Like a clankless chain enthrallingLike the sleepless dreams that mockLike the frigid ice-drops falling From the surf-surrounded rock Such the cold and sickening feeling Thou hast caused this heart to know; Stabb'd the deeper by concealing From the world its bitter woe! Once it fondly, proudly, deem'd thee More than woman thou wast to me; Why heap man's worst curse on me? Wast thou but a fiend, assuming Friendship's smile and woman's art, By that eye, which once could glisten By that lip, its smile bestowing, By all those false charms united, Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, And, without compunction, blighted What thou wouldst not kindly kill! Yet I curse thee not-in sadness Still I feel how dear thou wert; By thy feelings, all my wrong. When thy flatterers fawn no moreEre the solemn shroud hath shaded Some regardless reptile's store Ere that hour-false syren! hear me!- With thy past or present state: What thou art-I know too late! (1) Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne-[Sec antè, p. 120.] "I have" says Lord Byron, "traversed all Rousseau's ground with the Heloise before me, and am struck, to a degree that I cannot express, with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. I enclose you a sprig of Gibbon's acacia and some rose-leaves from his garden, which, with part of his house, I have just seen. You will find honourable mention, in his Life, made of this acacia, when he walked out on the night of concluding his history. Madame de Stael has made Copet as agree SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Of human hearts the ruin of a wall Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which of the heirs of immortality Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! DIODATI, July 1816. EPIGRAM FROM MARTIAL. PIERIOS vatis Theodori flamma Penates The house-the house is burnt, and not the master. TO MR. HOBHOUSE. "Mors janua vitæ." WOULD you get to the House through the true gate TO MR. HOBHOUSE, ON HIS IMPRISONMENT IN NEWGATE. WHAT made you in Lob's Pound to go, Because I bade the people throw The House into the lobby. Because I would reform the den, As member for the mobby. There's I and Burdett, gentlemen, And blackguards Hunt and Cobby. How is 't that you contrive to keep Your watch within your fobby? Because they want to run their rigs able as society can make any place on earth.” B. Letters, 1816.-L. E.] The numerous notices left by Lord Byron upon the appearance, conduct, and opinions of Madame de Stacl present, with much that is amusing, such a medley of remarks, that but for his tribute to her memory in the note to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, it would be difficult to decide whether she was most an object of his fear, his envy, or his admiration.-P. E. ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO DEL SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA. El qual dezia en Aravigo assi PASSEAVASE el Rey Moro Ay de mi, Alhama! Cartas le fueron venidas Que Alhama era ganada. Las cartas echo en el fuego, Descavalga de una mula, Y en un cavallo cavalga. Como en el Alhambra estuvo, Que se toquen las trompetas Ay de mi, Alhama! Y atambores de guerra Apriessa toquen alarma; Los Moros que el son oyeron, Alli habló un Moro viejo; Desta manera hablava : Para que nos llamas, Rey? Para que es este llamada?" "Aveys de saber, amigos, Que Christianos, con braveza, Alli habló un viejo Alfaqui, "Mataste los Bencerrages, "Por esso mereces, Rey, A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA. Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport. [The effect of the original ballad-which existed both in Spanish and Arabic-was such, that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada ]! THE Moorish King rides up and down Woe is me, Alhama! Letters to the monarch tell Woe is me, Alhama! He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in. Woe is me, Alhama! When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, On the moment he ordain'd That the trumpet straight should sound Woe is me, Alhama! And when the hollow drums of war That the Moors of town and plain Then the Moors, by this aware To a mighty squadron grew. Woe is me, Albama! Out then spake an aged Moor Woe is me, Alhama! "Friends! ye have, alas! to know That the Christians, stern and bold, Out then spake old Alfaqui, " By thee were slain, in evil hour, Woe is me, Alhama! Woe is me, Alhama! "Si no se respetan leyes, Ay de mi, Alhama! Fuego por los ojos vierte, "Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, El de la vellida barba, Y cortarte la cabeza, Y ponerla en el Alhambra, Por a que ti castigo sea, Y otros tiemblen en miralla. Cavalleros, hombres buenos, "De averse Alhama perdido "Perdieran hijos padres, "Perdi una hija donzella Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, Hombres, niños y mugeres, Por las calles y ventanas Llora el Rey como fembra, "But on my soul Alhama weighs, "Sires have lost their children, wives "I lost a damsel in that hour, And as these things the old Moor said, Woe is me, Albama! And men and infants therein weep And from the windows o'er the walls SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. PER MONACA. Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; è diretto al ge nitore della sacra sposa. Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo, A le fumanti tede d' imeneo: Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. (1) In this beloved marble view, Above the works and thoughts of man, Beyond Imagination's power, With immortality her dower, TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate. Were't the last drop in the well, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be-peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore. (2) (1) "The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron, "without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution."-L. E. (2) The letter, containing the foregoing stanzas, is dated La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817, and, at the conclusion, Lord Byron says:-"This should have been written fifteen months ago-the first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic; and I write to you with a blackeyed Venetian girl before me, reading Boccaccio."-P. E. TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. ON A NUN. Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more: I to the marble, where my daughter lies, Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. (3) As the Liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we Will die fighting, or live free; And down with all kings but King Ludd! When the web that we weave is complete, O'er the despot at our feet, And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. Though black as his heart its hue, Which the tree shall renew TO MR. MURRAY. To hook the reader, you, John Murray, (At least, it has not been as yet); And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up Ilderim; So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. And mind you do not let escape These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, And get me into such a scrape! For firstly, I should have to sally, All in my little boat, against a Galley; And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, Have next to combat with the female knight. March 25, 1817. (I) "I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I found the sword wearing out the scabbard,' though I have but just turned the corner of twenty-nine." Letter to Moore. -P. E. (2) "I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot head-ach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I reco vered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some ver. sicles, which I made one sleepless night." B. Letters. Venice, March, 1817.-L. E. (3) The Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles; Ilderim by Mr. Gally Knight; and Margaret of Anjou by Miss Holford.-L. E. (4) Dr. Polidori had composed a tragedy, which he wished Mr. Murray to publish. It is presumable that, not willing to accept the Doctor's production, though somewhat averse to give him a positive refusal, Mr. M. had in the mean time consulted Lord Byron, who thus writes to the latter gentleman, under date of 21st of August, 1817: "I never was EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,(5) To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 1 like your moral and machinery; It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, Are drugs-mere drugs, sir-now-a-days. I had a heavy loss by Manuel, Too lucky if it prove not annual, — And Sotheby, with his Orestes (Which, by the by, the author's best is), Has lain so very long on hand That I despair of all demand. I've advertised, but see my books, My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. There's Byron too, who once did better, A sort of it's no more a drama I write in haste; excuse each blunder; much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and ill-humour, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improvable. You want a civil and deh cate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it.”—P. E (5) With regard to the dramatic attempt here alluded to Moore says:Among other pretensions, he (Polidori had set his heart upon shining as an author, and one evening at Mr. Shelley's, producing a tragedy of his own writing, in sisted that they should undergo the operation of hearing it To lighten the infliction, Lord Byron took upon himself the task of reader. In spite of the jealous watch kept upon every countenance by the author, it was impossible to withstand the smile lurking in the eye of the reader, whose only resource against the outbreak of his own laughter lay in landing, from time to time, most vehemently, the sublimity of the verses, and then adding, at the close of every such eulogy, I assure you, when I was in the Drury Lane Com mittee, much worse things were offered to us.'"-P. E. |