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presented 
to 

Xibran? 

of 


of  Toronto 


profeseor  HltreD  JBafter 
15,  1941 


SELECT   POETIC  WORKS 


OF 

LORD   BY  RON; 

INCLUDING 

CHILD  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE; 

THE  GIAOUR;  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS;   CORSAIR; 

LARA;  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH  ,  PARTSINA  ; 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON;  BEPPO  ; 

AND  MAZEPPA  J 

WITH 

A    BEAUTIFUL    LIKENESS    OF 
THE   AUTHOR. 


NEW-YORK ; 

PUBLISHED  BY  A.   V.   BLAKE, 
54  Gold-Street. 

1840. 


• 


CONTENTS. 


VOL.  III. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE  PACWS. 

Preface I  1 

Tolanthe 7 

Canto  1 9 

OantoII.         .                         39 

Appendix  to  Canto  II. 71 

Canto  III 97 

Canto  IV 135 

Dedication  to  Canto  IV 137 

Historical  Notes  to  Canto  IV •  195 

THE  GIAOUR 237 

THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS            279 

Canto  I. 283 

Canto  II 296 

THE  CORSAIR 317 

Canto  1 323 

Canto  II 339 

Canto  III.            354 

LARA 373 

Canto  I ' 375 

Canto  II 391 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH 409 

PARIS1NA 441 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLOST 463 

BEPPO »....'  479 

MAZEPPA  505 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 

A  ROMAUWT. 


L'univers  est  une  esp&ce  de  livre,  dont  on  n'a  lu  que  la  premiere  page  quand  on 
n'a  vu  que  son  pays.  J'en  ai  feuillete  un  assez  grand  nombre,  que  j'ai  trouvfi 
egalement  mauvaises.  Get  examen  ne  m'a  point  etfe  infructueux.  Je  ha'issais  ma 
patrie.  Toutes  les  impertinences  des  peuples  divers,  parmi  lesquels  j'ai  vecu, 
m'ont  rfeconcilife  avec  elle.  Ctuand  je  n'aurais  tirfe  d'autre  benfefice  de  mes  voyages 
que  celui-la,  je  n'en  regretterais  ni  les  frais  ni  les  fatigues. 

LE  COSMOPOLITE. 


VOL.    III.  —  B. 


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

A  fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of  giving  some 
connection  to  the  piece ;  which,  however,  makes  no  pretension  to 
regularity.  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  by  friends,  on  whose 
opinions  I  set  a  high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character, 
"  Childe  Harold,"  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended 
some  real  personage  :  this  I  beg  leav^,  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  appellation 
"  Childe,"  as  "  Childe  Waters,"  "  Childe  Childers,"  &c.  is  used 
as  more  consonant  with  the  old  structure  of  versification  which  I 
have  adopted.  The  "  Good  Night,"  in  the  beginning  of  the  first 
canto,  was  suggested  by  "  Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in  the 
Border  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  Peninsula,  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  success- 
ful poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr.  Beattie  makes  the  fol- 
lowing 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  sen- 
timental, tender  or  satirical,  as  the  humour  strikes  me  ;  for,  if  I 
mistake  not,  the  measure  which  I  have  adopted  admits  equally  of 


PREFACE. 


all  these  kinds  of  composition."  (*)  —  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  be  in  the  execution, 
rather  than  in  the  design  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  Ariosto, 
Thomson,  and  Beattie. 

(1)  Seattle's  Letters. 


ADDITION 
TO     THE    PREFACE. 

I  HAVE  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical  journals  have 
distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criticism.  To  the  justice  of  the 
generality  of  their  criticisms  I  have  nothing  to  object :  it  would 
ill  become  me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  censure, 
when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind  they  had  been  more 
candid.  Returning,  therefore,  to  all  and  each  my  best  thanks  for 
their  liberality,  on  one  point  alone  shall  I  venture  an  observation. 
Amongst  the  many  objections  justly  urged  to  the  very  indifferent 
character  of  the  "  vagrant  Childe"  (whom  notwithstanding  many 
hints  to  the  contrary,  I  still  maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  personage), 
it  has  been  stated,  that,  besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very  un- 
knightly,  as  the  times  of  the  Knights  were  times  of  Love,  Honour, 
and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so  happens  that  the  good  old  times,  when 
"  1'amour  du  bon  vieux  terns,  1'amour  antique  "  flourished,  were 
the  most  profligate  of  all  possible  centuries.  Those  who  have 
any  doubts  on  this  subject  may  consult  St.  Palaye,  passim,  and 
more  particularly  vol.  ii.  page  69.  The  vows  of  chivalry  were 
no  better  kept  than  any  other  vows  whatsoever  ;  and  the  songs 
of  the  Troubadours  were  not  more  decent,  and  certainly  were 
much  less  refined,  than  those  of  Ovid.  The  "  Cours  d'amour, 
parlemens  d'amour,  ou  de  courtesie  et  de  gentilesse  "  had  much 
more  of  love  than  of  courtesy  or  gentleness.  See  Rolland  on 
the  same  subject  with  St.  Palaye.  Whatever  other  objection 
may  be  urged  to  that  most  unamiable  personage  Childe  Harold, 
he  was  so  far  perfectly  knightly  in  his  attributes  —  "  No  waiter, 
but  a  knight  templar."  (')  By  the  by,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tristrem 
and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should  be,  although 
very  poetical  personages  and  true  knights  "  sans  peur,"  though 
not  "  sans  reproche."  If  the  story  of  the  institution  of  the  "  Gar- 
ter "  be  not  a  fable,  the  knights  of  that  order  have  for  several 
centuries  borne  the  badge  of  a  Countess  of  Salisbury,  of  indif- 
ferent memory.  So  much  for  chivalry.  Burke  need  not  have 
regretted  that  its  days  are  over,  though  Maria  Antoinette  was 
quite  as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in  whose  honours  lances  were 
shivered,  and  knights  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of  Sir  Joseph 
Banks,  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of  ancient  and  modern 
times,)  few  exceptions  will  be  found  to  this  statement,  and  I  fear 

(1)  The  Rovers.    Antijacobin. 


PREFACE. 


a  little  investigation  will  teach  us  not  to  regret  these  monstrous 
mummeries  of  the  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave  "  Childe  Harold,"  to  live  his  day,  such  as  he  is  ;  it 
had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly  more  easy,  to  have  drawn 
an  amiable  character.  It  had  been  easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults, 
to  make  him  do  more  and  express  less,  but  he  never  was  intended 
as  an  example,  further  than  to  show  that  early  perversion  of  mind 
and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past  pleasures  and  disappointment 
in  new  ones,  and  that  even  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  stimu- 
lus of  travel  (except  ambition,  the  most  powerful  of  all  excite- 
ments) are  lost  on  a  soul  so  constituted,  or  rather  misdirected. 
Had  I  proceeded  with  the  poem,  this  character  would  have  deep- 
ened as  he  drew  to  the  close  ;  for  the  outline  which  I  once  meant 
to  fill  up  for  him  was,  with  some  exceptions,  the  sketch  of  a  mo- 
dern Timon,  perhaps  a  poetical  Zeluco. 


TO  IANTHE. 


NOT  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been  straying, 
Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless  deem'd ; 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream'd, 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd : 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam'd  — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they  speak  ? 

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

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

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


TO    IANTHE. 

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


CHILDE  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  still ; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale  —  this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

ii. 

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

(1)  The  little  village  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of  Delphi.  Along  the  path 
of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso,  are  the  remains  of  sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the 
rock.  "  One,"  said  the  guide,  "  of  a  king  who  broke  his  neck  hunting."  His 
majesty  had  certainly  chosen  the  fittest  spot  for  such  an  achievement.  A  little 
above  Castri  is  a  cave,  supposed  the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth  ;  the  upper  part  of 
it  is  paved,  and  now  a  cow-house.  On  the  other  side  of  Caslri  stands  a  Greek  mo- 
nastery ;  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  foun- 
tain and  the  "  Dews  of  Castalie.'4 


10  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


in. 

Childe  Harold  was  he  hight :  —  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  coffin'd  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 


IV. 

Childe  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly ; 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety  : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
Which  eeem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad  cell. 


v. 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sigh'd  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  loved  one,  alas  !  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  deigned  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  reverie, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go, 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea  ; 
With  pleasure  drugg'd,  hg  almost  long'd  for  woe, 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades  below. 


CAHTO  I. 


PILGRIMAGE.  11 


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  agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

VIII. 

Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold's  brow, 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  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  t&s  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,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare, 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might  despair. 

x. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother  —  not  forgot, 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun  ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun  : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel ; 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 


12  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  i. 


XI. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands, 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite  ; 
His  goblets  brimm'd  with  every  costly  wine, 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine, 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  central  line. 


XII. 

The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home  ; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam  : 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and  wept, 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 

XIII. 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  string, 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 
When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening : 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling, 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing, 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  "  Good  Night." 

1. 

"  ADIEU,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  Night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  seamew. 
Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  Land  —  Good  Night ! 


PILGRIMAGE. 
CANTO   I. 


2. 

»  A  few  short  hours  and  He  will  rise 

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

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

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

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

3. 

«  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page ! 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  1 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye ; 

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

More  merrily  along." 

4. 
*  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

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

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

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

But  thee  —  and  one  above. 

5. 
«  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

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

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

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

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

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

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

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?" 


14  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

«  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life  ? 

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

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

7. 

«  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall, 

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

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

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

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 


"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour  1 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

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

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

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

9. 

"  And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

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

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

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

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 

10. 

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

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

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

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

My  native  Land  —  Good  Night ! " 


CANTO    I. 


PILGRIMAGE*  15 


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, 
And  steer  'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  rustics  reap. 

xv. 

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

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 ; 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filthily  : 
The  dingy  denizens  are  rear'd  in  dirt ; 
]Ve  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt, 
Though  shent  with  Egypt's  plague,  unkempt,  unwash'd,  un- 
hurt. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  i. 


XVIII. 

Poor,  paltry  slaves  !  yet  born  'midst  noblest  scenes  — 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men  ? 
Lo  !  Cintra's  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 
Ah,  me  !  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates, 
Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlock'd  Elysium's  gates  1 


XIX. 

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


xx. 

Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way, 
And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey 
And  rest  ye  at  "  Our  Lady's  house  of  woe  ;  "  (*) 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show, 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell 
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  Hell. 


1)  The  Convent  of  "  Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  Nossa  Seflora  de  Pena,  on 
the  summit  of  the  rock.  Below,  at  some  distance,  is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St. 
Honorius  dug  his  den,  over  which  is  his  epitaph.  From  the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to 
the  beauty  of  the  view. —  [Since  the  publication  of  this  poem,  I  have  been  informed 
of  the  misapprehension  of  the  term  JVbssa  SeHora  de  Pena.  It  was  owing  to  the 
want  of  the  tilde,  or  mark  over  the  ft,  which  alters  the  signification  of  the  word  : 
witn  it,  Petla  signifies  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  affixed  to 
it  is  "  Our  Lady  of  the  Rock,"  J,  may  well  assume  the  other  sense  from  the  seve- 
rities practised  there.] 


CANTO  I.  PILGRIMAGE.  17 


XXI. 

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


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  splendour  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 
When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath  done, 
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  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou  ! 
Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow 
To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide  ; 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied  ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle  tide  ! 

(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  Portuguese  to  their  countrymen; 
but  that  Englishmen  were  daily  butchered :  and  so  far  from  redress  being  obtained, 
we  were  requested  not  to  interfere  if  we  perceived  any  compatriot  defending  himself 
against  his  allies.  I  was  once  stopped  in  the  way  to  the  theatre  at  eight  oMock  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  fortu- 
nately been  armed,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we  should  have  "  adorned  a  tale" 
instead  of  telling  one.  The  crime  of  assassination  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 ! 
VOL.  III.  C 


18  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


XXIV. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened !  (') 
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  scroll, 
Where  blazon'd  glare  names  known  to  chivalry, 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll, 
Whereat  the  Urchin  points  and  laughs  with  all  his  soul. 

xxv. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome  : 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turn'd  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  Folly  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume, 
And  Policy  regain'd  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom ! 
Woe  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  shame. 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim ! 
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  coming  year  ? 

XXVII. 

So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise  : 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies  : 
Though  here  a  while  he  learn'd  to  moralize, 

(1)  The  Convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  of  the  Marchese  Mar»- 
alva.  The  late  exploits  of  Lord  Wellington  have  effaced  the  follies  of  Cintra. 
He  has,  indeed,  done  wonders  ;  he  has  perhaps  changed  the  character  of  a  nation, 
reconciled  rival  superstitions,  and  baffled  an  enemy  who  never  retreated  before  his 
predecessors. 


PILGRIMAGE. 


For  Meditation  fix'd  at  times  on  him  ; 
And  conscious  Reason  whisper'd  to  despise 
His  early  youth,  mispent  in  maddest  whim ; 
But  as  he  gazed  on  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim. 


XXVIII. 

To  horse  !  to  horse !  he  quits,  for  ever  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  roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage, 
Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 


XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay,  (*) 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians'  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  hath  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  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  place. 
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. 


(1)  The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious  ;  it  contains  a  palace,  convent,  and  most 
superb  church.  The  six  organs  are  the  most  beautiful  I  ever  beheld,  in  point  ot 
decoration  ;  we  did  not  hear  them,  but  were,  told  that  the.ir  tones  were  correspondent 
to  their  splendour.  Mafra  is  teimed  the  Escurial  of  Portugal. 


20  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO 


XXXI. 

More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 
And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend ; 
Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed  ! 
Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 
Spain's  realms  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 
Flocks,  whose  rich  fleece  right  well  the  trader  knows  — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend : 
For  Spain  is  compass'd  by  unyielding  foes, 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjection's  woes. 

XXXII. 

Where  Lusitania  and  her  Sister  meet, 
Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide  ? 
Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 
Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide  1 
Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride  ? 
Or  fence  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall  1  — 
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  difference  know 
'Twixt  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low.  (') 

xxxiv. 

But  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast, 
So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 
Of  Moor  and  Knight,  in  mailed  splendour  drest  : 
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  opprcss'd. 

(1)  As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  characterized  them.     That  they  are 
since  improved,  at  least  in  courage,  is  evident. 


PILGRIMAGE.  21 


XXXV. 

Oh,  lovely  Spian  !  renown'd,  romantic  land  ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  call'd  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  gore  1  (') 
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 
While  Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  Moorish  matrons'  wail. 


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  estate, 
See  how  the  Mighty  shrink  into  a  song  ! 
Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile,  preserve  thee  great  1 
Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition's  simple  tongue, 
When  Flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  History  does  thee 
wrong  1 

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 !  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  1  —  the  fires  of  death, 

(1)  Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pelagius  preserved  his  inde- 
pendence in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Asturias,  and  the  descendants  of  his  followers, 
after  some  centuries,  completed  their  struggle  by  the  conquest  of  Grenada, 


>  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

The  bale-fires  flash  on  high :  —  from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe  ; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 


XXXIX. 

Lo  !  where  the  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 
His  blood-red  tresses  deep'ning  in  the  sun, 
With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 
And  eye  that  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  ; 
For  on  this  morn  three  potent  nations  meet, 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most  sweet. 


XL. 

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

XLI. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice  ; 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high  ; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies  ; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  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  honour'd  fools  ! 
Yes,  Honour  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ! 
Vain  Sophistry  !  in  these  behold  the  tools, 
The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 


CAWTO  I. 


PILGRIMAGE.  23 


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, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed ! 
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  re-animate  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. 

XLVI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom, 
The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds  ; 
Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume, 
Nor  bleed  these  patriots  with  their  country's  wounds  : 
Nor  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck  sounds  ; 


24  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CAKTO  t. 

Here  Folly  still  his  votaries  inthralls  ; 
And  young-eyed  Lewdness  walks  her  midnight  rounds : 
»       Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 
Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tott'ring  walls. 

XVLII. 

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 ; 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  happy  yet ! 

XLVIII. 

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 
When  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 
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, 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and  lost 


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 :  (') 

<1)  The  red  cockade,  with  "  Fernando  Septimo"  in  the  centre. 


CANTO  i.  PILGRIMAGE.  25 

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  cloke, 
Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's  smoke. 


LI. 

At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height : 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load  ; 
And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  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  will  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  1  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave, 
To  swell  one  bloated  Chief's  unwholesome  reign  I 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave  1 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  1 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  appeal  ? 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valour  acts  in  vain  2 
And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal, 
The  Veteran's  skill,  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood's  heart  of 
steel? 

(1)  All  who  have  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pyramidal  form  in  which  shot 
and  shells  are  piled.  The  Sierra  Morena  was  fortified  in  every  defile  through 
yhich  I  passed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 


5  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  OAWTO  i. 

LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar 
And,  all  unsex'd,  the  anlace  hath  espoused 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war  ? 
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  that  mocks  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  fills  his  fatal  post  ; 
Her  fellows  flee  —  she  checks  their  base  career  ; 
The  foe  retires  —  she  heads  the  sallying  host  : 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost  ? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flush'd  hope  is  lost  ? 
Who  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, 

(1)  Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza.  When  the  author  was  at 
Seville  she  walked  daily  on  the  Prado,  decorated  with  medals  and  orders,  by  com- 
mand of  the  Junta. 


PILGRIMAGE. 


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  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek  ] 
How  poor  their  forms  appear !  how  languid,  wan,  and  weak ! 


LIX. 

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


LX. 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus  !  (2)  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrensy  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  1 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  Echoes  with  his  string, 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  will  wave  her 
wing. 

(1)  "  Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  Amoris  digitulo 

Vestigio  demonstrant  mollitudinem."  AUL.  GEL. 

(2)  These  stanzas  were  written  in  Castji,  (Delphos,)  at  the  foot  of  Parnassus, 
X)w  called  tuaKvpa — Liakura. 


)  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  r. 

LXI. 

Oft  have  I  dream'd  of  Thee  !  whose  glorious  name 
Who  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  ! 

LXII. 

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


LXIII. 

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

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, 
Nurst  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. 


CANTO  I. 


PILGRIMAGE.  29 


LXV. 

Fair  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  !  how  soft  are  thy  voluptuous  ways 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling,  who  can  'scape 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze  1 
A  Cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape, 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

LXVI. 

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

LXVII. 

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

LXVIII. 

The  Sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  blessed  rest ; 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore  1 
Lo  !  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast ; 
Hark  !  heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch's  roar? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snuffs  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'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. 

(1)  Seville  was  the  Hispalis  of  the  Romans. 


30  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CAIWO  t, 

LXIX. 

The  seventh  day  this  ;  the  jubilee  of  man. 
London  !  right  well  thou  know'st  the  day  of  prayer : 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash'd  artisan, 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air : 
Thy  couch  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  ye,  Boeotian  shades  !  the  reason  why  ?  (') 
'Tis  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 
Grasp'd  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 
In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught,  and  dance  till  morn. 

LXXI. 

All  have  their  fooleries  —  not  alike  are  thine, 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea ! 
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  found  : 
Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 
Skill'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  archery. 

(1)  This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently  in  the  best  situation  for  ask- 
ing and  answering  such  a  question ;  not  as  the  birthplace  of  Pindar,  but  as  the  ca- 
pital of  Bceotia,  where  the  first  riddle  was  propounded  and  solved. 


e.AVTO  i,  PILGRIMAGE. 

LXXIII. 

HushM  is  the  din  of  tongues  —  on  gallant  steeds, 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-pois'd  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  repay. 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array'd, 
But  all  afoot,  the  light-limb'd  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds  ;  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er 
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  unscathed  he  goes  ; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear  : 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ; 
Bart  follows  dart ;  lance,  lance ;  loud  bellowings  speak  his 
woes. 


I  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CAKTO  i. 

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 !  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, 

LXXVI1I. 

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  nis  fierce  eye  —  'tis  past  —  he  sinks  upon  the  sand  I 

LXXIX. 

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

LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 
The  Spanish  maid,  aud  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  foe, 
Enough,  alas  !  in  humble  homes  remain, 
To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow, 
For  some  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life's  warm  stream 
must  flow. 


CAHTO   I. 


PILGRIMAGE.  33 


LXXXI. 

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

LXXXII. 

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

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  curst  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  1 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate  : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  tne  demon's  sway. 
And  as  in  Beauty's  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay, 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  his  happier  day. 

(1)  "  Medio  de  fonte  leporum 

Surgit  amari  aliquid  quod  in  ipsis  floribus  angat."          Lire* 
VOL      III. D 


34  CHILDE  HAROLD'S       ,  CA1TO 

*'••'- 

TO  INEZ. 


NAY,  smile  not  at  niy  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  woe 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 

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

3. 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honours  lost, 

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

4. 
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-e'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of  life  —  the  demon  Thought. 

7. 

Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

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

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


CANTO   I. 


PILGRIMAGE. 


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

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

Whatever  betides,  I've  known  the  worst. 

9. 

What  is  that  worst?  Nay  do  not  ask  — 

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

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


LXXXV. 

Adieu,  fair  Cadiz  !  yea,  a  long  adieu  ! 
Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood  1 
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  die  ; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud ;  (x) 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility  ; 
None  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  Chivalry ! 

LXXXVI. 

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

(1)  Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  governor  of  Cadiz. 

(2)  '«  War  to  the  knife."    Palafox's  answer  to  the  French  general  at  the  siege 
ofSaragoza. 


36  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  i. 

War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his  need  — 
So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife, 
So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed, 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorseless  deed ! 

LXXXV1II. 

Flows  there  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead  ? 
Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain ; 
Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter  red ; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 
Then  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain  ; 
Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw, 
Let  their  bleach'd  bones,  and  blood's  unbleaching  stain, 
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 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustain'd, 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  unrestrain'd. 

xc. 

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

xci. 

And  thou,  my  friend !  (*)  —  since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain  — 

1)  The  Honourable  I*.  W**.  of  the  Guards.whodiedofafever  atCoimbra.  Ihad 
known  him  ten  years,  the  better  half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of  mine.  In 
the  short  space  of  one  month,  I  have  lost  her  who  gave  me  being,  and  most  of  those 
•who  had  made  that  being  tolerable.  To  me  the  lines  of  Young  are  no  fiction  : 


CANTO   I. 


PILGRIMAGE.  37 


Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 
Pride  might  forbid  e'en  Friendship  to  complain  : 
But  thus  unlaurel'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  ? 

xcn. 

Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem' d  the  most ! 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  nought  was  left  so  dear  ! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost, 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here  ! 
And  Morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  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  mourn'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

XCIII. 

Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage  : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know, 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe, 
Is  this  too  much  1  stern  Critic !  say  not  so : 
Patience  !  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. 

"  Insatiate  archer !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain, 
And  thrice  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  fill'd  her  horn." 

I  should  have  ventured  a  verse  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Charles  Skinner  Mat- 
thews, 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  honours, 
against  the  ablest  candidates,  than  those  of  any  graduate  on  record  at  Cambridge, 
have  sufficiently  established  his  fame  on  the  spot  where  it  was  acquired :  while  his 
softer  qualities  live  in  the  recollection  of  friends  who  loved  him  too  well  to  envy  his 
superiority. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 

CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND. 


I. 

COME,  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven  !  —  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,  (J) 
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 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  breasts  bestow.  (a) 

(1)  Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  a  magazine  during 
the  Venetian  siege. 

(2)  We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  which  the  ruins  of  cities,  once 
the  capitals  of  empires,  are  beneld :  the  reflections  suggested  by  such  objects  are 
too  trite  to  require  recapitulation.     But  never  did  the  littleness  of  man,  and  the  va- 
nity of  his  very  best  virtues,  of  patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of  valour  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  pu- 
nishment of  generals,  is  now  become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual  disturb- 
ance, between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain  British  nobility  and  gentry.     "  The 
wild  foxes,  the  owls  and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of  Babylon,"  were  surely  less  degrad- 
ing than  such  inhabitants.     The  Turks  have  the  plea  of  conquest  for  their  tyranny, 
and  the  Greeks  have  only  suffered  the  fortune  of  war,  incidental  to  the  bravest ;  but 
how  are  the  mighty  fallen,  when  two  painters  contest  the  privilege  of  plundering  the 
Parthenon,  and  triumph  in  turn,  according  to  the  tenor  of  each  succeeding  firman ! 
Sylla  could  but  punish,  Philip  subdue,  and  Xerxes  burn  Athens ;  but  it  remained 
for  the  paltry  antiquarian,  and  his  despicable  agents,  to  render  her  contemptible  as 
himself  and  his  pursuits.     The  Parthenon,  before  its  destruction  in  part,  by  fire  du- 
ring the  Venetian  siege,  had  been  a  temple,  a  church,  and  a  mosque.     In  each 
point  of  view  it  is  an  object  of  regard  :  it  changed  its  worshippers ;  but  still  it  was  a 
place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  devotion  :  its  violation  is  a  triple  sacrilege.     But 

"  Man,  vain  man, 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep." 


42  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  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, 
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. 


in. 

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


IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven  — 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing  !  to  know 
Thou  art  T  Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
That  being,  thou  would'st  be  again,  and  go, 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  1 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies  : 
That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 


v. 

Or  burst  the  vanish'd  Hero's  lofty  mound  ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  :  (l) 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourn'd  around  ; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 
Nor  warlike-worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 

(1)  It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  burn  their  dead  ;  the  greater 
Ajax,  in  particular,  was  interred  entire.  Almost  all  the  chiefs  became  gods  after 
their  decease ;  and  he  was  indeed  neglected,  who  had  not  annual  games  near  his 
tomb,  or  festivals  in  honour  of  his  memory  by  his  countrymen,  as  Achilles,  Brasidas, 
&c.  and  at  last  even  Antinous,  whose  death  was  as  heroic  as  his  life  was  infamous. 


CANTO  n.  PILGRIMAGE. 

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  ruin'd  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 
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  1 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  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  labours  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  1 
Well  —  I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again, 


44  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  IL 

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 ! 


Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone, 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base ; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  !  was  thy  fav'rite  throne :  (l) 
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  labour'd  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh ; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  by. 

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  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine : 
Thy  free-born  men  should  spare  what  once  was  free, 
Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine, 
And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine.  (a) 

XII. 

But  most  the  modern  Pict's  ignoble  boast, 
To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath  spared ;  (*) 
Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast, 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard, 
Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepared, 
Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains 
Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard, 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains,  (4) 
And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  Despot's  chains. 

(1)  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  of  which  sixteen  columns,  entirely  of  mar- 
ble, yet  survive  :  originally  there  were  150.     These  columns,  however,  are  by  ma- 
ny supposed  to  belong  to  the  Pantheon. 

(2)  The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  Archipelago. 

(3)  See  Appendix  to  this  Canto  [AJ,  for  a  note  too  long  to  be  placed  here. 

(4)  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  ten- 
fold weight  to  my  testimony,  to  insert  the  following  extract  from  a  very  obliging  let- 
ter  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 


CANTO  IL  PILGRIMAGE. 

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  -ZEgis,  Pallas !  that  appall'd 
Stern  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way?  (') 
Where  Peleus'  son  1  whom  Hell  in  vain  enthrall'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. 

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 
Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behoved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Curst  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  t 

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 ; 

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.  Tl\os ! 
—  I  was  present."  The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  father  of  the  present  Disdar. 

(1)  According  to  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frightened  Alaric  from  the 
Acropolis  ;  but  others  relate  that  the  Gothic  king  was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the 
Scottish  peer.  See  CHANDLER. 


5  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  n. 

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  sailor  wearing  bravely  now, 
So  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 


XVIII. 

And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within ! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,  (') 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din, 
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  skilful  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  stern,  which  tends  their  strength  to  nerve. 

(1)   The  netting  to  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on  deck  during  ac- 


CANTO  II. 


PILGRIMAGE.  47 


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  listless  dull  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, 
The  flapping  sail  haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like  these  1 


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


XXIII. 

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


}  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  n 

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  possess'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear ; 
A  flashing  pang  !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 


XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene. 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean ; 
This  is  not  solitude  ;  'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores  unroll'd. 


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  splendour  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 ! 


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  hallow'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. 


CANTO  II.  PILGRIMAGE. 

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, 
Coop'd  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  still  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 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide ; 
While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen  doubly  sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone : 
But  trust  not  this ;  too  easy  youth,  beware  t 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne, 
And  thou  may'st  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence !  could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  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. 

(1)  Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 
VOL.    III. E 


50  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  11. 

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  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art, 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide  ; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  turn'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  lover's  whining  crew. 

xxxiv. 

Not  much  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast, 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs  ; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possess'd  ? 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol's  eyes  ; 
But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes : 
Disguise  ev'n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise  ; 
Brisk  Confidence  still  best  with  woman  copes  ; 
Pique  her  and  soothe  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,  honour  lost, 
These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  Passion  !  these  ! 
If,  kindly  cruel,  early  Hope  is  crost, 
Still  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a  disease, 
Not  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to  please. 


CANTO  II. 


PILGRIMAGE.  61 


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  always  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild  ; 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  fill, 
Her  never-wean'd,  though  not  her  favour'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  emprize : 
Land  of  Albania !  (*)  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee !  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men ! 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise, 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 
Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each  other's  ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe  Harold  sail'd,  and  pass'd  the  barren  spot  (a) 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave  ; 
And  onward  viewed  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho !  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, 
That  only  heaven  to  which  Earth's  children  may  aspire. 

(1)  See  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Note  [Bl. 

(2)  Ithaca. 


52  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  n. 

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

XLI. 

But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe, 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love,  (a) 
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. 

Morn  dawns  ;  and  with  it  stern  Albania's  hills, 
Dark  Suli'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  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view : 
His  breast  was  arm'd  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  few ; 

(1)  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  Q,uixote  lost  his  left  hand. 

(2)  Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.     From  the  promentory  (the  Lover's  Leap) 
Sappho  is  said  to  have  thrown  herself. 


CANTO  n.  PILGRIMAGE.  6! 

Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet : 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new  ; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet, 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  summer's  heat. 


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  !  howsoe'er  disguised, 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross, 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss  ! 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  dross  ? 


XLV. 

Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king  (!) 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring  : 
Look  where  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  rose  !  (2) 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  rear'd  them,  withering : 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes  ! 
GOD  !  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and  lose  ? 


XLVI. 

From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Ev'n  to  the  centre  of  Illyria's  vales, 
Childe  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. 

(1)  It  is  said,  that  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  of  Actium,  Anthony  had 
thirteen  kings  at  his  levee. 

(2)  Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some  distance  from  Actium. 
where  the  wall  of  thy  Hippodrome  survives  in  a  few  fragments. 


54  CHJLDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  n. 

XLVII. 

He  pass'd  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,  (l) 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land, 
And  onwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief,  (2)  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.  (8) 

XLVIII. 

Monastic  Zitza  !  (4)  from  thy  shady  brow, 
Thou  small,  but  favour'd  spot  of  holy  ground ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below, 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found  ! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound, 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonise  the  whole  : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please  the  soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  lofter  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. 

(1)  According  to  Pouqueville,  the  lake  of  Yanina  ;  but  Pouqueville  is  always  out. 

(2)  The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.     Of  this  extraordinary  man  there  is  an  incorrect 
account  in  Pouqueville's  Travels. 

(3)  Five  thousand  Suliotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the  castle  of  Suli,  withstood 
30,000  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. 

(4)  The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours'  journey  from  Joannina,  or 
Yanina,  the  capital  of  the  Pachalick.     In  the  valley  of  the  river  Kalamas  (once  the 
Acheron)  flows,  and,  not  far  from  Zitza,  forms  a  fine  cataract.  The  situation  is  per- 
haps the  finest  in  Greece,  though  the  approach  to  Delvinachi  and  parts  of  Acarna- 
nia  and  .Etolia  may  contest  the  palm.     Delphi,  Parnassus,  and,  in  Attica,  even 
Gape  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  cau  hardly  be  made. 

(5)  The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 


CANTO  Ib  PILGRIMAGE. 

L. 

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  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

LI. 

Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre,  (*) 
Chimsera's  alps  extend  from  left  to  right : 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir ; 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mountain-fir 
Nodding  above  :  behold  black  Acheron  !  (2) 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 
Pluto  !  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon, 
Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek  for  none. 

LII. 

Ne  city's  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view ; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 
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  (4) 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock, 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived  shock. 

LIII. 

Oh  !  where,  Dodona!  is  thine  aged  grove, 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine  ? 
What  valley  echo'd  the  response  of  Jove  ? 
What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer's  shrine  1 
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 ! 

(1)  The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  volcanic. 

(2)  Now  called  Kalamas.  (3)  Albanese  cloak. 


J  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  ir. 

LIV. 

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

LV. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,  (*) 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by ;  (a) 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily, 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  o'erlook  the  stream  ;  and  drawing  nigh, 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-rnen 
Swelling  the  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  lengthening  glen. 


LVI. 

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


LVII. 

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

(1)  Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

(2)  The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  passed  it ;  and,  immediately 
above  Tepaleen,  was  to  the  eye  as  wide  as  the  Thames  at  Westminster;  at  least  in 
the  opinion  of  the  author  and  his  fellow-traveller,  Mr.  Hobhouse.     In  the  summer  it 
must  be  much  narrower.     It  certainly  is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant ;  neither 
Achelous,  Alpheus,  Acheron,  Scamander,  nor  Cayster,  approached  it  in  breadth 
or  beauty. 


CANTO  II.  PILGRIMAGE. 


57 


And  oft-times  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. 

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  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek, 

LIX. 

Are  mix'd  conspicuous  :  some  recline  in  groups, 
Scanning  the  motley  scene  that  varies  round ; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops, 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found  ; 
Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground  ; 
Half  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  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within ; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem'd  made  in  vain, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din, 
As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and  in. 

LXI. 

Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard  :  apart, 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veil'd,  to  move, 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 
Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove : 


58  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  u. 

For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love, 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares, 
Blest  cares  !  all  other  feelings  far  above  ! 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears, 
Who  never  quits  the  breast,  no  meaner  passion  shares. 

LXII. 

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

LXIII. 

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


CANTO  II.  PILGRIMAGE. 

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  Valour  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  splendour  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, 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer'd  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof —  (1) 
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  a  while  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. 

LXVIII. 

Vain  fear !  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, 

(1)  Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall, 


60  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  n. 

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  Acarnania's  forest  wide. 
In  war  well  season'd,  and  with  labours  tann'd, 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide, 
And  from  his  further  bank  JEtolia's  worlds  espied. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest, 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill's  grove, 
Nodding  at  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast, 
As  winds  come  lightly  whispering  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, ' 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence  glean. 

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    gazed 
With  gaping  wonderment  had  stared  aghast ; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began  ; 
Each  Palikar  (a)  his  sabre  from  him  cast, 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man, 
Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the  kirtled  clan. 

LXXII. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie, 
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  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream'd, 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang,  half  scream  d  :(9) 

,  (I)  The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wine,  and,  indeed  very  few  of 
the  others. 

(2)  Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person,  from  IlaXiAcapt,  a  gene- 
ral name  for  a  soldier  amongst  the  Greeks  and  Albanese  who  speak  Romaic  —  it 
means,  properly  "  a  lad." 

(3)  For  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dialect  of  the  Illyric,  see  Ap- 
pendix to  this  Canto,  Note  [CJ. 


CANTO  II. 


PILGRIMAGE.  61 


1. 

TAMBOURGI  !  Tambourgi !  (')  thy  'larum  afar 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war  ; 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  Illyrian,  and  dark  Suliote !  (2) 

2. 

Oh !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 

In  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shaggy  capote  ? 

To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flock, 

And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  rock. 

3. 

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

4. 

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

5. 

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

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  shall  tear. 

7. 

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

(1)  Drummer. 

(2)  These  Stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Albanese  songs,  as  far  as 
was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  exposition  of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 


62  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  n. 

8. 

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


10. 

Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped, 

Let  the  yellow-hair'd  (2)   Giaours  (3)  view  his  horse-tail  (4) 

with  dread  ; 

When  his  Delhis  (5)  come  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the  banks, 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks  ! 


11. 

Selictar !  (6)  unsheath  then  our  chiefs  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  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  children  forth, 
And  long  accustom'd  bondage  uncreate  1 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait  — 
Oh  !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb  ? 

(1)  It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

(2)  Yellow  is  the  epithet  given  to  the  Russians.  (3)  Infidel. 

(4)  Horse-tails  are  the  insignia  of  a  Pacha. 

(5)  Horsemen,  answering  to  our  forlorn  hope.  (6)  Sword-bearer. 

(7)  Some  thoughts  on  this  subject  will  be  found  in  the  Appendix  to  this  Canto, 
Note  [D.J 


CANTO  II.  PILGRIMAGE.  63 

LXXIV. 

Spirit  of  freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow  (*) 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forebode  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  till  death  enslaved  ;  in  word,  in  deed,  unmanned. 

LXXV. 

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

LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen !  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow  1 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no ! 
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  !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same  ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 

LXXVII. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 

The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest ; 

And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 

Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest ;  (a) 

Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood  who  dared  divest 

The  prophet's  (*)  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 

(1)  Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  Athens,  has  still  considerable  re- 
mains :  it  was  seized  by  Thrasybulus  previous  to  the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

(2)  When  taken  by  the  Latins,  and  retained  for  several  years.  —  See  GIBBON. 

(3)  Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time   ago  by  the  Wahabees,  a  sect 
yearly  increasing. 


64  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  IL 


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, 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  they  lave. 

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, 


CANTO  ,,.  PILGRIMAGE.  65 

Or  gently  prest,  return'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  I 

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  I 

LXXXIII. 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-born  son  of  Greece, 
If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast : 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace, 
The  bondsman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost, 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword  : 
Ah !  Greece  !  they  love  thee  least  who  owe  thee  most ; 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood, 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again, 
When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men, 
Then  may'st  thou  be  restored  ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state  ; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust :  and  when 
Can  man  its  shatter'd  splendour  renovate, 
Recal  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,  (') 

(1)  ©n  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the  snow  never  is  entirely 
melted,  notwithstanding  the  intense  heat  of  the  summer ;  but  I  never  saw  it  lie  on 
the  plains,  even  in  winter. 
VOL.    III. — F 


66  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favourite  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  ;  (*) 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
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, 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  **  Alas !  " 


LXXXVII. 

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  still  his  honied  wealth  Hymettus  yields  ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air  ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli'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  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told, 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon : 
Each  hill  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. 

(1)  Of  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug  that  constructed  the 
public  edifices  of  Athens.  —  The  modern  name  is  Mount  Mendeli.  An  immense 
cave,  formed  by  the  quarries,  still  remains,  and  will  till  the  end  of  time. 


CANTO  II. 


PILGRIMAGE.  67 


LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same ; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord  — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  fame 
The  Battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas'  sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  Glory  dear, 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word ;  (l) 
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  j 
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  1 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd  ground, 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear  ? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound, 
The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger !  spurns  around* 

xci. 

Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendour  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  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. 

xcn. 

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  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth : 

(1)  "  Siste  Viator  —  heroa  calcas ! "  was  the  epitaph  on  the  famous  Count 
Merci ;  —  what  then  must  be  our  feelings  when  standing  on  the  tumulus  of  the  two 
hundred  (Greeks)  who  fell  on  Marathon  ?  The  principal  barrow  has  recently  been 
opened  by  Fauvel :  few  or  no  relics,  as  vases,  &c.  were  found  by  the  excavator. 
The  plain  of  Marathon  was  offered  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand 
piastres,  about  nine  hundred  pounds  !  Alas! — "  Expende  —  quot  libras  induce 
summo  —  invenies  !  "  —  was  the  dust  of  Miltiades  worth  no  more  ?  It  could 
scarcely  have  fetched  less  if  sold  by  weight. 


68  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  11. 

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. 

XCIII. 

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

xciv. 

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

xcv. 

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


xcvi. 

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


CANTO  II.  PILGRIMAGE.  69 

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. 

xcvu. 

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

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. 


APPENDIX 

TO  CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


NOTE  [A].     See  p.  44. 

"  To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath  spared." 

Stanza  xii.  line  2. 

AT  this  moment,  (January  3,  1809,)  besides  what  has  been  already  deposited 
in  London,  an  Hydriot  vessel  is  in  the  Pyraeus  to  receive  every  portable  relic.  Thus, 
as  I  heard  a  young  Greek  observe,  in  common  with  many  of  his  countrymen  —  for, 
lost  as  they  are,  they  yet  feel  on  this  occasion  —  thus  may  Lord  Elgin  boast  of  hav- 
ing ruined  Athens.  An  Italian  painter  of  the  first  eminence,  named  Lusieri,  is  the 
agent  of  devastation  ;  and  like  the  Greek  finder  of  Verres  in  Sicily,  who  followed 
the  same  profession,  he  has  proved  the  able  instrument  of  plunder.  Between  this 
artist  and  the  French  Consul  Fauvel,  who  wishes  to  rescue  the  remains  for  his  own 
government,  there  is  now  a  violent  dispute  concerning  a  car  employed  in  their  con- 
veyance, the  wheel  of  which  —  I  wish  they  were  both  broken  upon  it  —  has  been 
locked  up  by  the  Consul,  and  Lusieri  has  laid  his  complaint  before  the  Waywode. 
Lord  Elgin  has  been  extremely  happy  in  his  choice  of  Signor  Lusieri.  During  a 
residence  of  ten  years  in  Athens,  he  never  had  the  curiosity  to  proceed  as  far  as 
Sunium,*  till  he  accompanied  us  in  our  second  excursion.  However,  his  works,  as 


*  Now  Cape  Colonna.  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  itself  and  Marathon, 
there  is  no  scene  more  interesting  than  Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary  and  ar- 
tist, sixteen  columns  are  an  inexhaustible  source  of  observation  and  design ;  to  the 
philosopher,  the  supposed  scene  of  some  of  Plato's  conversations  will  not  oe  unwel- 
come ;  and  the  traveller  will  be  struck  with  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  over  "  Isles 
that  crown  the  JEgean  deep  : "  but  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has  yet  an  additional 
interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer's  Shipwreck.  Pallas  and  Plato  are  foi gotten, 
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  approach  from  the  isles.  In  our  second  land  excursion, 
we  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a  party  of  Mainotes,  concealed  in  the  caverns  beneath. 
We  were  told  afterwards,  by  one  of  their  prisoners  subsequently  ransomed,  that 
they  were  deterred  from  attacking  us  by  the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians  :  con- 
jecturing very  sagaciously,  but  falsely,  that  we  had  a  complete  guard  of  these  Ar- 
naouts  at  hand,  they  remained  stationary,  and  thus  saved  our  party,  which  was  too 
small  to  have  opposed  any  effectual  resistance.  Colonna  is  no  less  a  resort  of 
painters  than  of  pirates  :  there 

esk, 


And  makes  degraded  nature  picturesque." 

(See  Hodgson  s  Lady  Jane  Gray,  &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  acquaint, 
ance  with  this  and  many  other  Levantine  scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  his  performances. 


72  APPENDIX    TO 

far  as  they  go,  are  most  beautiful ;  but  they  are  almost  all  unfinished.  While  he 
and  his  patrons  confine  themselves  to  tasting  medals,  appreciating  cameos,  sketch- 
ing columns,  and  cheapening  gems,  their  little  absurdities  are  as  harmless  as  insect 
or  fox-hunting,  maiden  speechifying,  barouche-driving,  or  any  such  pastime ;  but 
when  they  carry  away  three  or  four  shiploads  of  the  most  valuable  and  massy  relics 
that  time  and  barbarism  have  left  to  the  most  injured  and  most  celebrated  ot  cities  ; 
when  they  destroy,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  tear  down,  those  works  which  have  been 
the  admiration  of  ages,  I  know  no  motive  which  can  excuse,  no  name  which  can 
designate,  the  perpetrators  of  this  dastardly  devastation.  It  was  not  the  least  of 
the  crimes  laid  to  the  charge  of  Verres,  that  he  had  plundered  Sicily,  in  the  manner 
since  imitated  at  Athens.  The  most  unblushing  impudence  could  hardly  go  farther 
than  to  affix  the  name  of  its  plunderer  to  the  walls  of  the  Acropolis  :  while  the  wan- 
ton and  useless  defacement  of  the  whole  range  of  the  basso-relievos,  in  one  compart- 
ment of  the  temple,  will  never  permit  that  name  to  be  pronounced  by  an  observer 
without  execration.  On  this  occasion  I  speak  impartially  :  I  am  not  a  collector  or 
admirer  of  collections,  consequently  no  rival ;  but  I  have  some  early  prepossession 
in  favour  of  Greece,  and  do  not  think  the  honour  of  England  advanced  by  plunder, 
whether  of  India  or  Attica.  Another  noble  Lord  has  done  better,  because  he  has 
done  less  :  but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble,  yet  "  all  honourable  men,"  have 
done  best,  because,  after  a  deal  of  excavation  and  execration,  bribery  to  the  Way- 
wode,  mining  and  countermining,  they  have  done  nothing  at  all.  We  had  such  ink- 
shed,  and  wine-shed,  which  almost  ended  in  bloodshed  !  Lord  E.'s  "  prig  "  —  see 
Jonathan  Wylde  for  the  definition  of"  priggism  " — quarrelled  with  another,  Gropius* 
by  name,  (a  very  good  name  too  for  his  business,)  and  muttered  something  about 
satisfaction,  in  a  verbal  answer  to  a  note  of  the  poor  Prussian  :  this  was  stated  at 
table  to  Gropius,  who  laughed,  but  could  eat  no  dinner  afterwards.  The  rivals 
were  not  reconciled  when  I  left  Greece.  I  have  reason  to  remember  their  squabble, 
for  they  wanted  to  make  me  their  arbitrator. 


NOTE  [B].     See  p.  51. 

"  /.and  of  Albania  !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  I  " 

Stanza  xxxviii.  lines  5  and  6. 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  Illyria,  Chaonia,  and  Epirus.  Iskander 
is  the  Turkish  word  for  Alexander ;  and  the  celebrated  Scanderberg  (Lord  Alexan- 
der) is  alluded  to  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines  of  the  thirty-eighth  stanza.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  am  correct  in  making  Scanderberg  the  countryman  of  Alexander, 
who  was  born  at  Pella  in  Macedon,  but  Mr.  Gibbon  terms  him  so,  and  adds  Pyrrhus 
to  the  list,  in  speaking  of  his  exploits. 

Of  Albania  Gibbon  remarks,  that  a  country  "  within  sight  of  Italy  is  less  known 
than  the  interior  of  America."  Circumstances,  of  little  consequence  to  mention, 
led  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  into  that  country  before  we  visited  any  other  part  of 
the  Ottoman  dominions  ;  and  with  the  exception  of  Major  Leake,then  officially  resi- 
dent at  Joannina,  no  other  Englishmen  have  ever  advanced  beyond  the  capital  into 
the  interior,  as  that  gentleman  very  lately  assured  me.  AH  Pacha  was  at  that  time 


*  This  Sr.  Gropius  was  employed  by  a  noble  Lord  for  the  sole  purpose  of  sketch- 
ing, in  which  he  excels  ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  he  has,  through  the  abused  sanc- 
tion of  that  most  respectable  name,  been  treading  at  humble  distance  in  the  steps  of 
Sr.  Lusieri.  A  shipful  of  his  trophies  was  detained,  and  I  believe  confiscated,  at 
Constantinople,  in  1810.  I  am  most  happy  to  be  now  enabled  to  state,  that  "  this 
was  not  in  his  bond  ; "  that  he  was  employed  solely  as  a  painter,  and  that  his  noble 
patron  disavows  all  connexion  with  him,  except  as  an  artist.  If  the  error  in  the  first 
and  second  edition  of  this  poem  has  given  the  noble  Lord  a  moment's  pain,  I  am 
very  sorry  for  it :  Sr.  Gropius  has  assumed  for  years  the  name  of  his  agent :  and 
though  I  cannot  much  condemn  myself  for  sharing  in  the  mistake  of  so  many,  I  am 
happy  in  being  one  of  the  first  to  be  undeceived.  Indeed,  I  have  as  much  pleasure 
in  contradicting  this  as  I  felt  regret  in  stating  it. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND.  73 

(October,  1809)  carrying  on  war  against  Ibrahim  Pacha,  whom  he  had  driven  to 
Berat.  a  strong  fortress  which  he  was  then  besieging :  on  our  arrival  at  Joannina 
we  were  invited  to  Tepaleni,  his  highness's  birthplace,  and  favourite  Serai,  only  one 
day's  distance  from  Berat ;  at  this  juncture  the  Vizier  had  made  it  his  head-quarters. 

After  some  stay  in  the  capital,  we  accordingly  followed ;  but  though  furnished 
with  every  accommodation,  and  escorted  by  one  of  the  Vizier's  secretaries,  we  were 
nine  days  (on  account  of  the  rains)  in  accomplishing  a  journey  which,  on  our  re- 
turn, barely  occupied  four. 

On  our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argyrocast.ro  and  Libochabo,  apparently  little 
inferior  to  Yanina  in  size  ;  and  no  pencil  or  pen  can  ever  do  justice  to  the  scenery 
in  the  vicinity  of  Zitza  and  Delvinachi,  the  frontier  village  of  Epirus  and  Albania 
Proper. 

On  Albania  and  its  inhabitants  I  am  unwilling  to  descant,  because  this  will  ba 
done  so  much  better  by  my  fellow-traveller,  in  a  work  which  may  probably  precede 
this  in  publication,  that  I  as  little  wish  to  follow  as  I  would  to  anticipate  him.  But 
some  few  observations  are  necessary  to  the  text. 

The  Arnaouts,  or  Albanese,  struck  me  forcibly  by  their  resemblance  to  the  High- 
landers of  Scotland,  in  dress,  figure,  and  manner  of  living.  Their  very  mountains 
seemed  Caledonian,  with  a  kinder  climate.  The  kilt,  though  white ;  the  spare,  ac- 
tive form  ;  their  dialect,  Celtic  in  its  sound,  and  their  hardy  habits,  all  carried  me 
back  to  Morven.  No  nation  are  so  detested  and  dreaded  by  their  neighbours  as 
the  Albanese ;  the  Greeks  hardly  regard  them  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks  as  Mos- 
lems ;  and  in  fact  they  are  a  mixture  of  both,  and  sometimes  neither.  Their  habits 
are  predatory  —  all  are  armed  ;  and  the  red-shawled  Arnaouts,  the  Montenegrins, 
Chimariots,  and  Gegdes,  are  treacherous  ;  the  others  differ  somewhat  in  garb,  and 
essentially  in  character.  As  far  as  my  own  experience  goes,  I  can  speak  favour- 
ably. I  was  attended  by  two,  an  Infidel  and  a  Mussulman,  to  Constantinople  and 
every  other  part  of  Turkey  which  came  within  my  observation  ;  and  more  faithful 
in  peril,  or  indefatigable  in  service  are  rarely  to  be  found.  The  Infidel  was  named 
Basilius,  the  Moslem,  Dervish  Tahiri ;  the  former  a  man  of  middle  age,  and  the 
latter  about  my  own.  Basili  was  strictly  charged  by  Ali  Pacha  in  person  to  attend 
us ;  and  Dervish  was  one  of  fifty  who  accompanied  us  through  the  forests  of  Acar- 
nania  to  the  banks  of  Achelous,  and  onward  to  Messalonghi  in  JEtolia.  There  I 
took  him  into  my  own  service,  and  never  had  occasion  to  repent  it  till  the  moment 
of  my  departure. 

When  in  1810,  after  the  departure  of  my  friend  Mr.  H.  for  England,  I  was  seized 
with  a  severe  fever  in  the  Morea,  these  men  saved  my  life  by  frightening  away  my 
physician,  whose  throat  they  threatened  to  cut  if  I  was  not  cured  within  a  given 
time.  To  this  consolatory  assurance  of  posthumous  retribution,  and  a  resolute  re- 
fusal of  Dr.  Romanelli's  prescriptions,  I  attributed  my  recovery.  I  had  left  my  last 
remaining  English  servant  at  Athens ;  my  dragoman  was  as  ill  as  myself,  and  my 
poor  Arnaouts  nursed  me  with  an  attention  which  would  have  done  honour  to  civili- 
zation. They  had  a  variety  of  adventures  ;  for  the  Moslem,  Dervish,  being  a  re- 
markably handsome  man,  was  always  squabbling  with  the  husbands  of  Athens  ;  in- 
somuch that  four  of  the  principal  Turks  paid  me  a  visit  of  remonstrance  at  the  Con- 
vent, on  the  subject  of  his  having  taken  a  woman  from  the  bath  —  whom  he  had 
lawfully  bought  however  —  a  thing  quite  contrary  to  etiquette. 

Basili  also  was  extremely  gallant  among  his  own  persuasion,  and  had  the  greatest 
veneration  for  the  church,  mixed  with  the  highest  contempt  of  churchmen,  whom  he 
cuffed  upon  occasion  in  a  most  heterodox  manner.  Yet  he  never  passed  a  church 
without  crossing  himself;  and  I  remember  the  risk  he  ran  in  entering  St.  Sophia,  in 
Stambol,  because  it  had  once  been  a  place  of  his  worship.  On  remonstrating  with 
him  on  his  inconsistent  proceedings,  he  invariably  answered,  "  Our  church  is  holy, 
our  priests  are  thieves  ; "  and  then  he  crossed  himself  as  usual,  and  boxed  the  ears 
of  the  first  "  papas  "  who  refused  to  assist  in  any  required  operation,  as  was  always 
found  to  be  necessary  where  a  priest  had  any  influence  with  the  Cogia  Bashi  of  his 
village.  Indeed,  a  more  abandoned  race  of  miscreants  cannot  exist  than  the  lower 
orders  of  the  Greek  clergy. 

When  preparations  were  made  for  my  return,  my  Albanians  were  summoned  to 
receive  their  pay.  Basili  took  his  with  an  awkward  show  of  regret  at  my  intended 
departure,  and  marched  away  to  his  quarters  with  his  bag  of  piastres.  I  sent  for 
Dervish,  but  for  some  time  he  was  not,  to  be  found  ;  at  last  he  entered,  just  as  Sig- 
nor  Logotheti,  father  to  the  ci-devant  Anglo-consul  of  Athens,  and  some  other  of 
my  Greek  acquaintances,  paid  me  a  visit.  Dervish  took  the  money,  but  on  a  sud- 
den dashed  it  to  the  ground ;  and  clasping  his  hands,  which  he  raised  to  his  forehead, 


74  APPENDIX    TO 

rushed  out  of  the  room,  weeping  bitterly.  From  that  moment  to  the  hour  of  my 
embarkation,  he  continued  his  lamentations,  and  all  our  efforts  to  console  him  only 
produced  this  answer,  "Ma  Qetvei"  "He  leaves  me."  Signer  Logotheti,  who 
never  wept  before  foi  any  thing  less  than  the  less  of  a  para  (about  the  fourth  of  a 
farthing) ,  melted ;  the  padre  of  the  convent,  my  attendants,  my  visitors  —  and  I 
verily  believe  that  even  Sterne's  "  foolish  fat  scullion  "  would  have  left  her  "  fish- 
kettle,"  to  sympathize  with  the  unaffected  and  unexpected  sorrow  of  this  barbarian. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I  remembered  that,  a  short  time  before  my  departure 
from  England,  a  noble  and  most  intimate  associate  had  excused  himself  from  taking 
leave  of  me,  because  he  had  to  attend  a  relation  "  to  a  milliner's,"  I  felt  no  less  sur- 
prised than  humiliated  by  the  present  occurrence  and  the  past  recollection. 

That  Dervish  would  leave  me  with  some  regret  was  to  be  expected  :  when  master 
and  man  have  been  scrambling  over  the  mountains  of  a  dozen  provinces  together, 
they  are  unwilling  to  separate  ;  but  his  present  feelings,  contrasted  with  his  native 
ferocity,  improved  my  opinion  of  the  human  heart.  I  believe  this  almost  feudal  fide- 
lity is  frequent  among  them.  One  day,  on  our  journey  over  Parnassus,  an  English- 
man in  my  service  gave  him  a  push  in  some  dispute  about  the  baggage,  which  he 
unluckily  mistook  for  a  blow ;  he  spoke  not,  but  sat  down  leaning  his  head  upon  his 
hands.  Foreseeing  the  consequences,  we  endeavoured  to  explain  away  the  affront, 
which  produced  the  following  answer:  —  "  I  have  been  a  robber  ;  I  am  a  soldier  ; 
no  captain  ever  struck  me  ;  you  are  my  master,  I  have  eaten  your  bread,  but  by 
that  bread!  (an  usual  oath)  had  it  been  otherwise,  I  would  have  stabbed  the  dog 
your  servant,  and  gone  to  the  mountains."  So  the  affair  ended,  but  from  that  day 
forward  he  never  thoroughly  forgave  the  thoughtless  fellow  who  insulted  him. 

Dervish  excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country,  conjectured  to  be  a  remnant  of  the 
ancient  Pyrrhic  :  be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  manly,  and  requires  wonderful  agility.  It 
is  very  distinct  from  the  stupid  Romaika,  the  dull  round-about  of  the  Greeks,  of 
which  our  Athenian  party  had  so  many  specimens. 

The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the  cultivators  of  the  earth  in  the  pro- 
vinces, who  have  also  that  appellation,  but  the  mountaineers)  have  a  fine  cast  of 
countenance :  and  the  most  beautiful  women  I  ever  beheld,  in  stature  and  in  fea- 
tures, we  saw  levelling  the  road  broken  down  by  the  torrents  between  Delvinachi 
and  Libochabo.  Their  manner  of  walking  is  truly  theatrical ;  but  this  strut  is  pro- 
bably the  effect  of  the  capote,  or  cloak,  depending  from  one  shoulder.  Their  long 
hair  reminds  you  of  the  Spartans,  and  their  courage  in  desultory  warfare  is  unques- 
tionable. Though  they  have  some  cavalry  amongst  the  Gegdes,  I  never  saw  a  good 
Arnaout  horseman ;  my  own  preferred  the  English  saddles,  which,  however,  they 
could  never  keep.  But  on  foot  they  are  not  to  be  subdued  by  fatigue. 


NOTE  [C].    See  p.  60. 
"  While  thus  in  concert,"  &c. 


Stanza  Ixxii.  line  last. 


As  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dialect  of  the  Illyric,  I  here  insert  two 
of  their  most  popular  choral  songs,  which  are  generally  chanted  in  dancing  by  men 
or  women  indiscriminately.  The  first  words  are  merely  a  kind  of  chorus  without 
meaning,  like  some  in  our  own  and  all  other  languages. 

1.  1. 

Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo.  Lo,  Lo,  I  come,  I  come  ;   be  thou 

JNaciarura,  popuso.  silent. 

2.  2. 

Naciarura  na  civin  come,  I  run  ;  open  the  door  that  I 

Ha  pen  derini  ti  hin.  may  enter. 

3.  3. 

Ha  pe  uderi  escrotini  Open  the  door  by  halves,  that  I  may 

Ti  vin  ti  mar  servetini.  take  my  turban. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND.  75 

4.  4. 

Caliriote  me  surme  Caliriotes*  with  the  dark  eyes,  open 

Ea  ha  pe  pse  dua  live.  the  gate,  that  I  may  enter. 

5.  5. 

Buo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Lo,  lo,  I  hear  thee,  my  soul. 

Gi  egem  spirta  esimiro. 

6.  6. 

Caliriote  vu  le  funde  An  Arnaout  girl,   in  costly  garb, 

Ede  vete  tunde  tunde.  walks  with  graceful  pride. 

7.  7. 

Caliriote  me  surme  Caliriot  maid  of  the  dark  eyes,  give 

Ti  mi  put  e  poi  mi  le.  me  a  kiss. 

8.  8. 

Se  ti  puta  citi  niora  If  I  have  kissed  thee,  what  hast 

Si  mi  ri  ni  veti  udo  gia.  thou  gained  ?  My  soul  is  consum- 

ed with  fire. 

9.  9. 

Va  le  ni  il  che  cadale  Dance    lightly,  more    gently,  and 

Celo  more,  more  celo.  gently  still. 

10.  10. 

Plu  hari  ti  terete  Make  not  so  much  dust  to  destroy 

Plu  huron  cia  pra  seti.  your  embroidered  hose. 

The  last  stanza  would  puzzle  a  commentator :  the  men  have  certainly  buskins  of 
the  most  beautiful  texture,  but  the  ladies  (to  whom  the  above  is  supposed  to  be  ad- 
dressed) have  nothing  under  their  little  yellow  boots  and  slippers  but  a  well-turned 
and  sometimes  very  white  ankle.  The  Arnaout  girls  are  much  handsomer  than  the 
Greeks,  and  their  dress  is  far  more  picturesque.  They  preserve  their  shape  much 
longer  also,  from  being  always  in  the  open  air.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  Ar- 
naout is  not  a  written  language ;  the  words  of  this  song,  therefore,  as  well  as  the  ono 
which  follows,  are  spelt  according  to  their  pronunciation.  They  are  copied  by  one 
who  speaks  and  understands  the  dialect  perfectly,  and  who  is  a  native  of  Athens. 

1.  1. 

Ndi  sefda  tinde  uiavossa  I  am  wounded  by  thy  love,  and  have 

Vettimi  upri  vi  lofsa.  loved  but  to  scorch  myself. 

2.  2. 

Ah  vaisisso  mi  privi  lofse  Thou    hast    consumed    me  !    Ah, 

Si  mi  rini  mi  la  vosse.  maid !  thou  hast  struck  me  to  the 

heart. 

3.  3. 

Uti  tasa  roba  stua  I  have  said  I  wish  no  dowry,  but 

Sitti  eve  tulati  dua.  thine  eyes  and  eye-lashes. 

4.  4. 

Roba  stinori  ssidua  The  accursed  dowry  I  want  not, 

Q,u  mi  sini  vetti  dua.  but  thee  only. 

5.  5. 

durmini  dua  civileni  Give  me  thy  charms,  and  let  the 

Roba  ti  siarmi  tildi  eni.  portion  feed  the  flames. 

6.  6. 

Utara  pisa  vaisisso  me  I  have  loved  thee,  maid,  with  a  sin- 

simi  rin  ti  hapti  cere  soul,  but  thou  hast  left  me 

Et  mi  bire  a  piste  si  gui  like  a  withered  tree, 
dendroi  tiltati. 


*  The  Albanese,  particularly  the  women,  are  frequently  termed  "  Caliriotes  ;' 
for  what  reason  I  inquired  in  vain. 


76  APPENDIX   TO 

7.  7. 

Udi  vura  udorini  udiri  ci-  If  I  have  placed  my  hand  on  thy 

cova  cilti  mora  bosom,  what  have  I  gained  ?  my 

Udorini  talti  hollna  u  ede  hand  is  withdrawn,   but  retains 

caimoni  mora.  the  flame. 

I  believe  the  two  last  stanzas,  as  they  are  in  a  different  measure,  ought  to  belong 
to  another  ballad.  An  idea  something  similar  to  the  thought  in  the  last  lines  was 
expressed  by  Socrates,  whose  arm  having  come  in  contact  with  one  of  his  "  VKOKO\- 
xioi"  Critobulus  or  Cleobulus,  the  philosopher  complained  of  a  shooting  pain  as 
far  as  his  shoulder  for  some  days  after,  and  therefore  very  properly  resolved  to  teach 
his  disciples  in  future  without  touching  them. 


NOTE  [DJ.     Seep.  62. 

"  Fair  Greece !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 

Immortal,  though  no  more  ;  though  fallen,  great !  " 

Stanza  Ixxiii.  lines  1.  and  2. 
I. 

Before  I  say  any  thing  about  a  city  of  which  every  body,  traveller  or  not,  has 
thought  it  necessary  to  say  something,  I  will  request  Miss  Owenson,  when  she  next 
borrows  an  Athenian  heroine  for  her  four  volumes,  to  have  the  goodness  to  marry 
her  to  somebody  more  of  a  gentleman  than  a  "  Disdar  Aga,"  (who  by  the  by  is  not 
an  Aga,)  the  most  impolite  of  petty  officers,  the  greatest  patron  of  larceny  Athens 
ever  saw,  (except  Lord  E.)  and  the  unworthy  occupant  of  the  Acropolis,  on  a  hand- 
some annual  stipend  of  150  piastres,  (eight  pounds  sterling,)  out  of  which  he  has 
only  to  pay  his  garrison,  the  most  ill-regulated  corps  in  the  ill-regulated  Ottoman 
Empire.  I  speak  it  tenderly,  seeing  I  was  once  the  cause  of  the  husband  of  "  Ida 
of  Athens  "  nearly  suffering  the  bastinado  ;  and  because  the  said  "  Disdar"  is  a 
turbulent  husband,  and  beats  his  wife  ;  so  that  I  exhort  and  beseech  Miss  Owenson 
to  sue  for  a  separate  maintenance  in  behalf  of  "  Ida."  Having  premised  thus  much, 
on  a  matter  of  such  import  to  the  readers  of  romances,  I  may  now  leave  Ida,  to 
mention  her  birthplace. 

Setting  aside  the  magic  of  the  name,  and  all  those  associations  which  it  would  be 
pedantic  and  superfluous  to  recapitulate,  the  very  situation  of  Athens  would  render 
it  the  favourite  of  all  who  have  eyes  for  art  or  nature.  The  climate,  to  me  at  least, 
appeared  a  perpetual  spring;  during  eight  months  I  never  passed  a  day  without  be- 
ing as  many  hours  on  horseback :  rain  is  extremely  rare,  snow  never  lies  in  the 
plains,  and  a  cloudy  day  is  an  agreeable  rarity.  In  Spain,  Portugal,  and  every  part 
of  the  East  which  I  visited,  except  Ionia  and  Attica,  I  perceived  no  such  superiority 
of  climate  to  our  own  ;  and  at  Constantinople,  where  I  passed  May,  June,  and  part 
of  July,  (1810,)  you  might  "damn  the  climate,  and  complain  of  spleen,"  five  days 
out  of  seven. 

The  air  of  the  Morea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome,  but  the  moment  you  pass  the 
isthmus  in  the  direction  of  Megara  the  change  is  strikingly  perceptible.  But  I  fear 
Hesiod  will  still  be  found  correct  in  his  description  of  a  Boeotian  winter. 

We  found  at  Livadia  an  "  esprit  fort"  in  a  Greek  bishop,  of  all  free-thinkers  ! 
This  worthy  hypocrite  rallied  his  own  religion  with  great  intrepidity,  (but  not  before 
his  flock,)  and  talked  of  a  mass  as  a  "  coglioneria."  It  was  impossible  to  think 
better  of  him  for  this  ;  but,  for  a  Boeotian,  he  was  brisk  with  all  nis  absurdity.  — 
This  phenomenon  (with  the  exception  indeed  of  Thebes,  the  remains  of  Chaeronea, 
the  plain  of  Platea,  Orchomenus,  Livadia,  and  its  nominal  cave  of  Trophonius)  was 
the  only  remarkable  thing  we  saw  before  we  passed  Mount  Cithxron. 

The  fountain  of  Dirce  turns  a  mill :  at  least  my  companion  (who,  resolving  to  be 
at  once  cleanly  and  classical,  bathed  in  it)  pronounced  it  to  be  the  fountain  of  Dirce, 
and  any  body  who  thinks  it  worth  while  may  contradict  him.  At  Castn  we  drank 
of  half  a  dozen  streamlets,  some  not  of  the  purest,  before  we  decided  to  our  satis- 
faction which  was  the  true  Castalian,  and  even  that  had  a  villanous  twang,  proba- 


CANTO    THE    SECOND.  77 

bly  from  the  snow,  though  it  did  not  throw  us  into  an  epic  ferer,  like  poor  Dr. 
Chandler. 

From  Fort  Phyle,  of  which  large  remains  still  exist,  the  Plain  of  Athens,  Pente- 
licus,  Hymettus,  the  JSgean,  and  the  Acropolis,  burst  upon  the  eye  at  once  ;  in  my 
opinion,  a  more  glorious  prospect  than  even  Cintra  or  Istambol.  Not  the  view  from 
the  Troad,  with  Ida,  the  Hellespont,  and  the  more  distant  Mount  Athos,  can  equal 
it,  though  so  superior  in  extent. 

I  heard  much  of  the  beauty  of  Arcadia,  but  excepting  the  view  from  the  monas- 
tery of  Megaspelion,  (which  is  inferior  to  Zitza  in  a  command  of  country,)  and  the 
descent  from  the  mountains  on  the  way  from  Tripolitza  to  Argos,  Arcadia  has  little 
to  recommend  it  beyond  the  name. 

"  Sternitur,  et  dulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos." 

Virgil  could  have  put  this  into  the  mouth  of  none  but  an  Argive,  and  (with  reve- 
rence be  it  spoken)  it  does  not  deserve  the  epithet.  And  if  the  Polynices  of  Statius, 
"  In  mediis  audit  duo  litora  campis,"  did  actually  hear  both  shores  in  crossing  the 
isthmus  of  Corinth,  he  had  better  ears  than  have  ever  been  worn  in  such  a  journey 
since. 

"Athens,"  says  a  celebrated  topographer,  "is  still  the  most  polished  city  of 
Greece."  Perhaps  it  may  of  Greece,  but  not  of  the  Greeks ;  for  Joannina  in  Epirus 
is  universally  allowed,  amongst  themselves,  to  be  superior  in  the  wealth,  refinement, 
learning,  and  dialect  of  its  inhabitants.  The  Athenians  are  remarkable  for  their 
cunning ;  and  the  lower  orders  are  not  improperly  characterized  in  that  proverb, 
which  classes  them  with  "  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Turks  of  the  Negropont. 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens,  French,  Italians,  Germans, 
Ragusans,  &c.  there  was  never  a  difference  of  opinion  in  their  estimate  of  the 
Greek  character,  though  on  all  other  topics  they  disputed  with  great  acrimony. 

M.  Fauvel,  the  French  consul,  who  has  passed  thirty  years  principally  at 
Athens,  and  to  whose  talents  as  an  artist  and  manners  as  a  gentleman,  none  who 
have  known  him  can  refuse  their  testimony,  has  frequently  declared  in  my  hearing, 
that  the  Greeks  do  not  deserve  to  be  emancipated  ;  reasoning  on  the  grounds  of 
their  "  national  and  individual  depravity  !"  while  he  forgot  that  such  depravity  is  to 
be  attributed  to  causes  which  can  only  be  removed  by  the  measure  he  reprobates. 

M.  Roque,  a  French  merchant  of  respectability  long  settled  in  Athena,  asserted 
with  the  most  amusing  gravity,  "  Sir,  they  are  the  same  canaille  that  existed  in  the 
days  of  Themistocles !  "  an  alarming  remark  to  the  "  Laudator  temporis  acti."  The 
ancients  banished  Themistocles ;  the  moderns  cheat  Monsieur  Roque :  thus  great 
men  have  ever  been  treated ! 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and  most  of  the  Englishmen,  Germans, 
Danes,  &c.  of  passage,  came  over  by  degrees  to  their  opinion,  on  much  the  same 
grounds  that  a  Turk  in  England  would  condemn  the  nation  by  wholesale,  because 
he  was  wronged  by  his  lacquey,  and  overcharged  by  his  washerwoman. 

Certainly  it  was  not  a  little  staggering  when  the  Sieurs  Fauvel  and  Lusieri,  the 
two  greatest  demagogues  of  the  day,  who  divide  between  them  the  power  of  Peri- 
cles and  the  popularity  of  Cleon,  and  puzzle  the  poor  Waywode  with  perpetual  dif- 
ferences, agreed  in  the  utter  condemnation,  "  nulla  virtute  redemptum,"  of  the 
Greeks  in  general,  and  of  the  Athenians  in  particular. 

For  my  own  humble  opinion,  I  am  loth  to  hazard  it,  knowing  as  I  do,  that  there 
be  now  in  MS.  no  less  than  five  tours  of  the  first  magnitude  and  of  the  most  threat- 
ening aspect,  all  in  typographical  array,  by  persons  of  wit,  and  honour,  and  regular 
common-place  books :  but,  if  I  may  say  this  without  ofFence,  it  seems  to  me  rather 
hard  to  declare  so  positively  and  pertinaciously,  as  almost  every  body  has  declared, 
that  the  Greeks,  because  they  are  very  bad,  will  never  be  better. 

Eton  and  Sonnini  have  led  us  astray  by  their  panegyrics  and  projects  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  De  Pauw  and  Thornton  have  debased  the  Greeks  beyond  their 
demerits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent ;  they  will  never  be  sovereigns  as  hereto- 
fore, and  God  forbid  they  ever  should !  but  they  may  be  subjects  without  being 
slaves.  Our  colonies  are  not  independent,  but  they  are  free  and  industrious,  and 
such  may  Greece  be  hereafter. 

At  present,  like  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  the  Jews  throughout  the  world,  and 
such  other  cudgelled  and  heterodox  people,  they  suffer  all  the  moral  and  physical 
ills  that  can  afflict  humanity.  Their  life  is  a  struggle  against  truth  ;  they  are  vi- 
cious in  their  own  defence.  They  are  so  unused  to  kindness,  that  when  they  occa- 


78  APPENDIX    TO 

sionally  meet  with  it  they  look  upon  it  with  suspicion,  as  a  dog  often  beaten  snaps 
at  your  fingers  if  you  attempt  to  caress  him.  "  They  are  ungrateful,  notoriously, 
abominably  ungrateful !  "  —  this  is  the  general  cry.  Now,  in  the  name  of  Nemesis  ! 
for  what  are  they  to  be  grateful  ?  Where  is  the  human  being  that  ever  conferred  a 
benefit  on  Greek  or  Greeks'/  They  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  Turks  for  their  fet- 
ters, and  to  the  Franks  for  their  broken  promises  and  lying  counsels.  They  are  to 
be  grateful  to  the  artist  who  engraves  their  ruins,  and  to  the  antiquary  who  carries 
them  away  ;  to  the  traveller  whose  janissary  flogs  them,  and  to  the  scribbler  whose 
journal  abuses  them !  This  is  the  amount  of  their  obligations  to  foreigners. 


II. 

Franciscan  Convent,  Athens,  January  23.  1811. 

Amongst  the  remnants  of  the  barbarous  policy  of  the  earlier  ages,  are  the  traces  of 
bondage  which  yet  exist  in  different  countries  ;  whose  inhabitants,  however  divided 
in  religion  and  manners,  almost  all  agree  in  oppression. 

The  English  have  at  last  compassionated  their  Negroes,  and  under  a  less  bigoted 
government,  may  probably  one  day  release  their  Catholic  brethren  :  but  the  inter- 
position of  foreigners  alone  can  emancipate  the  Greeks,  who,  otherwise,  appear  to 
have  as  small  a  chance  of  redemption  from  the  Turks,  as  the  Jews  have  from  man- 
kind in  general. 

Of  the  ancient  Greeks  we  know  more  than  enough  ;  at  least  the  younger  men  of 
Europe  devote  much  of  their  time  to  the  study  of  the  Greek  writers  and  history, 
which  would  be  more  usefully  spent  in  mastering  their  own.  Of  the  moderns,  we 
are  perhaps  more  neglectful  than  they  deserve  ;  and  while  every  man  of  any  pre- 
tensions to  learning  is  tiring  out  his  youth,  and  often  his  age,  in  the  study  of  the 
language  and  of  the  harangues  of  the  Athenian  demagogues  in  favour  of  freedom, 
the  real  or  supposed  descendants  of  these  sturdy  republicans  are  left  to  the  actual 
tyranny  of  their  masters,  although  a  very  slight  effort  is  required  to  strike  oft' their 
chains. 

To  talk,  as  the  Greeks  themselves  do,  of  their  rising  again  to  their  pristine  supe- 
riority, would  be  ridiculous  ;  as  the  rest  of  the  world  must  resume  its  barbarism, 
after  reasserting  the  sovereignty  of  Greece  :  but  there  seems  to  be  no  very  great 
obstacle,  except  in  the  apathy  of  the  Franks,  to  their  becoming  an  useful  depen- 
dency, or  even  a  free  state  with  a  proper  guarantee  ;  —  under  correction,  however, 
be  it  spoken,  for  many  and  well-informed  men  doubt  the  practicability  even  of  this. 

The  Greeks  have  never  lost  their  hope,  though  they  are  now  more  divided  in 
opinion  on  the  subject  of  their  probable  deliverers.  Religion  recommends  the  Rus- 
sians ;  but  they  have  twice  been  deceived  and  abandoned  by  that  power,  and  the 
dreadful  lesson  they  received  after  the  Muscovite  desertion  in  the  Morea  has  never 
been  forgotten.  The  French  they  dislike  ;  although  the  subjugation  of  the  rest  of 
Europe  will,  probably,  be  attended  by  the  deliverance  of  continental  Greece.  The 
islanders  look  to  the  English  for  succour,  as  they  have  very  lately  possessed  them- 
selves of  the  Ionian  republic,  Corfu  excepted.  But  whoever  appear  with  arms  in 
their  hands  will  be  welcome ;  and  when  that  day  arrives,  Heaven  have  mercy  on 
the  Ottomans,  they  cannot  expect  it  from  the  Giaours. 

But  instead  of  considering  what  they  have  been,  and  speculating  on  what  they 
may  be,  let  us  look  at  them  as  they  are. 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  contrariety  of  opinions  :  some,  particu- 
larly the  merchants,  decrying  the  Greeks  in  the  strongest  language ;  others,  gene- 
rally travellers,  turning  periods  in  their  eulogy,  and  publishing  very  curious  specu- 
lations grafted  on  their  former  state,  which  can  have  no  more  effect  on  their  present 
lot,  than  the  existence  of  the  Incas  on  the  future  fortunes  of  Peru. 

One  very  ingenious  person  terms  them  the  "natural  allies  of  Englishmen  ;" 
another,  no  less  ingenious,  will  not  allow  them  to  be  the  allies  of  any  body,  and  de- 
nies their  very  descent  from  the  ancients  ;  a  third,  more  ingenious  than  either, 
builds  a  Greek  empire  on  a  Russian  foundation,  and  realizes  (on  paper)  all  the 
chimeras  of  Catherine  II.  As  to  the  question  of  their  descent,  what  can  it  import 
whether  the  Mainotes  are  the  lineal  Laconians  or  not  ?  or  the  present  Athenians 
as  indigenous  as  the  bees  of  Hymettus,  or  as  the  grasshoppers,  to  which  they  once 
likened  themselves  ?  What  Englishman  cares  if  he  be  of  a  Danish,  Saxon,  Norman, 


CANTO    THE    SECOND.  79 

or  Trojan  blood  ?  or  who,  except  a  Welshman,  is  afflicted  with  a  desire  of  being 
descended  from  Caractacus  ? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  abound  in  the  good  things  of  this  world,  as  to 
render  even  their  claims  to  antiquity  an  object  of  envy  ;  it  is  very  cruel,  then,  in 
Mr.  Thornton  to  disturb  them  in  the  possession  of  all  that  time  has  left  them ;  viz. 
their  pedigree,  of  which  they  are  the  more  tenacious,  as  it  is  all  they  can  call  their 
own.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  publish  together,  and  compare,  the  works  of 
Messrs.  Thornton  and  De  Pauw,  Eton  and  Sonnini ;  paradox  on  one  side,  and 
prejudice  on  the  other.  Mr.  Thornton  conceives  himself  to  have  claims  to  public 
confidence  from  a  fourteen  years'  residence  at  Pera  ;  perhaps  he  may  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  Turks,  but  this  can  give  him  no  more  insight  into  the  real  state  of  Greece 
and  her  inhabitants,  than  as  many  years  spent  in  Wapping  into  that  of  the  Western 
Highlands. 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinople  live  in  Fanal ;  and  if  Mr.  Thornton  did  not  oftener 
cross  the  Golden  Horn  than  his  brother  merchants  are  accustomed  to  do,  I  should 
place  no  great  reliance  on  his  information.  I  actually  heard  one  of  these  gentlemen 
boast  of  their  little  general  intercourse  with  the  city,  and  assert  of  himself,  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  that  ne  had  been  but  four  times  at  Constantinople  in  as  many  years. 

As  to  Mr.  Thornton's  voyages  in  the  Black  Sea  with  Greek  vessels,  they  gave 
him  the  same  idea  of  Greece  as  a  cruise  to  Berwick  in  a  Scotch  smack  would  of 
Johnny  Grot's  house.  Upon  what  grounds  then  does  he  arrogate  the  right  of  con- 
demning by  wholesale  a  body  of  men,  of  whom  he  can  know  little  ?  It  is  rather  a 
curious  circumstance  that  Mr.  Thornton,  who  so  lavishly  dispraises  Pouqueville  on 
every  occasion  of  mentioning  the  Turks,  has  yet  recourse  to  him  as  authority  on 
the  Greeks,  and  terms  him  an  impartial  observer.  Now  Dr.  Pouqueville  is  as  little 
entitled  to  that  appellation,  as  Mr.  Thornton  to  confer  it  on  him. 

The  fact  is,  we  are  deplorably  in  want  of  information  on  the  subject  of  the  Greeks, 
and  in  particular  their  literature,  nor  is  there  any  probability  of  our  being  better  ac- 
quainted, till  our  intercourse  becomes  more  intimate,  or  their  independence  con- 
firmed :  the  relations  of  passing  travellers  are  as  little  to  be  depended  on  as  the  in- 
vectives of  angry  factors ;  but  till  something  more  can  be  attained,  we  must  be  con- 
tent with  the  little  to  be  acquired  from  similar  sources.* 

However  defective  these  may  be,  they  are  preferable  to  the  paradoxes  of  men 
who  have  read  superficially  of  the  ancients,  and  seen  nothing  of  the  moderns,  such 
as  De  Pauw  ;  who,  when  he  asserts  that  the  British  breed  of  horses  is  ruined  by 
Newmarket,  and  that  the  Spartans  were  cowards  in  the  field,  betrays  an  equal 
knowledge  of  English  horses  and  Spartan  men.  His  "  philosophical  observations  " 
have  a  much  better  claim  to  the  title  of  "  poetical."  It  could  not  be  expected  that 
he  who  so  liberally  condemns  some  of  the  most  celebrated  institutions  of  the  an- 
cient, should  have  mercy  on  the  modern  Greeks  5  and  it  fortunately  happens,  that 


*  A  word,  en  passant,  with  Mr.  Thornton  and  Dr.  Pouqueville.  who  have  been 
guilty  between  them  of  sadly  clipping  the  Sultan's  Turkish. 

Dr.  Pouqueville  tells  a  long  story  of  a  Moslem  who  swallowed  corrosive  sublimate 
in  such  quantities  that  he  acquired  the  name  of"  Suleyman  Fez/era,"  i.  e.  quoth  the 
Doctor,  "  Suleyman,  the  eater  of  corrosive  sublimate."  '  "  Aha,"  thinks  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton, (angry  with  the  Doctor  for  the  fiftieth  time,)  "  have  I  caught  you?"  —  Then, 
in  a  note  twice  the  thickness  of  the  Doctor's  anecdote,  he  questions  the  Doctor's 
proficiency  in  the  Turkish  tongue,  and  his  veracity  in  his  own.  —  "  For,"  observes 
Mr.  Thornton,  (after  inflicting  on  us  the  tough  participle  of  a  Turkish  verb.)  "  it 
means  nothing  more  than  Suleyman  the  eater"  and  quite  cashiers  the  supplementary 
"  sublimate."  Now  both  are  right,  and  both  are  wrong.  If  Mr.  Thornton,  when 
he  next  resides  "  fourteen  years  in  the  factory,"  will  consult  his  Turkish  dictionary, 
or  ask  any  of  his  Stamboline  acquaintance,  he  will  discover  that  "  Suleyma'n  ye- 
yen"  put  together  discreetly,  mean  the  "  Swallower  of  sublimate"  without  any 
"  Suleyman"  in  the  case:  "  Suleyma"  signifying  "  corrosive  sublimate"  and  not 
being  a  proper  name  on  this  occasion,  although  it  be  an  orthodox  name  enough  with 
the  addition  of  n.  After  Mr.  Thornton's  frequent  hints  of  profound  Orientalism,  he 
might  have  found  this  out  before  he  sang  such  paeans  over  Dr.  Pouqueville. 

After  this,  I  think  "  Travellers  versus  Factors  "  shall  be  om  motto,  though  the 
above  Mr.  Thornton  has  condemned  (t  hoc  genus  omne,"  for  mistake  and  misrepre- 
sentation. "  Ne  Sutor  ultra  crepidarn,"  "  No  merchant  beyond  his  bales."  N. 
B.  For  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Thornton,  "  Sutor  "  is  not  a  proper  name. 


80  APPENDIX   TO 

the  absurdity  of  his  hypothesis  on  their  forefathers  refutes  his  sentence  on  them- 
selves. 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that,  in  spite  of  the  prophecies  of  De  Pauw,  and  the  doubts  of 
Mr.  Thornton,  there  is  a  reasonable  hope  of  the  redemption  of  a  race  of  men,  who, 
whatever  may  be  the  errors  of  their  religion  and  policy,  have  been  amply  punished 
by  three  centuries  and  a  half  of  captivity. 


III. 

Athens,  Franciscan  Convent,  March  17,  1811. 

"  I  must  have  some  talk  with  this  learned  Theban." 

Some  time  after  my  return  from  Constantinople  to  this  city,  I  received  the  thirty- 
first  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  a  great  favour,  and  certainly  at  this  dis- 
tance an  acceptable  one,  from  the  captain  of  an  English  frigate  off  Salamis.  In 
that  number,  Art.  3.  containing  the  review  of  a  French  translation  ot'Strabo,  there 
are  introduced  some  remarks  on  the  modern  Greeks  and  their  literature,  with  a  short 
account  of  Coray,  a  co-translator  in  the  French  version.  On  those  remarks  I  mean 
to  ground  a  few  observations,  and  the  spot  where  I  now  write  will,  I  hope,  be  suffi- 
cient excuse  for  introducing  them  in  a  work  in  some  degree  connected  with  the  sub- 
ject. Coray,  the  most  celebrated  of  living  Greeks,  at  least  among  the  Franks,  was 
born  at  Scio,  (in  the  Review,  Smyrna  is  stated,  I  have  reason  to  think,  incorrectly,) 
and,  besides  the  translation  of  Beccaria  and  other  works  mentioned  by  the  Review- 
er, has  published  a  Lexicon  in  Romaic  and  French,  if  I  may  trust  the  assurance  of 
some  Danish  travellers  lately  arrived  from  Paris ;  but  the  latest  we  have  seen  here 
in  French  and  Greek  is  that  of  Gregory  Zolikogloou.*  Coray  has  recently  been 
involved  in  an  unpleasant  controversy  with  Mr.  Gail,|  a  Parisian  commentator  and 
editor  of  some  translations  from  the  Greek  poets,  in  consequence  of  the  Institute 
having  awarded  him  the  prize  for  his  version  of  Hippocrates  "  Ilepi  vddrov"  &c.  to 
the  disparagement,  and  consequently  displeasure,  of  the  said  Gail.  To  his  exer- 
tions, literary  and  patriotic,  great  praise  is  undoubtedly  due,  but  a  part  of  that  praise 
ought  not  to  be  withheld  from  the  two  brothers  Zosimado,  (merchants  settled  in 
Leghorn,)  who  sent  him  to  Paris,  and  maintained  him  for  the  express  purpose  of 
elucidating  the  ancient,  and  adding  to  the  modern,  researches  of  his  countrymen. 
Coray,  however,  is  not  considered  by  his  countrymen  equal  to  some  who  lived  in 
the  two  last  centuries  ;  more  particularly  Dorotheus  of  Mitylene,  whose  Hellenic 
writings  are  so  much  esteemed  by  the  Greeks  that  Meletius  terms  him,  "  Mm*  rbv 
QovKvdidrjv  Kal  Eevo^wvra  apiaroj  'EXX^vwv."  (P.  224.  Ecclesiastical  History, 
vol.  iv.) 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  the  translator  of  Fontenelle,  and  Kamarases,  who  translat- 
ed Ocellus  Lucanus  on  the  Universe  into  French,  Christodoulus,  and  more  par- 
ticularly Psalida,  whom  I  have  conversed  with  in  Joannina,  are  also  in  high  repute 
among  their  literati.  The  last-mentioned  has  published  in  Romaic  and  Latin  a 
work  on  "  True  Happiness,"  dedicated  to  Catherine  II.  But  Polyzois,  who  is  stat- 
ed by  the  Reviewer  to  be  the  only  modern  except  Coray  who  has  distinguished 
himself  by  a  knowledge  of  Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Polyzois  Lampanitziotes  of  Yanina, 
who  has  published  a  number  of  editions  in  Romaic,  was  neither  more  nor  less  than 
an  itinerant  vender  of  books;  with  the  contents  of  which  he  had  no  concern  beyond 
his  name  on  the  title-page,  placed  there  to  secure  his  property  in  the  publication ; 
and  he  was,  moreover,  a  man  utterly  destitute  of  scholastic  acquirements.  As  the 


*  I  have  in  my  possession  an  excellent  Lexicon  "  rptj/Aaxrow,"  which  1  received 
in  exchange  from  S.  G  —  ,  Esq.  for  a  small  gem  :  my  antiquarian  friends  have  never 
forgotten  it,  or  forgiven  me. 

t  In  Gail's  pamphlet  against  Coray,  he  talks  of  "  throwing  the  insolent  Hellenist 
out  of  the  windows."  On  this  a  French  critic  exclaims,  "  Ah,  my  God  !  throw  an 
Hellenist  out  of  the  window !  what  sacrilege ! "  It  certainly  would  be  a  serious 
business  for  those  authors  who  dwell  in  the  attics :  but  I  have  quoted  the  passage 
merely  to  prove  the  similarity  of  style  among  the  controversialists  of  all  polished 
countries ;  London  or  Edinburgh  could  hardly  parallel  this  Parisian  ebulition. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND.  81 

name,  however,  is  not  uncommon,  some  other  Polyzois  may  have  edited  the  Epis- 
tles of  Aristaenetus. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  system  of  continental  blockade  has  closed  the  few 
channels  through  which  the  Greeks  received  their  publications,  particularly  Venice 
and  Trieste.  Even  the  common  grammars  for  children  are  become  too  dear  for  the 
lower  orders.  Amongst  their  original  works  the  Geography  of  Meletius,  Arch- 
bishop of  Athens,  and  a  multitude  of  theological  quartos  and  poetical  pamphlets,  are 
to  be  met  with  ;  their  grammars  and  lexicons  of  two,  three,  and  four  languages,  are 
numerous  and  excellent.  Their  poetry  is  in  rhyme.  The  most  singular  piece  I 
have  lately  seen  is  a  satire  in  dialogue  between  a  Russian,  English,  and  French 
traveller,  and  the  Waywode  of  Wallachia,  (or  Blackbey,  as  they  term  him,^  an 
archbishop,  a  merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi,  (or  primate,)  in  succession ;  to  all  of 
whom  under  the  Turks  the  writer  attiibutes  their  present  degeneracy.  Their  songs 
are  sometimes  pretty  and  pathetic,  but  their  tunes  generally  unpleasing  to  the  ear 
of  a  Frank  :  the  best  is  the  famous  "  Aetirs  nai&cs  ruv  'EAAtfvwv/'by  the  unfortunate 
Riga.  But  from  a  catalogue  of  more  than  sixty  authors,  now  before  me,  only  fifteen 
can  be  found  who  have  touched  on  any  theme  except  theology. 

I  am  intrusted  with  a  commission  by  a  Greek  of  Athens,  named  Marmarotouri,  to 
make  arrangements,  if  possible,  for  printing  in  London  a  translation  of  Barthelemi's 
Anacharsis  in  Romaic,  as  he  has  no  other  opportunity,  unless  he  despatches  the 
MS.  to  Vienna  by  the  Black  Sea  and  Danube. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  a  school  established  at  Hecatonesi,  and  suppressed  at 
the  instigation  of  Sebastian! ;  he  means  Cidonies,  or,  in  Turkish,  Haivali ;  a  town 
on  the  continent,  where  that  institution  for  a  hundred  students  and  three  professors 
still  exists.  It  is  true  that  this  establishment  was  disturbed  by  the  Poite,  under  the 
ridiculous  pretext  that  the  Greeks  were  constructing  a  fortress  instead  of  a  college : 
but  on  investigation,  and  the  payment  of  some  purses  to  the  Divan,  it  has  been  per- 
mitted to  continue.  The  principal  professor,  named  Ueniamin,  (i.  e.  Benjamin, )  is 
stated  to  be  a  man  of  talent,  but  a  freethinker.  He  was  born  in  Lesbos,  studied  in 
Italy,  and  is  master  of  Hellenic,  Latin,  and  some  Frank  languages  ;  besides  a  smat- 
tering of  the  sciences. 

Though  it  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  farther  on  this  topic  than  may  allude  to  the 
article  in  question,  I  cannot  but  observe  that  the  Reviewer's  lamentation  over  the 
fall  of  the  Greeks  appears  singular,  when  he  closes  it  with  these  words :  "  The 
change  is  to  be  attributed  to  their  misfortunes  rather  than  to  any  l  physical  degrada- 
tion.'" It  may  be  true  that  the  Greeks  are  not  physically  degenerated,  and  that 
Constantinople  contained,  on  the  day  when  it  changed  masters,  as  many  men  of  six 
feet  and  upwaids  as  in  the  hour  of  prosperity ;  but  ancient  history  and  modern  poli- 
tics instruct  us  that  something  more  than  physical  perfection  is  necessary  to  preserve 
a  stare  in  vigour  and  independence  ;  and  the  Greeks,  in  particular,  are  a  melancholy 
example  of  the  near  connexion  between  moral  degradation  and  national  decay. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  a  plan,  "  we  believe  "  by  Potemkin,  for  the  purification  of 
the  Romaic,  and  I  have  endeavoured  in  vain  to  procure  any  tidings  or  traces  of  its 
existence.  There  was  an  academy  in  St.  Petersburgh  for  the  Greeks ;  but  it  was 
suppressed  by  Paul,  and  has  not  been  revived  by  his  successor. 

There  is  a  slip  of  the  pen,  and  it  can  only  be  a  slip  of  the  pen,  in  p.  58,  No.  31, 
of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  where  these  words  occur  : — "  We  are  told  that  when  the 
capital  of  the  East  yielded  to  Solyman" — It  may  be  presumed  that  this  last  word 
will,  in  a  future  edition,  be  altered  to  Mahomet  II.*  The  "  ladies  of  Constantinople," 

*  In  a  former  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  1808,  it  is  observed  :  "  Lord 
Byron  passed  some  of  his  early  years  in  Scotland,  where  he  might  have  learned  that 
pibroch  does  not  mean  a  bagpipe,  any  more  than  duet  means  a  fiddle"  Q,uery.— 
Was  it  in  Scotland  that  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  learned  that 
Solyman  means  Mahomet  II.  any  more  than  criticism  means  infallibility  ? — but  thus 
it  is. 

"  Caedimus  inque  vicem  praebemus  crura  sagittis." 

The  mistake  seemed  so  completely  a  lapse  of  the  pen  (from  the  great  similarity  of 
the  two  words,  and  the  total  absence  of  error  from  the  former  pages  of  the  literary 
leviathan)  that  I  should  have  passed  it  over  as  in  the  text,  had  I  not  perceived  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review  much  facetious  exultation  on  all  such  detections,  particularly  a 
recent  one,  where  words  and  syllables  are  subjects  of  disquisition  and  transposition; 
and  the  above-mentioned  parallel  passage  in  my  own  case  irresistibly  propelled  me 
to  hint  how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  critical  than  correct.  The  gentlemen^  having  en- 
VOL.  III.- 


82  APPENDIX    TO 

it  seems,  at  that  period  spoke  a  dialect,  "  which  would  not  have  disgraced  the 
lips  of  an  Athenian."  I  do  not  know  how  that  might  be,  but  am  sorry  to  say  the 
ladies  in  general,  and  the  Athenians  in  particular,  are  much  altered  ;  being  far  from 
choice  either  in  their  dialect  or  expressions,  as  the  whole  Attic  race  are  barbarous  to 
a  proverb : 

"  ii  A.Qrjva 
Tt  yatdapovj 

In  Gibbon,  vol.  x.  p.  161 ,  is  the  following  sentence  :  —  "  The  vulgar  dialect  of  the  city 
was  gross  and  barbarous,  though  the  compositions  of  the  church  and  palace  some- 
times affected  to  copy  the  purity  of  the  Attic  models."  Whatever  maybe  asserted 
on  the  subject,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  "  ladies  of  Constantinople,"  in  the 
reign  of  the  last  Caesar,  spoke  a  purer  dialect  than  Anna  Comnena  wrote  three 
centuries  before  :  and  those  royal  pages  are  not  esteemed  the  best  models  of  com- 
position, although  the  princess  yAwrrav  a%£v  AKPIBilS  A.mmfyvffav .  In  the  Fanal, 
and  in  Yanina,  the  best  Greek  is  spoken  :  in  the  latter  there  is  a  flourishing  school 
under  the  direction  of  Psalida. 

There  is  now  in  Athens  a  pupil  of  Psalida's,  who  is  making  a  tour  of  observation 
through  Greece  :  he  is  intelligent,  and  better  educated  than  a  fellow-commoner  of 
most  colleges.  I  mention  this  as  a  proof  that  the  spirit  of  inquiry  is  not  dormant 
among  the  Greeks. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  Mr.  Wright,  the  author  of  the  beautiful  poem  "  Horae 
lonicse,"  as  qualified  to  give  details  of  these  nominal  Romans  and  degenerate  Greeks, 
and  also  of  their  language  :  but  Mr.  Wright,  though  a  good  poet  and  an  able  man, 
has  made  a  mistake  where  he  states  the  Albanian  dialect  of  the  Romaic  to  approxi- 
mate nearest  to  the  Hellenic  :  for  the  Albanians  speak  a  Romaic  as  notoiiously  cor- 
rupt as  the  Scotch  of  Aberdeenshire,  or  the  Italian  of  Naples.  Yanina,  (where, 
next  to  the  Fanal,  the  Greek  is  purest,)  although  the  capital  of  Ali  Pacha's  domi- 
nions, is  not  in  Albania  but  Epirus  ;  and  beyond  Delvinachi  in  Albania  Proper,  up 
to  Argyrocrastro  and  Tepaleen,  (beyond  which  I  did  not  advance,)  they  speak  worse 
Greek  than  even  the  Athenians.  I  was  attended  for  a  year  and  a  half  by  two  of 
these  singular  mountaineers,  whose  mother  tongue  is  lllyric,  and  I  never  heard 
them  or  their  countrymen  (whom  I  have  seen,  not  only  at  home,  but  to  the  amount 
of  twenty  thousand  in  the  army  of  Vely  Pacha)  praised  for  their  Greek,  but  often 
laughed  at  for  their  provincial  barbarisms. 

I  have  in  my  possession  about  twenty-five  letters,  amongst  which  some  from  theBey 
of  Corinth,  written  to  me  by  Notaras,  the  Cogia  Bachi,  and  others  by  the  dragoman 
of  the  Caimacam  of  the  Morea,  (which  last  governs  in  Vely  Pacha's  absence,)  are 
said  to  be  favourable  specimens  of  their  epistolary  style.  I  also  received  some  at 
Constantinople  from  private  persons,  written  in  a  most  hyperbolical  style,  but  in  the 
true  antique  character. 

The  Reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  remarks  on  the  tongue  in  its  past  and  present 
state,  to  a  paradox  (page  59)  on  the  great  mischief  the  knowledge  of  his  own  lan- 
guage has  done  to  Coray,  who,  it  seems,  is  less  likely  to  understand  the  ancient 
Greek,  because  he  is  perfect  master  of  the  modern  !  This  observation  follows  a 
paragraph,  recommending,  in  explicit  terms,  the  study  of  the  Romaic,  as  "  a  power- 
ful auxiliary,"  not  only  to  the  traveller  and  foreign  merchant,  but  also  to  the  classical 
scholar  ;  in  short,  to  every  body  except  the  only  person  who  can  be  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  its  uses  ;  and  by  a  parity  of  reasoning,  our  old  language  is  conjectured 
to  be  probably  more  attainable  by  "  foreigners,"  than  by  ourselves  !  Now.  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,that  a  Dutch  Tyro  in  our  tongue  (albeit  himself  of  Saxon  blood)  would 
be  sadly  perplexed  with  "  Sir  Tristrem,"  or  any  other  given  "  Auchinleck  MS."  with 
or  without  a  grammar  or  glossary  ;  and  to  most  apprehensions  it  seems  evident  that 
none  but  a  native  can  acquire  a  competent,  far  less  complete,  knowledge  of  our  obso- 
lete idioms.  We  may  give  the  critic  credit  for  his  ingenuity,  but  no  more  believe 
him  than  we  do  Smollett's  Lismahago,  who  maintains  that  the  purest  English  is 
spoken  in  Edinburgh.  That  Coray  may  err  is  very  possible  ;  but  if  he  does,  the 
fault  is  in  the  man  rather  than  in  his  mother  tongue,  which  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  of 
the  greatest  aid  to  the  native  student. — Here  the  Reviewer  proceeds  to  business  on 
Strabo's  translators,  and  here  I  close  my  remarks. 

Sir  W.  Drummond,  Mr.  Hamilton.  Lord  Aberdeen.  Dr.  Clarke,  Captain  Leake, 
Mr.  Gell,  Mr.  Walpole,  and  many  others  now  in  England,  have  all  the  requisites  to 

joyed  many  a  triumph  on  such  victories,  will  hardly  begrudge  me  a  slight  ovation  for 
the  present. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND.  83 

furnish  details  of  this  fallen  people.  The  few  observations  I  have  offered  I  should 
have  left  where  I  made  them,  had  not  the  article  in  question,  and  above  all  the  spot 
where  I  read  it,  induced  me  to  advert  to  those  pages,  which  the  advantage  of  my 
present  situation  enabled  me  to  clear,  or  at  least  to  make  the  attempt. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  wave  the  personal  feelings,  which  rise  in  despite  of  me  in 
touching  upon  any  part  of  the  Edinburgh  Review ;  not  from  a  wish  to  conciliate 
the  favour  of  its  writers,  or  to  cancel  the  remembrance  of  a  syllable  I  have  formerly 
published,  but  simply  from  a  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  mixing  up  private  resent- 
ments with  a  disquisition  of  the  present  kind,  and  more  particularly  at  this  distance 
of  time  and  place. 


ADDITIONAL  NOTE, 

ON  THE  TURKS. 

The  difficulties  of  travelling  in  Turkey  have  been  much  exaggerated,  or  rather 
have  considerably  diminished  of  late  years.  The  Mussulmans  nave  been  beaten 
into  a  kind  of  sullen  civility,  very  comfortable  to  voyagers. 

It  is  hazardous  to  say  much  on  the  subject  of  Turks  and  Turkey ;  since  it  is  possible 
to  live  among  them  twenty  years  without  acquiring  information,  at  least  from  them- 
selves. As  far  as  my  own  slight  experience  carried  me,  I  have  no  complaint  to 
make ;  but  am  indebted  for  many  civilities,  (I  might  almost  say  for  friendship,)  and 
much  hospitality,  to  Ali  Pacha,  his  son  Veli  Pacha  of  the  Morea,  and  several 
others  of  high  rank  in  the  provinces.  Suleyman  Aga,  late  Governor  of  Athens,  and 
now  of  Thebes,  was  a  bon  vivant,  and  as  social  a  being  as  ever  sat  cross-legged  at  a 
tray  or  a  table.  During  the  carnival,  when  our  English  party  were  masquerading, 
both  himself  and  his  successor  were  more  happy  to  "  receive  masks  'r  than  any 
dowager  in  Grosvenor-square. 

On  one  occasion  of  his  supping  at  the  convent,  his  friend  and  visitor,  the  Cadi  of 
Thebes,  was  carried  from  table  perfectly  qualified  for  any  club  in  Christendom ; 
while  the  worthy  Waywode  himself  triumphed  in  his  fall. 

In  all  money  transactions  with  the  Moslems,  I  ever  found  the  strictest  honour, 
the  highest  disinterestedness.  In  transacting  business  with  them,  there  are  none  of 
those  dirty  peculations,  under  the  name  of  interest,  difference  of  exchange,  commis- 
sion, &c.  &c.  uniformity  found  in  applying  to  a  Greek  consul  to  cash  bills,  even  on 
the  first  houses  in  Pera. 

With  regard  to  presents,  an  established  custom  in  the  East,  you  will  rarely  find 
yourself  a  loser ;  as  one  worth  acceptance  is  generally  returned  by  another  of  similar 
value — a  horse,  or  a  shawl. 

In  the  capital  and  at  court  the  citizens  and  courtiers  are  formed  in  the  same  school 
with  those  of  Christianity  ;  but  there  does  not  exist  a  more  honourable,  friendly, 
and  high-spirited  character  than  the  true  Turkish  provincial  Aga,  or  Moslem  country 
gentleman.  It  is  not  meant  here  to  designate  the  governors  of  towns,  but  those 
Agas  who,  by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  lands  and  houses,  of  more  or  less  ex- 
tent, in  Greece  and  Asia  Minor. 

The  lower  orders  are  in  as  tolerable  discipline  as  the  rabble  in  countries  with 
greater  pretensions  to  civilization.  A  Moslem,  in  walking  the  streets  of  our  country 
towns,  would  be  more  incommoded  in  England  than  a  Frank  in  a  similar  situation 
in  Turkey.  Regimentals  are  the  best  travelling  dress. 

The  best  accounts  of  the  religion  and  different  sects  of  Islamism,  may  be  found 
in  D'Ollison's  French  ;  of  their  manners,  &c.  perhaps  in  Thornton's  English.  The 
Ottomans,  with  all  their  defects,  are  not  a  people  to  be  despised.  Equal,  at  least, 
to  the  Spaniards,  they  are  superior  to  the  Portuguese.  If  it  be  difficult  to  pronounce 
what  they  are,  we  can  at  least  say  what  they  a.renot:  they  are  not  treacherous, 
they  are  not  cowardly,  they  do  not  burn  heretics,  they  are  not  assassins,  nor  has  an 
enemy  advanced  to  their  capital.  They  are  faithfyl  to  their  sultan  till  he  becomes 
unfit  to  govern,  and  devout  to  their  God  without  an  inquisition.  Were  they  driven 
from  St.  Sophia  to-morrow,  and  the  French  or  Russians  enthroned  in  their  stead, 
it  would  become  a  question,  whether  Europe  would  gain  by  the  exchange  **  England 
would  certainly  be  the  loser. 

With  regard  to  that  ignorance  of  which  they  are  so  generally,  and  sometimes 


84  APPENDIX   TO 

justly  accused,  it  may  be  doubted,  always  excepting  France  and  England,  in  what 
useful  points  of  knowledge  they  are  excelled  by  other  nations.  Is  it  in  the  common 
arts  of  life  ?  In  their  manufactures  ?  Is  a  Turkish  sabre  inferior  to  a  Toledo  ?  or 
is  a  Turk  worse  clothed  or  lodged,  or  fed  and  taught,  than  a  Spaniard  ?  Are  their 
Pachas  worse  educated  than  a  Grandee  ?  or  an  Eifendi  than  a  Knight  of  St.  Jago  ? 
I  think  not. 

I  remember  Mahmout,  the  giandson  of  Ali  Pacha,  asking  whether  my  fellow-tra- 
veller and  myself  were  in  the  upper  or  lower  House  of  Parliament.  Now,  this 
question  from  a  boy  often  years  old  proved  that  his  education  had  not  been  neglected. 
It  may  be  doubted  if  an  English  boy  at  that  age  knows  the  difference  of  the  Divan 
from  a  College  of  Dervises  5  but  I  am  very  sure  a  Spaniard  does  not.  How  little 
Mahmout,  surrounded,  as  he  had  been,  entirely  by  his  Turkish  tutors,  had  learned 
that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  Parliament,  it  were  useless  to  conjecture,  unless  we 
suppose  that  his  instructors  did  not  confine  his  studies  to  the  Koran. 

In  all  the  mosques  there  are  schools  established,  which  are  very  regularly  attend- 
ed ;  and  the  poor  are  taught  without  the  church  of  Turkey  being  put  into  peril.  I 
believe  the  system  is  not  yet  printed  ;  (though  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  Turkish 
press,  and  books  printed  on  the  late  military  institution  of  the  Nizam  Gedidd  :)  nor 
have  I  heard  whether  the  Mufti  and  the  Mollas  have  subscribed,  or  the  Caimacam 
and  the  Tefterdar  taken  the  alarm,  for  fear  the  ingenuous  youth  of  the  turban  should 
be  taught  not  to  "  pray  to  God  their  way."  The  Greeks  also — a  kind  of  Eastern 
Irish  papists  —  have  a  college  of  their  own  at  Maynooth — no,  at  Haivali;  where 
the  heterodox  receive  much  the  same  kind  of  countenance  from  the  Ottoman  as  the 
Catholic  college  from  the  English  legislature.  Who  shall  then  affirm  that  the  Turks 
are  ignorant  bigots,  when  they  thus  evince  the  exact  proportion  of  Christian  charity 
which  is  tolerated  in  the  most  prosperous  and  orthodox  of  all  possible  kingdoms  ? 
But,  though  they  allow  all  this,  they  will  not  suffer  the  Greeks  to  participate  in  their 
privileges  :  no,  let  them  fight  their  battles,  and  pay  their  haratch,  (taxes,)  be  drub- 
bed in  this  world,  and  damned  in  the  next.  And  shall  we  then  emancipate  our  Irish 
Helots  ?  Mahomet  forbid  !  We  should  then  be  bad  Mussulmans,  and  worse  Chris- 
tians ;  at  present  we  unite  the  best  of  both— Jesuitical  faith,  and  something  not  much 
inferior  to  Turkish  toleration. 


AMONG  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  foreign  presses  even  for 
their  books  of  religion,  it  is  less  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  find  so  few  publications 
on  general  subjects  than  that  we  find  any  at  all.  The  whole  number  of  the  Greeks, 
scattered  up  and  down  the  Turkish  empire  and  elsewhere,  may  amount,  at  most,  to 
three  millions  :  and  yet,  for  so  scanty  a  number,  it  is  impossible  to  discover  any  nation 
with  so  great  a  proportion  of  books  and  their  authors,  as  the  Greeks  of  the  present 
century.  "  Ay,  but  say  the  generous  advocates  of  oppression,  who,  while  they 
assert  the  ignorance  of  the  Greeks,  wish  to  prevent  them  from  dispelling  it,  "  ay,  but 
these  are  mostly,  if  not  all,  ecclesiastical  tracts,  and  consequently  good  for  nothing." 
Well,  and  pray  what  else  can  they  write  about  ?  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  a 
Frank,  particularly  an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  the  government  of  his  own 
country ;  or  a  Frenchman,  who  may  abuse  every  government  except  his  own,  and 
who  may  range  at  will  over  every  philosophical,  religious,  scientific,  skeptical,  or 
moral  subject,  sneering  at  the  Greek  legends.  A  Greek  must  not  write  on  politics, 
and  cannot  touch  on  science  for  want  of  instruction ;  if  he  doubts,  he  is  excommuni- 
cated and  damned  ;  therefore  his  countrymen  are  not  poisoned  with  modern  philoso- 
phy ;  and  as  to  morals,  thanks  to  the  Turks  !  there  are  no  such  things.  What  then 
is  left  him,  if  he  has  a  turn  for  scribbling  ?  Religion,  and  holy  biography  :  and  it  is 
natural  enough  that  those  who  have  so  little  in  this  life  should  look  to  the  next.  It 
is  no  great  wonder  then  that  in  a  catalogue  now  before  me  of  fifty-five  Greek  writers, 
many  of  whom  were  lately  living,  not  above  fifteen  should  have  touched  on  any 
thing  but  religion.  The  catalogue  alluded  to  is  contained  in  the  twenty-sixth  chap- 
ter of  the  fourth  volume  of  Meletius's  Ecclesiastical  History.  From  this  I  subjoin 
an  extract  of  those  who  have  written  on  general  subjects  ;  which  will  be  followed  by 
some  specimens  of  the  Romaic. 


CANTO   THE    SECOND.  85 


LIST  OF  ROMAIC  AUTHORS.* 

Neophitus,  Diakonos  (the  deacon)  of  the  Morea,  has  published  an  extensive 
grammar,  and  also  some  political  regulations,  which  last  were  left  unfinished  at  his 
death, 

Prokopius,  of  Moscopolis,  (a  town  in  Epirus,)  has  written  and  published  a  cata- 
logue of  the  learned  Greeks. 

Seraphin,  of  Periclea,  is  the  author  of  many  works  in  the  Turkish  language,  but 
Greek  character  ;  for  the  Christians  of  Caramania,  who  do  not  speak  Romaic,  but 
read  the  character. 

Eustathius  Psalidas,  of  Bucharest,  a  physician,  made  the  tour  of  England  for  the 
purpose  of  study  (^apiv  pad/jaws)  :  but  though  his  name  is  enumerated,  it  is  not 
stated  that  he  has  written  any  thing. 

Kallinikus  Torgeraus,  Patriarch  of  Constantinople :  many  poems  of  his  are  ex- 
tant, and  also  prose  tracts,  and  a  catalogue  of  patriarchs  since  the  last  taking  of  Con- 
stantinople. 

Anastasius  Macedon,  of  Naxos,  member  of  the  royal  academy  of  Warsaw.  A 
church  biographer. 

Demetrius  Pamperes,  a  Moscopolite,  has  written  many  works,  particularly  "  A 
Commentary  on  Hesiod's  Shield  of  Hercules,"  and  two  hundred  tales,  (of  what  is 
not  specified,)  and  has  published  his  correspondence  with  the  celebrated  George  of 
Trebizond,  his  cotemporary. 

Meletius  a  celebrated  geographer ;  and  author  of  the  book  from  whence  these  no- 
tices are  taken. 

Dorotheus,  of  Mitylene,  an  Aristotelian  philosopher :  his  Hellenic  works  are  in 
great  repute,  and  he  is  esteemed  by  the  moderns  (I  quote  the  words  of  Meletius) 
Herd  rdv  QovicvSiSriv  Kai  Eevo^uvra  aptorof  'EAA^vcov.  I  add  further,  on  the  authority 
of  a  well-informed  Greek,  that  he  was  so  famous  among  his  countrymen,  that  they 
were  accustomed  to  say,  if  Thucydides  and  Xenophon  were  wanting,  he  was  capa- 
ble of  repairing  the  loss. 

Marinus  Count  Tharboures,  of  Cephalonia,  professor  of  chemistry  in  the  academy 
of  Padua,  and  member  of  that  academy,  and  those  of  Stockholm  and  Upsal.  He 
has  published,  at  Venice,  an  account  of  some  marine  animal,  and  a  treatise  on  the 
properties  of  iron. 

Marcus,  brother  to  the  former,  famous  in  mechanics.     He  removed  to  St.  Peters- 
burgh  the  immense  rock  on  which  the  statue  of  Peter  the  Great  was  fixed  in  1769. 
See  the  dissertation  which  he  published  in  Paris,  1777. 
George  Constantino  has  published  a  four-tongued  lexicon. 
George  Ventote  ;  a  lexicon  in  French,  Italian,  and  Romaic. 
There  exist  several  other  dictionaries  in  Latin  and  Romaic,  French,  &c.  besides 
grammars  in  every  modern  language,  except  English. 
Among  the  living  authors  the  following  are  most  celebrated  : — | 
Athanasius  Parios  has  written  a  treatise  on  rhetoric  in  Hellenic. 
Christodoulos,  an  Acarnanian,  has  published,  in  Vienna,  some  physical  treatises  in 
Hellenic. 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  an  Athenian,  the  Romaic  translator  of  Fontenelle's  "  Plu- 
rality of  Worlds,"  (a  favourite  work  amongst  the  Greeks,)  is  stated  to  be  a  teacher 
of  the  Hellenic  and  Arabic  languages  in  Paris  ;  in  both  of  which  he  is  an  adept. 
Athanasius,  the  Parian,  author  of  a  treatise  on  rhetoric. 

Vicenzo  Damodos,  of  Cephalonia,  has  written  "  e/frd  //eooSapSapov,  on  logic  and 
physics. 

John  Kamarases,  a  Byzantine,  has  translated  into  French  Ocellus  on  the  Uni- 
verse. He  is  said  to  be  an  excellent  Hellenist,  and  Latin  scholar. 

Gregorio  Demetrius  published,  in  Vienna,  a  geographical  work :   he  has  aiso 
translated  several  Italian  authors,  and  printed  his  versions  at  Venice. 
Of  Coray  and  Psalida  some  account  has  been  already  given. 

*  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  names  given  are  not  in  chronological  order,  but 
consist  of  some  selected  at  a  venture  from  among  those  who  flourished  from  the  taking 
of  Constantinople  to  the  time  of  Meletius. 

f  These  names  are  not  taken  from  any  publication. 


86  APPENDIX  TO 


GREEK  WAR  SONG.* 
1. 


AEY"TE,  xaiSes  rSv 

6  KOlpO?  TrjS  661*]$  #A0£V, 

us  <j>ar&/jitv  d^ioi  iKtivdiv 

irov  ftds  (Juitrav  TTJV  dp%fjv~ 
* 


rbv  gvybv  rfjs 


Ta  SirX«  a? 

notifies 
7roTa/Kt(5wv  f%6pwv  rd 

aj  Tpf'^v  iirro  itoSwv. 
2. 


r^s  ffaXir(>K(Jf  /^ow  ; 
6'Aa  6//ov 
TIJV  inrakotyov  ^ijTure, 
Kai  VIK&TE  Ttpd  iravrov. 

Ta  oTrAa  aj  XdSwpev,  &c. 

3. 
STrapra,  STrapra,  rt  KoijiaaQ& 

vtrvov  \fj9apyov  [ia&vv  ; 
J-i')irvT)aov  Kpa 


AtovviSov 

ripwos  rov  J-CLKOOTOV, 
rov  avfpbs  (naivtfiivov. 
pov  Kai  Tpouepov, 
To  o;rAa  as  Aa'gw^v   &c. 


<cai  roij 

<cai  airwj/  /cara 
MfrpiaKoatovs  avSpas 

tls  rd  Ktvroov 
KOI  «iff  Awv  Ovp 

elg  rb  atpa  TUV  fiovru. 

Ta  6'TrAa  oj  Aa'6a)//ev,  &c. 


ROMAIC  EXTRACTS. 

,  "AyjcAoj,  Kai  FaAAos  Kdfivovres  rr\v  TrefujyTjaiv  TJJ$  'EAAa&jf,  nal  pXfnovreg  r>}» 
ddXlav  Ti}v  Kardcraciv,  Eipwrijaav  Karapyds  eva  Tpaticbv  Ai^fX^va  Sid  vd  pd- 
Qovv  T^V  amav,  atr1  airov  ?va  p^rpOTroAmyv,  £?ra  eva  /?Aa^/xir«v,  eireira  eva 

*c«i  ri^v  aTaptyopj/TOV  rwv  TotJpAcwv  rvpavvlav  ; 
Trwf  raTj  |\Ma<£  K<TI  v6pia[jioi>s  <fat  ffriSjjpodsaniav 
•naiSiav,  MfMvwKj  yuvat/cwv  av^xouorov  QOopeiav  ; 

*  A  translation  of  this  song  will  be  found  among  the  smaller  Poems. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND.  87 


A«>  e?o3at  laeig  anoyovoi  tKstvwv  rSv 

T&V  eXevBipwv  /cat  cro^wv  /cai  TWP  0t>07rarpi<5wv  • 

Kal  TTWJ  fueivot  a-nfQvrjaKov  6ia  rf/v  IXevdepiav, 

ical  T(5pa  tW?j  i)i:ovK£iodai  tig  riroiav  rvpavvtav, 

Kai  Trolov  yevoj  t«>?  ftrcif  iaraQr)  (fHanapivov 

els  Tiyv  <ro0('av,  dvvafjttjv,  EIS  KJ  oXa  ^anovffu.tvov  ' 

irias  vvv  t/caraoTiyo-arf  TJ/V  <J><I>TIVT]V  'EXXaOa. 

!  wj  ?va  fftctXedpov,  w?  aKoreiv^v  Xa/jnrdSav  ! 

,  (j>i\Tare  TfaiKt,  elire  //a?  r>)v  alriav  : 

TimTijs  fjpGv,  Xu«  r»)v  avioptav. 


«0  *IAE'AAHNO2. 
'Pcoffff-ay/cXo-yaXXot,  'EXXas,  «ai  ^t  aXXot, 


,  , 

vvv  Se  dO\lat  Kai  ava^la 
afi  <f>ov  ap^/o-ev  jj  a/iafl/a. 
6ar'  ri/juropovcrav  vd  r») 
TOUT'  c/f  rd  j^fipov  TVJV 
aiiri)  oT£va§£t  ra  r«j/ 
ord  va  7rpo*c($7rrouv  SXa 
»cai  r<Jr£  A 


Ma  '   #OTIS  To\[zrjffrj  va  rqv  %VTrvrjffr) 
irdysi  arbv  aSrjv  ^wpfj  rtva  uphiv. 

The  above  is  the  commencement  of  a  long  dramatic  satire  on  the  Greek  priesthood, 
princes,  and  gentry  ;  it  is  contemptible  as  a  composition,  but  perhaps  curious  as  a 
specimen  of  their  rhyme  :  I  have  the  whole  in  MS.  but  this  extract  will  be  found 
sufficient.  The  Romaic  in  this  composition  is  so  easy  as  to  render  a  version  an 
insult  to  a  scholar  ;  but  those  who  do  not  understand  the  original  will  excuse  the  fol- 
lowing bad  translation  of  what  is  in  itself  indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A  Russian,  Englishman,  and  Frenchman  making  the  tour  of  Greece,  and  observing 
the  miserable  state  of  the  country,  interrogate,  in  turn,  a  Greek  Patriot,  to  learn 
the  cause  ;  afterwards  an  Archbishop,  then  a  Vlackbey,*  a  Merchant,  and  Cogia 
Bachi  or  Primate. 

Thou  friend  of  thy  country  !  to  strangers  record 

Why  bear  ye  the  yoke  of  the  Ottoman  Lord  ? 

Why  bear  ye  these  fetters  thus  tamely  display'd, 

The  wrongs  of  the  matron,  the  stripling,  and  maid  ? 

The  descendants  of  Hellas's  race  are  not  ye  ! 

The  patriot  sons  of  the  sage  and  the  free, 

Thus  sprung  from  the  blood  of  the  noble  and  brave, 

To  vilely  exist  as  the  Mussulman  slave  ! 

Not  sucn  were  the  fathers  your  annals  can  boast, 

Who  conquer'd  and  died  for  the  freedom  you  lost! 

Not  such  was  your  land  in  her  earlier  hour, 

The  day-star  of  nations  in  wisdom  and  power  ! 

And  still  will  you  thus  unresisting  increase, 

Oh  shameful  dishonour  !  the  darkness  of  Greece  ? 

Then  tell  us,  beloved  Achaean  !  reveal 

The  cause  of  the  woes  which  you  cannot  conceal. 

The  reply  of  the  Philellenist  I  have  not  translated,  as  it  is  no  better  than  the  ques- 
tion of  the  travelling  triumvirate  ;  and  the  above  will  sufficiently  show  with  what 
kind  of  composition  the  Greeks  are  now  satisfied.  I  trust  I  have  not  much  iujured 
the  original  in  the  few  lines  given  as  faithfully,  and  as  near  the 

"  Oh,  Miss  Bailey  !  unfortunate  Miss  Bailey  !  " 

*  Vlackbey,  Prince  of  Wallachia. 


88  APPENDIX   TO 

measure  of  the  Romaic,  as  I  could  make  them.    Almost  all  their  pieces,  above  a 
song,  which  aspire  to  the  name  of  poetry,  contain  exactly  the  quantity  of  feet  of. 

"  A  captain  bold  of  Halifax,  who  lived  in  country  quarters," 
which  is  in  fact  the  present  heroic  couplet  of  the  Romaic. 


SCENE  FROM  <O  KA<I>ENES. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  GOLDONI,  BY  SPERIDION  VLANTI. 

2KHNH  KF'. 
IIAATZIAA  £i$  rnv  ndprav  rov  %aviov,  KOI  ol  avwSev. 


IIAA.  ft  Get  I  curb  rb  napaOvpi  /JLOV  tydvrj  va  aKovata  rffv  ^(avrjv  rov  avSpds  pov  •  5v 
avrbs  etvat  f$w,  e<f>9aaa  <rl  Katobv  va  rbv  %evrpGirida(a.  [E{iya/v£t  evas  6ov\os  and  rb 
<pya<rr^pt.]  TlaXncdpiirfs  jjiov  ai  napaKaXG)  iroibs  ilvai  fuel  els  (Kelvovs  roi>$  dvrdSes  ; 

AOYA.  Tp£?f  xprjciftoi  avSpcs.  "Eva?  6  Kvp  E^yfvioj,  b  a'AAoj  6  Kvp  Mapno?  No- 
jroAtravoj,  <cai  6  TP/TOJ  6  Kwp  K6vre  Afai/^po?  'ApSfvrrjs. 

IIAA.     ('Ava//£(ra  els  avrovg  6tv  elvai  6  $Aa///i>tos,  av  8/xuj  Stv  a\\a£ev  dVo/*a.) 

AEA.     Na  $tj  q  Ka\rj  TvvnTOv  KVO  Eiiyeviov.     [n/vwiraj.] 

OAOI.     Natf/vag. 

IIAA.  (Atrdf  elvat  6  dWpa?  /zov  ^ojptf  a'AAo.)  KaAl  avQp&ire  nape  pov  r>)v  ^aptv 
va  ^f  avvTpo<f>£i'>at)$  ait'dvG)  els  a1)Toi>s  TOVS  afyevTades,  bfrov  $Aa>  va  roi)f  Tra/^w  pluv. 


AOY. 

fpyaar/Jpi  rot; 

PIA.     Kapdca,  Acapdia,  icd^ere  xaAjjv  <cap5tttv,  5fv  £?vai  rtiroreS'     [Upds  r^v  BtTr<5- 
ptav.] 

BIT.     'Eyw  ataddvo[jiai  TTW?  airtBatvut  •     [Svvtp%tTat  ets  rbv  tavr6v  Ttjs.] 

['ATrd  T«  irapddvpa  rutv  tivrdfuav  (palvovrai  6'Aot,  67roii  (T^Kdi/wvrai  arr3  TO 
rpa-TTf^t  ffDy^tffufvot,  ^ta  rSv  ^a^viajibv  TOV  Aedvdpov  (IXtiriovTas  T^V 
nAar$i<5a,  KO.L  ctari  aiirbs  6dy(V£i  TTWJ  SI  Afit  va  r^v  ^ov£i5ffj?.] 

EYF.     "O^t,  ffTaOqTe. 

MAP.     M/jv  Kd^vere.  .  . 

AEA.     2/Kco,  ^>uy£  an-'  f5w. 

nAA.     Bo*70aa,  Portia.     [<I>£i)y£t   aTrd  T^V  ffKaAav,  6  AeavSpos, 
Aovfl^ar;  u£  r^  airaOi,  Kai  b  Euyr 

TPA.     [Ml  eva  Tiiaro  //f  0ay 
T^V  Ka<f>evt  .j 

IIAA.     [Eiyafra  and  TO  epyaffTfjpt  TOV   iraiyviSiov   rpe^wvraj,  xat  ipetyu  els 


EYF.  [Mf  ap//ara  ds  rd  ^f'pt  Trpoj  Sia<f>fvrevffiv  rjys  IIAar^^af,  tvavriov  nw  Aedv- 
Spov,  birQ  rfjv  /cararp/vet.] 

MAP.  Eiya/v£t  Kai  abrbs  ffiya  ciya  airb  rb  epyaaT^pt,  Kai  (fietysi  Afywvra?.]  Rumo- 
res  fiige.  ['Povpipes  Qotye.]  * 

Ol  AoOAot.      ['An-5  rb  epyacrrfioi  atrepvovv  els  rb  ^avt,  Kai  K\eiovv  rfjv  Trdprov.] 

BIT.     [MfVEt  els  rbv  Kaipeve  porjdrifjLtvr)  dirb  rbv  'PtS6)«j>ov.] 

AEA.  Ad<7£T£  r6-rcov  •  •StAwpiva  epSa  va  epfiu  els  lutivo  rb  j(dvL.  [Ml  rb  trrradl  elsrb 
%f-  tvavTiov  rov  Ebyevtov  .] 

EYF.  *O^t,  pri  yevoiro  trore  etvai  evas  ff\rip6icap5os  tvavrtov  rrjs  yvvaiic6s  crov,  Kai 
lyw  3t\ei  rfjv  dia^ivreixjut  &s  th  rb  ixrrspov  cupa. 

AEA.  Sou  >ca^vw  o'p/cov  TTWJ  SeXei  rb  //£Tavotc5ff(jjf.  [Kivrjya  rbv  'Evytviov  pf  rb 
oradl.] 

EYF.  Alv  ffl  (}>o6ovfiat.  [Kararptyei  rbv  AtavSpov  ,  Kai  rbv  (iidZ>ei  va  avpOt)  dirkta 
rdirov,  STTOU  evpiaKtavras  avoutrbv  rb  oicrjri  rtjs  %ope6rpias  f^Baivei  sis  avrb,  KOI  auv- 
erai.] 

*  A<5yos  XariviKbs  ,  OTTOW  ^Aftva  elitrj'  (pefys  rats  otyWW- 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


89 


TRANSLATION. 

Platzida  from  the  Door  of  the  Hotel,  and  the  Others. 

Pla.  Oh  God  !  from  the  window  it  seemed  that  I  heard  my  husband's  voice.  If 
he  is  here,  I  have  arrived  in  time  to  make  him  ashamed.  [A  Servant  enters  from 
the  Shop.]  Boy,  tell  me,  pray,  who  are  in  those  chambers. 

Serv.  Three  gentlemen:  one,  Signer  Eugenio;  the  other,  Signor  Martio,  the 
Neapolitan;  and  the  third,  my  Lord,  the  Count  Leander  Ardenti. 

Pla.  Flammio  is  not  among  these,  unless  he  has  changed  his  name. 

Leander.   [  Within  drinking.]     Long  live  the  good  fortune  of  Signor  Eugenic. 

[7Vie  whole  Company,  Long  live,  &c.J     (Literally,  Na  gjj,  vd  $5,  May  he  live.) 

Pla.  Without  doubt  that  is  my  husband.  [To  the  Serv.]  My  good  man,  do  me 
the  favour  to  accompany  me  above  to  those  gentlemen  ;  I  have  some  business. 

Serv.  At  your  commands.  L4sirfe.J  The  old  office  of  us  waiters.  [He  goes 
out  of  the  Gaming-House  J\ 

Ridolpho.  [To  Victoria  on  another  part  of  the  stage.]  Courage,  courage,  be  of 
good  cheer,  it  is  nothing. 

Victoria.  I  feel  as  if  about  to  die.     [Leaning  on  him  as  if  fainting.] 
[From  the  windows  above  all  within  are  seen  rising  from  table  in  confusion  : 
Leander  starts  at  the  sight  of  Platzida,  and  appears  by  his  gestures  to  threaten 
her  life. 

Eugenia.  No,  stop 

Martio.  Don't  attempt 

Leander.  Away,  fly  from  hence  ! 

Pla.  Help  !  Help !  [ Flies  down  the  stairs,  Leander  attempting  to  follow  with  his 
sword,  Eugenio  hinders  him.] 

[Trappola  with  a  plate  of  meat  leaps  over  the  balcony  from  the  window,  and  runs  into 
the  Coffee-House.] 

[Platzida  runs  out  of  the  Gaming-House.  and  takes  shelter  in  the  Hotel.] 

[Martio  steals  softly  out  of  the  Gaming-House,  and  goes  off",  exclaiming  "  Rumores 
fuge."  The  Servants  from  the  Gaming-House  enter  the  Hotel,  and  shut  the  door.] 

[Victoria  remains  in  the  Coffee-House  assisted  by  Ridolpho.] 

[Leander  sword  in  hand  opposite  Eugenio  exclaims,  Give  way — I  will  enter  that 
hotel.] 

Eugenio.  No,  that  shall  never  be.  You  are  a  scoundrel  to  your  wife,  and  I  will 
defend  her  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood. 

Leander.  I  will  give  you  cause  to  repent  this.     [Menacing  with  his  sword.] 

Eugenio.  I  fear  you  not.  [He  attacks  Leander,  and  makes  him  give  back  so  much, 
that  finding  the  door  of  the  dancing  girl's  house  open,  Leander  escapes  through,  and 
so  finishes.]  * 

*  Suj/erat — "  finishes  " — awkwardly  enough,  but  it  is  the  literal  translation  of  the 
Romaic.  The  original  of  this  comedy  ofGoldoni's  I  never  read,  but  it  does  not  ap- 
pear one  of  his  best.  "  II  Bugiardo"  is  one  of  the  most  lively  ;  but  I  do  not  think 
it  has  been  translated  into  Romaic  :  it  is  much  more  amusing  than  our  own  "  Liar,** 
by  Foote.  The  character  of  Lelio  is  better  drawn  than  Young  Wilding.  Goldoni's 
comedies  amount  to  fifty;  some  perhaps  the  best  in  Europe,  and  others  the  worst. 
His  life  is  also  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  autobiography,  and,  as  Gibbon  has  ob- 
served, "  more  dramatic  than  any  of  his  plays."  The  above  scene  was  selected  as 
containing  some  of  the  most  familiar  Romaic  idioms,  notfor  any  wit  which  it  displays, 
since  there  is  more  done  than  said,  the  greater  part  consisting  of  stage  directions. 
The  original  is  one  of  the  few  comedies  l>y  Goldoni  which  is  without  the  buffoonery 
of  the  speaking  Harlequin. 


90 


APPENDIX   TO 


AIA'AOrGI  OI'KIAKOI. 

Aid  vd  £rir?jffr)s  Zva  irpaypa. 
Saj  irapaKaXw,  66ffsrl  fie  av  opt'^re 


Aai/£i<r£r£  pe 

Hrjyaiver£  vd 

Twpa  eiiQvs 

'J2  aicpiSe  pov  Kvpte,  Kaptri  p£  a1iTr]v 

X<*aiv 

'Ey<i  o-a?  Trapa/caXfi 
'Eyw  o-aj  f 
'Eyu>  tray  r 


Adyta  £pum<cd, 


Zaj/7  ^tou 


Aid  va  eu^api(rr)7(r»7f  , 
Kal  <piXiKats 

'Eyw,  aaj 


Kara  roXXi 

'Eyw  SAu  ri  /cd/^£t  «£T 
Mf  SA^v  //ou  TIJV  Kapoia 
M£  xaX^v 


E?//at  oX 
EZ/tat  Jo 
TaTTEtvdr 
E?crr£  /ca 
IloXXd  ir 


oj  Sov\os 


Airo  £?j/at 
Ti  ^f'Xfrfi  ;  re 


irapaKaXw  vd  pe 


25?  ayarw  t|  SX>;s  ftou  itapStas 
Kai  tyw  6/xdiuff 

e™  pe  ra?f  irpoaayaif  «raj 
rt;ror£f  vd  ^ie  irpoffrd^sre  ,* 
^frE  roy  ^ouXoi'  eras 
Hpoo-^fva)  raj  upo«raydf  <raf 
Mt  Kapvere  peyaXriv  npijv 
$6dvovv  ij  irepiirolriaes  <ray  irapa*aXS 
Hpo(TACt)V)7(r£r£  ficpepovs  pov  riv  ap^ovra, 

roy  K»;ptov 

B£6a((5ff£r£  rov  iruf  riv  fvOvpovpat 
Bffiatwo-frf  rov  irwj  r6i/  ayan-w 
Atv  ^eXo)  Xn'^Et  va  rov  ro  £^n5 

It?  rtjv  ap^dvrto-o-av 
irpoadd  Kal  ffas  uKo\ovQS 
d  r6  ^pfoj  pov 


FAMILIAR  DIALOOUE«. 
To  ask  for  any  thing. 

I  pray  you,  giro  me  if  you  please. 

Bring  me. 

Lend  me. 

Go  to  seek. 

Now  directly. 

My  dear  Sir,  do  me  this  favour. 

I  entreat  you. 

I  conjure  you. 

I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  favour. 

Oblige  me  so  much. 

Affectionate  expressions. 

My  life. 
My  dear  soul. 
My  dear. 
My  heart. 
My  love. 

To  thank,  pay  compliments,  and  testify 
regard. 

I  thank  you. 

I  return  you  thanks. 

I  am  much  obliged  to  you. 

I  will  do  it  with  pleasure. 

With  all  my  heart. 

Most  cordially. 

I  am  obliged  to  you. 

I  am  wholly  yours. 

I  am  your  servant. 

Your  most  humble  servant. 

You  are  too  obliging. 

You  take  too  much  trouble. 

I  have  a  pleasure  in  serving  you. 

You  are  obliging  and  kind. 

That  is  right. 

What  is  your  pleasure  ? 

What  are  your  commands  ? 

I  beg  you  will  treat  me  freely. 

Without  ceremony. 

I  love  you  with  all  my  heart. 

And  I  the  same. 

Honour  me  with  your  commands. 

Have  you  any  commands  for  me  ? 

Command  your  servant. 

I  wait  your  commands. 

You  do  me  great  honour. 

Not  so  much  ceremony  I  beg. 

Present  my  respects  to  the  gentleman, 

his  lordship. 

Assure  him  of  my  remembrance. 
Assure  him  of  my  friendship. 
I  will  not  fail  to  tell  him  of  U. 
My  compliments  to  her  ladyship. 
(So  before,  and  I  will  follow  you. 
I  well  know  my  duty. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND. 


91 


TO"  elvaiuov 
Mf  KdpveTe  vd  /vrp6rco//ai  /tJ  rats  rdffats 


OtA£T£  Aotrrov  vd  /ca/iu  //fav 


'Yirayw  i[nfpoa9d  did  vd  (raj  {/ 
Aid  va  icapa  rrjv  Trpoorayijv  ao$ 
Aw  ayaTrfi  ToVaif  ircpiirotijacs 
Atv  el/jiai  cfTe\el<as  icepnroirjTiicos 
AIITO  ilvai  TO  KaXlrepov 
T6<rov  TO  KaXiYfipov 
*E;^ET£  Xdyov,  e^ere  diicaiov 


uffiis,  va  apvrjdijs  vd  <ruy/tarai- 
evarjs,  ical  T£ 

E?vat  aX»70ivdv,  £ivai  a\rjQiararov 
Aid  vd  aas  dtrai  n}v  a\rj9aav 
Ovra»f, 


To  mo-TEuo),  Jev  TO 

Atyw  TO  vai 

Aeyw  TO  5i 

BaXXw  ort 

BaXXa)  ffTi^rifta  '6n  S:v  dvat 

Nal,  ^ta  T^V  nianv  /xou 

E/s  T»;V  trvvelSriaiv  JJLOV 

Ma  TJJV  $a»7V  /iou 

Na2,  o-af  (Jjwvuu 

Za?  6fjLv6w  wo-dv  r^fievog  avdpwirog 


,  8rt 


»cat 


Ta  6'Xa  o-af  ,' 


,  Kat  ads  X^yw 


'Eyw 


Uptrei  vd  aas 

AUTO  o"fv  «vat  a^vaTow 

To  XOITTOV  Sf  £?vai  //s  icaX»}v  fipow 

KaXd,  /caXd 

Afv  £?vat  aXrjBivbv 


Afv  £?vat 

E?vai 

'Eyw  ad-T£ 

'Eyw  TO  slira  Sid  vd  ycXatru 


Mf  ape'o-fit  icard  TroXXa 
Svy/caTave^w  £/s  TOUTO 
AWa)  TJ)V  tyrj(j>ov  pov 
Afv  avriffTtKOfJiai  els  TOVTO 


'Eyw  5f 

'Eyw  (vavTi<avoftai  els  TOVTO 


Aid  vd 


rjs,  vd  aroj(aff6^s)  3) 


I  know  my  situation. 

You  confound  me  with  so  much  civility. 

Would  you  have  me  then  be  guilty  of 

incivility  'f 

I  go  before  to  obey  you. 
To  comply  with  your  command. 
I  do  not  like  so  much  ceremony. 
I  am  not  at  all  ceremonious. 
This  is  better. 
So  much  the  better. 
You  are  in  the  right. 

To  affirm,  deny,  consent,  &c. 

It  is  true,  it  is  very  true. 

To  tell  you  the  truth. 

Really,  it  is  so. 

Who  doubts  it? 

There  is  no  doubt. 

I  believe  it,  I  do  not  believe  it. 

1  say  yes. 

I  say  no. 

I  wager  it  is. 

I  wager  it  is  not  so. 

Yes,  by  my  faith. 

In  conscience. 

By  my  life. 

Yes,  I  swear  it  to  you. 

I  swear  to  you  as  an  honest  man. 

I  swear  to  you  on  my  honour. 

Believe  me. 

I  can  assure  you  of  it. 

I  would  lay  what  bet 

Your  jest  by  chance '. 

Do  you  speak  seriously  ? 

I  speak  seriously  to  you,  and  tell  you  the 

truth. 

I  assure  you  of  it. 
You  have  guessed  it. 
You  have  hit  upon  it. 
I  believe  you. 
I  must  believe  you. 
This  is  not  impossible. 

Then  it  is  very  well. 
Well,  well. 

It  is  not  true. 

It  is  false. 

There  is  nothing  of  this. 

It  is  a  falsehood,  an  imposture. 

I  was  in  joke. 

I.said  it  to  laugh. 

Indeed. 

It  pleases  me  much. 

I  agree  with  you. 

I  give  my  assent. 

I  do  not  oppose  this. 

I  agree. 

I  will  not. 

I  object  to  this. 

!  To  consult,  consider,  or  resoht 

What  ought  we  to  do? 


92  APPENDIX  TO 


What  shaU  we  do  ? 

Tt  pe  o-u^ouXEvrc  va  Ka/zw  ,  What  do  you  advise  me  to 

'Oirotov  Tp6irov  SiXopsv  p.£Ta^eiptff8}j  hptis  ;  What  part  shall  we  take  ? 

"Af  /ca//w^e£v  (T^rj  Let  us  do  this. 

E?vai  Ka\lTtpov  fya>  va  -  It  is  better  that  I  — 

2ra0»7r£  oXiyov  Wait  a  little. 

Alv  tjd£\£v  elvai  KciXirtpov  va  —  Would  it  not  be  better  that— 

'Eyw  uya-novra  /caXtYepa  I  wish  it  were  better. 

QfXere  Kdpu  KaXiTepa  av  —  You  will  do  better  if— 

'A0(7<7£i-£  ps  Let  me  go. 

*Av  YIJJLOVV  d$  rbv  T6irov  eras  tyu  -  If  I  were  in  your  place  I  — 

Emu  TO  itiiov  It  is  the  same. 


The  reader  by  the  specimens  below  will  be  enabled  to  compare  the  modern  with  the 

ancient  tongue 

PARALLEL  PASSAGES  FROM  ST.  JOHN  S  GOSPEL. 

Nfov.  AitOevTiKbVt 

Ke<£a'X.  d.  _  K^aX.  d. 

1.  EI2  T^V  apxfiv  rjrov  b  Xdyoj  •  Kal  o  M-  1.  'EN  ap%Ti  >}v  6  Xdyoj,  Kai  t>  A<Jyo?  7/v 
yoj  qTov  peril  Qtov  •   Kal  Geo?  rjrov  b  Xdyoj.  irpbs  TOV  Qebv,  Kai  Qebs  fa  b  \6yog . 

2.  EroCroj  ^rov  ttf  TJJV  apy^v  //er«  6eoii.  2.   Ouro?  ^v  tv  ap^  ^p6f  TOV  Qe6v. 

3.  'OXa    [ra  irpaypara]    dta  /^fffou  TOO  3.  Oavra  ^t  aiirou  [ytvero  •  Se  x<i>pis  ai>- 
[Xdyou]  fy'ivriKav,  Kai  %wpiff  aiirov  6fv  eyivs  TOV  eyevero  ov8e  EV,  8  yiyovtv. 

icavfva  tiTi  eytvfi. 

4.  Et?  airov  ^rov  ^a»)  •  Kai  f/  ^wij  rjTOVTb  4.  'Ev  aurw  ^w»)  ^v,  /cat  f)  ^w»)  ^v  ri  ^wj 

^Cf  TWV  avOpUTTWV.  TWV  AvflpWTTWV. 

5.  Kai  TO  0ws  £/s  Tijv  GKOTclav  ^eyyet,  5.  Kat  ro  ^a>s  fv  rj?  aKOTta  tyaivei,  Se  % 
Kai  $i  crKOTzla  6iv  Tb  KordXafie.  oKOTia  aiiro  ov  KaTeXaBev. 

6.  "Eyivcv  was  av0pu>7roj    uirc.aTa\jtivog  6.  'Eyevero  aVOpwjro?  aTreoraX^tvof  rapa 

,  TO  oVo/xa  row  'I  ' 


THE  INSCRIPTIONS  AT  ORCHOMENUS,  FROM  MELETIUS. 


'OPXOMENO*2,  KOIV&S  "ZKpiirov,  H6\is  iroTf  TrXouffiwran;  Kat  i 

amKat  'A0^vai,  £«j  T»)v  biroiav  TJTOV  b  Nabs  rfiv  Xapt'rwv,  els  riv  biroiov 
I5ao?  avtffKd<>Os  TTOT(  irxb  rw 


flpt^ov  £ts  aur>jv  r)5v  IldXiv  TO.  yapir^ffta,  rou  b-rroiov  'AySvoj  £?pov  eiriypa^ds  ev 
Iv^ov  ro5  KTiaQivTog  NaoS  fir~dv6pairi  Trjs  QcoTdKov,  lira  TOV  TLpuToairaOapiov 
,  fTrl  TTWV  BaffiXfwv  Bao-tXffov,  Atovroj,  xai  Kwi/oravrfvou  J^o^ffaj  ofrrwj.  'Ev 


Afovroj 

?  KOtVWJ. 

rdv  aywva  TWV 


ZwjXo?  ZwjX 

'Pa^/w^if. 
Nou/z^vtoj  Novfirivlov  'A0»?va?of. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND.  93 


'PdSnriros  'PoSlirirov 

KiQapiarrjs. 
Qavlag  'ArroXXoiJrfrou  row  Qavtov  AfoXfiiis  Sff6  Kdjiflf 


IIo£»?rj}f  Tpayw^tfiv. 

'A0»jvaTof. 


"ArraXoy  'ArraXou 
OtiJe  IVIKWV  rbv  vfj^rov  dy&va  r 
HatSas  a{iX»7<7raf  . 


og, 
"A.v5pas 

0?;6atoff. 

"Av<5pa?  fiy'tufrvas. 
'P6Simtos  'Podlirirov  Apyeios. 


KaXXforparoj  'E^aicforou  6)?6atoj. 
Td  lirtv&cca. 


A0»?vaTos." 
'Ev  5e  rp  Irep 


ap^ovroj  SywvoOeriovTos  rbv 
XapiTetfftov,  dapioorii)  irdvrwv  Sg  rvSe  iviK&crav  ril 


Etpw^aj  Swvpartoj  6el6e«>$. 

Iloctra?. 
M^orwp  M)?o-ropos  <I>a»fat£i)f. 


Kporuv  KX/wvoj  eefcSetof. 
. 

eWao  K 
if. 
"Apytof. 


A<£//arp«j  ? 

T 
'Aff/cXairt(55wpos  HovOedo  lapavrivbg. 

Ku)[iacvSbs. 
NiK6arparos  ^iXoorparw  QciSuos. 

To  lirivtKfia  Kw//o£tJ^ij. 
'HpotfdTw  Ko,owvsi)j.n 


94  APPENDIX   TO 


"  Mvpt^oj  IIoXvKpaYovj  'Iap(5v/iuoj  dtoyfruvoj  aVfyftrffi  ^opaysfcravres  vt/cdVavref  faovtaov 
lfKavos  ap%ovTO$  awXfovroj  /cXtoj  a(5ovroj  a\Kiadlvios." 


^uvap^w  ap^ovroj,  /uivdj  S^iXou&'u,  dp;£t  .   .   .  wj  Ei'SwXt  ap^c^a/^o)  0u>/C£?a  .... 
j  a-xicoxa  and  raj  (rouyypa^w  ;rf£a  rfiv  iroXe/zap^wv  AO)  TWV  Karoirrauv  av£\6fjicvos  raj 


<rovyypa0wj  raj  Kiptvas  -nap  evtypova,  KrjQiSiav  Kft  -rra  ffucXelv.  .  .  KJJ  Ti[i6fi£iSo 
XuertJa/xw,  «?}  dtovvcrov  Ka(f>iffodi>H>>  ^pwveTa 


ap^ovros,  fieivbs  dXaX/co^Ei/tw  F  <ipvwv,  TroX^KXsto?  raping  aniSwics  tv6(a\v  op- 
a-rrb  raj  «rovyya>w  rd  «araX<;7rov  /car  rd 


ffouyypo^wj  raj  x^cvaj  Trap  eratyiXov,  *c^  cii^pova  (f>ij)Kfas.     K»)  Trap 
.  K»)  hvaida/JLOV  Sap.oTf\tos  irfSa  rwv  TroXcjwap^wVj  K>}  rwv  xaro^rauj'. 


"Ap^ovroj  tv  epxojjievbSvvdpYfa,  ftcvbs  'AXaXKO^£j//w,  fv  5f  F  fXarfy  Mevofrao 
^tetvdj  n-parw.     rO/ioXoya  EiowXu  F  fXart^,  o  <c>)  T^  nrfXi  tp^o^eviuv.     'Eiret^ 

Trap  r^j  rrdXioj  r5  5dvetov  arav  xarraj  6j«oXoy/aj  raj  refljVaj  -S^vap^w  ap^ovroj, 
tXou0/w,  K/J  oir  6<f>£i\£Tt]  avrH)  ert   ov9tv  Trap  rdv  TrdXtv,  dXX'  dirr^i  irdvra  irepi 
K>)  arro<5£<5<5av0i  r,^  TrdXi  ro  eyovrtj  raj  6//oXoy/aj,  £t  plv  TTOTJ  (5£<5ojUfvov  %p6vov 
f?rt  voplas  F  crt  aidrrapa  poifO'O't  <roi)v  tTiTruj  ^ta  Karfys  Ft  Kart  TtpoBdrvg  covv 
^yuj  vfiX/j/j  ap^i  TO>  p^pdvw  6  Jvtaurdj6  fuera.S'vvap^ov  apvovra  ipvou£vlvs  airoypafytaQri 
Sf  ECowXov  /car'  tviavrdv  tKcunov  irap  rbv  ra/itav  KT)  rbv  vdpwv  av  TUTS  <caf)//ara  raiv  irpo- 
fiarwv,  *»}  rwv  ^ywv,  K^  rwv  jSoufflv,  ^  rwv  tTTTrwv,  K^  <cariva  aora//a/wv  -&JKJJ  rd  TrXft^oj  ^fii 
a7roypa0£ffo  ai^e  rrXiova  rwv  y£ypa////f  vwv  tv  r^  ffovy^wptcVi  »?  foKaris  .   .   .  »/  rd  fovdpiov 
EtJ6o)Xov  6(f>et\ei  .....  XJJTWV  f'p^o/imwv  dpyoup/w  ......  rerrapa/covra  Ev- 

SwXu  Ka0'£Kao-TOVfvtaurdv,Kq  rd<ov0£pfrw  Jpa^aj  .......  raj  fivaj  tKaaras  Kard 

<cat  ra  I  i#  s." 


'Ev  aXXotj  AlQots. 
NOKYES 


rdvov 


"KaXXfmrov  d/t^apt^oj,  /tat  a^Xat."     'Ev 
2  5c  JT/UJJ  {woypa0oju£v,  oi  jraXatot  irpo<rtypa<f>ov. 


The  following  is  the  prospectus  of  a  translation  of  Anacharsis  into  Romaic,  by  my 
Romaic  master,  Marmar  otouri,  who  wished  to  publish  it  in  England. 


EIAH'SIS  TmorPA*IKH'. 
Hp3j  rovs  ev        <j>i\oy£V£is  Kat  ^tXAXj/vof. 


•O20I  efj  Pi6\la  TravroSairS.  ivTpvQSJfftvrf&povv  itdaovetvat  r 
it'  air^j  yap  (i-£vptffK£rai  rj  irX/ov  nEpcucpvapevri  waXat(5r»7J,  /cai  ^£wpo5vrat 
rp^s  #877,  wpd'l-Etf  /eat  SIOIK^EIS  s-oXXwv  /cat  SiaQdpuv  'EOviov  Kal  TevSv  o>v  T^V  pvfyriv  die- 
e&aaro  /cat  dtaowcrct  ^  'laropiKi}  Aifffrjais  ds  alwva  rbv  aitavTa, 


CANTO    THE    SECOND.  95 


Mta  reroia  'EffHrrffyMj  elvai  efoiTnJ/enjros,  KOI  Iv  ravrHf  w^At/i);,  #  Kpttrrov  efauvavay- 
Kaia-  <5tart  Xonrdv  f/pEis  p6voi  v»)  r?)v  vcTEpovp£6a  ,  pfi  rjt-Evpoi/TEs  OVTE  raj  ap^ds  riav 
ITpoyrfvwv  was,  irdOev  ir6rt  Kai  TTU/J  eiipeOrjffav  els  rds  iraTpioas  //as,  OVTE  ra  tjBt],  rd  Karop- 
QwpaTa  Kai  TIJV  SioiKijatv  run/;  *Av  IpwTrjffiapEv  roiij  'AAXoy£V£?j,  fifcvpovv  vd  pas  Swaovv 
8%ip6vov  IffTopiK&s  rr\v  apvrjv  Kai  Ttjv  np6ooov  rwv  irpoy6v<i)v  //aj,  u-XXd  Kai  roTroypa^t/cwj 
pas  Sel^vovv  raj  Oiaeis  T&V  liarpiSuv  pas,  Kai  olovEi  ^Eipayuyol  yivdpevot  pe  TOVS  y£w- 
ypa(j)iKo{>s  Tb)v  nivaKas,  pas  \iyovv,  f<5w  eZvai  a?  'A0^vat,f6w  ^  ZffapTJj,  «£?  aJ  6^at, 
Tdaa  ffrdSta  tj  pl\ia  dirtvei  fj  pia  'Ewapvfa  aird  r*)v  aXAj/v.  ToCTOj  uKoSo^ricE  rqv  [iiav 
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£iS  rijv  EKooaiv  TOV  Savpaatov  TOVTOV  cvyypdppaTos  TOV  Nfov  'Ava^apo-£wj. 

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Kai  Evoatpoves  SiaBiwotTE  'EXXjJvuv  Tla75£$. 
T^j  vpETtpas  dydirris  lfyf>Triptvoi 

'Iwavvr;?  MappapoTovprjf, 


'Ev  Tpiwrfo,  rij  rpwrp  'O»crw5pfov,  1799. 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER  IN  ROMAIC. 

Si  ITATE  PA  MAS  b  TTOV  Eiaat  sis  TOVS  ovpavovs,  as  ayiatrdrj  TO'  Svopd  aov.     "A?  '\0ij 
fl  (ia<ri\£la  cov.     "Aj  yiivr/  Tb  $E\T}pd  aov,  Ka6(i>s  eis  rbv  ovpavbv,  IT^TI  Kai  ds  rfa 
KaOnpspivbv,  66s  pas  Tb  arjpepov.     Kai  ffvy^uprjae  pas  Ta  ^ir\  pas, 


96  APPENDIX  TO   CANTO   THE   SECOND. 


rod?  Kpeo^Xmi?  juaf.  Kai  ^v  pfe  <ptpeis  els  irttpafffjibv,  aAX5 
e\ev9ff><aae  pas  iird  rdv  irovrjpbv.  'On  ftincfaov  civai  ^  /JoaiXefa,  5t  ij  5<va/«s,  icai  ^  5<J|o, 
ffr  roi's  a^aJva;.  'A//vv- 

IN  GREEK. 

IIA  'TEP  jjji/wv  &  lv  rails  oltpavots  ,  aytaffOjJrw  rd  ^vo^ta  aoti.  'EXflfrw  ^  ftaffi\eta  erov  ' 
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rats  fip&v.  Kai  p)  dtrevfyKys  focis  els  neipaafibv,  aXXa  pvtrai  fi^as  arcb  TOV  xovrjpov. 
'On  ffov  iarlv  %  (iaaiXda,  nal  %  Mva/uj,  *cal  fi  fofc,  els  rot*  aluvas.  'A/i)?v. 


CHILDE    HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 

CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


u  Afin  que  cette  application  vous  forgat  de  penser  a  autre  chose ;  il  n'y  a  en 
vferit6  de  rem6de  que  celui-la  et  le  temps."  —  .Lettre  du  Roi  de  Prusse  d  D'Alembert, 
Sept.  7, 1776. 


VOL.  HI. — H 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE, 


CANTO  THE  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  lift  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  ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome,  to  the  roar ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoever  it  lead ! 
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. 


100  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  III. 


III. 

In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind  ; 
Again  I  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  steril  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life,  —  where  not  a  flower  appears. 


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  ween  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness  —  so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me  —  it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 


v. 

He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  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  rue 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Still  unimpair'd,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  ceL 


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  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crash'd  feelings'  dearth. 


CANTO  IH.  PILGRIMAGE.  101 


VII. 

Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly  :  —  I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd.     'Tis  too  late  ! 
Yet  am  I  changed  ;  though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  can  not  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  heal ; 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter'd  him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age  :  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigour  from  the  limb,; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 


IX. 

His  had  been  quaff'd  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood  ;  but  he  fill'd  again, 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground, 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual ;  but  in  vain  ! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gall'd  for  ever,  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  he  took  through  many  a  scene. 


Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix'd 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 
And  deem'd  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fix'd 
And  sheath'd  with  an  invulnerable  mind, 
That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk'd  behind  ; 
And  he,  as  one,  might  midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation  ;  such  as  in  strange  land 
He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 


102  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

XI. 

But  who  can  view  the  ripen'd  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it  1  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ? 
Who  can  contemplate  Fame  through  clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb  ? 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  roll'd 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 
Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond  prime. 

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  rolPd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home  ; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam  ; 
The  deser*,  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-born  jars, 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite  : 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy  ;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its  brink. 


CANTO  III.  PILGRIMAGE.  103 

XV. 

But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  clipt  wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home  : 
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  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom ; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb, 
Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume, 
Which,  though  'twere  wild,  —  as  on  the  plunder'd  wreck 
When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck,  — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forebore  to  check. 


XVII. 

Stop  !  —  For  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dust ! 
An  Earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below  ! 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  1 
None  ;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be  ;  — 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow ! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by  thee, 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  !  king-making  Victory  ? 

XVIIT. 

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, 

(1)  "  PKIDE  of  place  "  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means  the  highest  pitch  of 
ght.  —  See  Macbeth,  &c. 

"  An  Eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place 
Was  by  a  mousing  Owl  hawked  at  and  killed," 


104  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  ui. 

Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through 
Ambition's  life  and  labours  all  were  vain  ; 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken  chain. 


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  all  kings  true  sovereignty  ? 
What !  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlighten'd  days  ? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage  1  proffering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones  1  No  ;  prove  before  ye  praise ! 


xx. 

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


XXI. 

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

(1)  See  the  famous  song  on  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton.  —  The  best  English 
translation  is  in  Eland's  Anthology,  by  Mr.  Denman. 

"  With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,"  &c. 

(2)  On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a  ball  was  given  at  Brussels. 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  105 


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

xxv. 

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


106  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  m. 

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  thrills, 
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,  (a)  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's 
ears ! 


xxvn. 

And  Ardennes  (3)  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 


XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms,  —  the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  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 ! 

(1,2)  Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the  «'  gentle  Lochiel  "  of  the 
•'  forty-five." 

(3)  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of  the  "  forest  of  Arden- 
nes,' famous  in  Boiardo's  Orlando,  and  immortal  in  Shakspeare's  "  As  you  like 
it."  It  is  also  celebrated  in  Tacitus  as  being  the  spot  of  successful  defence  by  the 
Uermans  against  the  Roman  encroachments.  —  I  have  ventured  to  adopt  the  name 
connected  with  nobler  associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  107 


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 ; 
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 ! 


xxx. 

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

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 

(1)  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  Picton  and  other  gallant  men  had 
perished,  the  guide  said,  "  Here  Major  Howard  lay :  I  was  near  him  when  wound- 
ed." I  told  him  my  relationship,  and  he  seemed  then  still  more  anxious  to  point 
out  the  particular  spot  and  circumstances.  The  place  is  one  of  the  most  marked  in 
the  field  from  the  peculiarity  of  the  two  trees  above  mentioned. 

I  went  on  horseback  twice  over  the  field,  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,  Leuctra,  Chaeronea,  and  Marathon  ;  and  the  field 
around  Mont  St.  Jean  and  Hougoumont  appears  to  want  little  but  a  better  cause, 
and  that  undefinable  but  impressive  halo  which  the  lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a 
celebrated  spot,  to  vie  in  interest  which  any  or  all  of  these,  except  perhaps  the  last 
mentioned. 


108  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  III. 


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  honour'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  are  gone  ; 

The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthral ; 

The  day  drags  through  tho'  storms  keep  out  the  sun 

And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on  : 


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  will  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  we  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  three- 
score ? 

(1)  The  (fabled)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes  were  said  to  be  air 
without,  and  within  ashes.  —  Vide  Tacitus,  Histor.  1.  5,  7. 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  109 


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 ! " 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 


XXXVI. 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men, 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt, 
Extreme  in  all  things  !  hadst  thou  been  betwixt, 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been  ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  re-assume  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  all  inert, 
Who  deem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst  assert* 


XXXVIII. 

Oh,  more  or  less  than  man  —  in  high  or  low, 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field  ; 
Now  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  the  lust  of  war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 


110  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  m. 

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  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smile 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ;  — 
When  Fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favourite  child, 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled. 


XL. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steePd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn,  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts  ;  'twas  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  were  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turn'd  unto  thine  overthrow : 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  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  too  wide  a  den.  (*) 

(1)  The  great  error  of  Napoleon,  "  if  we  have  writ  our  annals  true,"  was  a 
continued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  his  want  of  all  community  of  feeling  for  or  with 
them ;  perhaps  more  offensive  to  human  vanity  than  the  active  cruelty  of  more 
trembling  and  suspicious  tyranny. 

Such  were  his  speeches  to  public  assemblies  as  well  as  individuals  ;  and  the  sin- 
gle 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  pleasanter 
than  Moscow,"  would  probably  alienate  more  favour  from  his  cause  than  the  de- 
struction and  reverses  which  led  to  the  remark. 


CANTO  III.  PILGRIMAGE.  ill 

XLII. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane  ;  there  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
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, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable !  what  stings 
Are  theirs  !  One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or  ru* : 


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  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by 
Which  cats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously 

XLV. 

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


1 12  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  m. 

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  stern  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. 


XL  VIII. 

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  1 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full 
brave. 

XLIX. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died  ! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields, 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride, 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts 


(1)  "  What  wants  that  knave 

That  a  king  should  have  ?  " 

•was  King  James's  question  on  meeting  Johnny  Armstrong  and  his  followers  m  fall 
accoutrements.  —  See  the  Ballad. 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  113 


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  discolour'd  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 


But  Thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river ! 
Making  their  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  sharpe  scythe  of  conflict,  —  then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  Heaven ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me, 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream  1  —  that  it  should  Lethe  be. 

LI. 

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

LII. 

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

LIII. 

Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  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 
VOL.  HI. — i 


114  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  m. 

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  learn'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  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow. 

LV. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal ;  and,  though  unwed, 
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 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings  pour ! 

1. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels  (x) 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  com  and  wine, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

(1)  The  castle  of  Drachenfels  stands  on  the  highest  summit  of  "  the  Seven 
Mountains,"  over  the  Rhine  banks :  it  is  in  ruins,  and  connected  with  some  singu- 
lar traditions  :  it  is  the  first  in  view  on  the  road  from  Bonn,  but  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  Rhine  on  both 
sides  is  every  great,  and  their  situations  remarkably  beautiful. 


CANTO  HI.  PILGRIMAGE*  115 

2. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  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  J 

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  one  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine ! 

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 
Honour  to  Marceau  !  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid, 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom, 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 


116  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  m. 

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'erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons  ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept.  (*) 


LVIII. 

Here  Ehrenbreitstein,  (a)  with  her  shattered  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. 


(1)  The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  General  Marceau  (killed  by  a 
rifle-ball  at  Alterkirchen,  on  the  last  day  of  the  fourth  year  of  the  French  republic) 
still  remains  as  described. 

The  inscriptions  on  his  monument  are  rather  too  long,  and  not  required  :  his  name 
was  enough  ;  France  adored,  and  her  enemies  admired  ;  both  wept  over  him.  —  His 
funeral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and  detachments  from  both  armies.  In  the 
same  grave  General  Hoche  is  interred,  a  gallant  man  in  every  sense  of  the  word; 
but  though  he  distinguished  himself  greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not  gained  the  good  for- 


tune to  die  there  :  his  death  was  attended  by  suspicions  of  poison. 

A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is  buried  by  Marceau's)  is  raised 

for  him  near  Andernach,  opposite  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  different  from  that  of  Marceau's,  and  the  inscription  more  simple  and  pleasing. 

"  The  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse 

"  to  its  Commander-in-chief 

"  Hoche." 

This  is  all  as  it  should  be.  Hoche  was  esteemed  among  the  first  of  France's 
earlier  generals  before  Buonaparte  monopolized  her  triumphs.  He  was  the  destined 
commander  of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

(2)  Ehrenbreitstein,  i.  e.  "  the  broad  stone  of  Honour,"  one  of  the  strongest  fortress- 
es in  Europe,  was  dismantled  and  blown  up  by  the  French  at  the  truce  of  Leoben.  — 
It  had  been  and  could  only  be,  reduced  by  famine  or  treachery.  It  yielded  to  the  for- 
mer, aided  by  surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifications  of  Gibraltar  and  Malta, 
it  did  not  much  strike  by  comparison,  but  the  situation  is  commanding.  General 
Marceau  besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time,  and  I  slept  in  a  room  where  I  was  shown 
a  windov^  at  which  he  is  said  to  have  been  standing  observing  the  progress  of  the 
siege  by  moonlight,  when  a  ball  struck  immediately  below  it. 


CANTO  III.  PILGRIMAGE.  117 

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, 
Where  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  thine ; 
The  mind  is  colour'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  nightly  spots  may  rise  —  more  glaring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft,  —  the  glories  of  old  days, 


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  fall. 

LXII. 

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


118  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  m 


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  wandering 
ghost.  O 


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. 


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,  (3)  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands. 

(l)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  postilions,  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  quarter  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, 

(2)  Aventicum  (near  Morat)  was  the  Roman  capital  of  Helvetia,  where  Aveuches 
now  stands. 


CANTO  in.  PILGRIMAGE.  119 

.LXVI. 

And  there  —  oh !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name !  — 
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, 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death  and  birth  ; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe, 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,  (3) 
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  fair  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 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherished  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in  their  fold. 

1)  Julia  Alpinula,  a  young  Aventian  priestess,  died  soon  after  a  vain  endeavour  to 
save  her  father,  condemned  to  death  as  a  traitor  by  Aulus  Caecina.  Her  epitaph  was 
discovered  many  years  ago ; — it  is  thus :  — 

Julia  Alpinula 

Hie  jaceo 
Infelicis  patris,  infelix  proles 

Deae  Aventiae  Sacerdos ; 

Exorare  patris  necem  non  potui 

Male  mori  in  fatis  ille  erat. 

Vixi  annosxxni. 

I  know  of  no  human  composition  so  affecting  as  this,  nor  a  history  of  deeper  interest. 
These  are  the  names  and  actions  which  ought  not  to  perish,  and  to  which  we  turn  with 
a  true  and  healthy  tenderness,  from  the  wretched  and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused 
mass  of  conquests  and  battles,  with  which  the  mind  is  roused  for  a  time  to  a  false  and 
feverish  sympathy,  from  whence  it  recurs  at  length  with  all  the  nausea  consequent  on 
such  intoxication. 

(2)  This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc,  (June  3d,  1816,)  which  even  at  this 
distance  dazzles  mine. 


120  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  in. 

LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind  : 

All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 

Ner  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  colour  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  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er  shall  be. 
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,  (l) 

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  lives  to  wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflict  or  bear  ? 

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. 

(July  20th.)  I  this  day  observed  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  is  60  miles. 

(1)  The  colour  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva,  is  blue,  to  a  depth  of  tint  which  I  have  never 
seen  equalled  in  water,  salt  or  fresh,  except  in  the  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago. 


CAITTO  HI.  PILGRIMAGE.  121 

LXXIII. 

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

LXXIV. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  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  I 


LXXVI. 

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


122  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


LXXVII. 

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

LXXVIII. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence  —  as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted  ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamour'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper'd  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 

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

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

(l)This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  "  Confessions  "  of  his  passion  for  the  Comtesse 
d'Houdetot,  (the  mistress  of  St.  Lambert,)  and  his  long  walk  every  morning  for  the 
sake  of  the  single  kiss  which  was  the  common  salutation  of  French  acquaintance. — 
Rosseau's  description  of  his  feelings  on  this  occasion  may  be  considered  as  the  most 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  123 


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  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more  : 
Did  he  not  this  for  France  1  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years  1 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers 
Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  follows  o'ergrown  fears  ? 

LXXXII. 

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

LXXXIII. 

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

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. 

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  be  inadequate  to  the  deli- 
neation—  a  painting  can  give  no  sufficient  idea  of  the  ocean. 


124  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO   III. 


LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  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  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  fight  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more  ; 


LXXXVIl. 

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  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven ! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires,  —  '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  themselves  a  star. 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  125 


LXXXIX. 

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

xc. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  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  honour  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 ! 

(1)  It  is  to  be  recollected,  that  the  most  beautiful  and  impressive  doctrines  of  the 
divine  Founder  of  Christianity  were  delivered,  not  in  the  Temple,  but  on  the  Mount, 

To  wave  the  question  of  devotion,  and  turn  to  human  eloquence, — the  most  effectual 
and  splendid  specimens  were  not  pronounced  within  walls.  Demosthenes  addressed 
the  public  and  popular  assemblies.  Cicero  spoke  in  the  forum.  That  this  added  to 
their  effect  on  the  mind  of  both  orator  and  hearers,  may  be  conceived  from  the  differ- 
ence between  what  we  read  of  the  emotions  then  and  there  produced,  and  those  we 
ourselves  experience  in  the  perusal  in  the  closet.  It  is  one  thing  to  read  the  Iliad  at 
Siggeum  and  on  the  tumuli,  or  by  the  springs  with  Mount  Ida  above,  and  the  plain  and 
rivers  and  Archipelago  around  you ;  and  another  to  trim  your  taper  over  it  in  a  snug 
library  —  this  I  know. 

Were  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of  what  is  called  Methodism  to  be  attributed  to 
any  cause  beyond  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  its  vehement  faith  and  doctrines  (the  truth 
or  error  of  which  I  presume  neither  to  canvass  nor  to  question)  I  should  venture  to  as- 
scribe  it  to  the  practice  of  preaching  in  the  fields,  and  the  unstudied  and  extemporane- 
ous effusions  of  its  teachers. 


126  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  in. 


xcu. 

Thy  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  !  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 ! 

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  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black,  —  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth, 
xciv. 

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

The  Mussulmans,  whose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least  in  the  lower  orders)  is  most 
sincere,  and  therefore  impressive,  are  accustomed  to  repeat  their  prescribed  onsons  and 
prayers  wherever  they  may  be,  at  the  stated  hours — of  course  frequently  in  the  open 
air,  kneeling  upon  a  light  mat,  (which  they  carry  for  the  purpose  of  a  bed  or  cushion  as 
required  :)  the  ceremony  lasts  some  minutes,  during  which  they  are  totally  absorbed,  and 
only  living  in  their  supplication  :  nothing  can  disturb  them.  On  me  the  simple  and  en- 
tire sincerity  of  these  men,  and  the  spirit  which  appeared  to  be  within  and  upon  them, 
made  a  far  greater  impression  than  any  general  rite  which  was  ever  performed  in  places 
of  worship,  of  which  I  have  seen  those  of  almost  every  persuasion  under  the  sun  ;  in- 
cluding most  of  own  sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  the  Catholic,  the  Armenian,  the  Luthe- 
ran, the  Jewish,  and  the  Mahometan.  Many  of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are  num- 
bers in  the  Turkish  empire,  are  idolaters,  and  have  free  exercise  of  their  belief  and  its 
rites  ;  some  of  these  I  had  a  distant  view  of  at  Patras,  and  from  what  I  could  make  out 
of  them,  they  appeared  to  be  of  a  truly  Pagan  description,  and  not  very  agreeable  to  a 
spectator. 

(l)The  thunder-storm  to  which  these  lines  refer  occurred  on  the  13th  of  June,  1816, 
at  midnight.  I  have  seen,  among  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  Chimari,  severalmore 
terrible,  but  none  more  beautiful. 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  127 


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


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  1 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  1 

xcvu. 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  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, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak  ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 


xcvm. 

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


128  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  III. 


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  colours  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. 

(1)  Rousseau's  Heloise,Lettre  17,  part  4,  note.  "  Ces  montagnes  sont  si  hautes 
qu'une  demi-heure  apr6s  le  soleil  couche,  leurs  sommets  sont  encore  eclaires  de  ses 
rayons ;  dont  le  rouge  forme  sur  ces  times  blanches  une  belle  couleur  de  rose,  qu'on 
appercoit  de  fort  loin." 

This  applies  more  particularly  to  the  heights  over  Meillerie. 

"  J'allai  a  Vevay  loger  a  la  Clef,  et  pendant  deux  jours  que  j'y  restai  sans  voir 
personne,  je  pris  pour  cette  ville  un  amour  qui  m'a  suivi  dans  tous  mes  voyages,  et 
qui  m'y  a  fait  etablir  enfin  les  h6ros  de  mon  roman.  Je  dirois  volontiers  a  ceux  qui 
ont  du  gout  et  qui  sont  sensibles :  alez  a  Vevay — visitez  le  pays,  examinez  les  sites, 
promenez-vous  sur  le  lac,  et  dites  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour  une 
Julie,  pour  une  Claire,  et  pour  un  St.  Preux ;  mais  ne  les  y  cherchez  pas."  Les 
Confessions,  livre  iv.  page  306,  Lyons  ed.  1796. 

In  July,  1816,  I  made  a  voyage  round  the  Lake  of  Geneva  ;  and,  as  far  as  my 
own  observations  have  led  me  in  a  not  uninterested  nor  inattentive  survey  of  all  the 
scenes  most  celebrated  by  Rousseau  in  his  "  Heloi'se,"  I  can  safely  say,  that  in  this 
there  is  no  exaggeration.  It  would  be  difficult  to  see  Clarens,  (with  the  scenes 
around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon,  Bdveret,  St.  Gingo,  Meillerie,  Eivan,  and  the  entrances 
of  the  Rhone,)  without  being  forcibly  struck  with  its  peculiar  adaptation  to  the  per- 
sons and  events  with  which  it  has  been  peopled.  But  this  is  not  all :  the  feeling 
with  which  all  around  Clarens,  and  the  opposite  rocks  of  Meillerie,  is  invested,  is  of 
a  still  higher  and  more  comprehensive  order  than  the  mere  sympathy  with  individual 
passion  ;  it  is  a  sense  of  the  existence  of  love  in  its  most  extended  and  sublime  ca- 
pacity, and  of  our  own  participation  of  its  good  and  of  its  glory :  it  is  the  great  prin- 
ciple of  the  universe,  which  is  there  more  condensed,  but  not  less  manifested  ;  and 
of  which,  though  knowing  ourselves  a  part,  we  lose  our  individuality,  and  mingle  in 
the  beauty  of  the  whole. 

If  Rousseau  had  never  written,  nor  lived,  the  same  associations  would  not  less 
have  belonged  to  such  scenes.  He  has  added  to  the  interest  of  his  works  by  their 
adoption ;  he  has  shown  his  sense  of  their  beauty  by  the  selection  ;  but  they  have 
done  that  for  him  which  no  human  being  could  do  for  them. 

I  had  the  fortune  (good  or  evil  as  it  might  be)  to  sail  from  Meillerie  (where  we 
landed  for  some  time)  to  St.  Gingo  during  a  lake  storm,  which  added  to  the  magnifi- 
cence of  all  around,  although  occasionally  accompanied  by  danger  to  the  boat,  which 
was  small  and  overloaded.  It  was  over  this  very  part  of  the  lake  that  Rousseau  has 
driven  the  boat  of  St.  Preux  and  Madame  Wolmar  to  Meillerie  for  shelter  during  a 
tempest. 

On  gaining  the  shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I  found  that  the  wind  had  been  sufficiently 
strong  to  blow  down  some  fine  old  chestnut-trees  OH  the  lower  part  of  the  moun- 
tains. 

On  the  opposite  height  of  Clarens  is  a  chateau.  The  hills  are  covered  with  vine- 
yards, and  inrerspersed  with  some  small  but  beautiful  woods  ;  one  of  these  was 
named  the  "  Bosquet  de  Julie  ;"  and  it  is  remarkable  that,  though  long  ago  cut  down 
by  the  brutal  selfishness  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard,  (to  whom  the  land  appertain- 
ed,) that  the  ground  might  be  enclosed  into  a  vineyard  for  the  miserable  drones  of  an 
execrable  superstition,  the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still  point  out  the  spot  where  its 
trees  stood,  calling  it  by  the  name  which  consecrated  and  survived  them. 

Rousseau  has  not  been  particularly  fortunate  in  the  preservation  of  the  "  local 
habitations"  he  has  given  to  "  airy  nothings."  The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  has 
cut  down  some  of  his  woods  for  the  sake  of  a  few  casks  of  wine,  and  Buonaparte  has 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  129 


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  light,  —  so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o'er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown, 
H»  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  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
Offering  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 

en. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And  fairy-form'd  and  many  colour'd  things, 
Who  .worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words* 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and  full  of  life :  the  gush  of  springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  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  those, 
For  'tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die  ; 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity  ! 

levelled  part  of  the  rocks  of  Meillerie  in  improving  the  road  to  the  Simplon.     The 
road  is  an  excellent  one,  but  I  cannot  quite  agree  with  &  remark  which  1  heard  made, 
that  "  La  route  vaut  mieux  que  les  souvenirs." 
VOL.  III. K 


130  CTHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  HI. 

civ. 

'Twas  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peopling  it  wfth  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  !  and  Ferney !  ye  hfcve  been  the  abodes  (J) 
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. 

evi. 

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. 

CVH. 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought, 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 
In  medtiation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought, 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer  ; 
The  lord  of  irony,  —  that  master-spell, 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from  fear, 
And  doorn'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 
Which  answer  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

(1)  Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 


CAMTO  ni.  PILGRIMAGE*  131 


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  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow,  —  in  the  dust, 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  decay'd  ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'Twill  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 !  looking  on  thee, 
Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages, 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires ;  still, 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Here  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her  fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  hiD. 

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. 


132  CHILDE  HAROLD'S.  CANTO  m. 

cxn. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song, 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile,  — 
The  colouring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth,  — but  I  am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile, 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot ; 
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  still  could, 
Had  I  not  filed  (*)  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

cxiv. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,  — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes  ;  I  do  believe 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things,  —  hopes  which  will  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  ;  (a) 
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  begun  — 
My  daughter !  with  thy  name  thus  much  shall  end  •— 
I  see  thee  not,  —  I  hear  thee  not,  —  but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee  ;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend  : 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  should'st  behold, 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,  —  when  mine  is  cold,  — 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould. 

(1)  .  "If  it  be  thus, 

For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind." 

Macbeth. 

(2)  It  is  said  by  Rochefbucault,  that  "  there  is  always  something  in  the  misfortunes 
of  men's  best  friends  not  displeasing  to  them." 


CANTO  III. 


PILGRIMAGE.  133 


CXVI. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  developement,  —  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  mis  was  in  my  nature :  —  as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

cxvu. 

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  : 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us,  'twere  the  same, 
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,  — 
Still  thou  would'st  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life  retain. 

CXVIII. 

The  child  of  love,  —  though  born  in  bitterness, 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements,  —  and  thine  no  less. 
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,  Lombardia,  Romagna, 

Q,uel  Monte  che  divide,  e  quel  che  serra 
Italia,  e  un  mare  e  1'  altro,  che  la  bagna. 

Ariosto,  Satira  iii. 


TO 

JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.  A.M.  F.R.S. 


MY  DEAR  HOBHOUSE, 

AFTER  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  the  composition 
of  the  first  and  last  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  the  conclusion  ot 
the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  to  the  public.  In  parting  with 
so  old  a  friend,  it  is  not  extraordinary  that  I  should  recur  to  one 
still  older  and  better,  —  to  one  who  has  beheld  the  birth  and  death 
of  the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  indebted  for  the  social  ad- 
vantages of  an  enlightened  friendship,  than  —  though  not  ungrate- 
ful —  I  can,  or  could  be,  to  Childe  Harold,  for  any  public  favour 
reflected  through  the  poem  on  the  poet,  —  to  one,  whom  I  have 
known  long,  and  accompanied  far,  whom  I  have  found  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  dedicating  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  honour  to  myself  by  the  record  of 
many  years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of  talent,  of  steadi- 
ness, and  of  honour.  It  is  not  for  minds  like  ours  to  give  or  to 
receive  flattery ;  yet  the  praises  of  sincerity  have  ever  been  per- 
mitted 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  late- 
ly, been  so  much  accustomed  to  the  encounter  of  good- will  as  to 
withstand  the  shock  firmly,  that  I  thus  attempt  to  commemorate 
your  good  qualities,  or  rather  the  advantages  which  I  have  derived 
from  their  exertion.  Even  the  recurrence  of  the  date  of  this  let- 
ter, the  anniversary  of  the  most  unfortunate  day  of  my  past  exist- 
ence, but  which  cannot  poison  my  future  while  I  retain  the  re- 
source of  your  friendship,  and  of  my  own  faculties,  will  henceforth 
have  a  more,  agreeable  recollection  for  both,  inasmuch  as  it  wifl 


138  DEDICATION. 

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  various  periods, 
the  countries  of  chivalry,  history,  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  accom- 
panied 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  how- 
ever unworthy  it  may  be  deemed  of  those  magical  and  memorable 
abodes,  however  short  it  may  fall  of  our  distant  conceptions  and 
immediate  impressions,  yet  as  a  mark  of  respect  for  what  is  vener- 
able, and  of  feeling  for  what  is  glorious,  it  has  been  to  me  a 
source  of  pleasure  in  the  production,  and  I  part  with  it  with  a 
kind  of  regret,  which  I  hardly  suspected  that  events  could  have 
left  me  for  imaginary  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there  will  be  found 
less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the  preceding,  and  that  little 
slightly,  if  at  all,  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 
Chinese  in  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  whom  nobody 
would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese,  it  was  in  vain  that  I  asserted,  and 
imagined  that  I  had  drawn,  a  distinction  between  the  author  and 
the  pilgrim  ;  and  the  very  anxiety  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  indifference ;  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  permanent,  which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efforts, 
deserves  the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my  intention,  either 
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  laby- 
rinth of  external  objects,  and  the  consequent  reflections  ;  and  for 
the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a  few  of  the  shortest,  I  am  in- 
debted to  yourself,  and  these  were  necessarily  limited  to  the 
elucidation  of  the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to  dissert  upon 
the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so  dissimilar ;  and  requires 


DEDICATION.  139 

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  narrowly 
examine  our  information.  The  state  of  literary,  as  well  as  poli- 
tical party,  appears  to  run,  or  to  have  run,  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  beautiful  language  —  "  Mi  pare  che  in  un  paese  tutto 
poetico,  che  vanta  la  lingua  la  phi  nobile  ed  insieme  la  piu  dolce, 
tutte  tutte  la  vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e  che  sinche  la  patria 
di  Alfieri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  perduto  P  antico  valore,  in  tutte  essa 
dovrebbe  essere  la  prima."  Italy  has  great  names  still  —  Ca- 
nova,  Monti,  Ugo  Foscolo,  Pindemonte,  Visconti,  Morelli 
Cicognara,  Albrizzi,  Mezzophanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglietti,  and 
Vacca,  will  secure  to  the  present  generation  an  honourable  place 
in  most  of  the  departments  of  Art,  Science,  and  Belles  Lettres ; 
and  in  some  the  very  highest ;  —  Europe  —  the  World  —  has  but 
one  Canova. 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  "  La  pianta  uomo 
nasce  piu  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualunque  altra  terra  —  e  che 
gli  stessi  atroci  delitti  che  vi  si  commettono  ne  sono  una  prova." 
Without  subscribing  to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposition,  a  danger- 
ous doctrine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed  on  better 
grounds,  namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in  no  respect  more  fero- 
cious than  their  neighbours,  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  desola- 
tion of  battles,  and  the  despair  of  ages,  their  still  unquenched 
"  longing  after  immortality,"  —  the  immortality  of  independence. 
And  when  we  ourselves,  in  riding  round  the  walls  of  Rome,  heard 
the  simple  lament  of  the  labourers'  chorus,  "  Roma !  Roma ! 
Roma !  Roma  non  &  piu  come  era  prima,"  it  was  difficult  not  to 
contrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with  the  bacchanal  roar  of  the  songs 
of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the  London  taverns,  over  the  carnage 
of  Mont  St.  Jean,  and  the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  France, 
and  of  the  world,  by  men  whose  conduct  you  yourself  have  ex- 
posed in  a  work  worthy  of  the  better  days  of  our  history.  For 
me, — 

"  Non  movero  mai  corda 
Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda." 

What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  nations,  it  were 
useless  for  Englishmen  to  enquire,  till  it  becomes  ascertained 


140  DEDICATION. 

that  England  has  acquired  something  more  than  a  permanent 
army  and  a  suspended  Habeas  Corpus  ;  it  is  enough  for  them  to 
look  at  home.  For  what  they  have  done  abroad,  and  esp'ecially 
in  the  South,  "  Verily  they  will  have  their  reward,"  and  at  no 
very  distant  period. 

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

Your  obliged 

And  affectionate  friend, 
BYRON. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


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, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles ! 

n. 

She  looks  a  sea-Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean,  (2) 
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  increased. 

in. 

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

(1)  See  "  Historical  Notes"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto,  No.  I. 

(2)  An  old  writer,  describing  the  appearance  of  Venice,  has  made  use  of  the  above 
image,  which  would  not  be  poetical  were  it  not  true. 

(<  Quo  fit  ut  qui  superne  urbem  contempletur ,  turritam  tetturis  imaginem  media  Oce- 
ano  figuratam  se  putet  inspicere."* 

(3)  See  "  Historical  Notes  "  at  the  end  of  this  Canto,  No.  II. 

*  Marci  AntonuSabellideVeneteUrbis  situ  narralio,  edit.  Taurin.  1527, .lib;  ifol.202. 


142  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

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  vanished  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,  may  be,  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  skilful  to  diffuse  : 


VII. 

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


CATIfO   IV. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  143 


VIII. 

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

IX. 

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


My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honbur'd  by  the  nations  —  let  it  be  — 
And  light  the  laurefe  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. 

XI. 

The  spouselese  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord ; 
And,  annual  marriage,  now  no  more  renew'd, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood,  (a) 
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 
When  Yenice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalPd  dower. 

(1)  The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas  to  the  strangers  who  praised  the  memory 
of  her  son. 

(2)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  No.  III. 


144  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  IT. 

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  blind  old  Dandolo  !  (2) 
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  ?  (3) 
Are  they  not  bridled  ?  —  Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose ! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory,  —  a  new  Tyre,  — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory, 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"  (4)  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite  ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia !  Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight ! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 

xv. 

Statues  of  glass  —  all  shiver'd  —  the  long  file         « 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ; 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust ; 
Then-  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger :  empty  halls, 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals,  (6) 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

(1, 2,  3, 5)  See  «  Historical  Notes."  Nos.  IV.  V.  VI.  VII. 
(4)  Plant  the  Lion — that  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  the  standard  of  the  republic, 
which  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Pantaloon — Piantaleone,  Pantaleon,  Pantaloon. 


CANTO   IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  146 


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  their  only  ramsom  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,  (2) 
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  woe, 
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 ; 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
From  thee,  fair  Venice  !  have  their  colours  caught : 
There  are  some  feelings  Time  cannot  benumb, 
Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and  dumb. 

(1 )  The  story  is  told  in  Plutarch's  life  of  Nicias. 

(2)  Venice  Preserved  ;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho ;  the  Ghost-Seer,  or  Armenian  • 
Merchant  of  Venice ;  Othello. 

VOL.  III. L 


146  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  IV, 


XX. 

But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow  (*) 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  shelter'd  rocks, 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  nought  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, 

xxj. 

Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms  :  mute 
The  camel  labours  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  for  ever :  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  ; 

(1)  Tannen  is  the  plural  of  tanne,  a  species  of  fir  peculiar  to  the  Alps,  which  only 
thrives  in  very  rocky  parts,  where  scarcely  soil  sufficient  for  its  nourishment  can  be 
found.  On  these  spots  it  grows  to  a  greater  height  than  any  other  mountain  tree. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  347 


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  —  ane 
The  mourn'd,  the  loved,  the  lost  —  too  many !  —  yet  how  few ! 


xxv. 

But  my  soul  wanders  ;  I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins  ;  there  to  track 
Fall'n  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  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  1 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  cannot  be  defaced. 


XXVII. 

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


148  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  IT. 


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

XXIX. 

FilPd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar ; 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters  ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 
And  now  they  change  ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  colour  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, 
Pillar'd  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover  :  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes  : 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name  (3) 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died ;  (3) 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years  •;  and  'tis  their  pride  — 
An  honest  pride  —  and  let  it  be  their  praise, 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre  ;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumental  fane. 

(1)  The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or  exaggerated  to  those  who 
have  never  seen  an  Oriental  or  an  Italian  sky,  yet  it  is  but  a  literal  and  hardly  suffi- 
cient delineation  of  an  August  evening  (the  eighteenth)  as  contemplated  in  one  of 
many  rides  along  the  banks  of  the  Brenta  near  La  Mira. 

(2,  3)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  VIII.  and  IX. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  149 


XXXII. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display'd, 
For  they  can  lure  no  further  ;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by, 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
JTis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die  ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers  ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid  ;  alone  —  man  with  his  God  must  strive  : 

xxxiv. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair  (*) 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day, 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away  ; 
Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb, 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 

xxxv. 

Ferrara !  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  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impell'd,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 

(1)  The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with  demons  as  with  our  better 
thoughts.  Satan  chose  the  wilderness  for  the  temptation  of  our  Saviour.  And  our 
unsullied  John  Locke  preferred  the  presence  of  a  child  to  complete  solitude. 


150  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 

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 
Scattered  the  clouds  away  —  and  on  that  name  attend 

XXXVII. 

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


XXXVIII. 

Thou !  forrn'd  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die, 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty  : 
He  !  with  a  glory  round  his  furrow'd  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire, 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow  (*) 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking  lyre, 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth  —  monotony  in  wire  ! 

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  millions  ;  but  how  long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on, 
And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 
Compose  a  mind  like  thine  1  though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scatter'd  rays,  they  would  not  form  a  sun. 

(1)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto,  Nfc.  X. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  151 


XL. 

Great  as  thou  art,  yet  parallel'd  by  those, 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  born  to  shine, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry  ;  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father's  comedy  divine  ; 
Then  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  call'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  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  mimic'd  leaves  ; 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust, 
For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weaves  (2) 
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  (3) 
Whate'er  it  strikes  ;  —  yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  now. 

XLII. 

Italia !  oh  Italia !  thou  who  hast  (4) 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  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. 

(1,  2,  3)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto,  Nos.  XI.  XII.  XIII. 
(4)  The  two  stanzas,  XLII.  XWIL,  are,  with  the  exception  of  a  line  or  twc,  a 
translation  of  the  famous  sonnet  of  Filicaja  : 

"  Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cui  feo  la  sorte !" 


152  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 


XLIV. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him,  f1) 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least  mortal-mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
JEgina  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left ;  I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
In  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight ; 


XLV. 

For  Time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear'd 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shatter'd  site, 
Which  only  make  more  mourn'd  and  more  endear'd        \ 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  light, 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanish'd  might. 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age, 
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  mourn'd  in  their  decline, 
And  I  in  desolation  :  all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is ;  and  now,  alas  ! 
Rome  —  Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form,  (2) 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 

(1)  The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero  on  the  death  of  his  daugh- 
ter, 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  sailing  from  JEgina  towards  Megara,  I  began 
to  contemplate  the  prospect  of  the  countries  around  me  :  JEgina  was  behind,  Megara 
before  me  ;  Piraeus  on  the  right,  Corinth  on  the  left ;  all  which  towns,  once  famous 
and  flourshing,  now  lie  overturned  and  buried  in  their  ruins.  Upon  this  sight,  1  could 
not  but  think  presently  within  myself,  Alas  !  how  do  we  poor  mortals  fret  and  vex 
ourselves  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  here  exposed  before  me  in  one  view." — 
Dr.  Middleton — History  of  the  Life  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero,  sect.  vii.  p.  371 .  vol.  ii. 

(2)  It  is  Poggio,  who,  looking  from  the  Capitoline  hill  upon  ruined  Rome,  breaks 
forth  into  the  exclamation,  "  Ut  nunc  omni  decore  nudata,  prostrata  jacet,  instar 
gigantei  cadaveris  corrupti  atque  undique  exesi. — De  fortunae  varietate  urbis  Romae, 
et  de  minis  ejusdem  descriptio,  ap.  Sallengre,  Thesaur.  torn.  i.  p.  601. 


CANTO  IT. 


PILGRIMAGE.  163 


XLVII. 

Yet,  Italy !  through  every  other  land 
Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side  ; 
Mother  of  Arts  !  as  once  of  arms  ;  thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide  ; 
Parent  of  our  Religion !  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But  Arno  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  Luxury  of  Commerce  born, 
And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeem'd  to  a  new  morn. 

XLIX. 

There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills  (*) 
The  air  around  with  beauty ;  we  inhale 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality  ;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn  ;  within  the  pale 
We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 
What  mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self  would  fail ; 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could  mould : 

L. 

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

(1)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto,  No.  XIV. 


154  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  n. 


LI. 

Appear'dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise  ? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anchises  1  or, 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquish'd  Lord  of  War  1 
And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star, 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn, 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek  !  (J)  while  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  burn, 
Shower'd  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from  an  urn 

LII. 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love, 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fate 
Has  moments  like  their  brightest  ;  but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us  ;  —  let  it  go  ! 
We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create, 
From  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which  grow 
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 
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  stream 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell  ; 
The  unruffled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 

LIV. 

In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie  (9) 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  :  —  here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his,  (') 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  return'd  to  whence  it  rose.  (*) 


(1)  'O<£0aX/zoiiff  IffTiav 

"  Atque  oculos  pascat  uterque  suos."  —  Ovid.  Amor  lib.  ii. 
(2.  3,  4)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto,  Nos.  XV.  XVI. 

t  V  II. 


CANTO  IV 


PILGRIMAGE.  155 


LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation  :  —  Italy  ! 
Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand  rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny, 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin  :  —  thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray ; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

LVI. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three  — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love  • —  where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguish'd  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life  ?  Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust  1 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  intrust? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful  Florence  !  Dante  sleeps  afar,  (a) 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore  ;  (2) 
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  (3) 
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  (4) 
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  1 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song, 
The  poetry  of  speech  ?  No  ;  —  even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyaena  bigot's  wrong, 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whom  ! 

(1    2.3,4)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto.  Nos.  XVIII. 
XIX.  XX.  and  XXI. 


156  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO 

LIX. 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Caesar'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  !  honour'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  1  (l) 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes  ?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  head. 

LXI. 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Arno's  dome  of  Art's  most  princely  shrine, 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies  ; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet  —  but  not  for  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,  swoln  to  rivers  with  their  gore, 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with  legions  scattered  o'er. 

(1)    See  «  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto,  No.  XXII. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  157 


LXIII. 

Like  to  a  forest  fell'd  by  mountain  winds ; 
And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day, 
And  such  the  frenzy,  whose  convulsion  blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray, 
An  earthquake  reel'd  unheededly  away  !  (*) 
None  felt  stern  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet, 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  lay 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding  sheet ; 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations  meet ! 

LXIV. 

The  Earth  to  them  was  as  a  rolling  bark 
Which  bore  them  to  Eternity ;  they  saw 
The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 
The  motions  of  their  vessel ;  Nature's  law, 
In  them  suspended,  reck'd  not  of  the  awe 
Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and  the  birds 
Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge  and  withdraw 
From  their  down-toppling  nests  ;  and  bellowing  herds 
Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread  hath  no  words. 

LXV. 

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

LXVI. 

But  thou,  Clitumnus  !  in  thy  sweetest  wave  (a) 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  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  I 

(1)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto,  No.  XXI1T. 

(2)  No  book  of  travels  has  omitted  to  expatiate  on  the  temple  of  the  Clitumnus, 
between  Foligno  and  Spoleto ;  and  no  site,  or  scenery,  even  in  Italy,  is  more  worthy 
a  description.     For  an  account  of  the  dilapidation  of  this  temple,  the  reader  is  refer- 
red to  "  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold,"  p.  35. 


158  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  IT. 


LXVII. 


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


LXVIII. 

Pass  not  unblest  the  Genius  of  the  place ! 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  'tis  his  ;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloquent  green, 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dust 
Of  weary  life  a  moment  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism,  —  'tis  to  him  ye  must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust. 


LXIX. 

The  roar  of  waters  !  —  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  ren, 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  ven, 


CAWTO  iv.  PILGRIMAGE.  159 

LXXI. 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 
With  many  windings,  through  the  vale  :  —  Look  back ! 
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,  (x) 


LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn,. 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge,  (a) 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn  : 
Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 


(1)  I  saw  the  "  Cascata  del  marmore"  of  Terni  twice,  at  different  periods; 
once  from  the  summit  of  the  precipice,  and  again  from  the  valley  below.     The  lower 
view  is  far  to  be  preferred,  it  the  traveller  has  time  for  one  only  ;  but  in  any  point  of 
view,  either  from  above  or  below,  it  is  worth  all  the  cascades  and  torrents  of  Swit- 
zerland put  together  :  the  Staubach,  Reichenbach.  Pisse  Vache,  fall  of  Arpenaz,  &c. 
are  rills  in  comparative  appearance.    Of  the  fall  of  Schaff  hausen  I  cannot  speak,  not 
yet  having  seen  it. 

(2)  Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  iris  the  reader  may  have  seen 
a  short  account  in  a  note  to  Manfred.     The  fall  looks  so  much  like  "  the  hell  of 
waters  "  that  Addison  thought  the  descent  alluded  to  by  the  gulf  in  which  Alecto 
plunged  into  the  infernal  regions.     It  is  singular  enough  that  two  of  the  finest  cas- 
cades in  Europe  should  be  artificial — this  of  the  Velino,  and  the  one  at  Tivoli. 
The  traveller  is  strongly  recommended  to  trace  the  Velino,  at  least  as  high  as  the 
little  lake  called  Pie1  di  Lup.     The  Reatine  territory  was  the  Italian  Temple,* 
and  the  ancient  naturalist,  among  other  beautiful  varieties,  remarked  the  daily  rain- 
bows of  the  lake  Velinus.|     A  scholar  of  great  name  has  devoted  a  treatise  to  this 
district  alone.J 


*  "  Reatini  me  ad  sua  Tempo  duxerunt."     Cicer.  epist.  ad  Attic.  TV.  lib.  iv. 
t  "  In  eodem  lacu  nullo  non  die  apparere  arcus."    Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  lib.  ii.  cap- 

Ixii. 
I  Aid.  Manut.  de  Reatina  Urbe  Agroque,  ap.  Sallengre,  Thesaur.  tom.i.  p.  778, 


160  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 

LXXIII. 

Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which  —  had  I  not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roar 
The  thundering  lauwine  —  might  be  worshipp'd  more  ;  (') 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mount-Blanc  both  far  and  near, 
And  in  Chimari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th'  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  old  name  : 
And  on  Parnassus  seen  the  eagles  fly 
Like  spirits  of  the  spot,  as  'twere  for  fame. 
For  still  they  soar'd  unutterably  high  : 
I've  look'd  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye  ; 
Athos,  Olympus,  JEtna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity, 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  heights  display'd 
Not  now  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  Roman's  aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to  break, 
And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing :  not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake 
And  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes  ;  I  abhorr'd 
Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet's  sake, 
The  drill'd  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word  (2) 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleasure  to  record 

(1)  In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland  the  avalanches  are  known  by  the  name  of 
lauwine. 

(2)  These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  of  Ensign  Northerton's  re- 
marks ;  "  D — n  Homo,"  &c.  but  the  reasons  for  our  dislike  are  not  exactly  the  same. 
I  wish  to  express  that  we  become  tired  of  the  task  before  we  can  comprehend  the 
beauty ;  that  we  learn  by  rote  before  we  can  get  by  heart ;  that  the  freshness  is 
worn  away,  and  the  future  pleasure  and  advantage  deadened  and  destroyed,  by  the 
didactic  anticipation,  at  an  age  when  we  can  neither  feel  nor  understand  the  power  of 
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  never  can  be  aware  of  the 
fulness  of  some  of  the  finest  passages  of  Shakspeare,  ("  To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  for 
instance,)  from  the  habit  of  having  them  hammered  into  us  at  eight  years  old,  as  an 
exercise,  not  of  mind,  but  of  memory :  so  that  when  we  are  old  enough  to  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 


CANTO  IV.  PILGRIMAGE.  161 


LXXVI. 

Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  which  turn'd 
My  sickening  memory  ;  and,  though  Time  hath  taught 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  learn'd, 
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  cannot  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  Moralist  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. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?  Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 


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 
my  preceptor  (the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury)  was  the  best  and  worthiest  friend  I  ever 
possessed,  whose  warnings  I  have  remembered  but  too  well,  though  too  late,  when 
I  have  erred, — and  whose  counsels  1  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  gratitude  and  vene- 
ration— of  one  who  would  more  gladly  boast  of  having  been  his  pupil,  if,  by  more 
closely  following  his  injunctions,  he  could  reflect  any  honour  upon  his  instructor. 
VOL.  III. — ML 


162  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  m 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations  !  there  she  stands 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe. 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ;  (x) 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber !  through  a  marble  wildernesss  ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 

LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarch's  ride, 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site  :  — 
Chaos  of  ruins !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night  ? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us  ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  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  ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !  (a)  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away ! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  !  —  but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ;  all  beside  —  decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free  ! 

(1)  For  a  comment  on  this  and  the  two  following  stanzas,  the  reader  may  consult 
Historical  Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 

(2)  Orosius  gives  three  hundred  and  twenty  for  the  number  of  triumphs.     He  is 
followed  by  Panvinius ;  and  Panvimus  by  Mr.  Gibbon  and  the  modem  writers. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  163 


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  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  ator-ing  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  1  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, 
Her  rushing  wings  —  Oh  !  she  who  was  Almighty  hail'd  ! 


LXXXV. 

Sylla  was  first  of  victors  ;  but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell ;  he 
Too  swept  off  senates  while  he  hew'd  the  throne 
Down  to  a  block  —  immortal  rebel !  See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages !  but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny ; 
His  day  of  double  victory  and  death 
Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  his  breath. 


(1)  Certainly  were  it  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the  life  of  Sylla,  alluded  to  in  this 
stanza,  we  shoulo  regard  him  as  a  monster  unredeemed  by  any  admirable  quality. 
The  atonement  of  his  voluntary  resignation  of  empire  may  perhaps  be  accepted  by 
us,  as  it  seems  to  have  satisfied  the  Romans,  who,  if  they  had  not  respected,  must 
have  destroyed  him.  There  could  be  no  mean,  no  division  of  opinion  ;  they  must 
have  all  thought,  like  Eucrates,  that  what  had  appeared  ambition  was  a  love  of  glory, 
and  that  what  had  been  mistaken  for  pride  was  a  real  grandeur  of  soul.  * 


*  "  Seigneur,  vous  changez  toutes  mes  idfees  de  la  fa£on  dont  je  vous  vois  agir. 
Je  croyois  que  vous  aviez  de  1'ambition,  mais  aucune  amour  pour  la  gloire  :  je  voyois 
bien  que  votre  ame  fetoit  haute ;  mais  je  ne  soupconnois  pas  qu'elle  fut  grande. — 
Dialogues  de  Sylla  et  d'Eucrate. 


164  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  3V. 


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.  (x) 
And  show'd  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way, 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb  1 
Where  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  different  were  his  doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And  thou,  dread  statue  !  yet  existent  in  (2) 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty, 
Thou  who  beheldest,  'mid  the  assassins'  din, 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Caesar  lie, 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity, 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis  !  did  he  die, 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey  ?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene  1 

LXXXVIII. 

And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome  (3) 
She-wolf!  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art, 
Thou  standest :  —  Mother  of  the  mighty  heart, 
Which  the  great  founder  suck'd  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch'd  by  the  Roman  Jove's  etherial  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, 
And  fought  and  conquer'd,  and  the  same  course  steer'd, 
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,  vanquished  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves  a  slave  — 

(1)  On  the  third  of  September,  Cromwell  gained  the  victory  of  Dunbar  ;  a  year 
afterwards  he  obtained  "  his  crowning  mercy  "  of  Worcester ;  and  a  few  years  after 
on  the  same  day,  which  he  had  ever  esteemed  the  most  fortunate  for  him,  died. 

(2,  3)  See  <•  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  XXIV.  XXV. 


CANTO  IV.  PILGRIMAGE.  ]  65 

XC. 

The  fool  of  false  dominion  —  and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Caesar,  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, 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeem'd 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold, 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  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  strangly  framed  ; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness  —  vanity, 
Coquettish  in  ambition  —  still  he  aim'd  — 
At  what  1  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  Cassars  in  his  fate, 
On  whom  we  tread  :  For  this  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph !  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd, 
An  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow !  —  Renew  thy  rainbow,  God  ! 

XCIII. 

What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail,  (2) 
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. 

(1)  See  »  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto,  No.  XXVI. 

(2)  "  ....  omnes  pene  veteres  ;  qui  nihil  cognosci,  nihil  percepi,  nihil  sciri  posse 
dixerunt ;  angustos  sensus  ;  imbecilios  arumos,  brevia  curricula  vitae ;  in  profundo  ye- 


166  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  IT, 

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  us  doubly  bow'd, 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow'd, 
The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud, 
And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne  ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm  had  done. 


xcvi. 

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  undefiled  ? 
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  ? 


ritatem  demersam ;  opinionibus  et  institutes  omnia  teneri :  nihil  veritati  relinqui : 
deinceos  omnia  tenebris  circumfusa  esse  dixerunt."*  The  eighteen  hundred  years 
which  have  elapsed  since  Cicero  wrote  this  have  not  removed  any  of  the  imperfections 
of  humanity ;  and  the  complaints  of  the  ancient  philosophers  may,  without  injustice 
or  affectation,  be  transcribed  in  a  poem  written  yesterday. 


*  Acadera.  1.  13. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  167 


XCVII. 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime  ; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen, 
And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene, 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
"Which  nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst  —  his  second 
fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet,  Freedom  !  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  ; 
Thy  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  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrown  ;  — 
"What  was  this  tower  of  strength  ?  within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock'd,  so  hid  1  —  A  woman's  grave. 

c. 

But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Torab'd  in  a  palace  1  Was  she  chaste  and  fair  ? 
Worthy  a  king's  —  or  more  —  a  Roman's  bed  ? 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear  ? 
WTiat  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir  ? 
How  lived  —  how  loved  —  how  died  she  ?  Was  she  not 
So  honour'd  —  and  conspicuously  there, 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot  ? 

(1)  Alhiding  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  called  Capo  di  Bove,  in  the  Appian 
way.     See— Historical  Illustrations  of  the  IVth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 


168  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  IV. 


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  affections  are. 

en. 

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  favourites  —  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  recal, 
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  —  Metella  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  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind ; 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Ruin  leaves  behind  ; 

(1)  c  Ov  ol  Seal  0tXoKff£V,  airo&irffficei  veog. 

Td  Y&p  Savctv  OVK  alavobv  a\\    a.lff%pG>s  Saveiv, 
Rich.  Franc.  Phil.  Brunck.  Poetse  Gnomioi,  p.  231,  edit.  1784. 


CANTO  IV.  PILGRIMAGE.  169 

CV. 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shattered  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  founder'd  that  was  ever  dear : 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  steer  ? 

There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what  is  here. 

cvi. 

Then  let  the  winds  howl  on !  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets'  cry, 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
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. 

cvn. 

Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  and  mass'd  together,  hillocks  heap'd 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crush'd,  column  strown 
In  fragments,  choked  up  vaults^  and  frescos  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.  (*) 

CVHI. 

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  f 

draw  near, 

(1)  The  Palatine  is  one  mass  of  ruins,  particularly  on  the  side  towards  the  Circus 
Maximus.     The  very  soil  is  formed  of  crumbled  brickwork.     Nothing  has  been  told, 
nothing  can  be  told,  to  satisfy  the  belief  of  any  but  a  Roman  antiquary,     feee  — 
Historical  Illustrations,  page  206. 

(2)  The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speaking  of  the  opinion  entertained  of  Bri- 


170  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 

cix. 

Admire,  exult  —  despise  —  laugh,  weep,  —  for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling  :  —  Man ! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear, 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span, 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled, 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shinning  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill'd  ! 
Where  are  its  golden  roofs  1  where  those  who  dared  to  build  ? 

ex. 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou, 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base  ! 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Caesar's  brow  ? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus  or  Trajan's  1  No  —  'tis  that  of  Time  : 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scoffing ;  and  apostolic  statues  climb 
To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime,  (') 

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.  (2) 

tain  by  that  orator  and  his  cotemporary  Romans,  has  the  following  eloquent  passage  : 
11  From  their  railleries  of  this  kind,  on  the  barbarity  and  misery  of  our  island,  ono 
cannot  help  reflecting  on  the  surprising  fate  and  revolutions  of  kingdoms  ;  how  Rome, 
once  the  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  arts,  empire,  and  glory,  now  lies  sunk  in 
sloth,  ignorance,  and  poverty,  enslaved  to  the  most  cruel  as  well  as  to  the  most  con- 
temptible of  tyrants,  superstition  and  religious  imposture  :  while  this  remote  country, 
anciently  the  jest  and  contempt  of  the  polite  Romans,  is  become  the  happy  seat  of 
liberty,  plenty,  and  letters  ;  flourishing  in  all  the  arts  and  refinements  of  civil  life  ; 
yet  running  perhaps  the  same  course  which  Rome  itself  had  run  before  it,  from  vir- 
tuous industry  to  wealth  ;  from  wealth  to  luxury ;  from  luxury  to  an  impatience  of 
discipline,  and  corruption  of  morals  :  till,  by  a  total  degeneracy  and  loss  of  virtue, 
being  grown  ripe  for  destruction,  it  fall  a  prey  at  last  to  some  hardy  oppressor,  and, 
with  the  loss  of  liberty,  losing  every  thing  that  is  valuable,  sinks  gradually  again  into 
its  original  barbarism."* 

(1)  The  column  of  Trajan  is  surmounted  by  St.  Peter;  that  of  Aurelius  by  St. 
Paul.     See  —  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  IVth  Canto,  &c. 

*  The  History  of  the  life  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero,  sect.  vi.  vol.  ii.  p.  102.     The  con- 


PILGRIMAGE.  171 


CXII. 

Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  1  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  1  Yes  ;  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  sleep  — 
The  Forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow, 
And  still  the  eloquent  air  breathes  —  burns  with  Cicero  ! 


CXIII. 

The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood  : 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  exhaled, 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  conquer  fail'd  ; 
But  long  before  had  Freedom's  face  been  veil'd, 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes  ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes, 
Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 


(2)  Trajan  was  proverbially  the  best  of  the  Roman  princes  ;*  and  it  would  be 
easier  to  find  a  sovereign  uniting  exactly  the  opposite  characteristics,  than  one  pos- 
sessed of  all  the  happy  qualities  ascribed  to  this  emperor.  "  When  he  mounted  the 
throne,"  says  the  historian  Dion,"|"  "  he  was  strong  in  body,  he  was  vigorous  in 
mind  ;  age  had  impaired  none  of  his  faculties ;  he  was  altogether  free  from  envy  and 
from  detraction  ;  he  honoured  all  the  good,  and  he  advanced  them ;  and  on  this  ac- 
count they  could  not  be  the  objects  of  his  fear,  or  of  his  hate ;  he  never  listened  to 
informers ;  he  gave  not  way  to  his  anger ;  he  abstained  equally  from  unfair  exac- 
tions and  unjust  punishments ;  he  had  rather  be  loved  as  a  man  than  honoured  as  a 
sovereign  ;  he  was  affable  with  his  people,  respectful  to  the  senate,  and  universally 
beloved  by  both;  he  inspired  none  with  dread  but  the  enemies  of  his  country." 


trast  has  been  reversed  in  a  late  extraordinary  instance.  A  gentleman  was  thrown 
into  prison  at  Paris  ;  efforts  were  made  for  his  release.  The  French  minister  con- 
tinued to  detain  him,  under  the  pretext  that  he  was  not  an  Englishman,  but  only  a 
Roman.  See  "  Interesting  Facts  relating  to  Joachim  Murat,"  pag.  139. 

*  "  Hujus  tantum  memorias  delatum  est,  ut,  usque  ad  nostram  aetatem  non  aliter 
in  Senatu  principibus  acclamatur,  nisi,  FELICIOR  .  AVGVSTO  .  MEL1OR  . 
TRAJANO."  Eutrop.  Brev.  Hist.  Rom.  lib.  viii.  cap.  v. 

t  Tui  re  yap  aw/tan  rppwro Kai  TIJ  ^vyi?  ^K/ia^JV,  wf  //»/0'  virb  yjjpwf  a[i- 

f>\6veadai  ....  icai  our'  i<p9ovei  OVTC  KaOripu  nva,  «XXd  Kai  irdw  irdvras  roiijayaflot)? 
irtfta  Kai  tutyaXwe  •  Kai  Sia  TOVTO  we  i<f>o6eir6  nva  avrfiv,  OVTC  fptaei  .  .  <5<a6oXa?j 
re  ijtciara  titiaTt'ut,  Kai  <5py^  i}Ki<rra  fSovXovro  '  rwv  re,  ^p^drwv  rtDv  aXXwrp/wv  '/<ra  Kai 
d>6vu)v  T&V  afiiKW  Jiitti'viro  ....  <bi\o{jutv6s  re  ovv  eir'  aiiroTj  uaXXov  rj  r 

'  «  r  ^«»/  #_          __%_*_.  t  -  —  n 


iraoi  •  Qo&Epbs  Sf  pri&tvl,  irX»;v  Tro\Cfiioiy  wv.     Hist.  Rom.  lib.  Ixviii.  cap. 
vi.  et  vii.  torn.  ii.  p.  1123,  1124,  edit.  Hamb.  17oO. 


172  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  IT. 

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  !  While  the  tree  (') 
Of  freedom's  wither'd  trunk  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 !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart  (a) 
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. 

cxvi. 

The  mosses  of  thy  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  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy,  creep 

CXVII. 

Fantastically  tangled  ;  the  green  hills 
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  colour'd  by  its  skies. 

(1)  The  name  and  exploits  of  Rienzi  must  be  familiar  to  the  reader  of  Gibbon. 
Some  details  and  inedited  manuscripts  relative  to  this  unhappy  hero  will  be  seen  in  the 
Illlustrutions  of  the  IVth  Canto. 

(2)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto,  No.  XXVII. 


NTO 1V  PILGRIMAGE.  173 

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  befel  1 
This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamoured  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love  —  the  earliest  oracle  ! 

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  transports  ?  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  affections  run  to  waste 
Or  water  but  the  desert ;  whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste, 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  the  eyes, 
Flowers  whose  wild  odours  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  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be  ; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 
And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image  given, 
As  haunts  the   unquench'd   soul  —  parch'd  —  wearied  — 
wrung  —  and  riven. 


174  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  IT. 

cxxn. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased, 
And  fevers  into  false  creation  :  —  where, 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized  ? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  show  so  fair  ? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 
The  unreach'd  Paradise  of  our  despair, 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again  1 

CXXIII. 

Who  loves,  raves  —  'tis  youth's  frenzy  —  but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such  ;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  from  the  oft-sown  winds ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun, 
Seems  ever  near  the  prize  —  wealthiest  when  most  undone. 

cxxiv. 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away  — 
Sick  —  sick ;  unfound  the  boon  —  unslaked  the  thirst, 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first  — 
But  all  too  late,  —  so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice  —  'tis  the  same, 
Each  idle  —  and  all  ill  —  and  none  the  worst  — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 
And  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 


cxxr. 

Few  —  none  —  find  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. 


CANTO  IT.  PILGRIMAGE.  175 


CXXVI. 

Our  life  is  a  false  nature  —  'tis  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things, — this  hard  decree, 
This  uneradicable  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  refwge  ;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine  : 
Though  from  our  birth  the  faculty  divine 
Is  chain'd  and  tortured  —  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined. 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  unprepared  mind, 
The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the  blind. 


CXXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands  ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation  ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 


(1)  "  At  all  events,"  says  the  author  of  the  Academical  Questions,  "  I  trust,  what- 
ever may  be  the  fate  of  my  own  speculations,  that  philosophy  will  regain  that  estima- 
tion which  it  ought  to  possess.  The  free  and  philosophic  spirit  of  our  nation  has  been 
the  theme  of  admiration  to  the  world.  This  was  the  proud  distinction  of  Englishmen, 
and  the  luminous  source  of  all  their  glory.  Shall  we  then  forget  the  manly  and  digni- 
fied sentiments  of  our  ancestors,  to  prate  in  the  language  of  the  mother  or  the  nurse 
about  our  good  old  prejudices?  This  is  not  the  way  to  defend  the  cause  of  truth.  It 
was  not  thus  that  our  fathers  maintained  it  in  the  brilliant  periods  of  our  history.  Pre- 
judice may  be  trusted  to  guard  the  outworks  for  a  short  space  of  time,  while  reason 
slumbers  in  the  citadel ;  but.  if  the  latter  sink  into  a  lethargy,  the  former  will  quickly 
erect  a  standard  for  herself.  Philosophy,  wisdom,  and  liberty,  support  each  other: 
he  who  will  not  reason  is  a  bigot ;  he  who  cannot,  is  a  fool ;  and  he  who  dares  not,  is 
a  slave."  Preface,  p.  xiv.  xv.  vol.  i.  1805. 


176  CHILDB  HAROLD'S 


CANTO  IV. 


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, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled  — 
Time  !  the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err, 
The  test  of  truth,  love,  —  sole  philosopher, 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift, 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer  — 
Time,  the  avenger  !  unto  thee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a  gift : 

CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins  of  years  —  though  few,  yet  full  of  fate  :  — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate, 
Hear  me  not ;  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain  —  shall  they  not  mourn? 

CXXXII. 

And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  !  (') 
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  than  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  1  —  Awake !    thou  shalt,  and 
must. 

(1)  See  "Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto,  No.  XXVIII. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  177 


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 

The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and  found, 

Which  if  I  have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass  —  I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not  that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  it  suffer'd  :  let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse, 
Though  I  be  ashes  ;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  curse  I 

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  ? 
Have  I  not  suffer'd  things  to  be  forgiven  ? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  sear'd,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapp'd,  name  blighted,  Life's  life  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy) 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do  ? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true, 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh, 

Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  sueechless  obloquy. 

VOL.  in.  — N 


178  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 

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  I 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 

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  1  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.  —  Wherefore  not  1 
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. 

(1)  Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested  this   image   be  a  laquearian 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  179 


CXLI. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away. 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
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  ?  —  Arise  !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire  ! 

CXLII. 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  millions'  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd,  (a) 
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. 


gladiator,  which,  in  spite  of  Winkelmann's criticism,  has  been  stoutly  maintained,*  or 
whether  it  be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that  great  antiquary  positively  asserted,!  or  whether 
it  is  to  be  thought  a  Spartan  or  barbarian  shield-bearer,  according  to  the  opinion  of 
his  Italian  editor, {  it  must  assuredly  seem  a  copy  of  that  masterpiece  of  Ctesilaus 
which  represented  "  a  wounded  man  dying,  who  perfectly  expressed  what  there  re- 
mained of  life  in  him."6  Montfaucon||  and  MaffeilT  thought  it  the  identical  statue  ; 
but  that  statue  was  of  bronze.  The  gladiator  was  once  in  the  villa  Ludovizi,  and 
was  bought  by  Clement  XII.  The  right  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  of  Michael 
Angelo.** 

(1,  2)  See  "  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  canto,  Nos.  XXIX,  XXX. 


*  By  the  Abate  Bracci,  dissertazione  supra  un  clipeo  votivo,  &c.  Preface,  pag.  7. 
who  accounts  for  the  cord  round  the  neck,  but  not  for  the  horn,  which  it  does  not 
appear  the  gladiators  themselves  ever  used.  Note  A,  Storia  delle  Arti,  torn.  ii.  p. 
205. 

|  Either  Polifontes,  herald  of  Laius,  killed  by  OEdipus  ;  or  Cepreas,  herald  of  Eu- 
ritheus,  killed  by  the  Athenians  when  he  endeavoured  to  drag  the  Heraclidse  from  the 
altar  of  mercy,  and  in  whose  honour  they  instituted  annual  games,  continued  to  the 
time  of  Hadrian  ;  or  Anthemocritus,  the  Athenian  herald,  killed  by  the  Megarenses, 
who  never  recovered  the  impiety.  See  Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  torn.  ii.  p.  203,  204, 
205,  206,  207,  lib.  ix.  cap.  ii. 

1  Storia,  &c.  torn.  ii.  p.  207.     Not.  (A.) 

§  "  Vulneratum  deficientem  fecit  in  quo  possit  intelligi  quantum  restat  animse;" 
Phn.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  xxxiv.  cap. 

||  Antiq.  torn.  iii.  par.  2.  tab.  155. 

IT  Race.  stat.  tab.  64. 

**  Mus.  Capitol,  torn.  iii.  p.  154.  edit.  1755, 


180  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv* 

CXLIII. 

A  ruin  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rearM  ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  cleared  1 
Alas  !  developed,  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. 

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  ;  (a) 
"When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 
"  And  when  Rome  falls  —  the  World."   From  our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or  what  ye  will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime  — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus  —  spared  and  blest  by  time  ;  (3) 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 

(1)  Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Caesar  was  particularly  gratified  by  that  de- 
cree of  the  senate,  which  enabled  him  to  wear  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  all  occasions. 
He  was  anxious,  not  to  show  that  he  was  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  but  to  hide  that 
he  was  bald.     A  stranger  at  Rome  would  hardly  have  guessed  at  the  motive,  nor 
should  we  without  the  help  of  the  historian. 

(2)  This  is  quoted  in  the  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  ;"  and  a  notice 
on  the  Coliseum  may  be  seen  in  the  Historical  Illustrations  to  the  IVth  Canto  of 
Childe  Harold. 

(3)  "  Though  plundered  of  all  its  brass,  except  the  ring  which  was  necessary  to 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  181 


Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes  —  glorious  dome  ! 
Shalt  thou  not  last  1  Time's  scythe  and  tyrants'  rods 
Shiver  upon  thee  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety  —  Pantheon !  —  pride  of  Rome  ! 


CXLVII. 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts ! 
Despoil'd  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts  — 
To  art  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture  ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads  ; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honour'd  forms,  whose  busts  around  (hem 
close. 


CXLVIII. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light  (a) 
What  do  I  gaze  on  1  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  ner  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare  ? 


preserve  the  aperture  above ;  though  exposed  to  repeated  fires  ;  though  sometimes 
flooded  by  the  river,  and  always  open  to  the  rain,  no  monument  of  equal  antiquity  is 
so  well  preserved  as  this  rotundo.  It  passed  with  little  alteration  from  the  Pagan 
into  the  present  worship ;  and  so  convenient  were  its  niches  for  the  Christian  altar, 
that  Michael  Angelo,  ever  studious  of  ancient  beauty,  introduced  their  design  as  a 
model  in  the  Catholic  church." 

Forsyth's  Remarks,  &c.  on  Italy,  p.  137.  sec.  edit. 

(1)  The  Pantheon  has  been  made  a  receptacle  for  the  busts  of  modern  great,  or, 
at  least,  distinguished,  men.     The  flood  of  light  which  once  fell  through  the  large  orb 
above  on  the  whole  circle  of  divinities,  now  shines  on  a  numerous  assemblage  of  mor- 
tals, some  one  or  two  of  whom  have  been  almost  deified  by  the  veneration  of  their 
countrymen. 

(2)  This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  of  the  Roman  daughter, 
•which  is  recalled  to  the  traveller  by  the  site,  or  pretended  site,  of  that  adventure,  now 
shown  at  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  in  Carccre.     The  difficulties  attending  the  full 
belief  of  the  tale  are  stated  in  Historical  Illustrations,  &c, 


182  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 

CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  and/rom  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 
Born  with  her  birth.     No ;  he  shall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  streams  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river  :  —  from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man!    Heaven's  realm  holds  n> 
such  tide. 

CLI. 

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  ! 
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  piles, 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 
Whose  travell'd  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
r  Enormous  model,  doom'd  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth, 
His  shrunken  ashes,  raise  this  dome  :  How  smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth, 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a  birth ! 

(1)  The  castle  of  St.  Angelo.     See— Historical  IllustraUons. 


CANTO  IV.  PILGRIMAGE.  183 

CLIII. 

But  lo  !  the  dome  —  the  vast  and  wondrous  dome,  (J) 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell  — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb  ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle  — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyaena  and  the  jackall  in  their  shade  ; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  surveyed 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray'd  ; 

CLIV. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone  —  with  nothing  like  to  thee  — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be, 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honour  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 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined, 
See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou  movest  —  but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise, 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance  ; 
Vastness  which  grows  —  but  grows  to  harmonise  — 
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 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground  —  and  this  the  clouds  must  claim. 

(1)  This  and  the  six  next  stanzas  have  a  reference  to  the  church  of  St.  Peter's. 
For  a  measurement  of  the  comparative  length  of  this  basilica,  and  the  other  great 
churches  of  Europe,  see  the  pavement  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  classical  Tour  through 
Italy,  vol.  ii.  pag.  125.  et  seq.  chap.  iv. 


184  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 


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  feeling  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  plan  ; 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  rnind  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  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp, 
The  old  'man's  clench ;  the  long  envenom'd  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links,  —  the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  185 


CLXI. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light  — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight ; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot  —  the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance  ;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXII. 

But  in  his  delicate  form  —  a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  madden'd  in  that  vision  — are  exprest 
All  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, 
Starlike,  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 
Writh  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, 


186  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 

CLXV. 

Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms  ;  and  the  cloud 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glow'd, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  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, 


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 
These  fardels  of  the  heart  —  the  heart  whose  sweat  was  gore. 

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  ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  ground, 
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  still  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy, 
Death  hush'd  that  pang  for  ever :  with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  fill'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem'd  to  cloy. 


CANTO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  187 


CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety.  —  Can  it  be, 
Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored  ! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  ONE  ;  for  she  had  pour'd 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris.  —  Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 
And  desolate  consort  —  vainly  wert  thou  wed  ! 
The  husband  of  a  year  !  the  father  of  the  dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made  ; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes  :  in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair'd  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions !  How  we  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her  !  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  bless'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 
Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes  :  —  'twas  but  a  meteor  beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe  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 
Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate  (') 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or  late, — 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny ;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe  ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother  —  and  now  there  ! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear ! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  limVd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  opprest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love  thee  best 

(1 )  Mary  died  on  the  scaffold  ;  Elizabeth  of  a  broken  heart ;  Charles  V.  a  hermit ; 
Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  in  means  and  glory  ;  Cromwell  of  anxiety ;  and,  "  the  great- 
est is  behind,"  Napoleon  lives  a  prisoner.  To  these  sovereigns  a  long  but  superflu- 
ous list  might  be  added  of  names  equally  illustrious  and  unhappy. 


188  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  CANTO  iv. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo,  Nemi !  (J)  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spills 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake  ; 
And,  calm  as  cherish'd  hate,  its  surface  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  nought  can  shake, 
All  coil'd  into  itself  and  round,  as  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  Latian  coast  where  sprang  the  Epic  war, 
"  Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  re-ascending  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire  :  —  but  beneath  thy  right 
Tully  reposed  from  Rome  ;  —  and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The  Sabine  farm  was  till'd,  the  weary  bard's  delight.  (2) 

CLXXV. 

But  I  forget.  —  My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part,  —  so  let  it  be,  — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done  ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea ; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alhan  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  folio w'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. 

(1)  The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Arician  retreat  of  Egeria,  and.  from  the 
shades  which  embosomed  the  temple  of  Diana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinc- 
tive appellation  of  The  Grove.     Nemi  is  but  an  evening's  ride  from  the  comfortable 
inn  of  Albano. 

(2)  See  «  Historical  Notes,"  at  the  end  of  this  Canto,  No.  XXXI. 


CAN  TO  IV. 


PILGRIMAGE.  189 


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 ! 
Ye  Elements  !  —  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted  —  Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being  1  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  can  not  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
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. 


190  CHILDE  HAROLD'S 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  mjonarchs  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  1 
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  rollest  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  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  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  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 


CANTO  IV. 


lNTO  iv.  PILGRIMAGE.  191 

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  lamp  —  and  what  is  writ,  is  writ,  — 
Would  it  were  worthier  !  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been  —  and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me  —  and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been  — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger ;  —  yet  —  farewell ! 
Ye  !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon,  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were  —  with  you,  the  moral  of  his  straia  I 


HISTORICAL    NOTES 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


VOL.  in.— a. 


HISTORICAL  NOTES 


TO 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


1. 
STATE  DUNGEONS  OF  VENICE. 

"  /  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand." 

Stanza  i.  lines  1  and  2. 

THE  communication  between  the  ducal  palace  and  the  prisons  of  Venice  is  by  a 
gloomy  bridge,  or  covered  gallery,  high  above  the  water,  and  divided  by  a  stone 
wall  into  a  passage  and  a  cell.  The  state  dungeons,  called  "  pozzi,"  or  wells,  were 
sunk  in  the  thick  walls  of  the  palace ;  and  the  prisoner  when  taken  out  to  die  was 
conducted  across  the  gallery  to  the  other  side,  and  being  then  led  back  into  the  other 
compartment,  or  cell,  upon  the  bridge,  was  there  strangled.  The  low  portal  through 
which  the  criminal  was  taken  into  this  cell  is  now  walled  up  ;  but  the  passage  is  still 
open,  and  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  The  pozzi  are  under 
the  flooring  of  the  chamber  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge.  They  were  formerly  twelve, 
but  on  the  first  arrival  of  the  French,  the  Venetians  hastily  blocked  or  broke  up  the 
deeper  of  these  dungeons.  You  may  still,  however,  descend  by  a  trap-door,  and 
crawl  down  through  holes,  half-choked  by  rubbish,  to  the  depth  of  two  stories  below 
the  first  range.  If  you  are  in  want  of  consolation  for  the  extinction  of  patrician 
power,  perhaps  you  may  find  it  there ;  scarcely  a  ray  of  light  glimmers  into  the  nar- 
row gallery  which  leads  to  the  cells,  and  the  places  of  confinement  themselves  are 
totally  dark.  A  small  hole  in  the  wall  admitted  the  damp  air  of  the  passages,  and 
served  for  the  introduction  of  the  prisoner's  food.  A  wooden  pallet,  raised  a  foot 
from  the  ground,  was  the  only  furniture.  The  conductors  tell  you  that  a  light  was  not 
allowed.  The  cells  are  about  five  paces  in  length,  two  and  a  half  in  width,  and  seven 
fee.t  in  height.  They  are  directly  beneath  one  another,  and  respiration  is  some- 
what difficult  in  the  lower  holes.  Only  one  prisoner  was  found  when  the  republi- 
cans descended  into  these  hideous  recesses,  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  confined  six- 
teen years.  But  the  inmates  of  the  dungeons  beneath  had  left  traces  of  their  repent- 
ance, or  of  their  despair,  which  are  still  visible,  and  may,  perhaps,  owe  something  to 
recent  ingenuity.  Some  of  the  detained  appear  to  have  offended  against,  and  others 
to  have  belonged  to,  the  sacred  body,  not  only  from  their  signatures,  but  from  the 
churches  and  belfries  which  they  have  scratched  upon  the  walls.  The  reader  may 
not.  object  to  see  a  specimen  of  the  records  prompted  by  so  terrific  a  solitude.  As 
nearly  as  they  could  be  copied  by  more  than  one  pencil,  three  of  them  are  as  follows  : 

1.  NON  TI  F1DAR  AD  ALCUNO  PENSA  6  TACI 
SE  FUGIR  VUOI  DE  SPIONI  INSIDIE  6  LACCI 
IL  PENTIRTI  PENTIRTI  NULLA  GIOVA 

MA  BEN  DI  VALOR  TOO  LA  VERA  PROVA 

1607.      ADI  2.  GENARO.  FIJI  RE- 
TENTO  P'  LA  BESTIEMMA  P'  AVER  DATO 
DA  MANZAR  A  UN  MORTO 

IACOMO  .  GRITTI  .  SCRI3SE. 

2.  UN  PARLAR  POCHO  et 
NEGARE  PRONTO  et 

UN  PENSAR  AL  FINE  PUO  DARE  LA  VITA 
A  NOI  ALTRI  MESCHINI 


196  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

1605. 

EGO  IOHN  BAPTI8TA  AD 
ECCLESIAM  CORTELLARIUS. 
3.  DE  CHI  MI  FIDO  GUARDAMI  DIO 

DE  CHI  NON  MI  FIDO  MI  GUARDARO  10 
A  TA      H        A         NA 

V  .    LA  S      .  C    .  K      .  R       . 

The  copyist  has  followed,  not  corrected,  the  solecisms  ;  some  of  which  are,  now- 
ever,  not  quite  so  decided,  since  the  letters  were  evidently  scratched  in  the  dark. 
It  only  need  be  observed,  that  bestemmia  and  mangiar  may  be  read  in  tho  first  in- 
scription, which  was  probably  written  by  a  prisoner  confined  for  some  act  of  impioty 
committed  at  a  funeral ;  that  Cortellarius  is  the  name  of  a  parish  on  terra  firma, 
near  the  sea ;  and  that  the  last  initials  evidently  are  put  for  Viva  la  santa  Chiesa 
Kanolica  Romano. 


SONG  OP  THE  GONDOLIERS. 

"  In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more" 

Stanza  iii.  line  1. 

The  well-known  song  of  the  gondoliers,  of  alternate  stanzas  from  Tasso's  Jerusa- 
lem, has  died  with  the  independence  of  Venice.  Editions  of  the  poem,  with  the  origi- 
nal in  one  column,  and  the  Venetian  variations  on  the  other,  as  sung  by  the  boat- 
men, were  once  common,  and  are  still  to  be  found.  The  following  extract  will  serve 
to  show  the  difference  between  the  Tuscan  opic  and  the  "  Canta  alia  Barcatiola." 

ORIGINAL. 

Canto  1'  arme  pietose,  e  '1  capitano 

Che  '1  gran  Sepolcro  liberfr  di  Cristo. 
Molto  egli  oprfo  col  senno,  e  con  la  mano 

Molto  soffrl  nel  glorioso  acquisto ; 
E  in  van  1'  Inferno  a  lui  s'  oppose,  e  in  vano 

S'  armO  d'  Asia,  e  di  Libia  il  popol  misto, 
Che  il  Ciel  gli  di6  favore,  e  sotto  a  i  Santi 
Segni  ridusse  i  suoi  compagni  erranti 

VENETIAN. 

L'  arme  pietose  de  cantar  gho  vogia, 

E  de  Goffredo  la  immortal  braura 
Che  al  fin  1'  ha  libera  co  strassia,  e  dogia 

Del  nostro  buon  Gesu  la  Sepoltura 
De  mezo  mondo  unito,  e  de  quel  Bogia 

Missier  Pluton  non  1'  ha  bu  mai  paura  : 
Dio  1'  ha  agiuta,  e  i  compagni  sparpagnai' 
Tutti  '1  ghri  ha  messi  insieme  i  di  del  Dai. 

Some  of  the  elder  gondoliers  will,  however,  take  up  and  continue  a  stanza  of  their 
once  familiar  bard. 

On  the  7th  of  last  January,  the  author  of  Childe  Harold,  and  another  Englishman, 
the  writer  of  this  notice,  rowed  to  the  Lido  with  two  singers,  one  of  whom  was  a  car- 
penter, and  the  other  a  gondolier.  The  former  placed  himself  at  the  prow,  the  latter 
at  the  stern  of  the  boat.  A  little  after  leaving  the  quay  of  the  Piazzetta,  they  began 
to  sing,  and  continued  their  exercise  until  we  arrived  at  the  island.  They  gave  us, 
amongst  other  essays,  the  death  of  Clorinda,  and  the  palace  of  Armida  ;  and  did  not 
sing  the  Venetian,  but  the  Tuscan  verses.  The  carpenter,  however,  who  was  the 
cleverer  of  the  two,  and  was  frequently  obliged  to  prompt  his  companion,  told  us  that  ho 
could  translate  the  original.  He  added,  that  he  could  sing  almost  three  hundred  stan- 
zas, but  had  not  spirits  (morbin  was  the  word  he  used)  to~learn  any  more,  or  to  sing 
what  he  already  knew :  a  man  must  have  idle  time  on  his  hands  to  acquire  or  to  re- 


CANTO    THE    FOURTH.  197 

peat;  ^nd,  said  the  poor  fellow,  "  look  at  my  clothes  and  at  me ;  I  am  starving." 
This  speech  was  more  affecting  than  his  performance,  which  habit  alone  can  make 
attractive.  The  recitative  was  shrill,  screaming,  and  monotonous ;  and  the  gondolier 
behind  assisted  his  voice  by  holding  his  hand  to  one  side  of  his  mouth.  The  carpen- 
ter used  a  quiet  action,  which  he  evidently  endeavoured  to  restrain  ;  but  was  too  much 
interested  in  his  subject  altogether  to  repress.  From  these  men  we  learnt  that  sing- 
ing is  not  confined  to  the  gondoliers,  and  that,  although  the  chant  is  seldom,  if  ever, 
voluntary,  there  are  still  several  amongst  the  lower  classes  who  are  acquainted  with  a 
few  stanzas. 

It  does  not  appear  that  it  is  usual  for  the  performers  to  row  and  sing  at  the  same 
time.  Although  the  verses  of  the  Jerusalem  are  no  longer  casually  heard,  there  is 
yet  much  music  upon  the  Venetian  canals  ;  and  upon  holydays,  those  strangers  who 
are  not  near  or  informed  enough  to  distinguish  the  words,  may  fancy  that  many  of  the 
gondolas  still  resound  with  the  strains  of  Tasso.  The  writer  of  some  remarks  which 
appeared  in  the  "  Curiosities  of  Literature"  must  excuse  his  being  twice  quoted  ;  for, 
with  the  exception  of  some  phrases  a  little  too  ambitious  and  extravagant,  he  has  fur- 
nished a  very  exact,  as  well  as  agreeable,  description. 

"  In  Venice  the  gondoliers  know  by  heart  long  passages  from  Ariosto  and  Tasso. 
and  often  chant  them  with  a  peculiar  melody.  But  this  talent  seems  at  present  on  the 
decline  : — at  least,  after  taking  some  pains,  I  could  find  no  more  than  two  persons  who 
delivered  to  me  in  this  way  a  passage  from  Tasso.  I  must  add,  that  the  late  Mr. 
Berry  once  chanted  to  me  a  passage  in  Tasso  in  the  manner,  as  he  assured  me,  of  the 
gondoliers. 

"  There  are  always  two  concerned,  who  alternately  sing  the  strophes.  We  know 
the  melody  eventually  by  Rousseau,  to  whose  songs  it  is  printed  ;  it  has  properly  no 
melodious  movement,  and  is  a  sort  of  medium  between  the  canto  fermo  and  the  canto 
figurato  ;  it  approaches  to  the  former  by  recitativical  declamation,  and  to  the  latter  by 
passages  and  course,  by  which  one  syllable  is  detained  and  embellished. 

"  I  entered  a  gondola  by  moonlight ;  one  singer  placed  himself  forwards  and  the 
other  aft,  and  thus  proceeded  to  St.  Georgio.  One  began  the  song  :  when  he  had 
ended  his  strophe,  the  other  took  up  the  lay,  and  so  continued  the  song  alternately. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  it,  the  same  notes  invariably  returned,  but,  according  to  tho 
subject  matter  of  the  strophe,  they  laid  a  greater  or  a  smaller  stress,  sometimes  on  one, 
and  sometimes  on  another  note,  and  indeed  changed  the  enunciation  of  the  whole 
strophe  as  the  object  of  the  poem  altered. 

"  On  the  whole,  however,  the  sounds  were  hoarse  and  screaming  :  they  seemed,  in 
the  manner  of  all  rude  uncivilised  men,  to  make  the  excellency  of  their  singing  in  the  force 
of  their  voice  :  one  seemed  desirous  of  conquering  the  other  by  the  strength  of  his  lungs  ; 
and  so  far  from  receiving  delight  from  this  scene  (shut  up  as  I  was  in  the  box  of  the 
gondola,)  I  found  myself  in  a  very  unpleasant  situation. 

"  My  companion,  to  whom  I  communicated  this  circumstance,  being  very  desirous  to 
keep  up  the  credit  of  his  countrymen,  assured  me  that  this  singing  was  very  delightful 
when  heard  at  a  distance.  Accordingly  we  got  out  upon  the  shore,  leaving  one  of  the 
singers  in  the  gondola,  while  the  other  went  to  the  distance  of  some  hundred  paces. 
They  now  began  to  sing  against  one  another,  and  I  kept  walking  up  and  down  between 
them  both,  so  as  always  to  leave  him  who  was  to  begin  his  part.  I  frequently  stood 
still  and  hearkened  to  the  one  and  to  the  other. 

"  Here  the  scene  was  properly  introduced.  The  strong  declamatory,  and,  as  it  were, 
shrieking  sound,  met  the  ear  from  far,  and  called  forth  me  attention  ;  the  quickly  suc- 
ceeding transitions,  which  necessarily  required  to  be  sung  in  a  lower  tone,  seemed  like 
plaintive  strains  succeeding  the  vociferations  of  emotion  or  of  pain.  The  other,  who 
listened  attentively,  immediately  began  where  the  former  left  off,  answering  him  in  milder 
or  more  vehement  notes,  according  as  the  purport  of  the  strophe  required.  The  sleepy 
canals,  the  lofty  buildings,  the  splendour  of  the  moon,  the  deep  shadows  of  the  few  gon- 
dolas that  moved  like  spirits  hither  and  thither,  increased  the  striking  peculiarity  of  the 
scene ;  and,  amidst  all  these  circumstances, -it  was  easy  to  confess  the  character  of  this 
wonderful  harmony. 

"  It  suits  perfectly  well  with  an  idle,  solitary  mariner,  lying  at  length  in  his  vessel  at 
rest  on  one  of  these  canals,  waiting  for  his  company,  or  for  a  fare,  the  tiresomeness  of 
which  situation  is  somewhat  alleviated  by  the  songs  and  poetiral  stories  he" has  in  memo- 
ry. He  often  raises  his  voice  as  loud  as  he  can,  which  extends  itself  to  a  vast  distance 
over  the  tranquil  mirror,  and  as  all  is  still  around,  he  is,  as  it  were,  in  a  solitude  in  the 
midst  of  a  large  and  populous  town.  Here  is  no  rattling  of  carriages,  no  noise  of  foot 
passengers ;  a  silent  gondola  glides  now  and  then  by  him,  of  which  the  splashings  of  the 
oars  are  scarcely  to  be  heard. 


198  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

"  At  a  distance  he  hears  another,  perhaps  utterly  unknown  to  him.  Melody  and 
verse  immediately  attach  the  two  strangers  ;  he  becomes  the  responsive  echo  to  the 
former,  and  exerts  himself  to  be  heard  as  he  had  heard  the  other.  By  a  tacit  con- 
vention they  alternate  verse  for  verse  ;  though  the  song  should  last  the  whole  night 
through,  they  entertain  themselves  without  fatigue  :  the  hearers,  who  are  passing  be- 
tween the  two,  take  part  in  the  amusement. 

"  This  vocal  performance  sounds  best  at  a  great  distance,  and  is  then  inexpressibly 
charming,  as  it  only  fulfils  its  design  in  the  sentiment  of  remoteness.  It  is  plaintive, 
but  not  dismal  in  its  sound,  and  at  times  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  refrain  from  tears. 
My  companion,  who  otherwise  was  not  a  very  delicately  organised  person,  said  quite 
unexpectedly :  E  singolare  come  quel  canto  intenerisce,  e  molto  piu  quando  lo  cantano 
meglio. 

"  I  was  told  that  the  women  of  Libo,  the  long  row  of  islands  that  divides  the  Adri- 
atic from  the  Lagoons,*  particularly  the  women  of  the  extreme  districts  of  Mala- 
mocco  and  Palestrina,  sing  in  like  manner  the  works  of  Tasso  to  these  and  similar 
tunes. 

"  They  have  the  custom,  when  their  husbands  are  fishing  out  at  sea,  to  sit  along 
the  shore  in  the  evenings  and  vociferate  these  songs,  and  continue  to  do  so  with  great 
violence,  till  each  of  them  can  distinguish  the  responses  of  her  own  husband  at  a  dis- 
tance."! 

The  love  of  music  and  of  poetry  distinguishes  all  classes  of  Venetians,  even  amongst 
the  tuneful  sons  of  Italy.  The  city  itself  can  occasionally  furnish  respectable  audi- 
ences for  two  and  even  three  opera-houses  at  a  time  ;  and  there  are  few  events  in 
private  life  that  do  not  call  forth  a  printed  and  circulated  sonnet.  Does  a  physician 
or  a  lawyer  take  his  degree,  or  a  clergyman  preach  his  maiden  sermon,  has  a  surgeon 
performed  an  operation,  would  a  harlequin  announce  his  departure  or  his  benefit,  are 
you  to  be  congratulated  on  a  marriage,  or  a  birth,  or  a  lawsuit,  the  Muses  are  invoked 
to  furnish  the  same  number  of  syllables,  and  the  individual  triumphs  blaze  abroad  in 
virgin  white  or  party-coloured  placards  on  half  the  corners  of  the  capital.  The  last 
curtsy  of  a  favourite  "  prima  donna"  brings  down  a  shower  of  these  poetical  tri- 
butes from  those  upper  regions,  from  which,  in  our  theatres,  nothing  but  cupids  and 
snow-storms  are  accustomed  to  descend.  There  is  a  poetry  in  the  very  life  of  a 
Venetian,  which,  in  its  common  course,  is  varied  with  those  surprises  and  changes 
so  recornmendable  in  fiction,  but  so  different  from  the  sober  monotony  of  northern  ex- 
istence ;  amusements  are  raised  into  duties,  duties  are  softened  into  amusements,  and 
every  object  being  considered  as  equally  making  a  part  of  the  business  of  life,  is  an- 
nounced and  performed  with  the  same  earnest  indifference  and  gay  assiduity.  The 
Venetian  gazette  constantly  closes  its  columns  with  the  following  triple  advertise- 
ment :  — 

Charade. 


Exposition  of  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  in  the  church  of  St.        • 


Theatres. 
St.  Moses,  opera. 

St.  Benedict,  a  comedy  of  characters. 
St.  Luke,  repose. 

When  it  is  recollected  what  the  Catholics  believe  their  consecrated  wafer  lo  bo, 
we  may  perhaps  think  it  worthy  of  a  more  respectable  niche  than  between  poetry  and 
the  playhouse. 


*  The  writer  meant  Lido,  which  is  not  a  long  row  of  islands,  but  a  long  island  : 
littn-s,  the  shore. 

t  Curiosities  of  Literature,  vol,  ii.  p.  156,  edit.  1807  ;  and  Appendix  xxix.  to  Black's 
Life  of  Tasso. 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  199 

III. 

THE  LION  AND  HORSES  OF  ST.  MARK'S. 

"  St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 

Stand," 

Stanza  xi.  line  5. 

The  lion  has  lost  nothing  by  his  journey  to  the  Invalides  but  the  gospel  which  sup- 
ported the  paw  that  is  now  on  a  level  with  the  other  foot.  The  Horses  also  are  re- 
turned to  the  ill-chosen  spot  whence  they  set  out,  and  are,  as  before,  half  hidden  under 
the  porch  of  St.  Mark's  church. 

Their  history,  after  a  desperate  struggle,  has  been  satisfactorily  explored.  The 
decisions  and  doubts  of  Erizzo  and  Zanetti,  and  lastly,  of  the  Count  Leopold  Cicog- 
nara,  would  have  given  them  a  Roman  extraction,  and  a  pedigree  not  more  ancient 
than  the  reign  of  Nero.  But  M.  de  Schlegel  stepped  in  to  teach  the  Venetians  tho 
value  of  their  own  treasures,  and  a  Greek  vindicated,  at  last  and  for  ever,  the  preten- 
sion of  his  countrymen  to  this  noble  production.*  M.  Mustoxidi  has  not  been  left 
without  a  reply  ;  but,  as  yet,  he  has  received  no  answer.  It  should  seem  that  tho 
horses  are  irrevocably  Chian,  and  were  transferred  to  Constantinople  by  Theodosius. 
Lapidary  writing  is  a  favourite  play  of  the  Italians,  and  has  conferred  reputation  on 
more  than  one  of  their  literary  characters.  One  of  the  best  specimens  of  Bodoni's 
typography  is  a  respectable  volume  of  inscriptions,  all  written  by  his  friend  Pacci- 
audi.  Several  were  prepared  for  the  recovered  horses.  It  is  to  be  hoped  the  best 
was  not  selected,  when  the  following  words  were  ranged  in  gold  letters  above  the 
cathedral  porch :  — 

QTTATUOR  '  EQtTORUM  '  SIGNA  *  A  *  VENETIS  '  BYZANTIO  *  CAPTA  '  AD  '  TEMP  • 
D  '  MAR  '  A  '  R  '  S  '  MCCIV  '  POSITA  *  QU^E  *  HOST1LIS  *  CUPIDITAS  '  MDCCIIIC  * 
ABSTULERAT  *  FRANC  *  I  *  IMP  '  PACIS  '  ORBI  *  DAT.E  '  TROPH.EUM  •  A  *  MDCCCXV  * 
V1CTO  '  REDUXIT. 

Nothing  shall  be  said  of  the  Latin,  but  it  may  be  permitted  to  observe,  that  the  in- 
justice of  the  Venetians  in  transporting  the  horses  from  Constantinople  was  at  least 
equal  to  that  of  the  French  in  carrying  them  to  Paris,  and  that  it  would  have  been 
more  prudent  to  have  avoided  all  allusions  to  either  robbery.  An  apostolic  prince 
should,  perhaps,  have  objected  to  affixing  over  the  principal  entrance  of  a  metropolitan 
church  an  inscription  having  a  reference  to  any  other  triumphs  than  those  of  religion. 
Nothing  less  than  the  pacification  of  the  world  can  excuse  such  a  solecism. 


IV. 
SUBMISSION  OF  EARBAROSSA  TO  POPE  ALEXANDER  III. 

«  The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns  — 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt" 

Stanza  xii.  lines  1  and  2. 

After  many  vain  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Italians  entirely  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of 
Frederic  Barbarossa,  and  as  fruitless  attempts  of  the  Emperor  to  make  himself  abso- 
lute master  throughout  the  whole  of  his  Cisalpine  dominions,  the  bloody  struggles  of 
four  and  twenty  years  were  happily  brought  to  a  close  in  the  city  of  Venice.  The 
articles  of  a  treaty  had  been  previously  agreed  upon  between  Pope  Alexander  III. 
and  Barbarossa ;  and  the  former  having  received  a  safe-conduct,  had  already  arrived 

*  Su  i  quattro  cavalli  della  Basilica  di  S.  Marco  in  Venezia.  Lettera  di  Andrea 
Mustoxidi  Corcirese.  Padua,  per  Bettoni  e  compag.  ...  1816, 


200  [HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

at  Venice  from  Ferrara,  in  company  with  the  ambassadors  of  the  king  of  Sicily  and 
the  consuls  of  the  Lombard  league.  There  still  remained,  however,  many  points  to 
adjust,  and  for  several  days  the  peace  was  believed  to  be  impracticable.  At  this 
juncture  it  was  suddenly  reported  that  the  Emperor  had  arrived  at  Chioza,  a  town 
fifteen  miles  from  the  capital.  The  Venetians  rose  tumultuously,  and  insisted  upon 
immediately  conducting  him  to  the  city.  The  Lombards  took  the  alarm,  and  de- 
parted towards  Treviso.  The  Pope  himself  was  apprehensive  of  some  disaster  if 
Frederic  should  suddenly  advance  upon  him,  but  was  reassured  by  the  prudence  and 
address  of  Sebastian  Ziani,  the  Doge.  Several  embassies  passed  between  Chioza 
and  the  capital,  until,  at  last,  the  Emperor,  relaxing  somewhat  of  his  pretensions, 
"  laid  aside  his  leonine  ferocity,  and  put  on  the  mildness  of  the  lamb."* 

On  Saturday  the  23d  of  July,  in  the  year  1177,  six  Venetian  Galleys  transferred 
Frederic,  in  great  pornp,  from  Chioza  to  the  island  of  Lido,  a  mile  from  Venice. 
Early  the  next  morning  the  Pope,  accompanied  by  the  Sicilian  ambassadors,  and  by 
the  envoys  of  Lombardy,  whom  he  had  recalled  from  the  main  land,  together  with  a 
great  concourse  of  people,  repaired  from  the  patriarchal  palace  to  St.  Mark's  church, 
and  solemnly  absolved  the  Emperor  and  his  partisans  from  the  excommunication  pro- 
nounced against  him.  The  Chancellor  of  the  Empire,  on  the  part  of  his  master, 
renounced  the  anti-popes  and  their  schismatic  adherents.  Immediately  the  Doge, 
with  a  great  suite  both  of  the  clergy  and  laity,  got  on  board  the  galleys,  and  waiting  on 
Frederic,  rowed  him  in  mighty  state  from  the  Lido  to  the  capital.  The  Emperor 
descended  from  the  galley  at  the  quay  of  the  Piazzetta.  The  Doge,  the  patriarch, 
his  bishops  and  clergy,  and  the  people  of  Venice  with  their  crosses  and  their  stand- 
ards, marched  in  solemn  procession  before  him  to  the  church  of  Saint  Mark.  Alex- 
ander was  seated  before  the  vestibule  of  the  basilica,  attended  by  his  bishops  and  car- 
dinals, by  the  patriarch  of  Aquileja,  by  the  archbishops  and  bishops  of  Lombardy,  all 
of  (hem  in  state,  and  clothed  in  their  church  robes.  Frederic  approached  —  "  moved 
by  the  Holy  Spirit,  venerating  the  Almighty  in  the  person  of  Alexander,  laying  aside 
his  imperial  dignity,  and  throwing  off  his  mantle,  he  prostrated  himself  at  lull  length 
at  the  feet  of  the  Pope.  Alexander,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  raised  him  benignantly 
from  the  ground,  kissed  him,  blessed  him ;  and  immediately  the  Germans  of  the  train 
sang,  with  aloud  voice,  '  We  praise  thee,  O  Lord.'  The  Emperor  then  taking  the 
Pope  by  the  right  hand,  led  him  to  the  church,  and  having  received  his  benediction, 
returned  to  the  ducal  palace. "|  The  ceremony  of  humiliation  was  repeated  the  next 
day.  The  Pope  himself,  at  the  request  of  Frederic,  said  mass  at  St.  Mark's.  The 
Emperor  again  laid  aside  his  imperial  mantle,  and,  taking  a  wand  in  his  hand,  offici- 
ated as  verger,  driving  the  laity  from  the  choir,  and  preceding  the  pontiff  to  the  altar. 
Alexander,  after  reciting  the  gospel,  preached  to  the  people.  The  Emperor  put  him- 
self close  to  the  pulpit  in  the  attitude  of  listening;  and  the  pontiff,  touched  by  this 
mark  of  his  attention,  (for  he  knew  that  Frederic  did  not  understand  a  word  he  said) 
commanded  the  patriarch  of  Aquileja  to  translate  the  Latin  discourse  into  the  German 
tongue.  The  creed  was  then  chanted.  Frederic  made  his  oblation,  and  kissed  the 
Pope's  feet,  and,  mass  being  over,  led  him  by  the  hand  to  his  white  horse.  He  held 
the  stiirup,  and  would  have  led  the  horse's  rein  to  the  water  side,  had  not  the  Pope 
accepted  of  the  inclination  for  the  performance,  and  affectionately  dismissed  him  with 
his  benediction.  Such  is  the. substance  of  the  account  left  by  the  archbishop  of  Sa- 
lerno, who  was  present  at  the  ceremony,  and  whose  story  is  confirmed  by  every  sub- 
sequent narration.  It  would  not  be  worth  so  minute  a  record,  were  it  not  the  triumph 
of  liberty  as  well  as  of  superstition.  The  states  of  Lombardy  owed  to  it  the  confir- 
mation of  their  privileges  ;  and  Alexander  had  reason  to  thank  the  Almighty,  who 
had  enabled  an  infirm,  unarmed  old  man,  to  subdue  a  terrible  and  potent  sovereign. f 


*  "  Q.uibus  auditis,  imperator,  operante  eo,quicorda  principum  sicut  vult  et  quando 
vult  humiliter  inclinat,  leonina  feritate  deposita,  ovinam  mansuetudinem  induit."  Ro- 
mualdi  Salernitani  Chronicon.  apud  Script.  Rer.  Ital.  Tom.  VII.  p.  229. 

t  Ibid.  p.  231. 

I  See  the  above-cited  Romuald  of  Salerno.  In  a  second  sermon  which  Alexander 
preached,  on  the  first  day  of  August,  before  the  Emperor,  he  compared  Frederic  to 
the  prodigal  son,  and  himself  to  the  forgiving  father.  A 


CANTO    THE    FOURTH.  201 

V. 

HENRY  DANDOLO. 

"  Oh,  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  ! 
Th1  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe ." 

Stanza  xii.  lines  8  and  9. 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  exclamation  of  the  highlander,  Oh  for  one  hour  of 
Dundee  !  Henry  Dandolo,  when  elected  Doge,  in  1192,  was  eighty-five  years  of  age. 
When  he  commanded  the  Venetians  at  the  taking  of  Constantinople,  he  was  conse- 
quently ninety-seven  years  old.  At  this  age  he  annexed  the  fourth  and  a  half  of  the 
whole  empire  of  Romania,*  for  so  the  Roman  empire  was  then  called,  to  the  title 
and  to  the  territories  of  the  Venetian  Doge.  The  three  eighths  of  this  empire  were 
preserved  in  the  diplomas  until  the  dukedom  of  Giovanni  Dolfino,  who  made  use  of 
the  above  designation  in  the  year  1357. | 

Dandolo  led  the  attack  on  Constantinople  in  person  :  two  ships,  the  Paradise  and 
the  Pilgrim,  were  tied  together,  and  a  drawbridge  or  ladder  let  down  from  their  higher 
yards  to  the  walls.  The  Doge  was  one  of  the  first  to  rush  into  the  city.  Then  was 
completed,  said  the  Venetians,  the  prophecy  of  the  Erythraean  sibyl : — "  A  gathering 
together  of  the  powerful  shall  be  made  amidst  the  waves  of  the  Adriatic,  under  a  blind 
leader ;  they  shall  beset  the  goat  —  they  shall  profane  Byzantium  —  they  shall 
blacken  her  'buildings  —  her  spoils  shall  be  dispersed ;  a  new  goat  shall  bleat  until 
they  have  measured  out  and  run  over  fifty-four  feet,  nine  inches,  and  a  half."J 

Dandolo  died  on  the  first  day  of  June,  1205,  having  reigned  thirteen  years,  sLx 
months,  and  five  days,  and  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Sophia,  at  Constanti- 
nople. Strangely  enough  it  must  sound,  that  the  name  of  the  rebel  apothecary  who 
received  the  Doge's  sword,  and  annihilated  the  ancient  government,  in  1796-7,  was 
Dandolo. 


VI. 
THE  WAR  OF  CHIOZA. 

"  Hut  is  not  Dona's  menace  come  to  pass  ? 
Are  they  not  bridled  ?  " 

Stanza  xiii.  lines  3  and  4. 

After  the  loss  of  the  battle  of  Pola,  and  the  taking  of  Chioza  on  the  16th  of  August, 
1379,  by  the  united  armament  of  the  Genoese  and  Francesco  da  Carrara,  Signer  of 
Padua,  the  Venetians  were  reduced  to  the  utmost  despair.  An  embassy  was  sent 

*  Mr.  Gibbon  has  omitted  the  important  «,  and  has  written  Romani  instead  of 


con.  cap.  iii.  pars  xxxvii.  ap.  Script.  Rer.  Ital.  torn.  xii.  page  331.  And  the  Ro- 
manise is  observed  in  the  subsequent  acts  of  the  Doges.  Indeed,  the  continental  pos- 
sessions of  the  Greek  empire  in  Europe  were  then  generally  kmown  by  the  name  of 
Romania,  and  that  appellation  is  still  seen  in  the  maps  of  Turkey  as  applied  to 
Thrace. 

t  See  the  continuation  of  Dandolo's  Chronicle,  ibid,  page  498.  Mr.  Gibbon 
appears  not  to  include  Dolfino,  following  Sanudo,  who  says,  "  il  qual  totolo  si  usbjin 
al  Doge  Giovanni  Dolfino"  See  Vite  de'  Duchi  di  Venezia,  ap.  Script.  Uer.  Ital. 
torn.  xxii.  530.  641. 

J  Fiet  potentium  in  aquis  Adriaticis  congregatio,  caeco  pnsduce,  Hircum  amhi- 


202  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

to  the  conquerors  with  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  praying  them  to  prescribe  what  terms 
they  pleased,  and  leave  to  Venice  only  her  independence.  The  Prince  of  Padua 
was  inclined  to  listen  to  these  proposals,  but  the  Genoese,  who,  after  the  victory  at 
Pola,  had  shouted,  "  To  Venice,  to  Venice,  and  long  live  St.  George !"  determined  to 
annihilate  their  rival ;  and  Peter  Doria,  their  commander-in-chief,  returned  this  an- 
swer to  the  suppliants :  "  On  God's  faith,  gentlemen  of  Venice,  ye  shall  have  no 
peace  from  the  Signor  of  Padua,  nor  from  our  commune  of  Genoa,  until  we  have 
first  put  a  rein  upon  those  unbridled  horses  of  yours,  that  are  upon  the  porch  of  your 
evangelist  St.  Mark.  When  we  have  bridled  them,  we  shall  keep  you  quiet.  And 
this  is  the  pleasure  of  us  and  cf  our  commune.  As  for  these  my  brothers  of  Genoa, 
that  you  have  brought  with  you  to  give  up  to  us,  I  will  not  have  them  ;  take  them 
back  ;  for,  in  a  few  days  hence,  I  shall  come  and  let  them  out  of  prison  myself,  both 
these  and  all  the  others."*  In  fact,  the  Genoese  did  advance  as  far  as  Malamocco, 
within  five  miles  of  the  capital ;  but  their  own  danger  and  the  pride  of  their  enemies 
gave  courage  to  the  Venetians,  who  made  prodigious  efforts,  and  many  individual 
sacrifices,  all  of  them  carefully  recorded  by  their  historians.  Vettor  Pisam  was  put 
at  the  head  of  thirty-four  galleys.  The  Genoese  broke  up  from  Malamocco,  and  re- 
tired to  Chioza  in  October  ;  but  they  again  threatened  Venice,  which  was  reduced 
to  extremities.  At  this  time,  the  1st  01  January,  1380,  arrived  Carlo  Zeno,  who  had 
been  cruising  on  the  Genoese  coast  with  fourteen  galleys.  The  Venetians  were  now 
strong  enough  to  besiege  the  Genoese.  Doria  was  killed  on  the  22d  of  January  by 
a  stone  bullet  195  pounds  weight,  discharged  from  a  bombard  called  the  Trevisan. 
Chioza  was  then  closely  invested  :  5000  auxiliaries,  among  whom  were  some  English 
condottieri,  commanded  by  one  Captain  Ceccho,  joined  the  Venetians.  The  Ge- 
noese, in  their  turn,  prayed  for  conditions,  but  none  were  granted,  until,  at  last,  they 
surrendered  at  discretion ;  and,  on  the  24th  of  June,  1380,  the  Doge  Contarini  made 
his  triumphal  entry  into  Chioza.  Four  thousand  prisoners,  nineteen  galleys,  many 
smaller  vessels  and  barks,  with  all  the  ammunition  and  aims,  and  outfit  of  the  expedi- 
tion, fell  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors,  who,  had  it  not  been  for  the  inexorable 
answer  of  Doria,  would  have  gladly  reduced  their  dominion  to  the  city  of  Venice. 
An  account  of  these  transactions  is  found  in  a  work  called  the  War  of  Chioza,  writ- 
ten by  Daniel  Chinazzo,  who  was  in  Venice  at  the  time,  j 


VII. 
VENICE  UNDER  THE  GOVERNMENT  OF  AUSTRIA. 

"  Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals." 

Stanza  xv.  lines"?  and  8. 

The  population  of  Venice  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century  amounted  to  nearly 
two  hundred  thousand  souls.  At  the  last  census,  taken  two  years  ago,  it  was  no 
more  than  about  one  hundred  and  three  thousand  ;  and  it  diminishes  daily.  The  com- 
merce and  the  official  employments,  which  were  to  be  the  unexhausted  source  of 

gent.  Byzantium  prophanabunt,  sedificia  denigrabunt ;  spolia  dispergentur,  Hircus 
novus  balabit  usque  dura  LIV  pedes  et  ix  pollices,  et  semis  praemensurati  discur- 
rant."  —  Chronicon,  ibid,  pars  xxxiv. 

"  Alia  fe  di  Dio,  Signori  Veneziani,  non  haverete  mai  pace  dal  Signore  di  Pa^ 
doua,  nfe  dal  nostro  commune  di  Genova,  se  primieramente  non  mettemo  le  briglie  a 
quelli  vostri  cavalli  sfrenati,  che  sono  su  la  reza  del  vostro  Evangelista  S.  Marco. 
Imbrenati  che  gli  havremo,  vi  faremo  stare  in  buona  pace.  E  questa  e  la  intenzione 
nostra,  e  del  nostro  commune.  Q,uesti  miei  fratelli  Genovesi  che  havete  menati  con 
vpi  per  donarci,  non  li  voglio ;  rimanetegli  in  dietro  perche  io  intendo  da  qui  a  pochi 
giorni  venirgli  a  riscuoter,  dalle  vostre  prigioni,  e  loro  e  gli  altri." 

t  "  Chronica  della  Guerra  di  Chioza,"  &c.  ^Script.  Rer.  Italic,  tom.xv.  pp.  699 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  203 

Venetian  grandeur,  have  both  expired.*  Most  of  the  patrician  mansions  are  deserted, 
and  would  gradually  disappear,  had  not  the  government,  alarmed  by  the  demolition 
of  seventy-two,  during  the  last  two  years,  expressly  forbidden  this  sad  resourced 
poverty.  Many  remnants  of  the  Venetian  nobility  are  now  scattered,  and  confounded 
with  the  wealthier  Jews  upon  the  banks  of  the  Brenta,  whose  Palladian  palaces  have 
sunk,  or  are  sinking,  in  the  general  decay.  Of  the  "  gentiluomo  Veneto,"  the  name 
is  still  known,  and  that  is  all.  He  is  but  the  shadow  of  his  former  self,  but  he  is 
polite  and  kind.  It  surely  may  be  pardoned  to  him  if  he  is  querulous.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  vices  of  the  republic,  and  although  the  natural  term  of  its  exist- 
ence may  be  thought  by  foreigners  to  have  arrived  in  the  due  course  of  mortality, 
only  one  sentiment  can  be  expected  from  the  Venetians  themselves.  At  no  time 
were  the  subjects  of  the  republic  so  unanimous  hi  their  resolution  to  rally  round  the 
standard  of  St.  Mark,  as  when  it  was  for  the  last  time  unfurled  ;  and  the  cowardice 
and  the  treachery  of  the  few  patricians  who  recommended  the  fatal  neutrality  were 
confined  to  the  persons  of  the  traitors  themselves.  The  present  race  cannot  be 
thought  to  regret  the  loss  of  their  aristocratical  forms  and  too  despotic  government ; 
they  think  only  on  their  vanished  independence.  They  pine  away  at  the  remem- 
brance, and  on  this  subject  suspend  for  a  moment  their  gay  good  humour.  Venice 
may  be  said,  in  the  words  of  the  Scripture,  "  to  die  daily  ; "  and  so  general  and  so 
apparent  is  the  decline,  as  to  become  painful  to  a  stranger,  not  reconciled  to  the 
sight  of  a  whole  nation  expiring  as  it  were  before  his  eyes.  So  artificial  a  cre- 
ation, having  lost  that  principle  which  called  it  into  life  and  supported  its  existence, 
must  fall  to  pieces  at  once,  and  sink  more  rapidly  than  it  rose.  The  abhorrence 
of  slavery  which  drove  the  Venetians  to  the  sea,  has,  since  their  disaster,  forced 
them  to  the  land,  where  they  may  be  at  least  overlooked  amongst  the  crowd  of 
dependants,  and  not  present  the  humiliating  spectacle  of  a  whole  nation  loaded 
with  recent  chains.  Their  liveliness,  their  affability,  and  that  happy  indifference 
which  constitution  alone  can  give  (for  philosophy  aspires  to  it  in  vain)  have  not 
punk  under  circumstances ;  but  many  peculiarities  of  costume  and  manner  have  by 
degrees  been  lost,  and  the  nobles,  with  a  pride  common  to  all  Italians  who  have 
been  masters,  have  not  been  persuaded  to  parade  their  insignificance.  That  splen- 
dour which  was  a  proof  and  a  portion  of  their  power,  they  would  not  degrade  into 
the  trappings  of  their  subjection.  They  retired  from  the  space  which  they  had 
occupied  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow-citizens  ;  their  continuance  in  which  would 
have  been  a  symptom  of  acquiescence,  and  an  insult  to  those  who  suffered  by  the 
common  misfortune.  Those  who  remained  in  the  degraded  capital  might  be  said 
rather  to  haunt  the  scenes  of  their  departed  power,  than  to  live  in  them.  The 
reflection,  "  who  and  what  enthrals,"  will  hardly  hear  a  comment  from  one  who 
is,  nationally,  the  friend  and  the  ally  of  the  conqueror.  It  may,  however,  be  ak 
lowed  to  say  thus  much,  that  to  those  who  wish  to  recover  their  independence, 
any  masters  must  be  an  object  of  detestation  ;  and  it  may  be  safely  foretold  that 
this  unprofitable  aversion  will  not  have  been  corrected  before  Venice  shall  have 
sunk  into  the  slime  of  her  choked  canals. 


"  Nonnullorum  £  nobilitate  immensae  sunt  opes,  adeout  vix  asstimari  possint :  id 
I  tribus  6  rebus  oritur,  parsirr 
iub.  percipiunt,  quae  hanc  ob  cai 
hbu's  Italiae,  Tractatus,  edit.  1631, 


quod  tribus  6  rebus  oritur,  parsimonia,  commercio,  atque  iis  emolumentis,  quae  6 
Repub.  percipiunt,  quae  hanc  ob  causarn  diuturna  fore  creditur."  —  See  de  Principa- 


204  HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO 

vm. 

LAURA. 

Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame.  " 

Stanza  xxx.  lines  8  and  9. 

Thanks  to  the  critical  acumen  of  a  Scotchman,  we  now  know  as  little  of  Laura  as 
ever.*  The  discoveries  of  the  Abbe  de  Sade,  his  tiinmphs,  his  sneers,  can  no  longer 
instruct  or  amuse,  j  We  must  not,  however,  think  that  these  memoirs  are  as  much 
a  romance  as  Belisarius  or  the  Incas,  although  we  are  told  so  by  Dr.  Beattie,  a 
great  name,  but  a  little  authority.!  His  "  labour"  has  not  been  in  vain,  notwith- 
standing his  "  love  "  has,  like  most  other  passions,  made  him  ridiculous. <}  The 
hypothesis  which  overpowered  the  struggling  Italians,  and  carried  along  less  inte- 
rested critics  in  its  current,  is  run  out.  We  have  another  proof  that  we  can  be  never 
sure  that  the  paradox,  the  most  singular,  and  therefore  having  the  most  agreeable 
and  authentic  air,  will  not  give  place  to  the  re-established  ancient  prejudice. 

It  seems,  then,  first,  that  Laura  was  born,  lived,  died,  and  was  buried,  not  in  Avig- 
non, but  in  the  country.  The  fountains  of  the  Sorga,  the  thickets  of  Cabneres,  may 
resume  their  pretensions,  and  the  exploded  de  la  Bastie  again  be  heard  with  compla- 
cency. The  hypothesis  of  the  Abbe  had  no  stronger  props  than  the  parchment 
sonnet  and  medal  found  on  the  skeleton  of  the  wife  of  Hugo  de  Sade,  and  the 
manuscript  note  to  the  Virgil  of  Petrarch,  now  in  the  Ambrosian  library.  If  these 
proofs  were  both  incontestable,  the  poetry  was  written,  the  medal  composed,  cast, 
and  deposited  within  the  space  of  twelve  hours:  and  these  deliberate  duties  were 
performed  round  the  carcass  of  one  who  died  of  the  plague,  and  was  hurried  to  the 
grave  on  the  day  of  her  death.  These  documents,  therefore,  are  too  decisive  :  they 
prove  not  the  fact,  but  the  forgery.  Either  the  sonnet  or  the  Virgilian  note  must  be 
a  falsification.  The  Abbfe  cites  both  as  incontestably  true ;  the  consequent  deduction 
is  inevitable  —  they  are  both  evidently  false.  || 

Secondly,  Laura  was  never  married,  and  was  a  haughty  virgin  rather  than  that 
tender  and  prudent  wife  who  honoured  Avignon  by  making  that  town  the  theatre  of 
an  honest  French  passion,  and  played  off  for  one  and  twenty  years  her  little  ma- 
chinery of  alternate  favours  and  refusals  IF  upon  the  first  poet  of  the  age.  It  was, 
indeed,  rather  too  unfair  that  a  female  should  be  made  responsible  for  eleven  children 
upon  the  faith  of  a  misinterpreted  abbreviation,  and  the  decision  of  a  librarian.**  It 


*  See  an  Historical  and  Critical  Essay  on  the  Life  and  Character  of  Petrarch; 
and  a  Dissertation  on  an  Historical  Hypothesis  of  the  Abbe  de  Sade  :  the  first  ap- 
peared about  the  year  1784  ;  the  other  is  inserted  in  the  fourth  volume  of  the  Trans- 
actions of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh,  and  both  have  been  incorporated  into  a 
work,  published,  under  the  first  title,  by  Ballantyne  in  1810. 

f  Memoires  pour  la  Vie  di  Pfetrarque. 

J  Life  of  Beattie,  by  Sir  W.  Forbes,  t.  ii.  p.  106. 

§  Mr.  Gibbon  called  his  Memoirs  "  a  labour  of  love"  (see  Decline  and  Fall,  cap. 
Ixx.  note  1.)  and  followed  him  with  confidence  and  delight.  The  compiler  of  a  very 
voluminous  work  must  take  much  criticism  upon  trust ;  Mr.  Gibbon  has  done  so, 
though  not  as  readily  as  some  other  authors. 

||  The  sonnet  had  before  awakened  the  suspicions  of  Mr.  Horace  Walpole. 
See  his  letter  to  Wharton  in  1763. 

IT  "  Par  ce  petit  manege,  cette  alternative  de  favours  et  de  rigueurs  bien  mfe- 
nagee,  une  femme  tendre  et  sage  amuse,  pendant  vingt  et  un  ans,  le  plus  grand 
poete  de  son  siecle,  sans  faire  la  moindre  breche  k  son  honneur."  Mem.  pour  la 
Vie  de  Petrarque.  Preface  aux  Francois.  The  Italian  editor  of  the  London  edition 
ofPotrarch,  who  has  translated  Lord  Woodhouselee,  renders  the  "  femm«  tendre  et 
sage,"  rajfinata  cwetta."  Riflessioni  intorno  a  madonna  Laura,  p.  234,  vol.  iii.  ed. 
1811. 

**  In  a  dialogue  with  St.  Au?ustin,  Petrarch  has  described  Laura  as  havine  a 
body  exhausted  with  repeated  ptubs.  The  old  editors  read  and  printed  perturbation*- 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  205 

is,  however,  satisfactory  to  think  that  the  love  of  Petrarch  was  not  platonic.  The 
happiness  which  he  prayed  to  possess  but  once  and  for  a  moment  was  surely  not 
of  the  mind,*  and  something  so  very  real  as  a  marriage  project,  with  one  who  has 
been  idly  called  a  shadowy  nymph,  may  be,  perhaps,  detected  in  at  least  six  places 
of  his  own  sonnets.f  The  love  of  Petrarch  was  neither  platonic  nor  poetical  ;  and 
if  in  one  passage  of  his  works  he  calls  it  "  amore  veementeissimo  ma  unico  ed 
onesto,"  he  confesses,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  that  it  was  guilty  and  perverse,  that  it 
absorbed  him  quite,  and  mastered  his  heart. .£ 

In  this  case,  however,  he  was  perhaps  alarmed  for  the  culpability  of  his  wishes  ; 
for  the  Abbe  de  Sade  himself,  who  certainly  would  not  have  been  scrupulously  delicate 
if  he  could  have  proved  his  descent  from  Petrarch  as  well  as  Laura,  is  forced  into  a 
stout  defence  of  his  virtuous  grandmother.  As  far  as  relates  to  the  poet,  we  have  no 
security  for  the  innocence,  except  perhaps  in  the  constancy  of  his  pursuit.  He  as- 
sures us  in  his  epistle  to  posterity,  that,  when  arrived  at  his  fortieth  year,  he  not  only 
had  in  horror,  but  had  lost  all  recollection  and  image  of  any  "  irregularity. "§  But  the 
birth  of  his  natural  daughter  cannot  be  assigned  earlier  than  his  thirty-ninth  year ;  and 
either  the  memory  or  the  morality  of  the  poet  must  have  failed  him,  when  he  forgot  or 
was  guilty  of  this  slip.\\  The  weakest  argument  for  the  purity  of  this  love  has~been 
drawn  from  the  permanence  of  its  effects,  which  survived  the  object  of  his  passion. 
The  reflection  of  M.  de  la  Bastie,  that  virtue  alone  is  capable  of  making  impressions 
which  death  cannot  efface,  is  one  of  those  which  every  body  applauds,  and  every 
body  finds  not  to  be  true,  the  moment  he  examines  his  own  breast  or  the  records  of 
human  feeling.lT  Such  apophthegms  can  do  nothing  for  Petrarch  or  for  the  cause 
of  morality,  except  with  the  very  weak  and  the  very  young.  He  that  has  made  even 
a  little  progress  beyond  ignorance  and  pupilage  cannot  be  edified  with  any  thing  but 
truth.  What  is  called  vindicating  the  honour  of  an  individual  or  a  nation,  is  the  most 
f'uiile,  tedious,  and  uninstructive  of  all  writing  ;  although  it  will  always  meet  with 
more  applause  than  that  sober  criticism,  which  is  attributed  to  the  malicious  desiro 
of  reducing  a  great  man  to  the  common  standard  of  humanity.  It  is,  after  all,  not 
unlikely,  that  our  historian  was  right  in  retaining  his  favourite  hypothetic  salvo,  which 
secures  the  author,  although  it  scarcely  saves  the  honour  of  the  still  unknown  mis- 
tress of  Petrarch.** 


bus;  but  M.  Capperonier,  librarian  to  the  French  king  in  1792,  who  saw  the  MS. 
in  die  Paris  library,  made  an  attestation  that  u  on  lit  et  qu'on  doil  lire,  partubua 
exhaustum"  De  Sade  joined  the  names  of  Messrs.  Boudot  and  Bejot  with  M. 
Capperonier,  and  in  the  whole  discussion  on  this  ptubs,  showed  himself  a  downright 
literary  rogue.  See  Riflessioni,  &c.  p.  267.  Thomas  Aquinas  is  called  in  to  settle 
whether  Petrarch's  mistress  was  a  chaste  maid  or  a  continent  wife. 

*  "  Pigmalion,  quanto  lodar  ti  dei 
Dell'  imagine  tua,  se  mille  volte 
N'  avesti  quel  ch'  i'  sol  una  vorrei." 

Sonetto  58,  quando  giunse  a  Simon  Valto  concetto. 
Le  Rime,  &c.  par.  i.  pag.  189,  edit.  Ven.  1756. 

t  See  Riflessioni,  &c.  p.  291. 

I  "  Q,uella  rea  e  perversa  passione  che  solo  tatto  mi  occupava  e  mi  regnava  nei 
cuore." 

§  "  Azion  dishonesta"  are  his  words. 

I]  "  A  questa  confessione  cosi  sincera  diede  forse  occasione  una  nuova  caduta  ch' 
ei  fece."  Tiraboschi,  Storia,  &c.  torn.  v.  lib.  iv.  par.  ii.  pag.  492. 

IT  "  II  n'y  a  que  la  vertu  seule  qui  soit  capable  de  faire  des  impressions  que  la 
mort  n'efface  pas."  M.  de  Bimard,  Baron  de  la  Bastie,  in  the  M6moires  de  1'Aca- 
demie  des  Inscriptions  et  Belles  Lettres  for  1740  and  1751.  See  also  Riflessioni, 
&c.  p.  295. 

**  "And  if  the  virtue  or  prudence  of  Laura  was  inexorable,  he  enjoyed,  and 
might  boast  of  enjoying,  the  nymph  of  poetry."  Decline  and  Fall,  cap.  bx.  p.  327. 
vol.  xii.  8vo.  Perhaps  the  if  is  here  meant  for  although. 


206  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

IS. 
PETRARCH. 

t(  They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqufr,  where  he  died" 

Stanza  xxxi.  line  1. 

Petrarch  retired  to  Arqua  immediately  on  his  return  from  the  unsuccessful  attempt 
to  visit  Urban  V.  at  Rome,  in  the  year  1370,  and,  with  the  exception  of  his  celebratod 
visit  to  Venice,  in  company  with  Francesco  Novello  da  Carrara,  he  appears  to  have 
passed  the  four  last  years  of  his  life  between  that  charming  solitude  and  Padua. 
For  four  months  previous  to  his  death  he  was  in  a  state  of  continual  languor,  and  in 
the  morning  of  July  the  19th,  in  the  year  1374,  was  found  dead  in  his  library  chair 
with  his  head  resting  upon  a  book.  The  chair  is  still  shown  amongst  the  precious 
relics  of  Arqua,  which,  from  the  uninterrupted  veneration  that  has  been  attached  to 
every  thing  relative  to  this  great  man  from  the  moment  of  his  death  to  the  present 
hour,  have,  it  may  be  hoped,  a  better  chance  of  authenticity  than  the  Shakspearian 
memorials  of  Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqua  (for  the  last  syllable  is  accented  in  pronunciation,  although  the  analogy  of 
the  English  language  has  been  observed  in  the  verse)  is  twelve  miles  from  Padua, 
and  about  three  miles  on  the  right  of  the  high  road  to  Rovigo,  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Euganean  hills.  After  a  walk  of  twenty  minutes  across  a  flat  well-wooded  meadow, 
you  corne  to  a  little  blue  lake,  clear,  but  fathomless,  and  to  the  foot  of  a  succession  of 
acclivities  and  hills,  clothed  with  vineyards  and  orchards,  rich  with  fir  and  pome- 
granate trees,  and  every  sunny  fruit  shrub.  From  the  banks  of  the  lake  the  road 
winds  into  the  hills,  and  the  church  of  Arqua  is  soon  seen  between  a  cleft  where  two 
ridges  slope  towards  each  other,  and  nearly  enclose  the  village.  The  houses  are 
scattered  at  intervals  on  the  steep  sides  of  these  summits  ;  and  that  of  the  poet  is  on 
the  edge  of  a  little  knoll  overlooking  two  descents,  and  commanding  a  view,  not  only 
of  the  glowing  gardens  in  the  dales  immediately  beneath,  but  of  the  wide  plains,  above 
whose  low  woods  of  mulberry  and  willow,  thickened  into  a  dark  mass  by  festoons  of 
vines,  tall  single  cypi esses,  and  the  spires  of  towns,  are  seen  in  the  distance,  which 
stretches  to  the  mouths  of  the  Po  and  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic.  The  climate  of 
these  volcanic  hills  is  warmer,  and  the  vintage  begins  a  week  sooner  than  in  the 
plains  of  Padua.  Petrarch  is  laid,  for  he  cannot  be  said  to  be  buried,  in  a  sarcopha- 
gus of  red  marble,  raised  on  four  pilasters  on  an  elevated  base,  and  preserved  from 
an  association  with  meaner  tombs.  It  stands  conspicuously  alone,  but  will  be  soon 
overshadowed  by  four  lately  planted  laurels.  Petrarch's  Fountain,  for  here  every 
thin;;  is  Petrarch's,  springs  and  expands  itself  beneath  an  artificial  arch,  a  little  below 
the  church,  and  abounds  plentifully,  in  the  driest  season,  with  that  soft  water  which 
was  the  ancient  wealth  of  the  Euganean  hills.  It  would  be  more  attractive,  were 
it  not,  in  some  seasons,  beset  with  hornets  and  wasps.  No  other  coincidence  could 
assimilate  the  tombs  of  Petrarch  and  Archilochus.  The  revolutions  of  centuries 
have  spared  these  sequestered  valleys,  and  the  only  violence  which  has  been  offered 
to  the  ashes  of  Petrarch  was  prompted,  not  by  hate,  but  veneration.  An  attempt 
was  made  to  rob  the  sarcophagus  of  its  treasure,  and  one  of  the  arms  was  stolen 
by  a  Florentine  through  a  rent  which  is  still  visible.  The  injury  is  not  forgotten,  but 
has  served  to  identify  the  poet  with  the  country  where  he  was  born,  but  where  he 
would  not  live.  A  peasant  boy  of  Arqua  being  asked  who  Petrarch  was,  replied, 
"  that  the  people  of  the  parsonage  knew  all  about  him,  but  that  he  only  knew  that 
he  was  a  Florentine." 

Mr.  Forsyth  *  was  not  quite  correct  in  saying  that  Petrarch  never  returned  to 
Tuscany  after  he  had  once  quitted  it  when  a  boy.  It  appears  he  did  pass  through 
Florence  on  his  way  from  Parma  to  Rome,  and  on  his  return  in  the  year  1350,  and 
remained  there  long  enough  to  form  some  acquaintance  with  its  most  distinguished 
inhabitants.  A  Florentine  gentleman,  ashamed  of  the  aversion  of  the  poet  for  his 
native  countty,  was  eager  to  point  out  this  trivial  error  in  our  accomplished  traveller, 
whom  he  knew  and  respected  for  an  extraordinary  capacity,  extensive  erudition,  and 
refined  taste,  joined  to  that  engaging  simplicity  of  manners  which  has  been  so  fre- 
quently recognized  as  the  surest,  though  it  is  certainly  not  an  indispensable,  trait  of 
superior  genius. 

*  Remarks,  &c.  on  Italy,  p.  95,  note,  2d  edit. 


CANTO    THE    FOURTH.  207 

Every  footstep  of  Laura's  lover  has  been  anxiously  traced  and  recorded.  The 
house  iu  which  he  lodged  is  shtfwn  in  Venice.  The  inhabitants  of  Arezzo,  in  order 
to  decide  the  ancient  controversy  between  their  city  and  the  neighbouring  Ancisa, 
where  Petrarch  was  carried  when  seven  months  old,  and  remained  until  his  seventh 
year,  have  designated  by  a  long  inscription  the  spot  where  their  great  fellow-citizen 
was  born.  A  tablet  has  been  raised  to  him  at  Parma,  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Agatha, 
at  the  cathedral,*  because  he  was  archdeacon  of  that  society,  and  was  only  snatched 
from  his  intended  sepulture  in  their  church  by  a.  foreign  death.  Another  tablet  with 
a  bust,  has  been  erected  to  him  at  Pavia,  on  account  of  his  having  passed  the  autumn 
of  1368  in  that  city,  with  his  son-in-law  Brossano.  The  political  condition  which 
has  for  ages  precluded  the  Italians  from  the  criticism  of  the  living,  has  concentrated 
their  attention  to  the  illustration  of  the  dead. 


X. 

TASSO. 

"  In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire;* 
jAnd  JBoileau,  whose  rash  envy"  &c. 

Stanza  xxxviii.  lines  6  and  7. 

'   Perhaps  the  couplet  in  which  'Boileau  depreciates  Tasso,  may  serve  as  well  as 
any  other  specimen  to  justify  the  opinion  given  of  the  harmony  of  French  verse  :  — 

A  Malerbe  a  Racan,  pr6tere  Theophile, 

Et  le  clinquant  du  Tasse  a  tout  1'or  de  Virgile. 

Sat.  ix.  vers.  176. 

The  biographer  Serassi,f  out  of  tenderness  to  the  reputation  either  of  the  Italian 
or  the  French  poet,  is  eager  to  observe  that  the  satirist  recanted  or  explained  away 
this  censure,  and  subsequently  allowed  the  author  of  the  Jerusalem  to  be  a  "  genius, 
sublime,  vast,  and  happily  born  for  the  higher  flights  of  poetry."  To  this  we  wjH 
add,  that  the  recantation  is  far  from  satisfactory,  when  we  examine  the  whole  anec- 
dote as  reported  by  Olivet.J  The  sentence  pronounced  against  him  by  Bohours 

*  D.  O.  M. 

Francisco  Petrarchso 

Parmensi  Archidiacono. 

iParentibus  praeclaiis  genere  perantiquo 

Ethices  Christianse  scriptori  eximio 

Roman®  linguae  restitutori 

Etruscae  principi 

Africae  ob  carmen  hac  in  urbe  peractum  regibus  aceito 
S.  P.  Q.  R.  laurea  donate. 

Tanti  Viri 
Juvenilium  juvenis  senilium  senex 

Studiosissimus 

Comes  Nicolaus  Canonicus  Cicognarus 
Marmorea  proxima  ara  excitata. 

Ibique  condito 

Divas  Januariffi  cruento  corpore 
H.  M.  P. 
Suffectum 

Sed  infra  meritum  Francisci  sepulchre- 
Summa  hac  in  sede  efferri  mandantis 

Si  Parmae  occumberet 
Extera  morte  heu  nobis  erepti. 

t  La  Vita  del  Tasso,  lib.  iii.  p.  284.  torn.  ii.  edit.  Bergamo,  1790. 


J.  Histoire  de  1' Academic  Fran9oise,  depuis  1652  jusqu'a  1700,  par  l'Abb£  d'Oliret. 
.  181,  edit,  Amsterdam,  1730.     "  Mais,  ensuite,  venant  .U'usage  qu'il  a  fait  de 


208  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

is  recorded  *  only  to  the  confusion  of  the  critic,  whose  palinodia  the  Italian  makes  no 
effort  to  discover,  and  would  not,  perhaps,  accept.  As  to  the  opposition  which  the 
Jerusalem  encountered  from  the  Cruscan  academy,  who  degraded  Tasso  from  all 
competition  with  Ariosto,  below  Bojardo  and  Pulci,  the  disgrace  of  such  opposition 
must  also  in  some  measure  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  Alfonso,  and  the  court  of  Ferrara. 
For  Leonard  Salviati,  the  principal  and  nearly  the  sole  origin  of  this  attack,  was, 
there  can  be  no  doubt,|  influenced  by  a  hope  to  acquire  the  favour  of  the  House  of 
Este  :  an  object  which  he  thought  attainable  by  exalting  the  reputation  of  a  native 
poet  at  the  expense  of  a  rival,  then  a  prisoner  of  state.  The  hopes  and  efforts  of 
Salviati  must  serve  to  show  the  contemporary  opinion  as  to  the  nature  of  the  poet's 
imprisonment;  and  will  fill  up  the  measure  of  our  indignation  at  the  tyrant  jailer.J 
In  fact,  the  antogonist  of  Tasso  was  not  disappointed  in  the  reception  given  to  his 
criticism  ;  he  was  called  to  the  court  of  Ferrara,  where,  having  endeavoured  to 
heighten  his  claims  to  favour,  by  panegyrics  on  the  family  of  his  sovereign,§  he  was 
in  turn  abandoned,  and  expired  in  neglected  poverty.  The  opposition  of  the  Cruscans 
was  brought  to  a  close  in  six  years  after  the  commencement  of  the  controversy  ;  and 
if  the  academy  owed  its  first  renown  to  having  almost  opened  with  such  a  paradox,  [) 
it  is  probable  that,  on  the  other  hand,  the  care  of  his  reputation  alleviated  rather  than 
aggravated  the  imprisonment  of  the  injured  poet.  The  defence  of  his  father  and  of 
himself,  for  both  were  involved  in  the  censure  of  Salviati,  found  employment  for  many 
of  his  solitary  hours,  and  the  captive  could  have  been  but  little  embarrassed  to  reply 
to  accusations,  where,  amongst  other  delinquencies,  he  was  charged  with  invidiously 
omitting,  in  his  comparison  between  France  and  Italy,  to  make  any  mention  of  the 
cupola  of  St.  Maria  del  Fiore  at  Florence. If  The  late  biographer  of  Ariosto  seems 
as  if  willing  to  renew  the  controversy  by  doubting  the  interpretation  of  Tasso's  self- 
estimation  **  related  in  Serassi's  life  of  the  poet.  But  Tiraboschi  had  before  laid  that 
rivalry  at  rest,  |t  by  showing,  that  between  Ariosto  and  Tasso  it  is  not  a  question  of 
comparison,  but  of  preference. 


ges  talens,  j'aurois  montre  que  le  bon  sens  n'est  pas  toujours  ce  qui  domme  chez 
lui,"  p.  182.  Boileau  said  he  had  not  changed  his  opinion  ;  •'  J'en  ai  si  peu  changfe, 
dit-il,"  &c.  p.  181. 

*  La  manure  de  bien  penser  dans  les  ouvrages  de  1'esprit,  sec.  dial.  p.  89,  edit. 
1692.  Philanth.es  is  for  Tasso,  and  says,  in  the  outset,  "  de  toua  les  beaux  esprits 
que  1'Italie  a  portfes,  le  Tasse  est  peut-Stre  oelui  qui  pense  le  plus  noblement."  But 
Bohours  seems  to  speak  in  Eudoxus,  who  closes  with  the  absurd  comparison :  "  Faites 
valoir  le  Tasse  tant  qu'il  vous  plaira.  je  m'en  tiens  pour  moi  a  Virgile,"  &c.  Ibid, 
p.  102. 

t  La  Vita,  &c.  lib.  iii.  p.  90,  torn.  ii.  The  English  reader  may  see  an  account 
of  the  opposition  of  the  Crusca  to  Tasso,  in  Dr.  Black,  Life,  &c.  cap.  xvii.  vol.  ii. 

J  For  further,  and,  it  is  hoped,  decisive  proof,  that  Tasso  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  prisoner  of  state,  the  reader  is  referred  to  "  Historical  Illustrations  of  the 
IVth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold,"  pag.  5.  and  following. 

§  Orazioni  funebri  .  .  .  delle  lodi  di  Don  Luigi,  Cardinal  d'Este  .  . .  delle  lodi  di 
Donno  Alfonso  d'Este.  See  La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  p.  117. 

||  It  was  founded  in  1582,  and  the  Cruscan  answer  to  Pellegrino's  Corona, or  eP*ca 
poesia,  was  published  in  1584. 

IT  "  Cotanto  potfe  sempre  in  lui  51  veleno  della  sua  pessima  volontk  contro  alia  na- 
zion  Fiorentina."  La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  pp.  96,  98.  torn.  ii. 

**  La  Vita  di  M.  L.  Ariosto,  scritta  dall'  Abate  Qirolamo  BarofFaldi  Giuniore, 
&c.  Ferrara,  1807,  lib.  iii.  p.  262.  See  Historical  Illustrations,  &c.  p.  26. 

tf  Storia  della  Lett.  &c.  lib.  iii.  torn.  vii.  par,  iii.  p.  1220,  sect.  4. 


CANTO    THE    FOURTH.  209 

XI. 

ARIOSTO. 

"  The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto1  s  bust, 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimick'd  leaves," 

Stanza  xli.  lines  1  and  2. 

Before  the  remains  of  Ariosto  were  removed  from  the  Benedictine  church  to  the 
fibrary  of  Ferrara,  his  bust,  which  surmounted  the  tomb,  was  struck  by  lightning,  and 
a  crown  of  iron  laurels  melted  away.  The  event  has  been  recorded  by  a  writer  of  the 
last  century.*  The  transfer  of  these  sacred  ashes,  on  the  6th  of  June,  1801,  was  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  spectacles  of  the  short-lived  Italian  Republic;  and  to  consecrate 
the  memory  of  the  ceremony,  the  once  famous  fallen  Intrepidi  were  revived  and  re- 
formed into  the  Ariostean  academy.  The  large  public  place  through  which  the  pro- 
cession paraded  was  then  for  the  first  time  called  Ariosto  Square.  The  author  of  the 
Orlando  is  jealously  claimed  as  the  Homer,  not  of  Italy,  but  Ferrara-t  The  mother 
of  Ariosto  was  of  Reggio,  and  the  house  in  which  he  was  born  is  carefully  distin- 
guished by  a  tablet  with  these  words  :  "  Qui  nacque  Ludovico  Ariosto  il  giorno  8  di 
Settembre  ddV  anno  1474."  But  the  Ferrarese  make  light  of  the  accident  by  which 
their  poet  was  born  abroad,  and  claim  him  exclusively  for  their  own.  They  possess 
his  bones,  they  show  his  arm-chair,  and  his  inkstand,  and  his  autographs. 

" Hie  illius  anna 

Hie  currus  fuit " 

The  house  where  he  lived,  the  room  where  he  died,  are  designated  by  his  own  re- 
placed memorial,!  and  by  a  recent  inscription.  The  Ferrarese  are  more  jealous  of 
their  claims  since  the  animosity  of  Deniria,  arising  from  a  cause  which  their  apolo- 
gists mysteriously  hint  is  not  unknown  to  them,  ventured  to  degrade  their  soil  and  cli- 
mate to  a  Boeotian  incapacity  for  all  spiritual  productions.  A  quarto  volume  has  been 
called  forth  by  the  detraction,  and  this  supplement  to  Barotti's  Memoirs  of  the  illustri- 
ous Ferrarese  has  been  considered  a  triumphant  reply  to  the  "  Quadro  Storico  Statis- 
tico  dell'  Alta  Italia." 


XII. 
ANCIENT  SUPERSTITIONS  RESPECTING  LIGHTNING. 

"  For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves." 

Stanza  xli.  lines  4  and  5< 

The  eagle,  the  sea  calf,  the  laurel,*}  and  the  white  vine,||  were  amongst  the  most 

ugustus  Caesar  the 
hen  the  sky  threat- 


,  ,  ,  , 

approved  preservatives  against  lightning  :  Jupiter  chose  the  first,  Augustus  Caesar  the 
second,1T  and  Tiberius  never  failed  to  wear  a  wreath  of  the  third  w 


*  "  Mi  raccontarono  que'  monaci,  ch'  essendo  caduto  un  fulrmne  nella  loro  chiesa 
schiantb  esso  dalle  tempie  la  corona  di  lauro  a  quell'  immortale  poeta."  Op.  di  Bian- 
coni,  vol.  iii.  p.  176,  ed.  Milano,  1802  ;  lettera  al  Signor  Guido  Savini  Arcifisiocritieo, 
sull'  indole  di  un  fulmine  caduto  in  Dresda  1'anno  1759. 

f  "  Appassionata  ammiratore  ed  invitto  apologista  dell'  Omera  Ferrarese.'1  The 
title  was  first  given  by  Tasso,  and  is  quoted  to  the  confusion  of  the  Tassisti)  lib.  iii. 
pp.  262.  265  La  Vita  di  M.  L.  Ariosto,  &c. 

J  "  Parva  sed  apta  mini,  sed  nulli  obnoxia.  sed  non 

Sordida,  parta  meo  sed  tamen  sere  domus." 

§  Aquila,  vitulus  marinus,  et  laurus,  fulmine  non  feriuntur.  Plin.  Nat,  Hist,  fib, 
i.  cap.  65. 

||  Columella,  lib.  x.  If  Sueton.  in  Vit  August,  cap.  xc. 

VOL.  III.  -  P 


210  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

ened  a  thunder-storm.*  These  superstitions  may  be  received  without  a  sneer  in  a 
country  where  the  magical  properties  of  the  hazel  twig  have  not  lost  all  their  credit ; 
and  perhaps  the  reader  may  not  be  much  surprised  to  find  that  a  commentator  on 
Suetonius  has  taken  upon  himself  gravely  to  disprove  the  imputed  virtues  of  the  crown 
of  Tiberius,  by  mentioning  that  a  few  years  before  he  wrote  a  laurel  was  actually 
struck  by  lightning  at  Rome.J 


XIII. 

11  Know  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below." 

Stanza  xli.  line  8. 

The  Curtian  lake  and  the  Ruminal  fig-tree  in  the  Forum,  having  been  touched  by 
lightning,  were  held  sacred,  and  the  memory  of  the  accident  was  preserved  by  a  puteal, 
or  altar  resembling  the  mouth  of  a  well,  with  a  little  chapel  covering  the  cavity  sup- 
posed to  be  made  by  the  thunderbolt  Bodies  scathed  and  persons  struck  dead  were 
thought  to  be  incorruptible  ;  J  and  a  stroke  not  fatal  conferred  perpetual  dignity  upon 
the  man  so  distinguished  by  heaven. § 


a  diabolical  skill  in  interpreting  thunder,  a  seer  foretold  to  Agilulf,  duke  of  Turin,  an 
event  which  came  to  pass,  and  gave  him  a  queen  and  a  crown.  ||  There  was,  how- 
ever, something  equivocal  in  this  sign,  which  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Rome  did  not 
always  consider  propitious  ;  and  as  the  fears  are  likely  to  last  longer  than  the  conso- 
lations of  superstition,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  Romans  of  the  age  of  Leo  X.  should 
have  been  so  much  terrified  at  some  misinterpreted  storms  as  to  require  the  exhor- 
tations of  a  scholar*  who  arrayed  all  the  learning  on  thunder  and  lightning  to  prove 
the  omen  favourable  ;  beginning  with  the  flash  which  struck  the  walls  of  Velitrae,  and 
including  that  which  played  upon  a  gate  at  Florence,  and  foretold  the  pontificate  of 
one  of  its  citizens.  IT 


XIV. 
THE  VENUS  OF  MEDICIS. 

"  There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone." 

Stanza  xlix.  line  1. 

The  view  of  the  Venus  of  Medicis  instantly  suggests  the  lines  in  the  Seasons,  and 
the  comparison  of  the  object  with  the  description  proves  not  only  the  correctness  of 
the  portrait,  but  the  peculiar  turn  of  thought,  and,  if  the  term  may  be  used,  the  sexual 
imagination  of  the  descriptive  poet.  The  same  conclusion  may  be  deduced  from 
another  hint  in  the  same  episode  of  Musidora  5  for  Thomson's  notion  of  the  privi- 

*  Sueton.  in  Vit.  Tiberii,  cap.  Ixix.        t  Note  2-  P-  409-  edit-  Lugd-  Bat-  1667< 

J  Vid.  J.  C.  Bullenger,  de  Terrae  Motu  et  Fulminib.  lib.  v.  cap.  xi. 

§  'Ovotls  KEpavvwdtls  aripds  fffri,  o6ev  Kal  us  Sets  n/xarai.  Plut.  Sympos.  vid.  J. 
C.  Bulleng.  ut  sup. 

||  Pauli  Diaconi,  de  Gestis  Langobard.  lib.  iii.  cap.  xiv.  fo.  15.  edit.  Taurin.  1527. 

IT  I.  P.  Valeriani  de  fulminum  significationibus  declamatio,  ap.  Gra3V,  Antiq. 
Rom.  torn,  v.  p.  593.  The  declamation  is  addressed  to  Julian  of  Medicis. 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  211 

leges  of  favoured  love  must  have  been  either  very  primitive,  or  rather  deficient  in 
delicacy,  when  he  made  his  grateful  nymph  inform  her  discreet  Damon  that  in  some 
happier  moment  he  might,  perhaps,  be  the  companion  of  her  bath :  — 

"  The  time  may  come  you  need  not  fly." 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  anecdote  told  in  the  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson.  We  will  not 
leave  the  Florentine  gallery  without  a  word  on  the  Whetter.  It  seems  strange  that 
the  character  of  that  disputed  statue  should  not  be  entirely  decided,  at  least  in  the 
mind  of  any  one  who  has  seen  a  sarcophagus  in  tho  vestibule  of  the  Basilica  of  St. 
Paul  without  the  walls,  at  Rome,  where  the  whole  group  of  the  fable  of  Marsyas  is 
seen  in  tolerable  preservation ;  and  the  Scythian  slave  whetting  the  knife  is  repre- 
sented exactly  in  the  same  position  as  this  celebrated  masterpiece.  The  slave  is  not 
naked  ;  but  it  is  easier  to  get  rid  of  this  difficulty  than  to  suppose  the  knife  in  the 
hand  of  the  Florentine  statue,  an  instrument  for  shaving,  which  it  must  be,  if,  as 
Lanzi  supposes,  the  man  is  no  other  than  the  barber  of  Julius  Caesar.  Winkelmann, 
illustrating  a  bas  relief  of  the  same  subject,  follows  the  opinion  of  Leonard  Agostini, 
and  his  authority  might  have  been  thought  conclusive,  even  if  the  resemblance  did 
not  strike  the  most  careless  observer.* 

Amongst  the  bronzes  of  the  same  princely  collection  is  still  to  be  seen  the  inscribed 
tablet  copied  and  commented  upon  by  Mr.  Gibbon. f  Our  historian  found  some  diffi- 
culties, but  did  not  desist  from  his  illustration :  he  might  be  vexed  to  hear  that  his 
criticism  has  been  thrown  away  on  an  inscription  now  generally  recognised  to  be  a 
forgery. 


XV. 
MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

"  In  Santa  Croce's  My  predncts  lie." 

Stanza  liv.  line  1. 

This  name  will  recall  the  memory,  not  only  of  those  whose  tombs  have  raised  the* 
Santa  Croce  into  the  centre  of  pilgrimage,  the  Mecca  of  Italy,  but  of  her  whose 
eloquence  was  poured  over  the  illustrious  ashes,  and  whose  voice  is  now  as  mufe  as 
those  she  suns.  CORINNA  is  no  more ;  and  with  her  should  expire  the  fear,  the 
flattery,  and  the  envy,  which  threw  too  dazzling  or  too  dark  a  cloud  round  the  march 
of  genius,  and  forbad  the  steady  gaze  of  disinterested  criticism.  We  have  her 
picture  embellished  or  distorted,  as  friendship  or  detraction  has  held  the  pencil:  the 
impartial  portrait  was  hardly  to  be  expected  from  a  contemporary.  The  immediate 
voice  of  her  survivors  will,  it  is  probable,  be  far  from  affording  a  just  estimate  of  her 
singular  capacity.  The  gallantry,  the  love  of  wonder,  and  the  hope  of  associated 
fame,  which  blunted  the  edge  of  censure,  must  cease  to  exist. — The  dead  have  no 
sex  ;  they  can  surprise  by  no  new  miracles ;  they  can  confer  no  privilege  :  Corinna 
has  ceased  to  be  a  woman— she  is  only  an  author  :  and  it  may  be  foreseen  that  many 
will  repay  themselves  for  former  complaisance,  by  a  severity  to  which  the  extrava- 
gance of  previous  praises  may  perhaps  give  the  colour  of  truth.  The  latest  posterity, 
for  to  the  latest  posterity  they  will  assuredly  descend,  will  have  to  pronounce  upon  her 
various  productions ;  and  the  longer  the  vista  through  which  they  are  seen,  the  more  ac- 
curately minute  will  be  the  object,  the  more  certain  the  justice,  of  the  decision.  She 
will  enter  into  that  existence  in  which  the  great  writers  of  all  ages  and  nations  are,  as  it 
were,  associated  in  a  world  of  their  own,  and,  from  that  superior  sphere,  shed  their  eter- 
nal influence  for  the  control  and  consolation  of  mankind.  But  the  individual  will 
gradually  disappear  as  the  author  is  more  distinctly  seen  :  some  one,  therefore,  of  all 
those  whom  the  charms  of  involuntary  wit,  and  of  easy  hospitality,  attracted  within 


*  See  Monim.  Ant.  Ined.  par.  i.  cap.  xvii.  n.  xlii.  pag.  50  ;  and  Storia  delli  Arti, 
&c.  lib.  xi.  cap.  i.  torn.  ii.  pag.  314.  not.  B. 

t  Nomina  gentesque  Ant'umae  Italice,  p.  204,  edit,  oct, 


212  HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO 

the  friendly  circles  of  Coppet,  should  rescue  from  oblivion  those  virtues  which,  al- 
though they  are  said  to  love  the  shade,  are,  in  fact,  more  frequently  chilled  than  ex- 
cited by  the  domestic  cares  of  private  life.  Some  one  should  be  found  to  portray  the 
unaffected  graces  with  which  she  adorned  those  dearer  relationships,  the  perform- 
ance of  whose  duties  is  rather  discovered  amongst  the  interior  secrets,  than  seen  in 
the  outward  management,  of  family  intercourse  ;  and  which,  indeed,  it  requires  the 
delicacy  of  genuine  affection  to  qualify  for  the  eye  of  an  indifferent  spectator.  Some 
one  should  be  found,  not  to  celebrate,  but  to  describe,  the  amiable  mistress  of  an 
open  mansion,  the  centre  of  a  society,  ever  varied,  and  always  pleased,  the  creator  of 
which,  divested  of  the  ambition  and  the  arts  of  public  rivalry,  shone  forth  only  to  give 
fresh  animation  to  those  around  her.  The  mother  tenderly  affectionate  and  tenderly 
beloved,  the  friend  unboundedly  generous,  but  still  esteemed,  the  charitable  patroness 
of  all  distress,  cannot  be  forgotten  by  those  whom  she  cherished,  and  protected,  and 
fed.  Her  loss  will  be  mourned  the  most  where  she  was  known  the  best ;  and,  to  the 
sorrows  of  very  many  friends  and  more  dependants,  may  be  offered  the  disinterested 
regret  of  a  stranger,  who,  amidst  the  sublimer  scenes  of  theLeman  lake,  received  his 
chief  satisfaction  from  contemplating  the  engaging  qualities  of  the  incomparable 
Gorinna. 


XVI. 
ALFIERI. 

"  Here  repose 
Angela's,  Aden's  bones." 

Stanza  liv.  lines  6  and  7. 

Alfieri  is  the  great  name  of  this  age.  The  Italians,  without  waiting  for  the  hun- 
dred years,  consider  him  as  "  a  poet  good  in  law." — His  memory  is  the  more  dear 
to  them  because  he  is  the  bard  of  freedom  ;  and  because,  as  such,  his  tragedies  can 
receive  no  countenance  from  any  of  their  sovereigns.  They  are  but  very  seldom, 
and  but  very  few  of  them,  allowed  to  be  acted.  It  was  observed  by  Cicero,  that 
nowhere  were  the  true  opinions  and  feelings  of  the  Romans  so  clearly  shown  as  at 
the  theatre.*  In  the  autumn  of  1816,  a  celebrated  improvisatore  exhibited  his  talents 
at  the  Opera-house  of  Milan.  The  reading  of  the  theses  handed  in  for  the  subjects  of  his 
poetry  was  received  by  a  very  numerous  audience,  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  or 
with  laughter  ;  but  when  the  assistant,  unfolding  one  of  the  papers,  exclaimed,  "  The 
apotheosis  of  Victor  Alfieri"  the  whole  theatre  burst  into  a  shout,  and  the  applause 
was  continued  for  some  moments.  The  lot  did  not  fall  on  Alfieri ;  and  the  Signer 
Sgricci  had  to  pour  forth  his  extemporary  common-places  on  the  bombardment  of 
Algiers.  The  choice,  indeed,  is  not  left  to  accident  quite  so  much  as  might  be 
thought  from  a  first  view  of  the  ceremony  ;  and  the  police  not  only  takes  care  to  look 
at  the  papers  beforehand,  but  in  case  of  any  prudential  afterthought,  steps  in  to  cor- 
rect the  blindness  of  chance.  The  proposal  for  deifying  Alfieii  was  received  with 
immediate  enthusiasm,  the  rather  because  it  was  conjectured  there  would  be  no 
opportunity  of  carrying  it  into  effect. 


*  The  free  expression  of  their  honest  sentiments  survived  their  liberties.  Titius, 
the  friend  of  Antony,  presented  them  with  games  in  the  theatre  of  Pompey.  They 
did  not  suffer  the  brilliancy  of  the  spectacle  to  efface  from  their  memory  that  the  man 
who  furnished  them  with  the  entertainment  had  murdered  the  son  of  Pompey  :  they 
drove  him  from  the  theatre  with  curses.  The  moral  sense  of  a  populace,  spontane- 
ously expressed,  is  never  wrong.  Even  the  soldiers  of  the  triumvirs  joined  in  the 
execration  of  the  citizens,  by  shouting  round  the  chariots  of  Lepidus  and  Plancus, 
who  had  proscribed  their  brothers,  JDe  Germanis  non  de  Gallis  duo  triumphant  Con- 
sules;  a  saying  worth  a  record,  were  it  nothing  but  a  good  pun.  fC.  Veil.  Palerculi 
Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  Ixxix.  pag.  78,  edit.  Elzevir.  1639.  Ibid.  lib.  ii.  cap.  Ixxvii.J 


CANTO   THE   FOURTH.  213 

XVII. 
MACHIAVELLI. 

w  Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it  rose." 

Stanza  liv.  line  9. 

The  affectation  of  simplicity  in  sepulchral  inscriptions ,  which  so  often  leaves  us 
uncertain  whether  the  structure  before  us  is  an  actual  depository,  or  a  cenotaph,  or  a 
simple  memorial  not  of  death  but  life,  has  given  to  the  tomb  of  Machiavelli  no  infor- 
mation as  to  the  place  or  time  of  the  birth  or  death,  the  age  or  parentage,  of  the 
historian. 

TANTO   NOMINI   NVLLVM    PAR   ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS    MACHIAVELLI. 

There  seems  at  least  no  reason  why  the  name  should  not  have  been  put  above  tho 
sentence  which  alludes  to  it. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  the  prejudices  which  have  passed  the  name  of 
Machiavelli  into  an  epithet  proverbial  of  iniquity  exist  no  longer  at  Florence.  His 
memory  was  persecuted  as  his  life  had  been  for  an  attachment  to  liberty  incompa- 
tible with  the  new  system  of  despotism,  which  succeeded  the  fall  of  the  free  govern- 
ments of  Italy.  He  was  put  to  the  torture  for  being  a  "  libertine"  that  is,  for  wishing 
to  restore  the  republic  ot  Florence  ;  and  such  are  the  undying  efforts  of  those  who 
are  interested  in  the  perversion  not  only  of  the  nature  of  actions,  but  the  meaning  of 
words,  that  what  was  once  patriotism,  has  by  degrees  come  to  signify  debauch.  We 
have  ourselves  outlived  the  old  meaning  of  "  liberality,"  which  is  now  another  word 
for  treason  in  one  country  and  for  infatuation  in  all.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  strange 
mistake  to  accuse  the  author  of  "  The  Prince,"  as  being  a  pander  to  tyranny  ;  and  to 
think  that  the  Inquisition  would  condemn  his  work  for  such  a  delinquency.  The  fact 
is,  that  Machiavelli,  as  is  usual  with  those  against  whom  no  crime  can  be  proved,  was 
suspected  of  and  charged  with  atheism ;  and  the  first  and  last  most  violent  opposers 
of  "  The  Prince  "  were  both  Jesuits,  one  of  whom  persuaded  the  inquisition  "  bench.6 
fosse  tardo,"  to  prohibit  the  treatise,  and  the  other  qualified  the  secretary  of  the 
Florentine  republic  as  no  better  than  a  fool.  The  father  Possevin  was  proved  never 
to  have  read  the  book,  and  the  father  Lucchesini  not  to  have  understood  it.  It  is 
clear,  however,  that  such  critics  must  have  objected  not  to  the  slavery  of  the  doc- 
trines, but  to  the  supposed  tendency  of  a  lesson  which  shows  how  distinct  are  the 
interests  of  a  monarch  from  the  happiness  of  mankind.  The  Jesuits  are  re-esta- 
blished in  Italy,  and  the  last  chapter  of  "  The  Prince"  may  again  call  forth  a  particular 
refutation,  from  those  who  are  employed  once  more  in  moulding  the  minds  of  the  ris- 
ing generation,  so  as  to  receive  the  impressions  of  despotism.  The  chapter  bears  for 
title,  "  Esortazione  a  liberare  la  Italia  dai  Barbari,"  and  concludes  with  a  libertine 
excitement  to  the  future  redemption  of  Italy.  "  Non  si  deve  adunque  lasciar  pas- 
sare  questa  occasione,  accioccne  la  Italia  vegga  dopo  tanto  tempo  apparire  un  suo 
redentore.  Ne  posso  esprimere  con  qual  amore  ei  fusse  ricevuto  in  tutte  quelle  pro- 
vincie,  che  hanno  patito  per  queste  illuvioni  esterne,  con  qual  sete  di  vendetta,  con 
che  ostinata  fede,  con  che  lacrime.  Quali  porte  se  li  serrerebeno  ?  Q,uali  popoli  li 
negherebbono  la  obbedienza  ?  Q,uale  Italiano  li  negherebbe  1'ossequio?  AD  OONUNO 

PUZZA  QUESTO  BARBARO  DOMJWIO."* 

*  II  Principe  di  Niccolb  Machiavelli,  &c.  con  la  prefazione  e  le  note  istoriche  e 
politiche  di  M.  Amelot  de  la  Houssaye  e  1'  esame  e  confutazione  dell'  opera  .... 
Cosmopoli,  1769. 


214  HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO 

XVIII. 

DANTE. 

"  Ungrateful  Florence  !  Dante  sleeps  afar." 

Stanza  Ivii.  line  1. 

Dante  was  born  in  Florence  in  the  year  1261.  He  fought  in  two  battles,  was 
fourteen  times  ambassador,  and  once  prior  of  the  republic.  When  the  party  of 
Charles  of  Anjou  triumphed  over  the  Bianchi,  he  was  absent  on  an  embassy  to  Pope 
Boniface  VIII.,  and  was  condemned  to  two  years'  banishment,  and  to  a  fine  of  8000 
lire  ;  on  the  non-payment  of  which  he  was  further  punished  by  the  sequestration  of 
all  his  property.  The  republic,  however,  was  not  content  with  this  satisfaction,  for 
in  1772  was  discovered  in  the  archives  at  Florence  a  sentence  in  which  Dante  is  the 
eleventh  of  a  list  of  fifteen  condemned  in  1302  to  be  burnt  alive  ;  Talis  perveniens 
igne  comburatur  sic  quod  moriatur.  The  pretext  for  this  judgment  was  a  proot  of  unfair 
barter,  extortions,  and  illicit  gains.  Baracteriarum  iniquarum,  extorsionum,  et  illicit- 
orum  lucrorum,*  and  with  such  an  accusation  it  is  not  strange  that  Dante  should 
have  always  protested  his  innocence,  and  the  injustice  of  his  fellow-citizens.  His 
appeal  to  Florence  was  accompanied  by  another  to  the  Emperor  Henrv;  and  the 
death  of  that  sovereign  in  1313,  was  the  signal  for  a  sentence  of  irrevocable  banish- 
ment. He  had  before  lingered  near  Tuscany  with  hopes  of  recall ;  then  travelled 
into  the  north  of  Italy,  where  Verona  had  to  boast  of  his  longest  residence  ;  and  he 
finally  settled  at  Ravenna,  which  was  his  ordinary  but  not  constant  abode  until  his 
death.  The  refusal  of  the  Venetians  to  grant  him  a  public  audience,  on  the  part  of 
Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  his  protector,  is  said  to  have  been  the  principal  cause  of 
this  event,  which  happened  in  1321.  He  was  buried  ("  in  sacra  minorum  aede")  at 
Ravenna,  in  a  handsome  tomb,  which  was  erected  by  Guido,  restored  by  Bernardo 
Bernbo  in  1483,  praetor  for  that  republic  which  had  refused  to  hear  him,  a^ain  restored 
by  Cardinal  Corsi  in  1692,  and  replaced  by  a  more  magnificent  sepulchre,  constructed 
in  1780  at  the  expense  of  the  Cardinal  Luigi  Valenti  Gonzaga.  The  offence  or 
misfortune  of  Dante  was  an  attachment  to  a  defeated  party,  and.  as  his  least  favour- 
able biographers  allege  against  him,  too  great  a  freedom  of  speech  and  haughtiness  of 
manner,  But  the  next  age  paid  honours  almost  divine  to  the  exile.  The  Floren- 
tines, having  in  vain  and  frequently  attempted  to  recover  his  body,  crowned  his  image 
in  a  church, -f  and  his  picture  is  still  one  of  the  idols  of  their  cathedral.  They  struck 
medals,  they  raised  statues  to  him.  The  cities  of  Italy,  not  being  able  to  dispute 
about  his  own  birth,  contended  for  that  of  his  great  poem,  and  the  Florentines  thought 
it  for  their  honour  to  prove  that  he  had  finished  the  seventh  Canto  before  they  drove 
him  from  his  native  city.  Fifty-one  years  after  his  death,  they  endowed  a  profes- 
sorial chair  for  the  expounding  of  his  verses,  and  Boccaccio  was  appointed  to  this 
patriotic  employment.  The  example  was  imitated  by  Bologna  and  Pisa,  and  the 
commentators,  if  they  performed  but  little  service  to  literature,  augmented  the  vene- 
ration which  beheld  a  sacred  or  moral  allegory  in  all  the  images  of  his  mystic  muse. 
His  birth  and  his  infancy  were  discovered  to  have  been  distinguished  above  those  of 
ordinary  men  :  the  author  of  the  Decameron,  his  earliest  biographer,  relates  that  his 
mother  was  warned  in  a  dream  of  the  importance  of  her  pregnancy  :  and  it  was  found, 
by  others,  that  at  ten  years  of  age  he  had  manifested  his  precocious  passion  for  that 
wisdom  or  theology,  which,  under  the  name  of  Beatrice,  had  been  mistaken  for  a 
substantial  mistress.  When  the  Divine  Comedy  had  been  recognised  as  a  mere 
mortal  production,  and  at  the  distance  of  two  centuries,  when  criticism  and  competi- 
tion had  sobered  the  judgment  of  the  Italians,  Dante  was  seriously  declared  superior  to 
Homer  ;  |  and  though  the  preference  appeared  to  some  casuists  "  an  heretical  blas- 
phemy worthy  of  the  flames,"  the  contest  was  vigorously  maintained  for  nearly  fifty 
years.  In  later  times  it  was  made  a  question  which  of  the  Lords  of  Verona  could 


*  Storia  della  Lett.  Ital.  torn.  v.  lib.  iii.  par.  2.  p.  448.  Tiraboschi  is  incorrect : 
the  dales  of  the  three  decrees  against  Dante  are  A.  D.  1302,  1314,  and  1316. 

t  So  relates  Ficino,  but  some  think  his  coronation  only  an  allegory.  See  Storia, 
&c.  ut  sup.  p.  453. 

I  By  Varchi,  in  his  Ercolano.  The  controversy  continued  from  1570  to  1616. 
See  Storia,  &c,  torn.  vii.  lib.  iii.  par.  iii.  p,  1280. 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  215 

boast  of  having  patronized  him,*  and  the  jealous  scepticism  of  one  writer  would  not 
allow  Ravenna  the  undoubted  possession  of  his  bones.  Even  the  critical  Tiraboschi 
was  inclined  to  believe  that  the  poet,  had  foreseen  and  foretold  one  of  the  discoveries 
of  Galileo. — Like  the  great  originals  of  other  nations,  his  popularity  has  not  always 
maintained  the  same  level.  The  last  age  seemed  inclined  to  undervalue  him  as  a 
model  and  a  study ;  and  Bettinelli  one  day  rebuked  his  pupil  Monti,  for  poring  over 
the  harsh  and  obsolete  extravagances  of  the  Commedia.  The  present  generation, 
having  recovered  from  the  Gallic  idolatries  of  Cesarotti,  has  returned  to  the  ancient 
worship,  and  the  Danteg glare  of  the  northern  Italians  is  thought  even  indiscreet  by 
the  more  moderate  Tuscans. 

There  is  still  much  curious  information  relative  to  the  life  and  writings  of  this  great 
poet,  which  has  not  as  yet  been  collected  even  by  the  Italians ;  but  the  celebrated 
U go  Foscolo  meditates  to  supply  this  defect,  and  it  is  not  to  be  regretted  that  this 
national  work  has  been  reserved  for  one  so  devoted  to  his  country  and  the  cause  of 
tfuth. 


XIX. 
TOMB  OF  THE  SCIPIOS. 

"  Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore  » 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed,"  &c. 

Stanza  Ivii.  lines  2,3,  and  4. 

The  elder  Scipio  Africanus  had  a  tomb  if  he  was  not  buried  at  Liternum,  whither 
he  had  retired  to  voluntary  banishment.  This  tomb  was  near  the  sea-shore,  and 
the  story  of  an  inscription  upon  it,  Ingrata  Patria,  having  given  a  name  to  a  modern 
tower,  is,  if  not  true,  an  agreeable  fiction.  If  he  was  not  buried,  he  certainl/ lived 
there.f 

In  cosl  angusta  e  solitaria  villa 

Era  '1  grand'  uomo  che  d'  Africa  s'appella 

Perch6  prima  col  ferro  al  vivo  aprilla.  J 

Ingratitude  is  generally  supposed  the  vice  peculiar  to  republics  ;  and  it  seems  to  be 
forgotten  that  for  one  instance  of  popular  inconstancy,  we  have  a  hundred  examples  of 
the  fall  of  courtly  favourites.  Besides,  a  people  have  often  repented — a  monarch 
seldom  or  never.  Leaving  apart  many  familiar  proofs  of  this  fact,  a  short"  story  may 
show  the  difference  between  even  an  aristocracy  and  the  multitude. 

VettorPisani,  having  been  defeated  in  1354  at  Portolongo,  and  many  years  after- 
wards in  the  more  decisive  action  of  Pola,  by  the  Genoese,  was  recalled  by  the 
Venetian  government,  and  thrown  into  chains.  The  Awogadori  proposed  to  behead 
him,  but  the  supreme  tribunal  was  content  with  the  sentence  of  imprisonment.  Whilst 
Pisani  was  suffering  this  unmerited  disgrace,  Chioza,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  capital, § 
was  by  the  assistance  of  rhe  Signor  of  Padua,  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Pietro 
Doria.  At  the  intelligence  of  that  disaster,  the  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's  tower  tolled 
to  arms,  and  the  people  and  the  soldiery  of  the  galleys  were  summoned  to  the  repulse 
of  the  approaching  enemy;  but  they  protested  they  would  not  move  a  step,  unless 
Pisani  were  liberated  and  placed  at  their  head.  The  great  council  was  instantly  as- 
sembled ;  the  prisoner  was  called  before  them,  and  the  Doge,  Andrea  Contarini,  in- 
formed him  of  the  demands  of  the  people  and  the  necessities  of  the  state,  whose  only 
hope  of  safety  was  reposed  on  his  efforts,  and  who  implored  him  to  forget  the  indig- 
nities he  had  endured  in  her  service.  "  I  have  submitted,"  replied  the  magnanimous 
republican,  "  I  have  submitted  to  your  deliberations  without  complaint ;  I  have  sup- 
ported patiently  the  pains  of  imprisonment,  for  they  were  inflicted  at  your  command  : 

*  Gio.  Jacopo  Dionisi  Canomco  di  Verona.  Sene  di  Aneddoti,  n.  2.  Sec  Storia, 
&c.  torn.  v.  lib.  i.  par.  i.  p.  24. 

t  Vitam  Literni  egit  sine  desiderio  urbis.  See  T.  Liv.  Hist.  lib.  xxxviii.  Livy 
reports  that  some  said  he  was  buried  at  Liternum,  others  at  Rome,  Ib.  cap.  Iv. 

|  Trionfo  della  Castitk.  §  See  note  6,  page  201 


216  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

tms  is  no  time  to  inquire  whether  I  deserved  them  —  the  good  of  the  republic  may 
have  seemed  to  require  it,  and  that  which  the  republic  resolves  is  always  resolved 
wisely.  Behold  me  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  the  preservation  of  my  country." 
Pisani  was  appointed  generalissimo,  and  by  his  exertions,  in  conjunction  with  those 
of  Carlo  Zeno,  the  Venetians  soon  recovered  the  ascendency  over  their  maritime 
rivals. 

The  Italian  communities  were  no  less  unjust  to  their  citizens  than  the  Greek  re- 
publics. Liberty,  both  with  the  one  and  the  other,  seems  to  have  been  a  national, 
not  an  individual  object :  and,  notwithstanding  the  boasted  equality  before  the  laws, 
which  an  ancient  Greek  writer*  considered  the  great  distinctive  mark  between  his 
countrymen  and  the  barbarians,  the  mutual  rights  of  fellow-citizens  seem  never  to 
have  been  the  principal  scope  of  the  old  democracies.  The  world  may  have  not  yet 
seen  an  essay  by  the  author  of  the  Italian  Republics,  in  which  the  distinction  between 
the  liberty  of  former  states,  and  the  signification  attached  to  that  word  by  the  happier 
constitution  of  England,  is  ingeniously  developed.  The  Italians,  however,  when  they 
had  ceased  to  be  free,  still  looked  back  with  a  sigh  upon  those  times  of  turbulence, 
when  every  citizen  might  rise  to  a  share  of  sovereign  power,  and  have  never  been 
taught  fully  to  appreciate  the  repose  of  a  monarchy.  Sperone  Speroni,  when  Francis 
Maria  II.  Duke  of  Roveie  proposed  the  question,  "  which  was  preferable,  there- 
public  or  the  principality  —  the  perfect  and  not  durable,  or  the  less  perfect  and  not  so 
liable  to  change,"  replied,  "  that  our  happiness  is  to  be  measured  by  its  quality,  not 
by  its  duration  ;  and  that  he  preferred  to  live  for  one  day  like  a  man,  than  for  a  hundred 
years  like  a  brute,  a  stock,  or  a  stone."  This  was  thought,  and  called,  a  magni- 
ficent answer,  down  to  the  last  days  of  Italian  servitude.f 


XX. 
PETRARCH'S  CROWN. 

"  And  the  crown 

Which  Petrarch's  Mureate  brow  supremely  wore 
Upon  afar  and  foreign  soil  had  grown." 

Stanza  Ivii.  lines  6.  7,  and  8. 

The  Florentines  did  not  take  the  opportunity  of  Petrarch's  short  visit  to  their  city 
in  H850  to  revoke  the  decree  which  confiscated  the  property  of  his  father,  who  had 
been  banished  shortly  after  the  exile  of  Dante.  His  crown  did  not  dazzle  them  ;  but 
when  in  the  next  year  they  were  in  want  of  his  assistance  in  the  formation  of  their 
university,  they  repented  of  their  injustice,  and  Boccaccio  was  sent  to  Padua  to  en- 
treat the  laureate  to  conclude  his  wanderings  in  the  bosom  of  his  native  country, 
where  he  might  finish  his  immortal  Africa,  and  enjoy,  with  his  recovered  possessions, 
th«  esteem  of  all  classes  of  his  fellow-citizens.  They  gave  him  the  option  of  the  book 
and  the  science  he  might  condescend  to  expound  :  they  called  him  the  glory  of  his 
country,  who  was  dear,  and  would  be  dearer  to  them  ;  and  they  added,  that  if  there 
was  any  thing  unpleasing  in  their  letter,  he  ought  to  return  among  them,  were  it  only 
to  correct  their  style.J  Petrarch  seemed  at  first  to  listen  to  the  flattery  and  to  the 
entreaties  of  his  friend,  but  he  did  not  return  to  Florence,  and  preferred  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  tomb  of  Laura  and  the  shades  of  Vaucluse. 

*  The  Greek  boasted  that  he  was  foovfye?.  See  the  last  chapter  of  the  first  book 
of  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus. 

t  "  E  intorno  alia  magniftca  risposta,"  &c.  Serassi,  Vita  del  Tasso,  lib.  iri. 
pag.  149.  torn.  ii.  edit.  2.  Bergamo. 

I  "  Accingiti  innoltre,  se  ci  £  lecito  ancor  1'  esortarti,  a  compirel'  immortal  tua 
Africa  .  .  .  Se  ti  avviene  d'  incontrare  nel  nostro  stile  cosa  che  ti  dispiaccia,  cib  debb* 
essere  un  altro  motive  ad  esaudire  i  desiderj  della  tua  patria."  Storia  della  Lett. 
Ital.  torn.  v.  par.  i.  lib.  i.  pag.  76. 


CANTO    THE    FOURTH.  217 


XXI. 

BOCCACCIO. 


"  Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed 
Mis  dust." 

Stanza  Iviii.  lines  1  and  2, 

Boccaccio  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  James,  at  Certaldo,  a 
small  town  in  the  Valdelsa,  which  was  by  some  supposed  the  place  of  his  birth.  There 
he  passed  the  latter  part  of  his  life  in  a  course  of  laborious  study,  which  shortened  his 
existence ;  and  there  might  his  ashes  have  been  secure,  if  not  of  honour,  at  least  of  re- 
pose. But  the  "  hyaena  bigots"  of  Certaldo  tore  up  the  tombstone  of  Boccaccio, 
and  ejected  it  from  the  holy  precincts  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  James.  The  occasion, 
and.  it  may  be  hoped,  the  excuse,  of  this  ejectment  was  the  making  of  a  new  floor  for 
the  church  ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  the  tombstone  was  taken  up  and  thrown  aside  at  the 
bottom  of  the  building.  Ignorance  may  share  the  sin  with  bigotry.  It  would  be  pain- 
ful to  relate  such  an  exception  to  the  devotion  of  the  Italians  for  their  great  names, 
could  it  not  be  accompanied  by  a  trait  more  honourably  conformable  to  the  general 
character  of  the  nation.  The  principal  person  of  the  district,  the  last  branch  of  the 
house  of  Medicis,  afforded  that  protection  to  the  memory  of  the  insulted  dead  which 
her  best  ancestors  had  dispensed  upon  all  contemporary  merit.  The  Marchioness 
Lenzoni  rescued  the  tombstone  of  Boccaccio  from  the  neglect  in  which  it  had  some  . 
time  lain,  and  found  for  it  an  honourable  elevation  in  her  own  mansion.  She  has  done 
more  :  the  house  in  which  the  poet  lived  has  been  as  little  respected  as  his  tomb,  and 
is  falling  to  ruin  over  the  head  of  one  indifferent  to  the  name  of  its  former  tenant.  It 
consists  of  two  or  three  little  chambers,  and  a  low  tower,  on  which  Cosmo  II.  affixed 
an  inscription.  This  house  she  has  taken  measures  to  purchase,  and  proposes  to  de- 
vote to  it  that  care  and  consideration  which  are  attached  to  the  cradle  and  to  the  roof 
of  genius. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  undertake  the  defence  of  Boccaccio  ;  but  the  man  who  ex- 
hausted his  little  patrimony  in  the  acquirement  of  learning,  who  was  amongst  the  first, 
if  not  the  first,  to  allure  the  science  and  the  poetry  of  Greece  to  the  bosom  of  Italy  ; 
—  who  not  only  invented  a  new  style,  but  founded,  or  certainly  fixed,  a  new  lan- 
guage ;  who,  besides  the  esteem  of  every  polite  court  of  Europe,  was  thought  worthy 
of  employment  by  the  predominant  republic  of  his  own  country,  and,  what  is  more,  of 
the  friendship  of  Petrarch,  who  lived  the  life  of  a  philosopher,  and  a  freeman,  and  who 
died  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  —  such  a  man  might  have  found  more  consider  ation 
than  he  has  met  with  from  the  priest  of  Certaldo,  and  from  a  late  English  traveller, 
who  strikes  off  his  portrait  as  an  odious,  contemptible,  licentious  writer,  whose  impure 
remains  should  be  suffered  to  rot  without  a  record.*  That  English  traveller,  unfor- 
tunately for  those  who  have  to  deplore  the  loss  of  a  very  amiable  person,  is  beyond 
all  criticism  ;  but  the  mortality  which  did  not  protect  Boccaccio  from  Mr.  Eustace, 
must  not  defend  Mr.  Eustace  from  the  impartial  judgment  of  his  successors.— 
Death  may  canonize  his  virtues,  not  his  errors  ;  and  it  may  be  modestly  pronounced 
that  he  transgressed,  not  only  as  an  author,  but  as  a  man,  when  he  evoked  the  shade 
of  Boccaccio  in  company  with  that  of  Aretine,  amidst  the  sepulchres  of  Santa  Croce, 
merely  to  dismiss  it  with  indignity.  As  far  as  respects 


*  Classical  Tour,  cap.  ix.  vol.  ii.  p.  355.  edit.  3d.  "  Of  Boccaccio,  the  modern 
Petronius,  we  say  nothing  ;  the  abuse  of  genius  is  more  odious  and  more  contempt- 
ible than  its  absence  ;  and  it.  imports  little  where  the  impure  remains  of  a  licentious 
author  are  consigned  to  their  kindred  dust.  For  the  same  reason  the  traveller  may 
pass  unnoticed  the  tomb  of  the  malignant  Aretino."  This  dubious  phrase  is  hardly 
enough  to  save  the  tourist  from  the  suspicion  of  another  blunder  respecting  the 
burial-place  of  Aretine,  whose  tomb  was  in  the  church  of  St.  Luke  at  Venice,  and 
gave  rise  to  the  famous  controversy  of  which  some  notice  is  taken  in  Bayle.  Now 
the  words  of  Mr.  Eustace  would  lead  us  to  think  the  tomb  was  at  Florence,  or  at  least 
•was  to  be  somewhere  recognised.  Whether  the  inscription  so  much  disputed  was 
ever  written  on  the  tomb  cannot  now  be  decided,  for  all  memorial  of  this  author  has 
disappeared  from  the  church  of  St.  Luke. 


218  HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO 

"  II  flagello  de'  Principi, 
II  divin  Pietro  Aretino," 

it  is  of  little  import  what  censure  is  passed  upon  a  coxcomb  who  owes  his  present 
existence  to  the  above  burlesque  character  given  to  him  by  the  poet,  whose  amber 
has  preserved  many  other  grubs  and  worms":  but  to  classify  Boccaccio  with  such  a 
person,  and  to  excommunicate  his  very  ashes,  must  of  itself  make  us  doubt  of  the 
qualification  of  the  classical  tourist  for  writing  upon  Italian,  or,  indeed,  upon  any 
other  literature  ;  for  ignorance  on  one  point  may  incapacitate  an  author  merely  lor 
that  particular  topic,  but  subjection  to  a  professional  prejudice  must  render  him  an 
unsafe  director  on  all  occasions.  Any  perversion  and  injustice  may  be  made  what  is 
vulgarly  called  "  a  case  of  conscience,"  and  this  poor  excuse  is  all  that  can  be  offer- 
ed for  the  priest  ofCertaldo,  or  the  author  of  the  Classical  Tour.  It  would  have 
answered  the  purpose  to  confine  the  censure  to  the  novels  of  Boccaccio,  and  gratitude 
to  that  source  which  supplied  the  muse  of  Dryden  with  her  last  and  most  harmonious 
numbers  might,  perhaps,  have  restricted  that  "censure  to  the  objectionable  qualities  of 
the  hundred  tales.  At  any  rate  the  repentance  of  Boccaccio  might  have  arrested  his 
exhumation,  and  it  should  have  been  recollected  and  told,  that  in  his  old  age  he  wrote  a 
letter  entreating  his  friend  to  discourage  the  reading  of  the  Decameron,  fot  the  sake 
of  modesty,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  author?  who  would  not  have  an  apologist  always  at 
hand  to  state  in  his  excuse  that  he  wrote  it  when  young,  and  at  the  command  of  his 
superiors.*  It  is  neither  the  licentiousness  of  the  writer,  nor  the  evil  propensities  of 
the  reader,  which  have  given  to  the  Decameron  alone,  of  all  the  works  of  Boccaccio, 
a  perpetual  popularity.  The  establishment  of  a  new  and  delightful  dialect  conferred 
an  immortality  on  the  works  in  which  it  was  first  fixed.  The  sonnets  of  Petrarch 
were,  for  the  same  reason,  fated  to  survive  his  self-admired  Africa,  the  "favourite  of 
kings."  The  invariable  traits  of  nature  and  feeling  with  which  the  novels,  as  well  as 
the  verses,  abound,  have  doubtless  been  the  chief  source  of  the  foreign  celebrity  of 
both  authors  ;  but  Boccaccio,  as  a  man,  is  no  more  to  be  estimated  by  that  work, 
than  Petrarch  is  to  be  regarded  in  no  other  light  than  as  the  lover  of  Laura.  Even 
however,  had  the  father  of  the  Tuscan  prose  been  known  only  as  the  author  of  the 
Decameron,  a  considerate  writer  would  hwve  been  cautious  to  pronounce  a  sentence 
irreconcilable  with  the  unerring  voice  of  many  ages  and  nations.  An  irrevocable 
value  has  never  been  stamped  upon  any  work  solely  recommended  by  impurity. 

The  true  source  of  the  outcry  against  Boccaccio,  which  began  at  a  very  early 
period,  was  the  choice  of  his  scandalous  personages  in  the  cloisters  as  well  as  the 
courts  ;  but  the  princes  only  laughed  at  the  gallant  adventures  so  unjustly  charged 
upon  queen  Theodelinda,  whilst  the  priesthood  cried  shame  upon  the  debauches 
drawn  from  the  convent  and  the  hermitage  ;  and  most  probably  for  the  opposite  rea- 
son, namely,  that  the  picture  was  faithful  to  the  life.  Two  of  the  novels  are  allowed 
to  be  facts  usefully  turned  into  tales,  to  deride  the  canonisation  of  rogues  and  laymen. 
Ser  Ciappelletto  and  Marcellinus  are  cited  with  applause  even  by  the  decent  Mura- 
tori.f  The  great  Arnaud,  as  he  is  quoted  in  Bayle,  states,  that  a  new  edition  of  the 
novels  was  proposed,  of  which  the  expurgation  consisted  in  omitting  the  words 
"  monk"  and  "nun,"  and  tacking  the  immoralities  toother  names.  The  literary 
history  of  Italy  particularizes  no  such  edition  ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  the  whole 
of  Europe  had  but  one  opinion  of  the  Decameron  ;  and  the  absolution  of  the  author 
seems  to  have  been  a  point  settled  at  least  a  hundred  years  ago  :  "  On  se  feroit 
siffler  si  1'on  pretendoit  convaincre  Boccace  de  n'avoir  pas  fete  honnSte  homme,  puis 
qu'il  a  fait  le  Dfecameron."  So  said  one  of  the  best  men,  and  perhaps  the  best  critic, 
that  ever  lived  —  the  very  martyr  to  impartiality.!  But  as  this  information,  that  in 
the  beginning  of  the  last  century  one  would  have  been  hooted  at  for  pretending  that 
Boccaccio  was  not  a  good  man,  may  seem  to  come  from  one  of  those  enemies  who 
are  to  be  suspected,  even  when  they  make  us  a  present  of  truth,  a  more  acceptable 


*  "  Non  enim  ubique  est,  qui  in  excusationem  meam  consurgens  dicat,  juvenis 
scripsit,  et  majoris  coactus  imperio."  The  letter  was  addressed  to  Maghinard  of 
Cavalcanti,  marshal  of  the  kingdom  of  Sicily.  See  Tiraboschi,  Storia,  &c.  torn.  v. 
par.  ii.  lib.  iii.  pag.  525.  ed  Ven.  1795. 

t  Dissertazioni  sopra  le  Antichita  Italiane,  Diss.  Iviii.  p.  253.  torn.  iii.  edit.  Milan, 
1751. 

1  Eclairdssement,  &c.  &c.  p.  638.  edit.  Basle,  1741,  in  the  Supplement  to  Bayle's 
Dictionary. 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  219 

contrast  with  the  proscription  of  the  body,  soul,  and  muse  of  Boccaccio  may  be  found 
in  a  few  words  from  the  virtuous,  the  patriotic  contemporary,  who  thought  one  of  the 
tales  of  this  impure  writer  worthy  a  Latin  version  from  his  own  pen.  "  I  have  re- 
marked elsewhere,"  says  Petrarch,  writing  to  Boccaccio,  "  thai  the  book  itself  has 
been  worried  by  certain  dogs,  but  stoutly  defended  by  your  staff  and  voice.  Nor 
was  I  astonished,  for  I  have  had  proof  of  the  vigour  of  your  mind,  and  I  know  you 
have  fallen  on  that  unaccommodating  incapable  race  of  mortals,  who,  whatever  they 
either  like  not,  or  know  not,  or  cannot  do,  are  sure  to  reprehend  in  others  ;  and  on 
those  occasions  only  put  on  a  show  of  learning  and  eloquence,  but  otherwise  are  en- 
tirely dumb."* 

It  is  satisfactory  to  find  that  all  the  priesthood  do  not.  resemble  those  of  Certaldo, 
and  that  one  of  them  who  did  not  possess  the  bones  of  Boccaccio  would  not  lose  the 
opportunity  of  raising  a  cenotaph  to  his  memory.  Bevius,  canon  of  Padua,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  sixteenth  century,  erected  at  Aiqua,  opposite  to  the  tomb  of  the 
Laureate,  a  tablet,  in  which  he  associated  Boccaccio  to  the  equal  honours  of  Dante 
and  of  Petrarch. 


XXII. 
THE  MEDICI. 

"  What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones  ?  " 

Stanza  Ix.  line  1 . 

Our  veneration  for  the  Medici  begins  with  Cosmo  and  expires  with  his  grandson  ; 
that  stream  is  pure  only  at  the  source  ;  and  it  is  in  search  of  some  memorial  of  the 
virtuous  republicans  of  the  family  that  we  visit  the  church  of  St.  Lorenzo  at  Florence. 
The  tawdry,  glaring,  unfinished  chapel  in  that  church,  designed  for  the  mausoleum  of 
the  Dukes  of  Tuscany,  set  round  with  crowns  and  coffins,  gives  birth  to  no  emotions 
but  those  of  contempt  for  the  lavish  vanity  of  a  race  of  despots,  whilst  the  pavement 
slab,  simply  inscribed  to  the  Father  of  his  Country,  reconciles  us  to  the  name  of 
Medici. t  It  was  very  natural  for  Corinna  J  to  suppose  that  the  statue  raised  to  the 
Duke  of  Urbino  in  the  capella  de'  depositi  was  intended  for  his  great  namesake  ;  but 
the  magnificent  Lorenzo  is  only  the  sharer  of  a  coffin  half  hidden  in  a  niche  of  the 
sacristy.  The  decay  of  Tuscany  dates  from  the  sovereignty  of  the  Medici.  Of  the 
sepulchral  peace  which  succeeded  to  the  establishment  of  the  reigning  families  in 
Italy,  our  own  Sidney  has  given  us  a  glowing,  but  a  faithful  picture.  "  Notwith- 
standing all  the  seditions  of  Florence,  and  other  cities  of  Tuscany,  the  horrid  factions 
of  Guelphs  and  Ghibelins,  Neri  and  Bianchi,  nobles  and  commons,  they  continued 
populous,  strong,  and  exceeding  rich  ;  but  in  the  space  of  less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  the  peaceable  reign  of  the  Medices  is  thought  to  have  destroyed  nine  parts  in 
ten  of  the  people  of  that  province.  Among  other  things,  it  is  remarkable,  that  when 
Philip  the  Second  of  Spain  gave  Sienna  to  the  Duke  of  Florence,  his  embassador 
then  at  Rome  sent  him  word,  that  he  had  given  away  more  than  650,000  subjects  ; 
and  it  is  not  believed  there  are  now  20,000  souls  inhabiting  that  city  and  territory. 
Pisa,  Pistoia,  Arezzo,  Cortona,  and  other  towns,  that  were  then  good  and  populous, 
are  in  the  like  proportion  diminished,  and  Florence  more  than  any.  When  that  city 
had  been  long  troubled  with  seditions,  tumults,  and  wars,  for  the  most  part  unpros- 
perous,  they  still  retained  such  strength,  that  when  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  being 


*  "  Animadverti  alicubi  librum  ipsum  canum  dentibus  lacessitum,  tuo 
baculo  egregie  tuaque  voce  defensam.  Nee  miratus  sum :  nam  et  vires  ingenii  tui 
novi,  et  scio  expertus  esses  hominum  genus  insolens  et  ignavum,  qui  quicquid  ipsi  vel 
nolunt  vel  nesciunt,  vel  non  possunt,  in  aliis  reprehendunt ;  ad  hoc  unum  dncti  et 
arguti,  sed  elingues  ad  reliqua."  Epist.  Joan.  Boccatio,  Opp.  torn.  i.  p.  640.  edit. 
Basil. 

t  Cosmus  Medices,  Decreto  Publico,  Pater  Patriae. 

t  Corinne,  liv.  xviii.  chap.  iii.  vol.  iii.  page  248. 


220  HISTORICAL   NOTES   TO 

admitted  as  a  friend  with  his  whole  army,  which  soon  after  conquered  the  kingdom 
of  Naples,  thought  to  master  them,  the  people,  taking  arms,  struck  such  a  terror  into 
him,  that  lie  was  glad  to  depart  upon  such  conditions  as  they  thought  fit  to  impose. 
Machiavel  reports,  that  in  that  time  Florence  alone,  with  the  Val  d'Arno,  a  small 
terntoiy  belonging  to  that  city,  could,  in  a  few  hours,  by  the  sound  of  a  bell,  bring 
together  135,000  well-armed  men ;  whereas  now  that  city,  with  all  the  others  in  that 
province,  are  brought  to  such  despicable  weakness,  emptiness,  poverty,  and  baseness, 
they  can  neither  resist  the  oppressions  of  their  own  prince,  nor  defend  him  or  them- 
selves if  they  were  assaulted  by  a  foreign  enemy.  The  people  are  dispersed  or  de- 
stroyed, and  the  best  families  sent  to  seek  habitations  in  Venice,  Genoa,  Rome, 
Naples,  and  Lucca.  This  is  not  the  effect  of  war  or  pestilence  :  they  enjoy  a  perfect 
peace,  and  suffer  no  other  plague  than  the  government  they  are  under."*  From  the 
usurper  Cosmo  down  to  the  imbecile  Gaston,  we  look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  unmixed 
qualities  which  should  raise  a  patriot  to  the  command  of  his  fellow-citizens.  The 
Grand  Dukes,  and  particularly  the  third  Cosmo,  had  operated  so  entire  a  change  in 
the  Tuscan  character,  that  the  candid  Florentines,  in  excuse  for  some  imperfections 
in  the  philanthropic  system  of  Leopold,  are  obliged  to  confess  that  the  sovereign  was 
the  only  liberal  man  in  his  dominions.  Yet  that  excellent  prince  himself  had  no  other 
notion  of  a  national  assembly,  than  of  a  body  to  represent  the  wants  and  wishes  not 
the  will,  of  the  people. 


XXIII. 
BATTLE  OF  THRASIMENE. 

An  earthquake  reeVd  unheededly  away" 

Stanza  Ixiii.  line  5. 


"  And  such  was  their  mutual  animosity,  so  intent  were  they  upon  the  battle,  that 
the  earthquake,  which  overthrew  in  great  part  many  of  the  cities  of  Italy,  which 
turned  the  course  of  rapid  streams,  poured  back  the  sea  upon  the  rivers,  and  tore 
down  the  very  mountains,  was  not  felt  by  one  of  the  combatants."!  Such  is  the 
description  of  Livy.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  modern  tactics  would  admit  of  such 
an  abstraction. 

The  site  of  the  battle  of  Thrasimene  is  not  to  be  mistaken.  The  traveller  from 
the  village  under  Cortona  to  Casa  di  Piano,  the  next  stage  on  the  way  to  Rome,  has 
for  the  first  two  or  three  miles,  around  him,  but  more  particularly  to  the  right,  that 
flat  land  which  Hannibal  laid  waste  in  order  to  induce  the  Consul  Flaminius  to  move 
from  Arezzo.  On  his  left,  and  in  front  of  him,  is  a  ridge  of  hills  bending  down  towards 
the  lake  of  Thrasimene.  called  by  Livy  "  monies  Cortonenses,"  and  now  named  the 
Gualandra.  These  hills  he  approaches  at  Ossaja,  a  village  which  the  itineraries 
pretend  to  have  been  so  denominated  from  the  bones  found  there  :  but  there  have 
been  no  bones  found  there,  and  the  battle  was  fought  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 
From  Ossaja  the  road  begins  to  rise  a  little,  but  does  not  pass  into  the  roots  of  the 
mountains  until  the  sixty-  seventh  milestone  from  Florence.  The  ascent  thence  is 
not  steep  but  perpetual,  and  continues  for  twenty  minutes.  The  lake  is  soon  seen 
below  on  the  right,  with  Borghetto,  a  round  tower,  close  upon  the  water  ;  and  the 
undulating  hills  partially  covered  with  wood,  amongst  which  the  road  winds,  sink  by 
degrees  into  the  marshes  near  to  this  tower.  Lower  than  the  road,  down  to  the 
right  amidst  these  woody  hillocks,  Hannibal  placed  his  horse,!  in  the  jaws  of,  or  rather 


*  On  Government,  chap.  li.  sect.  xxvi.  pag.  208.  edit. 
ith  Locke  and  Hoadley,  one  of  Mr.  Hume's  "  despicable 


1751.  Sidney  is,  together 
with  Locke  and  Hoadley,  one  of  Mr.  Hume's  "  despicable"  writers. 

t  "  Tantusque  fuit  ardor  animorum,  adeo  intentus  pugnse  animus,  ut  eum  terra 
motum  qui  multarum  urbium  Italiae  magnas  partes  prostravit,  avertitque  cursu  rapido 
amnes,  mare  fluminibus  invexit,  monies  lapsu  ingenti  proruit,  nemo  pugnantium  sen- 
serit."  Tit.  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap.  xii. 

1  "  Equites  ad  ipsas  fauces  saltus  tumulis  apte,  tegentibus  locat."  T.  Livii,  lib. 
zxii.  cap.  iv. 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  221 

above,  the  pass,  which  was  between  the  lake  and  the  piesent  road,  and  most  probably 
close  to  Borghetto,  just  under  the  lowest  of  the  «  tumuli."*  On  a  summit  to  the  left, 
above  the  road,  is  an  old  circular  ruin,  which  the  peasants  call  "  the  Tower  of  Han- 
nibal the  Carthaginian."  Arrived  at  the  highest  point  of  the  road,  the  traveller  has 
a  partial  view  of  the  fatal  plain,  which  opens  fully  upon  him  as  he  descends  the  Gua- 
landra.  He  soon  finds  himself  in  a  vale  enclosed  to  the  left  and  in  front,  and  behind 
him  by  the  Gualandra  hills,  bending  round  in  a  segment  larger  than  a  semicircle,  and 
running  down  at  each  end  to  the  lake,  which  obliques  to  the  right  and  forms  the  chord 
of  this  mountain  arc.  The  position  cannot  be  guessed  at  from  the  plains  of  Cortona, 
nor  appears  to  be  so  completely  enclosed  unless  to  one  who  is  fairly  within  the  hills. 
It  then,  indeed,  appears  "  a  place  made  as  it  were  on  purpose  for  a  snare,"  locus 
insidiis  natus.  *'  Borghetto  is  then  found  to  stand  in  a  narrow  marshy  pass  close  to 
the  hill,  and  to  the  lake,  whilst  there  is  no  other  outlet  at  the  opposite  turn  of  (he 
mountains  than  through  the  little  town  of  Passignano,  which  is  pushed  into  the  water 
by  the  foot  of  a  high  rocky  acclivity."')'  There  is  a  woody  eminence  branching  down 
from  the  mountains  into  the  upper  end  of  the  plain  nearer  to  the  side  of  Passignano, 
and  on  this  stands  a  while  village  called  Torre.  Polybius  seems  to  allude  to  this 
eminence  as  the  one  on  which  Hannibal  encamped,  and  drew  out  his  heavy-armed 
Africans  and  Spaniards  in  a  conspicuous  position. t  From  this  spot  he  despatched 
his  Balearic  and  light-armed  troops  round  through  the  Gualandra  heights  to  the  right, 
so  as  to  arrive  unseen  and  form  an  ambush  among  the  broken  acclivities  which  the 
road  now  passes,  and  to  be  ready  to  act  upon  the  left  flank  and  above  the  enemy, 
whilst  the  horse  shut  up  the  pass  behind.  Flaminius  came  to  the  lake  near  Borghetto 
at  sunset ;  and,  without  sending  any  spies  before  him,  marched  through  the  pass  the 
next  morning  before  the  day  had  quite  broken,  so  that  he  perceived  nothing  of  the 
horse  and  light  troops  above  and  about  him,  and  saw  only  the  heavy-armed  Carthagi- 
nians in  front  on  the  hill  of  Torre. ^  The  consul  began  to  draw  out  his  army  in  the 
flat,  and  in  the  mean  time  the  horse  in  ambush  occupied  the  pass  behind  him  at  Bor- 
ghetto. Thus  the  Romans  were  completely  inclosed,  having  the  lake  on  the  right, 
the  main  army  on  the  hill  of  Torre  in  front,  the  Gualandra  hills  filled  with  the  light- 
armed  on  their  left  flank,  and  being  prevented  from  receding  by  the  cavalry,  who,  the 
farther  they  advanced,  stopped  up  all  the  outlets  in  the  rear.  A  fog  rising  from  the 
lake  now  spread  itself  over  the  army  of  the  consul,  but  the  high  lands  were  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  all  the  different  corps  in  ambush  looked  towards  the  hill  of  Torre  for  the 
order  of  attack.  Hannibal  gave  the  signal,  and  moved  down  from  his  post  on  the 
height.  At  the  same  moment  all  his  troops  on  the  eminences  behind  and  in  the  flank 
of  Flaminius,  rushed  forwards  as  it  were  with  one  accord  into  the  plain.  The  Romans, 
who  were  forming  their  array  in  the  mist,  suddenly  heard  the  shouts  of  the  enemy 
among  them,  on  every  side,  and  before  they  could  fall  into  their  ranks,  or  draw  their 
swords,  or  see  by  whom  they  were  attacked,  felt  at  once  that  they  were  surrounded 
and  lost. 

There  are  two  little  rivulets  which  run  from  the  Gualandra  into  the  lake.  The 
traveller  crosses  the  first  of  these  at  about  a  mile  after  he  comes  into  the  plain,  and 
this  divides  the  Tuscan  from  the  Papal  territories.  The  second,  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  further  on,  is  called  "  the  bloody  rivulet,"  and  the  peasants  point  out  an  open 
spot  to  the  left  between  the  "  Sanguinetto"  and  the  hills,  which,  they  say,  was  the 
principal  scene  of  slaughter.  The  other  part  of  the  plain  is  covered  with  thick  set 
olive-trees  in  corn  grounds,  and  is  nowhere  quite  level  except  near  the  edge  of  the 
lake.  It  is,  indeed,  most  probable,  that  the  battle  was  fought  near  this  end  of  the 
valley,  for  the  six  thousand  Romans,  who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  action,  broke 
through  the  enemy,  escaped  to  the  summit  of  an  eminence  which  must  have  been  in 
this  quarter,  otherwise  they  would  have  had  to  traverse  the  whole  plain,  and  to  pierce 
through  the  main  army  of  Hannibal. 


*  "  Ubi  maxime  monies  Cortonenses  Thrasimenus  subit."     Ibid. 

|  "  Inde  colles  assurgunt.1'     Ibid. 

|  Tdv  pfv  Karci  irpdffWTrov  rrjs  iroptiaf  A<J0ov  avroj  KaTC\d($STo  Kal  rods  A//?va?,  Kal 
TOUJ  'I/ifjypa?,  c%wv  f TT  '  uvrov  KartffTpaToirlSevffe.  Hist.  lib.  iii.  cap.  83.  The  account 
in  Polybius  is  not  so  easily  reconcilable  with  present  appearances  as  that  in  Livy :  he 
talks  of  hills  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  pass  and  valley ;  but  when  Flaminius  entered 
he  had  the  lake  at  the  right  of  both. 

§  "  A  tergo  et  super  caput  decepere  insidiae."    T.  Liv.  &c. 


222  HISTORICAL  NOTES  TO 

The  Romans  fought  desperately  for  three  hours,  but  the  death  of  Flaminius  was 
the  signal  for  a  general  dispersion.  The  Carthaginian  horse  then  burst  in  upon  the 
fugitives,  and  the  lake,  the  marsh  about  Borghetto,  but  chiefly  the  plain  of  the  San- 
gumetto  and  the  passes  of  the  Gualandra,  were  strewed  with  dead.  Near  some  eld 
walls  on  a  bleak  ridge  to  the  left  above  the  rivulet  many  human  bones  have  been 
repeatedly  found,  and  this  has  confirmed  the  pretensions  and  the  name  of  the  "  stream 

Every  district  of  Italy  has  its  hero.  In  the  north  some  painter  is  the  usual  genius 
of  the  place,  and  the  foreign  Julio  Romano  more  than  divides  Mantua  with  her  native 
Virgil.*  To  the  south  we  hear  of  Roman  names.  Near  Thrasimene  tradition  is 
still  faithful  to  the  fame  of  an  enemy,  and  Hannibal  the  Carthaginian  is  the  only 
ancient  name  remembered  on  the  banks  of  the  Perugian  lake.  Flaminius  is  unknown  ; 
but  the  postilions  on  that  road  have  been  taught  to  show  the  very  spot  where  //  Con- 
sole Romano  was  slain.  Of  all  who  fought  and  fell  in  the  battle  of  Thrasimene,  the 
historian  himself  has,  besides  the  generals  and  Maharbal,  preserved  indeed  only  a 
single  name.  You  overtake  the  Carthaginian  again  on  the  same  road  to  Rome. 
The  antiquary,  that  is,  the  hostler  of  the  posthouse  at  Spoleto,  tells  you  that  his 
town  repulsed  the  victorious  enemy,  and  shows  you  the  gate  still  called  Porta  di  An- 
nibale.  It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  remark  that  a  French  travel  writer,  well  known 
by  the  name  of  the  President  Dupaty,  saw  Thrasimene  in  the  lake  of  Bolscna,  which 
lay  conveniently  on  his  way  from  Sienna  to  Rome. 


XXIV. 

STATUE  OF  POMPEY. 

"  And  thou,  dread  statue  !  still  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty." 

Stanza  Ixxxvii.  lines  1  and  21. 

The  projected  division  of  the  Spada  Pompey  has  already  been  recorded  by  the 
historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Mr.  Gibbon  found  it  in 
the  memorials  of  Flaminius  Vacca  ;t  and  it  may  be  added  to  his  mention  of  it  that 
Pope  Julius  III.  gave  the  contending  owners  five  hundred  crowns  for  the  statue  ; 
and  presented  it  to  Cardinal  Capo  di  Ferro,  who  had  prevented  the  judgment  of 
Solomon  from  being  executed  upon  the  image.  In  a  more  civilised  age  this  statue 
was  exposed  to  an  actual  operation  :  for  the  French,  who  acted  the  Brutus  of  Voltaire 
in  the  Coliseum  resolved  that  their  Caesar  should  fall  at  the  base  of  that  Pompey, 
which  was  supposed  to  have  been  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  the  original  dictator. 
The  nine-foot  hero  was  therefore  removed  to  the  arena  of  the  amphitheatre,  and  to 
facilitate  its  transport,  suffered  the  temporary  amputation  of  its  right  afm.  The  republi- 
can tragedians  had  to  plead  that  the  arm  was  a  restoration  :  but  their  accusers  do  not 
believe  that  the  integrity  of  the  statue  would  have  protected  it.  The  love  of  finding 
every  coincidence  has  discovered  the  true  Caesarean  icholr  in  a  stain  near  the  right 
knee;  but  Colder  criticism  has  rejected  not  only  the  blood  but  the  portrait,  and  as- 
signed the  globe  of  power  rather  to  the  first  of  the  emperors  than  to  the  last  of  the  re- 
publican masters  of  Rome.  WinkelmannJ  is  loth  to  allow  an  heroic  statue  of  a 
Roman  citizen,  but  the  Grimani  Agrippa,  a  contemporary  almost,  is  heroic ;  and  naked 
Roman  figures  were  only  very  rare,  not  absolutely  forbidden.  The  face  accords 
much  better  with  the  "  hominem  integrum  et  castum  et  gravem"§  than  with  any  of 

*  About  the  middle  of  the  Xllth  century  the  coins  of  Mantua  bore  on  one  side  the 
image  and  figure  of  Virgil.  Zecca  d'ltalia,  pi.  xvii.  i.  6.  Voyage  dans  le  Milanais, 
&c.  par.  A.  Z.  Millin.  torn.  ii.  pag.  294.  Paris,  1817. 

f  Memorie,  num.  Ivii.  pag.  9.  ap.  Montfaueon,  Diarium  Italicum. 
I  Storiadelle  Arti.  &c.  lib.  ix.  cap.  1.  pag.  321,  322.  torn.  ii. 
§  Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Atticum,  xi.  6. 


CANTO   THE   FOURTH.  223 

the  busts  of  Augustus,  and  is  too  stern  for  him  who  was  beautiful,  says  Suetonius,  at 
all  periods  of  his  life.  The  pretended  likeness  to  Alexander  the  Great  cannot  be 
discerned,  but  the  traits  resemble  the  medal  ofPompey.  The*  objectionable  globe 
may  not  have  been  an  ill  applied  flattery  lo  him  who  found  Asia  Minor  the  boundary, 
and  left  it  the  centre  of  the  Roman  empire.  It  seems  that  Wmkelmann  has  made  a 
mistake  in  thinking  that  no  proof  of  the  identity  of  this  statue  with  thai  which  received 
the  bloody  sacrifice,  can  be  derived  from  the  spot  where  it  was  discoveied.j  Flami- 
nius  Vacca  says  sotto  una  cantina,  and  this  cantina  is  known  to  have  been  in  the  Vicolo 
de' Leutari,  near  the  Cancellaria,  a  position  corresponding  exactly  to  that  of  the 
Janus  before  the  basilica  of  Pompey's  theatre,  to  which  Augustus  transferred  the 
statue  after  the  curia  was  either  burnt  01  taken  down.J  Part  of  the  Pompeian  shade,§ 
the  portico,  existed  in  the  beginning  of  the  XV  th  century,  and  the  atrium  was  still 
called  Satrum.  So  says  Blondus.|f  At  all  events,  so  imposing  is  the  stern  majesty 
of  the  statue,  and  so  memorable  is  the  story,  that  the  play  of  the  imagination  leaves 
no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the  judgment,  and  the  fiction,  if  a  fiction  it  is,  operates  on 
the  spectator  with  an  effect  not  less  powerful  than  truth. 


XXV. 
THE  BRONZE  WOLF. 

"  And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome  ! " 

Stanza  Ixxxviii.  line  1. 

Ancient  Rome,  like  modern  Sienna,  abounded  most  probably  with  the  images  of 
the  foster-mother  of  her  founder ;  but  there  were  two  she-wolves  of  whom  history 
makes  particular  mention.  One  of  these,  of  brass  in  ancient  work,  was  seen  by 
DionysiusH  at  the  temple  of  Romulus,  under  the  Palatine,  and  is  universally  believed 
to  be  that  mentioned  by  the  Latin  historian,  as  having  been  made  from  the  money 
collected  by  a  fine  on  usurers,  and  as  standing  under  the  Ruminal  fig-tree.**  The 
other  was  that  which  Cicerojt  has  celebrated  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  which  the 
historian  Dion  also  records  as  having  suffered  the  same  accident  as  is  alluded  to  by 

*  Published  by  Causeus,  in  his  Museum  Romanum. 

|  Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  lib.  ix.  cap.  i.  pag.  321,  322.  torn.  ii. 

I  Sueton.  in  vit.  August,  cap.  31,  and  in  vit.  C.  J.  Csesar.  cap.  88.    Appian  says 
it  was  burnt  down.     See  a  note  of  Pitiscus  to  Suetonius,  pag.  224. 

§  "  Tu  modo  Pompeia  lenta  spatiare  sub  umbra." 

Ovid.  Ar.  Araand. 

II  Roma  Instaurata,  lib.  ii.  fo.  31. 

IT  Xd\K£a  iroi^aTa  iraAaiaj  fyyafffaf.     Antiq.  Rom.  lib.  1. 

**  "  Ad  ficum  Ruminalem  simulacra  infantium  conditorum  urbis  sub  uberibus 
lupae  posuerunt.  Liv.  Hist.  lib.  x.  cap.  Ixix.  This  was  in  the  year  U.  C.  455  or 

•ft  "Tumstatua  Nattae,  turn  simulacra  Deorum,  Romulusque  et  Remus  cum 
altrice  bellua  vi  fulminis  ictis  conciderunt."  De  Divinat.  ii.  20.  "  Tactus  est  ille 
etiam  qui  hanc  urbem  condidit  Romulus,  quern  inauratum  in  Capitolio  parvum  atque 
lactantcm,  uberibus  lupinis  inhiantem  fuisse  meministis.*'  In  Oatilin.  hi.  8. 

<(  Hie  silvestris  erat  Romani  nominis  altrix 
Martia,  quae  parvos  Mavortis  semine  natos 
Uberibus  gravidis  vitali  rore  rigebat 
due  turn  cum  piieris  flammato  fulminis  ictu 
Concidit,  atque  avulsa  pedum  vestigia  liquat." 

De  Consulatu,  lib.  ii.  (lib.  i.  de  Divinat.  cap.  ii.) 


224  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

the  orator.*  The  question  agitated  by  the  antiquaries  is,  whether  the  wolf  now  in 
the  Conservators'  Palace  is  that  of  Livy  and  Dionysius,  or  that  of  Cicero,  or  whether 
it  is  neither  one  nor  the  other.  The  earlier  writers  differ  as  much  as  the  moderns  ; 
Lucius  Faunusf  says,  that  it  is  the  one  alluded  to  by  both,  which  is  impossible,  and 
also  by  Virgil,  which  may  be.  Fulvius  Ursinus|  calls  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius,  and 
Marlianus§  talks  of  it  as  the  one  mentioned  by  Cicero.  To  him  Rycquius  tremblingly 
assents.  ||  Nardini  is  inclined  to  suppose  it  may  be  one  of  the  many  wolves  preserved 
in  ancient  Rome  ;  but  of  the  two  rather  bends  to  the  Ciceronian  statue. If  Mont- 
faucon**  mentions  it  as  a  point  without  doubt.  Of  the  latter  writers  the  decisive 
Winkelmanntt  proclaims  it  as  having  been  found  at  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore, 
where,  or  near  where,  was  the  temple  of  Romulus,  and  consequently  makes  it  the 
wolf  of  Dionysius.  His  authority  is  Lucius  Faunus,  who,  however,  only  says  that  it 
was  placed,  not  found,  at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis,  by  the  Comitium,  by  which  he  does 
not  seem  to  allude  to  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore.  Rycquius  was  the  first  to  make 
the  mistake,  and  Winkelmann  followed  Rycquius. 

Flaminius  Vacca  tells  quite  a  different  story,  and  says  he  had  heard  the  wolf  with 
the  twins  was  foundJJ  near  the  arch  of  Septimius  Severus.  The  commentator  on 
Winkelmann  is  of  the  same  opinion  with  that  learned  person,  and  is  incensed  at  Nar- 
dini for  not  having  remarked  that  Cicero,  in  speaking  of  the  wolf  struck  with  lightning 
in  the  Capitol,  makes  use  of  the  past  tense.  But,  with  the  Abate's  leave,  Nardini 
•does  not  positively  assert  the  statue  to  be  that  mentioned  by  Cifiero,  and,  if  he  had, 
the  assumption  would  not  perhaps  have  been  so  exceedingly  indiscreet.  The  Abate 

*  'Ev'  yap  ry  KairrjTO^Kf)  avtipidvres  ri  TroXXoi  iinb  Ktf>avvS>v  avvE^vt.iiBrjaav ,  Kal  aya\- 
liara  aXXo  re,  KUI  Stbs  f-rri  KIOVOS  idpvulvov,  tfowv  ri  rtj  \vnaivris  avv  rt  r<J>  'Pupy  Kal  <ri>v 
TU>  'Pa>//6X<j>  IdpvfjiivT]  £it£ffTj.  Dion.  Hist.  lib.  xxxvii.  pag.  37.  edit.  Rob.  Steph.  1548, 
He  goes  on  to  mention  that  the  letters  of  the  columns  on  which  the  laws  were  written 
were  liquefied  and  become  fyiv<5oa.  All  that  the  Romans  did  was  to  erect  a  large 
•statue  to  Jupiter,  looking  towards  the  east :  no  mention  is  afterwards  made  of  the 
1  —  —  Abate  Fea,  in  noticing  this  passage 
.  note  x.),  says,  Nan  ostante,  aggiunge 

^ti/^c,  wicjuoae  .,o,<,jc,  ,,K*«.I»  Vl..^  ,.v/..y  ,  uj  whichitis  clear  the  Abate  translated 
the  Xylandro-Leunclavian  version,  which  puts  quamvis  stabilita  for  the  original 
ISpvjjifvrjj  a  word  that  does  not  mean  ben  fermata,  but  only  raised,  as  may  be  distinctly 
seen  from  another  passage  of  the  same  Dion  :  'H6ov\fiOri  //fv  o%v  6  'AyptTrn-aj  Kairbv 
AvyovffTov  ivravda  iSpyaai.  Hist.  lib.  Ivi.  Dion  says  that  Agrippa  "  wished  to  raise 
a  statue  of  Augustus  in  the  Pantheon." 

|  "  In  eadem  porticu  asnea  lupa,  cujus  uberibus  Romulus  ac  Remus  lactantes 
mhiant,  conspicitur:  de  hac  Cicero  et  Virgilius  semper  intellexere.  Livius  hoc 
signum  ab  ./Edilibus  ex  pecuniis  quibus  mulctati  essent  fceneratores,  positum  innuit. 
Antea  in  Comitiis  ad  Ficum  Ruminalem,  quo  loco  pueri  fuerant  expositi  locatum 
pro  certo  est."  Luc.  Fatmi  de  Antiq.  Urb.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  vii.  ap.  Sallengre, 
torn.  i.  p.  217.  In  his  xviith  chapter  he  repeats  that  the  statues  were  there,  but  not 
that  they  \verefound  there. 

|  Ap.  Nardini,  Roma  Vetus,  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

JMarliani  Urb.  Rom.  Topograph.  lib.  11.  cap.  ix.  He  mentions  another  wolf 
twins  in  the  Vatican,  lib.  v  .  cap.  xxi. 

||  "  Non  desunt  qui  hanc  ipsam  esse  putent,  quam  adpinximus,  quae  e  comitio  in 
Basilicam  Lateranum.  cum  nonnullis  aliis  antiquitatum  reliquiis,  atque  hinc  in  Capi- 
tolium  postea  relata  sit,  quamvis  Marlianus  antiquam  Capitolinam  esse  maluit  a 
Tu  lio  descriptam,  cui  ut  in  ro  nimis  dubia,  trepide  adsentimur."  Just.  Rycquii  de 
Capit.  Roman.  Comm.  cap.  xxiv.  pag.  250.  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1696. 

U  Nardini,  Roma  Vetus,  lift.  v.  cap.  iv. 

**  "  Lupa  hodieque  in  capitolinis  prostrat  aedibus,  cum  vestigio  fulminis  quo  ictam 
narrat  Cicero."  Diarium  Italic,  torn.  i.  p.  174. 

tt  Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  lib.  iii.  cap.  iii.  §  ii.  note  10.  Winkelmann  has  made  a 
stranje  blunder  in  the  note,  by  saying  the  Ciceronian  wolf  was  not  in  the  Capitol, 
and  that  Dion  was  wrong  in  saying  so. 

H  "  Intesi  dire,  che  1'  Ercolo  di  bronzo,  che  oggi  si  trova  nella  sala  di  Campidoglio, 
fu  trovato  nel  foro  Romano  appresso  1'  arco  di  Settimio  :  e  vi  fu  trovata  anche  la 
lupa  di  bronzo  che  allata  Romolo  e  Remo,  e  sta  nella  Loggia  de  Conservatori."  Flam. 
Vacca,  Memorie,  num.  iii.  pag.  i.  ap.  Montfaucon,  Diar.  Ital.  torn.  i. 


statue  to  Jupiter,  looking  towards  tne  east:  no 
wolf.  This  happened  in  A.  U.  C.  689.  The  j 
of  Dion  (Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  torn.  i.  pag.  202. 
Dione,  che  fosse  ben  fermata  (the  wolf)  ;  by  w 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  225 

himself  is  obliged  to  own  that  there  are  marks  very  like  the  scathing  of  lightning  in  the 
hinder  legs  of  the  present  wolf ;  and,  to  get  rid  of  this,  adds,  that  the  wolf  seen  by 
Dionysius  might  have  been  also  struck  by  lightning,  or  otherwise  injured. 

Let  us  examine  the  subject  by  a  reference  to  the  words  of  Cicero.  The  orator  in 
two  places  seems  to  particularise  the  Romulus  and  the  Remus,  especially  the  first, 
which  his  audience  remembered  to  have  been  in  the  Capitol,  as  being  struck  with 
lightning.  In  his  verses  he  records  that  the  twins  and  wolf  both  fell,  and  that  the 
latter  left  behind  the  marks  of  her  feet.  Cicero  does  not  say  that  the  wolf  was  con- 
sumed ;  and  Dion  only  mentions  that  it  fell  down,  without  alluding,  as  the  Abate  has 
made  him,  to  the  force  of  the  blow,  or  the  firmness  with  which  it  had  been  fixed.  The 
whole  strength,  therefore,  of  the  Abate's  argument  hangs  upon  the  past  tense  ; 
which,  however,  may  be  somewhat  diminished  by  remarking  that  the  phrase  only 
shows  that  the  statue  was  not  then  standing  in  its  former  position.  Winkelmann  has 
observed,  that  the  present  twins  are  modern  ;  and  it  is  equally  clear  that  there  are 
marks  of  gilding  on  the  wolf,  which  might  therefore  be  supposed  to  make  part  of  the 
ancient  group.  It  is  known  that  the  sacred  images  of  the  Capitol  were  not  destroyed 
when  injured  by  time  or  accident,  but  were  put  into  certain  under-ground  depositaries 
called/o»>mcB.*  It  may  be  thought  possible  that  the  wolf  had  been  so  deposited,  and 
had  been  replaced  in  some  conspicuous  situation  when  the  Capitol  was  rebuilt  by 
Vespasian.  Rycquius,  without  mentioning  his  authority,  tells  that  it  was  transferred 
from  the  Comitium  to  the  Lateran,  and  thence  brought  to  the  Capitol.  If  it  was 
found  near  the  arch  of  Severus,  it  may  have  been  one  of  the  images  which  Orosiusf 
says  was  thrown  down  in  the  Forum  by  lightning  when  Alaric  took  the  city.  That 
it  is  of  very  high  antiquity  the  workmanship  is  a  decisive  proof;  and  that  circumstance 
induced  Winkelmann  to  believe  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  The  Capitohne  wolf,  how- 
ever, may  have  been  of  the  same  early  date  as  that  at  the  temple  of  Romulus.  Lac- 
tantiusj  asserts  that  in  his  time  the  Romans  worshipped  a  wolf;  and  it  is  known  that 
the  Lupercalia  held  out  to  a  very  late  period!}  after  every  other  observance  of  the 
ancient  superstition  had  totally  expired.  This  may  account  for  the  preservation  of  the 
ancient  image  longer  than  the  other  early  symbols  of  Paganism. 

It  may  be  permitted,  however,  to  remark,  that  the  wolf  was  a  Roman  symbol,  but 
that  the  worship  of  that  symbol  is  an  inference  drawn  by  the  zeal  of  Lactantius. 
The  early  Christian  writers  are  not  to  be  trusted  in  the  charges  which  they  make 
against  the  Pagans.  Eusebius  accused  the  Romans  to  their  faces  of  worshipping 
Simon  Magus,  and  raising  a  statue  to  him  in  the  island  of  the  Tyber.  The  Romans 
had  probably  never  heard  of  such  a  person  before,  who  came,  however,  to  play  a 
considerable,  though  scandalous  part  in  the  church  history,  and  has  left  several  tokens 
of  his  aerial  combat  with  St.  Peter  at  Rome;  notwithstanding  that  an  inscription 
found  in  this  very  island  of  the  Tyber  showed  the  Simon  Magus  of  Eusebius  to  be  a 
certain  indigenal  god,  called  Semo  Sangus  or  Fidius.|| 

Even  when  the  worship  of  the  founder  of  Rome  had  been  abandoned,  it  was  thought 
expedient  to  humour  the  habits  of  the  good  matrons  of  the  city,  by  sending  them  with 
their  sick  infants  to  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore,  as  they  had  before  carried  them 


*  Luc.  Faun.  ibid. 

|  See  note  to  stanza  LXXX.  in  Historical  Illustrations. 

J  "  Romuli  nutrix  Lupa  honoribus  est  affecta  divinis,  et  ferrem,  si  animal  ipsiun 
isset,  cujus  figuram  gerit."  Lactant.  de  Falsa  Religione,  lib.  1.  cap.  xx.  pag.  101. 
edit,  varior.  1660  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  would  rather  adore  a  wolf  than  a  prostitute.  His 
commentator  has  observed  that  the  opinion  of  Livy  concerning  Laurentia  being  figur- 
ed in  this  wolf,  was  not  universal.  Strabo  thought  so.  Rycquius  is  wrong  in  saying 
that  Lactantius  mentions  the  wolf  was  in  the  Capitol. 

§  To  A.  D.  496.  "  Q,uis  credere  possit,"  says  Baronius  [Ann.  Eccles.  torn. 
viii.  p.  602.  in  an.  496.],  "  viguisse  adhuc  Romae  ad  Gelasii  tempora,  quae  fuere  ante 
exordia  urbis  allata  in  Italiam  Lupercalia  ?"  Gelasius  wrote  a  letter  which  occupies 
four  folio  pages  to  Andromachus  the  senator,  and  others,  to  show  that  the  rites  should 
be  given  up. 


||  Eusebius  has  these  words  :  Kal  avSptdvrt  Trap'  fyuv  &s  -Jed?  rtrfy/tjrai,  cv  rw 
irorauijj  uera^v  TU>V  Svo  yc^uptSv,  ?^wv  fitiYpa^fjv  fPa)//atK>)v  Ta6rt]v  Zf'//am  <5fw  Say/era). 
Eccles.  Hist.  lib.  ij.  cap.  xiii.  p.  40.  Justin  Martyr  had  told  the  story  before  ;  but 
Baronius  himself  was  obliged  to  detect  this  fable.  See  Nardini,  Roma  Vet.  lib.  vii. 
cap.  xii. 

VOL.  III.  -  Q, 


226  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

to  the  temple  of  Romulus.*  The  practice  is  continued  to  this  day  ;  and  the  site  of 
the  above  church  seems  to  be  thereby  identified  with  that  of  the  temple  :  so  that  if  the 
wolf  had  been  really  found  there,  as  Winkelmann  says,  there  would  be  no  doubt  ot 
the  present  statue  being  that  seen  by  Dionysius.t  But  Faunus,  in  saying  that  it  was 
at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  by  the  Comitium,  is  only  talking  of  its  ancient  position  as  re- 
corded by  Pliny  ;  and  even  if  he  had  been  remarking  where  it  was  found,  would  not 
have  alluded  to  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore,  but  to  a  very  different  place,  near 
which  it  was  then  thought  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  had  been,  and  also  the  Comitium  ; 
that  is,  the  three  columns  by  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Liberatrice,  at  the  corner  of 
the  Palatine  looking  on  the  Forum. 

It  is,  in  fact,  a  mere  conjecture  where  the  image  was  actually  dug  up,J  and  per 
haps,  on  the  whole,  the  marks  of  the  gilding,  and  of  the  lightning,  are  a  better  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  its  being  the  Ciceronian  wolf  than  any  that  can  be  adduced  for  the 
contrary  opinion.  At  any  rate,  it  is  reasonably  selected  in  the  text  of  the  poem  as 
one  of  the  most  interesting  relics  of  the  ancient  city, §  and  is  certainly  the  figure,  if 
not  the  very  animal  to  which  Virgil  alludes  in  his  beautiful  verses : — 

"  Geminos  huic  ubera  circum 
Ludere  pendentes  pueros,  et  lambere  matrem 
Impavidos  :  ill  am  tereti  cervice  reflexam 
M  ulcer  e  alternos,  et  corpora  fingere  lingua. "|| 


XXVI. 
JULIUS  CJ5SAR. 

"  For  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modelVd  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould." 

Stanza  xc.  lines  3  and  4. 

It  is  possible  to  be  a  very  great  man  and  to  be  still  very  inferior  to  Julius  Caesar, 
the  most  complete  character,  so  Lord  Bacon  thought,  of  all  antiquity.  Nature  seems 
incapable  of  such  extraordinary  combinations  as  composed  his  versatile  capacity, 
which  was  the  wonder  even  of  the  Romans  themselves.  The  first  general — the  only 
triumphant  politician  —  inferior  to  none  in  eloquence  —  comparable  to  any  in  the  at- 
tainments of  wisdom,  in  an  age  made  up  of  the  greatest  commanders,  statesmen, 

*  <{  In  esse  gli  antichi  pontefici  per  toglier  la  memoria  de'  giuochi  Lupercali 
istituiti  in  onore  di  Romolo,  introdussero  1'  uso  di  portarvi  bambini  oppressi  da  infer- 
mitci  occulte,  accib  si  liberino  per  1'  intercessione  di  questo  santo,  come  di  continue  si 
sperimenta."  Rionexii.  Ripa,  accurata  e  succincta  Descrizione,  &c.  di  Roma 
Moderna,  dell'  Ab.  Ridolf.  Venuti,  1766. 

t  Nardini,  lib.  v.  cap.  11.  convicts  Pomponius  Laetus  crassi  erroris,  in  putting 
the  Ruminal  fig-tree  at  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore  :  but  as  Livy  says  the  wolf  was 
at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis,  and  Dionysius  at  the  temple  of  Romulus,  he  is  obliged  (cap. 
iv.)  to  own  that  the  two  were  close  together,  as  well  as  the  Lupercal  cave,  shaded, 
as  it  were,  by  the  fig-tree. 

J  "  Ad  comitium  ficus  olim  Ruminalis  germinabat,  sub  qua  lupae  rumam,  hoc  est, 
mammam,  docente  Varrone,  suxerant  olim  Romulus  et  Remus  ;  nonprocul  a  templo 
hodie  D.  Marias  Liberatricis  appellate,  ubi  forsan  inventa  nobilis  ilia  aenea  statua 
lupae  geminos  puerulos  lactantis,  quam  hodie  in  Capitolio  videmus."  Olai  Borrichii 
Antiqua  Urbis  Romanae  Facies,  cap.  x.  See  also  cap.  xii.  Borrichius  wrote  after 
Nardini,  in  1687.  Ap.  Graev.  Antiq.  Rom.  torn.  iv.  p.  1522. 

§  Donatus,  lib.  xi.  cap.  19.  gives  a  medal  representing  on  one  side  the  wolf  in  the 
same  position  as  that  in  the  Capitol ;  and  in  the  reverse  the  wolf  with  the  head  not 
reverted.  It  is  of  the  time  of  Antoninus  Pius. 

H  jEn.  viii.  631.  See  Dr.  Middleton,  in  his  Letter  from  Rome,  who  inclines  to 
the  Ciceronian  wolf,  but  without  examining  the  subject. 


CANTO   THE   FOURTH.  227 

orators,  and  philosophers  that  ever  appeared  in  the  world  —  an  author  who  composed 
a  perfect  specimen  of  military  annals  in  his  travelling  carriage  —  at  one  time  in  a 
controversy  with  Cato,  at  another  writing  a  treatise  on  punning,  and  collecting  a  set 
of  good  sayings  —  fighting*  and  making  love  at  the  same  moment,  and  willing  to 
abandon  both  his  empire  and  his  mistress  for  a  sight  of  the  Fountains  of  the  Nile. 
Such  did  Julius  Caesar  appear  to  his  contemporaries  and  to  those  of  the  subsequent 
ages  who  were  the  most  inclined  to  deplore  and  execrate  his  fatal  genius. 

But  we  must  not  be  so  much  dazzled  with  his  surpassing  glory,  or  with  his  mag- 
nanimous, his  amiable  qualities,  as  to  forget  the  decision  of  his  impartial  country- 
men:— 

HE   WAS  JUSTLY    SLAIN. j1 


XXVII. 
EGERIA. 

"  Egeria  I  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast." 

Stanza  cxv.  lines  1,  2,  and  3. 

The  respectable  authority  of  Flaminius  Vacca  would  incline  us  to  believe  in  the 
claims  of  the  Egerian  grotto.  J  He  assures  us  that  he  saw  an  inscription  in  the  pave- 
ment, stating  that  the  fountain  was  that  of  Egeria,  dedicated  to  the  nymphs.  The 
inscription  is  not  there  at  this  day  ;  but  Montfaucon  quotes  two  lines  §  01  Ovid  from 

*  In  his  tenth  book,  Lucan  shows  him  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  Pharsalia  in  the 
arms  of  Cleopatra, 

"  Sanguine  Thessalicas  cladis  perfiisus  adulter 

Admist  Venerem  cuiis,  et  miscuit  armis." 

After  feasting  with  his  mistress,  he  sits  up  all  night  to  converse  with  the  ^Egyp- 
tian sages,  and  tells  Achoreus, 

"  Spes  sit  mihi  certa  videndi 
Niliacos  fontes,  bellum  civile  relinquam." 
"  Sic  velut  in  tuta  securi  pace  trahebant 

Noctis  iter  medium." 

Immediately  afterwards,  he  is  fighting  again,  and  defending  every  position. 
*  "  Sed  adest  defensor  ubique 

Caesar  et  hos  aditus  gladiis,  hos  ignibus  arcet 

caeca  nocte  carinis 

Insiluit  Caesar  semper  feliciter  usus 
Praecipiti  cursu  bellorum  et  tempore  rapto." 

•f  "  Jure  caesus  existimetur,"  says  Suetonius,  after  a  fair  estimation  of  his  charac- 
ter, and  making  use  of  a  phrase  which  was  a  formula  in  Livy's  time.  "  Melium 
jure  caesum  pronuntiavit,  etiani  si  regni  crimine  insons  fuerit:"  [lib.  iv.  cap.  48. J 
and  which  was  continued  in  the  legal  judgments  pronounced  in  justifiable  homicides, 
such  as  killing  housebreakers.  See  Sueton.  in  Vit.  C.  J.  Ceesar,  with  the  commen- 
tary of  Pitiscus,  p.  184. 

J  "  Poco  lontano  dal  detto  luogo  si  scende  ad  un  casaletto,  del  qualen  e  sono  Pa- 
droni li  Caffarelli,  che  con  questo  nome  e  chiamato  il  luogo ;  vi  6  una  fontana  sotto 
una  gran  volta  antica,  che  al  presente  si  gode,  e  li  Romani  vi  vanno  I'estate  a  ricre- 
arsi ;  nel  pavimento  di  essa  fonte  si  legge  in  un  epitaffio  essere  quella  la  fonte  di  Ege- 
ria, dedicata  alle  ninfe,  e  questa,  dice  1'epitaffio,  essere  la  medesima  fonte  in  cui  fu 
convertita."  Memorie,  &c.  ap.  Nardini,  pag.  13.  He  does  not  give  the  inscription. 

$  "  In  villa  Justiniana  extat  ingens  lapis  quadratus  solidus,  in  quo  sculpta  hsec  duo 
Ovidii  carmina  sunt :— 


228  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

a  stone  in  the  Villa  Giustmiani,  which  he  seems  to  think  had  been  brought  from  the 
same  grotto. 

This  grotto  and  valley  were  formerly  frequented  in  summer,  and  particularly  the 
first  Sunday  in  May,  by  the  modern  Romans,  who  attached  a  salubrious  quality  to 
the  fountain  which  trickles  from  an  orifice  at  the  bottom  of  the  vault,  and,  overflowing 
the  little  pools,  creeps  down  the  matted  grass  into  the  brook  below.  The  brook  is  the 
Ovidian  Almo,  whose  name  and  qualities  are  lost  in  the  modern  Aquataccio.  The 
valley  itself  is  called  Valle  di  Caffarelli,  from  the  dukes  of  that  name  who  made  over 
their  fountain  to  the  Pallavicini,  with  sixty  rubbia  of  adjoining  land. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  long  dell  is  the  Egerian  valley  of  Juvenal,  and 
the  pausing  place  of  Umbritius,  notwithstanding  the  generality  of  his  commentators 
have  supposed  the  descent  of  the  satirist  and  his  friend  to  have  been  into  the  Arician 
grove,  where  the  nvmph  met  Hippolitus,  and  where  she  was  more  peculiarly  wor- 
shipped. 

The  step  from  the  Porta  Capena  to  the  Alban  hill,  fifteen  miles  distant,  would  be 
too  considerable,  unless  we  were  to  believe  in  the  wild  conjecture  of  Vossius,  who 
makes  that  gate  travel  from  its  present  station,  where  he  pretends  it  was  during  the 
reign  of  the  Kings,  as  far  as  the  Arician  grove,  and  then  makes  it  recede  to  its  old  site 
with  the  shrinking  city.*  The  tufo,  or  pumice,  which  the  poet  prefers  to  marble,  is 
the  substance  composing  the  bank  in  which  the  grotto  is  sunk. 

The  modern  topographers  f  find  in  the  grotto  the  statue  of  the  nymph,  and  nine- 
niches  for  the  Muses,  and  a  late  traveller  I  has  discovered  that  the  cave  is  restored 
to  that  simplicity  which  the  poet  regretted  has  been  exchanged  for  injudicious  orna- 
ment. But  the  headless  statue  is  palpably  rather  a  male  than  a  nymph,  and  has 
none  of  the  attributes  ascribed  to  it  at  present  visible.  The  nine  Muses  could  hardly 
have  stood  in  six  niches ;  and  Juvenal  certainly  does  not  allude  to  any  individual 
cave.§  Nothing  can  be  collected  from  the  satirist  but  that  somewhere  near  the  Porta 
Capena  was  a  spot  in  which  it  was  supposed  Numa  held  nightly  consultations  with 
his  nymph,  and  where  there  was  a  grove  and  a  sacred  fountain,  and  fanes  once  con- 
secrated to  the  Muses  ;  and  that  from  this  spot  there  was  a  descent  into  the  valley  of 
Egeria.  where  were  several  artificial  caves.  It  is  clear  that  the  statues  of  the  Muses 
made  no  part  of  the  decoration  which  the  satirest  thought  misplaced  in  these  caves  ; 
for  he  expressly  assigns  other  fanes  (delubra)  to  these  divinities  above  the  valley, 
and  moreover  tells  us  that  they  had  been  ejected  to  make  room  for  the  Jews.  In 
fact,  the  little  temple,  now  called  that  of  Bacchus,  was  formerly  thought  to  belong  to 
the  Muses,  and  Nardini  ||  places  them  in  a  poplar  grove,  which  was  in  his  time 
above  the  valley. 

It  is  probable,  from  the  inscription  and  position,  that  the  cave  now  shown  may  be 
one  of  the  "  artificial  caverns,"  of  which,  indeed,  there  is  another  a  little  way  higher 
up  the  valley,  under  a  tuft  of  alder  bushes  :  but  a  single  grotto  of  Egeria  is  a  mere 

"  JEgeria  est  quae  praebet  aquas  dea  grata  Camcenis 
Ilia  Numae  conjunx  consiliumque  fuit.' 

Q,ui  lapis  videtur  ex  eodem  Egeriac  fonte,  aut  ejus  vicinia  isthuc  comportatus."  Dia- 
rium  Italic,  p.  153. 

*  De  Magnit.  Vet.  Rom.  ap.  Grsev.  Ant.  Rom.  torn.  iv.  p.  1507. 

t  Echinard,  Descrizione  di  Roma  e  dell'  Agro  Romano,  corretto  dall'  Abate 
Venuti,  in  Roma,  1750.     They  believe  in  the  grotto  and  nymph.    "  Simulacro  di 
questo  fonte,  essendovi  sculpite  le  acque  a  pie  di  esso. 
J   Classical  Tour,  chap.  vi.  p.  217.  vol.  ii. 

§  "  Substitit  ad  veteres  arcus,  madidamque  Capenam, 
Hie  ubi  nocturnae  Numa  constituebat  amicae. 
Nunc  sacri  fontis  nemus,  et  delubra  locantur 
Judaeis  quorum  cophinum  foenamque  supellex. 
Omnis  enim  populo  mercedem  pendere  jussa  est 
Arbor,  et  ejectis  mendicat  silva  CamcEnis. 
In  vallem  Egeriae  descendimus,  et  speluncas 
Dissimiles  veris :  quanto  praestantius  esset 
Numen  aquae,  viridi  si  margine  clauderet  undas    ^ 
Herba,  nee  ingenuum  violarcnt  marmora  tophum. 


CANTO    THE    FOURTH.  229 

modern  invention,  grafted  upon  the  application  of  the  epithet  Egerian  to  these  nym- 
phea  in  general,  and  which  might  send  us  to  look  for  the  haunts  of  Numa  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Thames. 

Our  English  Juvenal  was  not  seduced  into  mistranslation  by  his  acquaintance  with 
Pope :  he  carefully  preserves  the  correct  plural  — 

"  Thence  slowly  winding  down  the  vale,  we  view 
The  Egerian  grots ;  oh,  how  unlike  the  true !  " 


sy  abounds  with  springs,*  and  over  these  springs,  which  the  Muses  might 
their  neighbouring  groves,  Egeria  presided  :  hence  she  was  said  to  supply 


The  valle) 
haunt  from  tl 

them  with  water  ;  and  she  was~the  nymph  of  the  grottos  through  which  the  fountains 
were  taught  to  flow. 

The  whole  of  the  monuments  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Egerian  valley  have  received 
names  at  will,  which  have  been  changed  at  will.  Venuti  |  owns  he  can  see  no 
traces  of  the  temples  of  Jove,  Saturn,  Juno,  Venus,  and  Diana,  which  Nardini  found, 
or  hoped  to  find.  The  mutatorium  of  Caracalla's  circus,  the  temple  of  Honour  and 
Virtue,  the  temple  of  Bacchus,  and,  above  all,  the  temple  of  the  god  Rediculus,  are 
the  antiquaries'  despair. 

The  circus  of  Caracalla  depends  on  a  medal  of  that  emperor  cited  by  Fulvius 
Ursinus,  of  which  the  reverse  shows  a  circus,  supposed,  however,  by  some  to  repre- 
sent the  Circus  Maximus.  It  gives  a  very  good  idea  of  that  place  of  exercise.  The 
soil  has  been  but  little  raised,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  small  cellular  structure  at  the 
end  of  the  Spina,  which  was  probably  the  chapel  of  the  god  Census.  This  cell  is 
half  beneath  the  soil,  as  it  must  have  been  in  the  circus  itself;  for  Dionysius  J  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  believe  that  this  divinity  was  the  Roman  Neptune,  because  his 
altar  was  under  ground. 


,  XXVIII. 

THE  ROMAN  NEMESIS. 

"  Great  Nemesis  ! 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long," 

Stanza  cxxxii.  lines  2  and  3. 

We  read  in  Suetonius,  that  Augustus,  from  a  warning  received  in  a  dream,^  coun- 
terfeited, once  a  year,  the  beggar,  sitting  before  the  gate  of  his  palace  with  his  hand 
hollowed  and  stretched  out  for  charity.  A  statue  formerly  in  the  Villa  Borghese, 
and  which  should  be  now  at  Paris,  represents  the  Emperor  in  that  posture  of  suppli- 
cation. The  object  of  this  self-degradation  was  the  appeasement  of  Nemesis,  the 
perpetual  attendant  on  good  fortune,  of  whose  power  the  Roman  conquerors  were 
also  reminded  by  certain  symbols  attached  to  their  cars  of  triumph.  The  symbols 
were  the  whip  and  the  crotalo,  which  were  discovered  in  the  Nemesis  of  the  Vatican. 
The  attitude  of  beggary  made  the  above  statue  pass  for  that  of  Belisarius :  and  until 
the  criticism  of  Winkelmann  ||  had  rectified  the  mistake,  one  fiction  was  called  in  to 

*  "  Undique  e  solo  aquae  scatununt."    Nardmi,  lib.  iii.  cap.  iii. 

t  Echinard,  &c.     Cic.  cit.  p.  297,  298, 

I  Antiq.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xxxi. 

§  Sueton.  in  Vit.  Augusti,  cap.  91.  Casaubon,  in  the  note,  refers  to  Plutarch's 
Lives  of  Camillus  and  JEmilius  Paulus,  and  also  to  his  apophthegms,  for  the  charac- 
ter of  this  deity.  The  hollowed  hand  was  reckoned  the  last  degree  of  degradation  ; 
and  when  the  Head  body  of  the  praefect  Rufinus  was  borne  about  in  triumph  by  the 
people,  the  indignity  was  increased  by  putting  his  hand  in  that  position. 

||  Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  lib.  xii.  cap.  iii.  torn.  ii.  p.  422.  Visconti  calls  the  sta- 
tue, however,  a  Cybele.  It  is  given  in  the  Museo  Pio-Clement.  torn.  i.  par.  40.  The 
Abate  Fea  (Spiegazione  del,  Kami.  Storia,  &c.  torn.  iii.  p.  513.)  calls  it  a  Chrisip- 
pus. 


230  HISTORICAL    NOTES    TO 

support  another.  It  was  the  same  fear  of  the  sudden  termination  of  prosperity  that 
made  Arnasis  king  of  Egypt  warn  his  friend  Polycrates  of  Samos,  that  the  gods  loved 
those  whose  lives  were  chequeied  with  good  and  evil  fortunes.  Nemesis  was  sup- 
posed to  lie  in  wait  particularly  for  the  prudent ;  that  is.  for  those  whose  caution  ren- 
dered them  accessible  only  to  mere  accidents  :  and  her  first  altar  was  raised  on  the 
banks  of  the  Phrygian  jEsepus  by  Adrastus,  probably  the  prince  of  that  name  who 
killed  the.  son  of  Croesus  by  mistake.  Hence  the  goddess  was  called  Adrastea.* 

The  Roman  Nemesis  was  sacred  and  august :  there  was  a  temple  to  her  in  the 
Palatine  under  the  name  of  Rhamnusia  :|  so  great  indeed  was  the  propensity  of  the 
ancients  to  trust  to  the  revolution  of  events,  and  to  believe  in  the  divinity  of  Fortune, 
that  in  the  same  Palatine  there  was  a  temple  to  the  Fortune  of  the  day.|  This  is  the 
last  superstition  which  retains  its  hold  over  the  human  heart;  and, from  concentrating 
in  one  object  the  credulity  so  natuial  to  man,  has  always  appeared  strongest  in  those 
unembarrassed  by  other  articles  of  belief.  The  antiquaries  have  supposed  this  god- 
dess to  be  synonymous  with  Fortune  and  with  Fate  ;§  but  it  was  in  her  vindictive 
quality  that  she  was  worshipped  under  the  name  of  Nemesis. 


XXIX. 

GLADIATORS. 

"  He,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday." 

Stanza  cxli.  lines  6  and  7. 

Gladiators  were  of  two  kinds,  compelled  and  voluntary ;  and  were  supplied  from 
several  conditions  :  —  from  slaves  sold  for  that  purpose ;  from  culprits  ;  from  barbarian 
captives  either  taken  in  war,  and,  after  being  led  in  triumph,  set  apart  for  the  games, 
or  those  seized  and  condemned  as  rebels  ;  also  from  free  citizens,  some  fighting  for 
hire  (auctorati),  others  from  a  depraved  ambition  :  at  last  even  knights  and  senators 
were  exhibited,  —  a  disgrace  of  which  the  first  tyrant  was  naturally  the  first  inventor.  || 
In  the  end,  dwarfs,  and  even  women,  fought  ;  an  enormity  prohibited  by  Severus. 
Of  these  the  most  to  be  pitied  undoubtedly  were  the  barbarian  captives  ;  and  to  this 
species  a  Christian  writer  IT  justly  applies  the  epithet  "  innocent,"  to  distinguish 
them  from  the  professional  gladiators.  Aurelian  and  Claudius  supplied  great  num- 
bers of  these  unfortunate  victims;  the  one  after  his  triumph,  and  the  other  on  the 


*  Diet,  de  Bayle,  article  Adrastea. 

•f  It  is  enumerated  by  the  regionary  Victor. 

4.  Fortune  hujusce  diei.,     Cicero  mentions  her,  de  Legib. 

§    DEAE    NEMESI 

SIVE    FORTUNAE 

PISTORIVS 

ilVGIANVS 

V.  C.  LEGAT. 

LEG.  XIII.  G. 

CORD. 

See  Uuestiones  Romans,  &c.  ap.  Graev.  Antiq.  Roman,  torn.  v.  p.  942.  See  also 
Muratori,  Nov.  Thesaur.  Inscrip.  Vet.  torn.  i.  p.  88,  89,  where  there  are  three  Latin 
and  one  Greek  inscription  to  Nemesis,  and  others  to  Fate. 

U  Julius  Caesar,  who  rose  by  the  fall  of  the  aristocracy,  brought  Furius  Leptinus 
and  A.  Calenus  upon  the  arena. 

IT  Tertullian,  "  certe  quidem  et  innocentes  gladiatores  in  ludum  veniunt,  et  vo- 
luptatis  publics  hostia?  fiant."  Just.  Lips.  Saturn.  Sermon,  lib.  u.  cap.  m. 


CANTO    THE   FOURTH.  231 

pretext  of  a  rebellion.*  No  war,  says  Lipsius,f  was  ever  so  destructive  to  the  hu- 
man race  as  these  sports.  In  spite  of  the  laws  of  Constantine  and  Constans,  gladia- 
torial shows  survived  the  old  established  religion  more  than  seventy  years  ;  but  they 
owed  their  final  extinction  to  the  courage  of  a  Christian.  In  the  year  404,  on  the 
kalends  of  January,  they  were  exhibiting  the  shows  in  the  Flavian  amphitheatre  be- 
fore the  usual  immense  concourse  of  people.  Almachius  or  Telemachus,  an  eastern 
monk,  who  had  travelled  to  Rome  intent  on  his  holy  purpose,  rushed  into  the  midst 
of  the  arena,  and  endeavoured  to  separate  the  combatants.  The  praetor  Alypius,  a 
person  incredibly  attached  to  these  games, t  gave  instant  orders  to  the  gladiators  to 
slay  him  ;  and  Telemachus  gained  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  and  the  title  of  saint, 
which  surely  has  never  either  before  or  since  been  awarded  for  a  more  noble  exploit. 
Honorius  immediately  abolished  the  shows,  which  were  never  afterwards  revived. 
The  story  is  told  by  Theodoret  (}  and  Cassiodorus,||  and  seems  worthy  of  credit  not- 
withstanding its  place  in  the  Roman  martyrology.lT  Besides  the  torrents  of  blood 
which  flowed  at  the  funerals,  in  the  amphitheatres,  the  circus,  the  forums,  and  other 
public  places,  gladiators  were  introduced  at  feasts,  and  tore  each  other  to  pieces 
amidst  the  supper  tables,  to  the  great  delight  and  applause  of  the  guests.  Yet  Lip- 
sius  permits  himself  to  suppose  the  loss  of  courage,  and  the  evident  degeneracy  of 
mankind,  to  be  nearly  connected  with  the  abolition  of  these  bloody  spectacles.** 


XXX.  t 

"  .Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death,  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd.  " 

Stanza  cxlii.  lines  5  and  6. 

When  one  gladiator  wounded  another,  he  shouted,  "  he  has  it"  "  hoc  habet,"  or 
w  habet."  The  wounded  combatant  dropped  his  weapon,  and  advancing  to  the  edge 
of  the  arena,  supplicated  the  spectators.  If  he  had  fought  well,  the  people  saved 
him  ;  if  otherwise,  or  as  they  happened  to  be  inclined,  they  turned  down  their  thumbs, 
and  he  was  slain:  They  were  occasionally  so  savage  that  they  were  impatient  if  a 
combat  lasted  longer  than  ordinary  without  wounds  or  death.  The  emperor's  pre- 
sence generally  saved  the  vanquished;  and  it  is  recorded  as  an  instance  of  Cara- 
calla's  ferocity,  that  he  sent  those  who  supplicated  him  for  life,  in  a  spectacle,  at 
Nicomedia,  to  ask  the  people ;  in  other  words,  handed  them  over  to  be  slain.  A 
similar  ceremony  is  observed  at  the  Spanish  bull-fights.  The  magistrate  presides  ; 
and  after  the  horsemen  and  piccadores  have  fought  the  bull,  the  matadore  steps  for- 
ward and  bows  to  him  for  permission  to  kill  the  animal.  If  the  bull  has  done  his  duty 
by  killing  two  or  three  horses,  or  a  man,  which  last  is  rare,  the  people  interfere 
with  shouts,  the  ladies  wave  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  animal  is  saved.  The 
wounds  and  death  of  the  horses  are  accompanied  with  the  loudest  acclamations,  and 
many  gestures  of  delight,  especially  from  the  female  portion  of  the  audience,  including 

*  Vopiscus,  in  vit.  Aurel.  and  in  vit.  Claud,  ibid. 

f  "  Credo  imb  scio  nullum  bellum  tantam  cladem  vastitiemque  generi  humano 
intulisse,  quam  hos  ad  voluptatem  ludos."  Just.  Lips.  ibid.  lib.  i.  cap.  xii. 

1  Augustinus  (lib.  vi.  confess,  cap.  viii.)  "  Alypium  suum  gladiatorii  spectaculi 
inhiatu  incredibiliter  abreptum,"  scribit.  ib.  lib.  i.  cap.  xii. 

§  Hist.  Eccles.  cap.  xxvi.  lib.  v. 

||  Cassiod,  Tripartita,  1.  x.  c.  xi.     Saturn,  ib.  ib. 

1T  Baronius,  ad.  ann.  et  in  notis  ad  Martyrol.  Rom.  I.  Jan.  See — Marangoni 
delle  memorie  sacre  e  profane  dell'  Anfiteatro  Flavio,  p.  25.  edit.  1746. 

**  "  Q,uod?  non  tu  Lipsi  momentum  aliquod  habuisse  censes  ad  virtutem?  Mag- 
num. Tempora  nostra,  nosque  ipsos  videamus.  Oppidum  ecce  unum  alterumve 
captum,  direptum  est;  tumultus  circa  nos,  non  in  nobis  :  et  tamen  concidimus  et  tur- 
bamur.  Ubi  robur,  ubi  tot  per  annos  meditata  sapiential  studia?  ubi  ille  animus  qui 
possit  dicere,  si  fractus  illabutur  orbis  ?  "  &c.  ibid.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xxv.  The  prototype 
of  Mr.  "V\  indham's  panegyric  on  bull-baiting. 


232  HISTORICAL   NOTES    TO 

those  of  the  gentlest  blood.  Every  thing  depends  on  habit.  The  author  of  Childe 
Harold,  the  writer  of  this  note,  and  one  or  two  other  Englishmen,  who  have  certainly 
in  other  days  borne  the  sight  of  a  pitched  battle,  were,  during  the  summer  of  1809,  in 
the  governor's  box  at  the  great  amphitheatre  of  Santa  Maria,  opposite  to  Cadiz. 
The  death  of  one  or  two  horses  completely  satisfied  their  curiosity.  A  gentleman 
piesent,  observing  them  shudder  and  look  pale,  noticed  that  unusual  reception  of  so 
delightful  a  sport  to  some  young  ladies,  who  stared  and  smiled,  and  continued  their 
applauses  as  another  horse  fell  bleeding  to  the  ground.  One  bull  killed  three  horses 
off  his  own  horns.  He  was  saved  by  acclamations,  which  were  redoubled  when  it 
was.  known  he  belonged  to  a  priest. 

An  Englishman,  who  can  be  much  pleased  with  seeing  two  men  beat  themselves 
to  pieces,  cannot  bear  to  look  at  a  horse  galloping  round  an  arena  with  his  bowels 
trailing  on  the  ground,  and  turns  from  the  spectacle  and  the  spectators  with  horror 
and  disgust. 


XXXI. 

THE  ALBAN  HILL. 

"  And  afar 

The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latin  coast,"  &c.  &c. 

Stanza  clxxiv.  lines  2,  3,  and  4. 

The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrivalled  beauty,  and  from  the  convent 
on  the  highest  point,  which  has  succeeded  to  the  temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter,  the 
prospect  embraces  all  the  objects  alluded  to  in  the  cited  stanza;  the  Mediterranean  ; 
the  whole  scene  of  the  latter  half  of  the  ^Eneid,  and  the  coast  from  beyond  the 
mouth  of  the  Tiber  to  the  headland  of  Circseum  and  the  Cape  of  Terracma. 

The  site  of  Cicero's  villa  may  be  supposed  either  at  the  Grotta  Ferrata,  or  at  the 
Tusculum  of  Prince  Lucien  Buonaparte. 

The  former  was  thought  some  years  ago  the  actual  site,  as  may  be  seen  from  Mid- 
dleton's  Life  of  Cicero.  At  present  it  has  lost  something  of  its  credit,  except  for  the 
Domenichinos.  Nine  monks  of  the  Greek  ord«r  live  there,  and  the  adjoining  villa  is 
a  cardinal's  summer-house.  The  other  villa,  called  Rufinella,  is  on  the  summit  of 
the  hill  above  Frascati,  and  many  rich  remains  of  Tusculum  have  been  found 
there,  besides  seventy-two  statues  of  different  merit  and  preservation,  and  seven 
busts. 

From  the  same  eminence  are  seen  the  Sabine  hills,  embosomed  in  which  lies  the 
long  valley  of  Rustica.  There  are  several  circumstances  which  tend  to  establish  the 
identity  of  this  valley  with  the  "  Ustica"  of  Horace  ;  and  it  seems  possible  that  the 
mosaic  pavement  which  the  peasants  uncover  by  throwing  up  the  earth  of  a  vineyard 
may  belong  to  his  villa.  Rustica  is  pronounced  short,  not  according  to  our  stress 
upon  —  "  Usticas  cubantis." —  It  is  more  rational  to  think  that  we  are  wrong  than 
that  the  inhabitants  of  this  secluded  valley  have  changed  their  tone  in  this  word.  The 
addition  of  the  consonant  prefixed  is  nothing:  yet  it"  is  necessary  to  be  aware  that 
Rustica  may  be  a  modern  name  which  the  peasants  may  have  caught  from  the  an- 
tiquaries. 

The  villa,  or  the  mosaic,  is  in  a  vineyard  on  a  knoll  covered  with  chestnut  trees.  A 
stream  runs  down  the  valley,  and  although  it  is  not  true,  as  said  in  the  guide  books,  that 
this  stream  is  called  Licenza,  yet  there  is  a  village  on  a  rock  at  the  head  of  the  valley 
which  is  so  denominated,  and  which  may  have  taken  its  name  from  the  Digentia. 
Licenza  contains  700  inhabitants.  On  a  peak  a  little  way  beyond  is  Civitella,  con- 
taining 300.  On  the  banks  of  the  Anio,  a  little  before  you  turn  up  into  Valle  Rus- 
tica, to  the  left,  about  an  hour  from  the  villa,  is  a  town  called  Vicovaro,  another 
favourable  coincidence  with  the  Varia  of  the  poet.  At  the  end  of  the  valley,  towards 
the  Anio,  there  is  a  bare  hill,  crowned  with  a  little  town  called  Bardela.  At  the 
foot  of  this  hill  the  rivulet  of  Licenza  flows,  and  is  almost  absorbed  in  a  wide  sandy 
bed  before  it  reaches  the  Anio.  Nothing  can  be  more  fortunate  for  the  lines  of  the 
jpoet,  whether  in  a  metaphorical  or  direct  sense  : — 


CANTO   THE   FOURTH.  233 

"  Me  quotiens  reficit  gelidus  Digentia  rivus, 
duem  Mandela  bibit  rugosus  frigore  pagus." 

The  stream  is  clear  high  up  the  valley,  but  before  it  reaches  the  hill  of  Bardela  looks 
green  and  yellow  like  a  sulphur  rivulet. 

Rocca  Giovane,  a  ruined  village  in  the  hills,  half  an  hour's  walk  from  the  vine- 
yard where  the  pavement  is  shown,  does  seem  to  be  the  site  of  the  fane  of  Vacuna, 
and  an  inscription  found  there  tells  that  this  temple  of  the  Sabine  Victory  was  re- 
paired by  Vespasian.*  With  these  helps,  and  a  position  corresponding  exactly  to 
every  thing  which  the  poet  has  told  us  of  his  retreat,  we  may  feel  tolerably  secure  oi 
our  site. 

The  hill  which  should  be  Lucretilis  is  called  Campanile,  and  by  following  up  the 
rivulet  to  the  pretended  Bandusia,  you  come  to  the  roots  of  the  higher  mountain 
Gennaro.  Singularly  enough,  the  only  spot  of  ploughed  land  in  the  whole  valley  is 
oa  the  knoll  where  this  Bandusia  rises. 

"  .  .  .  .  tu  frigus  amabile 
Fessis  vomere  tauris 
Praebes,  et  pecori  vago." 

The  peasants  show  another  spring  near  the  mosaic  pavement  which  they  call 
"  Oradina,"  and  which  flows  down  the  hills  into  a  tank,  or  mill-dam,  and  thenc& 
trickles  over  into  the  Digentia. 

But  we  must  not  hope 

"  To  trace  the  Muses  upwards  to  their  spring," 

by  exploring  the  windings  of  the  romantic  valley  in  search  of  the  Bandusian  fountain, 
It  seems  strange  that  any  one  should  have  thought  Bandusia  a  fountain  of  the 
Digentia  —  Horace  has  not  let  drop  a  word  of  it;  and  this  immortal  spring  has  in 
fact  been  discovered  in  possession  of  the  holders  of  many  good  things  in  Italy,  the 
monks.  It  was  attached  to  the  church  of  St.  Gervais  and  Protais  near  Venusia, 
where  it  was  most  likely  to  be  found.f  We  shall  not  be  so  lucky  as  a  late  traveller 
in  finding  the  occasional  pine  still  pendent  on  the  poetic  villa.  There  is  not  a  pine  in 
the  whole  valley,  but  there  are  two  cypresses,  which  he  evidently  took,  or  mistook, 
for  the  tree  in  the  ode.}  The  truth  is,  that  the  pine  is  now,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of 
Virgil,  a  garden  tree,  and  it  was  not  at  all  likely  to  be  found  in  the  craggy  acclivities 
of  the  valley  of  Rustica.  Horace  probably  had  one  of  them  in  the  orchard  close 
above  his  farm,  immediately  overshadowing  his  villa,  not  on  the  rocky  heights  at 
some  distance  from  his  abode.  The  tourist  may  have  easily  supposed  himself  to 
have  seen  this  pine  figured  in  the  above  cypresses  ;  for  the  orange  and  lemon  trees 
which  throw  such  a  bloom  over  his  description  of  the  royal  gardens  at  Naples,  unless 
they  have  been  since  displaced,  were  assuredly  only  acacias  and  other  common  gar- 
den shrubs.§ 


XXXII. 
EUSTACE'S  CLASSICAL  TOUR. 

The  extreme  disappointment  experienced  by  choosing  the  Classical  Tourist  as  a 
guide  in  Italy  must  be  allowed  to  find  vent  in  a  few  observations,  which,  it  is  asserted 

*.  IMP.  C-ESAR  VESPASIANVS 
PONTIFEX  MAXIMVS.    TRIB. 

POTEST.  CENSOR.  -&DEM 

VICTORIA.  VETVSTATE  1LLAPSAM. 

SVA.  IMPENSA.  RESTITVIT. 

t  See  —  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto,  p.  43 

J  See  —  Classical  Tour,  &c.  chap.  vii.  p.  250.  vol.  ii. 

§  "  Under  our  windows,  and  bordering  on  the  beach,  is  the  royal  garden,  laid  out  in 
parterres,  and  walks  shaded  by  rows  of  orange  trees."  Classical  Tour,  &c.  chap, 
xi.  vol.  ii.  oct.  365. 


234  HISTORICAL   NOTES   TO 

without  fear  of  contradiction,  will  be  confirmed  by  every  one  who  has  selected  the 
same  conductor  through  the  same  country.  This  author  is  in  fact  one  of  the  most 
inaccurate,  unsatisfactory  writers  that  have  in  our  times  attained  a  temporary  repu- 
tation, and  is  very  seldom  to  be  trusted  even  when  he  speaks  of  objects  which  he  must 
presumed  to  have  seen.  His  errors,  from  the  simple  exaggeration  to  the  downright 
mis-statement,  are  so  frequent  as  to  induce  a  suspicion  that  ne  had  either  never  visited 
the  spots  described,  or  had  trusted  to  the  fidelity  of  former  writers.  Indeed  the  Clas- 
sical Tour  has  every  characteristic  of  a  mere  compilation  of  former  notices,  strung 
together  upon  a  very  slender  thread  of  personal  observation,  and  swelled  out.  by  those 
decorations  which  are  so  easily  supplied  by  a  systematic  adoption  of  all  the  common- 
places of  praise,  applied  to  every  thing,  and  therefore  signifying  nothing. 

Tne  style  which  one  person  thinks  cloggy  and  cumbrous,  and  unsuitable,  may  be 
to  the  taste  of  others,  and  such  may  experience  some  salutary  excitement  in  plough- 
ing through  the  periods  of  the  Classical  Tour.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that  polish 
and  weight  are  apt  to  beget  an  expectation  of  value.  It  is  amongst  the  pains  of  the 
damned  to  toil  up  a  climax  with  a  huge  round  stone. 

The  tourist  had  the  choice  of  his  words,  but  there  was  no  such  latitude  allowed  to 
that  of  his  sentiments.  The  love  of  virtue  and  of  liberty,  which  must  have  distin- 
guished the  character,  certainly  adorns  the  pages  of  Mr.  Eustace,  and  the  gentle- 
manly spirit,  so  recommendatory  either  in  an  author  or  his  productions,  is  very  con- 
spicuous throughout  the  Classical  Tour.  But  these  generous  qualities  are  the  tbliage 
of  such  a  performance,  and  may  be  spread  about  it  so  prominently,  and  profusely  as 
to  embarrass  those  who  wish  to  see  and  find  the  fruit  at  hand.  The  unction  of  the 
divine,  and  the  exhortations  of  the  moralist,  may  have  made  this  work  something  more 
and  better  than  a  book  of  travels,  but  they  have  not  made  it  a  book  of  travels  ;  and 
this  observation  applies  more  especially  to  that  enticing  method  of  instruction  conveyed 
by  the  perpetual  introduction  of  the  same  Gallic  Helot  to  reel  and  bluster  before  the 
rising  generation,  and  terrify  it  into  decency  by  the  display  of  all  the  excesses  of  the 
revolution.  An  animosity  against  atheists  and  regicides  in  general,  and  Frenchmen 
specifically,  may  be  honourable,  and  may  be  useful  as  a  record  ;  but  that  antidote 
should  either  be  administered  in  any  work  rather  than  a  tour,  or,  at  least,  should  be 
served  up  apart,  and  not  so  mixed  with  the  whole  mass  of  information  and  reflection,  as 
to  give  a  bitterness  to  every  page  :  for  who  would  choose  to  have  the  antipathies  of 
any  man,  however  just,  for  his  travelling  companions  ?  A  tourist,  unless  he  aspires 
to  the  credit  of  prophecy,  is  not  answerable  for  the  changes  which  may  take  place  in 
the  country  which  he  describes  ;  but  his  reader  may  very  fairly  esteem  all  his  political 
portraits  and  deductions  as  so  much  waste  paper,  the  moment  they  cease  to  assist, 
and  more  particularly  if  they  obstruct,  his  actual  survey. 

Neither  encomium  nor  accusation  of  any  government,  or  governors,  is  meant  to  be 
here  offered  ;  but  it  is  stated  as  an  incontrovertible  fact,  that  the  change  operated, 
either  by  the  address  of  the  late  imperial  system,  or  by  the  disappointment  of  every 
expectation  by  those  who  have  succeeded  to  the  Italian  thrones,  has  been  so  con- 
siderable, and  is  so  apparent,  as  not  only  to  put  Mr.  Eustace's  antigallican  philippics 
entirely  out  of  date,  but  even  to  throw  some  suspicion  upon  the  competency  and  can- 
dour of  the  author  himself.  A  remarkable  example  may  be  found  in  the  instance  of 
Bologna,  over  whose  papal  attachments,  and  consequent  desolation,  the  tourist  pours 
forth  such  strains  of  condolence  and  revenge,  made  louder  by  the  borrowed  trumpet  of 
Mr.  Burke.  Now  Bologna  is  at  this  moment,  and  has  been  for  some  years,  notori- 
ous amongst  the  states  of  Italy  for  its  attachment  to  revolutionary  principles,  and  was 
almost  the  only  city  which  made  any  demonstrations  in  favour  of  the  unfortunate 
Murat.  This  change  may,  however,  have  been  made  since  Mr.  Eustace  visited 
this  country ;  but  the  traveller  whom  he  has  thrilled  with  horror  at  the  projected 
stripping  of  the  copper  from  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter's,  must  be  much  relieved  to  find 
that  sacrilege  out  of  the  power  of  the  French,  or  any  other  plunderers,  the  cupola  be- 
ing covered  with  lead.* 

If  the  conspiring  voice  of  otherwise  rival  critics  had  not  given  considerable  currency 
to  the  Classical  Tour,  it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to  warn  the  reader,  that  how- 

*  "  What,  then,  will  be  the  astonishment,  or  rather  the  horror,  of  my  reader,  when  I 
inform  him  ........  the  FrenchCommitt.ee   turned  its  attention  to  Saint  Peter  s, 

and  employed  a  company  of  Jews  to  estimate  and  purchase  the  gold,  silver,  and  bronze 
that  adoin"  the  inside  of  the  edifice,  as  well  as  the  coppe  that  covers  the  vaults  and 
dome  on  the  outside."  Chap.  iv.  p.  130.  vol.  ii.  The  story  about  the  Jew  is  posi . 
lively  denied  at  Rome. 


CANTO   THE   FOURTH.  235 

ever  it  may  adorn  his  library,  it  will  be  of  little  or  no  service  to  him  in  his  carriage  ; 
and  if  the  judgment  of  those  critics  had  hitherto  been  suspended,  no  attempt  would 
have  been  made  to  anticipate  their  decision.  As  it  is,  those  who  stand  in  the  relation 
of  posterity  to  Mr.  Eustace  may  be  permitted  to  appeal  from  contemporary  praises, 
and  are  perhaps  more  likely  to  be  just  in  proportion  as  the  causes  of  love  and  hatred 
are  the  farther  removed.  This  appeal  had,  in  some  measure,  been  made  before  the 
above  remarks  were  written;  for  one  of  the  most  respectable  of  the  Florentine  pub- 
lishers, who  had  been  persuaded  by  the  repeated  inquiries  of  those  on  their  journey 
southwards  to  reprint  a  cheap  edition  of  the  Classical  Tour,  was,  by  the  concurring 
advice  of  returning  travellers,  induced  to  abandon  his  design,  although  he  had  already 
arranged  his  types  and  paper,  and  had  struck  ofFone  or  two  of  the  first  sheets. 

The  writer  "of  these  notes  would  wish  to  part  (like  Mr.  Gibbon)  on  good  terms 
with  the  Pope  and  the  Cardinals,  but  he  does  not  think  it  necessary  to  extend  the 
same  discreet  silence  to  their  humble  partisans. 


THE   GIAOUR; 


A   FRAGMENT   OF 


A  TURKISH  TALE. 


"  One  fatal  remembrance — one  sorrow  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  st  j.g. " 

MOOSE. 


TO 

SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 

AS   A   SLIGHT   BUT   MOST    SINCERE    TOKEN 
OF   ADMIRATION   OF   HIS    GENIUS, 

RESPECT  FOR  HIS  CHARACTER, 

AND   GRATITUDE   FOR  HIS   FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS   PRODUCTION   IS   INSRIBED 

BY   HIS    OBLIGED 
AND   AFFECTIONATE   SERVANT 

BYRON. 


London,  May,  1813 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  Tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present  is  founded 
upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in  the  East  than  formerly ; 
either  because  the  ladies  are  more  circumspect  than  in  the  "  olden 
time,"  or  because  the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  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  invasion.  The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being 
refused  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. 


VOL.  III. R 


THE   GIAOUR. 


No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb  (*)  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  clifl* 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain  : 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 


Fair  clime  !  where  every  season  smiles 

Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 

Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 

Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 

And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 

There,  mildly  dimpling,  Ocean's  cheek 

Reflects  the  tints  of  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  odours  there  f 

For  there  —  the  Rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 

Sultana  of  the  Nightingale,  (2) 
The  maid  for  whom  his  melody, 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 

Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale  : 

His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 

Unbent  by  winds,  unchill'd  by  snows, 

Far  from  the  winters  of  the  west, 

By  every  breeze  and  season  blest, 

Returns  the  sweets  by  Nature  given, 

In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven  ; 

(1)  A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by  some  supposed  the  sepulchre 
of  The  mist  ocles. 

(2)  The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  is  a  well-known  Persian  fable. 
If  I  mistake  not,  the  "  Bulbul  ofi  a  thousand  tales  n  is  one  of  his  appellations. 


244  THE    GIAOUR. 

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  (a) 

Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star 

Then  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar 

Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 

Rush  the  night -prowlers  on  the  prey, 

And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 

Strange  —  that  where  Nature  lov'd  to  trace 

As  if  for  Gods,  a  dwelling-place, 

And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mix'd 

Within  the  paradise  she  fix'd, 

There  man,  enamour'd  of  distress, 

Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 

And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 

That  takes  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,  fixed  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of  hell ; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy ! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 

(1)  The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek  sailor  by  night:  with  a 
steady  fair  wind,  and  during  a  calm,  it  is  accompanied  always  by  the  voice,  and  often 
by  dancing. 


THE    GIAOUR.  245 

And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air, 

The  rapture  of  repose  that 's  there, 

The  fix'd  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 

The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 

And  — •  but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 

Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy  (l) 

Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon  ; 

Yes,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone 

Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power  ; 

So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd. 

The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd  !  (') 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 

'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more ! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 

Expression's  last  receding  ray, 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 

The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished  earth ! 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave  ! 
Shrine  of  the  mighty !  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  1 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave  : 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? 

(1)  "  Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 

To  lie  in  cold  obstruction." 

Measure  for  Measure,  Act  III.  130,  Sc.  2. 

(2)  I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  what 
is  here  attempted  in  description,  but  those  who  have,  will  probably  retain  a  painful 
remembrance  of  that  singular  beauty  which  pervades,  with  few  exceptions,  the  fea- 
tures 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,  whatever  the  natural  energy  of  the  sufferer's  character :  but 
in  death  from  a  stab  the  countenance  preserves  its  traits  of  feeling  or  ferocity,  and  the 
mind  its  bias  to  the  last. 


246  THE    GIAOUR. 

These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

Oh  servile  offspring  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'  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeath'd  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 
Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command, 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land  ! 
There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die  ! 
'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  step  from  splendour  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  ; 

<1)  Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga,  (the  slave  of  the  seraglio  and  guai- 


THE    GIAOUR.  247 


Stain'd  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes  ; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest, 
Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast, 
Still  to  the  neighbouring  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, 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar, 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night, 

****** 

Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed, 
With  slacken'd  bit  and  hoof  of  speed  ? 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound 
The  cavern'd  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound  ; 
The  foam  that  streaks  the  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 !  (') 

dian  of  the  women,)  who  appoints  the  Waywode.    A  pander  and  eunuch  — these 
are  not  polite,  yet  true  appellations  —  now  governs  the  governor  of  Athens  ! 

(1)  Infidel. 


248  THE    GIAOUR. 

I  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 
But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface  : 
Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 
Is  scathed  by  fiery  passion's  brunt ; 
Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye, 
As  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 
Right  well  I  view  and  deem  thee  one 
Whom  Othman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On  —  on  he  hastened,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  pass'd,  and  vanish'd  from  my  sight, 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impress'd 
A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast, 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  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  fix'd  on  those  that  flee ; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight. 
He  wound  along ;  but  ere  he  pass'd 
One  glance  he  snatch'd,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  check'd  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood  — 
Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive-wood  ? 
The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill, 
The  mosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering  still : 
Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 
In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,  (2) 
The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal 
To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun  ; 
To-night  the  Bairam  feast 's  begun ; 
To-night  —  but  who  and  what  art  thou, 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  ? 
And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  either  pause  or  flee  ? 

(1)  "  Tophaike,"  musket.  —  The  Bairam  is  announced  by  the  cannon  at  sunset , 
the  illumination  of  the  Mosques,  and  the  firing  of  all  kinds  of  small  arms,  loaded  with 
ball,  proclaim  it  during  the  night. 


THE    GIAOUR.  249 

He  stood  —  some  dread  was  on  his  face, 

Soon  hatred  settled  in  its  place 

It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 

Of  transient  Anger's  darkening  blush, 

But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb, 

Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 

His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed  ; 

He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised, 

And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 

As  doubting  to  return  or  fly : 

Impatient  of  his  flight  delay'd, 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neigh'd  — 

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  roll, 

And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 

A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 

O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fears, 

Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years : 

What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 

By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast  ? 

That  pause,  which  ponder'd  o'er  his  fate, 

Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date  ! 

Though  in  Time's  record  nearly  nought, 

It  was  Eternity  to  Thought ! 

For  infinite  as  boundless  space 

The  thought  that  Conscience  must  embrace, 

(1)  Jerreed,  or  Djerrid,  a  blunted  Turkish  javelin,  which  is  darted  from  horseback 
with  great  force  and  precision.  It  is  a  favourite  exercise  of  the  Mussulmans  ;  but  I 
know  not  if  it  can  be  called  a  manly  one,  since  the  most  expert  in  the  art  are  the 
Black  Eunuchs  of  Constantinople.  I  think,  next  to  these,  a  Mamlouk  at  Smyrna 
was  the  most  skilful  that  came  within  my  observation. 


250  THE    GIAOUR. 

Which  in  itself  can  comprehend 
Woe  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 

The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone  ; 
And  did  he  fly  or  fall  alone  ? 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went ! 
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  Haram  bower ; 
And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 
The  Owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower ; 
The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim 
With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine,  grim  ; 
For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble  bed, 
Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread. 
'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play, 
And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 
As,  springing  high  the  silver  dew 
In  whirls  fantastically  flew, 
And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 
The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. 
'Twas  sweet,  when  cloudless  stars  were  bright. 
To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light, 
And  hear  its  melody  by  night, 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  childhood  play'd 
Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade  ; 
And  oft  upon  his  mother's  breast 
That  sound  had  harmonized  his  rest ; 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  Youth  along 
Its  bank  been  soothed  by  Beauty's  song  ; 
And  softer  seemed  each  melting  tone 
Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. 

(1)  The  blast  of  the  desert,  fatal  to  every  thing  living,  and  often  alluded  to  in  eas- 
tern poetry. 


THE    GIAOUR. 


251 


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  swell'd  the  gale 
Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail : 
That  quench'd  in  silence,  all  is  still, 
But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill : 
Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain, 
No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 
On  desert  sands  't  were  joy  to  scan 
The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man, 
So  here  the  very  voice  of  Grief 
Might  wake  an  Echo  like  relief — 
At  least 't  would  say,  "  All  are  not  gone  ; 
"  There  lingers  Life,  though  but  in  one  — " 
For  many  a  gilded  chamber  's  there, 
Which  Solitude  might  well  forbear  ; 
Within  that  dome  as  yet  Decay 
Hath  slowly  work'd  her  cankering  way  — 
But  gloom  is  gathered  o'er  the  gate, 
Nor  there  the  Fakir's  self  will  wait ; 
Nor  there  will  wandering  Dervise  stay 
For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay ; 
Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 
To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt."  (l) 
Alike  must  Wealth  and  Poverty 
Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 
For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 
With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side. 
His  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men, 
Is  Desolation's  hungry  den. 

The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labour, 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre  !  (2) 
******* 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet ; 

(1)  To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with  your  host,  ensures  the  safety 
of  the  guest :  even  though  an  enemy,  his  person  from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

(2)  I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are  the  first  duties  enjoined 
\>y  Mahomet;  and,  to  say  truth,  very  generally  practised  by  his  disciples.     The  first 
praise  that  can  be  bestowed  on  a  chief,  is  a  panegryic  on  his  bounty  ;  the  next,  on  his 
valour. 


252  THE    GIAOUR. 

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  :  (5) 

"  Ho  !  who  art  thou  V  —  "  This  low  salam  (s) 

Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am."  — 

"  The  burthen  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  still  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  plung'd,  and  slowly  sank, 
The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank  ; 
I  watch'd  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Bestirr'd  it  more,  —  'twas  but  the  beam 
That  chequer'd  o'er  the  living  stream  : 
I  gazed,  till  vanishing  from  view, 
Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew  ; 
Still  less  and  less,  a  speck  of  white 
That  gemm'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sight  ; 
And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep, 
Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep, 
Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves, 
They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 
****** 


(1)  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. 

(2)  Green  is  the  privileged  colour  of  the  prophet's  numerous  pretended  descen- 
dants; with  them,  as  here,  faith   (the  family  inheritance)  is  supposed  to  supersede 
the  necessity  of  good  works :  they  are  the  worst  of  a  very  indifferent  brood. 

(3)  "  Salam  aleikoum  !  aleikoum  !  salam  !"  peace  be  with  you  ;  be  with  you  peace — 
the  salutation  reserved  for  the  faithful :  —  to  a  Christian,  "  Urlarula,"  a  good  jour- 
ney ;  or  "  saban  hiresem,  saban  serula  ;"  good  morn,  good  even ;  and  sometimes, "  may 
,your  end  be  happy ;"  are  the  usual  salutes. 


THE    GIAOUR.  253 

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  full-grown  child, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild ; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betray'd, 
Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid ; 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice  : 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught, 
For  every  touch  that  woo'd  its  stay 
Hath  brush'd  its  brightest  hues  away, 
Till,  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 
'Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast, 
Ah !  where  shall  either  victim  rest  ? 
Can  this  with  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  woe  a  tear  can  claim 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 

****** 

The  Mind,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes, 

Is  like  the  Scorpion  girt  by  fire, 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows, 
The  flames  around  their  captive  close, 
Till  inly  search'd  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire, 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  she  nourish'd  for  her  foes, 

(1)  The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Kashmeer,  the  most  rare  and  beautiful  of  the 
species. 


254  THE    GIAOUR. 

Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain, 
Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain, 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain  ; 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire, 
Or  live  like  Scorpion  girt  by  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  Haram  flies, 
Nor  bends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes ; 
The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 
Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell  ? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell : 
Strange  rumours  in  our  city  say 

Zn  that  eve  she  fled  away, 
;n  Rhamazan's  (2)  last  sun  was  set, 
And  flashing  from  each  minaret 
Millions  of  lamps  proclaim'd  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  East. 
'Twas  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Which  Hassan  vainly  search'd  in  wrath ; 
For  she  was  flown  her  master's  rage 
In  likeness  of  a  Georgian  page, 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Had  wrong'd  him  with  the  faithless  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  deserv'd  a  grave  : 
And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque, 
And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 
Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 
Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 

(1)  Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so  placed  for  experiment  by 
gentle  philosophers.     Some  maintain  that  the  position  of  the  sting,  when  turned  to- 
wards the  head,  is  merely  a  convulsive  movement ;  but  others  have  actually  brought 
in  the  verdict,  "  Felo  de'se."     The  scorpions  are  surely  interested  in  a  speedy  de- 
cision of  the  question  ;  as,  if  once  fairly  established  as  insect  Catos,  they  will  proba- 
bly be  allowed  to  live  as  long  as  they  think  proper,  without  being  martyred  for  the 
sake  of  an  hypothesis. 

(2)  The  cannon  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan.    See  ante,  p.  248,  note. 


THE    GIAOUR. 

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  't  were  vain  to  tell, 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  Gazelle, 
It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well ; 
As  large,  as  languishingly  dark, 
But  Soul  beam'd  forth  in  every  spark 
That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid, 
Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid.  (a) 
Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say 
That  form  was  nought  but  breathing  clay, 
By  Alia !  I  would  answer  nay ; 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's  (3)  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,  (4) 
Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust  1 
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  (5)  blossoms  strew 

(1)  Phingari,  the  moon. 

(2)  The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giamschid,  the  embellisher  of  Istak- 
bar ;  from  its  splendour,  named  Schebgerag,  "  the  torch  of  night ;"  also  "  the  cup 
of  the  sun,"  &c.  —  In  the  first  edition,  "  Giamschid  "  was  written  as  a  word  of  three 
syllables,  so  D'Herbelot  has  it ;  but  I  am  told  Richardson  reduces  it  to  a  dissyllable, 
and  writes  "  Jamshid."     I  have  left  in  the  text  the  orthography  of  the  one  with  the 
pronunciation  of  the  other. 

(3)  Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth,  less  than  the  thread  of  a  famished  spider,  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  ex- 
pected, the  unskilful  and  tender  of  foot  contrive  to  tumble  with  a  "  facilis  descensus 
Averni,"  not  very  pleasing  in  prospect  to  the  next  passenger.     There  is  a  shorter 
cut  downwards  for  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

(4)  A  vulgar  error  :  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of  Paradise  to  well-behaved 
women  ;  but  by  far  the  greater  number  of  Mussulm  ans  interpret  the  text  their  own 
way,  and  exclude  their  moieties  from  heaven.     Being  enemies  to  Platonics,  they  can- 
not discern  "  any  fitness  of  things  "  in  the  souls  of  the  other  sex,  conceiving  them  to 
be  superseded  by  the  Houris. 

(5)  An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly  stolen,  be  deemed  tl  plus 
Arabe  qu'en  Arabic." 


256  THE    GIAOUR. 

Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new ; 
Her  hair  in  hyacinthine  (l]  flow, 
When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below, 
As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 
Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 
Gleam'd  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet 
Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 
It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 
The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water ; 
So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter, 
The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan !  (2) 
As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  Swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 

Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide ; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck  :  — 
Thus  arm'd  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  Folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise. 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait ; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate  ; 
Her  mate  —  stern  Hassan,  who  was  he  ? 
Alas !  that  name  was  not  for  thee ! 
******* 


Stern  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  arm'd,  as  best  becomes  a  man, 
With  arquebuss  and  ataghan  ; 
The  chief  before,  as  deck'd  for  war, 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 
Stain'd  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood, 
When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 
And  few  return'd  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  what  befell  in  Fame's  vale. 
The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 
Were  those  that  once  a  pasha  wore, 
Which  still,  though  gemm'd  and  possM  with  gold, 
Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 
>Tis  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 
More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side  ; 

(1)  Hyacinthine,  in  Arabic,  "  Sunbul;  "  as  common  a  thought  in  the  eastern  poets 
as  it  was  among  the  Greeks. 

(2)  "  Franguestan,"  Circassia. 


THE    GIAOUR.  257 

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  't  were  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  wet  the  thirsty  beak, 
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 : 
41  Bismillah  !  (J)  now  the  peril's  past ; 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
And  there  we  '11  prick  our  steeds  amain :" 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head ; 

(1)  Bismillah  —  "  In  the  name  of  God ; "  the  commencement  of  aQ  &e  chapters  of 
the  Koran  but  one,  and  of  prayer  and  thanksgiving. 
VOL.  III. — S 


258  THE    GIAOUR. 

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  unsheathed,  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. 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course, 
Till  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey ; 
Then  curl'd  his  very  beard  (x)  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 
Resign'd  carbine  or  ataghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  !  (*) 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 
The  lately  ambush'd  foes  appear, 
And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand, 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand  ? 
"  'Tis  he  !  'tis  he !  I  know  him  now ; 
I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow ; 

(1 )  A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussulman.   In  1809,  the  Capitan 
Pacha's  whiskers  at  a  diplomatic  audience  were  no  less  lively  with  indignation  than  a 
tiger  cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all  the  dragomans  ;  the  portentous  mustachios  twisted,  they 
stood  erect  of  their  own  accord,  and  were  expected   every  moment  to  change  their 
colour,  but  at  last  condescended  to  subside,   which,  proba'bly,  saved  more  heads  than 
they  contained  hairs. 

(2)  "  Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 


THE  GIAOUR.  259 


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 : 
3Tis  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  pealing  wide  or  ringing  near 

Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear, 
The  death-shot  hissing  from  afar  ; 
The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war, 

Reverberate  along  that  vale, 

More  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale  : 
Though  few  the  numbers  —  theirs  the  strife* 
That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life  ! 
Ah  !  fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press, 
To  seize  and  share  the  dear  caress  : 
But  Love  itself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  Beauty  sighs  to  grant, 
With  half  the  fervour  Hate  bestows 
Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes, 
When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fold 
Those  arms  that  ne'er  shall  lose  their  hold : 


(1)  The  "  evil  eye,"  a  common  superstition  in  the  Levant,  and  of  which  the  imagi« 
nary  effects  are  yet  very  singular  on  those  who  conceive  themselves  affected. 


THE  GIAOUR. 

Friends  meet  to  part ;  Love  laughs  at  faith ; 
True  foes,  once  met,  are  join'd  till  death ! 
******* 

With  sabre  shiver'd  to  the  hilt, 

Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt ; 

Yet  strain'd  within  the  sever'd  hand 

Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand ; 

His  turban  far  behind  him  roll'd, 

And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold  ; 

His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 

And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  morn 

That,  streak'd  with  dusky  red,  portend 

The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end ; 

A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bore 

A  fragment  of  his  palampore,  (l) 

His  breast  with  wounds  unnumbered  riven, 

His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 

Fall'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  with  these, 
The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize  ; 
My  wrath  is  wreak'd,  the  deed  is  done, 
And  now  I  go  —  but  go  alone." 
****** 


The  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling : 
His  mother  look'd  from  her  lattice  high, 

£7}  The  flowered  shawls,  generally  worn  by  persons  of  rank. 


THE   GIAOUR.  261 

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  1  his  steeds  are  fleet, 
Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat ; 
Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  promised  gift  ? 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 
Oh,  false  reproach !  yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gain'd  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends  ; 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow  — 
How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow  ? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate, 

But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight : 

His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress, 

But  this  might  be  from  weariness  ; 

His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 

But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side ; 

He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest  — 

Angel  of  Death  !  'tis  Hassan's  cloven  crest ! 

His  calpac  (x)  rent  —  his  caftan  red  — 

"  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed  : 

Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 

But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bear. 

Peace  to  the  brave !  whose  blood  is  spilt ; 

Woe  to  the  Giaour  !  for  his  the  guilt." 

******* 

A  turban  (2)  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. 

(1 )  The  "  Calpac  "  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  part  of  the  head-dress ;  the  shawl  is 
wound  round  it,  and  forms  the  turban. 

(2)  The  turban,  pillar,  and  inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the  tombs  of  the  Osmanlies, 
whether  in  the  cemetery  or  the  wilderness.     In  the  mountains  you  frequently  pass 
similar  mementos ;  and  on  enquiry  you  are  informed  that  they  record  some  victim 
of  rebellion,  plunder,  or  revenge. 


THE   GIAOUR* 

There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e'er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee ; 
As  ever  scorn'd  forbidden  wine, 
Or  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of  "  Alia  Hu  !  "  (') 
Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand, 
And  stranger  in  his  native  land  ; 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 
And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite, 
And  the  dark  Heaven  of  Houris'  eyes 

On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  bright ; 
They  come  —  their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave,(a) 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave ! 
Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 
****** 

But  thou,  false  Infidel !  shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's  (8)  scythe  ; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis'  (4)  throne  ; 
And  fire  unquench'd,  unquenchable, 
Around,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell ; 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell ! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  vampire  (5)  sent, 
Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent : 

(l)"AllaHu!"  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  Muezzin 
has  a  fine  voice,  which  is  frequently  the  case,  the  effect  is  solemn  and  beautiful  be- 
yond all  the  bells  in  Christendom, " 

(2)  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, '  Corne,  kiss  me,  for  I  love  thee,'  "  etc. 

(3)  Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  before  whom  the  corpse  un- 
dergoes a  slight  noviciate  and  preparatory  training  for  damnation.     If  the  answers  are 
none  of  the  clearest,  he  is  hauled  up  with  a  scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a  red-hot 
mace  till  properly  seasoned,  with  a  variety  of  subsidiary  probations.     The  office  of 
these  angels  is  no  sinecure  ;  there  are  but  two,  and  the  number  of  orthodox  deceased 
being  in  a  small  proportion  to  the  remainder,  their  hands  are  always  full. 

(4)  Eblis,  the  Oriential  Prince  of  Darkness. 

(5)  The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Levant.     Honest  Tournefort 
lells  a  long  story,  which  Mr.  Southey,  in  the  notes  on  Thalaba,  quotes,  about  these 
"  Vroucofochas.'"  as  he  callslhem.     The  Romaic   term  is  "  Vardoulacha."     Ire- 
collect  a  whole  family  being  terrified  by  the  scream  of  a  child,  which  they  imagined 
must  proceed  from  such  a  visitation.     The  Greeks  never  mention  the  word  without 
horror.     I  find   that '<  Broucolokas"  is  an  old  legitimate   Hellenic  appellation  —  at 
least  is  so  applied  to  Arsenius,  who,  according  to  the  Greeks,  was  after  his  death 
animated  by  the  Devil.  —  The  moderns,  however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 


THE  GIAOUR.  263 

Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place, 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race  ; 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life  ; 
Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse  : 
Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them, 
Thy  flowers  are  wither'd  on  the  stem. 
But  one  that  for  thy  crime  must  fall, 
The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all, 
Shall  bless  thee  with  a/aJ/ier'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  shall  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  Gouls  and  Afrits  rave ; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they ! 
******* 

"  How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer? 

His  features  I  have  scann'd  before 
In  mine  own  land :  'tis  many  a  year, 
Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 
I  saw  him  urge  as  fleet  a  steed 
As  ever  served  a  horseman's  need. 
But  once  I  saw  that  face,  yet  then 
It  was  so  mark'd  with  inward  pain, 
I  could  not  pass  it  by  again  ; 
It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now, 
As  death  were  stamp'd  upon  his  brow." 

(1)  The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip  with  blood,  are  the  never* 
failing  signs  of  a  Vampire.  The  stories  told  in  Hungary  and  Greece  of  tnese  foul 
feeders  are  singular,  and  some  of  them  most  incredibly  attested. 


264  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  'Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer-tide 

Since  first  among  our  freres  he  came ; 
And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 

For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name. 
But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 
Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 
Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 
Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies, 
But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 
His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 
The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost, 
And  here  ascended  from  the  coast ; 
Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race, 
But  only  Christian  in  his  face  : 
I'd  judge  him  some  stray  renegade, 
Repentant  of  the  change  he  made, 
Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine. 
Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
And  thus  our  abbot's  favour  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, 
Arid  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  sever'd  from  its  parent  limb, 
Invisible  to  all  but  him, 
Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave, 
And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 
*         *         *    '     #         *         * 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl 
That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl : 
The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 
Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by ; 
Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue, 
Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue, 
For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell 
Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 


THE  GIAOUR. 


265 


A  spirit  yet  unquell'd  and  high, 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendency ; 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake, 

Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look, 

Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook 

From  him  the  half-affrighted  Friar 

When  met  alone  would  fain  retire, 

As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 

Transferr'd  to  others  fear  and  guile  : 

Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he, 

And  when  he  doth  'tis  sad  to  see 

That  he  but  mocks  at  Misery. 

How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver ! 

Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever  ; 

As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 

Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 

Well  were  it  so  —  such  ghastly  mirth 

From  joyance  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 

But  sadder  still  it  were  to  trace 

What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face  : 

Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fix'd, 

But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mix'd  ; 

And  there  are  hues  not  always  faded, 

Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded 

Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  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  !  though  both  bestow'd  in  vain, 

Which  Grief  could  change,  and  Guilt  could  stain, 

It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 

To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent, 

And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 

On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. 

The  roofless  cot,  decay'd  and  rent, 

Will  scarce  delay  the  passer  by ; 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 

Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger's  eye  ; 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone, 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone  ! 

"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 

Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  column'd  aisle  ; 


266  THE  GIAOUR. 

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  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done  — 
And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 
See  —  by  the  half-illumined  wall 
His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 
That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 
As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 
The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 
That  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  stray'd : 
For  he  declines  the  convent  oath, 
And  leaves  those  locks  unhallow'd  growth, 
But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside  ; 
And,  not  from  piety  but  pride, 
Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard 
Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 
Lo  !  —  mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 
Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky, 
That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 
Of  mix'd  defiance  and  despair ! 
Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine! 
Else  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 
Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 
If  ever  evil  angel  bore 
The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore  : 
By  all  rny  hope  of  sins  forgiven, 
Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven !  n 

To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 

But  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  own ; 

Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 

Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair ; 

And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 

The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal. 

The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 

Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine, 

But  plunged  within  the  furnace-flame, 

It  bends  and  melts  —  though  still  the  same  ; 

Then  temper'd  to  thy  want,  or  will, 

'Twill  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill ; 

A  breast- plate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 

Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed ; 


THE    GIAOUR.  267 


But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear, 
Let  those  who  shape  its  edge,  beware ! 
Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art, 
Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart ; 
From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en, 
And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain, 
But  break  —  before  it  bend  again. 
****** 
****** 


If  solitude  succeed  to  grief, 
Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share  : 
Even  bliss  —  't  were  woe  alone  to  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 ! 
It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,  (J) 

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  rnind, 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd. 
Who  would  be  doom'd  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun  ? 
Less  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billows  more  — 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay, 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay  ;  — 

(!)  The  pelican  is,  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  the  imputation  of  feeding  her 
chickens  with  her  blood. 


268  THE    GIAOUR. 

Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock ! 


"  Father !  thy  days  have  pass'd  in  peace, 

'Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer ; 
To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease, 

Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care, 
Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear, 
Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age ; 
And  thou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 
Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontroll'd, 
Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 
Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 
Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 
My  days,  though  few,  have  pass'd  below 
In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe  ; 
Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 
I've  'scaped  the  weariness  of  life  : 
Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 
I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 
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 't  is  rest. 
Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil ; 

And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 

Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem  : 
My  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead  ;  my  hope,  their  doom : 
Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a  life  of  lingering  woes. 
My  spirits  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pain ; 
Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
Of  ancient  fool  and  modern  knave  : 
Yet  death  I  have  not  fear'd  to  meet ; 
And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet, 
Had  danger  woo'd  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 


THE    GIAOUR.  269 

Fve  braved  it  —  not  for  honour'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  will  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 

To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require, 

Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire  : 

Nor  need'st  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  one 

Who  would  but  do  —  what  he  hath  done. 

Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave, 

The  weak  must  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave  ; 

Then  let  Life  go  to  him  who  gave  : 

I  have  not  quail'd  to  danger's  brow 

When  high  and  happy  —  need  I  now  ? 


"  I  loved  her,  Friar  !  nay,  adored  — 

But  these  are  words  that  all  can  use  — 
I  proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word  ; 
There's  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword, 

A  stain  its  steel  can  never  lose  : 
'Twas  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me, 

It  warm'd  the  heart  of  one  abhorr'd  : 
Nay,  start  not  —  no  —  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. 
Ungrateful  fool  !  since  but  for  brands 
Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  hands, 
And  wounds  by  Galileans  given, 
The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven, 
For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 
Impatient  at  the  Prophet's  gate. 
I  loved  her  —  love  will  find  its  way 
Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey  ; 
And  if  it  dares  enough,  't  were  hard 
If  passion  met  not  some  reward  — 
No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 
I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh  : 
Yet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain 
I  wish  she  had  not  loved  again. 


270  THE    GIAOUR. 

She  died  —  I  dare  not  tell  thee  how ; 

But  look  —  't  is  written  on  my  brow ! 

There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime, 

In  characters  unworn  by  time  : 

Still,  ere  thou  dost  condemn  rne,  pause  ; 

Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  cause. 

Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done 

Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 

Faithless  to  him,  he  gave  the  blow ; 

But  true  to  me,  I  laid  him  low  : 

Howe'er  deserved  her  doom  might  be, 

Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me  ; 

To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 

Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  enthral ; 

And  I,  alas  !  too  late  to  save  ! 

Yet.  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave, 

'Twas  some  relief,  our  foe  a  grave. 

His  death  sits  lightly ;  but  her  fate 

Has  made  me  —  what  thou  well  may'st  hate. 

His  doom  was  seal'd  —  he  knew  it  well, 
Warn'd  by  the  voice  of  stern  Taheer, 
Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear  (') 
The  death-shot  peal'd  of  murder  near, 

As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell ! 

(1)  This  superstition  of  a  second  hearing  (for  I  never  met  with  downright  second- 
sight  in  the  East)  fell  once  under  my  own  observation.  —  On  my  third  journey  to 
Cape  Colonna,  early  in  1811,  as  we  passed  through  the  defile  that  leads  from  the  ham- 
let between  Keratia  and  Colonna,  I  observed  Dervish  Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of 
the  path,  and  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand;  as  if  in  pain.  I  rode  up  and  enquired. 
"  We  are  in  peril,"  he  answered.  "  What  peril  ?  we  are  not  now  in  Albania,  nor 
in  the  passes  to  Ephesus,  Messalunghi,  or  Lepanto ;  there  are  plenty  of  us,  well 
armed,  and  the  Choriates  have  not  courage  to  be  thieves." — "  True,  Aflendi,  but 
nevertheless  the  shot  is  ringing  in  rny  ears."  — "  The  shot!  not  a  tophaike  has 
been  fired  this  morning."  —  "  I  near  it  notwithstanding —  Bom  —  Bom  —  as  plainly 
as  I  hear  your  voice."  —  "  Psha  !"  —  "  As  you  please,  Affendi ;  if  it  is  written,  so 
will  it  be.  — I  left  this  quick-eared  predestinarian,  and  rode  up  to  Basili,  his  Chris- 
tian compatriot,  whose  ears,  though  not  at  all  prophetic,  by  no  means  relished  the 
intelligence.  We  all  arrived  at  Colonna,  remained  some  hours,  and  returned  lei- 
surely, saying  a  variety  of  brilliant  things,  in  more  languages  than  spoiled  the  building 
of  Babel,  upon  the  mistaken  seer;  Romaic,  Arnaout,  Turkish,  Italian,  and  English" 
were  all  exercised,  in  various  conceits,  upon  the  unfortunate  Mussulman.  While  we 
were  contemplating  the  beautiful  prospect,  Dervish  was  occupied  about  the  columns. 
I  thought  he  was  deranged  into  an  antiquarian,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  become  a 
"  Palao-castro  "  man?  "  No,"  said  he,  "  but  these  pillars  will  be  useful  in  making 
a  stand  ;"  and  added  other  remarks,  which  at  least  evinced  his  own  belief  in  his  trou- 
blesome faculty  offorehearing.  On  our  return  to  Athens,  we  heard  from  Leone  (a 
prisoner  set  ashore  some  days  after)  of  the  intended  attack  of  the  Mainotes,  men- 
tioned, with  the  cause  of  its  not  taking  place,  in  the  notes  to  Childe  Harold,  Canto 
2d.  I  was  at  some  pains  to  question  the  man,  and  he  described  the  dresses,  arms, 
and  marks  of  the  horses  of  our  party  so  accurately,  that,  with  other  circumstances, 
we  could  not  doubt  of  his  having  been  in  "  villainous  company,"  and  ourselves  in  a 
bad  neighbourhood.  Dervish  became  a  soothsayer  for  life,  and  I  dare  say  is  now 
hearing  more  musketry  than  ever  will  be  fired,  to  the  great  refreshment  of  the  Arna- 
outs  of  Berat,  and  his  native  mountains. — I  shall  mention  one  trait  more  of  this  sin- 


THE    GIAOUR.  271 

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  pierc'd  like  pard  by  hunters'  steel, 
He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 
I  search'd,  but  vainly  search'd,  to  find 
The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind ; 
Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 
Betray'd  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 
Oh,  what  had  Vengeance  given  to  trace 
Despair  upon  his  dying  face  ! 
The  late  repentance  of  that  hour, 
When  Penitence  hath  lost  her  power 
To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave, 
And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 
****** 

"  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name  ; 

But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

That  boils  in  ^Etna'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  blest 


gular  race.  In  March,  1811,  a  remarkably  stout  and  active  Arnaout  came  (I  believe 
the  50th  on  the  same  errand)  to  offer  himself  as  an  attendant,  which  was  declined: 
"  Well,  Atfendi,"  quoth  he,  "  may  you  live  !  —  you  would  have  found  me  useful.  I 
shall  leave  the  to 
then  receive  me. 
of  no  consequence, 

was  true  to  the  letter.—  If  not  cut  off,  they  come  down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  un- 
molested in  some  town,  where  they  are  often  as  well  known  as  their  exploits. 


i,"  quot  e,  "  may  you  ve  !  —  you  would  have  found  me  useful.  I 
own  for  the  hills  to-morrow,  in  the  winter  I  return,  perhaps  you  will 
."  —  Dervish,  who  w  is  present,  remarked,  as  a  thing  of  course,  and 
ce,  "  in  the  mean  time  he  will  join  the  Klephtes  "  (robbers),  which 


272  THE    GIAOUR. 

Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid? 
No  —  reft  of  all,  yet  undismay'd 
But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide  ! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died : 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave  — 
Ah  !  had  she  but  an  earthly  grave, 
This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed. 
She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light, 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight ; 
And  rose,  where'er  I  turned  mine  eye, 
The  Morning  star  of  Memory  ! 

"  Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven ; 

A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
With  angels  shared,  by  Alia  given, 

To  life  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 
But  Heaven  itself  descends  in  love  ; 
A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 
To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought ; 
A  Ray  of  him  who  form'd  the  whole  ; 
A  Glory  circling  round  the  soul ! 
I  grant  my  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall ; 
Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt ; 
But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt ! 
She  was  my  life's  unerring  light : 
That  quench'd,  what  beam  shall  break  my  night  ? 
Oh !  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill ! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 

This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 

No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope  ; 
In  phrensy  then  their  fate  accuse : 
In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe  ? 
Alas !  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  nought  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 : 


THE    GIAOUR.  273 


I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow, 

And  this  too  was  I  born  to  bear ! 
'Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey, 
With  havock  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  woe, 
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 ! 

14  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  woe. 
But  talk  no  more  of  penitence  ; 
Thou  see'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence  : 
And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 
The  deed  that 's  done  canst  thou  undo  1 

VOL.  III. T 


274  THE    GIAOUR. 

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 ! 

44  In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours, 

When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 
Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers 

I  had  —  Ah  !  have  I  now  ?  —  a  friend ! 
To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send, 

Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow  ; 
I  would  remind  him  of  my  end  : 

Though  souls  absorbed  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim, 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
>Tis  strange  —  he  prophesied  my  doom, 

And  I  have  smiled  —  I  then  could  smile  — 
When  Prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 

And  warn  —  I  reck'd  not  what  —  the  while  : 
But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
Those  accents  scarcely  mark'd  before. 
Say  —  that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 

And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth, 

And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth : 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was, 

Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 

Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been, 
In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died  ; 
But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away, 
If  Guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame, 
Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name  ; 
And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame  1 

(I)  The  monk's  sermon  is  omitted.  It.  seems  to  have  had  so  little  effect  upon  the 
patient,  that  it  could  have  no  hopes  from  the  reader.  It  may  be  sufficient  to  say, 
that  it  was  of  a  customary  length  (as  maybe  perceived  from  the  interruptions  and 
uneasiness  of  the  patient) ,  and  was  delivered  in  the  usual  tone  of  all  orthodox  preach- 


THE    GIAOUR.  275 

I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn, 
Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn  j 
And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier  'I 
But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 
And  tell  him  —  what  thou  dost  behold  1 
The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  rnind, 
The  wrack  by  passion  left  behind, 
A  shrivell'd  scroll,  a  scatter'd  leaf, 
Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief ! 
****** 

"  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam, 
No,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream 
Alas  !  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
I  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep  ; 
But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbb'd  to  the  very  brain  as  now  : 
I  wish'd  but  for  a  single  tear, 
As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear : 
I  wish'd  it  then,  I  wish  it  still ; 
Despair  is  stronger  than  my  will. 
Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer : 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest ; 
I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 
?Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  father !  then 
I  saw  her  ;  yes,  she  lived  again ; 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar,  (*) 
As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 
Which  now  1  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 
Who  look'd  and  looks  far  lovelier  ; 
Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark  ; 
To-morrow's  night  shall  be  more  dark  ; 
And  I,  before  its  rays  appear, 
That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
I  wander,  father  !  for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 
I  saw  her,  friar  !  and  I  rose 
Forgetful  of  our  former  woes  ; 
And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  darf, 
And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart ; 
I  clasp  —  what  is  it  that  I  clasp  ? 
No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 

(1)  "  Symar,"  a  shroud. 


276  THE    GIAOUR. 

No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine, 
Yet,  Leila  !  yet  the  form  is  thine  ! 
And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much, 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch  ? 
Ah !  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 
I  care  not ;  so  my  arms  enfold 
The  all  they  ever  wish'd  to  hold. 
Alas !  around  a  shadow  prest, 
They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast ; 
Yet  still  'tis  there  !  In  silence  stands, 
And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands  ! 
With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye  — 
I  knew  'twas  false  —  she  could  not  die  ! 
But  he  is  dead  !  within  the  dell 
I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell ; 
He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth  ;  why  then  art  thou  awake  ? 
They  told  me  wild  waves  roll'd  above 
The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love ; 
They  told  me  —  'twas  a  hideous  tale  ! 
I'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail : 
If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 
Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave, 
Oh !  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 
This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more  ; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart : 
But,  shape  or  shade !  whate'er  thou  art, 
In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart ! 
Or  farther  with  thee  bear  my  soul, 
Than  winds  can  waft  or  waters  roll ! 


"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 

Confessor !  to  thy  secret  ear 
I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  bewail, 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead, 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head, 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread, 
By  prying  stranger  to  be  read, 
Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread." 

He  pass'd  —  nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace, 


THE    GIAOUR.  277 

Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day : 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew.  (') 

(1)  The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  relates  was  not  very  uncommon  in 
Turkey.  A  few  years  ago  the  wife  of  Muchtar  Pacha  complained  to  his  father  of 
his  son's  supposed  infidelity  ;  he  asked  with  whom,  and  she  had  the  barbarity  to  give 
in  a  list  of  the  twelve  handsomest  women  in  Yanina.  They  were  seized,  fastened 
up  in  sacks,  and  drowned  in  the  lake  the  same  night!  One  of  the  guards  who  was 
present  informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a  cry,  or  showed  a  symptom 
of  terror  at  so  sudden  a  "  wrench  from  all  we  know,  from  all  we  love."  The  fate  of 
Phrosine,  the  fairest  of  this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of  many  a  Romaic  and  Arnaout 
ditty.  The  story  in  the  text  is  one  told  of  a  young  Venetian  many  years  ago,  and 
now  nearly  forgotten.  I  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of  the  coffee-house  sto- 
ry-tellers who  abound  in  the  Levant,  and  sing  or  recite  their  narratives.  The  addi- 
tions and  interpolations  by  the  translator  will  be  easily  distinguished  from  the  rest  by 
the  want  of  Eastern  imagery ;  and  I  regret  that  my  memory  has  retained  so  few 
fragments  of  the  original. 

For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  indebted  partly  to  D'Herbelot,  and 
partly  to  that  most  eastern,  and,  as  Mr.  Weber  justly  entitles  it,  "  sublime  tale," 
the  "  Caliph  Vathek."  I  do  not  know  from  what  source  the  author  of  that  singular 
volume  may  have  drawn  his  materials  ;  some  of  his  incidents  are  to  be  found  in  the 
"  Bibliotheque  Orientale  ;  but  for  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and 
power  of  imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all  European  imitations  ;  and  bears  such  marks 
of  originality,  that  those  who  have  visited  the  East,  will  find  some  difficulty  in  believ- 
ing it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an  Eastern  tale,  even  Rasselas  must  bow 
before  it ;  his  "  Happy  Valley "  will  not  bear  a  comparison  with  the  "  Hall  of 
Eblis." 


THE 


BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS, 

A  TURKISH  TALE. 


"  Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  fcjroken-hearted." 

BURKS. 


TO 
THE  RIGHT   HONOURABLE 

LORD    HOLLAND, 

THIS   TALE 

IS   INSCRIBED,   WITH 

EVERY   SENTIMENT   OP   REGARD, 

AND   RESPECT, 

BY   HIS   GRATEFULLY   OBLIGED 
AND  SINCERE  FRIEND, 

BYRON. 


THE 


BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS, 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


KNOW  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 

Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  1 

Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 

Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine ; 

Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppress'd  with  perfume, 

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  sky 

In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 

And  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  hi  dye ; 

Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 

And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 

>Tis  the  clime  of  the  East ;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun  — 

Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  1  (a) 

Oh !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 

Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell. 

u. 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave, 
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  ; 

(1)"  GUI,"  therose. 

(2)  "  Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  Sun, 

With  whom  revenge  is  virtue." 

Young's  Revenge, 


284  THE  BRIDE  OP  ABYDOS. 

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. 


in. 

"  Let  the  chamber  be  clear'd."  —  The  train  disappeared  — 

"  Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Haram  guard." 
With  Giaffir  is  none  but  his  only  son, 

And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire's  award. 

"  Haroun  —  when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 

Are  pass'd  beyond  the  outer  gate, 

(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 

My  child  Zuleika's  face  unveil'd  !) 

Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower ; 

Her  fate  is  fix'd  this  very  hour : 

Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought ; 

By  me  alone  be  duty  taught !  " 

"  Pacha !  to  hear  is  to  obey." 

No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say  — 

Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way, 

But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 
First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet ; 

And  downcast  look'd,  and  gently  spake, 
Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet : 

For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 

Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire  ! 

11  Father !  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide, 
Know  —  for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be, 
Was  mine,  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me  — 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 

That  —  let  the  old  and  weary  sleep  — 
I  could  not ;  and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 
With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high 
Were  irksome  —  for  whate'er  my  mood, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude  ; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke, 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 

Soon  turns  the  Haram's  grating  key, 


THE  BRIDE  OP  ABYDOS.  285 

Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke 

We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown, 

And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own ! 

There  linger'd  we,  beguiled  too  long 

With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song  ;  (') 

Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour  (2) 

Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour, 

To  thee,  and  to  my  duty  true, 

Warri'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  ! 
Thou,  who  would'st  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent ; 
Nay,  tamely  view  old  StamboPs  wall 
Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall, 
Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth  ! 
Go  —  let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 
Assume  the  distaff — not  the  brand. 
But,  Haroun !  —  to  my  daughter  speed  : 
And  hark  —  of  thine  own  head  take  heed  — 
If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing  — 
Thou  see'st  yon  bow  —  it  hath  a  string  !  " 

v. 

No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard, 
At  least  that  met  old  Giaffir's  ear, 

(1)  Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  East.     Sadi,  the  moral  poet 
of  Persia. 

(2)  Tambour,  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise,  noon,  and  twilight. 


286  THE  -BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword  : 

"  Son  of  a  slave !  —  reproach'd  with  fear  ! 

Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 
Son  of  a  slave  !  —  and  who  my  sire  ?  " 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career ; 
And  glances  ev'n  of  more  than  ire 

Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started ;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  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  ft  11, 
On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed  : 

That  eye  return'd  him  glance  for  glance, 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir's  quail'd  and  shrunk  askance — • 
And  why  —  he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 
"  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy : 
I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 
And  —  but  his  arm  is  little  worth, 
And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 
Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life  — 
I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone  : 
No  —  nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 
That  blood  —  he  hath  not  heard  —  no  more 
I'll  watch  him  closer  than  before. 
He  is  an  Arab  (')  to  my  sight, 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight  — 
But  hark  !  —  I  hear  Zuleika's  voice  ; 

Like  Houris'  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear  : 
She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice  ; 

Oh  !  more  than  ev'n  her  mother  dear, 

(1)  The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compliment  a  hundred  fold)  even 
more  than  they  hate  the  Christians. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  287 

• 

With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear  — 
My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here  ! 
Sweet  as  the  desert  fountain's  wave 
To  lips  just  cool'd  in  time  to  save  — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou  ; 
Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrine 
More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine, 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now." 

VI. 

Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 

When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiling, 
Whose  image  then  was  stamp'd  upon  her  mind  — 

But  once  beguiled  —  and  ever  more  beguiling  ; 
Dazzling,  as  that,  oh !  too  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 ; 
Wras  she  —  the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  Chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears  —  but  not  of  grief. 

Who  had  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 
To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly  ray  1 
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 !  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  Soul  ! 

(1)  This  expression  has  met  with  objections.  I  will  not  refer  to  "  Him  who  hath 
not  music  in  his  soul,"  but  merely  request  the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds, 
the  features  of  the  woman  whom  he  believes  1o  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  latest  work  of  the  first  female  writer  of 
this,  perhaps  of  any,  age,  on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  comparison  excited  by 
that  analogy,)  between  "  painting  and  music,"  see  vol.  hi.  cap.  10.  DE  L'ALLE- 
MAGNE.  And  is  not  this  connexion  still  stronger  with  the  original  than  the  copy? 
With  the  colouring  of  Nature  than  of  Art  ?  After  all,  this  is  rather  to  be  felt  than  de- 
scribed ;  still  I  think  there  are  some  who  will  understand  it,  at  least  they  would  have 
done,  had  they  beheld  the  countenance  whose  speaking  harmony  suggested  the  idea , 
for  this  passage  is  not  drawn  from  imagination  but  memory,  that  mirror  which  Afflic- 
tion dashes  to  the  earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  fragments,  only  beholds  the  re- 
flection multiplied ! 


288  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

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  carest 
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. 


VII. 

"  Zuleika !  child  of  gentleness ! 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tellr 
When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 

In  losing  what  I  love  so  well, 

To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell : 

Another  !  and  a  braver  man 

Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
We  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood  ; 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman  (*) 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 
First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 
That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
Enough  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 
Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou  : 
His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  employ  ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  noble  dower : 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  tl^e  death-firman, 
Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 
And  teach  the  messenger  (2)  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 

(!)  Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  the  principal  landholder  in  Turkey ; 
he  governs  Magnesia:  those  who,  by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  con- 
dition of  service,  are  called  Timariots  :  they  serve  as  Spahis,  according  to  the  extent 
of  territory,  and  bring  a  certain  number  into  the  field,  generally  cavalry. 

(2)  When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  single  messenger,  who  is  al- 
ways the  first  bearer  of  the  order  for  his  death,  is  strangled  instead,  and  sometimes 
five  or  six,  one  after  the  other,  on  the  same  errand,  by  command  of  the  refractory 
patient ;  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he  bows,  kisses  the  Sultan's  respect- 
able signature,  and  is  bowstrung  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  Bagdat,  a  brave  young  man,  cut  off  by  treachery,  after  a  desperate  re- 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  289 

And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will ; 

All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know : 
'Twas  mine  to  teach  obedience  still  — 

The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show." 

VIII. 

In  silence  bow'd  the  virgin's  head ; 

And  if  her  eye  was  fill'd  with  tears, 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 
And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped, 

What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears  ? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty's  eye, 

Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry ; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 

Even  Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less  ! 
Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot ; 
Or  if  remember'd,  mark'd  it  not ; 
Thrice  clapp'd  his  hands,  and  call'd  his  steed,  (') 

Resign'd  his  gem-adorn'd  chibouque,  (3) 
And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 

With  Maugrabee  (3)  and  Mamaluke, 

His  way  amid  his  Delis  took,  (*) 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch'd  well  the  Haram's  massy  doors. 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 

His  eye  look'd  o'er  the  dark  blue  water 
That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles  ; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand, 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turban'd  band 

(1)  Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.    The  Turks  hate  a  superfluous  ex- 
penditure of  voice,  and  they  have  no  bells. 

(2)  "  Chibouque,"  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber  mouth-piece,  and  sometimes 
the  ball  which  contains  the  leaf,  is  adorned  with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of  the 
wealthier  orders. 

(3)  "  Maugrabee."  Moorish  mercenaries, 

(4)  "  Delis,"  bravos  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  cavalry,  and  always  begin  the 
action. 

VOL.  III. — U 


290  THE  BRIDE  OP  ABYDOS. 

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  their  Ollahs  (2)  wild  and  loud  — 

He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter ! 

x. 

No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke ; 

One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke  : 

Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 

Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 

To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turn'd, 

But  little  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  I 

Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met ; 

Not  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet." 

Thrice  pac'd  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  (3)  perfume, 

And  sprinkled  all  its  odours  o'er 

The  pictured  roof  (4)  and  marble  floor  : 

The  drops,  that  through  his  glittering  vest 

The  playful  girl's  appeal  address'd, 

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  !  " 

(1)  A  twisted  fold  of felt  is  used  for  scimitar  practice  by  the  Turks,  and  few  hut 
Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through  it  at  a  single  stroke  :  sometimes  a  tough  turban  is 
used  for  the  same  purpose.     Thejerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt  javelins,  animated  and 
graceful. 

(2)  "  Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "  Leihes,"  as  the  Spanish  poets  call  them,  the 
sound  is  Ollah  ;  a  cry  of  which  the  Turks,  for  a  silent  people,  are  somewhat  profuse, 
particularly  during  the  jerreed,  or  in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.  Their  animation 
in  the  field,  and  gravity  in  the  chamber,  with  their  pipes  and  comboloios,  form  an 
amusing  contrast. 

(3)  "  Atar-gul,"  ottar  of  roses.     The  Persian  is  the  finest. 

(4)  The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the  Mussulman  apartments  are 
generally  painted,  in  great  houses,  with  one  eternal  and  highly  coloured  view  of  Con- 
stantinople, wherein  the  principal  feature  is  a  noble  contempt  of  perspective  5  below, 
arms,  scimitars,  &c.  are  in  general  fancifully  and  not  inelegantly  disposed. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  291 

She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Eastern  land  — • 
"  He  loved  them  once  ;  may  touch  them  yet, 

If  offer'd  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  Rose  was  pluck'd  and  wreathed  j 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selim's  feet : 
"  This  rose  to  calm  my  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 ! 
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  stern, 
But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn 
Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 
Ah !  deem  I  right  ?  the  Pacha's  plan  — 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  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  J 
Think'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart? 

(1)  It  has  bee»  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  this  "  Lover  of  the  rose,"  are 
sad  or  merry  ;  and  Mr.  Fox's  remarks  on  the  subject  have  provoked  "Some  learned 
controversy  as  to  the  opinions  of  the  ancients  on  the  subject.  I  dare  not  venture  a 
conjecture"on  the  point,  though  a  little  inclined  to  the  "  errare  mallem,"  &c,  if  Mr. 
Fox  was  mistaken. 


292  THE  BRIDE  OP  ABYDOS. 

Ah !  were  I  severM  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  : 
Ev'n  Azrael,  (')  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust ! " 


XII. 

He  lived  —  he  breathed  —  he  moved  —  he  felt ; 
He  raised  the  maid  from  inhere  she  knelt ; 
His  trance  was  gone  —  his  keen  eye  shone 
With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt ; 
With  thoughts  that  burn  —  in  rays  that  melt- 
As  the  stream  late  conceal'd 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows, 
When  it  rushes  reveal'd 

In  the  light  of  its  billows  ; 
As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  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,  for  ever  mine, 
With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign ; 
Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 
Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. 
Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done  ; 
That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one  : 
But  blench  not  thou  —  thy  simplest  tress 
Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness 
I  would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair 
That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 
For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar,  (2) 

(1)  "  Azrael"— -the  angel  of  death. 

(2)  The  treasures  of  the  Pre-adamite  Sultans.     See  D'HERBELOT,  article 
Istakar. 


THE  BRIDE  OP  ABYDOS.  293 

This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lower'd, 

Reproaches  on  my  head  were  shower'd, 

And  Giaffir  almost  call'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. 

His  son,  indeed !  —  yet,  thanks  to  thee 

Perchance  I  arn,  at  least  shall  be ; 

But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 

Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 

I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 

From  Giaffir  thy  reluctant  hand  ; 

More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul 

Holds  not  a  Musselim's  (*)  control: 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo  ?  (2) 

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  ; 

Pve  partisans  for  peril's  day  : 

Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear  ; 

I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near. ' 

XIII. 

"  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest ! 

My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed  : 
This  morn  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest; 

But  now  thou  'rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before, 
It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay, 

And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why, 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day  ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss, 
Like  this  —  and  this  —  no  more  than  this : 
For,  Alia !  sure  thy  lips  are  flame  : 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing  ? 

(1)  "  Musselim,"  a  governor,  the  next  in  rank  after  a  Pacha ;  aWaywode  is  the 
third  ;  and  then  come  the  Agas. 

(2)  "  Egripo" — the  Negropont.  —  According  to  the  proverb,  the  Turks  of  Egripo, 
the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Greeks  of  Athens,  are  the  worst  of  their  respective 
races* 


294  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDO8. 

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  1 
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  't  is  well ; 
Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  *  arms '  and  *  friends,' 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee  ; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word  : 

But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me, 
To  be  what  I  have  ever  been  1 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour? 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

The  partner  of  her  infancy? 
These  cherish'd  thoughts  with  life  begun, 

Say,  why  must  I  no  more  avow  ? 
What  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 

The  truth ;  my  pride,  and  thine  till  now 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies ; 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine  : 
No  !  happier  made  by  that  decree, 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 
Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compelPd 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld  : 
This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal  ? 
Why  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  nought, 
Allah !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS.  295 

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  —  Giaffir  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  warn'd  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 
Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come  : 

Then  softly  from  the  Haram  creep 

Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep  : 

Our  garden-battlements  are  steep  ; 
Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time  ; 
And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel 
Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 
Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before 
Trust  me,  Zuleika  —  fear  not  me  ! 
Thou  know'st  I  hold  a  Haram  key." 

"  Fear  thee,  my  Selim  !  ne'er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this  —  " 

"  Delay  not  thou ; 

I  keep  the  key  —  and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  some,  and  hope  of  more  reward. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear : 
I  am  not,  love  !  what  I  appear." 

(1 )  "  Tchocadar  "  —  one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes  a  man  of  authority. 


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  warn'd  him  home  ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go, 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear  ; 
His  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. 

ir. 
The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle's  tide 

Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main ; 
And  Night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  field  with  blood  bedew'd  in  vain, 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride  ; 

The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All  —  save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle  ! 


CANTO  II. 


THE    BRIDE   OF   ABYDOS.  29? 


III. 

Oh !  yet  —  for  there  my  steps  have  been  ; 

These  feet  have  press'd  the  sacred  shore, 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne  — 
Minstrel !  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn, 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore, 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes, 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 

Thine  own  "  broad  Hellespont "  (')  still  dashes, 
Be  long  my  lot !  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee  ! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme : 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 
.     But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  still, 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow  : 
That  mighty  heap  of  gather'd  ground 
Which  Ammon's  (2)  son  ran  proudly  round. 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crown'd, 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow  ! 

Within  —  thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow ! 
Within  —  can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  was  beneath  : 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone  ; 
But  Thou  —  thy  very  dust  is  gone  ! 

v. 

Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 
The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear  ; 

(1)  The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  «  the  broad  Hellespont "  or  the  "  boundless 
Hellespont,"  whether  it  means  one  or  the  other,  or  what  it  means  at  all,  has  been 
beyond  all  possibility  of  detail.     I  have  even  heard  it  disputed  on  the  spot;  and  not 
foreseeing  a  speedy  conclusion  to  the  controversy,  amused  myself  with  swimming 
across  it  in  the  me'an  time,  and  probably  may  again,  before  the  point  is  settled.     In- 
deed, the  question  as  to  the  truth  of  "  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  "  still  continues,  much 
of  it  resting  upon  the  talismanic  word  "  ajretpos:"  probably  Homer  had  the  same 
notion  of  distance  that  a  coquette  has  of  time,  and  when  he  talks  of  boundless,  means 
half  a  mile  ;  as  the  latter,  by  a  like  figure,  when  she  says  eternal  attachment,  simply 
specifies  three  weeks. 

(2)  Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar  with  laurel,  &c.    He  was 
afterwards  imitated  by  Garacalla  in  his  race.     It  is  believed  that  the  last  also  poi- 
soned a  friend,  named  Festus,  for  the  sake  of  new  Patroclan  games.     I  have  seen 
the  sheep  feeding  on  the  tombs  of  ^Esietes  and  Antilochus;  the  first  is  in  the  centre 
of  the  plain. 


298  THE    BRIDE    OP    ABYDOS.  CANTO  II. 

Till  then  —  no  beacon  on  the  cliff 

May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff; 

The  scatter'd  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away ; 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 

Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes  !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 

And  o'er  her  silken  Ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran  ;  (J) 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget  ?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet,  (a) 
Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text, 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next ; 
And  by  her  comboloio  (3)  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes  ; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazon'd  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeem'd  from  time  ; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute, 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute  ; 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould  ; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom, 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perfume  ; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gather' d  in  that  gorgeous  room  : 

But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom. 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite, 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a  night  ? 

VI. 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear, 

To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 
As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear, 

(1 )  When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume,  which  is  slight  but  not 
disagreeable. 

(2)  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  chap,  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. 

(3)  "  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  Turkish  girls  are  highly  accomplished,  though  not  actu- 
ally qualified  for  a  Christian  coterie.     Perhaps  some  of  our  own  "  blues"  might  not 
be  the  worse  for  bleaching. 


CANTO  II.  THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS.  299 

With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  threading, 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 

The  gust  its  hollow  meanings  made, 
Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat, 

The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide  ; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 

How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side  ? 

How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide  ? 


VII. 

They  reach'd  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 
And  oft  her  Koran  conn'd  apart ; 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dream'd  what  Paradise  might  be 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  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  ? 


Till. 

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  1 

A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 

That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean  1  she  turn'd  to  see 

Her  Selim  —  "  Oh !  can  this  be  he  1 " 


300  THE    BRIDE    OF   ABTDOS.  CANTO  II. 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 
His  brow  no  high-crown'd  turban  bore, 

But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 

Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore : 

That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 

Were  worthy  of  a  diadem, 

No  longer  glitter'd  at  his  waist, 

Where  pistols  unadorn'd  were  braced  ; 

And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 

And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 

The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 

That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote ; 

Beneath  —  his  golden-plated  vest 

Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast ; 

The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 

With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound. 

But  were  it  not  that  high  command 

Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 

All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 

In  him  was  some  young  Galiongee.  (*) 


"  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  't  were  vain  to  hide ; 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride  : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love  ; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove : 
But  first  —  Oh !  never  wed  another  — 
Zuleika !  I  arn  not  thy  brother  !  " 


(1)  "  Galiongfee" —  or  Galiongi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  Turkish  sailor;  the  Greeks 
navigate,  the  Turks  work  the  guns.  Their  dress  is  picturesque ;  and  I  have  seen 
the  Capitan  Pacha  more  than  once  wearing  it  as  a  kind  of  incog.  Their  legs,  how- 
ever, are  generally  naked.  The  buskins  described  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind 
with  silver  are  tho'se  of  an  Arnaut  robber,  who  was  my  host,  (he  had  quitted  the  pro- 
fession,) at  his  Pyrgo,  near  Gastouni  in  the  Morea ;  they  were  plated  in  scales  one 
•over  the  other,  like  the  back  of  an  armadillo. 


CANTO  II. 


THE    BRIDE    OF   ABYDOS.  301 


XI. 

"  Oh !  not  my  brother !  — yet  unsay  — 

God  !  am  I  left  alone  on  earth 
To  mourn  —  I  dare  not  curse  —  the  day 

That  saw  my  solitary  birth  1 
Oh !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more ! 

My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill ; 
But  know  me  all  I  was  before, 

Thy  sister  —  friend  —  Zuleika  still. 
Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 

If  thou  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  Giaffir  always  seem'd  thy  foe  ; 
And  I,  alas  !  am  Giaffir's  child, 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemn'd,  reviled. 
If  not  thy  sister  —  would'st  thou  save 
My  life,  Oh !  bid  me  be  thy  slave ! " 

XII. 

"  My  slave,  Zuleika !  —  nay,  I'm  thine : 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm, 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  link'd  with  mine  ; 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine, 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  (*)  verse  display'd 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both, 
As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath  ! 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 

Must  change  ;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widen'd,  not  divided, 

Although  thy  Sire's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deem'd  to  thee  ; 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy  ; 

(1)  The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  sometimes  the  name  of  the 
place  of  their  manufacture,  but  more  generally  a  text  from  the  Koran,  in  letters  of 
gold.  Among  those  in  my  possession,  is  one  with  a  blade  of  singular  construction ; 
it  is  very  broad,  and  the  edge  notched  into  serpentine  curves  like  the  ripple  of  water, 
or  the  wavering  of  flame.  1  asked  the  Arminian  who  sold  it,  what  possible  use  such 
a  figure  could  add  :  he  said,  in  Italian,  that  he  did  not  know  :  but  the  Mussulmans 
had  an  idea  that  those  of  this  form  gave  a  severer  wound  ;  and  liked  it  because  it  was 
"  piu  feroce."  I  did  not  much  admire  the  reason,  but  bought  it  for  its  peculiarity. 


302  THE    BRIDE    OP    ABYDOS,  CANTO  IL 

And  lull'd  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
He  rear'd  me,  not  with  tender  help, 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain  ;  (') 
He  watch'd  me  like  a  lion'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  T  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  belov'd  Zuleika  !  hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 


XIII. 

"  How  first  their  strife  to  rancour  grew, 

If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes. 
It  matters  little  if  I  knew ; 
In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 
In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
Remember'd  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 
And  Pasvvan's  (2)  rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest : 
His  death  is  all  I  need  relate, 
The  stern  effect  of  Giaffir's  hate  ; 
And  how  my  birth  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 ; 

(1)  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing  or  personage  in  the  Old 
Testament,  such  as  the  ark,  or  Cain,  is  equally  the  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew : 
indeed,  the  former  profess  to  be,  much  better  acquainted  with  the  lives,  true  and  fa- 
bulous, of  the  patriarchs,  than  is  warranted  by  our  own  sacred  writ ;  and  not  content 
with  Adam,  they  have  a  biography  of  Pre-Adamites.     Solomon  is  the  monarch  of 
all  necromancy,  and  Moses  a  prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and  Mahomet.     Zuleika 
is  the  Persian  name  of  Potiphar's  wife;  and  her  amour  with  Joseph  constitutes  one  of 
the  finest  poems  in  their  language.     It  is,  therefore,  no  violation  of  costume  to  put  the 
names  of  Cain,  or  Noah,  into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. 

(2)  Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin  ;  who,  for  the  last  years  of  his  life,  set  the 
whole  power  of  the  Porte  at  defiance. 


CANTO  O.  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

They  gave  their  horsetails  (')  to  the  wind, 

And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
Their  tents  were  pitch'd,  their  post  assign'd ; 

To  one,  alas !  assign'd  in  vain  ! 
What  need  of  words  ?  the  deadly  bowl, 

By  Giaffir's  order  drugg'd  and  given, 
With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul, 

Dismiss'd  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up, 
But  little  deem'd  a  brother's  wrath 

To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup  : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore ; 
He  drank  one  draught,  (2)  nor  needed  more  ! 
If  thou  my  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun  —  he  can  tell  it  out. 

xv. 

"  The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 
In  part  suppress'd,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  Pachalick  was  gain'd  :  — 
Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man  — 

Abdallah's  honours  were  obtain'd 
By  him  a  brother's  murder  stain'd  ; 
'Tis  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drain'd 
His  ill  got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 
Would'st  question  whence  ?  Survey  the  waste, 
And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 
His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow !  — 
Why  me  the  stern  usurper  spared, 
Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 
I  know  not.     Shame,  regret,  remorse, 
And  little  fear  from  infant's  force  ; 
Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 
By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none, 
Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 
Preserved  me  thus  ;  —  but  not  in  peace  : 
He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 
Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blood. 

(1)  "  Horsetail,"  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

(2)  Giaffir,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I  am  not  sure  which,  was  actually 
taken  off  by  the  Albanian  Ali,  in  the  manner  described  in  the  text.     Ali  Pacha,  while 
I  was  in  the  country,  married  the  daughter  of  his  victim,  some  years  after  the  event 
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  by  the  bath-keeper,  after  dress- 
ing. 


304  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

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  1  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  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate, 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay'd 

To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pray'd. 
The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured 

From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me  ; 
Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  ensured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side, 
Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 

With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge  —  and  that  Nubian  feels 

A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains, 
From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 
And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals  : 
Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends  — 
Slaves,  tools,  accomplices  —  no  friends  I 

'    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  Galionge'e, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn, 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 

Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords  ; 


CANTO  II 


CANTO  II.  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  306 

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  fill'd  —  once  quaft'd,  they  ne'er  repiiie  : 
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  scoff'd, 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand  : 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 

And  pent  me  here  untried — unknown ; 

To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left, 

By  hope  unblest,  of  fame  bereft, 

While  thou  —  whose  softness  long  endear'd, 

Though  it  unmann'd  me,  still  had  cheer'd  — 

To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 

Awaited'st  there  the  field's  event. 

Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 

Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke, 
His  captive,  though  with  dread  resigning, 

My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 
On  promise  to  return  before 
The  day  when  Giaffir's  charge  was  o'er. 
'Tis  vain  —  my  tongue  cannot  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart, 
When  first  this  liberated  eye 
Survey'd  Earth,  Ocean,  Sun,  and  Sky 
As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 
And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew  ! 
One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling  —  I  was  Free  ! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine ; 
The  World  —  nay,  Heaven  itself  was  mine  ! 

XIX. 

"  The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 

Convey'd  me  from  this  idle  shore  ; 
VOL.  in. — x 


306  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  CANTO  U. 

I  long'd  to  see  the  isles  that  gern 

Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem  : 

I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all ;  (l) 

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,  yt  will  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  thoughts  aspire, 

The  last  of  Lambro's  (2)  patriots  there 

Anticipated  freedom  share ; 
And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate, 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs  (3)  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  (4)  roam, 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home  !  (5) 

(1)  The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined  to  the  Archipelago,  the 
sea  alluded  to. 

(2)  Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts,  in  1789-90,  for  the  indepen- 
dence of  his  country;  abandoned  by  the  Russians,  he  became  a  pirate,  and  the 
Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his  enterprises.     He  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at  Peters- 
burg.    He  and  Riga  are  the  two  most  celebrated  of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 

(3)  u  Rayahs," — all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  the  "  Haratch." 

(4)  The  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the  Mussulmans  profess 
much  acquaintance. 

(5)  The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turkomans  will  be  found  well 


CANTO  II. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  307 


My  tent  on  shore,  rny  galley  on  the  sea, 

Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me  : 

Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 

Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 

Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb !  or  glide,  my  brow  I 

But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer,  Thou ! 

Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark  ; 

The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark ! 

Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 

Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life  ! 

The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 

And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  ! 

Blest  —  as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 

To  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 

fBlooming  as  Aden  (J)  in  its  earliest  hour. 

*A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  hand, 

Wait  —  wave  —  defend  —  destroy  —  at  thy  command  ! 

Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side, 

The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 
The  Haram's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 

Are  well  resign' d  for  cares  —  for  joys  like  these  : 

Not  blind  to  fate,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 

Unnumber'd  perils  —  but  one  only  love  ! 

Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 

Though  fortune  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  ; 


detailed  in  any  book  of  Eastern  travels.  That  it  possesses  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself, 
cannot  be  denied.  A  young  French  renegade  confessed  to  Chateaubriand,  that  he 
never  found  himself  alone,  galloping  in  the  desert,  without  a  sensation  approaching 
to  rapture,  which  was  indescribable. 

(1)  "  Jannat  al  Aden,"  the  perpetual  abode,  the  Mussulman  Paradise. 


SOS  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  CANTO  B. 

Mark !  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease ! 

He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it  —  peace ! 

I,  like  the  rest,  must  use  my  skill  or  strength, 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length : 

Power  sways  but  by  division  —  her  resource 

The  blest  alternative  of  fraud  or  force ! 

Ours  be  the  last ;  in  time  deceit  may  come 

When  cities  cage  us  in  a  social  home  : 

There  ev'n  thy  soul  might  err  —  how  oft  the  heart 

Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part ! 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  woe, 

Or  even  Disgrace,  would  lay  her  lover  low, 

Sunk  in  the  lap  of  Luxury  will  shame  — 

Away  suspicion !  not  Zuleika's  name  ! 

But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best ;  and  here 

No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear. 

Yes,  fear !  —  the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee, 

By  Osman's  power,  and  Giaffir's  stern  decree. 

That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favouring  gale, 

Which  love  to-night  hath  promised  to  my  sail : 

No  danger  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hath  blest, 

Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 

With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath  charms  ; 

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  ! 

But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Horror's  shape  ! 

This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 

Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close  ; 

Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes  ; 

Yea  —  foes  —  to  me  will  Giaffir's  hate  decline  ? 

And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine  ? 

XXI. 

"  His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 

Return'd  in  time  my  guard  to  save  ; 

Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  the  while : 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land, 


CANTO  H. 


THE  BRIDE  OP  ABYDOS.  309 

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  1  '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  would'st  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey, 

Perchance  his  life  who  gave  thee  thine, 
With  me  this  hour  away  —  away  ! 

But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Would'st  thou  recall  thy  willing  vow, 
AppalPd  by  truths  imparted  now, 
Here  rest  I  —  not  to  see  thee  wed : 
But  be  that  peril  on  my  head ! " 


XXII. 

Zuleika,  mute  and  motionless, 

Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 

When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone, 

The  mother  harden'd  into  stone  ; 

All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 

Was  but  a  younger  Niob6. 

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  — 

"  Oh  !  fly  —  no  more  —  yet  now  my  more  than  brother ! " 

Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red ; 

Nor  these  alone  —  for  each  right  hand 

Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 

They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 

With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 

And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 

Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving  : 

And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave  — 

Oh !  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave  ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless  he  stood  —  "  'T  is  come  —  soon  past  — 
One  kiss,  Zuleika  —  't  is  my  last : 


310  THE    BRIDE    OP   ABYDOS.  cAHTO  If. 

But  yet  rny  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  stept ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high, 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumb'd  her  breast  and  eye !  — 
"  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  't  is  but  to  see  me  die  ; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war ! 
Farewell,  Zuleika !  —  Sweet !  retire  : 

Yet  stay  within  —  here  linger  safe, 

At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 
Stir  not  —  lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 
Fear'st  thou  for  him  ?  —  may  I  expire 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire  ! 
No  —  though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd : 
No  —  though  again  he  call  me  coward ! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel  1 
JVo  —  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  —  't  is  but  to  add  to  slaughter  — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    ABYDOS.  311 


XXV. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharm'd  by  steel, 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel, 
Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset, 
To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met ; 
There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 
And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand  — 
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  ? 
'T  is  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  troubling  — 
If  aught  his  lips  essay'd  to  groan, 
The  rushing  billows  chok'd  the  tone ! 


XXVI. 

Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there  : 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent ;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 
And  fragments  of  each  shiver'd  brand  ; 
Steps  stamp'd ;  and  dash'd  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 

May  there  be  mark'd  ;  nor  far  remote 

A  broken  torch,  an  oarless  boat ; 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 

There  lies  a  white  capote ! 
?T  is  rent  in  twain  —  one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain : 


312  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  CANTO  II. 

But  where  is  he  who  wore  ? 
Ye !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep, 
Go,  seek  them  where  the  surges  sweep 
Their  burthen  round  Sigaeum's  steep, 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore  : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow ; 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife, 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levell'd  with  the  wave  — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  lie 

Within  a  living  grave  ? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb'd  the  meaner  worm  ; 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 
Had  seen  those  scatter'd  limbs  composed. 

And  mourn'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 ! 

Can  he  not  hear 
The  loud  Wul-wulleh  (2)  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  — 

(1)  A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  men  only. 

(2)  The  death-song  of  the  Turkish  women.     The  "  silent  slaves  "  are  the  men, 
whose  notions  of  decorum  forbid  complaint  in  public. 


CAKTO  II.  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  313 

And  that  last  thought  on  him  thou  could'st  not  save 
Sufficed  to  kill ; 

Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry  —  and  all  was  still. 
Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave ! 

Ah  !  happy !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst ! 

That  grief —  though  deep  —  though  fatal  —  was  thy  first ! 

Thrice  happy  !  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 

Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse  ! 

And,  oh  !  that  pang  where  more  than  Madness  lies  ! 

The  worm  that  will  not  sleep  —  and  never  dies  ; 

Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night, 

That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light, 

That  winds  around  and  tears  the  quivering  heart ! 

Ah !  wherefore  not  consume  it  —  and  depart ! 

Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief! 
Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  doth  spread : 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah  —  Selim  bled. 

Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief : 

Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed, 

She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed, 

Thy  Daughter's  dead ! 

Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam, 
The  Star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's  stream. 

What  quench'd  its  ray  ]  —  the  blood  that  thou  hast  shed ! 

Hark !  to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair  : 

"  Where  is  my  child  1 "  —  an  Echo  answers  —  "  Where  ?  "  (') 

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 

(1)  «  I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried., «  The  friends  of  my  youth,  where 
are  they  ?  '  and  an  Echo  answered, '  Where  are  they  ?' "  From  an  Arabic  MS. 

The  above  quotation  (from  which  the  idea  in  the  text  is  taken)  must  be  already 
familiar  to  every  reader :  it  is  given  in  the  first  annotation,  page  67,  of  "  the  Plea- 
sures of  Memory  ; "  a  poem  so  well  known  as  to  render  a  reference  almost  superflu- 
ous ;  but  to  whose  pages  all  will  be  delighted  to  recur. 


314  THE   BRIDE  OP   ABYDOS.  CANTO  II. 

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 ! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
'Tis  sorrow  so  unmix'd  with  dread, 
They  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 

That  melancholy  spell, 
And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake, 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high 
Expires  that  magic  melody 
And  some  have  been  who  could  believe, 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame,) 
That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable  its  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name.  (a) 


(1)  "  And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men  s  names." 

Mir.T<m. 

For  a  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the  form  of  birds,  we  need  not  travel 
to  the  East.  Lord  Lyttleton's  ghost  story,  the  belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that 
George  I.  flew  into  hei  window  in  the  shape  of  a  raven,  (see  Orford's  Reminiscen- 
ces.) and  many  other  instances,  bring  this  superstition  nearer  home.  The  most  sin- 
gular was  the  whim  of  a  Worcester  lady,  who,  believing  her  daughter  to  exist  in 
the  shape  of  a  singing  bird,  literally  furnished  her  pew  in  the  cathedral  with  cages  full 
of  the  kind  ;  and  as  she  was  rich,  and  a  benefactress  in  beautifying  the  church,  no 
objection  was  made  to  her  harmless  folly.  For  this  anecdote,  see  Orford's  Letters. 


CANTO  II. 


THE  BRIDE  OP  ABTDOS.  315 


'T  is  from  her  cypress  summit  heard, 

That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word : 

'T  is  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 

That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 

There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone  ; 

Eve  saw  it  placed  —  the  Morrow  gone  ! 

It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 

That  deep-fix'd  pillar  to  the  shore  ; 

For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell, 

Next  morn  'twas  found  where  Selim  fell ; 

Lash'd  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 

Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave  : 

And  there  by  night,  reclined,  't  is  said, 

Is  seen  a  ghastly  turban'd  head : 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
JT  is  named  the  "  Pirate-phantom's  pillow ! " 
Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  flourished  ;  flourisheth  this  hour, 

Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale ; 

As  weeping  Beauty's  cheek  at  Sorrow's  tale ! 


THE   CORSAIR, 

A  TALE. 


* c  '•  I  suoi  pensieri  in  lui  dormir  non  ponno." 

TASSO,  Gerusalemme  Liberata,  canto  x, 


TO 


THOMAS    MOORE,    ESQ. 


MY   DEAR   MOORE, 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  the  last  production  with  which  I  shall  tres- 
pass 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  public  principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and  various 
talents.  While  Ireland  ranks  you  among  the  firmest  of  her  pa- 
triots ;  while  you  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards  in  her  estima- 
tion, and  Britain  repeats  and  ratifies  the  decree,  permit  one,  whose 
only  regret,  since  our  first  acquaintance,  has  been  the  years  he 
had  lost  before  it  commenced,  to  add  the  humble  but  sincere 
suffrage  of  friendship,  to  the  voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  It 
will  at  least  prove  to  you,  that  I  have  neither  forgotten  the  gratifi- 
cation 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  composi- 
tion of  a  poem  whose  scene  will  be  laid  in  the  East ;  none  can 
do  those  scenes  so  much  justice.  The  wrongs  of  your  own 
country,  the  magnificent  and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty 
and  feeling  of  her  daughters,  may  there  be  found  ;  and  Collins, 
when  he  denominated  his  Oriental  his  Irish  Eclogues,  was  not 
aware  how  true,  at  least,  was  a  part  of  his  parallel.  Your  imagi 
nation  will  create  a  warmer  sun  and  less  clouded  sky ;  but  wild- 
ness,  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  anti- 
quarians. 


320  DEDICATION. 

May  I  add  a  few  words  on  a  subject  on  which  all  men  are  sup- 
posed 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  inten- 
tion to  tempt  no  further  the  award  of  "  Gods,  men,  nor  columns." 
In  the  present  composition  I  have  attempted  not  the  most  difficult, 
but,  perhaps,  the  best  adapted  measure  to  our  language,  the  good 
old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet.  The  stanza  of  Spenser 
is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified  for  narrative ;  though,  I  confess, 
it  is  the  measure  most  after  my  own  heart :  Scott  alone,  of  the 
present  generation,  has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the 
fatal  facility  of  the  octo-syllabic  verse;  and  this  is  not  the  least 
victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty  genius  :  in  black  verse,  Milton, 
Thomson,  and  our  dramatists,  are  the  beacons  that  shine  along  the 
deep,  but  warn  us  from  the  rough  and  barren  rock  on  which  they 
are  kindled.  The  heroic  couplet  is  not  the  most  popular  measure 
certainly  ;  but  as  I  did  not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a  wish  to 
flatter  what  is  called  public  opinion,  I  shall  quit  it  without  further 
apology,  and  take  my  chance  once  more  with  that  versification, 
in  which  I  have  hitherto  published  nothing  but  compositions  whose 
former  circulation  is  part  of  my  present,  and  will  be  of  my  future 
regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general,  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  personages  more  perfect  and 
amiable,  if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I  have  been  sometimes  criticis- 
ed, 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  pro- 
bably like,  since  they  are  unfavourable  ;  and  if  not,  those  who 
know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who  do  not,  I  have  little  in- 
terest in  undeceiving.  I  have  no  particular  desire  that  any  but 
my  acquaintance  should  think  the  author  better  than  the  beings  of 
his  imagining ;  but  I  cannot  help  a  little  surprise,  and  perhaps  amuse- 
ment, at  some  odd  critical  exceptions  in  the  present  instance,  when 
I  see  several  bards,  (far  more  deserving,  I.  allow,)  in  very  reput- 
able plight,  and  quite  exempted  from  all  participation  in  the  faults 
of  those  heroes,  who,  nevertheless,  might  be  found  with  little  more 
morality  than  "  The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps  —  but  no  —  I  must 


DEDICATION.  321 

admit  Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repulsive  personage  :  and  as  to 
his  identity,  those  who  lil^e  it  must  give  him  whatever  "  alias  " 
they  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the  impression,  it 
might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that  the  man  who  is  alike  the 
delight  of  his  readers  and  his  friends,  the  poet  of  all  circles,  and 
the  idol  of  his  own,  permits  rne  here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe 
myself, 

Most  truly, 

And  affectionately, 

His  obedient  servant, 

BYRON. 
January  2, 1814. 


VOL.  III.-— 


THE   CORSAIR. (') 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


nessun  maggior  dolore, 

Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 

Nella  miseria, • " 

DANTE. 


"  O'ER  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 

Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 

Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 

Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home ! 

These  are  our  realms,  no  limils  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 ! 

Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave  ; 

Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease  ! 

When  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  spirits  soar? 

(1)  The  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  occurrences,  but  the  whole 
of  the  ./Egean  isles  are  within  a  few  hours'  sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  reader  must 
be  kind  enough  to  take  the  wind  as  1  have  often  found  it. 


324  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  I. 

No  dread  of  death  —  if  with  us  die  our  foes  — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 
Come  when  it  will  —  we  snatch  the  life  of  life  — 
When  lost  —  what  recks  it  —  by  disease  or  strife  ? 
Let  him  who  crawls  enamour'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  loath'd  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  now  !  " 


Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle 

Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while : 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrill'd  the  rocks  along, 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song ! 

In  scatter'd  groups  upon  the  golden  sand, 

They  game  —  carouse  —  converse  —  or  whet  the  brand  ; 

Select  the  arms  —  to  each  his  blade  assign, 

And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine  ; 

Repair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar, 

While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore  ; 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net ; 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprise  ; 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil, 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spoil : 

No  matter  where  —  their  chiefs  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  but  to  command  ; 

Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  arid  hana. 

Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 


CANTO  I. 


THE    CORSAIR.  325 


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  nourish'd  by  that  abstinence. 

"  Steer  to  that  shore  !"  — they  sail.  "  Do  this  !" — 't  is  done : 

"  Now  form  and  follow  me  !  "  —  the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 

And  all  obey  and  few  enquire  his  will ; 

To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 

Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 


in. 

"  A  sail !  —  a  sail !  "  —  a  promised  prize  to  Hope  ! 

Her  nation  —  flag  —  how  speaks  the  telescope  ? 

No  prize,  alas  !  —  but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Yes  —  she  is  ours  —  a  home-returning  bark  — • 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze  !  —  she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  cape  —  our  bay 

Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray. 

How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes  ! 

Her  white  wings  flying  —  never  from  her  foes  — • 

She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire  —  the  wreck  — 

To  move  the  monarch  of  herv  peopled  deck? 


IV. 

Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings  ; 

The  sails  are  furl'd  ;  arid  anchoring  round  she  swings 

And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 

Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stem. 

JT  is  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 ! 

When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach ; 

The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity  ! 


THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  I. 

V. 

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  word  : 

"  Oh  !  are  they  safe  ?  we  ask  riot  of  success  — 

But  shall  we  see  them  1  will  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  surprise, 

And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes  !  " 

VI. 

"  Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  report  — 

And  doubt  that  joy  —  which  hails  our  coming  —  short ; 

Yet  thus  sincere  —  't  is  cheering,  though  so  brief; 

But,  Juan  !  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief: 

Our  greeting  paid,  we'll  feast  on  our  return, 

And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn." 

Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 

To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 

By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 

And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring, 

Whose  scatter'd  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 

Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 

From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount  —  Near  yonder  cave, 

What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 

Not  oft  a  resting-staff  to  that  red  hand  ? 

"  'T  is  he  —  't  is  Conrad  —  here  —  as  wont  —  alone  ; 

On  —  Juan  !  —  on  —  and  make  our  purpose  known. 

The  bark  he  views  —  and  tell  him  we  would  greet 

His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 

We  dare  not  yet  approach  —  thou  know'st  his  rnood, 

When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

VII. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent ;  — 
He  spake  not  —  but  a  sign  express'd  assent. 
These  Juan  calls  —  they  come  — to  their  salute 
He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 
*'  These  letters,  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek  —  the  spy, 
Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh  : 
Whate'er  his  tidings  we  can  well  report, 
Much  that  "  —  "  Peace,  peace  ! '"'  —  he  cuts  their  prating 
short. 


CANTO   I. 


THE   CORSAIR.  327 


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  1  " 

"  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." 
"  To-night,  Lord  Conrad?  " 

"  Ay !  at  set  of  sun  : 

The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
My  corslet  —  cloak  —  one  hour  —  and  we  are  gone. 
Sling  on  thy  bugle  —  see  that  free  from  rust 
My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ; 
Be  the  edge  sharpen'd  of  my  boarding-brand, 
And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
This  let  the  Armourer  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  Mind  ! 
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  labour  for  the  one ! 


328  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO   r. 

'T  is  Nature's  doom  —  but  let  the  wretch  who  toils, 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  him  who  wears  the  spoils. 
Oh !  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  pains  ! 

IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race, 

Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  face, 

In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 

Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a  glance  of  fire : 

Robust  but  not  Herculean  —  to  the  sight 

No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ; 

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. 

Sun-burnt  his  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and  pale 

The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil ; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 

Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien, 

Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen : 

His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 

At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view, 

As  if  within  that  mtirkiness  of  mind 

Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined  ; 

Such  might  it  be  — that  none  could  truly  tell —  |{\ 

Too  close  enquiry  his  stern  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 

Some  secret  thought,  than  drag  that  chiefs  to  day. 

There  was  a  laughing  Devil  in  his  sneer, 

That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear  ; 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

Hope  withering  fled  —  and  Mercy  sigh'd  farewell ! 

x. 

Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 
Within  —  within  —  'twas  there  the  spirit  wrought ! 
Love  shows  all  changes  —  Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile  ; 


CANTO   I. 


THE    CORSAIR.  329 


The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 

Along  the  govern'd  aspect,  speak  alone 

Of  deeper  passions  ;  and  to  judge  their  mien, 

He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen. 

Then  —  with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 

The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 

That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 

Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear : 

Then  —  with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart, 

With  feelings  loosed  to  strengthen  —  not  depart: 

That  rise  —  convulse  —  contend  —  that  freeze  or  glow. 

Flush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow  ;  . 

Then  —  Stranger !  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 

Behold  his  soul  —  the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 

Mark  —  how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 

The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years  ! 

Behold  —  but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see, 

Man  as  himself —  the  secret  spirit  free  1 

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  deern'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, 

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  seem'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  loath'd  him  crouch'd  and  dreaded  too. 

Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 

From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 

His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise  ; 

But  they  that  fear'd  him  dared  not  to  despise  : 


330  THE    CORSAIR. 

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  ! 

xri. 

None  are  all  evil  —  quickening  round  his  heart, 
One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ; 
Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 
By  passions  worthy  of  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  baffled  wile, 
Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smile, 
Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 
On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent ; 
Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part, 
Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart; 
Which  nought  removed,  nor  menaced  to  remove  — 
If  there  be  love  in  mortals  —  this  was  love  ' 
H«  was  a  villain  —  ay  —  reproaches  shower 
On  him —  but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 
Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone, 
Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one  ! 

XIII. 

He  paused  a  moment  —  till  his  hastening  men 
Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 
"  Strange  tidings  !  —  many  a  peril  have  I  past, 
Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last  ! 
Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 
Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  here. 
'T  is  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  wait 
Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate  ; 


CANTO  I. 


CANTO    I. 


THE    CORSAIR.  331 


And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  Fortune  smile 

We  '11  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral  pile. 

Ay  —  let  them  slumber  —  peaceful  be  their  dreams! 

Morn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams 

As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze!) 

To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 

Now  to  Medora  —  Oh  !  my  sinking  heart, 

Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 

Yet  was  I  brave  —  mean  boast  where  all  are  brave ! 

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 't  was  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  !  —  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  : 

1. 

"  Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore, 

Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells, 
Then  tremble  into  silence  as  before. 

2. 

"  There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp 

Burns  the  slow  flame,  eternal  —  but  unseen  ; 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp, 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 


332  THE    CORSAIR. 


3. 


CANTO   I. 


"  Remember  me  —  Oh !  pass  not  thou  my  grave 
Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recline  : 

The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  in  thine. 

4. 

"  My  fondest  —  faintest  —  latest  accents  hear  — 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove  ; 

Then  give  me  all  I  ever  ask'd  —  a  tear, 

The  first  —  the  last  —  sole  reward  of  so  much  love  !  w 

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  ! 
Oh  !  many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclined, 
My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wing'd  the  wind, 
And  deem'd  the  breath  that  faintly  fann'd  thy  sail 
The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale  ; 
Though  soft,  it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 
That  mourn'd  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge  : 
Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon  fire, 
Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire  ; 
And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatch'd  each  star, 
And  morning  came  —  and  still  thou  wert  afar. 
Oh  !  how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 
And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view, 
And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed  —  and  not  a  prow 
Was  granted  to  my  tears  —  my  truth  —  my  vow ! 
At  length  —  'twas  noon  —  I  hail'd  and  blest  the  mast 
That  met  my  sight  —  it  near'd  —  Alas  !  it  past ! 
Another  came  —  Oh  God !  't  was  thine  at  last ! 
Wrould  that  those  days  were  over !  wilt  thou  ne'er, 
My  Conrad  !  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 
Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many  a  home 
As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam  : 
Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear, 
I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here : 


CANTO  I. 


THE    CORSAIR.  333 


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  't  was  trampled  —  adder-like  avenged, 

Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 

And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 

Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn, 

My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them, 

So  closely  mingling  here,  that  disentwined, 

I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind : 
Yet  dread  not  this  — the  proof  of  all  the  past 
Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last ; 
But  —  Oh,'Medora!  nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 
This  hour  again  —  but  not  for  long  —  we  part." 

II  This  hour  we  part !  —  my  heart  foreboded  this : 
Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 

This  hour  —  it  cannot  be  —  this  hour  away  ! 

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 !  —  dearest !  come  and  share 

The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare  ; 

Light  toil !  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  ! 

See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best, 

And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleased,  I  guess'd 

At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest :  thrice  the  hill 

My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 

Yes !  thy  sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 

See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow ! 

The  grapes'  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers  ; 

Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  appears : 

Think  not  I  mean  to  chide  — for  I  rejoice 

What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice. 

But  come,  the  board  is  spread  ;  our  silver  lamp 

Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  sirocco's  damp  : 

Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along, 

And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song ; 


33 1  THE    CORSAIR. 


CANTO  L 


Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

Shall  soothe  or  lull  —  or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear, 

We  '11  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,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  now ; 

Or  even  that  traitor  chief —  I  've  seen  thee  smile, 

When  the  clear  sky  show'd  Ariadne's  Isle, 

Which  I  have  pointed  from  these  cliffs  the  while  : 

And  thus  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said, 

Lest  Time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  dread, 

Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main : 

And  he  deceived  me  —  for  —  he  came  again !  " 

"  Again  —  again  —  and  oft  again  —  my  love ! 

If  there  be  life  below,  and  hope  above, 

He  will  return  —  but  now,  the  moments  bring 

The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing: 

The  why  —  the  where  —  what  boots  it  now  to  tell  ? 

Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word  —  farewell ! 

Yet  would  I  fain —  did  time  allow  —  disclose  — 

Fear  not — -these  are  no  formidable  foes ; 

And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard, 

For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepared : 

Nor  be  thou  lonely  —  though  thy  lord  's  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 !  —  't  is  the  bugle  —  Juan  shrilly  blew  — 

One  kiss  —  one  more  —  another —  Oh  !  Adieu  ! " 

She  rose  —  she  sprung  —  she  clung  to  his  embrace, 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 
Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 
Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 
In  all  the  wildness  of  dishevell'd  charms ; 
Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  full  —  that  feeling  seem'd  almost  unfelt ! 
Hark  —  peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun ! 
It  told  't  was  sunset  —  and  he  cursed  that  sun. 
Again  —  again  —  that  form  he  madly  press'd, 
Which  mutely  clasp'd,  imploringly  caress'd  ! 

(1)  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  x. 


CANTO  I. 


THE    CORSAIR.  335 


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  —  turn'd  —  is  Conrad  gone  ? 

xv. 

"  And  is  he  gone  V9  —  on  sudden  solitude 

How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude  ! 

u  'T  was  but  an  instant  past  —  and  here  he  stood  ! 

And  now  "  —  without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 

And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd  ; 

Big  —  bright  —  and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell ; 

But  still  her  lips  refused  to  send  —  "  Farewell !  " 

For  in  that  word  —  that  fatal  word  — howe'er 

We  promise  —  hope  —  believe  —  there  breathes  despair. 

O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 

Had  sorrow  fix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase : 

The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 

Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy, 

Till  —  Oh,  how  far  !  — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him, 

And  then  it  flow'd  —  and  phrensied  seem'd  to  swim 

Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dewrd 

With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew'd. 

"  He  's  gone  !  "  —  against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 

Convulsed  and  quick  —  then  gently  raised  to  heaven  ; 

She  look'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 

The  white  sail  set  —  she  dared  not  look  again  ; 

But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate  — 

"  It  is  no  dream  — -  and  I  am  desolate  ! " 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending  —  swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn'd  his  head  ; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey, 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep, 
That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep : 
And  she  —  the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar, 
On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest  —  but  on  Destruction's  brink : 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd  —  and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave  : 
But  not  —  it  must  not  be  —  a  worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 


336  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  I. 

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  seaboy  on  the  mast, 
The  anchors  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 
The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 
That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge  ; 
And  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft, 
He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 
Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast, 
He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest ; 
He  bounds  —  he  flies  —  until  his  footsteps  reach 
The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach, 
There  checks  his  speed  ;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 
The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath, 
Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew  ; 
Nor  rush,  disturb'd  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view  : 
For  well  had  Conrad  learn'd  to  curb  the  crowd, 
By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud  ; 
His  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien, 
That  seems  to  shun  the  sight  —  and  awes  if  seen  : 
The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 
That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy  ; 
All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent : 
But  where  he  wish'd  to  win,  so  well  unbent, 
That  kindness  cancell'd  fear  in  those  who  heard, 
And  others'  gifts  show'd  mean  beside  his  word, 
When  echo'd  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone  : 
But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 
He  cared  not  what  he  soften'd,  but  subdued  ; 
The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him  value  less  who  loved  —  than  what  obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 
Before  him  Juan  stands  —  "  Are  all  prepared  1 " 

"  They  are  —  nay  more  —  embark'd  :  the  latest  boat 

Waits  but  my  chief " 

"  My  sword,  and  my  capote." 
Soon  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung : 


CANTO  I. 


THE    CORSAJR.  337 


•*  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  —  till  then  all  peace  be  thine  !  " 

This  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung, 

Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 

Flash'd  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  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. 

His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn  — 

Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  1 

Alas  !  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower, 

And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour  ; 

She  —  his  Medora  —  did  she  mark  the  prow  ? 

Ah  !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now ! 

But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day  — 

Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away ; 

Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends, 

And  there  unfolds  his  plan  — his  means  —  and  ends  ; 

Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart, 

And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art ; 

They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate ; 

To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  1 

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. 

Count  they  each  sail  —  and  mark  how  there  supine 

The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 

Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by, 

And  anchor'd  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie ; 

Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 

That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 

(1)  By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  stroke  of  the  oar,  every  mo- 
tion of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by  a  slight  flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the 
water. 

VOL.  III. — Z 


338  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  * 

Then  rose  his  band  to  duty  —  not  from  sleep  — 
Equipp'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep ; 
While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 
And  calmly  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood  I 


THE   CORSAIR. 


CANTO    THE    SECOND. 


"  Conosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri  ?  " 

DANTE. 


IN  Coronas  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light, 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night : 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fetter'd  Rovers  home  ; 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword, 
And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 
His  summon'd  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boasl 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize, 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise  ; 
'T  is  but  to  sail  —  no  doubt  to-morrow's  Sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound  —  their  haven  won  I 
Meantime  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill. 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek  ; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave 
To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave  ! 
Infest  his  dwelling  —  but  forbear  to  slay, 
Their  arms  are^strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may  ! 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow, 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 
Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile, 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile ; 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 


340  THE    CORSAIR. 


CANTO  IL 


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,  't  is  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice  (') 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslems'  use  ; 
The  long  chibouque's  (2)  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
While  dance  the  Almas  (3)  to  wild  minstrelsy. 
The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark  ; 
But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark : 
And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken  couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep  ; 
Feast  there  who  can  —  nor  combat  till  they  must, 
And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 
And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 
Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast.  (4) 

HI. 

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." 

(1)  Coffee.  (2)  Pipe.  (3)  Dancing  girls. 

(4)  It  has  been  objected  that  Conrad's  entering  disguised  as  a  spy  is  out  of  nature. 
Perhaps  so.  I  find  something  not  unlike  it  in  history. 

"  Anxious  to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of  the  Vandals,  Majorian  ven- 
tured, after  disguising  the  colour  of  his  hair,  to  visit  Carthage  in  the  character  of  his 
own  ambassador  ;  and  Genseric  was  afterwards  mortified  by  the  discovery,  that  he 
had  entertained  and  dismissed  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an  anecdote  may 
be  rejected  as  an  improbable  fiction  ;  but  it  is  a  fiction  which  would  not  have  been 
imagined  unless  in  the  life  of  a  hero."  Gibbon,  D.  and  F.  vol.  vi.p.  180. 

That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out  of  nature,  I  shall  attempt  to 
prove  by  some  historical  coincidences  which  I  have  met  with  since  writtino  "  The 
Corsair." 

"  Eccelin  prisonnier,"  dit  Rolandini,  "  s  enfermoit  dans  un  silence  mena^anf,  il 
fixoit  sur  la  terre  son  visage  feroce,  etne  donnoit  point  d'essor  a  sa  profonde  indigna- 
tion. De  toutes  partes  cependant  les  soldats  et  les  peuples  accouroient ;  ils  vou- 
loient  voir  cet  homme,  jadis  si  puissant,  et  la  joie  universelle  eclatoit  de  toutes 
partes.  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  Eccelin  etoit  d'une  petite  taille  ;  mais  tout  1'aspect  de  sa  personne,  tons  ses 
mouvemens,  indiquoient  un  soldat. — Son  iangage  etoit  amer,  son  deportement  su- 
perbe  —  et  par  son  seul  egard,  il  faisoit  trembler  les  plus  hardis."  —  Sismondi.  tome 
Hi.  p.  219,  220. 

Aeain,  "  Gizericus  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals,  the  conqueror  of  both  Carthage 
and  Rome)  statura  mediocris,  et  equi  casu  claudicans,  ammo  profundus,  sermone 
rarus,  luxuriae  contemptor,  ira  turbidus,  habendi  cupidus,  ad  solicitandas  gentes  pro* 
videntissimus,"  &c.  &c.  Jornandes  de  Rebus  Geticis,  c.  33. 

I  beg  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  realities  to  keep  in  countenance  my  Giaour  and 
Corsair. 


CANTO  IT. 


THE    CORSAIR.  341 


He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye, 
And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 
His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest, 
His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest ; 
Yet  worn  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 
And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears. 
Vow'd  to  his  God  —  his  sable  locks  he  wore, 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er : 
Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 
And  wrapt  a  breast  bestow'd  on  heaven  alone ; 
Submissive,  yet  with  self-possession  mann'd, 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd  ; 
And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allow'd  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise  1 " 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den, 
A  fugitive  —  " 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?  " 
"  From  Scalanovo's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
The  Saick  was  bound  ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course  —  the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 
The  Rovers  won  :  our  limbs  have  worn  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  may'st  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escape, 

They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril's  shape ; 


342  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  II. 

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  all  are  banqueting  : 
The  supper  done  —  prepare  thee  to  reply, 
Clearly  and  full  —  I  love  not  mystery." 

'T  were  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  man, 
Who  look'd  not  lovingly  on  that  Divan ; 
Nor  show'd  high  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest. 
'T  was  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillised  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  fare 
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. 
«'  Wliat  ails  thee,  Dervise  1  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  rill ; 
And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  (*)  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes  ; 
It  may  seem  strange  —  if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head  ; 
But  for  thy  sway  —  nay  more  —  thy  Sultan's  throne, 
I  taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet  —  save  alone  ; 
Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 

<1)  The  dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  orders,  as  the  monks. 


CANTO  II. 


THE    CORSAIR.  343 


"  Well  —  as  thou  wilt  —  ascetic  as  thou  art  — 

One  question  answer ;  then  in  peace  depart, 

How  many  ?  —  Ha !  it  cannot  sure  be  day  ? 

What  star  —  what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 

It  shines  a  lake  of  fire  !  — away —  away  ! 

Ho !  treachery  !  my  guards !  my  scimitar  ! 

The  galleys  feed  the  flames  —  and  I  afar  ! 

Accursed  Dervise  !  —  these  thy  tidings  —  thou 

Some  villain  spy  —  seize  —  cleave  him  —  slay  him  now !  " 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise  —  not  in  saintly  garb, 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away  — 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume, 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom, 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite, 
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  swell  — 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell ! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves  ; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 
They  seize  that  Dervise  !  —  seize  on  Zatanai  !(1) 
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 ; 
JT  is  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  ris.e  to  guard  its  head : 

(I)  Satan. 


344  THE    CORSAIR. 


CANTO  II. 


Even  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelm'd,  with  rage,  surprise, 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he  —  and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 

So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe  ! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight ;  (') 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Haram  gate, 

And  burst  within  —  and  it  were  death  to  wait ; 

"Where  wild  Amazement  shrieking  —  kneeling  —  throws 

The  sword  aside  —  in  vain  —  the  blood  o'erflows ! 

The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within, 

Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 

Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 

Proclaim'd  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 

They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A  glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair ! 

But  short  their  greeting  —  shorter  his  reply  — 

"  'Tis  well  — but  Seyd  escapes  —  and  he  must  die  — 

Much  hath  been  done  —  but  more  remains  to  do  — 

Their  galleys  blaze  —  why  not  their  city  too  ?  " 


v. 

Quick  at  the  word  —  they  seized  him  each  a  torch, 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A  stern  delight  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye, 

But  sudden  sunk  —  for  on  his  ear  the  cry 

Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 

Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yell. 

41  Oh  !  burst  the  Haram  —  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— -  mut  spare  the  weaker  prey. 

Oh  !  I  forgot  —  but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 

If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live  : 

Follow  who  will  —  I  go  —  we  yet  have  time 

Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 

He  climbs  the  crackling  stair — he  bursts  the  door, 

Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor  ; 

His  breath  choked  gasping  with  the  volumed  smoke, 

But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 

(\)  A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman  anger.  See  Prince 
Eugene's  Memoirs,  page  24.  "  The  Seraskier  received  a  wound  in  the  thigh  ;  he 
plucked  up  his  beard  by  the  roots,  because  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field." 


CANTO  II. 


THE    CORSAIR.  345 


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  1 

The  Haram  queen  —  but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd  ! 

VI. 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,  (J) 

Few  words  to  re-assure  the  trembling  fair ; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  from  war, 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far, 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  un pursued, 

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  well  — 

When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife, 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  beheld  the  danger  —  he  beheld 

His  followers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repell'd  : 

"  One  effort  —  one  —  to  break  the  circling  host !  " 

They  form  —  unite  —  charge  —  waver  —  all  is  lost ! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset, 

Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet  — 

Ah  !  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 

Hemm'd  in  —  cut  off —  cleft  down —  and  trampled  o'er ; 

But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 

And  sinks  out  wearied  rather  than  o'ercome, 

His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  with  his  breath, 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death  ! 

VII. 

But  first,  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 

(1)  Gulnare,  a  female  name ;  it  means,  literally,  the  flower  of  the  pomegranate. 


346  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  IL 

Gulnare  and  all  her  Haram  handmaids  freed, 

Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 

By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow'd, 

And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that  flow'd  : 

And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 

Recall'd  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair, 

Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 

That  smooth'd  his  accents  ;  soften'd  in  his  eye  : 

>T  was  strange  —  that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd, 

Seem'd  gentler  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood, 

The  Pacha  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave 

Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 

The  Corsair  vow'd  protection,  soothed  affright, 

As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 

"  The  wish  is  wrong  —  nay,  worse  for  female  —  vain?] 

Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again  ; 

If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot, 

The  life  —  my  loving  lord  remember'd  not !  " 

VIII. 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread, 

But  gather'd  breathing  from  the  happier  dead  ; 

Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 

That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 

Fell'd  — bleeding  —  baffled  of  the  death  he  sought, 

And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 

Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain,  """\ 

While  Vengeance  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  painA 

And  stanch'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again  —  J 

But  drop  for  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 

Would  doom  him  ever  dying  —  ne'er  to  die ! 

Can  this  be  he  1  triumphant  late  she  saw, 

When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law ! 

'T  is  he  indeed  —  disarm'd  but  undeprest, 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 

His  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 

Which  would  have  kiss'd  the  hand  that  then  could  kill. 

Oh  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 

To  send  his  soul  —  he  scarcely  ask'd  to  heaven  1 

Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for  death  1 

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  — 


CANTO  II. 


THE    CORSAIR.  347 


He  deeply,  darkly  felt ;  but  evil  pride 

That  led  to  perpetrate  —  now  serves  to  hide. 

Still  in  his  stern  and  self-collected  mien 

A  conqueror's  more  than  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  morn 

Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 

Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 

While  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  gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone. 


JT  were  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew  — 

It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 

There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 

When  all  its  elements  convulsed  —  combined  — 

Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 

And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse  ; 

That  juggling  fiend  —  who  never  spake  before  — 

But  cries  "  I  warn'd  thee !  "  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 

Vain  voice  !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent, 

May  writhe  —  rebel  —  the  weak  alone  repent! 

Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 

And,  to  itself,  all  — all  that  self  reveals, 

No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 

That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought ; 


348  THE    CORSAIR. 


CANTO  H. 


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  wretch  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  scann'd 

His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann'd  : 

One  thought  alone  he  could  not  —  dared  not  meet  — 

"  Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet?  " 

Then  —  only  then  — his  clanking  hands  he  raised, 

And  strain'd  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed  : 

But  soon  he  found  —  or  feign'd  —  or  dream'd  relief, 

And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief, 

"  And  now  come  torture  when  it  will  —  or  may, 

More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day !  " 

This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 

And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 


CANTO  H. 


THE  CORSAIR.  349 


'T  was  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 

For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done ; 

And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 

She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 

One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  sternm'd  — 

Disguised  —  discover'd — conquering — ta'en — condemn'd — 

A  chief  on  land  —  an  outlaw  on  the  deep  — 

Destroying  —  saving  —  prison'd  —  and  asleep ! 

XII. 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming  —  for  his  breath 

Was  hush'd  so  deep  —  Ah !  happy  if  in  death ! 

He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends? 

His  foes  are  gone  —  and  here  he  hath  no  friends  ; 

Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  ? 

No,  't  is  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face  ! 

Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp  —  yet  gently  hid, 

Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 

Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 

And  once  unclosed  —  but  once  may  close  again. 

That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 

And  auburn  waves  of  gemm'd  and  braided  hair ; 

With  shape  of  fairy  lightness  —  naked  foot, 

That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute  — 

Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  there  ? 

Ah  !  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare  1 

Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare  ! 

She  could  not  sleep  — and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 

In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 

She  left  his  side  —  his  signet-ring  she  bore, 

Which  oft  in  sport  adorn'd  her  hand  before  — 

And  with  it,  scarcely  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, 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  "  Can  he  calmly  sleep, 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  1 
And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here  — 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear? 


350  THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  II. 


True  —  't  is  to  him  my  life,  and  more,  I  owe, 
And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe : 
7T  is  late  to  think  —  but  soft  —  his  slumber  breaks  — 
How  heavily  he  sighs !  —  he  starts  —  awakes  1 " 

He  raised  his  head  —  and  dazzled  with  the  light, 

His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright : 

He  moved  his  hand  —  the  grating  of  his  chain 

Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 

"  What  is  that  form  ?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 

Methinks,  my  jailor's  face  shows  wond'rous  fair ! " 

"  Pirate !  thou  know'st  me  not  —  but  I  am  one, 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done  ; 
Look  on  me  —  and  remember  her,  thy  hand 
Snatch'd  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearful  band. 
I  come  through  darkness  —  and  I  scarce  know  why, 
Yet  not  to  hurt  —  I  would  not  see  thee  die." 

'*  If  so,  kind  lady  !  thine  the  only  eye 

That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight : 

Theirs  is  the  chance  —  and  let  them  use  their  right. 

But  still  1  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 

That  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a  shrine  !  " 

Strange  though  it  seem  —  yet  with  extremest  grief 

Is  link'd  a  mirth  —  it  doth  not  bring  relief — 

That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 

And  smiles  in  bitterness  —  but  still  it  smiles ; 

And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 

Till  even  the  scaffold  (l)  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. 

(1)  In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaffold,  and  Anne  Boleyn,  in  the 
Tower,  when  grasping  her  neck,  she  remarked,  that  it  "was  too  slender  to  trouble 
the  headsman  much."  During  one  part  of  the  French  Revolution,  it  became  a  fa- 
shion to  leave  some  "  mot"  as  a  legacy;  and  the  quantity  of  facetious  last  words  spo- 
ken during  that  period  would  form  a  melancholy  jest-book  of  a  considerable  size. 


CANTO  II. 


THE    CORSAIR.  351 


Thee  would  I  spare  —  nay  more  —  would  save  thee  now, 

But  this  —  time  —  hope  —  nor  even  thy  strength  allow  ; 

But  all  I  can,  I  will :  at  least  delay 

The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 

More  now  were  ruin  —  even  thyself  were  loth 

The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

»  Yes !  —  loth  indeed :  —  my  soul  is  nerved  to  all, 

Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  a  further  fall : 

Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril ;  me  with  hope 

Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope  : 

Unfit  to  vanquish  —  shall  I  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  God 

The  last  I  left  in  youth  —  he  leaves  me  now  — 

And  Man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 

I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 

Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair ; 

It  is  enough  —  I  breathe  —  and  I  can  bear. 

My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 

That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand  ; 

My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive  —  but  my  love  — 

For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above : 

Oh  !  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind  — 

And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 

And  blight  a  form  —  till  thine  appear'd,  Gulnare ! 

Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  fair." 

"  Thou  lov'st  another  then  ?  —  but  what  to  me 
Is  this  —  't  is  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. 


352  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  II. 

I  am  a  slave,  a  favour'd  slave  at  best, 

To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest ! 

Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo, 

Of —  *  Dost  thou  love  1 '  and  burn  to  answer,  *  No  ! ' 

Oh  !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain, 

And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain  ; 

But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear, 

And  hide  from  one  —  perhaps  another  there. 

He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not  —  nor  withhold  — 

Its  pulse  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  imprest, 

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  unrnourn'd  — returns  unsought  — 

And  oft  when  present  —  absent  from  my  thought. 

Or  when  reflection  comes,  and  come  it  must  — 

I  fear  that  henceforth  't  will  but  bring  disgust ; 

I  am  his  slave  —  but,  in  despite  of  pride, 

JT  were  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride. 

Oh  !  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease  ! 

Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 

But  yesterday  —  I  could  have  said,  to  peace  ! 

Yes  — if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 

Remember  —  captive  !  'tis  to  break  thy  chain  ; 

Repay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe  ; 

To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear'd  below, 

Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  know. 

Farewell —  morn  breaks  —  and  I  must  now  away  : 

'T  will  cost  me  dear  —  but  dread  no  death  to-day  ! " 

xv. 

She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart, 

And  bow'd  her  head,  and  turn'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  1 

The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  others'  pain, 

That  starts  at  once  —  bright  —  pure  —  from  Pity's  mine, 

Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine  ! 

Oh  !  too  convincing  —  dangerously  dear  — 
In  woman's  eye  the  answerable  tear ! 


CANTO  II.  THE    CORSAIR.  333 

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  ! 

What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  1 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven, 

By  this  — how  many  lose  not  earth  —  but  heaven ! 

Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe, 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe  ! 

XVI. 

}T  is  morn  —  and  o'er  his  alter'd  features  play 
The  beams  —  without  the  hope  of  yesterday. 
What  shall  he  be  ere  night  ?  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing  : 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfelt, 
While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 
Chill  —  wet  —  and  misty  round  each  stiffen'd  limb, 
Refreshing  earth  —  reviving  all  but  him  !  — * 


VOL.  in.— A  a 


THE    CORSAIR. 


CANTO    THE    THIRD. 


"  Come  vedi — ancor  non  m'abbandona." 

DAKTE. 


SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run 

Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 

Not,  as  in  Northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 

O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 

On.  old  -ZEgina'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,  unconquer'd  Salamis  ! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 

More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 

And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 

Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven ; 

Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 

Behind  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  watclrd  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 : 

(1)  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset,   (the  hour  for  execu- 
tion.) notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  went  dowc. 


CANTO  III.  THE    CORSAIR.  355 

Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before, 
But  ere  he  sank  below  Cithaeron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff 'd  —  the  spirit  fled ; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly  — 
Who  liv'd  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die  ! 

But  lo  !  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain, 

The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.  (') 

No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 

Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 

With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 

There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 

And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset, 

Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 

The  groves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide 

Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 

The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk, (2) 

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  jEgean,  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  ? 
Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set, 
Fair  Athens  !  could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 
Not  he  —  whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 
Spell-bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades ! 

(1)  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own  country:  the  days 
in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of  shorter  duration. 

(2)  The  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house  :  the  palm  is  without  the  present  walls 
of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  in- 
tervenes. — Cephisus'  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

(3)  The  opening  lines  as  far  as  section  II.  have,  perhaps,  little  business  here,  and 
were  annexed  to  an  unpublished  (though  printed)  poem;  but  they  were  written  op 
the  spot  in  the  spring  of  1811,  and — I  scarce  know  why — the  reader  must  excuse 
their  appearance  here  if  he  can. 


856  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  ill. 

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  ! 

in. 

The  Sun  hath  sunk  —  and,  darker  than  the  night, 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height 
Medora's  heart  —  the  third  day's  come  and  gone  — 
With  it  he  comes  not  —  sends  not  —  faithless  one ! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light ;  and  storms  were  none. 
Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  return'd,  and  yet 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 
Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 
The  night-breeze  freshens  —  she  that  day  had  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  warn'd  away  : 
She  saw  not  —  felt  not  this  —  nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  deem'd  it  cold  —  her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense  — 
His  very  Sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense  ! 

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  —  fluttered  —  wept  — 

All  lost  —  that  softness  died  not  —  but  it  slept ; 

And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 

"  With  nothing  left  to  love  — there  's  nought  to  dread." 

'Tis  more  than  nature's  ;  like  the  burning  might 

Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"Silent  you  stand  —  nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 

What  —  speak  not  —  breathe  not  —  for  I  know  it  well  — 


CANTO  III. 


THE    CORSAIR.  357 


nine 


Yet  would  I  ask  — .almost  my  lip  denies 

The  —  quick  your  answer —  tell  me  where  he  lies." 

"  Lady !  we  know  not  —  scarce  with  life  we  fled  ; 

But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead  : 

He  saw  him  bound  ;  and  bleeding  — but  alive." 

She  heard  no  further  —  't  was  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. 
Woe  to  his  foes  !  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 


Within  the  Haram's  secret  chamber  sate 

Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  Captive's  fate  ; 

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  eve 

Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 

His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads,  (') 

But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

(1)  The  comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary;  the  beads  are  in  number  ninety, 
ne. 


368  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  HI. 

*'  Pacha  !  the  day  is  thine ;  and  on  thy  crest 
Sits  Triumph  —  Conrad  taken  —  falPn  the  rest ! 
His  doom  is  fix'd  —  he  dies  :  arid  well  his  fate 
Was  earn'd  —  yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate  : 
Methinks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold ; 
Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard  — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord  ! 
While  baffled,  weakened  by  this  fatal  fray  — 
Watch'd  —  follow'd  —  he  were  then  an  easier  prey ; 
But  once  cut  off —  the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

*'  Gulnare  !  —  if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 

Were  offer'd  rich  as  StambouPs  diadern  ; 

If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 

Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine  ; 

If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

Of  wealth  were  here  —  that  gold  should  not  redeem! 

It  had  not  now  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  kill." 

"  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  f 
Release  my  foe !  —  at  whose  remonstrance  ( —  thine  ! 
Fair  suitor  !  —  to  thy  virtuous  gratitude, 
That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood, 
Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare, 
No  doubt  —  regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 
My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due  —  now  hear ! 
I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear  : 
I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman  !  and  each  word 
Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 
Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai  — 
Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  1 
Thou  need'st  not  answer  —  thy  confession  speaks, 
Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks  ; 


CANTO  III. 


THE    CORSAIR.  359 


Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee  !  and  beware : 

'T  is  not  kis  life  alone  may  claim  such  care 

Another  word  and  —  nay  —  I  need  no  more. 

Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 

Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far  —  but  —  no  — 

I  then  had  mourn'd  thee  with  a  lover's  woe  — 

Now  't  is  thy  lord  that  warns  —  deceitful  thing ! 

Know'st  thou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing  ? 

In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe  : 

Look  to  thyself —  nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe !  " 

He  rose  —  and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 

Rage  in  his  eye  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 

Ah  !  little  reck'd  that  chief  of  womanhood  — 

Which  frowns  ne'er  quell'd,  nor  menaces  subdued ; 

And  little  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart,  Gulnare ! 

When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incensed  could  dare. 

His  doubts  appear'd  to  wrong  —  nor  yet  she  knew 

How  deep  the  root  from  whence  compassion  grew  — • 

She  was  a  slave  —  from  such  may  captives  claim 

A  fellow-feeling,  differing  but  in  name  ; 

Still  half  unconscious  —  heedless  of  his  wrath, 

Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path, 

Again  his  rage  repell'd  —  until  arose 

That  strife  of  thought,  the  source  of  woman's  woes  ! 

VI. 

Meanwhile  —  long  anxious  —  weary  —  still  —  the  same 

Roll'd  day  and  night  —  his  soul  could  never  tame  — 

This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread, 

When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 

When  every  step  that  echo'd  by  the  gate 

Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await ; 

When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 

Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear  ; 

Could  terror  tame  —  that  spirit  stern  and  high 

Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die  ; 

5T  was  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  — 


360  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  III. 

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  valour'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  —  Gulnare  — 

The  second  —  third  —  and  still  she  came  not  there  ; 

But  what  her  words  avouch'd,  her  charms  had  done, 

Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  roll'd  along,  and  with  the  night 

Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might : 

Oh !  how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep, 

That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep ; 

And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 

Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element ! 

Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave. 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave  ; 

And  now  its  dashing  echo'd  on  his  ear, 

A  long  known  voice  —  alas  !  too  vainly  near ! 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above  ;  and,  doubly  loud, 

Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud  ; 

And  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 ! 


CANTO  HI.  THE    CORSAIR.  361 

VIII. 

The  midnight  pass'd  —  and  to  the  massy  door 

A  light  step  came  —  it  paused  —  it  moved  once  more ; 

Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key  : 

'T  is  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  I  look  to  none  —  my  lips  proclaim 

What  last  proclaim'd  they  —  Conrad  still  the  same  : 

Why  should'st  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare, 

And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear  ? 

Well  have  I  earn'd  —  nor  here  alone  —  the  meed 

Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

"  Why  should  I  seek  ?  because  —  Oh  !  didst  thou  not 
Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot  ? 
Why  should  I  seek  1  —  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  truly  dear, 
Were  I  thine  own  —  thou  wert  not  lonely  here  : 
An  outlaw's  spouse  —  and  leave  her  lord  to  roam  ! 
WThat  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home  ? 
But  speak  not  now  —  o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head 
.Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread  ; 
If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  would'st  be  free, 
Receive  this  poniard  —  rise  —  and  follow  me  ! " 

"  Ay  —  in  my  chains  !  my  steps  will  gently  tread, 
With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head! 
Thus  hast  forgot  —  is  this  a  garb  for  flight  1 
Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight  1 " 


362  THE    CORSAIR. 


CANTO  HI. 


"  Misdoubting  Corsair !  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 

Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 

A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain  : 

Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain  ? 

Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 

If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime  : 

The  crime  —  't  is  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 

That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad  —  he  must  bleed ! 

1  see  thee  shudder  —  but  my  soul  is  changed  — 

Wrong'd,  spurn'd,  reviled  —  and  it  shall  be  avenged  — 

Accused  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd  — 

Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 

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. 

'T  was  false  thou  know'st  —  but  let  such  augurs  rue, 

Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true. 

Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer  ; 

This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 

New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 

Mine  too  he  threatens  ;  but  his  dotage  still 

Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 

When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me, 

There  yawns  the  sack  —  and  yonder  rolls  the  sea ! 

What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 

To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 

I  saw  thee  —  loved  thee  —  owe  thee  all  —  would  save, 

If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 

But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 

(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife,) 

I  still  had  saved  thee  —  but  the  Pacha  spared. 

Now  I  am  all  thine  own  —  for  all  prepared  : 

Thou  lov'st  me  not  —  nor  know'st  —  or  but  the  worst.   • 

Alas !  this  love  — that  hatrecl  are  the  first  — 

Oh  !  could'st  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  would'st  not  start, 

Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart ; 

'T  is  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety  —  now 

It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow ; 

But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 

There  sleeps  —  he  must  not  wake  —  the  oppressor  Seyd  !  " 


Oin.  THE    CORSAIR. 

"  Gulnare  —  Gulnare  —  I  never  felt  till  now 

My  abject  fortune,  wither'd  fame  so  low : 

Seyd  is  mine  enemy  :  had  swept  my  band 

From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 

And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war, 

To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar ; 

Such  is  my  weapon  —  not  the  secret  knife  — 

Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life. 

Thine  saved  I  gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this  — 

Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 

Now  fare  thee  well  —  more  peace  be  with  thy  breast ! 

Night  wears  apace  —  my  last  of  earthly  rest !  " 

"  Rest !  rest !  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake, 

And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 

1  heard  the  order  —  saw  —  I  will  not  see  — 

If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee. 

My  life  —  rny  love  —  my  hatred  —  all  below 

Are  on  this  cast  —  Corsair !  't  is  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  '11  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand, 

The  guards  are  gain'd  —  one  moment  all  were  o'er  — 

Corsair !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more ; 

If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 

Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud." 

IX. 

She  turn'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  reply, 

But  his  glance  follow'd  far  with  eager  eye ; 

And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 

His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound, 

Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude, 

He,  fast  as  fetter'd  limbs  allow,  pursued. 

JT  was  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 : 


364  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  III. 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these  —  another  light 

From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight. 

Towards  it  he  moved  ;  a  scarcely  closing  door 

Reveal'd  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more. 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past, 

Then  paused  —  and  turn'd  —  and  paused  —  't  is  She  at  last ! 

!No  poniard  in  that  hand  —  nor  sign  of  ill  — 

"  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart  —  she  could  not  kill !  " 

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  —  't  was  but  a  spot  — 

Its  hue  was  all  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood  — 

Oh !  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime  —  't  is  blood  ! 

x. 

He  had  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  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak, 

Had  banish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek  ! 

Blood  he  had  view'd  —  could  view  unmoved  —  but  then 

It  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men. 

XI. 

"  JT  is  done  —  he  nearly  waked  —  but  it  is  done. 
Corsair !  he  perish'd  —  thou  art  dearly  won. 
All  words  would  now  be  vain  —  away  —  away  ! 
Our  bark  is  tossing  —  't  is  already  day. 
The  few  gain'd  over,  now  are  wholly  mine, 
And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join : 
Anon  my  voice  shall  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  ; 


«ANTO    III. 


THE    CORSAIR.  365 


Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind  ; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind  ! 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate, 
As  if  they  there  transferr'd  that  iron  weight. 
No  words  are  utter'd  —  at  her  sign,  a  door 
Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore  ; 
The  city  lies  behind  —  they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach ; 
And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd, 
Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betray'd  ; 
Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd,  the  sail  unfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew  — 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review ! 
Sunk  he  in  Contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchor'd  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah  !  —  since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown'd  above  the  mast, 
He  veil'd  his  face,  and  sorrow'd  as  he  pass'd ; 
He  thought  of  all  —  Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand ; 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride  : 
He  turn'd  and  saw  —  Gulnare,  the  homicide ! 

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  quench'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him  and  his  hand  she  press'd, 
"  Thou  niay'st  forgive  though  Allah's  self  detest  j 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  ? 
Reproach  me  — but  not  yet —  Oh  !  spare  me  now  f 
I  am  not  what  I  seem  —  this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bewilder'd  —  do  not  madden  quite  ! 
If  I  had  never  loved  —  though  less  my  guilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to  —  hate  me  —  if  thou  wilt." 

xv. 

She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesign'd,  the  wretch  he  made ; 
But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 
They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell  —  his  breast. 


366  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  III. 

Still  onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 

The  .blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge  ; 

Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 

A  spot  —  a  mast  —  a  sail  —  an  armed  deck ! 

Their  little  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  her  bow 

Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 

Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 

A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance  ; 

"  'T  is  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. 

"  'T  is  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 ! 


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, 

WThom  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  frenzy  could  that  bosom  fill, 

Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill, 

The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still ! 


CANTO  m. 


THE    CORSAIR.  367 


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  turn'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  colour  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  sunk  in  his  embrace : 

If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place, 

His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 

But  —  good  or  ill  —  it  bade  her  not  depart. 

Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast, 

His  latest  virtue  then  had  join'd  the  rest. 

Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 

That  ask'd  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this, 

The  first,  the  last  that  Frailty  stole  from  Faith  — 

To  lips  where  Love  had  lavish'd  all  his  breath, 

To  lips  — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling, 

As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

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. 


368  THE    CORSAIR. 


CANTO  111, 


Oh  !  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home, 

LIKC  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  —  't  is  strange  —  and  all  remark, 

Amid  so  many,  her's  alone  is  dark. 

'T  is  strange —  of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd, 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguish'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  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

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  kriock'd  —  but  faintly  —  for  his  trembling  hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens  —  't  is  a  well  known  face  — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent  —  twice  his  own  essay'd, 
And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd  ; 
He  snatch'd  the  lamp  —  its  light  will  answer  all  — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  fall. 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray  — 
As  soon  could  he  have  linger'd  there  for  day ; 
But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore, 
Another  chequers  o'er  the  shadow'd  floor ; 
His  steps  the  chamber  gain  —  his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not  —  yet  foretold  ! 

xx. 

He  turn'd  not  —  spoke  not—  sunk  not  —  fix'd  his  look, 

And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook : 

He  gazed  —  how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 

And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain  ! 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair, 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there ; 


CANTO   III. 


THE    CORSAIR.  369 


And  the  cold  flowers  (*)  her  colder  hand  contained, 

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  all  that  lurk'd  below 

Oh  !  o'er  the  eye  Death  most  exerts  his  might, 

And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 

Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse, 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 

Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile 

And  wish'd  repose  —  but  only  for  a  while  ; 

But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 

Long  —  fair  —  but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness, 

Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 

Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  ; 

These  —  and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier— » 

But  she  is  nothing  —  wherefore  is  he  here  I 

XXI. 

He  ask'd  no  question  —  all  were  answered  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still  — marble  brow. 
It  was  enough  —  she  died  —  what  reck'd  it  how  ? 
The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 
The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fears, 
The  only  living  thing  he  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  woe, 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all  —  perchance  a  mite  — 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  1 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn ; 
And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost, 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 

XXII. 

By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  is  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast ; 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 
Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none ; 

(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. 
VOL.  III. — B  b 


370  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  HI. 

No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show, 
For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 
And  stupor  almost  lull'd  it  into  rest ; 
So  feeble  now  —  his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept : 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain,* 
Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears  —  perchance,  if  seen, 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been  : 
Nor  long  they  flow'd  —  he  dried  them  to  depart, 
In  helpless  —  hopeless  —  brokenness  of  heart : 
The  sun  goes  forth —  but  Conrad's  day  is  dim ; 
And  the  night  cometh  —  ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 
On  Grief's  vain  eye  —  the  blindest  of  the  blind  ! 
Which  may  not —  dare  not  see  —  but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade  —  nor  will  endure  a  guide ! 


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  sunk,  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  round 

But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground  ! 


XXIV. 

JT  is  morn  —  to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 
Few  dare ;  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 
He  was  not  there  —  nor  seen  along  the  shore  ; 
Ere  night,  alarm'd,  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er : 
Another  morn  —  another  bids  them  seek, 
And  shout  his  name  till  echo  vvaxeth  weak  ; 


CANTO  HI. 


THE    CORSAIR.  371 


Mount  —  grotto  —  cavern  —  valley  search'd  in  vain, 

They  find  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain : 

Their  hope  revives  —  they  follow  o'er  the  main. 

'T  is  idle  all  —  moons  roll  on  moons  away, 

And  Conrad  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.  (J) 

(1)  That  the  point  of  honour  which  is  represented  in  one  instance  of  Conrad's 
character  has  not  been  carried  beyond  the  bounds  of  probability,  may  perhaps  be  in 
some  degree  confirmed  by  the  following  anecdote  of  a  brother  buccaneer  in  the  year 
1814. 

"Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enterprise  against  the  pirates  of  Barra- 
taria ;  but  few,  we  believe,  were  informed  of  the  situation,  history,  or  nature  of  that 
establishment.  For  the  information  of  such  as  were  unacquainted  with  it,  we  have 
procured  from  a  friend  the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main  facts,  of  which 
he  has  personal  knowledge,  and  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  some  of  our  readers. 

"  Barrataria  is  a  bay,  or^a  narrow  arm  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico ;  it  runs  through  a  rich 
but  very  flat  country,  until  it  reaches  within  a  mile  of  the  Mississippi  river,  fifteen 
miles  below  the  city  of  New  Orleans.  The  bay  has  branches  almost  innumerable, 
in  which  persons  can  lie  concealed  from  the  severest  scrutiny.  It  communicates  with 
three  lakes  which  lie  on  the  south-west  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  were  for- 
tified, in  the  year  1811,  by  a  band  of  pirates  under  the  command  of  one  Monsieur 
La  Fitte.  A  large  majority  of  these  outlaws  are  of  that  class  of  the  population  of 
the  state  of  Louisiana  who  fled  from  the  island  of  St.  Domingo  during  the  troubles 
there,  and  took  refuge  in  the  island  of  Cuba;  and  when  the  last  war  between  France 
and  Spain  commenced,  they  were  compelled  to  leave  that  island  with  the  shoit  no- 
tice 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  State  of  the  clause  in  the  constitution  which 
forbad  the  importation  of  slaves;  but,  at  the  same  time,  received  the  assurance  of  the 
Governor  that  he  would  obtain,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the  General  Govern- 
ment for  their  retaining  this  property. 

"  The  island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  about  lat.  29  deg.  15  min.,  long.  92.  30. ;  and  is 
as  remarkable  for  its  health  as  for  the  superior  scale  and  shell  fish  with  which  its 
waters  abound.  The  chief  of  this  hor^e,  like  Charles  de  Moor,  had  mixed  with  his 
many  vices  some  virtues.  In  the  year  1813,  this  party  had,  from  its  turpitude  and 
boldness,  claimed  the  attention  of  the  Governor  of  Louisiana  ;  and  to  break  up  the 
establishment  he  thought  proper  to  strike  at  the  head.  He  therefore  offered  a  re- 
ward of  500  dollars  for  the  head  of  Monsieur  La  Fitte,  who  was  well  known  to  the 
inhabitants  of  the  city  of  New  Orleans,  from  his  immediate  connection,  and  his  once 
having  been  a  fencing-master  in  that  city  of  great  reputation,  which  art  he  learnt  in 
Buonaparte's  army,  where  he  was  a  captain.  The  reward  which  was  offered  by  the 
Governor  for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  answered  by  the  offer  of  a  reward  from  the 
latter  of  15,000  for  the  head  of  the  Governor.  The  Governor  ordered  out  a  company 
to  march  from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  island,  and  to  burn  and  destroy  all  the  property, 
and  to  bring  to  the  city  of  New  Orleans  all  his  banditti.  This  company,  under  the 
command  of  a  man  who  had  been  the  intimate  associate  of  this  bold  Captain,  ap- 
proached very  near  to  the  fortified  island,  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sound, 
until  he  heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call.  Then  it  was  he  found  him- 
self surrounded  by  armed  men  who  had  emerged  from  the  secret  avenues  which  led 


372  THE    CORSAIR.  CANTO  III. 

into  Bayou.  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  concomitant  events,  proved  that  this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by 
land.  Our  naval  force  having  always  been  small  in  that  quarter,  exertions  for  the 
destruction  of  this  illicit  establishment  could  not  be  expected  from  them  until  aug- 
mented ;  for  an  officer  of  the  navy,  with  most  of  the  gun-boats  on  that  station,  had  To 
retreat  from  an  overwhelming  force  of  La  Fitte's.  So  soon  as  the  augmentation  of 
the  navy  authorised  an  attack,  one  was  made  ;  the  overthrow  of  this  banditti  has  been 
the  result ;  and  now  this  almost  invulnerable  point  and  key  to  New  Orleans  is  clear 
of  an  enemy,  it  is  to  be  hoped  the  government  will  hold  it  by  a  strong  military 
force."  —  From  an  American  Newspaper. 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Granger's  Biographical  History  there  is  a  singular  pas- 
sage in  his  account  of  Archbishop  Blackbourne ;  and  as  in  some  measure  connected 
with  the  profession  of  the  hero  of  the  foregoing  poem,  1  cannot  resist  the  temptation 
of  extracting  it. 

"  There  is  something  mysterious  in  the  history  and  character  of  Dr.  Blackbourne. 
The  former  is  but  imperfectly  known  ;  and  report  has  even  asserted  he  was  a  buc- 
caneer ;  and  that  one  of  his  brethren  in  that  profession  having  asked,  on  his  arrival 
in  England,  what  had  become  of  his  old  chum,  Blackbourne,  was  answered,  he  is 
Archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed,  that  Blackbourne  was  installed  sub-dean  of 
Exeter  in  1694,  which  office  he  resigned  in  1702 ;  but  after  his  successor  Lewis  Bar- 
net's  death,  in  1704,  he  regained  it.  In  the  following  year  he  became  dean  ;  and  in 
1714  held  with  it  the  archdeanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  consecrated  bishop  of  Exe- 
ter, February  24,  1716  ;  and  translated  to  York,  November  28,  1724,  as  a  reward, 
according  to  court  scandal,  for  uniting  George  I.  to  the  Duchess  of  Munster.  This, 
however,  appears  to  have  been  an  unfounded  calumny.  As  archbishop  he  behaved 
with  great  prudence,  and  was  equally  respectable  as  the  guardian  of  the  revenues  of 
the  see.  Rumour  whispered  he  retained  the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  a  passion 
for  the  fair  sex  formed  an  item  in  the  list  of  his  weaknesses  ;  but  so  far  from  being  con- 
victed by  seventy  witnesses,  he  does  not  appear  to  have  been  directly  criminated  by 
one.  In  short,  I  look  upon  these  aspersions  as  the  effects  of  mere  malice.  How  is 
it  possible  a  buccaneer  should  have  been  so  good  a  scholar  as  Blackbourne  certainly 
was?  He  who  had  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  the  classics,  (particularly  of  the  Greek 
tragedians,)  as  to  be  able  to  read  them  with  the  same  ease  as  he  could  Shakspeare, 
must  have  taken  great  pains  to  acquire  the  learned  languages  ;  and  have  had  both 
leisure  and  good  masters.  But  he  was  undoubtedly  educated  at  Christ-chinch  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  He  is  allowed  to  have  been  a  pleasant  man  ;  this,  however,  was  turned 
against  him,  by  its  being  said, '  he  gained  more  hearts  than  souls.'  " 


"  The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the  savage  ( Alphonso  III.)  was 
that  of  an  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  IT. 
King  of  Spain.  —  Her  dying  words  sunk  deep  into  his  memory  ;  his  fierce  spirit 
melted  into  tears  ;  and  after  the  last  embrace,  Alphonso  retired  into  his  chamber  to 
bewail  his  irreparable  loss,  and  to  meditate  on  the  vanity  of  human  life."  —  Miscel- 
laneous Works  of  Gibbon,  New  Edition,  8vo.  vol.  iii.  page  473. 


LARA; 

A  TALE. 


LARA. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


I. 

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. 


The  chief  of  Lara  is  return'd  again  : 
And  why  had  Lara  cross'd  the  bounding  main  1 
Left  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself ;  —  that  heritage  of  woe, 
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  ; 
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. 

in. 

And  Lara  left  in  youth  his  father-land  ; 
But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 


376  LARA.  CANTO  j. 

Each  trace  wax'd  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
Had  nearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 
His  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
'T  was  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. 

IV. 

He  comes  at  last  in  sudden  loneliness, 

And  whence  they  know  not,  why  they  need  not  guess ; 

They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting's  o'er, 

Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before  : 

No  train  is  his  beyond  a  single  page, 

Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  tender  age. 

Years  had  roll'd  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away 

To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay ; 

But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  clime 

Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weary  Time. 

They  see,  they  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 
Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame  : 
His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  but  his  sins 
No  more  than  pleasure  from  the  stripling  wins  ; 
And  such,  if  not  yet  harden'd  in  their  course, 
Might  be  redeem'd,  nor  ask  a  long  remorse. 


And  they  indeed  were  changed  —  'tis  quickly  seen, 
Whate'er  he  he,  'twas  not  what  he  had  been : 


CANTO  I.  LARA.  377 

That  brow  in  furrow'd  lines  had  fix'd  at  last, 

And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past : 

The  pride,  but  not  the  fire,  of  early  days, 

Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise  ; 

A  high  demeanour,  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  livid  face. 


VI. 

Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past, 

Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast, 

In  those  far  lands  where  he  had  wander'd  lone, 

And  —  as  himself  would  have  it  seem  —  unknown : 

Yet  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  care  to  know ; 

If  still  more  prying  such  enquiry  grew, 

His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his  words  more  few. 


VII. 

Not  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  again, 
Warm  was  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men ; 
Born  of  high  lineage,  link'd  in  high  command, 
He  mingled  with  the  Magnates  of  his  land ; 
Join'd  the  carousals  of  the  great  and  gay, 
And  saw  them  smile  or  sigh  their  hours  away ; 
But  still  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care  ; 
He  did  not  follow  what  they  all  pursued 
With  hope  still  baffled  still  to  be  renew'd  ; 
Nor  shadowy  honour,  nor  substantial  gain, 
Nor  beauty's  preference,  and  the  rival's  pain : 


378  LARA.  CANTO  I. 

Around  him  some  mysterious  circle  thrown 
Repell'd  approach,  and  show'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  deem'd  him  better  than  his  air  express'd. 

VIII. 

>T  was  strange  —  in  youth  all  action  and  all  life, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife  ; 
Woman  —  the  field  —  the  ocean  —  all  that  gave 
Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  grave, 
In  turn  he  tried — he  ransack' d  all  below, 
And  found  his  recompense  in  joy  or  woe, 
No  tame,  trite  medium  ;  for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thought  : 
The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  raised ; 
The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  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, 

Through  night's  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurried  tread 

O'er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frown'd 

In  rude  but  antique  portraiture  around  : 

They  heard,  but  whisper'd  —  "  that  must  not  be  known  — 

The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 

Yes,  they  who  chose  might  smile,  but  some  had  seen 

They  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should  have  been. 

Why  gazed  he  so  upon  the  ghastly  head 

Which  hands  profane  had  gather'd  from  the  dead, 

That  still  beside  his  open'd  volume  lay, 

As  if  to  startle  all  save  him  away  1 

Why  slept  he  not  when  others  were  at  rest  ? 

Why  heard  no  music,  and  received  no  guest  ? 


CANTO  f. 


LARA.  379 


All  was  not  well,  they  deem'd  —  but  where  the  wrong  1 
Some  knew  perchance  —  but 't  were  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  vassals  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  nought  of  evil  could  delight 

To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night ! 

It  was  a  moment  only  for  the  good  : 

So  Lara  deem'd,  nor  longer  there  he  stood, 

But  tura'd  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate  ; 

Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate  : 

Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days, 

Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze, 

Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  now  — 

No  —  no  —  the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 

Unfelt  —  unsparing  —  but  a  night  like  this, 

A  night  of  beauty,  mock'd  such  breast  as  his. 

XI. 

He  turn'd  within  his  solitary  hall, 
And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall : 
There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 
'T  was  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes, 
Save  vague  tradition ;  and  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  faults  ; 
And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page, 
That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age, 
Where  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies, 
And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies. 


380  LARA.  CANTO  I. 

He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shone 
Through  the  dim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone, 
And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O'er  Gothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer, 
Reflected  in  fantastic  figures  grew, 
Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life,  to  view  ; 
His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 
And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume, 
Glanced  like  a  spectre's  attributes,  and  gave 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

XII. 

>T  was  midnight  —  all  was  slumber  ;  the  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, 

Was  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  fixed  in  horrible  repose. 

They  raise  him  —  bear  him; — hush!    he  breathes,  he 

speaks, 

The  swarthy  blush  recolours  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 ; 


CANTO  I.  LARA. 

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  that  gently  seem 
To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream  — 
If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 
A  breast  that  needed  not  ideal  woe. 

xv. 

Whate'er  his  frenzy  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  vigour  in  his  shaken  frame  ; 
And  solace  sought  he  none  from  priest  nor  leech 
And  soon  the  same  in  movement  and  in  speech 
As  heretofore  he  fill'd  the  passing  hours,  — 
Nor  less  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  forehead  lowers, 
Than  these  were  wont ;  and  if  the  coming  night 
Appear'd  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight, 
He  to  his  marvelling  vassals  show'd  it  not, 
Whose  shuddering  proved  their  fear  was  less  forgot. 
In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dared  not)  crawl 
The  astonish'd  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  hall ; 
The  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door, 
The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  floor  ; 
The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees, 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night  song  of  the  breeze  ; 
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  unravell'd  gloom 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 
A  seeming  of  forgetfulness,  that  made 
His  vassals  more  amazed  nor  less  afraid  — 


381 


382  LARA.  CANTO  L 

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  ?  was  his  the  voice  that  spoke ' 
Those  strange  wild  accents  ;  his  the  cry  that  broke 
Their  slumber  1  his  the  oppress'd,  o'erlabour'd  heart 
That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start  1 
Could  he  who  thus  had  suffer'd  so  forget, 
When  such  as  saw  that  suffering  shudder  yet  1 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fix'd 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix'd 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  effect,  but  not  the  cause  ? 
Not  so  in  him  ;  his  breast  had  buried  both, 
Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half  told ; 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfold. 


XVII. 

In  him  inexplicably  mix'd  appeared 

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 
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. 


CANTO  I. 


LARA.  383 


XVIII. 

There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all : 

As  if  the  worst  had  fall'n  which  could  befall, 

He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world, 

An  erring  spirit  from  another  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  mispent, 

And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent ; 

And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour'd  their  wrath 

In  hurried  desolation  o'er  his  path, 

And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 

In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life  ; 

But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame, 

He  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame, 

And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshly  form 

She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm ; 

Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 

And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will : 

Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could 

At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good, 

But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought, 

But  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought, 

That  sway'd  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 

To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside  ; 

And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time, 

Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime  ; 

So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath, 

The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemn'd  to  breathe, 

And  long'd  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 

Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state  ; 

His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 

Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own  : 

Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  pass'd  below, 

His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow : 

Ah  !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd, 

But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  flow'd ! 

'T  is  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walk'd, 

And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk'd, 


384  LARA.  CANTO  I. 

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. 

XIX. 

With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien, 
And  seeming  gladness  to  remain  unseen, 
He  had  (if 't  were  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  remember'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  highboni  and  a  welcome  guest, 
To  Otho's  hall  came  Lara  with  the  rest. 
The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hall, 
Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball ; 
And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  Beauty's  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain : 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  well  according  bands  ; 
It  is  a  sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 
And  make  Age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth, 
And  Youth  forget  such  hour  was  past  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth ! 


CANTO  r. 


LARA.  385 


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,  't  is  a  face  unknown, 

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  enquiry,  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. 

"  >T  is  he  ! "  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heard 

Re-echoed  fast  and  far  the  whisper'd  word. 

"  >T  is  he !  "  —  "  'T  is  who  ?  "  they  question  far  and  near, 

Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear ; 

So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 

The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look : 

But  Lara  stirr'd  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 

That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes 

Seem'd  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised 

Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  stranger  gazed ; 

And  drawing  nigh,  exclairn'd,  with  haughty  sneer, 

"  JT  is  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  turn'd,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone  — 
"  My  name  is  Lara !  —  when  thine  own  is  known, 
Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlook'd  for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight. 
}T  is  Lara  !  —  further  wouldst  thou  mark  or  ask  ? 
I  shun  no  question,  and  I  wear  no  mask." 
VOL.  in. — c  c 


386  LARA.  CANTO  I. 

"  Thou  shunn'st  no  question !  Ponder  —  is  there  none 

Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thine  ear  would  shun  1 

And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too  ?  Gaze  again ! 

At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain. 

Oh  !  never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt, 

Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget." 

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  turn'd  to  pass  away  ; 

But  the  stern  stranger  motion'd  him  to  stay. 

44  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,  't  is  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  1  whose  deeds " 

"  Whatever  I  be, 

Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee 
I  list  no  further  ;  those  with  whom  they  weigh 
May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 
The  wondrous  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. 
If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  aught  to  show 
Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  ear  to  know, 
To-morrow,  here  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
Beseem  your  mutual  judgment,  speak  the  rest ; 
I  pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown, 
Though,  like  Count  Lara,  now  return'd  alone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown  j 
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,"  Ezzelin  replied, 

"  And  here  our  several  worth  and  truth  be  tried  ; 


CANTO  I. 


LARA.  387 


I  gage  my  life,  my  falchion  to  attest 

My  words,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  blest !  n 

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  show'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  1  the  calmness  of  the  good  ? 

Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  ? 

Alas  !  too  like  in  confidence  are  each, 

For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech ; 

From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 

Truths  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  obey  : 
His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar, 
Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  star  ; 
For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he  sprung, 
In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young  ; 
Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 
Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's  land, 
In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command  ; 
But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  come, 
When  Lara's  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of  home  : 


388  LARA»  CANTO   J. 

Those  accents  as  his  native  mountains  dear, 
Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear, 
Friends',  kindreds',  parents',  wonted  voice  recall, 
Nor  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  unbidden  blush  shone  through ; 

Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 

All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delighted  glow  ; 

But 't  was  a  hectic  tint  of  secret  care 

That  for  a  burning  moment  fever'd  there  ; 

And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seem'd  caught 

From  high,  and  lighten'd  with  electric  thought, 

Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes'  fringe 

Had  temper'd  with  a  melancholy  tinge  ; 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there, 

Or  if 't  were  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  withdraw,  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,  't  was  Lara  ;  but  was  shown 

His  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone  ; 

In  mute  attention  ;  and  his  care,  which  guess'd 

Each  wish,  fulfill'd  it  ere  the  tongue  express'd. 

Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A  spirit  deep  that  brook'd  not  to  be  chid ; 

His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  hands, 

In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands  ; 

As  if 't  was  Lara's  less  than  his  desire 

That  thus  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 


CANTO   I. 


LARA.  389 


Slight  were  the  tasks  enjoin'd  him  by  his  lord, 

To  hold  the  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 : 

His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stern, 

Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  he  seem'd,  and  better  days, 

Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 

So  femininely  white  it  might  bespeak 

Another  sex,  when  match'd  with  that  smooth  cheek, 

But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze, 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays  ; 

A  latent  fierceness  that  far  more  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  rumour  said  he  bore 

Another  ere  he  left  the  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  't  was  Lara's  wonted  voice  that  spake, 

For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 

XXVIII. 

He  had  look'd  down  upon  the  festive  hall, 

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  colour  of  young  Kaled  went  and  came, 

The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame  ; 

And  o'er  his  brow  the  dampening  heart-drops  threw 

The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew, 

That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 

With  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection  shrinks. 

Yes  —  there  be  things  which  we  must  dream  and  dare, 

And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  aware  : 

Whate'er  might  Kaled's  be,  it  was  enow 

To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonise  his  brow. 


390  LARA.  CANTO  L 

He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 
That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  past ; 
When  Kaled  saw  that  smile  his  visage  fell, 
As  if  on  something  recognised  right  well ; 
His  memory  read  in  such  a  meaning  more 
Than  Lara's  aspect  unto  others  wore : 
Forward  he  sprung  —  a  moment,  both  were  gone, 
And  all  within  that  hall  seem'd  left  alone  ; 
Each  had  so  fix'd  his  eye  on  Lara's  mien, 
All  had  so  mix'd  their  feelings  with  that  scene, 
That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porch 
No  more  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch, 
Each  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  all  bosoms  seem 
To  bound  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream, 
Such  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth, 
Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 
And  they  are  gone  — but  Ezzelin  is  there, 
With:  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air ; 
But  long  remain'd  not ;  ere  an  hour  expired 
He  waved  his  hand  to  Otho,  and  retired. 

XXIX. 

The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest ; 

The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guest, 

Again  to  that  accustom'd  couch  must  creep 

Where  joy  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep, 

And  man,  o'erlabour'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  awhile  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   THE    SECOND. 


I. 

NIGHT  wanes  —  the  vapours  round  the  mountains  curl'd 

Melt  into  morn,  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,  splendour  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. 

n. 

'T  is  morn  —  >t  is  noon  —  assembled  in  the  hall, 
The  gather'd  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call ; 
5T  is  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  1  Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 
Methinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged. 


392  LARA.  CANTO  II. 

III. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there, 
With  self-confiding,  coldly  patient  air  ; 
Why  comes  not  Ezzelin  1  The  hour  is  past, 
And  murmurs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow  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  honour  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  listening  ear 

To  tales  of  evil  from  a  stranger's  tongue, 

Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  have  wrung, 

But  that  I  deem'd  him  scarcely  less  than  mad, 

Or,  at  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 

I  know  him  not  —  but  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  his  willing  weapon  bare. 

In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed, 

For  Otho's  frenzy  would  not  be  opposed ; 

And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell  — 

His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well. 

IV. 

•  Short  was  the  conflict ;  furious,  blindly  rash, 
Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash : 


CANTO  II.  LARA. 

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  levell'd  at  his  brow ; 

Then  all  was  stern  collectedness  and  art, 

Now  rose  the  unleaven'd  hatred  of  his  heart ; 

So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  fell'd, 

That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withheld, 

He  almost  turn'd  the  thirsty  point  on  those, 

Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose  ; 

But  to  a  moment's  thought  that  purpose  bent ; 

Yet  look'd  he  on  him  still  with  eye  intent, 

As  if  he  loathed  the  ineffectual  strife 

That  left  a  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life  ; 

As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 

Had  sent  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  neighbouring  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  light  1 
Where  was  this  Eezzlin  1  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  dwelling  lay  ; 
But  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  fast  enquiry,  which  unfolded  nought 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sought. 
A  chamber  tenantless,  a  steed  at  rest, 
His  host  alarm'd,  his  murmuring  squires  distressed : 
Their  search  extends  along,  around  the  path, 
In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  prowlers'  wrath  : 


394  LARA. 

But  none  are  there,  and  not  a  brake  hath  borne 
JNor  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  agonised  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  appear'd, 
Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fear'd 
Again  its  wonted  wondering  to  renew, 
And  dye  conjecture  with  a  darker  hue. 

VII. 

Days  roll  along,  and  Otho's  wounds  are  heal'd, 
But  not  his  pride  ;  and  hate  no  more  conceal'd  : 
He  was  a  man  of  power,  arid  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. 
Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 
His  presence  ?  who  had  made  him  disappear, 
If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 
Had  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large  ? 
The  general  rumour  ignorantly  loud, 
The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  crowd ; 
The  seeming  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 
Wliere  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  that  art  1 
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,  link'd  with  that  desire  which  ever  sways 
Mankind,  the  rather  to  condemn  than  praise, 
'Gainst  Lara  gathering  raised  at  length  a  storm, 
Such  as  himself  might  fear,  and  foes  would  form, 


CANTO  II. 


CANTO  It 


LARA  395 


And  he  must  answer  for  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 


VIII. 

Within  that  land  was  many  a  malcontent, 

Who  cursed  the  tyranny  to  which  he  bent ; 

That  soil  full  many  a  wringing  despot  saw, 

Who  work'd  his  wantonness  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  ; 

Fix'd  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord, 

In  word  and  deed  obey'd,  in  soul  abhorr'd. 

Thus  Lara  had  inherited  his  lands, 

And  with  them  pining  hearts  and  sluggish  hands ; 

But  that  long  absence  from  his  native  clime 

Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression's  crime, 

And  now,  diverted  by  his  milder  sway, 

All  dread  by  slow  degrees  had  worn  away. 

The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone, 

But  more  for  him  than  them  that  fear  was  grown ; 

They  deem'd  him  now  unhappy,  though  at  first 

Their  evil  judgment  augur'd  of  the  worst, 

And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood, 

Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed  by  solitude  : 

And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 

Gloom  o'er  his  chamber,  cheerful  was  his  gate  ; 

For  thence  the  wretched  ne'er  unsoothed  withdrew, 

For  them,  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 

Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  high, 

The  humble  pass'd  not  his  unheeding  eye  ; 

Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath  his  roof 

They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne'er  reproof. 

And  they  who  watch'd  might  mark  that,  day  by  day, 

Some  new  retainers  gather'd  to  his  sway  ; 

Bui  most  of  late,  since  Ezzelin  was  lost, 

He  play'd  the  courteous  lord  and  bounteous  host : 

Perchance  his  strife  with  Otho  made  him  dread 

Some  snare  prepared  for  his  obnoxious  head  ; 

Whate'er  his  view,  his  favour  more  obtains 

WTith  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow  thanes. 

If  this  were  policy,  so  far  't  was  sound, 

The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  they  found  ; 


LARA.  CANTO  n. 

From  him  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  driven 
They  but  required  a  shelter,  and  't  was  given. 
By  him  no  peasant  mourn'd  his  rifled  cot, 
And  scarce  the  Serf  could  murmur  o'er  his  lot ; 
With  him  old  avarice  found  its  hoard  secure, 
With  him  contempt  forbore  to  mock  the  poor  : 
Youth  present  cheer  and  promised  recompense 
Detain'd,  till  all  too  late  to  part  from  thence  : 
To  hate  he  offered,  with  the  coming  change, 
The  deep  reversion  of  delay'd  revenge  ; 
To  love,  long  baffled  by  the  unequal  match, 
The  well-won  charms  success  was  sure  to  snatch. 
All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 
That  slavery  nothing  which  was  still  a  name. 
The  moment  came,  the  hour  when  Othe  thought 
Secure  at  last  the  vengeance  which  he  sought : 
His  summons  found  the  destined  criminal 
Begirt  by  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall, 
Fresh  from  their  feudal  fetters  newly  riven, 
Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 
That  morning  he  had  freed  the  soil-bound  slaves 
Who  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  graves ! 
Such  is  their  cry  —  some  watchword  for  the  fight 
Must  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right ; 
Religion  —  freedom  —  vengeance  —  what  you  will, 
A  word's  enough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill ; 
Some  factious  phrase  by  cunning  caught  and  spread, 
That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms  be  fed ! 

JX. 

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  compell'd  to  plunge  again, 
In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 
Cut  off  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 
Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes, 
Had  Lara  from  that  night,  to  him  accurst, 
Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone,  the  worst : 
Some  reason  urged,  whate'er  it  was,  to  shun 
Enquiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done ; 
By  mingling  with  his  own  the  cause  of  all, 
E'en  if  he  fail'd,  he  still  delay'd  his  fall. 


CANTO  If.  LARA.  397 

The  sullen  calm  that  long  his  bosom  kept, 
The  storm  that  once  had  spent  itself  and  slept, 
Roused  by  events  that  seem'd  foredoom'd  to  urge 
His  gloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge, 
Burst  forth,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had  been, 
And  is  again  ;  he  only  changed  the  scene. 
Light  care  had  he  for  life,  and  less  for  fame, 
But  not  less  fitted  for  the  desperate  game  : 
He  deem'd  himself  mark'd  out  for  others'  hate, 
And  mock'd  at  ruin  so  they  shared  his  fate. 
What  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd  ? 
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. 
Stern,  unambitious,  silent,  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a  calm  spectator  of  life's  scene  ; 
But,  dragg'd  again  upon  the  arena,  stood 
A  leader  not  unequal  to  the  feud  ; 
In  voice  —  mien  —  gesture  —  savage  nature  spoke, 
And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 


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  1 

The  smoking  ruin,  and  the  crumbled  wall  1 

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. 


398  LARA.  CANTO  11 


XI. 

Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-born  impulse  strung, 

The  first  success  to  Lara's  numbers  clung : 

But  that  vain  victory  hath  ruin'd  all ; 

They  form  no  longer  to  their  leader's  call : 

In  blind  confusion  on  the  foe  they  press, 

And  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 

The  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  of  hate, 

Lure  on  the  broken  brigands  to  their  fate  : 

In  vain  he  doth  whate'er  a  chief  may  do, 

To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew ; 

In  vain  their  stubborn  ardour  he  would  tame, 

The  hand  that  kindles  cannot  quench  the  flame ; 

The  wary  foe  alone  hath  turn'd  their  mood, 

And  shown  their  rashness  to  that  erring  brood : 

The  feign'd  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscade, 

The  daily  harass,  and  the  fight  delay'd, 

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  suffering  life  : 

And  famine  wrings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 

His  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array  ; 

Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent, 

And  Lara's  soul  alone  seems  still  unbent : 

But  few  remain  to  aid  his  voice  and  hand, 

And  thousands  dwindled  to  a  scanty  band : 

Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remain'd 

To  mourn  the  discipline  they  late  disdain'd. 

One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  far, 

And  thence  they  may  escape  from  native  war  ; 

And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighbouring  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 ; 


CANTO  11. 


LARA.  399 


Already  they  descry  —  Is  yon  the  bank  ? 
Away  !  't  is  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly !  —  What  glitters  in  the  rear  ? 
'T  is  Otho's  banner  —  the  pursuer's  spear ! 
Are  those  the  shepherds'  fires  upon  the  height  ? 
Alas !  they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight : 
Cut  off  from  hope,  and  compass'd  in  the  toil, 
Less  blood  perchance  hath  bought  a  richer  spoil  I 

XIII. 

A  moment's  pause,  't  is  but  to  breathe  their  band 
Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand  ? 
It  matters  little  —  if  they  charge  the  foes 
Who  by  their  border-stream  their  march  oppose, 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line, 
However  link'd  to  baffle  such  design. 
"  The  charge  be  ours  !  to  wait  for  their  assault 
W^ere  fate  well  worthy  of  a  coward's  halt." 
For%  flies  each  sabre,  rein'd  is  every  steed, 
And  the  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the  deed : 
In  the  next  tone  of  Lara's  gathering  breath 
How  many  shall  but  hear  the  voice  of  death ! 

XIV. 

His  blade  is  bared,  in  him  there  is  an  air 

As  deep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair ; 

A  something  of  indifference  more  than  then 

Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men. 

He  turn'd  his  eye  on  Kaled,  ever  near, 

And  still  too  faithful  to  betray  one  fear ; 

Perchance  't  was  but  the  moon's  dim  twilight  threw 

Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  hue 

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  I 

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 ; 


400  LARA. 

Outnumber'd,  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 
Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes  ; 
And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream, 
Which  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 

xv. 

Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all, 
Where  foe  appear'd  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall, 
Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his  steel, 
Inspiring  hope  himself  had  ceased  to  feel. 
None  fled,  for  well  they  knew  that  flight  were  vain  ; 
But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again, 
While  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
Recoil  before  their  leader's  look  and  blow  : 
Now  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone, 
He  foils  their  ranks,  or  re-unites  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  ! 

XVI. 

Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  helrnless  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  mouth  to  crave 
One  drop  —  the  last  —  to  cool  it  for  the  grave  ; 


CANTO  II. 


CANTO  It.  LARA.  401 

With  feeble  and  convulsive  effort  swept, 
Their  limbs  along  the  crimson'd  turf  have  crept ; 
The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste, 
But  yet  they  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste : 
They  feel  its  freshness,  and  almost  partake  — 
Why  pause  ?  No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake  — 
It  is  unquench'd,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not ; 
It  was  an  agony  —  but  now  forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 

Where  but  for  him  the  strife  had  never  been, 

A  breathing  "but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 

'T  was  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  't  is  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  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield  ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  't  were  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  ; 

VOL.  III. — D  d 


402  LARA.  CANTO  II. 

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, 

So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 

The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke  ; 

But  Lara's  voice,  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 

And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely  near : 

But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess, 

So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless, 

Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 

Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 

And  once,  as  Kaled's  answering  accents  ceased, 

Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 

Where  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 

Roll'd  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught  his  eye, 

Or  that 't  was  chance,  or  some  remember'd  scene, 

That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had  been, 

Scarce  Kaled  seem'd  to  know,  but  turn'd  away, 

As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  day, 

And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light, 

To  look  on  Lara's  brow  —  where  all  grew  night. 

Yet  sense  seem'd  left,  though  better  were  its  loss  ; 

For  when  one  near  display'd  the  absolving  cross, 

And  proffer'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead, 

Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need, 

He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane, 

And  smiled  —  Heaven  pardon  !  if 't  were  with  disdain : 

And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 

From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd  despairing  view, 

With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift, 

Flung  back  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. 


CANTO  II. 


LARA.  403 


XX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 

And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew ; 

His  limbs  stretch'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd  o'er 

The  weak  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore  ; 

He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart  — 

It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 

With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain, 

For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 

"  It  beats !  "  —  Away,  thou  dreamer !  he  is  gone  — 

It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 

XXI. 

He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 

The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay  ; 

And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 

But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance  ; 

And  when,  in  raising  him  fromwhere  he  bore 

Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 

He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain, 

Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain  ; 

He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 

The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair, 

But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell, 

Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 

Than  that  he  loved  !  Oh  !  never  yet  beneath 

The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe  ! 

That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal'd 

The  secret  Jong  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  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame  — 

What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  I 

XXII. 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep, 

But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep ; 

Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 

Though  priest  nor  bless'd  nor  marble  deck'd  the  mound ; 

And  he  was  mourn'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 

Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 

Vain  was  all  question  ask'd  her  of  the  past, 

And  vain  e'en  menace  —  silent  to  the  last ; 

She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 

Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind. 


404  LARA.  CANTO  n. 

Why  did  she  love  him  ?  Curious  fool !  —  be  still  — 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness  ;  the  stern 
Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern, 
And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 
Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 
They  were  not  common  links,  that  form'd  the  chain 
That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain ; 
But  that  wild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold, 
And  seal'd  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have  told. 

XXIII.  » 

They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest, 
They  found  the  scatter'd  dints  of  many  a  scar, 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war ; 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  summer  years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanish'd  in  a  land  of  strife ; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt, 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt, 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Return'd  no  more  —  that  night  appear'd  his  last. 

XXIV. 

Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 
A  Serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale,  (x) 

(1)  The  event  in  this  section  was  suggested  by  the  description  of  the  death,  or 
rather  burial,  of  the  Duke  of  Gandia. 

The  most  interesting  and  particular  account  of  this  mysterious  event  is  given  by 
Burchard,  and  is  in  substance  as  follows  : — "  On  the  eighth  day  of  June,  the  Cardinal 
of  Valenza  and  the  Duke  of  Gandia,  sons  of  the  Pope,  supped  with  their  motner, 
Vanozza,  near  the  church  of  S.  Pietro  ad  vincula  ;  several  other  persons  being  pre- 
sent at  the  entertainment.  A  late  hour  approaching,  and  the  cardinal  having  remind- 
ed his  brother  that  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace,  they  mounted  their 
horses  or  mules,  with  only  a  few  attendants,  and  proceeded  together  as  far  as  the 
palace  of  Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza,  when  the  duke  informed  the  cardinal  that,  before 
he  returned  home,  he  had  to  pay  a  visit  of  pleasure.  Dismissing  therefore  all  his  at- 
tendants, excepting  his  staffiero,  or  footman,  and  a  person  in  a  mask,  who  had  paid 
him  a  visit  whilst  at  supper,  and  who,  during  the  space  of  a  month  or  thereabouts, 
previous  to  this  time,  had  called  upon  him  almost  daily,  at  the  apostolic  palace,  he 
took  this  person  behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  proceeded  to  the  street  of  the  Jews, 
where  he  quitted  his  servant,  directing  him  to  remain  there  until  a  certain  hour ; 
when,  if  he  did  not  return,  he  might  repair  to  the  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  servant,  after  having  been  dis- 
missed, was  also  assaulted  and  mortally  wounded ;  and  although  he  was  attended 
with  great  care,  yet  such  was  his  situation,  that  he  could  give  no  intelligible  account 
of  what  had  befallen  his  master.  In  the  morning,  the  duke  not  having  returned  to  the 
palace,  his  servants  began  to  be  alarmed  ;  and  one  of  them  informed  the  pontiff  of 
the  evening  excursion  of  his  sons,  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance. 
This  gave  the  pope  no  small  anxiety ;  but  he  conjectured  that  the  duke  had  been  at- 
tracted by  some  courtesan  to  pass  the  night  with  her,  and,  not  choosing  to  quit  the 
house  in  'open  day,  had  waited  till  the  following  evening  to  return  home.  When, 


CANTO  II. 


LARA.  406 


When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  morn, 

And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn  ; 

A  Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood, 

And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's  food, 

Pass'd  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 

Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain  : 

He  heard  a  tramp  —  a  horse  and  horseman  broke 

From  out  the  wood  —  before  him  was  a  cloak 

Wrapt  round  some  burthen  at  his  saddle-bow, 

Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 

Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time, 

And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime, 

Himself  unheeded  watch'd  the  stranger's  course, 

Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse, 

And  lifting  thence  the  burthen  which  he  bore, 

Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore, 

Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,  and  seem'd  to  watch, 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 


however,  the  evening  arrived,  and  he  found  himself  disappointed  in  his  expectations,  he 
became  deeply  afflicted,  and  began  to  make  enquiries  from  different  persons,  whom  he 
ordered  to  attend  him  for  that  purpose.  Among  these  was  a  man  named  Giorgio  Schia- 
voni,  who,  having  discharged  some  timber  from  abark  in  the  river,  had  remained  onboard 
the  vessel  to  watch  it  ;  and  being  interrogated  whether  he  had  seen  any  one  thrown 
into  the  river  on  the  night  preceding,  he  replied,  that  he  saw  two  men  on  foot,  who 
came  down  the  street,  and  looked  diligently  about,  to  observe  whether  any  person 
was  passing.  That  seeing  no  one,  they  returned,  and  a  short  time  afterwards  two 
others  came,  and  looked  around  in  the  same  manner  as  the  former  :  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  prevent  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,  Signor,  si,  (yes,  Sir.)  He  then  looked  towards 
the  river,  and  seeing  a  mantle  floating  on  the  stream,  he  enquired  what  it  was  that  ap- 
peared 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  enquired 
from  Giorgio,  why  he  had  not  revealed  this  to  the  governor  of  the  city  ;  to  which  he  re- 
plied ,  that  he  had  seen  in  his  time  a  hundred  dead  bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  the  same 
place,  without  any  enquiry  being  made  respecting  them  ;  and  that  he  had  not,  therefore, 
considered  it  as  a  matter  of  any  importance.  The  fishermen  and  seamen  were  then 
collected,  and  ordered  to  search  the  river,  where,  on  the  following  evening,  they  found 
the  body  of  the  duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  thirty  ducats  in  his  purse.  He  was 
pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of  which  was  in  his  throat,  the  others  in  his  head, 
body,  and  limbs.  No  sooner  was  the  pontiff  informed  of  the  death  of  his  son,  and 
that  he  had  been  thrown,  like  filth,  into  the  river,  than,  giving  way  to  his  grief,  he 
shut  himself  up  in  a  chamber,  and  wept  bitterly.  The  Cardinal  of  Segovia,  and  other 
attendants  on  the  pope,  went  to  the  door,  and  after  many  hours  spent  in  persuasions 
and  exhortations,  prevailed  upon  him  to  admit  them.  From  the  evening  of  Wednes- 
day till  the  following  Saturday  the  pope  took  no  food  ;  nor  did  he  sleep  from  Thurs- 
day 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  sorrow,  and  to  consider  the 
injury  which  his  own  health  might  sustain,  by  the  further  indulgence  of  his  grief,"— 
JRoscoe's  .£,eo  Tenth,  vol.  i.  page  265. 


406  LARA.  CAN  10*. 

And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flow'd, 
As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd  : 
At  once  he  started,  stoop'd,  around  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone  ; 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there, 
And  slung  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, 
Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 
And  such  't  is  known 'Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  morn. 
If  thus  he  perish'd,  Heaven  receive  his  soul ! 
His  undiscover'd  limbs  to  ocean  roll ; 
And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  fell. 

XXV. 

And  Kaled  —  Lara  —  Ezzelin,  are  gone, 

Alike  without  their  monumental  stone  ! 

The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 

From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had  been ; 

Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud, 

Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud  ; 

But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 

Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not, 

Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 

That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire  ; 

But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there, 

She  talk'd  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air, 

Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  Sorrow  paints, 

And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints  : 

And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 

Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee ; 


CANTO  II. 


LARA.  407 


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  ; 
Thea  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 
From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit ; 
Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root, 
And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meagre  hand, 
Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand  — 
This  could  not  last  —  she  lies  by  him  she  loved  ; 
Her  tale  untold  —  her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


THE 

SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


TO 

JOHN   HOBHOUSE,  ESQ. 

THIS   POEM   IS    INSCRIBED 
BY  HIS 

FRIEND. 
January  22,  1816. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"  THE  grand  army  of  the  Turks,  (in  1715,)  under  the  Prime 
Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into  the  heart  of  the  Morea, 
and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli  di  Romania,  the  most  considerable 
place  in  all  that  country,  (')  thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to 
attack  Corinth,  upon  which  they  made  several  storms.  The 
garrison  being  weakened,  and  the  governor  seeing  it  was  impos- 
sible to  hold  out  against  so  mighty  a  force,  thought  it  fit  to  beat  a 
parley  :  but  while  they  were  treating  about  the  articles,  one  of  the 
magazines  in  the  Turkish  camp,  wherein  they  had  six  hundred 
barrels  of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident,  whereby  six  or  seven 
hundred  men  were  killed  ;  which  so  enraged  the  infidels,  that 
they  would  not  grant  any  capitulation,  but  stormed  the  place  with 
so  much  fury,  that  they  took  it,  and  put  most  of  the  garrison,  with 
Signior  Minotti,  the  governor,  to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with  An- 
tonio Bembo,  proveditor  extraordinary,  were  made  prisoners  of 
war." — History  of  the  Turks,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 

(1)  Napoli  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable  place  in  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,  I  crossed  the  Isthmus  eight  times  in  my  way 
from  Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the  mountains,  or  in  the  other  direction,  when  passing1 
from  the  Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of  Lepanto.  Both  the  routes  are  picturesque  and 
beautiful,  though  very  different :  that  by  sea  has  more  sameness,  but  the  voyage  be- 
ing always  within  sight  of  land,  and  often  very  near  it,  presents  many  attractive 
views  of  the  islands  Salamis,  .ZEgina,  Poro,  &c.  and  the  coast  of  the  Continent. 


THE 


SIEGE    OF    CORINTH 


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  still, 

Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  hill, 

The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 

That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side, 

As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet, 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 

But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 

Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled, 

Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled, 

Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 

The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank, 

That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'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. 

n. 

On  dun  Cithaeron's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 


416  THE   SIEGE   OP   CORINTH. 

The  tent  is  pitch'd,  the  crescent  shines 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines  ; 
And  the  dusk  Spahi's  bands  advance 
Beneath  each  bearded  pacha's  glance  ; 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach 
The  turban'd  cohorts  throng  the  beach  ; 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels, 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels ; 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd,  (') 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird  ; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour 
Till  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death  ; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall, 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball ; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies, 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 

in. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art, 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart, 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood  ; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed, 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed, 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail, 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail ; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well, 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 
Alighting  cheerly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire ; 
The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul's  sultan  there  can  boast, 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field, 
To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield, 
Or  whirl  around  the  bickering  blade  ;  — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrain  renegade  ! 

i(l>  The  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  and  patriarchal :  they  dwell  in  tents. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH.  417 

IV. 

From  Venice  —  once  a  race  of  worth 

His  gentle  sires  —  he  drew  his  birth  ; 

But  late  an  exile  from  her  shore, 

Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 

The  arms  they  taught  to  bear  ;  and  now 

The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow. 

Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  pass'd 

With  Greece  to  Venice'  rule  at  last ; 

And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 

To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 

He  stood  a  foe,  with  all  the  zeal 

Which  young  and  fiery  converts  feel, 

Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 

The  memory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 

To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 

Her  ancient  civic  boast  —  "  the  Free ; " 

And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 

Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 

Within  the  "  Lion's  mouth  "  had  placed 

A  charge  against  him  uneffaced  : 

He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life, 

To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife, 

That  taught  his  land  how  great  her  loss 

In  him  who  triumph'd  o'er  the  Cross, 

'Gainst  which  he  rear'd  the  Crescent  high, 

And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 

v. 

Coumourgi  (J)  — he  whose  closing  scene 
Adorn'd  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlowitz'  bloody  plain, 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slain, 
He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die, 
But  cursed  the  Christian's  victory  — 
Coumourgi  —  can  his  glory  cease, 
That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece, 

(1)  AH  Coumourgi,  the  favourite  of  three  sultans,  and  Grand  Vizier  to  Achmflt 
III.,  after  recovering  Peloponnesus  from  the  Venetians  in  one  campaign,  was  mor- 
tally wounded  in  the  next,  against  the  Germans,  at  the  battle  of  Peterwaradin,  (in 
the  plain  of  Carlowitz,)  in  Hungary,  endeavouring  to  rally  his  guards.  He  died  ot 
his  wounds  next  day.  His  last  order  was  the  decapitation  of  General  Brenner,  and 
some  other  German  prisoners ;  and  his  last  words,  "  Oh  that  I  could  thus  serve  all 
the  Christian  dogs  !  "  a  speech  and  act  not  unlike  one  of  Caligula,  He  was  a  young 
man  of  great  ambition  and  unbounded  presumption:  on  being  told  that  Prince  Eu- 
gene, then  opposed  to  him,  "  was  a  great  general,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  become  a 
greater,  and  at  his  expense." 
VOL.  III. — E  6 


4IS  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore  ? 
A  hundred  years  have  roll'd  away 
Since  he  refix'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-like  the  pealing  din 

Rose  from  each  heated  culverin  ; 

And  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 

Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb : 

And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 

The  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breath, 

In  red  and  wreathing  columns  flash'd 

The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crash'd, 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven, 

Its  earth-stars  melted  into  heaven ; 

Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dunT 

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  namer 

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 ; 


THE    SIEGE    OF   CORINTH.  419 

And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 
That  e'er  on  Adria's  waters  play'd 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid. 

VIII. 

And  many  deem'd  her  heart  was  won  ; 
For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none, 
Had  young  Francesea'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  Eubcea's  bay,) 
Minotti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 
The  Doge's  delegated  powers, 
While  yet  the  pitying  eye  of  Peace 
Smiled  o'er  her  long -forgotten  Greece  : 
And  ere  that  faithless  truce  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yoke, 
With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came  ; 
Nor  there,  since  Menelaus'  dame 
Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 
Had  fairer  form  adorn'd  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 


420  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 


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  with  falchion's  force, 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  corse, 
O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise, 
Their  stepping-stone  —  the  last  who  dies ! 

XI. 

'T  is  midnight :  on  the  mountains  brown 

The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down ; 

Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 

Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 

Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 

So  wildly,  spiritually  bright ; 

Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining 

And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining, 

Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away, 

And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 

Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 

But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 

The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves  ; 

The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves, 

And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 

Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling ; 

And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 

Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  oft  and  shrill, 

And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hill, 

And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 

Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 

As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 

In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer  ; 

It  rose,  that  chanted  mournful  strain, 

Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain  : 

'T  was  musical,  but  sadly  sweet, 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 


THE    SIEGE    OP    CORINTH.  421 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 
To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown. 
It  seem'd  to  those  within  the  wall 
A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fall ; 
It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 
With  something  ominous  and  drear, 
An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 
Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  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. 

XII. 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore  ; 

The  sound  was  hush'd,  the  prayer  was  o'er  ; 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 

All  mandates  issued  and  obey'd  : 

'T  is  but  another  anxious  night, 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 

With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay, 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

Few  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 

Of  slaughter  ;  but  within  his  soul 

The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

To  plant  the  crescent  o'er  the  cross, 

Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss, 

Secure  in  paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally  : 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 

The  stern  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 

When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 

He  stood  alone  —  a  renegade 

Against  the  country  he  betray'd  ; 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand  : 

They  follow'd  him,  for  he  was  brave, 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave ; 

They  crouch'd  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 

To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 


422  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

He  earn'd  beneath  a  Moslem  name  ; 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 

In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarerie. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 

When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop  ; 

They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 

In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stern  ; 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel. 

He  ruled  them  —  man  may  rule  the  worst, 

By  ever  daring  to  be  first ; 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway  ; 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey, 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yelling  press, 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

XIII. 

His  head  grows  fever'd,  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  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. 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press'd, 
The  mail  weigh'd  lead-like  on  his  breast, 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate, 
Without  or  couch  or  canopy, 
Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed, 
Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 
He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 
Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day, 
But  walk'd  him  forth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thousand  sleepers  strew'd  the  strand, 
What  pillow'd  them  ?  and  why  should  he 
More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be, 
Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil  1 
And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil ; 
While  he  alone,  where  thousands  passM 
A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last, 
In  sickly  vigil  wander'd  on, 
And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH.  423 


XIV. 

He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night. 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm, 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm  : 
Behind,  the  camp  —  before  him  lay, 
In  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay, 
Lepanto's  gulf;  and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi's  hill,  unshaken  snow, 
High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  summers  brightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  clime ; 
It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time  : 
Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away, 
Less  form'd  to  wear  before  the  ray ; 
But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest, 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  hailest, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent, 
Shines  o'er  its  craggy  battlement ; 
In  form  a  peak,  in  height  a  cloud, 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  shroud, 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread, 
As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled, 
And  linger'd  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  song. 
Oh !  still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O'er  wither'd  fields,  and  ruin'd  altars, 
And  fain  would  wake,  in  souls  too  broken, 
By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token : 
But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember'd  rays 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 

xv. 

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 ; 


424  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege, 
Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 
Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  number'd, 
The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slumber'd 
Their  phalanx  marshall'd  on  the  plain, 
Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 
They  fell  devoted,  but  undying ; 
The  very  gale  their  names  seem'd  sighing : 
The  waters  murmur'd  of  their  name  ; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame  ; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 
Claim'd  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay ; 
Their  spirits  wrapp'd  the  dusky  mountain, 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain  ; 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 
Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  for  ever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
That  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs  ! 
*T  is  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  JVight  diffused. 

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. 

(1)  The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are  no  perceptible  tides  in  the 
Mediterranean. 


THE    SIEGE    OF   CORINTH.  425 

He  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach, 

Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 

Of  the  leaguer'd  wall ;  but  they  saw  him  not, 

Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot? 

Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christians'  hold  ? 

Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold  ? 

I  know  not,  in  sooth  ;  but  from  yonder  wall 

There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball, 

Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown, 

That  flank'd  the  sea-ward  gate  of  the  town  ; 

Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 

The  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel, 

As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 

Clank'd,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro  ; 

And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival, 

Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb  ; 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him  ! 

From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh  ; 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull,  (') 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew 

dull, 

As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead,          [fed  ; 
When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they 
So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 
Wkh  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,  (2) 
All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 
The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 
The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 
But  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 
There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 
Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away, 
Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey  ; 
But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

(1)  This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described,  beneath  the  wall  of  the  Serag- 
tio  at  Constantinople,  in  the  little  cavities  worn  by  the  Bosphorus  in  the  rock,  a 
narrow  terrace  of  which  projects  between  the  wall  and  the  water.     I  think  the  fact 
is  also  mentioned  in  Hobnouse's  Travels.     The  bodies  were  probably  those  of  some 
refractory  Janizaries. 

(2)  This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left  from  a  superstition  that  Mahomet  will  draw  them 
into  Paradise  by  it. 


426  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 


XVII. 

Alp  turn'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight : 
JVever  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  Honour's  eye  on  daring  deeds ! 
But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 
O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead, 
And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 
Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there  ; 
All  regarding  man  as  their  prey, 
All  rejoicing  in  his  decay. 

XVIII. 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 

Fashion'd  by  long  forgotten  hands  ; 

Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown  ! 

Out  upon  Time  !  it  will  leave  no  more 

Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before ! 

Out  upon  Time  !  who  for  ever  will  leave 

But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 

O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must  be  : 

What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see  ; 

Remnants  of  things  that  have  pass'd  away, 

Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  clay  ! 

XIX. 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base, 
And  pass'd  his  hand  athwart  his  face  ; 
Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 
Declining  was  his  attitude  ; 
His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 
Fever'd,  throbbing,  and  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. 


THE    SIEGE    OF   CORINTH.  427 

There  he  sate  all  heavily, 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh. 

Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollow  stone,  (J) 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  1 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be  ; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass  —  it  waved  not  a  blade  ; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd  ? 

He  look'd  to  the  banners  —  each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithaeron's  hill, 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek ; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak  1 

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  1 

Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 

So  near  a  hostile  armament  ?  " 

His  trembling  hands  refused  to  sign 

The  cross  he  deem'd  no  more  divine  : 

He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 

But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 

He  gazed,  he  saw  :  he  knew  the  face 

Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace  ; 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride  ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 
But  mellow'd  with  a  tenderer  streak  : 
Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled  1 
Gone  was  the  smile  that  enliven'd  their  red. 
The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 
Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue  : 
But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 
And  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill : 

(1)  I  must  here  acknowledge  a  close,  though  unintentional,  resemblance  in  these 
twelve  lines  to  a  passage  in  an  unpublished  poem  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  called  "  Christ- 
abel."  It  was  not  till  after  these  lines  were  written  that  1  heard  that  wild  and  singu- 
larly original  and  beautiful  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  wilful  plagiarist.  The  original  idea  undoubtedly 
pertains  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  whose  poem  has  been  composed  above  fourteen  years. 
Let  me  conclude  by  a  hope  that  he  will  not  longer  delay  the  publication  of  a  produc- 
tion, of  which  I  can  only  add  my  mite  of  approbation  to  the  applause  of  far  moie  com- 
petent judges. 


428  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining, 

Nought  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  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all. 

?T  is  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  ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 

In  falling  away  from  thy  father's  creed : 

But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 

The  sign  of  the  cross,  and  for  ever  be  mine  ; 

Wring  the  black  drop  from  thy  heart, 

And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And  where  should  our  bridal  couch  be  spread  ? 

In  the  midst  of  the  dying  and  the  dead  ? 

For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 

The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 

None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I  've  sworn, 

Shall  be  left  upon  the  morn  : 

But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 

Where  our  hands  shall  be  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  my  foes." 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH.  429 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own  — 

Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrill'd  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a  dullness  to  his  heart, 

Which  fix'd  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 

He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold  ; 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 

Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 

Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night. 

The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 

And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 

As  he  look'd  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue, 

So  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew : 

Fair  but  faint  —  without  the  ray 

Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 

Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day  ; 

And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 

And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 

And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 

And  there  seem'd  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 

Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fix'd, 

And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmix'd 

With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 

Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream  ; 

Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 

Stirr'd  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air, 

So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light, 

Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight ; 

As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come  down 

From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown  ; 

Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro, 

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  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 

Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 

Or  thou  art  lost ;  and  never  shalt  see  — 

Not  earth  —  that 's  past  —  but  heaven  or  me. 

If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 

A  heavy  doom  't  is  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  ; 


430  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon  —  (') 
JT  is  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon  — 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapoury  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged  ; 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  look'd  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 

The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky ; 

But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turn'd  aside 

By  deep  interminable  pride. 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 

Roll'd  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy  !  He  dismay'd 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid  ! 

He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave! 

No  —  though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  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  : 

Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone, 

And  thus  he  spake  —  "  Whate'er  my  fate, 

1  am  no  changeling  —  't  is  too  late  : 

The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver, 

Then  rise  again  ;  the  tree  must  shiver. 

What  Venice  made  me,  1  must  be, 

Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee  : 

But  thou  art  safe  :  oh,  fly  with  me !  " 

He  turn'd,  but  she  is  gone  ! 

Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air  ? 

He  saw  not,  he  knew  not ;  but  nothing  is  there. 

(1)  I  have  been  told  that  the  idea  expressed  in  this  and  the  five  following  lines  has 
been  admired  by  those  whose  approbation  is  valuable.  I  am  glad  of  it ;  but  it  is  not 
original — at  least  not  mine ;  it  maybe  found  much  better  expressed  in  pages  182-3-4 
of  the  English  version  of"  Vathek,"  (I  forget  the  precise  page  of  the  French,)  a 
work  to  which  I  have  before  referred  ;  and  never  recur  to,  or  read,  withotat  a  renewal 
of  gratification. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH.  431 

XXII. 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  gray, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 

And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn, 

And  the  flay  of  the  banners  that  flit  as  they're  borne, 

And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum, 

And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  "  They  come,  they  come  !  " 

The  horsetails  (*)  are  pluck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 
From  its  sheath ;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the 

word. 

Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van  ; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain, 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town ;  and  none  escape, 
Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape  ; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein  ; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane ; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit : 
The  spears  are  uplifted ;  the  matches  are  lit ; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before  : 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar  ; 
Alp  at  their  head  ;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar  ; 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post ; 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on ; 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one  — 
A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 
God  and  the  prophet  —  Alia  Hu  ! 
Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo  ! 
"  There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale  ; 
And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail  ? 
He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 
His  heart's  dearest  wish ;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have !  " 

(1)  The  horsetails,  fixed  upon  a  lance,  a  pacha's  standard. 


432  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

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  ! 

XXIII. 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 

On  the  stately  buffalo, 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 

And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 

He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 

The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die 

Thus  against  the  wall  they  went, 

Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent ; 

Many  a  bosom,  sheath'd  in  brass, 

Strew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 

Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more  : 

Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 

Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levell'd  plain ; 

Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain. 


XXIV. 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash, 

From  the  cliffs  invading  dash 

Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 

Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, 

Like  the  avalanche's  snow 

On  the  Alpine  vales  below  ; 

Thus  at  length,  outbreathed  and  worn, 

Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 

By  the  long  and  oft  renew'd 

Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 

In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 

Heap'd  by  the  host  of  the  infidel, 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 

Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute  ; 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 

For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 

Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder, 

Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 

How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 

If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes  ; 

If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 

In  that  annihilating  voice, 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH.  433 

Which  pierces  the  deep  hills  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  Piraeus'  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  within  the  plunder'd  dome  : 
Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet, 
That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street ; 
But  here  and  there,  were  '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  : 
VOL.  in.— F  f 


434  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

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  snere  ; 

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  Allah  shout !  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,  't  is  there ! 

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, 

(I)  In  the  naval  battle,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dardanelles  between  the  Venetians 
and  the  Turks. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH.  435 

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,  renegade,  never ! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever." 

**  Francesca !  —  Oh,  my  promised  bride ! 

Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride  1  " 

"  She  is  safe."  —  "  Where  ?  where  1"  —  "  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 !  when  died  she  ?  "  —  "  Yesternight— 

Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight : 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee  — 

Come  on !  "  —  That  challenge  is  in  vain  — 

Alp  's  already  with  the  slain ! 

While  Minotti's  words  were  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found, 

Had  the  time  allow'd  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighbouring  porch 

Of  a  long  defended  church, 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  ground ; 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell ; 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 

Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise, 

And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 

Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk  ; 

Nought  of  life  left,  save  a  quivering 

Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering : 

They  turn'd  him  on  his  back  ;  his  breast 

And  brow  were  stain'd  with  gore  ar.d  dust, 


436  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 
From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed ; 
But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb, 
Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob  ; 
Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 
Heralded  his  way  to  death : 
Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 
Unaneled  he  pass'd  away, 
Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid,  — 
To  the  last  —  a  Renegade. 

xxvm. 

Fearfully  the  yell  arose 

Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes  ; 

These  in  joy,  in  fury  those  : 

Then  again  in  conflict  mixing, 

Clashing  swords,  and  spears  transfixing, 

Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust, 

Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust. 

Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot, 

Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 

The  latest  portion  of  the  land 

Left  beneath  his  high  command  ; 

With  him,  aiding  heart  and  hand, 

The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 

Still  the  church  is  tenable, 

Whence  issued  late  the  fated  ball 
That  half  avenged  the  city's  fall, 

When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell : 

Thither  bending  sternly  back, 

They  leave  before  a  bloody  track ; 

And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe, 

Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow, 

The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 

Join  to  those  within  the  fane ; 

There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 

Shelter'd  by  the  massy  pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief  breathing-time  !  the  turban'd  host, 
With  adding  ranks  and  raging  boast, 
Press  onwards  with  such  strength  and  heat, 
Their  numbers  balk  their  own  retreat ; 
For  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 
Where  still  the  Christians  yielded  not ; 


THE    SIZGE    OF    CORINTH.  437 

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  ; 

Still  resists  its  iron  weight, 

And  still,  all  deadly  aim'd  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot ; 

From  every  shatter'd  window  pour 

The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower : 

But  the  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak  — 

The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak  — 

It  bends  —  it  falls  —  and  all  is  o'er ; 

Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 

Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar  stone : 

Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 

Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 

With  eyes  of  light  and  looks  of  love  ; 

And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 

To  fix  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 

When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 

Her,  and  the  boy-God  on  her  knee, 

Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 

To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there, 

Still  she  smiled  ;  even  now  she  smiles, 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  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  name, 

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  ; 


438  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 

The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse, 

Were  smear'd,  and  slippery  —  stain'd,  and  strown 

With  broken  swords,  and  helms  o'erthrown  : 

There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 

Lay  cold  in  many  a  coffin'd  row ; 

You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state, 

By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate  ; 

But  War  had  enter'd  their  dark  caves, 

And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 

Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 

In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead  : 

Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 

The  Christian's  chiefest  magazine  ; 

To  these  a  late  form'd  train  now  led, 

Minotti's  last  and  stern  resource 

Against  the  foe's  o'erwhelming  force. 

XXXII. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 

To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain : 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 

The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 

And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head, 

And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche, 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offering  rich, 

And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 

The  silver  vessels  saints  had  bless'd. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go  ; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show ! 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold  ; 

Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize, 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes  : 

That  morn  it  held  the  holy  wine, 

Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine, 

Which  his  worshippers  drank  at  the  break  of  day 

To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  join'd  in  the  fray. 

Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay  ; 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 

Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast ; 

A  spoil  —  the  richest,  and  the  last. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH.  439 


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  — 

>T  is  fired ! 
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  shattered  town  —  the  walls  thrown  down  — 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent  — 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  pass'd  — 
The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

By  that  tremendous  blast  — 
Proclaim'd  the  desperate  conflict  o'er 
On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore  : 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
All  that  mingled  there  below  : 
Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 
Scorch'd  and  shrivell'd  to  a  span, 
When  he  fell  to  earth  again 
Like  a  cinder  strew'd  the  plain : 
Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain ; 
Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  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  limbs  away. 
Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 
Could  discern  their  offspring  more  ; 
That  one  moment  left  no  trace 
More  of  human  form  or  face 
Save  a  scatter'd  scalp  or  bone  : 
And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 
Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 


440  THE    SIEGE    OF    CORINTH. 

Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 
All  blacken' d  there  and  reeking  lay. 
All  the  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  earth-shock  disappeared  : 
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  cavern'd  hill 
Where  echo  roll'd  in  thunder  still ; 
The  jackal's  troop,  in  gather'd  cry,  (') 
JBay'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  ! 


(1)  I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetical  license  to  transplant  the  jackal  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  DA  VIES,  ESQ. 

THE   FOLLOWING   POEM 

IS   INSCRIBED 
BT   ONE   WHO    HAS   LONG   ADMIRED   HIS   TALENTS 

AND  VALUED  HIS  FRIENDSHIP. 
January  22,  1816. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  following  poem  is  grounded  on  a  circumstance  mentioned 
in  Gibbon's  "  Antiquities  of  the  House  of  Brunswick."  I  am 
aware,  that  in  modern  times  the  delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the 
reader  may  deem  such  subjects  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  poetry. 
The  Greek  dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old  English 
writers,  were  of  a  different  opinion  :  as  Alfieri  and  Schiller  have 
also  been,  more  recently,  upon  the  Continent.  The  following 
extract  will  explain  the  facts  on  which  the  story  is  founded.  The 
name  of  Jlzo  is  substituted  for  Nicholas,  as  more  metrical. 

"  Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III.  Ferrara  was  polluted  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  Parisina,  and  Hugo  his  bastard  son,  a  beautiful 
and  valiant  youth.  They  were  beheaded  in  the  castle  by  the 
sentence  of  a  father  and  husband,  who  published  his  shame,  and 
survived  their  execution.  He  was  unfortunate,  if  they  were  guil- 
ty :  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  justice  of  a  parent."  —  GIBBON'S  Miscellaneous  Works, 
vol.  iii.  p.  470,  new  edition. 


PARISINA. 


IT  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard  ; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word  ; 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 
Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 
And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away.  (') 

n. 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 
That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall, 
And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 
That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night ; 
And  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 
JT  is  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  — 
>T  is  past  —  her  lover  's  at  her  feet. 

(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  com- 
posed prior  to  "  Lara,"  and  other  compositions  since  published. 


448  PARISINA. 

HI. 

And  what  unto  them  is  the  world  beside, 
With  all  its  change  of  time  and  tide  ? 
Its  living  things  —  its  earth  and  sky  — 
Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 
And  heedless  as  the  dead  are  they 

Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath  ; 
As  if  all  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  1 
But  yet  —  they  are  already  past ! 
Alas  !  we  must  awake  before 
We  know  such  vision  comes  no  more. 

IV. 

With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 

The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past ; 
And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve, 

As  if  that  parting  were  the  last. 
The  frequent  sigh  —  the  long  embrace  — 

The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever, 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 

The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her, 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar  — 
The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 
Yet  binds  them  to  their  trysting-place. 
But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 
In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart, 
With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chili 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill. 


And  Hugo  is  gone  to  his  lonely  bed, 
To  covet  there  another's  bride  ; 

But  she  must  lay  her  conscious  head 
A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside. 


PARISINA.  449 

But  fever'd  in  her  sleep  she  seems, 
And  red  her  cheek  with  troubled  dreams, 

And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 
A  name  she  dare  not  breathe  by  day, 

And  clasps  her  lord  unto  the  breast 
Which  pants  for  one  away : 
And  he  to  that  embrace  awakes, 
And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress, 
For  such  as  he  was  wont  to  bless  ; 
And  could  in  very  fondness  weep 
O'er  her  who  loves  him  even  in  sleep. 

VI. 

He  clasp'd  her  sleeping  to  his  heart, 

And  listened  to  each  broken  word : 
He  hears  —  Why  doth  Prince  Azo  start, 

As  if  the  Archangel's  voice  he  heard  ? 
And  well  he  may  —  a  deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o'er  his  tomb, 
When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 
And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 
And  well  he  may  —  his  earthly  peace 
Upon  that  sound  is  doom'd  to  cease. 
That  sleeping  whisper  of  a  name 
Bespeaks  her  guilt  and  Azo's  shame. 
And  whose  that  name  ?  that  o'er  his  pillow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow, 
Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore, 

And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more,  — 

So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 
And  whose  that  name  ?  't  is  Hugo's,  —  his  — - 
In  sooth  he  had  not  deem'd  of  this  !  — 
7T  is  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  poniatd  in  its  sheath, 
But  sheath'd  it  ere  the  point  was  bare  — - 

Howe'er  unworthy  now  to  breathe, 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair  — 

VOL.  III. — G  g 


460  PAR1SINA. 

At  least,  not  smiling  —  sleeping  —  there — 
Nay  more :  —  he  did  not  wake  her  then, 
But  gazed  upon  her  with  a  glance 
Which,  had  she  roused  her  from  her  trance, 
Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again  — 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 
Gleam'd  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  damp. 
She  spake  no  more  —  but  still  she  slumber'd  — • 
While,  in  his  thought,  her  days  are  numbered. 

VIII. 

And  with  the  morn  he  sought,  and  found, 
In  many  a  tale  from  those  around, 
The  proof  of  all  he  fear'd  to  know, 
Their  present  guilt,  his  future  woe  ; 
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  such  a  son  should  stand 

Before  a  father's  face ! 
Yet  thus  must  Hugo  meet  his  sire, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  his  ire, 

The  tale  of  his  disgrace  ! 
And  yet  he  seems  not  overcome, 
Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb. 


And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 

Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom  ; 
How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  eye 

Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  room, 


PARISINA.  45l 

Where  high-born  men  were  proud  to  wait  — 
Where  Beauty  watch'd  to  imitate 

Her  gentle  voice  —  her  lovely  mien  — 
And  gather  from  her  air  and  gait 

The  graces  of  its  queen  : 
Then,  —  had  her  eye  in  sorrow  wept, 
A  thousand  warriors  forth  had  leapt, 
A  thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone, 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  their  own. 
Now,  —  what  is  she  1  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  swim 
Less  for  her  own  despair  than  him : 
Those  lids  —  o'er  which  the  violet  vein 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain, 
Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  softest  kiss  invite  — 
Now  seem'd  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below ; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill, 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  still. 


XI. 

And  he  for  her  had  also  wept, 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gazed : 
His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it,  slept ; 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised. 
Whate'er  the  grief  his  soul  avow'd, 
He  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd ; 
But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her : 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were  — 
His  guilt  —  his  love  —  his  present  state  — 
His  father's  wrath  —  all  good  men's  hate  — 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate  — 


452 


PAR1SINA. 


And  hers,  —  oh,  hers  !  —  he  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow  ! 
Else  had  his  rising  heart  betray'd 
Remorse  for  all  the  wreck  it  made. 


XII. 

And  Azo  spake  :  —  "  But  yesterday 

I  gloried  in  a  wife  and  son ; 
That  dream  this  morning  pass'd  away  ; 

Ere  day  declines,  I  shall  have  none. 
My  life  must  linger  on  alone  ; 
Well,  —  Jet  that  pass,  —  there  breathes  not  one 
Who  would  not  do  as  I  have  done : 
Those  ties  are  broken  —  not  by  me  ; 

Let  that  too  pass  ;  —  The  doom 's  prepared ! 
Hugo,  the  priest  awaits  on  thee, 

And  then  —  thy  crime's  reward ! 
Away !  address  thy  prayers  to  Heaven, 

Before  its  evening  stars  are  met  — 
Learn  if  thou  there  canst  be  forgiven  ; 

Its  mercy  may  absolve  thee  yet. 
But  here,  upon  the  earth  beneath, 

There  is  no  spot  where  thou  and  I 
Together,  for  an  hour,  could  breathe  : 

Farewell !  I  will  not  see  thee  die  — 
But  thou,  frail  thing !  shalt  view  his  head  — 

Away  !  I  cannot  speak  the  rest : 

Go  !  woman  of  the  wanton  breast ; 
Not  I,  but  thou  his  blood  dost  shed  : 
Go !  if  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive, 
And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I  give." 

XIII. 

And  here  stern  Azo  hid  his  face  — 
For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Throbb'd  as  if  back  upon  his  brain 
The  hot  blood  ebb'd  and  flow'd  again ; 

And  therefore  bow'd  he  for  a  space, 

And  pass'd  his  shaking  hand  along 

His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng  ; 

While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands, 

And  for  a  brief  delay  demands 

His  father's  ear  :  the  silent  sire 

Forbids  not  what  his  words  require. 


PARISINA.  ..  4:>3 

"  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  may'st  resume  my  breath, 
A  gift  for  which  I  thank  thee  not ; 
Nor  are  my  mother's  wrongs  forgot, 
Her  slighted  love  and  ruin'd  name, 
Her  offspring's  heritage  of  shame  ; 
But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  he, 
Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 
Her  broken  heart —  my  sever'd  head  — 
Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 
How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 
Thy  youthful  love  —  paternal  care. 
'T  is  true  that  I  have  done  thee  wrong  — 

But  wrong  for  wrong  :  —  this,  deem'd  thy  bride, 

The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 
Thou  know'st  for  me  was  destined  long. 
Thou  saw'st,  and  coveted'st  her  charms  — 

And  with  thy  very  crime  —  my  birth, 

Thou  taunted'st  me  —  as  little  worth  ; 
A  match  ignoble  for  her  arms, 
Because,  forsooth,  I  could  not  claim 
The  lawful  heirship  of  thy  name, 
Nor  sit  on  Este's  lineal  throne  : 

Yet,  were  a  few  short  summers  mine, 

My  name  should  more  than  Este's  shine 
With  honours  all  my  own. 
I  had  a  sword  —  and  have  a  breast 
That  should  have  won  as  haught  (')  a  crest 
As  ever  waved  along  the  line 
Of  all  these  sovereign  sires  of  thine. 
Not  always  knightly  spurs  are  worn 
The  brightest  by  the  better  born ; 
And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser's  flank 
Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rank, 
When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 
Of 'Este  and  of  Victory!' 
I  will  not  plead  the  cause  of  crime, 
Nor  sue  thee  to  redeem  from  time 

(1)  Haught — haughty — "  Away,  haught  man,  thou  art  insulting  me." 

Shakspcare,  Richard  II. 


454  PARISINA. 

A  few  brief  hours  or  days  that  must 
At  length  roll  o'er  my  reckless  dust ;  — 
Such  maddening  moments  as  my  past, 
They  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last. 
Albeit  my  birth  and  name  be  base, 
And  thy  nobility  of  race 
Disdain'd  to  deck  a  thing  like  me  — 

Yet  in  my  lineaments  they  trace 

Some  features  of  my  father's  face, 
And  in  my  spirit  —  all  of  thee. 
From  thee  —  this  tamelessness  of  heart  — 
From  thee  —  nay,  wherefore  dost  thou  start  ?  — 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigour  came 
My  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame  — 
Thou  didst  not  give  me  life  alone, 
But  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 
See  what  thy  guilty  love  hath  done ! 
Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a  son  ! 
I  am  no  bastard  in  my  soul, 
For  that,  like  thine,  abhorr'd  control : 
And  for  my  breath,  that  hasty  boon 
Thou  gav'st  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 
I  valued  it  no  more  than  thou, 
When  rose  thy  casque  above  thy  brow, 
And  we,  all  side  by  side,  have  striven, 
And  o'er  the  dead  our  coursers  driven : 
The  past  is  nothing  —  and  at  last 
The  future  can  but  be  the  past ; 
Yet  would  I  that  I  then  had  died  : 

For  though  thou  work'dst  my  mother's  ill, 
And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

I  feel  thou  art  my  father  still ; 
And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree, 
'T  is  not  unjust,  although  from  thee. 
Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame, 
My  life  begun  and  ends  the  same  : 
As  err'd  the  sire,  so  err'd  the  son, 
And  thou  must  punish  both  in  one. 
My  crime  seems  worst  to  human  view, 
But  God  must  judge  between  us  too  !  " 


XIV, 

He  ceased  and  stood  with  folded  arms, 
On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded  ; 
And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded, 


PARISINA.  455 

Of  all  the  chiefs  that  there  were  rank'd, 


When  those  dull  chains  in  meeting  clank'd  : 
Till  Parisina's  fatal  charms 
Again  attracted  every  eye  — 
Would  she  thus  hear  him  doom'd  to  die  ! 
She  stood,  I  said,  all  pale  and  still, 
The  living  cause  of  Hugo's  ill : 
Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  full  and  wide, 
Not  once  had  turn'd  to  either  side  — 
Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close, 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  which  they  rose. 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue, 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew  — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood  ; 
But  every  now  and  then  a  tear 
So  large  and  slowly  galher'd  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fair  lid, 
It  was  a  thing  to  see,  not  hear ! 
And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise, 
Such  drops  could  fall  from  human  eyes. 
To  speak  she  thought  —  the  imperfect  note 
Was  choked  within  her  swelling  throat, 
Yet  seem'd  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceased  —  again  she  thought  to  speak, 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek, 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  stone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown, 
More  like  a  thing  that  ne'er  had  life,  — 
A  monument  of  Azo's  wife,  — 
Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing, 
Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting, 
Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 
That  guilt's  detection  and  despair. 
But  yet  she  lived  —  and  all  too  soon 
Recover'd  from  that  death-like  swoon  — 
But  scarce  to  reason  —  every  sense 
Had  been  o'erstrung  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  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track, 


456  PARISINA. 

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  1 

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  1 

All  was  confused  and  undefined 

To  her  all-jarr'd  and  wandering  mind  ; 

A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears  : 

And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 

But  madly  still  in  each  extreme, 

She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream  ; 

For  so  it  seem'd  on  her  to  break  : 

Oh  !  vainly  must  she  strive  to  wake  ! 


xv. 

The  Convent  bells  are  ringing, 

But  mournfully  and  slow ; 
In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging, 

With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 
Hark  !  the  hymn  is  singing  — 

The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so  ! 
For  a  departing  being's  soul 
The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  bells  knoll : 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  Friar's  knee  : 
Sad  to  hear  —  and  piteous  to  see  — 
Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around  — 
And  the  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 ! 


PARISINA. 
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  !  that  parting  hour  was  bitter ! 
Even  the  stern  stood  chill'd  with  awe  : 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law  — 
Yet  they  shudder'd  as  they  saw. 

XVII. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 

Of  that  false  son  —  and  daring  lover  ! 

His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted, 

His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted  — 

His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripp'd, 

His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp'd  ; 

'T  is  done  —  all  closely  are  they  shorn  — 

The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn  — 

The  scarf  which  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 

As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 

"  No  —  ydurs  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath  — 


457 


453  PARISINA. 

These  hands  are  chain'd  —  but  let  me  die 
At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye  — 
Strike  :  "  —  and  as  the  word  he  said, 
Upon  the  block  he  bow'd  his  head  ; 
These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke  : 
"  Strike  "  —  and  flashing  fell  the  stroke  — 
Roll'd  the  head  —  and,  gushing,  sunk 
Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk, 
In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 
Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain  ; 
His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver, 
Convulsed  and  quick  —  then  fix  for  ever. 
He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die, 

Without  display,  without  parade  ; 

Meekly  had  he  bow'd  and  pray'd, 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  Prior  kneeling, 
His  heart  was  wean'd  from  earthly  feeling  ; 
His  wrathful  sire  —  his  paramour  — 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour  ? 
No  more  reproach  —  no  more  despair  ; 
No  thought  but  heaven —  no  word  but  prayer  — 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke, 
When,  bared  to  meet  the  headman's  stroke, 
He  claim'd  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 
His  sole  adieu  to  those  around. 

XVIII. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death, 

Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath  : 

But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 

A  cold  electric  shiver  ran, 

As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 

On  him  whose  life  and  love  thus  ended  ; 

And,  with  a  hushing  sound  compress'd, 

A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 

But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 
Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 
Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  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  woe. 


PARISINA.  459 


Through  Azo's  palace-lattice  driven, 
That  horrid  voice  ascends  to  heaven, 
And  every  eye  is  turn'd  thereon  ; 
But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  gone  ! 
It  was  a  woman's  shriek  —  and  ne'er 
In  madlier  accents  rose  despair  ; 
And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  past, 
In  mercy  wish'd  it  were  the  last. 

XIX. 

Hugo  is  fallen  ;  and,  from  that  hour, 

No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower, 

Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen  : 

Her  name  —  as  if  she  ne'er  had  been  — • 

Was  banish'd  from  each  lip  and  ear, 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear ; 

And  from  Prince  Azo's  voice,  by  none 

Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son ; 

No  tomb  —  no  memory  had  they  ; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  clay  ; 

At  least  the  knight's  who  died  that  day 

But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 

Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin  lid  : 

Whether  in  convent  she  abode, 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 

By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 

Of  scourge,  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tears  ; 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel, 

For  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel ; 

Or  if,  upon  the  moment  smote, 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote  ; 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block, 

With  heart  that  shared  the  headman's  shock, 

In  quicken'd  brokenness  that  came, 

In  pity,  o'er  her  shatter'd  frame, 

None  knew  —  and  none  can  ever  know  : 

But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below, 

Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe !  (J) 

(1)  "  This  turned  out  a  calamitous  year  for  the  people  of  Ferrara,  for  there  oc- 
curred a  very  tragical  event  in  the  court  of  their  sovereign.  Our  annals,  both  printed 
and  in  manuscript,  with  the  exception  of  the  unpolished  and  negligent  work  of  Sardi, 
and  one  other,  have  given  the  following  relation  of  it,  from  which,  however,  are  re- 
jected many  details,  and  especially  the  narrative  of  Bandelli,  who  wrote  a  century 
afterwards,  and  who  does  not  accord  with  the  contemporary  historians. 

'•  By  the  abjve-mentioned  Stella  dell'  Assassino,  the  Marquis,  in  the  year  1405, 
had  a  son  called  Ugo,  a  beautiful  and  ingenious  youth.  Parisina  Malatesta,  second 
\vi  e  of  Niccolo,  like  the  generality  oi'  step-mothers,  treated  him  with  little  kindness, 


460  PARISINA. 


XX. 

And  Azo  found  another  bride, 
And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side  : 
But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 
As  him  who  wither'd  in  the  grave ; 


to  the  infinite  regret  of  the  Marquis,  who  regarded  him  with  fond  partiality.  One 
day  she  asked  leave  of  her  husband  to  undertake  a  certain  journey,  to  which  he  con- 
sented, but  upon  condition  that  Ugo  should  bear  her  company  ;  for  he  hoped  by  these 
means  to  induce  her,  in  the  end,  to  lay  aside  the  obstinate  aversion  which  she  had 
conceived  against  him.  And  indeed  his  intent  was  accomplished  but  too  well,  since, 
during  the  journey,  she  not  only  divested  herself  of  all  her  hatred,  but  fell  into  the 
opposite  extreme.  After  their  return,  the  Marquis  had  no  longer  any  occasion  to 
renew  his  former  reproofs.  It  happened  one  day  that  a  servant  of  the  Marquis, 
named  Zoese,  or,  as  some  call  him,  Giorgio,  passing  before  the  apartments  of  Pari- 
sina, saw  going  out  from  them  one  of  her  chambermaids,  all  terrified  and  in  tears. 
Asking  the  reason,  she  told  him  that  her  mistress,  for  some  slight  offence,  had  been 
beating  her  ;  and,  giving  vent  to  her  rage,  she  added,  that  she  could  easily  be  reveng- 
ed, if  she  chose  to  make  known  the  criminal  familiarity  which  subsisted  between 
Parisina  and  her  step-son.  The  servant  took  note  of  the  words,  and  related  them  to 
his  master.  He  was  astounded  thereat,  but  scarcely  believing  his  ears,  he  assured 
himself  of  the  fact,  alas  !  too  clearly,  on  the  18th  of  May,  by  looking  through  a  hole 
made  in  the  ceiling  of  his  wife's  chamber.  Instantly  he  broke  into  a  furious  rage, 
and  arrested  both  of  them,  together  with  Aldobrandino  Rangoni,  of  Modena,  her  gen- 
tleman, and  also,  as  some  say,  two  of  the  women  of  her  chamber,  as  abettors  of  ihis 
sinful  act.  He  ordered  them  to  be  brought  to  a  hasty  trial,  desiring  the  judges  to 
pronounce  sentence,  in  the  accustomed  lorms,  upon  the  culprits.  This  sentence  was 
death.  Some  there  were  that  bestirred  themselves  in  favour  of  the  delinquents,  and, 
among  others,  Ugoccion  Contrario,  who  was  all-powerful  with  Niccolo,  and  also  his 
aged  and  much  deserving  minister  Alberto  dal  Sale.  Both  of  these,  their  tears  flow- 
ing down  their  cheeks,  and  upon  their  knees,  implored  him  for  mercy :  adducing 
whatever  reasons  they  could  suggest  for  sparing  the  offenders,  besides  those  motives 
of  honour  and  decency  which  might  persuade  him  to  conceal  from  the  public  so  scan- 
dalous a  deed.  But  his  rage  made  him  inflexible,  and,  on  the  instant,  he  commanded 
that  the  sentence  should  be  put  in  execution. 

"  It  was,  then,  in  the  prisons  of  the  castle,  and  exactly  in  those  frightful  dungeons 
which  are  seen  at  this  day  beneath  the  chamber  called  the  Aurora,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Lion's  tower,  at  the  top  of  the  street  Giovecca,  that  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-first 
of  May  were  beheaded,  first,  U°o,  and  afterwards  Parisina.  Zoese,  he  that  accused 
her,  conducted  the  latter  under  his  arm  to  the  place  of  punishment.  She,  all  along, 
fancied  that  she  was  to  be  thrown  into  a  pit,  and  asked  at  every  step,  whether  she 
was  yet  come  to  the  spot  ?  She  was  told  that  her  punishment  was  the  axe.  She 
inquired  what  was  become  of  Ugo,  and  received  for  answer,  that  he  was  already 
dead ;  at  the  which,  sighing  grievously,  she  exclaimed,  '  Now,  then,  I  wish  not 
myself  to  live ;'  and,  being  come  to  the  block,  she  stripped  herself  with  her  own 
hands  of  all  her  ornaments,  and  wrapping  a  cloth  around  her  head,  submitted  to  the 
fatal  stroke,  which  terminated  the  cruel  scene.  The  same  was  done  with  Rangoni, 
who,  together  with  the  others,  according  to  two  calendars  in  the  library  of  St.  Fran- 
cesco, was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  tha(  convent.  Nothing  else  is  known  respect- 
ing the  women. 

"  The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful  night,  and,  as  he  was  walk- 
ing backwards  and  forwards,  inquired  of  the  captain  of  the  castle  if  Ugo  was  dead 
yet?  who  answered  him,  Yes.  He  then  gave  himself  up  to  the  most  desperate  la- 
mentations, exclaiming,  '  Oh !  that  I  too  were  dead,  since.  I  have  been  hurried  on  to 
resolve  thus  against  my  own  Ugo '.'  And  then,  gnawing  with  his  teeth  a  cane  which 
he  had  in  his  hand,  he  passed  the  rest  of  the  night  in  sighs  and  in  tears,  calling  fre- 
quently upon  his  own  dear  Ugo.  On  the  following  day,  calling  to  mind  that  it  would 
be  necessary  to  make  public  his  justification,  seeing  that  the  transaction  could  not 
be  kept  secret,  he  ordered  the  narrative  to  be  drawn  out  upon  paper,  and  sent  it  to  all 
the  courts  of  Italy. 

"  On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  Francesco  Foscari,  gave  orders, 


FARISINA.  461 

Or  if  they  were  —  on  his  cold  eye 

Their  growth  hut  glanced  unheeded  by, 

Or  noticed  with  a  smother'd  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended, 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended ; 

And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrought 

The  intersected  lines  of  thought ; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 

Of  Sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there  ; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind 

Which  the  Soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 

He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe  : 

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, 

Intensely  thought  —  intensely  felt : 

The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 

Can  only  o'er  the  surface  close  — 

The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 

And  flows  —  and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 

Still  was  his  seal'd-up  bosom  haunted 

By  thoughts  which  Nature  hath  implanted  ; 

Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish, 

Howe'er  our  stifled  tears  we  banish  ; 

When,  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start, 

We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart, 

They  are  not  dried  —  those  tears  unshed 

But  flow  back  to  the  fountain  head, 

And  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 

For  ever  in  its  depth  endure, 

Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongeal'd, 

And  cherish'd  most  where  least  reveal'd. 

but  without  publishing  his  reasons,  that  stop  should  be  put  to  the  preparations  for  a 
tournament,  which,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Marquis,  and  at  the  expense  of  the  city 
of  Padua,  was  about  to  take  place,  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark,  in  order  to  celebrate 
his  advancement  to  the  ducal  chair. 

"  The  Marquis,  in  addition  to  what  he  had  already  done,  from  some  unaccount- 
able burst  of  vengeance,  commanded  that  as  many  of  the  married  women  as  were  well 
known  to  him  to  be  faithless,  like  his  Parisina,  should,  like  her,  be  beheaded.  Amongst 
others,  Barberina,  or,  as  some  call  her,  Laodamia  Romei,  wife  of  the  court  judge, 
underwent  this  sentence,  at  the  usual  place  of  execution,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  quarter 
of  St.  Giacomo,  opposite  the  present  fortress,  beyond  St.  Paul's.  It  cannot  be  told 
how  strange  appeared  this  proceeding  in  a  prince,  who,  considering  his  own  disposi- 
tion, should,  as  it  seemed,  have  been  m  such  cases  most  indulgent.  Some,  however, 
there  were,  who  did  not  fail  to  commend  him."  * 

*  Frizzi— History  of  Ferrara. 


462  PARISINA. 

With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left, 

To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bereft : 

Without  the  power  to  fill  again 

The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain  ; 

Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 

United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 

With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 

Had  only  pass'd  a  just  decree  ; 

That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill ; 

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 
All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free : 
But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 
The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe, 
The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 
And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals. 


THK 


PRISONER   OF  CHILLON, 


A  FABLE. 


SONNET   OF  CHILLON. 


ETERNAL  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind  ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty  !  thou  art, 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind  ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd  — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom^ 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  't  was  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard  !  (J)  —  May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

(I)  Fiar^ois  de  Bonnivard,  fils  de  Louis  de  Bonnivard,  originaire  de  Seyssei  et 
Seigneur  de  Lunes,  naquit  en  1496;  il  fit  ses  etudes  a  Turin:  en  1510  Jean  Aime 
de  Bonnivard,  son  oncle,  lui  resigna  le  Prieure  de  St.  Victor,  qui  aboutissoit  aux 
murs  de  Geneve,  et  qui  formoit  un  benefice  considerable. 

Ce  grand  homme  (Bonnivard  merite  ce  titre  par  la  force  de  son  ame,  la  droiture 
de  son  cceur,  la  noblesse  de  ses  intentions,  la  sagesse  de  ses  conseils,  le  courage  de 
ses  demarches,  1'etendue  de  ses  connaissances  et  la  vivacite  de  son  esprit,)  ce  grand 
homme,  qui  exciteral'admiration  de  tous  ceux  qu'une  vertu  heroique  peut  encore 
emouvoir,  inspirera  encore  la  plus  vive  reconnaissance  dans  les  cceurs  des  Genevois 
qui  aiment  Geneve.  Bonnivard  en  fut  toujours  un  des  plus  fermesappuis  :  pour  as- 
surer la  liberte"  de  notre  Republique,  il  ne  craignit  pas  de  perdre  souvent  la  sienne  ; 
il  oublia  son  repos ;  il  meprisa  ses  richesses ;  il  ne  negligea  rien  pour  affermir  le 
bonheur  d'une  patrie  qu'il  honora  de  son  choix :  des  ce  moment  il  la  cherit  comme  le 
plue  zele  de  ses  citoyens  ;  il  la  servit  avec  1'intrepidite  d'un  heros,  et  il  ecrivit  son 
Histoire  avec  la  naivete  d'un  philosophic  et  la  chaleur  d'un  patriote. 

II  dit  dans  le  commencement  de  son  Histoire  de  Geneve,  que,  dts  qu'il  cut  com- 
menct  de  lire  Fhistoire  des  nations,  il  se  sentil  enti  alne  par  son  go/it  pour  lea  Repud- 
liques,  dont  il  ipousa  toujours  les  intkrtts :  c'est  ce  gout  pour  la  liberte  que  lui  fit  sans 
doute  adopter  Geneve  pour  sa  patrie. 

Bonnivard,  encore  jeune,  s  annon^a  hautement  comme  le  defenseur  de  Geneve 
contre  le  Due  de  Savoye  et  1'EvSque. 

En  1519,  Bonnivard  devient  le  martyr  de  sa  patrie :  Le  Due  de  Savoye  etant 
entre  dans  Geneve  avec  cinq  cent  homines,^  Bonnivard  craint  le  ressentiment  du 
Due ;  il  voulut  se  retirer  a  Fribourg  pour  en  eviter  les  suites  ;  mais  il  fut  trahi  par 
deux  hommes  qui  1'accompagnoient,  et  conduit  par  ordre  du  Prince  a  Grole'e  ou  il 
resta  prisonnier  pendant  deux  ans.  Bonnivard  etoit  malheureux  dans  ses  voyages : 
comme  ses  malheurs  n'avoient  point  ralenti  son  zele  pour  Geneve,  il  etoit  toujonrs  un 
ennemi  redoutable  pour  ceux  qui  la  menacoient,  et  par  consequent  il  devoit  £tre  ex- 
pos^ a  leurs  coups.  II  fut  rencontre"  en  1530  sur  le  Jura  par  des  voleurs,  qui  le  de- 
pouillerent,  et  qui  le  mirent  encore  entre  les  mains  du  Due  de  Savoye  :  ce  Prince  le 
fit  enfermer  dans  le  Chateau  de  Chillon,  ou  il  resta  sans  e"tre  interroge  jusques  en 
1536 ;  il  fut  alors  delivre"  par  IM  Bernois,  qui  s'emparerent  du  Pays  de  Vaud. 

Bonnivard,  en  sortant  de  sa  ciptivite,  cut  le  plaisir  de  trouver  Genere  liter*  et  re- 
VOL.  III. — H  h 


466 

lormee ;  la  Republique  s'empressa  de  lui  temoigner  sa  reconnaissance  et  de  lo  de- 
dommager  des  maux  qu'il  avoit  soufferts  ;  elle  le  re^ut  Bourgeois  de  la  ville  au  mois 
de  Juin  1536  ;  elle  lui  donna  la  maison  habitee  autrefois  par  le  Vicaire-General,  et 
elle  lui  assigna  une  pension  de  200  ecus'd'or  tant  qu'il  sejourncroit  a  Geneve.  II  fut 
admis  dans  le  ConseildeDeux-Cent  en  1537. 

Bonnivard  n'a  pas  fini  d'etre  utile  :  appres  avoir  travaille  a  rendre  Geneve  libre, 
il  reussit  k  la  rendre  tolerante.  Bonnivard  engagea  le  Gonseil  a  accorder  aux  Ec- 
clesiastiques  et  aux  paysans  un  terns  suffisant  pour  examiner  les  propositions  qu'on 
leur  faisoit ;  il  reussit  par  sa  douceur :  on  preche  toujours  le  Christianisme  avec 
succes  quarid  on  le  preche  avec  charite. 

Bonnivard  fut  savant ;  ses  manuscrits,  qui  sont  dans  la  Bibliotheque  publique, 
prouvent  qu'il  avoit  bien  lu  les  auteurs  classiques  Latins,  et  qu'il  avoit  approfondi  la 
theologie  et  1'histoire.  Ce  grand  homme  aimoit  les  sciences,  et  il  croyoit  qu'elles 
pouvoient  faire  la  gloire  de  Geneve  ;  aussi  il  ne  negligea  rien  pour  les  fixer  dans  cette 
ville  naissante  ;  en  1551  il  donna  sa  bibliotheque  au  public  ;  elle  fut  le  commencement 
de  notre  bibliotheque  publique  ;  et  ces  livres  sont  en  partie  les  rares  et  belles  editions 
du  quinzieme  siecle  qu'on  voit  dans  notre  collection.  Enfin,  pendant  la  mdme  annee, 
ce  bon  patriote  institua  la  Republique  son  heritiere,  a  condition  qu'elle  employeroit 
ses  biens  a  entretenir  le  college  dont  on  projettpit  la  fondation. 

D  paroit  que  Bonnivard  mourut  en  1570  ;  mais  on  ne  peut  1'assurer,  parce  qu'il  y  a 
une  lacune  dans  le  Necrologe  depuis  le  mois  de  Juillet,  1570,  jusques  en  1571. 


THE 


PRISONER    OF    CHILLON 


MY  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night,  (J) 

As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  : 
My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 
And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd  —  forbidden  fare ; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake  ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place  ; 
We  were  seven  —  who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd : 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ;  — 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last* 


(1)  Ludovico  Sforza,  and  others. — The  same  is  asserted  of  Marie  Antoinette's, 
the  wife  of  Louis  XVI.  though  not  in  quite  so  short  a  period.  Grief  is  said  to  have 
the  same  effect :  to  such,  and  not  to  fear,  this  change  in  hers  was  to  be  attributed. 


468  THE    PRISONER    OF    CHILLON. 

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  wall  is  fallen  and  left  : 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp  : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain  ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

in. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three  —  yet,  each  alope  ; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight  : 
And  thus  together  —  yet  apart, 
Fetter'd  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart ; 
'T  was  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 

A  grating  sound  —  not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  ; 
It  might  be  fancy  —  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own 


THE    PRISONER    OF    CHILLON.  469 

IV. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 

I  ought  to  do  —  and  did  my  best  — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  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  — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 

As  to  young  eagles  being  free)  — 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer  's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 

v. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  :  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine  : 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline  — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine  : 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls  : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 


470  THE    PRISONER    OP    CHILLON. 

Thus  much  the  fathom-line  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. 


VII. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food  ; 
It  was  not  that 't  was  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care  : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den  ; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb, 

(1)  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens  and  Villeneuve,  which 
last  is  at  one  extremity  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  On  its  left  are  the  entrances  of  the 
Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the  heights  of  Meillerie  and  the  range  of  Alps  above  Boveret 
and  St.  Gringo. 

Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent:  below  it,  washing  its  walls,  the  lake  has 
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  con- 
fined. Across  one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam  black  with  age,  on  which  we  were  informed 
that  the  condemned  were  formerly  executed.  In  the  ceils  are  seven  pillars,  or, 
rather,  eight,  one  being  half  merged  in  the  wall ;  in  some  of  these  are  rings  for  the 
fetters  and  the  fettered  :  in  the  pavement  the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their  traces 
—he  was  confined  here  several  years. 

It  is  by  this  castle  that  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catastrophe  of  his  He*loise,  in  the 
rescue  of  one  of  her  children  by  Julie  from  the  water  ;  the  shock  of  which,  and  the 
illness  produced  by  the  immersion,  is  the  cause  of  her  death. 

The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a  great  distance.  The  walls  are 
white. 


THE    PRISONER    OP    CHILLON.  471 

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  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 
They  coldly  laugh'd  —  and  laid  him  there : 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 


VIII. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 
Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 
His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 
The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 
His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 
My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  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  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 


472  THE    PRISONER   OF    CHILLON. 

I  've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread  : 

But  these  were  horrors  —  this  was  woe 

Unmix'd  with  such  —  but  sure  and  slow  : 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender —  kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur  —  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  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  't  was  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  1  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rush'd  to  him  :  —  I  found  him  not, 

/  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  lived  —  /  only  drew 

The  accursed  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  !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive  — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 


THE    PRISONER   OF    CHILLON.  473 

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, 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 

As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray, 

It  was  not  night  —  it  was  not  day, 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 

But  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, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  ! 


x. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain,  — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
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, 


474  THE    PRISONER   OF    CHILLON. 

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  ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seem'd  like  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  wish  for  thine  ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ; 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  't  was  mortal  —  well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone,  — 
Lone  —  as  the  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  woe, 
But  so  it  was  :  —  my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 


THE    PRISONER    OF    CHILLON.  475 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  rny  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  unto  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  like  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  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush ; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,  (J) 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

(1)  Between  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  Villeneuve,  not  far  from  Chillon,  is  a 
very  small  island;  the  only  one  I  could  perceive,  in  my  voyage  round  and  over  the 
lake,  within  its  circumference.  It  contains  a  few  trees,  (I  think  not  above  three,) 
and  from  its  singleness  and  diminutive  size  has  a  peculiar  effect  upon  the  view. 

When  the  foregoing  poem  was  composed  I  was  not  sufficiently  aware  of  the  his- 
tory of  Bonnivard,  or  I  should  have  endeavoured  to  dignify  the  subject  by  an  attempt 
to  celebrate  his  courage  and  his  virtues.  Some  account  of  his  life  will  be  found  in  a 
note  appended  to  the  "  Sonnet  on  Chillon,"  with  which  I  have  been  furnished  by 
the  kindness  of  a  citizen  of  that  Republic,  which  is  still  proud  of  the  memory  of  a 
man  worthy  of  the  best  age  of  ancient  freedom. 


476  THE    PRISONER   OF    CHILLON. 

The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly, 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load  ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save,  — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppress'd, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count  —  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote  ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where, 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appear'd  at  last, 
<i       And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  on»  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 


THE    PRISONER   OF    CHILLON  477 

Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  Jearn'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. 


Rosalind.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller :  Look,  you  lisp,  and  wear  strange 
suits :  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country  ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  Nativity, 
and  almost  chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce 
think  that  you  have  swam  in  a  Gondola. 

As  You  Like  It,  Act  IV.  Sc.  1. 

Annotation  of  the  Commentators. 

That  is,  been  at  Venice,  which  was  much  visited  by  the  young  English  gentlemen 
of  those  times,  and  was  then  what  Pan's  is  now—  the  seat  of  all  dissoluteness.  S.  A. 


B  E  P  P  O  . 


'T  is  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,    1 
However  high  their  rank,  or  low  their  station, 

With  fiddling,  feasting,  dancing,  drinking,  masquingf 

And  other  things  which  may  be  had  for  asking. 


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  novers, 

Giggling  with  all  the  gallants  who  beset  her  ; 

And  there  are  songs  and  quavers,  roaring,  humming: 

Guitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming. 

in. 
And  there  are  dresses  splendid,  but  fantastical, 

Masks  of  all  times  and  nations,  Turks  and  Jews, 
And  harlequins  and  clowns,  with  feats  gymnastical, 

Greeks,  Romans,  Yankee-doodles,  and  Hindoos  ? 
All  kinds  of  dress,  except  the  ecclesiastical, 

All  people,  as  their  fancies  hit,  may  choose, 
But  no  one  in  these  parts  may  quiz  the  clergy,  — 
Therefore  take  heed,  ye  Freethinkers !  I  charge  ye» 

IV. 

You  ?d  better  walk  about  begirt  with  briars, 
Instead  of  coat  and  small-clothes,  than  put  ow 

A  single  stitch  reflecting  upon  friars, 

Although  you  swore  it  only  was  in  fun  ; 
VOL.  in. — i  i 


482  BEPPO, 

They  'd  haul  you  o'er  the  coals,  and  stir  the  fires 

Of  Phlegethon  with  every  mother's  son, 
Nor  say  one  mass  to  cool  the  caldron's  bubble 
That  boil'd  your  bones,  unless  you  paid  them  double 

v. 

But  saving  this,  you  may  put  on  whate'er 
You  like  by  way  of  doublet,  cape,  or  cloak, 

Such  as  in  Monmouth-street,  or  in  Rag  Fair, 
Would  rig  you  out  in  seriousness  or  joke  ; 

And  even  in  Italy  such  places  are, 

With  prettier  name  in  softer  accents  spoke, 

For,  bating  Convent  Garden,  1  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 

'T  is  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  least  liable  to  loss), 

Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Harvey, 

Or,  by  the  Lord  !  a  Lent  will  well  nigh  starve  ye ; 


A   VENETIAN   STORf*  483 

IX. 

That  is  to  say,  if  your  religion  's  Roman, 
And  you  at  Rome  would  do  as  Romans  do, 

According  to  the  proverb,  —  although  no  man, 
If  foreign,  is  obliged  to  fast ;  and  you, 

If  Protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a  woman, 
Would  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a  ragout  — 

Dine  and  be  d  —  d i  I  do  n't  mean  to  be  coarse, 

But  that 's  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse. 

x. 

Of  all  the  places  where  the  Carnival 

Was  most  facetious  in  the  days  of  yore, 
For  dance,  and  song,  and  serenade,  and  ball, 

And  masque,  and  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  still } 

Such  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians, 
In  ancient  arts  by  moderns  mimick'd  ill ; 

And  like  so  many  Venuses  of  Titian's 

(The  best 's  at  Florence  —  see  it,  if  ye  will,) 

They  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony, 

Or  stepp'd  from  out  a  picture  by  Giorgione,. 

XII. 

Whose  tints  are  truth  and  beauty  at  their  best  ? 

And  when  you  to  Manfrini's  palace  go, 
That  picture  (howsoever  fine  the  rest) 

Is  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show  ; 
It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  your  zest, 

And  that 's  the  cause  I  rhyme  upon  it  so  ;• 
>T  is  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  y 


484 


BEPPO, 


A  thing  that  you  would  purchase,  beg,  or  steal, 

Wer  't  not  impossible,  besides  a  shame  ; 
The  face  recalls  some  face,  as  't  were  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  know, 

Like  the  lost  Pleiad  (J)  seen  no  more  below. 

xv. 
I  said  that  like  a  picture  by  Giorgione 

Venetian  women  were,  and  so  they  are, 
Particularly  seen  from  a  balcony, 

(For  beauty  's  sometimes  best  set  off  afar) 
And  there,  just  like  a  heroine  of  Goldoni, 

They  peep  from  out  the  blind,  or  o'er  the  bar ; 
And  truth  to  say,  they  're  mostly  very  pretty, 
And  rather  like  to  show  it,  more  's  the  pity ! 

XVI. 

For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  sighs, 

Sighs  wishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a  letter, 

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  links  two  young  people  in  one  fetter, 

Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds, 

Elopements,  broken  vows,  and  hearts,  and  heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare  described  the  sex  in  Desdemona 

As  very  fair,  but  yet  suspect  in  fame, 
And  to  this  day  from  Venice  to  Verona 

Such  matters  may  be  probably  the  same, 
Except  that  since  those  times  was  never  known  a 

Husband  whom  mere  suspicion  could  inflame 
To  suffocate  a  wife  no  more  than  twenty, 
Because  she  had  a  '*  cavalier  servente." 

(1)  "  Q.USE  sepiem  dici  sex  tamen  esse  solent." — OVID. 


A   VENETIAN    STORY.  4$5 

XVIII. 

Their  jealousy  (if  they  are  ever  jealous) 

Is  of  a  fair  complexion  altogether, 
Not  like  that  sooty  devil  of  Othello's 

Which  smothers  women  in  a  bed  of  feather, 
But  worthier  of  these  much  more  jolly  fellows, 

When  weary  of  the  matrimonial  tether 
His  head  for  such  a  wife  no  mortal  bothers, 
But  takes  at  once  another,  or  another's. 

XIX. 

Didst  ever  see  a  Gondola  ?  For  fear 

You  should  not,  I  '11  describe  it  you  exactly  : 

'T  is  a  long  cover'd  boat  that 's  common  here, 
Carved  at  the  prow,  built  lightly,  but  compactly, 

Row'd  by  two  rowers,  each  call'd  "  Gondolier," 
It  glides  along  the  water  looking  blackly, 

Just  like  a  coffin  ciapt  in  a  canoe, 

Where  none  can  make  out  what  you  say  or  do. 

xx. 

And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  they  go, 

And  under  the  Rialto  shoot  along, 
By  night  and  day,  all  paces,  swift  or  slow, 

And  round  the  theatres,  a  sable  throng, 
They  wait  in  their  dusk  livery  of  woe,  — 

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.  —  'T  was  some  years  ago, 

It  may  be  thirty,  forty,  more  or  less, 
The  carnival  was  at  its  height,  and  so 

Were  all  kinds  of  buffoonery  and  dress  ; 
A  certain  lady  went  to  see  the  show, 

Her  real  name  I  know  not,  nor  can  guess, 
And  so  we  '11  call  her  Laura,  if  you  please, 
Because  it  slips  into  my  verse  with  ease. 

XXII. 

She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 
Which  certain  people  call  a  "  certain  age," 

Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears, 
Because  I  never  heard,  nor  could  engage 


486  BEPPO, 

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. 

xxm. 
Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  best 

Of  time,  and  time  return'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  ;  't  is  convenient, 
Because  in  Christian  countries  't  is  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  do  n'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.  (') 

xxvj. 
He  was  a  man  as  dusky  as  a  Spaniard, 

Sunburnt  with  travel,  yet  a  portly  figure ; 
Though  colour'd,  as  it  were,  within  a  tanyard, 

He  was  a  person  both  of  sense  and  vigour  — 
A  better  seaman  never  yet  did  man  yard  : 

And  she.,  although  her  manners  show'd  no  rigour, 
Was  deem'd  a  woman  of  the  strictest  principle, 
&o  much  as  to  be  thought  almost  invincible. 

(I)  Beppo  is  the  Joe  of  the  Italian  Joseph, 


A.   VENETIAN    STORY.  487 


XXVII. 

But  several  years  elapsed  since  they  had  met ; 

Some  people  thought  the  ship  was  lost,  and  some 
That  he  had  somehow  blunder'd  into  debt, 

And  did  not  like  the  thought  of  steering  home ; 
And  there  were  several  offer'd  any  bet, 

Or  that  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not  come, 
For  most  men  (till  by  losing  render'd  sager) 
Will  back  their  own  opinions  with  a  wager. 

XXVIII. 

JT  is  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. 


BEPPO, 

He  was  a  critic  upon  operas,  too, 

And  knew  all  niceties  of  the  sock  and  buskin ; 
And  no  Venetian  audience  could  endure  a 
Song,  scene,  or  air,  when  he  cried  "  seccatura !" 

XXXII. 

His  "  bravo  "  was  decisive,  for  that  sound 
Hush'd  "  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, 

Wish'd  him  five  fathom  under  the  Rialto. 


XXXIII. 

He  patronised  the  Improvisator!, 

Nay,  could  himself  extemporise  some  stanzas, 

"Wrote  rhymes,  sang  songs,  could  also  tell  a  story, 
Sold  pictures,  and  was  skilful  in  the  dance  as 

Italians  can  be,  though  in  this  their  glory- 
Must  surely  yield  the  palm  to  that  which  France  has ; 

In  short,  he  was  a  perfect  cavaliero, 

And  to  his  very  valet  seem'd  a  hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then  he  was  faithful  too,  as  well  as  amorous  ; 

So  that  no  sort  of  female  could  complain, 
Although  they  're  now  and  then  a  little  clamorous, 

He  never  put  the  pretty  souls  in  pain ; 
His  heart  was  one  of  those  which  most  enamour  us, 

Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  retain. 
He  was  a  lover  of  the  good  old  school, 
Who  still  become  more  constant  as  they  cool. 

XXXV. 

No  wonder  such  accomplishments  should  turn 
A  female  head,  however  sage  and  steady  — 

With  scarce  a  hope  that  Beppo  could  return, 
In  law  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he 

Nor  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  show'd  the  least  concern, 
And  she  had  waited  several  years  already  ; 

And  really  if  a  man  won't  let  us  know 

That  he  's  alive,  he  's  dead,  or  should  be  so. 


A   VENETIAN    STORY.  489 


XXXVI. 

Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman, 
(Although,  God  knows,  it  is  a  grievous  sin,) 

'T  is,  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  firs!. 

XXXVII. 

The  word  was  formerly  a  "  Cicisbeo," 

But  that  is  now  grown  vulgar  and  indecent ; 

The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a  "  Cortejo,"  (l) 

For  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain,  though  recent ; 

In  short  it  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Teio, 

And  may  perhaps  at  last  be  o'er  the  sea  sent. 

But  Heaven  preserve  Old  England  from  such  courses ! 

Or  what  becomes  of  damage  and  divorces  ? 

XXXVIII. 

However,  I  still  think,  with  all  due  deference 

To  the  fair  single  part  of  the  Creation, 
That  married  ladies  should  preserve  the  preference 

In  tete-d-tete  or  general  conversation  — 
And  this  I  say  without  peculiar  reference 

To  England,  France,  or  any  other  nation  — 
Because  they  know  the  world,  and  are  at  ease, 
And  being  natural,  naturally  please. 

XXXIX. 

'T  is  true,  your  budding  Miss  is  very  charming, 
But  shy  and  awkward  at  first  coming  out, 

So  much  alarm'd,  that  she  is  quite  alarming, 

All  Giggle,  Blush  ;  half  Pertness,  and  half  Pout 

And  glancing  at  JVZamma,  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. 

(1)  "  Cortejo  "  is  pronounced  "  Cortefto,"  with  an  aspirate,  according  to  the  Ara- 
besque guttural.  It  means  what  there  is  as  yet  no  precise  name  for°in  England, 
though  the  practice  is  as  common  as  in  any  tramontane  country  whatever. 


490  BEPPO, 


XL. 

But  "  Cavalier  Servente  "  is  the  phrase 

Used  in  politest  circles  to  express 
This  supernumerary  slave,  who  stays 

Close  to  the  lady  as  a  part  of  dress, 
Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 

His  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess ; 
Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  to  call, 
And  carries  fan  and  tippet,  gloves  and  shawl. 

XLI. 
With  all  its  sinful  doings,  I  must  say, 

That  Italy  's  a  pleasant  place  to  me, 
Who  love  to  see  the  Sun  shine  every  day, 

And  vines  (not  nail'd  to  walls)  from  tree  to  tree 
Festoon'd,  much  like  the  back  scene  of  a  play, 

Or  melodrame,  which  people  flock  to  see, 
When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a  dance 
In  vineyards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 

XLII. 
I  like  on  Autumn  evenings  to  ride  out, 

Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be  sure 
My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapp'd  about, 

Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure ; 
I  know  too  that,  if  stopp'd  upon  my  route, 

Where  the  green  alleys  windingly  allure, 
Reeling  with  grapes  red  wagons  choke  the  way,  — 
In  England  't  would  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

XLIII. 
I  also  like  to  dine  on  becaficas, 

To  see  the  Sun  set,  sure  he  '11  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning  twinkling  weak  as 

A  drunken  man's  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sorrow, 
But  with  all  Heaven  t'  himself;  that  day  will  break  as 

Beauteous  as  cloudless,  nor  be  forced  to  borrow 
That  sort  of  farthing  candlelight  which  glimmers 
Where  reeking  London's  smoky  caldron  simmers. 

XLIV. 
I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 

Which  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, 


A    VENETIAN    STORY.  491 

And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 

That  not  a  single  accent  seems  uncouth, 
Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttural, 
Which  we  're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  and  sputter  all. 

XLV. 
I  like  the  women  too,  (forgive  my  folly), 

From  the  rich  peasant  cheek  of  ruddy  bronze, 
And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  you  a  volley 

Of  rays  that  say  a  thousand  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  clirne,  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  1  —  in  what  guise, 

Though  flashing  from  the  fervour  of  the  lyre, 
Would  words  describe  thy  past  and  present  glow, 
While  yet  Canova  can  create  below  1  (2) 

XLVII. 

"  England  !  with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  still," 

I  said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it ; 
I  like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill ; 

I  like  the  government,  (but  that  is  not  it)  ; 
I  like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I  like  the  Habeas  Corpus,  (when  we  've  got  it)  ; 
I  like  a  parliamentary  debate, 
Particularly  when  ?t  is  not  too  late  ; 

(1)  For  the  received  accounts  of  the  cause  of  Raphael's  death,  see  his  Lives. 

(2)  (In  talking  thus,  the  writer,  more  especially 

Of  women,  would  be  understood  to  say, 
He  speaks  as  a  spectator,  not  officially, 

And  always,  reader,  in  a  modest  way; 
Perhaps,  too,  in  no  very  great  degree  shall  he 

Appear  to  have  offended  in  this  lay, 
Since,  as  all  know,  without  the  sex,  our  sonnets 

Would  seem  unfinished,  like  their  untrimm'd  bonnets. 

(Signed)  PRINTER'S  DEVIL. 


402  BEPPO, 


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  are  free  men, 

Our  trifling  bankruptcies  in  the  Gazette, 
Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  chilly  women, 

All  these  I  can  forgive,  and  those  forget, 
And  greatly  venerate  our  recent  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  — 
The  gentle  reader,  who  may  wax  unkind, 

And  caring  little  for  the  author's  ease, 
Insists  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  unravels, 


A    VENETIAN    STORY.  493 

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 
But  verse  is  more  in  fashion  —  so  here  goes. 

LIII. 
The  Count  and  Laura  made  their  new  arrangement, 

Which  lasted,  as  arrangements  sometimes  do, 
For  half  a  dozen  years  without  estrangement ; 

They  had  their  little  differences,  too ; 
Those  jealous  whiffs,  which  never  any  change  meant : 

In  such  affairs  there  probably  are  few 
Who  have  not  had  this  pouting  sort  of  squabble, 
From  sinners  of  high  station  to  the  rabble. 

LIV. 

But,  on  the  whole,  they  were  a  happy  pair, 
As  happy  as  unlawful  love  could  make  them  ; 

The  gentleman  was  fond,  the  lady  fair,  [them  : 

Their  chains  so  slight,  't  was  not  worth  while  to  break 

The  world  beheld  them  with  indulgent  air ; 
The  pious  only  wish'd  "  the  devil  take  them ! " 

He  took  them  not ;  he  very  often  waits, 

And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  ones'  baits. 

LV. 
But  they  were  young :  Oh  !  what  without  our  youth 

Would  love  be  !  What  would  youth  be  without  love ! 
Youth  lends  it  joy,  and  sweetness,  vigour,  truth, 

Heart,  soul,  and  all  that  seems  as  from  above  ; 
But,  languishing  with  years,  it  grows  uncouth  — 

One  of  few  things  experience  do  n't  improve, 
Which  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  old  fellows 
Are  always  so  preposterously  jealous. 

LVI. 

It  was  the  Carnival,  as  I  have  said 

Some  six  and  thirty  stanzas  back,  and  so 
Laura  the  usual  preparations  made, 

Which  you  do  when  your  mind  's  made  up  to  go 
'  To-night  to  Mrs.  Boehm's  masquerade, 

Spectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show  ; 
The  only  difference  known  between  the  cases 
Is  —  here,  we  have  six  weeks  of  "  varnish'd  faces." 


494  BEPPO, 

LVII. 

Laura,  when  dress'd,  was  (as  I  sang  before) 

A  pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen, 
Fresh  as  the  Angel  o'er  a  new  inn  door, 

Or  frontispiece  of  a  new  Magazine, 
With  all  the  fashions  which  the  last  month  wore, 

Colour'd,  and  silver  paper  leaved  between 
That  and  the  title-page,  for  fear  the  press 
Should  soil  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  of  dress. 

LVIII. 
They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ;  —  't  is  a  hall 

Where  people  dance,  and  sup,  and  dance  again ; 
Its  proper  name,  perhaps,  were  a  masqued  ball, 

But  that 's  of  no  importance  to  my  strain  ; 
'T  is  (on  a  smaller  scale)  like  our  Vauxhall, 

Excepting  that  it  can't  be  spoilt  by  rain  : 
The  company  is  "  mix'd,"  (the  phrase  I  quote  is 
As  much  as  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 ; 


A   VENETIAN    STORY.  495 

Good  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of  war, 

And  as  for  Fortune  —  but  I  dare  not  d — n  her, 
Because,  were  I  to  ponder  to  infinity, 
The  more  I  should  believe  in  her  divinity. 

LXII. 
She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet, 

She  gives  us  luck  in  lotteries,  love,  and  marriage ; 
I  cannot  say  that  she  's  done  much  for  me  yet ; 

Not  that  I  mean  her  bounties  to  disparage, 
We  've  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shall  see  yet, 

How  much  she  '11  make  amends  for  past  miscarriage 
Meantime  the  goddess  I  '11  no  more  importune, 
Unless  to  thank  her  when  she  's  made  my  fortune. 

LXIII. 
To  turn,  —  and  to  return  ;  —  the  devil  take  it ! 

This  story  slips  for  ever  through  my  fingers, 
Because,  just  as  the  stanza  likes  to  make  it, 

It  needs  must  be  —  and  so  it  rather  lingers ; 
This  form  of  verse  began,  I  can't  well  break  it, 

But  must  keep  time  and  tune  like  public  singers  ; 
But  if  I  once  get  through  my  present  measure, 
I  '11  take  another  when  I  'm  next  at  leisure. 


LXIV. 
They  went  to  the  Ridotto,  ('t  is  a  place 

To  which  I  mean  to  go  myself  to-morrow, 
Just  to  divert  my  thoughts  a  little  space, 

Because  I  'm  rather  hippish,  and  may  borrow 
Some  spirits,  guessing  at  what  kind  of  face 

May  lurk  beneath  each  mask  ;  and  as  my  sorrow 
Slackens  its  pace  sometimes,  I  '11  make,  or  find, 
Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hour  behind.) 

LXV. 

Now  Laura  moves  along  the  joyous  crowd, 
Smiles  in  her  eyes,  and  simpers  on  her  lips ; 

To  some  she  whispers,  others  speaks  aloud  ; 
To  some  she  curtsies,  and  to  some  she  dips, 

Complains  of  warmth,  and  this  complaint  avow'd, 
Her  lover  brings  the  lemonade,  she  sips  ; 

She  then  surveys,  condemns,  but  pities  still 

Her  dearest  friends  for  being  dress'd  so  ill. 


496  BEPPO, 

LXVI. 

One  has  false  curls,  another  too  much  paint, 

A  third  —  where  did  she  buy  that  frightful  turban  ? 

A  fourth  's  so  pale  she  fears  she  's  going  to  faint, 
A  fifth  's  look  's  vulgar,  dowdyish,  and  suburban, 

A  sixth's  white  silk  has  got  a  yellow  taint, 

A  seventh  's  thin  muslin  surely  will  be  her  bane, 

And  lo  !  an  eighth  appears,  —  "I  '11  see  no  more  !  " 

For  fear,  like  Banquo's  kings,  they  reach  a  score. 

LXVII. 
Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  gazing, 

Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her ; 
She  heard  the  men's  half-whisper'd  mode  of  praising, 

And,  till  't  was  done,  determined  not  to  stir ; 
The  women  only  thought  it  quite  amazing 

That,  at  her  time  of  life,  so  many  were 
Admirers  still,  —  but  men  are  so  debased, 
Those  brazen  creatures  always  suit  their  taste. 

LXVIII. 
For  my  part,  now,  I  ne'er  could  understand 

Why  naughty  women  —  but  I  won't  discuss 
A  thing  which  is  a  scandal  to  the  land, 

I  only  do  n'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  colour  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 ; 


A   VENETIAN    STORY.  497 

'T  is  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  libitum." 

LXXI. 
They  lock  them  up,  and  veil,  and  guard  them  daily, 

They  scarcely  can  behold  their  male  relations, 
So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass  so  gaily 

As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  nations  ; 
Confinement,  too,  must  make  them  look  quite  palely : 

And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations, 
Their  days  are  either  pass'd  in  doing  nothing, 
Or  bathing,  nursing,  making  love,  and  clothing. 

LXXII. 
They  cannot  read,  and  so  do  n't  lisp  in  criticism ; 

Nor  write,  and  so  they  do  n't  affect  the  muse  ; 
Were  never  caught  in  epigram  or  witticism, 

Have  no  romances,  sermons,  plays,  reviews,  — 
In  harams  learning  soon  would  make  a  pretty  schism  \ 

But  luckily  these  beauties  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 ! 

LXXIV. 
A  stalking  oracle  of  awful  phrase, 

The  approving  "  Good !  "  (by  no  means  GOOD  in  law) 
Humming  like  flies  around  the  newest  blaze, 

The  bluest  of  bluebottles  you  e'er  saw, 
Teasing  with  blame,  excruciating  with  praise, 

Gorging  the  little  fame  he  gets  all  raw, 
Translating  tongues  he  knows  not  even  by  letter, 
And  sweating  plays  so  middling,  bad  were  better. 
VOL.  in. — K  k 


4f>8  BEPPO, 

LXXV. 

One  hates  an  author  that 's  all  author,  fellows 
In  foolscap  uniforms  turn'd  up  with  ink, 

So  very  anxious,  clever,  fine,  and  jealous, 

One  do  n'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  snuffings  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  pen  ; 
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  Jt  would  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. 

LXXVIII. 
No  chemistry  for  them  unfolds  her  gasses, 

No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lectures, 
No  circulating  library  amasses 

Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  strictures 
Upon  the  living  manners,  as  they  pass  us  ; 

No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictures  ; 
They  stare  not  on  the  stars  from  out  their  attics, 
Nor  deal  (thank  God  for  that!)  in  mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why  I  thank  God  for  that  is  no  great  matter, 
I  have  my  reasons,  you  no  doubt  suppose, 

And  as,  perhaps,  they  would  not  highly  flatter, 
I  '11  keep  them  for  my  life  (to  come)  in  prose ; 


A   VENETIAN    STORY.  499 

I  fear  I  have  a  little  turn  for  satire, 

And  yet  methinks  the  older  that  one  grows 
Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  though  laughter 
Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after. 

LXXX. 

Oh,  Mirth  and  Innocence  !  Oh,  Milk  and  Water  I 

Ye  happy  mixtures  of  more  happy  days ! 
In  these  sad  centuries  of  sin  and  slaughter, 

Abominable  Man  no  more  allays 
His  thirst  with  such  pure  beverage.     No  matter, 

I  love  you  both,  and  both  shall  have  my  praise  : 
Oh.  for  old  Saturn's  reign  of  sugar-candy  !  — 
Meantime  I  drink  to  your  return  in  brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our  Laura's  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  upon  her, 
Less  in  the  Mussulman  than  Christian  way, 

Which  seems  to  say,  "  Madam,  I  do  you  honour, 

"  And  while  I  please  to  stare,  you  '11  please  to  stay  : n 

Could  staring  win  a  woman,  this  had  won  her, 
But  Laura  could  not  thus  be  led  astray ; 

She  had  stood  fire  too  long  and  well,  to  boggle 

Even  at  this  stranger's  most  outlandish  ogle. 

LXXXII. 
The  morning  now  was  on  the  point  of  breaking, 

A  turn  of  time  at  which  I  would  advise 
Ladies  who  have  been  dancing,  or  partaking 

In  any  other  kind  of  exercise, 
To  make  their  preparations  for  forsaking 

The  ball-room  ere  the  sun  begins  to  rise, 
Because  when  once  the  lamps  and  candles  fail, 
His  blushes  make  them  look  a  little  pale. 

LXXXIII. 
I  Ve  seen  some  balls  and  revels  in  my  time, 

And  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. 


500  BEPPO, 

LXXXIV. 

The  name  of  this  Aurora  I  '11  not  mention, 
Although  I  might,  for  she  was  nought  to  me 

More  than  that  patent  work  of  God's  invention, 
A  charming  woman,  whom  we  like  to  see  ; 

But  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  all 

To  meet  the  daylight  after  seven  hours'  sitting 
Among  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball, 

To  make  her  curtsy  thought  it  right  and  fitting ; 
The  Count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 

And  they  the  room  were  on  the  point  of  quitting, 
When  lo  !  those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 
Just  in  the  very  place  where  they  should  not. 

LXXXVI. 

In  this  they  're  like  our  coachmen,  and  the  cause 
Is  much  the  same  —  the  crowd,  and  pulling,  hauling, 

With  blasphemies  enough  to  break  their  jaws, 
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  little  scandals  eke  :  but  all  aghast 

(As  to  their  palace  stairs  the  rowers  glide) 
Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  Adorer, 
When  lo  !  the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 

LXXXVIII. 
"  Sir,"  said  the  Count,  with  brow  exceeding  grave, 

"  Your  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 
"  It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 

"  Its  import  ?  But  perhaps  't  is  a  mistake  ; 


A   VENETIAN    STORY.  501 

"  I  hope  it  is  so  ;  and  at  once  to  wave 

"  All  compliment,  I  hope  so  for  your  sake  ; 
*'  You  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  shall." 
"  Sir,"  (quoth  the  Turk,)  "  't  is  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  do  n't  do  so  outright ; 

They  only  call  a  little  on  their  saints, 

And  then  come  to  themselves,  almost  or  quite ; 

Which  saves  much  hartshorn,  salts,  and  sprinkling  faces, 

And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  cases. 

xc. 
She  said,  —  what  could  she  say  1  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 ;  "  do  n't  let  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

"  In  public,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  din, 
For  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfaction 
Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction." 

xci. 

They  enter'd,  and  for  coffee  call'd  —  it  came, 
A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both, 

Although  the  way  they  make  it 's  not  the  same. 
Now  Laura,  much  recover'd,  or  less  loth 

To  speak,  cries  "  Beppo  !  what 's  your  pagan  name  ? 
Bless  me  !  your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth  ! 

And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long  1 

Are  you  not  sensible  't  was  very  wrong  1 

xcn. 
"  And  are  you  really,  truly,  now  a  Turk  1 

With  any  other  women  did  you  wive  ? 
Is  't  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a  fork  ? 

Well,  that 's  the  prettiest  shawl  —  as  I  'm  alive ! 
You  '11  give  it  me  ?  They  say  you  eat  no  pork. 

And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
To  —  Bless  me  !  did  I  ever  ?  No,  I  never 
Saw  a  man  grown  so  yellow  !  How  's  your  liver  ? 


502  BEPPO, 

XCIII. 

u  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  do  n't  you  think  the  weather  here  is  colder  ? 
How  do  I  look  ?  You  sha'n't  stir  from  this  spot 

In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholder 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
How  short  your  hair  is  !  Lord  !  how  gray  it 's  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  neighbouring  bay, 
He  join'd  the  rogues  and  prosper'd,  and  became 
A  renegado  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  so  he  hired  a  vessel  come  from  Spain, 
Bound  for  Corfu  :  she  was  a  fine  polacca, 
Mann'd  with  twelve  hands,  and  laden  with  tobacco. 

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 ; 

He  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  've  forgot  'em. 


A   VENETIAN   STORY.  503 

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. 

XCVIII. 

His  wife  received,  the  patriarch  re-baptized  him, 
(He  made  the  church  a  present,  by  the  way)  ; 

He  then  threw  off  the  garments  which  disguised  him, 
And  borrow'd  the  Count's  small-clothes  for  a  day : 

His  friends  the  more  for  his  long  absence  prized  him, 
Finding  he  'd  wherewithal  to  make  them  gay, 

With  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh  of  them, 

For  stories  —  but  /  do  n't  believe  the  half  of  them. 

xcix. 
Whate'er  his  youth  had  suffer'd,  his  old  age 

With  wealth  and  talking  made  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, 

Which  being  finish'd,  here  the  story  ends  ; 
JT  is  to  be  wish'd  it  had  been  sooner  done, 
But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  begun. 


MAZEPPA. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"  CELUI  qui  remplissait  alors  cette  place  6tait  un  gentilhomme 
Polonais,  nomrne  Mazeppa,  ne  dans  le  palatinat  de  Padolie :  il 
avait  et6  eleve  page  de  Jean  Casimir,  et  avait  pris  a  sa  cour  quel- 
que  teinture  des  belles-lettres.  Tine  intrigue  qu'il  eut  dans  sa 
jeunesse  avec  la  femme  d'uri  gentilhomme  Polonais  ayant  £te 
decouverte,  le  mari  le  fit  lier  tout  nu  sur  un  cheval  farouche,  et 
le  laissa  aller  en  cet  etat.  Le  cheval,  qui  6ta.it  du  pays  de 
1'Ukraine,  y  retourna,  et  y  porta  Mazeppa,.  demi-mort  de  fatigue 
et  de  faim.  Quelques  paysans  le  secoururent :  il  resta  longtems 
parmi  eux,  et  se  signala  dans  plusieurs  courses  contre  les  Tar- 
tares.  La  superiorite  de  ses  lumieres  lui  donna  une  grande  con- 
sideration parmi  les  Cosaques :  sa  reputation  s'augmentant  de 
jour  en  jour,  obligea  le  Czar  a  le  faire  Prince  de  1'Ukraine."  — 
VOLTAIRE,  Hist,  de  Charles  XII.  p.  196. 

"  Le  roi  fuyant,  et  poursuivi,  eut  son  cheval  tue  sous  lui ;  le 
Colonel  Gieta,  blesse,  et  perdant  tout  son  sang,  lui  donna  le  sien. 
Ainsi  on  remit  deux  fois  a  cheval,  dans  la  fuite,  ce  conque'rarit 
qui  n'avait  pu  y  monter  pendant  la  bataille."  —  p.  216. 

"  Le  roi  alia  par  un  autre  chemin  avec  quelques  cavaliers. 
Le  carrosse,  oil  il  etait,  rompit  dans  la  marche  ;  on  le  remit  a 
cheval.  Pour  comble  de  disgrace,  il  s'egara  pendant  la  nuit 
dans  un  bois  ;  Ik,  son  courage  ne  pouvant  plus  supplier  a  ses 
forces  e'puisees,  les  douleurs  de  sa  blessure  devenues  plus  insup- 
portables  par  la  fatigue,  son  cheval  £tant  tombe  de  lassitude,  il 
se  coucha  quelques  heures  au  pied  d'un  arbre,  en  danger  d'etre 
surpris  a  tout  moment  par  les  vainqueurs  qui  le  cherchaient  de 
touscdteV  —  p.  218. 


M  A  Z  E  P  P  A. 


I. 

*T  WAS  after  dread  Pultowa's  day, 

When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede, 
Around  a  slaughter'd  army  lay, 

No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed. 
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  thunderbolt  to  all. 

n. 

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  ; 
4  For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid  : 
And  not  a  voice  was  heard  t'  upbraid 
Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour, 
When  truth  had  nought  to  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  ? 


510  MAZEPPA. 

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, 

Kinglike  the  monarch  bore  his  fall, 

And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 

His  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will : 

All  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 

As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay. 


in. 

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  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak's  shade  — 
Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old, 
The  Ukraine's  hetman,  calm  and  bold  ; 
But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course, 
The  Cossack  prince  rubb'd  down  his  horse, 
And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed, 

And  smoothed  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,  — 


MAZEPPA.  611 


That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 
His  chief  would  follow  like  a  fawn. 


IV. 

This  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak, 

And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak, 

Felt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 

The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood  — 

If  still  the  powder  fill'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  havresack  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  woe  ;  — 
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  —  **  111  betide 
The  school  wherein  I  learn'd  to  ride ! " 
Quoth  Charles  —  "  Old  Hetman,  wherefore  so, 
Since  thou  hast  learn'd  the  art  so  well  ?  " 
Mazeppa  said  —  "  'T  were  long  to  tell ; 
And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go, 
With  every  now  and  then  a  blow, 
And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe, 
Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease, 
Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes  : 
And,  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest* 
And  I  will  be  the  sentinel, 


512  MAZEPPA. 

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  '11  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back  : 
I  think  't  was  in  my  twentieth  spring,  — 
Ay,  't  was,  —  when  Casimir  was  king  — 
John  Casimir,  —  I  was  his  page 
Six  summers,  in  my  earlier  age  : 
A  learned  monarch,  faith  !   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  unseemly  quiet ; 
INTot  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  ; 
Even  I  for  once  produced  some  verses, 
And  sign'd  my  odes  '  Despairing  Thyrsis.' 
There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 

A  count  of  far  and  high  descent, 
Rich  as  a  salt  or  silver  mine  ;* 
And  he  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent ; 
He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore 

As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne  ; 

*  This  comparison  of  a  "  salt  mine  "  may,  perhaps,  be  permitted  to  a  Pole,  as  the 
•vealth  of  the  country  consists-  greatly  in  the  salt  mines. 


MAZEPPA*  613 

And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store, 
And  o'er  his  pedigree  would  pore, 
Until  by  some  confusion  led, 
Which  almost  look'd  like  want  of  head, 

He  thought  their  merits  were  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, 
'T  is  said,  as  passports  into  heaven ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Of  these,  who  have  deserved  them  most. 


"  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  plough'd 
My  very  soul  from  out  my  brow ; 

And  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  etc  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  — 
Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now, 
Between  me  and  yon  chestnut's  bough, 
The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm  j 
VOL.  in. — L  1 


514  MAZEPPA. 

And  yet  I  find  no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I  loved  so  well : 
She  had  the  Asiatic  eye, 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighbourhood, 

Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood, 
Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky ; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light, 
Like  the  first  moonrise  of  midnight ; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream, 
Which  seem'd  to  melt  to  its  own  beam  ; 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire, 
Like  saints  that  at  the  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  fierce  extremes  —  in  good  and  ill. 
But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage, 
And  haunted  to  our  very  age 
With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past, 
As  is  Mazeppa  to  the  last. 

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 ; 


MAZEPPA.  616 


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  2 
I  reck'd  not  if  I  won  or  lost, 
It  was  enough  for  me  to  be 
So  near  to  hear,  and  oh !  to  see 
The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most.— 
I  watch'd  her  as  a  sentinel, 
(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well!) 
Until  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was, 
That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 
Her  occupation,  nor  was  grieved 
Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain  ;  but  still 
Play'd  on  for  hours?  as  if  her  will 
Yet  bound  her  to  that  place,  though  not 
That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot. 
Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pass 
Even  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there* 
That  there  was  something  in  her  air 
Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair ; 
And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  forth* 

All  incoherent  as  they  were  — 
Their  eloquence  was  little  worth, 
But  yet  she  listened  —  't  is  enough  — 
Who  listens  once  will  listen  twice  ; 
Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice, 
And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 


vii. 

"  I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again  -*• - 
They  tell  me,  Sire,  you  never  knew 
Those  gentle  frailties  ;  if 't  is  true, 

I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain ; 

To  you  't  would  seem  absurd  as  vain ; 

But  all  men  are  not  bora  to  reign, 

Or  o'er  their  passions,  or  as  you 

Thus  o'er  themselves  and  nations  too* 

I  am  —  or  rather  was  —  a  prince, 
A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 
Them  on  where  each  would'  fofemosf  bleed } 

But  could  not  o'er  myself  evince 


516  MAZEPPA. 

The  like  control  —  But  to  resume  : 
I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again  ; 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  happy  doom, 

But  yet  where  happiest  ends  in  pain.  — 
We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 
Which  led  me  to  that  lady's  bower, 
Was  fiery  Expectation's  dower. 
My  days  and  nights  were  nothing  —  all 
Except  that  hour,  which  doth  recall 
In  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age 
No  other  like  itself— I  'd  give 
The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o'er  once  more  —  and  be  a  page, 
The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 
And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 
Save  nature's  gift  of  youth  and  health. — 
We  met  in  secret  —  doubly  sweet, 
Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet ; 
I  know  not  that  —  I  would  have  given 

My  life  but  to  have  call'd  her  mine 
In  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven  ; 

For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

VIII. 

"  For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 

And  such  there  were  on  us  ;  —  the  devil 

On  such  occasions  should  be  civil  — 
The  devil !  —  I  'm  loth  to  do  him  wrong, 

It  might  be  some  untoward  saint, 
Who  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long, 

But  to  his  pious  bile  gave  vent  — 
But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 
Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 
The  Count  was  something  more  than  wroth 
I  was  unarm'd  ;  but  if  in  steel, 
All  cap-a-pie  from  head  to  heel, 
What  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do  ?  — 
>T  was  near  his  castle,  far  away 

From  city  or  from  succour  near, 
And  almost  on  the  break  of  day  ; 
I  did  not  think  to  see  another, 

My  moments  seem'd  reduced  to  few ; 
And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 

And,  it  may  be,  a  saint  or  two, 


MAZEPPA.  517 

As  I  resign'd  me  to  my  fate, 
They  led  me  to  the  castle  gate  : 

Theresa's  doom  I  never  knew, 
Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate. — 
An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 
Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine  ; 
And  he  had  reason  good  to  be, 

But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 

An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 
Upon  his  future  pedigree  ; 
Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a  blot 
His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got, 
While  he  was  highest  of  his  line  ; 

Because  unto  himself  he  seem'd 

The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deem'd 
In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 
'Sdeath  !  with  a  page  —  perchance  a  king 
Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing  ; 
But  with  a  stripling  of  a  page  — 
I  felt —  but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

IX. 

"  «  Bring  forth  the  horse  ! '  —  the  horse  was  brought ; 

In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
WTio  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs  ;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led : 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong  ; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 
Away !  —  away  !  —  and  on  we  dash !  — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

x. 

u  Away !  —  away  !  —  My  breath  was  gone  — 

I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  : 

'T  was  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 

And  on  he  foam'd  —  away  !  —  away !  — 


518  MAZEPPA. 

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, 
Whose  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  uncourteous  ride. 
They  play'd  me  then  a  bitter  prank, 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide, 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank  : 
At  length  I  play'd  tjiem  one  as  frank  — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even  — 

And  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 


MAZEPPA.  619 


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  chequer'd  with  the  northern  light : 
Town  —  village  —  none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black  ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  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  Spain'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,  —  't  was  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. 


620  MAZEPPA. 


XIII. 

'*  We  near'd  the  wild  wood  —  't  was  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side  ; 
'T  was  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, 
Discolour'd  with  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 
May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek  ; 
'T  was  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 
And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine  ; 
But  far  apart  —  and  well  it  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,  already  scarr'd  with  cold  — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  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  day-break  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  ; 


MAZEPPA.  621 

But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Yain  doubt !  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  dazzling  blast, 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  past  — 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild ; 
All  furious  as  a  favour'd  child 
Balk'd  of  its  wish  ;  or  fiercer  still  — 
A  woman  piqued  —  who  has  her  will. 

XIII. 

"  The  wood  was  past ;  *t  was  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, 

Gold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress, 

Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness  ; 

Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 

Wrhen  stirr'd  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 

And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 

The  rattle-snake'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  turn'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  farther :  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below  : 


522  MAZEPPA. 

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 
Full  in  Death's  face  —  before  —  and  now. 

XIV. 

"  My  thoughts  came  back  ;  where  was  I  ?  Cold, 
And  numb,  and  giddy  :  pulse  by  pulse 

Life  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  return'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  I 

The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 

Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 

And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 

To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 

The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 

And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffen'd  limbs  were  re-baptized 

My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 

And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 

And  onward  we  advance  I 

We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 
A  haven  I  but  little  prized, 

For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear 

And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 


MAZEPPA.  523 


How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 
I  could  not  tell ;  I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 


xv. 
"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 

Up  the  repelling  bank. 
We  gain  the  top  :  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  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  nought  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate  ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star ; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatuus  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes : 

That  very  cheat  had  cheer'd  me  then ! 
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-born  lameness  nought  avail'd, 
My  limbs  were  bound ;  my  force  had  fail'd, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  effort  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied  — . 

But  still  it  was  in  vain : 


524  MAZEPPA. 

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  !  he  came  ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray, 
Would  never  dapple  into  day ; 
How  heavily  it  rolPd  away  — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars, 
And  call'd  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 
And  fill'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

XVII. 

"  Up  rose  the  sun  ;  the  mists  were  curl'd 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around  —  behind  —  before  ; 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river  ?  Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil ; 
No  sign  of  travel  —  none  of  toil ; 
The  very  air  was  mute  ; 
And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  werst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  stagger'd  on  ; 
And  still  we  were  —  or  seem'd  —  alone  : 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  1 
No,  no  !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop  ;  I  see  them  come ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  ! 

I  strove  to  cry  —  my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride  : 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  1 
A  thousand  horse  —  and  none  to  ride  ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils  —  never  stretch'd  by  pain* 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 


MAZEPPA. 

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  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answer'd,  and  then  fell ; 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immoveable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done  ! 
On  came  the  troop  —  they  saw  him  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, 
Who  seem'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide  ; 
They  snort  —  they  foam  —  neigh — swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. — 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me  —  and  there  we  Is 

The  dying  on  the  dead  ! 
I  little  deem'd  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helplesi  head. 

"  And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 

I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round, 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 

My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me, 

In  hopeless  certainty  of  mind, 

That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resign'd 

To  that  which  our  foreboding  years 

Presents  the  worst  and  last  of  fears 


526  MA2EPPA* 

Inevitable  —  even  a  boon, 
Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon ; 
Yet  shunn'd  and  dreaded  with  such  care* 
As  if  it  only  were  a  snare 

That  prudence  might  escape  : 
At  times  both  wish'd  for  and  implored, 
At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword, 
Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes, 

And  welcome  in  no  shape. 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
They  who  have  revell'd  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure, 
Die  calm,  or  calmer,  oft  than  he 
Whose  heritage  was  misery  : 
For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new, 

Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nought  to  leave  \ 
And,  save  the  future,  (which  is  view'd 
Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  good, 
But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued,) 

With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve  :  — - 
The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end, 
And  Death,  whom  he  should  deem  his  friend* 
Appears,  to  his  distemper'd  eyes, 
Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 
The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  all, 
Repaid  his  pangs,  repair'd  his  fall ; 
To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst, 
But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years, 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour  ; 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save  — 
And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave  ? 

xvni. 
"  The  sun  was  sinking  —  still  I  lay 

Chain'd  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed, 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay  ; 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need, 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed  : 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 


MAZEPPA.  627 

I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly, 
Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die, 

Ere  his  repast  begun ; 
He  flew,  and  perch'd,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before  ; 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit, 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

I  could  have  smote,  but  lack'd  the  strength ; 
But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 
The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise, 
Which  scarcely  could  be  call'd  a  voice, 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length. — • 
I  know  no  more  —  my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

Which  fix'd  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 
And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam* 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 
And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense* 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross'd  my  brain  — - 
A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 

A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 


XIX. 

"  I  woke  —  Where  was  I  ?  —  Do  I  gee 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  1 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  1 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  T 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  1 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-hair'd,  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free 


628  MAZEPPA. 

I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be,  — • 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast : 
And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseal'd, 
She  smiled  —  and  I  essay'd  to  speak, 

But  fail'd  —  ana  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  follovv'd  her  light  feet ;  — 

But  those  she  call'd  were  not  awake, 
And  she  went  forth ;  but,  ere  she  pass'd, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say, 
That  I  had  nought  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  1  —  I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest : 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain  — 

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  1  — ~ 

Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair ! 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
May  see  our  coursers  graze  at  ease 


MAZEPPA.  529 

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. 


END    OF    THE    THIRD    VOLUME. 


HI 

4352 
B6 
1840 


Byron,  George  Gordon  Noel 
Byron,  6th  baron 

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