Full of the magic of exploded science- Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Note 1, page 184. NOTES TO POEMS. Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos. On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate, and the writer of these rhymes, swam from the European shore to the Asiatic -by-the-by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may in some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten, minutes. The water was extremely cold from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt, but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chilness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just stated; entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability. Note 2, page 185. Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ. Zoë mou, sas agapo, or Zún þoỡ, cás dyazw, a Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I suppose they could not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, My life, I love you!" which sounds very prettily in all anguages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day Juvenal tells us, the two first words were among as, the Roman ladies, whose exotic expressions were all Hellenized. Note 3, page 165, line *. By all the token-flowers that tell. In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, est they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, Tebbles, &c. convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman. Å cinder says, "I burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, "Take me and fly;" but a pebble declareswhat nothing else can. Note 4, page 185, line 33. Though I fly to Istambol. Constantinople. Note 5, page 185, line 55. And the seven-hill'd city seeking. Constantinople. “Επτάλοφος.” Note 6, page 196, line 49. See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, &c. "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," &c. Verse 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," Verse 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp: and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upor the fountains of waters." Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Wornwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter." Note 7, page 196, line 65. Whose realm refused thee even a tomb. Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt. Note 8, page 197, line 20. Blessing him they served so well. "At Waterloo one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, 'Vive l'Empereur, jusqu'à la mort There were many other instances of the like; this you may, however, depend on as true."-A private Letter from Brussels. Note 9, page 197, line 65. The tri-colour. Note 10, page 198, line 14. Lemun! the e nomes are worthy of thy shore. Geneva, Ferney, Coppet, Lausanne. Note 11, page 200, line 126. Like to the Pontic Monarch of old days. Mithridates of Pontus. THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. "T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that having composed something on the subject of Tasso's confnement, he should do the same on Dante's exile-the tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of interest in that city, both to the native and to the stranger. "On this hint I spake," and the result has been the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my purpose to continue the poem in varous other cantos to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, oxcept it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathek; so that-if I do not err-this poem may be considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same length of those of the poet, whose name I have borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. Among the inconveniences of authors in the present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold translated into Italian versi sciolti-that is, a poem written in the Spenserean stanza into blank verse, without regard to the natural divisions of the stanza, or of the sense. If the present poem, being on a national topic should chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in the imitation of his great "Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which all study and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first anto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable conjecture may be considered as having decided the question. He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am no! quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation-their literature; and in the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them without finding some fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation o Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to the rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the Italian reader, when my business is with the English one and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. CANTO I. ONCE more in man's frail world! which I had left From star to star to reach the almighty throne. Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, That naught on earth could more my bosoin move. Relieved her wing till found; without thy light By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd; And though the long, long conflict hath been spen In vain, and never more, save when the cloud Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud Of me, can I return, though but to die, Unto my native soil, they have not yet Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. But the sun, though not over-cast, must set, And the night cometh; I am old in days, The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows I would have had my Florence great and free:' My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, And loves her, loves her even in her ire. Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume No, she denied me what was mine-my roof, And shall not have what is not hers-my tomb. Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof The breast which would have bled for her, the heart That beat, the mind that was temptation proof, The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art Pass his destruction even into a law. These things are not made for forgetfulness, Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress Of such endurance too prolong'd to make My pardon greater, her injustice less, Though late repented; yet-yet for her sake I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine My own Beatrice, I would hardly take Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, Which would protect the murderess like a shrine And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. Though, like old Marius from Minturne's marsh And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe But on the pillow of Revenge-Revenge, With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, For Florence.-I appeal from her to Thee! The sense of earth and earthly things come back, And the frail few years I may yet expect Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, To lift my eyes more to the passing sail In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume To live in narrow ways with little men, A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den Without the power that makes them bear a crown- Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought CANTO II. The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, When words were things that came to pass, and thought Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold Their children's children's doom already brought Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought Shapes that must undergo mortality; What the great Seers of Israel wore within, Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed The only guerdon I have ever known. Hast thou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, 'Thou 'rt mine-my bones shall be within thy breast, Shall find alike such sounds for every theme That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, Shall realize a poet's proudest dream, And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; So that all present speech to thine shall seen The note of meaner birds, and every tongue Confess its barbarism, when compared with thine. This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. Wo! wo! the veil of coming centuries The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, "Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomb! Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword, Thou, Italy: so fair that Paradise, And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made In feeble colours, when the eye-from the Alp Nods to the storm-dilates and dotes o'er thee, Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still The Goth hath been, the German, Frank, and Hun By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased But those, the human savages, explore Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, ever! Why sleep the idle avalanches so, To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? Are the Alps weaker than Thermopyla? That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, In a coil where the mothers bring forth men: Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting Is more secure than walls of adamant, when The hearts of those within are quivering. Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring Against Oppression; but how vain the toil, While still Division sows the seeds of wo And show thy beauty in its fullest light? CANTO III. From out the mass of never-dying ill, The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword, Vials of wrath but emptied to refill And flow again, I cannot all record That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth And ocean written o'er would not afford Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth; Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven Athwart the sounds of archangelic songs, And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, Will not in vain arise to where belongs Omnipotence and mercy evermore: Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff, Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive! A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy night, The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, Native to thee as summer to thy skies, Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,7 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;8 For thee alone they have no arm to save, And all thy recompense is in their fame, A noble one to them, but not to theeShall they be glorious, and thou still the same? Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be The being and even yet he may be born- By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; Yet through this centuried eclipse of wo And make it broarder; the same brilliant sky Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, And raise their notes as natural and high; Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall sing And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze And language, eloquently false, evir.ce The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, And looks on prostitution as a duty. He who once enters in a tyrant's hall As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, And the first day which sees the chain enthral A captive, sees his half of manhood gone-10 His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne Or force, or forge fit argument of song! Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's trebles He toils through all, still trembilng to be wrong: For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, Should rise up in high treason to his brain, He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles In's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain But out of the long file of sonneteers There shall be some who will not sing in vain, And he, their prince shall rank among my peers," And love shall be his torment; but his grief Shall make an immortality of tears, And Italy shall hail him as the Chief Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. But in a farther age shall rise along The banks of Po two greater still than he; The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong Till they are ashes, and repose with me. The first will make an epoch with his lyre, His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire, Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought Conflict, and final triumph of the brave Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame Harder to bear and less deserved, for I As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, Yet it wil be so-he and his compeer, To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, A heritage enriching all who breathe |