his  mind. 
A  little  "  blasC  " — 'tis  not  to  be  wonder'd 

At,  that  his  heart  had  got  a  tougher  rind  : 
And  though  not  vainer  from  his  past  success, 
No  doubt  his  sensibilities  were  less. 

LXXXII. 
He  also  had  been  busy  seeing  sights — 

The  Parliament  and  all  the  other  houses  ; 
Had  sat  beneath  the  gallery  at  nights, 

To  hear  debates  whose  thimder  roused  (not  rouse.) 
The  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights. 

Which  flash'd   as   far    as   where   the    musk-bull 
browses ;' 
He  had  also  stood  at  times  behind  the  throne — 
But  Grey  was  not  arrived,  and  Chatham  gone. 

LXXXIII. 
He  saw,  however,  at  the  closing  session. 

That  noble  sight,  when  really  free  the  nation, 
A  king  in  constitutional  possession 

Of  such  a  throne  as  is  the  proudest  station, 
Though  despots  know  it  not — till  the  progression 

Of  freedom  shall  complete  their  education. 
'Tis  not  mere  splendor  makes  the  show  august 
To  eye  or  heart — it  is  the  people's  trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There,  too,  he  saw  (whate'er  he  may  be  now) 
A  Prince,  the  prince  of  princes  at  the  time. 

With  fascination  in  his  very  bow, 
And  full  of  promise,  as  the  spring  of  prime. 

Though  royalty  was  written  on  his  brow, 
He  had  then  the  grace,  too,  rare  in  every  clime. 

Of  being,  without  alloy  of  fop  or  beau, 

A  finish'd  gentleman  from  top  to  toe. 

LXXXV. 

And  Juan  was  received,  as  hath  been  said, 

Into  the  best  society :  and  there 
Occurr'd  what  often  happens,  I'm  afraid. 

However  disciplined  and  debonnaire  : 
The  talent  and  good  humor  he  display'd. 

Besides  the  mark'd  distinction  of  his  air 

'  For  a  description  and  print  of  this  inhabitant  of  the  polar  re- 
gion and  native  country  of  the  Aurorce  Boreales,  see  Parry's  Voy- 
age in  search  of  a  Northwest  Passage. 

'  A  sculptor  projected  to  hew  Mount  Athos  into  a  statue  of 


Exposed  him,  as  was  natural,  to  temptation, 
Even  though  himself  avoided  the  occasion. 

LXXXVI. 
But  what,  and  where,  with  whom,  and  when,  and  why, 

Is  not  to  be  put  hastily  together ; 
And  as  my  object  is  morality, 

(Whatever  people  say,)  I  don't  know  whether 
I'll  leave  a  single  reader's  eyelid  dry,  , 

But  harrow  up  his  feelings,  till  they  wither. 
And  hew  out  a  huge  monument  of  pathos. 
As  Philij)'s  son  proposed  to  do  with  Athos.* 

LXXXVII. 
Here  the  twelfth  canto  of  our  introduction 

Ends.     When  the  body  of  the  book 's  begun. 
You'll  find  it  of  a  different  construction 

From  what  some  people  say  'twill  be  when  done : 
The  plan  at  present 's  simply  in  concoction. 

I  can't  oblige  you,  reader,  to  read  on  ; 
That's  your  affair,  not  mine  :  a  real  spirit 
Should  neither  court  neglect,  nor  dread  to  bear  it. 

LXXXVIII. 
And  if  my  thunderbolt  not  always  rattles. 

Remember,  reader  !  you  have  had  before, 
The  worst  of  tempests  and  the  best  of  battles, 

That  e'er  were  brew'd  from  elements  or  gore. 
Besides  the  most  sublime  of — Heaven  knows  what 

An  usurer  could  scarce  expect  much  more —  [else : 
But  my  best  canto,  save  one  on  astronomy, 
Will  turn  upon  "  political  economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That  is  your  present  theme  for  popularity : 
Now  that  the  public  hedge  hath  a  scarce  a  stake, 

It  grows  an  act  of  patriotic  charity, 

To  show  the  people  the  best  way  to  break. 

My  plan  (but  I,  if  but  for  singularity, 
Reserve  it)  will  be  very  sure  to  take. 

Meantime,  read  all  the  national  debt-sinkers. 

And  tell  me  what  you  think  of  our  great  thinkers. 


DON    JUAN. 


CtSTO    THE    THIETKENTH. 


I  NOW  mean  to  be  serious  ; — it  is  time. 

Since  laughter  now-a-days  is  deem'd  too  serious  ; 

A  jest  at  Vice  by  Virtue  's  call'd  a  crime. 
And  critically  held  as  deleterious  : 

Besides,  the  sad 's  a  source  of  the  sublime. 
Although  when  long  a  little  apt  to  weary  us  ; 

Alexander,  with  a  city  in  one  hand,  and,  I  believe,  a  river  in  his 
pocket,  with  various  other  similar  devices.  But  Alexander 's  gone, 
and  Athos  remains,  I  trust  ere  long  to  look  over  a  nation  of  Srea- 
men. 


CaXTO  XIII. 


DON    JUAN. 


701 


And  therefore  shall  my  lay  soar  high  and  solemn, 
As  an  old  temple  dwindled  to  a  column. 

II. 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville 

('Tis  an  old  Norman  name,  and  to  be  found 
In  pedigrees,  by  those  who  wander  still 

Along  the  last  fields  of  that  Gothic  ground) 
Was  high-born,  wealthy  by  her  father's  will, 

And  beauteous,  even  where  beauties  most  abound, 
In  Britain — which  of  course  true  patriots  find 
The  goodliest  soil  of  body  and  of  mind. 

III. 
I'll  not  gainsay  them  ;  it  is  not  my  cue  ; 

I'll  leave  them  to  their  taste,  no  doubt  the  best : 
An  eye's  an  eye,  and  whether  black  or  blue, 

Is  no  great  matter,  so  'tis  in  request, 
'Tis  nonsense  to  dispute  about  a  hue — 

The  kindest  may  be  taken  as  a  test. 
The  fair  sex  should  be  always  fair  ;  and  no  man. 
Till  thirty,  should  perceive  there  's  a  plain  woman. 

IV. 
And  after  that  serene  and  somewhat  dull 

Epoch,  that  awkward  comer  tum'd  for  days 
More  quiet,  when  our  moon 's  no  more  at  full, 

We  may  presume  to  criticise  or  praise  ; 
Because  indiflference  begins  to  lull 

Our  passions,  and  we  walk  in  wisdom's  ways : 
Also  because  the  figure  and  the  face 
Hint,  that  'tis  time  to  give  the  younger  place. 

V. 

I  know  that  some  would  fain  postpone  this  era, 

Reluctant  as  all  placemen  to  resign 
Their  post ;  but  theirs  is  merely  a  chimera. 

For  they  have  pass'd  life's  equinoctial  line  : 
But  then  they  have  their  claret  and  Madeira, 

To  irrigate  the  dryness  of  decline  ; 
And  county  meetings,  and  the  parliament, 
And  debt,  and  what  not,  for  their  solace  sent. 

VI. 
And  is  there  not  religion,  and  reform, 

Peace,  war,  the  taxes,  and  what's  call'd  the  "  Ka- 
The  struggle  to  be  pilots  in  a  storm  ?  [tion  ?" 

The  landed  and  the  money'd  speculation  ? 
The  joys  of  mutual  hate  to  keep  them  warm. 

Instead  of  love,  that  mere  hallucination  ? 
Now  hatred  is  by  far  the  longest  pleasure  ; 
Men  love  in  haste,  but  they  detest  at  leisure. 

VII. 
Rough  Johnson,  the  great  moralist,  profess'd. 

Right  honestly,  "  he  liked  an  honest  hater  1" — 
The  only  truth  that  yet  has  been  confess'd 

Within  these  latest  thousand  years  or  later, 


Perhaps  the  fine  old  fellow  spoke  in  jest : — 

For  my  part,  I  am  but  a  mere  spectator. 
And  gaze  where'er  the  palace  or  the  hovel  is. 
Much  in  the  mode  of  Goethe's  Mephistopheles ; 

VIII. 

But  neither  love  nor  hate  in  much  excess  ; 

Though  'twas  not  once  so.  If  I  sneer  sometimes, 
It  is  because  I  cannot  well  do  less. 

And  now  and  then  it  also  suits  my  rhymes. 
I  should  be  very  willing  to  redress 

Men's  wrongs,  and  rather  check  than  punish 
Had  not  Cervantes,  in  that  too  true  tale  [crimes, 
Of  Quixote,  shown  how  all  such  elTorts  fail. 

IX. 

Of  all  tales  'tis  the  saddest — and  more  sad. 
Because  it  makes  us  smile  :  his  hero 's  right. 

And  stiU  pursues  the  right ;— to  curb  the  bad 
His  only  object,  and  'gainst  odds  to  fight 

His  guerdon  :  'tis  his  virtue  makes  him  mad  ! 
But  his  adventures  form  a  sorry  sight ; — 

A  sorrier  stiU  is  the  great  moral  taught 

By  that  real  epic  unto  all  who  have  thought. 

X. 

Redressing  injury,  revenging  wrong. 

To  aid  the  damsel  and  destroy  the  caitiflf; 

Opposing  singly  the  united  strong. 
From  foreign  yoke  to  free  the  helpless  native  : — 

Alas  1  must  noblest  views,  like  an  old  song, 
Be  for  mere  fancy's  sport  a  theme  creative, 

A  jest,  a  riddle,  Fame  through  thick  and  thin  sought  1 

And  Socrates  himself  but  Wisdom's  Quixote  ? 

XI. 

Cervantes  smiled  Spain's  chivalry  away ; 

A  single  laugh  demolish'd  the  right  arm 
Of  his  own  country  ; — seldom  since  that  day 

Has   Spain  had  heroes.     While  Romance  could 
charm. 
The  world  gave  ground  before  her  bright  array ; 

And  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such  harm, 
That  all  their  glory,  as  a  composition. 
Was  dearly  purchased  by  his  land's  perdition. 

XII. 
I'm  "  at  my  old  lunes  " — digression,  and  forget 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville  ; 
The  fair  most  fatal  Juan  ever  met, 

Although  she  was  not  evil  nor  meant  ill ; 
But  Destiny  and  Passion  spread  the  net, 

(Fate  is  a  good  excuse  for  our  own  will,) 
And  caught  them  ;— what  do  they  not  catch,  me- 
But  I'm  not  (Edipus,  and  life  's  a  Sphinx,      [thinks. 

XIII. 
I  tell  the  tale  as  it  is  told,  nor  dare 
To  venture  a  solution  :  "  Davus  sum  1" 


702 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


CaJJTO  XIII. 


And  now  I  •vdll  proceed  upon  the  pair. 

Sweet  Adeline,  amidst  the  gay  world's  hum, 
Was  the  Queen-Bee,  the  glass  of  all  that's  fair ; 

Whose  charms  made  all  men  speak,  and  women 
dumb. 
The  last 's  a  miracle,  and  such  was  reckon'd, 
And  since  that  time  there  has  not  been  a  second. 

XIV. 
Chaste  was  she,  to  detraction's  desperation. 

And  wedded  unto  one  she  had  loved  well — 
A  man  known  in  the  councils  of  the  nation. 

Cool,  and  quite  English,  imperturbable. 
Though  apt  to  act  with  fire  upon  occasion, 

Proud  of  himself  and  her  :  the  world  could  tell 
Naught  against  either,  and  both  seem'd  secure — 
She  in  her  virtue,  he  in  his  hauteur. 

XV. 

It  chanced  some  diplomatical  relations. 
Arising  out  of  business,  often  brought 

Himself  and  Juan  in  their  mutual  stations 
Into  close  contact.     Though  reserved,  nor  caught 

By  specious  seeming,  Juan's  youth,  and  patience. 
And  talent,  on  his  haughty  spirit  wrought, 

And  form'd  a  basis  of  esteem,  which  ends 

In  making  men  what  courtesy  calls  friends. 

XVI. 

And  thus  Lord  Henry,  who  was  cautious  as 

Reserve  and  pride  could  make  him,  and  full  slow 

In  judging  men — when  once  his  judgment  was 
Determined,  right  or  wrong,  on  friend  or  foe. 

Had  all  the  pertinacity  pride  has, 

Which  knows  no  ebb  to  its  imperious  flow, 

And  loves  or  hates,  disdaining  to  be  guided. 

Because  its  own  good  pleasure  hath  decided. 

XVII. 

His  friendships,  therefore,  and  no  less  aversions. 
Though  oft  well  founded,  which   conflrm'd  but 

His  prepossessions,  like  the  laws  of  Persians    [more 
And  Medes,  would  ne'er  revoke  what  went  before. 

His  feelings  had  not  those  strange  fits,  like  tertians, 
Of  common  likings,  which  make  some  deplore 

What  they  should  laugh  at — the  mere  ague  still 

Of  men's  regard,  the  fever  or  the  chill. 

XVIII. 

"  'Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success  : 

But  do  you  more,  Sempronius — don't  deserve  it," 

And  take  my  word,  you  won't  have  any  less. 
Be  wary,  watch  the  time,  and  always  serve  it ; 

Give  gently  way,  when  there  's  too  great  a  press ; 
And  for  your  conscience,  only  learn  to  nerve  it ; 

For,  Uke  a  racer,  or  a  boxer  training, 

'TwiU  make,  if  proved,  vast  efforts  without  paining. 


XIX. 
Lord  Henry  also  liked  to  be  superior. 

As  most  men  do,  the  little  or  the  great ; 
The  very  lowest  find  out  an  inferior. 

At  least  they  think  so,  to  exert  their  state 
Upon  :  for  there  are  very  few  things  wearier 

Than  solitary  Pride's  oppressive  weight. 
Which  mortals  generously  would  divide, 
By  bidding  others  carry  while  they  ride. 

XX. 

In  birth,  in  rank,  in  fortune  likewise  equal, 
O'er  Juan  he  could  no  distinction  claim  ; 

In  years  he  had  the  advantage  of  time's  sequel ; 
And,  as  he  thought,  in  country  much  the  same — 

Because  bold  Britons  have  a  tongue  and  free  quill 
At  which  all  modern  nations  vainly  aim ; 

And  the  Lord  Henry  was  a  great  debater, 

So  that  few  members  kept  the  house  up  later. 

XXI. 

These  were  advantages  :  and  then  he  thought — 
It  was  his  foible,  but  by  no  means  sinister — 

That  few  or  none  more  than  himself  had  caught 
Court  mysteries,  having  been  himself  a  minister ; 

He  liked  to  teach  that  which  he  had  been  taught. 
And  greatly  shone  whenever  there  had  been  a  stir : 

And  reconciled  all  qualities  which  grace  man. 

Always  a  patriot,  and  sometimes  a  placemaiu 

XXII. 

He  liked  the  gentle  Spaniard  for  his  gravity  ; 

He  almost  honor'd  him  for  his  docility. 
Because,  though  young,  he  acquiesced  with  suavity, 

Or  contradicted  but  with  proud  humility. 
He  knew  the  world,  and  would  not  see  depravity 

In  faults  which  sometimes  show  the  soil's  fertility. 
If  that  the  weeds  o'erlive  not  the  first  crop — 
For  then  they  are  very  difBcult  to  stop. 

XXIII. 
And  then  he  talk'd  with  him  about  Madrid, 

Constantinople,  and  such  distant  places  ; 
Where  people  always  did  as  they  were  bid, 

Or  did  what  they  should  not  with  foreign  graces. 
Of  coursers  also  spake  they  :  Henry  rid 

Well,  like  most  Englishmen,  and  loved  the  races ; 
And  Juan,  like  a  true-born  Andalusian, 
Could  back  a  horse,  as  despots  ride  a  Russian. 

XXIV. 

And  thus  acquaintance  grew,  at  noble  routs. 
And  diplomatic  dinners,  or  at  other — 

For  Juan  stood  well  both  with  Ins  and  Outs, 
As  in  freemasonry  a  higher  brother. 

Upon  his  talent  Henry  had  no  doubts  ;  [er ; 

His  manner  show'd  him  sprung  from  a  high  moth- 


Canto  xiii. 


DON    JUAN. 


703 


And  all  men  like  to  show  their  hospitality 

To  him  ■whose  breeding  matches  with  his  quality. 

XXV. 
At  Blank-Blank  Square ; — for  we  will  break  no  squares 

By  naming  streets  :  since  men  are  so  censorious, 
And  apt  to  sow  an  author's  wheat  with  tares, 

Reaping  allusions  private  and  inglorious, 
"Where  none  were  dreamt  of,  unto  love's  affairs, 

Which  were,  or  are,  or  are  to  be  notorious. 
That  therefore  do  I  previously  declare. 
Lord  Henry's  mansion  was  in  Blank-Blank  Square. 

XXVI. 
Also  there  bin'  another  pious  reason 

For  making  squares  and  streets  anonymous  ; 
WTiich  is,  that  there  is  scarce  a  single  season 

Which  doth  not  shake  some  very  splendid  house 
With  some  slight  heart-quake  of  domestic  treason — 

A  topic  scandal  doth  delight  to  rouse  : 
Such  I  might  stumble  over  unawares. 
Unless  I  knew  the  very  chastest  squares. 

XXVII. 
'Tis  true,  I  might  have  chosen  Piccadilly, 

A  place  where  peccadilloes  are  unknown ; 
But  I  have  motives,  whether  wise  or  silly, 

For  letting  that  pure  sanctuary  alone. 
Therefore  I  name  not  square,  street,  place,  until  I 

Find  one  where  nothing  naughty  can  be  shown. 
A  vestal  shrine  of  innocence  of  heart : 
Such  are ^but  I  have  lost  the  London  Chart. 

XXVIII. 
At  Henry's  mansion  then,  in  Blank-Blank  Square, 

Was  Juan  a  recherche,  welcome  guest. 
As  many  other  noble  scions  were ; 

And  some  who  had  but  talent  for  their  crest ; 
Or  wealth,  which  is  a  passport  everywhere ; 

Or  even  mere  fashion,  which  indeed 's  the  best 
Recommendation  ;  and  to  be  well  dress'd 
Will  very  often  supersede  the  rest. 

XXIX. 

And  since  "  there's  safety  in  a  multitude 
Of  counsellors,"  as  Solomon  has  said. 

Or  some  one  for  him,  in  some  sage,  grave  mood ; — 
Indeed  we  see  the  daily  proof  display'd 

In  senates,  at  the  bar,  in  wordy  feud. 
Where'er  collective  wisdom  can  parade. 

Which  is  the  only  cause  that  we  can  guess 

Of  Britain's  present  wealth  and  happiness ; 

XXX. 

But  as  "  there  's  safety  "  grafted  in  the  number 
"  Of  counsellors,"  for  men, — thus  for  the  sex 

«  "  With  every  thing  that  pretty  Wn, 
My  lady,  sweet,  arise."— Shakbpeaet. 


A  large  acquaintance  lets  not  Virtue  slumber ; 

Or  should  it  shake,  the  choice  will  more  perplex — 
Variety  itself  will  more  encumber. 

'Midst  many  rocks  we  guard  more  against  wrecks ; 
And  thus  with  women  :  howsoe'er  it  shocks  some's 
Self-love,  there  's  safety  in  a  crowd  of  coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But  Adeline  had  not  the  least  occasion 
For  such  a  shield,  which  leaves  but  Uttle  merit 

To  virtue  proper,  or  good  education. 

Her  chief  resource  was  in  her  own  high  spirit, 

Which  judged  mankind  at  their  due  estimation  ; 
And  for  coquetry,  she  disdain'd  to  wear  it ; 

Secure  of  admiration,  its  impression 

Was  faint,  as  of  an  every-day  possession 

XXXII. 

To  all  she  was  polite  without  parade. 

To  some  she  show'd  attention  of  that  kind 

Which  flatters,  but  is  flattery  convey'd 
In  such  a  sort  as  cannot  leave  behind 

A  trace  unworthy  either  wife  or  maid  ; — 
A  gentle,  genial  courtesy  of  mind. 

To  those  who  were,  or  pass'd  for  meritorious, 

Just  to  console  sad  glory  for  being  glorious  ; 

XXXIII. 

Which  is  in  all  respects,  save  now  and  then, 
A  duU  and  desolate  appendage.    Gaze 

Upon  the  shades  of  those  distinguish'd  men. 
Who  were  or  are  the  puppet-shows  of  praise, 

The  praise  of  persecution.    Gaze  again 
On  the  most  favor'd ;  and  amidst  the  blaze 

Of  sunset  haloes  o'er  the  laurel-brow'd. 

What  can  ye  recognize  ? — a  gilded  cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There  also  was  of  course  in  Adeline 

That  calm  patrician  polish  in  the  address. 

Which  ne'er  can  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Of  any  thing  which  nature  would  express ; 

Just  as  a  mandarin  finds  nothing  fine, — 
At  least  his  manner  sufiTers  not  to  guess. 

That  any  thing  he  views  can  greatly  please. 

Perhaps  we  have  borrow'd  this  from  the  Chinese — 

XXXV. 

Perhaps  from  Horace  :  his  "iViZ  admirari " 
Was  what  he  call'd  the  "  Art  of  Happiness ;" 

An  art  on  which  the  artists  greatly  vary. 
And  have  not  yet  attain'd  to  much  success. 

However,  'tis  expedient  to  be  wary  : 
Indifibrence  certes  don't  produce  distress  ; 

And  rash  enthusiasm  in  good  society 

Were  nothing  but  a  moral  inebriety. 


lOi 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xni. 


'    XXXVI. 

But  Adeline  was  not  indifferent :  for 

(iVb«)  for  a  common-place  !)  beneath  the  snow, 

As  a  volcano  holds  the  lava  more 
Within — et  ccetera.    Shall  I  go  on  ? — No  ! 

I  hate  to  hunt  down  a  tired  metaphor, 
So  let  the  often-used  volcano  go. 

Poor  thing  !    How  frequently,  by  me  and  others, 

It  hath  been  stirr'd  up  till  its  smoke  quite  smothers ! 

XXXVII. 

I'll  have  another  figure  in  a  trice  : — 
What  say  you  to  a  bottle  of  champagne  ? 

Frozen  into  a  very  vinous  ice. 
Which  leaves  few  drops  of  that  immortal  rain. 

Yet  in  the  very  centre,  past  all  price, 
About  a  liquid  glassful  will  remain  ; 

And  this  is  stronger  than  the  strongest  grape 

Could  e'er  express  in  its  expanded  shape  : 

XXXVIII. 

'Tis  the  whole  spirit  brought  to  a  quintessence ; 

And  thus  the  chillest  aspects  may  concentre 
A  hidden  nectar  imder  a  cold  presence. 

And  such  are  many — though  I  only  meant  her 
From  whom  I  now  deduce  these  moral  lessons. 

On  which  the  Muse  has  always  sought  to  enter : 
And  your  cold  people  are  beyond  all  price. 
When  once  you  have  broken  their  confounded  ice. 

XXXIX. 

But  after  all  they  are  a  Northwest  Passage 

Unto  the  glowing  India  of  the  soul ; 
And  as  the  good  ships  sent  upon  that  message 

Have  not  exactly  asoertain'd  the  Pole, 
(Though  Parry's  efforts  look  a  lucky  presage,) 

Thus  gentlemen  may  run  upon  a  shoal ; 
For  if  the  Pole  's  not  open,  but  all  frost, 
(A  chance  still,)  'tis  a  voyage  or  vessel  lost. 

XL. 

And  young  beginners  may  as  weU  commence 
With  quiet  cruising  o'er  the  ocean  woman  ; 

While  those  who  are  not  beginners  should  have  sense 
Enough  to  make  for  port,  ere  time  shall  summon 

With  his  gray  signal-flag  ;  and  the  past  tense, 
The  dreary  '^Fuimus  "  of  all  things  human. 

Must  be  declined,  while  life's  thin  thread 's  spun  out 

Between  the  gaping  heir  and  gnawing  gout. 

XLI. 

But  heaven  must  be  diverted  ;  its  diversion 
Is  sometimes  truculent — but  never  mind : 

The  world  upon  the  whole  is  worth  the  assertion 
(If  but  for  comfort)  that  all  things  are  kind  : 

And  that  same  devilish  doctrine  of  the  Persian, 
Of  the  two  principles,  but  leaves  behind 


As  many  doubts  as  any  other  doctrine 

Has  ever  puzzled  Faith  withal,  or  yoked  her  in. 

XLII. 
The  English  winter — ending  in  July, 

To  recommence  in  August — now  was  done. 
'Tis  the  postillion's  paradise  :  wheels  fly  ; 

On  roads,  east,  south,  north,  west,  there  is  a  run. 
But  for  post-horses  who  finds  sympathy  ? 

Man's  pity  's  for  himself,  or  for  his  son. 
Always  premising  that  said  son  at  college 
lias  not  contracted  much  more  debt  than  knowledge. 

XLIII. 
The  London  winter  's  ended  in  July— 

Sometimes  a  little  later.     I  don't  err 
In  this :  whatever  other  blunders  lie 

Upon  my  shoulders,  here  I  must  aver 
My  Muse  a  glass  of  weatherology ; 

For  parliament  is  our  barometer : 
Let  radicals  its  other  acts  attack. 
Its  sessions  form  our  only  almanack. 

XLIV. 

When  its  quicksilver 's  down  at  zero, — lo  ! 

Coach,  chariot,  luggage,  baggage,  equipage  } 
Wheels  whirl  from  Carlton  palace  to  Soho, 

And  happiest  they  who  horses  can  engage  ; 
The  turnpikes  glow  with  dust ;  and  Rotten  Row 

Sleeps  from  the  chivalry  of  this  bright  age  ; 
And  tradesmen,  with  long  bills  and  longer  faces, 
Sigh — as  the  postboys  fasten  on  the  traces. 

XLV. 
They  and  their  biUs,  "  Arcadians  both,"  are  left 

To  the  Greek  kalends  of  another  session. 
Alas  1  to  them  of  ready  cash  bereft, 

What  hope  remains  ?    Of  hope  the  full  possession, 
Or  generous  draft,  conceded  as  a  gift. 

At  a  long  date — till  they  can  get  a  fresh  one — 
Hawk'd  about  at  a  discount,  small  or  large ; 
Also  the  solace  of  an  overcharge. 

XLVI. 
But  these  are  trifles.    Downward  flies  my  lord. 

Nodding  beside  my  lady  in  his  carriage. 
Away  1  away  1  "  Fresh  horses  !"  are  the  word. 

And  changed  as  quickly  as  hearts  after  marriage ; 
The  obsequious  landlord  hath  the  change  restored ; 

The  postboys  have  no  reason  to  disparage 
Their  fee ;  but  ere  the  water'd  wheels  may  hiss  hence, 
The  ostler  pleads  too  for  a  reminiscence. 

XLVII. 

'Tis  granted  ;  and  the  valet  mounts  the  dickey — 
That  gentleman  of  lords  and  gentlemen  : 

Also  my  lady's  gentlewoman,  tricky, 
Trick'd  out,  but  modest  more  than  poet's  pen 


Canto  xiii. 


DON   JUAN. 


705 


Can  paint, — ^'Cosi  niaggino  i  Jiicehi  /" 

(Excuse  a  foreign  slipslop  now  and  then, 
If  but  to  show  I've  travel'd ;  and  what 's  travel. 
Unless  it  teaches  one  to  quote  and  cavil  ?) 

XLVIII. 

The  London  winter  and  the  country  summer 
Were  well  nigh  over.    'Tis  perhaps  a  pity 

When  nature  wears  the  gown  that  doth  become  her. 
To  lose  those  best  months  in  a  sweaty  city. 

And  wait  until  the  nightingale  grows  dumber, 
Listening  debates  not  very  wise  or  witty. 

Ere  patriots  their  true  country  can  remember ; — 

But  there 's  no  shooting  (save  grouse)  till  September. 

XUX. 
I've  done  with  my  tirade.    The  world  was  gone ; 

The  twice  two   thousand,  for  whom  earth  was 
Were  vanish'd  to  be  what  they  call  alone —    [made. 

That  is,  with  thirty  servants  for  parade. 
As  many  guests,  or  more  ;  before  whom  groan 

As  many  covers,  duly,  daily,  laid. 
Let  none  accuse  Old  England's  hospitality — 
Its  quantity  is  but  condensed  to  quality. 


Lord  Henry  and  the  Lady  Adeline 

Departed  like  the  rest  of  their  compeers, 

The  peerage,  to  a  mansion  very  fine  ; 
The  Gothic  Babel  of  a  thousand  years. 

None  than  themselves  could  boast  a  longer  line. 
Where  time  through  heroes  and  through  beauties 

And  oaks  as  olden  as  their  pedigree  [steers  ; 

Told  of  their  sires,  a  tomb  in  every  tree. 

LI. 
A  paragraph  in  eveiy  paper  told 

Of  their  departure  :  such  is  modern  fame. 
'Tis  pity  that  it  takes  no  farther  hold 

Than  an  advertisement,  or  much  the  same  ; 
When,  ere  the  ink  be  dry,  the  sound  grows  cold. 

The  Morning  Post  was  foremost  to  proclaim — 
"  Departure,  for  his  country  scat,  to-day. 
Lord  II.  Amundeville  and  Lady  A. 

LII. 
"  We  understand  the  splendid  host  intends 

To  entertain,  this  autumn,  a  select 
And  numerous  party  of  his  noble  friends ; 

Midst  whom  we  have  heard,  from  sources  quite 
correct. 
The  Duke  of  D the  shooting  season  spends, 

With  many  more  by  rank  and  fashion  deck'd  ; 
Also  a  foreigner  of  high  condition. 
The  envoy  of  the  secret  Russian  mission." 

LIII. 
And  thus  we  see — who  doubts  the  Morning  Post  f 
(Whose  articles  are  like  tin-  "Tliirty-nine," 
89 


Which  those  most  swear  to  who  believe  them  most) — 
Our  gay  Russ  Spaniard  was  ordain'd  to  shine, 

Deck'd  by  the  rays  reflected  from  his  host. 
With  those  who.  Pope  says, "  greatly  daring  dine." 

'Tis  odd,  but  true, — last  war  the  News  abounded 

More  with  these  dinners  than  the  kill'd  or  wounded ; — 

LIV. 

As  thus  :  "  On  Thursday  there  was  a  grand  dinner ; 

Present,  Lords  A.  B.  C." — Earls,  dukes,  by  name 
Announced  with  no  less  pomp  than  victory's  winner : 

Then  underneath,  and  in  the  very  same         [here 
Column  ;  date,  "  Falmouth.     There  has  lately  been 

The  Slap-dash  regiment,  so  well  known  to  fame ; 
Wliose  loss  in  the  late  action  we  regret : 
The  vacancies  are  flll'd  up — see  Gazette." 

LV. 
To  Norman  Abbey  whirl'd  the  noble  pair, — 

An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion, — of  a  rich  and  rare 

Mix'd  Gothic,  such  as  artists  all  allow 
Few  specimens  yet  left  us  can  compare 

Withal :  it  lies  perhaps  a  little  low. 
Because  the  monks  preferr'd  a  hill  behind. 
To  shelter  their  devotion  from  the  wind. 

LVI. 
It  stood  embosom'd  in  a  happy  valley, 

Crown'd  by  high  woodlands,  where  the  Druid  oak 
Stood  like  Caractacus  in  act  to  rally 

His  host,  with  broad  arms  'gainst  the  thunder- 
stroke ; 
And  from  beneath  his  bouglis  were  seen  to  sally 

The  dappled  foresters — as  day  awoke, 
The  branching  stag  swept  down  with  all  his  herd, 
To  quaff  a  brook  which  murmur'd  like  a  bird. 

I.VII. 
Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake. 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 
By  a  river,  which  its  soften'd  way  did  take 

In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 
Around  :  the  wild-fowl  nestled  in  the  brake 

And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed  : 
The  woods   sloped  downwards  to   its  brink,  and 
With  their  green  faces  fix'd  upon  the  flood,     [stood 

LVIII. 
Its  outlet  dash'd  into  a  deep  cascade. 

Sparkling  with  foam,  until  again  subsiding, 
Its  shriUer  echoes — like  an  infant  made 

Quiet — sank  into  softer  ripples,  gliding 
Into  a  rivulet ;  and  thus  allay'd, 

Pursued  its  course,  now  gleaming,  and  now  hiding 
Its  windings  through  the  woods ;  now  clear,  now 

blue. 
According  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw: 


706 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xin. 


LIX. 

A  glorious  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile  [apart 

(While  yet  the  church  was  Rome's)  stood  half 

In  a  grand  arch,  which  once  screen'd  many  an  aisle. 
These  last  had  disappear'd — a  loss  to  art : 

The  first  yet  frown'd  superbly  o'er  the  soil, 
And  kindled  feelings  in  the  roughest  heart. 

Which  mourn'd  the  power  of  time's  or  tempest's 

In  gazing  on  that  venerable  arch.  [march, 

LX. 
Within  a  niche,  nigh  to  its  pinnacle, 

Twelve  saints  had  once  stood  sanctified  in  stone  ; 
But  these  had  fallen,  not  when  the  friars  fell, 

But  in  the  war  which  struck  Charles  from  his 
throne. 
When  each  house  was  a  fortalice — as  tell 

The  annals  of  full  many  a  line  undone, — 
The  gallant  cavaliers,  who  fought  in  vain 
For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign. 

LXI. 
But  in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crown'd, 

The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  Child, 
With  her  Son  in  her  blessed  arms,  look'd  round, 

Spared  by  some  chance  when  all  beside  was  spoil'd; 
She  made  the  earth  feelow  seem  holy  ground. 

This  may  be  superstition,  weak  or  wild, 
But  even  the  faintest  relics  of  a  shrine 
Of  any  worship  wake  some  thoughts  divine. 

LXII. 
A  mighty  window,  hollow  in  the  centre, 

Shorn  of  its  glass  of  thousand  colorings. 
Through  which  the  deepen'd  glories  once  could  enter, 

Streaming  from  ofi'  the  sun  like  seraph's  wings. 
Now  yawns  all  desolate  :  now  loud,  now  fainter. 

The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft 
The  owl  his  anthem,  where  the  silenced  choir  [sings 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  qnench'd  like  fire. 

LXIII. 
But  in  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 

The  wind  is  winged  from  one  point  of  heaven. 
There  moans  a  strange  unciirthly  sound,  which  then 

Is  musical— a  dying  accent  driven 
Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sings  again 

Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 
Back  to  the  night  wind  by  the  waterfall, 
And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall : 

LXIV. 
Others,  that  some  original  shape,  or  form 

Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 
(Though  less  than  that  of  Memnon's  statue,  warm 

In  Egypt's  rays,  to  harp  at  a  fix'd  hour) 
To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm  : 

Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  over  tree  or  tower ; 


The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve ;  but  such 
The  fact : — I've  heard  it, — once  perhaps  too  much. 

LXV. 
Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  play'd. 

Symmetrical,  but  deck'd  with  carvings  quaint — 
Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade. 

And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint : 
The  spring  gush'd  through  grim  mouths  of  granite 

And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent     [made, 
Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles. 
Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles. 

LXVI. 

The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable. 
With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 

Elsewhere  preserved  :  the  cloisters  still  were  stable, 
The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  wean  : 

An  exquisite  smaU  chapel  had  been  able, 
Still  unimpair'd,  to  decorate  the  scene  ■' 

The  rest  had  been  reform'd,  replaced,  or  sunk. 

And  spoke  more  of  the  baron  than  the  monk. 

LXVII. 
Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  join'd 

By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts, 
Might  shock  a  connoisseur  ;  but  when  combined, 

Porm'd  a  whole  which,  irregular  in  parts. 
Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind. 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  are  in  their  hearts  ; 
We  gaze  upon  a  giant  for  his  stature. 
Nor  judge  at  first  if  all  be  true  to  nature. 

LXYIII. 
Steel  barons,  molten  the  next  generation 

To  silken  rows  of  gay  and  garter'd  earls. 
Glanced  from  the  walls  in  goodly  preservation : 

And  Lady  Marys  blooming  into  girls. 
With  fair  long  locks,  had  also  kept  their  station  : 

And  countesses  mature  in  robes  and  pearls  ; 
Also  some  beauties  of  Sir  Peter  Lely, 
Wliose  drapery  hints  we  may  admire  them  freely. 

LXIX. 
Judges  in  very  formidable  ermine 

Wliere  there,  with  brows  that  did  not  much  invite 
The  accused  to  think  their  lordships  would  deter- 
mine 

His  cause  by  leaning  much  from  might  to  right : 
Bishops,  who  had  not  left  a  single  sermon ; 

Attorneys-general,  awful  to  the  sight. 
As  hinting  more  (unless  our  judgments  warp  us) 
Of  the  "Star  Chamber"  than  of  "Habeas  Corpus." 

LXX. 
Generals,  some  all  in  armor,  of  the  old 

And  iron  time,  ere  lead  had  ta'en  the  lead  ; 
Others  in  wigs  of  Marlborough's  martial  fold, 

Huger  than  twelve  of  our  degenerate  breed : 


Canto  xiii. 


DON    JUAN. 


101 


Lordlings,  with  staves  of  white  or  keys  of  gold : 

Nimrods,  whose  canvass  scarce  contain'd  the  steed ; 
And  here  and  there  some  stem  high  patriot  stood, 
Who  could  not  get  the  place  for  which  he  sued. 

LXXI. 

But  ever  and  anon,  to  soothe  your  vision. 
Fatigued  with  these  hereditary  glories. 

There  rose  a  Carlo  Dolce  or  a  Titian, 
Or  wilder  group  of  savage  Salvatore's  ;' 

Here  danced  Albano's  boys,  and  here  the  sea  shone 
In  Vernet's  ocean  lights  ;  and  there  the  stories 

Of  martyrs  awed,  as  Spagnoletto  tainted 

His  brush  with  all  the  blood  of  all  the  sainted. 

LXXII. 
Here  sweetly  spread  a  landscape  of  Lorraine  ; 

There  Rembrandt  made  his  darkness  equal  light, 
Or  gloomy  Caravaggio's  gloomier  stain 

Bronzed  o'er  some  lean  and  stoic  anchorite  : — 
But,  lo !  a  Teniers  woos,  and  not  in  vain. 

Your  eyes  to  revel  in  a  livelier  sight : 
His  bell-mouth'd  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite  Danish' 
Or  Dutch  with  thirst — ^What,  ho !  a  flask  of  Rhenish. 

LXXIII. 

0  reader  !  if  that  thou  canst  read, — and  know, 
'Tis  not  enough  to  spell,  or  even  to  read. 

To  constitute  a  reader ;  there  must  go 
Virtues  of  which  both  you  and  I  have  need. 

Firstly,  begin  with  the  beginning ;— (though 
Tliat  clause  is  hard  ;)  and  secondly,  proceed  ; 

Thirdly,  commence  not  with  the  end— or,  sinning 

In  this  sort,  end  at  least  with  the  beginning. 

LXXIV. 
But,  reader,  thou  hast  patient  been  of  late. 

While  I,  without  remorse  of  rhyme,  or  fear, 
Have  built  and  laid  out  ground  at  such  a  rate, 

Dan  Phcebus  takes  me  for  an  auctioneer. 
That  poets  were  so  from  their  earliest  date, 

By  Homer's  "  catalogue  of  ships  "  is  clear ; 
But  a  mere  modern  must  be  moderate — 

1  spare  you  then  the  furniture  and  plate. 

LXXV. 

The  mellow  autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 
The  promised  party,  to  enjoy  its  sweets. 

The  corn  is  cut,  the  manor  full  of  game  ; 

The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 

In  russet  jacket : — lynx-like  is  his  aim  ; 

Full  grows  his  bag,  and  wonder/?//  his  feats. 

Ah,  nut-brown  partridges  !  Ah,  brilliant  pheasants  ! 

And  ah,  ye  poachers  I — 'Tis  no  sport  for  peasants. 


•  Salvator  Rosa. 

'  If  I  err  not,  "  your  Dane  "  U  one  of  lago's  catalogue  of  na- 
tions "  exquisite  in  tlieir  drinltinp;." 


LXXVI. 

An  English  autumn,  though  it  hath  no  vines. 
Blushing  with  Bacchant  coronals  along 

The  paths,  o'er  which  the  far  festoon  entwines 
The  red  grape  in  the  sunny  lands  of  song. 

Hath  yet  a  purchased  choice  of  choicest  wines ; 
The  claret  light,  and  the  Madeira  strong. 

If  Britain  mourn  her  bleakness,  we  can  tell  her, 

The  very  best  of  vineyards  is  the  cellar. 

LXXVII. 

Then,  if  she  hath  not  that  serene  decline 
Wliich  makes  the  southern  autumn's  day  appear 

As  if  'twould  to  a  second  spring  resign 
The  season,  rather  than  to  winter  drear, — 

Of  in-door  comforts  still  she  hath  a  mine, — 
The  sea-coal  fires  the  "  earliest  of  the  year ;" 

Without  doors,  too,  she  may  compete  in  mellow, 

As  what  is  lost  in  green  is  gain'd  in  yellow. 

LXXVIII. 
And  for  the  effeminate  villeggiatura —  [chase, 

Rife  with  more  horns  than  hounds — she  hath  the 
So  animated  that  it  might  allure  a 

Saint  from  his  beads  to  join  the  jocund  race ; 
Even  Nimrod's  self  might  leave  the  plains  of  Dura, 

And  wear  the  Melton  jacket  for  a  space  : 
If  she  hath  no  wild  boars,  she  hath  a  tame 
Preserve  of  bores,  who  ought  to  be  made  game. 

LXXIX. 
The  noble  guests,  assembled  at  the  Abbey, 

Consisted  of— we  give  the  sex  the  pas — 
The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke ;  the  Countess  Crabby ; 

The  Ladies  Scilly,  Busey ; — Miss  Eclat, 
Miss  Bombazeen,  Miss  Mackstay,  Miss  O'Tabby, 

And  Mrs.  Rabbi,  the  rich  banker's  squaw : 
Also  the  honorable  Mrs.  Sleep, 
Wlio  look'd  a  white  lamb,  yet  was  a  black  sheep  : 

LXXX. 
With  other  Countesses  of  Blank— but  rank  ; 

At  once  the  "  lie ''  and  the  "  Clite  "  of  crowds ; 
Who  pass  like  water  filter'd  in  a  tank, 

All  pui-ged  and  pious  from  their  native  clouds  ; 
Or  paper  turn'd  to  money  by  the  Bank  : 

No  matter  how  or  why,  the  passport  shrouds 
The  "  passee  "  and  the  past ;  for  good  society 
Is  no  less  famed  for  tolerance  than  piety, — 

LXXXI. 
That  is,  up  to  a  certain  point ;  which  point 

Forms  the  most  difficult  in  punctuation. 
Appearances  appear  to  form  the  joint 

On  which  it  hinges  in  a  higher  station ; 
And  so  that  no  explosion  cry  "  Aroint 

Thee,  witch  !"  or  each  Medea  has  her  Jason ; 


708 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  xiii. 


Or  (to  the  point  with  Horace  and  with  Pulci) 
"  Omiie  tulit  punctum,  quis  miscuit  utile  dtilci." 

LXXXII. 
I  can't  exactly  trace  their  rule  of  right, 

Which  hath  a  little  leaning  to  a  lottery. 
I've  seen  a  virtuous  woman  put  down  quite 

By  the  mere  combination  of  a  coterie  ; 
And  a  so-so  matron  boldly  fight 

Her  way  back  to  the  world  by  dint  of  plottery, 
And  shine  the  very  Stria  of  the  spheres, 
Escaping  with  a  few  slight,  scarless  sneers. 

LXXXIII. 
I  have  seen  more  than  I'll  say  : — but  we  will  see 

How  our  ■villcgrjiatura  will  get  on. 
The  party  might  consist  of  thirty-three 

Of  highest  caste — the  Brahmins  of  the  ton. 
I  have  named  a  few,  not  foremost  in  degree. 

But  ta'en  at  hazard  as  the  rhyme  may  run. 
By  way  of  sprinkling,  scatter'd  amongst  these, 
There  also  were  some  Irish  absentees. 

LXXXIV. 
There  was  Parolles,  too,  the  legal  bully. 

Who  limits  all  his  battles  to  the  bar 
.Vnd  senate  :  when  invited  elsewhere,  truly. 

He  shows  more  appetite  for  words  than  war. 
There  was  the  young  bard  Rackrhyme,whohad  newly 

Come  out  and  glimmer'd  as  a  six  weeks'  star. 
There  was  Lord  Pyrrho,  too,  the  great  freethinker  ; 
And  Sir  John  Pottledeop,  the  mighty  drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There  was  the  Duke  of  Dash,  who  was  a — duke, 
"  Ay,  every  inch  a  "  duke ;  there  were  twelve  jjeers 

Like  Charlemagne's — and  all  such  peers  in  look 
And  intellect,  that  neither  eyes  nor  ears 

For  commoners  had  ever  them  mistook. 

There  were  the  six  Miss  Rawbolds — pretty  dears  ! 

All  song  and  sentiment ;  whose  hearts  were  set 

Less  on  a  convent  than  a  coronet. 

LXXXVI. 

There  were  four  Honorable  Mistera,  whose 

Honor  was  more  before  their  names  than  after ; 

There  was  the  preux  Chevalier  de  la  Ruse,        [here, 
Wliom  France  and  Fortune  lately  deign'd  to  waft 

Whose  chiefly  harmless  talent  was  to  amuse  ; 
But  the  clubs  found  it  rather  serious  laughter, 

Because — such  was  his  magic  power  to  please — 

The  dice  seem'd  charm'd,  too,  with  his  repartees. 

I.XXXVII. 
There  was  Dick  Dubious,  the  metaphysician, 

Wlio  loved  philosophy  and  a  good  dinner ; 
Angle,  the  soi-disant  mathematician  ; 

Sir  Henry  Silvercup,  the  great  race-winner. 


There  was  the  Reverend  Rodomont  Precisian, 
Who  did  not  hate  so  much  the  sin  as  sinner ; 
And  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet, 
Good  at  all  things,  but  better  at  a  bet. 

LXXXVIII. 
There  was  Jack  Jargon,  the  gigantic  guardsman  ; 

And  General  Fireface,  famous  in  the  field, 
A  great  tactician,  and  no  less  a  swordsman. 

Who  ate,  last  war,  more  Yankees  than  he  kill'd. 
There  was  the  waggish  Welsh  Judge,  Jefleries  Hards- 

In  his  grave  office  so  completely  skill'd,  [man. 

That  when  a  culprit  came  for  condenmation. 
He  had  his  judge's  joke  for  consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

Good  company 's  a  chess-board — there  are  kings. 
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns;  the  world's 
a  game ; 

Save  that  the  puppets  pull  at  their  own  strings, 
Methinks  gay  Punch  hath  something  of  the  same. 

My  Muse,  the  butterfly  hath  but  her  wings, 

Kot  stings,  and  flits  through  ether  without  aim, 

Alighting  rarely  : — were  she  but  a  hornet. 

Perhaps  there  might  be  vices  which  would  mourn  it. 

XC. 

I  had  forgotten — but  must  not  forget — 

An  orator,  the  latest  of  the  session. 
Who  had  deliver'd  well  a  very  set 

Smooth  speech,  his  first  and  maidenly  transgres- 
Upon  debate  :  the  papers  echo'd  yet  [sion. 

With  his  debut,  which  made  a  strong  impression. 
And  rank'd  with  what  is  every  day  display'd — 
"  The  best  first  speech  that  ever  yet  was  made." 

XCI. 
Proud  of  his  "  Hear  hims  !"  proud,  too,  of  his  vote 

And  lost  virginity  of  oratory,- 
Proud  of  his  learning,  (just  enough  to  quote,) 

He  revell'd  in  his  Ciceronian  glory  : 
With  memory  excellent  to  get  by  rote. 

With  wit  to  hatch  a  pun  or  tell  a  story. 
Graced  with  some  merit,  and  with  more  cflrontcry, 
"  His  counti-y's  pride,"  he  came  down  to  the  country. 

XCII. 
There  also  were  two  wits  by  acclamation. 

Longbow  from  Ireland,  Strongbow  from  the  Tweed, 
Both  lawyers  and  both  men  of  education  ; 

But  Strongbow's  wit  was  of  more  polish'd  breed  : 
Longbow  was  rich  in  an  imagination 

As  beautiful  and  bounding  as  a  steed, 
But  sometimes  stumbling  over  a  potato, —        [Cato. 
While  Strongbow's  best  things  might  have  come  from 

XCIII, 
strongbow  was  like  a  new-tuned  harpsichord  ; 
But  Longbow  wild  as  an  ^olian  harp. 


Canto  xiii. 


DON  JUAN. 


709 


■With  which  the  winds  of  heaven  can  claim  accord, 
And  make  a  music,  whether  flat  or  sharp. 

Of  Strongbow's  talk  you  would  not  change  a  word  : 
At  Longbow's  phrases  you  might  sometimes  carp : 

Both  wits — one  born  so,  and  the  other  bred. 

This  by  his  heart — his  rival  by  his  head. 

XCIV. 
If  all  these  seem  a  heterogeneous  mass 

To  be  assembled  at  a  country  seat, 
Yet  think,  specimen  of  every  class 

Is  better  than  a  humdrum  ttte-a-tute. 
The  days  of  Comedy  are  gone,  alas  ! 

When  Congreve's  fool  could  vie  with  Moliire's  iSte: 
Society  is  smooth'd  to  that  excess. 
That  manners  hardly  differ  more  than  dress. 

XCV. 
Our  ridicules  are  kept  in  the  backgroimd — 

Ridiculous  enough,  but  also  dull ; 
Professions,  too,  are  no  more  to  be  found 

Professional ;  and  there  is  naught  to  cull 
Of  folly's  fruit :  for  though  your  fools  abound. 

They  're  barren,  and  not  worth  the  pains  to  pull. 
Society  is  now  one  polish'd  horde, 
Form'd  of  two  mighty  triljos,  the  Bores  and  Bored. 

XCVI. 
But  from  being  farmers,  we  turn  gleaners,  gleaning 

The  scanty  but  right-well  thresh'd  ears  of  truth  ; 
And,  gentle  reader  !  when  you  gather  meaning. 

You  may  be  Boaz,  and  I — modest  Ruth. 
Farther  I'd  quote,  but  Scripture  intervening 

Forbids.     A  great  impression  in  my  youth 
Was  made  by  Mrs.  Adams,  where  she  cries, 
"  That  Scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies.'" 

XCVII. 
But  what  we  can  we  glean  in  this  vile  age 

Of  chaff,  although  our  gleanings  be  not  grist. 
I  must  not  quite  omit  tlie  talking  sage, 

Kit-Cat,  the  famous  Conversationist, 
Who,  in  his  common-place  book,  had  a  page 

Prepared  each  morn  for  evenings.  "List,  oh, 
"  Alas,  poor  ghost !" — Wliat  unexpected  woes  [list !" — 
Await  those  who  have  studied  their  bon-mots  ! 

XCVIII. 
Firstly,  they  must  allure  the  conversation, 

By  many  windings  to  their  clever  clinch  ; 
And  secondly,  must  let  slip  no  occasion. 

Nor  hate  (abate)  their  hearers  of  an  inch, 
But  take  an  ell — and  make  a  great  sensation. 

If  possible  ;  and  thirdly,  never  flinch 
When  some  smart  talker  puts  them  to  the  test. 
But  seize  the  last  word,  which  no  doubt 's  the  best. 

■  "  Mrs.  Adams  answered  Mr.  Adams,  that  it  was  blaspbemons 
to  talk  of  Scripture  ont  of  chnreh."    This  dogma  was  broached 


XCIX. 
Lord  Henry  and  his  lady  were  the  hosts ; 

The  party  we  have  touch'd  on  were  the  guests. 
Their  table  was  a  board  to  tempt  even  ghosts 

To  pass  the  Styx  for  more  substantial  feasts. 
I  will  not  dwell  upon  ragodts  or  roasts, 

Albeit  all  human  history  attests 
That  happiness  for  man — the  hungry  sinner  ! — 
Since  Eve  ate  apples,  much  depends  on  dinner. 

C. 
Witness  the  lands  which  "  flow'd  with  milk  and 
honey," 

Held  out  unto  the  hungry  Israelites  ; 
To  this  we  have  added  since,  the  love  of  money. 

The  only  sort  of  pleasure  which  requites. 
Youth  fades,  and  leaves  our  days  no  longer  sunny  ; 

We  tire  of  mistresses  and  parasites  ; 
But  oh,  ambrosial  cash  !     Ah  !  who  would  lose  thee 
When  we  no  more  can  use,  or  even  abuse  thee  ? 

CI. 

The  gentlemen  got  up  betimes  to  shoot. 

Or  hunt :  the  young,  because  they  liked  the  sport — 

The  first  thing  boys  like,  after  play  and  fruit ; 
The  middle-aged,  to  make  the  day  more  short ; 

For  ennui  is  a  growth  of  EngUsh  root, 

Though  nameless  in  our  language  : — we  retort 

The  fact  for  words,  and  let  the  French  translate 

That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  cannot  abate. 

CII. 
The  elderly  walk'd  through  the  library. 

And  tumbled  books,  or  criticised  the  pictures, 
Or  saunter'd  through  the  gardens  piteously. 

And  made  upon  the  hot-house  several  strictures, 
Or  rode  a  nag  which  trotted  not  too  high, 

Or  on  the  morning  papers  read  their  lectures, 
Or  on  the  watch  their  longing  eyes  would  fix. 
Longing  at  sixty  for  the  hour  of  six. 

cm. 
But  none  were  "  genfi  :"  the  great  hour  of  union 

Was  rung  by  dinner's  knell ;  till  then  all  were 
Masters  of  their  own  time — or  in  communion. 

Or  solitary,  as  they  chose  to  bear 
The  hours,  which  how  to  pass  is  but  to  few  known. 

Each  rose  up  at  his  own,  and  had  to  spare 
What  time  he  chose  for  dress,  and  broke  his  fast 
When,  where,  and  how  he  chose  for  that  repast. 

CIV. 
The  ladies — some  rouged,  some  a  little  pale — 

Met  the  morn  as  they  might.     If  fine,  they  rode. 
Or  walk'd  ;  if  foul,  they  read,  or  told  a  tale, 

Sung,  or  rehearsed  the  last  dance  from  abroad ; 

to  her  husband— the  best  Christian  in  any  book.— See  Joseph  An- 
drews. 


110 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


Canto  xrv. 


Discuss'd  the  fashion  which  might  next  prevail, 

And  settled  bonnets  by  the  newest  code, 
Or  cramm'd  twelve  sheets  into  one  little  letter, 
To  make  each  correspondent  a  new  debtor. 

CV. 
For  some  had  absent  lovers,  all  had  friends. 

The  earth  has  nothing  like  a  she  epistle, 
And  hardly  heaven — because  it  never  ends. 

I  love  the  mystery  of  a  female  missal. 
Which,  like  a  creed,  ne'er  says  all  it  intends, 

But  full  of  cunning  as  Ulysses'  whistle, 
When  he  allured  poor  Dolon  : — you  had  better 
Take  care  what  you  reply  to  such  a  letter. 

CVI. 
Then  there  were  billiards  ;  cards,  too,  but  no  dice ; — 

Save  in  the  clubs  no  man  of  honor  plays  ; — 
Boats  when  'twas  water,  skating  when  'twas  ice. 

And  the  hard  frost  destroy'd  the  scenting  days  : 
And  angling,  too,  that  solitary  vice, 

Whatever  Izaak  Walton  sings  or  says  : 
The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 
Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it.' 

cvir. 

With  evening  came  the  banquet  and  the  wine ; 

The  conversazione  ;  the  duet. 
Attuned  by  voices  more  or  less  divine, 

(My  heart  or  head  aches  with  the  memory  yet.) 
The  four  Miss  Rawbolds  in  a  glee  would  shine  ; 

But  the  two  youngest  loved  more  to  be  set 
Down  to  the  harp — because  to  music's  charms 
They  added  graceful  necks,  white  hands  and  arms. 

CVIII. 
Sometimes  a  dance  (though  rarely  on  field  days. 

For  then  the  gentlemen  were  rather  tired) 
Display'd  some  sylph-like  figures  in  its  maze ; 

Then  there  was  small-talk  ready  when  required  ; 
Flirtation — but  decorous  ;  the  mere  praise 

Of  charms  that  should  or  should  not  be  admired. 
The  hunters  fought  their  fox-hunt  o'er  again. 
And  then  retreated  soberly — at  ten. 

CIX. 
The  politicians,  in  a  nook  apart, 

Discuss'd  the  world,  and  settled  all  the  spheres  : 
The  wits  watch'd  every  loophole  for  their  art. 

To  introduce  a  bon-mot  head  and  ears  ; 

'  It  would  have  taught  him  humanity  at  least.  ThiB  sentimental 
savage,  whom  it  is  a  mode  to  quote  (amongst  the  novelists)  to 
show  their  sympathy  for  innocent  sports  and  old  songs,  teaches 
how  to  sew  up  frogs,  and  break  their  legs  l>y  way  of  experiment, 
in  addition  to  the  art  of  angling,— the  cruelest,  the  coldest,  and 
the  stupidest  of  pretended  sports.  They  may  talk  about  the  beau- 
ties of  nature,  hut  the  angler  merely  thinks  of  his  dish  of  fish  ; 
he  has  no  leisure  to  take  his  eyes  from  off  the  streams,  and  a 
single  Hte  is  worth  to  him  more  tlian  all  the  scenery  around.  Be- 
sides, some  fish  bite  best  on  a  r.ainy  day.    The  whale,  the  shark, 


Small  is  the  rest  of  those  who  would  be  smart, 

A  moment's  good  thing  may  have  cost  them  years, 
Before  they  find  an  hour  to  introduce  it :  [lose  it. 
And  then,  even  tJien,  some  bore  may  make  them 

ex. 

But  all  was  gentle  and  aristocratic 

In  this  our  party ;  polish'd,  smooth,  and  cold. 
As  Phidian  forms  cut  out  of  marble  Attic. 

There  now  are  no  Squire  Westerns  as  of  old  ; 
And  our  Sophias  are  not  so  emphatic. 

But  fair  as  then,  or  fairer  to  behold. 
We  have  no  accomplish'd  blackguards,  like  Tom 
But  gentlemen  in  stays,  as  stifi"  as  stones.        [Jones, 

CXI. 
They  sejiarated  at  an  early  hour  ; 

That  is,  ere  miduight-^which  is  London's  noon  : 
But  in  the  country  ladies  seek  their  bower 

A  little  earlier  than  the  waning  moon. 
Peace  to  the  slumbers  of  each  folded  flower — 

May  the  rose  call  back  its  true  color  soon  ! 
Good  hours  of  fair  cheeks  are  the  fairest  tinters, 
And  lower  the  price  of  rouge — at  least  some  winters. 


DON    JUAN. 


CAXTO   THE    FOUBTEENTH. 


I. 

If  from  great  nature's  or  our  own  abyss 
Of  thought  we  could  but  snatch  a  certainty, 

Perhaps  mankind  might  find  the  path  they  miss — 
But  then  't  would  spoil  much  good  philosophy. 

One  system  eats  another  up,  and  this 
Much  as  old  Saturn  ate  his  progeny ; 

For  when  his  pious  consort  gave  him  stones 

In  lieu  of  sons,  of  these  he  made  no  bones. 

11. 
But  System  doth  reverse  the  Titan's  breakfast. 

And  eats  her  parents,  albeit  the  digestion 
Is  difficult.    Pray  tell  me,  can  you  make  fast. 

After  due  search,  your  faith  to  any  question  3 
Look  back  o'er  ages,  ere  unto  the  stake  fast 

You  bind  yourself,  and  call  some  mode  the  best  one. 
Nothing  more  true  than  7iot  to  trust  your  senses ; 
And  yet  what  are  your  other  evidences  ? 


and  the  tunny  fishery  have  somewhat  of  noble  and  perilous  in 
them  ;  even  net  fishing,  trawling,  etc.,  are  more  humane  and  use- 
ful.   But  angling ! — no  angler  can  be  a  good  man. 

"  One  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew, — as  humane,  delicate- 
minded,  generous,  and  excellent  a  creature  as  any  in  the  world, — 
was  an  angler ;  true,  he  angled  with  painted  flies,  and  would  have 
been  incapable  of  the  extravagancies  of  I.  Walton." 

The  above  addition  was  made  by  a  friend  in  reading  over  the 
MS.— "Audi  alteram  partem."— I  leave  it  to  counterbalance  my 
own  observation. 


Canto  xiv. 


DON    JUAN. 


in 


HI. 

For  me,  I  know  naught ;  nothing  I  deny, 
Admit,  reject,  contemn ;  and  wliat  know  you, 

Except  perhaps  that  you  were  born  to  die  ? 
And  both  may  after  all  turn  out  untrue. 

An  age  may  come,  Font  of  Eternity, 

Wlien  nothing  shall  bo  either  old  or  new. 

Death,  so  call'd,  is  a  thing  which  makes  men  weep. 

And  yet  a  third  of  life  is  pass'd  in  sleep. 

IV. 
A  sleep  without  dreams,  after  a  rough  day 

Of  toil,  is  what  we  covet  most ;  and  yet 
How  clay  shrinks  back  from  more  quiescent  clay  ! 

The  very  Suicide  that  pays  his  debt 
At  once  without  instalments  (an  okl  way 

Of  paying  debts,  which  creditors  regret) 
Lets  out  impatiently  his  rushing  breath. 
Less  from  disgust  of  life  than  dread  of  death. 

V. 

'Tis  round  him,  near  him,  here,  there,  everywhere  ; 

And  tliere  's  a  courage  which  grows  out  of  fear. 
Perhaps  of  all  most  desperate,  which  will  dare 

The  worst  to  knoio  it : — when  the  mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  beneath  your  htmian  foot,  and  there 

You  look  down  o'er  the  precipice,  and  drear 
The  gulf  of  rock  yawns, — you  can't  gaze  a  minute, 
Without  an  awful  wish  to  plunge  within  it. 

VI. 
'Tis  true,  you  don't — but,  pale  and  struck  with  terror, 

Retire  :  but  look  into  your  past  impression  ! 
And  you  will  find,  though  shuddering  at  the  mirror 

Of  your  own  thoughts,  in  all  their  self-confession, 
The  lurking  bias,  be  it  truth  or  error. 

To  the  unknown  ;  a  secret  prepossession. 
To  plunge  with  all  your  fears — but  where  ?    You 

know  not. 
And  that 's  the  reason  why  you  do — or  do  not. 

VII. 

But  what 's  this  to  the  purpose  ?  you  will  say. 

Gent,  reader,  nothing  ;  a  mere  speculation. 
For  which  my  sole  excuse  is — 'tis  my  way. 

Sometimes  tuith  and  sometimes  without  occasion 
I  write  what 's  uppermost,  without  delay ; 

This  narrative  is  not  meant  for  narration. 
But  a  mere  airy  and  fantastic  basis, 
To  build  up  common  things  with  common  places. 

VIII. 
You  know,  or  don't  know,  that  great  Bacon  aaith, 
"  Fling  up  a  straw,  'twill  show  the  way  the  wind 
blows ;" 
And  such  a  straw,  borne  on  by  human  breath. 

Is  poesy,  according  as  the  mind  glows  ; 
A  paper  kite  which  flies  'twixt  life  and  death, 
A  shadow  which  the  onw^ard  soul  behind  throws  : 


And  mine 's  a  bubble,  not  blown  up  for  praise, 
But  just  to  play  with,  as  an  infant  plays. 

IX. 

The  world  is  all  before  me — or  behind ; 

For  I  have  seen  a  portion  of  that  same, 
And  quite  enough  for  me  to  keep  in  mind ; — 

Of  passions,  too,  I  have  proved  enough  to  blame. 
To  the  great  pleasure  of  our  friends,  mankind. 

Who  like  to  mix  some  slight  alloy  with  fame ; 
For  I  was  rather  famous  in  my  time. 
Until  I  fairly  knock'd  it  up  with  rhyme. 

X. 

I  have  brought  this  world  about  my  ears,  and  eke 
The  other  :  that 's  to  say,  the  clergy — who 

Upon  my  head  have  bid  their  thunders  break 
In  pious  libels  by  no  means  a  few. 

And  yet  I  can't  help  scribbling  once  a  week, 
Tiring  old  readers,  nor  discovering  new. 

In  youth  I  wrote  because  my  mind  was  full. 

And  now  because  I  feel  it  growing  dull. 

XI. 

But  "  why  then  publish  ?'' — There  arc  no  rewards 
Of  fame  or  profit  when  the  world  grows  weary. 

I  ask  in  turn, — Why  do  you  play  at  cards  ? 
Why  drink  ?    Why  read  ? — To  make,  some  hour 

It  occupies  me  to  turn  back  regards        [less  dreary. 
On  what  I  've  seen  or  ponder'd,  sad  or  cheery ; 

And  what  I  write  I  cast  upon  the  stream. 

To  swim  or  sink — I  've  had  at  least  my  dream. 

XII. 
I  think  that  were  I  certain  of  success, 

I  hardly  could  compose  another  line  : 
So  long  I  've  battled  either  more  or  less, 

That  no  defeat  can  drive  me  from  the  Nino. 
This  feeling  'tis  not  easy  to  express, 

And  yet  'tis  not  aflfoctod,  I  opine. 
In  play,  there  are  two  pleasures  for  your  choosing — 
The  one  is  w^inning,  and  the  other  losing. 

XIII. 

Besides,  my  Muse  by  no  means  deals  in  fiction. 

She  gathers  a  repertory  of  facts, 
Of  course  with  some  reserve  and  slight  restriction, 

But  mostly  sings  of  human  things  and  acts — 
And  that 's  one  cause  she  meets  with  contradiction  ; 

For  too  much  truth,  at  first  sight,  ne'er  attracts  ; 
And  were  her  object  only  what 's  call'd  glory, 
With  more  ease  too  she'd  tell  a  different  story. 

XIV. 

Love,  war,  a  tempest — surely  there  's  variety ; 

Also  a  seasoning  slight  of  lucubration  ; 
A  bird's-eye  view,  too,  of  that  wild.  Society  ; 

A  slight  glance  thrown  on  men  of  every  station. 


712 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xiv. 


If  you  have  naught  else,  here  's  at  least  satiety, 

Both  in  performance  and  in  preparation  ; 
And  though  these  lines  should  only  line  portman- 
Trade  will  be  all  the  better  for  these  Cantos,    [teaus, 

XV. 

The  portion  of  this  world  which  I  at  present 
Have  taken  up  to  fill  the  following  sermon, 

Is  one  of  which  there  's  no  description  recent : 
The  reason  why,  is  easy  to  determine  : 

Although  it  seems  both  prominent  and  pleasant, 
There  is  a  sameness  in  its  gems  and  ermine, 

A  dull  and  family  likeness  through  all  ages, 

Of  no  great  promise  for  poetic  pages. 

XVI. 
With  much  to  excite,  there 's  little  to  exalt ; 

Nothing  that  speaks  to  all  men  and  all  times  ; 
A  sort  of  varnish  over  every  fault ; 

A  kind  of  common-place,  even  in  their  crimes  ; 
Factitious  passions,  wit  without  much  salt, 

A  want  of  that  true  nature  which  sublimes 
Whate'cr  it  shows  with  truth  ;  a  smooth  monotony 
Of  character,  in  those  at  least  who  have  got  any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  like  soldiers  off  parade. 

They  break  their  ranks  and  gladly  leave  the  drill ; 

But  then  the  roll-call  draws  them  back  afraid. 
And  they  must  be  or  seem  what  they  were  :  still 

Doubtless  it  is  a  brilliant  masquerade ; 
But  when  of  the  first  sight  you  have  had  your  fill, 

It  palls — at  least  it  did  so  upon  me. 

This  paradise  of  pleasure  and  ennui. 

XVIII. 
Wlien  we  have  made  our  love,  and  gamed  our  gam- 
ing, [more ; 

Dress'd,  voted,  shone,  and,   may  be,   something 
With  dandies  dined ;  heard  senators  declaiming  ; 

Seen  beauties  brought  to  market  by  the  score. 
Sad  rakes  to  sadder  husbands  chastely  taming  ; 

There  's  little  left  but  to  be  bored  or  bore. 
Witness  those  '^  ci-devant  jeunes  hommcs"  who  stem 
The  stream,  nor  leave  the  world  which  leaveth  them. 

XIX. 
'Tis  said — indeed  a  general  complaint — 

That  no  one  has  succeeded  in  describing 
The  monde,  exactly  as  they  ought  to  paint : 

Some  say,  that  authors  only  snatch,  by  bribing 
The  porter,  some  slight  scandals  strange  and  quaint. 

To  furnish  matter  for  their  moral  gibing ; 
And  that  their  books  have  but  one  style  in  common — 
My  lady's  prattle,  filter'd  through  her  woman. 

XX. 
But  this  can't  well  be  true,  just  now  ;  for  writers 
Are  grown  of  the  beau  monde  a  part  potential : 


I've  seen  them  balance  even  the  scale  with  fighters. 
Especially  when  young,  for  that 's  essential. 

Wliy  do  their  sketches  fail  them  as  inditers 

Of  what    they    deem    themselves    most    conse- 
quential. 

The  real  portrait  of  the  highest  tribe  ? 

'Tis  that,  in  fact,  there  's  little  to  describe. 

XXI. 

"Hand  ignara  loquor ;''''  these  are  Ntigce,  '^quarum 
Pars  parva/wj,"  but  still  art  and  part. 

Now  I  could  much  more  easily  sketch  a  harem, 
A  battle,  wreck,  or  history  of  the  heart. 

Than  these  things ;  and  besides,  I  wish  to  spare  'em. 
For  reasons  which  I  choose  to  keep  apart. 

"  Vetabo  Cereris  sacrum  qui  vulgarit '' — 

Wliich  means  that  vulgar  people  must  not  share  it. 

XXII. 

And  therefore  what  I  throw  off  is  ideal — 
Lower'd,  leaven'd,  like  a  history  of  freemasons  ; 

Which  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  real. 
As  Captain  Parry's  voyage  may  do  to  Jason's. 

The  grand  arcanum  's  not  for  men  to  see  all ; 
My  music  has  some  mystic  diapasons  ; 

And  there  is  much  which  could  not  be  appreciated 

In  any  manner  by  the  uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas  !  worlds  fall — and  woman,  since  she  fell'd 
The  world  (as,  since  that  history,  less  polite 

Than  true,  hath  been  a  creed  so  strictly  held) 
Has  not  yet  given  up  the  practice  quite. 

Poor  thing  of  usages  !  coerced,  compell'd, 

Victim  when  wrong,  and  martyr  oft  when  right, 

Condemn'd  to  childbed,  as  men  for  their  sins 

Have  shaving  too  entail'd  upon  their  chins, — 

XXIV. 

A  daily  plague,  which  in  the  aggregate 

May  average  on  the  whole  with  parturition. 

But  as  to  women,  who  can  penetrate 

The  real  sufFerings  of  their  she  condition  ? 

Man's  very  sympathy  with  their  estate 

Has  much  of  selfishness,  and  more  suspicion. 

Their  love,  their  virtue,  beauty,  education. 

But  form  good  housekeepers,  to  breed  a  nation. 

XXV. 

All  this  were  very  well,  and  can't  be  better ; 

But  even  this  is  difficult.  Heaven  knows. 
So  many  troubles  from  her  birth  beset  her, 

Such  smaU  distinction  between  friends  and  foes. 
The  gilding  wears  so  soon  from  off  her  fetter. 

That but  ask  any  woman  if  she'd  choose 

(Take  her  at  thirty,  that  is)  to  have  been 
Female  or  male  ?  a  schoolboy  or  a  queen  ? 


Canto  xiv. 


DON    JUAN, 


713 


XXVI. 

"  Petticoat  influence  "  is  a  great  reproach, 
Wliich  even  those  who  obey  would  fain  be  thought 

To  fly  from,  as  from  hungry  pikes  a  roacli ; 

But  since  beneath  it  upon  earth  we  are  brought, 

By  various  joltings  of  life's  hackney  coach, 
I  for  one  venerate  a  petticoat — 

A  garment  of  a  mystical  sublimity. 

No  matter  whether  russet,  silk,  or  dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much  I  respect,  and  much  I  have  adored. 

In  my  young  days,  that  chaste  and  goodly  veil. 

Which  holds  a  treasure,  like  a  miser's  hoard. 
And  more  attracts  by  all  it  doth  conceal — 

A  golden  scabbard  on  a  Damasque  sword, 
A  loving  letter  with  a  mystic  seal, 

A  cure  for  grief— for  what  can  ever  rankle 

Before  a  petticoat  and  peeping  ankle  ? 

XXVIII. 
And  when  upon  a  silent,  sullen  day, 

"With  a  sirocco,  for  example,  blowing, 
When  even  the  sea  looks  dim  with  all  its  spray. 

And  sulkily  the  river's  ripple  's  flowing. 
And  the  sky  shows  that  very  ancient  gray. 

The  sober,  sad  antithesis  to  glowing, — 
'Tis  pleasant,  if  then  any  thing  is  pleasant, 
To  catch  a  glimpse  even  of  a  pretty  peasant. 

XXIX. 
We  left  our  hero  and  our  heroines 

In  that  fair  clime  which  don't  depend  on  climate. 
Quite  independent  of  the  Zodiac's  signs. 

Though  certainly  more  difiicult  to  rhyme  at, 
Because  the  sun,  and  stars,  and  aught  that  shines, 

Mountains,  and  all  we  can  bo  most  sublime  at, 
Are  there  ofl  dull  and  dreary  as  a  dun — 
Whether  a  sky's  or  tradesman's  is  all  one. 

XXX. 
An  in-door  life  is  less  poetical ; 

And  out  of  door  hath  showers,  and  mists,  and 
With  which  I  could  not  brew  a  pastoral.  [sleet. 

But  be  it  as  it  may,  a  bard  must  meet 
All  difiicullies,  whether  great  or  small. 

To  spoil  his  undertaking  or  complete. 
And  work  away  like  spirit  upon  matter, 
Embarrass'd  somewhat  both  with  fixe  and  water. 

XXXI. 

Juan — in  this  respect,  at  least,  like  saints — 
Was  aU  things  unto  people  of  aU  sorts, 

'  Wwiinflr.— "  To  crane"  1b,  or  was,  an  expression  used  to  de- 
note a  gentleman^s  stretching  out  his  neck  over  a  hedge,  "  to 
look  before  he  leaped;"— a  pause  in  his  "vaulting  ambition," 
which  In  the  field  doth  occasion  some  delay  and  execration  In 
those  who  may  be  immediately  behind  the  equoetrlan  skeptic. 
"  Sir,  If  you  don't  choose  to  take  the  leap,  let  me  !"— was  a  phrase 
90 


And  lived  contentedly,  without  complaints. 
In  camps,  in  ships,  in  cottages,  or  courts — 

Bom  with  that  happy  soul  that  seldom  faints, 
And  mingling  modesty  in  toils  or  sports. 

He  likewise  could  be  most  things  to  all  women. 

Without  the  coxcombry  of  certain  site  men. 

XXXII. 
A  fox-hunt  to  a  foreigner  is  strange  ; 

'Tis  also  subject  to  the  double  danger 
Of  tumbling  first,  and  having  in  exchange 

Some  pleasant  jesting  at  the  awkward  stranger  : 
But  Juan  had  been  early  taught  to  range 

The  wilds,  as  doth  an  Arab  tum'd  avenger. 
So  that  his  horse,  or  charger,  hunter,  hack. 
Knew  that  he  had  a  rider  on  his  back. 

XXXIII. 
And  now  in  this  new  field,  with  some  apjilausc. 

He  clear'd  hedge,  ditch,  and  double  post,  and  rail, 
And  never  craned,^  and  made  but  few  ^'^  faux  jyas," 

And  only  fretted  when  the  scent  'gan  fail. 
He  broke,  'tis  true,  some  statutes  of  the  laws 

Of  hunting — for  the  sagest  youth  is  frail ; 
Rode  o'er  the  hounds,  it  may  be,  now  and  then, 
And  once  o'er  several  country  gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 
But  on  the  whole,  to  general  admiration 

He  acquitted  both  himself  and  horse  :  the  squires 
Marvell'd  at  merit  of  another  nation  ; 

The  boors  cried  "  Dang  it !  who'd  have  thought 
it  ?"— Sires, 
The  Nestors  of  the  sporting  generation. 

Swore  praises,  and  recall'd  their  former  fires ; 
The  huntsman's  self  relented  to  a  grin. 
And  rated  him  almost  a  whipper-in. 

XXXV. 
Such  were  his  trophies — not  of  spear  and  shield, 

But  leaps,  and  bursts,  and  sometimes  foxes'  brushes ; 
Yet  I  must  own, — although  in  this  I  yield 

To  patriot  sympathy  a  Briton's  blushes, — 
He  thought  at  heart  like  courtly  Chesterfield, 

Who,  after  a  long  chase  o'er  hills,  dales,  bushes, 
And  what  not,  though  he  rode  beyond  all  price, 
Ask'd  next  day,  "  If  men  ever  hunted  tioice .'"' 

XXXVI. 
He  also  had  a  quality  uncommon 

To  early  risers  after  a  long  chase. 
Who  wake  in  winter  ere  the  cock  can  summon 

December's  drowsy  day  to  his  dull  race, — 

which  generally  sent  the  aspirant  on  again ;  and  to  good  pur- 
pose :  for  though  "  the  horse  and  rider"  might  fall,  they  make  a 
gap  through  which,  and  over  him  and  his  steed,  the  field  might 
follow. 

-  See  his  Letters  to  liis  Sou. 


1U 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xiv. 


A  quality  agreeable  to  woman, 

When  her  soft,  liquid  words  run  on  apace. 
Who  likes  a  listener,  whether  saint  or  sinner, — 
He  did  not  fall  asleep  just  after  dinner ; 

XXXVII. 
But,  light  and  airy,  stood  on  the  alert, 

And  shone  in  the  best  part  of  dialogue. 
By  humoring  always  what  they  might  assert, 

And  listening  to  the  topics  most  in  vogue ; 
Now  grave,  now  gay,  but  never  dull  or  pert ; 

And  smiling  but  in  secret — cunning  rogue  ! 
He  ne'er  presumed  to  make  an  error  clearer  : — 
In  short,  there  never  was  a  better  hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And  then  he  danced ; — all  foreigners  excel 

The  serious  Angles  in  the  eloquence 
Of  pantomime  ; — he  danced,  I  say,  right  well. 

With  emphasis,  and  also  with  good  sense — 
A  thing  in  footing  indispensable  ; 

He  danced  without  theatrical  pretence. 
Not  like  a  ballet-master  in  the  van 
Of  his  drill'd  nymphs,  but  like  a  gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste  were  his  steps,  each  kept  within  due  bound, 
And  elegance  was  sprinkled  o'er  his  figure  ; 

Like  swift  Camilla,  he  scarce  skimm'd  the  ground, 
And  rather  held  in  than  put  forth  his  vigor  ; 

And  then  he  had  an  ear  for  music's  sound. 
Which  might  defy  a  crotchet  critic's  rigor. 

Such  classic  pas— sans  flaws — set  off  our  hero. 

He  glanced  like  a  personified  Bolero  ; 

XL. 
Or  like  a  flying  Hour  before  Aurora, 

In  Guido's  famous  fresco,  which  alone 
Is  worth  a  tour  to  Rome,  although  no  more  a 

Remnant  were  there  of  the  old  world's  sole  throne. 
The  '•  tout  ensemble"  of  his  movements  wore  a 

Grace  of  the  soft  ideal,  seldom  shown, 
And  ne'er  to  be  described  ;  for  to  the  dolor 
Of  bards  and  prosers,  words  arc  void  of  color. 

XLI. 

No  marvel  then  he  was  a  favorite  ; 

A  full-grown  Cupid,  very  much  admired ; 
A  little  spoil'd,  but  by  no  means  so  quite  ; 

At  least  he  kept  his  vanity  retired. 
Such  was  his  tact,  he  could  alike  delight       [spired. 

The  chaste,  and  those  who  are  not  so  much  in- 
The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke,  who  loved  "  tracasserie," 
Began  to  treat  him  with  some  small  "  ayacerie." 

XLII. 
She  was  a  fine  and  somewhat  full-blown  blonde. 
Desirable,  distinguish'd,  celebrated 


For  several  winters  in  the  grand,  grand  monde. 

I'd  rather  not  say  what  might  be  related 
Of  her  exploits,  for  this  were  ticklish  ground  ; 

Besides,  there  might  be  falsehood  in  what 's  stated. 
Her  late  performance  had  been  a  dead  set 
At  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 
This  noble  personage  began  to  look 

A  little  black  upon  this  new  flirtation  ; 
But  such  small  licenses  must  lovers  brook. 

Mere  freedoms  of  the  female  corporation. 
Wo  to  the  man  who  ventures  a  rebuke  ! 

'Twill  but  precipitate  a  situation 
Extremely  disagreeable,  but  common 
To  calculators  when  they  count  on  woman. 

XLIV. 
Tlie  circle  smiled,  then  whisper'd,  and  then  sneer'd ; 

The  Misses  bridled,  and  the  matrons  frown'd  ; 
Some  hoped  things  might  not  turn  out  as  they  fear'd ; 

Some  would  not  deem  such  women  could  be  found ; 
Some  ne'er  believed  one-half  of  what  they  heard  ; 

Some  look'd  perplex'd,  and  others  look'd  pro- 
found ; 
And  several  pitied  with  sincere  regret 
Poor  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 
But  what  is  odd,  none  ever  named  the  duke. 

Who,   one  might  think,   was  something  in  the 
affair : 
True,  he  was  absent,  and,  'twas  rumor'd,  took 

But  small  concern  about  the  when,  or  where, 
Or  what  his  consort  did  :  if  he  could  brook 

Her  gayeties,  none  had  a  right  to  stare  : 
Theirs  was  that  best  of  unions,  past  all  doubt, 
Which  never  meets,  and  therefore  can't  fall  out. 

XLVI. 
But,  oh  1  that  I  should  ever  pen  so  sad  a  line  ! 

Fired  with  an  abstract  love  of  virtue,  she, 
My  Dian  of  the  Ephesians,  Lady  Adeline, 

Began  to  think  the  duchess'  conduct  free ; 
Regretting  much  that  she  had  chosen  so  bad  a  line, 

And  waxing  chiller  in  her  courtesy, 
Look'd  grave  and  pale  to  see  her  friend's  fragility, 
For  which  most  friends  reserve  their  sensibility. 

XLVII. 
There 's  naught  in  this  bad  world  like  sympathy : 

'Tis  so  becoming  to  the  soul  and  face, 
Sets  to  soft  music  the  harmonious  sigh, 

And  robes  sweet  friendship  in  a  Brussels  lace. 
Without  a  friend,  what  were  humanity. 

To  hunt  our  errors  up  with  a  good  grace  ? 
Consoling  us  with — "Would  you  had  thought  twice ! 
Ah,  if  you  had  but  follow'd  my  advice  !" 


Canto  xtv. 


DON    JUAN. 


V15 


XLVIII. 

0  Job  !  you  had  two  friends  :  one's  quite  enough, 
Especially  when  we  are  ill  at  ease ; 

They  arc  but  bad  pilots  when  the  weather 's  rough, 
Doctors  less  famous  for  their  cures  than  fees. 

Let  no  man  grumble  when  his  friends  fall  oflF, 
As  they  will  do  like  leaves  at  the  first  breeze  : 

When  your  affairs  come  round,  one  way  or  t'other, 

Go  to  the  coflFee-house,  and  take  another.' 

XLIX. 

But  this  is  not  my  maxim  :  had  it  been,  [not — 

Some  heart-aches  had  been  spared  me  :  yet  I  care 

1  would  not  be  a  tortoise  in  Ms  screen 

Of  stubborn  shell,  which  waves  and  weather  wear 
'Tis  better  on  the  whole  to  have  felt  and  seen    [not. 

That  which  humanity  may  bear,  or  bear  not ; 
'Twill  teach  discernment  to  the  sensitive, 
And  not  to  pour  their  ocean  in  a  sieve. 

L. 
Of  all  the  horrid,  hideous  notes  of  wo. 

Sadder  than  owl-songs  or  the  midnight  blast. 
Is  that  portentous  phrase,  "  I  told  you  so," 

Utter'd  by  friends,  those  prophets  of  the  past. 
Who,  'stead  of  saying  what  you  now  should  do. 

Own  they  foresaw  that  you  would  fall  at  last. 
And  solace  your  slight  lapse  'gainst  "  honos  more),'''' 
With  a  long  memorandum  of  old  stories. 

LI. 
The  Lady  Adeline's  serene  severity 

Was  not  confined  to  feeling  for  her  friend, 
Wliose  fame  she  rather  doubted  with  posterity, 

Unless  her  habits  should  begin  to  mend  : 
But  Juan  also  shared  in  her  austerity, 

But  mix'd  with  pity,  pure  as  e'er  was  penn'd  : 
His  inexperience  moved  her  gentle  ruth. 
And  (as  her  junior  by  six  weeks)  his  youth. 

LII. 
These  forty  days'  advantage  of  her  years — 

And  hers  were  those  which  can  face  calculation, 
Boldly  referring  to  the  list  of  peers 

And  noble  births,  nor  dread  the  enumeration — 
Gave  her  a  right  to  have  maternal  fears 

For  a  young  gentleman's  fit  education. 
Though  she  was  far  from  that  leap  year,  whose  leap. 
In  female  dates,  strikes  Time  all  of  a  heap. 

LIII. 
Tliis  may  be  fix'd  at  somewhere  before  thirty — 
Say  aeven-and-twenty,  for  I  never  knew 


'  In  Swift's  or  Horace  Walpole's  letters  I  think  it  is  mentioned 
that  somebody,  regrettlu^  the  loss  of  a  friend,  was  answered  by  a 
nniversal  Pylaflea :  "  \\Tien  I  lose  one,  I  go  to  the  Saint  James^ 
Coffee-lionse,  and  talte  another."  I  recollect  having  heard  an 
anecdote  of  the  same  kind.— Sir  W.  D.  was  a  great  gamester. 


The  strictest  in  chronology  and  virtue 
Advance  beyond,  while  they  could  pass  for  new. 

0  Time  !  why  dost  not  pause  ?    Thy  scythe,  so  dirty 
With  rust,  should  surely  cease  to  hack  and  hew. 

Reset  it ;  shave  more  smoothly,  also  slower. 
If  but  to  keep  thy  credit  as  a  mower. 

LIV. 
But  Adeline  was  far  from  that  ripe  age, 

Whose  ripeness  is  but  bitter  at  the  best : 
'Twas  rather  her  experience  made  her  sage. 

For  she  had  seen  the  world  and  stood  its  test. 
As  I  have  said  in — I  forget  what  page  ; 

My  Muse  despises  reference,  as  you  have  guess'd 
By  this  time ; — but  strike  six  from  sevcn-and-twenty, 
And  you  vrill  find  her  sum  of  years  in  plenty. 

LV. 
At  sixteen  she  came  out ;  presented,  vaunted, 

She  put  all  coronets  into  commotion  : 
At  seventeen,  too,  the  world  was  still  enchanted 

With  the  new  Venus  of  their  brilliant  ocean  : 
At  eighteen,  though  below  her  feet  still  panted 

A  hecatomb  of  suitors  with  devotion. 
She  had  consented  to  create  again 
That  Adam,  call'd  "  The  happiest  of  men." 

LVI. 
Since  then  she  had  sparkled  through  three  glowing 

Admired,  adored  ;  but  also  so  correct,      [winters. 
That  she  had  puzzled  all  the  acutcst  hinters. 

Without  the  apparel  of  being  circumspect : 
They  could  not  even  glean  the  slightest  splinters 

From  off  the  marble,  which  had  no  defect. 
She  had  also  snatch'd  a  moment  since  her  marriage, 
To  bear  a  son  and  heir — and  one  miscarriage. 

LVII. 
Fondly  the  wheeling  fire-flies  flew  around  her. 

Those  little  glitterers  of  the  London  night ; 
But  none  of  these  possess'd  a  sting  to  wound  her— 

She  was  a  pitch  beyond  a  coxcomb's  flight. 
Perhaps  she  wish'd  an  aspirant  profounder  ; 

But  whatsoe'er  she  wish'd,  she  acted  right ; 
And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue,  dignify 
A  woman,  so  she  's  good,  what  does  it  signify  ? 

LVIII. 

1  hate  a  motive  like  a  lingering  bottle 

Which  with  the  landlord  makes  too  long  a  stand, 
Leaving  all-claretless  the  unmoisten'd  throttle. 

Especially  with  politics  on  hand ; 
I  hate  it,  as  I  hate  a  drove  of  cattle. 

Who  whirl  the  dust  as  simoons  whirl  the  sand  ; 

Coming  in  one  day  to  the  Club  of  which  he  was  a  member,  he 
was  observed  to  look  melancholy.  "  What  is  the  matter.  Sir  Wil- 
liam ?"  cried  Hare,  of  facetious  memory.  "  Ah  1"  replied  Sir  W., 
"I  have  just  lost  poor  Lady  D."— "io«r'  What  alt  Quinze  ot 
Hazard  /"  was  the  consolatory  rejoinder  of  the  querist. 


710 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  xiv. 


I  hate  it  as  I  hate  an  argument, 

A  laureate's  ode,  or  servile  peer's  "  content." 

LIX. 

'Tia  sad  to  hack  into  the  roots  of  things, 
They  are  so  much  intertwisted  with  the  earth  ; 

So  that  the  branch  a  goodly  verdure  flings, 
I  reck  not  if  an  acorn  gave  it  birth. 

To  trace  all  actions  to  their  secret  springs 
Would  make  indeed  some  melancholy  mirth  ; 

But  this  is  not  at  present  my  concern, 

And  I  refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstiem. ' 

LX. 

With  the  kind  view  of  saving  an  gclat. 
Both  to  the  duchess  and  diplomatist. 

The  Lady  Adeline,  as  soon  's  she  saw 
That  Juan  was  unlikely  to  resist — 

(For  foreigners  don't  know  that  a,  faux  pas 
In  England  ranks  quite  on  a  different  list 

From  those  of  other  lands  unbless'd  with  juries. 

Whose  verdict  for  such  sin  a  certain  cure  is  ; — ) 

LXI. 

The  Lady  Adeline  resolved  to  take 

Such  measures  as  she  thought  might  best  impede 
The  farther  progress  of  this  sad  mistake. 

She  thought  with  some  simplicity  indeed  ; 
But  innocence  is  bold  even  at  the  stake. 

And  simple  in  the  world,  and  doth  not  need 
Nor  use  those  palisades  by  dames  erected. 
Whose  virtue  lies  in  never  being  detected. 

LXII. 

It  was  not  that  she  fear'd  the  very  worst : 
His  Grace  was  an  enduring,  married  man. 

And  was  not  likely  all  at  once  to  burst 
Into  a  scene,  and  swell  the  clients'  clan 

Of  Doctors'  Commons  ;  but  she  dreaded  first 
The  magic  of  her  Grace's  taUsman, 

And  next  a  quarrel  (as  he  seem'd  to  fret) 

With  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 
Her  Grace,  too,  pass'd  for  being  an  intrigante, 

And  somewhat  micliante  in  her  amorous  sphere  ; 
One  of  those  pretty,  precious  plagues,  which  haunt 

A  lover  with  caprices  soft  and  dear. 
That  like  to  make  a  quarrel,  when  they  can't 

Find  one,  each  day  of  the  delightful  year  : 
Bewitching,  torturing,  as  they  freeze  or  glow. 
And — what  is  woret  of  all — won't  let  you  go  : 

'  The  fotnous  Chancellor  Oxenstiem  said  to  hla  eon,  on  the  lat- 
ter expressing  his  surprise  upon  the  great  effects  arising  from 
petty  causes  In  the  presumed  mystery  of  politics  :  *'You  see  hy 
this,  my  son,  with  how  little  wisdom  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
are  govemecl."— [The  true  story  Is  ;— young  Oxenstiem,  on  being. 


LXIV. 

The  sort  of  thing  to  turn  a  young  man's  head. 
Or  make  a  Werter  of  him  in  the  end. 

No  wonder  then  a  purer  soul  should  dread 
This  sort  of  chaste  liaison  for  a  friend  ; 

It  were  much  better  to  be  wed  or  dead. 
Than  wear  a  heart  a  woman  loves  to  rend. 

'Tis  best  to  pause,  and  think,  ere  you  rush  on. 

If  that  a  '■'■'bonne  fortune''''  be  really  ^'^ 'bonne,'''' 

LXV. 

And  first,  in  the  overflowing  of  her  heart. 

Which  really  knew  or  thought  it  knew  no  guile  ; 

She  call'd  her  husband  now  and  then  apart. 
And  bade  him  counsel  Juan.     With  a  smile 

Lord  Henry  heard  her  plans  of  artless  art 
To  wean  Don  Juan  from  the  siren's  wile ; 

And  answer'd,  like  a  statesman  or  a  prophet. 

In  such  guise  that  she  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly,  he  said,  "he  never  interfered 
In  anybody's  business  but  the  king's  :" 

Next,  that  "  he  never  judged  from  what  appear'd. 
Without  strong  reason,  of  those  sort  of  things  :" 

Thirdly,  that  "  Juan  had  more  brain  than  beard. 
And  was  not  to  be  held  in  leading  strings  ;" 

And  fourthly,  what  need  hardly  be  said  twice, 

"  That  good  but  rarely  came  from  good  advice." 

LXVII. 

And,  therefore,  doubtless  to  approve  the  truth 
Of  the  last  axiom,  he  advised  his  spouse 

To  leave  the  parties  to  themselves,  forsooth — 
At  least  as  far  as  bieimance  allows  : 

That  time  would  temper  Juan's  faults  of  youth  ; 
That  young  men  rarely  made  monastic  vows  ; 

That  opposition  only  more  attaches — 

But  here  a  messenger  brought  in  dispatches  : 

LXVIII. 
And  being  of  the  council  call'd  "  the  Privy," 

Lord  Henry  walk'd  into  his  cabinet. 
To  furnish  matter  for  some  future  Livy 

To  tell  how  he  reduced  the  nation's  debt ; 
And  if  their  full  contents  I  do  not  give  ye. 

It  is  because  I  do  not  know  them  yet ; 
But  I  shall  add  them  in  a  brief  appendix, 
To  come  between  mine  epic  and  its  index. 

LXIX. 
But  ere  he  went,  he  added  a  slight  hint, 
Another  gentle  common-place  or  two. 


told  he  was  to  proceed  on  some  diplomatic  mission,  expressed 
his  doubts  of  his  own  fitness  for  such  an  office.  The  old  Chan- 
cellor, laughing,  answered.—"  Nescis,  mi  flli,  quantula  scientii 
gnbematur  mundus."] 


Canto  xiv. 


DON  JUAN. 


117 


Such  as  are  coin'd  in  conversation's  mint, 
And  pass,  for  want  of  better,  though  not  new  : 

Then  broke  his  packet,  to  see  what  was  in  't, 
And  having  casually  glanced  it  through. 

Retired  ;  and,  as  went  out,  calmly  kiss'd  her, 

Less  like  a  young  wife  than  an  aged  sister. 

LXX. 
He  was  a  cold,  good,  honorable  man. 

Proud  of  his  birth,  and  proud  of  every  thing ; 
A  goodly  spirit  for  a  state  divan, 

A  figure  fit  to  walk  before  a  king  ; 
Tall,  stately,  form'd  to  lead  the  courtly  van 

On  birthdays,  glorious  with  a  star  and  string  ; 
The  very  model  of  a  chamberlain — 
And  such  I  mean  to  make  him  when  I  reign. 

LXXI. 
But  there  was  something  wanting  on  the  whole — 

I  don't  know  what,  and  therefore  cannot  tell — 
Which  pretty  women — tlie  sweet  souls  ! — call  soul, 

Certes  it  was  not  body  ;  he  was  weU 
Proportion'd,  as  a  poplar  or  a  pole, 

A  handsome  man,  that  human  miracle  ; 
And  in  each  circumstance  of  love  or  war, 
Had  still  preserved  his  perpendicular. 

LXXII. 
Still  there  was  something  wanting,  as  I  've  said — 

That  undefinable  "  Je  ne  s;ais  quoi" 
Which,  for  what  I  know,  may  of  yore  have  led 

To  Homer's  Iliad,  since  it  drew  to  Troy 
The  Greek  Eve,  Helen,  from  the  Spartan's  bed  ; 

Though  on  the  whole,  no  doubt,  the  Dardan  boy 
Was  much  inferior  to  King  Menelaus  : — 
But  thus  it  is  some  women  will  betray  us. 

LXXIII. 

There  is  an  awkward  thing  which  much  perplexes. 
Unless  like  wise  Tiresias  we  had  proved 

By  turns  the  difference  of  the  several  sexes  ; 

Neither  can  show  quite  how  they  would  be  loved. 

The  sensual  for  a  short  time  but  connects  us — 
The  sentimental  boasts  to  be  unmoved  ; 

But  both  together  form  a  kind  of  centaur. 

Upon  whose  back  'tis  better  not  to  venture. 

LXXIV. 
A  something  all-sufficient  for  the  heart 

Is  that  for  which  the  sex  are  always  seeking  : 
But  how  to  fill  up  that  same  vacant  part  ? 

There  lies  the  rub — and  this  they  are  but  weak  in. 
Frail  mariners  afloat  without  a  chart,  [ing  ; 

They  run  before  the  wind  through  high  seas  break- 
And  when  they  have  made  the  shore  through  every 

shock 
'Tis  odd,  or  odds,  it  may  turn  out  a  rock. 


'  See  "  La  Nonvelle  Helolse." 


LXXV. 
There  is  a  flower  call'd  "  Love  in  Idleness," 

For  which  see  Shakspeare's  ever  blooming  gar- 
I  will  not  make  his  great  description  less,     [den  ; — 

And  beg  his  British  godship's  humble  pardon. 
If  in  my  extremity  of  riiyme's  distress, 

I  touch  a  single  leaf  where  he  is  warden  ; — 
But  though  the  flower  is  different,  with  the  French 
Or  Swiss  Rousseau,  cry  "  Voild  la  Pervenche  /' 

LXXVI. 
Eureka  !  I  have  found  it !    Wliat  I  mean 

To  say  is,  not  that  love  is  idleness. 
But  that  in  love  such  idleness  has  been 

Accessory,  as  I  have  cause  to  guess. 
Hard  labor 's  an  indiflerent  go-between ; 

Your  men  of  business  are  not  apt  to  express 
Much  passion,  since  the  merchant-ship,  the  Argo, 
Convey'd  Medea  as  her  supercargo. 

LXXVII. 

"  Beatua  ille  procul !"  from  "  neffotiis,"' 

Saith  Horace  ;  the  great  little  poet 's  wrong ; 

His  other  maxim,  "  Noacitur  d,  sociis,^^ 

Is  much  more  to  the  purpose  of  his  song ; 

Though  even  that  were  sometimes  too  ferocious, 
Unless  good  company  be  kept  too  long ; 

But,  in  his  teeth,  whate'er  their  state  or  station, 

Thrice  happy  they  who  hate  an  occupation  ! 

LXXVIII. 

Adam  exchanged  his  Paradise  for  ploughing. 
Eve  made  up  millinery  with  fig  leaves — 

The  earliest  knowledge  from  the  tree  so  knowing. 
As  far  as  I  know,  that  the  church  receives  : 

And  since  that  time  it  need  not  cost  much  showing, 
That  many  of  the  ills  o'er  which  man  grieves. 

And  still  more  women,  spring  from  not  employing 

Some  hours  to  make  the  remnant  worth  enjoying. 

LXXIX. 
And  hence  high  life  is  oft  a  dreary  void, 

A  rack  of  pleasures,  where  we  must  invent 
A  something  wherewithal  to  be  annoy'd. 

Bards  may  sing  what  they  please  about  Content ; 
Contented^!  when  translated,  means  but  cloy'd ; 

And  hence  arise  the  woes  of  sentiment. 
Blue  devils,  and  blue-stockings,  and  romances 
Reduced  to  practice,  and  perform'd  like  dances. 

LXXX. 
I  do  declare,  upon  an  affidavit, 

Romances  I  ne'er  read  like  those  I  've  seen  ; 
Nor,  if  unto  the  world  I  ever  gave  it, 

Would  some  believe  that  such  a  talc  had  been  : 
But  such  intent  I  never  had,  nor  have  it ; 

Some  truths  are  better  kept  behind  a  screen, 

a  Ilor.  Epod.  Od.  li. 


118 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  xiv. 


Especially  when  they  would  look  like  lies ; 
I  therefore  deal  in  generalities. 

LXXXI. 

"  An  oyster  may  be  cross'd  in  love," — and  why  ? 

Because  he  mopeth  idly  in  his  shell, 
And  heaves  a  lonely  subterraqueous  sigh. 

Much  as  a  monk  may  do  within  his  cell : 
And  a-propos  of  monks,  their  piety 

With  sloth  hath  found  it  difficult  to  dwell ; 
Those  vegetables  of  the  Catholic  creed 
Are  apt  exceedingly  to  run  to  seed. 

LXXXII. 
O  Wilberforce  !  thou  man  of  black  renown, 

Whose  merit  none  enough  can  sing  or  say, 
Thou  hast  struck  one  immense  Colossus  down. 

Thou  moral  Washington  of  Africa  ! 
But  there 's  another  little  thing,  I  own, 

Which  you  should  perpetrate  some  summer's  day. 
And  set  the  other  half  of  earth  to  rights  ;  [whites. 
You  have  freed  the  llacis — now  pray  shut  up  the 

LXXXIII. 
Shut  up  the  bald-coot  bully  Alexander  ! 

Ship  off  the  Holy  Three  to  Senegal ;  [der," 

Teach  them  that ''  sauce  for  goose  is  sauce  for  gan- 

And  ask  them  how  thep  like  to  be  in  thrall  ? 
Shut  up  each  high  heroic  salamander, 

Who  eats  fire  gratis,  (since  the  pay 's  but  small ;) 
Shut  up — no,  not  the  King,  but  the  Pavilion, 
Or  else  't  will  cost  us  all  another  million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut  up  the  world  at  large,  let  Bedlam  out ; 

And  you  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  find 
All  things  pursue  exactly  the  same  route. 

As  now  with  those  of  aoi-diaant  sound  mind. 
This  I  could  prove  beyond  a  single  doubt. 

Were  there  a  jot  of  sense  among  mankind ; 
But  till  that  point  d^appui  is  found,  alas  ! 
Like  Archimedes,  I  leave  earth  as  't  was. 

LXXXV. 
Our  gentle  Adeline  had  one  defect — 

Her  heart  was  vacant,  though  a  splendid  mansion ; 
Her  conduct  had  been  jserfectly  correct, 

As  she  had  seen  naught  claiming  its  expansion. 
A  wavering  spirit  may  be  easier  wreck'd. 

Because  'tis  frailer,  doubtless,  than  a  stanch  one  ; 
But  when  the  latter  works  its  own  undoing. 
Its  inner  crash  is  like  an  earthquake's  ruin. 

LXXXVI. 
She  loved  her  lord,  or  thought  so  ;  but  that  love 

Cost  her  an  effort,  which  is  a  sad  toil. 
The  stone  of  Sysiphus,  if  once  we  move 

Our  feelings  'gainst  the  nature  of  the  soiL 


She  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  or  reprove. 

No  bickerings,  no  connubial  turmoil : 
Their  union  was  a  model  to  behold. 
Serene  and  noble,— conjugal,  but  cold. 

LXXXVII. 
There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years, 

Though  much  in  temper ;  but  they  never  clash'd : 
They  moved  like  stars  imited  in  their  spheres. 

Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Leman's  waters  wash'd. 
Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 

The  river  from  the  lake,  all  bluely  dash'd 
Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep. 
Which  fain  would  lull  its  river-child  to  sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now  when  she  once  had  ta'en  an  interest 
In  anything,  however  she  might  flatter 

Herself  that  her  intentions  were  the  best. 
Intense  intentions  are  a  dangerous  matter  : 

Impressions  were  much  stronger  than  she  guess'd, 
And  gather'd  as  they  run  like  growing  water 

Upon  her  mind  ;  the  more  so,  as  her  breast 

Was  not  at  first  too  readily  impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But  when  it  was,  she  had  that  lurking  demon 
Of  double  nature,  and  thus  doubly  named — 

Firmness  yclept  in  heroes,  kings,  and  seamen. 
That  is,  when  they  succeed  ;  but  greatly  blamed 

As  obstinacy,  both  in  men  and  women. 
Whene'er  their  triumph  pales,  or  star  is  tamed  : — 

And  't  will  perplex  the  casuist  in  morality 

To  fix  the  due  bounds  of  this  dangerous  quahty. 

XC. 
Had  Buonaparte  won  at  Waterloo, 

It  had  been  firmness  :  now  't  is  pertinacity : 
Must  the  event  decide  between  the  two  ? 

I  leave  it  to  your  people  of  sagacity 
To  draw  the  line  between  the  false  and  true ; 

If  such  can  e'er  be  drawn  by  matfs  capacity  : 
My  business  is  with  Lady  Adeline, 
Who  in  her  way  too  was  a  heroine. 

XCI. 
She  knew  not  her  own  heart ;  then  how  should  I  ? 

I  think  not  she  was  then  in  love  with  Juan  : 
If  so,  she  would  have  had  the  strength  to  fly 

The  wild  sensation,  unto  her  a  new  one  : 
She  merely  felt  a  common  sympathy 

(I  will  not  say  it  was  a  false  or  true  one) 
In  him,  because  she  thought  he  was  in  danger, — 
Her  husband's  friend,  her  own,  young,  and  a  stranger 

XCII. 
She  was,  or  thought  she  was,  his  friend — and  this 
Without  the  farce  of  friendship,  or  romance 


CaKTO   XT. 


DON    JUAN. 


719 


Platonism,  which  leads  so  oft  amiss 

Ladies  who  have  studied  friendship  but  in  France, 
Or  Germany,  where  people  purely  kiss. 

To  thus  much  Adeline  would  not  advance  ; 
But  of  such  friendship  as  man's  may  to  man  be. 
She  was  as  capable  as  woman  can  be. 

XCIII. 
No  doubt  the  secret  influence  of  the  sex 

Will  there,  as  also  in  the  ties  of  blood, 
An  innocent  predominance  annex, 

And  tune  the  concord  to  a  finer  mood. 
If  free  from  passion,  which  all  friendsliip  checks, 

And  your  true  feeUngs  fully  understood, 
No  friend  hke  to  a  woman  earth  discovers. 
So  that  you  have  not  been  nor  will  be  lovers. 

XCIV. 
Love  bears  within  its  breast  the  very  germ 

Of  change  ;  and  how  should  this  be  otherwise  ? 
That  violent  things  more  quickly  find  a  term 

Is  shown  through  nature's  whole  analogies  ; 
And  how  should  the  most  fierce  of  all  be  firm  ? 

Would  you  have  endless  lightning  in  the  skies  ? 
Methinks  Love's  very  title  says  enough  : 
How  should  "  the  tender  passion  "  e'er  be  tovgh  f 

XCV. 
Alas  !  by  all  experience,  seldom  yet 

(I  merely  quote  what  I  have  heard  from  many) 
Had  lovers  not  some  reason  to  regret 

The  passion  which  made  Solomon  a  zany. 
I  've  also  seen  some  wives  (not  to  forget 

The  marriage  state,  the  best  or  worst  of  any) 
Who  were  the  very  paragons  of  wives, 
Yet  made  the  misery  of  at  least  two  lives. 

XCVI. 
I  've  also  seen  some  female  friends  ('tis  odd. 

But  true — as,  if  expedient,  I  could  prove) 
That  faithful  were  through  thick  and  thin,  abroad, 

At  home,  far  more  than  ever  yet  was  Love — 
Who  did  not  quit  me  when  Oppression  trod 

Upon  me  ;  whom  no  scandal  could  remove  ; 
Who  fought,  and  fight,  in  absence,  too,  my  battles, 
Despite  the  snake  Society's  loud  rattles. 

XCVII. 
Whether  Don  Juan  and  chaste  Adeline 

Grew  friends  in  this  or  any  other  sense, 
Will  be  discuss'd  hereafter,  I  opine : 

At  present  I  am  glad  of  a  pretence 
To  leave  them  hovering,  as  the  efiect  is  fine. 

And  keeps  the  atrocious  reader  in  mitpenK : 
The  surest  way  for  ladies  and  for  books 
To  bait  their  tender  or  their  tenter  hooks. 

XCVIII. 
Whether  they  rode,  or  walk'd,  or  studied  Spanish, 
To  read  Don  Quixote  in  the  original. 


A  pleasure  before  which  all  others  vanish ; 

Whether  their  talk  was  of  the  kind  call'd  "  small," 
Or  serious,  are  the  topics  I  must  banish 

To  the  next  Canto ;  where  perhaps  I  shall 
Say  something  to  the  purpose,  and  display 
Considerable  talent  in  my  way. 

XCIX. 
Above  all,  I  beg  all  men  to  forbear 

Anticipating  aught  about  the  matter : 
They  '11  only  make  mistakes  about  the  fair, 

And  Juan  too,  especially  the  latter. 
And  I  shall  take  a  much  more  serious  air. 

Than  I  have  yet  done,  in  this  epic  satire. 
It  is  not  clear  that  Adeline  and  Juan 
Will  fall ;  but  if  they  do,  't  will  be  their  ruin. 

C. 
But  great  things  spring  from  little: — Would  you 

That  in  our  youth,  as  dangerous  a  passion  [think, 
As  e'er  brought  man  and  woman  to  the  brink 

Of  ruin,  rose  from  such  a  slight  occasion. 
As  few  would  ever  dream  could  form  the  link 

Of  such  a  sentimental  situation  ? 
You  '11  never  guess,  I  '11  bet  you  milUons,  milUards — 
It  all  sprung  from  a  harmless  game  at  billiards. 

CI. 
'Tis  strange, — but  true  ;  for  truth  is  always  strange ; 

Stranger  than  fiction  ;  if  it  could  bo  told. 
How  much  would  novels  gain  by  the  exchange  I 

How  differently  the  world  would  men  behold  1 
How  oft  would  vice  and  virtue  places  change  1 

The  new  world  would  bo  nothing  to  the  old. 
If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral  seas 
Would  show  mankind  their  souls'  antipodes. 

CII. 
What  "  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle  "  then 

Would  be  discover'd  in  the  human  soul  I 
What  icebergs  in  the  hearts  of  mighty  men. 

With  self-love  in  the  centre  as  their  polo  ! 
What  Anthropophagi  arc  nine  of  ten 

Of  those  who  hold  the  kingdoms  in  control ! 
Were  things  but  only  call'd  by  their  right  name, 
Csesar  himself  would  be  ashamed  of  fame. 


DON    JUAN. 


CANTO   THE    FIPTKBSTH. 


Att  t — What  should  follow  slips  from  my  reflection ; 

Whatever  follows  no'ertheless  may  be 
As  d-propoa  of  hope  or  retrospection, 

As  though  the  lurking  thought  had  foUow'd  free. 
All  present  Ufe  is  but  an  interjection, 

An  "  Oh  1"  or  "  Ah  !"  of  joy  or  misery, 


/20 


BYRON'S    WORKS, 


Canto  xv. 


Or  a  "  Ha  !  ha  !"  or  "  Bah  !"— a  yawn,  or  "  Pooh  !" 
Of  which  perhaps  the  latter  is  most  true. 

II. 

But,  more  or  less,  the  whole  's  a  syncope 
Or  a  singultus — emblems  of  emotion, 

The  grand  antithesis  to  great  ennui. 

Wherewith  we  break  our  bubbles  on  the  ocean. 

That  watery  outline  of  eternity. 

Or  miniature  at  least,  as  is  my  notion, 

Which  ministers  unto  the  soul's  delight, 

In  seeing  matters  which  are  out  of  sight. 

III. 
But  all  are  better  than  the  sigh  suppress'd. 

Corroding  in  the  cavern  of  the  heart, 
Making  the  countenance  a  masque  of  rest, 

And  turning  human  nature  to  an  art. 
Few  men  dare  show  their  thoughts  of  worst  or  best ; 

Dissimulation  always  sets  apart 
A  comer  for  herself;  and  therefore  fiction 
Is  that  which  passes  with  least  contradiction. 

IV. 
Ah  !  who  can  tell  ?    Or  rather,  who  cannot 

Remember,  witliout  telling,  passion's  errors  ? 
The  drainer  of  oblivion,  even  the  sot. 

Hath  got  the  blue  devils  for  his  morning  mirrors : 
What  though  on  Lethe's  stream  he  seem  to  float, 

He  cannot  sink  his  tremors  or  his  terrors  ; 
The  ruby  glass  that  shakes  within  his  hand 
Leaves  a  sad  sediment  of  Time's  worst  sand. 


And  as  for  love — O  love  ! We  will  proceed. 

The  Lady  Adeline  AmundeviUe, 
A  pretty  name  as  one  would  wish  to  read, 

Must  perch  harmonious  on  my  tuneful  quill. 
There 's  music  in  the  sighing  of  a  reed ; 

There 's  music  in  the  gushing  of  a  rill ; 
There  's  music  in  all  things,  if  men  had  ears  : 
Their  earth  is  but  an  echo  of  the  spheres. 

VI. 
The  Lady  Adeline,  right  honorable. 

And  honor'd,  ran  a  risk  of  growing  less  so ; 
For  few  of  the  soft  sex  are  very  stable 

In  their  resolves — alas  !  that  I  should  say  so  ! 
They  diifer  as  wine  differs  from  its  label, 

When  once  decanted ; — I  presume  to  guess  so. 
But  will  not  swear  :  yet  both  upon  occasion, 
TiU  old,  may  undergo  adulteration. 

VII. 
But  Adeline  was  of  the  purest  vintage, 

The  unmingled  essence  of  the  grape  ;  and  yet 
Bright  as  a  new  Napoleon  from  its  mintage. 

Or  glorious  as  a  diamond  richly  set ; 


A  page  where  Time  should  hesitate  to  print  age. 

And  for  which  Nature  might  forego  her  debt — 
Sole  creditor  whose  process  doth  involve  in 't 
The  luck  of  finding  everybody  solvent. 

VIII. 

O  Death  !  thou  dunnest  of  all  duns  !  thou  daily 
Knockest  at  doors,  at  first  with  modest  tap. 

Like  a  meek  tradesman  when,  approaching  palely. 
Some  splendid  debtor  he  would  take  by  sap  : 

But  oft  denied,  as  patience  'gins  to  fail,  he 
Advances  with  exasperated  rap, 

And  (if  let  in)  insists,  in  terms  unhandsome, 

On  ready  money,  or  "  a  draft  on  Ransom." 

IX. 
Whate'er  thou  takest,  spare  awhile  poor  Beauty  ! 

She  is  so  rare,  and  thou  hast  so  much  prey. 
What  though  she  now  and  then  may  slip  from  duty. 

The  more  's  the  reason  why  you  ought  to  stay. 
Gaunt  Gourmand  1    with  whole  nations  for   your 
booty. 

You  should  be  civil  in  a  modest  way  : 
Suppress,  then,  some  slight  feminine  diseases, 
And  take  as  many  heroes  as  Heaven  pleases. 

X. 

Fair  Adeline,  the  more  ingenuous 
Where  she  was  interested,  (as  was  said,) 

Because  she  was  not  apt,  like  some  of  us. 
To  like  too  readily,  or  too  high  bred 

To  show  it — (points  we  need  not  now  discuss) — 
Would  give  up  artlessly  both  heart  and  head 

Unto  such  feelings  as  seem'd  innocent. 

For  objects  worthy  of  the  sentiment. 

XI. 
Some  parts  of  Juan's  history,  which  Rumor, 

That  live  gazette,  had  scatter'd  to  disfigure, 
She  had  heard ;  but  women  hear  with  more  good 

Such  aberrations  than  we  men  of  rigor  :     [humor 
Besides,  his  conduct,  since  In  England,  grew  more 

Strict,  and  his  mind  assumed  a  manlier  vigor ; 
Because  he  had,  like  Alcibiades, 
The  art  of  living  in  all  climes  with  ease. 

XII. 
His  manner  was  perhaps  the  more  seductive, 

Because  he  ne'er  seem'd  anxious  to  seduce ; 
Nothing  affected,  studied,  or  constructive 

Of  coxcombry  or  conquest :  no  abuse 
Of  his  attractions  marr'd  the  fair  perspective, 

To  indicate  a  Cupidon  broke  loose. 
And  seem  to  say,  "  Resist  us  if  you  can  " — 
Which  makes  a  dandy  while  it  spoils  a  man. 

XIII. 

They  are  wrong— that 's  not  the  way  to  set  about  it ; 

As,  if  they  told  the  truth,  could  well  be  shown. 


Canto  xv. 


DON   JUAN. 


721 


But,  right  or  wrong,  Don  Juan  was  without  it ; 

In  fact,  his  manner  was  his  own  alone  ; 
Sincere  lie  was — at  least  you  could  not  doubt  it, 

In  listening  merely  to  his  voice's  tone. 
The  devil  hath  not  in  all  his  quiver's  choice 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  Ukc  a  sweet  voice. 

XIV. 

By  nature  soft,  his  whole  address  held  off 
Suspicion  :  though  not  timid,  his  regard 

Was  such  as  rather  seem'd  to  keep  aloof. 

To  shield  himself  than  put  you  on  your  guard  ; 

Perhaps  'twas  hardly  quite  assured  enough, 
But  modesty  's  at  times  its  own  reward. 

Like  virtue  ;  and  the  absence  of  pretension 

WiU  go  much  farther  than  there  's  need  to  mention. 

XV. 
Serene,  accomplish'd,  cheerful  but  not  loud ; 

Insinuating  without  insinuation ; 
Observant  of  the  foibles  of  the  crowd, 

Yet  ne'er  betraj-ing  this  in  conversation  ; 
Proud  with  the  proud,  yet  courteously  proud. 

So  as  to  make  them  feel  he  knew  his  station 
And  theirs  : — without  a  struggle  for  priority, 
"He  neither  brook'd  nor  claim'd  superiority. 

XVI. 
That  is,  with  men  :  with  women  he  was  what 

They  pleased  to  make  or  take  him  for ;  and  their 
Imagination 's  quite  enough  for  that ; 

So  that  the  outline 's  tolerably  fair. 
They  fill  the  canvass  up — and  "  verbum  sat." 

If  once  their  phantasies  be  brought  to  bear 
Upon  an  object,  whether  sad  or  playful. 
They  can  transfigure  brighter  than  a  Raphael. 

XVII. 
Adeline,  no  deep  judge  of  character. 

Was  apt  to  add  a  coloring  from  her  own  : 
'Tis  thus  the  good  will  amiably  err, 

And  eke  the  wise,  as  has  been  often  shown. 
E.xperience  is  the  chief  philosopher. 

But  saddest  when  his  science  is  well  known  ; 
And  persecuted  sages  teach  the  schools 
Their  folly  in  forgetting  there  are  fools. 

XVIII. 
Was  it  not  so,  great  Locke  ?  and  greater  Bacon  ? 

Great  Socrates  ?     And  thou,  Diviner  still,' 
Whose  lot  it  is  by  man  to  be  mistaken, 

And  thy  pure  creed  made  sanction  of  all  ill  ? 
Redeeming  worlds  to  be  by  bigots  shaken, 

How  was  thy  toil  rewarded  3     We  might  fill 

1  As  it  Is  necessary  In  these  times  to  avoid  ambiguity,  I  say  that 

I  mean,  by  "  Diviner  still,"  Cubist.    If  ever  God  was  man — or 

man  God — he  was  both,    I  never  arraigned  liU  creed,  but  the  use 

— or  abuse— maile  of  it.    Mr.  C'annin;;  one  day  quoted  Christianity 

91 


Volumes  with  similar  sad  illustrations. 

But  leave  them  to  the  conscience  of  the  nations. 

XIX. 

I  perch  upon  an  humbler  promontory, 

Amidst  life's  infinite  variety  : 
With  no  great  care  for  what  is  nicknamed  glory, 

But  speculating  as  I  cast  mine  eye 
On  what  may  suit  or  may  not  suit  my  story. 

And  never  straining  hard  to  versify, 
I  rattle  on  exactly  as  I'd  talk 
With  anybody  in  a  ride  or  walk. 

XX. 

I  don't  know  that  there  may  be  much  ability 
Shown  in  this  sort  of  desultory  rhyme  ; 

But  there  's  a  conversational  facility. 

Which  may  round  off  an  hour  ujion  a  time. 

Of  this  I'm  sure  at  least,  there  's  no  servility 
In  mine  irregularity  of  chime. 

Which  rings  what 's  uppermost  of  new  or  hoary. 

Just  as  I  feel  the  "  Improvvisatore." 

XXI. 

"  Omnia  vult  helle  Matho  dicere — die  aliquando 
Et  lene,  die  neiitrum,  die  aUquando  male." 

The  first  is  rather  more  than  mortal  can  do ; 
The  second  may  be  sadly  done  or  gayly  ; 

The  third  is  still  more  difficult  to  stand  to  ; 

The  fourth  -vyc  hear,  and  see,  and  say  too,  daily  : 

The  whole  together  is  what  I  could  wish 

To  serve  in  this  conundrum  of  a  dish. 

XXII. 

A  modest  hope — but  modesty 's  my  forte. 
And  pride  my  feeble  : — let  us  ramble  on. 

I  meant  to  make  this  poem  very  short. 
But  now  I  can't  tell  where  it  may  not  run. 

No  doubt,  if  I  had  wish'd  to  pay  my  court 
To  critics,  or  to  hail  the  setting  sun 

Of  tyranny  of  all  kinds,  my  concision 

Were  more ; — but  I  was  born  for  opposition. 

XXIII. 

But  then  'tis  mostly  on  the  weaker  side ; 

So  that  I  verily  believe  if  they 
Who  now  are  basking  in  their  full-blown  pride 

Were  shaken  down,  and  "  dogs  had  had  their  day," 
Though  at  the  first  I  might  perchance  deride 

Their  tumble,  I  should  turn  the  other  way. 
And  wax  an  ultra-royalist  in  loyalty. 
Because  I  hate  even  democratic  royalty. 


to  sanction  negro  slavery,  and  Mr.  Wilberforce  had  little  to  say 
in  reply.  And  was  Christ  crucified,  that  black  men  might  bo 
scourged  ?  If  so,  he  had  better  been  bom  a  Mulatto,  to  give  both 
colors  an  equal  chance  of  freedom,  or  at  least  salvation. 


722 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


CaKTO   XT. 


XXIV. 

I  think  I  should  have  made  a  decent  spouse, 
If  I  had  never  proved  the  soft  condition  ; 

I  think  I  should  have  made  monastic  vows, 
But  for  my  own  peculiar  superstition  : 

'Gainst  rhyme  I  never  should  have  knock'd  my  brows. 
Nor  broken  my  own  head,  nor  that  of  Priscian, 

Nor  worn  the  motley  mantle  of  a  poet. 

If  some  one  had  not  told  me  to  forego  it. 

XXV. 

But  "  laissez  aller  " — knights  and  dames  I  sing, 
Such  as  the  times  may  furnish.     'Tis  a  flight 

Which  seems  at  first  to  need  no  lofty  wing. 
Plumed  by  Longinus  or  the  Stagyrite  : 

The  difficulty  lies  in  coloring 

(Keeping  the  due  proportions  still  in  sight) 

With  nature  manners  which  are  artificial, 

And  rend'ring  general  that  which  is  especial. 

XXVI. 

The  difference  is,  that  in  the  days  of  old 

Men   made  the   manners ;    manners    now   make 
men — 

Pinn'd  like  a  flock,  and  fleeced  too  in  their  fold, 
At  least  nine,  and  a  ninth  besides  of  ten. 

Now  this  at  all  events  must  render  cold 
Your  writers,  who  must  either  draw  again 

Days  better  drawn  before,  or  else  assume 

The  present,  with  their  common-place  costume. 

XXVII. 

We'll  do  our  best  to  make  the  best  on 't : — March  ! 

March,  my  Muse  !    If  you  cannot  fly,  yet  flutter  ; 
And  when  you  may  not  be  sublime,  be  arch, 

Or  starch,  as  are  the  edicts  statesmen  utter. 
We  surely  may  find  something  worth  research  : 

Columbus  found  a  new  world  in  a  cutter. 
Or  brigantine,  or  pink,  of  no  great  tonnage. 
While  yet  America  was  in  her  non-age. 

XXVIII. 

When  Adeline,  in  all  her  growing  sense 

Of  Juan's  merits  and  his  situation. 
Felt  on  the  whole  an  interest  intense, — 

Partly  perhaps  because  a  fresh  sensation, 
Or  that  he  had  an  air  of  innocence. 

Which  is  for  innocence  a  sad  temptation, — 
As  women  hate  half  measures,  on  the  whole, 
She  'gan  to  ponder  how  to  save  his  soul. 

XXIX. 

She  had  a  good  opinion  of  advice. 

Like  all  who  give  and  ckc  receive  it  gratis. 

For  which  small  thanks  are  still  the  market  price, 
Even  where  the  article  at  highest  rate  is  : 


She  thought  upon  the  subject  twice  or  thrice. 

And  morally  decided,  the  best  state  is 
For  morals,  marriage ;  and  this  question  carried. 
She  seriously  advised  him  to  get  married. 

XXX. 

Juan  replied,  with  all  becoming  deference. 

He  had  a  predilection  for  that  tie  ; 
But  that,  at  present,  with  immediate  reference 

To  his  own  circumstances,  there  might  lie 
Some  difiiculties,  as  in  his  own  preference. 

Or  that  of  her  to  whom  he  might  apply  : 
That  still  he'd  wed  with  such  or  such  a  lady. 
If  that  they  were  not  married  all  already. 

XXXI. 

Next  to  the  making  matches  for  herself. 

And  daughters,  brothers,  sisters,  kith  or  kin, 

Arranging  them  like  books  on  the  same  shelf, 
There 's  nothing  women  love  to  dabble  in 

More  (Uke  a  stock-holder  in  growing  pelf) 
Than  match-making  in  general :  'tis  no  sin 

Certes,  but  a  preventative,  and  therefore 

That  is,  no  doubt,  the  only  reason  wherefore. 

XXXIl. 

But  never  yet  (except  of  course  a  miss 

Unwed,  or  mistress  never  to  be  wed, 
Or  wed  already,  who  object  to  this) 

Was  there  chaste  dam  who  had  not  in  her  head 
Some  drama  of  the  marriage  unities, 

Observed  as  strictly  both  at  board  and  bed. 
As  those  of  Aristotle,  though  sometimes 
They  turn  out  melodrames  or  pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They  generally  have  some  oply  son. 

Some  heir  to  a  large  property,  some  friend 

Of  an  old  family,  some  gay  Sir  John, 

Or  grave  Lord  George,  with  whom  perhaps  might 
end 

A  line,  and  leave  posterity  undone. 

Unless  a  marriage  was  applied  to  mend 

The  prospect  and  their  morals  :  and  besides. 

They  have  at  hand  a  blooming  glut  of  brides. 

XXXIV. 

From  these  they  will  be  careful  to  select, 
For  this  an  heiress,  and  for  that  a  beauty  ; 

For  one  a  songstress  who  hath  no  defect. 
For  t'other  one  who  promises  much  duty  ; 

For  this  a  lady  no  one  can  reject, 

Wliose  sole  accomplishments  were  quite  a  booty ; 

A  second  for  lier  excellent  connections  ; 

A  third,  because  there  can  be  objections. 


Canto  xv. 


DON    JUAN. 


728 


XXXV. 

When  Rapp  the  Harmonist  embargoVl  marriage' 
In  his  harmonious  settlement — (wliieh  flourishes 

Strangely  enough  as  yet  witliout  miscarriage, 

Because  it  breeds  no  more  mouths  than  it  nourishes, 

Witliout  those  sad  expenses  which  disparage 
What  nature  naturally  most  encourages) — 

Wliy  call'd  he  "  Harmony  "  a  state  sans  wedlock  ? 

Now  here  Tve  got  the  preacher  at  a  dead  lock. 

XXXVI. 
Because  he  either  meant  to  sneer  at  harmony 

Or  marriage,  by  divorcing  them  thus  oddly. 
But  whether  reverend  Rapp  learn'd  this  in  Gennany 

Or  uo,  'tis  said  his  sect  is  rich  and  godly. 
Pious  and  pure,  beyond  what  I  can  term  any 

Of  ours,  although  they  propagate  more  broadly. 
My  objection 's  to  liis  title,  not  his  ritual, 
Although  I  wonder  how  it  grew  habitual. 

XXXVII. 
But  Rapp  is  the  reverse  of  zealous  matrons. 

Who  favor,  malgre  Malthus,  generation — 
Professors  of  thi»t  genial  art,  and  patrons 

Of  all  the  modest  part  of  propagation ; 
Which  after  all  at  such  a  desperate  rate  runs, 

That  half  its  produce  tends  to  emigration, 
That  sad  result  of  passions  and  potatoes — 
Two  weeds  which  pose  our  economic  Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Had  Adeline  read  Malthus  ?  I  can't  tell ;  [ment, 

I  wish  she  had,  this  book 's  the  eleventh  command- 

Which  says,  "  Thou  shalt  not  marry,"  imless  well  : 
This  he  (as  far  as  I  can  understand)  meant. 

'Tis  not  my  purpose  on  his  views  to  dwell, 
Nor  canvass  what  so  "  eminent  a  hand  "  meant ;  a 

But  certes  it  conducts  to  lives  ascetic. 

Or  turning  marriage  into  arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 
But  Adeline,  who  probably  presumed 

That  Juan  had  enough  of  maintenance. 
Or  sejMrate  maintenance,  in  case  't  was  doom'd — 

As  on  the  whole  it  is  an  even  chance 
That  bridegrooms,  after  they  are  fairly  tjrooni'd, 

May  retrograde  a  little  in  the  dance 
Of  marriage, —  (which  might  form  a  painter's  fame. 
Like   Holbein's  "Dance   of   Death  "—but  'tis   the 
same ;) — 

m  XL. 

But  Adeline  determined  Juan's  wedding 
In  her  own  mind,  and  that 's  enough  for  woman  : 

•  This  extraordinary  and  flourishing  German  colony  In  America 
doea  not  entirely  ciclude  matrimony,  ax  the  "  Shakcrii "  do  ;  but 
lays  each  refttrictione  upon  it  a»  prevcntH  more  than  a  certain 
quantum  of  birthi"  within  a  certain  numlxsr  of  yearn ;  which  births 
(a»  Mr.  Ilulme  ob8er\ei!)  ffenurally  arrive  "  lu  a  flock  like  those  of 
a  fiirmcr'H  lanib:<,  all  within  the  ramc  month  perhaps."    These 


But  then,  with  whom  ?    There  was  the  sage  Miss 
Reading, 
Miss  Raw,  Miss  Flaw,  Miss  Showman,  and  Miss 
Knowman, 
And  the  two  fair  co-heiresses  Giltbedding. 

She  deem'd  his  merits  something  more  than  corn- 
All  these  were  unobjectionable  matches,  [mon  : 
And  might  go  on,  if  well  wound  up,  like  watches. 

XLI. 

There  was  Miss  Millpond,  smooth  as  summer's  sea, 
That  usual  paragon,  an  only  daughter. 

Who  seem'd  the  cream  of  equanimity,  [water, 

Till  skimm'd — and  then  there  was  some  milk  and 

With  a  slight  shade  of  blue  too,  it  might  be, 
Beneath  the  surface ;  but  what  did  it  matter  ? 

Love  's  riotous,  but  marriage  should  have  quiet, 

And  being  consumptive,  live  on  a  milk  diet. 

XUI. 

And  then  there  was  the  Miss  Audacia  Shoestring, 
A  dashing  demoiselle  of  good  estate, 

Whose  heart  was  fix'd  upon  a  star  or  blue  string ; 
But  whether  English  dukes  grew  rare  of  late. 

Or  that  she  had  not  harp'd  upon  the  true  string. 
By  which  such  sirens  can  attract  our  great. 

She  took  up  with  some  foreign  younger  brother, 

A  Russ  or  Turk — the  one 's  as  good  as  t'other. 

XLIII. 
And  then  there  was — but  why  should  I  go  on. 

Unless  the  ladies  should  go  off? — there  was 
Indeed  a  certain  fair  and  fairy  one, 

Of  the  best  class,  and  better  than  her  class, — 
Aurora  Raby,  a  young  star  who  shone 

O'er  life,  too  sweet  an  image  for  such  glass, 
A  lovely  being,  scarcely  forra'd  or  moulded, 
A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded ; 

XLIV. 
Rich,  noble,  but  an  orphan  ;  left  an  only 

Child  to  the  care  of  guardians  good  and  kind  ; 
But  still  her  aspect  had  an  air  so  lonely  ! 

Blood  is  not  water  ;  and  where  shall  we  find 
Feelings  of  youth  like  those  which  overthrown  lie 

By  death,  when  we  are  left,  alas  I  behind, 
To  feel,  in  friendless  palaces,  a  home 
Is  wanting,  and  our  best  ties  in  the  tomb  ? 

XLV. 
Early  in  years,  and  yet  more  infantine 
In  tigure,  she  had  something  of  sublime 

Harmonists  (so  called  from  the  name  of  their  aettlement)  are  re- 
presented as  a  remarkably  llouriBliIng,  pious,  and  quiet  people. 
See  the  various  recent  writers  on  America. 

'■'  Jacob  Tonson,  accordin){  to  Mr.  I'opo,  was  accustomed  to  call 
his  writers  "  able  pons,"  "  persons  of  honor,"  and  especially 
"  eminent  hands."    Vide  Correspondence,  etc.,  etc. 


724 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xv. 


In  eyes  which  sadly  shone,  as  seraphs'  shine. 

All  youth— but  with  an  aspect  beyond  time  ; 
Radiant  and  grave — as  pitying  man's  decline  ; 

Mournful — but  mournful  of  another's  crime, 
She  look'd  as  if  she  sat  by  Eden's  door, 
And  grieved  for  those  who  could  return  no  more. 

XLVI. 

She  was  a  Catholic,  too,  sincere,  austere, 
As  far  as  her  own  gentle  heart  allow'd, 

And  deem'd  that  fallen  worship  far  more  dear 
Perhaps   because   'twas   fallen :    her   sires   were 
proud 

Of  deeds  and  days  when  they  had  fiU'd  the  ear 
Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bow'd 

To  novel  power ;  and  as  she  was  the  last. 

She  held  their  old  faith  and  old  feelings  fast. 

XLVII. 
She  gazed  upon  a  world  she  scarcely  knew 

As  seeking  not  to  know  it :  silent,  lone, 
As  grows  a  flower,  thus  quietly  she  grew. 

And  kept  her  heart  serene  within  its  zone. 
There  was  awe  in  the  homage  which  she  drew  ; 

Her  spirit  seem'd  as  seated  an  a  throne 
Apart  from  the  surrounding  world,  and  strong 
In  its  own  strength — most  strange  in  one  so  young  1 

XLVIII. 
Kow  it  so  happen'd,  in  the  catalogue 

Of  Adeline,  Aurora  was  omitted, 
Although  her   birth  and   wealth   had    given    her 
vogue 

Beyond  the  charmers  wo  have  already  cited  ; 
Her  beauty  also  seem'd  to  form  no  clog 

Against  her  being  mention'd  as  well  fitted. 
By  many  virtues,  to  be  worth  the  trouble 
Of  single  gentlemen  who  would  be  double. 

XLIX. 
And  this  omission,  Uke  that  of  the  bust 

Of  Brutus  at  the  pageant  of  Tiberius, 
Made  Juan  wonder,  as  no  doubt  he  must. 

This  he  express'd  half  smiling  and  half  serious  ; 
When  Adeline  replied  with  some  disgust, 

And  with  an  air,  to  say  the  least,  imperious. 
She  marvell'd  "  what  he  saw  in  such  a  baby 
As  that  prim,  silent,  cold  Aurora  Raby  ?" 

L. 
Juan  rejoin'd — "  She  was  a  CathoUc, 

And  therefore  fittest,  as  of  his  persuasion ; 
Since  he  was  sure  his  mother  would  fall  sick. 

And  the  Pope  thunder  excommunication. 
If "     But  here  Adeline,  who  seem'd  to  pique 

Herself  extremely  on  the  inoculation 
Of  others  with  her  own  opinions,  stated — 
As  usual — the  same  reason  which  she  late  did. 


LI. 
And  wherefore  not  ?     A  reasonable  reason, 

If  good,  is  none  the  worse  for  repetition  ; 
If  bad,  the  best  way 's  certainly  to  tease  on, 

And  amplify :  you  lose  much  by  concision, 
Wliereas  insisting  in  or  out  of  season 

Convinces  all  men,  even  a  politician  ; 
Or — what  is  just  the  same — it  wearies  out. 
So  the  end 's  gain'd,  what  signifies  the  route  ? 

LII. 

Why  Adeline  had  this  slight  prejudice — 
For  prejudice  it  was — against  a  creature 

As  pure  as  sanctity  itself  from  vice. 

With  all  the  added  charm  of  form  and  feature, 

For  me  appears  a  question  far  too  nice. 
Since  Adeline  was  liberal  by  nature  ; 

But  nature  's  nature,  and  has  more  caprices 

Than  I  have  time,  or  will,  to  take  to  pieces. 

LIII. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  like  the  quiet  way 

With  which  Aurora  on  those  baubles  look'd. 
Which  charm  most  people  in  their  earlier  day  : 

For  there  are  few  things  by  mankind  less  brook'd, 
And  womankind  too,  if  we  so  may  say. 

Than  finding  thus  their  genius  stand  rebuked, 
Like  "  Antony's  by  Caesar,"  by  the  few 
Who  look  upon  them  as  they  ought  to  do. 

LIV. 
It  was  not  envy — Adeline  had  none  ; 

Her  place  was  far  beyond  it,  and  her  mind. 
It  was  not  scorn — which  could  not  light  on  one 

Whose  greatest  fault  was  leaving  few  to  find. 
It  was  not  jealousy,  I  think  :  but  shun 

Following  the  "  ignes  fatui  "  of  mankind. 

It  was  not but  'tis  easier  far,  alas  1 

To  say  what  it  was  not  than  what  it  was. 

LV. 
Little  Aurora  deem'd  she  was  the  theme 

Of  such  discussion.     She  was  there  a  guest ; 
A  beauteous  ripple  of  the  brilliant  stream 

Of  rank  and  youth,  though  purer  than  the  rest. 
Which  flow'd  on  for  a  moment  in  the  beam 

Time  sheds  a  moment  o'er  each  sparkling  crest. 
Had  she  known  this,  she  would  have  calmly  smiled — 
She  had  so  much,  or  little,  of  the  child. 

LVI. 
The  dashing  and  proud  air  of  Adeline 

Imposed  not  upon  her :  she  saw  her  blaze 
Much  as  she  would  have  seen  a  glow-worm  shine, 

Then  tum'd  unto  the  stars  for  loftier  raj's. 
Juan  was  something  she  could  not  divine. 

Being  no  sibyl  in  the  new  world's  ways  ; 
Yet  she  was  nothing  dazzled  by  the  meteor, 
Because  she  did  not  pin  her  faith  on  feature. 


Canto  xv. 


DON  JUAN. 


726 


LVII. 
His  fame  too, — for  he  had  that  kind  of  fame 

Which  sometimes  plays  the  deuce  with  woman- 
A  hetcrojjcneous  mass  of  glorious  blame,  [kind. 

Half  virtues  and  whole  vices  being  combined ; 
Faults  wliich  attract  because  they  are  not  tame  ; 

Follies  trick'd  out  so  brightly  that  they  blind  : — 
These  seals  upon  her  wax  made  no  impression, 
Such  was  her  coldness  or  her  self-possession. 

LVIII. 
Juan  knew  naught  of  such  a  character — 

High,  yet  resembling  not  his  lost  HaidOc  ; 
Yet  each  was  radiant  in  her  proper  sphere  : 

The  island  girl,  b^ed  up  by  the  lone  sea. 
More  warm,  as  lovely,  and  not  less  sincere. 

Was  Nature's  all :  Aurora  could  not  be, 
Nor  would  be  thus  : — the  difference  in  them 
Was  such  as  lies  between  a  flower  and  gem. 

LIX. 

Having  wound  up  with  this  sublime  comparison, 
Methinks  we  may  proceed  upon  our  narrative, 

And,  as  my  friend  Scott  says,  I  sound  my  "  warison ;" 
Scott,  the  superlative  of  my  comparative —     [cen, 

Scott,  who  can  paint  your  Christian  knight  or  Sara- 
Serf,  lord,  man,  with  such  skill  as  none  would 
share  it,  if 

There  had  not  been  one  Shakspeare  and  Voltaire, 

Of  one  or  both  of  whom  he  seems  the  heir. 

LX. 

I  say,  in  my  slight  way  I  may  proceed 
To  play  upon  the  surface  of  humanity. 

1  write  the  world,  nor  care  if  the  world  read, 
At  least  for  this  I  cannot  spare  its  vanity. 

My  Muse  hath  bred,  and  still  perhaps  may  breed 
More  foes  by  this  same  scroll :  when  I  began  it,  I 

Thought  that  it  might  turn  out  so — now  I  Icnoio  it. 

But  still  I  ara,  or  was,  a  pretty  poet. 

LXI. 
The  conference  or  congress  (for  it  ended 

As  congresses  of  late  do)  of  the  Lady 
Adeline  and  Don  Juan  rather  blended 

Some  acids  with  the  sweets — for  she  was  heady ; 
But,  ere  the  matter  could  be  marr'd  or  mended, 

The  silvery  bell  rang,  not  for  "  dinner  ready," 
But  for  that  hour,  call'd  half-hour,  given  to  dress, 
Though  ladies'  robes  seem  scant  enough  for  less. 

LXII. 
Great  things  were  now  to  be  achieved  at  table. 
With  massy  plate  for  armor,  knives  and  forks 

>  A  dish  "  a  la  Lncnllus."  This  hero,  who  conqncred  the  Kast, 
has  left  his  more  extended  celebrity  to  the  transplantation  of 
cherries,  (which  he  first  brought  into  Europe,)  and  the  nomen- 
clature of  eome  very  good  dishes ;— and  I  am  not  sure  that  (bar- 


For  weapons  ;  but  what  Muse  since  Homer 's  able 
(His  feasts  arc  not  the  worst  part  of  his  works) 

To  draw  up  in  array  a  single  day-bill 

Of  modern  dinners  !  where  more  mystery  lurks, 

In  sou2)s  or  sauces,  or  a  sole  ragoilt. 

Than  witches,  b — ches,  or  physicians,  brew. 

LXIII. 
There  was  a  goodly  "  soupe  3  la  lonne  femme,"'^ 

Though  God  knows  whence  it  came  from  ;  there 
A  turbot  for  relief  of  those  who  cram,        [was,  too, 

Relieved  with  "  dindon  ii  la  Parigeux  ;" 
There  also  was the  sinner  that  I  am  ! 

How  shall  I  get  this  gourmand  stanza  through  ? — 
"  Soupe  a  la  Beauveau,"  whose  relief  was  dory, 
Relieved  itself  by  pork,  for  greater  glory. 

LXIV. 
But  I  must  crowd  all  into  one  grand  mess 

Or  mass  ;  for  should  I  stretch  into  detail. 
My  Muse  would  run  much  more  into  excess. 

Than  when  some  squeamish  people  deem  her  frail ; 
But  though  a  "  bonne  vivante,"  I  must  confess 

Her  stomach  's  not  her  peccant  part ;  this  tale 
However  dotli  require  some  slight  refection. 
Just  to  relieve  her  spirits  from  dejection. 

LXV. 
Fowls  "  a  la  CondC,"  slices  eke  of  salmon. 

With  "sauces  GOnevoises,"  and  haunch  of  venison ; 
Wines  too,  which   might  again  have   slain   young 
Ammon — 

A  man  like  whom  I  hope  we  shan't  see  many  soon ; 
They  also  set  a  glazed  Westphalian  ham  on. 

Whereon  Apicius  would  betow  his  bcnison  ; 
And  then  there  was  chamx^agne  with  foaming  whirls, 
As  white  as  Cleopatra's  melted  pearls. 

LXVI. 
Then  there  was  God  knows  what  "  ii  I'Allemandc," 

"  A  I'Espagnole,"  "  timballe,"  and  "  salpicon  " — 
With  things  I  can't  withstand  or  understand. 

Though  swallow'd  with  much  zest  upon  the  whole ; 
And  "  entremets  "  to  piddle  with  at  hand. 

Gently  to  lull  down  the  subsiding  soul ; 
Wliile  great  LucuUus'  liohe  triumphal  muffles — 
(There's  fame) — young  partridge  fillets,  dcck'd  with 
truflles.' 

LXVII. 
What  are  the  fillets  on  the  victor's  brow 

To  these  ?     They  arc  rags  or  dust.     Where  is  the 
Which  nodded  to  the  nation's  spoils  below  ?      [arch 

Where  the  triumphal  chariots'  haughty  march  ? 

ring  indigestion)  he  has  not  done  more  service  to  mankind  by 
his  cookery  than  by  his  conquests.  A  cherry-tree  may  weigh 
against  a  bloody  laurel ;  besides,  he  has  contrived  to  earn  celeb- 
rity from  both. 


726 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xt. 


Gone  to  where  victories  must  like  dinners  go. 

Farther  I  shall  not  follow  the  research  : 
But  oh  !  ye  modern  heroes  with  your  cartidges, 
When  will  your  names  lend  lustre  e'en  to  partridges  ? 

LXVIII. 
Those  truffles  too  are  no  bad  accessories, 

FoUow'd  by  "  petits  puits  d'amour  " — a  dish 
Of  which  perhaps  the  cookery  rather  varies, 

So  every  one  may  dress  it  to  his  wish, 
According  to  the  best  of  dictionaries, 

Which  encyclopedize  both  flesh  and  fish ; 
But  even  sans  "  confitures,"  it  no  less  true  is, 
There  's  pretty  picking  in  those  "  petits  puits.'" 

LXIX. 
The  mind  is  lost  in  mighty  contemplation 

Of  intellect  expanded  on  two  courses  ; 
And  indigestion's  grand  multiplication 

Requires  arithmetic  beyond  my  forces. 
Who  would  suppose,  from  Adam's  simple  ration. 

That  cookery  could  have  call'd  forth  such  resources, 
As  form  a  science  and  a  nomenclature 
From  out  the  commonest  demands  of  nature  5 

LXX. 

The  glasses  jingled,  and  the  palates  tingled  ; 

The  diners  of  celebrity  dined  well ; 
The  ladies  with  more  moderation  mingled 

In  the  feast,  pecking  less  than  I  can  tell ; 
Also  the  younger  men  too  :  for  a  springald 

Can't,  like  ripe  age,  in  gormandize  excel, 
But  thinks  less  of  good  eating  than  the  whisper 
(When  seated  next  him)  of  some  pretty  lisper. 

LXXI. 
Alas  !  I  must  leave  undescribed  the  gibier. 

The  salmi,  the  consommC,  the  purCe, 
All  which  I  use  to  make  my  rhymes  run  glibber 

Than  could  roast  beef  in  our  rough  John  Bull 
way: 
I  must  not  introduce  even  a  spare  rib  here, 

"  Bubble  and  squeak  "  would  spoil  my  liquid  lay. 
But  I  have  dined,  and  must  forego,  alas  ! 
The  chaste  description  even  of  a  "  becasse ;" 

LXXII. 
And  fruits,  and  ice,  and  all  that  art  refines 

From  nature  for  the  service  of  the  godt — 
Taste  or  the  gout, — pronounce  it  as  inclines 

Your  stomach  1  Ere  you  dine,  the  French  will  do ; 
But  after,  there  are  sometimes  certain  signs 

Which  prove  plain  English  truer  of  the  two. 
Hast  ever  had  the  gout  ?     I  have  not  had  it — 
But  I  may  have,  and  you  too,  reader,  dread  it. 


'  "  PetitB  pnits  d'amour  gamis  des  confitures," — a  claBsical  and 
well-known  dish  for  )inrt  of  the  flank  of  a  second  conrsc.  | 


LXXIII. 
The  simple  olives,  best  allies  of  wine. 

Must  I  pass  over  in  my  bill  of  fare  3 
I  must,  although  a  favorite  "  plat "  of  mine 

In  Spain,  and  Lucca,  Athens,  everywhere  : 
On  them  and  bread  'twas  oft  my  luck  to  dine, 

The  grass  my  table-cloth,  in  open  air. 
On  Sunium  or  Hymettus,  like  Diogenes, 
Of  whom  half  my  philosophy  the  progeny  is. 

LXXIV. 

Amidst  this  tumult  of  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl, 

And  vegetables,  all  in  masquerade. 
The  guests  were  placed  according  to  their  roll, 

But  various  as  the  various  meats  display'd  : 
Don  Juan  sat  next  an  "  il  I'Espagnole  " — 

No  damsel,  but  a  dish,  as  hath  been  said  ; 
But  so  far  like  a  lady,  that  'twas  dress'd 
Superbly,  and  contain'd  a  world  of  zest. 

LXXV. 
By  some  odd  chance  too,  he  was  placed  between 

Aurora  and  the  Lady  Adeline — 
A  situation  difiicult,  I  ween. 

For  man  therein,  with  eyes  and  heart,  to  dine, 
Also  the  conference  which  we  have  seen 

Was  not  such  as  to  encourage  him  to  shine. 
For  Adeline,  addressing  few  words  to  him,       [him. 
With  two  transcendent  eyes  seem'd  to  look  through 

LXXVI. 
I  sometimes  almost  think  that  eyes  have  ears  : 

This  much  is  sure,  that,  out  of  earshot,  things 
Are  somehow  echo'd  to  the  pretty  dears,      [springs. 

Of  which  I  can't  tell  whence  their  knowledge 
Like  that  same  mystic  music  of  the  spheres. 

Which  no  one  hears,  so  loudly  though  it  rings, 
'Tis  wonderful  how  oft  the  sex  have  heard 
Long  dialogues — which  pass'd  without  a  word  I 

LXXVII. 
Aurora  sat  with  that  indifierence 

Which  piques  a  preux  chevalier — as  it  ought : 
Of  aU  ofiences  that's  the  worst  ofience. 

Which  seems  to  hint  you  are  not  worth  a  thought. 
Now  Juan,  though  no  coxcomb  in  pretence, 

Was  not  exactly  pleased  to  be  so  caught  ; 
Like  a  good  ship  entangled  among  ice. 
And  after  so  much  excellent  advice. 

LXXVIII. 
To  his  gay  nothings,  nothing  was  replied. 

Or  something  which  was  nothing,  as  urbanity 
Required.     Aurora  scarcely  look'd  aside. 

Nor  even  smiled  enough  for  any  vanity 
The  devil  was  in  tlie  girl !     Could  it  be  pride  ? 

Or  modesty,  or  absence,  or  inanity  ? 
Heaven  knows  1     But  Adeline's  malicious  eyes 
Sparkled  with  her  successful  prophecies. 


Canto  xv. 


DON    JUAN. 


m 


LXXIX. 

And  look'd  as  much  as  if  to  say,  "  I  said  it ;" 
A  kind  of  triumph  I'll  not  recommend, 

Because  it  sometimes,  as  I  have  seen  or  read  it, 
Both  in  the  case  of  lover  and  of  friend, 

Will  pique  a  gentleman,  for  his  own  credit, 
To  bring  what  was  a  jest  to  a  serious  end  : 

For  all  men  prophesy  what  is  or  was. 

And  hate  those  who  won't  let  them  come  to  pass. 

LXXX. 
Juan  was  drawn  thus  into  some  attentions, 

Slight  but  select,  and  just  enough  to  express, 
To  females  of  perspicuous  comprehensions. 

That  he  would  rather  make  them  more  than  less. 
Aurora  at  the  last  (so  history  mentions. 

Though  probably  much  less  a  foct  than  guess) 
So  far  relax'd  her  thoughts  from  their  sweet  prison, 
As  once  or  twice  to  smile,  if  not  to  listen. 

LXXXI. 

From  answering  she  began  to  question :  this 
With  her  was  rare  ;  and  Adeline,  who  as  yet 

Thought  her  predictions  went  not  much  amiss, 
Began  to  dread  she'd  thaw  to  a  coquette — 

So  very  ditEcult,  they  say,  it  is 
To  keep  extremes  from  meeting,  when  once  set 

In  motion  ;  but  she  here  too  much  refined — 

Aurora's  spirit  was  not  of  that  kind. 

LXXXII. 
But  Juan  had  a  sort  of  winning  way, 

A  proud  humility,  if  such  there  be. 
Which  show'd  such  deference  to  what  females  say, 

As  if  each  charming  word  were  a  decree. 
His  tact,  too,  temper'd  him  from  grave  to  gay, 

And  taught  him  when  to  be  reserved  or  free  : 
He  had  the  art  of  drawing  people  out. 
Without  their  seeing  what  he  was  about. 

LXXXIII. 
Aurora,  who  in  her  indifference 

Confounded  him  in  common  with  the  crowd 
Of  flatterers,  though  she  decm'd  he  had  more  sense 

Than  whispering  foplings,  or  than  witlings  loud — 
Commenced   (from   such   slight  things   will  great 
commence) 

To  feel  that  flattery  which  attracts  the  proud, 
Rather  by  deference  than  compliment, 
And  wins  even  by  a  delicate  dissent. 

LXXXIV. 

And  then  he  had  good  looks ; — that  point  was  carried 
Nem.  eon.  amongst  the  women,  which  I  grieve 

To  say  leads  oft  to  erim.  con.  with  the  married— 
A  case  which  to  the  juries  we  may  leave, 

Since  with  digressions  we  too  long  have  tarried. 
Now  though  we  know  of  old  that  looks  deceive, 
>  Snbandltar  "  non ;"  omitted  for  tbc  sake  of  cnpliony. 


And  always  have  done,  somehow  these  good  looks 
Make  more  impression  than  the  best  of  books. 

LXXXV. 
Aurora,  who  look'd  more  on  books  than  faces, 

Was  very  young,  although  so  very  sage. 
Admiring  more  Minerva  than  the  Graces, 

Especially  upon  a  printed  page. 
But  Virtue's  self,  with  all  her  tightest  laces. 

Has  not  the  natural  stays  of  strict  old  age  ; 
And  Socrates,  that  model  of  all  duty, 
Own'd  to  a  penchant,  though  discreet,  for  beauty. 

LXXXVI. 
And  girls  of  sixteen  are  thus  far  Socratic, 

But  innocently  so,  as  Socrates  ; 
And  really,  if  the  sage  sublime  and  Attic 

At  seventy  years  had  phantasies  like  these. 
Which  Plato  in  his  dialogues  dramatic 

Has  shown,  I  know  not  why  they  should  displease 
In  virgins — always  in  a  modest  way. 
Observe  ;  for  that  with  me  's  a  "  sine  qua." ' 

LXXXVII. 
Also  observe,  that,  like  the  great  Lord  Coke, 

(See  Littleton,)  whene'er  I  have  cxprcss'd 
Opinions  two,  which  at  first  sight  may  look 

Twin  opposites,  the  second  is  the  best. 
Perhaps  I  have  a  third,  too,  in  a  nook. 

Or  none  at  all — which  seems  a  sorry  jest : 
But  if  a  writer  should  be  quite  consistent, 
How  could  he  possibly  show  things  existent  5 

LXXXVIII. 
If  people  contradict  themselves,  can  I 

Help  contradicting  them,  and  everybody. 
Even  my  veracious  self? — But  that 's  a  lie  : 

I  never  did  so,  never  wiU — how  should  I  ? 
He  who  doubts  all  things  nothing  can  deny  : 

Truth's  foimtains  may  be  clear — her  streams  are 
muddy. 
And  cut  through  such  canals  of  contradiction. 
That  she  must  often  navigate  o'er  fiction. 

LXXXIX. 
Apologue,  fable,  poesy,  and  parable. 

Are  false,  but  may  be  render'd  also  true, 
B.y  those  who  sow  them  in  a  land  that 's  arable. 

'Tis  wonderful  what  fable  will  not  do  ! 
'Tis  said  it  makes  reality  more  bearable  : 

But  what 's  reality  ?    Who  has  its  clue  ? 
Philosophy  ?    No  :  she  too  much  rejects. 
Religion  ?     Yes  ;  but  which  of  all  her  sects  ? 

XC. 

Some  millions  must  be  wrong,  that 's  pretty  clear ; 

Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  that  all  were  right. 
God  help  us  !     Since  we  have  need  on  our  career 

To  keep  our  holy  beacons  always  bright, 


728 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xvl 


'Tis  time  that  some  new  prophet  should  appear, 

Or  old  indulge  man  with  a  second  sight. 
Opinions  wear  out  in  some  thousand  years, 
Without  a  small  refreshment  from  the  spheres. 

XCI. 

But  here  again,  why  will  I  thus  entangle 
Myself  with  metaphysics  ?    None  can  hate 

So  much  as  I  do  any  kind  of  wrangle  ; 
And  yet,  such  is  my  folly,  or  my  fate, 

I  always  knock  my  head  against  some  angle 
About  the  present,  past,  or  future  state  : 

Yet  I  wish  well  to  Trojan  and  to  Tyrian, 

For  I  was  bred  a  moderate  Presbyterian. 

XCII. 

But  though  I  am  a  temperate  theologian, 

And  also  meek  as  a  metaphysician. 
Impartial  between  Tyrian  and  Trojan 

As  Eldon  on  a  lunatic  commission, — 
In  politics  my  duty  is  to  show  John 

But  something  of  the  lower  world's  condition. 
It  makes  my  blood  boil  like  the  springs  of  Hecla,' 
To  see  men  let  these  scoundrel  sovereigns  break  law. 

XCIII. 

But  politics,  and  policy,  and  piety, 

Are  topics  which  I  sometimes  introduce. 

Not  only  for  the  sake  of  their  variety. 
But  as  subservient  to  a  moral  use  ; 

Because  my  business  is  to  dress  society. 

And  stuff  with  saffe  that  very  verdant  goose. 

And  now,  that  we  may  furnish  with  some  matter  all 

Tastes,  we  are  going  to  try  the  supernatural. 

XCIV. 
And  now  I  will  give  up  all  argument ; 

And  positively  henceforth  no  temptation 
Shall  "  fool  me  to  the  top  up  of  my  bent :" — ° 

Yes,  I'll  begin  a  thorough  reformation. 
Indeed,  I  never  knew  what  people  meant 

By  deeming  that  my  Muse's  conversation 
Was  dangerous  ; — I  think  she  is  as  harmless 
As  some  who  labor  more  and  yet  may  charm  less. 

XCV. 
Grim  reader  !  did  you  ever  see  aghost  ? 

No ;  but  you  have  heard— I  imderstand — be  dumb  I 
And  don't  regret  the  time  you  may  have  lost. 

For  you  have  got  that  pleasure  still  to  come : 
And  do  not  think  I  mean  to  sneer  at  most 

Of  these  things,  or  by  ridicule  benumb 
That  source  of  the  sublime  and  the  mysterious : — 
For  certain  reasons  my  belief  is  serious. 

'  Eecla  is  a  famous  hot-spring  in  Iceland. 

2  Hamlet,  Act.  m.  sc.  ii. 

»  Hcbbes :  who,  doubting  of  his  ovm  soiU.paid  that  compliment 


XCVI. 
Serious  ?     You  laugh  ; — you  may  :  that  will  I  not ; 

My  smiles  must  be  sincere  or  not  at  all. 
I  say  I  do  believe  a  haunted  spot 

Exists— and  where  ?    That  shall  I  not  recall, 
Because  I'd  rather  it  should  be  forgot, 

"  Shadows  the  soul  of  Richard  "  may  appal. 
In  short,  upon  that  subject  I've  some  qualms  very 
Like  those  of  the  philosopher  of  Malmsbury.' 

XCVII. 
The  night — (I  sing  by  night — sometimes  an  owl, 

And  now  and  then  a  nightingale) — is  dim, 
And  the  loud  shriek  of  sage  Minerva's  fowl 

Rattles  around  me  her  discordant  hymn  : 
Old  portraits  from  old  walls  upon  me  scowl — 

I  wish  to  heaven  they  would  not  look  so  grim  ; 
The  dying  embers  dwindle  in  the  grate — 
I  think  too  that  I  have  sate  up  too  late  : 

XCVIII. 
And  therefore,  though  'tis  by  no  means  my  way 

To  rhyme  at  noon — when  I  have  other  things 
To  think  of,  if  I  ever  think — I  say 

I  feel  some  chilly  midnight  shudderings. 
And  prudently  postpone,  until  mid-day, 

Treating  a  topic  which,  alas  !  but  brings 
Shadows  ; — but  you  must  be  in  my  condition. 
Before  you  learn  to  call  this  superstition. 

XCIX. 
Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 

'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge. 
How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are  ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be  !    The  eternal  surge 
Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on  and  bears  afar 

Our  bubbles  ;  as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lash'd  from  the  foam  of  ages  ;  while  the  graves 
Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  passing  waves. 


DON    JUAN. 


CAXTO   THE    SIXTEENTH. 


I. 

The  antique  Persians  taught  thre6  useful  things, 
To  draw  the  bow,  to  ride,  and  speak  the  truth.* 

This  was  the  mode  of  Cyrus,  best  of  kings — 
A  mode  adopted  since  by  modern  youth. 

Bows  have  they,  generally  with  tv/o  strings  ; 
Horses  they  ride  without  remorse  or  ruth  ; 

At  speaking  truth  perhaps  they  are  less  clever. 

But  draw  the  long  bow  better  now  than  ever. 


to  the  souls  of  other  people  as  to  decline  their  visits,  of  which  he 
had  some  apprehension. 
*  Xenophon,  Cyrop. 


Canto  xvi. 


DON    JUAN. 


720 


II. 

The  cause  of  this  effect,  or  this  defect, — 
"  For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause," — > 

Is  what  I  have  not  leisure  to  inspect ; 
But  this  I  must  say  in  my  own  applause, 

Of  all  the  Muses  that  I  recollect, 
Whate'er  may  be  her  follies  or  her  flaws 

In  some  things,  mine  's  beyond  all  contradiction 

The  most  sincere  that  ever  dealt  in  fiction. 

III. 
And  as  she  treats  all  things,  and  ne'er  retreats 

From  any  thing,  this  epic  will  contain 
A  wilderness  of  the  most  rare  conceits, 

"Which  you  might  elsewhere  hope  to  find  in  vain. 
'Tis  true  there  be  some  bitters  with  the  sweets, 

Yet  mix'd  so  slightly,  that  you  can't  complain, 
But  wonder  they  so  few  are,  since  my  tale  is 
"  De  rebus  cunctis  et  quibusdam  aliis." 

IV. 
But  of  all  truths  which  she  has  told,  the  most 

True  is  that  which  she  is  about  to  tell. 
I  said  it  was  a  story  of  a  ghost — 

What  then  ?     I  only  know  it  so  befell. 
Have  you  explored  the  limits  of  the  coast, 

Where  all  the  dwellers  of  the  earth  must  dwell  ? 
'Tis  time  to  strike  such  puny  doubters  dumb  as 
The  skeptics  who  would  not  believe  Columbus. 


Some  people  would  impose  now  with  authority, 
Turpin's  or  Monmouth  Gcoffry's  Chronicle  ; 

Men  whose  historical  superiority 
Is  always  greatest  at  a  miracle. 

But  Saint  Augustine  has  the  great  priority, 
Who  bids  all  men  believe  the  impossible. 

Because,  Hia  so.    Who  nibble,  scribble,  quibble,  he 

Quiets  at  once  with  "  quia  impossibile." 

VI. 
And  therefore,  mortals,  cavil  not  at  all ; 

Believe  : — if  'tis  improbable  you  must. 
And  if  it  is  impossible,  you  shall: 

'Tis  always  best  to  take  things  upon  trust. 
I  do  not  speak  profanely,  to  recall 

Those  holier  mysteries  which  the  wise  and  just 
Receive  as  gospel,  and  which  grow  more  rooted, 
As  all  truths  must,  the  more  they  are  disputed  : 

VII. 
I  merely  mean  to  say  what  Johnson  said, 

That  in  the  course  of  some  six  thousand  years. 
All  nations  have  believed  that  from  the  dead 

A  visitant  at  intervals  appears ; 

>  namlet,  Act  11.  sc.  11. 

'  The  composition  of  the  old  Tyriau  pnrplc,  whether  ftom  a 
92 


And  what  is  strangest  upon  this  strange  head. 

Is,  that  whatever  bar  the  reason  rears 
'Gainst  such  belief,  there  's  something  stronger  still 
In  its  behalf,  let  those  deny  who  will. 

VIII. 

The  dinner  and  the  soirfic  too  were  done. 

The  supper  too  discuss'd,  the  dames  admired. 

The  banqueteers  had  dropp'd  off  one  by  one — 
The  song  was  silent,  and  the  dance  expired  : 

The  last  thin  petticoats  were  vanish'd,  gone 
Like  fleecy  clouds  into  the  sky  retired. 

And  nothing  brighter  gleam'd  through  the  saloon 

Than  dying  tapers — and  the  peeping  moon. 

IX. 

The  evaporation  of  a  joyous  day 

Is  like  the  last  glass  of  champagne,  without 
The  foam  which  made  its  virgin  bumper  gay ; 

Or  like  a  system  coupled  with  a  doubt ; 
Or  like  a  soda  bottle  when  its  spray 

Has  sparkled  and  let  half  its  spirit  out ; 
Or  like  a  billow  left  by  storms  behind, 
Without  the  animation  of  the  wind  ; 

X. 

Or  like  an  opiate,  which  brings  troubled  rest. 
Or  none  ;  or  like — like  nothing  that  I  know 

Except  itself; — such  is  the  human  breast; 
A  thing,  of  which  similitudes  can  show 

No  real  likeness, — like  the  old  Tyrian  vest 
Dyed  purple,  none  at  present  can  tell  how. 

If  from  a  shell-flsh  or  from  cochineal.' 

So  perish  every  tyrant's  robe  piece  meal. 

XI. 

But  next  to  dressing  for  a  rout  or  ball. 
Undressing  is  a  wo  ;  our  robe  de  chambre 

May  sit  like  that  of  Nessus,  and  recall 

Thoughts  quite  as  yellow,  but  less  clear  than  am- 

Titus  cxclaim'd,  "  I've  lost  a  day  !"     Of  all         [ber. 
The  nights  and  days  most  people  can  remember, 

(I  have  had  of  both,  some  not  to  be  disdain'd,) 

I  wish  they'd  state  how  many  they  have  gain'd. 

XII. 

And  Juan,  on  retiring  for  the  night. 

Felt  restless,  and  peiplex'd,  and  compromised  : 

He  thought  Aurora  Raby's  eyes  more  bright 
Than  Adeline  (such  is  advice)  advised ; 

If  he  had  known  exactly  his  own  plight, 
He  probably  would  have  philosophized  : 

A  great  resource  to  all,  and  ne'er  denied 

Till  wanted ;  therefore  Juan  only  sigh'd. 

BhcU-flnh,  or  from  cochineal,  or  from  kcrmes,  l8  Htill  an  article  of 
dispute;  and  even  its  color— some  eay  purple,  others  scarlet;  I 
say  nothing. 


730 


BYRON'S  WOliKS. 


Canto  xvi. 


XIII. 
He  sigh'd  ; — the  next  resource  is  the  full  moon 

Where  all  sighs  are  deposited ;  and  now 
It  happen'd  luckily,  the  chaste  orb  shone 

As  clear  as  such  a  climate  will  allow  ; 
And  Juan's  mind  was  in  the  proper  tone 

To  hail  her  with  the  apostrophe — "  O  thou  !" 
Of  amatory  egotism  the  Tuivn, 
Which  farther  to  explain  would  be  a  truism. 

XIV. 
But  lover,  poet,  or  astronomer, 

Shepherd,  or  swain,  whoever  may  behold, 
Feel  some  abstraction  when  they  gaze  on  her  : 

Great  thoughts  we  catch  from  thence,  (besides  a 
Sometimes,  unless  my  feelings  rather  err ;)         [cold 

Deep  secrets  to  her  rolling  light  arc  told ; 
The  ocean's  tides  and  mortals'  brains  she  sways, 
And  also  hearts,  if  there  be  truth  in  lays. 

XV. 
Juan  felt  somewhat  pensive,  and  disposed 

For  contemplation  rather  than  his  pillow  : 
The  Gothic  chamber,  where  he  was  enclosed. 

Let  in  the  rippling  sound  of  the  lake's  billow, 
With  all  the  mystery  by  midnight  caused  : 

TJelow  his  window  waved  (of  course)  a  willow  ; 
And  he  stood  gazing  out  on  the  cascade 
That  flash'd  and  after  darken'd  in  the  shade. 

XVI. 
Upon  his  table  or  his  toilet, — to7iic?i, 

Of  these  is  not  exactly  ascertain'd — 
(I  state  this,  for  I  am  cautious  to  a  pitch 

Of  nicety,  where  a  fact  is  to  be  gain'd,) 
A  lamp  bum'd  high,  while  he  leant  from  a  niche, 

Where  many  a  Gothic  ornament  remain'd, 
In  chisell'd  stone  and  painted  glass,  and  all 
That  time  has  left  our  fathers  of  their  hall. 

XVII. 
Then,  as  the  night  was  clear  though  cold,  he  threw 

His  chamber  door  wide  open — and  went  forth 
Into  a  gallery,  of  a  sombre  hue. 

Long,  furnisli'd  with  old  pictures  of  great  worth, 
Of  knights  and  dames  heroic  and  chaste  too. 

As  doubtless  should  be  people  of  high  birth. 
But  by  dim  lights  the  portraits  of  the  dead 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 

XVIII. 
The  forms  of  the  grim  knight  and  pictured  saint 

Look  living  in  the  moon  ;  and  as  you  turn 
Backward  and  forward  to  the  echoes  faint 

Of  your  own  footsteps — voices  from  the  urn 
Appear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 
Start  from  the  frames  which  fence  their  aspects 
stem. 


As  if  to  ask  how  you  can  dare  to  keep 

A  vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep. 

XIX. 

And  the  pale  smile  of  beauties  in  the  grave. 
The  charms  of  other  days,  in  starlight  gleams. 

Glimmer  on  high  ;  their  buried  locks  still  wave 
Along  the  canvass  ;  their  eyes  glance  like  dreams 

On  ours,  or  spars  within  some  dusky  cave. 
But  death  is  imaged  in  their  shadowy  beams. 

A  picture  is  the  past ;  even  ere  its  frame 

Be  gilt,  who  sate  hath  ceased  to  be  the  same. 

XX. 

As  Juan  mused  on  mutability. 

Or  on  his  mistress — terms  synonymous — 
No  sound  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh 

Or  step  ran  sadly  through  that  antique  house ; 
When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigh, 

A  supernatural  agent — or  a  mouse. 
Whose  Uttle  nibbling  rustle  will  embarrass 
Most  people  as  it  plays  along  the  arras. 

XXI. 

It  was  no  mouse,  but  lo  !  a  monk,  array'd 

In  cowl  and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  appear'd, 

Now  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  lapsed  in  shade, 
With  steps  that  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unheard  ; 

His  garments  only  a  slight  murmur  made  ; 
He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird. 

But  slowly  ;  and  as  he  pass'd  Juan  by, 

Glanced,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 

XXII. 
Juan  was  petrified  ;  he  had  heard  a  hint 

Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  halls  of  old. 
But  thought,  like  most  men,  there  was  nothing  in 't 

Beyond  the  rumor  which  such  spots  unfold, 
Coin'd  from  surviving  superstition's  mint. 

Which  passes  ghosts  in  currency  like  gold, 
But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 
And  did  he  see  this  ?  or  was  it  a  vapor  ? 

XXIII 
Once,  twice,  thrice  pass'd,  repass'd — the  thing  of  air, 

Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  t'  other  place  : 
And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a  stare. 

Yet  could  not  speak  or  move  ;  but,  on  its  base 
As  stands  a  statue,  stood  :  he  felt  his  hair 

Tvrine  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  face  ; 
He  tax'd   his   tongue  for  words,  which  were  not 
To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  wanted,  [granted. 

XXIV. 
The  third  time,  after  a  still  longer  pause, 

The  shadow  pass'd  away — but  where  ?  the  hall 
Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  CB,use 
I      To  think  his  vanishing  unnatural : 


Canto  xvi. 


DON  JUAN. 


131 


Doors  there  were  many,  through  -which,  by  the  laws 

Of  physics,  bodies  whether  short  or  tall 
Might  come  or  go  ;  but  Juan  could  not  state 
Through  which  the  spectre  seem'd  to  evaporate. 

XXV. 

He  stood — how  long  he  knew  not,  but  it  seem'd 
An  age — expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 

Strain'd  on  the  spot  where  first  the  figure  gleam'd ; 
Then  by  degrees  recall'd  his  energies. 

And  would  have  pass'd  the  whole  ofT  as  a  dream, 
But  could  not  wake  ;  he  was,  he  did  surmise, 

Waking  already,  and  return'd  at  length 

Back  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his  strength. 

XXVI. 
All  there  was  as  he  left  it :  still  his  taper 

Burnt,  and  not  Mue,  as  modest  tapers  use, 
Receiving  sprites  with  sympathetic  vapor ; 

He  rubb'd  his  eyes,  and  they  did  not  refuse 
Their  office  :  he  took  up  an  old  newspaper  ; 

The  paper  was  right  easy  to  peruse  ; 
He  read  an  article  the  king  attacking. 
And  a  long  eulogy  of  "  patent  blacking." 

XXVII. 
This  savor'd  of  this  world  ;  but  his  hand  shook  : 

He  shut  his  door,  and  after  having  read 
A  paragraph,  I  think  about  Home  Tooke, 

Undress'd,  and  rather  slowly  went  to  bed. 
There,  couch'd  all  snugly  on  his  pillow's  nook. 

With  what  he  had  seen  his  phantasy  he  fed ; 
And  though  it  was  no  opiate,  slumber  crept 
Upon  him  by  degrees,  and  so  he  slept. 

XXVIII. 
He  woke  betimes  ;  and,  as  may  be  supposed, 

Ponder'd  upon  his  visitant  or  vision. 
And  whether  it  ought  not  to  be  disclosed. 

At  risk  of  being  quizz'd  for  superstition. 
The  more  he  thought,  the  more  his  mind  was  posed ; 

In  the  mean  time,  his  valet,  whose  precision 
AVas  great,  because  his  master  brook'd  no  less, 
Knock'd  to  inform  him  it  was  time  to  dress. 

XXIX. 
He  dress'd ;  and  like  yoimg  people  he  was  wont 

To  take  some  trouble  with  his  toilet,  but 
This  morning  rather  spent  less  time  upon  't ; 

Aside  his  very  mirror  soon  was  put ; 
His  curls  fell  negligently  o'er  his  front. 

His  clothes  were  not  curb'd  to  their  usual  cut, 
His  very  neckcloth's  Gordian  knot  was  tied 
Almost  a  hair's  breadth  too  much  on  one  side. 

XXX. 

And  when  he  walk'd  down  into  the  saloon, 
He  sate  him  pensive  o'er  a  dish  of  tea. 


Which  he  perhaps  had  not  discover'd  soon, 
Had  it  not  happen'd  scalding  hot  to  be, 

Which  made  him  have  recourse  unto  his  spoon ; 
So  much  distrait  he  was,  that  all  could  see 

That  something  was  the  matter — Adeline 

The  first — but  ichat  she  could  not  well  divine. 

XXXI. 

She  look'd,  and  saw  him  pale,  and  tum'd  as  pale 
Herself;  then  hastily  look'd  down,  and  mutter'd 

Something,  but  what 's  not  stated  in  my  tale. 
Lord  Henry  said  his  mufSn  was  ill  butter'd ; 

The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke  play'd  with  her  veil. 
And  look'd  at  Juan  hard,  but  nothing  utter'd. 

Aurora  Raby  with  her  large  dark  eyes 

Surrey'd  him  with  a  kind  of  calm  surprise. 

XXXIl. 
But  seeing  him  all  cold  and  silent  still. 

And  everybody  wondering  more  or  less, 
Fair  Adeline  inquired,  "  If  he  were  ill  ?" 

He  started,  and  said,  "  Yes — no — rather — yes." 
The  family  physician  had  great  skill. 

And  being  present,  now  began  to  exjoress 
His  readiness  to  feel  his  pulse  and  tell 
The  cause,  but  Juan  said,  "  He  was  quite  well." 

XXXIII. 
"  Quite  well ;  yes, — ^no." — These  answers  were  mys- 
terious 

And  yet  his  looks  appear'd  to  sanction  both, 
However  they  might  savor  of  delirious  ; 

Something  like  illness  of  a  sudden  growth 
Weigh'd  on  his  spirit,  though  by  no  means  serious  ; 

But  for  the  rest,  as  he  himself  seem'd  loth 
To  state  the  case,  it  might  be  ta'en  for  granted, 
It  was  not  the  physician  that  he  wanted. 

XXXIV. 
Lord  Henry,  who  had  now  discuss'd  his  chocolate, 

Also  the  muffin  whereof  he  complain'd. 
Said,  Juan  had  not  got  his  usual  look  elate, 

At  which  he  marvell'd,  since  it  had  not  rain'd  ; 
Then  ask'd  her  Grace  what  news  were  of  the  duke 
of  late  ? 

//«r  Grace  replied,  7iu  Grace  was  rather  pain'd 
With  some  slight,  light,  hereditary  twinges 
Of  gout,  which  rusts  aristocratic  hinges. 

XXXV. 
Then  Henry  tum'd  to  Juan,  and  address'd 

A  few  words  of  condolence  on  his  state  : 
"  You  look,"  quoth  he,  "  as  if  you  had  had  your  rest 

Broke  in  upon  by  the  Black  Friar  of  late." 
"  What  friar  ?"  said  Juan  ;  and  he  did  his  best 

To  put  the  question  with  an  air  sedate. 
Or  careless  ;  but  the  efibrt  was  not  valid 
To  hinder  him  from  growing  still  more  pallid. 


732 


BYKON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  xvi. 


XXXVI. 

"  Oh  !  have  you  never  heard  of  the  Black  Friar  ? 

The  spirit  of  tliese  walls  ? — "  In  truth  not  I." 
"  Why  Fame — but  Fame  you  know 's  sometimes  a 

Tells  an  odd  stoiy,  of  which  by  an  by  :        [liar — 
Whether  with  time  the  spectre  has  grown  shyer, 

Or  that  our  sires  had  a  more  gifted  eye 
For  such  sights,  though  the  tale  is  half  believed, 
The  friar  of  late  has  not  been  oft  perceived. 

XXXVII. 

"  The  last  time  was " — "  I  pray,"  said  Adeline — 

(Who  watch'd  the  changes  of  Don  Juan's  brow. 

And  from  its  context  thought  she  could  divine 
Connections  stronger  than  he  chose  to  avow 

With  this  same  legend) — "  if  you  but  design 
To  jest,  you  '11  choose  some  other  theme  just  now, 

Because  the  present  tale  has  oft  been  told. 

And  is  not  much  improved  by  growing  old." 

XXXVIII. 

,  "  Jest !"  quoth  Milor ;  "  why,  Adeline,  you  know 
That  we  ourselves — 't  was  in  the  honey-moon — 

Saw " — "  Well,  no  matter,  't  was  so  long  ago ; 

But,  come,  I  'U  set  your  story  to  a  tune." 

Graceful  as  Dian,  when  she  draws  her  bow. 

She  seized  her  harp,  whose  strings  were  kindled 

As  touch'd,  and  plaintively  began  to  play         |  soon 

The  air  of  "  'T  was  a  Friar  of  Orders  Gray." 

XXXIX. 

"But  add  tlui- words,"  cried  Henry,  "which   you 
For  Adeline  is  half  a  poetess,"  [made ; 

Turning  round  to  the  rest,  he  smiling  said. 
Of  course  the  others  could  not  but  express 

In  courtesy  their  wish  to  see  display'd 

By  one  three  talents,  for  there  were  no  less — 

The  voice,  the  words,  the  harper's  skill,  at  once 

Could  hardly  be  united  by  a  dunce. 

XL. 
After  some  fascinating  hesitation, — 

The  charming  of  these  charmers,  who  seem  bound, 
I  can't  tell  why,  to  this  dissimulation, — 

Fair  Adeline,  with  eyes  flx'd  on  the  ground 
At  first,  then  kindling  into  animation. 

Added  her  sweet  voice  to  the  lyric  sound. 
And  sang  with  much  simplicity, — a  merit 
Not  the  less  precious,  that  we  seldom  hear  it. 

1. 
Beware  !  beware  !  of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone. 
For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight  air. 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey. 


And  expell'd  the  friars,  one  friar  still 
Would  not  be  driven  away. 

3. 
Though  he  came  in  his  might,  with  King  Henry's 

To  turn  church  lands  to  lay,  [right, 

With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay ; 
A  monk  remain'd,  unchased,  unchain'd. 

And  he  did  not  seem  form'd  of  clay, 
For  he  's  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he  's  seen  in  the 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day.  [church, 


And  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say  ; 
But  still  with  the  house  of  AmundeviUe 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage-bed  of  their  lords,  't  is  said. 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve  ; 
And  't  is  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death 

He  comes — but  not  to  grieve. 

4. 
When  an  heir  is  born,  he  's  heard  to  mourn. 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'T  is  shadow'd  by  his  cowl : 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  between, 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 

5. 
But  beware  !  beware  !  of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway. 
For  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 
Amundeville  is  lord  by  day. 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night ; 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right. 


Say  naught  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall. 

And  he  '11  say  naught  to  you ; 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall. 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  grammercy  I  for  the  Black  Friar ; 

Heaven  sain  him  !  fair  or  foul. 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  prayer. 

Let  ours  be  for  his  soul. 

XLI. 
The  lady's  voice  ceased,  and  the  thrilling  wires 

Died  from  the  touch  that  kindled  them  to  sound  ; 
And  the  pause  follow'd,  which  when  song  expires 

Pervades  a  moment  those  who  listen  round  ; 


Canto  xvi. 


DON    JUAN. 


733 


And  then  of  course  the  circle  much  admires 
Nor  less  applauds,  as  in  politeness  bound, 
The  tones,  the  feeling,  and  the  execution, 
To  the  performer's  diffident  confusion. 

XLII. 
Fair  Adeline,  though  in  a  careless  way. 

As  if  she  rated  such  accomplishment 
As  the  mere  pastime  of  an  idle  day, 

Pursued  an  instant  for  her  own  content, 
Would  now  and  than  as  't  were  without  display. 

Yet  ttith  display  in  fact,  at  times  relent 
To  such  performances  with  haughty  smile, 
To  show  she  could,  if  it  were  worth  her  while. 

XLIII. 
Now  this  (but  we  will  whisper  it  aside) 

Was — pardon  the  pedantic  illustration — 
Trampling  on  Plato's  pride  with  greater  pride, 

As  did  the  Cynic  on  some  like  occasion  ; 
Deeming  the  sage  would  be  much  mortified. 

Or  thrown  into  a  philosophic  passion, 
For  a  spoil'd  carpet — but  the  "  Attic  Bee  " 
Was  much  consoled  by  his  own  repartee.' 

XLIV. 
Thus  Adeline  would  throw  into  the  shade 

(By  doing  easily,  whene'er  she  chose. 
What  dilettanti  do  with  vast  parade) 

Their  sort  of  half  profession  ;  for  it  grows 
To  something  like  this  when  too  oft  display'd ; 

And  that  it  is  so  everybody  knows 
Who  have  heard  Miss  That  or  This,  or  Lady  T'other, 
Show  off — to  please  their  company  or  mother. 

XLV. 
Oh  !  the  long  evenings  of  duets  and  trios  ! 

The  admirations  and  the  speculations  ; 
The  "  Mamma  Mias  !"  and  the  "  Amor  Mios  !" 

The  "  Tanti  palpitis  "  on  such  occasions  : 
The  "  Lasciamis,"  and  quavering  "  Addios  !" 

Amongst  our  own  most  musical  of  nations  : 
With  "  Tu  mi  chamases  "  from  Portingale, 
To  soothe  our  cars,  lest  Italy  should  fail.^ 

XLVI. 
In  Babylon's  bravuras — as  the  home 

Heart-ballads  of  Green  Erin  or  Gray  Highlands, 
That  bring  Lochaber  back  to  eyes  that  roam 

O'er  far  Atlantic  continents  or  islands, 

'  I  tblnk  It  was  a  carpet  on  which  Diocencs  trod,  with — "  Thna 
I  trample  on  the  pride  of  Plato  1" — "  With  greater  pride,"  as  the 
other  replied.  But  as  carpets  are  rmant  to  be  trodden  upon,  iny 
memory  probably  misgives  me,  and  it  might  be  a  robe,  or  tapes- 
try, or  a  table-cloth,  or  some  other  expensive  and  uncynical  piece 
of  furniture. 

'  I  remember  that  the  mayoress  of  a  provincial  town,  somewhat 
surfeited  with  a  similar  display  from  foreign  parts,  did  rather  in- 
decorously break  through  the  applauses  of  an  intelligent  audience 
— intelligent,  I  mean,  as  to  music — for  the  words,  besides  being  in 
recondite  languages,  (it  was  some  years  before  the  peace,  ere  all 


The  calentures  of  music  which  o'ercome         [lands, 
All  mountaineers  with  dreams  that  they  are  nigh 
No  more  to  be  beheld  but  in  such  visions — 
Was  Adeline  well  versed,  as  compositions. 

XI.VII. 

She  also  had  a  twilight  tinge  of  "  Blue," 

Could  write  rhymes,  and  compose  more  than  she 

Made  epigrams  occasionally  too  [wrote, 

Upon  her  friends,  as  everybody  ought. 

But  still  from  that  sublimer  azure  hue. 
So  much  the  present  dye,  she  was  remote  ; 

Was  weak  enough  to  deem  Pope  a  great  poet, 

And  what  was  worse,  was  not  ashamed  to  show  it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since  we  are  touching  upon  taste, 
Wliich  now-a-days  is  the  thermometer 

By  whose  degrees  all  characters  are  class'd — 
Was  more  Shakspearian,  if  I  do  not  err. 

The  worlds  beyond  this  world's  perplexing  waste 
Had  more  of  her  existence,  for  in  her 

There  was  a  depth  of  feeling  to  embrace 

Thoughts,  boundless,  deep,  but  silent  too  as  Space. 

XLIX. 
Not  so  her  gracious,  graceful,  graceless  Grace, 

The  full  grown  Hebe  of  Fitz-Fulke,  whose  mind, 
If  she  had  any,  was  upon  her  face, 

And  that  was  of  a  fascinating  kind. 
A  little  turn  for  mischief  you  might  trace 

Also  thereon, — but  that 's  not  much  ;  we  find 
Few  females  without  some  such  gentle  leaven. 
For  fear  we  should  suppose  us  quite  in  heaven. 

L. 
I  have  not  heard  she  was  at  all  poetic. 

Though  once   she  was   seen   reading  the  "  Bath 

Guide,"  [thetic, 

And  "  Hayley's  Triumphs,"  which  she  deem'd  pa- 

Because  she  said  her  temper  had  been  tried 
So  much,  the  bard  had  reallj'  been  prophetic 

Of  what  she  had  gone  through  with— since  a  bride. 
But  of  all  verse,  what  most  ensured  her  praise 
Were  sonnets  to  herself,  or  "  bouts  rimfs." 

LI. 
'T  were  difficult  to  say  what  was  the  object 
Of  Adeline,  in  bringing  this  same  lay 

the  world  had  travelled,  and  while  I  was  a  collegian,)  were  sorely 
disguised  by  the  performers :— this  mayoress,  I  say,  broke  out  with, 
"  Rot  your  Italianos  1  for  my  part,  I  loves  a  simple  ballat  1"  Ros- 
sini will  go  a  good  way  to  bring  most  people  to  the  same  opinion 
some  day.  Who  would  imagine  that  he  was  to  be  the  successor 
of  Mozart  ?  However,  I  state  this  with  diflidence,  as  a  liege  and 
loyal  admirer  of  Italian  music  in  general,  and  of  much  of  Kos- 
sini's ;  but  we  may  say,  as  the  connoisseur  did  of  painting  in 
''  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  that  "  the  picture  would  be  better 
painted  if  the  painter  had  taken  more  pains." 


734 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xti. 


To  bear  on  -what  appear'd  to  her  the  subject 
Of  Juan's  nervous  feelings  on  that  day. 

Perhaps  she  merely  had  the  simple  project 
To  laugh  him  out  of  his  supposed  dismay ; 

Perhaps  she  might  wish  to  confirm  him  in  it, 

Though  why  I  cannot  say — at  least  this  minute. 

LIT. 

But  so  far  the  immediate  effect 

Was  to  restore  him  to  his  self-propriety, 

A  thing  quite  necessary  to  the  elect. 

Who  wish  to  take  the  tone  of  their  society  : 

In  which  you  cannot  be  too  circumspect, 
Whether  the  mode  be  persiflage  or  piety. 

But  wear  the  newest  mantle  of  hypocrisy. 

On  pain  of  much  displeasing  the  gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And  therefore  Juan  now  began  to  rally 
His  spirits,  and  without  more  explanation 

To  jest  upon  such  themes  in  many  a  sally. 
Her  Grace,  too,  also  seized  the  same  occasion, 

With  various  similar  remarks  to  tally, 
But  wish'd  for  a  still  more  detail'd  narration 

Of  this  same  mystic  friar's  curious  doings. 

About  the  present  family's  deaths  and  wooings. 

LIV. 

Of  these  few  could  say  more  than  has  been  said ; 

They  pass'd  as  such  things  do,  for  superstition 
With  some,  while  others,  who  had  more  in  dread 

The  theme,  half  credited  the  strange  tradition  ; 
And  much  was  talk'd  on  all  sides  on  that  head  : 

But  Juan,  when  cross-question'd  on  the  vision, 
Wliich  some  supposed  (though  he  had  not  avow'd  it) 
Had  stirr'd  him,  answer'd  in  a  way  to  cloud  it. 

LV.    . 

And  then,  the  mid-day  having  worn  to  one. 

The  company  prepared  to  separate  ; 
Some  to  their  several  pastimes,  or  to  none, 

Some  wondering  't  was  so  early,  some  so  late. 
There  was  a  goodly  match,  too,  to  be  run 

Between  some  greyhounds  on  my  lord's  estate, 
And  a  young  race-horse  of  old  pedigree, 
Match'd  for  the  spring,  whom  several  went  to  see. 

LVI. 
There  was  a  picture-dealer  who  had  brought 
A  special  Titian,  warranted  original, 

'  "  Ausu  Komano,  ;cre  Veneto  "  la  the  Inscription  (and  well  in- 
scribed in  this  instance)  on  the  sea  walls  between  the  Adriatic  and 
Venice.  The  wails  were  a  republican  worlj  of  the  Venetians  ;  the 
inecription,  I  believe,  Imperial ;  and  inscribed  by  Napoleon  the 
Mrst.  It  is  time  to  continue  to  him  that  title— there  will  be  a 
second  by  and  by,  "  Spes  altera  mundi,"  if  he  live  ;  let  him  not 
defeat  it  lilce  his  father.  But  In  any  case,  he  will  be  preferable  to 
Imhccilos.    Tliere  is  a  glorious  field  for  him,  if  he  know  how  to  I 


So  precious  that  it  was  not  to  be  bought. 
Though  princes  the  possessor  were  besieging  aU. 

The  king  himself  had  cheapen'd  it,  but  thought 
The  civil  list  he  deigns  to  accept  (obliging  all 

His  subjects  by  his  gracious  acceptation) — 

Too  scanty,  in  these  times  of  low  taxation. 

LVII. 
But  as  Lord  Henry  was  a  connoisseur, — 

The  friend  of  artists,  if  not  arts, — the  owner, 
With  motives  the  most  classical  and  pure. 

So  that  he  would  have  been  the  very  donor, 
Rather  than  seller,  had  his  wants  been  fewer, 

So  much  he  deem'd  his  patronage  an  honor. 
Had  brought  the  capo  d'opera,  not  for  sale. 
But  for  his  judgment — never  known  to  fail 

LVIII. 

There  was  a  modern  Goth,  I  mean  a  Gothic 

Bricklayer  of  Babel,  call'd  an  architect,       [thick. 

Brought  to  survey  these  gray  walls,  which  though  so 
Might  have  from  time  acquired  some  slight  defect ; 

Who  after  rummaging  the  Abbey  through  thick 
And  thin,  produced  a  plan  whereby  to  erect 

New  buildings  of  correctest  conformation. 

And  throw  down  old,  which  he  caU'd  restoration. 

LIX. 

The  cost  would  be  a  trifle — an  "  old  song," 
Set  to  some  thousands  ('t  is  the  usual  burthen 

Of  that  same  tune,  when  people  hum  it  long) — 
The  price  would  speedily  repay  its  worth  in 

An  edifice  no  less  sublime  than  strong, 

By  which  Lord  Henry's  good  taste  would  go  forth 

Its  glory,  through  all  ages  shining  sunny,  [in 

For  Gothic  daring  shown  in  English  money.' 

LX. 
There  were  two  lawyers  busy  on  a  mortgage 

Lord  Henry  wish'd  to  raise  for  a  new  jjurchase  ; 
Also  a  lawsuit  upon  tenures  burgage, 

And  one  on  tithes,  which  sure  are  Discord's  torches, 
Kindling  Religion  till  she  throws  down  Jier  gage, 

"Untying"  squires  "to  fight  against  the  churches;''^ 
There  was  a  prize  ox,  a  prize  pig,  and  ploughman, 
For  Henry  was  a  sort  of  Sabine  showman. 

LXI. 
There  were  two  poachers  caught  in  a  steel  trap, 
Ready  for  jail,  their  place  of  convalescence ; 

cultivate  it.— [Napoleon,  Duke  of  Eeichstadt,  died  at  Vienna  In 
183-2— to  the  disappointment  of  many  prophets.] 

'^  "  I  conjure  you,  by  that  wliich  you  profess, 
(Ilowe'er  you  come  to  know  it)  answer  me  : 
Though  ye  nntle  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Ajaiinst  the  churches.'"— Macbeth. 


Canto  xvi. 


DON    JUAN. 


735 


There  was  a  country  girl  in  a  close  cap 

And  scarlet  cloak,  (I  liatc  tlie  sight  to  sec,  since — 
Since — since — in  youth,  I  had  the  sad  mishap — 

But  luckily  I  have  paid  few  parish  fees  since  :) 
That  scarlet  cloak,  alas  !  unclosed  with  rigor, 
Presents  the  problem  of  a  double  figure. 

LXII. 

A  reel  within  a  bottle  is  a  mystery, 

One  can't  tell  how  it  e'er  got  in  or  out ; 

Therefore  the  present  piece  of  natural  history 
I  leave  to  those  who  arc  fond  of  solving  doubt ; 

And  merely  state,  though  not  for  the  consistory. 
Lord  Henry  was  a  justice,  and  that  Scout 

The  constable,  beneath  a  warrant's  banner, 

Had  bagg'd  this  poacher  upon  Nature's  manor. 

LXIII. 

Now  justices  of  peace  must  judge  all  pieces 
Of  mischief  of  all  kinds,  and  keep  the  game 

And  morals  of  the  country  from  caprices 

Of  those  who  have  not  a  license  for  the  same  ; 

And  of  all  things,  excepting  tithes  and  leases. 
Perhaps  these  are  most  difficult  to  tame    • 

Preserving  partridges  and  pretty  wenches 

Are  puzzles  to  the  most  precautious  benches. 

LXIV. 

The  present  culprit  was  extremely  pale, 
Pale  as  if  painted  so  ;  her  cheek  being  red 

By  nature,  as  in  higher  dames  less  hale 
'T  is  white,  at  least  when  they  just  rise  from  bed ; 

Perhaps  she  was  ashamed  of  seeming  frail. 
Poor  soul !  for  she  was  country  born  and  bred, 

And  knew  no  better  in  her  immorality 

Than  to  wax  white — for  blushes  are  for  quality. 

LXV. 
Her  black,  bright,  downcast,  yet  espiegle  eye, 

Had  gathcr'd  a  large  tear  into  its  comer. 
Which  the  poor  thing  at  times  essay'd  to  dry, 

For  she  was  not  a  sentimental  mourner 
Parading  all  her  sensibility. 

Nor  insolent  enough  to  scorn  the  scomer, 
But  stood  in  trembling,  patient  tribulation. 
To  be  call'd  up  for  her  examination. 

LXVI. 
Of  course   these  groups  were  scatter'd   here   and 
there, 

Not  nigh  the  gay  saloon  of  ladies  gent. 
The  lawyers  in  the  study  ;  and  in  air  [sent 

The   prize  pig,  ploughman,  poachers ;    the  men 
From  town,  viz.,  architect  and  dealer,  were 

Both  busy  (as  a  general  in  his  tent 
Writing  dispatches)  in  their  several  stations. 
Exulting  in  their  brilliant  lucubrations. 


LXVII. 

But  this  poor  girl  was  left  in  the  great  hall, 
While  Scout,  the  parish  guardian  of  the  frail, 

Discuss'd  (he  hated  beer  yclept  the  "  small ") 
A  mighty  mug  of  moral  double  ale. 

She  waited  until  Justice  could  recall 
Its  kind  attentions  to  their  proper  pale. 

To  name  a  thing  in  nomenclature  rather 

Perplexing  for  most  virgins — a  child's  father. 

LXVIII. 

You  see  here  was  enough  of  occupation 
For  the  Lord  Henry,  link'd  with  dogs  and  horses. 

There  was  much  bustle  too,  and  preparation 
Below  stairs  on  the  score  of  second  courses  ; 

Because,  as  suits  their  rank  and  situation. 

Those  who  in  counties  have  great  land  resources, 

HaYC  "  public  days,"  when  all  men  may  carouse. 

Though  not  exactly  what 's  call'd  "  open  house." 

LXIX. 

But  once  a  week  or  fortnight,  WHinvited 
(Thus  we  translate  a  general  invUation) 

All  country  gentlemen,  esquired  or  knighted. 

May  drop  in  without  cards,  and  take  their  station 

At  the  full  board,  and  sit  alike  delighted 
With  fashionable  wines  and  conversation  ; 

And,  as  the  isthmus  of  the  grand  connection, 

Talk  o'er  themselves  the  past  and  next  election. 

LXX. 

Lord  Henry  was  a  great  electioneerer, 

Burrowing  for  boroughs  like  a  rat  or  rabbit. 

But  county  contests  cost  him  rather  dearer,  [bit 

Because  the  neighboring  Scotch  Earl  of  Giftgab- 

Had  English  influence,  in  the  self-same  sphere  here ; 
His  son,  the  Honorable  Dick  Dicedrabbit, 

Was  member  for  the  "  other  interest,"  (meaning 

The^ame  self-interesi,  with  a  different  leaning.) 

LXXI. 

Courteous  and  cautious  therefore  in  his  county, 
He  was  all  things  to  all  men,  and  dispensed 

To  some  civility,  to  others  bounty. 

And  promises  to  all — which  last  commenced 

To  gather  to  a  somewhat  large  amount,  he 
Not  calculating  how  much  they  condensed ; 

But  what  with  keeping  some,  and  breaking  others, 

His  word  had  the  same  value  as  another's. 

LXXII. 

A  friend  to  freedom  and  freeholders — yet 
No  less  a  friend  to  government — he  held. 

That  he  exactly  the  just  medium  hit 

'Twixt  place  and  patriotism — albeit  compell'd, 

Such  was  his  sovereign's  pleasure,  (though  unfit. 
He  added  modestly,  when  rebels  raii'd,) 


736 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  xvi. 


To  hold  some  sinecures  he  wish'd  abolish'd, 
But  that  with  them  all  law  would  be  demolish'd. 

LXXIII. 
He  was  "  free  to  confess  " — (whence  comes  this  phrase  ? 

Is't  English  ?    No — 'tis  only  parliamentary) 
That  innovation's  spirit  now-a-days 

Had  made  more  progress  than  for  the  last  century. 
He  would  not  tread  a  factious  path  to  praise, 

Though  for  the  public  weal  disposed  to  venture 
As  for  his  place,  he  could  but  say  this  of  it,  [high  ; 
That  the  fatigue  was  greater  than  the  profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven,  and  his  friends,  knew  that  a  private  life 
Had  ever  been  his  sole  and  whole  ambition  ; 

But  could  he  quit  his  king  in  times  of  strife,  [tion  ? 
Which  threaten'd  the  whole  country  with  perdi- 

When  demagogues  would  with  a  butcher's  knife 
Cut  through  and  through  (oh,  damnable  incision !) 

The  Gordian  or  the  Geordi-an  knot,  whose  strings 

Have  tied  together  commons,  lords,  and  kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner  "  come,  place,  into  the  civil  list 

And  champion  him  to  the  utmost — "  he  would 
Till  duly  disappointed  or  dismiss'd  :  [keep  it. 

Profit  he  cared  not  for,  let  others  reap  it ; 
But  should  the  day  come  when  place  ceased  to  exist. 

The  country  would  have  far  more  cause  to  weep 
For  how  could  it  go  on  ?  Explain  who  can  !  [it : 
Me  gloried  in  the  name  of  Englishman. 

LXXVI. 
He  was  as  independent — ay,  much  more — 

Than  those  who  were  not  paid  for  independence, 
As  common  soldiers,  or  a  common shore. 

Have  in  their  several  arts  or  parts  ascendance 
O'er  the  irregulars  in  lust  or  gore, 

>Vho  do  not  give  professional  attendance. 
Thus  on  the  mob  all  statesmen  are  as  eager 
To  prove  their  pride,  as  footmen  to  a  beggar. 

LXXVII. 

All  this  (save  the  last  stanza)  Henry  said. 
And  thought.   I  say  no  more — I've  said  too  much ; 

For  all  of  us  have  either  heard  or  read — 

OflF — or  vpon  the  hustings — some  slight  such 

Hints  from  the  independent  heart  or  head 
Of  the  official  candidate.    I'll  touch 

No  more  on  this — the  dinner-bell  hath  rung, 

And  grace  is  said ;  the  grace  I  should  have  sung — 

LXXVIII. 
But  I'm  too  late,  and  therefore  must  make  play. 

'Twas  a  great  banquet,  such  as  Albion  old 
Was  wont  to  boast — as  if  a  glutton's  tray 

Were  something  very  glorious  to  behold. 


But  'twas  a  public  feast  and  public  day,— - 

Quite  full,  right  dull,  guests  hot,  and  dishes  cold, 
Great  plenty,  much  formality,  small  cheer, 
And  everybody  out  of  their  own  sphere. 

LXXIX. 
The  squares  familiarly  formal,  and 

My  lords  and  ladies  proudly  condescending  ; 
The  very  servants  puzzling  how  to  hand  [ing 

Their  plates — without  it  might  be  too  much  bend- 
From  their  high  places  by  the  sideboard's  stand — ■ 

Yet,  like  their  masters,  fearful  of  ofiending  ; 
For  any  deviation  from  the  graces 
Might  cost  both  man  and  master  too — their  2}laces. 

LXXX. 

There  were  some  hunters  bold,  and  coursers  keen, 
Whose  hoimds  ne'er  err'd,  nor  greyhounds  deign'd 

Some  deadly  shots  too,  Septembrizers,  seen  [to  lurch ; 
Earliest  to  rise,  and  last  to  quit  the  search 

Of  the  poor  partridge  through  his  stubble  screen. 
There  were  some  massy  members  of  the  church, 

Takers  of  tithes,  and  makers  of  good  matches. 

And  several  who  sang  fewer  psalms  than  catches. 

LXXXI. 

There  were  some  country  wags  too — and  alas  ! 

Some  exiles  from  the  town,  who  had  been  driven 
To  gaze,  instead  of  pavement,  upon  grass. 

And  rise  at  nine  in  lieu  of  long  eleven. 
And  lo  !  upon  that  day  it  came  to  pass, 

I  sate  next  that  o'erwhelming  son  of  heaven, 
The  very  powerful  parson,  Peter  Pith, 
The  loudest  wit  I  e'er  was  deafen'd  with. 

LXXXII. 

I  knew  him  in  his  livelier  London  days, 
A  brilliant  diner  out,  though  but  a  curate, 

And  not  a  joke  he  cut  but  earn'd  its  praise, 
Until  preferment,  coming  at  a  sure  rate, 

(O  Providence !  how  wondrous  are  thy  ways ! 
Who  would  suppose  thy  gifts  sometimes  obdu- 
rate ?) 

Gave  him,  to  lay  the  devil  who  looks  o'er  Lincoln, 

A  fat  fen  vicarage,  and  naught  to  think  on. 

LXXXIII. 
His  jokes  were  sermons,  and  his  sennons  jokes ; 

But  both  were  thrown  away  amongst  the  fens  ; 
For  wit  hath  no  great  friend  in  aguish  folks. 

No  longer  ready  ears  and  short-hand  pens 
Imbibed  the  gay  bon-mot,  or  happy  hoax  : 

The  poor  priest  was  reduced  to  common  sense, 
Or  to  coarse  efforts  very  loud  and  long. 
To  hammer  a  hoarse  laugh  from  the  thick  throng. 

LXXXIV. 
There  is  a  difference,  says  the  song,  "between 
A  beggar  and  a  queen,"  or  icfis  (of  late 


Canto  xvi. 


DON    JUAN. 


IST 


The  latter  worse  used  of  the  two  we've  seen— 
But  we'll  say  nothing  of  affairs  of  state) 

A  difference  "  'twixt  a  bishop  and  a  dean," 
A  difference  between  crockery-ware  and  plate, 

As  between  English  beef  and  Spartan  broth — 

And  yet  great  heroes  have  been  bred  by  both. 

LXXXV. 

But  of  all  nature's  discrepancies,  none 

Upon  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  difference 

Beheld  between  the  country  and  the  town. 
Of  which  the  latter  merits  every  preference 

From  those  who  've  few  resources  of  their  own, 
And  only  think,  or  act,  or  feel,  with  reference 

To  some  small  plan  of  interest  or  ambition — 

Both  which  are  limited  to  no  condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But  "  en  avant !"    The  light  loves  languish  o'er 
Long  banquets  and  too  many  guests,  although 

A  slight  repast  makes  people  love  much  more, 
Bacchus  and  Ceres  being,  as  we  know. 

Even  from  our  grammar  upwards,  friends  of  yore 
With  vivifying  Venus,  who  doth  owe 

To  these  the  invention  of  champagne  and  truffles  : 

Temperance  delights  her,  but  long  fasting  ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 

Dully  pass'd  o'er  the  dinner  of  the  day ; 

And  Juan  took  his  place,  he  knew  not  where, 
Confused,  in  the  confusion,  and  distrait. 

And  sitting  as  if  nail'd  upon  his  chair  : 
Though  knives  and  forks  clank'd  round  as  in  a 
fray. 

He  seem'd  unconscious  of  all  passing  there, 
Till  some  one,  with  a  groan,  express'd  a  wish 
(Unheeded  twice)  to  have  a  fin  of  fish. 

LXXXVIII. 

On  which,  at  the  third  asking  of  the  bans. 
He  started  :  and  perceiving  smiles  around 

Broadening  to  grins,  he  color'd  more  than  once. 
And  hastily — as  nothing  can  confound 

A  wise  man  more  than  laughter  from  a  dunce — 
Inflicted  on  the  dish  a  deadly  wound, 

And  with  such  hurrj',  that  ere  he  could  curb  it. 

He  had  paid  his  neighbor's  prayer  with  half  a  turbot. 

LXXXIX. 

This  was  no  bad  mistake,  as  it  occurr'd, 

The  supplicator  being  an  amateur ; 
But  others,  who  were  left  with  scarce  a  third. 

Were  angry — as  they  well  might,  to  be  sure. 
They  wonder'd  how  a  young  man  so  absurd 

Lord  Henry  at  his  table  should  endure ; 
And  this,  and  his  not  knowing  how  much  oats 
Had  fallen  last  market,  cost  his  host  three  votes. 
93 


XC. 

They  little  knew,  or  might  have  sympathized. 
That  he  the  night  before  had  seen  a  ghost, 

A  prologue  which  but  slightly  harmonized 
With  the  substantial  company  engross'd 

By  matter,  and  so  much  materialized, 
That  one  scarce  knew  at  what  to  marvel  most 

Of  two  things — how  (the  question  rather  odd  is) 

Such  bodies  could  have  souls,  or  souls  such  bodies. 

XCI. 

But  what  confused  him  more  than  smile  or  stare, 
From  all  the  'squires  and  'squiresses  around. 

Who  wonder'd  at  the  abstraction  of  his  air. 
Especially  as  he  had  been  renown'd 

For  some  vivacity  among  the  fair, 

Even  in  the  country  circle's  narrow  bound — 

(For  little  things  upon  my  lord's  estate 

Were  good  small  talk  for  others  stiU  less  great) — 

XCII. 

Was,  that  he  caught  Aurora's  eye  on  his. 
And  something  like  a  smile  upon  her  cheek. 

Now  this  he  really  rather  took  amiss  : 
In  those  who  rarely  smile,  their  smiles  bespeak 

A  strong  external  motive ;  and  in  this 
Smile  of  Aurora's  there  was  naught  to  pique. 

Or  hope,  or  love,  with  any  of  the  wiles 

Which  some  pretend  to  trace  in  ladies'  smiles. 

XCIII. 

'Twas  a  mere  quiet  smile  of  contemplation. 
Indicative  of  some  surprise  and  pity ; 

And  Juan  grew  carnation  with  vexation. 
Which  was  not  very  wise,  and  still  less  witty, 

Since  he  had  gain'd  at  least  her  observation, 
A  most  important  outwork  of  the  city — 

As  Juan  should  have  known,  had  not  his  senses 

By  last  night's  ghost  been  driven  from  their  defences. 

XCIV. 
But  what  was  bad,  she  did  not  blush  in  turn. 

Nor  seem  embarrass'd— quite  the  contrary  ; 
Her  aspect  was  as  usual,  still — not  stern — 

And  she  withdrew,  but  cast  not  down,  her  eye, 
Yet  grew  a  little  pale — with  what  ?  concern  ? 

I  know  not ;  but  her  color  ne'er  was  high — ■ 
Though  sometimes  faintly  flush'd — and  always  clear, 
As  deep  seas  in  a  sunny  atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But  Adeline  was  occupied  by  fame 

This  day  ;  and  watching,  witching,  condescend- 
To  the  consumers  of  fish,  fowl,  and  game,  [ing 

And  dignity  with  courtesy  so  blending. 
As  all  must  blend  whose  part  it  is  to  aim 

(Especially  as  the  sixth  year  is  ending) 


13B 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xvl 


As  their  lord's,  son's,  or  similar  connection's 
Safe  conduct  through  the  rocks  of  re-elections. 

XCVI. 

Though  this  was  most  expedient  on  the  whole, 
And  usual — Juan,  when  he  cast  a  glance 

On  Adeline  while  inlaying  her  grand  role, 
"Which  she  went  through  as  though  it  were  a 
dance. 

Betraying  only  now  and  then  her  soul 
By  a  look  scarce  perceptibly  askance, 

(Of  weariness  or  scorn,)  began  to  feel 

Some  doubt  how  much  of  Adeline  was  real ; 

XCVII. 

So  well  she  acted  all  and  every  part 
By  turns — with  that  vivacious  versatility, 

Which  many  jjeoplc  take  for  want  of  heart. 
They  err — 'tis  merely  what  is  call'd  mobility,' 

A  thing  of  temperament  and  not  of  art. 

Though  seeming  so,  fjpm  its  supposed  facility ; 

And  false — though  true  ;  for  surely  they're  sincerest. 

Who  are  strongly  acted  on  by  what  is  nearest. 

XCVIII. 

This  makes  your  actors,  artists,  and  romancers, 
Heroes  sometimes,  though  seldom — sages  never ; 

But  speakers,  bards,  diplomatists,  and  dancers. 
Little  that 's  great,  but  much  of  what  is  clever ; 

Most  oratorj,  but  very  few  financiers. 

Though  all  Exchequer  chancellors  endeavor, 

Of  late  years,  to  dispense  with  Cocker's  rigors, 

And  grow  quite  figurative  with  their  figures. 

XCIX. 
The  poets  of  arithmetic  are  they, 

Who,  though  they  prove  not  two  and  two  to  be 
Five,  as  they  might  do  in  a  modest  way, 

Have  plainly  made  it  out  that  four  are  three, 
Judging  by  what  they  take,  and  what  they  pay. 

The  Sinking  Fund's  unfathomable  sea. 
That  most  unliquidating  liquid,  leaves 
The  debt  unsunk,  yet  sinks  all  it  receives. 


While  Adeline  dispensed  her  airs  and  graces. 
The  fair  Fitz-Fulke  seem'd  very  much  at  ease ; 

Though  too  well  bred  to  quiz  men  to  their  faces. 
Her  laughing  blue  eyes  with  a  glance  could  seize 

The  ridicules  of  people  in  all  places — 
That  honey  of  your  fashionable  bees — 

And  store  it  up  for  mischievous  enjoyment ; 

And  tliis  at  present  was  her  kind  employment. 


'  In  French  "moMiife'."  I  am  not  sure  that  mobility  is  Eng- 
lish ;  but  it  is  expressive  of  a  quality  which  rather  belongs  to 
other  climates,  though  it  is  sometimes  seen  to  a  great  extent  in 
our  onTi.    It  may  bo  defined  as  an  excessive  susceptibility  of  im- 


CI. 

However,  the  day  closed,  as  days  must  close  ; 

The  evening  also  waned — and  coflTee  came. 
Each  carriage  was  annoimced,  and  ladies  rose, 

And  curtsying  oflF,  as  curtsies  country  dame, 
Retired  :  with  most  unfashionable  bows 

Their  docile  esquires  also  did  the  same. 
Delighted  with  their  dinner  and  their  host, 
But  with  the  Lady  Adeline  the  most. 

CII. 

Some  praised  her  beauty  :  others  her  great  grace ; 

The  warmth  of  her  politeness,  whose  sincerity 
Was  obvious  in  each  feature  of  her  face, 

Whose  traits  were  radiant  with  the  rays  of  verity. 
Yes  ;  ihe  was  truly  worthy  her  high  place  ! 

No  one  could  envy  her  deserved  prosperity. 
And  then  her  dress — what  beautiful  simplicity 
Braperied  her  form  with  curious  felicity  P 

cm. 

Meanwhile  sweet  Adeline  deserved  their  praises, 

By  an  impartial  indemnification 
For  all  her  past  exertion  and  soft  phrases, 

In  a  most  edifying  conversation. 
Which  tum'd  upon  their  late  guests'  miens  and  faces. 

And  families,  even  to  the  last  relation  ; 
Their  hideous  wives,  their  horrid  selves  and  dresses, 
And  truculent  distortion  of  their  tresses. 

CIV. 

True,  slie  said  little — 'twas  the  rest  that  broke 

Forth  into  universal  epigram  ; 
But  then  'twas  to  the  purpose  what  she  spoke  : 

Like  Addison's  "  faint  praise,"  so  wont  to  damn, 
Her  own  but  .served  to  set  off  every  joke. 

As  music  chimes  in  with  a  melodrame. 
How  sweet  the  task  to  shield  an  absent  friend  ! 
I  ask  but  this  of  mine,  to not  defend. 

CV. 

There  were  but  two  exceptions  to  this  keen 
Skirmish  of  wits  o'er  the  departed  ;  one, 

Aurora,  with  her  pure  and  placid  mien  ; 
And  Juan,  too,  in  general  behind  none 

In  gay  remark  on  what  he  had  heard  or  seen, 
Sate  silent  now,  his  usual  spirits  gone  : 

In  vain  he  heard  the  others  rail  or  rally. 

He  would  not  join  them  in  a  single  sally. 

CVI. 
'Tis  true  he  saw  Aurora  look  as  tliough 

She  approved  his  silence  ;  she  perhaps  mistook 


mediate  impressions— at  the  same  time  without  losing  the  past ; 
and  is,  though  sometimes  apparently  useftil  to  the  possessor,  a 
most  painful  and  unhappy  attribute. 
=  "  Curiosa  felicitas."— Petronius  Arbiter. 


GaNTO    XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


YS9 


Its  motive  for  the  charity  we  owe 
But  seldom  pay  the  absent,  nor  would  look 

Farther ;  it  might  or  it  might  not  be  so. 
But  Juan,  sitting  silent  in  his  nook, 

Observing  little  in  his  revery, 

Yet  saw  this  much,  which  he  was  glad  to  see. 

CVII. 

The  ghost  at  least  had  done  him  this  much  good, 

In  making  him  as  silent  as  a  ghost, 
If  in  the  circumstances  which  ensued 

He  gain'd  esteem  where  it  was  worth  the  most. 
And  certainly  Aurora  had  renew'd 

In  him  some  feelings  he  had  lately  lost, 
Or  harden'd  ;  feelings  which,  perhaps  ideal. 
Are  so  divine,  that  I  must  deem  them  real : — ■ 

CVIII. 

The  love  of  higher  things  and  better  days  ; 

The  unbounded  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  call'd  the  world,  and  the  world's  ways ; 

The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise, 

Which  kindle  manhood,  but  can  ne'er  entrance 
Tlic  heart  in  an  existence  of  its  own. 
Of  which  another's  bosom  is  the  zone. 

CIX. 
Wlio  would  not  sigh  At  ai  vav  Kodepstvo. 

That  hath  a  memory,  or  that  had  a  heart  ? 
Alas  !  her  star  must  fade  like  that  of  Dian  : 

Ray  fades  on  ray,  as  years  on  years  depart. 
Anacreon  only  had  the  soul  to  tie  an 

Unwithering  myrtle  round  the  unblunted  dart 
Of  Eros:   but   though  thou  hast  play'd  as  many 

tricks, 
Still  we  respect  thee,  "Alma  Venus  Genetrix  !" 

ex. 

And  full  of  sentiments,  sublime  as  billows 

Heaving  between  this  world  and  worlds  beyond, 

Don  Juan,  when  the  midnight  hour  of  pillows 
Arrived,  retired  to  his  ;  but  to  despond 

Rather  than  rest.     Instead  of  poppies,  willows 
Waved  o'er  his  couch  ;  he  meditated,  fond 

Of  those  sweet  bitter  thoughts  which  banish  sleep, 

And  make  the  worldling  sneer,  the  youngling  weep. 

CXI. 
The  night  was  as  before  :  he  was  undress'd. 

Saving  his  night-gown,  which  is  an  undress  ; 
Completely  "  sans  culotte,"  and  without  vest ; 

In  short,  he  hardly  could  be  clothed  with  less  : 
But  apprehensive  of  his  spectral  guest. 

He  sate  with  feelings  awkward  to  express, 
(By  those  who  have  not  had  such  visitations,) 
Expectant  of  the  ghost's  fresh  operations. 


CXII 
And  not  in  vain  he  listcn'd  ; — Hush  I  what 's  that  ? 

I  see — I  see — Ah,  no  ! — 'tis  not — yet  'tis — 
Ye  powers  !  it  is  the — the — the — Pooh  !  the  cat ! 

The  devil  may  take  that  stealthy  pace  of  his  ! 
So  like  a  spiritual  pit-a-pat. 

Or  tiptoe  of  an  amatory  Miss, 
GUding  the  first  time  to  a  rendezvous. 
And  dreading  the  chaste  echoes  of  her  shoe. 

CXIII. 
Again — what  is  't  ?    The  wind  ?    No,  no — this  time 

It  is  the  sable  friar  as  before. 
With  awful  footsteps  regular  as  rhyme. 

Or  (as  rhymes  may  be  in  these  days)  much  more. 
Again  through  shadows  of  the  night  sublime. 

When  deep  sleep  fell  on  men,  and  the  world  wore 
The  starry  darkness  round  her  like  a  girdle  [die. 
Spangled  with  gems — the  monk  made  his  blood  cur- 

CXIV. 
A  noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  on  glass,^ 

Wliich  sets  the  teeth  on  edge ;  and  a  slight  clatter, 
Like  showers  which  on  the  midnight  gusts  will  pass, 

Sounding  like  very  supernatural  water, 
Came  over  Juan's  ear,  which  throbb'd  alas  1 

For  immaterialism  's  a  serious  matter ; 
So  that  even  those  whose  faith  is  the  most  great 
In  souls  immortal,  shun  them  tete-a-tote. 

CXV. 
Were  his  eyes  open  ? — Yes  !  and  his  mouth  too. 

Surprise  has  this  eflFect — to  make  one  dumb. 
Yet  leave  the  gate  which  eloquence  slips  through 

As  wide  as  if  a  long  speech  were  to  come. 
Nigh  and  more  nigh  the  awful  echoes  drew, 

Tremendous  to  a  mortal  tympanum  : 
His  eyes  were  open,  and  (as  was  before 
Stated)  his  mouth.     What  open'd  next  ? — the  door. 

CXVI. 
It  open'd  with  a  most  infernal  creak. 

Like  that  of  hell.     "  Lasciate  ogni  speranza 
Voi  che  entrate  !"    The  hinge  seem'd  to  speak. 

Dreadful  as  Dante's  rhima,  or  this  stanza ; 
Or — but  all  words  upon  such  themes  are  weak  : 

A  single  shade  's  sufficient  to  entrance  a 
Hero — for  what  is  substance  to  a  spirit  ? 
Or  how  is  't  matter  trembles  to  come  near  it  ? 

CXVII. 
The  door  flew  wide,  not  swiftly,— but,  as  fly 

The  sea-gulls,  with  a  steady,  sober  fliglit — 
And  then  swung  back  ;  nor  close — but  stood  awry. 

Half  letting  in  long  shadows  on  the  light, 


'  Seo  the  account  of  the  ghost  of  the  uncle  of  Prince  Charles  of 
Saxony,  raised  by  Schroepfer—"  Karl— Karl— was  wollat  da  mit 
mich  f" 


V40 


BYRON'S    WORKS. 


Canto  xvi. 


WMch  still  in  Juan's  candlesticks  burn'd  high, 

For  he  had  two,  both  tolerably  bright. 
And  in  the  door-way,  darkening  darkness,  stood 
The  sable  friar  in  his  solemn  hood. 

CXVIII. 
Don  Juan  shook,  as  erst  he  had  been  shaken 

The  night  before  ;  but  being  sick  of  shaking, 
He  first  inclined  to  think  he  had  been  mistaken  ; 

And  then  to  be  ashamed  of  such  mistaking  ; 
His  own  internal  ghost  began  to  awaken 

Within  him,  and  to  queU  his  corporal  quaking — 
Hinting  that  soul  and  body  on  the  whole 
Were  odds  against  a  disembodied  soul. 

CXIX. 
And  then  his  dread  grew  wrath,  and  his  wrath  fierce. 

And  he  arose,  advanced — the  shade  retreated ; 
But  Juan,  eager  now  the  truth  to  pierce, 

Follow'd,  his  veins  no  longer  cold,  but  heated. 
Resolved  to  thrust  the  mystery  carte  and  tierce. 

At  whatsoever  risk  of  being  defeated : 
The  ghost  stopp'd,  menaced,  then  retired,  until 
He  reach'd  the  ancient  wall,  then  stood  stone  still. 

CXX. 

Juan  put  forth  one  arm — Eternal  powers  ! 

It  touch'd  no  soul,  no  body,  but  the  wall. 
On  which  the  moonbeams  fell  in  silvery  showers, 

Checker'd  with  all  the  tracery  of  the  hall ; 
He  shudder'd,  as  no  doubt  the  bravest  cowers 

When  he  can't  tell  what  'tis  that  doth  appal. 


How  odd,  a  single  hobgoblin's  nonentity 

Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  whole  host's  identity. 

CXXI. 

But  stiU  the  shade  remain'd  :  the  blue  eyes  glared. 

And  rather  variably  for  stony  death  ; 
Yet  one  thing  rather  good  the  grave  had  spared, 

The  ghost  had  a  remarkably  sweet  breath  : 
A  straggling  curl  show'd  he  had  been  fair-hair'd ; 

A  red  lip,  with  two  rows  of  pearls  beneath, 
Gleam'd  forth,  as  through  the  casement's  ivy  shroud 
The  moon  peep'd,  just  escaped  from  a  gray  cloud. 

CXXII. 
And  Juan,  puzzled,  but  still  curious,  thrust 

His  other  arm  forth — Wonder  upon  wonder  ! 
It  press'd  upon  a  hard  but  glowing  bust, 

Which  beat  as  if  there  was  a  warm  heart  under. 
He  found,  as  people  on  most  trials  must. 

That  he  had  made  at  first  a  silly  blunder, 
And  that  in  his  confusion  he  had  caught 
Only  the  wall,  instead  of  what  he  sought. 

CXXIII. 
The  ghost,  if  ghost  it  were,  seem'd  a  sweet  soul 

As  ever  lurk'd  beneath  a  holy  hood : 
A  dimpled  chin,  a  neck  of  ivory,  stole 

Forth  into  something  much  like  flesh  and  blood ; 
Back  fell  the  sable  frock  and  dreary  cowl. 

And  they  reveal'd — alas  1  that  e'er  they  should  ! 
In  fiiU,  voluptuous,  but  not  o'ergrown  bulk. 
The  phantom  of  her  frolic  Grace — Fitz-Fulke  ! 


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