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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924006001667 
 
THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
 LORD BYRON 
 
BYRON. 
 
THE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION 
 BY 
 
 W. M. ROSSETTI 
 
 WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 George Gordon Lord Byron, a Baron of the United Kingdom, was 
 born on the 22nd of January 1788, in Holies Street, London. He traced his 
 descent from the time of the Conquest : his ancestor Ralph de Burun 
 is recorded in Domesday Book. The Byrons or Birons, having been 
 Knights long before, and Baronets also, were raised to the peerage by 
 Charles I., whose cause the family espoused. The poet was the only 
 son of Captain John Byron, of the Guards, by his second wife, Catharine 
 Gordon of Gight, an Aberdeenshire heiress, belonging to the senior 
 branch of the Gordons, and having some Stuart blood in her veins. 
 John Byron was a nephew of Wilham, the then Lord. A spendthrift 
 and rake, he had aforetime eloped with Lady Camarthen, who, on being 
 divorced from her husband, became the first wife of Captain Byron, and 
 bore him one daughter, Augusta Mary, afterwards the Honourable Mrs. 
 Leigh. The celebrated Admiral Byron was the poet's grandfather. 
 
 Byron was born (it would appear, though the accounts are conflicting) 
 with both feet clubbed, and with legs withered to the knee ; the right 
 foot, owing to an accident attending birth, was more particularly dis- 
 torted. In other respects he grew up extremely handsome ; with light- 
 blue or gre}dsh eyes, dark auburn hair curling over the head, and a com- 
 plexion almost colourless. His stature was five feet eight and a half. 
 He had a constitutional tendency to fatness, which he kept down by a 
 diet abstemious to the point of semi-starvation, although occasionally 
 he neglected his precautions, and paid the forfeit. Extreme sensitiveness 
 to his lameness, even apart from the practical inconvenience which it 
 caused, embittered his entire life. 
 
 Captain Byron squandered his second wife's fortune, and left her to 
 shift for herself. Reduced to an income of ;fi5o a year, she retired with 
 her infant, in 1790, to Aberdeen ; a proud, impetuous, inflammable 
 woman, who spoiled the child by frequent petting, and more frequent 
 violences. In her moods, she would call him " a lame brat ; " and the 
 opprobrious term rankled in his memory. Inheriting the characteristic 
 defects of both his pareats, with a gloomy heart though much superficial 
 gaiety of spirits, with many generous impulses and passionate suscepti- 
 bilities, he underwent no training that would have elicited his finer and 
 eliminated his more perilous qualities. His father soon levanted to the 
 continent, and died at Valenciennes in 1791. 
 
 Byron's schooling began at the age of five ; and he had been under 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 three instructors before he passed to the Free-school of Aberdeen. The 
 son of the reigning Lord Byron died before his father ; the lord himself 
 expired on the 19th of May 1798 ; and little " Geordie," aged ten, was 
 Baron Byron of Rochdale, master of Newstead Abbey in Nottingham- 
 shire, and owner of a large though embarrassed property. He was now 
 made a ward in Chancery, under the guardianship of the Earl of Carlisle. 
 The deceased lord had been a man of vehement passions, who had for 
 more than thirty years lived in a grim retirement at Newstead. This 
 was consequent upon a duel, hardly differing from a mere brawl, with 
 his relative and neighbour Mr. Chaworth of Annesley, in which the latter 
 was killed. Lord Byron had then undergone a trial before his peers, in 
 1765, in which he was acquitted. 
 
 A real lord, especially one whose ancestors came in with the Conquest, 
 hardly needs to be assured that he does own that title : but Mrs. Byron, 
 fond and foolish as ever, was much addicted to impressing the fact upon 
 her son, and he, in after years, repaid her by uniformly addressing her 
 in writing as " The Honourable Mrs. Byron," a distinction to which she 
 had no title whatever. " The canker of aristocracy wants to be cut out " 
 was Shelley's verdict upon Byron : and much more serious reasons than 
 this childish verbal juggling — though that is symptomatic enough — 
 justified the observation. Byron was indeed an ingrained aristocrat — 
 a liberal-thinking one in many respects, but not the less an aristocrat. 
 Hence some of his genuineness ; hence also much of his posing and many 
 of his affectations. He hugged his own superiority, adventitious as well 
 as personal, and could not be satisfied with letting other people see the 
 latter, and learn or surmise the former. He must always be abashing 
 them with his distinction from the herd, his scorn for the mass of men"; 
 he could always profess to be distinct and scornful ; and, rather than leave 
 the difference unenforced, he would establish it by lowering himself. 
 The world of readers were to contemplate him as something dark, unde- 
 fined, and romantic : he must reveal himself a little, and impose upon 
 their imaginations all the more in that the revelation was but partial 
 and fragmentary. In all this, there is no doubt something of personal 
 vanity, and even of that sort of vanity which, had he not been a real 
 unquestionable aristocrat, might rather have been expected of a parvenu 
 But it is such vanity as rests on a deep and morbid love of artificial 
 distinctions, the corner-stone of aristocracy in its more prosaic and prac- 
 tical developments : and, as Byron was not a parvenu, one can but attri- 
 bute his weakness in this respect to the fact that, on the subject of aris- 
 tocracy, he gloated from above upon those vulgarest prepossessions which 
 bedazzle all blinking eyes and stimulate all watering mouths below 
 
 Mrs. Byron stayed something less than a year at Newstead, putting 
 her son through a course of Latin, and also, at the hands of a local quack 
 named Lavender, through a course of torture in the futile hope of straight- 
 ening his right foot. They then removed to London, and Byron went 
 to a boarding-school at Dulwich, where he was well instructed by Dr 
 Glennie. Hence, in less than two years, to Harrow ; and then, in i8os 
 to Trinity College, Cambridge. At Harrow he was irregular and turbu- 
 lent, but of generous character ; he showed no aptitude for verbal 
 scholarship, although he read a great deal in a miscellaneous way. His 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 mother already introduced him to some fashionable amuserrients, such 
 as masquerades ; and had, at the earlier date, withdrawn him so fre- 
 quently from the regulated school-attendance at Dulwich that his trans- 
 ference to Harrow was effected by Lord Carlisle. 
 
 The emotion of love had been known to Byron even as a child, and was 
 destined — ^now in one form, now in another, seldom or never perhaps as 
 the purging and spiritualizing flame of life — to dominate his whole career. 
 At Aberdeen he had loved a little girl named Mary Duff ; about 1800 he 
 was enthralled by his lovely cousin Margaret Parker, who died of a decline 
 within two or three years ; in 1803 he first saw Miss Cha^forth, the heiress 
 of Annesley, and a descendant of the gentleman whom his grand-uncle 
 had killed in a duel. She was a beautiful girl, two years older than Byrot), 
 whom she regarded and treated as a schoolboy. She was already engaged 
 to "a gentleman in the neighbourhood, Mr. Musters, whom in 1805 she 
 married. The match proved an unhappy one, and the lady eventually 
 lost her reason. Byron, from the time when he first met Miss Chaworth, 
 fell deeply in love with her, nor was the passion a transitory one : it 
 darkened many an after year with vain longing and yearning protest. 
 
 He passed two years at Trinity College, studious by fits, but mostly 
 idle and dissipated : swimming, boxing, fencing, and pistol-practice, 
 were among his favourite diversions : he also showed — what he ever 
 afterwards retained — a great love of animals, and kept at Cambridge a 
 bear and several bull-dogs, and in after years a wolf. His love for his 
 Newfoundland dog Boatswain, which he finally buried in a vault at New- 
 stead, and wrote an epitaph upon, is well known. In 1809, having shot 
 an eaglet on the shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, he felt so much compunc- 
 tion that he resolved never again to shoot a bird. His great friend and 
 admiration at college was Charles Skinner Matthews, a Herefordshire 
 gentleman's son, who died in 181 1, drowned while bathing in the Cam. 
 Lord Clare and Mr. Hobhouse (ultimately Lord Broughton) were also 
 early friends for whom Byron ever afterwards entertained a warm regard. 
 It has been' said, indeed, that he never lost a friend : and no intimacy 
 of later years, not even that with Moore or with Shelley, took such hold 
 of him as these youthful associations. Another of his amiable traits 
 was his kind feeling for his servants, who very generally became much 
 attached to him. 
 
 Matthews was a sceptic, or more than a sceptic— Lord Byron has 
 termed him an atheist. His lordship also was, from a very early period 
 of youth, a sceptic, and remained such to the end of his life. He had a 
 certain powerful sense of religion— of its majesty, its hold upon the 
 heart, and more especially perhaps its terrors : at times even he halt 
 professed himself a Christian, tending towards Roman Catholicism, 
 and he is said, for the last several years of his life, to have made a practice 
 of fasting on Fridays, and kneeling at the passing of any religious pro- 
 cession—perhaps La Guiccioli rather than orthodoxy had to do with 
 this result. Shelley considered that Byron was by no means a firm. 
 unbeUever : on one occasion he shrieked to Trelawny, with the intro- 
 . version ©f a holy horror, " By God ! he's no better than a Christiaii ! 
 It is, I think, quite open to surmise that Byron, had he lived out an 
 ordinary length of days, might have dictated or dubitated himself mto 
 
LORD teYRON 
 
 Christianity : but, as a matter of fact, he was and always remained 
 a sceptic — a non-behever or doubter, often a sarcastic and defiant, seldom 
 a resolved and unchafing one. In truth, Byron was not a man of opinions 
 at all, whether on religious or other subjects, but of impulses, aspirations, 
 and a temperament at once versatile and uncertain on the surface, and 
 doggedly obdurate at the core. There was a great deal of boyishness 
 in his character from first to last ; and he was singularly incapable 
 of any reticence, whether himself or other people were affected. He 
 was personally brave, free from fear of death, but somewhat easily 
 daunted by pain. Friends and" acquaintances could do anything, and 
 also nothing, with him : he was the slave and the despot of women, 
 their adorer and their contemner- The twig could at most moments 
 be bent — never the tree inclined. 
 
 Byron's first recorded "poem" was written at the mature age, of 
 ten — a satire on some old lady who had raised his bile : he afterwards 
 wrote some poetry to his cousin Miss Parker. In January 1806 he had 
 a volume of miscellaneous verses printed : but, one of the compositions 
 being objected to as unchaste by the R«v. John Becher, of Southwell, 
 a friendly Mentor whom he respected, he in November destroyed the 
 edition, after two, or perhaps three, copies had been issued. In March 
 1807 he published his Hours of Idleness. Some critic in the Edinburgh 
 Review, reputed to have been Brougham, was discerning enough to see " 
 that the poems were rubbish, and WTiig enough to write on them a 
 critique such as would now be termed " chaSy " rather than actually 
 severe ; he was not discerning enough to foresee that there was the 
 making of a real and great poet in the fiedgeUng author. Indeed, to 
 have divined this would have amounted to a sort of critical second sight ; 
 the poems being, in the amplest sense of the term, poor stuff. 
 
 This was the turning-point of Byron's career, .and the beginning of 
 his fame. Even before the appearance of the snubbing critique, he 
 had commenced a satire on the writers of his day : this he now took 
 up with centupled ardour, and produced (not without considerable 
 obligations to Gifford's Baviad and McBviad) his English Bards and 
 Scotch Reviewers. It was published on the i6th of March 1809, three 
 days after he had taken his seat in the House of Lords. On that occasion 
 he was left entirely to his own resources, without any countenance or 
 introduction from his late guardian the Earl of Carlisle or other noble 
 connections — a circumstance which long embittered his mind. About 
 this time he had entered upon a settled residence at Newstead Abbey, 
 and played some pranks there, with monkish costumes, skull-cups (if 
 not skulls) as drinking-cups, and so on, which may have been more 
 vivacious than decorous. At one time Byron had serious thoughts of 
 coming forward in political life. He spoke thrice in the House of Lords 
 with no discouraging result : Sheridan even thought he would become 
 a distinguished speaker. His first speech (on the 27th of February 1812) 
 was on the Nottingham Frame-breaking Bill ; but he did not persevere 
 on this tack. 
 
 The English Bards and Scotch Reviewers could not fail to make a stir 
 consisting as it did of a rolling fire of abuse against nearly all the most 
 conspicuous literary men of the time. Byron, however, left it very 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 much to take care of itself. An eagerness for travelling had seized him : 
 and on the nth of June he quitted London, and sailed from Falmouth 
 on the 2nd of July, in company with his friend Hobhouse. He landed 
 at Lisbon on the 7th ; crossed Spain ; went on to Prevesa (in Albania), 
 Solara, Arta, and Joannini. On the 12th of October he was introduced 
 
 -to Ali Pacha, and on the 31st began Childe Harold. He. proceeded to 
 Missolonghi, Parnassus, Castri, Delphi ; and reached Athens on Christ- 
 mas-day. In this city and in Attica he spent about ten weeks. Hence 
 he went to Smyrna ; and there, on the 28th of March 18 10, finished 
 the second canto of Childe Harold. Next he sailed to Constantinople : 
 on the 9th of May he performed his feat — much vaunted by many tongues, 
 and especially his own— of swimming, like Leander, from Sestos to 
 Abydos. He was in Constantinople from the middle of May to the middle 
 of July ; then in Athens again, and in the Morea from August to October. 
 Returning once more to Athens, he lived in the Franciscan Convent 
 there in the early part of i8n, writing the Hints from Horace and the 
 Curse' of Minerva. He left Athens for Malta in May, and returned to 
 England in July. " On the ist of August his mother died — the decadent 
 state of her health having, it is said, been fatally aggravated by a fit 
 of rage at the amount of an upholsterer's bill presented to her. Byron 
 was . hastening to Newstead when he received the tidings. Though 
 he was neither a dutiful nor a loving son to this injudicious parent, 
 he was not without a deep sense of loss in her death : indeed, he spoke 
 of her as " the only friend he had in the world." 
 
 He showed the Hints from Horace and Childe Harold (limited as yet 
 to cantos i and 2) to a confidential acquaintance, Mr. Dallas, and could 
 with difficulty be persuaded that the latter of the two poems was the one 
 to be relied, on for a reputation. It came out on the 29th of February 
 1812 : every one knows the expression of the author, as written down 
 in his memoranda' — " I awoke one morning, and found myself famous." 
 In 'fact, Childe Harold carried everything before it, creating a rush of 
 enthusiasm such as might barely be considered due to the complete 
 poem, and is clearly not warranted by the two opening cantos. Byron 
 found himself at once about the most famous and fashionable man in 
 London, after remaining as yet considerably more obscure in society 
 than might have been surmised from his rank and other numerous 
 advantages. He now plunged into fashionable dissipation, and became 
 something of a dandy, and a good deal of a lady-killer. He entered 
 into the whirl with zest, remained in it with some revulsions, and at 
 last came out of it surfeited. This episode in his hfe, however, affected 
 him for a permanence : it increased his scornful misanthropy on the 
 one hand, and his weakness for factitious self-display on the other, and 
 he ever after affected as much the man of fashion as the poet. Byron 
 is one more of the great geniuses who have found "the world " their 
 too inimical friend. He gave Mr. Dallas the ;f6oo which Mr. Murray, 
 the publisher of Childe Harold, paid for the copyright ; and for some 
 years he pursued, despite considerable temptations to the contrary, 
 
 - the same -gratuitously high-minded plan — absolutely refusing any 
 payment for his writings, redounding to his own advantage. His friends 
 benefited in some instances ; and in others the amounts went to more 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 general purposes of beneficence. Manfred and The Lament of Tasso 
 (1817) were, I believe, the first works for which Byron himself accepted 
 payment : since then he continued on that system. His acquaintance 
 with Moore, which soon ripened into intimacy, and great friendliness if 
 not positive friendship, had begun just before the publication of Childe 
 Harold, closing a somewhat bellicose correspondence to which the English" 
 Bards and Scotch Reviewers had given rise. This last-named book, 
 always a popular hit, became increasingly embarrassing to Byron as his 
 acquaintance with the leaders in literary and other circles expanded ; 
 and in March 1812 he burned the then forthcoming new edition, and 
 closed that entry in his accounts with the world. 
 
 In March 181 3 he published The Waltz (anonymously) ; in May, the 
 Giaowr, the first of his frantically admired oriental tales' — then new in 
 kind, and highly qualified to fascinate a first, and to pall on a second, 
 generation of readers ; in December, the Bride of Abydos. He began 
 the Corsair on the i8th and finished it on the 31st of December : 14,000 
 copies sold in one day. An incredible hubbub was g,lso raised by the 
 publication, in the same volume, of the few lines addressed to Princess 
 Charlotte, "Weep, daughter of a royal line." His Ode on Napoleon 
 was written on the loth of April 1814 ; and on the same day, for no \ery 
 distinctly apparent reason, he resolved to compose no more poetry, 
 and to suppress such as had been already pubUshed. This resolution 
 could not, in the nature of things, hold. The very next month he began- 
 Lara, and published it in August. 
 
 The lionizing process allured but by no means dehghted Byron : he 
 sometimes retired to Newstead for longish periods. Intriguing brought 
 little balm to his heart ; gambling or other diversion, no resources to 
 his purse. In November 1813 he turned his thoughts seriously to mar- 
 riage ; and proposed to Anna Isabella, only child of Sir Ralph Milbanke, 
 a Baronet in the County of Durham. She was a great heiress, her 
 mother being sister and coheiress of Lord Wentworth ; but her wealth 
 was as yet only in prospect, and so remained all the while that Byron 
 was in direct personal relation with her. On the present occasion 
 Miss Milbanke declined his offer ; but she and Byron continued corre- 
 sponding on terms of friendship, not at all of courtship. The lady was, 
 in point of age, a very appropriate choice, being a little younger than 
 her suitor : she was highly educated, of a serious and dignified character, 
 and a paragon of almost all the \'irtues under heaven. In September 
 1 81 4 the poet proposed to another lady, with whom, however, he does 
 not appear to have been in the least in love : he was again unsuccessful. 
 He then forthwith, on the 15th of the same month, re-applied to Miss 
 Milbanke, and this time he was accepted. The marriage took place 
 on the 2nd of January 1815. Byron, who was intensely superstitious 
 
 in such matters, supplied his own evil omen on the present occasion 
 
 saying to his wedded bride, as they were about to depart, " Miss Mil- 
 banke, are you ready ? " For a while, Byron (to trust his own corre- 
 spondence, amid other testimony) sincerely admired his wife, and perhaps 
 almost loved her ; but this was not to endure for long. 
 
 Lord Wentworth died in April 1815 ; Lady Byron's parents then 
 assumed the name of Noel (which, about the beginning of 1822, Byron 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 also, upon the death of Lady Noel, adopted, calling himself thencefor- 
 ward Noel Byron). Soon incompatibilities of temper or character be- 
 tween his wife and himself began to manifest themselves : his money 
 embarrassments too were grave, resulting in no less than nine executions 
 in his house within his first and only year of married life. He sought 
 his pleasure away from home. On the loth of December 1815 his wife 
 bore him a daughter, who was christened Augusta Ada, and who even- 
 tually became Countess of Lovelace. Ada was a family name of olden 
 date : Augusta was the name of Byron's half-sister^ the Mrs. Leigh of 
 whom a strange story has been told. He had known very little of her 
 in early days, but had a deep and steady affection for her in his manhood : 
 an affection which has been regarded as fraternal only, and highly h«nour- 
 able to both parties— rand such it undoubtedly, and with great seeming 
 genuineness, appears to be in the poems which he addressed to her. 
 
 On the 15th of January i8i5. Lady Byron went with her infant on a 
 visit to her father in Leicestershire. She wrote to Byron in playful and 
 affectionate terms ; and then on the 2nd of February anncunced that 
 she would never live with him again. The full reasons for this resolve 
 had never till our own days been publicly divulged, nor were they even 
 notified with any precision to Byron himself, if his own account is not 
 to be discarded. It is certain, however, that, before she left for Leicester- 
 shire, Lady Byron had conceived a suspicion that her husband was 
 insane, and sixteen heads of surmisable lunacy were drawn up ; that she 
 set enquiries on foot, which satisfied her, both that he was sane, and 
 also that his past conduct, not being explicable on the ground of mad- 
 ness, was beyond excuse ; and that her counsel, Mr. Lushington, con- 
 sidered a separation — which was not (though Byron fancied it was) 
 specially prompted by her own family — indispensable. Beyond this, 
 it used to be only an individual here and another there who professed 
 to know the exact grounds of separation. It was stated, for instance, 
 
 1 that Byron brought into his house as a mistress an actress named Mrs. 
 Mardyn (he was at this time connected with the management of Drury 
 
 • Lane Theatre) : but Moore denies it. Byron, immediately after the 
 
 " catastrophe, exonerated his wife from all blame, and spoke of her in 
 the highest terms. For about a year he ostensibly continued to contem- 
 plate reunion as possible : he then gave up the idea, and became less 
 forbearing towards Lady Byron, though it cannot be said (after making 
 due~ allowance for irritation, vindictiveness, badinage, and fictitious 
 accessories) that any of his writings contains a truly serious imputation 
 upon her. It appears that, at the very moment when he received the 
 announcement of intended separation, Byron's house was in the posses- 
 sion of bailiffs. His troubles were therefore great, and his exasperation 
 may. have been proportional : yet there seems little reason— however 
 sincere may possibly have been the sentiment expressed in the celebrated 
 " Fare thee well "—to believe that his regret at the step adopted by 
 hisVife was essentially very bitter. The pettishness of society (if it was 
 
 ■: indeed pettishness and partisanship, and not, as there may now at last 
 be some reason for surmising, deep abhorrence of abnormal criminality) 
 
 ' broke forth with astounding acrimony against the favourite oncefondled 
 witR such frantic vehemence. Byron had not apparently made himseU 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 unpopular in any marked way before this occurrence : and, not to speak 
 of his personal claims, his genius had continued adding poem to poem, 
 though not quite of late. But ignorance, spite, and " swarmery " (so 
 well named by Carlyle), or something far other than all these, combined 
 to hoot him out of sight. Had he fixed to remain, his defiant pride might 
 have sufficed for that or a greater feat : but loathing and contempt were 
 professedly in his heart, and a hot desire to be quit of so much turmoil 
 and unreason. On the 25th of April he sailed for Ostend, wishing and 
 destined never to return. His most recent writings had been the Hebrew 
 Melodies in December 1814, and the Siege of Corinth and Parisina, 
 published in January and February 1816. 
 
 Passing through Belgium and along the Rhine, with his travelling 
 physician Dr. Polidori as companion, Byron settled for awhile on the 
 banks of the Lake of Geneva, where he became acquainted with Shelley, 
 and the two ladies who were along with him— Miss Godwin (Mrs. Shelley) 
 and Miss Clairmont, By the latter, Byron became father of a daughter, 
 AUegra, who died in 1822. The third canto of Childe Harold was com- 
 menced in-May 1816, and finished in July ; the Prisoner of Chilian 
 was composed at Ouchy ; in September Manfred was begun. In October 
 Byron went on into Italy, and settled at Venice ; where, with little 
 intermission, he spent the succeeding three years in an alternation of 
 poetical production and debauchery, mostly of the lowest type and 
 most miscellaneous recldessness. A certain turn for penuriousness began 
 now to show itself in his character, chequering other and very opposite 
 tendencies which were more germane to his true nature : his allusions 
 t3 the love of money, in Don Juan especially, are not to be entirely 
 rejected as banter, nor yet accepted too seriously. At Venice he took 
 up also the study of the Armenian language. The Lament of Tasso, 
 Beppo, and the commencement of the 4th canto of Childe Harold, per- 
 tain to 181 7 (the last ensuing after a brief visit with Hobhouse to Rome) ; 
 Mazeppa to 1818. Beppo is to be marked as the first-fruits of a new 
 poetic fertility in Byron, the most genuine and vital of all its phases, 
 giving birth soon afterwards to the immortal, the unprecedented and 
 unrivalled masterpiece, Don Juan. The first canto of this great work 
 was finished in September 1818 ; and the poem had been carried on to 
 the completion of its fourth canto before the author removed to Ravenna. 
 It was published in instalments, anonymously (but with well-understood 
 authorship), and with an apocalyptic outpouring of aU phials of right- 
 minded wrath upon its levities and cynicisms. 
 
 In April 1819 Byron was introduced to a beautiful and quite youthful 
 married lady, the Countfess Guiccioli, wife of one of the richest noblemen 
 of Romagna, of advanced age : her maiden name had been Teresa 
 Gamba ; her father Count Gamba was living, as well as a brother, Pietro. 
 She was very blonde, with rich yellow hair, and endowed with much senti- 
 ment and sweetness of character. It was not long before she was desper- 
 ately in love with Byron, and he with her. A liaison was the unfailing 
 consequence ; and continued throughout its entire course, howe\'er 
 censurable its concomitants, to be the love affair in which, of all the 
 many he had engaged in, Byron showed the most constancy, feelin^ 
 and character. As far as he was affected, the Countess more than meritwi 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 all the devotion which the poet could bestow upon her : she was true 
 to him, warmly loving, and disinterested. Her husband's conduct, 
 during the eariier and less public stages of 'the amour, was such as to 
 inspire no consideration for him, and leave him no tribute of sympathy, 
 even from a severe moralist, when the most trying crisis for him arrived ; 
 indeed, his behaviour seems to have been so inexcusable, and so incon- 
 sistent with the plainest rules of self-respect, that it was the Countess 
 who obtained from the Pope a judicial separation from her husband, 
 not he (as might have been anticipated) from her. She forewent all 
 the worldly advantages of her wealthy marriage, and retained hence- 
 forward an annual income of only "about ^£200 per annum. This was 
 in July 1820. 
 
 Bjnron had removed in December 1819 from Venice to Ravenna, and 
 had pretty soon — more especially through his connection with Count 
 Gamba and his son — mixed himself up in the revolutionary movements 
 of secret societies : he was enrolled among the Carbonari. The result 
 was that the Gambas — who at first did not favour Byron's love for the 
 Countess Guiccioli, but did eventually countenance it — got exiled from 
 the Papal States. They went to Tuscany, and soon selected Pisa as a 
 residence. There Byron joined them in November 1821 ; the Shelleys 
 also were now fixed in Pisa. 
 
 Meanwhile Byron had continued his poetic labours. The Prophecy 
 of Dante was written in March 1820 ; and followed by Marino Faliero, 
 The Blues, Sardanapalus, the Letters on Pope (prose). The Two Foscari, 
 Cain, The Vision of Judgment, and Heaven and Earth. All this was 
 before Byron's arrival in Pisa. Don Juan was for awhile discontinued, 
 in consequence of the protests of La GuiccioH, who resented so unideal 
 a treatment of the passion of love : it was resumed in February 1822, 
 under a promise from the poet that he would be better-behaved, and 
 again taken up in August of that year, and in February 1823. 
 
 Byron, on receiving a visit at Ravenna from Shelley in August 1821, 
 had started the idea of getting up a quarterly magazine, in which he 
 and Shelley could publish their future writings, Shelley availed himself 
 of the notion in the interest of his friend Leigh Hunt, then in London 
 editing the Examiner ; and it was ultimately arranged that Hunt should 
 come over to Italy, and the three (according to Byron's view of the 
 matter) share the profits. In reality, however, Shelley had resolved 
 to have little or no connection with the magazine as a writer, and abso- 
 lutely none as a recipient of the proceeds. Hunt and his large family 
 reached Genoa in June 1822, he having by this time relinquished his 
 direct control over the Examiner — a fact very disappointing to Lord 
 -Byron when he learned it, as his lordship had been relying upon the 
 .felose camaraderie of that weekly paper as one mainstay of the quarterly 
 Liberal Hunt went on to Leghorn, where Byron was staying ]ust 
 then and to Pisa, wh'ere arrangements had been made for his accommo- 
 dation He could not have arrived at a more unfortunate monientj- 
 Street-squabbles, hoiise-squabbles, and pohtical complexities in all of 
 which Byron and his immediate surroundings had some share, had 
 determined the Tuscan Government to follow the Papal example, and 
 oust the Gambas from the territory ; and Byron— not unnaturally, 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 though with too ready a disregard of Hunt's valid claims on his plighted 
 word and honourable consideration — was minded to follow his mistress 
 and her family forthwith, 'and leave the Liberal very much to its own 
 devices. This difficulty was barely patched over when a death-bl w 
 to the prospects of a smooth working of the Liberal (and to many other 
 more important matters) occurred by the drowning of Shelley in the 
 Mediterranean on the 8th of July : as long as he lived, even had he ab- 
 stained from active connection with the magazine, his noble nature and 
 well-proVed friendliness would have been a bond of union or a medium 
 of conciliation between the not easily coalescing requirements and char- 
 acters of Byron and Hunt. With the loss of Shelley, the likelihood of 
 a real success vanished. The Liberal went on for a year, a nucleus for 
 the publication of the inimitable Vision of Judgment, and the Heaven 
 and Earth of Lord Byron, along with other matter, and for the conflicting 
 petulancies of his lordship and of Hunt to twine around, and put forth 
 untidy tendrils and plaguing thorns. It was an ill-concocted scheme ; 
 and, in point of commercial profit, though not a disastrous failure, by 
 no means a handsome success. Hunt was more to be condoled with 
 than blamed in the matter, and perhaps Byron also. The latter was 
 now living in Genoa, still maintaining his semi-conjugal relation to the 
 Countess Guiccioli. Before leaving Pisa, he had written Werner and 
 The Deformed Transformed , in Genoa, in January and February 1823, 
 the Age of Bronze and The Island — which is his last poem of any length. 
 
 Byron's life may very fairly be divided into the tragic five acts. The 
 first comprises his boyhood and adolescence, up to his disappointment 
 with Miss Chaworth ; the second, his coming of age, early literary 
 vicissitudes, travels in tlie East of Europe, commencement of Childe 
 Harold, and frenzies of poetic success ; the third, his marriage and 
 separation ; the fourth, his Italian sojourn, and amour with La 
 Guiccioli. The curtain rises for the fifth act, and we find it in striking 
 contrast with its precursors. 
 
 Greece was now in the full career of insurrection against the Turldsh 
 domination. In April 1823 Byron had already begun turning his thoughts 
 in that direction ; and in May he received overtures from the London 
 Committee of Philhellenes. His early travels in Greece, his European 
 name, and considerable means, pointed him out as one whose coopera- 
 tion would be invaluable. Byron, to his perennial honour, determined 
 to aid the noble cause, not only with money, but in person, and wth arms 
 in his hand. It has been said that, besides the more obvious and worthy 
 motive, he was partly influenced by two considerations — waning ardour 
 in his love-affair with Countess Guiccioli, and a strong impression that 
 as a poet, he had begun to lose the public ear. This latter opinion he 
 did undoubtedly entertain, and now at last with some degree of warrant 
 for it : the statement as to the Countess rests on a more dubious surmise 
 At any rate, he sailed from Genoa on the 14th of July, with Count Pietro 
 Gamba, having bespoken the very apposite companionship of Captain 
 Trelawny, whom he had known for two years and a half, at first in 
 connection with Shelley. They reached the Island of Cephalonia earlv 
 in August. Hence Trelawny went on to the Morea, and Byron, after 
 sonie while, to Missojonghi, in western Greece, wher^ he g-rrive^ on the 
 
LORD 6YR0N 
 
 5th. of January 1824. At both places the poet displayed a talent for 
 public business that astonished people ; he had some very tough work 
 in introducing a little order into a chaos of interests, intrigues, and pro- 
 jects. Before reaching Missolonghi, he had, on the night of the 3rd of 
 January, swum a long distance in rough weather : two or three days 
 afterwards he complained of pains in all his bones, and was never wholly 
 rid of the sensation again. The weather at Missolonghi was detestable, 
 and the place unhealthy. At the beginning of February he got wBt 
 through, and on the evening of the 15th had a dreadful convulsive fitj 
 which bereaved him of sense for a time, and was treated by over-bleedingi 
 The medical man who had accompanied him from Italy, Dr. Bruno, was 
 young, and seemingly rather raw at his profession. A band of mutinous 
 Suliotes broke into the room while Byron was in this trying situation ; 
 his firmness overawed them, and they retired. On the 30th of January 
 he had received a regular commission from the insurrectionary Greek 
 government, appointing him commander-in-chief for an expedition to 
 besiege Lepanto, then held by the Turks : but he was fated never to 
 undertake this glorious work. 
 
 His fatigues were already too much for his broken health : but he 
 would not give up, and nobly said, " I will stick by the cause as long 
 as a cause exists." The holy cause survived its hero and martyr. On 
 the gth of April he again got wet through, and returned to Missolonghi 
 in a violent perspiration. Fever and rheumatic pains ensued. Next 
 day he was again able to take a ride ; but on the evening of the nth he 
 became worse, and by the 14th was in manifest danger. For several 
 days, cautious from his recent experience, he refused to be bled : at last 
 he consented, but it was considered too late. Inflammation attacked 
 the brain ; a lethargy set in, lasting twenty-four hours. Byron had 
 made futile efforts to convey some intelligible message for his wife, 
 child, and sister : his last words were " Now I shall go to sleep." He 
 opened his eyes for one moment, and then closed them for ever. The 
 great poet expired at six p.m. on the 19th of April 1824. Bitter was the 
 mourning of his attached comrades and attendants ; bitter that of 
 Greece ; bitter the dismay of the civilized world ; bitter the self-reproaches 
 of many Englishmen. 
 
 The corpse was brought home, and buried in the family vault at 
 Hucknall, near Newstead. The will of Lord Byron left to his sister, 
 Mrs. Leigh, the bulk of his property, beyond such as was settled on his 
 wife and daughter. While at Venice, he had given to Moore a frag- 
 mentary autobiography, consisting principally of a narrative of his 
 married life, with many highly-spiced details concernmg friends and 
 acquaintances. The fortunate recipient had disposed of this prize to 
 the publisher Murray : the latter consulted Mrs. Leigh, and Byron s 
 executor, Hobhouse, and, with their approval, committed the MS. to 
 the flames. Moore has intimated that a great deal of it could not Possibly 
 have been published— not even at a date remote from the writer s death ; 
 and that the portions most material to the life of Byron himself are sub- 
 stantially reproduced in his published journals and other memoranda. 
 
 Wilfulness was probably the leading characteristic^f Byron as a man : 
 himself was his centre, and a very uncertain centre too, for he was not 
 
LORD BYRON 
 
 less wa5rward than wilful and egotistic. He had no leading principle 
 of action, and, had he had one, would have been perpetually violating it. 
 We must take him as he stands — a dazzling and a tantalizing phenome- 
 non. How many hearts has he not thrilled with rapture and suspense ! 
 how many "well-regulated minds " has he not lashed or laughed into 
 rage ! 
 
 His poetry has two main constituents — passion and wit. Were we 
 compelled rigidly to assess the value of these two constituents, according 
 to the positive merit of their respective products, we should probably 
 have to say that the wit was the finer power of the two. The great 
 superiority of Don Juan (and, as a minor sample, the Vision of Judg- 
 ment) to all his other work, consists ultimately in this — ^that here the 
 passion and the wit axe perpetually interpenetrating and enhancing one 
 another, and are both perfectly limpid and unforced. There is no over- 
 loading or attitudinising in the passion ; in the wit, no conventional 
 standard of substance or of form. It is not, however, necessary to 
 settle with any nicety the rival claims of passion and of wit as the in- 
 forming powers of Byron's work ; nor even does the mind acquiesce in 
 either or both of these excellent qualities as the final characteristics. 
 The great thing in Byron is Genius — that quality so perilous to define, 
 so evanescent in its aroma, so impossible to mistake. If ever a man 
 breathed whom we recognize (athwart much poor and useless work, 
 when strictly tested) as emphatically the Genius, that man was Byron : 
 and, if ever genius made poetry its mouthpiece, covering with its trans- 
 cendent utterances a multitude of sins whether against art or against 
 the full stature of perfect manhood, Byron's is that poetry. It is there- 
 fore as imperishable as genius itself. Its forms have much of the tran- 
 sitory, much even of the spurious : they have already been " found out " 
 to a great extent, and, after suffering a term of more than merited depre- 
 ciation by reaction, are righting themselves in rather a battered and 
 blowzed condition. But these are the forms : the essence is the genius, 
 and that knows no vicissitude, and acknowledges no fleeting jurisdiction. 
 
 W. M. ROSSETTI. 
 
Contents 
 
 Introduction by W. M. Rossetti 
 Hours of Idleness — 
 
 On the Death ol a Young Lady . 
 
 To E 
 
 To D 
 
 Epitaph on a Friend . 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 On Leaving Newstead Abbey 
 
 Lines written in Letters 
 
 Adrian's Address to his Soul 
 
 Translation from Catullus 
 
 Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and TibuUus 
 
 Imitation of TibuUus .... 
 
 Translation from Catullus .... 
 
 Imitated from Catullus 
 
 Translation from Horace .... 
 
 From Anacreon . 
 
 From Anacreon . 
 
 From the Prometheus Vinctus of iEschylus . 
 
 ToEmma ...... 
 
 To M. S. G 
 
 To Caroline ...... 
 
 To Caroline 
 
 To Caroline 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens 
 
 The First Kiss of Love -. 
 
 On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School 
 
 To the Duke of Dorset .... 
 
 I''' Fragment . ... 
 
 Granta : A Medley ..... 
 
 On a Distant View ..... 
 
 xvii 
 
 3 
 3 
 3 
 3 
 3 
 4 
 4 
 4 
 4 
 4 
 5 
 5 
 5 
 6 
 6 
 6 
 7 
 7 
 7 
 8 
 9 
 9 
 10 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 To M . 
 
 To Woman. 
 To M. S. G. . 
 To Mary . . • ■ - 
 
 To Lesbia .... 
 
 Lines addressed to a Young Lady- 
 Love's Last Adieu 
 Damsetas . 
 To Marion 
 To a, Lady 
 
 Oscar of Alva : a Tale 
 ' The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 
 Translation from the Medea of Euripides 
 Thoughts suggested by a College Examination 
 To a Beautiful Quaker 
 The Cornelian 
 An Occasional Prologue 
 On the Death of Mr. Fox 
 The Tear . 
 Reply to some Verses 
 To the Sighing Strephon 
 To Eliza . 
 Lachin y Gair . 
 To Romance 
 
 Answer to some Elegant Verses 
 Elegy on Newstead Abbey . 
 Childish Recollections 
 Answer to a Beautiful Poem 
 To a Lady 
 
 I,ines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Beclier 
 Remembrance ... 
 The Death of Calmar and Orla 
 L'Amitie est L' Amour sans ailes 
 The Prayer of Nature 
 To Edward Noel Long, Esq. 
 To a Lady 
 
 I would I were a Careless Child 
 When I roved a Young Highlander 
 To George, Earl Delaware . 
 To the Earl of Clare 
 Lines written beneath an Elm 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Occasional Pieces. 1807-1824 
 The Adieu 
 To a Vain Lady 
 To Anne . 
 To the same 
 
 To the Author of a Sonnet . 
 On Finding a Fan 
 Farewell to the Muse . 
 To an Oak at Newstead 
 On Revisiting Harrow 
 Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell. 
 To my Son .... 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest Prayer . 
 Bright be the Place of thy Soul . 
 When we Two parted 
 To a Youthful Friend 
 Lines inscribed upon a Cup 
 . Well ! thou art happy 
 
 Inscription on the Monument of a, Newfoundland Dog 
 
 To a Lady 
 
 Remind me not, Remind me not 
 
 There was a Time, I need not name . 
 
 And wilt thou weep when I am low ? . 
 
 Fill the Goblet again 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England 
 
 Lines to Mr. Hodgson 
 
 To Florence 
 
 Lines written in an Album . 
 
 Stanzas composed during a Thunder-storm 
 
 Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf 
 
 The Spell is Broke, the Charm is Flown 
 
 Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos . 
 
 Lines written in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere wp part 
 
 Translation of the Nurse's dole in the Medea of Euripides 
 
 My Epitaph ...••• 
 
 Substitute for an Epitaph . . . ■ 
 
 Lilies written beneath a Picture . 
 
 Translation of the Famous Greek War Song 
 
 Translation of the Romaic Song 
 
 On Parting , . • ■ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Epitaph for Joseph Blackctt 
 
 Farewell to Malta 
 
 To Dives, a fragment 
 
 On Moore's Last Operatic Farce . 
 
 Epistle to a Friend 
 
 To Thyrza 
 
 AAvay, away, ye notes of woe ! 
 
 One struggle rnore, and I am free 
 
 Euthanasia 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 If sometimes in the haunts of men. 
 
 From the French 
 
 On a Cornelian Heart which was broken 
 
 Lines to a Lady weeping 
 
 The Chain I gave 
 
 Lines written on a bl3,nk leaf 
 
 Address spoken at the Opening of Drury Lane Theatre 
 
 Parenthetical Address 
 
 Verses found in a Summer-house at Hales-owen 
 
 Remember thee ! Remember thee ! . . . 
 
 To Time 
 
 Translation of a Romaic Love Song 
 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle . 
 
 On being asked what was the " Origin of Love " . 
 
 Remember him, whom Passion's PoMxr 
 
 On Lord Thurlow's Poems 
 
 To Lord Thurlow 
 
 To Thomas Moore 
 
 Impromptu, in reply to a Friend 
 
 Sonnet, to Genevra 
 
 Sonnet, to the same . 
 
 From the Portuguese . 
 
 Another version 
 
 The Devil's Drive 
 
 Windsor Poetics 
 
 Stanzas for Music 
 
 Address 
 
 Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Mf ore 
 
 Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of Jeiv,cv 
 
 To Belshazzar ..... 
 
 Ulegiac Stanzas on the Death of S r Peter Parker, n:r1, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 S8 
 59 
 59 
 59 
 59 
 6o 
 6o 
 6i 
 6i 
 
 62 
 62 
 
 63 
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 . 63 
 . f'3 
 64 
 <"'5 
 
 ■ C>5 
 66 
 66 
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 67 
 
 ■ 67 
 
 ■ 67 
 68 
 68 
 68 
 68 
 68 
 OS 
 
 . 69 
 70 
 70 
 70 
 71 
 
rr)NTENTS 
 
 XXI 
 
 stanzas for Music .... 
 
 Stanzas for Music 
 
 On Napoleon's escape from Elba 
 
 Ode from the French . 
 
 From the French 
 
 On the Star of " The Legion of Honour ' 
 
 Napoleon's Farewell . 
 
 Endorsement to the Deed of Separation 
 
 Darkness . 
 
 Churchill's Grave 
 
 Prometheus 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 Sonnet to Lake Leman 
 
 Stanzas for Music 
 
 A Very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of 
 
 Stanzas for Music 
 
 On the Bust of Helen by Canova 
 
 Translation from Vittorelli . 
 
 Song for the Luddites 
 
 Versicles 
 
 So, we'll go no more a roving 
 
 To Thomas Moore 
 
 To Mr. Murray . 
 
 To Thomas Moore ... 
 
 Epistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori 
 
 Epistle to Mr. Murray 
 
 To Mr. Murray ... 
 
 On the Birth of John William Rizzo Hoppner 
 
 Stanzas to the Po 
 
 Sonnet to George the Fourth 
 
 Epigram from the French of Rulhieres 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 On My Wedding Day 
 
 Epitaph for William Pitt . 
 
 Epigrani . 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 Epigram . 
 
 The Charity Ball 
 
 Ep'gram on the Braziers' Company 
 
 Epigram on my Wedding Day . 
 
 On My Thirty-Third Birthday . 
 
 Alhama 
 
 PAGE 
 7^ 
 li 
 73 
 TZ 
 74 
 74 
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 80 
 80 
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 81 
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 83 
 84 
 84 
 84 
 84 
 84 
 84 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Martial, Lib I, Epig I, 
 
 Bowles and Campbell . 
 
 Epigrams . 
 
 Epitaph 
 
 John Keats 
 
 The Conquest 
 
 To Mr. Murray . 
 
 The Irish Avatar 
 
 Stanzas written on the road 
 
 Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 
 
 Impromptu .... 
 
 To the Countess of Blessington . 
 
 On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth Year 
 English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 
 
 Postscript to the second edition 
 Hints from Horace . 
 The Curse of Minerva 
 The Waltz 
 
 Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
 Hebrew Melodies 
 
 She walks in Beauty 
 
 The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept 
 
 If that High World . 
 
 The Wild Gazelle 
 
 Oh ! weep for those 
 
 On Jordan's Banks 
 
 Jephtha's Daughter . 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom 
 
 My Soul is dark 
 
 I saw thee weep 
 
 Thy Days are done 
 
 Saul 
 
 Song of Saul, before his last Battle 
 
 " All is vanity, saith the Preacher " 
 
 When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay 
 
 ■Vision of Belshazzar 
 
 Sun of the sleepless ! . . 
 
 Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 
 
 On the day oi the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus 
 
 By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib . 
 
 A Spirit pass'd before me . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 84 
 
 84 
 85 
 85 
 85 
 85 
 85 
 87 
 87 
 
 ss 
 
 88 
 
 lOI 
 103 
 [12 
 116 
 120 
 121 
 121 
 121 
 
 123 
 
 1-3 
 123 
 1^3 
 123 
 124 
 124 
 1-4 
 125 
 
 ^-S 
 125 
 
 26 
 126 
 126 
 127 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Byron was ill 
 Hon. R. B. Sheridan 
 
 Dometjtic Pieces — 1816 
 
 Fare thee well . 
 
 A Sketch . 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta 
 
 Epistle to Augusta 
 
 Lines on hearing that Lady 
 Monody on the Death of the Rt, 
 The Dream 
 The Lament of Tasso 
 Ode on Venice 
 The Prophecy of Dante 
 
 Dedication 
 
 Canto the first . 
 
 Canto the second 
 
 Canto the third . 
 
 Canto the fourth 
 The Morgante Maggiore 
 
 Canto the first . 
 Francesca of Rimini, from the Inferno of Dante 
 
 Canto the fifth . 
 The Blues, a Literary Eclogue 
 The Vision of Judgment . 
 ^The Age of Bronze . 
 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 
 
 To lanthe . 
 
 Canto the first . 
 
 To Inez 
 
 Canto the second 
 
 Canto the third 
 
 Canto the fourth 
 Tales and Poems 
 
 The Giaour : A fragment of a Turkish Tale 
 
 The Bride of Abydos : A Turkish Tale 
 Canto the first 
 Canto the second 
 
 The Corsair ; A Tale . 
 Canto the first 
 Canto the second. 
 Canto the third . 
 
 Lara .... 
 Canto the first 
 Canto the second 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Siege of Corinth 
 Parisina . ... 
 
 The Prisoner of Cliillon 
 Sonnet on Chillon 
 Mazeppa 
 The Island 
 
 Canto the first 
 Canto the second 
 Canto tlie third 
 Canto the fourth 
 Dramas — 
 
 Manfred . . . . 
 
 Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice 
 Sardanapalus : A Tragedy 
 The Two Foscari : An Historical Tragedy 
 Cain. A Mystery 
 Heaven and Earth . A Mystery . 
 Werner ; or, The Inheritance : A Tragedy 
 The Deformed Transformed 
 Beppo : A Venetian Story . 
 Don Juan 
 
 Canto the first 
 Canto the second 
 Canto the third . 
 Canto the fourth 
 Canto the fifth . 
 Canto the sixth . 
 Canto the seventh 
 Canto the eighth 
 Canto the ninth 
 Canto the tenth 
 Canto the eleventh 
 Canto the twelfth 
 Canto the thirteenth 
 Canto the fourteenth 
 Canto the fifteenth 
 Canto the sixteenth 
 Notes 
 Index of First Lines 
 
 PAGE 
 
 314 
 324 
 330 
 330 
 333 
 341 
 341 
 343 
 350 
 353 
 358 
 358 
 
 375 
 419 
 
 45S 
 485 
 509 
 523 
 567 
 586 
 597 
 597 
 6:j 
 646 
 658 
 671 
 689 
 701 
 711 
 726 
 736 
 745 
 75 5 
 764 
 
 776 
 787 
 797 
 S13 
 831 
 
THE POETICAL WORKS OF LORD BYRON 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 A SERIES OF POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED* 
 
 " Virginibus pucrisque canto." — Horace, lib. 3, Ode i. 
 
 " M>7t' ap /x€ fidy ati/e€ ftijTe Tt veCaet." — HOMER, Iliad, a. 249. 
 
 " He whistled as he went, for want of thought." — Dryden. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 
 
 KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC. 
 THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 
 BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY 
 
 Cousin to tlie Author, and very dear to him. 
 Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening 
 gloom, 
 Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the 
 grove. 
 Whilst 1 return to view my Margaret's 
 tomb. 
 And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 
 
 Within this narrow cell reclines her clay. 
 
 That clay, where once such animation 
 
 beam'd ; 
 
 The King of Terrors seized her as his prey. 
 
 Not worth, nor beauty, have her life 
 
 redeem'd. 
 
 Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel. 
 
 Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of 
 
 fate, 
 
 Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
 
 Not here the muse her virtues would 
 
 relate. 
 
 But wherefore weep ? Her matchless 
 spirit soars 
 Beyond where splendid shines the orb of 
 day ; 
 And weeping angels lead her to those 
 bowers, 
 Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds 
 repay. 
 
 And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven 
 arraign. 
 
 And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ? 
 Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ; — 
 
 I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 
 
 Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
 Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous 
 face ; 
 Still they call forth my warm affection's 
 tear, 
 Still in my heart retain their wonted 
 place. 
 
 1802. 
 
 TO E ■ 
 
 Let Folh' smile, to view the names 
 Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 
 
 Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
 To love, than rank with vice combined. 
 
 And though unequal is thy fate. 
 Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 
 
 Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
 Thine is the pride of modest worth. 
 
 Our souls at least congenial meet. 
 Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 
 
 Our intercourse is not less sweet, 
 
 Since worth of rank supplies the place. 
 November, 1S02. 
 
 [<■■ First published in 1807.] 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 TO D 
 
 In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 
 A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 
 
 Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
 
 Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 
 
 True, she has forced thee from my breast, 
 Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 
 
 There, there thine image still must rest, 
 Until that heart shall cease to beat. 
 
 Aud, when the grave restores her dead. 
 
 When life again to dust is given. 
 On thy dear breast I'll lay my head — 
 Without thee, where would be my 
 heaven ? 
 
 February, 1803. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FRIEND 
 
 " 'At7T7)p TTpti" /xti/ cAct/jTre.; evl ^"wotffti- ewos." — 
 Laertius. 
 
 Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! 
 What fruitless tears ha\"e bathed thy 
 
 honour'd bier ! 
 What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
 Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of 
 
 death ! 
 Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
 Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; 
 Could youth and virtue claim a short de- 
 lay, 
 Or beauty charm the spectre from his 
 
 prey; 
 Ihou still hadst lived to bless my aching 
 
 sight, 
 Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's 
 
 dehght. 
 If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
 The spot where now thy mouldering ashes 
 
 he. 
 Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
 A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
 No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
 But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
 Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thv 
 
 tomb, ' 
 
 Aftliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
 What though thy sire lament his failing 
 
 Une, 
 A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ' 
 Though none, hke thee, his dving hour wili 
 
 cheer, 
 Vet other offspring soothe his anguish here ; 
 But, who with me shall hold thy former 
 
 place ? 
 Thine image, what new friendship can 
 
 efface ? 
 Ah, none ! — a father's tears will cease to 
 
 flow. 
 Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
 To all, save one, is consolation knownj 
 While soUtary friendship sighs alone. 
 
 1803. 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 When, to their airy hall, my fathers' \-oic'-. 
 Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
 When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall 
 
 ride, 
 Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain s 
 
 side ; 
 Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured 
 
 urns. 
 To mark the spot where earth to earth 
 I returns ! 
 
 I No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd 
 I stone ; 
 
 Ify epitaph shall be my name alone : 
 If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
 Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
 That, only that, shall single out the spot ; 
 By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 
 
 1803. 
 
 ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 " Why dost thou build the hall, son of tlie winged 
 days ? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day : yet 
 a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it 
 howls in thy empty court." — Ossian. 
 
 Through thy battlements, Newstead, the 
 hollow winds whistle ; 
 Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to 
 decay ; 
 In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock 
 and thistle 
 Have choked up the rose which late 
 bloom'd in the way. 
 
 Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly 
 to battle 
 Led their vassals from Europe to Pales- 
 tine's plain. 
 The escutcheon and shield, which with 
 every blast rattle, 
 .\re the only sad vestiges now that re- 
 main. 
 
 No more doth old Robert, with harp- 
 stringing numbers, 
 Raise a flame in the breast for the war- 
 laureU'd wreath ; 
 Xear Askalon's towers, John of Horistan 
 slumbers 
 Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel bv 
 death. 
 
 Paul and Hubert, too. sleep in the vallev of 
 Lressv ; 
 
 ^ Thev feU*''''' °' Edward and England 
 
 ^'- ^dretye l""" ''^' °* ^'"^ '^^'^t^y ^'^- 
 
 How you fought, how you died still lier 
 
 annals can tell. ' "' "^' 
 
 On Marston with Rupert, 'gainst traitors 
 contendurg, "■"lois 
 
 Four brothers enrich'd with their blood 
 the bleak field.; "iooa 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 For the rights of a monarch their country 
 defending, 
 Till death their attachment to royaltv 
 seai'd. 
 
 Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descen- 
 dant departing 
 From the seat of his ancestors, bids you 
 adieu ! 
 Abroad, or at home, your remembrance 
 imparting 
 New courage, he'll think upon glory and 
 you. 
 
 Though a tear dim his eye at this sad sepa- 
 ration, 
 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his 
 regret ; 
 Far distant he goes, with the same emula- 
 tion. 
 The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
 
 That fame, and that memory, still will he 
 cherish ; 
 He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your 
 renown ; 
 Like you will he live, or like you will he 
 perish ; 
 When decay'd, may he mingle his dust 
 with your own ! 
 
 1803. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN " LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN 
 AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN : BY J. J. 
 ROUSSEAU : FOUNDED ON FACTS " 
 
 " Away, away, your flattering arts 
 May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
 And you will smile at their believing. 
 And they shall weep at your deceiving." 
 
 ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED 
 TO MISS 
 
 Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, 
 From which thou'dst guard frail female 
 
 hearts 
 Exist but in imagination, — 
 Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 
 For he who views that witching grace. 
 That perfect form, that lovely face, 
 With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me. 
 He never wishes to deceive thee : 
 Once in thy polish''d mirror glance, 
 Thou'lt there descry that elegance 
 Which from our sex demands such praises, 
 But'envy in the other raises : 
 Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 
 Believe me, only does his duty : 
 Ah ! fly not from the candid youth 
 It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 
 
 July, 1804. 
 
 ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL 
 WHEN DYING 
 
 [Animula ! vagula, blandula, 
 Hospes, comesque corporis, 
 Qute nunc abibis in loca — 
 Pallidula, rigida, nudula. 
 Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos ?] 
 
 Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite. 
 Friend and associate of this clay ! 
 
 To what unknown region borne. 
 Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
 No more with wonted humour gay. 
 
 But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS 
 
 AD LESBIAM 
 
 Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
 Greater than Jove he seems to me— 
 Who, free from Jealousy's alarms. 
 Securely views thy matchless charms. 
 That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 
 That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
 To him, alike, are always known, 
 Reserved for him, and him alone. 
 Ah ! Lesbia ! though 'tis death to me, 
 I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
 But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
 I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
 Whilst trembling with a thousand fears. 
 Parch 'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 
 My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves 
 
 short, 
 My limbs deny their slight support, 
 Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread. 
 With deadly languor droops my head. 
 My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
 And life itself is on the wing ; 
 My eyes refuse the cheering light. 
 Their orbs are veil'd in starless night ; 
 Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
 And feels a temporary death. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
 VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS 
 
 BY DOMITIUS MARSUS 
 
 He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, 
 And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 
 
 By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd. 
 Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 
 
 IMITATION OF TIBULLUS 
 *' Sulpicia ad Cerinthum,'' — Lib. 4. 
 
 Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 
 Which racks my breast your fickle bosom 
 
 please ? 
 Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain. 
 That I might live for love and you again : 
 But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate ; 
 By death alone I can avoid your hate. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS 
 [Cugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.] 
 
 Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
 
 Nor let your wings with joy be spread. 
 
 My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead. 
 
 Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
 For he was gentle, and so true, 
 Obedient to her call he flew, 
 No fear, no wild alarm he knew. 
 
 But lightly o'er her bosom moved ; 
 
 And softly fluttering here and there, 
 
 He never sought to cleave the air. 
 
 But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care. 
 
 Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
 Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn 
 From whence he never can return. 
 His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn. 
 
 Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 
 
 Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
 Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
 From whom no earthly power can save, 
 
 For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
 From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
 Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
 Thou art the cause of all her woe, 
 
 Receptacle of life's deca^^. 
 
 IMITATED FROM CATULLUS 
 
 TO ELLEN 
 
 Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
 A million scarce would quench desire : 
 Still would I steep my lips in bUss, 
 And dwell an age ou every kiss : 
 Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
 Still would I kiss and cling to thee ; 
 Nought should my kiss from thine dissever; 
 Still would we kiss and kiss for ever ; 
 E'en though the numbers did exceed 
 The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
 To part would be a vain endeavour : 
 Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM HORACE 
 [Justum et tenacem propositi virum, etc.] 
 
 The man of firm and noble soul 
 
 No factious clamours can control ; 
 
 No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 
 Can swerve him from his just intent : 
 
 Gales the warring waves which plough. 
 By Auster on the billows spent, 
 
 To curb the Adriatic main. 
 
 Would awe his fix'd determined mind in ! 
 vain. j 
 
 Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
 Hurtling his lightnings from above. 
 With all his terrors there unfuri'd, 
 
 He would, unmoved, unawed, behold. 
 The flames of an expiring world, j 
 
 Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
 
 In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd. 
 Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
 Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth 
 he'd smile. 
 
 FROM ANACREON 
 
 [QeAdj \eycLV ArpetSw?, K.r.X.] 
 
 I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
 To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
 To echo, from its rising swell. 
 How heroes fought and nations fell, 
 When Atreus' son advanced to war. 
 Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
 But still, to martial strains unknown, 
 i\Iy l\Te recurs to Love alone. 
 Fired with the hope of future fame, 
 I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
 The dying chords are strung anew, 
 To war, to war, my harp is due ; 
 With glowing strings, the epic strain 
 To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
 Alcides and his glorious deeds. 
 Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
 All, all in vain ; my way^vard lyre 
 Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
 Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
 Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
 To other deeds my soul is strung. 
 And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 
 My harp shall all its powers reveal. 
 To tell the tale my heart must feel : 
 Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim. 
 In songs of bUss and sighs of flame. 
 
 FROM ANACREON 
 
 'Tw.is now the hour when Night had 
 
 driven 
 Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 
 Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 
 His arctic charge around the pole ; 
 While mortals, lost in gentle sleep. 
 Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 
 At this lone hour the Paphian boy. 
 Descending from the realms of joy. 
 Quick to my gate directs his course 
 And knocks with all his little force.' 
 
 My visions fled, alarm'd 1 rose, 
 
 " What stranger breaks mv blest repose ' " 
 
 " Alas ! " repUes the wilv'child 
 
 In faltering accents sweetlv mild, 
 
 " A hapless infant here I roam. 
 
 Far from my dear maternal home. 
 
 Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast i 
 
 The nightly storm is pouring fast. 
 
 No prowling robber lingers here. 
 
 A wandering babv who can fear ? " 
 
 I heard his seeming artless tale, 
 
 I heard his sighs upon the gale : 
 
 My breast was never pity's foe 
 
 But felt for all the baby's woe.' 
 
 I drew the bar, and by the light 
 
 "Voung Love, the infant, met mv sight • 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 His bow across his shoulders flung, 
 
 And thence his fatal quiver hung 
 
 (Ah ! little did I think the dart 
 
 Would rankle soon within my heart). 
 
 With care I tend my weary guest, 
 
 His little fingers chill my breast ; 
 
 His glossy curls, his azure wing, 
 
 Which droop with nightly showers, I 
 
 wring ; 
 His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 
 And now reviving from the storm. 
 Scarce had he felt his wonted glow. 
 Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 
 " I fain Avould know, my gentle host," 
 He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 
 I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 
 The strings their former aid refuse." 
 With poison tipt, his arrow flies, 
 Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 
 Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 
 " My bow can still impel the shaft ; 
 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 
 Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel 
 
 it? " 
 
 FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS 
 OF .ESCHYLUS 
 
 [M^Sa/x' 6 Trai/Ta rejuwr, K. r. A.] 
 
 Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 
 Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
 
 Ne'er may my soul thy power disown. 
 Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
 
 Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
 
 In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 
 
 My voice shall raise no impious strain 
 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure 
 main. 
 
 How different now thy joyless fate, 
 Since first Hesione thy bride, 
 
 When placed aloft in godlike state. 
 The blushing beauty by thy side. 
 
 Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled. 
 
 And mirthful strains the hours beguiled ; 
 
 The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
 Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove re- 
 lentless frown'd. 
 
 Harrow, Dec. r, 1804. 
 
 TO EM-MA 
 
 Since now the hour is come at last. 
 
 When you must quit your anxious lover ; 
 
 Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
 One pang, my girl, and all is over. 
 
 Alas ! that pang will be severe, 
 Which bids us part to meet no more ; 
 
 Which tears me far from one so dear. 
 Departing for a distant shore. 
 
 Well ! we have pass'd some happy hours, 
 And joy will mingle with cur tears ; 
 
 When thinking on these ancient towers. 
 The shelter -of our infant vears ; 
 
 Where from this Gothic casement's height 
 We yiew'd the lake, the park, the dell. 
 
 And stiU, though tears obstruct our sight 
 We Mngering look a last farewell. 
 
 O'er fields through which we used to run, 
 And spend the hours in childish play ; 
 
 O'er shades where, when our race was don&, 
 Reposing on my breast you lay ; 
 
 Whilst I, admiring, too remiss. 
 Forgot to scare the hovering flies. 
 
 Yet envied every fly the kiss 
 
 It dared to give your slumbering eyes : 
 
 See still the little painted bark. 
 
 In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; 
 
 See there, liigh waving o'er the park, ' 
 The elm I clamber'd foryour sake. 
 
 These times are past — ^our joys are gone, 
 You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 
 
 These scenes I must retrace alone : 
 Without thee v/hat will they avail ? 
 
 Who can conceive, who has not proved. 
 The anguish of a last embrace ? 
 
 When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
 You bid a long adieu to peace. 
 
 This is the deepest of our woes, 
 
 For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; 
 
 This is of love the final close, 
 
 Oh, God ! the fondest, last adieu ! 
 
 TO M. S. G. 
 
 Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
 Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 
 
 Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
 Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. 
 
 Whene'er I dream of that pure breast 
 How could I dwell upon its snows ! 
 
 Yet is the daring wish represt. 
 
 For that, — would banish its repose. 
 
 A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
 Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; 
 
 Yet I conceal my love, — and why ? 
 I would not force a painful tear. 
 
 I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
 Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 
 
 And shall I plead my passion now. 
 To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 
 
 No ! for thou never canst be mine. 
 United by the priest's decree : 
 
 By any ties but those divine. 
 
 Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 
 
 Then let the secret fire consume. 
 
 Let it consume, thou shalt not know : 
 
 With joy I court a certain doom. 
 Rather than spread its guilty glow, 
 
liOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 1 will not ease my tortured heart, That age will come on, when remembrance, 
 
 By driving dove-eyed peace from thine ; | _ deploring. 
 
 Rather than such a sting impart, 
 
 Each thought presumptuous I resign. 
 
 Ves ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
 More than I here shall dare to tell ; 
 
 Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
 I bid thee now a last farewell. 
 
 Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair. 
 And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 
 
 Which to obtain my soul would dare. 
 All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 
 
 At least from guilt shalt thou be fre^. 
 No matron shall thy shame reprove ; 
 
 Though cureless pangs may prey on me. 
 No martyr shalt thou be to love. 
 
 TO CAROLINE 
 
 Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
 Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 
 
 And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs. 
 Which said far more than words can say ? 
 
 Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
 When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 
 
 Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
 Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. I 
 
 But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd. 
 When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine. 
 
 The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
 Were lost in those which fell from thine. 
 
 Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek. 
 Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame, 
 
 And as thy tongue essay'd to speak. 
 In signs alone it breath'd my name. 
 
 And yet, my girl, we weep in vain. 
 In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 
 
 Remembrance only can remain, — 
 But that will make us weep the more. 
 
 Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 
 
 Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret. 
 Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 
 
 Our only hope is to forget ! 
 
 TO CAROLINE 
 
 When I hear you express an affection so 
 warm, 
 Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not 
 believe ; 
 For your lip would the soul of suspicion 
 disarm. 
 And your eye beams a ray which can 
 never deceive. 
 
 Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while 
 adoring, 
 Thst love, like the leaf, must fall into the 
 sere ; 
 
 Contemplates the scenes of her youth 
 with a tear ; 
 
 Tliat the time must arrive, when, no longer 
 retaining 
 Their auburn, those locks must wave 
 thin to the breeze. 
 When a few silver hairs of those tresses 
 remaining. 
 Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 
 
 'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom 
 o'er my features. 
 Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign 
 the decree 
 '\Vhich God has proclaim'd as the fate of 
 his creatures. 
 In the death which one day will deprive 
 you of me. 
 
 llistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of 
 emotion. 
 No doubt can the mind of your lover 
 invade ; 
 He worships each look with such faithful 
 devotion, 
 A smile can enchant, or a tear can dis- 
 suade. 
 
 But as death, my beloved, soon or late 
 shall o'ertake us. 
 And our breasts, which alive with such 
 sympathy glow, 
 Win sleep in the grave till the blast shall 
 awake us. 
 When calling the dead, in earth's bosom 
 laid low, — 
 
 Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, 
 draughts of pleasure. 
 Which from passion like ours may un- 
 ceasingly flow ; 
 Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in 
 full measure. 
 And quaff the contents as our nectar 
 below. 
 
 1S05. 
 
 TO CAROLINE 
 
 On ! when shall the grave hide for e\-cr my 
 sorrow ? 
 Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight 
 from this clay ? 
 The present is hell, and the coming to- 
 morrow 
 But brings, with new torture, the curse 
 of to-day. 
 
 From my eye flows no tear, from mv lips 
 i flow no curses, ' 
 
 I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me 
 f. om bliss ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 I'or poor is the soul which bewaihng re- 
 hearses 
 Its querulous grief, when in anguish like 
 this. 
 
 Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury 
 ilakes bright'ning, 
 Would my lips breathe a flame which no 
 stream could assuage. 
 On our foes should my glance launch in 
 vengeance its Ughtning, 
 With transport my tongue give a loose 
 to its rage. 
 
 But now tears and curses, alike unavailing. 
 Would add to the souls of our tyrants 
 delight ; 
 Could they view us our sad separation be- 
 wailing. 
 Their merciless heart would rejoice at 
 the sight. 
 
 Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd 
 resignation. 
 Life beams not for us with one ray that 
 can cheer ; 
 Love and hope upon earth bring no more 
 consolation. 
 In the grave is our hope, for in life is our 
 fear. 
 
 Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will 
 they place me. 
 Since, in life, love and friendship for ever 
 are fled ? 
 If again in the mansion of death I embrace 
 thee. 
 Perhaps they will leave unmolested the 
 dead. 
 
 1805. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE 
 POEMS OF CAMOENS 
 
 This votive pledge of fond esteem. 
 
 Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize ; 
 
 It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
 A theme we never can despise. 
 
 Who blames it but the envious fool, 
 The old and disappomted maid ; 
 
 Or pupil of the prudish school. 
 In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 
 
 Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read. 
 For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 
 
 To thee in vain I shall not plead 
 In pity for the poet's woes. 
 
 He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 
 
 His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
 Like his, may love be thy reward. 
 
 But not thy hapless fate the same. 
 
 THJi FIRST KISS OF LOVE 
 
 EpuJTO. ^OVVOf l)X€t. ANACRKON. 
 
 Away with your fictions of flimsy romance; 
 Those tissues of falsehood which folly 
 has wove ! 
 Give me the mild beam of the soul-breath- 
 ing glance, 
 Or the rapture which dwells on the first 
 kiss of love. 
 
 Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy 
 glow. 
 Whose pastoral passions are made for 
 the grove ; 
 From what blest inspiration your sonnets 
 would flow. 
 Could you ever have tasted the first kiss 
 of love. 
 
 If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 
 
 Or the Nine be disposed from your service 
 
 to rove. 
 
 Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the 
 
 muse, 
 
 And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 
 
 I hate you, ye cold compositions of art : 
 Though prudes may condemn me, and 
 bigots reprove, 
 I court the effusions that spring from the 
 heart. 
 Which throbs with delight to the first 
 kiss of love. 
 
 Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantas- 
 tical themes, 
 Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can 
 move : 
 Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
 What are visions like these to the first 
 kiss of love ? 
 
 Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his 
 birth. 
 From Adam till now, has with wretched- 
 ness strove. 
 Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
 And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 
 
 When age chills the blood, when our plea- 
 sures are past — 
 For years fleet away with the wings of 
 the dove — 
 The dearest remembrance will still be the 
 last. 
 Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of 
 love. 
 
 ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A 
 GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL 
 
 Where are those honours, Ida ! once your 
 
 own. 
 When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne ? 
 
s 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
 Hail'd a barbarian in her Cassar's place^ 
 So vou, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
 And seat Pomposus where your Probus 
 
 sate. 
 Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
 Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
 Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
 With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
 With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
 Such as were ne'er before enforced in 
 
 schools. 
 Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws. 
 He governs, sanction'd but by self-ap- 
 plause, 
 With him the same dire fate attending 
 
 Rome, 
 Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp >'ourdoom : 
 Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame. 
 No trace of science left you, but the name. 
 July, 1805. 
 
 TO THE DUKE OF DORSET 
 Dorset ! whose early steps with mine 
 
 have stray'd. 
 Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
 Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
 And made me less a tyrant than a friend. 
 Though the harsh custom of our youthful 
 
 band 
 Bade Ihee obey, and gave me to command ; 
 Thee, on whose head a few short years will 
 
 shower 
 The gift of riches and the pride of power ; 
 E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
 Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the 
 
 throne. 
 Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
 To shun fair science, or evade control. 
 Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise 
 The titled child, whose future breath may 
 
 raise, 
 View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
 And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 
 When youthful parasites, who bend the 
 
 knee 
 To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — ■ 
 And even in simple boyhood's opening 
 
 dawn 
 Some slaves are found to flatter and to 
 
 fawn, — 
 When these declare, " that pomp alone 
 
 should wait 
 On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
 That books were only meant for drudging 
 
 fools. 
 That gallant spirits scorn the common 
 
 rules ; " 
 Believe them not ; — they point the path to 
 
 shame, 
 And seek to blast the honours of thy name. 
 Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, 
 Whose souls disdain not to condemn the 
 
 wrong; 
 
 Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth. 
 None dare to raise the sterner voice of 
 
 truth, 
 Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, 
 
 forbear ; 
 For well I know that virtue lingers there. 
 Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passmg 
 day, 
 But now new scenes invite me far away ; 
 Yes ! I have mark'd within that generous 
 
 mind 
 A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
 Ah ! though myself, by nature haughty, 
 
 wild. 
 Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favoimte 
 
 child ; 
 Though every error stamps me for her own, 
 And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
 Though my proud heart no precept now 
 
 can tame, 
 I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 
 
 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power. 
 To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
 To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, 
 With long-drawn names that grace no page 
 
 beside : 
 Then share with titled crowds the common 
 
 lot — 
 In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
 While nought divides thee from the vulgar 
 
 dead. 
 Except the dull cold stone that hides thy 
 
 head. 
 The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's 
 
 roll, 
 That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll. 
 Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may 
 
 find 
 One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
 There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
 That veil their dust, their follies, and their 
 
 faults, 
 A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread. 
 In records destined never to be read. 
 Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes. 
 Exalted more among the good and wise, 
 A glorious and a long career pursue. 
 As first in rank, the first in talent top : 
 Spurn every \ice, each little meaanessshun ; 
 Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 
 
 Turn to the annals of a former day ; 
 Bright axe the deeds thine earlier sires 
 display. 
 
 ""^'wOTth"'' ^ '^'^urtier, lived a man of 
 ^""^ fOTt^i "'^'^ ^°''^^ - ^^^ British drama 
 
 Another view, not less renown'd for wit ■ 
 Alike for courts and eamr,- ' ' 
 
 Bold in the field, ^d faXr'd bvTh'e ?.'-*^* ' 
 In every splendid par'tTdin'rt^o'shlne ^ 
 ■throng! "^"''''''' *'°°' ""' ^''"='^"? 
 The pride of princes, and the boast of song> 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their 
 
 name ; 
 Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 
 The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will 
 
 close, 
 To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 
 Kach knell of Time now warns me to resign 
 Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship 
 
 all were mine ; 
 Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's 
 
 hue. 
 And gild their pinions as the moments flew ; 
 Peace, that reflection never frown'd away. 
 By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
 Friendship, whose truth let childhood only 
 
 tell ; 
 Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. 
 To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
 Scenes hail'd, is exiles hail their native 
 
 shore, 
 Receding slowly through the dark-blue 
 
 deep. 
 Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot 
 
 weep. 
 
 Dorset, farewell ! I vvill not ask one part 
 Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
 The coming morrow from thy youthful 
 
 mind 
 Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace 
 
 behind. 
 And yet, perhaps, in some raaturer year, 
 Sincechance has thrown us in the self-same 
 
 sphere, 
 Since the same senate, nay, the same de- 
 bate. 
 May one day claim our suffrage for the 
 
 -' state. 
 We hence may meet, and pass each other by 
 With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
 „ For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
 A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe. 
 With thee no more again I hope to trace 
 The recollection of our early race ; 
 No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, 
 Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known 
 
 voice. 
 Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
 To veil those feelings which perchance it 
 
 ought, 
 If these,— but let me cease the lengthen'd 
 
 strain, — 
 Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in 
 
 vain. 
 The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
 Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee 
 
 great. 
 
 1805. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
 OF MISS CHAWORTH^ 
 
 Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren. 
 Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 How the northern tempests, warring, 
 Howl above thy tufted shade 1 
 
 Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
 Former favourite haunts I see ; 
 
 Now no more my Mary smiling 
 Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 
 
 1805. 
 GRANTA. A Medley 
 
 ** Apyvpe'at? K6y\ai.irL ixa\ov /cat Trai'Ta 
 KpaTrJTa-t^ ; " 
 
 Oh ! could Le Sage's demon's gift 
 
 Be realized at my desire. 
 This nisht my trembling form he'd lift 
 
 To place it on St. Mary's spire. 
 
 Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls 
 Pedantic inmates full display ; 
 
 Fellows who .dream on lawn or stalls, 
 The price of venal votes to pay. 
 
 Then would I view each rival wight. 
 Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
 
 Who canvass there with all their might. 
 Against the next elective day. 
 
 Lo ! candidates and voters lie 
 All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number : 
 
 A race renown'd for piety. 
 Whose conscience won't disturb theii 
 slumber. 
 
 Lord Hawke, indeed, may not demur ; 
 
 Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
 They know preferment can occur 
 
 But very seldom, — now and then. 
 
 They know the Chancellor has got 
 Some pretty livings in disposal : 
 
 Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
 And therefore smiles on his proposal. 
 
 Now from the soporific scene 
 
 I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later. 
 To view, unheeded and unseen. 
 
 The studious sons of Alma Mater. 
 
 There, in apartments small and damp. 
 The candidate for college prizes 
 
 Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 
 Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
 
 He surely well deserves to gain them. 
 With all the honours of his college. 
 
 Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 
 Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge ; 
 
 Who sacrifices hours of rest 
 To scan precisely metres Attic ; 
 
 Or agitates his anxious breast 
 In solving problems mathematic : 
 
 I Who reads false quantities in Scale, 
 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
 In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle : 
 
 Renouncing every pleasing page 
 From authors of historic use ; 
 
 Preferring to the letter'd sage, 
 The square of the hypothenuse. 
 
 Still, harmless are these occupations. 
 That hurt none but the hapless student, 
 
 Compar'd with other recreations, 
 
 Which bring together the imprudent ; 
 
 Whose daring revels shock the sight. 
 When vice and infamy combine. 
 
 When Drunkenness and dice invite. 
 As every sense is steep'd in wine. 
 
 Not so the methodistic crew, 
 Who plans of reformation lay : 
 
 In humble attitude they sue, 
 And for the sins of others pray : 
 
 Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 
 
 Tiieir exultation in their trial. 
 Detracts most largely from the merit 
 
 Of all their boasted self-denial. 
 
 'Tis morn ; — from these I turn my sight. 
 
 What scene is this which meets the eye ? 
 A numerous crowd, array'd in white. 
 
 Across the green in numbers fly. 
 
 Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 
 
 'Tis hush'd : — what sounds are these I 
 hear ? 
 The organ's soft celestial swell 
 
 Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 
 
 To this is join'd the sacred song, 
 
 The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 
 
 Though he who hears the music long 
 Will never wish to hear again. 
 
 Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
 Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
 
 All mercy now must be refused 
 To such a set of croaking sinners. 
 
 If David, when his toils were ended. 
 Had heard these blockheads sing before 
 him. 
 
 To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
 In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 
 
 The luckless Israelites, when taken 
 By some inhuman tyrant's order. 
 
 Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, 
 On Babylonian river's border. 
 
 Oh ! had they sung in notes like these. 
 Inspired by stratagem or feai'. 
 
 They might have set their hearts at ease, 
 The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 
 
 But if I scribble longer now. 
 
 The deuce a soul will stay to read ; 
 
 My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
 'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 
 
 Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires ! 
 
 No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
 No more thy theme my muse inspires : 
 
 The reader's tired, and so am I. 
 
 i8ofl. 
 
 ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE 
 VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF 
 HARROW ON THE HILL 
 
 " Oh ! mihi prseteritos referat si Jupiter annos." — 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 Ye scenes ot my childhood, whose loved 
 recollection 
 Embitters the present, compared with 
 the past ; 
 Where science first dawn'd on the powers 
 of reflection. 
 And friendships were form'd, too roman- 
 tic to last ; 
 
 Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resem- 
 blance 
 Of comrades, in friendship and mischief 
 allied ; 
 How welcome to me your ne'er fading 
 remembrance, 
 Which rests in the bosom, though hope 
 is denied! 
 
 Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 
 The streams where we swam, and the 
 fields where we fought ; 
 The school where, loud wam'd by the bell, 
 we resorted. 
 To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues 
 taught. 
 
 Again I behold where for hours I have 
 ponder'd. 
 As reclining, at eve, on von tombstone I 
 lay ; 
 Or round the steep brow of the churchyard 
 I wander'd. 
 To catch the last gleam of the sun's 
 setting ray. 
 
 I once more view the room, with spectators 
 surrounded, 
 Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'er- 
 thrown ; 
 While, to swell mv young pride, such 
 applauses resounded, 
 I fancied that Mossop • himself was out- 
 shone. 
 
 Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep impre- 
 cation, 
 By my daughters, of kingdom auJ 
 reason deprived ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adula- 
 tion, 
 I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 
 
 Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I 
 regret you ! 
 Unfaded your memory dwells in my 
 breast ; 
 Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can for- 
 get you ; 
 Your pleasures may still be in fancy 
 possest. 
 
 To Ida full oft may remembrance restore 
 me, 
 While fate shall the shades of the future 
 unroll ! 
 Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect 
 before me, 
 More dear is the beam of the past to my 
 soul ! 
 
 But if, through the course of the years 
 which await me, 
 Some new scene of pleasure should open 
 to view, 
 I will say, while with rapture the thought 
 shall elate rae, 
 "Oh! such were the days. which my 
 infancy knew." 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO M 
 
 Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
 
 With bright but mild affection shine, 
 Though they might kindle less desire. 
 
 Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 
 
 For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
 Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam. 
 
 We must admire, but still despair ; 
 That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
 
 When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth. 
 So much perfection in thee shone, 
 
 She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 
 The skies might claim thee for their own : 
 
 Therefore, to guard her dearest work. 
 Lest angels might dispute the prize, 
 
 She bade a secret Ughtning lurk 
 Within those once celestial eyes. 
 
 These might the boldest sylph appal. 
 When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 
 
 Thy beauty must enrapture all ; 
 
 But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 
 
 'Tis said that Berenice's hair 
 
 In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 
 
 But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
 "Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 
 
 For did those eyes as planets roll. 
 
 Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : 
 
 E'en suns, which systems now control, 
 Would twinkle dimly through their 
 sphere. 
 
 r8o6. 
 
 TO WOMAN 
 
 Woman ! experience might have told me 
 That all must love thee who behold thee • 
 Surely experience might have taught 
 Thy firmest promises are nought ; 
 But, placed in all thy charms before me. 
 All I forget, but to adore thee. 
 Oh memory ! thou choicest blessing 
 When join'd with hope, when still posses- 
 sing ; 
 But how much cursed by every lover 
 When hope is fled and passion's over. 
 Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 
 How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 
 How throbs the pulse when first we view 
 The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 
 Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 
 A beam from under hazel brows ! 
 How quick we credit every oath, 
 And hear her plight the willing troth ! 
 Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye. 
 When, lo ! she changes in a day. 
 This record will for ever stand, 
 " Woman, thy vows are traced in sand." 
 
 TO M. S. G. 
 
 When I dream that you love me, you'll 
 surely forgive ; 
 
 Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
 For in visions alone your affection can live, 
 
 I rise, and it leaves rae to weep. 
 
 Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties 
 fast, 
 Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
 Should the dream of to-night but resemble 
 the last, 
 What rapture celestial is mine ! 
 
 They tell us that slumber, the sister of 
 death, 
 
 Mortality's emblem is given ; 
 To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 
 
 If this be a foretaste of heaven ! 
 
 Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your 
 soft brow. 
 
 Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
 If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now. 
 
 Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 
 
 Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you 
 may smile, 
 Oh ! think not my penance deficient I 
 When dreams of your presence my slum- 
 bers beguile. 
 To awake will be torture sufficient. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 TO MARY 
 
 ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE ^ 
 
 This faint resemblance of thy charms, 
 Though strong as mortal art could give, 
 
 My constant heart of fear disarms, 
 Revives my hopes and bids me live. 
 
 Here I can trace the locks of gold 
 
 Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 
 
 The cheeks which sprung from beauty's 
 mould. 
 The lips which made me beauty's slave. 
 
 Here I can trace — ah, no ! that eye. 
 Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
 
 Must all the painter's art defy, 
 And bid him from the task retire. 
 
 Here I behold its beauteous hue ; 
 
 But Where's the beam so sweetly straying, 
 Which gave a lustre to its blue, 
 
 Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 
 
 Sweet copy ! far more dear to me. 
 Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
 
 Than all the living forms could be, 
 
 Save her who placed thee next my heart. 
 
 She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 
 Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
 
 Unconscious that her image there 
 Held every sense in fast control. 
 
 Through hours, through years, through 
 time, 'twill cheer ; 
 
 My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
 In life's last conflict 'twiU appear, 
 
 And meet my fond expiring gaze. 
 
 TO LESBIA 
 Lesbia ! since far from you I've ranged. 
 
 Our souls with fond affection glow not ; 
 You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
 
 I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 
 
 Your poUsh'd brow no cares have crost ; 
 
 And, Lesbia ! we are not much older 
 Since, trembling, first my heart I lost. 
 
 Or told my love, with hope grown 
 bolder. 
 
 Sixteen was then our utmost age, 
 
 Two years have lingering past away, love ! 
 
 And now new thoughts our minds engage,' 
 At least I feel disposed to stray, love! 
 
 'Tis I that am alone to blame, 
 
 I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 
 
 Since your sweet "breast is still the same 
 Caprice must be my only reason. 
 
 I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 
 With jealous doubt mv bosom heaves 
 not ; 
 
 Warm was the passion of iny youth, 
 
 One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 
 
 No, no, my flame was not pretended ; 
 
 For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 
 .And — though our dream at last is ended — 
 
 My bosom still esteems you dearly. 
 
 No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 
 
 Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
 But older, firmer hearts than ours 
 
 Have found monotony in loving. 
 
 Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd. 
 New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 
 
 Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
 The forge of love's resistless lightning, 
 
 Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
 Many will throng to sigh Uke me, love ! 
 
 More constant they may prove, indeed : 
 Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, low; ! 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG 
 LADY 
 
 [As the author was discharging bis pistols in a 
 garden, two ladies passing near the spot were 
 alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing neap 
 them : to one of whom the following stanzas were 
 addressed the next morning.]* 
 
 Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead. 
 Wafting destruction o'er thv charms, 
 
 And hurtling o'er thy lovely head, 
 
 Has fiU'd that breast with fond alarms. 
 
 Surely some envious demon's force, 
 Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
 
 Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 
 Diverted from its first career. 
 
 Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 
 
 The ball obey'd some hell-bom guide • 
 But Heaven, with interposing power, ' 
 
 In pity turn'd the death aside. 
 
 Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
 Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 
 
 Which I, th' unconscious cause' of fear 
 Extracted from its glistening cell : ' 
 
 Say, what dire penance can atone 
 For such an outrage done to thee ' 
 
 Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne 
 What punishment wilt thou decree' ? 
 
 Might I perform the judge's part 
 The sentence- I should scarce' deplore ; 
 
 It only would restore a heart 
 Which but belong'd to thee before. 
 
 The least atonement I can make 
 
 Is to become no longer free ; 
 Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake 
 
 Thou shalt be all in all to me-" ~ ' 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 13 
 
 But thou, perhaps,, may'st now reject 
 
 Such expiation of my guilt ; 
 Come then, some other mode elect ; 
 
 Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 
 
 Choose then, relentless ! and I swear 
 Nought shall thy dread decree prevent : 
 
 Yet hold — -one little word forbear ! 
 Let it be aught but banishment. 
 
 LOVE'S LAST ADIEU 
 
 " Aet, 5'aet ^e tfyevyei,'^ — AnacrEON. 
 
 The roses of love glad the garden of life. 
 Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping 
 pestilent dew. 
 Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful 
 knife. 
 Or prunes them for ever, in love's last 
 adieu ! 
 
 In vain with endearments we soothe the 
 
 sad heart, 
 
 In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
 
 The chance of an hour may command us to 
 
 part. 
 
 Or death disunite us in love's last adieu '. 
 
 Still Hope, breathing peace through the 
 grief-swollen breast, ^ 
 Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may 
 renew : " 
 With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's 
 represt. 
 Nor taste we the poison of love's last 
 adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! mark you yon pair ; in the sunshine 
 of youth 
 Love twinfed round their childhood his 
 flow'rs as they grew ; 
 They flourish awhile in the season of truth , 
 Till chill'd by the winter of love's last 
 adieu ! 
 
 Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its 
 way 
 Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom 
 in hue ? 
 Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey. 
 Thy reason has perish'd with love's last 
 adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning 
 mankind ? 
 From cities to caves of the forest he 
 flew : 
 There, raving, he howls his complaint to 
 the wind ; 
 The mountains reverberate love's last 
 adieu ! 
 
 Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy 
 chains 
 Once passion's tumultuous blandish- 
 ments knew ; 
 
 Despair now inflames the dark tide of his 
 veins ; 
 He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 
 
 How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt 
 in steel ! 
 His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles 
 are few. 
 Who laughs at the pang that he never can 
 feel. 
 And dreads not the anguish of love's last 
 adieu ! 
 
 Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'er- 
 cast ; 
 No more with love's former devotion we 
 sue: 
 He spreads his young wing, he retires with 
 the blast ; 
 The shroud of affection is love's last 
 adieu ! 
 
 In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
 
 Astrea declares that some penance is due ; 
 
 From him who has worshipp'd at love's 
 
 gentle shrine. 
 
 The atonement is ample in love's last 
 
 adieu ! 
 
 Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
 
 Must myrtle and cypress alternately 
 
 strew : 
 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
 
 His cypress, the garland of love's last 
 
 adieu ! 
 
 DAM^TAS 
 
 In law an infant, and in years a boy. 
 In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 
 From every sense of shame and virtue 
 
 wean'd ; 
 In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 
 Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ; 
 Fickle as wind, of inclinatidns wild ; 
 Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 
 Old in the world, though scarcely broke 
 
 from school ; 
 Damffltas ran through all the maze of sin. 
 And found the goal when others just begin : 
 Even still conflicting passions shake his 
 
 soul. 
 And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's 
 
 bov/1 ; 
 But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former 
 
 chain. 
 And what was once his bliss appears his 
 
 bane. 
 
 TO MARION 
 
 Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 
 What disgust to life hast thou ? 
 Change that discontented air : 
 Frowns become not one so fair. 
 
14 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
 
 Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
 
 He in dimpling smiles appears, 
 
 Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 
 
 Or bends the languid eyelid down. 
 
 But shuns the cold forbidding innva. 
 
 Then resume thy former fire, 
 
 Some will love, and all admire ; 
 
 While that icy aspect chills us, 
 
 Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 
 
 Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile 
 
 Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
 
 Eyes like thine were never meant 
 
 To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 
 
 Spite of all thou fain wouldst say. 
 
 Still in truant beams they play. 
 
 Thy lips— but here my modest Muse 
 
 Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 
 
 She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short she 
 
 Dreads lest the subject should transport 
 
 me ; 
 And flying off in search of reason. 
 Brings prudence back in proper season. 
 AU I shall therefore say (whate'er 
 I think, is neither here nor there) 
 Is, that such lips, of looks endearing. 
 Were form'd for better things than sneer- 
 ing : 
 Of soothing compliments divested, 
 Advice at least's disinterested ; 
 Such is my artless song to thee. 
 From all the flow of flattery free ; 
 Counsel like mine is as a brother's. 
 My heart is given to some others ; 
 That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 
 It shares itself among a dozen. 
 
 Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not 
 This warning, though it may delight not ; 
 And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
 To those who think remonstrance teazing. 
 At once I'll tell thee our opinion 
 Concerning woman's soft dominion ; 
 Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
 On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
 Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
 Howe'er those beauties may distract' us 
 Still fickle, we are prone to rove, ' 
 
 These cannot fix our souls to love ; 
 It is not too severe a stricture 
 To say they form a pretty picture ; 
 But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
 Which binds us in your humble train. 
 To hail you queens of all creation. 
 Know, in a word, 'tis Animation. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF 
 HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND 
 APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO 
 MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN 
 
 These locks, which fondly thus entwine. 
 In firmer chains our hearts confine, 
 
 Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
 Which swell with nonsense love orations. 
 Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it , 
 Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; 
 Tl-er wherefore should we sigh and whme, 
 With groundless jealousy repine, 
 With silly whims and fancies frantic. 
 Merely to make our love romantic ? 
 Why should you weep Uke Lydia Languish, 
 And fret with self-created anguish ? 
 Or doom the lover you have chosen, 
 On winter nights to sigh half frozen ; 
 In leafless shades to sue for pardon, 
 Only because the scene's a garden ? 
 For gardens seem, by one consent, 
 Since Shakespeare set the precedent, 
 Since Juliet first declared her passion. 
 To form the place of assignation. 
 Oh ! would some modem muse inspire, 
 And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 
 Or had the bard at Christmas written, 
 And laid the scene of love in Britain, 
 He surely, in commiseration, 
 Had changed the place of declaration. 
 In Italy I've no objection ; 
 Warm nights are proper for reflection ; 
 But here our climate is so rigid. 
 That love itself is rather frigid : 
 Think on our chill)^ situation, 
 And curb this rage for imitation ; 
 Then let us meet, as oft w^e've done, 
 Beneath the influence of the sun ; 
 Or, if at midnight I must meet you 
 Within your mansion let me greet you ; 
 There we can love for hours together. 
 Much better, in such snowy weather, 
 Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 
 That ever witness'd rural loves ; 
 Then, if my passion fail to please. 
 Next night I'll be content to freeze ; 
 No more I'll give a loose to laughter. 
 But curse mv fate for ever after. 
 
 OSCAR OF ALVA 
 
 How sweetly shines through azure s>:ies, 
 The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; 
 
 Where .Mva's hoary turrets rise. 
 And hear the din of arms no more. 
 
 ^ On°^i?" has yon rolling moon 
 Ami ,;; ./ <=='sqHes of silver play'd ; 
 
 Her chief's in "^/^'^igh''^ sile'^nt'iioon, 
 "er chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 
 
 And on the crimson 'il r^„i , 
 
 Which scowWe?ocean^.' beneath. 
 
 Pale in the scattered ranSs„?H''^?°'''' 
 She saw the gasping^''4°or''fo";'^; 
 
 While many an eye which ne'er aeni,. 
 Could mark the rising orb of dly? 
 
HOUKS OF IDLENESS 
 
 15 
 
 Turii'd feebly from the gory plain, 
 Beheld in death her fading ray. 
 
 Once to those eyes the Lamp of Love, 
 They blest her dear propitious light ; 
 
 But now she glimmer'd from above, 
 A sad, funereal torch of night. 
 
 Faded is Alva's noble race. 
 
 And gray her towers are seen afar ; 
 
 No more her heroes mge the chase, 
 Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
 
 But, who was last of Alva's clan ? 
 
 Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
 Her towers resound no steps of man. 
 
 They echo to the gale alone. 
 
 And when that gale is fierce and high, 
 A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 
 
 It rises hoarsely through the sky, 
 And vibrates o'er the mould'ring wall. 
 
 Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs. 
 It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 
 
 But tliere no more his banners rise, 
 No more his plumes of sable wave. 
 
 Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth. 
 When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 
 
 The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
 Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 
 
 They feast upon the mountain deer, 
 The pibroch raised its piercing note ; 
 
 To gladden more their highland cheer, 
 The strains in martial numbers float : 
 
 And they who heard the war-notes wild 
 Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 
 
 Should play before the hero's child 
 While he should lead the tartan train. 
 
 Another year is quickly past, 
 And Angus hails another son ; 
 
 His natal day is like the last, 
 
 Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 
 
 Taught by their sire to bend the bow. 
 On Alva's dusky hills of wind. 
 
 The boys in childhood chased the roe. 
 And left their hounds in speed behind. 
 
 But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
 They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
 
 They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
 And send the whistling arrow far. 
 
 Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
 Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 
 
 But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
 And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 
 
 But Oscar own'd a hero's soul. 
 
 His dark eyes shone through beams of 
 truth ; 
 
 Allan had early learn'd control, 
 
 And smooth his words had been from 
 youth. 
 
 Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 
 Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 
 
 And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear. 
 But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 
 
 While Allan's soul belied his form, 
 
 Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 
 
 Keen as the lightning of the storm, 
 On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 
 
 From high Southannon's distant tower 
 Arrived a young and noble dame ; 
 
 With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
 Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 
 
 And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 
 And Angus on his Oscar smiled : 
 
 It soothed the father's feudal pride 
 Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 
 
 Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 
 
 Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
 In joyous strains the voices float, 
 
 And still the choral peal prolong. 
 
 See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 
 Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
 
 Each youth his Varied plaid assumes. 
 Attending on their chieftain's call. 
 
 It is not war their aid demands, 
 The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
 
 To Oscai-'s nuptials throng the bands, 
 Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 
 
 But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 
 Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 
 
 While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
 Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 
 
 At length young Allan join'd the bride ; 
 
 " Why comes not Oscar," Angus said : 
 " Is he not here ? " the youth replied ; 
 
 " With me he roved not o'er the glade : 
 
 " Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 
 
 Or ocean's waves prolong his stay : 
 Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
 " Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay ; 
 
 Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
 
 Would aught to her impede his way ? 
 
 " Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around ! 
 
 .A.llan, with these through Alva fly ; 
 Till Oscar, till my son is found, 
 
 Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 
 
 .'til is confusion — through the vale 
 The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 
 
I6 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 It rises on the murmuring gale, 
 Till night expands her dusky wings ; 
 
 It breaks the stillness of the night. 
 
 But echoes through her shades in vain ; 
 It sounds through morning's misty light, 
 
 But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 
 
 Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
 For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 
 
 Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief. 
 His locks in graj'-torn ringlets wave. 
 
 " Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'n, 
 Restore the prop of sinking age ! 
 
 Or if that hope no more is given. 
 Yield his assassin to my rage. 
 
 " Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
 My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 
 
 Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more. 
 With him his frantic sire may die ! 
 
 '* Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 
 
 Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
 T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! 
 
 God ! my impious prayer forgive. 
 
 " What, if he live for me no more, 
 
 1 sink forgotten in the dust. 
 The hope of Alva's age is o'er : 
 
 Alas ! can pangs like these be just ? " 
 
 Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
 Till Time, who soothes severest woe. 
 
 Had bade serenity return. 
 
 And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 
 
 For still some latent hope survived 
 That Oscar might once more appear ; 
 
 His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
 Till Time had told a tedious year. 
 
 Days roU'd along, the orb of light 
 Again had run his destined race ; 
 
 No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
 And sorrow left a fainter trace. 
 
 For youthful Allan, still remain'd, 
 And now his father's only joy : 
 
 And Mora's heart was quicklv gain'd. 
 For beauty crown'd the fa'ir-hair'd boy. 
 
 She thought that Oscar low was laid. 
 And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 
 
 If Oscar lived, some othts: maid 
 Had claim'd hi-- faithless bosom's care. 
 
 And Angus said, if one year more 
 In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 
 
 His fondest scruples should be o'er, 
 And he would name their nuptial day. 
 
 Slow roU'd the moons, but blest at lasl 
 Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 
 
 The year of anxious trembhng past. 
 What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn ! 
 
 Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 
 
 Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
 In joyous strains the voices float. 
 
 And still the choral peal prolong. 
 
 Again the clan, in festive crowd, 
 Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 
 
 The soimds of mirth re-echo loud, 
 And all their former joy recall. 
 
 But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
 
 Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 
 
 Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 
 
 The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 
 
 Dark is the robe which wraps his form. 
 And tall his plume of gory red ; 
 
 His voice is like the rising storm, 
 But light and trackless is his tread. 
 
 'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round. 
 The bridegroom's health is deeplv quaS'd ; 
 
 With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
 And all combine to hail the draught. 
 
 Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 
 
 And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
 
 And Angus' cheek with wonder glow's. 
 And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 
 
 " Old man ! " he cried, " this pledge is 
 done ; 
 
 Thou iaw'st 'twas duly drank bv me ; 
 It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 
 
 Now will 1 claim a pledge from thee. 
 
 " While all around is mirth and joy. 
 To bless thy Allan's happy lot. 
 
 Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 
 Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? " 
 
 " Alas ! " the hapless sire replied. 
 The big tear starting as he spoke, 
 
 " When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
 This aged heart wa"s almost broke. 
 
 " Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
 Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ■ 
 
 .-Vnd Allan is my last resource, ' ' 
 
 Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 
 
 " 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern 
 And fiercely flash'd his rolling eve • ' 
 
 " Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn- 
 Perhaps the hero did not die. 
 
 " Perchance, if those whom most he lo^•ed 
 Would call, thv Oscar might return • 
 
 Perchance the chief has only roved ■ ' 
 For him thy Beltane yet may burn.' 
 
 " Fill high the bowl the table round 
 W e will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 17 
 
 With wine let every cup be crown'd ; 
 Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 
 
 " With all my soul," old Angus said, 
 And fiU'd his goblet to the brim : 
 
 " Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
 I ne'er shall find a son like him." 
 
 " Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 
 
 But why does Allan trembling stand ? 
 Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 
 
 And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 
 
 The crimson glow of Allan's face 
 
 , Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
 The drops of death each other chase 
 Adown in agonizing dew. 
 
 Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
 And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 
 
 For thrice he caught the stranger's e^'e 
 On his with deadly fury placed. 
 
 " And is it thus a brother hails 
 
 A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
 
 If thus affection's strength prevails, 
 What might we not expect from fear ? " 
 
 Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
 " Would Oscar now could share our 
 mirth ! " 
 
 Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 
 
 He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 
 
 " 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 
 Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form. 
 
 " A murderer's voice ! " the roof replies, 
 And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
 
 The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. 
 The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew, 
 
 A form was seen in tartan green. 
 And tall the shade terrific grew. 
 
 His waist was bound with a broad belt 
 round, 
 His plume of .sable stream'd on high ; 
 But his breast was bare, with the red 
 wounds there. 
 And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
 
 And thrice he smiled, with his eyes so wild, 
 On Angus bending low the knee ; 
 
 And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the 
 ground, 
 Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
 
 The bolts loud roll from pole to pole, 
 
 And thunders through the welkin ring. 
 And the gleaming form, through the mist 
 of the storm, 
 Was borne on high by the whirlwind's 
 wing. 
 
 Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 
 Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
 
 Oblivion pre^s'd old Angus' breast. 
 
 At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 
 
 " Away, away ! let the leech essay 
 To pour the light on Allan's eyes ; " 
 
 His sand is done, — his race is run, — ■ 
 Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 
 
 But Oscar's breast is cold as clay. 
 His locks are lifted by the gale ; 
 
 And Allan's barbed arrow lay 
 With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
 
 And whence the dreadful stranger came. 
 Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 
 
 But no one doubts the form of flame, 
 For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
 
 Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
 Exulting demons wing'd his ^art ; 
 
 While Envy waved her burning brand, 
 And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
 
 Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow ; 
 
 Whose streaming life-blood stains his 
 side ? 
 Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 
 
 The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
 
 And Mora's eye could Allan move. 
 She bade his wounded pride rebel : 
 
 Alas ! that eyes which bearn'd with love 
 Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. 
 
 Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
 Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
 
 It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
 Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
 
 Far, distant far, the noble grave 
 Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 
 
 And o'er his corse no banners wave. 
 
 For they were stain'dwith kindred blood. 
 
 What minstrel gray, what hoary bard. 
 Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings 
 raise ? 
 
 The song is glory's chief reward, 
 
 But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 
 
 Unstrung, untouoh'd, the harp must stand, 
 No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
 
 Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 
 His harp in shuddering chords would 
 break. 
 
 No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
 Shall sound his glories high in air : 
 
 .\ dying father's bitter curse, 
 A brother's death-groan echoes there. 
 
 THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND 
 EURYALUS 
 
 A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^NEID, LIB. IX. 
 
 Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood. 
 Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
 
HOUKS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Wei! skill'd in fight the quivering lance to 
 
 wield, 
 Or pour his arrows through th' embattled 
 
 field : 
 From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave. 
 And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 
 To watch the movements of the Daunian 
 
 host, 
 With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 
 No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 
 And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant 
 
 boy ; 
 Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 
 As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
 'Twas his, with beauty, valour's gifts to 
 
 share — 
 A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 
 These burn with one pure flame of generous 
 
 love ; 
 In peace, in war, united still they move ; 
 Friendship and glory form their joint 
 
 reward ; 
 And now combined they hold their nightly 
 guard. 
 
 "What god," exclaim'd the first, "in- 
 stils this fire ? 
 
 Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
 
 My labouring soul, with anxious thought 
 oppress'd. 
 
 Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
 
 The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
 
 Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
 
 Seest thou yon camp, with torches twink- 
 ling dim, 
 
 Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazv 
 limb ? 
 
 Where confidence and ease the watch dis- 
 dain. 
 
 And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
 
 Then hear my thought : — In deep and 
 sullen grief 
 
 Our troops and leaders mourn their absent 
 chief : 
 
 Now could the gifts and promised prize be 
 thine 
 
 (The deed, the danger, and the fame be 
 mine), 
 
 Were this decreed, beneath yon rising 
 mound, 
 
 Methinks, an easy path perchance were 
 found ; 
 
 Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' 
 walls, 
 
 And lead ^Eneas from Evander's halls." 
 
 With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy. 
 His glowing friend address'd the Dardaii 
 
 boy : — 
 " These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare 
 
 alone ? 
 Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ' 
 Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
 As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
 
 Not thus his sou the great Ophelte? taught ; 
 Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
 Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
 I track'd ^neas through the walks of fate : 
 Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid 
 
 of fear, 
 And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
 Here is a soul with hope immortal bums, 
 And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
 Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting 
 
 breath : 
 The price of honour is the sleep of death." 
 
 Then Nisus : — •" Calm thy bosom's fond 
 alarms : 
 
 Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
 
 More dear thy worth and valour than my 
 own, 
 
 I swear by him who fills Ol3Tnpus' throne ! 
 
 So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
 
 And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
 
 But should I fall, — and he who dares 
 advance 
 
 Through hostile legions must abide by 
 chance, — 
 
 If some Rutulian ami, with adverse blow. 
 
 Should lay the friend who ever loved thee 
 low. 
 
 Live thou, such beauties I would fain pre- 
 serve. 
 
 Thy budding years a lengthen'd term de- 
 serve. 
 
 When humbled in the dust, let some one be. 
 
 Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for 
 me ; 
 
 Whose manly arm may snatch me back by 
 force. 
 
 Or wealth redeem from foes my captive 
 corse ; 
 
 Or, if my destiny these last deny. 
 
 If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
 
 Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb. 
 
 To mark thy lo-\e, and signalize my doom. 
 
 Why should thy doting ivretched' mother 
 weep 
 
 Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
 
 Who, for thy sake, the tempesfsfury dared, 
 
 Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril 
 shared ; 
 
 Who braved what woman never braved 
 before. 
 
 And left her native for the Latian shore." 
 
 " In vain you damp the ardour of niv 
 soul," 
 
 Replied Euryalus ; " it scorns control i 
 
 Hence, let us haste ! "—their brother 
 guards arose. 
 
 Roused by thek call, nor court again re- 
 pose ; 
 
 The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exultine 
 wing, ° 
 
 Their stations leave, and speed to seek ths 
 kmg. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 19 
 
 Now o'er the earth a solemu stillness ran, 
 And luU'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
 Save where the Dardan leaders nightly 
 
 hold 
 Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
 On one great point the council are agreed, 
 An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
 Each lean'd upon the lance he well could 
 
 wield, 
 And poised with easy arm his ancient 
 
 shield ; 
 When Nisus and his friend their leave 
 
 request 
 To offer something to their high behest. 
 With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear. 
 The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
 lultis greets them ; at his kind command. 
 The elder first address'd the hoary band. 
 
 " With patience " (thus Hyrtacides 
 
 began) 
 " Attend nor judge from youth our 
 
 humble plan. 
 Where yonder beacon's half expiring beam, 
 Our slumbering foes of future conquest 
 
 dream 
 Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
 Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
 Beneath the covert of the blackening 
 
 smoke, 
 Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
 If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow. 
 We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's 
 
 brow. 
 Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the 
 
 sight, 
 Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by 
 
 night : 
 Then shall .Eneas in his pride return. 
 While hostile matrons raise their offspring's 
 
 urn ; 
 And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
 Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
 Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
 Where yonder torrent's devious waters 
 
 stray. 
 Oft have we seen, when hunting- by the 
 
 stream, 
 The distant spures above the valleys gleam." 
 
 Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
 • Moved by the speech, Alethes here ex- 
 
 claim'd, — 
 " Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of 
 
 Troy, 
 Still dwells the Dardan spirit m the boy ; 
 When minds like these in striplings thus ye 
 
 raise. 
 Yours is the godlike act, be yours the 
 
 praise ; 
 In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
 And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
 Then, in his warm embrace the boys he 
 
 press' d. 
 
 And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged 
 breast ; 
 
 With tears the burning cheek of each 
 bedew'd, 
 
 And, sobbing, thus his first discourse 
 renew'd ; 
 
 " What gift, my countrymen, what martial 
 prize, 
 
 Can we bestow, which you may not des- 
 pise ? 
 
 Our deities the-first best boon have given — ■ 
 
 Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
 
 What.poor rewards can bless your deeds on 
 earth. 
 
 Doubtless await such young, exalted worth, 
 
 ^neas and Ascanius shall combine 
 
 To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
 
 lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
 By those Penates who my country love ! 
 By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
 My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
 Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
 And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
 Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
 Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'er- 
 
 thrown ! 
 My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
 Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's 
 
 prey: 
 Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
 Two talents polish'd from the glittering 
 
 mine ; 
 An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, 
 While yet our vessels press'd the Punic 
 
 wave : 
 But when the hostile chiefs at length bow 
 
 down. 
 When great Mneas wears Hesperia's crown. 
 The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
 Which Tumus guides with more than 
 
 mortal speed, 
 Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be 
 
 cast, 
 I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
 Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six 
 
 captive dames. 
 To soothe thy softer hours with amorous 
 
 flames. 
 And all the realms which now the Latins 
 
 sway. 
 The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
 But thou, my generous youth, whose 
 
 tender years 
 Are near my own, whose worth my heart 
 
 reveres. 
 Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
 Shall join our bosoms and our souls in 
 
 one ; 
 Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
 Without thy dear advice, no great desigri ; 
 AUke through life esteem'd, thou godlike 
 
 boy, 
 In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 
 
20 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
 The rising glories which from this I claim. 
 Fortune may favour, or the skies may 
 
 frown, 
 But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
 Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
 One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart ; 
 My mother, sprung from Priam's royal 
 
 line. 
 Like thine ennobled, hardly_ less divine. 
 Nor Troy nor king Acestes' re'alms restrain 
 Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
 Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
 A bright example of maternal love. 
 Unknown the secret enterprise I brave. 
 Lest grief should bend my parent to the 
 
 grave ; 
 From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 
 No fainting mother's lips have press'd my 
 
 cheek ; 
 By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow ' 
 Her parting tears would shake my pmrpose I 
 now ; ! 
 
 Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, I 
 In thee her much-loved child may live j 
 again ; ' 
 
 Her dying hours with pious conduct bless. 
 Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
 So dear a hope must all my soul inflame. 
 To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
 Struck with a filial care so deeply felt. 
 In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt ; 
 Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erilow ! 
 Such love was his, and such had been his 
 
 woe. 
 " All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince 
 
 replied ; 
 " Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
 To cheer thy mother's years shall be my 
 
 aim, 
 Creusa's style but wanting to the dame. 
 Fortune an adverse wayward course may 
 
 run. 
 But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
 Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred 
 
 oath — 
 To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 
 All the rewards which once to thee were 
 
 vow'd. 
 If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be be- 
 
 stow'd." 
 Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth 
 to view I 
 
 A gleaming falchion from the sheath he • 
 
 drew ; 
 Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
 For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 
 A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 
 Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
 Mnestheus to guard the elder youth be- 
 stows. 
 And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
 Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' 
 assembled train. 
 
 To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
 More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
 lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 
 His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers 
 
 avail, 
 Lost in the murmurs of the sighmg gale ? 
 
 The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by 
 
 the night. 
 Through sleeping foes they wheel their 
 
 wary flight. 
 When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
 Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no 
 
 more ! 
 Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are 
 
 seen ; 
 And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops 
 
 between : 
 Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp com- 
 bine ; 
 A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
 " Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood 
 
 prepare. 
 With me the conquest and the labour 
 
 share: 
 Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise. 
 Watch thou, while many a dreaming chief- 
 tain dies : 
 I'll carve our passage through the heedless 
 
 foe. 
 And clear thy road with many a deadly 
 
 blow." 
 His whispering accents then the youth 
 
 repress'd, 
 And pierced 'proud Rhamnes through his 
 
 panting breast : 
 Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king 
 
 reposed ; 
 Debauch, and not fatigue, his eves had 
 
 closed : 
 To Turnus d,ear, a prophet and a prince. 
 His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
 But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 
 Could not avert his ov\ti untimely fall. 
 Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, 
 And three unhappy slaves the carnage 
 
 swell ; 
 The charioteer along his courser's sides 
 Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides ; 
 And, last, his lord is number'd with the 
 
 dead : 
 Bounding convulsi\c, flies the gasping 
 
 head ; 
 From the swoU'n veins the blackenin" 
 
 torrents pour ; ° 
 
 Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting 
 
 gore. 
 Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire 
 And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire ■ 
 Half the long night in childish games was 
 
 pass'd ; 
 Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last • 
 Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd 
 And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd' 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in 
 
 sleep, 
 His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
 'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he 
 
 prowls. 
 With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : 
 Insatiate still, through teeming herds he 
 
 roams ; 
 In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 
 
 Nor less the other's deadly vengeance 
 
 came, 
 But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
 His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can 
 
 feel 
 Yet wakeful Rhesus sees the threatening 
 
 steel ; 
 His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
 And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
 Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his 
 
 veins, 
 _ The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
 Through wine and blood, commingling as 
 
 they flow. 
 One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
 Now where Messapus dwelt they bend 
 
 their way, 
 Whose fires emit a faint and trembling 
 
 ray ; 
 There, unconfined, behold each grazing 
 
 steed, 
 Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage 
 
 feed : 
 Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm. 
 Too flush'd with carnage, and with con- 
 quest warm : . 
 " Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is 
 
 pass'd ; 
 Full foes enough to-night have breathed 
 
 their last : 
 Soon will the day those eastern clouds 
 
 adorn ; 
 Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising 
 
 morn." 
 
 What silver arms, with various art 
 
 emboss'd, 
 What bowls and mantles in confusion 
 
 toss'd. 
 They leave regardless ! yet one glittering 
 
 prize 
 Attracts the younger hero's wandering 
 
 eyes ; 
 The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
 The gems which stud the monarch's golden 
 
 belt: 
 This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
 Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
 Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
 Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
 ■fhen from the tents their cautious steps 
 
 they bend. 
 To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 
 
 _ Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
 To Turnus' camp pursue their destined 
 
 course : 
 While the slow foot their tardy march 
 
 delay. 
 The knights, impatient, spur along the 
 
 way : 
 Three hundred mail-clad men, by Vol- 
 
 scens led, 
 To Turnus with their master's promise 
 
 sped : 
 Now they approach the trench, and view 
 
 the walls. 
 When, on the left, a light reflection falls : 
 The plunder'd helmet, through the waning 
 
 night, 
 Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing 
 
 bright. 
 Volscens with question loud the pair 
 
 alarms : — 
 " Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early 
 
 thus in arms ? 
 From whence ? to whom ? " — ^He meets 
 
 with no reply ; 
 Trusting the covert of the night, they 
 
 fly: 
 The thicket's depth with hurried pace they 
 
 tread. 
 While round the wood the hostile squadron 
 
 spread. 
 
 With brakes entangled, scarce a path 
 
 between, 
 Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
 Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
 The boughs and winding turns his steps - 
 
 mislead ; 
 But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
 To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze. 
 Then backward o'er the plain his eyes 
 
 extend, 
 On every side they seek his absent friend. 
 " O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
 In what impending perils art thou left ! " 
 Listening he runs — above the waving trees. 
 Tumultuous voices swell the passing 
 
 breeze ; 
 The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
 Wake the dark echoes of the trembling 
 
 ground. 
 Again he turns, of footsteps hears the 
 
 noise ; 
 The sound elates, the sight his hope des- 
 troys : 
 The hapless boy a ruffian train surround. 
 While lengthening shades his weary way 
 
 confound : 
 Him with loud shouts the furious knights 
 
 pursue, 
 Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
 What can his friend 'gainst thronging 
 
 numbers dare ? 
 Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to 
 
 share ? 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 What force, what aid, what stratagem 
 
 essay, 
 Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
 His life a votive ransom nobly give. 
 Or die with him for whom he wish'd to 
 
 live ? 
 Poising with strength his lifted lance on 
 
 high, 
 On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 
 " Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
 Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen 
 afar ! i 
 
 By night heaven owns thy sway, by dav 
 the grove, ' | 
 
 When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st 
 
 to rove : j 
 
 If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
 Thine altars with the produce of the chase, ! 
 Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunt- I 
 ing crowd, i 
 
 To free my friend, and scatter far the 
 
 proud." 
 Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
 Through parted shades the hurtling 
 
 weapon sung ; 
 The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
 Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him' on 
 
 the clay : 
 He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze. 
 Unconscious whence the death, with horror 
 
 gaze. 
 While pale they stare, through Tagus' 
 
 temples riven, 
 A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
 Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering 
 
 eyes ; 
 Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
 Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers 
 
 fall. 
 " Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for 
 
 all ! " 
 Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive 
 
 he drew. 
 And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
 Nisus no more the blackening shade con- 
 ceals. 
 Forth, forth he starts, and all his love 
 
 reveals ; 
 Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
 And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
 " Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me 
 
 alone ; 
 Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your 
 
 own. 
 Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ' 
 
 attest ! 
 He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile 
 
 contest ! 
 AU, all was mine,— his earlv fate suspend • 
 He only loved too well his hapless friend 
 Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage 
 
 remove ; 
 His fault was friendship, all his crime was 
 love." 
 
 i He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's 
 
 sword 
 Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom 
 
 gored ; 
 Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad 
 
 crest. 
 And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his 
 
 breast : 
 As some young rose, whose blossom scents 
 
 the air. 
 Languid in death, expires beneath the 
 I share ; 
 
 Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
 I Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
 Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely 
 j head, ^ 
 
 And lingering beauty hovers round the 
 ! dead. 
 
 But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
 Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
 Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering 
 
 host, 
 Volscens must soon appease his comrade's 
 
 ghost ; 
 steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds 
 
 on foe ; 
 Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every 
 
 blow ; 
 In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he 
 
 bleeds, 
 Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus 
 
 heeds ; 
 In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flie-s, 
 Niir quits the hero's grasp till Volscens' 
 
 dies ; 
 Deep in his throat its end the weapon 
 
 found. 
 The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the 
 
 wound. 
 
 Thus Nisus all his fond afiection proved 
 
 Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved • 
 Then on his bosom sought his wonted place' 
 And death was heavenlv in his friend's 
 
 embrace ! 
 
 Celestial pair ! if aught mv verse can 
 
 claim. 
 Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is 
 
 fame ! 
 Ages on ages shall your fate admire. 
 No future dav shall'see your names expire 
 While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ' 
 And vanquish'd millions hail their empress 
 
 Rome ! ' 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA 
 OF EURIPIDES 
 
 ['Kptores VTrep fifv ayai', »c,t.A.] 
 
 When fierce conflicting passions urge 
 The breast where love is wont to glow 
 
 What mmd can stem the stormy surge ' 
 Which rolls the tide of human woe ? 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 23 
 
 The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 
 Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
 
 The wild desire, the guilty fiame. 
 Absorbs each wish it felt before. 
 
 But if affection gently thrills 
 
 The soul by purer dreams possest. 
 The pleasing balm oi mortal ills 
 
 In love can soothe the aching breast ; 
 If thus thou comest in disguise, 
 
 Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
 What heart unfeeling would despise 
 
 The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 
 
 But never from thy golden bow 
 
 May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
 Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 
 
 Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
 Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 
 
 With others wage internal war ; 
 Repentance, source of future tears, 
 
 From me be ever distant far ! 
 
 May no distracting thoughts destroy 
 
 The holy calm of sacred love ! 
 May all the hours be wing'd with jov. 
 
 Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
 Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 
 
 May I with some fond lover sigh. 
 Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 
 
 With me to live, with me to die ! 
 
 My native soil ! beloved before, 
 
 Now dearer as my peaceful home. 
 Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 
 
 A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
 This very day, this very hour, 
 
 Maj' I resign this fleeting breath ! 
 Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 
 
 A doom to me far worse than death. 
 
 Have I not heard the exile's sigh. 
 
 And seen the exile's silent tear. 
 Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 
 
 A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
 Ah I hapless dame ! no sire bewails, 
 
 No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
 No kindred voice with rapture hails 
 
 Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 
 
 Perish the fiend whose iron heart. 
 
 To fair affection's truth unknown. 
 Bids her he fondly loved depart, 
 
 Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
 Who ne'er unlocks with silver key 
 
 The milder treasiures of his soul, — 
 May such a friend be far from me, 
 
 And ocean's storms between us roll ! 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A 
 COLLEGE EXAMINATION 
 
 High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
 Magnus his ample front sublime uprears : 
 
 Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
 While^Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his 
 
 nod. 
 As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
 His voice in thunder shakes the sounding 
 
 dome ; 
 Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
 UnskiU'd to plod in mathematic rules. 
 
 Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms 
 
 tried. 
 Though little versed in any art beside ; 
 Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
 Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
 What, though he knows not how his fathers 
 
 bled. 
 When civil discord piled the fields with 
 
 dead. 
 When Edward bade his conquering bands 
 
 advance. 
 Or Henry trampled on the crest of France, 
 Though marvelling at the name of Magna 
 
 Charta, 
 Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
 Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
 While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected 
 
 laid; 
 Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless 
 
 fame. 
 Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the 
 
 name. 
 
 Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
 Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await ; 
 Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
 If to such glorious height he lifts his e3'es. 
 But lo ! no common orator can hope 
 The envied silver cup within his scope. 
 Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
 Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's 
 
 fire. 
 A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
 We do not try by speaking to convince. 
 Be other orators of pleasing proud, — 
 We speak to please ourselves, not move the 
 
 crowd : 
 Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
 A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
 No borrow'd grace of action must be seen ; 
 The slightest motion would displease the 
 
 Dean ; 
 Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
 Against what he could never imitate. 
 
 The man who hopes t' obtain the pro- 
 mised cupr 
 Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look 
 
 up ; 
 Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
 No matter what, so it can nol be heard. 
 Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
 Who speaks the fastest's sure to speak the 
 
 best ; 
 Who utters most within the shortest space 
 May safely hope to win the wordy race. 
 
-4 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 thus 
 
 The sons of science these, who, 
 repaid, , , , , 
 
 Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade : 
 Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they 
 
 lie, , , ,. 
 
 Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for die : 
 Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
 They think all learning fix'd within their 
 
 walls : 
 In manners rude, in foolish forms precise. 
 All modem arts affecting to despise ; 
 Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Per- 
 son's note, 
 More than the verse on which the critic 
 
 wrote : 
 Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale. 
 Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
 To friendship dead, though not untaught 
 
 to feel 
 When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
 With eager haste they court the lord of 
 
 power, 
 Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; ^ 
 To him, with suppliant smiles, ^they bend 
 
 the head. 
 While distant mitres to their eyes are 
 
 spread. 
 But should a storm o'erwhelm him w'ith 
 disgrace, j 
 
 They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his : 
 place. I 
 
 Such are the men who learning's treasures ! 
 guard ! i 
 
 Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 1 
 This much, at least, we may presume to | 
 say — ; 
 
 The premium can't exceed the price they 
 pay. 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER 
 
 Sweet girl ! though only once we met. 
 That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
 And though we ne'er may meet again, 
 Remembrance will thy form retain. 
 I vrould not say, " I love," but still 
 My senses struggle with my will • 
 In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 
 My thoughts are more and more represt ; 
 In vain I check the rising sighs, 
 Another to the last replies : 
 Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
 Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 
 
 What though we never sileQce broke, 
 
 Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 
 
 The tongue in fiattering falsehood deals, 
 
 And tells a tale it never feels : 
 
 Deceit the guilty lips impart, 
 
 And hush the mandates of the heart ; 
 
 But soul's interpreters, the eyes. 
 
 Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
 
 As thus our glances oft conversed, 
 
 And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 
 
 I No spirit, from within, reproved us, 
 Sav rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 
 Though what they utter'd I repress, 
 
 I 'Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 
 For as on thee my memory ponders, 
 Perchance to me thine also wanders. 
 This for myself, at least, I'll say. 
 Thy form appears through night, through 
 
 day ; 
 Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 
 In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams ; 
 The vision charms the hours away. 
 And bids me curse Aurora's ray 
 For breaking slumbers of delight 
 Which make me wish for endless night. 
 Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate. 
 Shall joy or woe my steps await, 
 Tempted by love, by storms beset. 
 Thine image I can ne'er forget. 
 
 Alas ! again no more we meet. 
 
 No more our former looks repeat ; 
 
 Then let me breathe this parting prayer. 
 
 The dictate of my bosom's care ; 
 
 " May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker, 
 
 That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 
 
 That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her. 
 
 But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ! 
 
 Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
 
 To be, by dearest ties, related. 
 
 For her each hour new joys discover, 
 
 And lose the husband in the lover ! 
 
 May that fair bosom never know 
 
 What 'tis to feel the restless woe 
 
 Which stmgs the soul, with vain regret, 
 
 Of him who never can forget ! " 
 
 THE CORNELIAN 
 
 No specious splendoiu: of this stone 
 Endears it to my memory ever ; 
 
 With lustre only once it shone, 
 And blushes modest as the gi^er. 
 
 j Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties 
 
 ^'^ll^u tf "'•^' "■? ^^^^' °^' reproved me ,' 
 \ et still the simple gift I prize 
 For I am sure the giver loved me. 
 
 He offer'd it with downcast look 
 
 T ;:^M ?" "' ',''^' ^ "^^l^' refuse it ; 
 I told him, when the gift I took, 
 M}- only fear should be to lose it. 
 
 This pledge attentively I vie^v'd 
 
 M:thi?vf/^""!.*' ^ '^'='<1 *t near, 
 Methought one drop the stone bedew'd 
 And ever since I\e loved a tear. 
 
 Still, to adorn his humble youth 
 
 Nor wealth nor birth their* trcw-c 
 yield; ^i^i.-es 
 
 But he who socks the flowers of truth 
 Must quit the garden for the field' 
 
HOURS OI" IDLENESS 
 
 'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 
 
 Which beauty shows, and sheds pei'fume ; 
 
 The flowers which yield the most of both 
 In Nature's wild luxmriance bloom. 
 
 Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
 For once forgetting to be blind, 
 
 His would have been an ample share, 
 If well proportion'd to his mind. 
 
 But had the goddess clearly seen, 
 His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 
 
 Her countless hoards would his have been, 
 And none rcmain'd to give the rest. 
 
 AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE 
 
 DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE 
 OF " THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE " AT A 
 PRIVATE THEATRE 
 
 Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
 Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
 Since taste has now expunged licentious 
 
 wit. 
 Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author 
 
 writ ; 
 Since now to please with purer scenes we 
 
 seek, 
 Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's 
 
 cheek ; 
 Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim. 
 And meet indulgence, though she find not 
 
 fame. 
 Still, not for her alone we wish respect. 
 Others appear more conscious of defect : 
 To-night no veteran Roseii you behold. 
 In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
 No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here. 
 No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear ; 
 To-night you throng to witness the debut 
 Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
 Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we 
 
 try; 
 Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 
 Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 
 Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 
 Not one poor trembler only fear betrays. 
 Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet 
 
 your praise. 
 But all our dramatis personas wait 
 In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 
 No venal views our progress can retard, 
 Your generous plaudits are our sole reward. 
 For these, each Hero all his power displays. 
 Each timid Heroine shrinks before your 
 
 gaze. 
 Surely the last will some protection find ; 
 None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 
 While \'outh and Beauty form the female 
 
 shield, 
 ■ The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 
 "Vet, should our feeble efiorts nought avail. 
 Should, after all, our best endeavours fail. 
 Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 
 And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 
 
 B.P-W. 
 
 ON THE DE,\TH OF MR. FOX 
 
 THE FOLLOWIXG ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU 
 APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER 
 
 " Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death. 
 But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd hia 
 
 breath : 
 These feeUngs wide, let sense and truth 
 
 undue. 
 We give the palm where Justice points its 
 
 due." 
 
 TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES 
 SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY 
 
 Oh factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
 Would mangle still the dead, perverting 
 
 truth ; 
 What though our " nation's foes " lament 
 
 the fate, 
 With generous feeling, of the good and 
 
 great. 
 Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the 
 
 name 
 Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
 When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 
 Though ill success obscured his dying hour. 
 Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 
 For noble spirits " war not with the dead : " 
 His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem 
 
 gave, 
 As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
 He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the 
 
 weight 
 Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 
 When, lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 
 Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 
 He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss sup- 
 plied. 
 With him our fast reviving hopes have . 
 
 died ; 
 N'ot one great people only raise his urn, 
 All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
 " These feelings wide, let sense and truth 
 
 undue. 
 To give the palm where Justice points its 
 
 due ; " 
 Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail. 
 Or round our statesman v.-ind her gloomy 
 
 veil. 
 Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world 
 
 must weep. 
 Whose dear remains in honour'd marble 
 
 sleep ; 
 For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations 
 
 groan. 
 While friends and foes alike his talents 
 
 own ; 
 Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 
 Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; 
 Which Envy, wearuig Candour's sacred 
 
 mask. 
 For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 
 
26 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 THE TEAR 
 
 " O lachr^'marum fons, tenero sacros 
 Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater 
 Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray. 
 
 WhSn Friendship or Love our sympathies 
 move, 
 
 When Truth in a glance should appear, 
 The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, 
 
 But the test of affection's a Tear. 
 
 Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile. 
 
 To mask detestation or fear ; 
 Give me thesoft sigh, whilst the soul-telling 
 eye 
 
 Is dimm'd for a while with a Tear. 
 
 Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 
 Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
 
 Compassion will melt where this virtue is 
 felt, 
 And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 
 
 The man doom'd to sail with the blast of 
 the gale. 
 Through billows Atlantic to steer. 
 As he bends o'er the v\'ave which may soon 
 be his grave, 
 The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 
 
 The soldier braves death for a fanciful 
 wreath 
 
 In Glory's romantic career ; 
 But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, 
 
 And bathes every wound with a Tear. 
 
 If with high-bounding pride he return to 
 his bride, 
 Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 
 All his toils are repaid when, embracing the 
 maid. 
 From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 
 
 Sweet scene of my youth ! seat of Friend- 
 ship and Truth, 
 Where love chased each fast-fleeting 
 year. 
 Loth to leave thee, I mourn' d, for a last 
 look I turn'd. 
 But thy spire was scarce seen tlirough a 
 Tear. 
 
 Though my vows I can pour to my Mary 
 no more, 
 My Mary to Love once so dear. 
 In the shade of her bower I remember the 
 hour 
 She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 
 
 By another possest, may she li\-e ever blest ! 
 
 Her name still my heart must revere : 
 With a sigh I resign what I once thought 
 was mine. 
 
 And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 
 
 Ye friends of my heart, ere from j'ou I 
 depart. 
 
 This hope to my breast is most near : 
 If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. 
 
 May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
 
 When my soul wings her flight to the 
 regions of night, 
 And my corse shall recline on its bier. 
 As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes 
 consume. 
 Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
 
 May no marble bestow the splendour of 
 woe 
 Which the children of vanity rear ; 
 No fiction of fame shall blazon my name, 
 All I ask — aU I wish — is a Tear. 
 
 October 35, r8o6. 
 
 REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. 
 PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY 
 OF HIS MISTRESS 
 
 Whv, Pigot, complain of this damsel's 
 disdain, 
 Why thus in despair do 3'ou fret ? 
 For months may you trv, yet, believe me, 
 a sigh 
 Will never obtain a coquette. 
 
 Would you teach her to love ? for a time 
 seem to rove ; 
 
 At first she may frown in a pet ; 
 But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile. 
 
 And then you may Idss yoiir coquette. 
 
 For such are the airs of these fanciful fair-, 
 They think all our homage a debt : 
 
 Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect. 
 And humbles the proudest coquette. 
 
 Dissemble your pain, and lengthen vour 
 chain. 
 And seem her hauteur to regret ; 
 If again you shall sigh, she no more will 
 deny. 
 That yours is the rosy coquette. 
 
 If still, from false pride, vour pangs she 
 deride. 
 This whimsical virgin forget ; 
 Some other admire, who will' melt with 
 your tire. 
 And laugh at the little coquette. 
 
 For me, I adore some twentv or more 
 And love them most dearly ■ but vo't 
 
 Though my heart they enthral, I'd abaiKl^n 
 them all, 
 Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
 
 No longer repine, adopt this design. 
 And break through her sliL;ht-^^■oven net • 
 "t?^ a"'"^ <^'^=P''>"'. no longer forbear 
 To fly from the captious coquette. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 27 
 
 Then quit her, my friend ! your bosoru 
 defend. 
 Ere quite with her snares you're beset : 
 Lest your deep-wounded heart, when 
 incensed by the smart, 
 Should lead you to curse the coquette. 
 October 27, 1806. 
 
 TO THE SIGHING STREPHON 
 
 Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did 
 offend ; 
 Your pardon, a thousand times o'er : 
 From friendship I strove your pangs to 
 remove 
 But I swear I will do so no more. 
 
 Since your beautiful maid your flame has 
 repaid, 
 No more I your folly regret ; 
 She's now most divine, and I bow at the 
 shrine 
 Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
 
 Yet still, I must own, I should never have 
 
 known 
 
 From your verses what else she deserved ; 
 
 Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your 
 
 fate, 
 
 As your fair was so devilish reserved. 
 
 Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magi- 
 cal miss 
 Can such wonderful transports produce ; 
 Since the " world you forget, when your 
 lips once have met," 
 My counsel will get but abuse. 
 
 You say, when ' ' I rove, I know nothing of 
 love ; " 
 'Tis true, I am given to range ; 
 If I rightly remember, I've loved a good 
 number, 
 Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
 
 I will not advance, by the rules of romance, 
 
 To humour a whimsical fair ; 
 Though a smile may deUght, yet a frown 
 won't affright. 
 
 Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
 
 While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall 
 reform. 
 
 To mix in the Platonists' school ; 
 Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, 
 
 Thy mistress would think me a fool. 
 
 And if I should shun every woman for one. 
 Whose image must fill my whole breast — ■ 
 
 Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her — 
 What an insult, 'twould be to the rest ! 
 
 Now, Strephon, good-bye; I cannot deny 
 Your passion appears most absurd ; 
 
 Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, 
 For it only consists in the word. 
 
 TO ELIZA 9 
 
 Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect. 
 Who to woman deny the soul's future 
 existence ; 
 Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their 
 defect. 
 And this doctrine would meet with a 
 general resistance. 
 
 Had their prophet possess'd half an atom 
 of sense. 
 He ne'er would have women from para- 
 dise driven ; 
 Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 
 With women alone he had peopled his 
 heaven. 
 
 Yet still, to increase your calamities more, 
 Kot content with depriving your bodies 
 of spirit. 
 He allots one poor husband to share 
 amongst four ! — 
 With souls you'd dispense ; but this last, 
 who could bear it ? 
 
 His reUgion to please neither party is made ; 
 On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most 
 uncivil ; 
 Still I can't contradict, what so oft has 
 been said, 
 " Though women are angels, yet wed- 
 lock's the devil." 
 
 LACHIN Y GAIR 
 Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of 
 roses ! 
 In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
 Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake 
 reposes. 
 Though still they are sacred to freedom 
 and love : 
 Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains. 
 Round their white summits though ele- 
 ments war ; 
 Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth- 
 flowing fountains, 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy 
 
 wander'd ; 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was 
 
 the plaid ; 
 On chieftains long perish'd my memory 
 
 ponder'd. 
 As daily I strode through the pine- 
 cover 'd glade ; 
 I sougnt not my home till the day's dying 
 
 glory 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar 
 
 star ; 
 For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na 
 
 Garr. 
 
28 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 " Shades of the dead ! have I not heard 
 vour voices 
 Rise on the night-rolling breath of the 
 gale ? " 
 Sureiv the soul of the hero rejoices, 
 And rides on the wind, o'er his own High- 
 land vale. 
 Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist 
 gathers, 
 Winter presides in his cold icv car : 
 Clouds there encircle the forms of my 
 fathers ; 
 They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch 
 na Garr. 
 
 " 111 starr*d, though brave, did no visions 
 foreboding 
 Tell you that fate had forsaken your 
 cause ? " 
 Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 
 Victory crown'd not your fall with ap- 
 plause ; 
 Still were you happ5' in death's earthy 
 slumber. 
 You rest with your clan in the caves of 
 BrEEmar ; 
 The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud 
 number, 
 Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch 
 na Garr. 
 
 Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I 
 left you, 
 Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
 Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft 
 you, 
 Yet still are you dearer than Albion's 
 plain. 
 England ! thy beauties are tame and 
 domestic 
 To one who has roved on the mountains 
 afar : 
 Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 
 The steep frowning glories of dark Loch 
 na Garr. 
 
 And must we own thee but a name, 
 
 And from thv hall of clouds descend ? 
 Nor find a sylph in everv dame, 
 
 A Pylades in every friend ? 
 But leave at once thy realms of air 
 
 To mingling bands of fairy elves ; 
 Confess that woman's false as fair. 
 
 And friends have feeling for — them- 
 
 TO ROMANCE 
 Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 
 
 Auspicious queen of childish joys. 
 Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 
 
 Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
 At length, in spells no longer bound, 
 
 I break the fetters of my youth ; 
 No more I tread thy mystic round, 
 
 But leave thy realms' for those of Truth. 
 And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 
 
 Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
 Where every nymph a goddess seems. 
 
 Whose eyes through ravs immortal roll • 
 While Fancy holds her boundless reign. 
 
 And all assume a varied hue ; 
 When virgins seem no longer vain, 
 
 And even woman's smiles are true. 
 
 With shame I own I've felt thy sway ; 
 
 Repentant, now thy reign is o'er. 
 No more thy precepts I obey, 
 
 No more on fancied pinions soar. 
 Fond fool ! to love a sparkUng eye. 
 
 And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
 To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 
 
 And melt beneath a wanton's tear ! 
 
 Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
 
 Far from thy motlev court I fly. 
 Where Affectation holds her seat. 
 
 And sickly Sensibility ; 
 Whose silly tears can never flow 
 
 For any pangs excepting thine ; 
 Who turns aside from real woe. 
 
 To steep in dew thy gaudy slirine. 
 
 Now join with sable Sympathy, 
 
 With cypress crown'd, arrav'd in weeds. 
 Who heaves with thee her sirnple sigh. 
 
 Whose breast for everv bosom bleeds ; 
 And call thy sylvan female choir. 
 
 To mourn a swain for ever gone. 
 Who once could glow with equal fire. 
 
 But bends not now before thy throne. 
 
 Ye genial nymphs, whose readv tears 
 
 On all occasions swiftlv flow': 
 Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears. 
 
 With fancied flames and phrensv glow ■ 
 Say, will you mourn mv absent naine. 
 
 Apostate from your gentle train ' 
 An infant bard at least mav claim 
 
 From you a sjnnpathetic' strain. 
 
 Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 
 
 The hour of fate is hovering nigh • 
 E'en now the gulf appears in ^^ew, ' 
 
 Where unlamented you must He- 
 Oblivion's blackening lake is seen 
 
 Convulsed bv gales you cannot weather ■ 
 Where you, and eke your gentle queen ' 
 
 Alas ! must perish altogether. 
 
 ■''^'''^■^XER TO SOME ELEGANT VER- 
 SES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE 
 AUTHOR, COMPLAINING Th"? 
 ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS 
 RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN 
 
 "But if any old lady, knight, priest, or phv-ician 
 Should condemn me for printing a second eS," 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 29 
 
 If good Madam Squintum my work should abuso., 
 May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ? " 
 New Bath Gtiidc. 
 
 Candour compels me, Becher ! to c^.'m- 
 
 mend 
 The verse which blends the censor with the 
 
 friend. 
 Your strong yet just reproof extorts ap- 
 plause 
 From me, the heedless and imprudent 
 
 cause. 
 For this w>Id error which pervades ray 
 
 strain; 
 I sue for pardon — must I sue in vain 
 The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ^vavh 
 
 depart : 
 Can youth then hush the dictates of the 
 
 heart ? 
 Piecepts of prudence curb, but can't con- 
 trol. 
 The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
 When Love's delirium haunts the glov.-iii',' 
 
 mind. 
 Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
 Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
 Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental 
 
 chase. 
 The young, the old, have worn the chains of 
 
 love ; 
 Let those they ne'er confined my lay re- 
 prove : • 
 Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing 
 
 power 
 Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
 Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song. 
 The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng. 
 Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers 
 
 flow, 
 To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
 The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — 
 My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple 
 
 truth. 
 Far be't from me the " virgin's mind " to 
 
 " taint : " 
 Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
 The maid whose virgin breast is void of 
 
 guile. 
 Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
 Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton 
 
 leer, 
 Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not 
 
 severe — 
 She whom a conscious grace shall thus 
 
 refine 
 Will ne'er be " tainted " by a strain of 
 
 mine. 
 But for the nymph whose premature'desires 
 Torment her bosom with unholy fires, 
 No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
 She would have fallen, though she ne'er 
 
 had read. 
 For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
 Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
 
 Will spare the childish verse, and not des- 
 troy 
 
 The light effusions of a heedless bov. 
 
 I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
 
 Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud : 
 
 Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely 
 prize, 
 
 Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 
 November 26, 1806. 
 
 ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 " It is the voice of years that are pone ! they roll 
 before me with all their deeds." — Ossian. 
 
 Newstead ! fast-falling, once-resplendent 
 dome ! 
 Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's 
 pride ! 
 i Of warriors, monks, and dames the clois- 
 ter'd tomb. 
 Whose pensive shades around thy ruin's 
 glide. 
 
 Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thv fall 
 Than modern mansions in their pillar'd 
 state : 
 
 Proudly majestic frowns thv vaulted hall, 
 Scowling defiance on the' blasts of fate. 
 
 No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord, 
 In grim array the crimson cross demand : 
 
 Or gav assemble round the festive board 
 Their chief's retainers, an immortal 
 band : 
 
 Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
 Retrace their progress through the lapse 
 of time. 
 
 Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
 A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 
 
 But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the 
 chief ; 
 His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
 In thee the wounded conscience courts 
 relief. 
 Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 
 
 Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades pro- 
 found 
 The monk abjured a world he ne'er 
 could view ; 
 Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace 
 found. 
 Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 
 
 A monarch bade thee from that wild arise. 
 
 Where Sherwood's outlaws once were 
 
 wont to prowl ; 
 
 And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 
 
 Sought shelter in the priest's protecting 
 
 cowl. 
 
30 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
 The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, 
 
 In sainted fame- the sacred fathers grew. 
 Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 
 
 Where now the bats their wavering wings 
 extend 
 Soon as the gloaming spreads her waping 
 shade. 
 The choir did oft their mingling vespers 
 blend, 
 Or matin orisons to Mary paid. 
 
 Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 
 
 Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
 Religion's charter their protecting shield. 
 
 Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 
 
 One holy Henry rear'd the gothic walls, 
 
 And bade the pious inmates rest in 
 
 peace ; 
 
 Another Henry the kind gift recalls. 
 
 And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes 
 
 cease. 
 
 Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 
 
 He drives them exiles from their blest 
 
 abode. 
 
 To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 
 
 No friend, no home, no refuge, but their 
 
 God. 
 
 Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain. 
 
 Shakes with the martial music's novel 
 
 din I 
 
 The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
 
 High crested banners wave thy wali 
 
 within. 
 
 Of changing sentinels the distant hum , 
 The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd 
 arms, 
 
 The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum. 
 Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
 
 An abbey once, a regal fortress now. 
 
 Encircled by insulting rebel powers. 
 War's dread machines o'erhang thy 
 threat'ning brow, 
 And dart destruction in sulphureous 
 showers. 
 
 Ah vain defence ! the hostile traitor's 
 siege. 
 Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes 
 the brave ; 
 His thronging foes oppress the faithful 
 liege. 
 Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him 
 wave. 
 
 Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 
 
 The blood of traitors snicars the purple 
 
 plain ; 
 
 Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he 
 
 wields, 
 
 And days of glory yet for him remain. 
 
 Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to 
 strew 
 Self-gather'd lamrels on a self-sought 
 grave ; 
 But Charles' protecting genius hither flew. 
 The monarch's friend, the monarch s 
 hope, to save. 
 
 Trembling, she snatch'd him from th' 
 unequal strife, 
 In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
 For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, 
 To lead the band where godlike Falk- 
 land fell. 
 
 From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder 
 given, 
 Wnile dying groans their painful requiem 
 sound. 
 Far different incense now ascends to 
 heaven. 
 Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
 
 There many a pale and ruthless robber's 
 corse. 
 Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred 
 sod ; 
 O'er mingling man, and horse coramix'd 
 with horse. 
 Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers 
 trod. 
 
 Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds 
 o'erspread, 
 Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal 
 mould : 
 From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
 Raked from repose in search for buried 
 gold. 
 
 Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike 
 lyre, 
 The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in 
 death ; 
 No more he strikes the quivering chords 
 with fire. 
 Or sings the glories of the martial wTeath. 
 
 At length the sated murderers, gorged with 
 prey, 
 
 Retire : the clamour of the fight is o'er • 
 Silence again resumes her awful sway. 
 
 And sable Horror guards the massy door. 
 
 Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 
 What satellites declare her dismal rei»n i 
 
 Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd b&ds 
 resort. 
 To flit their vigils in the hoary fane 
 
 Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
 The clouds of anarchy from Britain's 
 skies ; 
 
 The fierce usurper seeks his native hell 
 And Nature triumphs as the twant dies' 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 31 
 
 With storms she welcomes his expiring 
 groans ; 
 Wuirlwinds, responsive, greet his labour- 
 ing breath ; 
 Earth shudders as her caves receive his 
 bones, 
 1 Loathing the offering of so dark a death. 
 
 The legal ruler now resumes the helm, 
 He guides through gentle seas the prow 
 of state ; 
 Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peace- 
 ful realm. 
 And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied 
 hate. 
 
 The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy 
 cells, 
 Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
 Again the master on his tenure dwells, 
 Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured 
 zest. 
 
 Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, 
 
 Loudly carousing, bless their lord's re- 
 turn ; 
 Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 
 And matrons, once lamenting, cease to 
 mourn. 
 
 A thousand songs on tuneful echo iJoat, 
 
 Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
 
 And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow 
 
 note, 
 
 The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on 
 
 the breeze. 
 
 Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys 
 shake : 
 What fears, what anxious hopes, attend 
 the chase ! 
 The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; 
 Exulting shouts announce the finish'd 
 race. 
 
 Ah, happy days ! too happy to endure ! 
 Such simple sports our plain forefathers 
 knew ; 
 No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 
 Their joys were many, as their cares 
 were few. 
 
 From these descending, sons to sires suc- 
 ceed ; 
 Time steals along, and Death uprears 
 his dart ; 
 Another chief impels the foaming steed. 
 Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 
 
 Newstead ! what saddening change of 
 scene is thine ! 
 Thy yawnitig arch betokens slow decay ; 
 The last and youngest of a noble line 
 Now holds thy mouldering turrets in 
 his sway. 
 
 Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn 
 towers ; 
 Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages 
 sleep 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry 
 showers ; 
 These, these he views, and views them 
 but to weep. 
 
 Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 
 Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 
 
 Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget. 
 But warm his bosom with impassion'd 
 glow. 
 
 Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
 
 Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great ; 
 
 Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy 
 
 tombs 
 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will 
 
 of fate. 
 
 Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine. 
 Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
 
 Hours splendid as the past may slill be 
 thine. 
 And bless thy future as thy former day. 
 
 CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 " I cannot but remember such things were, 
 And were most dear to me." 
 
 When slow Disease, with all her host of 
 
 pains. 
 Chills the warm tide which flows along tlie 
 
 veins ; 
 When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy 
 
 wing, 
 And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
 Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
 Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
 What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, 
 Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the 
 
 blow, 
 With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
 While Hope retires appall'd, and chngs to 
 
 life. 
 \"et less the pang when, through the tedious 
 
 hour. 
 Remembrance sheds around her genial 
 
 power. 
 Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture 
 
 given. 
 When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd 
 
 our heaven ; 
 Or, dear to youth, portrays each childibh 
 
 scene, 
 Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have 
 
 been. 
 As when through clouds that pour the sum- 
 mer storm 
 The orb of day unveils his distant form. 
 Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of 
 
 rain, 
 And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
 
32 
 
 HOUKS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Thus, while the future dark and cheerless 
 
 gleams, 
 The sun of memory, glowing through my 
 
 dreams. 
 Though sunk the radiance of his former 
 
 blaze. 
 To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
 Still rules my senses with unbounded sway. 
 The past confounding with the present day. 
 
 Oft does my heart indulge the rising 
 
 thought, 
 Which still recurs, unlook'd for and un- 
 sought ; 
 My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields. 
 And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 
 Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to 
 
 view, 
 To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
 Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
 Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams ; 
 Some who in marble prematurely sleep. 
 Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
 Some who yet urge the same scholastic 
 
 course 
 Of early science, future fame the source ; 
 Who, still contending in the studious race, 
 In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
 These with a thousand visions now unite, 
 To dazzle, though they please, my aching 
 
 sight. 
 Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her 
 
 reign, 1 
 
 How joyous once I join'd thy youthful ' 
 
 train ! 
 Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire. 
 Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 
 Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, | 
 Unchanged by time or distance, seem the 
 
 same ; 
 Through winding paths along the glade, I 
 
 trace 
 The social smile of every welcome face ; 
 My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and 
 
 woe. 
 Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 
 Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship 
 
 past, — 
 I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
 Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my 
 
 breast. 
 To love a stranger, friendship made me 
 
 blest,— 
 Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth. 
 When every artless bosom thr(ibs with 
 
 truth ; 
 Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign. 
 And check each impulse with prudential 
 
 rein ; 
 When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
 In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
 No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
 No dear-bought knowledge purchased by 
 
 deceit. 
 
 Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years. 
 Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
 When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 
 , His careful sire chalks forth some wary 
 plan ; 
 Instructs his son from candour's path to 
 
 shrink. 
 Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 
 Still to assent, and never to den}- — 
 A patron's praise can well reward the 
 
 lie : 
 And who, when Fortune's warning voice is 
 ! heard, 
 
 ; Would lose his opening prospects for a 
 
 word ? 
 Although against that word his heart rebel, 
 I And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 
 
 I Away with themes like this ! not mine 
 
 ! the task 
 
 From flattering friends to tear the hateful 
 
 I mask ; 
 
 I Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
 
 I My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing ; 
 
 j Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly 
 blow, 
 
 I To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
 But when that foe, from feeling or from 
 
 ] shame, 
 
 The cause unknown, yet sttU to me the 
 
 same, 
 Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, 
 
 retired. 
 With this submission all her rage expired. 
 From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to 
 
 save, 
 She hush'd her young resentment, and for- 
 gave ; 
 Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
 PoMPOsus' 1" virtues are but known to few : 
 I never fear'd the young usurper's nod. 
 And he who wields must sometimes feel the 
 
 rod. 
 If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
 Who share the converse of a college hall 
 She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain] 
 'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again ; 
 Soon must her early song for ever cease 
 And all may rail when I shall rest in peace! 
 
 Here first remeraber'd be the jovous band 
 Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ' 
 Whojom'dwithme in everv boyish sport— 
 Their first adviser, and theu: last resort ■ 
 Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's 
 
 frown. 
 Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
 A\'ho, thus transplanted from his fathers 
 
 school — 
 Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
 Succeeded him, whom all uilite to praise 
 The dear preceptor of mv earlv days ; 
 
 Probus," the pride of science, aiid the boast 
 To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost, " ' 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 33 
 
 With hira, for years, we search'd the classic 
 page, 
 
 And fear'd the master, though we loved the 
 sage : 
 
 Retured at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
 
 From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 
 
 PoMPosus fills his magisterial chair ; 
 
 PoMPOSUS governs, — but, my muse, for- 
 bear : 
 
 Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
 
 His name and precepts be alike forgot ; 
 
 No inore his mention shall my verse de- 
 grade, — 
 
 To him my tribute is already paid. 
 
 High, through those elms, with hoary 
 
 branches crown'd, 
 Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape 
 
 round ; 
 There Science, from her favour'd seat, sur- 
 veys 
 The vale where rural Nature claims her 
 
 praise ; 
 To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
 Who move in joy, and dance along the 
 
 plain ; 
 In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt 
 
 pursue. 
 Repeat old pastimes, and discover new : 
 Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide 
 
 sun. 
 In rival bands, between the wickets run, 
 Drive o'er the sward the ball with active 
 
 force. 
 Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
 But these with slower steps direct their way. 
 Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents 
 
 stray ; 
 While yonder few search out some green 
 
 retreat 
 And arbours shade them from the summer 
 
 heat : 
 Others, again, a pert and lively crew. 
 Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed 
 
 in view, 
 With frolic quaint their antic jests expose. 
 And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
 Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
 Tradition treasures for a future day : 
 " 'Twas here the gather'd swains for ven- 
 geance fought. 
 And here we earn'd the conquest dearly 
 
 bought ; 
 Here have we fled before superior might. 
 And here renew'd the wild tumultuous 
 
 fight." 
 While thus our souls with early passions 
 
 swell, 
 In lingering tones resounds the distant bell, 
 Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, 
 And Learning beckons from her temple's 
 
 door. 
 \o splendid tablets grace her simple hall. 
 But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
 
 There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's 
 
 name 
 Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
 Here mingling view the names of sire and 
 
 son — 
 The one long graved, the other just begun : 
 These shall siu'vive alike when son and sire 
 Beneath one common stroke of fate ex- 
 pire : ^' 
 Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
 Denied in (^eath a monumental stone. 
 Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence 
 
 wave 
 The sighing weeds that hide their nameless 
 
 grave. 
 And here my name, and many an early 
 
 friend's. 
 Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
 Though still our deeds amuse the youthful 
 
 race. 
 Who tread our steps, and fill our former 
 
 place. 
 Who young obey'd their lords in silent av,T, 
 Whose nod commanded, and whose voice 
 
 was law : 
 ■\nd now, in turn, possess the reins of power. 
 To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; 
 Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient 
 
 day. 
 They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
 " And thus our former rulers stemm'd the 
 
 tide, 
 .And thus they dealt the combat side by 
 
 side ; 
 J ust in this place the mouldering walls they 
 
 scaled. 
 Nor bolts nor bars against their strength 
 
 avail'd ; '^ 
 Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, 
 .And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
 And here one night abroad they dared to 
 
 roam. 
 While bold Pomposus bravely staid at 
 
 home ; " 
 While thus they speak, the hour must soon 
 
 arrive. 
 When names of these, like ours, alone sur- 
 vive ; 
 Yet a few years, one general wreck will 
 
 whelm 
 The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 
 
 Dear honest race ! though now we meet 
 
 no more, 
 One last long look on what we were before — 
 Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
 Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with 
 
 you. 
 Tlurough splendid circles, fashion's gaudy 
 
 world, 
 Where foUv's glaring standard waves un- 
 
 furl'd,' 
 I plimged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
 .And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
 
34 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd 
 
 face, 
 Some old companion of my early race, 
 Advanced to claim his friend with honest 
 
 joy, 
 My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a 
 
 boy ; 
 The glittering scene, the fluttering groups 
 
 around, 
 Were quite forgotten when my friend was 
 
 found ; 
 The smiles of beauty — (for, alas ! I've 
 
 known 
 What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty 
 
 throne) — 
 The smiles of beauty, though those smiles 
 
 were dear. 
 Could hardly charm me, when that friend 
 
 was near : 
 My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond sur- 
 prise. 
 The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
 I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
 I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
 Panting, again I traced her lofty grove. 
 And friendship's feelings triumph'd over 
 
 love. 
 
 Yet, why should I alone with such de- 
 light 
 
 Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
 
 Is there no cause beyond the common 
 claim 
 
 Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
 
 Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates 
 here, 
 
 Which whispers friendship will be doubly- 
 dear 
 
 To one who thus for kindred hearts must 
 roam. 
 
 And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
 
 Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in 
 thee — ■ 
 
 \ home, a world, a paradise to me. 
 
 Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to 
 share 
 
 The tender guidance of a father's care. 
 
 Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, sup- 
 ply 
 
 The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
 
 For this can wealth or title's sound atone. 
 
 Made, by a parents early loss, my own ? 
 
 What brother springs a brother's love to 
 seek ? 
 
 What sister's gentle kiss has prest mv 
 cheek ? 
 
 For me how dull the vacant moments 
 rise, 
 
 To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
 
 Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
 
 Fraternal sntik-^ collected round me seem ; 
 
 While still the visions to my heart are 
 prest, 
 
 The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
 
 I hear— I wake— and in the sound rejoice, 
 I hear again,— but, ah ! no brother;s voice 
 A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must 
 
 Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the 
 way : ., 
 
 While tlicse a thousand kindred wreatns 
 entwine, 
 
 I cannot call one single blossom mine . 
 
 What then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
 
 To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
 
 Thus must I cling to some endearing bano. 
 
 And none more dear than Ida's social band. 
 
 Alonzo ! 14 best and dearest ofmyfriends, 
 Thy name ennobles him who thus com- 
 mends : 
 From this fond tribute thou canst gam no 
 
 praise ; 
 The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
 Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
 If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
 Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious 
 
 name. 
 To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
 Friend of my heart, and foremost of the 
 
 Ust 
 Of those with whom I li\-cd supremely 
 
 blest, 
 Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient 
 
 lore ; 
 Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the 
 
 more. 
 Yet, when confinement's lingering hour 
 
 was done. 
 Our sports, our studies, and our souls were 
 
 one : 
 Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
 Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
 Together join'd in cricket's manly toil. 
 Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
 Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 
 Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
 In every element, unchanged, the same. 
 All, all that brothers should be, but the 
 
 name. 
 
 Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
 Davus,'-'^ the harbinger of childish joy ; 
 For ever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
 The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
 
 \'et with a breast of such materials made '- 
 
 An.xious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
 Candid and hberal, \\ith a heart of steei 
 In danger's path, though not untaught to 
 
 feci. 
 Still I remember, in the factious strife 
 The rustic's musket aim'd against' mi- 
 
 life : '6 
 High poised in air the massy weapon hun? 
 A cry of horror bm'st from every tongue ■ 
 Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
 Fought on, unconscious of th' impending 
 
 blow ; * 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 35 
 
 Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
 Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 
 Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering 
 
 hand, 
 The grovelling savage roU'd upon the sand: 
 An act like this, can simple thanks repay ? 
 Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? 
 Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the 
 
 deed. 
 That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 
 
 Lvcrs ! on me thy claims are justly 
 
 great : " 
 Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
 To thee alone, imrivall'd, would belong 
 The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
 Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates 
 
 fit, 
 A Spartan firnmess with Athenian wit : 
 Though yet in embryo these perfections 
 
 shine, 
 Lvcus ! thy father's fame will soon be 
 
 thine. 
 Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
 What may we hope from genius thus re- 
 fined ! 
 When time at length matures thy growing 
 
 years, 
 Hqw wilt thou tower above thy fellow 
 
 peers ! 
 Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
 With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 
 
 Shall fair Euryalus ^^ pass by unsimg ? 
 From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung ; 
 What though one sad dissension bade us 
 
 part. 
 That name is yet embalm'd within my 
 
 heart ; 
 Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
 And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
 Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
 We once were friends, — -I'll think we are so 
 
 still. 
 A form unmatch'd in nature's partial 
 
 mould, 
 A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
 Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt 
 
 wield, 
 Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
 To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
 Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
 Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat. 
 But that thy tongue could never forge 
 
 deceit '. 
 The courtier's supple bow and sneering 
 
 smile. 
 The flow of compliment, the slippery wile. 
 Would make that breast with indignation 
 
 burn. 
 And all the glittering snares to tempt thee 
 
 spurn. 
 Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
 Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
 
 The world admire thee, and thy friends 
 
 adore ; 
 Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 
 
 Now last, but nearest, of the social band. 
 See honest, open, generous Cleon '" stand ; 
 With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing 
 
 scene. 
 No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
 On the same day our studious race begun. 
 On the same day our studious race was run ; 
 Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 
 Thus side by side we strove for many a 
 
 year ; 
 At last concluded our scholastic life, 
 We neither conquer'd in the classic strife : 
 As speakers each supports an equal name. 
 And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
 To soothe a youthful rival's early pride. 
 Though Cleon's candour would the palm 
 
 divide. 
 Yet candour's self compels me now to own 
 Justice awards it to my friend alone. 
 
 Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever 
 
 dear. 
 Remembrance hails you with her warmest 
 
 tear! 
 Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's 
 
 urn. 
 To trace the hours which never can return ; 
 Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
 And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
 Yet greets the triumph of my boj'ish mind, 
 As infant laurels round my head were 
 
 twined, 
 When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song. 
 Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
 Or when my first harangue received ap- 
 plause, 
 rlis sage instruction the primeval cause, 
 vVhat gratitude to him my soul possest, 
 While hope of dawning honours fill'd my 
 
 breast ! 
 For all my humble fame, to him alone 
 The praise is due, who made that fame my 
 
 own. 
 Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays. 
 These young effusions of my early days, 
 To him my muse her noblest strain would 
 
 give : 
 The song might perish, but the theme 
 
 might live. 
 I Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
 ! His honour'd name requires no vain dis- 
 I play : 
 
 By every son of grateful Ida blest, 
 I It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
 A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 
 Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 
 
 I Ida ! not yet exhausted is the theme, 
 Nor closed the progress of my youthful 
 dream. 
 
36 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 How many a friend deserves the grateful 
 
 strain ! 
 Wtiat scenes of childhood still unsung 
 
 remain ! 
 Vet let me hush this echo of the past, 
 This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
 And brood m secret o'er those hours of joy. 
 To me a silent and a sweet employ, 
 While future hope and fear alike unknown, 
 I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
 Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 
 And chase the phantom of what once was 
 
 mine. 
 
 Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
 And proudly steer through time's eventful 
 
 tide ; 
 Still may thy blooming sons thy nam.? 
 
 revere, 
 Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a 
 
 tear, — 
 That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will I 
 
 flow. 
 O'er their last scene of happiness below . 
 Tell me, ye hoary few. who glide along. 
 The feeble veterans of some former throng 
 Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tem- 
 pests whirl'd. 
 Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
 Revolve the fleeting moments of your 
 
 youth. 
 While Care has vet withheld her veuom'd 
 
 tooth ; 
 Say if remembrance days like these endears 
 Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
 Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
 So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of 
 
 woe ? 
 Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless 
 
 son, 
 Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter 
 
 won. 
 Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
 (For glittering baubles are not left to boys) 
 Recall one scene so much beloved to vitw. 
 As those where Youth her garland twined 
 
 for you ? 
 Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
 You turn with faltering hand life's varied 
 
 page; 
 Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
 Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
 Still lingering pause above each chequer'd 
 
 leaf, 
 And blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; 
 Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle 
 
 threw, 
 Or weeping \'irtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
 But bless the scroll which f airerwords adorn. 
 Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; 
 When Friendship bow'd before the shrine 
 
 of truth. 
 And Love, without his pinion, smiled on 
 
 Youth, 
 
 AXSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, 
 
 ENTITLED *' THE COMMON LOT " 
 
 Montgomery ! true, the common lot 
 Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
 
 Yet some shall never be forgot, 
 Some shall exist beyond the grave. 
 
 " Unknown the region of his birth," 
 The hero rolls the tide of war ; 
 
 Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
 Which glares a meteor from afar. 
 
 His joy or grief, his weal or woe, 
 
 Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 
 
 Yet nations now unborn will know 
 The record of his deathless name. 
 
 The patridt's and the poet's frame 
 Must share the common tomb of all : 
 
 Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
 That will arise, though empires fall. 
 
 The lustre of a beauty's eye. 
 
 Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
 
 The fair, the brave, the good must die. 
 And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
 
 Once more the speaking eye revi\-es. 
 
 Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 
 For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
 
 She died, but ne'er will die again. 
 
 The rolling seasons pass away, 
 
 And Time, untiring, waves his wing : 
 
 Whilst- honour's laurels ne'er decay. 
 But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 
 
 All, all must sleep in grim repose. 
 
 Collected in the silent tomb ; 
 The old and young, with friends and foes, 
 
 Fest'ring alike in shrouds, consume. 
 
 The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
 ; Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 
 To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey. 
 
 The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
 
 1 What, though the sculpture be destroy'J. 
 
 From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 
 \ A bright renown shall be enjoy'd, 
 1 By those whose virtues claim reward. 
 
 Then do not say the common lot 
 j Of all lies deep in Lethe's wa\-e ; 
 ' Some few who ne'er will be forgot ' 
 Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 
 
 iSo6 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE 
 VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER 
 TRESSES 
 
 This Band, which bound thv yellow hair 
 Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love'- 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 3> 
 
 It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
 Like relics left of saints above. 
 
 Oh ! I will wear it next my heart ; 
 
 'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee ; 
 From me again 'twill ne'er depart, 
 
 But mingle in the grave with me. 
 
 The dew I gather from thy lip 
 
 Is not so dear to me as this ; 
 That I but for a moment sip 
 
 And banquet on a transient bliss : | 
 
 This will recall each youthful scene. 
 E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 
 
 The leaves of Love will still be green 
 When Memory bids them bud again. 
 
 Oh ! little lock of golden hue. 
 In gently waving ringlet curl'd, 
 
 By the dear head on which you grew, 
 I would not lose you for a world. 
 
 Not though a thousand more adorn 
 
 The polish'd brow where once you shone, 
 
 Like rays which gild a cloudless morn, 
 Beneath. Columbia's fervid zone. 
 
 1806. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON 
 HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX 
 MORE WITH SOCIETY 
 
 Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with 
 
 mankind ; 
 
 I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
 
 But retirement accords with the tone of 
 
 my mind : 
 
 I will not descend to a world I despise. 
 
 Did the senate or camp my exertions 
 require. 
 Ambition might prompt me, at once, to 
 go forth ; 
 When infancy's years of probation expire. 
 Perchance I may strive to distinguish 
 my birth. 
 
 The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd, 
 Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; 
 
 At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd. 
 No torrent can quench it, no bounds can 
 repress. 
 
 Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
 Bids me live but to hope for posterity's 
 praise. 
 Could I soar with the phceuix on pinions of 
 flame. 
 With him I would wish to expire in the 
 blaze. 
 
 For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the 
 death, 
 What censure, what danger, what woe 
 would I brave ! 
 
 Their lives did not end when they yiclde' 
 their breath ; 
 Their glory illumines the gloom of their 
 grave. 
 
 ■^'et why should I mingle in Fashion's full 
 herd ? 
 Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to 
 her rules ? 
 Why bend to the proud, or applaud the 
 absurd ? 
 Why search for delight in the friendship 
 of fools ? 
 
 I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of 
 love ; 
 In friendship I early was taught to be- 
 lieve ; 
 My passion the matrons of prudence re- 
 prove ; 
 I have found that a friend may profess, 
 yet deceive. 
 
 To me what is wealth ? — it may pass in an 
 hour. 
 If tjTants prevail, or if Fortune should 
 fro\^'n : 
 To me what is title ? — the phantom of 
 power ; 
 To me what is fashion ? — I seek but 
 
 Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 
 
 I still am unpractised to varnish the 
 
 truth : 
 
 Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 
 
 Why waste upon folly the days of my 
 
 youth ? 
 
 1806. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 'Tis done ! — I saw it in my dreams : 
 No more with Hope the future beams ; 
 
 My days of happiness are few ; 
 Chilf d by misfortune's wintry blast. 
 My dawn of life is overcast ; 
 
 Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu ! 
 
 Would I could add Remembrance too ! 
 
 1806. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA 
 
 AN IMITATION' OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN 
 
 Dear are the days of youth ! Age 
 dwells on their remembrance through the 
 mist of time. In the twiUght he recalls 
 the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his 
 spear with trembling hand. " Not thus 
 feebly did I raise the steel before my 
 fathers ! " Past is the race of heroes. 
 But their fame rises on the harp ; their 
 souls ride on the v/ings of the wind ; they 
 hear the sound through the sighs of the 
 
38 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds ! 
 Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks 
 his narrow house. He looks down from 
 eddying tempests : he rolls his form in the 
 whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the 
 mountain. 
 
 In Morven dwelt the chief ; a beam of 
 war to Fingal. His steps in the field were 
 marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled 
 before his angry spear ; but mild was the 
 eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his 
 yellow locks : they streamed like the 
 meteor of the night. No maid was the 
 sigh of his soul : his thoughts were given to 
 friendship, — to dark-haired Orla, destroyer 
 of heroes ! Equal were their swords in 
 battle ; but fierce was the pride of Orla : — 
 gentle alone to Calmar. Together the)- 
 dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 
 
 From Lochlin, Svvaran bounded o'er the 
 blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his 
 might. Fingal roused his chiefs to com- 
 bat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their 
 hosts throng on the green hills. They 
 come to the aid of Erin. 
 
 Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils 
 the armies : but the blazing oaks gleam 
 through the valley. The sons of Lochlin 
 slept : their dreams were of blood. They 
 lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. 
 Not so the host of Morven. To watch \vas 
 the post of Orla. Calmar stood bv his 
 side. Their spears were in their hands. 
 Fingal called his chiefs : they stood around. 
 The king was in the midst. Gray were 
 his locks, but strong was the arm' of the 
 king. Age withered not his powers. 
 " Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to- 
 morrow we meet the foe. But where is 
 e uthullin, the shield of Erin ? He rests 
 in the halls of Tura ; he knows not of our 
 coming. Who will speed through Lochlin 
 to the hero, and call the chief to arms ? 
 The path is by the swords of fues ; but 
 many are my heroes. They are thunder- 
 bolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! Who 
 \viU arise ? " 
 
 " Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," 
 said dark-haired Orla, " and mine alone. 
 \Vhat is death to me ? I love the sleep of 
 t'ne mighty, but little is the danger. The 
 sons of Lochlin dream. 1 will seek car- 
 borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song 
 of bards ; and lay me bv the stream of 
 t Lubar."— " And shalt thou fall alone ? " 
 said fair-haired Calmar. " Wilt thou 
 leave thy friend afar ? Chief of Oithona ! 
 not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I 
 see thee die, and not lift the spear ? No, 
 Orla ! ours has been the chase of the roe- 
 buck, and the feast of shells ; ours be the 
 path of danger : ours has been the cave of 
 Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on 
 the banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said 
 
 the chief of Oithona, " why should thy 
 yellow locks be darkened in the dust of 
 Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father 
 dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in 
 his boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads 
 the feast for her son in ilorven. She 
 listens to the steps of the hunter on the 
 heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. 
 Let her not say, ' Calmar has fallen by the 
 steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy 
 Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why 
 should tears dim the azure eye of Mora ? 
 Why should her voice curse Orla, the 
 destroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar ! 
 Live to raise my stone of moss ; live to 
 revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. 
 Join the song of bards above my grave. 
 Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, 
 from the voice of Calmar. My ghost 
 shall smile on the notes of praise." " Or- 
 la," said the son of Mora, " could I raise 
 the song of death to my friend ? Could 
 I give his fame to the winds ? No, my 
 heart would speak in sighs : faint and 
 broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla 1 
 our souls shall hear the song together. 
 One cloud shall be ours on high : the 
 bards will mingle the names of Orla and 
 Calmar." 
 
 They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their 
 steps are to the host of Lochlin. The 
 dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through 
 the night. The northern star points the 
 path to Tura. Sv.aran, the king, rests 
 on his lonely hill. Here the troops are 
 mixed : they frown in sleep ; their shields 
 beneath their heads. Their swords gleam 
 at distance in heaps. The fires are faint ; 
 their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed ■ 
 but the gale sighs on the rocks abo\-e! 
 Lightly wheel the heroes through the 
 slumbering band. Half the journey is 
 past, when JIathon, resting on his shield 
 meets the eye of Orla. It roUs in flame[ 
 and glistens through the shade. His spear 
 is raised on high. " Whv dost thou bend 
 thy brow, chief of Oithona?" said fair- 
 haired Calmar ; " we are in the midst of 
 foes. Is this a time for delav ? " " It is 
 a time for \-eng:ance," said' Orla of the 
 gloomy brow. ■ .Mathon of Lochlin 
 sleeps : seest thou his spear ? Its point 
 13 dim with the gore of my father. The 
 blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ■ but 
 shall I slay him sleeping, son of ^iora ' 
 .\o ! he shall feel his wound : mv fame 
 shall not soar on the blood of sl'umber 
 Rise, Mathon, rise ! The son of Conuai 
 calls ; thy life is his ; rise to combat " 
 .Mathon starts from sleep ; but did lie 
 rise alone ? No : the gathering chiefs 
 bound on the plain. " Fly ! Calmar 
 fly ! satd dark-haired Orla. " .Mathon is 
 mine. I shall die in joy : but Lochlin 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 39 
 
 crowds around. Fly through the shade of 
 night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon 
 Is cleft ; his shield falls from his arm : 
 he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the 
 iide of the blazing oak. Strumon sees 
 him fall : his wrath rises : his weapon 
 glitters on the head of Orla ; but a spear 
 pierced his eye. His brain gushes through 
 the wound, and foams on the spear of 
 Calmar. As roll the waves of the Ocean 
 un two mighty barks of the north, so pour 
 the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, 
 breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer 
 the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of 
 Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. 
 The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. 
 He strikes his shield ; his sons throng 
 around ; the people pour along the heath. 
 Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in 
 his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The 
 eagle wing of Filian floats on the wind. 
 Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are 
 the widows of Lochlin ! Morven prevails 
 in its strength. 
 
 Mom glimmers on the hills : no living 
 foe is seen ; but' the sleepers are many ; 
 grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of 
 ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not 
 awake. The hawks scream above their 
 prey. 
 
 Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast 
 of a chief ? Bright as the gold of the 
 stranger, they mingle with the dark hair 
 of his friend. 'Tis Calmar : he lies on the 
 bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of 
 blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy 
 Orla. He breathes not ; but his eye is 
 still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. 
 His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but 
 Calmar lives ! he lives, though low. 
 " Rise," said the king, " rise, son of Mora : 
 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. 
 Calmar may yet bound on the hills of 
 Morven." 
 
 " Never more shall Calmar chase the 
 deer of Morven with Orla," said the hero. 
 " What were the chase to me alone ? 
 Who would share the spoils of battle with 
 Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was 
 thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of 
 morn. It glared on others in lightning : 
 to me a silver beam of night. Bear my 
 sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in 
 my empty hall. It is not pure from blood ; 
 but it could not save Orla. Lay me with 
 my friend. Raise the song when I arn 
 dark ! " 
 
 They are laid by the stream of Lubar. 
 Four gray stones mark the dwelling of 
 Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was 
 bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. 
 The winds gave our barks to Morven : — 
 the bards raised the song. 
 
 " What form rises on the roar of clouds ? 
 
 Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams 
 of tempests ? His voice rolls on the 
 thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown chief of 
 Oithona. He was unmatched in war. 
 Peace to thy soul, Orla ! thy fame will 
 not perish. Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely 
 wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora ; but 
 not harmless was thy sword. It hangs 
 in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek 
 around its steel. Hear thy praise, Cal- 
 mar ! It dwells on the voice of the 
 mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes 
 of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, 
 son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of 
 the rainbow ; and smile through the tears 
 of the storm." 
 
 L'AJIITlfi EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES 
 
 Why should my anxious breast repine, 
 
 Because my youth is fled ? 
 Days of delight may slill be mine ; 
 
 Aflection is not dead. 
 In tracing back the years of youth. 
 One firm record, one lasting truth 
 
 Celestial consolation brings ; 
 Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat. 
 Where first my heart responsive beat, — 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 
 
 Through few, but deeply chequer'd year^, 
 
 What moments have been mine ! 
 Now half obscured by clouds of tears, 
 
 Now bright in rays divine ; 
 Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
 My soul, enraptured with the past, 
 
 To one idea fondly clings ; 
 Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
 Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — ■ 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings I " 
 
 Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 
 
 Their branches on the gale. 
 Unheeded heaves a simple grave. 
 
 Which tells the common tale ; 
 Round this unconscious schoolboys straj-. 
 Till the dull knell of childish play 
 
 From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
 But here whene'er my footsteps move. 
 My silent tears too plainly prove 
 
 ' ' Friendship is Love without his wings ! ' ' 
 
 Oh, Love ! before thy glowing shrine 
 
 My early vows were paid ; 
 My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 
 
 But these are now decay'd ; 
 For thine are pinions like the wind, 
 No trace of thee remains behind. 
 
 Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
 Away, away ! delusive power. 
 Thou Shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 
 
 Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 
 
40 
 
 HOURS OF IDLJjINJiSS 
 
 Seat of my youth ! thy distant spire 
 
 Recalls each scene of joy ; 
 My bosom glows with former fire, — 
 
 In mind again a boy. 
 Thv grove of elms, thy verdant hill. 
 Thy every path delights me still. 
 
 Each fiower a double fragrance flings ; 
 Again, as once, in converse gay, 
 Each dear associate seems to say, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 
 
 Jly Li-cus !'" wherefore dost thou weep ? 
 
 Thy falling tears restrain ; 
 Affection for a time may sleep. 
 
 But, oh, 'twill wake again. 
 Think, think, my friend, when next we 
 
 meet. 
 Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 
 
 From this my hope of rapture springs : 
 While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
 Absence, my friend, can only tell, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings I '" 
 
 In one, and one alone deceived, 
 
 Did I my error mourn ? 
 No — ^from oppressive bonds relieved, 
 
 I left the wretch to scorn. 
 I turn'd to those my childhood knew. 
 With feelings warm, with bosoms true. 
 
 Twined with my heart's according strin'js. 
 And till those vital chords shall bre^k, 
 For none but these my breast shall wake 
 
 Friendship, the power deprived of wings i 
 
 Ve few ! my soul, my life is yours, 
 
 IMy memory and my hope ; 
 \'our worth a lasting io\-e insures, 
 
 Unfetter'd in its scope ; 
 From smooth deceit and terror sprung. 
 With aspect fair and honev'd tongue. 
 
 Let Adulation wait on kings ; 
 With joy elate, by snares beset. 
 We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 
 
 Fictions and dreams inspire the bai'd 
 
 Who rolls the epic song ; 
 Friendship and truth be m}- reward — 
 
 To me no bays belong ; 
 If laurell'd Fanie but dwells with Ues, 
 -Me the enchantress e\er flies. 
 
 Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ■ 
 Simple and >-oung, I dare not feigii ; ' 
 
 Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain. 
 
 " Friendship is i.o\-e without his wings ! " 
 December, 1806. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF XATURE 
 Father of Light ! great God of Heaven 1 
 
 Hear st thou the accents of despair ' ' 
 Can guilt like man's be e'er forgi\.en ? 
 
 Can vice atone for crimes by praver ? 
 
 Father of Light, on thee I call ! 
 
 Thou see'st my soul is dark withm , 
 Thou who canst mark the sparrow s faU, 
 
 A\-ert from me the death of sm. 
 
 No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 
 
 Oh, point to me the path of truth ! 
 Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 
 
 Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 
 
 Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 
 
 Let superstition hail the pile. 
 Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 
 
 With tales of mystic rights beguile. 
 
 Shall man confine his Maker's swav 
 To Gothic domes of mouldering "stone ? 
 
 Thy temple is the face of dav ; 
 
 Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless 
 throne. 
 
 I Shall man condemn his race to hell, 
 i Unless they bend in pompous form ? 
 I Tell us that all, for one who fell, 
 I Must perish in the mingling storm ? 
 
 I Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 
 I Yet doom his brother to expire, 
 j Whose soul a different hope supplies. 
 Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 
 
 ; Shall these, bv creeds they can't expound 
 Prepare a fancied bliss or woe ? 
 Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground. 
 Their great Creator's purpose know ? 
 
 i Shall those, who live for self alone, 
 
 i Whose years float on in,dailv crime 
 
 Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, 
 I .\nd live beyond the bounds of Time ? 
 
 Father ! no prophet'^ laws I seek 
 
 Thy laws in Nature's works appear-— 
 1 own mvself corrupt and weak ' 
 
 I ^-et will I pray, for thou wUt'hear ! 
 Thou, who canst guide the w^,,^ ■ 
 
 Through trackless re^^s'^oj™?,^*^ 
 space ; ™ «iher s 
 
 ^'\J''"=5' m>- God, to Thee I call i 
 
 \\ hatever weal or ^^-oe betide 
 By thy command I rise or fan' 
 
 In thy prot< ction I confide. 
 
 If, when this dust to ri„=f'- 
 My soul shall flU^^rairj-ltg!"' 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 41 
 
 How shall thy glorious name adored 
 Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
 
 But, if this ileeting spirit share 
 With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
 
 While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 
 Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
 
 To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 
 Grateful for all thy mercies past. 
 
 And hope, my God, to thee again 
 This erring life may fly at last. 
 
 December 29, 1806. 
 
 TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. " 
 " Nil ego contuleriin jocundo sanus amico." — Hor. 
 
 Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene. 
 
 While all around in slumber lie, 
 The joyous days which ours have been 
 
 Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
 Thus if amidst the gathering storm. 
 While clouds the darken'd noon deform. 
 Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
 I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
 Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
 And bids the war of tempests cease. 
 Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
 I think those days may come again ; 
 Or if, in melancholy mood. 
 Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
 To check my bosom's fondest thought. 
 
 And interrupt the golden dream, 
 I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 
 
 And still indulge my wonted theme. 
 Although we ne'er again can trace. 
 
 In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; 
 Nor through the groves of Ida chase 
 
 Our raptured visions as before. 
 Though Youth has f own on rosy pinion. 
 And Manhood claims his stern dominion. 
 Age will not every hope destroj'. 
 But yield some hours of sober joy. 
 
 Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
 Will shed around some dews of spring : 
 But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
 Which bloom among the fairy bowers. 
 Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
 And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
 If frowning Age, with cold control. 
 Confines the current of the soul. 
 Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
 Or checks the sympathetic sigh. 
 Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan. 
 And bids me feel for self alone ; 
 Oh ! may iiiy bosom never learn 
 
 To soothe its wonted heedless flow ; 
 Still, still despise the censor stern. 
 
 But ne'er forget another's woe. 
 Yes, as you knew me in the days 
 O'er which Remembrance yet delays. 
 Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild. 
 And even in age at heart a child.' 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 Though now on airy visions borne, 
 
 To j'ou my soul is stiU the same. 
 Oft has it been my fate to mourn. 
 
 And all ray former joys are tame. 
 But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue '. 
 
 Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er : 
 By e\'ery bliss my childhood knew, 
 
 I'll think upon yom: shade no more. 
 Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 
 
 And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
 We heed no more the wintry blast. 
 
 When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 
 
 Full often has my infant Muse 
 
 Attuned to love her languid IjTC ; 
 But now, without a theme to choose, 
 
 The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
 My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 
 
 E is a wife, and C a mother, 
 
 And Carolina sighs alone. 
 
 And Mary's given to another ; 
 And Cora's eye, which roU'd on me. 
 
 Can now no more my love recall : 
 In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee ; 
 
 For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
 And though the sun, with genial rays. 
 His beams alike to all displays. 
 And every lady's eye's a shji. 
 These last should be confined to one. 
 The soul's meridian don't become her, 
 Whose sun displays a general summer ! 
 Thus faint is every former flame. 
 And passion's self is now a name. 
 As, when the ebbing flames are low. 
 
 The aid which once improved their light. 
 And bade them bum with fiercer glow. 
 
 Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
 Thus it has been with passion's fires. 
 
 As many a boy and girl remembers, 
 While all the force of love expires, 
 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's 
 noon, 
 And clouds obscure the watery moon. 
 Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
 Described in every stripling's verse ; 
 For why should I the path go o'er. 
 Which every bard has trod before ? 
 Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 
 
 Has thrice perform'd her stated round. 
 Has thrice retraced her path of light, 
 
 And chased away the gloom profound, 
 I trust that we, my gentle friend. 
 Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
 Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, 
 Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
 And then with those our childhood knew, 
 We'll mingle in the festive crew ; 
 While many a tale of former day 
 Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
 And all the flow of souls shall pour 
 The sacred intellectual shower, 
 Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
 Scarce glimmers through the mist of mom. 
 
42 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 TO A LADY " 
 Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 
 
 As once this pledge appear'd a token, 
 These follies had not then been mine, 
 
 For then my peace had not been broken. 
 
 To thee these early faults I owe. 
 
 To thee, the wise and old reproving : 
 
 They know my sins, but do not know 
 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 
 
 For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
 And all its rising fires could smother : 
 
 But nov/ thy vows no more endure, 
 Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
 
 Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
 And spoil the blisses that await him ; 
 
 Yet let my rival smile in joy. 
 
 For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
 
 Ah ! since thy angel form is gone. 
 
 My heart no more can rest with any ; 
 
 But what it sought in thee alone, 
 Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 
 
 Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 
 
 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
 Nor hope, nor memory yield their aid. 
 
 But pride may teach me to forget thee. 
 
 Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
 This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
 
 These varied loves, these matron's fears. 
 These thoughtless strains to passion's 
 measures, 
 
 If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — 
 This cheek, now pale from early riot, 
 
 With passion's hectic ne'er h&d fiush'd. 
 But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
 
 Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
 
 For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 
 
 And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
 For then it beat but to adore thee. 
 
 But now I seek for other joys : 
 
 To think would drive mv soul tn mad- 
 ness ; 
 In thoughtless throngs and empt^.' noise 
 
 I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
 
 Yet, even in these a thought will steal 
 In spite of every vain endeavour, — 
 
 .\nd fiends might pitv wha I feel, — 
 To know that thou art lost for ever. 
 
 I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS 
 CHILD 
 I WOULD I were a careless child. 
 
 Still dwelling in mv Highland cave. 
 Or roaming through "the dusky wild. 
 
 Or bounding o'er the dark blue wa\-e ; 
 
 The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride 
 
 Accords not with the freeborn soul. 
 Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 
 
 And seeks the rocks where biUows roll. 
 Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 
 
 Take back this name of splendid sound ! 
 I hate the touch of servile hands, 
 
 I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
 Place me among the rocks I love, 
 
 Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ; 
 I ask but this — again to rove 
 
 Through scenes my youth hath known 
 before. 
 
 Few are my years, and yet I feel 
 
 The world was ne'er design'd for me : 
 Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal 
 
 The hour when man must cease to be ? 
 Once I beheld a splendid dream, 
 
 .\ A'isionary scene of bliss : 
 Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 
 
 Awake me to a world like this ? 
 
 I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 
 
 Had friends — my early friends are fled : 
 How cheerless feels the heart alone. 
 
 When all its former hopes are dead ! 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 
 
 The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 
 
 How dull ! to hear the voice of those 
 
 Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or 
 power, 
 Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 
 
 Associates of the fe5ti\e hour. 
 Give me again a faithful few. 
 
 In years and feelings still the same. 
 And i will fly the midnight crew. 
 
 Where boist'rous joy, is but a name. 
 And woman, lovely woman ! thou, 
 
 My hope, my comforter, mv all'! 
 How cold must be my bosom now, 
 
 \^'hen e'en thy smiles begin to pall ] 
 Without a sigh would I resign 
 
 This busy scene of splendid woe, 
 To make that calm contentment mine. 
 
 Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 
 Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 
 
 I seek to shun, not hate mankind • 
 My breast requires the sullen glen, 
 
 W hu,e gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
 Oh ! that to me the winas were given 
 
 Which bear the turtle'to her nest ' 
 Then would I cleave the vault of iieaven 
 
 io hee away, and be at rest. 
 
 WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGH- 
 i LANDER 
 
 When- I ro\-ed a young Highlander o'er the 
 dark heath, 
 And climb'd thv steep summit, oh ^^,r 
 ven of sno\\ ' 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 43 
 
 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd be- 
 neath, I 
 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd i 
 below, i 
 
 Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, | 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy 
 grew, ! 
 
 No feeling, save one, to my bosom was 
 dear ; j 
 
 Need I say, my sweet Mary," 'twas 
 centred in you ? 
 
 Yet it could not be love, for I knew not 
 the name, — 
 What passion can dwell in the heart of a 
 child ? 
 But still I perceive an emotion the same 
 As I felt, when a boy, on the crag- 
 cover' d wild : 
 One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 
 I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for 
 new ; 
 And few were my wants, for my wishes 
 were bless'd ; 
 And pure were my thoughts, for my soul 
 was with you. 
 
 I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as m^' 
 guide, 
 From mountain to mountain I bounded 
 along ; 
 I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide. 
 And heard at a distance the Highlander's 
 song : 
 At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of re- 
 pose, 
 No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to 
 my view ; 
 And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 
 For the first of my prayers was a bless- 
 ing on you. 
 I left my bleak home, and my visions are 
 gone ; 
 The mountains are vanish'd, my youth 
 is no more ; 
 As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 
 "And delight but in days I have witness'd 
 before : 
 Ah ! splendour has raised, but embitter'd 
 mv lot ; 
 Jlore dear were the scenes which my in- 
 fancy knew : 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet 
 they are not forgot ; 
 Though cold is my heart, stiU it lingers 
 with you. 
 When I see some dark hill point its cxest to 
 the sky, 
 I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Col- 
 bleen ; '* 
 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking 
 eve, 
 I think of those eyes that endear'd the i 
 rude scene ; 
 
 When, haply, some light- waving locks I 
 
 behold, 
 
 That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
 
 I think on the long, flowing ringlets of gold. 
 
 The locks that were sacred to beauty, 
 
 and you. 
 
 Vet the day may arrive when the moun- 
 tains once more 
 Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of 
 snow ■ 
 But v,'hile these soar above me, unchanged 
 as before, 
 Will Mary be there to receive me ? — ah, 
 no ! 
 Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood 
 was bred ! 
 Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters 
 adieu I 
 Xo home in the forest shall shelter my 
 head, — 
 Ah! Mary, what home could be mine 
 but with you ? 
 
 TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR 
 
 Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each 
 other ; 
 The friendships of childhood, though 
 fleeting, are true ; 
 The love which you felt was the love of a 
 brother, 
 Nor less the affection I cherish'dfor you. 
 
 But Friendship can vary her gentle do- 
 minion ; 
 The attachment of years in a moment 
 expires : 
 Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-wav- 
 ing pinion, 
 But glows not, like Love, with unquench- 
 able fires. 
 
 Full oft have we wander'd through Ida 
 together. 
 And blest were the scenes of our youth, 
 I allow : 
 In the spring of our life, how serene is the 
 weather ! 
 But winter's rude tempests are gather- 
 ing now. 
 
 No more with affection shall memory 
 blending. 
 The wonted delights of our childhood 
 retrace ; 
 When pride steels, the bosom, the heart is 
 unbending. 
 And what would be justice appears a 
 disgrace. 
 
 However, dear George, for I still must 
 esteem you ; 
 The few whom I love I can never up- 
 braid ; 
 
44 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 The chance which has lost may in future 
 redeem 5'ou, 
 Repentance will cancel the vow you 
 have made. 
 
 I will not complain, and though chill'd is 
 affection, 
 With me no corroding resentment shall 
 live : 
 My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflec- 
 tion. 
 That both may be \\Tong, and that both 
 should forgive. 
 
 You knew that my soul, that my heart, my 
 existence, 
 If danger demanded, were wholly your 
 own ; 
 You knew me unalter'd by years or by dis- 
 tance. 
 Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 
 
 You knew, — but away with the vain retro- 
 spection ! 
 The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
 Too late you may droop o'er the fond recol- 
 lection, 
 And sigh for the friend who was formerly 
 yours. 
 
 For the present, we part, — I will hope 
 not for ever ; 
 For time and regret will restore you at 
 last : 
 To forget our dissension we both should 
 endeavour, 
 I ask no atonement, but days like the 
 past. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF CLARE 
 
 " Tu semper amoris 
 Sis memor, at cari comitis ne abscedat imago." — 
 Val. Flag. 
 
 Friend of my youth ! when young we 
 
 roved, 
 Like striplings, mutually beloved. 
 
 With friendship's purest glow. 
 The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
 Was such as pleasure seldom showers 
 
 On mortals here below. 
 
 The recollection seems alone 
 Dearer than all the joys I've known, 
 
 When distant far from you : 
 Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, 
 To trace those days and hours again, 
 
 And sigh again, adieu ! 
 
 My pensive memory lingers o'er 
 Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 
 
 Those scenes regretted e\er ; 
 The measure of our youth is full, 
 Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 
 
 And we may meet — ah ! never | 
 
 As when one parent spring supplies 
 
 Two streams which from one fountam rise, 
 
 Together join'd in vain : 
 How soon, diverging from their source. 
 Each, murmuring, seeks another course. 
 
 Till mingled in the main ! 
 
 Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
 Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 
 
 Nor mingle as before : 
 Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
 Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear. 
 
 And both shall quit the shore. 
 
 Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
 One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 
 
 Now flow in different channels : 
 Disdaining humbler rural sports. 
 'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, 
 
 And shine in fashion's annals ; 
 
 'Tis mine to waste on love my time. 
 Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 
 
 Without the aid of reason ; 
 For sense and reason (critics know it) 
 Have quitted every amorous poet. 
 
 Nor left a thought to seize on. 
 
 Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
 Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 
 
 That he, who sang before all, — 
 He who the lore of love expanded, — 
 By dire reviewers should be branded 
 
 As void of wit and moral. 
 
 And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine. 
 Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 
 
 Repine not at thy lot. 
 Thy soothing lays may still be read. 
 When Persecution's arm is dead. 
 
 And critics are forgot. 
 
 Still I must 3'ield those worthies merit. 
 Who chasten, with unsparing spirit. 
 
 Bad rhymes, and those who wTite them ; 
 And though myself may be the next 
 By criticism to be vext, 
 
 I really will not fight them. 
 
 Perhaps they would do quite as well 
 To break the rudely sounding shell 
 
 Of such a young 'beginner ; 
 He who offends at pert nineteen. 
 Ere thirty may become, I ween, 
 
 A very harden'd sinner. 
 
 Now, Clare, I must return to vou ; 
 And, sure, apologies are due :" 
 
 Accept, then, mv concession. 
 In truth, dear Clare, in fancv's flight 
 I soar along from left to right ; 
 
 My muse admires digression. 
 
 I think I said 'twould be your fate 
 
 To add one star to roval state ; — 
 
 May regal smiles attend vou ! 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 45 
 
 And should a noble monarch reign, 
 
 You will not seek his smiles in vain, 
 
 If worth can recommend you. 
 
 Yet since in danger courts ahound. 
 Where specious rivals glitter round. 
 
 From snares may saints preserve you ; 
 And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
 From any claim a kindred care. 
 
 But those who best deserve you ! 
 
 Not for a moment may you stray 
 From truth's secure, unerring way ! 
 
 May no delights decoy ! 
 O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
 Your smiles be ever smiles of love. 
 
 Your tears be tears of joy ! 
 
 Oh ! if you wish that happiness 
 
 Your coming days and years may bless. 
 
 And virtues crown your brow ; 
 Be still as you were wont to be, 
 Spotless as you've been known to me, — 
 
 Be still as you are now. 
 
 And though some trifling share of praise. 
 To cheer my last declining days. 
 
 To me were doubly dear ; 
 Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
 I'd waive at once a poel's fame. 
 
 To prove a prophet here. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW 
 
 Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches 
 sigh. 
 
 Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloud- 
 less sky ; 
 
 Where now alone I muse, who oft have 
 trod. 
 
 With those I lo-vcd, thy soft and verdant 
 sod ; 
 
 With those who, scatter'd far, perchance 
 deplore, 
 
 Like me, the happy scenes they knew before 
 
 Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
 
 Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee 
 still. 
 
 Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose 
 
 boughs I lay, 
 And frequent mused the twilight hours 
 
 away ; 
 Where, as they once were wont, my limbs 
 
 recline. 
 But, ah ! without the thoughts which then 
 
 were mine : 
 How do thy branches, moaning to the 
 
 blast. 
 Invite the bosom to recall the past. 
 And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
 " Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last 
 
 farewell ! " 
 
 When fate shall chill, at length, thi^ 
 fever'd breast. 
 
 And calm its cares and passions into rest, 
 
 Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my 
 dying hour, — 
 
 If aught may soothe when life resigns her 
 power, — 
 
 To know some humble grave, some narrow 
 cell. 
 
 Would hide my bosom where it loved to 
 dwell ; 
 
 With this fond dream, methinks 'twere 
 sweet to die — 
 
 And here it linger'd, here my heart might 
 lie; 
 
 Here might I sleep where all my hopes 
 arose, 
 
 Scene of my youth, and couch of my re- 
 pose ; 
 
 For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling 
 shade, 
 
 Press'd by the turf where once my child- 
 hood play'd ; 
 
 Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I 
 loved, 
 
 Mix'd with the earth o'er which my foot- 
 steps moved ; 
 
 Blest by the tongues that charm'd my 
 youthful ear, 
 
 Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged 
 here ; 
 
 Deplored by those in early days allied. 
 
 And unremember'd by the world beside. 
 September 2, 1807, 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 1807-1824 
 
 THE ADIEU 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE 
 AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE 
 
 Adieu, thou HiU ! ' where early joy 
 
 Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
 Where Science seeks each loitering boy 
 
 With knowledge to endow. 
 Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, 
 Partners of former bliss or woes ; 
 
 No more through Ida's paths we stray 
 Soon must I share the gloomy cell. 
 Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell 
 
 Unconscious of the day. 
 
 Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 
 
 Ye spires of Granta's vale. 
 Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 
 
 And Melancholy pale. 
 
46 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
 Ye tenants of the classic bower, 
 
 On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
 Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 
 For, offerings on Obli\don's shrine, 
 
 These scenes must be effaced- 
 
 Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 
 
 Where grew my youthful years ; 
 Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 
 
 His giant summit rears. 
 Why did my childhood wander forth 
 From you, ye regions of the North, 
 
 With sons of pride to roam ? 
 Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
 Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wa\-c- 
 
 To seek a Sotheron home ? 
 
 Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell — 
 
 Yet why to thee adieu ? 
 Thy vaults will echo back my knell. 
 
 Thy towers my tomb will view ; 
 The faltering tongue which sung thy fall. 
 And former glories of thy Hall, 
 
 Forgets its wonted simple note — 
 But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
 And sometimes, on iEolian wings, 
 
 In dying strains may float. 
 
 Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 
 
 While yet I linger here. 
 Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 
 
 To retrospection dear. 
 Streamlet ! " along whose rippling surge 
 My youthful hmbs were wont to urge, 
 
 At noontide heat, their pliant comrse ; 
 Plunging with ardour from the shore, 
 Thy springs will lave these limbs no more. 
 
 Deprived of active force. 
 
 And shall I here forget the scene. 
 
 Still nearest to my breast ? 
 Rocks rise and riverj roll between 
 
 The spot which passion blest • 
 Yet jMary,3 all thy beauties seem 
 Fresh as in i.ove's bewitching dream. 
 
 To me in smiles display'd ; 
 Till slow disease resigns his prey 
 To Death, the parent of decay, 
 
 Thine image cannot fade. 
 
 And thou, my Friend ! * whose gentle love 
 
 Yet thrills my bosom's chords 
 How much thy friendship was above 
 
 Description's power of words ' 
 Still near my breast thy gift I wear 
 Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, 
 
 Ut Love the pure, the sacred gem ■ 
 Our souls were equal, and our lot 
 In that dear moment quite forgot ■ 
 
 Let Pride alone condemn ! 
 
 All, all is dark and cheeriess now ! 
 No smile of Love's deceit 
 
 Can warm my veins vnth wonted glow. 
 
 Can bid Life's pulses beat ; 
 Not e'en the hope of future fame 
 Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 
 ; Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
 nine is a short inglorious race, — 
 To humble in the dust my face, 
 And mingle mth the dead. 
 
 Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 
 
 On him who gains thy praise. 
 Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart. 
 
 Consumed in Glory's blaze ; 
 But me she beckons from the earth, 
 My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 
 
 M}' life a short and 'iTjlgar dream ; 
 Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
 Jly hopes recline within a shroud, 
 
 Jly fate is Lethe's stream. 
 
 When I repose beneath the sod, 
 
 Unheeded in the clay. 
 Where once my plaj'ful footsteps trod. 
 
 Where now my head must lay, 
 The meed of Pity will be shed 
 In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed. 
 
 By nightly skies, and storms alone ; 
 No mortal eye will deign to steep 
 With tears the dark sepulchral deep 
 
 Which hides a name unknown. 
 
 Forget this world, my restless sprite. 
 
 Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven ; 
 There must thou soon direct thy flight. 
 
 If errors are forgiven. 
 To bigots and to sects unknown, 
 Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne ; 
 
 To Him address thy trembling prayer ; ' 
 He, who is merciful and just. 
 Will not reject a child of dust, 
 
 .Although his meanest care. 
 
 Father of Light ! to Thee I call ; 
 
 My soul is dark within : 
 Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall 
 
 Avert the death of sin. 
 Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
 Who calm'st the elemental war, ' 
 
 Whose mantle is yon boundless sky 
 My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ■ 
 And, since I soon must cease to live ' 
 
 Instruct me how to cUe. 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO A \'AIN LADY 
 
 I Ah. heedless girt ! why thus disclose 
 
 W hat ne'er was meant for other ears • 
 Why thus destroy thine own repose ' 
 And dig the source of future tears ? 
 
 °'^,',B?^™'* "'^''P' imprudent maid 
 While lurking envious foes will smile 
 
 For all the folhes thou hast said 
 Of those who spoke but to beguile. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 47 
 
 Vain girl ! thy ling'ring woes are nigh, 
 If thou beUev'st what striplings say : 
 
 Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
 Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 
 
 Dos't thou repeat, in childish boast, 
 The words man utters to deceive ? 
 
 Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, 
 If thou canst ventmre to believe. 
 
 While now amongst thy female peers 
 Thou tell'st again the soothing tale. 
 
 Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
 Duplicity in vain would veil ? 
 
 These tales in secret silence hush, 
 .' Nor make thyself the public gaze ; 
 What modest tnaid without a blush 
 
 Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 
 
 Will not the laughing boy despise 
 Hfer who relates each fend conceit — 
 
 Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
 Yet cannot see the slight' deceit ? 
 
 Pbr she who takes a soft-delight 
 
 These amorous nothings in revealing. 
 
 Must .credit all we say or write. 
 While vanity prevents concealing. 
 
 Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 
 
 No jealousy bids me reprove ; 
 One, who is thus from nature vain, 
 
 I pity, but I cannot love. 
 
 January r5, 1807. 
 
 TO ANNE 
 
 Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been 
 grievous ; 
 I thought from my wrath no atonement 
 could save you ; 
 But woman is made to command and 
 deceive us — 
 I look'd in your face, and I almost for- 
 gave you. 
 
 I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect 
 you, 
 Vet thought that a day's separation was 
 long ; 
 When -we met, I determined to again 
 suspect you — 
 Yeju: smile soon convinced me suspicion 
 was wrong. 
 
 I swore, in a transport of young indigna- 
 tion, '' 
 With fervent contempt evermore to dis- 
 dain yoti ; 
 I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
 And now, all my wish, all my hope's to 
 regain you. 
 
 With beauty Uke yours, oh, how vain the 
 contention ! 
 Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before 
 you ; — 
 At once to conclude such a fruitless dis- 
 sension, 
 Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease 
 to adore you ! 
 
 January 16, 1S07. 
 
 TO THE SAME 
 
 Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates 
 have decreed 
 The heart which adores you should trish 
 to dissever ; 
 Such fates were to me most unkind ones 
 indeed, — 
 To bear me from love and from beauty 
 for ever. 
 
 Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates 
 which alone 
 Could bid me from fond admiration 
 refrain ; 
 By these, e'.cry hope, every wish were 
 o'erthrown. 
 Till smiles should restore me to rapture 
 again. 
 
 As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined. 
 The rage of the tempest united must 
 weather ; 
 
 My love and my life were by nature design'd 
 To flomrish alike, or to perish together.. 
 
 Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates 
 have decreed 
 Yom: lover should bid you a lasting 
 adieu ; 
 Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall 
 
 bleed. 
 His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET 
 
 BEGINXIXG " ' SAD IS JIV VERSE,' YOU SAV, 
 ' AND VET NO TEAR ' " 
 
 Thy ^ erse is " sad " enough, no doubt : 
 A devilish deal more sad than witty ! 
 
 Why we should weep I can't find out. 
 Unless for thee we weep in pity. 
 
 Yet there is one I pity more ; 
 
 And much, alas ! I think he needs it ; 
 For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore. 
 
 Who, to his o\vn misfortune, reads it. 
 
 Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
 May once be read — but never after : 
 
 Yet their effect's by no means tragic, 
 .\lthough bv far too dull for laugiiter. 
 
48 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 But would you make our bosoms bleed, 
 And of no common pang complain — 
 
 If you would make us weep indeed, 
 Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. 
 March 8, 1807. 
 
 ON FINDING A FAN 
 
 Im one who felt as once he felt, 
 
 This might, perhaps, have fann'd the 
 flame ; 
 But now his heart no more will melt. 
 
 Because that heart is not the same. 
 
 As when the ebbing flames are low. 
 
 The aid which once improved their light. 
 
 And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 
 Now quenches all their blaze in night. 
 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
 .\s many a boy and girl remembers — 
 
 While every hope of love e.\pires, 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 The first, though not a spark survive. 
 Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 
 
 The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
 No touch can bid its warmth return. 
 
 Or, if it chance to wake again, 
 
 Not always doom'd its heat to smother. 
 It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
 
 Its former warmth around another. 
 
 r8o7. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE .MUSE 
 Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through 
 infancy's days. 
 Young offspring of fancy, 'tis time we 
 should part ; 
 Then rise on the gale this the last of my ! 
 lays, j 
 
 The coldest effusion which springs from ' 
 my heart. | 
 
 This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 
 
 Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore 
 
 thee to sing ; 
 
 The feelings of childhood, which taught 
 
 thee to soar. 
 
 Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 
 
 Though simple the themes of mv rude 
 flowing Lyre, 
 "i'et even these themes are departed for 
 ever ; 
 No more beam the eyes which mv dream 
 could inspire, 
 My visions are flown, to return, — alas 
 never ! ' 
 
 When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens 
 the bowl. 
 How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 
 
 When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my 
 soul, 
 What magic of Fancy can lengthen my 
 song ? 
 Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone. 
 Of kisses and smiles which they nov.' 
 must resign ? 
 Or dwell with delight on the hours that are 
 flown ? 
 Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be 
 mine. 
 Can they speak of the friends that I lived 
 but to love ? 
 -Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
 But how can my numbers in s>Tnpathy 
 move, 
 When I scarcely can hope to behold them 
 again ? 
 
 Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers 
 have done, 
 And raise my loud harp to the fame of 
 my Sires ? 
 For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my 
 tone ! 
 For Heroes' e.xploits how unequal my 
 fires ! 
 
 Untouch'd, then, mv L^Te shall reply to 
 the blast— 
 'Tis hush'd ; and my feeble endeavours 
 are o'er ; 
 .■\nd those who have heard it will pardon 
 the past. 
 When they know that its murmurs shall 
 vibrate no more. 
 
 And soon shall its wild erring notes be 
 forgot. 
 Since early affection and love is o'ercast ■ 
 Oh ! blest had mv fate been, and happv my 
 lot. 
 Had the first strain of love been the 
 dearest, the last. 
 
 Farewell, my young JIuse ! since we now 
 can ne'er meet ; 
 If our songs have been languid, they 
 surely are few : 
 Let us hope that the present at least will be 
 sweet — 
 The present — which seals our eternal 
 Adieu. 
 
 1S07. 
 
 TO AN OAK .AT XEWSTEAD 
 
 Vol NG Oak ! when I planted thee deep in 
 the ground, 
 1 hoped that thy daj-s would be longer 
 than mine ; * 
 
 That thy dark-waving branches would 
 flourish around. 
 And i\-y thy trunk with its mantle 
 entwine. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 49 
 
 Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's j 
 years. 
 On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee 
 with pride ; 
 They are past, and I water thy stem with 
 my tears, — 
 Thy decay, not the weeds that surround 
 thee can hide. 
 
 I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal 
 hour, 
 A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my 
 sire ; 
 Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is 
 the power, 
 But his, whose neglect may have bade 
 thee expire. 
 
 Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care 
 
 Might revive thy young head, and thy 
 
 wounds gently heal : 
 
 But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
 
 For who could suppose that a Stranger 
 
 would feel ? 
 
 Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a 
 while ; 
 Ere twice round yon Glory this planet 
 shall run. 
 The hand of thy Master will teach thee to 
 smile. 
 When Infancy's years of probation are 
 done. 
 
 Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from 
 the weeds, 
 That clog thy young growth, and assist 
 thy decay. 
 For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, 
 And still may thy branches their beauty 
 display. 
 
 Oh ! ye*( if maturity's years may be thine. 
 Though"/ shall lie low in the cavern of 
 death. 
 On thy liaves yet the day-beam of ages 
 may shine, 
 Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's 
 breath. 
 
 For centuries still may thy boughs lightly 
 wave I 
 
 O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy 
 laid; 1 
 
 While the branches thus gratefully shelter | 
 his grave, ; 
 
 The chief who survives may recline in 
 thy shade. 
 
 And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this 
 spot, 
 He will tell them in whispers more softly 
 to tread. 
 Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot ; 
 Remembrance still hallows the dust of 
 the dead. 
 
 And here, will they say, when in life's 
 glowing prime. 
 Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young 
 simple lay. 
 And here must he sleep, till the moments of 
 time 
 Are lost in the hours of Eternity's dav. 
 
 1807. 
 
 ON REVISITING HARROW 
 
 Here once engaged the stranger's view 
 Young Friendship's record simply traced ; 
 
 Few were her words, — but yet, though few. 
 Resentment's hand the line defaced. 
 
 Deeply she cut — but not erased, 
 The characters were still so plain, 
 
 That Friendship onceretum'd, and gazed, — 
 Till Memory hail'd the words again. 
 
 Repentance placed them as before ; 
 
 Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
 So fair the inscription seem'd once more, 
 
 That Friendship thought it still the same . 
 
 Thus might the Record now have been ; 
 But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, 
 Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd be- 
 tween. 
 And blotted out the line for ever. 
 
 September, 1807. 
 
 EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF 
 SOUTHWELL 
 
 A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS 
 
 John Adams lies here, of the parish of 
 Southwell, 
 
 A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth 
 well ; 
 
 He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 
 
 He could carry no more — so was carried at 
 last ; 
 
 For, the liquor he drank, being too much 
 for one. 
 
 He could not carry off, — so he's now carri- 
 on. 
 
 September, 1807. 
 
 TO MY SON 
 Those flaxen.locks, those eyes of blue, 
 Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
 Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
 And smile to steal the heart away. 
 Recall a scene of former joy. 
 And touch thy father's heart, my Boy ! 
 
 And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
 Ah, William, were thine own the same, — 
 No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
 My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
 Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy. 
 And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 
 
50 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 
 
 And thou hast known a sti-angot's breast : 
 
 Derision sneers upon thy birth, 
 
 And yields thee scarce a name on eartfl ; 
 
 Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—' 
 
 A Father's heart is thine, mj^ Boy ! 
 
 Why, let the world unfeeling frown. 
 Must I fond Nature's claim disown ? 
 Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
 I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
 Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
 A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 
 
 Oh. 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, 
 Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face. 
 Ere half my glass of life is run. 
 At once a brother and a son ; 
 And all my wane of years employ 
 In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 
 
 Although so young thy heedless sire. 
 Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
 And, wert thoit still less dear to me. 
 While Helen's form revives in thee, 
 The breast, which beat to former jo>-, 
 Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 
 
 i8o7- 
 
 FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST 
 PRAYER 
 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For other's weal avail'd on high, 
 Mine will not all be lost in air, 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 
 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 
 
 Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farev.c-il ! 
 
 These lips are mute, these eyes are drv ; 
 
 But in my breast and in my brain, 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by, 
 
 The thought that ne'er shall Sleep again. 
 My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 
 
 Thougli grief and passion there rebel ; 
 I only know we loved in vain — 
 
 I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 
 
 1808. 
 
 BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY 
 SOUL 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul ! 
 
 No lovelier spirit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortal control 
 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 
 On earth thou wert all but divine. 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine, 
 When we Icnow that thv God is with 
 thee. 
 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 -May its verdure like emeralds be : 
 There should not be the shadow of gloom 
 
 In aught that reminds us of thee. 
 
 \"oung flowers and an evergreen tree 
 Ma}- spring from the spot of thy rest : 
 
 But nor cypress nor yew let Us see ; 
 
 For why should we mourn for the blest ! 
 
 1 80S. 
 
 \\'HEN V\£ TWO PARTED 
 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half broken-hearted 
 
 To sever for years. 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold. 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow — ■ 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel nCrx. 
 Thy vows are all broken. 
 
 And light i§ thy fame : 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 
 ^And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes o'er me — 
 
 Wh}' wert thou so deaf ? 
 They know not I Imew thee. 
 
 Who knew thefe too well :— 
 Long, long shall I rue thee. 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met — 
 
 In silence I grieve. 
 That thy heart could forget* 
 
 Thy spirit deceive./ 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years. 
 How should I greet thee ? — ■ 
 
 M'ith silence and tears. 
 
 iSoS. 
 
 TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND 
 Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
 
 And childhood s gav sincerity 
 
 Preserved our feelings long the same. 
 
 ^"ili^Tl "^'^ ™''' '°° ^^'^'1 thou knoT<-'.t 
 What trifles oft the heart recall ■ 
 
 And those who once have loved the most 
 Too soon forget they loved at all. 
 
 And such the change the heart displa\s 
 So frail IS early friendship's reign, ' 
 
 A nionth's brief lapse, perhaps a da\''s. 
 Will A-iew thy mind estranged agatii.' 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 51 
 
 If so, it never shall be mine 
 To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 
 
 The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
 Which made thee fickle as thou art. 
 
 As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
 So human feelings ebb and flow ; 
 
 And who would in a breast confide 
 Where stormy passions ever glow ? 
 
 It boots not that, together bred. 
 Our childish days were days of joy : 
 
 My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
 Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 
 
 And when we bid adieu to youth. 
 
 Slaves to the specious world's control, 
 
 We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
 That world corrupts the noblest soul. 
 
 Ah, joyous season I when the mind 
 Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 
 
 When thought ere spoke is unconfined. 
 And sparkles in the placid eye. 
 
 Not so in Man's maturer years. 
 When Man himself is but a tool ; 
 
 When interest sways our hopes and fears. 
 And all must love and hate by rule. 
 
 With fools in kindred vice the same, 
 We learn at length our faults to blend ; 
 
 And those, and those alone, may claim 
 The prostituted name of friend. 
 
 Such is the common lot of man ; 
 
 Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 
 Can we reverse t^ie general plan. 
 
 Nor be what all in turn must be ? 
 
 No ; for myself, so dark my fate 
 Through every turn of life hath been ; 
 
 Man and the world so much I hate, 
 I care not when I quit the scene. 
 
 But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
 Wilt shine awhile, and pass away ; 
 
 As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
 But dare not stand the test of day. 
 
 Alas ! whenever folly calls 
 
 Where parasites and princes meet, 
 (For cherish'd first in royal halls. 
 
 The welcome vices kindly greet.) 
 
 Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
 One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 
 
 And still thy trifling heart is glad 
 
 To join the vain and court the proud. 
 
 There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
 Still simpering on with eager haste. 
 
 As flies along the gay parterre. 
 That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 
 
 But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
 Which seems, as marshy vapours move. 
 
 To flit along from dame to dame, 
 An ignis- fatuus gleam of love ? 
 
 What friend for thee, howe'er inclined. 
 Will deign to own a kindred care ? 
 
 Who will debase his manly mind, 
 
 For friendship every fool may share ? 
 
 In time forbear ; amidst the throng 
 No more so base a thing be seen ; 
 
 No more so idly pass along ; 
 
 Be something, any thing, but — mean. 
 
 1808. 
 
 LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP 
 FORMED FROM A SKULL 
 
 Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 
 
 In me behold the only skull. 
 From which, unlike a living head. 
 
 Whatever flows is never dull. 
 
 I lived, I loved, I quafi'd, like thee : 
 I died ; let earth my bones resign ; 
 
 Fill up — -thou canst not injure me ; 
 The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 
 
 Better to hold the sparkling grape. 
 
 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 
 
 And circle in the goblet's shape 
 The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 
 
 Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone 
 In aid of others' let me shine ; 
 
 And when, alas ! our brains are gone. 
 What nobler substitute than wine ? 
 
 Quaff while thou canst : another race. 
 When thou and thine, like me, are sped , 
 
 May rescue thee from earth's embrace. 
 And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
 
 Why not ? since through life's little day 
 Our heads such sad effects produce ; 
 
 Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay. 
 This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
 
 Newstead Abbej', r8o8. 
 
 WELL I THOU ART HAPPY 
 
 Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
 That I should thus be happy too ; 
 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
 
 But let them pass — -Oh I how my heart 
 Would hate him if he loved thee not ! 
 
 When late I saw my favourite child, 
 
 I thought my jealous heart would break ; 
 
 But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
 I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 
 
52 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs 
 
 Its father in its face to see ; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes, 
 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
 J!ary, adieu ! I must away : 
 
 While thou art blest I'll not repine ; 
 
 But near thee I can never stay ; 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; 
 
 \or knew, till seated by thy side. 
 My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 
 
 Vet was I calm : I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look ; 
 
 But now to tremble were a crime — 
 We met, — and not a nerve was shook. 
 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face, 
 
 Yet meet w'ith no confusion there : 
 
 One only feeling could'st thou trace ; 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Away ! away ! my early dream 
 Remembrance never must awake : 
 
 Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
 My foolish heart be still, or break. 
 
 November 2, 1808. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT 
 OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG 
 
 When some proud son of man returns to 
 
 earth. 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 
 The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of 
 
 woe. 
 And storied urns record who rest below ; 
 When all is done, upon the tomb is seen. 
 Not what he was, but what he should have 
 
 been ; 
 But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
 Whose honest heart is still his master's 
 
 own, 
 Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him 
 
 alone, 
 Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth. 
 Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
 While man, vain insect ! hopes to be for- 
 given. 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
 Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour. 
 Debased by slavery, or corrupt b^• power. 
 Who knows thee well must quit thee with 
 
 disgust. 
 Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat. 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! ' 
 By nature vile, ennobled but bv name, 
 pach kindred brute might bid thee blush 
 
 for shame. 
 
 Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn. 
 Pass on — it honours none you wsh to 
 
 mourn ; 
 To mark a friend's remains these stones 
 
 arise ; 
 I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 
 Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1S08. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 ON BEING ASKED MV REASON FOR QUITTING 
 ENGLAND IN THE SPRING 
 
 When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
 A moment linger'd near the gate, 
 
 Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours. 
 And bade him curse his future fate. 
 
 But, wandering on through distant climes, 
 He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 
 
 Just gave a sigh to other times. 
 And found in busier scenes relief. 
 
 Thus, lady ! will it be with me. 
 
 And I must view thy charms no more ; 
 
 For, while I linger near to thee, 
 I sigh for all I knew before. 
 
 In flight I shall be surely-wise. 
 
 Escaping from temptation's snare ; 
 
 I cannot view my paradise 
 Without the msh of dwelling there. 
 
 December 2, 1808. 
 
 REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT 
 r^-^jiND me not, remind me not, 
 
 U. those beloved, those vanish'd hours. 
 When all my soul was given to thee ; 
 Hours that may never be forgot. 
 Till time unnerves our vital powers. 
 And thou and I shall cease to he. 
 
 Can I forget — canst thou forget. 
 When, playing with thy golden hair. 
 How quick thy fluttering heart did 
 move ? 
 Oh '. by my soul, I see thee yet. 
 
 With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
 And lips, though silent, breathing 
 love. ^ 
 
 When thus recUning on my breast. 
 
 Those eyes threw back a" glance so ^weet 
 As half reproach'd yet raised desire ' 
 And still we near and nearer prest. 
 And still our glowing lips would meet 
 As if in kisses to expire. ' 
 
 And then those pensive eves would close 
 And bid their lids each other seek ' 
 \'eiling the azure orbs below • ' 
 While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
 Seem'd stealing o'er thv brilliant cheel- 
 Like raven's plumage smooth',-! .,.,' 
 
 on 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 I dreamt last night our love retum'd, 
 And, sooth to sav, that very dream 
 Was sweeter in its phantasy. 
 Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 
 
 For eyes that ne'er Uke thine/;ould beam 
 In rapture's wild reality. 
 
 Then tell me not, remind me not. 
 
 Of hours which, though for ever gone. 
 Can still a pleasing dream restore. 
 Till thou and I shall be forgot. 
 
 And senseless, as the mouldering stone 
 Which tells that we shall be no more. 
 
 THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT 
 
 NAME 
 
 There was a time, I need not name. 
 Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 
 
 When all our feelings were the same 
 As still my soul hath been to thee. 
 
 And from that hour when first thy tongue 
 Confess'd a love which equall'd mine, 
 
 Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
 Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine. 
 
 None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
 To think how all that love hath flown ; 
 
 Transient as every faithless kiss, 
 But transient in thy breast alone. 
 
 And yet my heart some solace knew, 
 When late_I heard thy lips declare. 
 
 In accents once imagined true. 
 
 Remembrance of the days that were. 
 
 Yes ! my adored, vet most unkind ! 
 
 Though thou wilt never love again, 
 To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 
 
 Remembrance of that love remain. 
 
 Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me. 
 Nor longer shall my soul repine, 
 
 Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be, 
 Thou hast 'oeen dearly, solely mine. 
 
 AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM 
 LOW? 
 
 And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
 Yet if the5' grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 My heart is sad, my hopes are gone. 
 My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 
 
 And when I perish, thou alone 
 Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 
 
 And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
 Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ; 
 
 And for a while my sorrows cease. 
 To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 
 
 53 
 
 Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
 It falls for one who cannot weep ; 
 
 Such precious drops are doubly dear 
 To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 
 
 Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
 With every feeling soft as thine ; 
 
 But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
 A wretch created to repine. 
 
 Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those awards again : 
 Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 FILL THE GOBLET .\GA1N 
 
 A SOXG 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart 
 
 to its core ; 
 Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, 
 
 through life's varied round, 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can 
 
 supply ; 
 I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling 
 
 eye ; 
 I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what 
 
 heart can declare 
 That pleasure existed while passion was 
 
 there ? 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart's 
 
 in its spring. 
 And dreams that affection can never take 
 
 wing, 
 I had friends ! — who has not ? — but what 
 
 tongue will avow, 
 That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as 
 
 thou ? 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may 
 
 estrange. 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou 
 
 never can'st change ; 
 Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — but 
 
 on earth what appears. 
 Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with 
 
 its years ? 
 
 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can be- 
 stow. 
 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
 
 We are jealous ! — who's not ? — thou hast 
 no such alloy ; 
 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we 
 enjoy. 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities 
 past, 
 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
 
 There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of 
 the soul, 
 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the 
 bowl. 
 
54 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 When the box of Pandora was open'd on 
 
 earth. 
 And Misery's triumph commenced over 
 
 Mirth, 
 Hope was left, — was she not ? — but the 
 
 goblet we kiss, 
 \nd care not for Hope, who are certain of 
 
 bliss. 
 
 Long life to the grape ! for when summci 
 
 is flo^vn, 
 The age of our nectar shall gladden our 
 
 own ; 
 We must die — who shall not ? — May our 
 
 sins be forgiven, 
 And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING 
 ENGLAND 5 
 
 'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast. 
 Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast ; 
 And I must rem this land be gone. 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 But could I be what I have been. 
 And could I see what I have seen — 
 Could I repose upon the breast 
 Which once my wannest wishes blest — 
 I should not seek another zone 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
 Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
 And I have striven, but in vain. 
 Never to think of it again : 
 For though I fly from Albion, 
 I still can only love but one. 
 
 As some lone bird, without a mate, 
 My weary heart is desolate ; 
 I look around, and cannot trace 
 One friendly smile or welcome face, 
 And ev'n in crowds am still alone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 And I will cross the whitening foam, 
 And I will seek a foreign home ; 
 Till I forget a false fair face, 
 I ne'er shall iind a resting-place ; 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
 But ever love, and love but one. 
 
 The poorest, veriest ^vretch on earth 
 Still finds some hospitable hearth. 
 Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
 May smile in joy or soothe in woe ; 
 But friend or leman I have none, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 I go — but wheresoe'er I flee 
 There's not an eye ™ll weep for me ; 
 
 There's not a kind congenial heart, 
 Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
 Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone. 
 Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 
 
 To think oT every early scene. 
 
 Of what we are, and what we've been. 
 
 Would whelm some softer hearts with woe — 
 
 But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 
 
 Yet still beats on as it begun. 
 
 And never truly loves but one. 
 
 And who that dear loved one may be. 
 Is not for vulgar eyes to see ; 
 And why that early love was cross'd. 
 Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
 But few that dwell beneath the sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved but one. 
 
 I've tried another's fetters too. 
 With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
 And I would fain have loved as well. 
 For some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 'Twould soothe to take one lingering vie v, 
 And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
 Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
 His home, his hope, his youth are gone. 
 Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 
 
 1809. 
 
 LINES TO MR. HODGSON 
 
 WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PiCKET 
 
 HvzzA ! Hodgson, we are ?oing. 
 
 Our embargo's off at last ; 
 Favourable breezes blowing 
 
 Bend the can\'ass o'er the mast. 
 From aloft the signal's streaming. 
 Hark ! the farewell gun is fired ; 
 Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
 Tell us that our time's expired. 
 Here's a rascal 
 Come to task all, 
 Prying from the custom-house ; 
 Trunks unpacking. 
 Cases cracking, 
 ^ Not a corner for a mouse 
 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket. 
 Ere we sail on board the Packet. 
 
 Now our boatmen quit their mooring. 
 
 And all hands must ply the oar ; 
 Baggage from the quay is lowering', 
 
 We're impatient, push from shore. 
 ■' Have a care ! that case holds liquor 
 
 Stop the boat — I'm sick — oh Lord 1 " 
 " Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be siclier 
 
 Ere you've been an hour on board." 
 Thus are screaming 
 Men and women, 
 
 Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks ■ 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 53 
 
 Here entangling, 
 
 All are wrangling, 
 Stuck together close as wax. — 
 Such the general noise and racket, 
 Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 
 
 Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the captain. 
 
 Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 
 Passengers their berths are clapt in, 
 
 Some to grumble, some to spew, 
 " Heyday ! call you that a cabin ? 
 
 Why 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
 Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 
 Who the deuce can harboiu: there ? " 
 " Who, sir ? plenty — 
 Nobles twenty 
 Did at once my vessel fill." — 
 " Did they ? Jesus, 
 How you squeeze us ! 
 Would to God they did so still ; 
 Then I'd scape the heat and racket 
 Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Fletcher! Murray! Bob ! ^ where are you ? 
 
 Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
 Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 
 
 Here's a rope's end for the^dogs. 
 Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 
 
 As the hatchway down he rolls, 
 Now his breakfast, novif his verses. 
 Vomits forth — and damns our souls. 
 " Here's a stanza 
 On Braganza — ■ 
 Help ! " — " A couplet ? " — " No, a cup 
 Of warm water — " 
 " What's the matter ? " 
 " Zounds ! my liver's coming up ; 
 f shall not survive the racket 
 Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Now at length we're off for Turkey, 
 
 Lord knows when we shall come b:ick ! 
 Breezes foul and tempests murky 
 
 Hay unship us in a crack. 
 But, since life at most a jest is, 
 
 As philosophers allow. 
 Still to laujh by far the best is, 
 Then laugh on — as I do now. 
 Laugh at all things, 
 Great and small things. 
 Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
 While we're quaffing. 
 Let's have laughing — 
 Who the devil cares for more ? — 
 Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
 Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet ? 
 
 Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809. 
 
 TO FLORENCE ^ 
 
 Oh Lady ! when I left the shofe, 
 
 The distant shore which gave me birth, 
 
 I hardl)' thought to grieve once more, 
 To quit another Spot on earth : 
 
 Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 
 
 Where panting Nature droops the head. 
 
 Where only thou art seen to smile, 
 I view my parting hour \-nVa dread. 
 
 Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 
 
 Divided by the dark-blue main ; 
 A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 
 
 Perchance I view her cliffs again j 
 I 
 
 I But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 
 j Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 
 Though Time restore me to my home, 
 I I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 
 
 On thee, in whom at once conspire 
 
 All charms which heedless hearts can 
 move, 
 
 Whom but to see is to admire. 
 
 And, oh ! forgive the word — to lo'.'e. 
 
 Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
 With such a word can more offend ; 
 
 And <;ince thy heart I cannot share, 
 BeUeve me, what I am, thy friend. 
 
 And who so cold as look on thee. 
 Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? 
 
 Nor be, what man should ever be. 
 The friend of Beauty in distress ? 
 
 Ah ! who would think that form had past 
 Through Danger's most destructive path 
 
 Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's 
 blast. 
 And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 
 
 Lady ! when I shall \dew the walls 
 Where free Byzantium once arose, 
 
 And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
 
 The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 
 
 Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 
 That glorious city still shall be ; 
 ! On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 
 I As spot of thy nativity ; 
 
 j And though I bid thee now farewell. 
 When I behold that wondrous scene, 
 
 ! Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
 'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. 
 
 I September, 1809. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT 
 MALTA 
 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
 Some name arrests the passer-by ; 
 
 Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 
 May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 
 
 And when by thee that name is read. 
 Perchance in some succeeding year, 
 
 Reflect on me as on the dead. 
 
 And think my heart is buried hetr. 
 
 September i+, I'^og. 
 
56 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A 
 THUNDER-STORM 
 
 Chill and mirk is tiie nightly blast, 
 Where Pindus' mountains rise, 
 
 And angry clouds are p(juring fast 
 The vengeance of the skies. 
 
 Our guides are gone, our hope is lost. 
 
 And lightnings, as they play, 
 But show where rocks our path have crost. 
 
 Or gild the torrent's spray. 
 
 Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 
 
 When lightning broke the gloom — 
 How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no . 
 
 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 
 
 Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 
 
 I hear a voice exclaim — 
 My way-worn countryman, who calls 
 
 On distant England's name. 
 
 A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 
 
 Another — 'tis to tell 
 The mountain-peasants to descend. 
 
 And lead us where they dwell. 
 
 Oh ! who in such a night will dare 
 
 To tempt the wilderness ? 
 And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 
 
 Our signal of distress ? 
 
 And who that heard our shouts would rise 
 
 To try the dubious road ? 
 Nor rather deem from nightly cries 
 
 That outlaws were abroad. 
 
 Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 
 
 More fiercely pours the storm ! 
 Yet here one thought has still the power 
 
 To keep my bosom warm. 
 
 While wandering through each broken 
 path. 
 
 O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
 While elements exhaust their wrath, 
 
 Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 
 
 Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
 Thy bark hath long been gone ; 
 
 Oh, may the storm that pours on me. 
 Bow down my head alone ! 
 
 Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 
 
 When last I press'd thy lip ; 
 And long ere now, with foaming shock, 
 
 Impell'd thy gallant ship. 
 
 Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 
 Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
 
 'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 
 Should linger on the main. 
 
 And since I now remember thee 
 In darkness and in dread. 
 
 As in those hours of revelry 
 Which mirth and music sped ; 
 
 Do thou, amid the fair white walls,- 
 
 If Cadiz yet be free, 
 At times from out her latticed halls 
 
 Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 
 
 Then think upon Calypso's isles, 
 
 Endear'd by days gone by ; 
 To others give a thousand smiles, 
 
 To me a single sigh. 
 
 And when the admiring circle mark 
 
 The paleness of thy face, 
 A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 
 
 Of melancholy grace. 
 
 Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 
 
 Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
 Nor own for once thou thought'st on one, 
 
 Who ever thinks on thee. 
 
 Though smile and sigh alike are vain. 
 
 When sever'd hearts repine. 
 My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 
 
 And mourns in search of thine. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE 
 AMBRACIAN GULF 
 
 Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. 
 Full beams the moon on Actium's coast ; 
 
 And on these waves, for Egypt's queen. 
 The ancient world was won and lost. 
 
 And now i^pon the scene I look, 
 
 The azure grave of many a Roman ; 
 
 Where stern Ambition once forsook 
 His wavering crown to follow woman. 
 
 Florence ! ivhom I will love as well 
 
 As ever yet was said or sung, 
 (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 
 
 Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 
 
 Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant 
 times. 
 When worlds were staked for ladies' 
 eyes ; 
 Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
 Thy charms might raise new Antonies. 
 
 Though Fate forbids such things to be, 
 Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 
 
 I cannot lose a world for thee. 
 
 But would not lose- thee for a world. 
 XijVL-nibt-r 14, rSog. 
 
 THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM 
 IS FLOWN ! 
 
 WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, iSlO, 
 
 The sp°ll is broke, the charm is flown ! 
 
 Thus is it with life's fitful fever ; 
 We madly smile when we should groan • 
 
 Delirium is our best deceiver. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 57 
 
 Each lucid interval of thought 
 
 Recalls the woes of Nature's charter ; 
 
 And he that acts as wise men ought, 
 But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 
 SESTOS TO ABYDOS 
 
 If, ui the month of dark December, 
 Leander, who was nightly wont 
 
 (What maid will not the tale remember ?) 
 To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 
 
 If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 
 He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
 
 And thus of old thy current pour'd. 
 Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 
 
 For me, degenerate modem wretch, 
 Though in the genial month of May, 
 
 My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
 And think I've done a feat to-day. 
 
 But since he cross'd the rapid tide. 
 According to the doubtful story. 
 
 To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside. 
 And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 
 
 'Twere hard to say who fared the best ; 
 Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague 
 you ! 
 He lost his labour, I my jest ; 
 
 For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 
 May 9, 1810. 
 
 LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK 
 AT ORCHOMENUS 
 
 IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEM : 
 
 " Fair. Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
 To trace the birth and nursery of art ; 
 Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; 
 He comes to Athens, and he writes his 
 name." 
 
 BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED 
 THE FOLLOWING I 
 
 The modest bard, like many a bard un- 
 known. 
 
 Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides 
 his own ; 
 
 But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
 
 His name would bring more credit than his 
 verse. 1810. 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 
 
 ZviJT] ju-ou, O'ag ayaTTUi 
 
 Maid of Athens,^ ere we part. 
 Give, oh give me back my heart ! 
 Or, since that has left my breast. 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 -Hear my vow before I go, 
 Zuiij jxov, eray ayairoi. 9 
 B.P.W, 
 
 Bv those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each jEgean wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 
 ZujT) /xoO, (7a? ayaTTOi. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 Bv all the token-flowers that tell 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe, 
 
 >7J ]J.ov, (Ta? ayanta. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone ; 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul ; 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 
 Zco7j /xou, era? ayarrw. 
 
 Athens, 
 
 I8I0. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE'S 
 DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES 
 
 Oh how I wish that an embargo 
 Had kept in port the good ship Argo ! 
 Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks. 
 Had never pass'd the Azure rocks ; 
 But now I fear her trip will be a 
 Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, etc. 
 etc. June, i8ro. 
 
 MY EPITAPH 
 
 Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
 To keep my lamp in strongly strove ; 
 B'lt Romanelii was so stout. 
 He beat all three — and blew it oul. 
 
 October, 1810. 
 
 SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH 
 
 Kind Reader take your choice to cry or 
 laugh ; 
 
 Here Harold lies — but Where's his Epi- 
 taph ? 
 
 If such you seek, try Westminster, and 
 view 
 
 Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 
 
 Athens. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A 
 PICTQRE 
 
 Dear object of defeated care ! 
 
 Though now of Love and thee bereft. 
 To reconcile me with despair. 
 
 Thine image and my tears are left. 
 
 'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 
 
 But this I feel can ne'er be true ; 
 For by the death-blow of my Hope 
 My Memory immortal grew. 
 
 Athens, January, 1811. 
 F 
 
5? 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 TKANSLATIOX OF THE FAJiOUS 
 GREEK WAR SONG 
 
 Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 
 
 The glorious hour's gone forth, 
 And, ivcrthy of such ties, 
 
 Display \vho ga\e us birth. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sun.^ of (ireeks ! let us go 
 In arms against the foe. 
 Till their hated blood shall flow 
 In a river past our feet. 
 
 Then manfully despising 
 
 The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
 Let your country see you rising, 
 
 And all her chains are broke. 
 Brave shades of cliiefs and sages. 
 
 Behold the coming strife ! 
 Hellenes of past ages. 
 
 Oh, start again to life ! 
 .\t the sound of my trumpet, breaking 
 
 Your sleep, oh, join mth me ! 
 .And the seven-hill'd city seeking. 
 
 Fight, conquer, till we're free. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, etc. 
 
 Sparta, Sparta, why in slimibers 
 
 Lethargic dost thou he ? 
 Awake, and join thy numbers 
 
 With Athens, old ally ! 
 Leonidas recalling. 
 
 That chief of ancient song. 
 Who saved ye once from falling, 
 
 The terrible ! the strong ! 
 Who made that bold diversion 
 
 In old Thermopyla?. 
 And warring with the Persian 
 
 To keep his country free ; 
 With his three hundred waging 
 
 The battle, long he stood. 
 And like a lion raging 
 
 Expired in seas of blooc' 
 
 Sons of Greeks, etc. 
 
 But the loveliest garden grows hateful 
 
 When Lo^•e has abandon'd the bowers ; 
 Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrate- 
 ful. 
 
 That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
 The poison, when pour'd from the chalice^ 
 
 Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
 But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 
 
 The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
 Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 
 
 Jly heart from these horrors to save : 
 \Vill nought to my bosom restore thee ? 
 
 Then open the gates of the grave. 
 
 As the chief who to combat advances 
 
 Secure of his conquest before. 
 Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 
 
 Hast pierced through my heart to its 
 core. 
 Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 
 
 By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
 Would ihe hope, which thou once bad'st 
 me cherish, 
 
 For torture repa5' me too well ? 
 Now sad is the garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved but false Haidee ! 
 There Flora all wither'd reposes, 
 
 And mourns o'er thine absence u-ith me. 
 
 iSii. 
 
 ON PARTING 
 
 The Mss, dear maid ! thy lip has leit 
 
 Shall never part from mine, 
 Till happier hi.^urs restore the gift 
 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 
 
 An equal love may see : 
 The tear that from thine eyelid streams 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 I ask no pledge to make me blest 
 
 In gazing when alone ; 
 IV or one memorial for a breast, 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
 
 TKANSLATIOX OF THE 
 SONG 
 
 'npaioTUTYj XajjSij,' etc. 
 
 I LNTEE thy garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved and fair Haidee, 
 Each morning where Flora reposes, 
 
 For surely 1 see her in thee. 
 Oh, Lovely! thus Lw I imp! 're thee, 
 
 Receive this fond truth from my tongue. 
 Which utters its song to adore thee. 
 
 Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
 As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 
 
 Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
 Through her eyes, through her e\-cr\ fea- 
 ture, 
 
 Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 
 
 ROM,\IC I Nor need I -wT-ite— to tell the tale 
 lly pen were doubly weak ; 
 I Oh ! what can idle words avail, 
 ; Unless the heart could speak ? 
 
 I By day or night, in weal or woe, 
 I That heart, no longer free, 
 ■ Must bear the love it cannot show. 
 And silent ache for thee. 
 
 : EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT 
 i LATE POET AND SHOEMAKEr' 
 , Stranger ! behold, interr'd together, 
 
 The souls of learning and of leather. ' 
 ; Poor Joe is gone, but left his all : 
 
 You'll find his relics in a stall. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 59 
 
 His works were neat, and often found 
 Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound. 
 Tread lightly — where the bard is laid 
 He cannot mend the shoe he made ; 
 Yet is he happy in his hole, 
 With verse immortal as his sole. 
 But still to business he held fast, 
 And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 
 Then who shall say so good a fellow 
 Was only " leather and prunella ? " 
 For character — he did not lack it ; 
 And if he did, 'twere shame to " Black-it." 
 Malta, May r6, 1811. 
 
 And now, O Malta ! since thou'st got us. 
 Thou httle military hothouse ! 
 I'll not offend with words uncivil. 
 And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
 But only stare from out my casement. 
 And ask, for what is such a place meant ? 
 Then, in m^^ solitary nook. 
 Return to scribbling, or a book. 
 Or take my physic while I'm able 
 (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), 
 Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. 
 And bless the gods I've got a fever. 
 
 May 26, 1811. 
 
 FAREWELL TO MALTA 
 
 Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! 
 Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat ! 
 'Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! 
 Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured ! 
 Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 
 (How surely he who mounts you swears !) 
 Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! 
 Adieu, thou mob for ever railing ! 
 Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! 
 Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters ! 
 Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine. 
 That gave me fever, and the spleen ! 
 Adieu, that stage which ma_^es us yawn. 
 
 Sirs, 
 Adieu, his Excellency's dancers ! 
 Adieu to Peter — whom no fault's in. 
 But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; 
 Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! 
 Adieu, red coats, and redder faces ! 
 Adieu, the supercilious air 
 Of all that strut " en mihtaire ! " 
 I go — but God knows when, or why. 
 To smoky towns and cloudy sky. 
 To things (the honest truth to say) 
 As bad — but in a different way. 
 
 Farewell to these, but not adieu. 
 Triumphant sons of truest blue ! 
 While either Adriatic shore, 
 And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more. 
 And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, 
 Proclaim you war and woman's winners. 
 Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is, 
 And take my rhyme — because 'tis "gratis." 
 
 And now I've got to Mrs. Eraser, 
 Perhaps you think I mean to praise her — 
 And were I vain enough to think 
 My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
 A line — or two — were no hard matter. 
 As here, indeed, I need not flatter ; 
 But she must be content to shine 
 In better praises than in mine. 
 With lively air, and open heart, 
 And fashion's ease, without its art ; 
 Her hoitrs can gaily glide along, 
 Nor ask the aid of idle sougi 
 
 TO DIVES 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 Unhappy Dives ! in an evil hour 
 
 'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds 
 
 accurst ! 
 Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st 
 
 her power ; 
 Wrath's viol on thy lofty head hath burst. 
 In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, 
 How wondrous bright thy blooming mom 
 
 arose ! 
 But thou wert smitten ivith th' unhallow'd 
 
 thirst 
 Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must 
 
 close 
 In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst 
 
 of woes. 
 
 1811. 
 
 ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC 
 FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA 
 Good plays are scarce. 
 So Moore writes farce ; 
 The poet's fame grows brittle — 
 We knew before 
 That Little's Moore, 
 But now 'tis Moore that's Httle. 
 
 September 14, 1811. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND 10 
 
 IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO 
 
 " BANISH CARE " 
 
 " Oh ! banish care " — such ever be 
 The motto of »iy revelry ! 
 Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
 Renew those riotous delights. 
 Wherewith the children of Despair 
 Lull the lone heart, and " banish care. ' 
 But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
 When present, past, and future lower. 
 When all I loved is changed or gone. 
 Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
 Whose every thought— but let them pass— 
 Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
 But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
 Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
 
6o 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 By all the powers that men revere, 
 By all unto thy bosom dear, 
 Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
 Speak — speak of anything but love. 
 
 'Twere long to tell, and vain to h<>ar, 
 The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
 And there is little in that tale 
 Which better bosoms would bewail, 
 But mine has suffer'd more than well 
 *Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
 I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
 Have seen her seated by his side, — 
 Have seen the infant, which she bore. 
 Wear the sweet smile the mother wore. 
 When she and I in youth have smiled, 
 As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
 Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain. 
 Ask if I felt no secret pain ; 
 And / have acted well my part. 
 And make my cheek belie my heart, 
 Retum'd the freezing glance she gave, 
 Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
 Have kiss'd, as if without design. 
 The babe which ought to have been mine, 
 And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
 Time had not made me love the less. 
 
 But let this pass — I'll whine no more. 
 Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
 The world befits a busy brain, — 
 I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
 But if, in some succeeding year. 
 When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
 Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening 
 
 crimes 
 Suit with the sablest of the times, 
 Of one, whom love nor pity sways. 
 Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise ; 
 One, who in stern ambition's pride. 
 Perchance not blood shall turn aside ; 
 One rank'd in some recording page 
 With the worst anarchs of the age, 
 Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause. 
 Nor with the effect forget the cause. 
 Newstead Abbey, Oct. ii, i8it. 
 
 TO THYRZA 
 Without a stone to mark the spot. 
 
 And say, what Truth might well have 
 said, 
 By all, save one, perchance forgot, 
 Ah ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 
 
 By many a shore and many a sea 
 Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
 
 The past, the future fled to thee, 
 To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
 
 Could this have been — a word, a look. 
 That softly said, " We part la peace," 
 
 Had taught my bosom how to brook, 
 With fainter sighs, thy soul's release, 
 
 \ .'Vnd didst thou not, since Death fof tiiee 
 i Prepared a light and pangless dart. 
 Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 
 ; Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 
 
 Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here ? 
 
 Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye. 
 In that dread hour ere death appear, 
 
 When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 
 
 Till all was past ? But when no more 
 'Twas thine to reck of human woe. 
 
 Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er 
 Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 
 
 Shall they not flow, when many a day 
 In these, to me, deserted towers. 
 
 Ere call'd but for a time away. 
 
 Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 
 
 Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 
 
 The smile none else might understand ; 
 The whisper'd thought of hearts allied. 
 
 The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
 
 The kiss, so guiltless and refined. 
 
 That Love each warmer wish forbore ; 
 
 Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
 Even Passion blush'd to plead for more. 
 
 The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 
 When prone, unUke thee, to repine ; 
 
 The song, celestial from thy voice. 
 
 But sweet to me from none but thine ; 
 
 The pledge we wore — I wear it still. 
 
 But where is thine ? Ah ! — where art 
 thou? 
 
 Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
 But never bent beneath till now ! 
 
 Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 
 The cup of woe for me to drain. 
 
 If rest alone be in the tomb, 
 
 I would not wish thee here again ; 
 
 But if in worlds more blest than this 
 Thy \irtues seek a fitter sphere, 
 
 Impart some portion of thy bliss. 
 To wean me from mine anguish here. 
 
 Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 
 
 To bear, forgiving and forgiven ; 
 On earth thy love was such to me ; 
 
 It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 
 October ri, iSrr. 
 
 AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE ! 
 .-^w Av, away, ye notes of woe ! 
 
 Be silert, thou once soothing strain. 
 Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! 
 
 I dare not trust those sounds again. 
 To me they speak of brighter days 
 
 But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
 I must not think, I may not gaze. 
 
 On what I am — ^^n what I was ' 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 6t 
 
 The voice that made those sounds more 
 sweet 
 
 Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
 And now their softest notes repeat 
 
 A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
 Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 
 
 Belo\ ed dust ! since dust thou art ; 
 And all that once was harmony 
 
 Is worse than discord to my heart ! 
 
 'Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 
 
 The well remember'd echoes thrill ; 
 I hear a voice I would not hear, 
 
 A voice that now might well be still : 
 Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 
 
 Even slumber owns its gentle tone. 
 Till consciousness will vainly wake 
 
 To listen, though the dream be flown. 
 
 Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 
 
 Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
 A star that trembled o'er the deep. 
 
 Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
 But he who through life's dreary way 
 
 Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in 
 wrath, 
 Will long lament the vanish'd ray 
 
 That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 
 Djcemhey 6, 1811. 
 
 ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM 
 FREE 
 
 One struggle more, and I am free 
 
 From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
 One last long sigh to love and thee, 
 
 Then back to busy life again. 
 It suits me well to mingle now 
 
 With things that never pleased before : 
 Though every joy is fled below. 
 
 What future grief can touch me more ? 
 
 Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ; 
 
 Man was not form'd to live alone : 
 I'll be that light, unmeaning thing 
 
 That smiles with all, and weeps with 
 none. 
 It was not thus in days more dear, 
 
 It never would have been, but thou 
 Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 
 
 Thou'rt nothing, — all are nothing now. 
 
 In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 
 
 The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
 But mocks the woe that lurks beneath. 
 
 Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 
 
 The heart, — the heart is'lonely still ! 
 
 On many a lone and lovely night 
 It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky ; 
 
 For then I deem'd the heavenly Ught 
 Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye ; 
 
 And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
 When sailing o'er the ^gean wave, 
 
 " Now ThyTza gazes on that moon " — 
 Alas, it gleam'd upon her gra\e ! 
 
 When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, 
 
 And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
 " 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 
 
 " That Thyrza cannot loiow my pains : " 
 Like freedom to the time-worn sla\-c, 
 
 A boon 'tis idle then to give. 
 Relenting Nature vainly gave 
 
 My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 
 
 My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 
 
 When love and life alike were new ! 
 How different now thou mect'st my gaze 1 
 
 How tinged by time with sorrow's l:r.,- ' 
 Tne heart that gave itself with thee 
 
 Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
 Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 
 
 It feels, it sickens with the chill. 
 
 Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 
 
 Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
 Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 
 
 Or break the heart to which thou'rt 
 press'd. 
 Time tempers love, but not removes. 
 
 More hallow'd when its hope is fled ; 
 Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
 
 To that which cannot quit the dead ? 
 
 EUTHANASIA 
 
 When Time, or soon or late, shall bring, 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead 
 
 Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 
 
 No band of friends or heirs be there. 
 To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 
 
 No maiden, with dishevelled hair. 
 To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 
 
 But silent let me sink to earth, 
 With no oificious mourners near : 
 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Nor startle friendship with a tear. 
 
 Yet Love, if Love in such an hour . 
 
 Could nobly check its useless sighs. 
 Might then exert its latest power 
 
 In her who lives, and him who dies. 
 
 'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
 Thy features still serene to see ; 
 
 Forgetful of its struggles past, 
 
 E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 
 
 But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
 
 Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 
 
 And woman's tears, produced at will, 
 Deceive in life, unman in death. 
 
62 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 Then lonely be my latest hour, 
 Without regret, without a groan ; 
 
 For thousands Death hath ceas'd to lower. 
 And pain been transient or unknown. 
 
 " Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 
 
 Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
 To be the nothing that I was 
 
 Ere bom to life and living woe ! 
 
 Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
 
 And know, whatever thou hast been, 
 'Tis something better not to be. 
 
 AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 
 AND FAIR 
 
 " Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari 
 quam tui meminisse ! " 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth ; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare. 
 
 Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed. 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth, 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look.. 
 
 I will not ask wher^ thou liest low. 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will inay grow, 
 
 So I behold them not ; 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved, and long must love, 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tejl, 
 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last 
 
 As fervently as thou, 
 Who didst not change through all the past, 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where Death has set his seal, 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow ; 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 
 
 The better days of life ivere ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine ; 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine, 
 That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely suatch'd, 
 
 The leaves must drop away ; 
 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that follow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade : 
 Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last ; 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 .As once I wept, if I could weep, 
 
 My tears might well be shed. 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face. 
 To lOld thee in a faint embrace. 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however vain. 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain. 
 
 Though thou hast left me free. 
 The loveliest things that still remain. 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark aud dread Eternity 
 
 Returns again to me, 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught, except its living years. 
 
 February, 1S12. 
 
 IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF 
 MEN 
 
 If sometimes in the haunts of men 
 
 Thine image from my breast may fade. 
 The lonely hour presents again 
 
 The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
 And now that sad and silent hour 
 
 Thus much of thee can still restore. 
 And sorrow unobserved may pour 
 
 The plaint she dare not speak before. 
 
 Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 
 
 I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
 .And self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 
 
 Unfaithful to thy memory : 
 Nor deem that memory less dear. 
 
 That then I seem not to repine ; 
 1 would not fools should overhear 
 
 One sigh that should be wholly thine. 
 
 If not the goblet pass unquaff'd. 
 
 It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
 The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 
 
 That brings a Lethe for despair. 
 .And could Obli\'ion set my soul 
 
 From all her troubled visions free, 
 I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
 
 That drown'd a single thought of thee- 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 63 
 
 For wert thou vanish'd from luv mind, 
 
 Where could my vacant bo-om turn ? 
 And who would then remain behind 
 
 To honour thine abandon'd Urn ? 
 No,. no — ^it is my sorrow's pride 
 
 That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
 Though all the world forget beside, 
 
 'Tis meet that I remember still. 
 
 For well I know, that such had been 
 
 Thy gentle care for him, who now 
 Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 
 
 Where none regarded him, but thou ; 
 And, oh ! I feel in that was given 
 
 A blessing never meant for me ; 
 Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 
 
 For earthly Love to merit thee. 
 
 March 14, i8r2. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 JEgle, beauty and poet, has two little 
 
 crimes ; 
 She makes her own face, and does not 
 
 make her rhymes. 
 
 ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH 
 WAS BROKEN 
 - Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be. 
 
 That thou should'st thus be rent in 
 twain ? 
 Have years of care for thine and thee 
 Alike been all employ'd in vain ? 
 
 Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
 And every fragment dearer grown, 
 
 Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
 A fitter emblem of his own. 
 
 MafcJi 16, r8i2. 
 
 LINES TO A LADY WEEPING 
 
 Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
 A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 
 
 Ah ! happy if each tear of thine 
 Could wash a father's fault away ! 
 
 Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
 Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 
 
 And be each drop in future years 
 Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 
 March, i8r2. 
 
 THE CHAIN I GA\-E 
 
 FROM THE TURKISH 
 
 The chain I gave was fair to view. 
 The lute I added sweet in sound ; 
 
 The heart that offer'd both was true. 
 And ill deserved the fate it found. 
 
 These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 
 Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
 
 And they have done their duty wei!, — 
 Alas ! they could not teach thee thijv 
 
 That chain was firm in e\'erv link, 
 But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 
 
 That lute v/as sweet— till thou could'st 
 think 
 In other hands its notes were such. 
 
 Let him who from thy neck unbound 
 The chain which shivcr'd in his grasp 
 
 Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
 Restnng the chords, renew the cla -j. 
 
 When thou wert changed, they alter'd ten 
 The Cham is broke, the music mute. 
 
 Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 
 False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LF Vi 
 OF " THE PLEASURES OF MEMGlfY " 
 Absent or present, still to thee, 
 
 My friend, what magic spells belong I 
 As all can tell, who share, like me. 
 
 In turn thy converse, and thy song. 
 
 But when the dreaded hour shall come 
 By Friendship e\'or deem'd too nigh. 
 
 And " Memory " o'er her Druid's tomb 
 Shall weep that aught of thee can die. 
 
 How fondly will she then repay 
 Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, 
 
 And blend, while ages roll away. 
 Her name immortally with thine ! 
 
 April rg, 1812. 
 
 ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE 
 OPENING OF DRURY LANE 
 THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 
 10, r8i2 
 
 In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
 Bow'd to the clust, the Drama's tower of 
 
 pride ; 
 In one short hour beheld the blazing fane 
 Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign' 
 
 Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and 
 
 moiurn'd, 
 Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it 
 
 adoni'd !) 
 Through clouds of fire the massy fragments 
 
 ri\'en, 
 Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from 
 
 heaven ; 
 Saw the long column of revolving flames 
 Shake its red shadow o'er the startled 
 
 Thames, 
 While thousands, throug'd around the 
 
 burning dome. 
 Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for 
 
 their home, 
 .Vs glared the ^'olumed blaze, and ghastly 
 
 shone 
 The skies, with lightnings awful as their 
 
 own, 
 
64 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 lil! blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
 Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her 
 
 fall; 
 Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
 Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our 
 
 isle. 
 Know the same favour which the former 
 
 knew, 
 A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and 
 
 you ? 
 
 Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
 Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
 On the same spot still consecrates the scene. 
 And bids the Drama be where she hath 
 
 been ; 
 This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
 Indulge our honest oride, and say, How 
 well ! 
 
 As soars this fane to emulate the last. 
 Oh ! might we draw our ornens from the 
 
 past, 
 Some hour propitious to our prayers may 
 
 boast 
 Names such as hallow still the dome we 
 
 lost. 
 On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
 O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the 
 
 sternest heart. 
 On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
 Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
 Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last 
 
 adieu : 
 But still for living wit the wreaths may 
 
 bloom. 
 That only waste their odours o'er the 
 
 tomb. 
 Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you 
 
 refuse 
 One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
 With garlands deck your own Menander's 
 
 head. 
 Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead. 
 Dear are the days which made our annals 
 
 bright, 
 Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to 
 
 write. 
 Heirs to their labours, like all high-bom 
 
 heirs, 
 Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ; 
 While thus Remembrance borrows Ban- 
 
 quo's glass 
 To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass 
 And we the mirror hold, where imaged 
 
 shine 
 Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
 Pause — ere their feebler offspring you 
 
 condemn, 
 Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 
 
 Friends of the stage ! to whom both 
 Players and Plays 
 Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
 
 Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
 The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 
 If e'er frivolity has led to fame. 
 And made us blush that you forebore to 
 
 blame ; 
 If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
 To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend. 
 All past reproach maypresent scenes refute. 
 And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
 Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's 
 
 laws. 
 Forbear to mock us with misplaced ap- 
 plause ; 
 So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's 
 
 powers. 
 And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 
 
 This greeting o'er, the ancient rule 
 
 obey'd. 
 The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 
 Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
 Springs from our hearts, and fain would 
 
 win your own. 
 The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
 Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
 Britons our judges. Nature for our guide. 
 Still may we please — long, long may you 
 
 preside. 
 
 PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS 
 
 BY DR. PLAGIARY 
 
 Half stolen, v.-ith acknowledgments, to be spoken in 
 an inarticulate voice by Master P. at tbe ■ penu!;; 
 of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked 
 with the inverted commas of quotation — thus 
 
 " When energising objects men pursue," 
 
 Then Lord knows what is wTit by Lord 
 knows who. 
 
 " A modest monologue you here survey," 
 
 Hiss'd from the theatre the " other day^' 
 
 As if Sir Fretful WTote " the slumberous" 
 verse. 
 
 And gave his son " the rubbish " to re- 
 hearse. 
 
 " Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," 
 
 Knew you the rumpus which the author 
 raised ; 
 
 " Nor even here your smiles would be 
 represt," 
 
 Knew you these lines — the badness of the 
 best, 
 
 " Flame ! fire ! and flame ! " (words bor- 
 rowed from Lucretius,) 
 
 " Dread metaphors which open wounds " 
 like issues ! 
 
 " And sleeping pangs awake — and — but 
 away " 
 
 (Confound me if I know what next to sav). 
 
 " Lo Hope re\'i\'ing re-expands her wings '' 
 
 And Master G — recites what Dr. Busby 
 sines ! — 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 65 
 
 " If mighty things with small v.-e may 
 compare," 
 
 (Translated from the grammar for the 
 fair !) 
 
 Dramatic " spirit drives a conquering car," 
 
 And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of 
 " tar." 
 
 " This spirit Wellington has shown in 
 Spain," 
 
 To furnish melodramas for Drury Lane. 
 
 " Another Marlborough points to Blen- 
 heim's story," 
 
 And George and I will dramatise it for ye. 
 
 " In arts and sciences our isle hath shone ' ' 
 (This deep discovery is mine alone). 
 " Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire " 
 My verse — or I'm a fool — and Fame's a 
 
 liar, 
 " Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore " 
 With " smiles," and " lyres," and " pen- 
 cils," and much more. 
 These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
 Disgraces, too ! " inseparable train ! " 
 " Three who have stolen their witching 
 
 airs from Cupid " 
 (You all know what I mean, unless you're 
 
 stupid) : 
 " Harmonious throng " that I have kept in 
 
 petto 
 Now to produce in a " divine sestetto " ! ! 
 " While Poesy," with these delightful 
 
 doxies, 
 " Sustains her part " in all the " upper " 
 
 boxes ! 
 " Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," 
 Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; 
 " Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and 
 
 play " 
 (For this last line George had a holiday). 
 " Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
 So says the manager, and so say I. 
 " But hold, you say, this self-complacent 
 
 boast ; " 
 Is this the poem which the public lost ? 
 '' True — true — that lowers at once our 
 
 mounting pride ; " 
 But lo ; — the papers print what you deride. 
 " 'Tis ours to look on you— you hold the 
 
 prize," 
 'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise ! 
 "A double blessing your rewards impart ' ' — 
 I wish I had them, then, with ail my 
 
 heart. 
 " Our twofold feeling owns its twofold 
 
 cause," 
 Why son and I both beg for yom- applause. 
 " When in your fostering beams you bid us 
 
 live," 
 My next subscription Ust shall say how 
 
 much you give ! 
 
 October, 1S12. 
 
 VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER- 
 HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN 
 
 When Dryden's fool, " unknowing what he 
 
 sought," 
 His hours in whistling spent, " for want of 
 
 thought," 
 This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 
 Supplied, and amply too, by innocence : 
 Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's 
 
 powers. 
 In Cymon's manner waste their leisure 
 
 hours, 
 Th' offended guests would not, with blush- 
 ing, see 
 These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 
 Severe the fate of modern fools, alas I 
 When vice and folly mark them as they 
 
 pass. 
 Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd 
 
 wall. 
 The filth they leave still points out where 
 
 they crawl. 
 
 REMEMBER 
 
 THEE! 
 THEE ! 
 
 REMEMBER 
 
 Remember thee ! remember thee ! 
 
 Till Lethe quench life's burning stream 
 Remorse and shame shall cling to thee. 
 
 And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 
 
 Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it not. 
 
 Thy husband too shall think of thee ; 
 By neither shalt thou be forgot. 
 
 Thou false to him, thou ftend to me ! 
 
 TO TIME 
 
 Time, on whose arbitrary wing 
 
 The varying hours must flag or fly, 
 
 Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 
 But drag or drive us on to die — 
 
 Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd 
 Those boons to all that know thee known ; 
 
 Yet better I sustain thy load. 
 For now I bear the weight alone. 
 
 I would not one fond heart should share 
 The bitter moments thou hast given ; 
 
 And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 
 All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
 
 To them be joy or rest, on me 
 
 Thy future ills shall press in vain ; 
 
 I nothing owe but years to thee, 
 A debt already paid in pain. 
 
 Yet even that pain was some relief 
 It felt, but still forgot thy power ; 
 
 The active agony of grief 
 
 Retards, but never counts the hour. 
 
 In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 
 Would soon subside from swift to slow : 
 
 Thy cloud could overcast the light. 
 But could not add a night to woe ; 
 
66 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 For then, howe\-cT drear and dark, 
 My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
 
 One star alone shot forth a spark 
 To prove thee — not Eternity. 
 
 That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
 A blank ; a thing to count and curse, 
 
 Through each dull tedious trifling part, 
 Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
 
 One scene even thou canst not deform ; 
 
 The limit of thy sloth or speed 
 \\'hen future wanderers bear the storm 
 
 Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. 
 
 .Vnd I can smile to think how weak 
 Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 
 
 When all the vengeance thou canst -svreak 
 Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE 
 SONG 
 
 Ah ! Love Avas never yet without 
 The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
 Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh. 
 While day and night roll darkling by. 
 
 Without one friend to hear my woe, 
 I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
 That Love had arrows, well I knew, 
 Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 
 
 Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
 Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 
 Or, circled by his fatal fire. 
 Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 
 
 A bird of free and careless wing 
 Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 
 But caught within the subtle snare, 
 I bum, and feebly flutter there. 
 
 Who ne'er have loved, and loved in ^■ain,. 
 Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
 The cold repulse, the look askance. 
 The lightning of Love's angry glance. 
 
 In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 
 Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
 Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
 I feel my passion, and thy power. 
 
 My light of life ! ah, tell me why 
 That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ? 
 My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
 And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 
 
 Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
 What wretch with me would barter woe ? 
 i\Iv bird ! relent ; one note could give 
 A charm to bid thy lover live. 
 
 Mv curdling blood, my madd'ning braiji. 
 In silent anguish 1 sustain ; 
 And still thy heart without partaking 
 One pang, exult? — while mine is breaking. 
 
 Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
 Thou canst not murder more than now 
 I've lived to curse my natal day. 
 And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 
 Mv wounded soul, my bleeding breast. 
 Can patience preach thee into rest ? 
 Alas ! too late, I dearly know- 
 That joy is harbinger of woe. 
 
 THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU 
 
 ART FICKLE 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle. 
 
 To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 
 Are doubly bitter from that thought ; 
 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou 
 
 grievest, 
 Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 
 
 The wholly false the heart despises, 
 And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
 
 But she v.ho not a thought disguises, 
 Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
 
 When she can change who loved so truly, 
 
 It feels what mine has felt so newly. 
 
 To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
 Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 
 
 And if, when conscious on the morrow. 
 We scarce our fancy can forgive. 
 
 That cheated us in slumber only. 
 
 To leave the waking soul more lonely, 
 
 What must they feel whom no false vision 
 But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 
 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition ; 
 As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 
 
 Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming. 
 
 And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 
 
 ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
 " ORIGIN OF LOVE " 
 
 The " Origin of Love ! " — Ah, why 
 That cruel question ask of me, 
 
 When thou may'st read in many an eye 
 He starts to life on seeing thee ? 
 
 And should'st thou seek his cud to know ; 
 
 My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 
 He'll linger long in silent woe ; 
 
 But live — until I cease to be. 
 
 REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S 
 POWER 
 
 Remember him, w^hom passion's power 
 Severely, deeply, vainly pro%'ed ; 
 
 Remember thou that dangerous hour, 
 When neither fell, though both were 
 loved. 
 
 That yielding breast, that melting eye. 
 Too much invited to be bless'd ; 
 
 That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh. 
 The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 67 
 
 Oh ! let me feel that all is lost 
 
 But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
 And blush for every pang it cost 
 
 To spare the vain remorse of years. 
 
 Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
 Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
 
 Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
 And brand a nearly blighted name. 
 
 Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
 Hast seen each selfish thought subdued ; 
 
 I bless thy purer soul even now. 
 Even now, in midnight soUtude. 
 
 Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 
 Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 
 
 When thou hadst loved without a Crime, 
 And I been less unworthy thee ! 
 
 Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
 From this our gaudy world be past ! 
 
 And that too bitter moment o'er. 
 Oh ! may such trial be thy last. 
 
 This heart, alas ! perverted long. 
 
 Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 
 
 To meet thee in the glittering throng. 
 Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 
 
 Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
 Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 
 
 That world resign— such scenes forego. 
 Where those who feel must surely fall. 
 
 Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
 Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 
 
 From what even here hath pass'd, may 
 guess 
 What there thy bosom must endure. 
 
 Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
 Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 
 
 My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
 For me they shall not weep again. 
 
 Though long and mournful must it be. 
 The thought that we no more may meet ; 
 
 Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
 And almost deem the sentence sweet. 
 
 Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
 Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 
 
 It felt not half so much to part 
 As if its guilt had made thee mine. 
 
 1813. 
 
 ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS 
 When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 
 ' {I hope I am not violent) 
 Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 
 
 And since not even our Rogers' praise 
 To common sense his thoughts could raise- 
 Why would they let him print his lays ? 
 
 To me, divine Apollo, grant — O ! 
 Hermiida's first and second canto, 
 I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 
 
 And thus to furnish decent lining. 
 
 My own and others' bays I'm twining, — 
 
 So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 
 
 TO LORD THURLOW 
 
 " I lay my branch of laurel do^vn, 
 Then thus to form Apollo's crown. 
 Let every other bring his own." 
 
 Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. 
 
 " / lay my branch of laitrel doum.'^ 
 THOU " lay thy branch of laurel down ! " 
 
 Why, what thou'st stole is not enow ; 
 And, were it lawfully thine own, 
 
 Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
 Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 
 
 Or send it back to Doctor Donne ; 
 Were justice done to both, I trow, 
 
 He'd have but little, and thou — none. 
 
 " Then thus to form Apollo's crown." 
 A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 
 Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
 When next you visit Delphi's town. 
 
 Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, 
 They'll tell you Phcebus gave his crown. 
 
 Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 
 
 " Let every other brinn. his own.'" 
 When coals to Newcastle are carried. 
 
 And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, 
 From his spouse when the Regent's un- 
 married. 
 
 Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
 When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel 
 
 When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, 
 Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 
 
 And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE 
 
 WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO 
 MR. LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER 
 LANE GAOL, MAY I9, l8«3 
 
 Oh you, who in all names can tickle the 
 town, 
 
 Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom 
 Brown, — 
 
 For hang me if I know of which you may 
 most brag, 
 
 Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two- 
 penny Post Bag ; 
 ^ * * * 
 
 But now to my letter — to yours 'tis an 
 
 answer^ 
 To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, 
 
 sir. 
 All ready and dress'd for proceeding to 
 
 spunge on 
 (According to compact) the wit in the 
 
 dungeon. — 
 
68 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 Pray Phcebus at length our political malice 
 May not get us lodgings witiiin the same 
 
 palace ! 
 I suppose that to-night you're engaged 
 
 with some codgers, 
 And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted 
 
 Sam Rogers ; 
 And I, though with cold I have nearly my 
 
 death got, 
 Must put on my breeches, and wait on the 
 
 Heathcote ; 
 But to-morrow, at four, we will both play 
 
 the Scurra, 
 And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Ma- 
 
 murra. 
 
 [First published in 1830.] 
 
 IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND 
 When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, 
 
 Her dusky shadow mounts too high. 
 And o'er the changing aspect flits. 
 
 And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
 Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink; 
 
 My thoughts their dungeon know too 
 well ; 
 Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, 
 
 And droop within their silent cell. 
 
 September, 1813. 
 
 SONNET, TO GENEVRA 
 Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair 
 hair. 
 And the wan lustre of thy features — 
 
 caught 
 From contemplation — where serenely 
 wrought. 
 Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its 
 
 despair — 
 Have thrown such speaking sadness in 
 thine air. 
 That — but I know thy blessed bosom 
 
 fraught 
 With mines of imalloy'd and stainless 
 thought — 
 X should have deem'd thee doom'd to 
 
 earthly care. 
 With such an aspect, by his colours blent. 
 When from his beauty-breathing pencil 
 born, 
 (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 
 The Magdalen of Guido saw the mom — 
 Such seem'st thou — but how much more 
 excellent ! 
 With nought Remorse can claim — nor 
 Virtue scorn. December 17, 1813. 
 
 SONNET, TO THE SAME 
 Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not 
 from woe. 
 And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could 
 
 flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the brightest 
 blush 
 My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
 
 And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, 
 oh ! 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will 
 
 gush. 
 And into mine my mother's- weakness 
 rush. 
 Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy 
 
 bow. 
 For, through thy long dark lashes low 
 depending. 
 The soul of melancholy Gentleness 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descend- 
 ing 
 Above all pain, yet pitying all distress : 
 At once such majesty with sweetness 
 blending, 
 I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
 December 17, 1813. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE 
 
 " TU MI CHAMAS " 
 
 In moments to delight devoted, 
 
 " My life ! " with tenderest tone, you cry ; 
 Dear words ! on which my heart had doted. 
 
 If youth could neither fade nor die. 
 
 To death even hours like these must roll. 
 Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 
 
 Or change " my life ! " into " my soul 1 " 
 Which, like my love, exists for ever. 
 
 ANOTHER VERSION 
 
 You call me still yoiu: life. — Oh ! change 
 the word — 
 Life is as transient as the inconstant 
 sigh: 
 Say rather I'm your soul ; more just that 
 name, 
 For, like the soul, my love can never die. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DRIVE : 
 
 AN' UNFINISHED RHAPSODY 
 
 The Devil return'd to hell by two, 
 
 And he stay'd at home till five ; 
 When he dined on some homicides done in 
 ragoiM, 
 
 And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
 
 And sausages made of a self-slain Jew 
 
 And bethought himself what next to do, 
 
 " And," quoth he, " I'll take a drive.' 
 I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night ■ 
 In darkness my children take most delight,' 
 
 And I'll see how my favourites thrive. 
 
 " And what shall I ride in ? " quoth Lucifer 
 then — 
 
 " If I followed my taste, indeed, 
 I should mount in a wagon of wounded men 
 
 And smile to see them bleed. ' 
 
 But these will be fumish'd again and again, 
 
 And at present my purpose is speed ; 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 69 
 
 To see my manor as much as I may, 
 And watch that no souls shall be poach'd 
 away. 
 
 '" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 
 
 A chariot in Seymour Place ; 
 But they're lent to two friends, who make 
 me amends. 
 By driving my favourite pace ; 
 ■And they handle their reins with such a 
 
 grace, 
 i have something for both at the end of 
 their race. 
 
 "So now for the earth to take my chance ; " 
 '' Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
 And making a jump from Moscow to 
 France 
 He stepp'd across the sea, 
 And rested his hoof on a turnpike road. 
 No very great way from a bishop's abode. 
 
 But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
 
 That he hover'd a moment upon his way. 
 
 To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
 And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury 
 
 glare. 
 And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 
 That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
 And he gazed with delight from its growing 
 
 height. 
 Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight. 
 
 Nor his work done half so well : 
 For the field ran so red with the blood of 
 the dead. 
 That it blush'd like the waves of hell ! 
 Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd 
 
 he: 
 " Methinks they have here little need , of 
 
 But the softest note that soothed his ear 
 Was the sound of a widow sighing ; 
 
 And the sweetest sight was the icy tear. 
 
 Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 
 Of a maid by her lover lying — 
 
 As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
 
 And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied 
 air. 
 
 Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
 
 .\nd, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut, 
 
 Willi its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 
 A child of famine dying : 
 
 And the carnage begun, when resistance is 
 done, 
 
 «■ And the fall of the vainly flying ! 
 
 ^ + * * 
 
 But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white. 
 
 And what did he there, I pray ? 
 If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 
 f What we see every day : 
 But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
 Of all the wQndrous sights nocturnal, 
 
 And he sold it in shares to the Men of the 
 
 Who bid pretty well — but they cheated 
 him, though ! 
 
 The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 
 
 Its coachman and his coat ; 
 So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 
 
 And seized him by the throat : 
 " Aha ! " quoth he, " what have we here ? 
 'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer ! " 
 
 So he sat him on his box again. 
 
 And bade him have no fear. 
 But be true ,to his club, and stanch to his 
 rein. 
 His brothel, and his beer ; 
 " Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
 I would rather see him here." 
 ♦ * * 
 
 The Devil gat next to Westminster, 
 
 And he turn'd to " the room " of the 
 Commons ; 
 
 But he heard, as he purposed to enter in 
 there, 
 That " the Lords " had received a sum- 
 mons ; 
 
 And he thought, as a " quondam aristo- 
 crat," 
 
 He might peep at the peers, though to hear 
 them were flat ; 
 
 And he walk'd up the house so like one of 
 o\ir own. 
 
 That they say that he stood pretty near 
 the throne. 
 
 He saw the Lord I^iverpool seemingly wise. 
 
 The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 
 
 And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some 
 
 size — 
 
 And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 
 
 And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes. 
 
 Because the Cathohcs would not rise. 
 
 In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 
 
 And he heard — which set Satan himself a 
 
 staring — 
 A certain Chief Justice say something like 
 
 swearing. 
 And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, 
 
 " I must go 
 For I find we have much better manners 
 
 below : 
 If thus he harangues when he passes my 
 
 border, 
 I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to 
 
 order." 
 
 WINDSOR POETICS 
 
 Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal 
 
 Highness the Prince Regent being seen standing 
 
 between the coffins of Henry VIII and Cbarles 
 
 I, in the royal vault at Windsor. 
 
 Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred 
 
 ties, 
 By headless Chjrles see heartless Henry 
 lies ; 
 
70 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 Between them stands another sceptred 
 
 thing — 
 It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 
 
 Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
 — In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
 Justice and death have mix'd their dust in 
 
 vain. 
 Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
 Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these 
 
 disgorge 
 The blood and dust of both — to mould a 
 
 George. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 
 I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy 
 name. 
 
 There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in 
 the fame : 
 
 But the tear which now burns on my cheek 
 may impart 
 
 The deep thoughts that dwell in that si- 
 lence of heart. 
 
 Too brief for our passion, too long for our 
 
 peace, 
 Were those hours^can their joy or their 
 
 bitterness cease ? 
 We repent, we abjure, we will break from 
 
 our chain, — 
 We will part, we will fly to — ^unite it again ! 
 
 Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the 
 
 guilt ! 
 Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou 
 
 wilt ; — 
 But the heart which is thine shall expire 
 
 undebased. 
 And ?nan shall not break it — whatever 
 
 thou mayst. 
 
 And stern to the haughty, but humble to 
 thee. 
 
 This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall 
 be : 
 
 And our days seem as swift, and our mo- 
 ments more sw^ect. 
 
 With thee by my side, than with worlds at 
 our feet. 
 
 One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love. 
 Shall turn iiie or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
 And the heartless may wonder at all I 
 
 resign — 
 Thy Up shall reply, not to them, but to 
 
 mine. 
 
 May, 1814. 
 
 ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RE- 
 CITED AT THE CALEDONIAN 
 MEETING 
 
 Who hath not glow'd above the page where 
 
 fame 
 Hath fix'd high Caledon's uncouquer'd 
 
 name : 
 
 The mountain-land which spum'd the 
 
 Roman chain, 
 And bafSed back the fiery-crested Dane, 
 Whose bright claymore and hardihood of 
 
 hand 
 No foe could tame — no tyrant could com- 
 mand ? 
 That race is gone — but still their children 
 
 breathe, 
 And glory crowns them with redoubled 
 
 wreath ; 
 O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners 
 
 shine, 
 And, England ! add their stubborn strength 
 
 to thine. 
 The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows 
 
 as free. 
 But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee ! 
 Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's 
 
 claim. 
 But give support — the world hath given 
 
 him fame ! 
 
 The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who 
 
 bled 
 While cheerly following where the mighty 
 
 led— 
 Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
 Where happier comrades in their triumph 
 
 trod. 
 To us bequeath — 'tis all their fate allows — . 
 The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : ; 
 She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
 The tearful eye in melancholy gaze. 
 Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
 The Highland Seer's anticipated woes. 
 The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
 Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
 While sad, she chants the solitary song. 
 The soft lament for him who tarries long — ■ 
 For him, whose distant relics vainlv crave 
 The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 
 
 'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away 
 
 the woe. 
 Which bursts when Nature's feelings newlv 
 
 flow ; 
 Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
 Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 
 A nation's gratitude perchance mav spread 
 A thornless pillow for the widow 'd head ; 
 Ma>- lighten well her heart's maternal 
 
 care. 
 And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 
 May, 181^. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO 
 THOMAS MOORE 
 
 " What say / ? "—not a syllable further 
 
 in prose ; 
 I'm your man " of all measures." (Jea* 
 
 Tom, — so. here goes I ? 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 71 
 
 Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old 
 
 Time, 
 On those buoyant supporters, the bladders 
 
 of rhyme. 
 If our weight breaks them down, and we 
 
 sink in. the flood, 
 We are smother'd, at least, in respectable 
 
 mud. 
 Where the Divers of Bathos lie druwn'd in 
 
 a heap. 
 And Southey's last Paean has piUow'd his 
 
 sleep ; — 
 That " Felo de se," who, half drunk with 
 
 his malmsey, 
 Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a 
 
 calm sea. 
 Singing " Glory to God " in a spick and 
 
 span stanza. 
 The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) 
 
 never man saw. 
 The papers have told you, no doubt, of the 
 
 fusses. 
 The fetes, and the gapings to get at these 
 
 Russes, — 
 Of his Majesty's suite, up, from coachman 
 
 to Hetman, 
 And what dignity decks the flat face of the 
 
 great man. 
 I saw him, last week, at two baljs and a 
 
 party,— 
 For a prince, his demeanour was rather too 
 
 hearty. 
 You know, we are used to quite different 
 
 graces, 
 
 ,^ * * 
 
 The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter 
 
 and brisker. 
 But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
 And wore but a starless blue coat, and in 
 
 kersey- 
 -mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz 
 
 with the Jersey, 
 Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
 "With Majesty's presence as those she 
 
 invited. 
 
 June, 1814. 
 
 CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH, 
 COUNTESS OF JERSEY, 
 
 ON THE regent's RETURNING HER PICTURE 
 TO MRS. MEE 
 
 When the vain triumph of the imperial 
 
 lord, 
 Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet 
 
 abhorr'd. 
 Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust. 
 That left a likeness of the brave, or just ; 
 What most admired each scrutinising eye 
 Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
 
 What spread from face to face that won- 
 dering air ? 
 The thought of Brutus — -for his was not 
 
 there ! 
 That absence proved his worth, — that 
 
 absence fix'd 
 His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
 And more decreed his glory to endure, 
 Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
 
 If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
 Search for thy form, in vain and mute' 
 
 amaze. 
 Amidst those pictur'd charms, whose 
 
 loveliness. 
 Bright though they be, thine own had 
 
 render'd less ; 
 If he, that vain old man, whom truth ad- 
 mits 
 Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits, 
 If his corrupted eye, -and wither'd heart. 
 Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 
 That tasteless shame be his, and ours the 
 
 grief, 
 To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief : 
 Yet comfort still one selfish thought 
 
 imparts. 
 We lose the portrait, but preserve our 
 
 hearts. 
 What can Ms vaulted gallery now dis- 
 close ? 
 A garden with all flowers — except the rose \~- 
 A foimt that only wants its living stream ; 
 A night, with every star, sa,ve Diaa's beam. 
 Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
 That turn from tracing them to dream of 
 
 thee ; 
 And more on that recall'd resemblance 
 
 pause. 
 Than all he shall not force on our applause. 
 Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
 With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine. 
 The symmetry of youth, the grace of mien. 
 The eye that gladdens, and the brow serene ; 
 The glossy darkness of that clustering hair 
 Which shades, yet shows that forehead 
 
 more than fair ! 
 Each glance thait wins us, and, the life that 
 
 throws 
 A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
 But tm'n to gaze again, and find anew 
 Some charm that well rewards another 
 
 view. 
 These are not lessen'd, these are still as 
 
 bright. 
 Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
 And those must wait till ev'ry charm is 
 
 gone. 
 To please the paltry heart that pleases 
 
 none ; — 
 That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
 In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
 Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
 Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 
 August, 1814. 
 
7^ 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 TO BELSHAZZAR 
 
 Bii-SHAZZAR ! from the banquet turn, 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
 Behold ! while yet before thee burn 
 
 The graven words, the glowing wall, 
 Many a despot mien miscall 
 
 Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
 But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die ? 
 
 Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 
 
 Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 
 
 More than thy very diadem. 
 Where thou hast tamish'd every gem : — 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by. 
 Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 
 
 And learn like better men to die ! 
 
 Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd. 
 
 And ever light of word and worth. 
 Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 
 
 And left thee but a mass of earth. 
 To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
 
 Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH 
 OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART" 
 
 There is a tear for all that die, 
 
 A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 
 
 But nations swell the funeral cry. 
 
 And Triumph weeps above the brave. 
 
 For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
 O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 
 
 In vain their bones unburied lie. 
 All earth becomes their monument ! 
 
 A tomb is theirs on every page, 
 
 An epitaph on every tongue : 
 The present hours, the future age, 
 
 For them bewail, to them belong. 
 
 For them the voice of festal mirth 
 
 Grows hush'd, their name the onl y sound ; 
 
 While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
 The goblet's tributary round. 
 
 A theme to crowds that knew them not 
 
 Lamented by admiring foes, 
 Who would not share their glorious lot ? 
 
 Who would not die the death they chose ? 
 
 And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
 Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 
 
 And early valour, glowing, find 
 A model in thy memory. 
 
 But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
 In woe, that glory cannot quell ; 
 
 And shuddering hear of victory, 
 Where one so dear, so dauntless, f.ll. 
 
 Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 
 
 When cease to hear thy cherish'd name .' 
 Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 
 
 While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 
 
 Alas ! for them, though not for thee, 
 They cannot choose but weep the more ; 
 
 Deep for the dead the grief must be. 
 Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 
 October, 1814. 
 
 STANZ.VS FOR MUSIC 
 
 *' O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
 Ducentium ortus ex ar.imo : quater 
 Felix 1 in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 
 
 Gray's Poemata. 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like 
 
 that it takes away, 
 When the glow of early thought declines in 
 
 feeling's dull decay ; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush 
 
 alone, which fades so fast. 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere 
 
 youth itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the 
 
 wreck of happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean 
 
 of excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only 
 
 points in vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall 
 
 never stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like 
 death itself comes down ; 
 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not 
 dream its own ; 
 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the foun- 
 tain of our tears. 
 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis 
 where the ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 
 
 mirth distract the breast. 
 Through midnight hours that yield no 
 
 more their former hope of rest ; 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd 
 
 turret wreath. 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but 
 
 worn and grey beneath. 
 
 Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what 
 
 I have been. 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er 
 
 many a vanish 'd scene ; 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all 
 
 brackish though they be. 
 So, midst the wit'ier'd waste of life, those 
 
 tears would flow to me. 
 
 March, 18 15. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 73 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 Tkepe be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 W th a magic like thee ; 
 And like mi'sic on the waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmed ocean's pausing, 
 The waves lie still and gleaming, 
 And the lull'd winds seem dreaming : 
 
 And the midnight moon is wea^'ing 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 
 
 Whose breast is gintly heaving, 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 
 So the spirit bows before thee, 
 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 
 
 •ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA 
 Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure, 
 Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at 
 
 his leisure, 
 From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes. 
 Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his 
 
 foes. 
 
 March 27, iSrj. 
 
 ODE FROM THE FRENCH 
 I 
 'We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
 Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew 
 There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
 falsing from each gory trunk. 
 Like the water-spout from ocean, 
 ■With a strong and growing motion — 
 It soars, and mingles in the air, 
 With that of lost Labedoyere — 
 With that of him whose honour'd grave 
 Contains the " bravest of the brave." 
 A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
 But shall return to whence it rose ; 
 When, 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 
 Never yet was heard such thunder 
 
 -As' then shall shake the world with wonder- 
 Never yet was seen such lightning 
 As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 
 Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
 By the sainted Seer of old, 
 
 • Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
 
 'Turning rivers into blood. 
 
 II 
 The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 
 Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 
 'When the soldier citizen 
 ' Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 
 Save in deeds that led them on 
 Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 
 .Who, of all the despots banded. 
 
 With that youthful chief competed ? 
 Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
 ■ Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
 Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 The Hero sunk into the King ? 
 Then he fell : — so perish all, 
 V/ho would men by man enthral ! 
 
 Ill 
 And thou, too, of the snow-white plume ' 
 Whose roalm refused thee ev'n a tomb ■ 
 Better hadst thou still been leading ' 
 France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding 
 Than sold thyself to death and shame' 
 For a meanly royal name ; 
 Such as he of Naples wears, 
 Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
 Little didst thou deem, when dashiijg 
 On thy war-horse through the ranks. 
 Like a stream which burst its banks, 
 While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
 Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
 Of the fate at last which found thee ; 
 Was that haughty plume laid low 
 By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
 Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide. 
 It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
 Through the smoke-created night 
 Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
 The soldier raised his seeking eye 
 To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 
 And, as it onward rolling rose, 
 So moved his heart upon our foes. 
 There, where death's brief pang was quick- 
 est, 
 .\nd the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
 Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 
 
 Of the eagle's burning crest — 
 (There with thunder-clouds to fan her. 
 
 Who could then her wing arrest — 
 
 Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
 While the broken line enlarging 
 
 Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
 There be sure was Murat charging ! 
 
 There he ne'er shall charge again ! 
 
 O'er glories gone the invaders march, 
 
 Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 
 
 But let Freedom rejoice. 
 
 With her heart in her voice ; 
 
 But, her hand on her sword. 
 
 Doubly shall she be adored ; 
 
 France hath twice two well been taught 
 
 The " moral lesson " dearly bought — 
 
 Her safety sits not on a throne, 
 
 With Capet or Napoleon ! 
 
 But in equal rights and laws, 
 
 Hearts and hands in one great cause — 
 
 Freedom, such as God hath given 
 
 Unto all beneath his heaven, 
 
 With their breath, and from their birth, 
 
 Though guilt would sweep it from the 
 
 earth ; 
 With a fierce and lavish hand 
 Scattering nations' wealth like sand .; 
 Pouring nations' blood like water, ' 
 In imperial seas of slaughter-! 
 
74 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 But the heart and the mind, 
 And the \oice of mankind, 
 Shall arise in communion — 
 And who shall resist that proud union ? 
 The time is past when swords subdued — 
 Man may die — the soul's renew'd ; 
 Even in this low world of care 
 Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
 Millions breathe but to inherit 
 Her for ever bounding spirit — 
 When once more her hosts assemble, 
 Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
 Smile they at this idle threat ? 
 Crimson tears will follow yet. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH 
 I 
 Musr thou go, my glorious Chief, 
 
 Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
 Who can tell thy warrior's grief 
 
 Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 
 Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 
 
 Dear as both have been to me — 
 What are they to all I feel. 
 
 With a soldier's faith for thee ? 
 
 II 
 Idol of the soldier's soul ! 
 
 First in fight, but mightiest iiu^v ; 
 Many could a world control ; 
 
 Thee alone no doom can bow. 
 By thy side for years I dared 
 
 Death ; and envied those who fell, 
 When their dying shout was heard, 
 
 Blessing him they served so well. 
 
 in 
 Would that I were cold with those. 
 
 Since this hour I live to see ; 
 When the doubts of coward foes 
 
 Scarce dare trust a man with thi-e. 
 Dreading each should set thee free ! 
 
 Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 
 All their chains were light to me, 
 
 Gazing on thy soul unbent. 
 
 IV 
 
 Would the sycophants of him 
 
 Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
 Were his borrow'd glories dim. 
 
 In his natiN'e darkness share ? 
 Were that world this hour his own. 
 
 All thou calmly dost resign. 
 Could he purchase with that throne 
 
 Hearts like those which still are thine ? 
 
 ON THE STAR OF " THE LEGION OF 
 
 I HONOUR " 
 
 ! [from the FRENCH] 
 
 ; Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 
 I Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
 
 Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 
 
 Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 
 
 Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 
 
 Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 
 
 Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
 Eternity flash'd through thy blare ; 
 The music of thy martial sphere 
 Was fame on high and honour here ; 
 And thy light broke on human eyes, 
 Like a volcano of the skies. 
 
 Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, 
 And swept down empires with its flood ; 
 Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
 As thou didst lighten through all space ; 
 And the shorn Sun grew dim in air. 
 And set while thou ^^-ert dwelling there. 
 
 Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
 
 A rainbow of the loveliest hue 
 
 Of three bright colours, each divine. 
 
 And tit for that celestial sign ; 
 
 For Freedom's hand had blended them, 
 
 Like tints in an immortal gem. 
 
 One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes : 
 One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
 One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
 Had robed in radiance of its light ; 
 The three so mingled did beseem 
 The texture of a heavenly dream. 
 Star of the bra\e I thy rav is pale. 
 And darkness must again'prevail ! 
 But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
 Our tears and blood must flovr for thee. 
 When thy bright promise fades awa}-, 
 Our life is but a load of clay. 
 
 And Freedom hallows with her tread 
 The silent cities of the dead ; 
 For beautiful in death are they 
 \\ ho proudly fall in her array'. 
 And soon, oh, Goddess ! may we be 
 For evermore with them or "thee ! 
 
 NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL 
 
 [FR051 THE FRE.NCh] 
 
 My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 
 
 Never did I droop before ; 
 ,\e"\"er to my sovereign sue. 
 
 As his foes I now implore ; 
 All I dbk is to divide 
 
 Every pi-ril he must brave ; 
 Sharing by the hero's side 
 
 His fall, his exile, and his grave. 
 
 Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of 
 
 my Gltiry 
 Aro^e and o'ershadow'd the earth with her 
 
 name — 
 She abandons me now — but the pa^f- of her 
 
 story, 
 The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with mv 
 
 fame. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 lb 
 
 I have warr'd with a world which van- 
 quish' d me only 
 
 When the meteor of conquest allured me 
 too far ; 
 
 I have coped with the nations which dread 
 
 ' me thus lonely, 
 
 The last single Captive to millions in war. 
 
 II 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! when thy dia- 
 dem crown'd me, 
 
 I made thee the gem and the wonder of 
 earth, 
 
 But thy weakness decrees I should leave 
 as I found thee, 
 
 Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy 
 worth. 
 
 Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were 
 wasted 
 
 In strife with the storm, when their battles 
 were won — 
 
 Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that mo- 
 ment was blasted. 
 
 Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's 
 sun ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! — but when 
 Liberty raUies 
 
 Once more in thy regions, remember me 
 then, — 
 
 The violet still grows in the depth of thy 
 valleys ; 
 
 Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it 
 again — 
 
 Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that sur- 
 round us. 
 
 And yet may thy heart leap awake to my 
 voice — 
 
 There are links which must break in the 
 chain that has bound us, 
 
 Tlien turn thee and call on the Chief of thy 
 choice ! 
 
 ENDOPSEMENT TO THE DEED OF 
 SEPARATION 
 
 IN THE APRIL OF 1816 
 
 A VE.4E ago, you swore, fond she ! 
 
 " To love, to honour," and so forth : 
 Such was the vow you pledged to me. 
 
 And here's exactly what 'tis worth. 
 
 DARKNESS 
 
 ( HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 Ihe bright sun was extinguish' d, and the 
 
 stars 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moon- 
 less air ; 
 iVlom came and went — and came, and 
 
 brought no day. 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 
 Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for ligut ; 
 And they did live by watchfures — and the 
 
 thrones. 
 The palaces of crowned kings — the huts. 
 The habitations of all things which dwell. 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were con- 
 sumed. 
 And men were gather'd round their blazing 
 
 homes 
 To look once more into each other's face ; 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
 Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 
 A fearful hope v,as all the world contain'd_; 
 Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
 The5' fell and faded — and the crackling 
 ' trunks 
 Extinguish'd \\'ith a crash — and all was 
 
 black. 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
 And hid their eyes and wept ; and some 
 
 did rest 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and 
 
 smiled ; 
 And others hurried to and fro, and, fed 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
 With mad disquietude oi^he dull sky, 
 The pall of a past world -/^nd then again 
 With curses cast them down upon the dust. 
 And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the 
 
 wild birds shriek'd 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, j,,, 
 And flap their useless wings ; the wildest 
 
 brutes 
 Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers 
 
 crawl'd 
 And twined themselves among the multi- 
 tude, 
 Hissing, but stingless — Ihey w-ere slain for 
 
 food : 
 And War, which for a moment was no more, 
 Did glut himself again : — a meal was bought 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
 Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
 All earth was but one thought — and that 
 
 was death 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as 
 
 their flesh ; 
 'The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 
 Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save 
 
 one. 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 The birds and beasts and famish'd men at 
 
 bay, 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping 
 
 dead 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out 
 
 no food. 
 But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
 Which answer'd not with a caress — he died- 
 
76 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but 
 
 two 
 Of an enormous city did surWve, 
 And they were enemies : they met beside 
 The dying embers of an altar-place 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy 
 
 things 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
 And shivering scraped with their cold 
 
 skeleton hands 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 Blew for a little life, and made a frame 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, 
 
 and died — 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
 Unlcnowing who he w^as upon whose brow 
 Famine had written Fiend. The world 
 
 was void. 
 The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, life- 
 less — 
 A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. 
 And nothing stirr'd within their silent 
 
 depths ; 
 Ships sailorless by rotting on the sea, 
 And their masts^itll dov."n piecemeal : rs 
 
 they dropp'd 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in 
 their grave, 
 The moon, their mistress, had expired 
 before ; 
 The v.'inds were wither'd in the stagnant air. 
 And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no 
 
 ne=-d 
 Of aid from thera^Shc was the Universe. 
 Diodati, Jiilv, 1816. 
 
 CHURCHILL'S GRA^•E 
 
 A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED 
 
 I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 
 Witli not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone. 
 With name no clearer than the names un- 
 known. 
 Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
 The Gardener of that ground, whj' it 
 might be 
 That for this plant strangers his memory 
 task'd. 
 Through the thick deaths of half a cen- 
 tury ? 
 And thus he an!,iver'd — " Well, I do not 
 
 know 
 Whv frri]iicnt travellers turn to pilgrims -n ; 
 He died before mv day of Sexton-.hip. i 
 
 And I had iint the digging of this gra\ f." 
 
 And is th-'s all ? I thought, — and do we rip 
 
 The veil of Immortality, and crave 
 I know not what of honoin: and of light 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight, 
 So soon, and so successless ? As I said, 
 The Architect of all on which we tread, 
 For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
 Whose minglings might confuse a Ne« ton's 
 thought. 
 Were it not that all life must end in one. 
 Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he 
 caught 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
 Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of 
 
 whom 
 You w^ot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
 Was a most famous writer in his day. 
 And therefore travellers step from out 
 
 their way 
 To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 
 Your honour pleases : " — then most 
 
 ■ pleased I shook 
 From out my pocket's avaricioiis nook 
 Some certain coins of silver, which a= 'tv.-ere 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could 
 
 spare 
 So much but inconvem-ently ; — Ye smile, 
 I see ye. ye profane ones ! aU the while' 
 Because mv homely phrase the truth woiild 
 
 tell. 
 You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
 With a deep thought, and \rith a soften'd 
 
 eye. 
 On that Old Sexton's natural homily. 
 
 In which there was Obscuritv and Fame, 
 
 The Glory and the Nothing of a Name! 
 Diodati, 1816. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 I 
 TiT\x ! to whose immortal eves 
 
 The sufferings of mortality". 
 
 Seen in their sad realitv. 
 Were not as things that gods despise , 
 What was thy pity's recompense ? 
 -A. silent suffering, and intense ; 
 The rnck, the vulture, and the chain, 
 .-\U that the proud can feel of pain. 
 The agony they do not show. 
 The suffocating sense of woe, 
 
 \\'hich speaks hut in its loneliness. 
 And then is jealous lest the skv 
 Should have a listener, nor will siph 
 
 Until its voice is echoless. 
 
 Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
 Between the suffering and the will, 
 \yhich torture where thev cmnot kill ■ 
 
 And the inexorable Heaven, ' 
 
 And the deaf t-xannv oi Fate 
 
 The ruling principle of Hate, 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 77 
 
 Which for its pleasure doth create 
 The things it may annihilate, 
 Refused thee even the boon to die ; 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
 A'l that the Thunderrr wrung from thee 
 Was but the menace which flung back 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 But'would-not to appease him tell ; 
 And in tby Silence was his Sentence, 
 And in his Soul a vain repentance. 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled. 
 That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 
 
 Ill 
 Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 
 
 To render with thy precepts les? 
 , The sum of human wretchedness. 
 And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
 But baffled as thou wert from high, 
 Still in thy patient energy. 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 
 Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
 Which Earth and Heaven could not con- 
 vulse 
 
 A mighty lesson we inherit : 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 To Mortals of their fate and force : 
 Like thee, Man is in part divine, 
 
 A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
 And Man in portions can foresee 
 His own funereal destiny ; 
 His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
 And his sad unallied existence : 
 To which his Spirit may oppose 
 Itself — and equal to all woes. 
 
 And a firm vrill, and a deep sense. 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 Its own concenter'd recompense. 
 Triumphant where it dares defy. 
 And making Death a Victory. 
 
 Diodati, July, 1816. 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 Could I remount the river of my years 
 To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
 I would not trace again the stream of hours 
 Between their outworn banks of wither'd 
 
 flowers. 
 But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
 Into the number of the nameless tides. 
 * * * 
 
 What is ttiis Death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
 The whole of that of which we are a part ? 
 For life is but a vision — what I see 
 Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
 And being so — the absent are the dead. 
 Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
 A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
 With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 
 The absent are the dead— for thejr are 
 cold, 
 And ne'er can be what once we did behold : 
 
 And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if 
 
 yet 
 The unforgotten do not all forget. 
 Since thus divided — equal must it be 
 If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
 It may be both — but one day end it must 
 In the dark union of insensate dust. 
 
 The under-earth inhabitants — are thev 
 But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
 The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
 Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
 Or do thev in their silent cities dwell 
 Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
 Or have they their own language ? and a 
 
 sense 
 Of breathless being ? — darken'd and in- 
 tense 
 As midnight in her solitude ? — Oh Earth ! 
 Where are the past ? — and wherefore had 
 
 they birth ? 
 The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
 But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
 Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
 The ebon portal of thy peopled cave. 
 Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
 Our elements resolved to things untold, 
 And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
 The essence of great bosoms now no more. 
 
 « * )K 
 
 Diodati, July, 1816. 
 
 SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN 
 Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and 
 De Stael— 
 Leman ! ^^ these names are worthy of 
 
 thy shore, 
 Thv shore of names like these ! wert 
 thou no more 
 Their memory thy remembrance would 
 
 recall : 
 To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 
 But they have made them lovelier, for 
 
 the lore 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
 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 rrvstal 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. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 I 
 Bright be the place of thy soul ! 
 
 No lovelier spirit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortsl control. 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 
78 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 On earth thou wert all but divine, 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine 
 
 V/hen we know that thy God is with 
 •thee. 
 
 II 
 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 Jlay its verdure lilte emeralds be ! 
 There should not be the shadow of gloom 
 
 In aught that reminds us of thee. 
 Young flowers and an "evergreen tree 
 
 May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
 But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
 
 For why should we mourn for the blest ? 
 
 A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD ON 
 
 THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF 
 
 ALHAMA 
 
 Which, in the Arabic language, is to the 
 following purport. 
 
 I 
 
 The Moorish Kmg rides up and down, 
 Through Granada's royal town ; 
 From Elvira's gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 11 
 
 Letters to the monarch tell 
 How Alhama's city fell ; 
 In the fire the scroll he threw, 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Ill 
 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 ! 
 
 IV 
 
 When the Alhambra walls he gain'd. 
 On the moment he ordain'd 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 With the siher clarion round. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 v 
 And when the hollow drums of war 
 Beat the loud alarm afar. 
 That the Moors of town and plain 
 Might answer to the martial strain. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 VI 
 
 Then the Moors, by this aware. 
 That bloody Mars recall'd them there. 
 One by one, and two by two, 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 VII 
 
 Out then spake an aged Moor 
 In these words the king before. 
 
 " Wherefore call on us, oh King ? 
 What may mean this gathering ? " 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
 Of a most disastrous blow ; 
 That the Christians, stem and bold. 
 Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 
 With his beard so white to see, 
 
 " Good King ! thou art justly served, 
 
 Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ' 
 
 " By thee were slain, in evil hour. 
 The Abencerrage, Granada's flov.'er ; 
 And strangers were received by thee 
 Of Cordova the Chivalry. 
 
 Woe is me, Alham- ! 
 
 XI 
 
 " And for this, oh King I is sent 
 On thee a double chastisement : 
 Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
 One last WTeck shall ov'erwhelm. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XII 
 
 " He who holds no laws in awe, 
 He must perish by the law ; 
 And Granada must be won. 
 And thyself mth her undone." 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XIII 
 
 Fire fiash'd from out the old Moor's eyes. 
 The Monarch's wrath began to rise. 
 Because he answer'd, and because 
 He spake exceeding well of laws. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XIV 
 
 " There is no, law to saj- such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings ; " — 
 Thus, snortmg with his choler, said 
 The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XV 
 
 Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
 Though thy beard so hoary be, 
 The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
 For .\lhama's loss displeased. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 x^•I 
 And to fix thy head upon 
 High Alhamb'ra's loftiest stone ; 
 That this for thee should be the law. 
 And others tremble when they saw. ' 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
OCCASIOKAL PIECES 
 
 79 
 
 XVII 
 
 " Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
 Let these words of mine go forth ; 
 Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
 That to him I nothing owe. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XVIII 
 
 " But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
 And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
 And if the King his land hath lost. 
 Yet others may have lost the most. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " Sires have lost their children, wives 
 Their lords, and valiant men their li\'es ! 
 One what best his love might claim 
 Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XX 
 
 •' I lost a damsel in that hour, 
 Of all the land the loveUest flower ; 
 Doubloons a hundred 1 would pay. 
 And think her ransom cheap that day." 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XXI 
 
 And as these things the old Moor said. 
 They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
 And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
 'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 XXII 
 
 And men and infants therein weep 
 Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
 Granada's ladies, all she rears 
 Within her walls, burst into tears. 
 
 Woe is me, Albania ! 
 
 XXIII 
 
 And from the windows o'er the walls 
 The sable web of mourning falls ; 
 The King weeps as a woman o'er 
 His loss, for it is much and sore. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 
 I 
 They say that Hope is happiness ; 
 
 But genuine Love must prize the past. 
 And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless ; 
 
 They rose the first — they set the last ; 
 II 
 And all that Memory loves the most 
 
 Was once our only Hope to be. 
 And all that Hope adored and lost 
 
 Hath melted into Memory. 
 
 Ill 
 Alas ! it is delusion all ; 
 
 The futme cheats us from afar,. 
 Nor can -vve be what we recall, 
 
 Nor dare we think on what v>'e are. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI 
 
 ON A NUN 
 
 Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose 
 daughter had recently died shortly after her 
 marriage ; and addressed to the father of her 
 who had lately taken the veil. 
 Of two fair virgins, modest, though ad- 
 mired, 
 Fleaven made us happy ; and now, 
 wretched sires, 
 Heaven fcir a nobler doom their worth 
 desires : 
 And gazing upon either, both required. 
 Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 
 Becomes e.»;tmguish'd, soon — too soon — 
 
 expires : 
 But thine, within the closing grate 
 
 retired. 
 Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 
 But thou at least from out the jealous door, 
 Which shuts between your never-racct- 
 
 iiig eyes, 
 May'st hear her sweet and pious voice 
 once more ; 
 I to the marble, where my daughter lies, 
 Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I 
 
 pour, 
 And knock, and knock, and knock — 
 but none replies. 
 
 ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY 
 CANOVA 
 
 In this beloved marble view, 
 
 .\bove the works and thoughts of man, 
 What Nature could, but wonld not, do, 
 
 And Beauty and Canova cure ! 
 Beyond imagination's power, 
 
 Bevond the Bard's defeated art, 
 V\ ith'immortality her dower. 
 
 Behold the Helen of the hearl ! 
 
 November, 1816. 
 
 SONG FOR THE LUDDITES 
 I 
 \s 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 ! 
 II 
 V/hen the web that we weave is complete. 
 And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 
 We will fling the winding sheet 
 O'er the despot at our feet. 
 And die it deep in the gore he has pour d 
 III 
 Though black as his heart its hue. 
 Since his veins are corrupted to mud. 
 Yet this is the dew 
 Which the tree shall renew 
 Of Liberty, planted by Ludd ! 
 
 December, 1810. 
 
8o 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 VERSICLES 
 
 I READ the " Christabel ; " 
 
 Very well ; 
 I read the " Missionary ; " 
 
 Pretty — very ; 
 I tried at " Ilderim ; " 
 
 Ahem ! 
 I read a sheet of " IVIarg'ret of Anjou ; " 
 
 Can you ? 
 I tum'd a page of Scott's " Waterloo ; " 
 
 Pooh ! pooh ! 
 I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-v.'hite " Ryl- 
 stone Doe ; " 
 
 Hillo ! 
 etc. etc. etc. March, 1817. 
 
 SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING 
 I 
 So, we'll go no more a roving 
 
 So late into the night. 
 Though the heart be still as loving, 
 And the moon be still as bright. 
 II 
 For the sword outwears its sheath. 
 
 And the soul wears out the breast. 
 And the heart must pause to breathe. 
 And love itself have rest. 
 Ill 
 Though the night was made for loving, 
 
 .\nd the day returns too soon. 
 Vet we'll go no more a roving 
 By the light of the moon. 
 
 1817 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE 
 
 What are you doing now. 
 
 Oh Thomas iVloore ? 
 What are you doing now. 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore ? 
 Sighing or suing now, 
 Rhvming or wooing now, 
 Billing or cooing now, 
 
 Which Thomas Moore ? 
 But the Carnival's coming. 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore ! 
 The Carnival's coming. 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore ! 
 I\Ia^king and humming. 
 Fifing and drumming, 
 Guitarring and strumming, 
 
 Oh Thomas Jloore ! 
 
 TO i\IR. JIURRAY 
 To hook the reader, you, John iVIurrav. 
 
 Have publish'd " Anjou's Margaret," 
 Which won't be sold off in a hurry 
 
 (.-\t least, it has not been as yot) ; 
 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, 
 Which would be very treacherous — very, 
 And get me into such a scrape ! 
 For, firstly, I should have to sallv. 
 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, 181 7. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE 
 
 I 
 ^Iv boat is on the shore. 
 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here's a double health to thee ! 
 
 II 
 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 everv fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me. 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 
 Though a desert should surround m.e, 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 IV 
 
 Were't the last drop in the well, 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink. 
 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 ' With that water, as this wine. 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be — peace with thine and mine. 
 And a health to tnee, Tom Moore. 
 July, 1S17. 
 
 EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO 
 
 DR. POLIDORI 
 Dear Doctor, I have read your play. 
 Which is a good one in its wav, — 
 : Purges the eyes and mo\-es the bowels. 
 And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
 With tears, that, in a flu.x of grief. 
 Afford hysterical relief 
 To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
 Which your catastrophe convulses. 
 
 I like your moral and machinery ; 
 Your plot, too, has such scope for sce'n->ry • 
 Your dialogue is apt and smart ; " ' ' 
 
 The play's concoction full of art'; 
 Your hero raves, ^•our heroine cries 
 .\11 stab, and e\-ery body dies. 
 In short, your tragedy vvould be 
 The very thing to hear and see : 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 til 
 
 And for a piece of publication, 
 
 If I decline on this occasion, 
 
 It is not that I am not sensible 
 
 To merits in themselves ostensible. 
 
 But — and I grieve to speak it — plays 
 
 Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
 
 I had a heavy loss by " Manuel," — 
 
 Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
 
 And Sotheby, with his " Orestes," 
 
 (Which, by the by, the author's best is,) 
 
 Has lain so very long on hand, 
 
 That I despair of all demand. 
 
 I've advertised, but see my books. 
 
 Or only watch my shopman's looks ; — 
 
 Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, 
 
 My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 
 
 There's Byron too, who once did better. 
 Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
 A sort of — it's no more a drama 
 ■ Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama ; 
 So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
 I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
 In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
 I dare not venture on another. 
 I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
 The coaches through the street so thunder ! 
 My room's so full — we've Gifford here 
 Reading MS., with Hookham Frere, 
 Pronouncing on the nouns and particles. 
 Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 
 
 The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
 Had but the genius to review ! — 
 A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
 Or if you only would but tell in a 
 
 Short compass what but to resume ; 
 
 As I was saying, sir, the room — 
 The room's so full of wits and bards, 
 Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and 
 
 Wards, 
 And others, neither bards nor wits ; — 
 My humble tenement admits 
 All persons in the dress of gent.. 
 From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 
 
 A party dines with me to-day. 
 All clever men, who make their way : 
 . Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
 Are all partakers of my pantry. 
 They're at this moment in discussion 
 On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
 Her book, they say, was in advance — 
 Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France ! 
 Thus run our time and tongues away ; — 
 But, to return, sir, to your play : ^ 
 Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal. 
 Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill ; 
 My hands so full, my head so busy, 
 I'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
 And so, with endless truth and hurry. 
 Dear Doctor, I am yours, 
 
 loHN Murray. 
 
 August, 1 817. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY 
 
 My dear Mr. Murray, 
 You're in a damn'd hurry 
 
 To set up this ultimate Canto ; 
 But (if they don't rob us) 
 You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 
 
 Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 
 
 For the Journal you hint of. 
 As ready to print off. 
 
 No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
 But as yet I have writ off 
 The devil a bit of 
 
 Our " Beppo : " — when copied, I'll send 
 it. 
 
 Then you've * * * * 's Tour, — 
 No great things, to be sure, — 
 
 You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
 For the pompous rascaUion, 
 Who don't speak Italian 
 
 Nor French, must have scribbled by 
 guesswork. 
 
 You can make any loss up • 
 
 With " Spence " and his gossip, 
 A work which must surely succeed ; 
 Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft. 
 With the new " Fytte " of " Whistlecraft," 
 Must make people purchase and read. 
 
 Then you've General Gordon, 
 Who girded his sword on. 
 
 To serve with a Muscovite master. 
 And help him to polish 
 A nation so owlish. 
 
 They thought shaving their beards a 
 disaster. 
 
 For the man, " poor and shrewd," 
 With whom you'd conclude 
 
 A compact without more delay. 
 Perhaps some such pen is 
 Still extant in Venice ; 
 
 But please, sir, to mention your pay. 
 Venice, January 8, 1818. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY 
 
 Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times. 
 Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
 For thee the bard up Pmdus climbs. 
 My Murray. 
 
 To thee, with hope and terror dumb. 
 The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
 Thou printest all— and sellest some— 
 My Murray. 
 
 Upon thy table's baize so green 
 The last new Quarterly is seen, — 
 But where is thy new Magazme, 
 My Murray ? 
 
8j 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 Along th5' sprucest bookshelves shine 
 The works thou deemest most divine — 
 The " Art of Cookery," and mine, 
 My JMurray. 
 
 Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
 And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist ; 
 And then thou hast the *' Na\'y Li^t," 
 My Murray. 
 
 And Heaven forbid I should conclude. 
 Without " the Board of Longitude," 
 Although this narrow paper would, 
 ]\iy Murray. 
 
 Venice, March 25, 1818. 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN \VILLIA:^1 
 RIZZO HOPPNEK 
 
 His father's sense, his mother's grace. 
 In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 
 
 With — still to keep him in good case — 
 The health and appetite of Rizzo. 
 
 February, 1818. 
 
 STANZAS TO THE PO 
 
 River, that roUest by the ancient walls. 
 Where dwells the lady of my love, when 
 she 
 Walks by thy brink, and there perchance 
 recalls 
 A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 
 
 What if thy deep and ample stream should 
 be 
 A mirror of my heart, where she may 
 read 
 The thousand thoughts I now betray to 
 thee. 
 Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy 
 speed ! 
 
 What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 
 Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and 
 strong ? 
 Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 
 And such as thou art were m ,' passions 
 long. 
 
 Time .may have somewhat tamed them, — 
 not for ever ; 
 Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for 
 ave 
 Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 
 Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk 
 away ; 
 
 But left long wTecks behind, and now again. 
 Borne in our old unchanged career, wo 
 move : 
 
 Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main. 
 And I — to loving one I should not love. 
 
 The current I behold will sworp beneath 
 Her native walls, and murmur at her 
 feet ; 
 
 Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall 
 breathe 
 The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's 
 heat. 
 
 She will look on thee, — I have look'd on 
 thee. 
 Full of that thought : and, from that mo- 
 ment, ne'er 
 Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
 M'ithout the inseparable sigh for her ! 
 
 Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy 
 stream, — 
 Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on 
 now : 
 Mine cannot ^\itness, e\'en in a dream. 
 That happy wave repass me in its flow i 
 
 The wave that bears my tears returns no 
 more ; 
 Will she retm-n by whom that wave shall 
 sweep ? — 
 Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy 
 shore, 
 I by thy source, she by the dark-blue 
 deep. 
 
 But that which keepeth us apart is not 
 Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of 
 earth. 
 
 But the distraction of a various lot. 
 As various as the climates of our birth. 
 
 A stranger loves the lady of the land, 
 Born far beyond the mountains, but his 
 blood 
 Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 
 
 Bv the black wind that chills the polar 
 flood. 
 
 Jl\- blood is all meridian ; were it not. 
 
 I had not left my clime, nor should I be. 
 In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, 
 
 A sla\e again of love, — at least of thee. 
 
 'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish voung — 
 Live as I lived, and love as I ha\ e loved ; 
 To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, — 
 And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be 
 moved. 
 
 April, iSrg. 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH 
 
 O.N- THE REPEAI, OF LORD EDWARD FITZ- 
 GERALD'S FORFEITURE 
 
 To be the father of the fatherless. 
 
 To stretch the hand from the throne's 
 
 height, and raise 
 His offspring, who expired in othtr da-s 
 To make thy sire's swav bv a kin^^doiu 
 
 less — 
 Tills is to be a monarch, and repress 
 nu\ y into unutterable praise. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 83 
 
 Dismiss tliy guard, and trust thee to 
 such traits, 
 For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 
 Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet 
 To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
 Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 
 Thy sovereignty would grow but more 
 complete : 
 A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 
 And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 
 Bologna, August 12, iSrg. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 FROM THE FKENXH OF RULHIERES 
 
 If, for silver or for gold. 
 
 You could melt ten thousand pimples 
 
 Into half a dozen dimples. 
 Then your face we might behold. 
 
 Looking, doubtless, much more snugly ; 
 
 Yet even then 'twould be d d ugly. 
 
 August r2, i8ig 
 
 STANZAS 
 Could Love for ever 
 Run Uke a river. 
 And Time's endeavour 
 
 Be tried in vain — 
 No other pleasure 
 With this could measure ; 
 And like a treasure 
 
 We'd hug the chain. 
 But since our sighing 
 Ends not in dying. 
 And, form'd for flying, 
 
 Love plumes his wing ; 
 Then for this reason 
 Let's love a season ; 
 But let that season be only Spring. 
 
 When lovers parted 
 Feel broken-hearted. 
 And, all hopes thwarted. 
 
 Expect to die ; 
 A few years older, 
 Ah ! how much colder 
 They might behold her 
 
 For whom they sigh ! 
 When link'd together, 
 In every weather. 
 They pluck Love's feather 
 
 From out his wing — 
 He'll stay for ever. 
 But sadly shiver 
 Without his plumage, when past the Spring. 
 
 Like chiefs of Faction, 
 His life is action — 
 A formal paction 
 
 That curbs his reign, 
 Obscures his glory. 
 Despot no more, he 
 Such territory 
 
 Quits with disdain. 
 
 Still, still advancing. 
 With banners glancing. 
 His power enhancing, 
 He must move on — 
 Repose but clo5's him. 
 Retreat destroys him. 
 Love brooks not a degraded throne. 
 
 Wait not, fond lover ! 
 Till years are over. 
 And then recover 
 
 As from a dream. 
 While each bev/ailing 
 The other's failing, 
 With wrath and railing. 
 
 All hideous seem — 
 While first decreasing. 
 Yet not quite ceasing. 
 Wait not till teasing, 
 
 -AH passion blight : 
 If once diminish'd 
 Love's reign is finish' d — 
 Then part in friendship, — and bid good- 
 night. 
 
 So shall Affection 
 To recollection 
 The dear connection 
 
 Bring back with joy : 
 You had not waited 
 Till, tired or hated. 
 Your passions sated 
 
 Began to cloy. ^ 
 
 Your last embraces^ 
 Leave no cold traces — 
 The same fend faces 
 
 As through the past : 
 And eyes, the mirrors 
 Of your sweet errors. 
 Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 
 
 True, separations 
 
 Ask more than patience ; 
 
 What desperations 
 
 From such have risen ! 
 But vet remaining. 
 What is't but chaining 
 Hearts which, once Avaning, 
 
 Beat 'gainst their prison? 
 Time ca.i but cloy love 
 And use destroy love ; 
 The winged boy. Love, 
 
 Is but for boys — 
 You'll and it torture 
 Though sharper, shorter. 
 To wean, and not wear out your joys. 
 
 rSig. 
 
 ON MY WEDDING-DAY 
 Here's a happy new year ! but with 
 reason 
 I beg you'll permit me to say — 
 Wish me rMny returns of the season, 
 But as t^w as you please of the day. 
 Junuary 2, i5-70. 
 
8a 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT 
 
 With drath dnom'd to sr^ipple, 
 Beneath this cold slab, he 
 
 Who lied in the Chapel 
 Novv lies in the Abbpy. 
 
 January, 1830, 
 
 EPIGRAM! 
 In discing up your bones. Tom Paine, 
 
 W'ill. Tobbett has done well : 
 You \asit him on earth again. 
 He'll visit you in hell. 
 
 January, 1820. 
 
 STANZAS 
 When a man hath do freedom to fight for 
 at home, 
 Let him combat for that of his neigh- 
 bours . 
 Let him think of the glories of Greece and 
 of Rome, 
 And get knock'd on the head for his 
 labours. 
 
 To do good to mankind is the chivalrous 
 plan. 
 And is always as nobly requited ; 
 Then battle for freedom wherever you can. 
 And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get 
 knighted. 
 
 November, rSao. 
 
 , EPIGRAM 
 
 The world is a bundle of hay. 
 
 Mankind are the asses who pviU ; 
 Each tugs it a different way. 
 
 And the greatest of all is John Bull. 
 
 THE CHARITY BALL 
 What matter the pangs of a husband and 
 father. 
 If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, 
 So the Pharisee's glories around her she 
 gather, 
 .^nd the saint patronises her " charity 
 ball ! " 
 
 What matters — a heart which, though 
 faulty, was feeling, 
 Be driven to excesses which once could 
 appal — 
 That the sinner should suffer is only fair 
 dealing. 
 As the saint keeps her charity back for 
 " the ball 1 " 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON THE braziers' COMPANY HAVING 
 RESOLVED TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS 
 TO QUEEN' CAROLINE 
 
 The braziers, it seems, are preparing to 
 
 pass 
 An address, and present it themselves all 
 
 in brass ; — 
 
 A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord 
 
 Harry ! 
 They'll find where they're going much 
 
 more than they carry. 
 
 EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY 
 
 TO PENELOPE 
 
 This day, of all our davs, has done 
 The worst for me and you ; — 
 
 'Tis just six years since we were one. 
 And five since we were two. 
 
 January 2, 1821. 
 
 ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY 
 
 JANUARY 22, 182I 
 
 Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty. 
 I I have dragg'd to three and thirty. 
 I What have these years left to me ? 
 
 Nothing — except thirty-three. 
 
 MARTIAL, L'n. I.. Epig. I 
 
 " Hie est, quera legis, ille, quern recuiris, 
 Tota notus in orbe .Martialis," etc. 
 
 He, imto whom thou art so partial. 
 Oh, reader ! is the well-kno^Ti Martial, 
 The Epigrammatist : while liwng. 
 Give him the fame thou would'st be giving ; 
 So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — 
 Post-obits rarely reach a poet. 
 
 BOWLES AND CAMPBELL 
 To the tune of " Why, how now, saucy jade ? " 
 Why, how now, saucy Tom ? 
 
 If you thus must ramble, 
 I will publish some 
 
 Remarks on Mister Campbell. 
 
 Why, how now, Billy Bowles ? 
 
 Sure the priest is maudlin ! 
 {To the public) How can you, d — n your 
 souls ! 
 Listen to his twaddling ? 
 
 February 22. 1821. 
 
 EPIGR.AMS 
 Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a patriot now ; 
 Cato died for his countrv, so didst thou : 
 He perish'd rather than see Rome en=la\vd 
 Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain mav 
 be saved ! 
 
 So Castlereagh has cut his throat ! — The 
 
 worst 
 Of this is, — that his o^\'n was not the first. 
 
 So He has cut his throat at last ' He ' 
 
 Who ? ■ nt . 
 
 The man who cut his country's long ago. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 S5 
 
 EPITAPH 
 Posterity will ne'er survey 
 
 A nobler grave than this : 
 Here lie the bones of Castlereagh ; 
 
 Stop, traveller 
 
 JOHN KEATS 
 
 Who Idll'd John Keats ? 
 
 " I," says the Quarterly, 
 So savage and Tartarly ; 
 
 " 'Twas one of my feats." 
 
 Who shot the arrovi' ? 
 
 " The poet-priest Milman 
 (So ready to kill man), 
 
 " Or Southey, or Barrow." 
 
 July, 182 1. 
 
 THE CONQUEST 
 
 March S-g, 1823 
 
 Thk Son of Love and Lord of War I sing ; 
 Him who bade England bow to Nor- 
 mandy, 
 And left the name of conqueror more than 
 king 
 To his unconquerable dynasty. 
 Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing. 
 He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on 
 high: 
 The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast. 
 And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY 
 For Orford " and for Waldegravo '* 
 You give much more than me you gave ; 
 Which is not fairly to behave, 
 
 My Murray. 
 Because if a live dog, 'tis said. 
 Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
 A live lord must be worth two dead, 
 
 My Miuray. 
 
 And if, as the opinion goes, 
 Verse hath a better sale than prose, — 
 Certes, I should have more than those. 
 My Murray. 
 
 But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
 So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'd, 
 And if you won't, you may be damn'd, 
 My Murray. 
 
 THE IRISH AVATAR 
 
 " And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, 
 ' kneeling to receive the paltry rider." — Curran. 
 
 Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in 
 her grave, 
 And her ashes still float to their home 
 o'er the tide, 
 Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over 
 the wave. 
 To the long cherish'd isle which he loved 
 like his — bride. 
 
 True, the great of her bright and brief era 
 are g-'me. 
 The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom 
 could pause 
 For the few little years, out of centuries 
 won. 
 Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or 
 wept not her cause. 
 
 True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er 
 his rags. 
 The castle still stands, and the senate's 
 no more. 
 And the famine which dwelt on her free- 
 domless craes 
 Is extending its steps to her desolate 
 shore. 
 
 To her desolate shore — where the emigrant 
 stands 
 For a moment to gaze ere he flies from 
 his hearth ; 
 Tears fall on his chain, though it drops 
 from his hands. 
 For the dungeon he quits is the place of 
 his birth. 
 
 But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty 
 comes ! 
 Like a goodly Leviatlian roll'd from the 
 waves ; 
 Then receive him as best such an advent be- 
 comes. 
 With a legion of cooks, and an army of 
 slaves ! 
 
 He comes in the promise and bloom of 
 tlireescore. 
 To perform in the pageant the sovereign's 
 part — 
 But long live the shamrock, which shadows 
 him o'er ! 
 Could the green in his /i.t<be transferr'd 
 to his Jteari ! 
 
 Could that long-wither'd spot but be ver- 
 dant again. 
 
 And a new spring of noble affections 
 aris" — 
 Then m'ght fre"dom forgive thee this dance 
 in thy chain. 
 And this shout of thy slaverj' which sad- 
 dens the skies. 
 
 Is it madness or meanness which clings to 
 thee now ? 
 Were he God — as he is but the common- 
 est clav. 
 With scarce fewer wTinkles than sins on his 
 brow — 
 Such servile devotion might shame him 
 away. 
 Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
 Their fanciful spirits to pamper his 
 pride — 
 
86 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 Not thus did thj' Grattan indignantly flash 
 His soul o'er the freedom implored and 
 denied. 
 
 Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the 
 good ! 
 So simple in heart, so sublime in the 
 rest ! 
 With all which Demosthenes wanted 
 endued, 
 And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 
 
 Ere TuUy arose in the zenith of Rome, 
 Though unequall'd, preceded, the task 
 was begun — ■ 
 But Grattan sprung up like a god from the 
 tomb 
 Of ages, the first, last, the sa^-iour. the 
 
 With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the 
 brute ; 
 Vv'ith the fire of Prometheus to kindle 
 mankind ; 
 Even T)-ramiy listening sate melted or 
 mute. 
 And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from 
 the glance of his mind. 
 
 But back to our th^me ! Back to despots 
 and slaves ! 
 Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings 
 by Pain ! 
 True freedom but welcomes, while slavery 
 still raves, 
 When a week's saturnalia hath lonscn'd 
 her chain. 
 
 Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck 
 can afford, 
 (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin 
 would hide) 
 Gild over the palace, Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 
 Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his bless- 
 ings denied ! 
 
 Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last. 
 If the idol of brass find his feet are of 
 clav, 
 Must what terror or policy ^^Ting forth be 
 class'd 
 ^\■ith what monarchs ne'er give, but as 
 wolves yield their prey ? 
 
 Each brute hath its nature ; a king's is to 
 reign. — 
 To reign ! in that word see. ye ages, 
 comprised 
 The cause of the curses all annals contain. 
 From Ctesar the dreaded to George the 
 despised ! 
 
 Wear, Fingal, thy trapping ! O'Connell, 
 proclaim 
 His accomplishments ! His ! ! ! and 
 thy country convince 
 
 Half an age's contempt was an error of 
 fame, 
 And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest 
 young prince ! " 
 
 Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, 
 recall 
 The fetters from millions of Catholic 
 limbs ? 
 Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
 The slaves, who now hail their betrayer 
 with hymns ? 
 
 .\y I " Build him a dwelling ! " let each 
 give his mite ! 
 Till, like Babel, the new ro^-al doom hath 
 arisen ! 
 Let thy beggars and helits their pittance 
 unite — 
 And a palace bestow for a poor-house 
 and prison ! 
 
 Spread — spread, for \ itellius, the royal 
 repast. 
 Till the gluttonous despot be stufl'd to 
 the gorge ! 
 And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him 
 at last 
 The Fourth of the fools and oppressors 
 call'd " (^reorge ! " 
 
 Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they 
 groan ! 
 Till they groan like thy people, through 
 ages of woe ! 
 Let the wine flow around the old Bac- 
 chanal's tlirone. 
 Like their blood which has flow'd, and 
 which yet has to flow. 
 
 But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
 On his right hand behold a Sejanus 
 appears ! 
 Thine own Castlereagh .' let him still be 
 thine own ! 
 .V wretch never named but with curse? 
 and jeers ! 
 
 Till now, when the isle which should blush 
 for his birth. 
 Deep, deep as the gore which he shed 
 on her soil, 
 Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd 
 from her earth. 
 And for murder repays him with shouts 
 and a smile. 
 
 \\'ithout one single ray of her genius, with- 
 out 
 The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her 
 race — 
 The miscreant who well might plunge Erin 
 in doubt 
 If she ever gave birth to a being so base 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 87 
 
 If she did — ^let her long-boasted proverb i Which though trod like the worm will not 
 
 be hush'd, 
 Which proclaims that from Erin no 
 
 reptile can spring — ■ 
 Se» the cold-blooded serpent, with venom 
 
 full flush'd, 
 Still warming its folds in the breast of a 
 
 king ! 
 
 Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! 
 Erin, how low 
 Wert thou sunk by misfortune and 
 tyranny, till 
 Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee 
 below 
 The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf 
 still. 
 
 My voice, though but humble, was raised 
 for thy right. 
 My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee 
 free. 
 This hand, though but feeble, would arm 
 in thy fight, 
 And this heart, though outworn, had a 
 throb still for thee ! 
 
 Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou 
 art not myland, 
 I have known noble hearts and great 
 souls in thy sons, 
 And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot 
 band 
 Who are gone, but I weep them no longer 
 as once. 
 
 For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
 Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, 
 all 
 Who, for years, were the chiefs in the 
 eloquent war. 
 And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, 
 thy fall. 
 
 Yes, happy are they in their cold English 
 graves !' 
 Their shades cannot start to thy shouts 
 of to-day — 
 Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kiss- 
 ing slaves 
 Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetter- 
 less clay. 
 
 Till now I had envied thy sons and their 
 
 . Th^gh-.their virtues were hunted, their ,,0^^ ; -rt'^y^dTcKe^^^s'^Sle 
 
 liberties lied : , ^^^y lav '' 
 
 There was something so warm and sublime ^^^"{1^ ^J^„ night flags lovelessly and 
 
 turn upon power, 
 'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of 
 Moore ! 
 
 September, 1821. 
 
 STANZAS V.'RITTHX ON THE ROAD 
 BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 
 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
 The days of our youth are the days of our 
 
 glory ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and- 
 
 twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so 
 
 plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow 
 that is wrinkled ? 
 
 'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew be- 
 sprinkled. 
 
 Then away with all such from the head 
 that is hoary ! 
 
 What care I for the wreaths that can only 
 give glory ? 
 
 Oh Fame ! — if I e'er took dehght in thy 
 praises, 
 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sound- 
 ing phrases, 
 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one 
 discover, 
 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to 
 love her. 
 
 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I 
 
 found thee ; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that 
 
 surround thee ; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was 
 
 bright in my story, 
 I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 November, 1821. 
 
 STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR 
 Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
 Where is my lover ? where is my lo^'er ? 
 Is it his bark which my dreary dreams dis- 
 cover ? 
 Far — far away ! and alone along the 
 billow ? 
 
 in the core 
 Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — 
 thy dead. 
 
 Or, if aught in my bosom can quench tor 
 an hour 
 My contempt for a nation so servile, 
 though sore. 
 
 slowly. 
 
 And my head droops over thee hke the 
 willow ! 
 
 Oh ! thou, niv sad and sohtary Pillow ! 
 Send me kind dreams to keep my heart 
 l-wm breaking, 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEVYEFS 
 
 In return for the tears I shed upon thee 
 waking ; 
 Let me not die till he comes back o'er 
 the billow. 
 
 Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely 
 
 Pillow, 
 In one embrace let these arms again enfold 
 
 him, 
 And then expire of the joy — but to behold 
 
 him ! 
 Oh ! my lone bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow! 
 
 IMPROMPTU 
 
 Beneath Blessington's eyes 
 
 The reclaimed Paradise 
 Should be free as the former from evil ; 
 
 nut if the new Eve 
 
 For an Apple should grieve, 
 What mortal would not play the Devil ? 
 
 1823. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON , 
 
 ■\'ou have ask'd for a verse : — the request | 
 In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny ; 
 
 But my Hippocrene was but my breast, ! 
 And my feelings {its fountain) are chry. 
 
 Were I now as I was, I had sung 
 What Lawrence has painted so well ; 
 
 But the strain would expire on my tongue, '■ 
 And the theme is too soft for mj' shell. 1 
 
 I am ashes where once I was fire, I 
 
 And the bard in ray bosom is dead; 
 
 What I loved I now mereh' admire, - 
 And my heart is as grey as mv head. 
 
 Mv life is not dated by years — 
 There are moments which act as a plough 
 
 And there is not a furrow appears 
 But is deep in my soul as my brow. 
 
 Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
 To sing what I gaze on in ^'ain ; 
 
 For sorrow has torn from ni}' lyre 
 The string which was worthy the strain. 
 
 ON 
 
 THIS DAY I COMPLFXE MY 
 THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR 
 
 IMlSSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824, 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 Since others it hath ceased to move : 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love ! 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf ; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone !■ 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share, 
 But ivear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not Jiere — 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, r cr 
 now. 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field. 
 
 Glory and Greece, around us see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 
 
 Awake, my spirit Think through v.-liom 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
 
 And then strike home ! 
 Tread those reviving passions down. 
 Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret'st thy youth, -dhv live ? 
 
 The laud of honourable death 
 Is here : — up to the field, and gi^-e 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 
 .\ soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
 And take thy rest. 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIE\^^RS : 
 
 A SATIRE 
 " I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
 Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." 
 
 Shakspe.are. 
 " Such shameless bai-ds we ha\'e : and yet 'tis true 
 There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." — Pope' 
 
 Still must I hear? — shall hoarse Fifz- I .\nd I not sing le^t in„i o , , 
 
 g-rjld bawl Should duh mS scribbler 5'"^^"'' '"^^'■^^ 
 
 His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, I muse ' ' " denounce my 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AXD SCOTCH REX'IEWERS 
 
 8g 
 
 Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or 
 
 wrong : 
 Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 
 
 Oh ! natire's noblest gift — my grey 
 
 goose-qxiiU ! 
 Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will. 
 Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen. 
 That mighty instrument of little men ! 
 The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental 
 
 throes 
 Of brains that labour, big with verse or 
 
 p'-ose. 
 Though nymphs forsake, and critics may 
 
 deride, 
 The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
 What wits ! what poets dost thou daily 
 
 raise ! 
 How frequent is thy use, how small thy 
 
 praise ! 
 Condemn' d at length to be forgotten quite, 
 With all the pages which 'twas thine to 
 
 write. 
 But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
 Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
 Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be 
 
 free ; 
 Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by 
 
 me : 
 Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme. 
 No eastern vision, no distemper' d dream 
 Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, 
 
 is plain ; 
 Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 
 
 When Vice triumphant holds her 
 
 sov'reign sway, 
 Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
 When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
 Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
 When knaves and fools combined o'er all 
 
 prevail. 
 And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
 E'en then the boldest start from public 
 
 sneers. 
 Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears. 
 More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe. 
 And shrink from ridicule, though not from 
 
 law. 
 
 Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 
 To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
 The royal vices of our age demand 
 A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
 Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase. 
 And yield at least amusement in the race : 
 Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
 The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
 Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and 
 
 small, 
 Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
 I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
 I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
 B.P.Vir. 
 
 A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or 
 
 blame ; 
 I printed — older children do the same. 
 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in 
 
 print ; 
 A book's a book, although there's nothing 
 
 in't. 
 Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
 Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
 This Lambe must own, since his patrician 
 
 name 
 Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from 
 
 shame 
 No matter, George continues still to write. 
 Though now the name is veil'd from public 
 
 sight. 
 Moved by the great example, I pursue 
 The self-same road, but make my own 
 
 review : 
 Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, wiU 
 
 be 
 Self-constituted judge of poesy. 
 
 A man must serve his time to every trade 
 Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
 Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by 
 
 rote. 
 With just enousjh of learning to misquote ; 
 A man well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
 A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
 To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet. 
 His pay is just ten sterling pounds per 
 
 sheet : 
 Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit ; 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for 
 
 wit ; 
 Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
 And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 
 
 And shall we own such judgment ? no — 
 
 as soon 
 Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
 Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff ; 
 Believe a woman or an epitaph, 
 Or any other thing that's false, before 
 You trust in critics, who themselves are 
 
 sore ; 
 Or yield one single thought to be misled 
 By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian 
 
 head. 
 To these young tyrants, by themselves 
 
 misplaced. 
 Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
 To these, when authors bend in humble 
 
 awe. 
 And hail their \oice as truth, their word as 
 
 law — 
 While these are censors, 'twould be sin to 
 
 spare ; 
 While such are critics, why should I for- 
 bear ? 
 But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to 
 
 shun ; 
 
 H 
 
90 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 Nor know we when to spare, or v/here to 
 
 strike, 
 Our bards and censors are so much alike. 
 
 Then should you ask me, why I venture 
 
 o'er 
 The path which Pope and Giftord trod 
 
 before ; 
 If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed : 
 Go on ; my rhyme will teU you as you read. 
 " But hold ! " exclaims a friend, — " here's 
 
 some neglect : 
 This — that — and t'other hne seem incor- 
 rect." 
 What then ? the self- same blunder Pope 
 
 has got, 
 And careless Dryden — " Ay but Pye has 
 
 not : " — 
 Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith ! — but what 
 
 care I ? 
 Better to err with Pope, than shine with 
 
 Pye. 
 
 Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
 Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise. 
 When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
 No fabled graces, flourish' d side by side ; 
 From the same fount their inspiration drew, | 
 And, rear'dby taste, bloom'd fairer as they ! 
 
 grew. 
 Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure 
 
 strain 
 Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought 
 
 in vain ; 
 A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim. 
 And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
 Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of 
 
 song, 
 In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly 
 
 strong. 
 Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or 
 
 Otway's melt — 
 For nature then an English audience felt. 
 But why these names, or greater stiU, 
 
 retrace, 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place? 
 Yet to such times oiu" lingering loolis are 
 
 cast. 
 When taste and reason with those times 
 
 are past. 
 Now look around, and turn each trifling 
 
 page, 
 Survey the precious works that please thr j 
 
 age; 
 This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
 No dearth of bards can be complain' d of now , 
 The loaded press beneath her labour 
 
 groans. 
 And printers' devils shake their weary 
 
 bones ; 
 While Southcy's epics cram the creaking 
 
 shelves, 
 And Little's lyrics shine in hot press'd 
 
 twelves. 
 
 Thus saich the Preacher ;" Nought be- 
 neath the sun 
 
 Is new ; " yet still from change to change 
 we run : 
 
 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
 
 The cov/-pox, tractors, gal\anism, gas, 
 
 In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare! 
 
 Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
 
 Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, 
 
 Wherg dull pretenders grapple for the prize: 
 
 O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards 
 pfeva.il ; 
 
 Each country book-club bows the knee to 
 Baal, 
 
 And, hurling lawfid genius from the tlirone. 
 
 Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
 
 Some leaden calf — but whom it matters 
 not. 
 
 From soaring Southey down to grovelling 
 
 stott. ; 
 
 Behold ! in various throngs the scrib- 
 bling crew. 
 For notice eager, pass in long review : 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
 And rhyme and blank maintain an equal 
 
 race ; 
 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
 And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
 immeasurable measures move along ; 
 For simpering foUy loves a varied song, 
 To strange mysterious dulness still the 
 
 friend. 
 Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
 Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the 
 
 last ! — 
 On half-strung harps whine mournful to 
 
 the blast. 
 W'hde mountain spirits prate to river 
 
 sprites, 
 That dames may listen to the sound at 
 
 nights ; 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 
 Decoy young border-nobles through the 
 
 v\-ood. 
 And skip at every step, Lord knows how 
 
 high, 
 And frighten foohsh babes, the Lord know 
 
 why ; 
 WhUe high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
 Forbidding knights to read who cannot 
 
 spell. 
 Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
 And tight with honest men to shield a 
 
 knave. 
 
 Next \-iew in state, proud prancing on 
 
 his roan. 
 The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
 Now forging scrolls, now foremost iri the 
 
 fight. 
 Not quite a felon, j-et but half a knight. 
 The gibbet or the Held prepared to grace ; 
 .\ mighty rai-iiure of tlie great and base. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain eonceii 
 
 perchance, 
 On public taste to foist thy stale romance. 
 Though Murray with his Miller may com- 
 bine 
 To yield thy muse just half-a-crovm per 
 
 line ? 
 No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
 Their bays are sear, their former laurels 
 
 fade. 
 Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for 
 
 fame : 
 Still for stern Mammon may they toil in 
 
 vain ! 
 And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
 Such be their meed, such still the just 
 
 reward 
 Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
 For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 And bid a long " good- night to Marmion." 
 
 These are the themes that claim our 
 plaudits now ; 
 These are the bards to whom the muse 
 
 must bow ; 
 While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott, 
 
 The time has been, when yet the muse 
 was young, 
 When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro 
 
 sung. 
 An epic scarce teci centuries could claim. 
 While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic 
 
 name : 
 The work of each immortal bard appears 
 The single wonder of a thousand years. 
 Empires have moulder' d from the face of 
 
 earth, 
 Tongues have expired with those who gave 
 
 them birth, 
 Without the glory such a strain can give, 
 As even in rmu bids the language live. 
 Not so with us, though minor bards, con- 
 tent 
 On one great work a life of labour spent : 
 With eagle pinion soaring to the skies. 
 Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
 To him let Camoens, INiilton, Tasso yield. 
 Whose annual strains, like armies, take the 
 
 field. 
 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
 The scourge of England and the boast of 
 
 France ! 
 Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a 
 
 witch, 
 Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
 Her fetters burst, and just released from 
 
 prison, 
 A virgin phcenix from he,r ashes risen. 
 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 
 Arabia's monstrous, wild, and v,fondrous 
 
 Bon ; 
 
 91 
 
 Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'ei- 
 threw 
 : More mad magicians than the world e'er 
 
 knew. 
 I Immortal hero ! aU thy foes o'ercome 
 ^or ever reign-the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
 bince startled metre fled before thy face, 
 Well ivcrt thou doom'd the last of all tiiv 
 race ! ^ 
 
 Well might triumphant genii bear thee 
 
 hence. 
 Illustrious conqueror of common sense ' 
 Now, last and greatest, Aladoc spreads his 
 
 sails. 
 Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ■ 
 lells us strange tales, as other traveUers do 
 More old than Mandeville's, and not so 
 
 true. 
 Oh, Southey ! Southey ! cease thy varied 
 
 song ! 
 A bard may chant too often and too 
 
 long : 
 As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
 A fourth, alas ! were more than we could 
 
 bear. 
 But if, in spite of all the world can say, 
 Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary 
 
 way ; 
 If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil. 
 Thou wilt devote old women to the devil. 
 The babe unborn thy dread intent may 
 
 rue : 
 " God help thee," Southey, and thy readers 
 
 too. 
 
 Next comes the dull disciple of thy 
 
 school. 
 That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
 The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
 As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
 Who warns his triend " to shake off toil 
 
 and trouble, 
 And quit his books, for fear of growing 
 
 double ; " 
 Who, both by precept and example, shows 
 That prose is ^-erse, and verse is merely 
 
 prose ; 
 Convincing all, by demonstration plain 
 Poetic souls deUgnt in prose insane ; 
 .\nd Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
 Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
 Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
 The idiot mother of " an idiot boy ; " 
 A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way. 
 And, hke his bard, confounded night with 
 
 day ; 
 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
 And each adventure so sublimely tells. 
 That all who view the " idiot in his glory " 
 Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 
 
 Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed 
 bere, . , ^ , 
 
 To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
 
92 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AXD SCOTCH REVIEA's'ERS 
 
 Tlioua[h themes of innocence amuse him 
 
 best,. 
 Yet still o'-'scurity's a welcome guest. 
 If Inspiration should her aid lefuse 
 To him who takes a pixy for a muse, 
 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
 The bard who soars to elegise an ass. 
 So well the subject suits his noble mind. 
 He brays, the laure-'t of the long-ear'd 
 
 kind. 
 
 Oh ! wonder-working Lewis ! monk, or 
 
 bard, 
 Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a 
 
 church-yaid ! 
 Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy 
 
 brow, 
 Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
 Wliether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy 
 
 stand. 
 By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred 
 
 baud ; 
 Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page. 
 To please the females of our modest age ; 
 All hail, M.P. ! from whose infernal brain 
 Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
 At whose command " grim women " 
 
 throng in crowds, 
 And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
 With " small gray men," " wild yagers," 
 
 and what not, 
 To crown with honour thee and Walter 
 
 Scott ; 
 Again all hail ! if tales Hke thine may please, 
 St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
 Even Satan's self with thee might dread to 
 
 dwell, 
 And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 
 
 Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
 Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
 With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion 
 
 flush'd, 
 Stiikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames 
 
 are hush'd ? 
 'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
 As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
 Grieved to condemn ' the muse must still 
 
 be just, 
 Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
 From grosser incense with disgust sheturns; 
 Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
 She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no 
 
 more." 
 
 For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
 To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
 Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of 
 
 blue," 
 And boasted locks of red or auburn hue. 
 Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss 
 
 admires. 
 And o'er harmonious fustian half ex.pires, 
 
 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's 
 
 sense. 
 Nor ^-end thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
 Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher 
 
 place, 
 By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace ? 
 Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and 
 
 thv taste ; 
 Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be 
 
 chaste ; 
 Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore. 
 Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 
 
 Behold ! — ye tarts ! — one moment spare 
 the text— 
 Hayley's last work, and worst — imtil his 
 
 next ; 
 Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, 
 Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise. 
 His style in youth or age is still the same. 
 For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
 Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" 
 
 shine ! 
 -At least I'm sure they triumph'd over 
 
 mine. 
 Of " Music's Triumphs " all who read may- 
 swear 
 That luckless music never triumph'd there.'' 
 
 Mora\ ians, rise ! bestov.^ some meet 
 
 reward 
 On duU devotion — Lo ! the Sabbath bard. 
 Sepulchral raham.e,* pours his notes 
 
 sublime 
 In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to 
 
 rhyme ; 
 Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
 .\nd boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
 And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms. 
 Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the 
 
 Psalms. 
 
 Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 
 A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
 And shows, still whimpering through three- 
 score of years, 
 The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
 And art thou not their prince, harmonious 
 Bowles ! 
 ! Th^u first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
 Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and 
 
 grief, 
 1 The fall of empires, or a vellow leaf ; 
 Whether thy muse most" lamentably tells 
 What merry sounds proceed from Oxford 
 
 bells, 
 Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
 In every chime that jingled from Ostend- 
 Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap' 
 If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cao i 
 Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and stili 
 
 blest. 
 All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral son-. 
 To soothe the mania of the amorous thront; '. 
 With thee our norser}- damsels shed their 
 
 tears. 
 Ere miss as yet completes her infant years : 
 But in her teens thy whining powers are 
 
 vain ; 
 She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer 
 
 strain. 
 Now to soft themes thou scornest to con- 
 fine 
 The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
 " Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
 .Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
 Where all Discoveries jumbled from the 
 
 flood, 
 Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud. 
 By more or less, are sung in everv book, 
 From Captain Noah down to Captain 
 
 Cook. 
 Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 
 The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ; 
 And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous 
 
 miss ! — 
 When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
 Bowles ! in thy memor}' let this precept 
 
 dwell. 
 Stick to thv sonnets, man ! — at least the\' 
 
 sell. 
 But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
 Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for 
 
 a scribe ; 
 If chance some bard, though once by 
 
 dvmces fear'd, 
 Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
 If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the 
 
 first. 
 Have foii'd the best of critics, needs the 
 
 worst. 
 Do thou essay : each fault, each failing 
 
 scan; 
 The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 
 Rake from each ancient dunghill every 
 
 pearl. 
 Consult Lord Faimy, and confide in Curll ; ' 
 Let all the scandals of a former age 
 Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 
 Affect a candour which thou canst not feel. 
 Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
 Write, as if St. John's soul could still in- 
 spire. 
 And do from hate what Mallet ^ did for hire. 
 Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial 
 
 time , 
 To rave v.'ith Dennis, and with Ralph to 
 
 rhyme ; '' 
 Throng'd with the rest around his living 
 
 head. 
 Not raised thy hoof against the Hon dead ; 
 A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious 
 
 gains. 
 And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy 
 
 pains. - 
 
 ^93 
 
 Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
 ATore books of blank upon the sons of men < 
 Bceotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast 
 Imports old stories from the Cambrian 
 
 coast. 
 And sends his goods to market— all ali\ e ' 
 Lmes forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ' 
 Iresh fish from Helicon!" who'll buv 
 
 who'll buy ? ' ' 
 
 The precious bargain's cheap — in faith 
 
 not I. 
 Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs he 
 
 flat. 
 Though Bristol bloat him mth the verdant 
 
 fat ; 
 If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the 
 
 brain, 
 .And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
 In him an author's luckless lot' behold, 
 Condemn'd to make the hooks which once 
 
 he sold. 
 Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name 
 To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 
 Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
 What meagre profits spring from pen and 
 
 ink ! 
 When thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
 Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
 Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
 Had Cottle i" still adorn'd the counter's 
 
 side. 
 Bent o'er the desk, or, J>orn to useful toils. 
 Been taught to make the paper which he 
 
 soils. 
 Plough' d, delved, or plied the oar with 
 j lusty limb, 
 
 I He had not sung of \\'ales, nor I of him. 
 i 
 
 As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
 Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er 
 
 may sleep. 
 So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
 Dull Maurice ^^ all his granite ^veight of 
 
 leaves : 
 Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
 The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
 That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering 
 
 back again. 
 
 With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, 
 Lo .' sad Alcfeus wanders down the ^■ale ; 
 Though fair they rose, and might have 
 
 bloom'd at last. 
 His hopes have perish'd by the northern 
 
 blast : 
 Nipp'd in the hud by Caledonian gales. 
 His blossoms v/ither as the blast prevails ! 
 O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; 
 May no rude hand disturb their early 
 
 sleep ! '- 
 
 Yet say ! why should the bard at once 
 I resign 
 
 1 His claim to favour from the sacred nine ? 
 
94 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AKD SCOTCH KE VIEWERS 
 
 For ever startled by the mingled howl I The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her piace. 
 
 Oi northern wolves, that stijl in darkness ] The Tolbooth felt— for marble sometimes 
 
 prowl ; 
 
 A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
 By helhsh instinct, all that cross their way; 
 Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
 No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
 Why do the injured unresisting yield 
 The calm possession of their natn'e field ? 
 Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
 Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Arthur's 
 
 Seat ? 
 Health to immortal Jeft'rey ! once, in 
 
 name, 
 England could boast a judge almost the 
 
 same ; 
 In soul so like, so merciful, yet just. 
 Some think that Satan has resign'd his 
 
 trust. 
 And given the spirit to the world again. 
 To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
 
 On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
 The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms. 
 If Jeffrey died, except within h. r arms : 
 Nay last, not least, on that portentous 
 
 mom, 
 The sixteenth story, where himself wai 
 
 born, 
 His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 
 And pale Edina shudder.'d at tne sound : 
 Strew'd were the streets around with milk- 
 white reams, 
 Flow'd all the Canongate with inky 
 
 streams ; 
 This of his candour seem'd the sable dew. 
 That of his \-alour show'd the bloodless hue ; 
 And all with justice deem'd the tv.-o com- 
 bined 
 The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
 
 With hand less mighty, but with heart as , But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 
 
 black. 
 
 With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
 Bred in the courts betimes, though all that 
 
 law 
 As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
 'lAnce well instructed in the patriot school 
 To rail at party, though a party tool. 
 Who knows, if chance his patrons should 
 
 restore 
 Back to the sway t*hey forfeited before, 
 Hls scribbling toils some recompense may 
 
 meet, 
 And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat ? 
 Let Jeffrey's shade indulge the pious hope. 
 And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
 '' Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
 Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind. 
 This cord receive, for thee reserved with 
 
 carC; 
 
 The field, and saved him from the wTath 
 
 of Moore ; 
 From either pistol snatch'd the \'engeful 
 
 lead. 
 And straight restored it to her favourite's 
 
 head ; 
 That head, with greater than magnetic 
 
 pow'r. 
 Caught it, as Danae caught the golden 
 
 show'r. 
 And, though the thickening dross will 
 
 scarce refine. 
 Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
 " My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for g. ire 
 
 again, 
 Resign the pistol and resume the pen ; 
 O'er politics and poesy preside. 
 Boast of thy coimtry, and Britaimia's 
 
 guide ! 
 
 To wield in judgment, and at length to i For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 
 wear." | Or Scottish taste decides on EngUsh wit' 
 
 Health to great j effrey ! Heaven pre- 
 serve his life. 
 To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
 And guard it sacred in its future wars. 
 Since authors sometimes seek the field of 
 
 Mars ! 
 Can none remember that eventful day. 
 That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray. 
 When Little's leadless pistol met his eye,'3 
 And Bow-street m>T:midons stood laughing 
 
 by ? 
 Oh, day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 
 Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
 Dark roU'd the sympathetic wa\es of 
 
 Forth, 
 Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the 
 
 north ; 
 Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear. 
 The other half pursued its calm career ; 
 .Arthur's steep summit nodded to it's base, 
 
 So long shall last thine unmolested reign. 
 Nor any dare to take thy name in \ain. 
 Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan. 
 And own thee chieftain of the critic claji. 
 First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen 
 The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen 
 I Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, i* and 
 
 sometimes, 
 In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged 
 
 rhymes. 
 Smug Sydney ^^ t. ,o thv bitter page shall 
 
 seek, 
 .^d classic Hallam, much renown'd for 
 
 Greek ; 
 ScL.t t may perchance his name and influence 
 
 lend. 
 And paltry Pillans is shall traduce 
 
 friend ; 
 While gay Thalia's luckless 
 
 Lambe,'" 
 Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. 
 
 his 
 
 votary, 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 95 
 
 Known be thy name, unbounded be thy 
 
 sway ! 
 Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil 
 
 repay ; 
 While grateful Britain yields the praise she 
 
 owes 
 To Holland's hirelings and to learning's 
 
 foes. 
 Yet mark one caution ere thy next 
 
 Review 
 Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 
 Beware lest blundering Brougham destroy 
 
 the sale, I 
 
 Turn beef to bannocks cauliflowers to kail." ' 
 Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist j 
 Her sou, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist, i 
 
 i 
 Then prosper, Jeiitrey ! pertest of the j 
 
 train ! 
 
 Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery ' 
 
 grain ! 
 Whatever blessing wait a genuine Scot, 
 In doutfle portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
 For thee Edina culls her evening siveats, 
 And showers their odours on thy candid 
 sheets, I 
 
 Whose hue and fragrance to thy work 
 
 adhere — 
 This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear. 
 Lo ! blushing Itcli, coy nymph, enamour'd 
 
 grown, 
 Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone ; 
 And, too unj ust to other Pictish men, 
 Esjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 
 
 Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his 
 
 lot. 
 His hirelings mention' d, and himself forgot ! 
 Holland, with Henry Petty '^ at his back. 
 The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
 Blest be the banquets spread at Holland 
 
 House, 
 Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may 
 
 carouse ! 
 Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
 Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept 
 
 aloof. 
 See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
 Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
 And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, 
 Declare his landlord can at least translate 1 1" 
 Punedin ! view thy children ^\itb delight. 
 They write for food — and feed because they 
 
 write : 
 And lest, when heated with the UOusual 
 
 grape, 
 Some glowing thoughts should to the press 
 
 escape. 
 And tinge with red the female reader's 
 
 cheek, 
 My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
 Breatbes o'er the page her purity of soul. 
 Reforms each error, and refines the whole. 
 
 Now to the Drama turn— Oh ! motley 
 sight ! 
 What precious scenes the wondering eyes 
 
 invite ! 
 Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, 
 And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete 
 
 content. 
 Though now, thank Heaven ! the Roscio- 
 
 mania's o'er, 
 And full-grown actors are endured once 
 
 more ; 
 Yet what avail then: vain attempts to 
 
 please, 
 While British critics suffer scenes hke these ; 
 While Reynolds vents his " dammes ! " 
 
 " poohs ! " and " zounds ! " 
 And common-place and common sense 
 
 confounds ? 
 While Kenney's " World " — ah ! where is 
 
 Kenney's wit ? — 
 Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; 
 And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
 A tragedy complete in all but words ? 
 Who but must mourn, while these are all 
 
 the rage. 
 The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
 Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent 
 
 gone ? 
 Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
 Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, 
 
 awake ! 
 Ring the alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
 Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
 Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
 Abjure the mummery of the German 
 
 schools ; 
 Leave new Pizarros to translating ools ; 
 Give, as thy last memoria] to the age. 
 One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
 Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her 
 
 head, 
 Where Garrick trod, and Siddons ]i\es to 
 tread ? [mask. 
 
 On those shall Farce display Bufloon'ry's 
 .\nd Hook conceal his heroes in a cagk ? 
 Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
 From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother 
 ! Goose ? 
 
 ' While Shakspeare, Otway, Massmger, 
 forgot. 
 On stalls must moulder, or m closets rot ? 
 Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints 
 
 proclaim 
 The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
 In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
 Still Skeffington and Goose divide the 
 
 prize."' , . 
 
 And sure great Skeffington must claim our 
 
 praise, 
 For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
 Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er con- 
 fines 
 Her flight to garnish Greenwoods gay 
 designs ; " 
 
96 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REMEV^'ERS 
 
 Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but 
 
 anon 
 In five facetious acts comes thunderingon. 
 While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the 
 
 scene. 
 Stares, wondering what the devil it can 
 
 mean ; 
 But as some hands applaud, a venal fev/ ! 
 Rather than sleep, tvhy John applauds it 
 
 too. 
 
 Such are we now. Ah ! wherefore should 
 we turn 
 To what our fathers were, unless to rnourn? 
 Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame. 
 Or, kind to dullness, do you fear to blame ? 
 Well may the nobles of our present race 
 Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
 Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons. 
 And worship Catalani's pantaloons. 
 Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
 Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 
 
 Then let Ausonia, skill'd in e^'e^y art 
 To soften manners, but corrupt the heart. 
 Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
 To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down : 
 Let weeded strumpets languish o'er Des- 
 
 hayes. 
 And bless the promise which his form 
 
 displays ; 
 V.'hile Gayton bounds before th' enraptured 
 
 looks 
 Of hoary marquises, and stripling dukes ; 
 Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle ' 
 Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the need- 
 less veil ; 
 Let Angiohni bare her breast of snow, 
 Wave the white arm, and point the pliant 
 
 toe ; 
 Collini trill, her love-inspiring song. 
 Strain her fair neck, and charm the listen- 
 ing throng ! 
 Whet not your scythe, suppressors of our 
 
 vice ! 
 Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
 By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save. 
 No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers 
 
 sha\"e ; 
 And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, 
 
 display 
 Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 
 
 Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
 Of vice and folly, Gre\'ille and Argyle ! '- 
 Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hal- 
 low' d fane. 
 Spreads wide her portals for the motley 
 
 train, 
 Behold the new Petronius of the day. 
 Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
 There the hired eunucli, the Hesperian 
 
 choir. 
 The melting lute, the soft lascivious hxe. 
 
 The song from Italy, the step from France, 
 The midnight org\% and the mazy dance, 
 The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine. 
 For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and 
 
 lords combine : 
 Each to his humour — Comus all allows ; 
 Champaign, dice, music, or your neigh- 
 bour's spouse. 
 Talk not to us. ye starving sons of trade !. 
 Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have 
 
 made : 
 In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions 
 
 bask, 
 Nor think of poverty, ervcept " en masque, " 
 When for the night some lately titled ass 
 : Appears the beggar which his grandsire 
 
 was. 
 The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
 : The audience take their turn' upon the floor: 
 j Now round the room the circling dow'gers 
 sweep. 
 Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters 
 i leap ; 
 
 i The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
 The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 
 Those for Hibernia's lustv sons repair 
 With art the charms which nature could 
 not spare ; 
 [ These after husbands wing their eager flight. 
 Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial 
 night. 
 
 Oh ! blest retreats of infamv and ease. 
 Where, all forgotten but the power to ple;^, 
 Each maid may give a loose to genial 
 
 thought, 
 Each swain may teach new svstems, or be 
 
 taught : 
 There the blithe youngster, just retum'd 
 
 from Spain, 
 Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling 
 
 main ; 
 The jovial caster's set, and seven's the nick, 
 Or — done ! — a thousand on the comins 
 
 trick ! 
 If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
 And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
 Here's Powell's pistol ready for ^-our life, 
 .\nd, kinder still, two Pagets for'your wife ; 
 Fit consummation of an earthly race 
 Begun in fo'ly, ended in disgrace ; 
 While none but menials o'er the bed of 
 
 death. 
 Wash thy red wounds, or watch thv waver- 
 ing breath. 
 Traduced by liars, and forgot by all 
 The mangled victim of a drunken brawl 
 
 flu« '^''^"S, and like Falkland 
 
 Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and 
 guide his hand 
 To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWEKS 
 
 97 
 
 E'en I — least thinking of a tlioughtless 
 
 throng, 
 Just skill'd to know the light and choose 
 
 the wrong, 
 Freed at that age when reason's shield is 
 
 lost. 
 To fight . my course through passion s 
 
 countless host 
 Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
 Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
 E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
 Such scenes, such men, destroy thy public 
 
 weal : 
 Although some kind, censorious friend will 
 
 sav, 
 
 "Whit art thou better, meddling foo), 
 than they ? " 
 
 And every brother rake will smile to see 
 
 That miracle, a moralist in me. 
 
 No raatter-^when some bard in virtue 
 stron,?, 
 
 Gilford perchance, shall raise the chasten- 
 ing song. 
 
 Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
 
 Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
 
 Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though 
 I 
 
 May feel the lash that Vurtue must apply. 
 
 As for the smaller fry, who swarm in 
 
 shoals 
 From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, 
 Why should we call them from their dark 
 
 abode, 
 In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-ioad ? 
 Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
 To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the 
 
 Square ? 
 If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
 Most wisely doom'd to shun the public 
 
 sight, 
 What harm ? in spite of every critic elf, 
 Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself ; 
 ■ Miles Andrews '* still his strength in coup- 
 lets try. 
 And live in prologues, though his dramas 
 
 die. 
 Lords too are bards, such things at times 
 
 befall. 
 And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 
 Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
 Ah ! who would take their titles with their 
 
 rhymes ? 
 Roscommo.i ! Sheffield ! with your spurits 
 
 fled. 
 No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
 
 What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, and pam- 
 phleteer ! '^ 
 So dull in youth, so drivelhng in his age, 
 His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking 
 
 stage ; 
 But managers for once cried, " Hold, 
 
 enough ! " 
 Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic 
 
 stuff. 
 'I'et at their judgment let his lordship 
 
 laugh, 
 And case his volumes in congenial calf ; 
 Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco 
 
 shines, 
 And hang a calf-skin on these recreant 
 
 lines. 
 
 With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead. 
 Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
 With you I war not : Gifiord's heavy hand 
 Has crush'd, without remorse, your numer- 
 ous band. 
 On " a'l the talents " vent your venal 
 
 spleen ; 
 Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
 lot monodies on Fox regale your crew. 
 And Melville's Mantle "^ prove a blanket 
 
 too ! 
 One common Lethe waits each hapless 
 
 bard. 
 And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best 
 
 reward. 
 Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
 Could bid vour hues beyond a morning live ; 
 But now at once your fleeting labours close, 
 With names of greater note in blest repose. 
 Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid 
 The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade. 
 Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her 
 
 mind, 
 Leave wondering comprehension far behmd. 
 Though Crusca's bards no more our journals 
 
 fill. • ^ J ,u 
 
 Some stragglers skirmish round the 
 
 columns still ; 
 Last of the howling host which once was 
 
 Bell's, - 
 Matilda snivels vet, and Hafiz yells ; 
 And iierry's metaphors appear ane%v^ 
 Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.'" 
 When some brisk youth, the tenant of a 
 
 stall ^ 
 Employs' a pen less pointed than his awl. 
 Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store ot 
 
 shoes, 
 
 The puny schoolboy and his early lay ] crowds applaud , ^ 
 
 Whoruirs grow hoary as his rhymes I 'Tis fceriU-nature-don't the world know 
 grow worse ? ^ ^^^"^ 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEVv'ERS 
 
 Genius must guide when wits admire tht 
 
 rhyme, 
 And Capel Lofft so declares 'tis quite sub 
 
 lime. 
 Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless 
 
 trade ! 
 Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless 
 
 spade ! 
 Lo ! Burns and Bloomfteld, nay, a greater 
 
 far, 
 Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
 Forsoolc the labours of a servile state, 
 Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd 
 
 over fate : 
 Then why no more ? if Phcebus smiled on 
 
 you, 
 Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan 
 
 too ? 
 Him too the mania, not the muse, has 
 
 seized ; 
 Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 
 And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
 No common be inclosed without an ode. 
 Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to 
 
 smile 
 On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
 Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole. 
 Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul I 
 Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes pro- 
 long, 
 Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
 So shall the fair your handywork peruse, 
 Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps 
 
 your shoes. 
 May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill. 
 And tailors' lays be longer than their bill I 
 While punctual beaux reward the grateful 
 notes, [coats. 
 
 And pay for poems— when they pay for 
 
 To the famed tlirong now paid the 
 
 tribute due. 
 Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. 
 Come forth, oh Campbell ! give thy talents 
 
 scope ; 
 Who dares aspire if thou must cease to 
 
 hope ? 
 And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last. 
 Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
 Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire. 
 And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd 
 
 lyre ; 
 Restore Apollo to his vacant throne. 
 Assert thy country's honour and tlunr own. 
 What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
 Where her last hopes with pious Cowper 
 
 sleep ? 
 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she 
 
 turns. 
 To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel. 
 
 Burns ! 
 No ! though contempt hath mark' Ci the 
 
 spurious brood, 
 The race n ho rhyme from folly, or for food. 
 
 Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to 
 
 boast, 
 'vVho, Isast affecting, still affect the most : 
 feel as they write, and write but as they 
 
 feel- 
 Bear witness Gifiord, Sotheby,^! Mac- 
 
 neil. ■>^ 
 
 " Why slumbers Gifiord ? " once was 
 
 ask'd in vain ; 
 Why slumbers Gifiord ? let us ask again. 
 Are there no foUies for his pen to purge ? 
 Are there no fools whose backs demand the 
 
 scourge ? 
 .\re there no sins for satire's bard to greet ? 
 Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
 Shall peers or princes tread pollution's 
 
 path, 
 -Vnd 'scape alike the law's and muse's 
 
 wrath ? 
 Xor blaze with guilty glare through future 
 
 time, ' 
 Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
 Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise 
 
 claim'd. 
 Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 
 
 Unhappy White ! while life was in its 
 
 spring. 
 And thy young muse just waved her joj'ous 
 
 wing, 
 The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away. 
 Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
 Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone. 
 When Science' self destroy'd her favourite 
 
 son ! 
 Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pur- 
 suit. 
 She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd 
 
 the fruit. 
 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow. 
 And help'd to plant the wound that laid 
 
 thee low : 
 So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the 
 
 plain. 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar 
 
 again, 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his 
 
 heart ; 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
 He nursed the pinion which impell'd the 
 
 steel ; 
 While the same plumage that had warm'd 
 
 his nest 
 Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding 
 
 breast. 
 
 There be who say, m these enliehten'd 
 days. 
 That sp,endid lies are all the poet's praise ■ 
 That strain'd mvention, e\-er on the wing' 
 Akjne impels the modern bard to sing : 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 99 
 
 'Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who 
 
 write, 
 Shrink from that fatal word to genius — 
 
 trite ; 
 Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest 
 
 fires, 
 And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
 This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe 
 
 attest ; 
 Though nature's sternest painter, yet the 
 
 best. 
 
 And here let Shee ^3 and Genius find a 
 place. 
 
 Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
 
 To guide whose hand the sister arts com- 
 bine, 
 
 And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
 
 Whose magic touch can bid the can\as 
 glow, 
 
 Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
 
 While honours, doubly merited, attend 
 
 The poet's rival, but the pamter's friend. 
 
 Blest is the man who dares approach the 
 
 bower 
 Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour ; 
 Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has 
 
 mark'd afar, 
 The- clime that nursed the sons of song and 
 
 war. 
 The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
 Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
 But Joubly blest is he whose heart expands 
 With hallow'd feelings for those classic 
 
 lands ; 
 Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
 And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
 Wright ! '* 'twas thy happy lot at once to 
 
 view 
 Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
 And sure no common muse inspired thy 
 
 pen 
 To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 
 
 And you, associate bards ! 35 who snatch'd 
 
 to Ught 
 Those gems too long withheld from modern 
 
 sight ; 
 Whose mingling taste combined to cull the 
 
 wreath 
 Where attic flowers Aonian odomrs breathe. 
 And all theu: renovated fragrance flung. 
 To grace the beauties of your native tongue; 
 Now let those minds, that nobly could 
 
 transfuse 
 The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse. 
 Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow' d 
 
 tone : ^ 
 Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 
 
 Let these, or such as these, with just 
 applause, 
 Restore th» muse's violated laws ; 
 
 But not m flmisy Darwin's pompous chime 
 that mighty master of unmeaning rhyme' 
 Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than 
 
 clear. 
 The eye dehghted, but fatigued the ear ; 
 In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
 But now, worn down, appear in native 
 
 brass ; 
 While all his train of hovering sylphs 
 
 around 
 Evaporate in similes and sound : 
 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
 False glare attracts, but more offends the 
 
 eye. 38 
 
 \'et let them not to vulgar Wordsworth 
 
 stoop, 
 The meanest object of the lowly group, 
 Whoseverse, of all but childish prattlevoid, 
 Seems blessed harmony to Lamb and Lloyd- 
 Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to 
 
 teach 
 A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
 The native genius with their being given 
 Will point the path, and pea! their notes to 
 
 heaven. 
 
 And thou, too, Scot ! resign to minstrels 
 
 rude 
 The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
 Let others spin their meagre lines for hire ; 
 Enough for genius, if itself inspire ! 
 Let Southey sing, although his teeming 
 
 muse. 
 Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
 Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish 
 
 verse, 
 And brother Coleridge lull the babe at 
 
 nurse ; 
 Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
 To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
 Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal 
 
 from Moore, 
 And swear that Camoens sang such notes 
 
 of yore ; 
 Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave. 
 And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave; 
 Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
 .\nd whine and whimper to the fourteenth 
 
 line ; 
 Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest 
 Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the 
 
 best. 
 Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the 
 
 strai''^ 
 Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
 But thou, with powers that mock the aid 
 
 of praise, 
 Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble 
 
 lays : 
 Thy country's voice, the voice of all the 
 
 nine, 
 Demand a hallow'd harp— that harp is 
 
 thine, 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
 The glorious record of some nobler iield, 
 Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, 
 Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of 
 
 man ? 
 Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
 For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin 
 
 Hood? 
 Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native 
 
 bard, 
 And be thy praise his first, his best rev.'ard ! 
 Yet not with thee alone his name should 
 
 live. 
 But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
 Be known, perchance, when Albion is no 
 
 more, 
 And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
 To future times her faded fame recall. 
 And save her glory, though his country fall. 
 
 Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope. 
 To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
 Xew eras spread their wings, new nations 
 
 rise. 
 And other victors fill the applauding skies ; 
 A few brief generations fleet along 
 Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
 E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce 
 
 may claim i 
 
 The transient mention of a dubious name ! ' 
 When fame's loud trump hath blown its I 
 
 noblest blast, 
 Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at 
 
 last ; 
 And glory, like the phcenix, midst her fires. 
 Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 
 
 Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
 Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 
 ShiU th's: approach the muse? ah no' 
 
 she flies, 
 
 Even from the tempting ore of Beaton's 
 
 prize ; [soil 
 
 Though printers condescend the press to 
 
 With rhyme by Hoare,^' and epic blank by 
 
 Hoyle : 33 
 Not him whose page, if still upheld bv 
 
 whist. 
 Requires no sacred theme to bid us hst.35 
 Ye ! who in Granta's honours would sur- 
 pass. 
 Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ■ 
 A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
 Vi'hose Helicon is duller than her Cam.' 
 
 There Clarke, still striving piteously " to 
 
 please," 
 Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
 A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
 A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
 Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the 
 
 mean. 
 And furbish falsehoods for a magazine. 
 Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
 Himself a living libel on mankind. 
 
 Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race ! 
 At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 
 So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's ** 
 
 verse 
 Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's*' 
 
 worse. 
 But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
 The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
 On her green banks a greener wreath she 
 
 '.vo\'e. 
 To croi\n the bards that haunt her classic 
 
 grove ; 
 Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's 
 
 fires. 
 And modern Britons glory in their sires. <* 
 
 l''or me, who, thus unask'd, have dared 
 
 to tell 
 My rountry, what her sons should know 
 
 too well. 
 Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
 The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
 Xo just applause her honour'd name shall 
 
 lose, 
 .\s first in freedom, -dearest to the muse. 
 Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame. 
 And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
 AA'hat -\thens was in science, Rome in 
 
 pov.-cr. 
 \\hat T>Te appear'd in her meridian hour. 
 'T is thine at once, fair Albion ! to have 
 
 been — 
 Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely 
 
 queen : 
 But Rome decay' d, and Athens strcw'd the 
 
 plain, 
 .\nd Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the 
 
 main ; 
 Like these, thv strength may sink, in ruin 
 
 hurl'd, 
 .-Vnd Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
 But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's 
 
 fate, 
 With warning ever scofFd at, till too late ; 
 To themes less lofty stiU my lav confine. 
 And urge thy bards to gain 'a name like 
 
 thine. 
 
 Then, hapless Britain ! be thv rulers 
 
 blest. 
 The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
 Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
 The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense. 
 \\'hile Canning's colleagues hate him for his 
 
 wit, 
 And old dame Portland fills the place of 
 
 TK^f °?.^* ''^^'°' ^^'«=" •' «re this the sail 
 That wafts me hence is shixering in the gale • 
 
 height,' '"''" """^ ^^f"'' '"'^'"''^ 
 '^"'^ f m"^''""''^ minarets must greet my 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 Thence shall I stray through beauty's 
 
 native clime, 
 Where Kaff *^ is clad in rocks, and crown' d 
 
 with snows sublime. 
 But should I back return, no tempting 
 
 press 
 iShall drag my journal from the desk's 
 
 recess ; 
 Let coxcombs, printing as they come from 
 
 far. 
 Snatch his own ^vreath of ridicule from 
 
 Carr ; 
 Let Aberdeen and Elgin still pursue 
 'The shade of fame through regions of virtu ; 
 Waste useless thousands on their Phidian 
 
 freaks, 
 Misshapen monuments and maim'd an- 
 tiques ; [mart 
 And make their grand saloons a general 
 For all the mutilated blocks of art : 
 Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
 I leave topography to rapid Gell ; " 
 And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
 To stun the public ear — at least with prose. 
 
 "Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career. 
 Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish 
 
 fear ; 
 This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to 
 
 own — 
 Though not obtrusive, yet not quite un- 
 known : 
 My voice was heard again, though not so 
 
 loud, 
 My page, though nameless, never dis- 
 avow' d ; 
 And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
 Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at 
 
 bay, 
 Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house. 
 By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's 
 
 spouse, 
 By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
 Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
 Our men in buckram shall have blows 
 
 enough. 
 And feel they too are " penetrable stuff ; ' 
 And though I hope not hence unscathed to 
 
 - go. 
 Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
 The time hath been, when no harsh sound 
 
 would fall . 
 
 From lips that now may seem imbued with 
 
 gall; 
 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
 The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my 
 
 eyes : , , 
 
 But now, so callous grown, so changed 
 
 since youth, 
 I've learned tff think, and sternly speak the 
 
 truth ; , , ,. J 
 
 'Leam'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
 'And break him on the wheel he meant foi 
 
 me ; 
 
 To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
 Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or 
 
 hiss : 
 Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters 
 
 frown, 
 I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
 And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at 
 
 once 
 To Scotch marauder, and to southern 
 
 dunce. 
 Thus much I've dared ; if my incondite lay 
 Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let 
 
 others say : 
 This, let the world, which knows not how 
 
 to spare. 
 Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND 
 EDITION 
 
 I HAVE been informed, since the present 
 edition went to the press, that my trusty 
 and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgli 
 Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement 
 critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting 
 Muse, whom they have already so be- 
 deviled with their ungodly ribaldry : 
 
 " Tantffine animis coelestibus irse ! " 
 I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir 
 Andrew Aguecheek saith, " an I had known 
 he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him 
 damned ere I had fought him." What a 
 pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bos- 
 phorus before the next number has passed 
 the Tweed ! But I yet hope to light my 
 pipe with it in Persia.^ 
 
 My northern friends have accused me, 
 with justice, of personaUty towards their 
 great literary anthropophagus, Jeffrey ; 
 but what else was to be done with him and 
 his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and 
 slandering," and slake their thirst by 
 " evil speaking ? " I have adduced facts 
 already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I 
 have stated my free opinion, nor has he 
 thence sustained any injury ; what sca- 
 venger was ever soiled by being pelted 
 with mud ? It may be said that I quit 
 England because I have censured there 
 " persons of honour and wit about town ; " 
 but I am coming back again, and their 
 veni'eance will keep hot till my return. 
 Tho°e who knew me can testify that niy 
 motives for leaving England are very dif- 
 ferent from fears, literary or personal: 
 those who do not, may one day be con- 
 vinced Since the publication of this thing, 
 my name has not been concealed ; I have 
 
 1 rXhe article never appeared, and Lord BjTon, 
 in the " Hints from Horace," has triumphant y 
 "anted Tefirey with a silence which seemed to 
 
 i"cate that the critic was beaten from the field.] 
 
I02 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 been mostly in London, ready to answer 
 for my transgressions, and in daily expec- 
 tation of sundry cartels ; but, alas ! " the 
 age of chi\"a]ry is over," or, in the vulgar 
 tongue, there is no spirit nowadays. 
 
 There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke 
 (subaudi esquire), a sizer of Emanuel Col- 
 lege, and I believe, a denizen of Berwick- 
 upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in 
 these pages to much better company than 
 he has been accustomed to meet ; he is, 
 notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for 
 no reason that I can discover, except a 
 personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me 
 at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and 
 whom the jealousy of his Trinity contem- 
 poraries prevented from success, has been 
 abusing me, and, what is worse, the defence- 
 less innocent above-mentioned, in " The 
 Satirist " for one year and some months. 
 I am utterly unconscious of having given 
 him any provocation ; indeed, I am guilt- 
 less of having heard his name, till coupled 
 
 with "The Satirist." He has therefore 
 no reason to complain, and I dare say that, 
 like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather 
 pleased than otherwise. I have now men- 
 tioned all who have done me the honour to 
 notice me and mine, that is, my bear and 
 my book, except the editor of " The Sa- 
 tirist," v/ho, it seems, is a gentleman — 
 God wot ! I wish he could impart a little 
 ofhisgentility to his subordinate scribblers. 
 I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take 
 up the cudgels for his Tvlsecenas, Lord Car- 
 lisle. I hope not : he was one of the few, 
 who. in the very short intercourse I had 
 with him, treated me with kindness when a 
 boy ; and whatever he may say or do, 
 " pour on, I ydU endure." I have nothing 
 further to add, save a general note of 
 thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and 
 publishers, and, in the words of Scottj I 
 wish 
 
 "To all and each a fair good night, 
 And rosy dreams and slumbers light," 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE : 
 
 BEING AN ALLUSIOX IX EXGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD 
 PISOXES, DE ARTE POETICA," AXD IXTENDED AS A SEQUEL 
 TO "ENGLISH BARDS AXD SCOTCH REVIEWERS" 
 
 — " Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
 Reddere qua ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 
 
 HoR. De Arte Poet. 
 
 " Rliymes are difficult things — they are stubborn things, sir." 
 
 Fielding's Arr.ciia. 
 
 Athens : Capuchin Convent, 
 
 March 12, i3ii. 
 
 Who would not laugh, if Lavwence, hired 
 
 to grace 
 His costly canvass with each tlatter'd face. 
 Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush. 
 Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his 
 
 brush ? 
 Or, should some limner join, for show or 
 
 sale, 
 A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ? 
 Or low Dubost — as once the world has 
 
 seen — 
 Degrade God's creatures in his graphic 
 
 spleen ? 
 Not all that forced politeness, which 
 
 defends 
 Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning 
 
 friends. 
 Believe me, Moschus, like that picture ; 
 
 seems 
 The book which, sillier than a sick man's 
 
 dreams, 
 Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
 Poftic nightmares, without head or feet. 
 
 Poets and painters, as all artists know. 
 May shoot a little with a lengthen'd 
 
 bow : 
 ^\'e claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
 And grant in turn the pardon which we 
 
 ask; 
 But make not monsters spring from gentle 
 
 dams — 
 Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not 
 
 lambs. 
 
 A labour'd, kasg exordium, sometimes 
 tends 
 (Like patriot speeches)but to paltrv ends ; 
 And nonsense in a lofty note goes down. 
 As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
 Thus many a bard describes in pompous 
 
 strain 
 The clear brook babbling through the 
 
 goodly plain : 
 The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls, 
 Kmg's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd win- 
 dows, and old walls : 
 Or. in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
 To paint a rainbow, or— the river Thames 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 103 
 
 -You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may 
 shine — 
 
 But daub a shipwreck hke an alehouse 
 sign ; 
 
 You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
 
 Then ghde down Grub-street — fasting and 
 forgot ; 
 
 Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint Re- 
 view, 
 
 Whose wit is never troublesome till — true 
 
 In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
 Let it at least be simple and entire. 
 
 The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
 (Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a 
 
 scribe) 
 Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
 I labour to be brief — become obscure ; 
 One falls while following elegarrce too fast ; 
 Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 
 Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, 
 He spins his subject to satiety ; 
 Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
 Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the 
 waves ! 
 
 Unless your care's exact, your judgment 
 
 nice. 
 The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
 None are complete, all wanting in some 
 
 part, i 
 
 Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
 For galligaskins Slowshears is your man ; 
 But coats must claim another artisan. 
 Now this to me, I own, seems much the 
 
 same 
 As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
 Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
 Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle 
 
 nose ! 
 
 Dear authors ! suit your topics to your 
 
 strength, 
 And ponder well your subject, and its 
 ' length ; 
 
 Nor lift your load, before you're quite 
 
 aware 
 What weight your shoulders will, or will 
 
 not, bear. 
 But lucid Order, and V/it's siren voice. 
 Await the poet, skilful in his choice ; 
 With native eloquence he soars along, 
 Grace in his thoughts, and music in his 
 
 song. 
 
 Let judgment teach him wisely to com- 
 bine 
 With future parts the now omitted line : 
 This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
 Precise in style, and cautious to select ; 
 ■ Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
 To him who fiu^ishes a wanting word. 
 Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
 Some term unknown, or obsolete in use. 
 
 (As Pitt has (urnish'd us a word or two 
 Which lexicographers declined to do ■) ' 
 bo you indeed, with care,— (but be content 
 to take this hcense rarely)— may invent 
 New words find credit in these latter days 
 If neatly grafted on a Galhc phrase. 
 What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarr-e 
 
 refuse 
 To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
 If you can add a little, say why not 
 As well as Viilliam Pitt, and Walter Scott ? 
 Since they, by force of rhvme and force 
 
 of lungs, 
 Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 
 'Tis then — and shall be — lawful to present 
 Reform in writing, as in parliament. 
 
 As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
 So fade expressions which in season please : 
 And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate. 
 And works and words but dwindle to a 
 
 date. 
 Though as a monarch nods, and commerce 
 
 calls 
 Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
 Though swamps subdued, and marshes 
 
 drain'd, sustain 
 The heavy ploughshare and the yellow 
 
 grain, 
 And rising ports along the busy shore 
 Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar. 
 All, all, must perish ; but, surviving last, '' 
 The love of letters half preserves the past. 
 True, some decay, yet not a few revive ; 
 Though those shall sink, which now appear 
 
 to thrive. 
 As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
 Our life and language must alike obey. 
 
 The immortal wars which gods and angels 
 wage. 
 Are they not shown in Milton's sacred 
 
 His strain will teach what numbers be^t 
 
 belong 
 To themes celestial told in epic song. 
 
 The slow, sad stanza will correctly ijaint 
 
 The lover's anguish, or the friend's com- 
 plaint. 
 
 But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or 
 blank ? 
 
 Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
 
 Let squabbhng critics by themselves dis- 
 pute 
 
 This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 
 
 Sathric rhyme first sprang from selfisii 
 spleen. , 
 
 You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patnck s 
 dean. 
 
 Blank verse is now, with one consent, 
 allied 
 To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
 
104 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 Though mad .\lmanzor rhymed in Dry- 
 den's days, 
 
 Xo sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 
 
 \Miilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
 
 l-"or jest and pun in very middhng prose. 
 
 Xot that our Bens or Beaumonts show the 
 worse, 
 
 Or lose one point, because they wTote in 
 verse. 
 
 But so Thalia pleases to appear, 
 
 Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a 
 year! 
 
 Whate'er the scene, let this advice have 
 weight : — 
 Adapt your language to j^our hero's state. 
 At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 
 And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 
 Nor unregarded ^^'ill tlie act pass by 
 Where angry Townlv ' lifts his voice on 
 
 high. 
 Again our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
 When common prose will serve for common 
 
 things ; 
 And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, 
 To " hollowing Hotspur " and his sceptred 
 sire. 
 
 i 
 
 'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your [ 
 
 art, 
 
 To polish poems ; they must touch the I 
 
 heart : i 
 
 Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the 
 
 song, 
 .Still let it bear the hearer's soul along : 
 Command your audience or to smile or 
 
 weep. 
 Whiche'er may please you — anvthing but 
 
 sleep. 
 The poet claims our tears ; but, by his 
 
 leave, 
 Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 
 
 If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor 
 
 tear, 
 Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or 
 
 sneer. 
 Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face 
 And men look angrv in the proper place ' 
 At double meanings folks seem wondrous 
 
 sly, 
 
 And sentiment prescribes a pensi\e eye - 
 For nature form'd at first the inward man 
 And actors copy nature — when they can' 
 Slie bids the beating heart with rapture 
 
 bound. 
 Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the 
 
 ground ; 
 .\nd for expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung, 
 She gave our mind's interpreter — the 
 
 tongue. 
 Who, worn with use, of late would fain dis- 
 pense 
 (.\t least in theatres) with common sense ; 
 
 O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, 
 
 pit. 
 And raise a laugh with anything — but wit. 
 
 To skilful uTiters it will much import, 
 Whence spring their scenes, from common 
 
 life or cotirt ; 
 Whether they seek applause by smile or 
 
 tear, 
 To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
 A sage, or rakish youngster vnlA from 
 I school, 
 
 A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John 
 I BuU; " 
 
 AH persons please when nature's voice pre- 
 vails, 
 Scottish or Irish, bom in Wilts or Wales. 
 
 Or follow common fame, or forge a plot ; 
 Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not? 
 One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
 Make it appear as if it might have been. 
 
 If some Drawcansir ' you aspire to draw 
 Present him ra^Tng, and above all law : 
 If female furies in your scheme are plaun'd. 
 Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your 
 
 hand ; 
 For tears and treachery, for good and e^■il, 
 Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the 
 
 De\'il ! 
 But if a new design you dare essay. 
 And freely wander from the beateii way. 
 True to 3'our characters, tiU aU be past] 
 Preserve consistency from first to last. 
 
 'Tis hard to ventvire where our betters 
 
 fail. 
 Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
 And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
 .A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and 
 
 err ; 
 Yet copy not too closelv, but record 
 More justly, thought "for thought 'than 
 
 word for ivord ; 
 Xor trace your protot:-pe through narrow 
 
 ways. 
 But only follow where he merits praise. 
 
 For you, young bard ! whom luckless 
 fate mav lead 
 To tremble on the nod of all who read 
 bre your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
 "'s^ef' '' ''^^' ''°°'' ''^Sin like 
 ' ■ Awake a louder and a loftier strain " — 
 
 brSn?- "" *''"""'-' ''™"' 1^^^ l^°'""S 
 He sinks to SoutheVs level in a trice 
 Not lo oTvo^raw'f" °"-«^ f^Hn mtce ! 
 The ?e4er'd warbUnr^f ."?'^''''>- ='^<^ 
 Soft as L genUe?b?fat°h L'g^ ™-'--lv- ^ 
 Of^man's first disobeSIn^*'^:,',"'^^,, 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 105 
 
 He speaks, but, as his subject swells along. 
 
 Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the 
 song. 
 
 Still to the midst of things he hastens on. 
 
 As if we witness'd all already done ; 
 
 Leaves on his path whatever seems too 
 mean 
 
 To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
 
 Gives, as each page improves upon the 
 sight, 
 
 Not smoke from brightness, but from dark- 
 ness — light ; 
 
 And truth and fiction with such art com- 
 pounds, 
 
 We know not where to fix their several 
 bounds. 
 
 If you would please the public, deign to 
 hear [ear : 
 
 What soothes the many-headed monster's 
 
 If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
 
 Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
 
 Deserve those plaudits — study nature's 
 page, 
 
 And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 
 
 While varying man and varying years 
 unfold 
 
 Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told ; 
 
 Observe his simple childhood's dawning 
 days. 
 
 His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and 
 his plays ; 
 
 Till time at length the mannish tyro weans. 
 
 And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 1 
 
 Behold him Freshman ! forced no more 
 to groan , 
 O'er Virgil's devilish verses and his own;" 
 Prayers are too tedious, lectures too ab- 
 struse, 
 He flies from Tavell's frown to " Ford- 
 ham's Mews ; " 
 (Unlucky Tavell ! * doom'd to daily cares 
 By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) 
 Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in 
 
 vain. 
 Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket 
 
 plain. 
 Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
 Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
 Constant to nought — save hazard and a 
 
 whore, . 
 
 Yet cursing both — for both have made him 
 
 sore ; . 
 
 Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
 The p — X becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
 Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term 
 
 away, . 
 
 And une.\pell'd, perhaps, retires M.A. ; 
 Master of arts ! as hells and clubs proclaim. 
 Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter 
 name ! 
 
 Launch'd into life, e.xtinct bis early fire, 
 He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
 
 Marries for money, chooses friends lur 
 
 rank. 
 Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the 
 
 Bank ; 
 Sits in the Senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
 Sends him to Harrow, for himself was 
 
 there. 
 Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd 
 
 to cheer, 
 His son's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer ! 
 
 Manhood declines — age palsies every 
 
 limb ; 
 He quits the scene — or else the scene quits 
 
 him ; 
 Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny 
 
 grieves, 
 And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
 Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly 
 
 frets. 
 O'er hoards diminished by young Hopeful's 
 
 debts ; 
 Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
 Complete in all hfe's lessons — but to die ;. 
 Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please. 
 Commending every time, save times like 
 
 these ; 
 Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot. 
 Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ! 
 
 But from the Drama let me not digress. 
 Nor spare my precepts, though they please 
 1 you less. 
 
 Though woman weep, and hardest hearts 
 
 are stirr'd. 
 When what is done is rather seen than 
 
 heard. 
 Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
 Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
 The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
 And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
 True Briton all beside, I here am French — 
 Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench ; 
 The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
 In tragic scenes disgusts, though but in 
 
 show : 
 We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
 And find small sympathy in being sick. 
 Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
 Appals an audience with a monarch's death; 
 To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
 Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature 
 
 bear ? 
 A halter' d heroine Johnson sought to slay — 
 We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
 And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating 
 
 times 
 Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes ; 
 And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would 
 
 quake 
 To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake 1 
 Because, in scenes exciting joy or gnef. 
 We loathe the action which exceeds behef 
 
io6 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 ■ ! to whom each vice 
 
 And yet, God knows ! what may not ; Suppressing peer ! 
 
 authors do, I gives place, 
 
 Whose postscripts prate of dyeing " hero- Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout 
 
 ines blue ? " and race. 
 
 Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can, 
 Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man. 
 Nor call a ghost, unless some curzed scrape 
 Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
 Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, 
 I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
 Where good and evil persons, right or 
 
 wrong. 
 Rage, love, and aught but moralise, in 
 
 song. 
 Hail, last memorial of our foreign friensds, 
 Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
 Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
 On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd 
 
 away. 
 Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
 Where rustics earn'd, and now may bj^g, 
 
 their bread, 
 In all iniquity is gro%vn so nice, 
 It scorns amusements which are not of 
 
 price. 
 Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throb- 
 bing ear 
 Aches with orchestras which he pays to 
 
 hear. 
 Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to 
 
 snore. 
 His anguish doubhng by his own " encore ; " 
 Squeezed in " Fop's Alle}'," jostled by the 
 
 beaux, 
 Teased with his hat, and trembling for his 
 
 toes ; 
 Scarce wrestles through the night, nor 
 
 tastes of ease, 
 Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad re- 
 lease : 
 Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye 
 
 guess ! — 
 Because it costs him dear, and makes him 
 
 dress! 
 
 So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
 Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of 
 
 fools ! 
 Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend 
 
 clerk 
 (What harm, if David danced before the 
 
 ark?) 
 In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
 Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and 
 
 coarse jokes. 
 Improving years, with things no longer 
 
 known, 
 Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame 
 
 Joan, 
 Who still "frisk on with feats so lewdly 
 
 low, 
 'Tis strange BerJvolio sufiers such a show ; 
 
 Farce foUow'd Comedy, and reach'd her 
 prime. 
 
 In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
 
 Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared 
 the best. 
 
 And turn'd some very serious things to 
 jest. 
 
 Nor church nor state escaped his public 
 sneers, 
 
 Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volun- 
 teers : 
 
 " Alas, poor Yorick ! " now for ever mute I 
 
 Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 
 
 We smile, perforce, when ■ histrionic 
 scenes 
 .\pe the swoln dialogue of kings and queens. 
 When " Crononhotonthologos must die," 
 And Arthur struts in miroic majesty. 
 
 Moschus ! with whom once more I hop' 
 to sit, 
 And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
 Yes, friend ! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell. 
 And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la baga- 
 telle ! " 
 Which charm'd our days in each .Egean 
 
 clime. 
 As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
 Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past. 
 Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in 
 
 the last ; 
 But find in thine, Hke pagan Plato's bed, ^ 
 Some merry manuscript of mimes, when 
 dead. 
 
 Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
 
 Where fetter'd by whig \\"alpole low she 
 lies ; 
 
 Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her 
 glance ; 
 
 Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
 
 \et Chesterfield, whose polish' d pen in- 
 veighs 
 
 'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our 
 plays ; 
 
 Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains. 
 
 And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
 
 Repeal that act ! again let Humour roam 
 
 Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears 
 at home ; 
 
 Let " Archer " plant the horns on " Sul- 
 len's " brows. 
 
 And "Estiiania" gull her "Copper" ' 
 spouse ; 
 
 The moral's scant— but that may be ex- 
 cused. 
 
 Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 107 
 
 He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
 Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ;' 
 Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no 
 
 more ! 
 It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd 
 
 before ; 
 And spite of puritans and Collier's curse, 
 Plays make mankind no better, and no 
 
 worse. 
 Then spare our stage, ye raethodistic men ! 
 Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 
 But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus 
 
 appeal ? 
 Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly 
 
 zeal ? 
 For times of fire and faggot let them hope ! 
 Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
 As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
 So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
 E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 
 Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin ! 
 While the Lord's servant chastens whom 
 
 he loves, 
 And Simeon kicks, where Baxter only 
 
 " shoves." s 
 
 Whom nature guides, so writes, that 
 
 every dunce. 
 Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; 
 But after inky thumbs and bitten nails. 
 And twenty scatter' d quires, the coxcomb 
 
 tails. 
 
 Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
 To match the youthful eclogues of our 
 
 Pope? 
 "Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind. 
 For art too rude, for nature too refined. 
 Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
 'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a 
 
 wit. 
 
 A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands dis- 
 graced 
 In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
 The dirty language, and the noisome jest. 
 Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now 
 
 detest ; 
 Proscribed not only in the world polite. 
 But even too nasty for a city knight ! 
 
 Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath 
 
 made them pass, 
 Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudi- 
 
 bras ! 
 Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
 Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
 Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
 This measure moves a favourite of the 
 
 Nine. 
 Though at first view eight feet may seem 
 
 in vain 
 Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious 
 
 strain, 
 
 Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of 
 
 late 
 This measure shrinks not from a theme of 
 
 weight, 
 And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
 Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
 Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime. 
 Are curb'd too much by long-recurring 
 
 rhyme. 
 
 But many a skilful judge abhors to see. 
 What few admire — irregularity. 
 This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 'tis 
 
 hard 
 When such a word contents a British bard. 
 
 And must the bard his glowing thoughts 
 confine, 
 Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
 Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
 To gain the paltry suffrage of " correct ?" 
 Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
 To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 
 
 Ye, who seek finish' d models, never 
 
 cease, 
 By day and night, to read the works of 
 
 Greece. 
 But our good fathers never bent their 
 
 brains 
 To heathen Greek, content with native 
 
 strains. 
 The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
 Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
 The jokes and numbers suited to their 
 
 taste 
 Were quaint and careless, anything but 
 
 chaste 
 ^'et whether right or wrong the ancient 
 
 rules. 
 It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
 Though you and I, who eruditely know 
 To separate the elegant and low. 
 Can also, when a hobbling hne appears, 
 Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 
 
 In sooth I do not know, or greatly care 
 To learn, who our first English strollers 
 
 were ; 
 Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art. 
 Our Muse, hke that of Thespis, kept a cart ; 
 But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's 
 
 days, 
 There's pomp enough, if Kttle else, in plays ; 
 Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
 Without high heels, white plume, and 
 
 Bristol stone. 
 
 Old comedies still meet with much 
 applause, 
 Though too licentious for dramatic laws ; 
 At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis contest, 
 Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 
 
io8 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 Whate'er their follies, and their faults 
 beside, 
 Our enterprising bards pass nought un- 
 tried ; 
 Nor do they merit slight applause who 
 
 choose 
 An English subject for an English muse. 
 And leave to minds which never dare in- 
 vent 
 French flippancy and German sentiment 
 Where is that living language which could 
 
 claim 
 Poetic more, as philosophic, fame. 
 If all our bards, more patient of delay. 
 Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the 
 way ? 
 
 Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
 O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires 
 
 of faults. 
 Who soon detect, and mark where'er we 
 
 fail, 
 .-Vp-cl prove our marble with too nice a nail ! 
 Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
 He only thought, but you would make, us 
 
 mad ! 
 
 But truth to say, most rhymers rarely 
 
 guard 
 Against that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
 In person negligent, they wear, from sloth. 
 Beards of a week, and nails of annual 
 
 growth ; ! 
 
 Reside in garrets, fly from those they 
 
 meet, 
 And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 
 
 With little rhyme, less reason, if you 
 
 please. 
 The name of poet may be got with ease. 
 So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
 Shall ever turn your head to anv use ; 
 Write but like Wordsworth, live 'beside a 
 
 Lake, 
 And keep your bushy locks a year from 
 
 Blake ; » 
 Then print your book, once more return to 
 
 -.. town. 
 Arid boys shall hunt your hardship up and 
 
 down . 
 
 Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
 To purge In spring — like Bayes — before I 
 
 write ? 
 If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
 I know no scribbler with a madder stvle ;' 
 But since (perhaps my feelings are too 
 
 nice) 
 I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
 I'll labour gratis as a grinder's wheel. 
 And, blunt myself, give edge to others' 
 
 steel, 
 Nor write at all, unless to teach 'the art 
 To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 
 
 From Horace show the pleasing paths of 
 
 song, 
 .\nd from my own example — w^hat is 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Though modem practice sometimes 
 
 differs quite, 
 'Tis just as well to think before you write ; 
 Let every book that suits your theme be 
 
 read. 
 So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 
 
 He who has learn'd the duty which he 
 owes 
 To friends and country, and to pardon foes ; 
 Who models his deportment as may best 
 .Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest; 
 Who takes our laws and v/orship as they are. 
 Nor roars reform for senate, church, and 
 
 bar ; 
 In practice, rather than loud precept, wise. 
 Bids not his tongue, but heart, philoso- 
 phise ; 
 Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
 As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 
 
 Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well 
 
 told, 
 Without much grace, or weight, or art, will 
 
 hold 
 .\ longer empire o'er the public mind 
 Than sounding trifles, empty, though 
 
 refined. 
 
 Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient 
 
 days 
 The muse may celebrate with perfect praise. 
 Whose generous children narrow'd not 
 
 their hearts 
 With commerce, given alone to arms and 
 
 arts. 
 Our boys (save those whom public schools 
 
 compel 
 To " long and short " before they're taught- 
 
 to spell) 
 From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
 " .\ penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
 Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
 The third, how much will the remainder 
 
 make ? — 
 "A groat."— ■• Ah, bravo! Dick hath 
 
 done the sum ! 
 He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 
 
 They whose young souls recei\-e this rust 
 betimes, 
 'Tis clear are fit for anything but rhvmes ; 
 And Locke will tell you, that the father's 
 right 
 
 ^^"""sighf' ''" ''^''^''^ '''°" ""'^ children's 
 M»ir<f,'H ''='>'l"".^ ^age, and many more,) 
 , J*r^^'','^J?'^'^'''^'<=^ ^"th their h-iic lore ■ 
 And Delphi now, however rich of old ' 
 Pisco\-ers little silver, and less gold, ' 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 log 
 
 Because Parnassus, though a mount 
 
 ; divine, 
 
 Is poor as Irus, cr an Irish mine. 
 
 Two objects always should the poet move. 
 Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
 Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
 jor our remembrance your didactic line ; 
 iledundance places memory on the rack, 
 For brains may be o'erloaded, like the 
 back. 
 
 Fiction does best when taught to look i 
 like truth. 
 And fairy fables bubble none but youth ; 
 Expect no credit for too wondrous tales, 
 Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 
 
 '■ Young men with aught but elegance dis- 
 pense ; 
 
 Maturer years require a little sense. 
 
 To end at once : — that bard for all is fit 
 
 Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 
 
 For him reviews shall smile, for him o'er- 
 flow 
 
 The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
 
 His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall 
 pass ; 
 
 (Who ne'er despises books that bring him 
 brass) ; 
 
 Through three long weeks the taste of 
 London lead, 
 
 And cross St. George's Channel and the 
 Tweed. 
 
 But every thing has faults, nor is't un- 
 known 
 That harps and fiddles often lose their tone. 
 And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 
 With all his best endeavours, only squall ; 
 Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the 
 
 spark, 
 And double-barrels (damn thc-m !) miss their 
 mark. 
 
 Where frequent beauties strike the 
 reader's view, 
 We must not quari->l lot a blot cr two; 
 But pardon equally to books or men. 
 The slips of human nature, and the pen. 
 
 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
 Despises all advice too much to mend, 
 But ever twangs the same discordant 
 
 string, 
 Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
 Let Havard's '» fate o'ertake him, who, 
 
 for once. 
 Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
 At first none deem'd it his ; but when his 
 
 name 
 Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost 
 
 its fame. 
 Though all deplore when Milton deigns to 
 
 doze. 
 In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 
 
 As pictures, so shall poems be ; ^lome 
 
 stand 
 The critic eye, and please when near at 
 
 hand ; 
 But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
 This seeks the shade, but that demands 
 
 the light. 
 Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious 
 
 view, 
 But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new. 
 
 Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance, 
 
 or choice, 
 Hath led to hsten to the Muse's voice, 
 Receive this couilsel, and be timely wise ; 
 Few reach the summit which before you 
 
 Ues. 
 Our church and state, our courts and 
 
 camps, concede 
 Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
 In these plain common sense will travel 
 
 far; 
 All are not Erskines who mislead the 
 
 bar : 
 But poesy between the best and worst 
 No medium knows ; you must be last or 
 
 first ; 
 For middling poets' miserable volumes 
 Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and 
 
 columns. 
 
 Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound 
 
 inspires, 
 How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
 F'ires, such as gentle Caledonians feel 
 When Southrons writhe upon their critic 
 
 wheel. 
 Or mild Eclectics, when some, worse than 
 
 Turks, 
 Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good 
 
 works." 
 Such are the genial feelings thou canst 
 
 claim — 
 My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
 Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase ! 
 For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
 Arise, my JeSrey ! or my inkless pen 
 Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
 Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
 " Alas ! I cannot strike at wretched kernes." 
 Inhuman Sa.xon ! wilt thou then resign 
 A muse and heart by choice so wholly 
 
 thine ? 
 Dear d — d contemner of my schoolboy 
 
 songs, 
 Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood s 
 
 wTongs? 
 If unprovoked thou once could bid mo 
 
 bleed, ' j ■ j j 3 
 
 Hast thou no weapon for my darmg deea . 
 What ! not a word ! — and am I then so 
 
 Wilt thou fortear, who never spared >. 
 foe? 
 
no 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it 
 vent ? 
 
 No wit for nobles, dunces by descent ? 
 
 No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name. 
 
 Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 
 
 Is it for this on llion I have stood, 
 
 And thought of Homer less than Holyrood ? 
 
 On shore of Euxine or ^-Egean sea, 
 
 My hate, untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 
 
 Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom 
 burns, 
 
 From Corydon unkind Alexis turns : 
 
 Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then 
 forego, 
 
 Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 
 
 What then ? — Edina starves some lanker 
 son, 
 
 To write an article thou canst not shun ; 
 
 Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be 
 found. 
 
 As bold in Billingsgate, though less re- 
 nown' d. 
 
 As if at table some discordant dish 
 Should shock our optics, such as frogs for 
 
 fish; 
 As oil in lieu of butter men decry. 
 And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
 If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
 We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
 Mere roast andboil'd no epicure invites ; 
 Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 
 
 Who shoot not flying rarely touch a 
 gun: 
 Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
 And men unpractised in exchanging 
 knocks j 
 
 Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. ' 
 Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
 None reach expertness without years of 
 
 toil ; 
 But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, 
 Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they 
 
 please. 
 Why not ?— shall I, thus qualified to sit ' 
 For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
 Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum 
 sate, I 
 
 And lived in freed»m on a fair estate ■ 
 Who left me heir, with stables, kennels 
 packs, ' 
 
 To all their income, and to — tii;ice its tax ■ 
 Whose form and pedigree haxe scarce a 
 
 fault. 
 Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt ? 
 
 Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ; " 
 
 but you. 
 Besides all this, must have some genius 
 
 too. 
 Be this your sober judgment, and a rule 
 And prmt not piping hot from Southev's 
 
 school, 
 
 Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
 
 I trust, will spare us for at least nine years, 
 
 Andhark'ye, Southey ! pray — but don't be 
 vex'd — 
 
 Burn all your last three works — and half 
 the next. 
 
 But why this vain ad\-ice ? once published, 
 books 
 
 Can never be recall' d — from pastry-cooks ! 
 
 Though " Madoc," with " Pucelle," in- 
 stead of punk, 
 
 May travel back to Quito — on a trunk 1 
 
 Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lem- 
 priere. 
 
 Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
 
 And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
 
 We'd seen the hons waltzing in the Tower ; 
 
 And old Amphion, such were minstrels 
 then. 
 
 Had built St. Paul's without the aid of 
 Wren. 
 
 Verse too was justice, and the bards of 
 Greece 
 
 Did more than constables to keep the 
 peace ; 
 
 Abohsh'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
 
 CalI'd county meetings, and enforced the - 
 laws. 
 
 Cut down crown influence with reforming 
 scythes. 
 
 And served the church — without demand- 
 ing tithes ; 
 
 And hence, throughout all Hellas and the 
 I East, 
 
 I Each poet was a prophet and a priest. 
 
 Whose old-establish'd board of joint con- 
 trols 
 
 Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 
 
 Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's 
 prince. 
 And fighting's been in fashion ever since ; 
 And old Tyrtfflus, when the Spartan's 
 
 warr'd, 
 (A limping leader, but a loftv bard) 
 Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long. 
 Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 
 
 When oracles prevail' d, in times of old 
 In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
 Then if your verse is what aU verse should 
 
 be. 
 And gods were not ashamed on't why 
 
 should we ? 
 
 The :\Iuse, like mortal females, may be 
 
 woo'd ; 
 In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude • 
 Fierce as a bride when first she feels aff- 
 
 tnght, 
 
 wn^^^ '?,f ''™/ "?°" ">« '«™nd night ; 
 Wild as the wife of alderman or pe^ 
 Now for h.s grace, and now . grenadier ! 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 Her eyes beseeaa, her heart belies, her zone, 
 Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 
 
 If verse be studied with some shov/ of 
 art, ' 
 
 Kind Nature always will perform her part ; 
 Thomgli -without genius, and a native vein 
 Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain, 
 Y«t.art and nature join'd wiU win the prize, 
 'Unless they act like us and our allies. 
 
 The youth who trains to ride, or run a 
 
 tEice, 
 Must bear privations with unruffled face, 
 Be call'd to labour when he thinks to dine, 
 And, harder still, leave wenching and his 
 
 ■wine. 
 Ladies who singj at least who sing at sight, 
 ■Have foUow'd music through her farthest 
 
 flight ; 
 But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
 " I've gat a pretty poem for the press ; " 
 And that's enough ; then write and print 
 
 so fast ;^- 
 Jf Satan take the hindmost, who'd be .last ? 
 They storm the types, they publish, one and 
 
 all. 
 They leap the co.unter, and they leave the 
 
 Provincial maidens, men of high command, 
 Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! 
 Casih cannot qudi them ; Pollio play'd 
 
 this prank, 
 (Then Phcebus first found credit in a bank !) 
 Not all the living only, but the dead. 
 Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head ; 
 Damn'd aU their days, they posthumously 
 
 thrive. 
 Dug up from dust, though buried when 
 
 aUve ! 
 Reviews record this epidemic crime, 
 Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for 
 
 rhyme. 
 Alas ! woe worth the scribbler ! often seen 
 In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. 
 There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot 
 
 press' d. 
 Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
 Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious 
 
 chords 
 To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords. 
 Or country Crispins, now grown some\\hat 
 
 stale. 
 Twin Doric tninstrejs, drunk with Doric ale ! 
 Hark fo those notes, narcotically soft ! 
 The cobbler-laureats " sing to Capel Lofft ! 
 Tin, Jo ! that modem Midas, as he hears. 
 Adds an ell .growth to his egregious ears ! 
 
 There lives one druid, who prepares in 
 lime 
 'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of 
 rhyme ; 
 
 Racks his dull memory, and his duller 
 
 muse, 
 To pubHsk faults which friendship should 
 
 excuse. 
 If friendship's nothing, self-regard might 
 
 teach 
 More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
 But what is shame, or what is aught to 
 
 him? 
 He vents his spleen, or gratifies his ivhim. 
 Some fancied slight has roused his lurking 
 
 hate, " 
 
 Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some 
 
 debate ; 
 Up to his den 'Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
 The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
 Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared 
 
 to frown, 
 Perhaps your poem may havr pleased the 
 
 town : 
 If so, alas ! 'tis nature in the man — 
 May Heaven forgive you, for he never 
 
 can ! 
 Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 
 Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in 
 
 praise ! 
 While his lost songs no more shall steep 
 
 and stink, 
 The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
 But springing upwards from the sluggisli 
 
 mould, 
 Be (what they never were before) be — sold ! 
 Should some rich bard (but such a monster 
 
 now. 
 In modern physics, we can scarce allow). 
 Should some pretending scribbler of the 
 
 court. 
 Some rhyming peer^ — there's plenty of the 
 
 sort — 
 All but one poor dependent priest with- 
 drawn, 
 (Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !) 
 Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
 Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
 How would the preacher turn each rueful 
 
 leaf. 
 Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief ! 
 Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's 
 
 death. 
 He'll risk no Uving for a little breath. 
 Then spouts and loams, and cries at e\ ery 
 
 line, 
 (The Lord forgive him !) " Bravo ! grand ! 
 
 divine ! " 
 Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry 
 
 fed. 
 Dependence barters for her bitter bread). 
 He strides and stamps along with creakmg 
 
 boot ; 
 Till the floor echoes its emphatic foot, 
 Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 
 I As when the dying vicar will not die ! 
 1 Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 
 I But all dissemblers overact their part. 
 
112 
 
 THE CURSE OF MINER\'A 
 
 Ye, v/hi;i aspire to " build the lofty 
 rhyme," 
 Believe not all who laud your false " sub- 
 lime ; " 
 But if some friend shall hear your work, 
 
 and say, 
 " Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
 And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
 Without amendment, and he answers, 
 
 " Burn ! " 
 That instant throw your paper in the fire. 
 Ask not histh ughts, or follow his desire ; 
 But (if true bard !) you scorn to conde- 
 scend, 
 And will not alter ivhat you can't defend. 
 If you will breed this bastard of your 
 
 brains. 
 We'll have no words — I've only lost my 
 pains. 
 
 Yet, if y :>u only prize your favourite 
 
 thought. 
 As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
 Ifyour cool friend annoy you now and then, 
 And cross whole pages with his plagu}' pen ; 
 No matter, throw your orraments aside, — 
 Better let him than all the world deride. 
 Give light to passages too much in shade. 
 Nor let a doubt obscure one \-erse you'\-e 
 
 made ; 
 Y'our friend's a " Johnson," not to leave 
 
 one word. 
 However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
 Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, 
 And furnish food for critics, or their quiUs. 
 
 As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching 
 
 tune. 
 Or the sad influence of the angr},' moon. 
 All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
 As yawning waiters fly Fitzscribble's lungs- 
 Yet on he mouths — "ten minutes — tedious 
 
 each 
 As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech ; 
 Long as the last years of a lingering lease. 
 When riot pauses until rents increase, 
 
 While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, 
 
 strays 
 O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented 
 
 ways. 
 If by some chance he walks into a well, 
 And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 
 " A rope ! help, Christians, as ye hope for 
 
 grace ! " 
 Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace ; 
 For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
 From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
 Though this has happen'd to more bards 
 
 than one ; 
 I'll tell you BudgeU's story, — and have 
 
 done. 
 
 BudgeU, a rogue and rhymester, for no 
 
 good, 
 (Unless his case be much misimderstood) 
 When teased with creditorsl continual 
 
 claims, 
 " To die like Cato," leapt into the Thames ! 
 .\nd therefore be it lawful through the town 
 For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
 ^Vho saves the intended suicide receives 
 Small thanks from him who loathes the life 
 
 he leaves ; 
 .And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
 The glory of that death they freely choose. 
 
 Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
 Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse; 
 Dosed with vile drams on Stmday he 
 
 was found. 
 Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 
 .A.nd hence is haunted with a rhyming 
 
 rag" — ' [cage. 
 
 Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his 
 If free, all fly his versifying fit. 
 Fatal at once to simpleton or wit : 
 But 'itm. unhappy ! whom he seizes, — hiiu 
 He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
 Probes to the quick where'er he makes his 
 
 breach. 
 And gorges like a la%yyer — or a leech. 
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA 
 
 — " PaUas te hoc vulnere, PaUas 
 Immolat, et posnam scelerato ex sanguine sumit." 
 
 Snad. lib. xii. 
 
 Athens : Capuchin Convent, 
 
 March X7, iSii. 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run 
 Along Morea's hUls 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, 
 (iilds the green wave that trembles a-, it 
 
 glows ; 
 
 On old .Egina's rock and Hydra'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 
 Descendmg fast, the moimtain-shadows 
 
 kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ' 
 Iheir azure arches through the long ex- 
 
 panse, "^ 
 
THE CURSE OF MINERVA 
 
 113 
 
 More deeply purpled, meet his mellov/ing 
 
 glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits 
 
 driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of 
 
 heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the laud and deep. 
 Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
 When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his 
 
 last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell 
 
 ray. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's latest 
 
 day ! 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonising eyes. 
 And dark the mountain's once dehghtful 
 
 dyes ; 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to 
 
 pour. 
 The land where Phoebus never frown d 
 
 before ; 
 But ere he sunk below Citheron's head. 
 The cup of woe was quaff'd — -the spirit 
 
 fled; 
 The soul- of him that scorn'd to fear or fly. 
 Who Uved and died as none can Uve or die. 
 
 But, lo ! from high Hj'mettus to the 
 
 plain 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; 
 No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 
 Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing 
 
 form. 
 With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams 
 
 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 ohve scatter'd dark and wide. 
 Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred 
 
 mosque. 
 The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk. 
 And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm. 
 Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
 All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless 
 
 by. 
 
 Again the ^gean, heard no more afar. 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental 
 
 war : . i 1 j 
 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold 
 Mix'd with ths shades of many .a distant 
 
 isle , , • * 
 
 That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to 
 smile. 
 
 As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
 I mark'd the beauties of the land and main. 
 Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore. 
 Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore , 
 Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan. 
 Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
 The past return'd, the present seem'd to 
 
 cease, 
 And Glory knew no clime beyond her 
 
 Greece ! 
 
 Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on 
 
 high 
 Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
 .-\nd yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
 O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd 
 
 god: 
 But chiefly, Pallas ! thine, when Hecate's 
 
 glare, 
 Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly 
 
 fair 
 O'er the chill marble, where the startHng 
 
 tread 
 Thrills the lone heart hke echoes from the 
 
 dead. 
 Long had I mused, and treasured every 
 
 trace 
 The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
 When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
 .A.nd Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 
 
 Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! 
 
 how changed. 
 Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she 
 
 ranged ! 
 Not such as erst, bv her divine command, 
 Her form appear' d from Phidias' plastic 
 
 hand : 
 Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
 Her idle a?gis bore no Gorgon now ; 
 tier helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
 Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal 
 
 glance ; 
 The olive branch, which still she deign d 
 
 to clasp. 
 Shrunk from her touch, and wither d m her 
 
 grasp ; 
 .\nd ah ! though still the brightest 0* the 
 
 sky, 
 Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
 Round the rent casque her owlet circled 
 
 slow, . , ■ , , 
 
 And mourn'd his nustress with a shriek o( 
 
 woe ! 
 " Mortal ! "—'twas thus she spake — 
 
 " that blush of shame 
 Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name : 
 First of the mighty, foremost of the free. 
 Now honour'd less by all, and least by me : 
 Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found 
 Seek'st thou the cause of loathing ?— look 
 
 around. , 
 
 Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting tire, 
 I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
 
114 
 
 THE CURSE OF iVIINERVA 
 
 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and 
 
 Goth, 
 Thy country sends a spoiler worse than 
 
 both. 
 Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
 Recount the reHcs torn that yot remain : 
 These Cecrops placed, this Pericles 
 
 adorn'd, 
 That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science 
 
 mourn'd. 
 What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
 Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
 That all may learn from whence the 
 
 plunderer came. 
 The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 
 For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads. 
 Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 
 Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 
 The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peeif : 
 Arms gave the first his right, the last had 
 
 none, 
 But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
 So when the lion quits his fell repast, 
 Xe.xt prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal 
 
 last: 
 Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make 
 
 their O'.vn, 
 The last .poor brute securely gnaws the 
 
 bone. 
 YH still the gods are just, and crimes are 
 
 cross'd : 
 See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
 Another name with his pollutes my shrine : 
 Behold where Dian's beams disdain to 
 
 shine ! 
 Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
 When Venus half avenged Jlinerva's 
 shame." 
 
 She ceased awhile, and thus I dared 
 reply. 
 
 To soothe the vengeance kindling in her 
 eye ; 
 
 " Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured 
 name, 
 
 .\ true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
 
 Frown not on England ; England owns 
 him not : 
 
 .Vthena, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 
 
 Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair 
 Phyles* towers 
 
 Survey Boeotia ; — Caledonia's ours. 
 
 And well I know within that bastard land 
 
 Hath Wisdom's goddess never held com- 
 mand ; 
 
 A barren soil, where Nature's germs, con- 
 fined 
 
 To stern sterility, can st,int the mind ; 
 
 Whose thistle well betra\-s the niggard 
 earth. 
 
 Emblem of all to whom the land ?ives 
 birth ; 
 
 Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
 
 A land of meanness, sophistry, and mil' 
 
 Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy 
 
 ' plain 
 Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain. 
 Till, burst at length, each wat'ry head o'er- 
 
 flows. 
 Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
 Then thousand schemes of petulance and 
 
 pride 
 Despatch her scheming children far and 
 
 wide ; 
 Some east, some west, some every wiiere 
 
 but north. 
 In quest of lawless gain, they issue fortL. 
 And thus — accursed be the day and year . 
 She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
 Vet Caledonia claims some native worth. 
 As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
 So may her few, the letter'd and the brave. 
 Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave. 
 Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
 .\nd shine hke children of a happier strand ; 
 As once, of yore, in some obnoxious 
 
 place, 
 Ten names (if found) had saved a wTetched 
 
 race." 
 
 " Mortal ! " the blue-eved maid resumed. 
 
 '' once more 
 Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
 Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is 
 
 mine. 
 To turn my counsels far from lands like 
 
 thine. 
 Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
 Hear and believe, for time will tell the rest. 
 
 " First on the head of him who did this 
 
 deed 
 My curse shall light, — on him and all h;- 
 
 seed : 
 Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
 Be all the sons as senseless as the sire ; 
 If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
 Be'Heve him bastard of a brighter race : 
 Still with his hireling artists let him prate, 
 And Folly's praise repa\' for Wisdom's 
 
 hate ; 
 Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 
 Whose noblest, naiive gusto is — ^to sell : 
 To sell, and make — mav shame record the 
 
 day !— 
 The state receiver of his pilfer'd prev. 
 Meantime, the flattei'ing, feeble dotard. 
 
 West, 
 Europe's worst dauber^ and poor Britain's 
 
 best. 
 With palsied hand shall turn each model 
 
 o'er. 
 And own himself an infant of fourscore 
 Be all the bruisers cuU'd from all St 
 
 Giles , 
 That art and nature ma^• compare thejr 
 
 styles : 
 
THE CURSE OF MIKERVA 
 
 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder 
 
 stare, 
 And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shop ' 
 
 there. 
 Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering 
 
 coxcombs creep, 
 To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and 
 
 peep ; 
 While many a languid maid, with longing 
 
 sigh. 
 On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
 The room with transient glance appears to 
 
 skim, 
 Yet marks the mighty back and length of 
 
 limb ; 
 Mourns o'er the difference of now and then ; 
 Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were 
 
 proper men ! ' [those, 
 
 Draws slight comparisons of these with 
 And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
 When shall a modern maid have swains 
 
 like these ! 
 Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
 And last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 
 Soma calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
 In silent indignation mix'd with grief. 
 Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
 Oh, loath'd in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
 May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
 Link'd with the fool that fired the 
 
 Ephesian dome. 
 Shall vengeance follow far beyond the 
 
 tomb, 
 And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
 In many a branding page and barning line ; 
 Alike reserved for aye to stand accurs'd. 
 Perchance the second blacker than the first. 
 
 " So let him stand, through ages yet 
 unborn, 
 
 Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
 
 Though not for him alone revenge shall 
 wait. 
 
 But fits thy country for her coming fate ; 
 
 Hers were the deeds that taught her law- 
 less son 
 
 To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
 
 Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar. 
 
 Your old alley yet mourns perfidious war. 
 
 Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid. 
 
 Or break the compact which herself had 
 made ; 
 
 Far from such councils, from the faithless 
 field 
 
 She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield ; 
 
 A fatal gift that turn'd your friends to 
 stone, 
 
 And left lost Albion hated and alone. 
 
 " Look to the East, where Ganges' 
 swarthy race 
 Shall make your tyrant empire to its base ; 
 Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head. 
 And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
 
 ]^5 
 
 Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
 And claims his long arrear of northern 
 
 blood. 
 So may ye perish !— PaUas, when she gave 
 \ our free-born rights, forbade ve to en- 
 slave. 
 
 " Look on your Spain !— she clasps the 
 hand she hates. 
 
 But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from 
 her gates. 
 
 Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst 
 tell 
 
 Whose were the sons that bravelv fought 
 and fell. 
 
 But Lusitania, kind and dear ally. 
 
 Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
 
 Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won. 
 
 The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
 
 But when did Pallas teach, that one re- 
 treat 
 
 Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 
 
 " Look last at home — ye love not to 
 
 look there ; 
 On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
 Your city saddens : loud though Revel 
 
 howls. 
 Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine 
 
 prowls. 
 See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
 No misers tremble when there's nothing 
 
 left. 
 ' Blest paper credit ; ' who shall dare to 
 
 sing? 
 It clogs Uke lead Corruption's weary wing. 
 Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear. 
 Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
 But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. 
 On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ! too late ; 
 Then raves for * "' ; to that Mentor bends. 
 Though he and Pallas never yet' were 
 
 friends. 
 Him senates hear, whom never yet they 
 
 heard. 
 Contemptuous once, and now no less 
 
 absurd. 
 So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
 Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 
 
 ' log.' 
 Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician 
 
 clod, 
 As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 
 
 " Now fare ye well ! enjoy your Uttle 
 
 hour ; 
 Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd 
 
 power ; 
 Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest 
 
 scheme ; 
 Your strength a name, your bloated wealth 
 
 a dream. 
 Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
 And pirates barter all that's left behind. 
 
il6 
 
 THE WALTZ 
 
 No more the hirelings, purchased near and 
 
 far, 
 Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
 The idle merchant on the useless quay 
 Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear 
 
 away ; 
 Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
 Rot piecemeal on his own encumber' d 
 
 shores : 
 The starved mechanic breaks his rusting 
 
 loom, 
 And desperate mans him 'gainst the com- 
 ing doom. 
 Then in the senate of your sinking state 
 Show me the man whose counsels may 
 
 have weight. 
 Vain is each voice where tones could once 
 
 command ; 
 B'en factions cease to charm a factious 
 
 land: 
 Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
 And light with maddening hands the 
 
 mutual pile. 
 
 " *Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns 
 in vain ; 
 The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
 Wide o'er the realm they wave their kind- 
 ling brands. 
 And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
 But one convulsive struggle still remains. 
 And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her 
 
 chains. 
 The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering 
 
 files, 
 O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona 
 smiles ; 
 
 The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
 That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
 The hero bounding at his country's call, 
 ,'he glorious death that consecrates his fall, 
 jwell the young heart with visionary 
 
 charms. 
 And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
 3ut know, a lesson you may yet be taught. 
 With death alone are laurels cheapl) 
 
 bought : 
 Xot in the conflict Havoc seeks delight. 
 His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
 3nt when the field is fought, the battle won, 
 Though drench'd with gore, his woes arc 
 
 but begun : 
 His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
 The slaughter'd peasant and the ra\'ish'd 
 
 dame. 
 The rifled mansion and the foe-reap' d field, 
 111 suit with souls at home, untaught to 
 
 yield. 
 Say with what eye along the distant down 
 Would flying burghers mark the blazing 
 
 town ? 
 How view the column of ascending flames 
 Shake his red shadow o'er the startled 
 
 Thames ? 
 Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was 
 
 thine 
 That lit such pyres from Tagus to the 
 
 Rhine : 
 Now should they burst on thy devoted 
 
 coast, 
 Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
 The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
 And she who raised, in vain regrets, the 
 
 strife." 
 
 THE WALTZ 
 
 AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN 
 
 " Qualis in Eurotte ripis, aut per juga Cyuthi, 
 E.xercet Diana choros." — ^'irgil. 
 
 " Such on Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
 Diana seems : and so she charms the sight, 
 When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
 The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." 
 
 Dryden's Virgil. 
 
 Muse of the many-twinkling feet ! whose 
 charms 
 
 Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 
 
 Terpsichore! — toolong misdeem'd a maid — 
 
 Reproachful term — bestow'd but to up- 
 braid — 
 
 Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness 
 shine. 
 
 The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
 
 Far be from thea and thine the name of 
 prude : 
 
 Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, un- 
 subdued ; 
 
 Thy legs must move to conquer as they 
 fly, 
 
 If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 
 Thy breast — if bare enough-^requires no 
 
 shield ; 
 Dance forth — sans armottr thou shall take 
 
 the field. 
 And own— impregnable to most assaults, 
 Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 
 
 Hail, nimble nymph", to whom the 
 young hussar. 
 The whisker'd votary of waltz and war 
 
THE WALTZ 
 
 His night devotes, despite of spur and 
 
 boots ; 
 A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his 
 
 brutes : 
 Hail, spirit-stirring waltz ! — beneath whose 
 
 banners 
 A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
 On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's 
 
 fame, 
 Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man — but 
 
 gain'd his aim ; 
 Hail, moving muse ! to whom the fair one's 
 
 breast 
 Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
 Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
 The latter's loyalty, the former's wits. 
 To " energise the object I pursue," 
 And give both Belial and his dance their 
 
 due ! 
 
 Imperial Waltz ! imported from the 
 Rhine 
 (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and 
 
 wine), 
 Long be thine import from all duty free. 
 And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee ; 
 In some few qualities alike — for hock 
 Improves our cellar — tlioti our living stock. 
 The head to hock belongs — thy subtler 
 
 art 
 Intoxicates alone the heedless heart ; 
 Through the full veins thy gentler poison 
 
 swims. 
 And wakes to wantonness the wilUng limbs. 
 
 Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we 
 
 owe. 
 As heaven-born Pitt can testify below. 
 Ere cursed confederation made thee 
 
 France's, 
 And only left us thy d — d debts and 
 
 dances ! 
 Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 
 We bless thee still — for George the Third is 
 
 left! 
 Of kings the best — and last, not least in 
 
 worth. 
 For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
 To Germany, and highnesses serene. 
 Who owe us millions — don't we owe the 
 
 queen ? 
 To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
 So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
 Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood. 
 Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic 
 
 stud ; 
 Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
 A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and 
 
 Waltz. 
 
 But peace to her — her emperor and diet. 
 Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's 
 " fiat ! " 
 
 " 7 
 
 Back to my theme— O Muse of motion < 
 
 say. 
 How first to Albion found thy Waltz her 
 
 way? 
 
 Borne on the breath of hyperborean 
 
 gales, 
 From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet 
 
 had mails), 
 Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
 To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to 
 
 sleep ; 
 Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd 
 
 arise, 
 HeUgoIand ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
 While unburnt Moscow yet had news to 
 
 send. 
 Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, 
 She came — Waltz came — and with her 
 
 certain sets 
 Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
 Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest de- 
 spatch. 
 Which "Moniteur" nor " Morning Post " 
 
 can match ; 
 And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious 
 
 news — 
 Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
 One envoy's letters, six composers' airs. 
 And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic 
 
 fairs ; 
 Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
 Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind ; 
 Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, 
 
 to back it, 
 Of Heyne, such as should not sink the 
 
 packet. 
 
 Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest 
 
 freight. 
 Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate. 
 The welcome vessel reach'd the genial 
 
 strand. 
 And round her flock'd the daughters of 
 
 the land. 
 Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
 His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 
 Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho 
 
 thought 
 The knight's fandango friskier than it 
 
 ought : 
 Not soft Herodias, when, with winning 
 
 tread. 
 Her nimble feet danced off another's head ; 
 Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
 Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck. 
 Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the 
 
 moon 
 Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune! 
 
 To you, ye husbands of ten years ! 
 whose brows 
 Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
 
ii8 
 
 THE WALTZ 
 
 Shades of those belles whose reign began 
 - of yore, 
 With George the Third's — and ended long 
 
 before ! — 
 Though in your daughters' daughters vet 
 
 you thrive, 
 Burst from your lead, and be yourselves 
 alive ! 
 
 To you of nine years less, who only bear 
 The budding sprouts of those that 5'ou 
 
 shall wear. 
 With added ornaments around them roll'd 
 Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
 To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
 To mar a son's, or make a daughter's 
 
 match ; 
 To you, ve children of — whom chance 
 
 accords — 
 Always the ladies, and sometimes their 
 
 lords ; 
 To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 
 Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
 As Love or Hjnmen your endeavours 
 
 guide. 
 To gain your oivn, or snatch another's 
 
 bride ; — 
 To one and all the lovely stranger came, 
 And every ball-room echoes with her name. 
 
 Endearing Waltz ! — to thy more melting 
 
 tune 
 Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon. 
 Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance 
 
 forego 
 Your future claims to each fantastic toe ! 
 Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms 
 
 demands, 
 Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
 Hands which may freely range in public 
 
 sight 
 Where ne'er before — but — pray " put out 
 
 the light." 
 Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
 Shines much too far — or I am much too 
 
 near; 
 And true, though strange — Waltz whispers 
 
 this remark, 
 " Mv slipperv steps are safest in the dark ! " 
 But here the Muse mth due decorum halts, 
 And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 
 
 Observant travellers of every time ! 
 Ye quarto's publish'd upon every clime ! 
 O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round. 
 Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
 Can Egypt's Almas — tantalising group — 
 Columbia 's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
 Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape 
 
 Horn 
 
 With Waltz compare, or after ^^'altz be 
 
 borne ? [Gait's, 
 
 .\h, no ! from Morier's pages do^^'n to 
 
 Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 
 
 Back to the ball-room speed 3'our spectred 
 
 host. 
 Fool's Taradise is dull to that you lost. 
 No treacherous powder bids conjecture 
 
 quake ; 
 No stiff starched stays make meddling 
 
 fingers ache ; 
 (Transferr'd to those ambiguous things 
 
 that ape 
 Goats in their visage, women in their shape ;) 
 No damsel faints when rather closely 
 
 press'd. 
 But more caressing seems when most 
 
 caress'd ; 
 Superfluous hartshorn, and revi\ing salts. 
 Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial 
 
 " Waltz." 
 
 -though on thy native 
 
 Seductive Waltz !- 
 shore 
 Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a 
 
 whore ; 
 Werter — to decent vice though much in- 
 clined, 
 Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not 
 
 blind- 
 Though gentle Genlis, in her strife mth 
 
 Stael, 
 Would even proscribe thee from a Paris 
 
 ball; 
 The fashion hails — from countesses to 
 
 queens. 
 And maids and valets waltz behind the 
 
 scenes ; 
 Wide and more wide thy witching circle 
 
 spreads, [heads ; 
 
 .A.nd turns — if nothing else — at least our 
 WiVa thee even clumsy cits attempt to 
 
 bounce. 
 And cockney's practise what thev can't 
 
 pronounce. 
 Gods ! how the glorious theme mv strain 
 
 exalts, 
 And rhyme finds partner rhjTne in praise of ^ 
 
 "Waltz!" 
 
 the Regent, like herself were 
 
 Blest was the time Waltz chose for her 
 
 dibut ; 
 The court, 
 
 new . 
 New face for friends, for foes some new 
 
 rewards ; 
 New ornaments for black and royal guards • 
 New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd 
 
 for bread ; 
 New coins (most new) to follow those that 
 
 fled ; 
 New victories— nor can we prize them less, 
 though Jenky wonders at his own success • 
 New wars, because the old succeed so well! 
 1 hat most sur\ivors envv those who fell • 
 New mistresses— no, old— and vet 'tis true' 
 Though they be old. the thing is something 
 
THE WALTZ 
 
 lig 
 
 Each new, quite new — (except some ancient 
 
 tridcs), 
 New white-sticlcs, gold-sticlcs, broora- 
 
 sticlcs, all new sticlcs ! 
 With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, 
 New troopers strut, new turncoats blush 
 
 in blue : 
 
 So saith the muse : my , what say you ? 
 
 Such was the time when Waltz might best 
 
 maintain 
 Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
 Such was the time, nor ever yet was 
 
 such ; 
 Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 
 Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 
 And tell-tale powder — all have had their 
 
 days. 
 The ball begins — the honours of the house 
 First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 
 Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
 With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's 
 
 mien. 
 Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising 
 
 flush 
 Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
 From where the garb just leaves the bosom 
 
 free, 
 That spot where hearts were once supposed 
 
 to be ; 
 Round all the confiues of the yielded waist, 
 The strangest hand may wander un- 
 displaced ; 
 The lady's in return may grasp as much 
 As princely paunches offer to her touch. 
 Pleased round the chalky floor how well 
 
 they trip. 
 One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 
 The other to the shoulder no less royal 
 Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 
 Thus front to front the partners move or 
 
 stand, 
 The foot may rest, but none withdraw the 
 
 hand ; 
 And all in turn may follow in their 
 
 rank. 
 The Earl of — Asterisk — and Lady — Blank; 
 Sir — Such-a-one — ^with those of fashion's 
 
 host. 
 For whose blest surnames — vide ' ' Morning 
 
 Post." 
 (Or if for that impartial print too late. 
 Search Doctors' Commons six months 
 
 from my date) — 
 Thus all and each, in movement swift or 
 
 slow. 
 The genial contact gently undergo ; 
 Till some might marvel, with the modest 
 
 Turk, 
 If ' ' nothing follows all this palming work ? " 
 True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my 
 
 rhyme — 
 Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
 The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 
 In private may resist him — if it can. 
 
 O ye who loved our grandmothers of y.irc, 
 Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
 And thou, my prince ! whose sovereign 
 
 taste and will 
 It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
 Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging 
 
 sprite 
 Satan may spare to peep a single night. 
 Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
 Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
 To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
 Flush in the cheek, and languish in the 
 
 eyes ; 
 Rush to the heart, and lighten through the 
 
 frame, 
 With half-told wish, and ill-dissembled 
 
 flame, 
 For prurient nature still will storm the 
 
 breast — 
 Wlw, tempted thus, can answer for the 
 
 rest ? 
 
 But ye — ^who never felt a single thought 
 
 For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
 
 Who wisely wish the charms you view to 
 reap, 
 
 Say — would you make those beauties quite 
 so cheap ? 
 
 Hot from the hands promiscuously appUed, 
 
 Round the slight waist, or down the glow- 
 ing side. 
 
 Where were the rapture then to clasp the 
 form 
 
 From this lewd grasp and lawless contact 
 warm ? 
 
 At once love's most endearing thought re- 
 sign. 
 
 To press the hand so press'd by none but 
 thine ; 
 
 To gaze upon that eye which never met 
 
 Another's ardent look without regret ; 
 
 Approach the lip which all, without re- 
 straint. 
 
 Come near enough — if not to touch — to 
 taint ; 
 
 If such thou lovest — love her then no 
 more. 
 
 Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
 
 Her mind with these is gone and with it go 
 
 The little left behind it to bestow. 
 
 Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus 
 blaspheme ? 
 Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
 Terpsichore forgive ! — at every ball 
 My mfe now waltzes — ^and my daughters 
 
 shall ; 
 My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
 '' These little accidents should ne'er trans- 
 pire ; 
 Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
 Will wear as green aboughifor him as me) — 
 Waltzing shall rear, to make our name 
 
 amends, . , 
 
 Grandsons for mc— in heirs to all his friends. 
 
120 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 
 
 'Tis done — but yesterday a King ! 
 
 And arm'd with Kings to stri\'e — 
 And now tliou art a nameless thing : 
 
 So abject — yet alive ! 
 Js this the man of thousand thrones. 
 Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 
 
 And can he thus survive ? 
 Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 j Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
 j An equal deed hast done at length, 
 I And darker fate hast found. 
 He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
 : But thou must eat thy heart away ! 
 
 Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 
 
 Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
 By gazing on thyself groi\'n blind. 
 
 Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
 With might unquestion'd, — power to saA'e- 
 Thine only gift hath been the grave. 
 
 To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
 Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
 Ambition's less than littleness ! 
 
 in 
 Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 
 
 To after-warriors more. 
 Than high Philosophy can preach. 
 
 And \'ainly preach'd before. 
 That spell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again. 
 
 That led them to adore 
 Those Pagod things of sabre sway. 
 With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
 
 IV 
 
 The triumph, and the vanity. 
 
 The rapture of the strife— 
 The earthquake voice of Victory, 
 
 To thee the breath of life ; 
 The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
 Which m.an seem'd made but to obey. 
 
 Wherewith renown was rife — 
 All quell'd !— Dark Spirit ! what must be 
 The madness of thy memory ! 
 
 V 
 
 The Desolator desolate ! 
 
 The Victor overthrown ! 
 The Arbiter of others' fate 
 
 A Suppliant for his nivn ! 
 Is it some yet imperial hope 
 That mth such change can calmlv cope ' 
 
 Or dread of death alone ? 
 
 To die a prince — or live a slave 
 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 
 
 VI 
 
 He who of old would rend the oak, 
 Drcam'd not of the rebound ; 
 
 Chain'd by the trunk he \ainly' broke- 
 Alone — how look'd he round ? 
 
 The Roman, when his burning heart 
 
 Was slaked with blood of Rome. 
 Threw do^vn the dagger — dared depart. 
 
 In savage grandeur, home. — 
 He dared depart in utter scorn 
 Of men that such a yoke had borne, 
 
 Vet left him such a doom ! 
 His only glory was that hour 
 Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 
 
 VI II 
 
 The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 
 Had lost its quickening spell. 
 
 Cast crowns for rosaries away. 
 An empire for a cell ; 
 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 
 A subtle disputant on creeds. 
 His dotage trifled well ; 
 
 Vet better had he neither knoira 
 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 IX 
 
 But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is -nTung — 
 Too late thou leav'st the high command 
 
 To which thy weakness clung • 
 All Evil Spirit as thou art, ' 
 
 It is enough to grieve the heart 
 
 To see thine omti unstrung ; 
 To think that God's fair worid hath been 
 J. he footstool of a thing so mean ; 
 
 X 
 
 '^d Earth hath spilt her blood for him 
 
 Who thus can hoard his own ' 
 And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb 
 
 And thank'd him for a throne ' 
 Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear 
 \\ hen thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
 
 In humblest guise have shown 
 Oh ! ne'er may tvrant leave behind 
 A brighter name to lure mankind ! 
 
 XI 
 
 Thine evil deeds are WTit in gore 
 
 Nor written thus in vain 
 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more 
 
 Or deepen every stain ; 
 If thou hadst died as honour dies 
 Some new Napoleon might arise ' 
 
 To shame the world again ' 
 
 But who would soar the solar height 
 I o set m such a starless night ' 
 
HEBU.FW MELODIES 
 
 Weigh'd in the balance, hero dubt 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
 Thy scales, iiortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away ; 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate, 
 
 To dazzle and dismay ; 
 Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make 
 mirth 
 ' Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 
 
 XIII 
 
 And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 
 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 How bears her breast the torturing hour ? 
 
 Still clings she to thy side ? 
 Must she too bend, must she too share 
 Thy late repentance, long despair. 
 
 Thou throneless Homicide ? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, — 
 'Tis worth thy vanished diadem ! 
 
 .XIV 
 
 Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
 
 And'gaze upon the sea ; 
 That element may meet thy smile — 
 
 It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
 Or trace with thine all idle hand 
 In loitering mood upon the sand 
 
 That Earth is now as free ! 
 That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
 Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 
 
 XV 
 
 Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage 
 
 What thoughts will there be thine, 
 While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
 But one — " The world was mine ! " 
 Unless, like he of Babylon, 
 All sense is with thy sceptre gone. 
 
 Life will not long confine 
 That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
 So long obsy'd — so little worth ! 
 
 Or, like the thief of tire from heaven, 
 
 Vi'ilt thou withstand the shock ? 
 And share with him, the unforgiven, 
 ^ His vulture and his rock ! 
 Foredoorn'd by God — by man accurst. 
 And that last act, though not thy worst. 
 
 The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
 He in his fall preserved his pride, 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died i 
 
 There was a day — there wa^ an hour, 
 
 While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine- 
 When that immeasurable power 
 
 Unsated to resign 
 Had been an act of purer fame 
 Than gathers round Marengo's name 
 
 And gilded thy decline. 
 Through the long twilight of all time. 
 Despite some passing cl 'uds of crim'^ 
 
 XVI 1 1 
 
 But thou forsooth must be a Idng, 
 
 And don the pm-ple vest, 
 .As if that foolish robe could wring 
 
 Remembrance from thy breast. 
 Where is that faded garment ? where 
 The gewgaws thou wert fond to n-ear, 
 
 1 he star, the string, the crest ? 
 Vain ftcward child of empire ! say, 
 -Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose 
 
 When gazing on the Great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows, 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 ^'es — one — the first — the last — the best- 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one ! 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her ey.-s : 
 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress. 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet e.Kpress, 
 How pure, how dear tfieir dwelling-place. 
 R p.w. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent. 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent ! 
 
 THE HARP THE MONARCH 
 MINSTREL SWEPT 
 I 
 The harp the monarch minstrel swept. 
 
 The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
 Which Music hallow'd while she wept 
 O'er tones her heart of hearts had given. 
 Redoubled be her tears, its chords art 
 riven ! 
 
122 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES 
 
 It soften'd men of iron mould, 
 
 It gave them virtues hot tiieir own ; 
 
 No ear so dull, no soul so cold. 
 That felt not, fired not to the tone. 
 Till David's lyre grew mightier than his 
 throne ! 
 
 It told the triumphs of our King, 
 
 It wafted glory to our God ; 
 It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 
 
 The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 
 
 Its sound aspired to heaven and there 
 abode ! 
 Since then, though heard on earth no more, 
 
 Dev^-tion and her da ighter Love 
 Still bid the bursting spirit soar 
 
 To sounds that seem as from abovfe, 
 
 In dreams that day's broad light can not 
 remove. 
 
 IF THAT HIGH WORLD 
 
 I 
 If that high world, which lies beyond 
 
 Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
 If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 
 
 The eye the same, except in tears — 
 How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 
 
 How sweet this very hour to die ! 
 To soar from earth and find all fears 
 
 Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 
 
 II 
 
 It must be so ; 'tis not for self 
 
 That we so tremble on the brink ; 
 And striving to o'erleap the gulf. 
 
 Yet cUng to Being's severing link. 
 Oh ! in that future let us think 
 
 To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
 With them the immortal waters drink, 
 
 And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 
 
 THE WILD GAZELLE 
 I 
 The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 
 
 Exulting yet may bound. 
 And drink from all the living rills 
 
 That gush on holy grQund ; 
 Its airy step and glorious eye 
 May glance in tameless transport by ; — 
 
 II 
 A step aa fleet, an eye more bright. 
 
 Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
 And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
 
 Inhabitants more fair. 
 The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
 But Judah's statelier maids are gone ! 
 
 More blest each palm that shades those 
 plains 
 Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
 
 For, taking root, it there remains 
 
 In solitary grace : 
 It cannot quit its place of birth. 
 It will not live in other earth. 
 
 tv 
 But we must wander witheringly. 
 
 In other lands to die ; 
 And where our fathers ashes be, 
 
 Our own may never lie : 
 Our temple hath not left a stone. 
 And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 
 
 OH ! WEEP FOR THOSE 
 
 I 
 
 On ! weep for those that wept by Babel's 
 
 stream. 
 Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a 
 
 dream ; 
 Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
 Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the 
 
 godless dwell ! 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding 
 
 feet ? 
 And when shall Zion's songs again seem 
 
 sweet ? 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly 
 
 voice ? 
 
 Tribes of the wandering foot and weary 
 
 breast. 
 How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
 The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his 
 
 cave, 
 Mankind their country — Israel but the 
 
 grave ! 
 
 ON JORDAN'S BANKS 
 
 I 
 
 On Jordan's banks t he Arab's camels stray. 
 
 On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 
 
 The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep ' 
 
 Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy 
 thunders sleep : 
 
 There — where thv finger scorch'd the 
 
 tablet stone ! 
 There — where thy shadow to thy people 
 
 shone ' 
 
 Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire • 
 1 hyself— none living see and not expire ! 
 
 Ill 
 Oh ! in the lightning let thv glance appear • 
 Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppres- 
 sor's spear ! 
 How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ' 
 How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ? 
 
HEBREW MELODIES 
 
 123 
 
 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER 
 I 
 Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire ! 
 Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
 Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- 
 Strilie thebosom that's bared for thee now! 
 
 II 
 And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 And the mountains behold me no more : 
 If the hand that I love lay me low, 
 There cannot be pain in the blow ! 
 
 in 
 And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure — 
 That the blood of thy child is as pure 
 As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
 And the last thought that soothes me 
 below. 
 
 IV 
 
 Though the virgins of Salem lament. 
 Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
 I have won the great battle for thee. 
 And my Father and Coimtry are free ! 
 
 V 
 
 When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd. 
 When the voice that thou lovest is husli'd. 
 Let my memory still be thy pride. 
 And forget not I smiled as I died ! 
 
 OH ! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
 BLOOM 
 I 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 II 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
 
 And lingering pause and lightly thread ; 
 
 Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the 
 dead ! 
 
 in 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 
 Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
 And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 MY SOUL IS DARK 
 I 
 My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 
 
 The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
 And let thy gentle fingers fling 
 
 Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
 If in this heart a hope be dear, 
 "■ That sound shall charm it forth again : 
 If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
 
 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 
 
 But bid the strain be wild and deep. 
 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first r 
 I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
 
 Or else this heayy heart will burst ; 
 For it hath been by sorrow nursed. 
 
 And ach'd in sleepless silence long ; 
 And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, 
 
 And break at once — or yield to song. 
 
 I SAW THEE WEEP 
 
 I 
 
 I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 
 
 Came o'er that ej'e of blue ; 
 .-\nd then methought it did appear 
 
 A violet dropping dew : 
 I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blazf 
 
 Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
 It could not match the living rays 
 
 That fill'd that glance of thine. 
 
 II 
 As clouds from yonder sun receive 
 
 A deep and mellow dye. 
 Which scarce the shade of cpming eve 
 
 Can banish from the sky. 
 Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 
 
 Their own pure joy impart ; 
 Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
 
 That lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 THY DAYS ARE DONE 
 I 
 Thv days are done, thy fame begun ; 
 
 Thy country's strains record 
 The triumphs of her chosen Son, 
 
 The slaughters of his sword ! 
 The deeds he did, the fields he won. 
 
 The freedom he restored ! 
 II 
 Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
 
 Thou Shalt not taste of death ! 
 The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
 
 Disdain'd to sink beneath : 
 Within our veins its currents be. 
 
 Thy spirit on our breath ! 
 Ill 
 Thy name, our charging hosts along, 
 
 Shall be the battle-word ! 
 Thy fall, the theme of choral song 
 
 From virgin voices pour'd ! 
 To weep would do thy glory wrong : 
 
 Thou shalt not be deplored. 
 
 SAUL 
 I 
 Thou whose spell can raise the dead. 
 
 Bid the prophet's form appear. 
 " Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
 King, behold the phantom seer ! " 
 Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a 
 
 cloud : 
 Light changed its hue, retiring from his 
 shroud. 
 
124 
 
 HEBREW Aj'ELODIES 
 
 Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
 His hand was wither'd, and his veins were 
 
 dry ; 
 His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
 Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
 From lips that moved not and unbreathing 
 
 frame, 
 Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents 
 
 came. 
 Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 
 At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
 
 II 
 " Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
 Who is he that calls the dead ? 
 Is it thou, O King ? Behold, 
 Bloodless are these limbs, and cold; 
 Such are mine ; and such shall b; 
 Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
 Ere the coming day is done, 
 Such Shalt thou be, such thy son. 
 Fare thee well, but for a day. 
 Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
 Thou, thy race, lie pale and low. 
 Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
 And the falchion by thy side 
 To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
 Crownless, breathless, headless fall. 
 Son and sire, the house of Saul ! " 
 
 SOXG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
 B.ATTLE 
 
 1 
 
 Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or 
 
 the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in 
 
 your path : 
 Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 II 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow. 
 Should the soldiers of Saul look away from 
 
 the foe. 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy 
 
 feet ! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not to 
 
 meet. 
 
 Ill 
 Farewell to others, but never we part. 
 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the s'.vay, 
 Or kingly the death, which awaits us 
 to-day ! 
 
 " ALL IS \'A\ITY, SAITH THE 
 PREACHER" 
 
 I 
 Fame, wisdom, lo\-e, and power were mine. 
 
 And health and youth possess'd me ; 
 My goblets blusb'd froin every \ine. 
 
 And lovely forms caross'd me : 
 
 I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes. 
 And felt my soul grow tender ; 
 
 All earth can give, or mortal prize. 
 Was mine of real splendour. 
 
 II 
 I strive to number o'er what days 
 
 Remembrance can discover, 
 Which all that life or earth displays 
 
 Would lure me to Vive over. 
 There rose no day, t';ere roll'd no hour 
 
 C>f pleasure unembitter'd ; 
 And not a trapping deck'd mv power 
 
 That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 
 
 Ill 
 The serpent of the field, by art 
 
 And spells, is won from harming ; 
 But that which coils around the heart. 
 
 Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
 It will not list to msdom's lore. 
 
 Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
 But there it stings for evermore 
 
 The soul that must endure it. 
 
 WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS 
 SUFFERING CL.AY 
 
 I 
 
 I When coldness wraps this suffering clav. 
 
 i Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ? 
 
 j It cannot die, it cannot 5ta5'. 
 
 ! But leaves its d,arken'd dust behind. 
 
 I Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 I By steps each planet's heavenly wav ? 
 
 I Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 I A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 II 
 
 ! Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 
 i A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 -AH, all in earth, or skies displav'd. 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 i Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 And all, that was, at once appears. 
 
 I "' 
 
 j Before Creation peopled earth, 
 
 Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
 .And where the furthest heaven had birth. 
 
 The spirit trace its rising track. 
 [ .And where the future mars or makes, 
 Its glance dilate o'er all t'O be. 
 While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 
 Fix'd in its own eternity. 
 
 IV 
 
 .Abo'. e or Lo\'e. Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 An age shall fleet like earthly rear ; 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure, 
 .Away, away, without a wini;. 
 
 O'er all, through all, its tU i ght shall flv, 
 .V nameless and eternal thing. 
 
 Forgetting wh.at it was to die. 
 
HEBREW MELODIES 
 
 1-5 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR 
 
 I 
 The King was on his tlirone, 
 
 The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold. 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine — 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless Heathen's wine ! 
 
 II 
 In that same hour and hall. 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall. 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, 
 
 And traced them lil;e a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shool?, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 " Let the men of lore appear, 
 
 The wisest of the earth, 1 
 
 And expound the words of fear, j 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." | 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good. 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage. 
 
 They saw — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth, 
 He heard the king's command, 
 
 He saw that writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 
 The prophecy in view ; ■ 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made. 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away. 
 He, in the balance weigh'd. 
 
 Is Hght and worthless clay ; 
 The shroud, his robe of state, 
 
 His canopy the stone ; 
 The Mede is at his ifate ! 
 
 The Persian on his throne ! " 
 
 SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 
 Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 
 Wliose tearful beam ginwstrainutously far, 
 
 That show'st the darkness thou can-t nuL 
 
 dispel. 
 How Ukeart thou to joy rememlicr'd well .' 
 So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
 Which shines, but warms not with its 
 
 powerless rays ; 
 A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold. 
 Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how 
 cold! 
 
 WERE MY BOSOM .\S FALSE AS 
 THOU DEEM'ST IT TO BE 
 
 Were my bosom as false as thou dcem'st it 
 
 to be, 
 I need not have vvander'd from far Galilee ; 
 It was but abjuring my creed to efface 
 The curse which, thou sav'st, is the crime 
 
 of my race. 
 
 II 
 
 If the bad never triumph, then God is with 
 
 thee! 
 If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and 
 
 free ! 
 If the E-iile on earth is an Outcast on higli. 
 Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will dif. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I have lost for that faith more than thou 
 j ■ canst bestov.', 
 I As the God who permits thee tr. prosper 
 I doth know ; 
 
 1 In his hand is my heart and my hope — and 
 j in thine 
 
 1 The land and the life which for him I resign. 
 i 
 
 I HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMX'F, 
 I 1 
 
 i Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 
 ! The heart for which thou bled'^t i^ 
 [ bleeding ; 
 
 Revenge is lost in agony, 
 j And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
 j Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 
 ! Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
 ] Ah ! could'st thou — thou would'st pardon 
 
 now, 
 I Though Heaven wore to my prayer ua- 
 ! heediiig. 
 
 II 
 
 And is she dead ? — and did they dars 
 Obey my frenzy's jealous raving ' 
 
 Mv wrath but doom'd my own despair : 
 The sword that smote her 's o'er me 
 waving. — 
 
 But thou art cold, my murder'd love! 
 And this dark heart is vainly craving 
 
 For her who soars alone above. 
 
 And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 
 
 Ill 
 She's gone, who shared my djadem ; 
 She sunk, \yith her my joys entombing ; 
 
126 
 
 HEBREW i\IELODIES 
 
 I swept that flower from Judah's stem, 
 Whose leaves for me alone were bloom- 
 ing ; 
 
 And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, 
 This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
 
 And I have oarn'd those tortures well, 
 Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 
 
 ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION 
 
 OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS 
 
 I 
 
 From the last hill that looks on thj- once 
 
 holy dome, 
 I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to 
 
 Rome : 
 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the 
 
 flames of thy fall 
 Flash'd back on the last glance I ga^'e to 
 
 thy wall. 
 
 II 
 I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my 
 
 home, 
 And forgot for a moment my bondage to 
 
 come ; 
 I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy 
 
 fane, 
 And the fast-fetter'd hands that made 
 
 vengeance in vain. 
 
 On many an eve, the high spot whence I 
 
 gazed 
 Had reflected the last beam of day as it 
 
 blazed ; 
 While I stood on the height, and beheld the 
 
 decline 
 Of the rays from the mountain that shone 
 
 on thy shrine. 
 
 IV 
 
 And now on that mountain I stood on that 
 day. 
 
 But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting 
 away ; 
 
 Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in 
 its stead. 
 
 And the thunderbolt burst on the con- 
 queror's head ! 
 
 v 
 But the Gods of the Pagan shall never 
 
 profane 
 The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to 
 
 reign ; 
 And scatter'd and scoru'd as thy people 
 
 may be. 
 Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 
 
 BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE 
 SAT DOWN AND WEPT 
 
 I 
 
 Wb sate down and wept by the waters 
 Of Babel, fftid thought of the day 
 
 When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters. 
 Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
 ■ And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
 Were scatter'd all weeping away. 
 
 II 
 While sadly we gazed on the river 
 
 Whichroll'd on in freedom below, 
 They demanded the song ; but, oh nevsr 
 
 Tiiat triumph the stranger shall know ! 
 Way this right hand be wither'd for ever. 
 
 Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 
 
 Ill 
 On the willow that harp is suspended. 
 
 Oh Salem 1 its sound should be free ; 
 And the hour when thy glories were ended 
 
 But left me that token of thee ; 
 And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
 
 ^\'ith the voice of the spoiler by me ! 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SEXXA- 
 CHERIB 
 
 I 
 The Ass5'rian came down like the wolf on 
 
 the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple 
 
 and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was Uke 
 
 stars on the sea, 
 \\'heu the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 
 
 Galilee. ^ 
 
 II 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Summer 
 
 is green. 
 That host with their banners at sunset 
 
 were seen ; 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn 
 
 hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lav wither'd and 
 
 strown. 
 
 Ill 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings 
 
 on the blast, 
 .-Vnd breathed in the face of the foe as he 
 
 pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadlv 
 
 and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and 
 
 for ever grew still ! 
 
 IV 
 
 And'there lay the steed %vith his nostril all 
 
 wide, 
 But through it there roU'd not the breath 
 
 of his pride ; 
 And the loam of his gasping lav white on 
 
 tl-.e turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beatina 
 
 surf. " 
 
 '\' 
 And there lay the rid. r distorted and pale, 
 u 1th the dew on his brow, and the rust on 
 
 his mail : 
 
PO_A'IESTIC PIECES 
 
 127 
 
 -And the tents weie all silent, the banners 
 
 alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 
 
 wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of 
 
 Baal; 
 And tiie might of the Gentile, unsmote by 
 
 the sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 
 
 Lord ! 
 
 A SPIRIT PASS'D BEFORE JIE 
 
 FROM JOB 
 I 
 
 A SPIRIT pass'd before me':]"! beheld 
 Th&.face of immortality unveil' d — 
 
 Deep sleep came down on every eye save 
 
 mine — 
 And there it stood,— all formless— but 
 
 divine : 
 Along my bones the creeping flesh did 
 
 quake ; 
 And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it 
 
 spake : 
 
 II 
 
 " Is man more just than God ? Is man 
 
 more pure 
 Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
 Creatures of cla3' — vain dwellers in the 
 
 dust ! 
 The moth survi\-es yuii, and are ye more 
 
 just ? 
 Things of a day ! you wither ere the nighty 
 Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted 
 
 light! " 
 
 DOMESTIC PIECES 
 
 1816 
 
 FARE THEE WELL 
 
 *' Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms abo\ e ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is \-ain : 
 And to be wroth Vi-ith one we lo\e, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain ; 
 * * ■ * 
 
 But never either found another 
 To free the iiollow heart from paining — 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
 A di'eary sea now flows between, 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
 The marks of that which once hath been." 
 Coleridge's Chiistabel. 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if for ever. 
 
 Still for ever, fare thee well : 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 
 Would that breast were bared before thee 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Wldch thou ne'er canst know again : 
 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over. 
 Every inmost thought could show ! 
 
 Then thou would'st at last discover 
 'Twas not well to spurn it so. 
 
 Though the Worldfor this commend thee — 
 Though it smile upon the blow, 
 
 Even its praises must offend thee, 
 Founded on another's woe : 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me. 
 Could no other arm be found. 
 
 Than the one which once embraced me. 
 To inflict a cureless wound ? 
 
 Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 But by sudden wrench, beliexu not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away : 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth, 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 
 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 Is — that v.-e no m.ore may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 Than the wail above the dead ; 
 
 Both shall li^'e, but every morrow 
 Wake us from a widow'd bed. 
 
 And when thou wouldst solace gather. 
 When our child's first accents flow, 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
 Though his care she must forego ? 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee. 
 When her hp to thine is press'd, 
 
 Think oif him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
 Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 Those thou never more may'sf see. 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 All my faidts perchance thou knowest. 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
 Wither, yet with iJwe they go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, Which not a world could bow, 
 Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 
 
 Even mv soul forsakes me now : 
 
I2S 
 
 DOilESTIC PIECES 
 
 But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way without the will. 
 
 Fare thee well ! thus disunited, 
 
 Torn from every nearer tie, 
 Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 
 
 JMore than this I scarce can die. 
 
 March 17, 18 16. 
 
 A SKETCH 
 
 " HoQeat — honest lago ! 
 
 If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 
 Shakspeare. 
 BoRN' in the garret, in the kitchen bred. 
 Promoted thence to deck her mistress' 
 
 head ; 
 Ne.xt — for some gracious service unex- 
 
 press'd. 
 And from its wages only to be guess'd — 
 Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 
 Her wondering betters wait behind her 
 
 chair. 
 ■\\'ith e\T unmoved, and forehead una- 
 
 bash'd, 
 SIk- dines from off the plate she lately 
 
 wash'd. 
 Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie. 
 The genial confidante, and general spy, 
 Who could, ye gods ! her next employment 
 
 guess — 
 An only infant's earliest governess ! 
 She taught the child to read, and taught 
 
 so well. 
 That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to 
 
 spell. 
 An adept next in penmanship she grows, 
 .\5 many a nameless slander deftly shows : 
 What she had made the pupil of her art 
 None know— ^but that high Soul secured 
 
 the heart, 
 And panted for the truth it could not hear 
 With longing breast and undeluded ear. ! 
 Foil'd was perversion by that youthful ' 
 
 mind, 
 Which Flattery fool'd not. Baseness could 
 
 not blind. 
 Deceit infect not, near Contagion soil. 
 Indulgence weaken, nor Example sp. ijl, 
 Nor master'd Science tempt her to look 
 
 down 
 On humbler talents with a pitying frowii, 
 Nor Genius swell, nor Beauty render vain' 
 Nor Envy rufHe to retaliate pain. 
 Nor F'ortune change, Pride raise, nor Pas- 
 sion bow, 
 Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 
 Serenely purest of her sex' that live. 
 But wanting one sweet weakness — to for- 
 give. 
 Too shock'd at faults her soul can never 
 
 know. 
 She deems that all could be like her below : 
 
 Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
 For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 
 
 But to the theme, now laid aside too long. 
 The baleful burthen of this honest song. 
 Though all her former functions are no 
 
 more. 
 She rules the circle which she served be- 
 fore. 
 If mothers — none know why — before her 
 
 quake ; 
 If daughters dread her for the mothers' 
 
 sake : 
 If early habits — those false links, which 
 
 bind 
 At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
 j Have given her power too deeply to instil 
 The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
 If like a snake she steal within your walls. 
 Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 
 If like a ■vrptt to the heart she ^vind. 
 And leave the venom there she did not 
 
 find; 
 What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
 ; Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
 ! To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 
 I And reign the He cate of domestic hells? 
 I SHU'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
 I \\'ith all the kind mendacity of hints. 
 ; While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers 
 I with smiles, 
 
 .■V thread of candour with a web of wiles : 
 .A plain blunt show- of briefly spoken seem- 
 I ing. 
 
 , To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd 
 I scheming ; 
 
 -A Up of lies ; a face form'd to conceal. 
 .\nd, mthout feeling, mock at all who feel : 
 A\'ith a -i-ile mask the Gorgon would dis- 
 own, — 
 A cheek of parchment, and an eve of stone. 
 Mark, how the channels of her yellow- 
 blood 
 Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to 
 
 mud. 
 Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
 Or darker greenness of the scorpion's 
 
 scale — 
 (For dra^\•n from reptiles only may we trace 
 Congenial colours in that soul or face) — 
 Look on her features ! and behold her 
 
 mmd 
 As in a mirror of itself defined ; 
 Look on the picture ! deem it not o'er- 
 
 charged — 
 There is no trait which might not be en- 
 larged ; 
 ^'et true to " Nature's journeymen," who 
 
 made 
 This monster when their mistress left off 
 
 trade — 
 This female dog-star of her little skv 
 
 A[^ beneath her influence droop or 
 
DOMESTIC PIECES 
 
 129 
 
 Oh ! wretch without a tear — mthout a 
 
 thought, 
 Save joy above the ruin thou hast 
 
 wrought — 
 The time shall come, nor long remote, 
 
 when thou 
 Shall feel far more than thoti inflictest now ; 
 Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 
 And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
 May the strong curse of crush'd affection's 
 
 light 
 Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 
 And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
 As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
 Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
 Black — as thy will for others would create : 
 Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust. 
 And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
 Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed. 
 The wdow'd couch of fire, that thou hast 
 
 spread ! 
 Then, when thou fain wouldst weary 
 
 Heaven with prayer, 
 Look on thine earthly \'ictims— and des- 
 pair ! 
 Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st 
 
 away, 
 Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous 
 
 clay. 
 But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
 To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
 Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
 The climax of all scorn should hang on high. 
 Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
 And festering in the infamy of years. 
 
 March 29, 1816. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA ' 
 
 When all around grew drear and dark. 
 And reason half .withheld her ray — 
 
 And hope but shed a dying spark 
 Which more misled my lonely way ; 
 
 II 
 
 In that deep midnight of the mind. 
 And that internal strife of heart. 
 
 When dreading to be deem'd t' 10 kind, , 
 The weak despair — the cold depart ; 
 
 III 
 When fortune changed — and love fled far. 
 
 And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 
 Thou wert the solitary star 
 
 Which rose and set not to. the last. 
 
 IV 
 
 Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 
 
 That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
 And stood between me and the night, 
 
 For ever shining sweetly nigh. 
 
 V 
 
 And when the cloud upon us came. 
 
 Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 
 
 Then purer spread its gsntlc flame. 
 And dash'd the darkness all away. 
 
 VI 
 
 Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 
 
 And teach it what to brave or brook — 
 
 There's more in one soft word of thine 
 Than in the world's defied rebuke. 
 
 VII 
 
 Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree. 
 
 That still unbroke, though gently bent, 
 Still waves with fond fidelity 
 
 Its boughs above a monument. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The winds might rend — the skies might 
 pour. 
 But there thou wert — and still wouldst 
 be 
 Devoted in the stormiest hour 
 To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 
 
 IX 
 
 But thou and thine shall know no blight. 
 Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
 
 For heaven in sunshine will requite 
 The kind — and thee the most of all. 
 
 X 
 
 Then let the ties of baffled love 
 
 Be broken — thine will never break ; 
 
 Thy heart can feel — but will not move : 
 Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 
 
 XI 
 
 And these, when all was lost beside, 
 
 Were found and still are fix'd in thee ; — 
 
 And bearing still a breast so tried. 
 Earth is no desert — ev'n to me. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 
 
 I 
 
 Though the day of my destiny's over, 
 
 And the star of ray fate hath decHned, 
 Thv soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though thy soul with my grief was ac- 
 quainted. 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me. 
 And the love Avhich my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 II 
 Then when nature around me is smiling. 
 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 I do not believe it beguiling. 
 
 Because it reminds me of thine ; 
 And when winds are at war with the ocean. 
 
 As the breasts I believed in with me. 
 If their billows excite an emotion, 
 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 Ill 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shiver' d. 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is delivcr'd 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 
ISO 
 
 DOMESTIC PIECES 
 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 They may crush, but they shall -not 
 contemn ; 
 
 They may torture but shall not subdue me ; 
 •Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 
 
 IV 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 
 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
 Though lo\-ed, thou forborest to grieve me, 
 
 Though slander'd, thou never couldst 
 shake ; 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 
 
 Though parted, it was not to fly, 
 Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me. 
 
 Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 
 
 V 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one ; 
 If m3' soul was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me. 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whate^'e^ it lost me. 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 
 VI 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath 
 perish'd, 
 Thus much I at least may recall. 
 It hath taught me that what I most 
 cherish 'd 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing, 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
 And a bird in the solitude singing. 
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 July 24, r8i6. 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 
 
 My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
 Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
 Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer mine ; 
 Go where I ^v'ill, to me thou art the 
 
 same — 
 A lo\ed regret which I would not resign. 
 There yet are two things in my destiny, — 
 A Vi'orld to roam through, and a home with 
 
 thee. 
 
 II 
 The first were nothing — had I still the 
 
 last. 
 It were the haven of my happiness ; 
 But other claims' and other ties thou hast, 
 And mine is not the wish to make them 
 
 less. 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and 
 
 past 
 Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
 Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of 
 
 yore, — 
 He had no rest at sea, nor I oil shore. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 In other elem.ents, and on the rocks 
 Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
 I have sustain'd my share of worldly 
 
 shocks. 
 The fault v/as mine ; nor do I seek to 
 
 screen 
 My errors with defensive paradox ; 
 I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
 The careful pilot of my proper woe. 
 
 Mine were my faults, and mine be their 
 
 reward. 
 My whole life was a contest, since the day 
 That gave me being, gave me that which 
 
 marr'd 
 The gift, — a fate, or mil, that walk'd 
 
 astrav ; 
 And I at times have found the struggle 
 
 hard. 
 And thought of shaking off my bonds of 
 
 clay : 
 But now I fain would for a time survive, 
 If but to see what next can well arrive. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old; 
 And when I look on this, the petty spray 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have 
 
 roll'd 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away ; 
 Something — I know not what — does still 
 
 uphold 
 A spirit of slight patience ; — ^not in vain, 
 Even for its ovm sake, do we purchase pain. 
 
 Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
 Within me — or perhaps a cold despair. 
 Brought on when ills habitually recur. — 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
 (P"or e"\"en to this may change of soul 
 
 refer. 
 And irith light armour %ve may learn to 
 
 bear.) 
 Have taught me a strange quiet, which 
 
 was not 
 The chief companion of a calmer lot. 
 
 VII 
 
 I feel almost at times as I ha^e felt 
 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, 
 
 and brooks. 
 Which do remember me of where I 
 
 dwelt 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to 
 
 becks, 
 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 
 My heart with recognition of th.ir locks ; 
 
 And even at moments I could think I see 
 
 Some living thing to lo\-e— but none like 
 
 thee. 
 
DOMESTIC PIECES 
 
 131 
 
 VIII 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which 
 
 create 
 A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
 Is a brief feeling of a tn\ial date ; 
 But something worthier do such scenes 
 
 inspire : 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
 For much I view which I could most 
 
 desire. 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than onr own of old. 
 
 IX 
 
 Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but 
 
 I grow 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
 The solitude which I have vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
 There may be others which I less may 
 
 show ; — 
 I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
 I feel an ebb in my philosophy. 
 And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 
 
 X 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,' 
 By the old Hall %\hich may be mine no 
 
 more. 
 _Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake 
 T)ie sweet remembrance of a dearer 
 
 shore : 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory 
 
 make. 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes 
 
 before ; 
 Though, like all things which I have 
 
 loved, they are 
 Resign'd for ever, or di\'ided far. 
 
 XI 
 The world is all before me ; I but ask 
 Of Nature that with which she will 
 
 comply — 
 It is but in her summer's sun to bask. 
 To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
 To see her gentle face without a m.ask. 
 And never gaze on it with apathv. 
 She was my early friend, and now shall be 
 My sister— till I look again on thee. 
 
 XII 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
 And that I would not ; — for at length I 
 
 Such scenes as those wherein ray life be- 
 gun. 
 
 ■The earliest — even the only paths for 
 me — 
 
 Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to 
 shun, 
 
 I had been better than I now can be ; 
 
 The passions which have torn me would 
 have slept ; 
 / had not sufl'er'd, and Ihou hadst not wept. 
 
 xm 
 With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
 Little with Love, and least of all with 
 
 Fame ; 
 And yet they came unsought, and with 
 
 me grew. 
 And made me all which they can make — 
 
 a name. 
 Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
 Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
 But all is over — I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone before. 
 
 XIV 
 
 And for the future, this world's future 
 
 may 
 From me demand but little of my care; 
 I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
 Having survi\'ed so many things that 
 
 were ; 
 My years have been no slumber, but 
 
 the prey 
 Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
 Of life which might have fiU'd a century, 
 Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 
 
 XV 
 
 And for the remnant which may be to 
 
 come 
 I am content ; and for the past I feel 
 Not thankless, — for within the crowded 
 
 sum . 
 Of struggles, happiness at times would 
 
 steal. 
 And for the present, I would nnt benumb 
 My feelings farther.— Nor slmll I conceal 
 That with all this I still can I'xk around, 
 And worship Nature with a thought pro- 
 found. 
 
 XVI 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy 
 
 heart 
 I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
 We were and are — I am, even as thou 
 
 art — 
 Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
 It is the same, together or apart, 
 From life's commencement to its slow 
 
 decline 
 We are entwined — let death come slow 
 
 or fast, 
 The tie which bound the first endures the 
 
 last! 
 
 LINES ON HEARING THAT LADY 
 
 BYRON WAS ILL 
 And thou wert sad— yet I was not with 
 thee ; 
 And thou wert sick, and yet I was not 
 near ; , 
 
 Methought that joy and health alone could 
 be 
 Where t was not—&nd pain and sorrow 
 here ! 
 
1^,2 
 
 iVIONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN 
 
 And is it tlju; ? — it is as I foretold, 
 And shall be more so ; for the mind 
 recoils 
 Upon itself, and the ^vreck'd heart lies cold, 
 While heaviness collects the shatter'd 
 spoils. 
 It is not in the storm nor in the strife 
 We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no 
 
 more, 
 But in the after-silence on the shore, 
 When all is lost, except a little life. 
 
 I am too well avenged ! — but 'twas my 
 right ; 
 Whate'er my sins might be, ihou wert 
 not sent 
 To be the Nemesis who should requite — 
 Nor did Heaven choose so near an in- 
 strument. 
 Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
 Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 
 Thy nights are banish'd from the realms 
 of sleep ! — 
 Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou 
 
 Shalt feel 
 A hollow agony which will not heal. 
 For thou art piUow'd on a curse too deep ; 
 Thou hast so"wn in my sorrow, and must 
 reap 
 The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
 I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 
 For 'gainst the rest myself I could 
 
 defend, 
 And be avengjd, or turn them into 
 friend ; 
 But thou in safe implacability 
 Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weak- 
 ness shielded, 
 And in my love, which hath but too much 
 yielded, 
 -And spared, for thy sake, some I should 
 not spare ; 
 
 And thus upon the world — trust in thv 
 
 truth. 
 And the wild fame of my ungovern'd 
 youth — 
 On things that were not, and on things 
 that are — 
 Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
 A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 
 The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 
 And hew'd down, with an unsuspected 
 sword, 
 Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better 
 life [heart. 
 
 Which, but for this cold treason of thy 
 Jlight still have risen from out the grave of 
 strife. 
 And found a nobler duty than to part. 
 But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice. 
 Trafficking mth them in a pturpose cold, 
 For present anger, and for future gold — 
 And buying other's grief at any price. 
 And thus once enter'd into crooked ways. 
 The early truth, which was thv proDer 
 
 praise. 
 Did not still walk beside thee — but at 
 
 times. 
 And with a breast unknowing its own 
 
 crimes. 
 Deceit, averments incompatible, 
 Equivocations, and the thoughts which 
 dwell 
 In Janus-spirits — the signiiicaut eye 
 Which learns to lie with silence — the pre- 
 text 
 Of prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
 The acquiescence in all things which tend. 
 No matter how, to the desired end — 
 
 All found a place in thv phjlosophv. 
 The means were worthv, and the encj is 
 
 n'on — 
 I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! 
 September, iSi6. 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH 
 
 THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN 
 
 SPOKEN AT DRLIRY LANE THEATRE 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring day 
 In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
 Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
 Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
 With a pure feeling which absorbs aud awes 
 While Nature makes that m.elancholv 
 
 pause. 
 Her breathing moment on the bridge where 
 
 Time 
 Of light and darkness forms an arch sub- 
 lime, 
 Who hath not shared that c:-'m, so still and 
 
 deep. 
 The vciceless thought which would not 
 speak btit v.'erp, 
 
 A holy concord, and a bright regret, 
 A glorious sjTnpathy with suns that set ? 
 lis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe. 
 Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts beow. 
 1-elt without bitterness, but full and clear 
 A sweet dejection, a transparent tear, 
 L'nmix d with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
 bhed inthout shame, and secret without 
 pam. 
 
 Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
 
 hilfe'^™"'^ day declines along the 
 So feels the fulness of our heart and eves 
 WTien all of Gmins which can parish' divss. 
 
ATOXODY OM THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN 
 
 133 
 
 A mighty Snirit is eclipsed — a Power 
 Hath passed from day to darkness- 
 
 ~to 
 
 whose hour 
 Of liglit no likeness is bequeath'd — no 
 
 name. 
 Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
 The flash of Wit, the bright Intelligence, 
 The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence, 
 Set with their Sun, but still have left be- 
 hind 
 The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 But small that portion of the wondrous 
 
 whole, [soul , 
 
 These sparkling segments of that circling 
 Which all embraced, and lighten'd over all, 
 To cheer, to pierc.-, to please, or to appal. 
 From the charm'd council to the festive 
 
 board, 
 Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
 Tn whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied. 
 The praised, the proud, who made his 
 
 praise their pride. 
 When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
 His was the thunder, his the avenging rod. 
 The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 
 Which shook the nations through his lips, 
 
 and blazed 
 Till vanquished senates trembled as they 
 
 praised. 
 
 And here, oh ! here, where yet all young 
 
 and warm, 
 The gay creations of his spirit charm. 
 The matchless dialogue, the deathless wit. 
 Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
 The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that 
 
 bring 
 Home to our hearts the truth from which 
 
 they spring ; 
 These wondrous beings of his fancy, 
 
 wrought 
 To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 
 Here in their first abode you still may 
 
 meet, [heat : 
 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean 
 A halo of the light of other days. 
 Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 
 But should there be to whom the fatal 
 
 blight 
 Of failing Wisdom yields a base dehght, 
 Men who exult when minds of heavenly 
 
 tone 
 Jar in the music which was born their own. 
 Still let them pause— ah ! little do they 
 
 know 
 That what to them seem'd Vice might be 
 
 but Woe. 
 Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
 Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; 
 Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
 And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
 
 The secret enemy whose e-lcpl-ss eye 
 Stands sentinel, accuser, judgf. and spy, 
 The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain. 
 The envious who but breathe in others' 
 
 pain. 
 Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
 Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, 
 Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
 Half to the ardour which its birth bestows. 
 Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
 And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 
 These are his portion — but if joined to these 
 Gaunt Poverty should lengue with deep 
 
 Disease, 
 If the high Spirit must forget to soar. 
 And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
 To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
 Meet sordid Rage, and ^vrestle with Dis- 
 grace, 
 To find in Hope but the renew'd caress. 
 The serpent-fold offurther Faithlessness: — 
 If such may be the ills which men assail. 
 What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
 Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling 
 
 given 
 Bear hearts electric — charged with fire 
 
 from Heaven, 
 Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds 
 
 borne, [nurst 
 
 Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that 
 Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — 
 
 scorch, and burst. 
 
 But far from us and from our mimic scene 
 Such things should be — if such have ever 
 
 been ; 
 Ours be the gmtler wish, the kinder task. 
 To give the tribute Glory need not ask. 
 To mourn the vanish'd beam, and add our 
 
 mite 
 Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
 Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils vield. 
 Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! 
 The worthy rival of the wondrous T}iree! ' 
 Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
 Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is 
 
 dear. 
 He was your Master — emulate him here! 
 Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
 He was your brother — bear his ashes hence! 
 While Powers of mind almost of boundless 
 
 range, [change. 
 
 Complete in kind, as various in their 
 While Eloquence, Wit, Poesy, and Mirth, 
 That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, 
 Survive within our souls — while lives our 
 
 sense 
 Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
 Long shall we seek his hkeness.long in vain, 
 And turn to all of him which may remain. 
 Sighing that Nature form'd but one such 
 
 man. 
 And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan \ 
 
THE DREAM 
 
 THE DREAM 
 
 Our life is twofold : SJeep hath its own 
 world, . , 
 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 
 Death and' existence : Sleep hath its own 
 world, 
 
 And a wide realm of wild reahty. 
 
 And dreams in their development have 
 
 breath, , ,, , , I 
 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch ot 
 
 i°Y ; , • 
 
 They leave a weight upon our waking 
 
 'thoughts. 
 They take a weight from off our waking 
 
 toils, 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
 And look hke heralds of eternity ; 
 They pass like spirits of. the past, — they 
 
 speak 
 Like Sibyls of the future; they have 
 
 power — 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 They make us what we were not — what 
 
 they will. 
 And shake us with the vision that's gone 
 
 by. 
 The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they 
 
 so ? 
 Is not the past all shadow ? — What are 
 
 they? 
 Creations of the mind ? — The mind can 
 
 make 
 Substance, and people planets of its owti 
 With beings brighter than have been, and 
 
 give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive all 
 
 flesh. 
 I would recall a vision which I dream' d 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of 
 
 men 
 Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing 
 
 smoke 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
 Kot by the sport of nature, but of man : 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were 
 
 there 
 Gazing — the one on all tliat was beneath 
 Fair as herself--~but the boy gazed on her ; 
 
 And both were 5'oung, and one was beauti- 
 ful : 
 And both were young — yet not alike in 
 
 youth. 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 There was but one beloved face on earth. 
 And that was shining on him : he had 
 
 look'd 
 Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
 He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her. 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his 
 
 sight. 
 For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with 
 
 hers. 
 Which colour'd all his objects :— he had 
 
 ceased 
 To live within himself ; she was his life. 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and 
 
 flow. 
 And his cheek change tempestuously — his 
 
 heart 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas 
 
 much. 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 Her infant friendship had bestow' d on him ; 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 Of a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him 
 
 not — and why ? 
 Time taught him a deep answer — when she 
 
 loved 
 .\nother ; even nou.' she loved another, 
 ,\nd on the summit of that hill she stood 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 .\- change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
 Within an antique Oratory stood 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
 He sate him dowii, and seized a pen, and 
 
 traced 
 Words which I could not guess of ; then he 
 
 lean'd 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook 
 
 as 'twere 
 With a convulsion — then arose again. 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did 
 
 tear 
 \\'h.U he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 
THE DREAM 
 
 135 
 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
 The Lady of his love re-entered there ; 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 She knew she was by him beloved, — she 
 
 ImeW; 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that 
 
 his heart 
 Was darken' d with her shadow, and she saw 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 HeTose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
 He dropp'd the hand he held, and with 
 
 slow steps 
 Retired, but not as bidding her adieu. 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he 
 
 pass'd 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 And mounting on his steed he went hK 
 
 way ; 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold 
 
 more. 
 
 A change ckme o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the 
 
 wilds 
 Of fiery chmes he made himself a home. 
 And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was 
 
 girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was 
 
 'not 
 Himself hke what he had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noolitide sultriness, 
 Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping 
 
 side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly 
 
 steeds 
 Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did \\'atch the while, 
 While many of his tribe slumber'd around ; 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
 That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Lady of his love was wed with One 
 Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
 A thousand leagues frotti his, — her native 
 
 home, 
 She dwelt, begirt with growmg Infancy, 
 Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but be- 
 hold ! 
 Upon her face there was the tmt of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 
 And an uhquiet drooping of the eye. 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had all she 
 
 loved. 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had loved 
 
 him not, 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself be- 
 loved, 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 
 
 VI 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him 
 
 stand 
 Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 
 Her face was fair, but was -not that which 
 
 made 
 The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — ^s he 
 
 stood 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 The self-same aspect, and the quivering 
 
 shock 
 That in the antique Orator)^ shook 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 The tablet of (inutterable thoughts 
 Wks traced, — ;ind then it faded as it came. 
 And he stood calrh and quiet, and he spoke 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own 
 
 words, 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could 
 
 see 
 Not that which was, nor that which should 
 
 have been — 
 But the old mansion, and the accustoin'd 
 
 hall, 
 And the remember' d chambers, and the 
 
 place, 
 The day, the hour, tlie sunshine, and the 
 
 shade, 
 .■\11 things pertaining to that place and 
 
 hour. 
 And her who was his destiny, — came back 
 And thrust themselves between him and 
 
 the hght : 
 What business had they there at such a 
 
 time ? f 
 
 VII 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Lady of his love ;— Oh ! she was 
 changed , , ■ j 
 
 \s by the sickness of the soul ; her mmd 
 Had wander'd from its dwelUng, and her 
 
 They had not their own lustre, but the 'ook 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her 
 
 thoughts , ,. . . ^ J i, ■ 
 
 Were combinations of disjointed things , 
 And forms impalpable and unperceived 
 
I 'D 
 
 THE LA.AtENT OF TASSO 
 
 Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls frenzy ; but tlie 
 
 wise 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
 What is it but the telescope of truth 7 
 Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
 Making the cold reality too real ! 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 
 The beings which surrounded him were 
 
 gone. 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
 With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was 
 
 mix'd 
 In all which was served up to him, until. 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power. 
 
 I But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
 Through that which had been death to 
 
 many men. 
 And made him friends of mountains : with 
 
 the stars 
 And the auick Spirit of the Universe 
 He held his dialogues : and they did teach 
 To him the magic of their mj'steries : 
 To him the book of Night was open'd 
 
 wide, 
 And voices from the deep ab-\-ss re\'eard 
 A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 
 
 My dream was past ; it had no further 
 
 change. 
 It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 Of these two creatures should be thus 
 
 traced out 
 Almost hke a reaUty — the one 
 To end in madness— both in misery. 
 
 July, 1816. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO 
 
 Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame 
 
 to bear 
 And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — 
 Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
 Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 
 And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
 When the impatient thirst of Ught and air 
 Parckes the heart ; and the abliorr'd grate. 
 Marring the sunbeams with its hideous 
 
 shade. 
 Works through the throbbing eyeball to 
 
 the brain, 
 vVith a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
 .Vad bare, at once, Captivity display'd 
 Glands scofhng through the never-open'd 
 
 gate. 
 Which nothing through its bars admits, 
 
 save day, 
 And tasteless food, which-I have eat alone 
 Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
 And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
 Sullen and lonely, j:ouching in the cave 
 Which is my lair, and — it may be — mv 
 
 grave. 
 All this hath somewhat worn me, and may 
 
 wear. 
 But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
 For I have battled with mine agony, 
 And made me «ings wherewith to overfly 
 The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
 And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
 And revell'd among men and things divine, 
 And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
 In honour of the sacred war for Him, 
 The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 
 For he has strengthen'd me in heart and 
 
 limb. 
 
 That through this sufferance I might be 
 
 forgiven, 
 I have employ'd my penance to record 
 How Salem's shrine was won, and how 
 
 adored. 
 
 But this is o'er — my pleasant task is 
 
 done : — 
 My long-sustaining friend of many vears ! 
 If I do blot thy final page with tears, 
 Know, that my sorrows have WTung from 
 
 me none. 
 But thou, my voung creation ! mv soul's 
 
 child ! 
 Which ever pla}'ing round me "ame and 
 
 smiled. 
 And woo'd me from myself with thy siveet 
 
 sight. 
 Thou too art gone — and so is my delicht : 
 .\nd therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
 With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
 Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 
 For I have anguish yet to bear — and h.jw ? 
 I know not that — but in the innate force 
 Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
 I have not sunk, for I had no remorse. 
 Nor cause for such : the-\- call'd me mad 
 
 and why ? 
 Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 
 I was indeed delirious in mv heart 
 To hft my lo\e so lofty as thou art ; 
 But still my frenzy was not of the 'mind • 
 I knew my fault, and feel mv punishment 
 Not less because I suffer it unbent 
 That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind 
 Hath been the sin which shuts me from 
 
 mankind ; 
 
THE LAMENT OF TASSO 
 
 137 
 
 But let them go, or torture as they will. 
 My heart can multiply thine image still ; 
 Successful love may sate itself away ; 
 The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their 
 
 fate 
 To have all feeling, save the one, decay, 
 And every passion into one dilate, 
 As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
 But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 
 
 in 
 Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 
 Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
 And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl 
 And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 
 There be some here with worse than frenzy 
 
 foul. 
 Some who do still goad on the o'er-la- 
 
 bour'd mind, 
 And dim the little light that's left behind 
 With needless torture, as their tyrant will 
 Is wound up to the lust of doing ill ; 
 With these and with tlaeir victims am I 
 
 class'd, 
 'Mid sounds and sights like these long 
 
 years have pass'd ; 
 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life 
 
 may close : 
 So let it be — for then I shall repose. 
 
 IV 
 
 I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 
 
 I had forgotten half I would forget. 
 
 But it revives — Oh ! would it were my lot 
 
 To be forgetful as I am forgot ! 
 
 Feel I not wroth with those who bade me 
 
 dwell 
 In this vast lazar- house of many woes ? 
 Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought 
 
 the mind, 
 Nor words a language, nor ev'n men man- 
 kind ; 
 Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to 
 
 blows. 
 And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
 For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
 Manv, but each divided bv the wall, 
 Which echoes Madness in her babbling 
 
 moods ; 
 While all can hear, none heed his neigh- 
 bour's call — 
 None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of 
 
 all. 
 Who was not made to be the mate of these. 
 Nor bound between Distraction and 
 
 Disease. 
 Feel I not wroth with those who placed me 
 
 here ? 
 Who have debased me in the minds of men. 
 Debarring me the usage of my own, 
 Blighting my life in best of its career, 
 Branding rny thoughts as things to shun 
 
 and fear ? 
 Would I not pay them back these pangs 
 again, 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 -^nd teach them inward Sorrow's stifled 
 
 groan ? 
 The struggle to be calm, and cold distress. 
 Which undermines our Stoical success ? 
 No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
 Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would 
 
 die. 
 Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake, 
 I weed all bitterness from out ray breast. 
 It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 
 Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ; 
 Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 
 
 V 
 
 Look on a love which knows not to despair. 
 But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
 Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart. 
 As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
 Encompass'd with its dark and rolling 
 
 shroud. 
 Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart! 
 And thus at the coUision of thy name, 
 The vivid thought still flashes through my 
 
 frame, 
 And for a moment all things as they were 
 Flit by ine ; they are gone — I am the same. 
 And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
 I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
 A Princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
 I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
 Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
 And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
 Were punish' d by the silentness of thine. 
 And yet I did not venture to repine. 
 Thou wert to me a crystal-girded" shrine, 
 Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
 Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly 
 
 ground ; 
 Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
 Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
 Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay' d — 
 Oh ! not dismay' d — but awed, like One 
 
 above ! 
 And in that sweet severity there was 
 A something which all softness did surpass ; 
 I know not how — thy genius master'd 
 
 mine ; 
 My star stood still before thee : if it were 
 Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
 That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
 But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
 Fit for this cell, which wrongs me — but for 
 
 thee. 
 The very love which lock'd me to my 
 
 chain 
 Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the 
 
 rest. 
 Though heavv, lent me vigour to sustain. 
 And look to thee with undivided breast, 
 And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 
 
 VI 
 
 It is no marvel — from ray very birth 
 My soul was drunk with love, which did 
 pervade 
 
 L 
 
138 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO 
 
 And mingle with whate'er I saw on eartli ; 
 Of objects all inanimate I made 
 Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
 And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise. 
 Where I did lay me down within the shade 
 Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted 
 
 hours. 
 Though I was chid for wandering ; and the 
 
 wise 
 Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and 
 
 said, 
 Of such materials wretched men were made, 
 And such a truant boy would end in woe, 
 And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
 And then they smote me, and I did not 
 
 weep, 
 « But ciursed them in my heart, and to mv 
 
 haOnt 
 Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd 
 
 again 
 The visions which arise without a sleep. 
 And with my years mv soul began to pant 
 With feelings. of strange tumult and soft 
 
 pain ; 
 And the whole heart exhaled into One 
 
 Want, 
 But undefined and wandering, till the day 
 I found the thing I sought — and that was 
 
 thee ; 
 And then I lost my being, all to be 
 Absorh'd in thine ; the world was past 
 
 away ; 
 Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 
 
 I loved all Solitude, but little thought 
 To spend I know not what of life, reiiiote 
 From all communion with existence, save 
 The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
 Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
 My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave : 
 But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me 
 
 rave ? 
 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
 Than the wreck'd sailor on the desert shore ; 
 The world is all before him — mine is here, 
 Scarce twice the space they must accord 
 
 my bier. 
 What though .Ae perish, he may lift his eye, 
 And with a dying glance upbraid the sky ; 
 I will not raise my own in such reproof. 
 Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof. 
 
 Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
 But with a sense of its decay ; I see 
 Unwonted lights along my prison shine. 
 And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
 With pilfering pranks and petty pains, 
 
 below 
 The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
 But much to One who long hath snffer'd 
 
 so, 
 
 Sickness of heart, and narroVvness of place, 
 And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
 I thought mine enemies had been but Man, 
 But Spirits mSy be leagued with thein ; all 
 
 Earth 
 Abandons, Heaven forgets me : in the 
 
 dearth 
 Of such defence the Pm\ers of Evil an. 
 It may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 
 Against the outworn creature they assail. 
 Why in this furnace is my spirit proved, 
 Like steel in tempering fire ? because I 
 
 loved ? 
 Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
 Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 
 
 I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; 
 My scars are callous, or I should have 
 
 dash'd 
 lly brain against these bars, as the sun 
 
 flash'd 
 In mockery through them : If I bear and 
 
 bore 
 The much I have recounted, and the more 
 \Vhich hath no words, — 'tis that I would 
 
 not die 
 And sanction with self-slaughter the dull 
 
 lie 
 Which snared me here, and with the brand 
 
 of shame 
 Stamp Madness deep into my memory, 
 And woo Compassion to a blighted name, 
 Sealing the sentence which my foes pro- 
 claim. 
 No — it shall be im.mortal ! and I make 
 A future temple of my present cell, 
 v. hich nations yet shall visit lor mv sake. 
 While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
 The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall 
 
 down. 
 And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearth- 
 less halls, 
 
 A poet's ivreath shall be thine onlv crown, 
 
 A poet's dungeon thy most far renown. 
 While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeo- 
 pled walls ! 
 And thou, Leonora ! thou — who w-ert 
 
 ashamed 
 That such as I could love — who blush' d to 
 
 hear 
 To less than monarchs that thou couldst be 
 
 dear. 
 Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, un- 
 tamed 
 By grief, years, weariness, — and it may be 
 
 A taint of that he would impute to me 
 
 From long infection of a den like this, 
 Where the mind rots congenial v.'ith the 
 
 abyss. 
 Adores thee still ; and add — that when the 
 
 towers 
 .Vnd battlements which guard his ioyous 
 hours 
 
ODE ON VENICE 
 
 Of banquet, ("ance, and revel, are forgot, 
 Or left untenced i i a dull repose, — 
 This, this, shall be a consecrated spot ! 
 But Thou — wLencill that Birth and beauty 
 
 throws 
 Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt 
 
 have 
 
 X39 
 
 One half the laurel which o'ershades mv 
 grave. ' 
 
 No power in death can tear our names apart 
 As none in lile could rend thee from mv 
 heart. ' 
 
 Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
 To be entwined for ever— but too late ! 
 
 ODE ON VENICE 
 
 Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble 
 walls 
 Are level with the waters, there shall be 
 A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
 
 A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
 If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
 What should thy sons do ?— any thing but 
 
 weep : 
 And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
 In contrast with their fathers — as the slime. 
 The dull green ooze of the receding deep, 
 Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam 
 That drives the sailor shipless to his home. 
 Are they to those that were ; and thus they 
 
 creep. 
 Crouching and crab-like, through their 
 
 sapping streets. 
 Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
 No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred 
 
 years 
 Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and 
 
 tears ; 
 And every monument the stranger meets. 
 Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 
 And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
 And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum. 
 With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
 The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
 The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
 That heaved beneath the moonhght with 
 
 the throng 
 Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
 Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful 
 
 deeds 
 Were but the overheating of the heart. 
 And flow of too much happiness, which 
 
 needs 
 The aid of age to turn its course apart 
 From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
 Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
 But these are better than the gloomy 
 
 errors, 
 The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
 When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd 
 
 terrors, 
 And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to 
 
 slay ; 
 And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 
 The sick man's lightning half an hour ere 
 
 death, 
 When Faintness, the last mortal birth of 
 Pain, 
 
 And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
 Of the cold staggering race which Death is 
 
 wmnmg, 
 Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse 
 
 away ; 
 Yet so relieving the o'er tortured clay, 
 To him appears renewal of his breath, 
 And freedom the mere numbness of his 
 
 chain ; 
 And then he talks of life, and how again 
 He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak, 
 And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
 And as he whispers knows not that he 
 
 gasps. 
 That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, 
 And so the film comes o'er him, and the 
 
 dizzy 
 Chamber swims round and round, and 
 
 shadows busy. 
 At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. 
 Till the last rattle chokes the strarjgled 
 
 scream. 
 And all is ice and blackness, — and the 
 
 earth 
 That which it was the moment ere our 
 
 birth. 
 
 There is no hope for nations ! — Search the 
 
 page 
 Of many thousand years — the daily 
 
 scene. 
 The flow and ebb of each reciurring age. 
 The everlasting to be which hath been, 
 Hath taught us nought, or httle : still v,-e 
 
 lean 
 On things that rot beneath our weight, and 
 
 wear 
 Our strength away in wrestling with the 
 
 air : 
 For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the 
 
 beasts 
 Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
 Are of as high an order — they must go 
 Even where their driver goads them, 
 
 though to slaughter. 
 Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as 
 
 water. 
 What have they given your children in 
 
 return ? 
 A heritage of servitude and woes, 
 A blindfold bondage, where your hire is 
 
 blows. 
 
140 
 
 ODE ON VENICE 
 
 What ! do not yet the red-hot plough- 
 shares bura, 
 O'er which vou stumble in a false ordeal, 
 And deem this proof of royalty the real ; 
 Kissing the hand that guides you to your 
 
 scars, 
 And glorying as you tread the glowing 
 
 bars ? 
 All that your sires have left you, all that 
 
 Time 
 Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, 
 Spring from a different theme ! Ye see 
 
 and read, 
 \dmire and sigh, and then succumb and 
 
 bleed ! 
 Save the few spirits who, despite of aU, 
 And worse than all, the sudden crimes 
 
 engender' d 
 By the down-thundering of the prison- wall, 
 And thirst to swallow the sweet waters 
 
 tender' d, 
 'iushing from Freedom's fountains, when 
 
 the crowd, [ 
 
 Madden'd with centuries of drought, are 
 
 loud. 
 And trample on each other to obtain 
 The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
 Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they 
 
 plough'd 
 The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow 
 
 grain, 
 'Twas not for them, their necks were too 
 
 much bow'd, 
 And their dead palates chew'd the cud of 
 
 pain : 
 Yes ! the few spirits, who, despite of deeds 
 Which they abhor, confound not with the 
 
 cause 
 Those momentary starts from Nature's 
 
 laws, 
 Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, 
 
 smite 
 But for a term, then pass, and leave the 
 
 earth 
 With all her seasons to repair the blight 
 With a few summers, and again put forth 
 Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
 For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for 
 
 thee! 
 
 Ill 
 Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers 
 With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye 
 
 sate. 
 The league of mightiest nations, in those 
 
 hours 
 When Venice was an env}', might abate, 
 But did not quench her spirit ; in her 
 
 fate 
 All were cnwTapp'd : the feasted mon- 
 
 archs knew 
 And lo'.cd their hostess, nor could learn 
 
 to il.V.O, 
 
 Althout'li they humbled — with the kingly 
 few 
 
 The raanv felt, for from all davs and climes 
 She was the voyager's worship ; even her 
 
 crimes 
 Were of the softer order— born of Love. 
 She drank no blood, nor fatteu'd on the 
 
 dead, 
 But gladden'd where her harmless con- 
 quests spread ; 
 For these restored the Cross, that from 
 
 above 
 I Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which 
 
 incessant 
 I Flew betv.'een earth and the unholy Cres- 
 I cent, 
 
 1 Which, if it waned and dwindled. Earth 
 
 may thank 
 The city it has clothed in chains, which 
 
 clank 
 Now, creakng in the ears of those who owe 
 The name of Freedom to her glorious 
 
 struggles ; 
 Yet she but shares mth them a common 
 
 woe, 
 And call'd the " kingdom " of a conquering 
 
 foe, 
 But knows what all — and, most of all, we 
 
 know — 
 With what set gilded terms a t\Tant 
 juggles ! 
 
 IV 
 
 The name of Commonwealth is past and 
 
 gone 
 O'er the three fractions of the groaning 
 
 globe ; 
 Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to 
 
 o%vn 
 A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
 Tf the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
 His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time. 
 For tjTanny of late is cunning grown, 
 And in its own good season tramples 
 
 down 
 The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime. 
 Whose vigorous offspring by dividing 
 
 ocean 
 Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
 Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, 
 
 and 
 Bequeath' d — a heritage of heart aiid hand, 
 And proud distinction from each other land. 
 Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's 
 
 motion, 
 As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
 Full of the magic of exploded science — 
 Still one great cUme, in full and free 
 
 defiance. 
 Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sub- 
 lime. 
 Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
 Her Esau-brethren that the haught^' flag, 
 The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
 -\!ay strike to those whose red right hands 
 
 have bought 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 
 
 Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still 
 
 still, for ever, ' 
 
 Better, though each man's life-blood were 
 
 a river, 
 That it should flow, and overflow, than 
 
 creep 
 Through thousand lazv channels in our 
 
 veins, 
 Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and 
 
 chains. 
 
 I4i 
 
 And moving, as a sick man in his sleep 
 Three paces, and then faltering : better be 
 Where the extinguish'd Spartans still arc 
 
 free, 
 In their proud charnel of Thermopvte 
 Ilian stagnate m our marsh,— or o'er the 
 
 deep 
 Fly, and one current to the oc.-an add 
 One spirit to the souls our fathers had'. 
 One freeman more, America, to thee ! ' 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 
 
 " 'J' J ^^^ sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 
 And coming events cast their sh,5dows before." 
 
 „„ Campbell. 
 
 DEDICATION 
 L.4DY ! if for the cold and cloudy chme, 
 
 Where I was born, but where! would not die 
 
 Of the great Poet- Sire of Italy 
 I dare to build the imitative rhyme. 
 Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
 
 Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 
 
 Fall ihort of his immortal harmony. 
 Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
 Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 
 
 Spakest ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
 Are one ; but only in the sunny South 
 
 Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd, 
 So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 
 
 Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 
 
 Ravenna, Juiit 21, iSig. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST 
 
 Once more in man's frail world ! which I 
 
 had left 
 
 So long that 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
 
 The weight of clay again, — too soon 
 
 bereft 
 
 Of the immortal vision which could heal 
 
 My earthly sorrows, and to God's own 
 
 skies 
 Lift me from that deep gulf without 
 repeal. 
 Where late my ears rung with the damned 
 cries 
 Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that 
 
 place 
 Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 
 Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
 Midst whom my own bright Beatrice 
 
 bless' d 
 My spirit with her light ; and to the base 
 Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best. 
 Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great 
 
 God! 
 Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 
 Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
 From star to star to reach the almighty 
 
 throne. 
 Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 
 
 So long hath press' d, and the cold marble 
 stone, 
 Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest iove. 
 Love so ineffable, and so alone. 
 That nought on earth could more my 
 bosom move, 
 And meeting thee in heaven was but to 
 
 meet 
 That without which my soul, like the 
 arkless dove, 
 Had wander' d still in search of, nor her 
 feet 
 Relieved her wing till found ; without 
 
 thy hght 
 My paradise had still been incomplete. 
 Since my tenth sun gave summer to my 
 sight 
 Thou wert my life, the essence of my 
 
 thought. 
 Loved ere I knew the name of love, and 
 bright 
 Still in these dim old eyes, now overwTought 
 With the world's war, and years, and 
 
 banishment, 
 And tears for thee, by other woes un 
 taught ; 
 For mine is not a nature to be bent 
 
 By tyrannous faction, and the brawlins 
 crowd. 
 
142 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 
 
 And though the long, long conflict hath 
 been spent 
 In vain, — and never more, save when the 
 cloud 
 Which overhangs the Apennine ray 
 
 mind's eye 
 Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 
 Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
 Unto my native soil, — they have not yet 
 Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stem and 
 high. 
 But the sun, though not overcast, must set, 
 And the night cometh ; I am old in days. 
 And deeds, and contemplation, and have 
 met 
 Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
 The world hath left me, what it found 
 
 me, pure, 
 And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 
 I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
 
 Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my 
 
 name 
 May form a monument not all obscure, 
 Though such was not my ambition's end or 
 aim. 
 To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
 Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 
 And make men's fickle breath the wind 
 that blows 
 Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
 With conquerors, and virtue's other 
 foes, 
 In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
 
 I would have had my Florence great and 
 
 free ; 
 Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou 
 wast 
 Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty 
 He 
 Wept over, " but thou wouldst not ; " as 
 
 the bird 
 Gathers its young, I would have 
 gather'd thee 
 Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
 My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and 
 
 fierce. 
 Against the breast that cherish'd thee 
 was stirr'd 
 Thy venom, and my state thou didst 
 amerce, 
 And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
 Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 
 To him who ior that country would expire. 
 But did not merit to expire by her, 
 And loves her, lo\'es her e\'en in her ire. 
 The day may come when she will cease to 
 err. 
 The day may come she would be proud 
 
 to have 
 The dust she dooms to scatter, and trans- 
 fer 
 Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
 But this shall not be granted ; let mv 
 dust 
 
 Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soii 
 which gave 
 Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
 Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so re- 
 assume 
 My indignant bones, because her angry 
 gust 
 Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 
 No, — she denied me what was mine — my 
 
 root. 
 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 tempta- 
 tion proof, 
 The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and 
 each part 
 Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
 For his reward the Queue's ascendant art 
 Pass his destruction even into a law. 
 These things are not made for forgetful- 
 
 ness, 
 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 injus'tice 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 Minturns's 
 marsh [bum 
 
 And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may 
 At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 
 And sometimes the last pangs of a vile 
 
 foe 
 Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er- 
 arch 
 My brow with hopes of triumph, — ^let 
 them go ! 
 Such are the last infirmities of those 
 \\"ho long have suffer'd more than mortal 
 woe, 
 .\ad yet being mortal still, have no repose 
 But on the pillow of Revenge — Re- 
 venge, 
 Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waif- 
 ing glows 
 With the oft-bafBed, slakeless thirst of 
 change. 
 When we shall mount again, and thev 
 
 that trod 
 Be trampled on, while Death and Ate 
 range 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DAKTE 
 
 143 
 
 O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks 
 
 Great God ! 
 Take these thoughts from me — to thy 
 
 hSnds I yield 
 My many wrongs, and thine almighty 
 rod 
 Will fall on those who smote me, — be my 
 shield ! 
 As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 
 In turbulent cities, and the tented field- 
 In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
 For Florence, — I appeal from her to 
 
 Thee ! 
 
 Thee, whom I late saw in thy loltiest 
 
 reign, 
 
 Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
 
 And live was never granted until now, 
 
 And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 
 
 Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 
 
 The sense of earth and earthly things 
 
 come back, 
 Corrosive passions, feeUngs dull and low. 
 The heart's quick throb upon the mental 
 rack, 
 Long day, and dreary night ; the retro- 
 — spect 
 
 Of half a century bloody and black, 
 And the frail few years I may yet expect 
 Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to 
 
 bear, 
 For I have been too long and deeply 
 wTeck'd 
 On the lone rock of desolate Despair, 
 To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
 Which shuns that reef so horrible and 
 bare ; 
 Nor raise my voice — for who would heed 
 my wail ? 
 I am not of this people, nor this age, 
 And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
 Which shall preserve these times when not 
 a page 
 OS their perturbed annals could attract 
 An eve to gaze upon their civil rage, 
 Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
 Worthless as they who wrought it : 'tis 
 
 the doom 
 Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 
 In life, to wear their hearts out, and con- 
 sume 
 Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
 Then future thousands crowd around 
 their tomb. 
 And pilgrims come from climes where they 
 have known 
 The name of him — who now is but a 
 
 name. 
 
 And wasting homage o'er the sullen 
 
 stone, ! 
 
 Spread his — ^by him unheard, unheeded — ; 
 
 fame ; 1 
 
 And mine at least hath cost me dear : to 1 
 
 die 
 Is nothing ; but to wither thus — to tamf 
 
 My mind down from its own infinity — 
 
 To live in narrow ways with little men, 
 
 A common sight to every common eye, 
 
 A wanderer, while even wolves can find a 
 
 den, 
 
 Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, 
 
 all things 
 That ■ make communion sweet, and 
 soften pain — 
 To feel me in the solitude of kings 
 
 Without the power that makes them bear 
 
 a crown — 
 To envy every dove his nest and ivings 
 Which waft him where the Apennine looks 
 down 
 On Amo, till he perches, it may be. 
 Within my all inexorable town, 
 ^^■here yet my boys are, and that fatal she. 
 Their mother, the cold partner who hath 
 
 brought 
 Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
 And feel, and know without repair, hath 
 taught 
 A bitter lesson : but it leaves me free : 
 I have not vilely found, nor basely 
 sought. 
 They made an Exile — not a slave of me. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND 
 
 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 be- 
 hold 
 Their children's children's doom already 
 brought 
 Forth from the abyss of time which is to 
 
 be. 
 The chaos of events, where He half- 
 ■ivrought 
 Shapes that must undergo mortahty ; 
 What the great Seers of Israel wore with- 
 in. 
 That spirit was on them, and is on me, 
 And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 
 Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 
 This voice from out the Wilderness, the 
 sin 
 Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
 The only guerdon I have ever known. 
 Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still 
 to bleed, 
 Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, fore- 
 shown 
 With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
 In thine irreparable u-rongs my own ; 
 'We can have but one country, and even yet 
 ' Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be v.ithin 
 thy breast, 
 My soul within thy language, which once 
 
 \\'ith'^our old Roman sway in the wide 
 West ; 
 
144 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 
 
 But I will make another tongue arise 
 As lofty and more sweet, in which ex- 
 press' d 
 The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs. 
 Shall find alike such sounds for every 
 
 theme 
 That every word, as brilliant as thy 
 skies. 
 Shall realise a poet's proudest dream. 
 And make thee Europe's nightingale of 
 
 song ; 
 So that all present speech to thine shall 
 seem 
 The note of meaner birds, and every 
 tongue 
 Confess its barbarism when compared 
 
 with thine. 
 This Shalt thou owe to him thou didst 
 so wTong, 
 Thy Tuscan bard, thebanish'dGhibelline. 
 Woe ! woe ! the veil of coming centuries 
 Is rent, — a thousand years which yet 
 supine 
 Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise. 
 Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
 Float from eternity into these eyes ; 
 The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep 
 tkeir station. 
 The unborn earthquake yet is in the 
 
 womb, 
 The bloody chaos yet expects creation. 
 But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
 The elements await but for the word, 
 " Let there be darkness ! " and thou 
 grow'st a tomb ! 
 Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the 
 
 sword. 
 Thou, Italy?! so fair that Paradise, 
 
 Revived in thee, blooms forth to man 
 restored : 
 Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
 Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 
 Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would 
 suffice 
 For the world's granary ; thou, whose sky 
 heaven gilds 
 With brighter stars, and robes with 
 
 deepsr blue ; 
 Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer 
 builds 
 Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew, 
 And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
 From spoils of kings whom freemen 
 overthrew ; 
 Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 
 Where earthly first, then heavenly 
 
 glory made 
 Her home ; thou, all which fondest 
 fancy paints. 
 And finds her prior vision but portray'd 
 In feeble colours, when the e\e — from the 
 
 Alp 
 Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy 
 shade 
 
 Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
 Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er 
 
 thee. 
 And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for 
 help 
 To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
 
 Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
 The more approach' d, and dearest were 
 they free. 
 Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's 
 wiU : 
 The God hath been, — the German, 
 
 Frank, and Hun 
 Are yet to come, — and on the imperial 
 hill 
 Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
 By the old barbarians, there awaits the 
 
 new. 
 Throned on the Palatine, while lost and 
 won 
 Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
 Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
 Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 
 And deepens into red the saffron water 
 Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless 
 
 priest, 
 And still more helpless nor less holy 
 daughter, 
 Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, 
 and ceased 
 Their ministry : the nations take their 
 
 prey, 
 Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 
 And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane 
 than they 
 Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap 
 
 the gore 
 Of the departed, and then go their way ; 
 But those, the human savages, explore 
 All paths of torture, and insatiate yet. 
 With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 
 Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this 
 and set ; 
 The chiefless army of the dead, which 
 
 late 
 Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met. 
 Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
 Had but the royal Rebel hved. perchance 
 Thou hadst been spared, but his involved 
 thy fate. 
 Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of 
 France, 
 From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, 
 
 never 
 Shall foreign standard to thy walls ad- 
 \'ance, 
 But Tiber shall become a mournful river 
 Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps 
 and Po, ^ 
 
 Crush them, ye rocks! floods whelm 
 them, and for e\-er ! 
 ^^■h^• sleep the idle avalanches so 
 
 To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
 .\hy doth Enianus but overflow 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DAIN'TE 
 
 145 
 
 The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
 Were not each barbarous horde a nobler 
 
 prey ? 
 Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 
 Her sandy ocean, and the sea-waves' sway 
 Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, 
 
 — why. 
 Mountains and waters, do ye not as 
 they ? 
 And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare 
 not die. 
 Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
 Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, 
 where yet Ke 
 The dead whose tomb Oblivion never 
 knew, 
 Are the Alps weaker than Thermopyla; ? 
 Their passes more alhu*ing to the view 
 Of an invader ? is it they, or ye, 
 That to each host the mountain-gate 
 
 unbar, 
 And leave the march in peace, the pas- 
 sage free ? 
 Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car. 
 Arid makes your land impregnable, if 
 
 earth 
 Could be so ; but alone she will not war, 
 Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 
 In a soil where the mothers bring forth 
 
 men : 
 Not so with those v/hose souls are little 
 worth ; 
 For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
 Of the poor reptile which preserves its 
 
 sting 
 Is more secure than walls of adamant, 
 when 
 The hearts of those within are quivering. 
 Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Auso- 
 
 nian 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 woe 
 And weakness, till the stranger reaps the j 
 spoil. 
 Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid 
 low. 
 So long the grave of thy own children's 
 
 hopes. 
 When there is but required a single blow ; 
 To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger 
 stops, { 
 
 And Doubt and Discord step twixt thine ] 
 
 and thee, 
 And join their strength to that which 
 with thee copes ; 
 What is there wanting then to set thee 
 free, ! 
 
 And show thy beauty in its fullest ligh.t ? 
 To make the Alps- impassable ; and we, | 
 
 Her sons, may do this with one deed 
 
 Unite. i 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD 
 
 From out the mass of never-dying ill 
 The Plague, the Prince, the Stranccr 
 
 and the Sword, '' 
 
 \'ials 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 nr,t afford 
 Space for the annal, yet it shaU go forth : 
 Yes, all, though not by human pen, is 
 
 graven. 
 There where the farthest suns and stars 
 have birth, 
 Spread hke a banner at the gate of hoavr-n, 
 The bloody scroll of our millenniaj 
 
 wrongs 
 Waves, and the echo of our groans is ■ 
 driven 
 Athwart the jound of archangehc songs. 
 And Italy, the mart\T'd nation's gore. 
 Will not in \'ain arise to where belongs 
 Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 
 
 Like to a harpstring stricken by the ivind, 
 The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
 The seraph voices, touch the .■^lmigbt\' 
 Mind. 
 Meantime I, humblest of tbv sons, and of 
 Earth's dust by iramortahty refuiod 
 To sense and suffering, though the vain 
 may scoff, 
 And tyrants threat, and meeker victims 
 
 bow 
 Before the storm because its breath is 
 rough, 
 To thee, my country ! whom before, as 
 now, 
 I loved and love, devote the mournful 
 
 lyre 
 And melancholy gift high powers allow 
 To read the future ; and if now my fire 
 Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
 I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 
 Think not that I would look on them and 
 live. 
 A spirit forces me to see and speak. 
 And for my guerdon grants not to sur- 
 vive ; 
 My heart shall be pour'd over thee and 
 break : 
 Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
 Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 
 Over the gleams that flash athwart thy 
 gloom 
 A softer glimpse ; some stars shine 
 
 through thy night. 
 And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
 Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death 
 cannot blight : 
 And from thine ashes boundless spirits 
 
 rise 
 To give thee honour, and the earth 
 delight : 
 
146 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANXfi 
 
 Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the 
 wise, 
 The gay, the learn' d, the generous, and 
 
 the brave, 
 Natixe to thee as summer to thy skies, 
 Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far 
 wave. 
 Discoverers of new worlds, which take 
 
 their name ; 
 Tor thee alone they have no arm to save, 
 And all thv recompense is in their fame, 
 A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
 Shall they be glorious, and thou still the 
 same ? 
 Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
 The being — and even yet he may be 
 
 born — 
 The mortal saviour who shall set thee 
 free. 
 And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 
 By fresh barbarians, on thy brow re- 
 placed ; 
 And the sweet sim replenishing thy 
 morn, 
 Thy moral mom, too long with clouds 
 defaced. 
 And noxious vapours from Avernus 
 
 risen, 
 Such as all they must brealhe who are 
 debased 
 By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
 Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 
 Some voices shall be heard, and earth 
 shall listen ; 
 Poets shall follow in the path I show, 
 And make it broader : the same brilliant 
 
 sky 
 Which cheers the birds to song shall bid 
 them glow. 
 And raise their notes as natural and high : 
 Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they 
 
 shall sing 
 Many of love, and some of liberty. 
 But few shall soar upon that eagle's wijig. 
 And look in the sun's face with eagle's 
 
 gaze, 
 All free and fearless as the feather'd king, 
 But fly more near the earth ; how many a 
 phrase 
 Sublime shall lavish'd be on some 
 
 small prince 
 In all the prodigality of praise ! 
 And language, eloquently false, evince 
 The harlotry of . genius, which, like 
 
 beauty, 
 Too oft forgets its own self-re^-erence. 
 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 — 
 
 The soul's emasculation saddens all 
 His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the 
 throne 
 Quails from his inspiration, bound to 
 
 please, — 
 How servile is the task to please alone ! 
 To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's 
 ease 
 And ro\-al leisure, nor too much prolong 
 Aught save his eulogy, and find, and 
 seize. 
 Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 
 Thiis trammell'd, thus condemn'd to 
 
 Flatterv's trebles, 
 He toils through all, still trembling to be 
 \\Tong : 
 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 mil 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 immortahty of tears. 
 And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
 Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 
 Of Freedom ivreathe 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 \vrong 
 Till they are ashes, and repose w-ith me. 
 The first will make an epoch with his 
 
 lyre. 
 And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
 His fancy hke a rainbow, and his fire. 
 Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his 
 
 thought 
 Borne onward with a -wvag that cannot 
 tire ; 
 Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 
 Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 
 And .Art itself seem into Nature ^vrought 
 By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
 The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
 Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
 He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian 
 blood 
 Shed where Christ bled for man ; and 
 
 his high harp 
 Shall, by the willow o^•cr Jordan's flood, 
 Re\i\-e a song of Sion, and the sharp 
 Conflict, and final triumph of the bra-i-e 
 And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 
 
 147 
 
 Their hearts from their great purpose, until 
 wave 
 The red-cross banners where the first red 
 
 Cross 
 Was crimson'd from his veins who died 
 to save, 
 Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
 Of years, of favour, freedom, even of 
 
 fame 
 Contested for a time, while the smooth 
 gloss 
 Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten 
 name 
 And call captivity a kindness, meant 
 To shield him from insanity or shame, 
 Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was 
 sent 
 To be Christ's Laureate — they reward 
 
 him well ! 
 Florence dooms me but death or banish- 
 ment, 
 Ferrara him a pittance and a cell. 
 Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
 Had stung the factions which I strove to 
 quell ; 
 But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
 Will look on earth and heaven, and who 
 
 will deign 
 To embalm with his celestial flattery, 
 As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to 
 reign. 
 What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
 Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in 
 vain 
 Torture enough without a Uving tomb ? 
 Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
 The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 
 In penury and pain too many a year. 
 And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
 To the kind world, which scarce \-i-ill 
 yield a tear 
 A heritage enriching aU who breathe 
 With the wealth of a genume poet's soul. 
 And to their country a redoubled wreath, 
 Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 
 Through her olympiads two such names, 
 
 though one 
 Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the 
 whole 
 Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
 Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling 
 
 The electric blood with which their 
 arteries run, 
 Their body's self turned soul with the 
 intense 
 
 Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
 
 That which should be, to such a recom- 
 pense 
 Conduct ? shall their 'Dright plumage on the 
 ■ rough 
 
 Storm be still scatter'd ? Yes, and it 
 must be ; 
 
 For form'd of far too penetrable stuff. 
 
 These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
 Back to their native mansion, soon thev 
 
 find 
 Earth's mist with their pure pinions not 
 agree. 
 And die or are degraded ; for the mind 
 Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
 And vulture passions flying close behind. 
 Await the moment to assail and tear ; 
 And when at length the winged wanderers 
 
 stoop, 
 Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then 
 they share 
 The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one 
 fell swoop. 
 Yet some have been untouch' d who 
 
 leam'd to bear, 
 Some whom no power could ever force 
 to droop, 
 Who could resist themselves even, hardest 
 care ! 
 And task most hopeless ; but some such 
 
 have been, 
 And if my name amongst the number 
 were, 
 That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
 Were prouder than more dazzling fame 
 
 unbless'd ; 
 The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is 
 seen 
 Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest. 
 Whose splendour from the black abyss is 
 
 flung. 
 While the scorch'd mountain, from 
 whose burning breast 
 A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 
 Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
 Its fire back to the hell from whence it 
 sprung, 
 The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH 
 
 M.^lXY are poets who have never penn'd 
 Their inspiration, and perchance the 
 
 best; 
 They felt, and loved, and died, but would 
 not lend 
 Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they 
 compress' d 
 The god within them, and rejoin'd the 
 
 stars 
 Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more 
 bless' d 
 Than those who are degraded by the jars 
 Of passion, and their frailties link'd 
 
 to fame. 
 Conquerors of high renown, but full of 
 scars. 
 Many are poets but without the name, 
 For what is poesy but to create 
 From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 
 At an external life beyond our fate, 
 
 And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 
 
 Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, 
 too late. 
 Finding tlie pleasure given repaid with pain, 
 And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
 Who, having lavish'd his high gift in 
 vain, 
 Lies chain' d to his lone rock by the sea- 
 shore ? 
 So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
 Whose intellect is an o'ermastering 
 power 
 Which still recoils from its encumbering 
 clay 
 Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
 The form which their creations may 
 essay, 
 Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may 
 wear 
 More poesy upon its speaking brow 
 Than aught less than the Homeric page 
 may bear ; 
 One noble stroke with a whole life may 
 glow. 
 Or deify the canvass till it shine 
 With beauty so surpassing all below, 
 That they who kneel to idols so divine 
 Br»ak no commandment, for high heaven 
 
 is there 
 Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 
 Of poesy, which peoples but the air 
 
 With thought and beings of oxn: thought 
 
 reflected. 
 Can do no more : then let the artist share 
 The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
 Faints o'er the labour unapproved — 
 
 Alas! 
 Despair and Genius are too oft con- 
 nected. 
 Within the ages which before me pass 
 Art shall resume and equal even the 
 
 sway 
 Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
 She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
 Ye shall be taug;ht by Ruin to revive 
 The Grecian forms at least from their 
 decay. 
 And Roman souls at last again shall live 
 In Roman works wrought by Italian 
 
 hands, 
 And temples, loftier than the old temples 
 give 
 N'ew wonders to the world ; and while still 
 stands 
 The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall 
 soar 
 n Jorne,' its image, while the base expands 
 Into a fane surpassing all before, 
 Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : 
 
 ne'er 
 Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 
 As this, to which all nations shall repair 
 And lay their sins at this huge gate of 
 
 heaven. 
 And the bold Architect unto whose care 
 
 The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
 Whom all hearts shall acknowledge as 
 
 their lord, 
 Whether into the marble chaos driven 
 His chisel bid the Hebrew,^ at whose word 
 Israel left Eg^'pt, stop the waves in stone, 
 Or hues of Hell be by his pencil pour'd 
 Over the damn'd before the Judgment- 
 throne, 3 
 Such as I saw them, such as all shall see. 
 Or fanes be built of grandeur yet un- 
 known. 
 The stream of his great thoughts shall 
 spring from me. 
 The Ghibelline, who traversed the three 
 
 realms 
 Which form the empire of eternity. 
 Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of 
 
 helms, 
 The age which I anticipate, no less 
 
 Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while 
 whelms, 
 Calamity the nations with distress, 
 The genius of my country shall arise, 
 A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 
 Lovely in all its branches to all eyes. 
 Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar. 
 Wafting its native incense through the 
 skies. 
 Sovereigns shall pause amidst their spoit 
 of war, 
 Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn 
 
 and gaze 
 On canvass or on stone ; and they who 
 mar 
 All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 
 Shall feel the power of that which they 
 
 destroy ; 
 And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 
 To t)Tants who but take her for a tov, 
 Emblems and monuments, and prosti- 
 tute 
 Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but 
 employ 
 The man of genius as the meanest brute 
 To bear a burthen, and to ser\'e a need, 
 To sell his labours, and his soul to boot. 
 Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. 
 But free : who sweats for monarchs is no 
 
 more 
 Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed 
 and fee'd. 
 Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his 
 door. 
 Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest ! how 
 Is it that they on earth,whose earthlv 
 power 
 Is likest thine in heaven in outward show- 
 Least like to thee in attributes di\'ine ' 
 Tread on the universal necks that bow 
 And then assure us that their rights ie 
 thine ? 
 And how is it that they, the sons of fame 
 Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 
 
THE MORGANTE IvIAGGIORE 
 
 149 
 
 From high, they whom the nations oftest 
 name, 
 Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
 Or step to grandeur through the paths 
 of shame 
 And wear a deeper brand and gaudier 
 chain ? 
 Or if their destiny be born aloof 
 From lowliness, or tempted thence in 
 vain. 
 In their own souls sustain a harder proof. 
 The inner war of passions deep and 
 
 fierce ? 
 Florence ! when thy harsh sentence 
 razed my roof, 
 I loved thee ; ' but the vengeance of my 
 verse. 
 The hate of injuries which every year 
 Makes greater, and accumulates my 
 curse. 
 Shall live, outliving all thou boldest 
 dear. 
 Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, 
 
 and even thai, 
 The most infernal of all evils here. 
 The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
 For such sway is not Umited to kings. 
 And demagogues yield to them but in 
 date. 
 As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things. 
 Which make men hate themselves, and 
 
 one another. 
 In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that 
 springs 
 From Death the Sin-born' s incest with his 
 mother. 
 In rank oppression in its rudest shape. 
 The faction Chief is but the Sultan's 
 brother. 
 
 And the worst despot's far less human ape. 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit, which 
 
 so long 
 Yearn'd, as the captive toiling at escape. 
 To fly back to thee in despite of \vrong. 
 An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 
 Who has the whole world for a dungeon 
 strong. 
 Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge 
 for bars. 
 Which shut him fi'om the sole small spot 
 
 of earth 
 Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still 
 were hers, [birth — 
 
 His country's, and might die where he had 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit shall 
 return [worth. 
 
 To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my 
 And seek to honour with an empty urn 
 The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas! 
 " What have I done to thee, my people?" 
 Stem 
 Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
 The limits of man's common malice, for 
 All that a citizen could be I was ; 
 Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or 
 war. 
 And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 
 
 'Tis done : 
 I may not overleap the eternal bar 
 Built up between us, and will die alone. 
 Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 
 The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, 
 Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 
 As in the old time, till the hour be come 
 When Truth shall strike their eyes 
 through many a tear. 
 And make them own the Prophet in his 
 tomb. 
 
 THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 OF PULCI 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST 
 
 I 
 In the beginning was the Word next God ; 
 God was the Word, the Word no less was 
 he: 
 This was in the beginnmg, to my mode 
 Of' thinking, and without him nought 
 could be : , . • , 
 
 Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high 
 abode. 
 Benign and pious, bid an angel flee. 
 One only, to be my companion, who 
 Shall help my famous worthy, old song 
 through, 
 
 II 
 And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, 
 bride, ,, , ^ , 
 
 Of the same Lord, who gave to you each 
 
 key 
 
 Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside. 
 The day thy Gabriel said " All hail ! " 
 to thee. 
 Since to thy servants pity's ne'er denied. 
 With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style 
 and free, 
 Be to my verses then benignly kind. 
 And to the end illuminate my mind. 
 
 'Twas in the season when sad Philomel 
 Weeps with her sister, who remembers 
 and 
 Deplores the ancient woes which both betel, 
 And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to 
 the hand 
 Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 
 His car (but tcmper'd by his sire's com- 
 mand) 
 
150 
 
 THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 Was given, and on the horizon's verge 
 
 just now 
 Appear' d, so that Tithonus scratch'd his 
 
 brow : 
 
 IV 
 
 When I prepared my bark first to obey, 
 As it should stiil obey, the helm, my 
 mind. 
 And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
 Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will 
 find 
 By several pens already praised ; but they 
 
 Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 
 For all that I can see in prose or verse. 
 Have understood Charles badly, and -HTOte 
 worse. 
 
 ^" 
 Leonardo Aretino said already , 
 That if, hke Pepin, Charles had had a 
 writer 
 Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 
 
 No hero would in history look brighter ; 
 He in the cabinet being always ready. 
 
 And in the field a most victorious fighter. 
 Who for the church and Christian faith 
 
 had wrought, 
 Certes, far more than yet is said or thought. 
 
 VI 
 
 You still may see at St. Liberatore, 
 
 The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 
 
 Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory. 
 
 Because of the great battle in which fell 
 
 A pagan king, according to the story. 
 And felon people whom Charles sent to 
 hell: 
 
 And there are bones so many, and so many. 
 
 Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if 
 any. 
 
 VII 
 
 But the world, blind and ignorant, don't 
 prize 
 His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 
 Florence, by his great bounty don't arise. 
 And hast, and may have, if thou wilt 
 allow. 
 All proper customs and true courtesies : 
 Whate'er thou hast acquired from then 
 till now, [lance, 
 
 With knightly courage, treasure, or the 
 Is sprung from out the noble blood of 
 France. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of 
 whom 
 The wisest and most famous was Or- 
 lando ; 
 Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
 In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd 
 too. 
 While the hom rang so loud, and knell'd 
 the doom 
 Of their sad rout, though he did all 
 knight can do : 
 
 And Dante in his comedy has gi\'en 
 To him a happy seat with Charles in 
 heaven. 
 
 •Twas Christmas-day ; in Paris all his 
 court 
 Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando 
 was, 
 The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort. 
 
 Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 
 In festival and in triumphal sport. 
 The much-renown'd St. Dennis being 
 the cause ; 
 Angiohn of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
 And gentle Belinghieri too came there ; 
 
 Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 
 
 Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
 Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, 
 Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldo\'in, 
 Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
 Were there, exciting too much gladness 
 in 
 The son of Pepin : — when his knights came 
 
 hither. 
 He groan'd with joy to see them all to- 
 gether. 
 
 XI 
 
 But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good 
 heed 
 Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to 
 bring. 
 While Charles reposed him thus, in. word 
 and deed, 
 Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every 
 thing ; 
 Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such 
 need 
 To vent his spite, that thus with Charles 
 the king 
 One day he openly began to say, 
 ' ' Orlando must we always then obey ? 
 
 " A thousand times I've been about to say, 
 
 Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
 Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to oivn 
 thy sway, 
 Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
 Each have to honour thee and to obey ; 
 But he has too much credit near the 
 throne. 
 Which we won't suffer, but are quite 
 
 decided 
 By such a boy to be no longer guided. 
 
 " And e\-en at Aspramont thou did^t begin 
 To let him know he was a gallant knight, 
 
 And by the fount did much the day to win ■ 
 But I know xi'ho that dav had won the 
 fight 
 
The morgante maggiore 
 
 151 
 
 If it had net for good Gherardo been ; 
 The victory was Almonte's else ; his 
 sight 
 He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 
 In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 
 
 "If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
 When there advanced the nations out of 
 Spain, 
 The Christian cause had sufter'd shame- 
 fully. 
 Had not his valour driven them back 
 again. 
 Best speak the truth when there's a reason 
 why: ' 
 
 Know then, oh Emperor ! that all com- 
 plain : 
 As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 
 O'er which I cross'd with two and sixty 
 counts. 
 
 / XV 
 
 '"Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense 
 relief, 
 So that each here may have his proper 
 part, 
 For the whole court is more or less'in grief : 
 Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in 
 hedrt ? " 
 Orlando one day heatd this speech in brief. 
 As by himself it chanced he sate apart ; 
 Displeased he was with Gan because he 
 
 said it. 
 But much more still that Charles should 
 give him credit. 
 
 ^ XVI 
 
 And with the sword he would have mur- 
 ,der'd Gan, 
 But Oliver thrust in between the pair. 
 And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
 
 And thus at length they separated were, 
 Orlando angry too with Carloraan, 
 
 Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
 Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 
 And burst and madden'd with disdain and 
 grief. 
 
 Xvii 
 From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
 
 He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 
 And on towards Brara pr.ck'd him o'er the 
 plain ; 
 ' And when she saw him coming, Alda- 
 belle 
 Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord 
 agcin: 
 Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 
 As "Welcome, my Orlando, home," she 
 
 said, . 
 
 Raised Up his sword to smite her on the 
 head. 
 
 xvili 
 Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
 On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 
 
 Which Aldabella thought extremely 
 f strange ; 
 
 But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 
 And his spouse took his' bridle on this 
 change. 
 And he dismounted from his horse, and 
 spake 
 Of every thing which pass'd without demur, 
 And then reposecl himself some days with 
 her. 
 
 Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
 As far as pagan countries roam'd astray. 
 
 And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
 The traitor Gan reraember'd by the way ; 
 
 And wandering on in error a long space, 
 An abbey which in"a lone desert lay, 
 
 'iUidst glens obscure, and distant lands, 
 he found, 
 
 Which form'd the Christian's and the 
 pagan's bound. 
 
 The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by 
 blood 
 Descended from Angrante : under cover 
 Of a great mountain s brow the abbey 
 stood. 
 But certain savage giants look'd him 
 over ; 
 One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
 
 And Alabaster and, Morgante hover 
 Second and third, with certain slings, and 
 
 throw 
 In daily jeopardy the place below. 
 
 XXI 
 
 The monks could pass the convent gate no 
 more. 
 Nor leave their cells for water or for 
 wood ; 
 Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, 
 before 
 Unto the prior it at length seem d good ; 
 Enter'd, he said that he was taught to 
 adore , ,, , . ,■ ^ 
 
 Him who was bom of Mary's holiest 
 blood, . , , ;, 
 
 And was baptized a Christian ; and then 
 
 show'd 
 How to the abbey he had found his road. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what 
 is mine ^ ,. 
 
 We give you freely, since that you believe 
 With us in Mary Mother's S m divine ; 
 
 And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
 The cause of oiu: delay to let you in 
 
 To be rusticity, you shall receive 
 The reason why our gate was barr d to you : 
 Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 
 
152 
 
 THE MORGAXTE MAGGIORE 
 
 XXIII 
 
 " When hither to inhabit first we came 
 These mountains, albeit that they are 
 obscure, 
 As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
 They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 
 From savage brutes alone, too fierce to 
 tame, 
 'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 
 But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must 
 
 guard 
 Against domestic beasts with watch and 
 ward. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 " These make us stand, in fact, upon the 
 watch : 
 For late there have appear'd three giants 
 rough ; 
 What nation or what kingdom bore the 
 batch 
 I know not, but they are all of savage 
 stuff; 
 When force and malice "with some genius 
 match. 
 You know, they can do all — we are not 
 enough ; 
 And these so much our orisons derange, 
 I know not what to do, till matters change . 
 
 " Our ancient fathers li\'ing the desert in, 
 For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
 Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis 
 certain 
 That manna wasrain'd doAvn from heaven 
 instead ; 
 But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in 
 Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd 
 down for bread. 
 From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
 And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 
 
 " The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; 
 he 
 Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, 
 and oaks, 
 And flings them, our community to burv ; 
 And all that I can do but more provokes." 
 While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
 
 A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 
 Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came 
 
 tumbling over. 
 So that he took a long leap under cover. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 " For God-sake, cavalier, come in with 
 speed ; 
 The manna's falling now," the abbot 
 cried. 
 " This fellow does not wish my horsL' 
 should feed, 
 Pear abbot." Roland unto him replied. 
 
 "Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need ; 
 That stone seems with good will and aim 
 applied." 
 The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 
 They'll one day fling the mountain, I 
 believe." 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
 And also made a breakfast of his own ; 
 " Abbot," he said, " I want to find that 
 fellow 
 Who flung at my good horse yon corner- 
 stone." 
 Said the abbot, ' ' Let not my advice seem 
 shallow ; 
 As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
 I would dissuade you, baron, from this 
 
 strife, 
 As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 " That Passamont has in his hand three 
 darts — 
 Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that 
 yield you must : 
 You know that giants have much stouter 
 hearts 
 Than us, with reason, in proportion just : 
 If go you will, guard well against their arts, 
 F'or these are %-ery barbarous and ro- 
 bust." 
 Orlando answered. "This I'll see, be sure, 
 -\nd walk the wild on foot to be seciure." 
 
 x.xx 
 The abbot sigu'd the great cross on his 
 front, 
 "Then go you with God's beuison and 
 mine : " 
 Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, 
 
 .As the abbot had directed, kept the line 
 Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
 
 Who, seeing him alone in this design. 
 Survey'd him fore and aft with eves obser- 
 vant. 
 Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stav as 
 servant ? " 
 
 -X.X.XI 
 
 And promised him an office of great ease 
 
 But said Orlando. " Saracen insane '~ 
 I come to kill you, if it shall so please 
 God, not to serve as footbov in vour 
 train ; 
 You with his monks so oft have broke the 
 peace — 
 Vile dog ! 'tis past his patience to sus^ 
 tarn." 
 The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite 
 
 furious, ' 
 
 When he received an ans^ver so injurious. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 .And being retum'd to where Orlando stood 
 
 W ho had not moved him from the soot 
 
 and swingmg ' 
 
THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 '53 
 
 The ccrd, he hurl'd a stone with strength so j 
 
 rude, 
 
 As show'd a sample of his sliill in slinging; ! 
 
 It roU'd on Count Orlando's helmet good | 
 
 And head, and set both head and helmet i 
 
 ringing, 1 
 
 So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died, ' 
 
 But more than dead, he seem'd so stupefied. | 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Then Passamont, who thought him slain 
 outright, 
 
 Said, "I vnW go, and while he lies along, 
 Disarm me ; why such craven did I fight ? " 
 
 But Christ his servants ne'er abandons 
 long, 
 Especially Orlando, such a kmght, 
 
 As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
 While the giant goes to put off his defences. 
 Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 And loud he shouted, " Giant, w'here dost 
 go ? 
 Thou thought'st me doubtless for the 
 bier outlaid ; 
 To the right about — without wings thou'rt 
 too slow 
 To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ? 
 'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st mc 
 low."' 
 
 And 
 
 The giant his astonishment betray'd. 
 ad tum'd about, and stopp'd his joum 
 
 And then he stoop'd to pick up a great 
 stone. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ; 
 To split the head in twain was what he 
 schemed : 
 Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 
 And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd, 
 Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he 
 bann'd. 
 And most devoutly Macon still blas- 
 phemed ; 
 But while his crude, rude blasphemies he 
 
 heard, 
 Orlando thank'd the Father and the 
 Word,— 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Saying, "What grace to me thou'st th.is 
 
 dav given ! 
 
 And I to thee, O Lord ! am ever bound. 
 
 I know my life was saved by thee from 
 
 heaven, , . , , ,j 
 
 Since by the giant I was fairly down d. 
 
 All things by thee are measured just and 
 
 Our power without thine aid would 
 nought be found : 
 I prav thee take heed of me, till I can __ 
 A* least return once more to Carloman. 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 XX.XVII 
 
 And having said thus much, he went hi3 
 way ; 
 And Alabaster he found out below. 
 Doing the very best that in him lay 
 
 To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
 Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan 
 say, 
 " How think'st thou, glutton, such a 
 stone to throw ? " 
 When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
 He suddenly betook him to his sling. 
 
 .X.XXVIII 
 
 And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
 That if it had in fact fulfiU'd its mission. 
 
 And Roland not avail'd him of his targe. 
 There would have been no need of a 
 physician. 
 
 Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
 And in his bulky bosom made incision 
 
 With all his sword. The lout fell ; but o'er- 
 thrown, he 
 
 However by no means forgot Macone. 
 
 XXXI.X 
 
 Morgante had a palace in his mode, 
 
 Compos'd of branches, logs of wood, and 
 earth. 
 And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode. 
 And shut himself at night within his 
 berth. 
 Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to 
 goad 
 The giant from his sleep ; and he came 
 forth, 
 The door to open, like a crazy thmg. 
 For a rough dream had shook him 
 slumbering. 
 
 He thought that a fierce serpent had 
 attack'd him ; 
 And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 
 Is nothing worth, and not an instant 
 back'd him ; 
 But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
 At liberty from all the fears which rack d 
 him ; 
 And to the gate he came with great 
 
 " Who^knocks here ? " grumbling all the 
 while, said he. - . 
 
 "That," said Orlando, "you mil quickly 
 see : 
 
 XLI 
 
 "I come to preach to you, as to your 
 brothers. 
 Sent by the miserable monks— repent- 
 ance ; . »!,„_- 
 For Providence divine, m yuu and other=. 
 Condemns the evil done m y new acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 M 
 
154 
 
 TPIE MOP-GANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 'Tis writ on high — your wrong must pay 
 another's : 
 From heaven itself is issued out this 
 sentence. 
 
 Know then, that colder now than a pilas- 
 ter 
 
 I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 
 
 Morgante said, " Oh gentle cavalier ! 
 
 Now by thy God say me no villainy ; 
 The favour of your name I fain would hear, 
 
 And if a Christian, speak for courtesy-" 
 Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 
 
 I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
 Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
 /aid, if you please, by you may be adored. ' ' 
 
 The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 
 " I have had an extraordinary vision ; 
 
 A savage serpent fell on me alone, 
 
 And Alacon w-ould not pity my condi- 
 tion ; 
 
 Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 
 Upon the cross, preferred I my petition ; 
 
 His timely succour set me safe and free. 
 
 And I a Christian am disposed to be." 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " Baron just and pious, 
 If this good wish your heart can really 
 move 
 
 To the true God, you mil not then deny us 
 Eternal honour, you will go above. 
 
 And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 
 And I will love you with a perfect love. 
 
 Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud : 
 
 The only true God is the Christians' God. 
 
 " The Lord descended to the virgin breast 
 
 Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 
 If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 
 Without whom neither sun nor star can 
 shine. 
 Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test. 
 Your renegado god, and worship mine. 
 Baptize yourself with zeal, since you re- 
 pent." 
 To which Morgante answer'd, " I'm con- 
 tent." 
 
 XLVI 
 
 And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 
 And made much of his convert, as he 
 cried, 
 
 " To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
 To whom Morgante," Let us go," repUed ; 
 
 " I to the friars ha\'e for peace to sue." 
 Which thing Orlando heard i\ith inward 
 pride. 
 
 Saying, " My brother, so devout and good. 
 
 Ask the abbot pardon, as I \vish you would : 
 
 XLVII 
 
 " Since God has granted your illumination. 
 
 Accepting you in mercy for his own. 
 Humility should be your first oblation." 
 Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, 
 make known, — 
 Since that your God is to be mine — your 
 station. 
 And let yoiar name in verity be sho^v^ ; 
 Then will I everything at your command 
 
 do." 
 On which the other said, he was Orlando. 
 
 XL^'III 
 
 " Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 
 A thousand times with gratitude and 
 praise ! 
 Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 
 Through all the different periods of my 
 days : 
 And. as I^said, to be your vassal too 
 
 I wish.'for your great gallantry always." 
 Thus reas'oning, they continued much to 
 
 say, 
 .\nd on\vards to the abbey went their way. 
 
 XLI.X 
 
 And hy the nay about the giants dead 
 Orlando with Jlorgante reason'd ; " Be, 
 
 For their decease, I pray you, comforted ; 
 And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon 
 me ; 
 
 .■\ thousand nTongs unto the monks they 
 bred. 
 And our true Scripture soundeth openh', 
 
 Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill. 
 
 Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 
 
 ' ' Because his love of justice unto all 
 Is such, he wills his judgment should 
 devour 
 
 All who have sin, however great or small ; 
 But good he well remembers to restore. 
 
 Nor without justice holy could we call 
 Him, whom I now require you to adore. 
 
 All men must make his will their wishes 
 swa\'. 
 
 And quickly and spontaneously obe^-. 
 
 " And here our doctors are of one aco -rd. 
 Coming on this point to the same con- 
 clusion. 
 That in their thoughts who praise in 
 heaven the Lord 
 If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 
 For their unfortunate relations stored 
 In hell below, and damn'd in great con- 
 fusion, 
 Their happiness would tie reduced to 
 
 nought, 
 And thus niiijist the Almightv's self be 
 thought. 
 
THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 155 
 
 * But they in Christ have firmest hope, and 
 all 
 Which seems to him, to them too must 
 appear 
 Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall ; 
 
 He never can in any purpose err. 
 If sire or mother suiier endless thrall, 
 They don't disturb themselves for him or 
 her : 
 What pleases God to them must j^jy in- 
 spire ; — 
 Such is the observance of theeternal choir." 
 
 LIII 
 
 "A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 
 " Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 
 
 How much I grieve about my brethren 
 dead ; 
 And if the will of God seem good to me. 
 
 Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obey'd — 
 Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be ! 
 
 I will cut off the hands from both their 
 trunks. 
 
 And carry them unto the holy monks. 
 
 • LIV 
 
 "So that all persons may be sure and 
 certain 
 That they are dead, and have no further 
 fear 
 To wander solitary this desert m. 
 And that they may perceive my spirit 
 
 By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn 
 
 the curtain ,,.,.,, , 
 
 Of darkness, making His bright realm 
 
 appear." 
 He cut his brethren's hands off at these 
 
 words, , ^ , 
 
 And left them- to the savage beasts and 
 
 birds. 
 
 Then to the abbey they went on together 
 Where waited them the abbot in great 
 
 The m°onks, who knew not yet the fact, ran 
 
 To thei?'^superior, all in breathless rout. 
 
 Saying with tremor, "Please to tell us 
 
 whether . . -. „ 
 
 You wish to have this person in or out i 
 The abbot, looking through upon the giant. 
 Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 
 
 Orlando seeing him thus agitated. 
 
 Said quickly, "Abbot, be thou of good 
 
 He ChrfsV believes, as Christian must be 
 
 And hath renounced his Macon false ; " 
 which here 
 
 Morgante with the hands corroborated, 
 A proof of both the giants' fate quite 
 
 clear : 
 Thence with due thanks, the abbot God 
 
 adored, 
 Saving, " Thou hast contented me, oh 
 
 Lord I " 
 
 LVII 
 
 He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated. 
 And more than once contemplated his 
 size ; 
 And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
 Know, that no more my wonder will 
 arise. 
 How you could tear and fling the trees you 
 late did. 
 When I behold your form with my 
 own eyes. 
 You now a true and perfect friend will show 
 Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 ' ' And one of our apostles, Saul once named. 
 
 Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
 
 Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
 
 ' Why dost thou persecute me thus ? ' 
 
 said Christ ; . 
 
 And then from his offence he was reclaim d. 
 
 And went for ever after preaching Christ, 
 
 And of the faith became a trump, whose 
 
 sounding 
 O'er the whole earth is echoing and re- 
 bounding. 
 
 LIX 
 
 "So my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 
 He who repents— thus writes the Evan- 
 gelist — . . . ^, , . 
 Occasions more rejoicing m the skies 
 
 Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
 You may be sure, should each desire arise 
 With just zeal for the Lord, that you 11 
 exist 
 
 Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
 But 5'ou were lost and damn'd to hell 
 before ! ' ' 
 
 LX . 
 
 And thus great honour to Morgante paid 
 The abbit ; many days they did repose^ 
 One day, as mth Orlando they both 
 
 And'slun'ter'd here and there, where'er 
 
 The'allSt^Wd a chamber, where 
 
 MucTIrmour was, and hung up certain 
 
 . J „^Vf flipsp Moraante for a whim 
 ^frt^Tthougrus^esf. he believed, to him. 
 
 LXI , . 
 
 Thorp beine a want of water in the place, 
 "^'orlandC'like a worthy brother, said. 
 
156 
 
 THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 
 
 " Morgante, I could msh.you in this case 
 To go for water." " You shall be 
 obey'd 
 In all commands," was the reply, " straight- 
 ways.** 
 Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 
 And went out on his way unto a fountain. 
 Where he was wont to drink below the 
 mountain. 
 
 Arriv'd there, a prodigious noise he hears, 
 Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 
 
 Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
 An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
 
 And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 
 And onward rushes with tempestuous 
 tread, 
 
 And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 
 
 So that the giant's joined by all the boars. 
 
 Morgante at a venture shot an arrow. 
 
 Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear. 
 And pass'd unto the other side quite 
 thorough ; 
 So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp*d up 
 near. 
 Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
 
 Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 
 And reaeh'd the passage with so smft a 
 
 foot, 
 Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 
 
 Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
 He gave him such a punch upon the head, 
 
 As floor'd him so that he no more arose. 
 Smashing the very bone ; and he fell 
 dead 
 
 Next to the other- Having seen such blows, 
 The other pigs along the valley fled ; 
 
 Morgante on his neck the bucket took, 
 
 Full from the spring, which neither swerved 
 nor shook. 
 
 The tub was on one shoulder, and there 
 were 
 The hogs on t'other, and he brush'd 
 apace 
 On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
 
 Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 
 Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
 
 With the dead boars, and with that 
 brimful \tise, 
 Marveird t6 see his strength so \'ery great ; 
 So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 The monks, who saw the water fresh and 
 good, 
 Rejoiced, but much more to perceive tlie 
 pork ; 
 
 .-Ml animals are glad at sight of food : 
 They lay their breviaries to sleep, and 
 work 
 With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 
 That the flesh needs no salt beaeath their 
 fork. 
 Of rankness and of rot there is no fear. 
 For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 As though they wish'd to burst at once, 
 they ate ; 
 And gorged so that, as if the bones had 
 been 
 In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 
 Perceiving that they all were pick*d too 
 clean. 
 The abbot, who to all did honour great, 
 A few days after this convivial scene. 
 Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
 Which he long time had for himself main- 
 tain'd. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 The horse Morgante to a meadow led. 
 
 To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 
 Thinking that he a back of iron had. 
 Or to skim eggs unbroke was light 
 enough ; 
 But the horse, sinking with the pain, Icji 
 dead, 
 And burst, while cold on earth lay head 
 and hoof, 
 Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur ! " 
 -^nd still continued pricking with the spm\ 
 
 LXIX 
 
 But finally he thought fit to dismount. 
 
 And said, " I am as hght as any feather. 
 And he has burst ; — to this what say you, 
 count ? " 
 Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast 
 rather 
 You seem to me, and ^\"ith the truck for 
 front : 
 Let him go ! Fortune wills that we to- 
 gether 
 Should march, but you on foot Morgante 
 
 still." 
 To which the giant answer'd, '■ So I will. 
 
 LXX 
 
 ' ' When there shall be occasion, you will see 
 How I approve my courage in the fight." 
 
 Orlando said, " I really think you'll be, 
 If it should prove God's will, a goodl)- 
 knight ; 
 
 Nor will you napping there discover me. 
 But never mind your horse, though out 
 of sight 
 
 'Twere best to carry him into some wood, 
 
 If but the means or way, I understood." 
 
 LXXI 
 
 The giant said, " Then carrv him I will. 
 Since that to carry me he was so slack 
 
THE MORCtA>;tE ?iIAr;GIORE 
 
 157 
 
 To render, as the guds do, good for ill ; 
 But lend a hand to place hini on my 
 ; back." 
 
 i Orlando answered, "If my counsel still 
 - May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 
 To lift or carry this dead courser, who. 
 As you have done to him, will do to you. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 " Take care he don't revenge himself, 
 though dead, 
 As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 
 I don't know if the fact you've heard or 
 read ; 
 But he will make you burst, you may be 
 sure." 
 " But help him on my back," Morgante 
 said, 
 " And you shall see what weight I can 
 endure. 
 In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrev, 
 With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfrey." 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 The abbot said, " The steeple may do well. 
 But, for the bells, you've broken them, I 
 wot." 
 Morgante answer' d, " Let them pay in hell 
 The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ; " 
 And hoisting up the horse from where he 
 fell, 
 He said, " Now look if I the gout have 
 got, 
 Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ; " — 
 And then he made two gambols with the 
 horse. ' 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 
 
 So if he did this 'tis no prodigy ; 
 But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 
 Because he was one of his family ; 
 And fearing that he might be hurt or 
 maim'd, 
 Once more he bade him lay his burden 
 by: 
 " Put down, nor bear him further the desert 
 
 in." 
 Morgante said, " I'll carry him for certain." 
 
 LXXV 
 
 He did ; and stow'd him in some nook 
 away, 
 And to the abbey then return'd with 
 speed. 
 Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 
 Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 
 The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
 And said, with great respect, he had 
 agreed 
 To leave his reverence ; but for this 
 
 decision 
 He wish'd tohavehis pardon and permis- 
 sion, I 
 
 LXXV I 
 
 The honours they continued to recei\'p 
 Perhaps exceeded what his merits 
 claim' d ; 
 He said, " I mean, and quicklv, to retrieve 
 The lost days of time past', which may 
 be blamed ; 
 Some days ago I should have ask'd your 
 leave. 
 Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 
 ; And know not how to show my sentiment. 
 So much I see you with our stay content. 
 
 " But in my heart I bear through every 
 clime 
 The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 
 So much I love you in so short a time ; 
 For me, from heaven reward you with all 
 good 
 The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
 Whose kingdom at' the last hath open 
 stood. 
 Meantime we stand expectant of your bless- 
 ing. 
 And recommend us to your pra>-ers with 
 pressing." 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard. 
 His heart grew soft with inner tenderness. 
 Such fervour in his bosom bred each word ; 
 And, " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 
 Courteous and kind to your great worth 
 appear'd. 
 Than fits me for such gentle blood to 
 express, 
 I know I have done too little in this case ; 
 But blame our ignorance, and this poor 
 place. 
 
 L.XXIX 
 
 " We can indeed but honour you with 
 masses. 
 And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater- 
 nosters. 
 Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places 
 In verity much rather than the cloisters) ; 
 But such a love for you my heart embraces. 
 For thousand virtues which your bosom 
 fosters. 
 That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be. 
 And, on the other part, you rest ivith me. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 " This may involve a seeming con- 
 tradiction ; 
 But you I know are sage, and feel, and 
 
 And understand my speech with full con- 
 viction. 
 For your just pious deeds may you be 
 graced 
 With the Lord's great rew.ird and bene- 
 diction, 
 Bv whom you were directed to this waste; 
 
158 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RIMINI 
 
 To his high mercy is our freedom due, 
 For which we render thanks to him and you . 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 " You saved at once our life and soul : 
 such fear 
 The giants caused us, that the way was 
 lost 
 By which we could pursue a fit career 
 
 In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 
 
 And your departure breeds such sorrow 
 
 here, 
 
 Tliat comfortless we all are to our cost ; 
 
 But months and years you would not stay 
 
 in sloth. 
 Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth, 
 
 Lxxxn 
 " But to bear arms £(nd wield the lance ; 
 indeed, 
 Witli these as much is done as with this 
 cowl ; 
 In proof of which the Scriptures you may 
 read. 
 This giant up to heaven may bear his 
 soul 
 By your compassion : now in peace pro- 
 ceed. 
 Your state and name I seek not to un- 
 roll ; 
 But, if I'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 
 That here an angel was sent down from 
 heaven. 
 
 Lxxxni 
 " If you want armour or aught else, go in. 
 Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what 
 you choose. 
 And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
 Orlando answer'd, " If there should lie 
 loose 
 
 Some armour, ere our journey we begin, 
 Which might be turn'd to my companion's 
 use. 
 The gift would be acceptable to me." 
 The abbot said to him, " Come and in see." 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 And in a certain closet, where the wall 
 Was cover'd with old armour hke a crust. 
 The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
 Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the 
 dust 
 The whole, which, iave one cuirass, was 
 too small. 
 And that too had the mail inlaid with 
 rust. 
 They vronder'd how it fitted him exactly, 
 Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 'Twas an immeasm'able giant's, who 
 By the great Milo of Agrante fell 
 
 Before the abbey many years ago. 
 
 The story on the wall was figured well ; 
 
 In the last moment of the abbey's foe. 
 Who long had waged a war implacable : 
 
 Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him. 
 
 And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 
 
 L.X-XXM 
 
 Seeing this history. Count Orlando said 
 In his own heart, " Oh God, who in the 
 sky 
 Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither 
 led? 
 Who caused the giant in this place to 
 die ? " • 
 And certain letters, weeping, then he read. 
 So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 
 As I will tell in the ensuing storv. 
 From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RBIINI 
 
 FROM THE INFERXO OF DANTE 
 
 CANTO THE FIFTH 
 
 " The land where I was bom sits bv the 
 seas 
 Upon that shore to which the Po 
 
 descends, 
 With all his followers, in search of peace. 
 I.ove, which the gentle heart soon appre- 
 hends. 
 Seized him for the fair person which was 
 
 ta'en 
 From me, and me even yet the mode 
 offends. 
 Love, who to none beloved to love again 
 Remits, seized me with wish to please, so 
 »trong, 
 
 That, as thou seest, yet, vet it doth re- 
 main. 
 Love to one death conducted us along. 
 But Caina i waits for him our life who 
 
 ended : " 
 These were the accents utter'd by her 
 tongue. — 
 Since I first listen'd to these souls offended 
 I bow d my visage, and so kept it till— 
 ■ Whafthmk'st thou ? " said the bard ■ 
 when I unbended, 
 And recommenced : "Alas! unto such ill 
 How many sweet thoughts, what strone 
 
 ecstacies, 
 Led these their e\-il fortune to fulfil i '• 
 And then I lurn'd unto their side my eyes, 
 
THE EI.UES 
 
 1:9 
 
 Anjl said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
 
 Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
 But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
 
 By what and how thy love to passion 
 rose, 
 
 So as his dim desires to recognize ? " 
 Then she to me ; " The greatest of all woes 
 
 Is to remind us of our happy days 
 
 In misery, and that thy teacher knows. 
 But if to learn our passion's first root 
 preys 
 
 Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
 
 I will do even as he who weeps and says. 
 We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 
 
 Of'Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
 
 We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
 
 But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hu..' 
 All o'er discolour'd by that reading wvn; 
 But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; 
 
 When we read the long-sigh' d-for smile of 
 her, 
 To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover, 
 He ^vho from me can be divided ne'er 
 
 Kiss'd my motith, trembling in the act all 
 over : 
 Accursed was the book and he who \vrote ! 
 That day no further leaf we did uncover." 
 
 While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
 The other wept, so that with pity's thrails 
 1 swoon'd, as if by death I had been 
 smote, 
 
 And fell down e\'en as a dead body falls. 
 
 THE BLUES 
 
 A LITERARY ECLOGUE 
 "Nimium ne crede colori." — \'ikgil. 
 O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
 
 Though your hair were as 
 ECLOGUE THE FIRST 
 London. — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
 Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 
 Ink. You're too late. 
 Tra. Is it over ? 
 
 Ink- Nor will be this hour. 
 
 But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden 
 
 in flower, 
 With the pride of our belles, who have 
 
 made it the fashion ; 
 So, instead of " beaux arts," we may say 
 
 " la belle passion" 
 For learning, which lately has taken the 
 
 lead in 
 The world, and set all the fine gentlemen 
 reading. 
 Tra. I know it too well, and have worn 
 out my patience 
 With studying to study your new publica- 
 tions. 
 There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and 
 Wordswords and Co. 
 
 With their damnable 
 
 Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 
 Whom you speak to ? 
 
 Tra. Right well, boy, and so does " the 
 Row ; " 
 You're an author — a poet — 
 
 Ink. And think you that I 
 
 Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you 
 
 decry 
 The Muses ? 
 
 Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 
 To the Nine ; though the nmnber v>hu 
 make some pretence 
 
 To their favours is such but the subject 
 
 to drop. . ^ 
 
 I am just piping hot from a publishers 
 shop. 
 
 red, as your stockings are tjlue. 
 (Next door to the pastry-inoK 
 
 so that 
 when I 
 Cannot find the new \olume I wanted to 
 
 buy 
 On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two 
 
 paces, 
 As one finds every author in one of those 
 
 places :) 
 Where I just had been skimming a charm- 
 ing critique, 
 So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with 
 
 Greek ! 
 Where your friend — you know who — has 
 
 just got such a threshing, 
 That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely 
 
 " refreshing." 
 What a beautiful word ! 
 
 Ink. Very true ; 'tis so soft 
 
 And so cooling — they use it a Uttle too oft ; 
 And the papers have got it at last — but no 
 
 matter. 
 So they've cut up our friend then? 
 
 Tra. Not left him a tatter — 
 Xot a rag of his present or past reputation, 
 Which they call a disgrace to the age, and 
 the nation. 
 Ink. I'm sorry to hear this ! for friend- 
 ship, you know 
 
 Our poor friend ! — but I thought it would 
 
 terminate so. 
 Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to 
 
 shock it. . , 
 
 You don't happen to have the Review ui 
 your pocket ? 
 Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors 
 and others 
 (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a 
 
 brother's) 
 All scrambling and josthng, like so many 
 imp;', 
 
i6o 
 
 THE BLUES 
 
 And ,on fire with impatience to get the 
 next ghmpse. 
 Ink. Let us join them. 
 Tra. What, "Won't you return to the 
 
 lecture ? 
 Ink. Why the place is so cramm'd, there's 
 not room for a spectre. 
 Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so 
 absurd — 
 Tra. How can you know that till you 
 
 hear him ? 
 Ink. I heard 
 
 Quite enough ; and, to tell you the truth, 
 
 my retreat 
 Was from his \'ile nonsense, no less than 
 the heat. 
 Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 
 Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 
 
 I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the 
 
 slaver 
 Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two 
 
 hours 
 To the torrent of trash which around him 
 
 he pours, 
 Pump'd up with sucji effort, disgorged 
 with such labour. 
 
 That come — do not make me speak ill 
 
 of one's neighbour. 
 Tra. I make you ! 
 
 Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
 
 You compell'd me, by spealdng the truth — 
 Tra. To speak ill ? 
 
 Is that your deduction ? 
 
 Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 
 
 I certainly follow, not set an example. 
 The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 
 Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows 
 that one fool makes many. 
 But we two will be wise. 
 Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 
 
 Tra. I would, but 
 
 Ink. There must be attraction much 
 higher 
 Than Scamp, or the Jew's harp he nick- 
 names his lyre. 
 To call you to this hotbed. 
 
 Tra. I own it — 'tis true — 
 
 .V fair lady 
 
 Ink. A spinster ? 
 
 Tra. Miss Lilac. 
 
 Ink. The Blue 1 
 
 Tra. The heiress ! The angel ! 
 Ink. The devil ! why, man 
 
 Pray get out of this hobble as fast as vou 
 
 can. 
 You wed with Miss Lilac ! 'twould be your 
 
 perdition ; 
 She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 
 Tra. I say she's an angel. 
 Ink. Say rather an angle. 
 
 If you and she marry, you'll certainly 
 
 wrangle. 
 I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the 
 ether. 
 
 Tra. And is that any cause for not com- 
 ing together ? ' 
 Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any 
 happy alliance 
 Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock 
 
 with science. 
 She's so learned in all things, and fond of 
 
 concerning 
 Herself in all matters connected with 
 learning. 
 
 That 
 
 Tra. What ? 
 
 Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my 
 tongue ; 
 But there's five hundred people can tell 
 you you're wrong. 
 Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a 
 
 Jew. 
 Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma 
 
 you pursue ? 
 Tra. Why, Jack, I'll b,= frank with you 
 — something of both. 
 The girl's a fine girl. 
 
 Ink. And you feel nothing loth 
 
 To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and 
 
 yet 
 Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 
 Tra. Let her live, and as long as she 
 likes ; I demand 
 Nothing more than the heart of her 
 daughter and hand. 
 Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand 
 
 — that hand on the pen. 
 Tra. A propos — Will you WTite me a 
 
 song now and then ? 
 Ink. To what purpose ? 
 Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in 
 prose 
 My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 
 
 Bui in rhyme 
 
 Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 
 Tra. I own it ; and yet, in these times, 
 there's no lure 
 For the heart of the fair like a stanza or 
 
 two ; 
 And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 
 Ink. In your name ? 
 Tra. In my name. I will copy them out. 
 To slip into her hand at the verv next 
 rout . 
 Ink. .\re you so far advanced as to 
 
 hazard this ? 
 Tra. Why, 
 
 Do you thmk me subdued bv a Blue- 
 stocking's eye. 
 So far as to trenible to tell her in rhyme 
 What I've told her in prose, at the least, as 
 sublime ? 
 Ink. .is sublime! If it be so, no need 
 
 of my Muse. 
 Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one 
 
 of the " Blues." 
 Ink. As sublime ! — Mr. Tracy — I've 
 nothing to say. 
 
THE BLUES 
 
 i6i 
 
 Stick ro prose — As sublime ! ! but I wisli 
 y.)U good day. 
 Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — con- 
 sider — I'm wrong ; 
 1 own it ; but, prithee, compose me the 
 song. 
 Ink. As sublime ! ! 
 
 Tra.. I but used the expression in haste. 
 Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but 
 
 shows damn'd bad taste. 
 Tra. I own it, I know it, acknowledge it 
 — what 
 Can I say to you more ? 
 
 Ink. I see what you'd be at : 
 
 Vou disparage my parts with insidious 
 
 abuse, 
 Till you think you can turn them best to 
 your own use. 
 Tra. And is that not a sign I respect 
 
 them ? 
 Ink. Why that 
 
 To be sure makes a difference. 
 
 Tra. I know what is what : 
 
 And you, who're a man of the gay world, 
 
 no less 
 Than a poet of t'other, may easily guess 
 That I never could mean, by a word, to 
 
 ■ offend 
 A genius like you, and moreover, my friend. 
 Ink. No doubt ; you by this time should 
 know what is due 
 
 To a nian of but come — let us shake 
 
 hands. 
 Tra. You knew, 
 
 And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily 
 
 I, 
 Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 
 Ink. That's my bookseller's business ; 
 I care not for sale ; 
 Indeed the best poems at first rather 
 
 fail. 
 There were Renegade's epics, and Bother- 
 by's plays,' 
 
 And my own grand romance 
 
 Tra. Had its full share of praise. 
 
 I myself saw it puff'd in the " Old Girl's 
 Review." • 
 Ink. What Review ? 
 Tra. 'Tis the English " Journal de Tre- 
 voux ; " 3 
 A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
 Have you never yet seen it ? 
 Ink. That pleasure's to come. 
 
 Tra. Make haste then. 
 Ink. Why so ? 
 
 Tra. I have heard people sa>- 
 
 That it threaten'd to give up the ghost j 
 t'other day. | 
 
 Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. \ 
 Tra. No doubt. | 
 
 Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddle- | 
 come's rout ? 
 Ink. I've a card, and shall go ; but at 
 present, as soon 
 
 As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step 
 
 down from the moon 
 (\\'here he seems to be soaring in search of 
 
 his wits). 
 And an interval grants from his lecturing 
 
 fits, 
 I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's colla- 
 tion, 
 To partake of a luncheon and learn'd con- 
 versation ; 
 'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the 
 
 days 
 Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue 
 
 and praise. 
 And I own, for my own part, that 'tis not 
 
 unpleasant. 
 Will you go ? There's Miss Lilac will also 
 
 be present. 
 Tra. That " metal's attractive." 
 !"!'■ No doubt — to the pocket. 
 
 Tra. You should rather encourage my 
 
 passion than shock it. 
 But let us proceed ; for I think by the 
 
 hum 
 
 Ink. Very true ; let us go, then, before 
 . they can come. 
 Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their 
 
 levee. 
 On the rack of cross questions, by all the 
 
 blue bevy. 
 Hark ! Zounds, they'll be on us ; I know 
 
 by the drone 
 Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedra 
 
 tone. 
 Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better 
 
 join 
 Your friends, or he'll pay you back in your 
 
 own coin. 
 Tra. All fair; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 
 Ink. That's clear. 
 
 But for God's sake let's go, or the Bore will 
 
 be here. 
 Come, come : nay, I'm off. [Exit Inkel. 
 Tra You are right, and I'll follow ; 
 'Tis high time for a " Sic me servavii 
 
 .ipollo." 
 And yet we shall have the whole crew on 
 
 our kibes. 
 Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second- 
 hand scribes. 
 All flocking to moisten their exquisite 
 
 throttles 
 With a glass of Madeira at Lady Blue 
 
 bottle's. [Exit Tracy. 
 
 ECLOGUE THE SECOND 
 
 .'in apartment in the House of Ladv 
 
 Bluebottle. — A Table prepared. 
 
 Sir Richard Bluebottle solus. 
 Was there ever a man who was married so 
 
 corry ? 
 Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a 
 
 hurry. 
 
1 62 
 
 THE BLUES 
 
 liy life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
 !^Iy days, which once pass'd in so gentle a 
 
 . void. 
 Must now, every hour of the twelve, be 
 
 employ'd ; 
 The twelve, do I say ? — of the whole 
 
 twenty-four, 
 Is there one which I dare call my own any 
 
 more ? 
 What with driving and visiting, dancing 
 
 and dining, 
 \Miat with learning, and teaching, and 
 
 scribbling, and sliining. 
 In science and art, I'll be cursed if I know 
 Myself from my wife ; for although we are 
 
 two. 
 Vet she somehow contrive^ that all things 
 
 shall be done 
 In a style which proclaims us eternally one. 
 But the thing of all things which distresses 
 
 me more 
 Than the bills of the week (though thev 
 
 trouble me sore) 
 Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting 
 
 crew : 
 
 Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, bltck,' 
 
 and blue, 
 Who are brought to my house as an inn, ■ 
 
 to my cost — ' 
 
 For the bill here, it seems, is defrav'd bv 
 
 the host — 
 No pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for [ 
 
 my pains. 
 But to hear a vile jargon which addles my 
 
 brains ; 
 A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of re- 
 
 ^^ews, 
 By the rag. tag, and bobtail, of those they ' 
 
 call " Blues ; " 
 A rabble who know not But soft, here 
 
 they come ! 
 Would to God I were deaf ! as I'm not, I'll ' 
 be dumb. 
 
 Eiilc-y Lady Bluebottle, .Miss Lilac. 
 Lady Bluemoi'xt,^Mr. Botherbv. 
 I.MKEL, Tracy, Mij.?- Mazarixe, aiul 
 others, with Scajip ilie Lecturer, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Lady Blueh. Ah ! Sir Richard, good- 
 miming; I've brought vou some 
 friends. 
 Sir Rich, {bows, and afterzLiards aside). 
 
 If friends, they're the first. 
 Ladv Bhieb. But the luncheon attends. 
 I pray ye be seated, " sans ceremonie." 
 Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued ; take your 
 chair there, next me. 
 
 [They all sit. 
 Sir Rich, {aside). If he does, his fatigue 
 
 is to ccime. 
 Lady Bhieh. Mr. Tracy— 
 
 I ady Bluciiiciiiat — Mi-^ Lilac — be ple.ised, 
 pr.iv. t,i place ye ; 
 
 vou. 
 
 -\nd vou, Mr. Botherbv — 
 
 B<'ih. Oh, my dear Lady, 
 
 I obey. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Jlr. Inkel, I ought to up- 
 braid ye : 
 You were not at the lecture. 
 
 Inh. Excuse me, I was ; 
 
 But the heat forced me out in the best part 
 — alas ! 
 
 I And when 
 
 I Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling ; 
 I but then 
 
 Ynu have lost such a lecture ! 
 
 I Both. The best of the ten. 
 
 j Tra. How can you know that ?- there 
 
 are two more. 
 
 Both. Because 
 
 I defy him to beat this day's wondrous 
 
 applause. 
 The very walls shook. 
 
 \ Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 
 
 I allow our friend Scamp has this day done 
 
 his best. 
 Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a 
 ! wing ? 
 
 Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank 
 
 Who lectures next spring : 
 Both. Dick Dunder. 
 Ink. That is, if he lives. 
 
 Mtss. Lil. And whv not ? 
 
 Ink. No reason whate^-er. save that he's 
 a sot. 
 Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira ? 
 Lady Bltiem. \Mth pleasure. 
 
 Ink. How- does yoiu- friend \\'ordswords, 
 that AMndermere treasure ? 
 Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches 
 
 he sings, 
 .-Vnd their gatherers, as Homer sung war- 
 riors and kings ? 
 Lady Bluem. He has just got a place. 
 I'^^- As a footman ? 
 
 Lady Bluem. For shame ! 
 
 .\'or profane with your sneers so poetic a 
 name. 
 Ink. Nav. I meant him no e\il, but 
 pitied his master ; 
 For the poet of pedlers 'twere, sure, no dis- 
 aster 
 To wear a new liverv ; the more, as 'tis not 
 The first time he has turn'd both his creed 
 and his coat. 
 Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If 
 
 Sir George could but hear 
 
 Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend 
 Inkel ; we all know, my dear 
 'Tis his way. ' 
 
 5/f Rich. But this place 
 
 Ink Is perhaps like friend Scamp's 
 
 .\ lecturer s. ^ 
 
 Lady Bluem. 
 " Stamps : 
 He is made a collector. • 
 
 Tf"- Collector. 
 
 Excuse me— 'tis one in the 
 
THE BLUES 
 
 163 
 
 Sir Rich. How ? 
 
 Miss LiU What ? 
 
 Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy 
 a new hat ; 
 
 There his works will appear 
 
 Lady Eluem. Sir, they reach to the 
 
 Ganges 
 Itik. I shan't go so far — I can have them 
 
 at Grange's. ^ 
 Lady Bhieb. Oh fie ! • 
 
 Miss Lil. And for shame ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 
 
 Both. Very good ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. How good ? 
 Lady Bltieb. He means nought — 'tis his 
 
 phrase. 
 Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 
 
 Lady Bhieb. He means nothing ; nay, 
 
 ask him. 
 Lady Bluem. Pray, Sir ! did you mean 
 What you say ? 
 
 Ink. Never mind if he did ; 'twill be 
 seen 
 That whatever he means won't alloy what 
 he says. 
 Both. Sir? 
 
 Ink. Pray be content with your portion 
 of praise ; 
 'Twas in your defence. 
 
 Both. If you please, with submission 
 
 I can make out my own. 
 
 Ink. It would be your perdition. 
 
 While you live, my dear Botherby, never 
 
 defend 
 \«>urself or your works ; but leave both 
 
 to a friend. 
 Apropos — Is your play then accepted at 
 last? 
 Both. At last ? 
 
 Ink. Why I thought— that's to say- 
 there had pass'd 
 A few green-room whispers, which hinted, 
 
 — you know 
 That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 
 Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, 
 
 and so's the Committee. 
 Ink. Ay— yours are the plays for 
 exciting our " pity 
 And fear," as the Greek says : for purg- 
 ing the mind," 
 I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behmd. 
 Both. I have WTitten the prologue, and 
 meant to have pray'd _ 
 
 For a spice of your wit in an epilogue s aid. 
 Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the 
 play's to be play'd. 
 Is it cast yet ? 
 
 Both. The actors are fightmg for parts, 
 As is usual in that most litigioiis of arts. 
 Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and 
 
 go the first night. 
 Tra. And you promised the epilogue, 
 
 Inkel. 
 Ink. Not quite. 
 
 However, to save mv friend Botherbv 
 
 trouble, 
 I'll do what I can, though my pains must 
 be double. 
 Tra. Why so ? 
 
 Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 
 Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I've no fears 
 on that score. 
 
 Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 
 
 Ink. -. Never mind mine ; 
 
 Stick to those of your play, which is quite 
 your own line. 
 Lady Bluem. You're a fn;4itive writer, I 
 
 think, sir, of rhymes ? 
 Ink. Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader 
 sometimes. 
 On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom 
 
 alight, 
 Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking 
 to flight. 
 Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too com- 
 mon ; but time and posterity 
 Will right these great men, and this age's 
 
 severity 
 Become its reproach. 
 
 Ink. I've no sort of objection. 
 
 So I'm not of the party to take the infec- 
 tion. 
 Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts 
 
 that they ever will take ? 
 Ink. Not at all ; on the contrary, those 
 of the lake 
 Have taken already, and still will continue 
 To take — what they can, from a groat to 
 
 a guinea, 
 Of pension or place ; — but the subject's a 
 bore. 
 Ladv Bluem. Well, sir. thetime's coming. 
 Ink'. Scamp ! don't you feel sore ? 
 
 What say you to this ? 
 
 Scamp. Thev have merit, I own ; 
 
 Though their system's absurdity keeps it 
 unkno-\vn. 
 Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of 
 
 your lectures ? 
 Scamp. It is only time past which comes 
 
 under mv strictures. 
 Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tart- 
 ness ; — the joy of my heart 
 Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is 
 
 art. 
 Wild Nature ! — Grand Shakspeare ! 
 Both. And down Aristotle ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. Sir George •>' thinks exactly 
 with Lady Bluebottle ; 
 And my Lord Seventy- four, ' who protects 
 
 our dear Bard, 
 And who gave him his place, has the great- 
 est regard . , 
 For the poet, who, singmg of pedlers and 
 
 Has found out the way to dispense with 
 Parnassus. 
 Tra. And you. Scamp ! — 
 
164 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embaf- 
 
 rass'd. 
 Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's al- 
 ready so harass'd 
 With old sclwols, and new schools, and no 
 schools, and all schools. 
 Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that 
 some must be fools. 
 I should like to know who. 
 
 Ink. And I should not be sorry 
 
 To know who are not : — it would save us 
 
 some worry. 
 
 Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and 
 
 let nothing control. 
 
 This ' ' feast of oin: reason, and flow of the 
 
 soul." 
 Oh I my dear IMr. Botherby ! sympathise ! 
 
 Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly. 
 I feel so elastic — ' ' so buoyant — so buoyant ! " 
 Ink. Tracy ! open the window. 
 Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 
 
 Both. For God's sake, m3' Lady Blue- 
 bottle, check not 
 This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
 Upon earth. Give it wav ; 'tis an impulse 
 
 which lifts 
 Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of 
 
 gifts ; 
 For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to 
 
 his mountain : 
 'Tis the source of all sentiment — feehng's 
 
 true fountain ; 
 'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 
 
 'tis the gas 
 Of the soul : 'tis the seizing of shades as 
 
 they pass, 
 And making them substance : 'tis some- 
 thing disine : — | 
 Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a : 
 
 little more wine ? 
 Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir. 
 
 till I dine. 
 Ink. Apropos — Do you dine ^^^th Sir '■ 
 Humphry 8 to-day ? 1 
 
 Tya. 1 should think with Duke Humphry 
 
 was more in your way. » 
 Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors 
 now look 
 To the Knight, as a landlord, much m.ore. 
 
 than the Duke. 
 The truth is, each writer now- quite at his 
 
 ease is, 
 And (except with his publisher) dines 
 
 where h*pleases. 
 But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the 
 Park. 
 Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there 
 till 'tis dark. 
 -And you Scamp — 
 
 Scamp. Excuse me ! I must to my 
 notes, 
 For my lectinre next week. 
 
 Ink. He must mind whom he quotes 
 Out of " Elegant Extracts." 
 
 Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up ; 
 But remember Miss Diddle ^ in\'ites us to 
 sup. 
 Ink. Then at two hours past midnight 
 we all meet again. 
 For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and 
 champaigne ! 
 Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
 Both. I honour that meal ; 
 
 For 'tis then that our feeUugs most genu- 
 inely — feel . 
 Ink. True ; feeling is truest then, far be- 
 yond question : 
 I wish to the gods 'twas the same with 
 digestion ! . 
 
 Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! — ^nexer mind that ; 
 for one moment of feeling 
 Is worth — God knows what. 
 
 Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 
 
 For Itself, or what follows But here 
 
 comes your carriage. 
 Sir Rich, [aside). I wish all these people 
 
 were d d with my marriage ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 BY 
 
 OUEVEDO REDIVRXS 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "wAT TYLER " 
 
 "A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel' 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 
 
 And '■ a pull altogether," as they sav 
 
 At sea— Nvhich drew most souls another 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate ; 
 His keys were rusty, and the lock was 
 dull, 
 So little trouble had been given of late ; 
 Not that the place by any means was 
 full, 
 But_ since the Gallic era " eightv-eight " 
 
 wav. 
 
 II 
 
 Tl^^iS-haa-V^en^lon^rs^lger Oi^^iSt ^ ^^^^^ .- » tw. ' 
 ' ' ^r'^'^« °"t ''f bounds o'^^r th' ethereal blue 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGIMENT 
 
 165 
 
 Splitting some pianet with its playful tail, 
 As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 
 
 The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 
 Finding their charges past all care below ; 
 
 Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 
 Saye the recording angel's black bureau ; 
 
 Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
 With such rapidity of vice and wo. 
 
 That he had stripp'd off both his wings in 
 quills. 
 
 And yet was in arrear of human ills. 
 
 His business so augmented of late years. 
 That he was forced, against his mil no 
 doubt, 
 (Just like those cherubs, earthly min- 
 isters,) 
 For some resource to turn himself about. 
 And claim the help of his celestial peers, 
 To aid him ere he should be quite worn 
 out 
 By the increased demand for his remarks : 
 Six angels and tweh'e saints were named 
 his clerks. 
 
 This was a handsome board — at least for 
 heaven ; 
 And yet they had even then enough to 
 do. 
 So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 
 
 So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
 Each day too slew its thousands six or 
 seven, 
 'Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
 They threw their pens doivn in divine dis- 
 gust — 
 ■The page was so besmear'd with blood and 
 dust. 
 
 VI 
 
 ' This by the way ; 'tis not mine to record 
 What angels shrink from : even the very 
 devil 
 On this occasion his own work abhorr'd. 
 
 So surfeited mth the infernal revel : 
 Though he himself had sharpen'd every 
 sword. 
 It almost quench'd his innate thirst of 
 evil. 
 (Here Satan's sole good work deserves 
 
 insertion — 
 'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 
 
 ' Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
 Which peopled earth no better, hell as 
 wont. 
 And heaven none — they form the tyrant s 
 lease, 
 With nothing but new names subscribed 
 upon 't ; 
 
 'Twill one day finish : ni'.-iuiime they in- 
 crease, 
 " V/ith seven heads and ten horns," 
 and all in front, 
 
 Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours 
 are born 
 
 Less formidable in the head than horn. 
 
 In the first year of freedom's second dawn 
 Died George the Third ; although nu 
 tyrant, one 
 Who shielded tyrants, till each sense with- 
 drawn 
 Left him nor mental nor external sun : 
 A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from 
 la 'ATI, 
 A worse king never left a realm undone ! 
 He died — but left his subjocts still behind. 
 One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 
 
 He died ! his death made no great stir on 
 earth : 
 His burial made some pomp ; there was 
 profusion 
 Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great 
 dearth 
 Of aught but tears — save those shed by 
 collusion. 
 For these things may be bought at their 
 true worth ; 
 Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
 Bought also ; and the torches, cloak» and 
 
 banners. 
 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners. 
 
 Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
 The fools who flock'd to swell or see the 
 show. 
 Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
 Made the attraction, and the black the 
 wo. 
 There throbb'd not there a thought which 
 pierced the pall ; 
 And when the gorgeous coffin was laid 
 low. 
 It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
 The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 
 
 So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
 Return to what it must far sooner, were 
 
 The natural compound left alone to fight 
 Its way back into earth, and fire, and 
 
 But the unnatural balsams merely fjlight 
 What nature made him at his birth, as 
 
 bare . , 
 
 As the mere million's base unmummied 
 
 clay — 
 Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 
 
1 66 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 XII 
 
 He's dead — and upper earth with him has 
 done ; 
 He's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
 
 For him, unless he left a German will : 
 But Where's the proctor who will ask his 
 son ? 
 In whom his qualities are reigning still, 
 Except that household \srtue, most un- 
 common. 
 Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 
 
 XIII 
 
 king ! 
 
 It 
 
 a large 
 
 " God save the 
 economy 
 
 In God to save the like ; but if he will 
 Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 
 Of those who think damnation better 
 still : 
 I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
 In this small hope of bettering futvire ill 
 By circumscribing, with some slight re- 
 striction. 
 The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 
 
 XIV 
 
 I know this is unpopular ; I know 
 
 'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be 
 damn'd 
 For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
 I know my catechism ; I know we're 
 cramm'd 
 With the best doctrines till we quite o'er- 
 flow ; 
 I know that all save England's church 
 have shamm'd. 
 And that the other twice two hundred 
 
 churches 
 And synagogues have made a damn'd bad 
 purchase. 
 
 XV 
 
 God help us all ! God help me too ! I am 
 God knows, as helpless as the devil can 
 wish. 
 
 And not a whit more difficult to damn. 
 Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 
 
 Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
 Not that I'm fit for such a noble 'dish 
 
 As one day will be that immortal fry 
 
 Of almost every body bom to die. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 
 And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ' 
 there came 
 
 A wondrous noise he had not heard of late 
 
 A rushing sound of wind, and stream 
 and flame ; 
 In short, a roar of things extremely great 
 Which would have made aught save a 
 saint exclaim ; 
 But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
 Said, "There's another star gone out I 
 think ! " ' 
 
 But ere he could return to his repose, 
 A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his 
 eyes — - 
 At v;hich Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd 
 his nose : 
 " Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee 
 rise ! ' ' 
 Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as 
 glows 
 An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly 
 dyes : 
 To which the saint replied, " Well, what's 
 the matter 
 " Is Lucifer come back with all this 
 clatter ? " 
 
 XVIII 
 
 " No," quoth the cherub ; " George the 
 Third is dead." 
 "And who is George the Third?" 
 replied the apostle ; 
 " What George? what Third?" "The 
 king of England," said 
 The angel. " Well ! he won't find 
 kings to jostle [head ? 
 
 Him on his way; but does he wear his 
 Because the last we saw here had a 
 tustle, 
 And ne'er would have got into heaVen's 
 
 good graces 
 Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 
 
 XIX 
 
 ' ' He was, if I remember, king of France ; 
 That head of his, which could not keep a 
 crown 
 On earth, yst ventured in my face to ad- 
 vance 
 A claim to those o{ mart\TS — like my 
 own ; 
 If I had had my sword, as I had once 
 
 When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 
 But having but my keys, and not my brand, 
 I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 
 
 x.x 
 " And then he set up such a headless howl, 
 That all the saints came out and took 
 him in ; . 
 And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by 
 jowl ; 
 That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The 
 skin 
 Of Saint Bartholomew, 
 cowl 
 
 In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his 
 
 sm, 
 So as to make a martvr, never sped 
 Better than did this xveak and wooden 
 
 head. 
 
 But had it come up here upon its shoul- 
 ders, 
 
 ^'toleU°"''^ ^^^'^ ^''^'^ ^ tiifferent tale 
 
 which makes his 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 The fellow-feeling in the saint's beholclTs 
 Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 
 
 And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
 Back on its trunk ; it may be very well, 
 
 And seems the custom here to overthrow 
 
 Whatever has been wisely done below." 
 
 The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
 The king who comes has head and all 
 entire, 
 And never knew much what it was about — 
 He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. 
 And will be judged like all the rest, no 
 doubt : 
 My business and your own is not to in- 
 quire 
 Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 
 Which is to act as we are bid to du." 
 
 xxni 
 While thus they spake, the angelic cara\an, 
 Arriving like a rush of migjity wind, 
 Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the 
 swan 
 Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or 
 Inde, 
 Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an 
 - old' man 
 
 With an old soul, and both extremely 
 blind, 
 Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
 Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 
 
 _ .XXIV 
 
 But bringing up the rear of this bright host 
 
 A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
 His wings, like thunder-clouds above some 
 coast 
 Whose barren beach with frequent 
 ■wrecks is paved ; 
 His brow was like the deep when tempest- 
 toss'd ; 
 Fierce and unfathomable thoughts 
 'engraved 
 Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
 And where be gazed a gloom per\-aded 
 space. 
 
 XXV 
 
 As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
 Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, 
 
 With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
 As made Saint Peter wish himself 
 within ; 
 
 He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
 And sweated through his apostolic skin : 
 
 Of course his perspiration was but icher. 
 
 Or some such other spiritual liquor. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 The very cherubs huddled all together. 
 Like birds when soars the falcon ; and 
 they felt 
 
 A tingling to the tip of every feather. 
 And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
 
 167 
 
 Around their poor old charge ; who scarce 
 knew whither 
 His guards had led him, though they 
 gently dealt 
 With royal manes (for by many stories 
 Awd true, we learn the angels all are 
 Tories). 
 
 .xxvii 
 As things were in this posture, the gate 
 flew 
 .\sunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
 Flung over space an universal hue 
 
 Of many-colour'd flame, until its tingf- 
 Rcach'd even our speck of eai'th, and made 
 a new 
 .\urora borealis spread its fringes 
 O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when 
 
 ice-bound, ■' 
 
 By Captain l^arry's crew, in " Melville's 
 Sound." 
 
 X.WIII 
 
 And from the gate thrown open issued 
 beaming 
 A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
 Radiant with glory, like a banner stream- 
 ing 
 \'ictorious from some world-o'erthrowing 
 fight : 
 My poor comparisons must needs be teem- 
 ing 
 With earthly likenesses, for here the 
 night 
 Of clay obscures our best conceptions, 
 
 saving 
 Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southeyraviug. 
 
 'Twas the archangel Michael ; all men know 
 The make of angels and archangels, since 
 There's scarce a scribbler has not one to 
 show. 
 From the fiends' leader to the angels' 
 prince ; 
 There also are some altar-pieces, though 
 I really can't say that they much evince 
 One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 
 But let the connoisseurs explain thtir 
 merits. 
 
 XXX 
 
 Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 
 A goodly work of him from whom all 
 glory 
 .And good arise ; the portal past — he 
 stood ; 
 Before him the young cherubs and saints 
 hoary — 
 (I say yoMrt?, begging to be understood 
 By looks, not years ; and should be ^•ery 
 sorry 
 To state, they were not older than St. 
 
 Peter 
 But merely that they seem'd a little 
 sweeter). 
 
i68 
 
 THE VISION. OF JUDG^JENT 
 
 The cherubs and the saints bowed down 
 before 
 That arch-angehc hierarch, the first 
 Of essences angelical who wore 
 
 The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er 
 nursed 
 Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
 No thought, save for his Maker's service, 
 durst 
 Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
 He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 
 
 xx-xn 
 He and the sombre, silent Spirit met— 
 Thev knew each other both for good and 
 ill; 
 Such was their piw-r, that neither could 
 forget 
 His former friend and future foe ; but 
 still 
 There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
 In either's eve, as if 'twere less their will 
 Than destiny to make the eternal years 
 Their date of war, and their " champ clos " 
 th< spheres. 
 
 xxxiu 
 But here they were in neutral space : we 
 know 
 From .Tob, that Satan hath the power to 
 pay 
 A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
 And that the " sons of God," like those 
 of clay, 
 Must keep him company ; and \ve might 
 show 
 From the same book, in how polite a way 
 The dialogue is held between the Powers 
 Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up 
 hours. 
 
 xxxiv 
 And this is not a theologic tract. 
 
 To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 
 If Job be allegory or a fact. 
 
 But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
 From out the whole but such and such an 
 act 
 As sets aside the slightest thought of 
 trick. 
 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion. 
 And accurate as any other vision 
 
 x.x.xv 
 The spirits were in neutral space, before 
 The gate of heaven ; like eastern thres- 
 holds is 
 The place where Death's grand cause is 
 argued o'er, 
 And souls despatch'd to that world or to 
 this; 
 .And therefore Michael and the other wore 
 A civil aspect : though they did not kiss. 
 
 Yet still between his Darkness anO his 
 
 Brightness 
 There pass'd a mutual glance of great 
 
 politeness. 
 
 x.x.xv: 
 The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern 
 beau. 
 But with a graceful oriental bend. 
 Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
 The heart in good men is supposed to 
 tend ; 
 He turn'd as to an equal, not too low. 
 But kindly ; Satan met his ancient 
 friend 
 With more hauteur, as might an old 
 
 Castilian 
 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 
 
 .X.XXVII 
 
 He merely bent his diabolic brow 
 
 An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 
 In act to assert his right or wTong, and 
 show 
 Cause why King George by no means 
 could or should 
 Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
 
 Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
 With better sense and hearts, whom history 
 
 mentions. 
 Who long have " paved hell with their 
 good intentions." 
 
 .X.X.XVIIl 
 
 Michael began : " \\'hat wouldst thou with 
 this man, 
 Xowdead, and brought before the Lord ? 
 \\'hat ill 
 Hath he wTought since his mortal race 
 began, 
 That thou canst claim him ? Speak! 
 and do thy will. 
 If it be just : if in this earthly span 
 
 He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
 His duties as a king and mortal, say. 
 And he is thine ; if not, let him have 
 way." 
 
 XXXI.X 
 
 " Michael ! " replied the Prince of Air, 
 " even here. 
 Before the Gate of him thou servest, 
 must 
 I claim my subject : and will make appear 
 That as he was mv worshipper in dust, 
 So shall he be in spirit although dear 
 To thee and thine, because nor wine nor 
 lust 
 Were of his weaknesses ; vet on the throne 
 He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 
 
 " Look to our earth, or rather 'mine ■ it 
 was, 
 Once, more thy master's : but I triumph 
 
 not '^ 
 
THE VISION <M- JUDf;AIi:.\T 
 
 l6ri 
 
 In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
 Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 
 With all the my riads of bright worlds which 
 pass 
 In worship round him, he may ha^■e 
 forgot 
 Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 
 I think few worth damnation save their 
 kings. 
 
 XLI ' 
 
 " And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
 Assert my right as lord : and even had 
 I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 
 Well know) superfluous ; they are grown 
 so bad. 
 That hell has nothing better left to do 
 Than leave them to themselves : so much 
 more mad 
 And evil by their own internal curse. 
 Heaven cannot make, them better, nor 1 
 worse. 
 
 XLII 
 
 " Look to the earth, I said, and say attain : 
 When this old, blind, mad, helpless, 
 weak, poor worm 
 Began in youth's first bloom and flush to 
 reign. 
 The world and he both wore a different 
 form, 
 And much of earth and all the watery plain 
 Of ocean call'd him king : through many 
 a storm 
 His. isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 
 - For the rough virtues chose them for their 
 chme. 
 
 XI.III 
 
 " He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves 
 it old : 
 Look to the state in which he found his 
 realm, 
 And left it ; and his annals too behold, 
 How to a minion first he gave the helm : 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
 The beggar's vice, which can but over- 
 whelm 
 The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but 
 
 glance 
 Thine eye along America and France. 
 
 ,xuv 
 " 'Tis true, he was a tool from iirst to last 
 (I have the workmen safe> ; but as a tool 
 So let him be consumed. From out the 
 past 
 Of ages, since mankind have known the 
 rule 
 Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls 
 amass' d 
 Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesar's 
 school, 
 Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 
 More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd 
 with the -lain. 
 B.P.w. 
 
 " He ever warr'd with freedom and the 
 free : 
 Nations as men, home subjects, foreign 
 foes. 
 So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty ! ' 
 Found George the Third their first 
 opponent. Whose 
 History was ever stain'd as his will be 
 With national and individual woes ' 
 I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
 His neutral virtues, which most monarchs 
 want ; 
 
 XLVI 
 
 I know he was a constant consort ; own 
 
 He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
 
 All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
 
 As temperance, if at Apicius' board. 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supper 
 shown. 
 I gr.'jnt him all the kindest can accord ; 
 And this was well for him, but not for 
 
 those 
 Millions who found him what oppression 
 chose. 
 
 .\LVII 
 
 " The New World shook him off ; the Old 
 yet groans 
 Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
 Completed ; he leaves heirs on many 
 thrones 
 To all his vices, without what begot 
 Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; 
 drones 
 Who sleep, or despots who have now for- 
 got 
 A. lesson which shall be re-taught them, 
 
 wake 
 Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them 
 quake ! 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 " Fi\e miUions of the primitive, who hold 
 The faith which makes ye great on earth, 
 implored 
 A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
 Freedom to worship — not alone your 
 Lord, 
 Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter ! 
 Cold 
 Must be your bouls, if you have not 
 abhorr'd 
 The foe to Cathohc participation 
 In all the license of a Christian nation. 
 
 .XLIX 
 
 "True! he allow' d them to pray God; 
 
 but as , J it , 
 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
 Which would have placed them upon the 
 \ same base . 
 
 1 With those who did not hold the ?amts 
 ! in awe " ^ 
 
lyo 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
 And cried, " You may the prisoner with- 
 draw : 
 
 £re heaven shall ope her portals to this 
 Guelph, 
 
 While I am guard, may I be damn'd my- 
 self ! 
 
 L 
 
 " Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
 
 My office (and his is no sinecure) 
 Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
 The azure fields of heaven, of that be 
 sure ! " 
 " Saint ! " rephed Satan, " you do well to 
 avenge 
 The wrongs he made your satelhtes 
 endure ; 
 And if to this exchange you should be 
 
 given, 
 I *11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven ! " 
 
 LI 
 
 Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! 
 and devil ! 
 Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun 
 discretion. 
 Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more 
 civil ; 
 Satan ! excuse this warmth of his ex- 
 pression, 
 And condescension to the vulgaris level : 
 Even saints sometimes forget themselves 
 in session. 
 Have you got more to say ?" — "No." — "If 
 
 you please, 
 I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 
 
 LII 
 
 Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy 
 hand. 
 
 Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 
 Clouds farther off than we can understand, 
 
 Although we find him sometimes in our 
 skies ; 
 Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
 
 In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
 Let off the artillery, which Jlilton mentions 
 'Vs one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 
 
 mi 
 This was a signal unto such daiun'J souls 
 As have the privilege of their damnation 
 Extended far beyond the mere controls 
 Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no 
 station 
 Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
 Of hell assign'd ; but where their in- 
 clination 
 Or business carries them in search of game, 
 They may range freely — being daiim'd the 
 same. 
 
 LIV 
 
 They are proud of this — as very well they 
 may, 
 It bring a sort of knighthood, orgiltkev 
 
 Stuck in their loins ; or like to an " entre " 
 Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 
 I borrow my. comparisons from clay. 
 Being clay myself. Let not those spirits 
 be 
 Offended with such base low likenesses ; 
 We know their posts are nobler far than 
 these. 
 
 LV 
 
 When the great signal ran from hea\-en to 
 hell- 
 About ten million times the distancf 
 reckon' d 
 From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
 How much time it takes up, even to a 
 second. 
 For e\'ery ray that travels to dispel 
 The fogs of London, through which, 
 dimly beacon'd, 
 The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a 
 
 year. 
 If that the suii'iner is not too severe : 
 
 I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute ; 
 I know the solar beams take up more 
 time 
 Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin 
 it ; 
 But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
 And if they ran a race, thev would not win 
 it 
 'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their 
 own clime. 
 The sun takes up some years for every ray 
 To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 
 
 LVII 
 
 Upon the verge of space, about the size 
 Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd 
 
 (I've seen a something hke it in the sliies 
 In the JEgean. ere a squall) ; it near'd. 
 
 And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
 Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd. 
 
 Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the 
 grammar 
 
 Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza 
 stammer ; — 
 
 LVIII 
 
 But take your choice) : and then it grew -t 
 cloud ; 
 And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
 But such a cloud ! No land ere saw a 
 crowd 
 Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw 
 these ; 
 They shadow'd with their myriads space • 
 their loud 
 And \aried'cries were like those of wild 
 geese 
 (If nations mav be liken'd to a goose) 
 And realized the phrase .if " hell broke 
 loose." 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 171 
 
 Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John 
 Bull, 
 Who damn'd away his eyes as hereto- 
 fore : 
 There Paddy brogued " By Jasus ! " — 
 " What's your wuU ! " 
 The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the 
 French ghost swore 
 In certain terms I shan't translate in full, 
 As the first coachman will ; and 'midst 
 the war, 
 The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
 " Our president is going to war, I guess." 
 
 Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch and 
 
 Dane ; 
 , In short, an universal shoal of shades. 
 From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 
 Of all climes and professions, years and 
 
 trades. 
 
 Ready to swear against the good king's reign. 
 
 Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
 
 All summon'dby this grand " subpoma," to 
 
 Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or 
 
 you. 
 
 LXI 
 
 When Michael saw this host, he first grew 
 
 pale, 
 As angels can ; next, like Italian twihght, 
 He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail. 
 Or sunset streaming through a Gothic 
 
 skylight 
 In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 
 Or distant lightning on the horizon by 
 
 night. 
 Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
 Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 
 
 L.XII 
 
 Then he address'd himself to Satan : 
 " Why— 
 My good old friend, for such I deem you, 
 though 
 Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
 I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 
 Our difference is political, and I 
 
 Trust that whatever, may occur below. 
 You know my great respect for you : and 
 
 this 
 Makes me regret v.hate'er you do amiss — 
 
 LXIII 
 
 " Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
 My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
 
 That you should half of earth and hell pro- 
 duce ; 
 'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, 
 clean, 
 
 True testimonies are enough : we lose 
 Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
 
 The accusation and defence : if we 
 
 Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 
 
 l-.\ 1 V 
 
 Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
 Indifferent, in a personsl point of view : 
 
 I can have fiftTbetter souls than this 
 With far less trouble than we have gone 
 through 
 
 Already ; and I merely argued his 
 
 Late majesty of Britain's case with you 
 
 Upon a point of form ; you may dispose 
 
 Of him ; I've kings enough below, God 
 knows ! " 
 
 LXV 
 
 Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd " multi- 
 faced " 
 By multo-scribbhng .Southey). "Then 
 
 we'll call 
 One or two persons of the myriads placed 
 Around our congress, and dispense with 
 
 all 
 The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be 
 
 so graced 
 As to speak first ? there's choice enough 
 
 — who shall 
 It be ? " Then Satan answer'd, " There 
 
 are many ; 
 But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well 
 
 as any." 
 
 LXVI 
 
 A merry, cock eyed, curious-looldng sprite 
 Upon the instant started from the throng, 
 
 Dress' d in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
 For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 
 
 By people in the next world ; where unite 
 All the costumes since Adam's, right or 
 wrong. 
 
 From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat. 
 
 Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
 Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends 
 of all 
 The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst 
 these clouds ; 
 So let's to business : why this general 
 call? 
 If tho^e are freeholders I see in shrouds. 
 
 And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 
 Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 
 Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ? " 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 " Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake ; 
 these things 
 Are of a former life, and what we do 
 Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
 Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
 " Then I presume those gentlemen with 
 wings," 
 Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that 
 soul below 
 Looks inuch like George the Third, but to 
 
 my mind 
 A good deal older— Bless me ! is he blind ? " 
 
172 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGIMENT 
 
 " He is what you behold him, and his doom 
 Depends upon his deeds," the Angel 
 said ; * 
 
 " If j'ou have aught to arraign in him, the 
 tomb 
 Gives license to the humblest beggar's 
 head 
 To lift itself against the loftiest." — 
 " Some," 
 Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them 
 laid in lead. 
 For such a liberty — and I, for one. 
 Have told them what I thought beneath 
 the sun." 
 
 LXX 
 
 " Above the sun repeat, then, what thou 
 hast 
 To urge against him," said the Archangel. 
 " Why," 
 Replied the spirit, " since old scores are 
 past, 
 Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 
 Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. 
 With all his Lords and Commons : in the 
 sky 
 I don't like ripping up old stories, since 
 His conduct was but natural in a prince. 
 
 Lxxi ; 
 
 " Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
 A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 
 But then I blame the man himself much 
 less 
 Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be 
 unwilling 
 To see him punish'd here for their excess. 
 Since they were both damn'd long ago, 
 and still in 
 Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 
 Andvotehis' habeas corpus ' into heaven." 
 
 LXXII 
 
 " Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand 
 all this ; 
 You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
 And seem to think it would not be amiss 
 
 To grow a whole one on the other side 
 Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 
 
 Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide. 
 He won't be sovereign more : you've lost 
 
 your labour. 
 For at the best he will but be your neigh- I 
 bour. j 
 
 L.XXIII 
 
 " However, I knew what to think of it, j 
 When I beheld you in your jesting way, ! 
 
 Flitting and whispering round about the 
 spit 
 Where Belial, upon dut\- for the day, 
 
 With Fox's lard was bailing William Pitt, i 
 His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 
 
 That follow even in hell breeds farther ills ; ! 
 
 I'll have him pagg'i' — 'twas one of his own ' 
 bills. •■ 
 
 L.X.XIV 
 
 " Call Junius ! " From the crowd a 
 shadow stalk' d, 
 .■ind at the name there was a general 
 squeeze. 
 So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
 
 In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
 But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to 
 be balk'd, 
 As we shall see), and jostled hands and 
 knees. 
 Like wind compress'd and pent within a 
 
 bladder. 
 Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 The shadow came — a tall, thin, .grey-hair'd 
 figure. 
 That look'd as it had been a shade on 
 earth ; 
 Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour, 
 But nought to mark its breeding or its 
 birth : 
 Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
 With now -en air of gloom, or savage 
 mirth ; 
 But as you gazed upon its features, they 
 Changed every instant — to -d-hat, none 
 I could say. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 The more intently the ghosts gazed, the 
 
 less 
 Could they distinguish whose the features 
 
 were ; 
 The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to 
 
 guess ; 
 They varied Hke a dream — now here, 
 
 now there ; 
 And several people swore from out the 
 
 press. 
 They knew him perfectlv ; and one 
 
 could swear 
 He was his father : upon which another 
 ^^■as sure he was his mother's cousin's 
 
 brother : 
 
 L.XXVII 
 
 Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 
 An orator, a lawyer or a priest, 
 
 .-\ nabob, a man-midwife ; but the wight 
 Mysterious changed his countenance 
 at least 
 
 .A.S oft as thev their minds : though in full 
 sight 
 He stood, the puzzle only was increased ; 
 
 The man was a phantasmagoria in 
 
 Himself — he \i as so A'olatile and thin. 
 
 Lxxvm 
 The moment that you had pronounced 
 him onc^ 
 Presto ! his face changed, and he was 
 another ; 
 
THE VISION OF JUDG^IENT 
 
 173 
 
 And \ilir:i that change was hardly well put 
 on, 
 It varied, till I don't think his own 
 mother 
 (If that he had a mother) would her son 
 Have known, he shifted so from one to 
 t'other 
 Till guei5ing from a pleasure grew a task, 
 At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 he like Cerberus would 
 
 for sometimes 
 
 seem — 
 " Three gentlemen at once " (as sagely 
 
 says 
 Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might 
 
 deem 
 That he was not even one ; now many 
 
 rays 
 Were flashing round him ; and now a thick 
 
 steam 
 Hid him from sight — like fogs on Lon- 
 don days : 
 Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's 
 
 fancies. 
 And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 
 
 I never let it out till now, for fear 
 Of doing people harm about the throne. 
 
 And injuring some minister or peer, 
 On whom the stigma might perhaps be I 
 blown ; j 
 
 It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
 'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call 
 Was really, truly, nobody at all. 
 
 L.XXXI 
 
 I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
 Written without hands, since we daily 
 view 
 Them written without heads ; and books, 
 we see. 
 Are fill'd as well without the latter too : 
 And really till we fix on somebody 
 For certain sure to claim them as his 
 due, [bother 
 
 Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will 
 The v/orld to say if there be mouth or 
 author. 
 
 LX.XXII 
 
 " And who and what art thou ? " the 
 Archangel said. 
 " For that you may consult my title- 
 page," 
 Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
 " If I have kept my secret half an age, 
 I scarce shall tell it nov,'." — " Canst thou 
 upbraid," 
 Continued Michael, " George Rex, or 
 allege 
 Aught further ? " Junius answer' d, " You 
 . had better 
 First ask him for his answer tc my letter ■ 
 
 " M\- charges upon record will outlast 
 
 The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 
 
 " Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of 
 
 some past 
 
 Exaggeration ? something which mav 
 
 doom 
 
 Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 
 
 Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
 
 Of passion ? " — " Passion I " cried the 
 
 phantom dim, 
 " I loved my country, aud I hated him. 
 
 LXX.XIV 
 
 " W'hat I have WTitten, I have uTitten : let 
 The rest be on his head or mine ! " So 
 spoke 
 Old " Nominis Umbra ; " and while speal;- 
 ing yet, 
 Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
 Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget 
 To call George Washington, and John 
 Home Toolie, 
 And Franklin;" — but at this time there 
 
 was heard 
 X cry for room, though not a phantom 
 stirr'd. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 -\t length with jostling, elbowing, and the 
 aid 
 Of cherubim appointed to that post. 
 The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
 His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
 Some trouble. When his burden down he 
 laid, 
 " What's this ? " cried Michael ; " why, 
 'tis not a ghost ? " 
 " I know it," quoth the incubus ; " but he 
 Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 " Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
 My left wing, he's so heavv ; one would 
 think 
 Some of his works about his neck v.-ere 
 
 chain'd. 
 ; But to the point ; while hovering o'er 
 ; the brink 
 
 ' Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd), 
 
 I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
 j And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 
 No less on history than the Holy Bible. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 I " The former is the devil's scripture, and 
 j The latter yours, good Michael : so the 
 
 affair 
 ; Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
 i I snatch'd him up just as you see him 
 
 there. 
 And brought him off for sentence out of 
 hand : 
 r-\-e scarcelv been ten minutes in the air — 
 At least a quarter it can hardly be ; 
 [ dare sav that his wife is still at tea." 
 
^74 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
 And have expected him for some time 
 here ; 
 A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. 
 
 Or more sconceited in his petty splere : 
 
 But surely it was not worth while to fold 
 
 Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus 
 
 dear : 
 
 We had the poor wretch safe (without being 
 
 bored 
 With carriage) coming of his own accord. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 here, let's see what he has 
 
 " But since he': 
 done." 
 " Done ! " cried Asmodeus, " he antici- 
 pates 
 The \'ery business 3'ou are now upon, 
 And scribbles as if head clerk to the 
 Fates. 
 Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 
 When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, 
 prates ? " 
 " Let's hear," quoth Michael, " what he 
 
 has to say : 
 You know we're bound to that in very wa v. ' ' 
 
 Now the bard, glad to get an audience, 
 which 
 By no means often was his case below, 
 Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and 
 pitch 
 His voice into that awful note of woe 
 To all unhappy hearers within reach 
 Of poets when the tide of rh^ine's in 
 flow ; 
 But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
 Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 
 
 I The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, 
 I " What ! what ! 
 
 Pye ' come again ? No more — no more ol 
 that ! " 
 
 XCIII 
 
 The tumult grew ; an universal cough 
 Convulsed the skies, as during a debate. 
 
 When Castlereagh has been up long enough 
 (Before he was first minister of state, 
 
 I mean — the slaves heat now) ; some cried 
 " Off, off! " 
 As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate, 
 
 The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
 
 (Himself an author) only for his'prose. 
 
 xci 
 
 spavin'd dactyls 
 
 could be 
 
 But ere the 
 spurr'd 
 
 Into recitative, in great dismay 
 Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 
 To murmur loudly through their long 
 array ; 
 And Michael rose ere he could get a word 
 
 Of all his founder'd verses under way. 
 And cried, " For God's sake stop, my friend ! 
 
 'twere best — 
 Non Di, non homines — you know the rest." 
 
 A general bustle spread throughout the 
 throng, 
 Which seem'd to hold all verse in detes- 
 tation ; 
 The angels had of course enough of song 
 
 When upon service ; and the generation 
 Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not 
 long 
 Before", to profit by a new occasion : 
 
 The varlet was not an ill-fa ,'our'd knave ; 
 
 A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
 With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which 
 gave 
 
 A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
 To his whole aspect, which, though rather 
 grave. 
 
 Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
 But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be. 
 Quite a poetic felony " de se." 
 
 xcv 
 Then llichael blew his trump, and still'd 
 the noise 
 With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
 On earth besides ; except some grumbling 
 voice. 
 Which now and then ivill make a slight 
 inroad 
 Upon decorous silence, few will twice 
 Lift up their lungs when fairly over- 
 crow' d ; 
 And now the bard could plead "bis own bad 
 
 cause. 
 With all the attitudes of self-applause. 
 
 XCA"I 
 
 He said — (I only give the heads) — he said, 
 He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas 
 his v.'ay 
 Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his bread, 
 Of which he butter'd both sides ; 'twould 
 delay 
 Too long the assembly (he was pleased to 
 dread), 
 And take up rather more time than a 
 day, 
 
 To name his works— he would but cite a 
 
 few — 
 ■• Wat Tyler "— " Rhymes on Blenheim" 
 
 — Waterloo." 
 
 He had written praises of a regicide ; 
 He had written praises of all- kings what- 
 
 ^\^r,f r'"^'' ^'y republics far and wide, 
 And then against them ' ' 
 ever ; 
 
 bitterer than 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 i7i 
 
 For pantisocracy he once had cried 
 'Aloud, a scheme less moral tiiaii 'twas 
 clever ; 
 Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
 Had turn'd his coat — and would have 
 turn'd his skin. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 He had sung against all battles, and again 
 In their high praise and glory ; he had 
 callW 
 Rftvienfing * " the ungentle craft," and 
 then 
 Became as base a critic as e'er crawl' d — 
 Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
 By whom his muse and morals had been 
 maul'd : 
 He had written much blank verse, and 
 
 blanker prose. 
 And more of both than any body knows. 
 
 xcix 
 He had written Wesley's life :^here turn- 
 ing round 
 To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write yours, 
 Iii two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 
 With notes and preface, all that most 
 alhiires 
 The pious . purchaser ; and there's no 
 gfouiid 
 For fear, for I can choose my own re- 
 viewers : 
 So let me' have the proper documents. 
 That I may add you to my other saints." 
 
 Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if 
 you, 
 With amiable modesty, decline 
 My offer, what says Michael ? There are 
 few 
 Whose memoirs could be render'd more 
 divine. 
 Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 
 As it was once, biit I would make you 
 shine 
 Like your own trunlpet. By the way, my 
 
 own ... n 
 
 Has more of" brass m it, and is as well 
 
 blown. 
 
 CI 
 
 " But talking about trumpets, here's my 
 Vision ! 
 Now you shall judge, all peopte ; yes, 
 you shall 
 Judge with my judgment, and by my 
 decision 
 Be guided \vho shall enter heaven or fall. 
 I settle all' these things by intuition. 
 Times present, past, to come, heaven, 
 hell, and all. 
 Like King Alfonso-. When I thus see 
 
 double, 
 I save the Deity some worlds of trouble. 
 
 He ceased, and drew forth an .M.S. ; and no 
 Persuasion on the part of de\-ili, saints. 
 
 Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
 He read the first three lines of the con- 
 tents ; 
 
 But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
 Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, 
 
 Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang 
 
 Like lightning, off from his " melodious 
 twang." 
 
 Those grand heroics acted as a spell ; 
 The angels stopp'd their ears and plied 
 their pinions ; 
 The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to 
 hell; 
 The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their '..wn 
 doiainions — 
 (For 'ti-i not yet decided" where they dwsll. 
 And 1 leave every man to his opinions) ; 
 Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo ! 
 His teeth were set on edge, he could hot 
 blow ! 
 
 Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
 For an impetuous saint, upraised his kej's, 
 
 And at the fifth line laiock'd the poet 
 _ down ; 
 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. 
 
 Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
 A different web being by the Destinies 
 
 Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, 
 whene'er 
 
 Reform shall happen either here or thers. 
 
 He 
 
 cv 
 the 
 
 bottom — like his 
 
 first sank 
 works, 
 
 But soon rose to the surface — like him- 
 self ; 
 For all corrupted things are buoy'd hke 
 corks. 
 By their own rottenness, light as an elf. 
 Or OTsp that flits o'er a morass ; he lurks. 
 It maybe, still, like dull books on a shelf, 
 In his own den, to scrawl some " Life " or 
 
 "Vision," 
 AsWelborn says— "the devil turn'd pre- 
 cisian." 
 
 As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
 Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 
 
 Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 
 And show'd me what I in my turn have 
 shown ; . 
 
 All I saw farther, in the last confusion. 
 Was, that King George slipp'd into 
 heaven for one ; 
 
 And when the tumult dmndled to a calm, 
 
 t left him practising the hundredth psalm. 
 
176 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 CARMEN SECULARE ET ANXUS HAUD MIRABILIS 
 
 -all times when 
 
 The *' good old times 
 
 old are good — 
 Are gone ; the present might be if they 
 
 would ; 
 Great things have been, and are, and 
 
 greater still 
 Want little of mere mortals but their will ; 
 A wider space, a greener field, is given 
 To those who play their " tricks before 
 
 high heaven.** 
 I know not if the angels weep, but inen 
 Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep 
 
 again ! 
 
 II 
 All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
 Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad, 
 Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much. 
 His very rival almost deem'd hinf such. 
 We, we have seen the intellectual race 
 Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
 Athos and Ida. with a dashing sea 
 Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free. 
 As the deep billows of the ^gean roar 
 Betwixt the Hellenicand the Phrygian shore. 
 But where are they — the rivals ! a few feet 
 Of sullen earth di\ide each winding sheet. ^ 
 How peaceful and how powerful is the 
 
 grave 
 
 ' Impar Congressus Achilli." 
 
 He " wept for worlds to conquer ! " he who 
 
 ne'er 
 Conceived the globe, he panted not to 
 
 spare ! 
 With even the busy'Northem Isle unknown, 
 \\"hich holds his um, and never knew hii 
 
 throne. 
 
 Ill 
 But where is he, the modern, mightier far. 
 Who, born no king, made monarchs draw 
 
 his car ; 
 The new Sesostris, whose uriharness'd 
 
 kings, 
 Freed from the bit, believe themselves 
 
 with wings. 
 And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd 
 
 of late, 
 Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's 
 
 state ? 
 Yes ! where is he, the champion and the 
 
 child 
 Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ; 
 Whose game was empires, and whose 
 
 stakes were thrones ; 
 Whose table earth — whose dice were 
 
 human bones ? 
 Behold the grand result in yon lone isle. 
 And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
 
 Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave, Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
 
 Which oversweeps the world. The theme 
 is old 
 
 Of " dust to dust ; " but half its tale un- 
 told : 
 
 Time tempers not its terrors — still the 
 worm 
 
 Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its 
 form. 
 
 Varied above, but still alike below ; 
 
 The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
 
 Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
 
 O'er which from empire she lured Anthony ; 
 
 Though Alexander's um a show be grown 
 
 On shores he wept to conquer, though un- 
 known — 
 
 How vain, how worse than vain, at length 
 appear 
 
 The madman's wish, the Macedonian's 
 tear ! 
 
 He wept for worlds to conquer — half the 
 earth 
 
 Knows not his name, or but his death, and 
 hirth. 
 
 And desolation ; while his nati^'e Greece 
 
 Hath all of desolation, ^ave its peace. 
 
 Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
 
 Smile to survey the queller of the nations 
 
 Now daily squabbling o'er disputed ra- 
 tions ; 
 
 Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,. 
 
 O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; 
 
 O'er petty quarrels upon petty ihings. 
 
 Is this the man who scourged or feasted 
 kings ! 
 
 Behold the scales in which his fortune 
 hangs, 
 
 .\ surgeon's' statement, and an earl's' 
 harangues ! 
 
 A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
 
 The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
 
 Is this indeed the tamer of the great, 
 
 Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
 
 The paltry gaoler * and the pr\'ing spv. 
 
 The staring stranger mth his note-book 
 nigh ? ^ 
 
 Plunged m a dungeon, he had still been. 
 great ; 
 
 How low. how httlc i\as this middle state,. 
 
 Between a prison and a palace, where 
 How tew could feel for what he had to bear! 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 \\;ii) his complaint, — my lord presents his 
 
 bill, 
 His food and wine were doled out duly still ; 
 Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
 So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime ; 
 And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his 
 
 . cause. 
 Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's 
 
 applause. 
 But smile — though all the pangs of brain 
 
 and heart 
 Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
 Though, save the few fond friends and 
 
 imaged face 
 Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 
 None stand by his low bed — though even 
 
 the mind 
 Be wavering, which long awed and awes 
 
 mankind : 
 Smile — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his 
 
 chain. 
 And higher worlds than this are his again. 
 
 How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
 A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
 How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
 The little that he was and sought to be ! 
 What though his name a wider empire 
 
 found 
 Than his ambition, though with scarce a 
 
 bound ; 
 Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
 He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 
 Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
 From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's 
 
 ape ; 
 How must he smile, and turn to yon lone 
 
 grave. 
 The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the 
 
 wave ! 
 What though his gaoler, duteous to the last. 
 Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep 
 
 him fast, 
 Refusing one poor line along the lid, 
 To date the birth and death of all it hid ; 
 That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
 A talisman to all save him who bore : 
 The fleets that sweep before the eastern 
 
 blast 
 Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the 
 
 mast ; 
 When Victory's Gallic column shall but 
 
 rise. 
 Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies. 
 The rocky isle that holds or held his dust, 
 Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's 
 
 bust, 
 .And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 
 Do more than niggard envy still denies. 
 But what are these to him ? Can glory's 
 
 lust 
 Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 
 
 177 
 
 Small care hath he of what his tomb coa- 
 
 sists ; 
 Nought if he sleeps— nor more if he exists : 
 Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 
 On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 
 As if his ashes found their latest 'home 
 In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 
 He wants not this ; but France shall feel 
 
 the want 
 Of this last consolation, though so scant- 
 Her honour, fame, and faith demand his 
 
 bones, 
 To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 
 Or carried onward in the battle's van. 
 To form, like Guesclin's "dust, her talisman. 
 But be It as it is — the time may come 
 His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's 
 
 drum.' 
 
 Oh heaven ! of which he was in power a 
 
 feature ; 
 Oh earth I of which he was a noble crea- 
 ture ; 
 Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well. 
 That saw'st the unfledg'd eaglet chip his 
 
 shell ! 
 Ye Alps which view'd him in his dawm'ng 
 
 flights 
 Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 
 Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Cajsar's deeds 
 
 outdone ! 
 Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon — 
 The Rubicon of man's a^vakcn'd rights. 
 To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
 Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs 
 
 arose 
 Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
 And shook within their pyramids to hear; 
 A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 
 While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
 Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
 Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
 Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 
 With clashing hosts, who strew'd the 
 
 barren sand. 
 To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 
 Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the 
 
 Cid, 
 Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
 Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
 Twice spared to b» the traitress of his fall ! 
 Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in 
 
 name 
 .-ind falsehood — heirs to all cricept his 
 
 fame ; 
 ^^'ho. crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, 
 
 fell 
 First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who 
 
 dwell. 
 Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
 The unpaid amount of Catharine's bloody 
 
 debt I 
 
178 
 
 THE AGE OP BROKZE 
 
 Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel 
 
 past, 
 But loft thee as he found thee, still a waste, 
 Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 
 Thy lotted people and extingaish'd name. 
 Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing 
 
 tear, , 
 
 That sound that crashes m the tyrant s 
 
 ear — 
 Kosciusko ! On— on— on— the thirst ot 
 
 war 
 Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar. 
 The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 
 Gleam in the sun, but 'lis a sun that sets ! 
 iloscow ! thou limit of his long career, 
 For which rude Charles had wept his frozen 
 
 tear 
 To see in \-ain — he saw thee — how ? uith 
 
 spire 
 And palace fuel to one common fire. 
 To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 
 To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch. 
 To this the merchant flung his hoarded 
 
 store. 
 The prince his hall — and Moscow was no 
 
 more ! 
 Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 
 Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's 
 
 tame ; 
 Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
 For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd 
 
 height : 
 Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 
 To come, in which all empires shall expire ! 
 
 Thou other element ! as strong and 
 
 stern. 
 To teach a lesson conquerors will not 
 
 learn ! — 
 Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering 
 
 foe. 
 Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
 How did thy numbing beak and silent fang, 
 Pierce, till hosts perish'd mth a single pang ! 
 In vainshall Seine look up along his banks 
 For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 
 In vain shall France recal beneath her 
 
 vines 
 Her youth — their blood flows faster than 
 
 ■ her wines ; 
 Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
 In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
 In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
 Her offspring chiU'd ; its beams are now 
 
 forsaken. 
 Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
 What shall return ? the conqueror's 
 
 broken car ! 
 The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! 
 
 Again 
 The horn ot Roland sounds, and not in 
 
 vain. 
 Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 8 
 Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die ; 
 
 Dresden surveys three despots fly once 
 more 
 
 Before their bo\ereign,— sovereign ,-xs be- 
 fore ; 
 
 But there exhausted Fortune quits the 
 field. 
 
 And Leipsic's treason bids the unvan- 
 quish'd -sield ; 
 
 The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 
 
 To turn the bear's, and ivolf's, and fox's 
 guide ; 
 
 And backward to the den of his despair 
 
 The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no 
 lair! 
 
 Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh France I 
 
 who found 
 Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile 
 
 ground, 
 Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
 His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 
 Look'd down o'er trampled Paris ! and 
 
 thou Isle, [smile. 
 
 Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts 
 Thou momentary shelter of his pride. 
 Till svoo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride ! 
 Oh, France ! retaken by a single march, 
 Whose path was through one long trium- 
 phal arch ! 
 Oh, bloody and most bootless \\'aterloo ! 
 Which proves how fools may have their 
 
 fortune too, ^ 
 
 Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 
 Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy gaoler 
 
 nigh — 
 Hear ! hear Prometheus from his rock 
 
 appeal 
 To earth, air, ocean, all that felt oi: feel 
 His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
 A name eternal as the rolling year ; 
 He teaches them the lesson taught so long. 
 So oft, so vainly — leam to do no wTong ! 
 A single step into the right had made 
 This man the Washington of worlds be- 
 tray' d : 
 .\ single step into the wrong has given 
 His name a doubt to all the winds of 
 
 heaven ; 
 The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the 
 
 rod. 
 Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 
 His country's C:esar, Europe's Hannibal, 
 Vi'ithout their decent dignity of fall. 
 I 'i'et \'anity herself had better taught 
 A surer path e\en to the fame he sought, 
 I By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
 i Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
 While Franldin's quiet memory climbs to 
 
 hea\'en. 
 Calming the lightning which he thence hath 
 
 ri\-en. 
 Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
 Freedom and peace to that which boast- 
 
 his birth ; 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 While Washington's a watchword, such as 
 
 ne'er 
 Shall sink while there's an echo left to air : 
 While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold 
 
 and war 
 Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 
 Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
 Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's 
 
 grave — 
 The king of kings, and yet of sla\es the 
 
 slave. 
 Who burst the chains of millions to renew 
 The very fetters which his arm broke 
 
 through. 
 And crush'd the rights of Europe and his 
 
 own, 
 To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 
 
 VI 
 
 But 'twill not be — the spark's awaken'd — 
 
 lo ! [glow ; 
 
 The swarthy Spaniard feels his former 
 The jame high spirit which beat back the 
 
 ■\foor 
 Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
 Revives — and where ? in that avenging 
 
 clime 
 Where Spain was once synonymous with 
 
 crime, 
 Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew. 
 The infant world redeems her name of 
 
 " iVczt'." 
 'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, 
 To kindle souls within degraded flesh. 
 Such as repulsed the Persian from the 
 
 shore 
 Where Greece mas — No ! she still is Greece 
 
 once more. 
 One common cause makes myriads of one 
 
 breast. 
 Slaves of the East, or helots of the West : 
 On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd. 
 The self-same standard streams o'er either 
 
 world : 
 The Athenian wears again Harmodms 
 
 sword ; 
 The Chtli chief abjures his foreign lord ; 
 The Spartan knows himself once more a 
 
 Greek, 
 Young Freedom plumes the crest of each 
 
 cacique ; 
 Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore. 
 Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's 
 i roar ; 
 
 Through Calpe's strait the roUing tides 
 
 advance, 
 Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of 
 
 Dash o'er the old Spaiiiard's cradle, and 
 
 would fain 
 Unite Ausonia to the mighty mam : 
 But driven from thence awhile, yet not for 
 
 .preak o'er th' /Egean, mindful of the day 
 
 Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 
 Not to be luU'd by tyrant victories. 
 Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 
 By Christians, unto whom they gave their 
 
 creed. 
 The desolated lauds, the ravaged isle. 
 The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile, 
 The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
 Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 
 These, (hoe shall tell the tale, and Greece 
 
 can show 
 The false friend worse than the infuriate 
 
 foe. 
 But this is well ; Greeks only should free 
 
 Greece, 
 Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
 How should the autocrat of bondage be 
 The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
 Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
 Than swell the Cossaque's prowling cara- 
 
 \'an ; 
 Better still toil for masters, than await. 
 The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
 Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
 A live estate, existing but for thrall. 
 Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
 For the first courtier in the Czar's regard ; 
 Wliile their immediate owner nexer tastes 
 His sleep, satis dreaming of Siberia's wastes; 
 Better succumb even to their own despair. 
 And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 
 
 VII 
 
 But not alone within the hoariest clime 
 Where l-reedom dates her birth with that 
 
 of Time, 
 And not alone where, plunged in night, a 
 
 crowd 
 Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud. 
 The dawn revives ; renown'd, romantic 
 
 Spain 
 Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
 Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
 Demand her fields as Usts to prove the 
 
 sword ; 
 Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
 Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 
 Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
 The warUke fathers of a thousand years. 
 That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the 
 
 Moor , , ^ 
 
 Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 
 Long in the peasant's song or poets' page 
 Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 
 The Zegri and the captive victors, flung 
 Back to the barbarous realm from whence 
 
 they sprung. 
 But these are gone— their faith, their 
 
 swords, their sway. 
 Yet left more anti-christian foes than they ; 
 The bigot monarch, and the butcher priest. 
 The Inquisition, with her burning feast. 
 The faith's red " auto," fed witli humaD 
 fuel. 
 
i3o 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 While sate the catholic Mnloch, calmly 
 
 cruel, 
 Enidving, with inexorable eye, 
 That'fiery festi^'al of agony ! 
 The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
 By turns ; the haughtiness -(vhose pride 
 
 was sloth ; 
 The long degenerate noble ; the debased 
 Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced, 
 But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 
 The once proud navy which forgot the 
 
 helm ; 
 The once imper\'ious phalanx disarray'd ; 
 The idle forse that form'd Toledo's blade ; 
 The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry 
 
 shore. 
 Save hers who eam'd it mth the natives' 
 
 gore ; 
 The very language which might vie •mth 
 
 Rome's. 
 And once was known to nations like their 
 
 homes. 
 Neglected or forgotten ; — such was Spain ; 
 But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
 These worst, these Iwme in^-adcrs. felt and 
 
 feel 
 The new Numantine soul of old Castile, 
 Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
 The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
 Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 
 Revive the cry — " lago ! and close Spain ! " 
 Yes, close her mth your armed bosoms 
 
 round. 
 And form the barrier which Napoleon 
 
 found, — 
 The exterminating war, the desert plain, 
 The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
 The wild sierra, with its \^'ilder troop 
 Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 
 For their incessant prey ; the desperate 
 
 wall 
 Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
 The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
 Waving her more than Amazonian blade ; 
 The knife of Arragon, Toledo's steel ; 
 The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 
 The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 
 The Andalusian courser in the van : 
 The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid : 
 And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 
 Such have been, such shall be, such are. 
 
 Advance, 
 And vnn — not Spain ! but thine own free- 
 dom, France ! 
 
 But lo ! a Congress ! " What ! that hal- 
 
 low'd name 
 Which freed the Atlantic ! May we hope 
 
 the same 
 Fo.' outworn Europe ? With the sound 
 
 arise, 
 Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic 
 
 eyes 
 
 I The prophets of young Freedom, sum- 
 
 j mon'd far 
 
 I From chmes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
 
 i Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
 
 I Whose thunder shook the Philip of the 
 
 seas ; ^° 
 And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
 Robed in the lightnings which his hand 
 
 allav'd ; 
 And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
 To bid us blush for these old chains, or 
 
 break. 
 But who compose this senate of the few 
 That should redeem the many ? TI'.'/i re- 
 hew 
 This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
 To councils held to benefit mankind ? 
 Who now assemble at the holy call ? 
 The blest .Alliance, which says three are all ! 
 An earthly trinity ! which wears the 
 
 shape 
 Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 
 A pious unity ! in purposfe one — 
 To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
 Why, Egypt' 5 gods were rational to thesej 
 Their dogs and oxen knew their oi\'a 
 
 degrees. 
 And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 
 Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 
 But these, more hungry, must have some- 
 thing more — 
 The power to bark and bite, to toss and 
 
 gore. 
 Ah, how much happier were good .Fsop's 
 
 frogs 
 Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 
 With ponderous malice swaying to and fro. 
 And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 
 All dully anxious to leave little work 
 Unto the revolutionary stork. 
 
 i.x 
 
 Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 
 
 \\'ith their imperial presence shine on thee ! 
 
 Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site 
 forgets 
 
 The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ; " 
 
 Thy Scaligers — for v.-hat was " Dog the 
 Great," 
 
 " Can Grande," (which I A-enture to tran- 
 slate,) 
 
 To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 
 
 Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 
 
 Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 
 
 .And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate ; 
 
 Thy gr.od old man, whose world was all 
 within 
 
 Thy wall, nor knew the countr\- held him 
 in ; 
 
 ^\'ould that the royal guests it girds about 
 j ^\>^e so far like, as never to get out ! 
 . Ay. shout ! inscribe ! rear monument--, of 
 
 shame. 
 I To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 i8i 
 
 Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 
 The comedy is not upon the stage ; 
 The show is rich in ribandry and stars, 
 Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon 
 
 bars ; 
 Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
 For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are 
 
 free ! 
 
 X 
 
 ^Resplendent sight ! Behold the coxcomb 
 [. Czar,!' 
 
 The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 
 As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 
 , And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 
 ACalmuck beauty with a Cosjack wit. 
 And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost- 
 I bit; 
 
 pNow half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 
 } But harden'd back whene'er the morning's 
 raw ; 
 With no objection to true liberty, 
 ■' Except that it would make the nations free. 
 ■ How well the imperial dandy prates of 
 peace ! 
 How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, 
 
 free Greece ! 
 How nobly gave he back the Poles their 
 
 Diet, 
 Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
 How kindly would he sen-d the mild Uk- 
 raine, 
 With all her present pulks, to lecture 
 
 Spain ! 
 How royally show off in proud Madrid 
 . His goodly person, from the South long hid ! 
 A blessing cheaply purchased, the world 
 
 knows, 
 By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
 Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's 
 
 son ! 
 La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; ^' 
 And that which Scythia was to him of yore 
 Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
 Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
 Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
 Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be 
 . thine. 
 
 Many an old woman, but no Catherine. '^ 
 Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and 
 
 defiles — 
 The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
 Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
 Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor 
 
 yields ? 
 Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
 To ploughshares, shave and wash thy 
 
 Bashkir hordes. 
 Redeem thy realms from slavery and the 
 
 knout. 
 Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
 To infest the clime whose skies and laws are 
 
 pure 
 With thy foul legions, 
 manure : 
 
 Spain wants no 
 
 Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe : 
 Her vultures, too, were gorged not long 
 
 ago; 
 And wouldst thou furnish tliem with 
 
 fresher prey ? 
 Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
 I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
 Stand between mine and manv a myriad's 
 
 sun ; 
 But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
 Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
 Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 
 His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 
 Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
 The face of monarchs for an " honest man.'' 
 
 And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
 Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band 
 Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
 And tribune, which each orator first clam- 
 bers 
 Before he finds a \'oice, and when 'tis found, 
 Hears " the lie " echo for his answer round ? 
 Our British Commons sometimes deign to 
 
 " hear ! " 
 A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
 Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
 Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
 But this costs little to true Franks, who'd 
 
 rather 
 Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
 What is the simple standing of a shot, 
 To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
 Though this was not the method of old 
 
 Rome, 
 When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome. 
 Demosthenes has sanction'd the transac- 
 tion. 
 In saying eloquence meant " Action, 
 action ! " 
 
 XII 
 
 But Where's the monarch ? hath he dined ? 
 or yet 
 
 Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
 
 Have revolutionary pates risen. 
 
 And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 
 
 Have discontented movements stirr'd the 
 troops ? 
 
 Or have no movements follow'd traitorous 
 soups ? 
 
 Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
 
 Each course enough ? or doctors dire dis- 
 suaded 
 
 Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 
 
 I read all France's treason m her cook= ! 
 
 Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 
 
 Desirable to be the " Desire ? " 
 
 Why v.'ould'st thou leave calm Hartwell s 
 green abode,'* 
 
 Apician table, and Horatian ode. 
 
 To rule a people who will not be ruled. 
 
 And love much rather to be scourg d than 
 school'd ? 
 
l82 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
 For thrones ; the table sees, thee better 
 
 placed : 
 A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 
 To be a kind host and as good a guest, 
 To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
 One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art ; 
 A scholar alwaj's, now and then a wit, 
 And £»entle when digestion may permit ; — 
 But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
 The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 
 
 Shall noble Albion pass mthout a phrase 
 From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 
 " Arts, arms, and George, and glory, and 
 
 the isles. 
 And happy Britain, wealth, and Freedom's 
 
 smiles. 
 White cUffs, that held invasion far aloof, 
 Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof. 
 Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd. 
 That nose, the hook where he suspends the 
 
 world ! 
 And Waterloo, and trade, and (hush ! 
 
 not yet 
 
 A syllable of imposts or of debt) 
 
 And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
 Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other 
 
 day — 
 And ' pilots who have weather'd every 
 
 storm ' — 
 (But, no, not even for rh^Tne's sake, name 
 
 Reform)." [fere. 
 
 These are the themes thus sung so oft be- 
 Methinks we need not sing them any mere ; 
 Found in so many volumes far and near. 
 There's no occasion you should find them 
 
 here. 
 Yet something may remain perchance to 
 
 chime 
 With reason, and, what's stranger still, 
 
 with rhi'me. 
 Even this thy genius, Canning ! may per- 
 mit. 
 Who, bred a statesman, still wast bom a 
 
 wit. 
 And ne^•er, even in that dull House, couldst 
 
 tame 
 To unleaven'd prose thine o-ivn poetic 
 
 flame ; 
 Our last, our best, our only orator.'s 
 Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more: 
 Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, 
 
 because 
 Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
 The hounds will gather to their hmitsman's 
 
 hollo. 
 And where he leads the duteous pack will 
 
 follow ; 
 But not for love mistake their yelling crv ; 
 Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
 Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
 A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
 
 Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
 Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
 The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
 To stumble, kick, and now and then stick 
 
 fast 
 With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
 But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 
 
 Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
 Bewail her now jtiicountry gentlemen ? 
 The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
 The first to make a malady of peace. 
 For what were all these country patriots 
 
 born ? 
 To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of 
 
 corn ? 
 But com, like every mortal thing, must fall. 
 Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
 And must ye fall with e\-ery ear of grain ? 
 Why would you trouble Buonaparte's 
 
 reign ? 
 He was your great Triptolemus ; his %ices 
 Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd 
 
 your prices ; 
 He amplified to e^-ery lord's content 
 The grand agrarian alchymy, high rent. 
 Why did the tjTant stumble on the Tartars, - 
 And lower wheat to such desponding 
 
 quarters ? . 
 Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
 The man was worth much more upon his 
 
 throne. 
 True, blood and treasure boimdlessly were 
 
 spilt. 
 But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the 
 
 guilt ; 
 But bread was high, the farmer paid his 
 
 way, 
 And acres told upon the appointed diy. 
 But where is now the goodl}' audit ale ? 
 The purse-proud tenant, never known to 
 
 fail? 
 The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
 The marsh reclaim'd to most impro\ing 
 
 land? 
 The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
 The doubling rental ? What an e\irs 
 
 peace ! 
 In vain the prize excites the ploughman's 
 
 skill, 
 In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
 The landed inltr^si — (vou mav miderstand 
 The phrase much better lea\ing out the 
 
 land)— 
 The land self-interest groans from shore 
 
 to shore. 
 For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
 Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt vour notes. 
 Or else the ministrv will lose their \-otes, 
 ,-\nd patriotism, so dehcatelv nice. 
 Her loa\es will lower to the'market price ; 
 For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," on'-e 'o 
 
 high, 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 iS = 
 
 Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean 
 dry, 
 
 And nought remains of all the millions 
 
 spent, 
 • Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
 
 They who are not so, had their turn — and 
 turn 
 
 About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 
 
 Now let their virtue be its own reward. 
 
 And share the blessings which themselves 
 prepared. 
 
 See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm. 
 
 Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 
 
 Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling 
 hahds. 
 
 Their fields manured by gore of other lauds ; 
 
 Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
 
 Their brethren out to battle — why ? for 
 rent ! 
 
 Year after year they voted cent, per cent., 
 
 Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — 
 why ? for rent ! 
 
 They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they 
 swore they meant 
 
 To die for England — why then live ? — for 
 rent ! 
 
 The peace has made one general malcon- 
 tent 
 
 Of these high-market patriots ; -ivar ^vas 
 rent ! 
 
 Their love of country, millions all mis- 
 spent. 
 
 How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
 
 And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
 
 No : down with every thing, and up with 
 rent ! 
 
 Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or dis- 
 content, 
 
 Bein?, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! 
 
 Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a 
 mess ; 
 
 Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten 
 less ; 
 
 Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy 
 ; demands 
 
 Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
 
 Such, landlords ! was your appetite for 
 war, 
 
 And gorged with blood, you grumble at a 
 scar ! 
 
 What ! would they spread their earth- 
 quake even o'er cash ? 
 
 And when land crumbles, bid firm paper 
 crash ? 
 
 So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. 
 
 And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospi- 
 tal ? 
 
 Lo, Mother Church, while all religion 
 
 ivrithes, 
 Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, 
 
 Tithes ; 
 The prelates ro to — where the saints have 
 
 gone. 
 And proud plurahties subside to one ; 
 
 Church, state, and faction wrestle in the 
 dark, 
 
 Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
 
 Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
 
 Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
 
 And why ? to pamper the self-seeking 
 wants, 
 
 And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
 
 " Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be 
 wise ; " 
 
 Admire their patience through each sacri- 
 fice, 
 
 Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
 
 The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
 
 Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
 
 The debt of nations : — pray who made tt 
 high ? 
 
 XV 
 
 Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 
 The new Symplegades — the crushing 
 
 Stocks, 
 Where Midas might again his wish behold 
 In real paper or imagined gold. 
 That magic palace oJ Alcina shows 
 More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 
 Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore. 
 And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
 There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds 
 
 the stake 
 And the world trembles to bid brokers 
 
 break. 
 How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines. 
 Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; 
 No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 
 Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
 But let us not to own the truth refuse. 
 Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 
 Those parted with their teeth to good King 
 
 John, 
 And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw 
 
 your own ; 
 All states, all things, all sovereigns they 
 
 control, 
 r And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole. ' 
 I The banker, broker, baron, i" brethren, 
 I speed 
 
 ! To aid these bankrupt tyrants in tlieir need. 
 Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
 Fresh speculations follow each success ; 
 .\nd philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
 Her mild per-centage from exhausted 
 
 Spain. 
 Not without ,\braham's seed can Russia 
 
 march ; 
 'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the con^ 
 
 queror's arch. 
 Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
 In every realm their scripture-promised 
 
 land : — , 
 
 Two Jews keep down the Romans, and up- 
 
 The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
 Two Tews— but not Samaritans— direct 
 The ^^•orld, with all the spirit of their sect. 
 
184 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 What is the happiness of.earth to them ? 
 A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 
 Where baronies and orders both invite — 
 Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the 
 
 sight ? 
 Thy followers mingling with these royal 
 
 swine, 
 Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
 But honour them as portion of the show — 
 (Where now, oh p *)pe ! is thy forsaken toe ? 
 Could it not favour Judah with some kicks ? 
 Or has it ceased to " kick against the 
 
 pricks ? ") 
 On Shylock's shore behold them stand 
 
 afresh, 
 To cut from nation's hearts their " pound 
 
 of flesh." 
 
 XVI 
 
 Strange sight this Congress ! destined to 
 
 unite 
 All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. 
 I speak not of the Sovereigns — they're 
 
 alike, 
 A common coin as ever mint could strike ; 
 But those who sway the puppets, pull the 
 
 strings. 
 Have more of motley than their heavy 
 
 kings. 
 Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, com- 
 bine. 
 While Europe wonders at the vast design . 
 There Metternich, power's foremost para- 
 site, 
 Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 
 There Chateaubriand forms new books of 
 
 martyrs ; 
 And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid 
 
 Tartars : 
 There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to 
 
 charters," | 
 
 Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 
 To furnish articles for the " Debats ; " 
 Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
 As his dismissal in the " Jloniteur." 
 Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ! 
 Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ? 
 He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, 
 " Almost as quickly as he conq'uer'd 
 Spain." 
 
 X\'II 
 
 Enough of this— a sight more mournful 
 
 woos 
 The averted eve of the reluctant muse 
 The imperial daughter, the imperial bride 
 The imperial victim— sacrihce to pride • ' 
 The mother of the hero's hope, the boy' 
 The young Astyanax of Modern Troy ■' '8 
 The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
 That earth has \et to see, or e'er hath seen • 
 She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour' 
 The theme of pitv, and the wreck of power' 
 Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria 
 
 spare 
 
 A daughter ? What did France's widow 
 1 there ? 
 
 Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave. 
 Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
 But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 
 Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 
 The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
 Must watch her through these paltry page- 
 antries. 
 What though she share no more, and shared 
 
 in vain, 
 A sway sirrpassing that of Charlemagne, 
 Which swept from Moscow to the southern 
 
 seas ! 
 Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of 
 
 cheese, 
 Where Parma views the traveller resort. 
 To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
 But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 
 Of all her beams — while nations gaze and 
 
 mourn — 
 Ere vet her husband's ashes have had time 
 To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 
 (If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; — 
 But no, — their embers soon will burst the 
 
 mould :) 
 She comes ! — the Andromache (but not 
 
 Racine's, 
 Nor Homer's,) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she 
 
 leans ! 
 Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
 Which cut her lord's half shatter'd sceptre 
 
 through. 
 Is offer'd and accepted ? Could a slave 
 Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new 
 
 grave ! 
 Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 
 .And the «-empress grows as ex a wife ! 
 So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
 Why spare men's feelings, when their own 
 are jests ? 
 
 -XVIII 
 
 But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 
 And sketch the group — the picture's yet 
 to come, rjpijt^ 
 
 -My muse gan wepu. but, ere a tear was 
 She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! >» 
 While throng'd the chiefs of every High- 
 land clan 
 To hail their brother, \'ich Ian .Alderman ! 
 Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse 
 
 roar. 
 While all the Common Council erv 
 
 more ! " 
 
 To see proud Albvn's tartans as a belt 
 Gird the gross sirloin of a citv Celt 
 She burst into ., laughter so extreme. 
 That I awoke— and lo ! it was no dream! 
 
 ""V^a^^^'iJ"""'^ ''--=-" 'here's 
 
 ' Clav- 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRBLAGE 
 
 i8,i 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE 
 
 A ROMAUXT 
 
 TO lANTHE 1 
 
 Not in those olirnes where I have late 
 
 been straying. 
 Though Beauty long hath there been 
 
 matchless deem'd, 
 Not in those visions to the heart display- 
 ing 
 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 brighten- 
 ing. 
 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 ; 
 Happv, 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 whose those admiration shall succeed. 
 But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveli- 
 est 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 
 
 1 [Lady Charlotte Harley (afterwards Lady 
 
 Charlotte Bacon), second daughter of the Karl of 
 
 Oxford, had not completed her eleventh year wlien 
 
 these lines were addressed to her, in the autumn 
 
 of I3l3.] 
 
 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 1 would com- 
 mend, 
 But bid me with rav wreath one matchless 
 lily blend. 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse 
 
 entwined ; 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
 Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
 My days once number'd, should this 
 
 homage past 
 -'Vttract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
 Of him who hail'd thee, loveUest as thou 
 
 wast. 
 Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
 Though more than Hope can claim, could 
 
 Friendship less require ? 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIM- 
 AGE 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST 
 
 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 VErunted 
 
 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. 
 
 Wliilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a 
 
 youth. 
 Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; 
 But spent his davs in riot most uncouth. 
 And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear ol 
 
 Night. ^ , 
 
 Ah me ! in sooth he was a shameless 
 
 wight. 
 
iS6 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRl.AIAC^E 
 
 Sore given to re-.'el and ungodly glee ; 
 Few earthlv things found favour in his 
 
 sight 
 Save concubines and carnal companie, 
 And flaunting wassailers of high and low 
 
 degree. 
 
 HI 
 
 Childe Harold was he hight : — but 
 
 whence his name 
 And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
 Suffice it, that perchance tliey 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. 
 
 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 seem'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 i 
 
 one. 
 And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be 
 
 his. : 
 
 Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him 
 
 whose kiss ■> 
 
 H.id been pollution unto aught so chaste ; [ 
 Vi'hii soon had left her charms for vulsar I 
 
 bliss. 
 And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his 
 
 waste. 
 Nor calm domestic peace had ever dcign'd 
 
 to taste. 
 
 VI 
 
 And now Childn Harold was sore sick at 
 
 heart, 
 And from hir fellow bacchanals would 
 
 flee ; 
 'Tis said, at timca the sullen tear would 
 
 start, 
 But Pride coni^oal'd the drop within hi-: 
 
 ee : 
 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
 And from his native land resoh'ed to go, 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the 
 
 sea ; 
 With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd 
 
 for ■\-,'oe. 
 And e'en for change of scene would seek the 
 
 shades below. 
 
 The Childe departed from his father's 
 I hall : 
 
 I It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
 I So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
 
 Yet strength was piUar'd in each massy 
 
 aisle. 
 Monastic dome ! condenm'd to uses ^•i!e ! 
 Where Superstition once had made her 
 
 den 
 Now Paphian girls were known to sing 
 
 and smile ; 
 And monks niight deem their time was 
 come agen, 
 If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these 
 holy men. 
 
 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 con- 
 dole, 
 Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could 
 not control. 
 
 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 ^voman'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. 
 
 Childe Ha I-.. Id had a mother— not forgot, 
 Though parting hrom that mother he did 
 shun : 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 187 
 
 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 feci 
 Such partings break the heart they fondly 
 
 hope to heal. 
 
 XI 
 
 His house, his home, his heritage, his 
 
 lands. 
 The laughing dames in whom he did de- 
 
 Hght, 
 Whose large blue ryes, fair locks, and 
 
 snowy hands, 
 Might shake the saintsliip of an anchorite, 
 And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
 His goblets brimm'd with every costly 
 
 wine, 
 And all that mote to luxury mvite, 
 Without a sigh he left, to cross the brme, 
 And traverse Paynim shores, and pass 
 
 Earth's central line. 
 
 The sails were fill'd, and fair the Ught 
 
 winds blew. 
 As glad to waft him from his nati\-e 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 deera'd he no strange ear was 
 listening: ., , j, «■ 
 
 ' And now his fingers o'er it he did liing, 
 And tuned his farewell in the dim twiUght. 
 While flew the vessel on her snowv wing, 
 And fleeting shores receded from his 
 
 Thus to the elements he pour'd his last 
 " Good Night." 
 
 I 
 
 Adifu, adieu 1 my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
 The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wUd sea-mew. 
 
 Yoii cun that sets upon the sea 
 We follow in his flight ; 
 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
 My native Land — Good Night ! 
 
 A few short hours and he will rise 
 
 To give the morrow birth ; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies. 
 
 But not my mother earth. 
 Deserted is ray own good hall. 
 
 Its hearth is desolate ; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 " Come hither, hither, my little page ! 
 
 Whv dost thou weep and wail ? 
 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 ; 
 por I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother whom I love. 
 And have no friend, save these alone, 
 
 But thee — and one above. 
 
 5 
 " Jlv father bless'd me fervently. 
 
 Yet did not much complain ; 
 But sorelv will my mother sigh 
 
 Till I come back again." — 
 " Enough, enough, my httle lad! 
 
 Such tears become thine eye ; 
 If I thy guileless bosom had. 
 
 Mine own would not be dry. 
 
 6 
 
 " Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoraan.« 
 
 Why dost thou look so pale ? 
 Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 
 
 Or shiver at the galej "— 
 " Decm'st thou I tremble for my hfe .' 
 
 Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 
 Will blanch a faithful cheek. 
 
 7 
 " Mv spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 
 
 Along the bordering lake, 
 And when they on their father call. 
 
 What answer shall she make I — 
 " Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 
 
 Thv grief let none gainsay ; 
 But I, who am of lighter mood. 
 
 Will laugh to flee away. 
 
i88 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour ? 
 Fresh feeres will dry the briglit blue eye; 
 
 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. 
 
 And now I'm in the world alone, 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea ; 
 But whv 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 -XIV 
 
 On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone. 
 And wind? 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 I it is a goodlv sight to see 
 What Heaven hath done for this 
 
 delicious land ! 
 What fruits of fragrance blush on evor\- 
 
 tree ! 
 What goodly prospxts o'er the hills 
 
 expand ! 
 But man would mar them with an im- 
 pious hand ; 
 And when the Almighty Kfts his fiercest 
 
 scourge 
 'Gainst those who most transgress his 
 
 high command. 
 With treble vengeance will his hot shafts 
 
 urge I 
 
 Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest ! 
 
 foeraen purge, I 
 
 What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
 Her image floating on that noble tide, 
 Which poets \ainly 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 \^'ith ignorance and pride, 
 Wbo lick yet loathe the hand that waves 
 
 the sword 
 To save them from the wrath of Gaul's 
 
 unsp.aring lord. 
 
 xvn 
 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 ; 
 Xc personage of high or mean degree 
 Doth care for cleanness of surtout or 
 shirt ; 
 Though shent with Eg>'pt's plague, un- 
 kempt, unwash'd, unhurt. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Poor, paltry slaves ! yet bom 'midst 
 
 noblest scenes — 
 Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such 
 
 men ? 
 Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
 In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
 Ah me : what hand can pencil guide, or 
 
 pen, 
 To follow half on which the eye dilates 
 Through views more dazzling unto 
 
 mortal ken 
 Than those whereof such things the bard 
 
 relates, 
 Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd 
 
 Elysium's gates. 
 
 XIX 
 
 The horrid crags, by toppling convent 
 
 crown "d, 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the 
 
 shaggy steep. 
 The mountain-moss by scorching skies 
 
 imbrown'd. 
 The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs 
 
 must weep, 
 The tender azure of the unruffled deep. 
 The orange tints that gild the greenest 
 
 bough, 
 The torrents that from cliff to vallev 
 
 leap. 
 
 The \-ine on high, the willow branch 
 below, 
 Mix'd in one mighty scene, with ^•aried 
 beauty glow. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRI?\IAGE 
 
 Thou slowly climb the many--vvinding 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale be- 
 neath. 
 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 : 
 Where 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. 
 
 X-XIII 
 
 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 sup- 
 plied ; 
 Si-.'ept into wrecks anon by Time's un- 
 gentle tide ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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 \'ain 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 ? 
 
 x.xvii 
 
 So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the moun- 
 tains he 
 
 Did take Ms wav in solitary guise : 
 
 Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought 
 to flee. 
 
 More restless than' the swallow m the 
 skies: , 
 
 Though here awhile he learn d to 
 moralise. 
 
igo 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 For" Meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
 And conscious Reason whisper'd to 
 
 despise 
 His early youth, misspent in maddest 
 
 whim ; 
 But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes 
 
 grew dim. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 To horse .' to horse I 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 experi- 
 ence sage. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 
 
 Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luck- 
 less 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 glori- 
 ous 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, roman- 
 tic hills, 
 (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn 
 
 race !) 
 Whereon to gaze the eve with iovaunce 
 
 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 hfe, that bloated Ease cac never hope 
 
 to share. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 More hleak to view the hills at length 
 recede, 
 
 And, less luxuriant, smoother vales ex- 
 tend ; 
 
 Immense horizon-bounded plains suc- 
 ceed ! 
 
 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 Sub- 
 jection's woes. 
 
 XXXIl 
 
 Where Lusitania and her Sister meet. 
 Deem j'e what bounds the rival realms 
 
 divide ? 
 Or ere the jealous queens of nations 
 
 greet. 
 Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
 Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
 Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
 Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
 Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and 
 
 tall, 
 Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's 
 
 land from Gaul : 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 But these between a sih-er 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 foe- 
 men flow ; 
 
 For proud each peasant as the noblest 
 duke : 
 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the differ- 
 ence 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 splen- 
 dour 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 oppress'd. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 191 
 
 Oh, lovely Soain! renown' d, romantic 
 
 land! 
 Where is that standard which Pelagic 
 
 bore, 
 When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the 
 
 band 
 That dyed thy mountain streams with 
 
 Gothic gore ? 
 Where are those bloody banners which 
 
 of yore 
 Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the 
 
 gale. 
 And drove at last the spoilers to their 
 
 shore ? 
 Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the 
 
 crescent pale. 
 While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish 
 
 matrons' wail. 
 
 xxxvi 
 Teems not each dittv with the glorious 
 
 tale? 
 Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
 When grarite moulders and when records 
 
 fail, 
 A peasajt'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 ? 
 Or must thou trust Tradition's simple 
 
 tongue. 
 When Flattery sleeps with thee, and His- 
 tory does thee wrong ? 
 
 xxxvii 
 Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! ad- 
 vance ! 
 Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, 
 
 cries. 
 But wields not, as of old, her thirsty 
 
 lance, 
 Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the 
 
 skies : [flies, 
 
 Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she 
 And speaks iu 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 tvrants' slaves ?— the fires 
 
 of death. 
 The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock 
 
 to rock 
 Each volley tells that thousands cease to 
 
 breathe ; 
 Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
 Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations 
 
 feel the shock. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain 
 
 stands. 
 His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the 
 
 sun, 
 With death-shot glowing in his "fiery 
 
 hands. 
 And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; 
 Rpstlf ss 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. 
 
 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 veiling for 
 
 the prey ! 
 All join the chase, but few the triumph 
 
 share ; 
 The (Jrave 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, Spam, Albion, 
 
 Victorv ! 
 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 plam. 
 And fertilise the field that each pretends 
 
 to gain. 
 
 XLII 
 
 There shall they rot— Ambition's 
 
 honour'd fools ! 
 Yes, Honour decks the turf Lint wrapa 
 
 their clay ! 
 
192 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the 
 
 tools, 
 The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
 By myriads, when they dare to pave 
 
 their way 
 With human hearts — to what ? — a dream 
 
 alone. 
 Can despots compass aught that hails 
 
 their sway ? 
 Or call with truth one span of earth their 
 
 own. 
 Save that wherein at last they crumble 
 
 bone by bone ' 
 
 XIIII 
 
 Oh, Albuera ! glorious lield ot 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 pro- 
 long ! 
 Till others fall where other chieftains 
 
 lead 
 Thy name shall circle round the gaping 
 
 throng. 
 And shine in worthless lays, the theme of 
 
 transient song. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Enough of battle's minions ! let them 
 
 play 
 Their game of lives, and barter breath 
 
 for fame : 
 Fame that will scarce reanimate their 
 
 clay, 
 Though thousands fall to deck some 
 
 single name. 
 In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble 
 
 aim 
 Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their 
 
 country's good. 
 And die, that living might have proved 
 
 her shame ; 
 Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic 
 
 feud. 
 Or in a narrower sphere vrild Rapine's 
 
 path pursued. 
 
 XLV 
 
 Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
 
 Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsub- 
 dued : 
 
 Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for 
 prey! 
 
 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot 
 intrude, 
 
 Blackening her lovely domes -,vith traces 
 rude. 
 
 Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to stri^'c 
 
 Where Desolation plants her famish'd 
 brood 
 
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, 
 And Virtue vanqtiish all, and Murder cease 
 to thrive. 
 
 But all unconscious of the coming doom. 
 The feast, the song, the revel here 
 
 abounds ; 
 Strange modes of merriment the hours 
 
 consume. 
 Nor bleed these patriots with their 
 
 country's wounds ; 
 Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck 
 
 sounds ; 
 Here Folly still his votaries inthrals ; 
 And young-eyed Lewdness v/atks her 
 
 midnight rounds ; 
 Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
 Still to the last kind Vice clings to the 
 
 tott'ring walls. 
 
 XL VII 
 
 Not so the rustic — with his trembling 
 mate 
 
 He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar. 
 
 Lest he should view his vineyard deso- 
 late. 
 
 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 lav, 
 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 
 
 Rev ! " 
 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
 The royal ivittol Charles, and curse the 
 
 day 
 When first Spain's queen beheld the 
 
 black-eyed boy, 
 And gore-faced Treason sprung from her 
 
 adulterate joy. 
 
 XLI.X 
 
 On you long, level plain, at distance 
 crown'd 
 
 With crags, whereon those Moorish tur- 
 rets rest, 
 
 Vv'ide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the 
 wounded ground ; 
 
 And, scathed by fire, the greensward's 
 darken d vest 
 
 Tells that the foe was .^dalusia's guest i 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 193 
 
 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. 
 
 L 
 
 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 : 
 Woe to the man that waits, 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'er- 
 
 flow'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 reckon- 
 ing-day. 
 When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his 
 
 wings unturl'd, 
 And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to 
 
 Hades hurl'd. 
 
 LIII 
 
 And must they fall ? the young, the 
 proud, the brave, 
 
 To swell one bloated Chief's unwhole- 
 some reign ? 
 
 No step between submission and ,1 
 grave ? 
 
 The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
 
 And doth the Power that man adores 
 ordain 
 
 Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's 
 appeal ? 
 
 Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain ? 
 
 And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
 The Veteran's skill. Youth's fire, and Man- 
 hood's heart of steel ? 
 
 Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
 Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar. 
 And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath es- 
 poused, 
 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-i 'attering 
 
 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 
 
 Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's 
 fearful chase. 
 
 LVI 
 
 Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed 
 
 Her chief is slain— she fills his fatal post ; 
 Her fellows flee — she checks their base 
 
 CcirGGr ' 
 The foe retires — she heads the sallying 
 
 host : , , ,, i 5 
 
 Who can appease like her a lover s^ghost ! 
 Who can a\-pp.se so well a leader s tall f 
 What maid retrieve when man's flushed 
 
 hope is lost ? „ ■ /- i 
 
 Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter d 
 
 wall ? ' 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 LVII 
 
 Yet are Spain's maids no race of Ama- 
 zons, 
 Cut form'd for all tfie witching arts of 
 
 love : 
 Though thus in arms they emulate her 
 
 sons, 
 And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
 Pecking the hand that ho\'er5 o'er her 
 
 mate : 
 In softness as in firmness far above 
 Remoter females, famed for sickening 
 prate ; 
 Her mind is nobler sure, her charms per- 
 chance as great. 
 
 The seal Love's dimphng 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 ui vain to spoil her 
 
 cheek. 
 Which gl"ws yet smoother from his 
 
 amorous clutch 1 
 Who round the North for paler dames 
 
 would seek ? 
 How poor their forms appear ! how lan- 
 guid, wan, and weak I 
 
 Match me, ye climes I W'hich poets love 
 
 to laud ; 
 Match me, ye harems of the land ! where 
 
 now 
 T 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, angeh- 
 
 cally kind. 
 
 Oh, thou Parnassus ! whom I now sur- 
 vey. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Wliat marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
 
 The hnmbk^i >f thy pilgrims nas^iug by 
 
 Would gladly woo thine Echoes v.-ith his 
 string. 
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse 
 will wave her wing. 
 
 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 thoii, 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 melo- 
 dious wa\'e. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my 
 
 strain 
 I tum'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
 Forgot the leind, the sons, the maids of 
 
 Spain ; 
 Her fate, to every freebora 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. 
 
 But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when 
 
 Greece %vas 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, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 195 
 
 Behol4 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 peace- 
 ful shades 
 As Greece can still bestow, though Glory 
 fly her glades. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her country 
 
 boast 
 Her strength, her wealth, her site of 
 
 ancient 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 mantUng, who 
 
 can 'scape 
 The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
 A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou 
 
 gape. 
 And mould to every taste thy dear delusive 
 
 shape. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 When Paphos fell by Time — accursed 
 
 Time ! 
 The Queen who conquers all must yield 
 
 to thee — 
 The Pleasures tied, 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 mom till night, from night till 
 
 startled Mom 
 Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing 
 
 crew, 
 The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
 Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
 Tread on each other's kibes. A long 
 
 adieu 
 H^ bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
 Nought interrupts the riot, though in 
 
 lieu 
 Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
 And love and prayer unite, or rule the 
 
 hour by turns. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest : 
 What hallows it upon this Christian 
 shore ? 
 
 Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
 
 Hark! heard you not the forest-mon- 
 arch s roar ? 
 
 Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spout- 
 mg 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. 
 
 the jubilee of man. 
 thou know'st the 
 
 The seventh day this 
 
 London ! right well 
 day of prayer. 
 
 Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan. 
 
 And smug apprentice gulp their weekly 
 air : 
 
 Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one- 
 horse chair. 
 
 And humblest gig through sundry sub- 
 urbs whirl ; 
 
 To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make 
 
 - repair ; 
 
 Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to 
 hurl. 
 Provoking envious gibe from each pedes- 
 trian churl. 
 
 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 ^lystery, 
 In whose dread name both men and 
 
 maids are sworn, 
 And consecrate the oath mth 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 beads- 
 men be : 
 
 Then to the crowded circus forth they 
 fare : 
 Young, old, high, low, at once the saraf 
 diversion share. 
 
196 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 spacious area 
 
 i.xxa 
 The lists are oped, the 
 
 clear' d. 
 Thousands on thousands pled 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, 
 "^^et 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. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant 
 steeds. 
 
 With milk-white crest, gold spur, and 
 light-poised lance. 
 
 Four cavaliers prepare for venturous 
 deeds. 
 
 And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
 
 Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly 
 prance : 
 
 If in the dangerous game they shine to- 
 day, 
 
 The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely 
 glance. 
 
 Best prize of better acts, they bear away. 
 And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their 
 toils 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. 
 
 lo ! the 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Thrice sounds the clarion ; 
 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 sound- 
 ing foot. 
 
 The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
 
 Here, there, he points his threatening 
 front, to suit 
 
 His first attack, wide \s'avin,'; to and fro 
 His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated 
 glow. 
 
 Lxy VI 
 
 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 tor- 
 rent clear : 
 
 He flies, he wheels, distracted with his 
 throes ; 
 Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud 
 bellowings speak his woes. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Again he comes; nor dart nor lance 
 
 avail. 
 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured 
 
 horse ; 
 Though man and man's avenging arms 
 
 assail. 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled 
 
 corse ; 
 Another, hideous sight !• 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. 
 
 L.X.XVIII 
 
 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 — 
 \'ain rage ! the mantle quits the conviltte 
 
 hand, 
 \\'raps his fierce eve— 'tis past— he < nks 
 
 upon the sand ! 
 
 L.xxi.<: 
 Where his %'ast neck just mingles with 
 
 the spme. 
 Sheathed in his form the deadly weapoa 
 
 ^d f'^P?"''^ starts— disdaining to 
 
 Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
 "'"'""* " groan, without a struggle dies, 
 '•^ed car anr»p^rc ^n \\{ah 
 
 Without 
 The deco 
 
 ed car appears- 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRT?irAGE 
 
 IQ7 
 
 The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar 
 
 eyes — 
 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift 
 
 as shy, 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in 
 
 dashing by. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
 The Spanish maid, and cheers the 
 
 Spanish swain. 
 Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart 
 
 delights 
 lu vv,ugeance, 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. 
 
 L.XXXI 
 
 But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his 
 bolts, 
 
 His wither'd sentinel. Duenna sage I 
 
 And all whereat the generous soul re- 
 volts. 
 
 Which the stem dotard deem'd he 
 could encage. 
 
 Have pass'd to darkness with the van- 
 ish'd age. 
 
 Who late so free as Spanish girls were 
 
 (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 un- 
 moved, J T i,. > 
 
 For not yet had he drunk of Lethe s 
 
 stream ; , . , , i,_ ^ 
 
 And lately had he learn'd with truth to 
 
 deem 
 I ove has no gift so grateful as his wings ; 
 How fair, how young, hoAV soft soe'er he 
 
 seem, , , ,. . 
 
 Full from the fount of Joy's dehcious 
 
 springs . 
 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbhng 
 
 venom flings. 
 
 LXXXIIl 
 
 Yet to the beauteous form he was not 
 
 blind. ^ ^. 
 
 Though now it moveiJ him as it moves 
 
 the wise ; 
 
 N'ut that Philosophy on such a raimi 
 ii'erdeign'd to bend her chasteljr^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 ? 
 Nought that he saw his sadness could 
 
 abate ; 
 Yet once he struggled 'gainst the 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. 
 
 TO INEZ 
 
 Xay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 
 
 Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 2 
 
 And dost thou ask what secret woe 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 
 .And wilt thou vainlv seek to know 
 A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 
 
 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 tor me. 
 
 5 
 It is that settled, ceaseless glooni 
 
 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 jones though more and more remote, 
 
198 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Still, still pursues, where'er 1 be, 
 
 lUe 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 ! 
 
 8 
 Through many a clime 'tis mine to go. 
 
 With many a retrospection curst ; 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 
 
 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 ? 
 When all were changing thou alone wert 
 
 true. 
 First to be free and last to be subdued : 
 And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
 Some native blood was seen thy streets 
 
 to dye, 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud ; 
 Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
 None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save 
 
 fallen Chivalry ! 
 
 i..\.xxvi 
 
 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 chief- 
 tains flee. 
 
 True to the \-erie5t 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 wiit of bloodiest 
 
 strife u 
 Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on 
 
 foreign foe 
 Can act, is acting there against man's 
 
 life: 
 From flashing scimitar to secret knife. 
 War mouldetli 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 remorse- 
 less deed ! 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
 
 I 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 ! 
 
 LXXXI.X 
 
 Nor yet. alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
 Fresh legions pour adown the P\Tenees : 
 It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
 Nor mortal pye the distant end foresees. 
 Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, 
 
 she frees 
 More than her fell Pizarros once en- 
 
 chain'd : 
 Strange retribution ! now Columbia's 
 
 east- 
 Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons 
 
 sustain'd. 
 While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder 
 
 unrestrain'd. 
 
 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 OUve-Branch be free 
 
 from blight ? 
 When shall she breathe her from the 
 
 blushing toil ? 
 How many a doubtful dav 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 unavailiu" 
 
 woe ^ 
 Bursts from my heart, and mingles with 
 
 the strain — 
 Had the sword laid thee with the mighty 
 
 low 
 Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to 
 
 complam : 
 But thus unlaurel'd to descend in Vain, 
 By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
 
CHILDJi HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 199 
 
 And mix iinbleeding with the boasted 
 
 slain, 
 While Glory crowns so many a meaner 
 crest ! 
 What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully 
 to rest ? 
 
 XCII 
 
 Oh, known the earUest, and esteem'd 
 
 the mos' ! 
 Dear to a heart where nought was left so 
 
 d<:ar ! 
 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 wues, 
 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 ? 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 barbarou-i 
 
 hands v^ere quell'd. 
 
 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, 
 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 pohsh'd 
 
 breasts bestow. 
 
 II 
 Ancient of days ! august Athena.! where. 
 Where are thy men of might ? thy grand 
 
 in soul ? 
 Gone — gUmmering through the dream of 
 
 things that were : 
 First in the race that led to Glory s goal. 
 They won, andpass'daway-^is this the 
 
 whole ? , , , , 
 
 A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an ho<ir ! 
 
 The warrior's weapon and the sophist's 
 stole 
 
 Arc sought in vain, and o'er each moulder- 
 ing tower. 
 Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the 
 shade of power. 
 
 -but molest not yon defenceless 
 
 Son of the morning, rise ! approach you 
 
 here 
 Come— 
 
 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 JVIahomet's — and 
 
 other creeds 
 Will rise with other years, till man shall 
 
 learn 
 Vainly his incense soars, his \ictim 
 
 bleeds ; 
 Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope 
 
 is built on reeds. 
 
 Bound to the earth, he hfts his eye to 
 
 heaven — 
 Is' t not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
 Thou art ? 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 ? 
 Stiil wilt thou di-eam on future joy and 
 
 woe ? 
 Regard and weigh yon dust before it 
 
 flies: 
 That httle urn saith more than thousand 
 
 homilies. 
 
 V 
 Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty 
 
 mound ; 
 Far on the soUtary shore he sleeps : 
 He fell, and faUing nations mourn'd 
 
 around ; , • , j 
 
 But now not one of saddenl:ig thousands 
 
 weeps, . 
 
 Nor warhke worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where demi-gods appear' d, as records 
 
 tell. 
 Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd 
 
 heaps : „ , j ,i , 
 
 Is that a temple where a God may dwell .' 
 Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her 
 'shatter'dcell! 
 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall 
 Its chambers desolate, and p'lrtals foul : 
 
zoo 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 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 lonelv tower, this tenement 
 
 refit ? 
 
 VII 
 
 Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest 
 
 son ! 
 " All that we know is, nothing can be 
 
 known." 
 Why should we shrink from what we 
 
 cannot shun ? 
 Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers 
 
 groan 
 With brain-born dreams of evi] 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 wel- 
 come rest. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there 
 
 be 
 .\ land of souls beyond that sable shore. 
 To shame the doctrine of the Sadducec 
 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 v^^e 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 i — whose love and life to- 
 gether fled. 
 
 Have left me here to love and live in 
 vain — 
 
 Twined with my heart, and can I deem 
 thee dead 
 
 When busy Memory flashes on my brain ? 
 
 Well — I will dream that we may meet 
 again. 
 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
 
 If aught of young Remembrance then 
 remain. 
 
 Be as it may Futuritv's behest, 
 For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy 
 spirit blest ! 
 
 -X 
 
 Here let me sit upon this massv stone. 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
 
 Here, sod of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite 
 throne : 
 
 Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me 
 trace 
 
 The latent grandeur of thy dwelling- 
 place. 
 
 It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
 
 Restore what time hath labour'd to de- 
 face. 
 
 Yet these proud pillars claim no passing 
 sigh : 
 Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek 
 carols by. 
 
 XT 
 
 But who, of all the plunderers of von f.-me 
 
 On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to 
 fiee 
 
 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-bom men should spare what 
 once was free ; 
 
 Yet they could violate each saddening 
 shrine, 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluct- 
 ant brine. 
 
 But most the modem Pict's ignoble boast 
 Tn 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. 
 And never knew, till then, the r.eight of 
 
 Despot's chains. 
 
 Whit ! shall it e'er be said by British 
 
 tongue, 
 Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
 Though in thy n anie 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 bleedin" 
 
 land : 
 Yes. she, whose gen'rous aid her name 
 
 endears, 
 Tore down those remnants with a harp\-'^ 
 
 hand, ' ' 
 
 Which envious Eld forbore, and tvraut- 
 
 left to stand. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIAIAGE 
 
 iot 
 
 Where was thine ^gis, Pallas ! that 
 
 appall' d 
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ? 
 Where Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain 
 
 enthrall' d, 
 His shade from Hades upon that dread 
 
 day 
 Bursting to light in terrible arrav ! 
 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 preserv'd 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 nor- 
 thern climes abhorr'd ! 
 
 XVI 
 
 But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
 To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the 
 
 wave ? 
 Little ceck'd he of all that men regret ; 
 No loved-one now in feign'd lament 
 
 could rave ; 
 No friend the parting hand extended 
 
 gave, 
 Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other 
 
 climes : 
 Hard is his heart whom charms may not 
 
 enslave ; 
 But Harold felt not as in other times. 
 And left without a sigh the land of war 
 
 and crimes. 
 
 XVII 
 
 He that has sail'd upon the dark blue =ea 
 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 Hke white s"\vans in 
 
 their flight. 
 The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
 So gaily curl the waves before each dashing 
 
 prow. 
 
 B.P.W 
 
 XVIII 
 
 And oh, the little warhke world within ' 
 1 he well-reeved guns, thenetted canopy,' 
 the hoarse command, the busy humming 
 
 When, at a word, the tops are manu'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 be- 
 tides, » 
 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 re- 
 main 
 
 For the lone chieftain, who majestic 
 stalks, 
 
 Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
 
 With aught beneath him, if he would pre- 
 serve 
 
 That strict restraint, which broken, ever 
 balks 
 
 Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely 
 swerve 
 From law, however stern, which tends 
 their strength to nerve. 
 
 XX 
 
 Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compell- 
 ing gale ! 
 
 Till the broad sun withdraws his lessen- 
 ing cay : 
 
 Then must the pennant-bearer slacken 
 sail, 
 
 That lagging barks may make their lazy 
 way. 
 
 Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull de- 
 lay, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 .iXI • 
 
 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 
 
 p 
 
202 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Wakes the brisk harmony tl^at sailors 
 
 love ; 
 A circle there of merry hsteners stand. 
 Or to some well-known measure featly 
 
 move, 
 Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were 
 
 free to rove. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Through Calpe's straits survey the 
 
 steepy shore ; 
 Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
 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. 
 
 xxin 
 'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
 We once have loved, though love is at an 
 
 end ; [zeal. 
 
 The heart, lone mourner of its baffled 
 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 ? 
 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
 To g^ze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere. 
 The soul forgets her schemes of hope and 
 
 pride, 
 And flies unconscious o'er each back- 
 ward year. 
 ^None are so desolate but something dear. 
 Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
 A thought, and claims the homage of a 
 
 teal" ; , 
 
 A flashing pang ! of which the weary j 
 
 breast ' j 
 
 WoufcJ still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart ' 
 
 divert. 
 
 .\xv 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and ! 
 
 fell, j 
 
 To slowh' trace tlie forest's shady scene, I 
 Where things that own not man's 
 
 dominion dwell, 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely 
 
 been ; 
 
 To climb the trackless mountain all un- 
 seen. 
 
 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 Natiu-e'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 dis- 
 tress ! 
 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 
 
 !^.Iore ble^t 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 v,'i5tful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
 Then slowly tear him from the 'witching 
 
 scene. 
 Sigh forth one «"ish that such had been 
 
 his lot, 
 Then turn to hate a world he had almost 
 
 forgot. 
 
 X.XVIII 
 
 Pass we the long, unvarying course the 
 track - 
 
 Oft trod, that never leaves a trace be- 
 hind ; 
 
 Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, 
 the tack. 
 
 And each well known caprice of wave 
 and wind ; 
 
 I'asa we the jovs and sorrows sailors 
 find, 
 
 Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
 
 The foul, the fair, the contrarv, the kind, 
 
 .\s breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
 rill on some jocund mom — lo, land ! and 
 all is well : 
 
 XXIX 
 
 But not in silence pass Calvpso's isles,' 
 The sister tenants of the niiddle deep ; 
 There for the wear^• stiU a haven smiles, 
 Though the fair goddess long hath ceased 
 to weep, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 And o'er her cliSs a fruitless watch to 
 keep 
 
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
 
 Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful 
 leap 
 
 Stem Mentor urged from high to yonder 
 tide; 
 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, be- 
 ware ! 
 
 A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous 
 throne, 
 
 And thou may'st find a new Calypso 
 there. 
 
 Sweet Florence ! 3 could another ever 
 share 
 
 Xhis 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 : 
 I.ove kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
 \l''ho 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. 
 
 xxxu 
 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 punish- 
 ment, their law. 
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen 
 
 claims : 
 And much shemarvell'd that a youth so 
 
 raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft- told 
 
 flames. 
 Which, though sometimes they frown, yet i 
 
 rarely anger dames. [ 
 
 XXXIII I 
 
 Little knew she that seeming marble 
 heart, j 
 
 Now mask'd in silence or withheld b\' j 
 Dride. ' ' 
 
 205 
 
 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 whin- 
 ing 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 ; [copes : 
 
 Brisk Confidence still best with woman 
 
 Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Pas.?ion 
 
 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 lo\-o itself forgets to 
 
 please. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
 For we have many a mountain-path to 
 
 tread. 
 And many a varied shore to sail along, 
 By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
 Imagined in its Uttle schemes of thought ; 
 Or e'er in new Utopias were ared, 
 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. 
 
304 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 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, 
 i\.nd sought her more and more, and loved 
 
 her best in wrath. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Land jf 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 sach 
 city's ken. 
 
 x.x.xix 
 Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the 
 
 barren spot. 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wa\'e ;^ 
 And onward view'd 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 child- 
 ren may aspire. 
 
 -VL 
 
 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
 Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape 
 
 afar ; ^ 
 A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to 
 
 leave : 
 Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd 
 
 war, 
 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar ; 
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not 
 
 delight 
 (Born beneath some remote inglorious 
 
 star) 
 In themes of bloody frav, or gallant fight 
 But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed 
 
 at martial wight. 
 
 But when he saw the «;\ening star abo\-e 
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
 He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common 
 
 glow : 
 And as the statelv 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, 
 IMore placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his 
 
 pallid front. 
 
 XLII 
 
 Morn dawns ; and with it stem Albania's 
 
 hills. 
 Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland 
 
 peak, 
 Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowv 
 
 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 ; 
 Npw he adventured on a shore unknown, 
 Which all admire, but manv dread to 
 
 view : 
 His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his 
 
 wants were few ; 
 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 wel- 
 comed summer's heat. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Here the red cross, for still the cross is 
 
 here. 
 Though sadly scofi'd at bv the circum- 
 cised. 
 Forgets that pride to pamper'd priest- 
 hood dear ; 
 Churchman and \otarv alike despised 
 Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguised^ 
 Idol, samt, virgin, prophet, crescent, 
 
 cross, 
 F.ir whatsoever svmbol thou art prized 
 Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss '' 
 '10 from true worship's gold can separate 
 thy dross ? 
 
 '^ tet"''''''^ guK behold, where once was 
 
 "■^thingl ^°' '™"'''"' '"'■"'>■• l^nnless 
 la ^•onde^ rippling bav their naval host 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Did many a Roman chief and Asian 
 
 king 
 To doubtful confliot, certain slaugliter 
 
 bring : 
 Look where the second Cassar's trophies 
 
 rose : 
 Now, liiie 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 Parnas- 
 sus fails, 
 Though classic ground and consecrated 
 
 most. 
 To match some spots that lurk within this 
 
 lowering coast. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 He pass'dbleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake. 
 And left the primal city of the land. 
 And onwards did his further journey take 
 To greet Albania's chief," whose dread 
 
 command 
 Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
 He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
 Yet here and there some daring moun- 
 tain-band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky 
 hold 
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to 
 gold. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Monastic Zitza ! from thy shady brow,' 
 Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy 
 
 ground ! 
 Wliere'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
 What rainbow tints, what magic charms 
 
 are found ! 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
 And bluest skies that harmonize the 
 
 whole : 
 Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing 
 
 sound 
 Tells ^yhere 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 
 
 2f-5 
 
 Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still 
 Might well itself be deem'd of dignit^.-, 
 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. 
 
 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 scorch- 
 ing ray 
 
 Here pierceth not, impregnate with 
 disease : 
 
 Then let his length the loitering pil- 
 grim lay. 
 And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the 
 eve away. 
 
 LI 
 
 Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight. 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 
 Chim^era'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 ! 
 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 citv'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 : 
 Put, peering down each precipice, the 
 
 goat 
 Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd 
 
 flock. 
 The little shepherd in his white capote 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the 
 rock, 
 Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short- 
 lived shock. 
 
 LIII 
 
 Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove. 
 Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
 What valley echc'd the response of Jove ? 
 What trace remaineth of the Thui.derer's 
 
 shrine ? 
 All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
 That his frail bonds to fleeting life are 
 
 broke ? 
 
20f> 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD-S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Ce?sfc, fool ! the fate of gods niay well be 
 
 chine ■ 
 Wouldst chou survive the marble or the 
 oak ? 
 When nations, tongues, and worlds must 
 sink beneath the stroke ! 
 
 LIV 
 
 Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains 
 
 fail; 
 Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
 Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
 As ever Spring yclad in grassy d^^e : 
 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 Tomerif,8 
 
 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring 
 by; 
 
 The shades of wonted night were gather- 
 ing yet. 
 
 When, down the steep banks winding 
 warily, 
 
 Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the 
 sky. 
 
 The guttering minarets of Tepalen, 
 
 Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and 
 drawing nigh, 
 • He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
 Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the 
 lengthening glen. 
 
 the 
 
 LVI 
 
 sacred 
 
 Haram's silent 
 the wide o'erarching 
 
 He pass'd 
 
 tower. 
 And underneath 
 
 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 courtj 
 Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and 
 
 santons wait ; 
 Within, a palace, and without, a tort : 
 Here men of every clime appear to make 
 
 resort. 
 
 many a warlike 
 
 Richly caparison' d, a ready row 
 Of armed horse, and 
 
 store, 
 
 Circled the wide extending court below ■ 
 Above, strange groups adorn'd the 
 
 corridore ; 
 .Vnd 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 an- 
 nounced the close of day. 
 
 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 mi.x'd conspicuous : some recline in 
 
 groups, 
 Scanning the motley scene that varies 
 
 round ; 
 There some grave Aloslem 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 min- 
 aret, 
 ' There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo 1 
 
 God is great ! " 
 
 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 \acant gallery now seem'd made in 
 
 \"ain. 
 But from the chambers came the ming- 
 ling tin, ° 
 As page and sbve anon were passine out 
 and in. " 
 
 IS never heard: 
 
 L.XI 
 
 Here woman's \oice 
 apart, 
 
 And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd to 
 move, ' ' '" 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 She yields to one her person and her 
 
 heart, 
 Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to 
 
 rove : 
 For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
 And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
 Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
 Herself more sweetly rears the babe she 
 
 bears. 
 Who never quits the breast, no meaner 
 
 passion shares. 
 
 LXII 
 
 In marble-paved pavilion, where a 
 
 spring 
 Of living water from the centre rose, 
 Whose bubbling did a genial freshness 
 
 fling, 
 And soft voluptuous couches breathed 
 
 repose, 
 Ali reclined, a man of war and woes : 
 Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
 While Gentleness her milder radiance 
 
 throws 
 Along that aged venerable face, 
 The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him 
 
 with disgrace. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 It is not that yon hoary lengthening 
 
 beard 
 111 suits the passions which belong to 
 
 youth ; [averr'd. 
 
 Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath 
 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 yeats, 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. 1" 
 
 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. 
 
 207 
 
 Where is the foe that ever saw their back ' 
 V/ho can so well the toil of war endure ? 
 Their native fastnesses not more secure 
 Than they in doubtful time of troublous 
 
 need : 
 Tlieir wrath how deadly ! but their 
 
 friendship sure, 
 When Gratitude or Valour bids them 
 
 bleed. 
 Unshaken ru^iiing on where'er their chief 
 
 may lead. 
 
 L.XVI 
 
 Childe Harold saw them in their chief- 
 tain'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, 
 
 .\nd fellow-countrymen have stood 
 aloof — 
 In aught that tries the heart how few with- 
 stand the proof. 
 
 Lxvn 
 It chanced that ad\'erse 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. 
 
 LXVHI 
 
 Vain fear ! the Suhotes stretch'd the 
 
 welcome hand. 
 Led them o'er rocks and past the danger- 
 ous 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 Jarap, 
 And spread their fare ; though homely, 
 
 all they had : 
 Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare 
 
 stamp ; 
 To rest the weary and to sooth the sad. 
 Doth lesson happier men, and shames at 
 
 least the bad. 
 
208 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 It came to pass, that when he did address 
 Himself to quit at length this mountain- 
 land, 
 Combined marauders half-way barr'd 
 
 egress, 
 And wasted far and near with glaive and 
 
 brand ; 
 And therefore did betake 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 Jitolia's wolds 
 espied. 
 
 LXX 
 
 The long wild locks that to their girdles 
 stream' d. 
 While thus in concert they this lay half sang, 
 half scream'd : — 
 
 Tambourgi ! i» 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 ! ^ 
 
 Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
 
 Where lone Utraikey forms its circling' In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
 rnvp To the wolf and the vulture he leaves hit 
 
 And weary wa\"eb retire to gleam at rest. 
 How brown the fohage of the green hill's 
 
 grove, 
 Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's 
 
 breast. 
 As ivinds 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 unmo\'ed the gentle 
 
 scene. 
 For many a joy could he from Night's soft 
 
 presence glean. 
 
 On the smooth shore the night-fires 
 
 brightly blazed, 
 The feast was done, the red wine circling 
 
 fast. 
 And he that unawares had there ygazed 
 With gaping wonderment had stared 
 
 aghast ; 
 For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was 
 
 past. 
 The native revels of the troop began ; 
 Each Palikar " his sabre from him cast. 
 And bounding hand in hand, man link'd 
 
 to man. 
 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, 
 Norjhated 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 gesturcb nimble, dark eves flashing 
 
 free, 
 
 wild flock, 
 And descends to the plain like the stream 
 from the rock. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
 For a time the}' 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 I love the :air face of the maid ia her 
 youth, 
 
 Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall 
 sooth ; 
 
 Let her bring from the chamber her many- 
 toned l\Te, 
 
 And sing us a song on the fall of her sire 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 209 
 
 Remember themoment when Previsa fell,'-" 
 
 The shrieks of the conquer'd, the con- 
 querors' 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 live Ali Pashaw. 
 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is 
 
 sped, 
 Let the yellow-hair'd '^ Giaours '" view 
 
 his horsetail with dread ; " 
 When his Delhis >^ come dashing in blood 
 
 o'er the banks. 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite 
 
 ranks ! 
 
 u 
 Selictar ! '' unsheathe then our chief's 
 
 scimitar 
 Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of 
 
 war. 
 Ye mountains, that see us descend to the 
 
 shore. 
 Shall view us as victors, or view us no 
 
 more ! 
 
 Lxxm 
 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 ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilome did 
 
 await. 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
 In bleak Thermopyte's sepulchral 
 
 strait — 
 Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee 
 
 from the tomb ? 
 
 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, unmann'd. 
 
 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 
 
 bum'd anew 
 With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! 
 And many dream withal the hour is in'gh 
 That gives them back then: 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 ? 
 By their right arms the conquest must 
 
 be wrought ? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no I 
 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 Giaoiu: from Othman's race again 
 
 may wrest ; 
 And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
 Receive the fiery Frank, her former 
 
 guest ; 
 Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared 
 
 divest 
 TJic prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 
 May wind their path of blood along the 
 
 West ; 
 But ne'er will freedom seek this fated 
 
 soil. 
 But slave succeed to slave through years 
 
 of endless toil. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days 
 
 begin, _ 
 That penance which their holy rites 
 
 prepare 
 To shrive from man his weight of mortal 
 
 sin, 
 By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
 
210 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 ijut 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 Bos- 
 
 phorus 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 sivept o'er 
 
 the wave. 
 'Twas, as if darting from her heavenlv 
 
 throne, 
 A brighter glance her form reflected ga\c. 
 Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the 
 banks they lave. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 Glanced many a light caique along the 
 
 foam, 
 Danced on tlie shore the daughters of tlie 
 
 land, 
 j\u thought had man or maid of rest or 
 
 home, 
 While many a languid eye and thrilUng 
 
 hand 
 Exchanged the look few bosoms may 
 
 withstand, 
 Or gently prest, retiurn'd the pressure 
 
 still : 
 Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy 
 
 rosy band. 
 Let sage or cynic prattle as he mil, 
 These hours, and only these, redeem Life's 
 
 years of ill ! 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 But, midst the throng in merry mas- 
 querade. 
 Lurk there no hearts that throb viith 
 
 secret pain. 
 Even through the closest searment half 
 
 betray' d ? 
 To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
 Seem to re-echo aU they mourn in vain ; 
 To such the gladness of the gamesome 
 
 crowd 
 Is source of wayivard thought and stem 
 
 disdain : 
 How do they loathe the laughter idly 
 
 loud. 
 And long to change the robe of revel for the 
 
 shroud ! 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 This must he feel, the true-bom 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. [accost, 
 
 \ et with smooth smile his tyrant can 
 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 degener- 
 ate horde ! 
 
 LXXXtV 
 
 When riseth Lacedemou's hardihood. 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again. 
 When Athens' children are with hearts 
 
 endued. 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to 
 
 men. 
 Then may'bt 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 
 Recall Its virtues back, and vanquish Time 
 
 and Fate ? 
 
 LXX.W 
 
 And yet how lovelv in thine age of woe 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men, art 
 
 thou ! 
 Tl y vales of evergreen, thy hills of sn-^^•, 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite 
 
 now : 
 '^'ly^^^fnes, thy temples to thy surface 
 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earfh 
 
 Broke b}- the share of e verv rustic plough ■ 
 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth 
 
 Worth"; '" '""■ '*™ ^vell-recordid 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 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 oUve ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
 
 And still his honied wealth Hymettus 
 yields ; 
 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress 
 builds, 
 
 The freebom 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. 
 
 LXXXVIU 
 
 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 ha\'e 
 
 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. 
 
 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 mom to distant Glory dear, 
 
 When Marathon became a magic word ; 
 
 Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camp, the host, the fight, the con- 
 queror's career, 
 
 The flying Mede, his shaftless broken 
 
 bow ; 
 The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
 llountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain 
 
 below ; 
 Death in the front. Destruction in the 
 
 rear ! 
 Such was the scene — what now remaineth 
 
 here ? 
 What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd 
 
 ground. 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's 
 
 tear ? 
 The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
 The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! 
 
 spurns around. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 : 
 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. 
 
 Let such approach this consecrated land, 
 
 And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
 
 But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
 
 Deface the scenes, ahready how defaced ! 
 
 Not for such purpose were these altars 
 placed : 
 
 Revere the remnants nations once re- 
 vered : 
 
 So may our country's name be undis- 
 graced, 
 
212 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 So may'st thou prosper where thy youth 
 was rear'd, 
 By every honest joy of love and life en- 
 dear'd ! 
 
 xciv 
 For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
 Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious 
 
 laj-s, 
 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 par- 
 tial 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 ! 
 
 Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
 How seliish Sorrow ponders on the past. 
 And clings to thoughts now better far 
 
 removed ! 
 But Time shall tear thv shadow from me 
 
 last. 
 All thou couldst have of mine, stem 
 
 Death ! thou hast ; 
 The parent, friend, and now the more 
 
 than friend : 
 Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
 And grief with grief continuing still to 
 
 blend. 
 Hath snatched the Uttle joy that life had 
 
 yet to lend. 
 
 XCVII 
 
 Then must I plunge again into the crowd. 
 And follow all that Peace disdains toseek ? 
 Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainlv 
 
 loud. 
 False to the heart, distorts the hollow 
 
 cheek. 
 To leave the flagging spirit douMy weak ; 
 
 Still o'er the features, which perforce 
 
 they cheer, 
 Tn feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ? 
 Smiles from the channel of a future tear. 
 Or raise the \^Tithing 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 di^^ded and o'er hopes de- 
 
 stroy'd : 
 Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye 
 
 flow. 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er mv soul 
 
 enjoy'd. 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years 
 
 alloy-d. 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD 
 
 " Afin que cette application vous for(;at de 
 p?nser & autre chose ; ifn'y a en verite de remede 
 que celui-la et le temps " 
 
 Lettre du Roi de Prusse d D'Alembert, 
 Sept. 7^ 1776. 
 
 I 
 Is thv face like thv mother's, mv fair 
 
 child ! 
 Ada 1 sole daughter of my house and 
 
 heart ? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eves 
 
 they smiled, 
 -And then we parted, — not as now we 
 
 part. 
 But with a hope. — 
 
 Awaking with a start, 
 The waters heave around me ; and on 
 
 high 
 The winds hft up their voices : I depart 
 Whither I know not ; but the hour's 
 
 gone by, 
 When Albion's lessening shores could 
 
 grieve or glad mine eye. 
 
 II 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once 
 
 more ! 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a 
 
 steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome to their 
 
 roar ! 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it 
 
 lead ' 
 Though the strain'd mast should quiver 
 
 as a reed, 
 -And the rent canvass fluttering strew the 
 
 .?ale. 
 Still must 1 on ; for I am as a weed. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Flung (rom the rock, on Ocean's foam to 
 sail 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tem- 
 pest's breath prevail. 
 
 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 sterile track be- 
 hind. 
 O'er which all heavily the journeying 
 years 
 Plod the last sands of life, — where not a 
 flower appears. 
 
 Since my j'oung days of passion — joy, or 
 pain. 
 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a 
 string. 
 
 And both may jar : it may be, that in 
 vain 
 
 I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
 
 Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I 
 cling ; 
 
 So that it wean me from the weary dream 
 
 Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
 
 Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
 To me, though to none else, a not ungrate- 
 ful theme. 
 
 He, who grown aged in this world of woe. 
 In deeds, not years, piercing the deoths 
 
 of life. 
 So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
 Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, 
 
 strife, 
 Cut to his heart again with the keen 
 
 knife 
 Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
 Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, 
 
 yet rife 
 With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
 Still uiumpair'd, though old, in the soul's 
 
 haunted cell. 
 
 '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 tra- 
 verse earth, 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 
 213 
 
 .MiK'd with thy spirit, blended with thv 
 birth, 
 And feeling still with thee in my crush'd 
 feelings' dearth. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly : — I have 
 
 thought 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain be- 
 came. 
 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 re-appears at last ; 
 He of the breast which fain no more 
 
 would feel. 
 Wrung with the wounds which l-;ill 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 fiU'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 e\er. 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 cook through 
 
 many a scene. 
 
 .x 
 
 Secure in guarded coldness,he had mix'd 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly 
 
 fi^'d . , ,., ■ ^ 
 
 And sheath'd with an mvulnerable mind. 
 That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
 
214 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRL^.IAGE 
 
 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. 
 
 But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor 
 
 seek 
 To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
 The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's 
 
 dieek. 
 Nor feel the heart can never all grow 
 
 old? 
 Who can contemplate Fame through 
 
 clouds unfold 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nrii 
 
 climb ? 
 Harold, once more within the vortex, 
 
 roll'd 
 On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
 Vet 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 qnell'd 
 In youth by his own thoughts ; stiU 
 
 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 hfe within itself, to breathe without man- 
 kind. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him 
 
 were friends ; 
 Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his 
 
 home ; 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing cUme, 
 
 extends. 
 He had the passion and the power to 
 
 roam ; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
 Were unto him companionship; they 
 
 spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the 
 
 tome 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would 
 
 oft forsake 
 For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on 
 
 the lake. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the 
 
 stars, 
 Till he had peopled them with beings 
 
 bright 
 
 As their own beams ; and earth, and 
 
 earth-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 
 
 hnk 
 That keeps us from yon heaven which 
 
 woos us to its brink. 
 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a 
 I thing 
 
 Restless and worn, and stern and weari- 
 some, 
 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'er- 
 
 come. 
 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 Mved 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 sink- 
 ing deck, — 
 Did yet inspire a cheer, wliich he forbore 
 to check. 
 
 .XVII 
 
 Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's 
 dust! 
 
 .\n Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred be- 
 low ! 
 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
 
 Xor column trophied for triumphal show? 
 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler 
 so, 
 
 -\s the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
 
 How that red rain hath made the har- 
 vest grow ! [thee. 
 
 And is this all the world has gain'd bv 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making 
 \'ictorv ? 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 215 
 
 ' XVIII 
 
 , And Harold stands upon this place of 
 
 skulls, 
 The grave of France, the deadly Water- 
 loo ! 
 How in an hour the power which gave 
 
 annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring flame as fleeting 
 
 too ! 
 In " pride of place " here last the eagle 
 
 flew, 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent 
 
 plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations 
 
 through ; 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's 
 
 broken chain. 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
 
 And foam in fetters ; — but isJ|Kth more 
 free? "^ 
 
 Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
 
 Or league to teach all kings true sove- 
 reignty ? 
 
 What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
 
 The patch' d- up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
 
 Shall we, who struck the Lion down, 
 shall we ' 
 
 Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering 
 lowly gaze 
 And servile knees to thrones ? No ; 
 prove before ye praise ! 
 
 If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no 
 
 more ! 
 In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd \\ith 
 
 hot tears 
 For Europe's flowers long rooted up be- 
 fore 
 The trampler of her vinej'ards : in \ain 
 
 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 
 Sucli as Harmodius ^ drew on Athens' 
 
 tyrant lord, 
 
 There wm a sound of revehry by night. 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd 
 
 then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivahry, and bright 
 The I 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 ; 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes 
 
 hke a rising knell ! 
 
 XXII 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the 
 
 wind. 
 Or the car ratthngo'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be uncon- 
 
 fined ; 
 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, deadher than be- 
 fore ! 
 Arm ! Arm 1 it is — it is— the cannon's 
 
 opening roar ! 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high 
 
 hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he 
 
 did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's pro- 
 phetic 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 trembhngs of 
 
 distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour 
 
 ago . , ,. 
 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveh- 
 
 ness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as 
 press 
 
 who 
 
 The life from out young hearts, and 
 
 choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; 
 
 could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual 
 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn 
 could rise ! ' 
 
2l6 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRniAGE 
 
 And there was mouating in hot haste : 
 the steed, 
 
 The mustering squadron, and the clatter- 
 ing car, 
 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous 
 speed. 
 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning 
 star ; 
 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror 
 dumb. 
 Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! 
 They come ! they come ! *' 
 
 XXVI 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's 
 
 gathering " rose ! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albvn'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 moim- 
 
 taineers 
 With the fierce native daring which in- 
 stils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
 And Evan's, Donald's 3 fame rings in each 
 
 clansman's ears ! 
 
 XXVII 
 
 And Ardennes * waves above them her 
 
 green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they 
 
 pass. 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
 Over the 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 Uving valour, rolhng on the foe 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder 
 
 cold and low. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty hfe. 
 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 ! 
 
 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 n:s 
 
 line. 
 And partly that I cUd his sire some 
 
 wrong, s 
 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 tem- 
 pest lower' d, 
 They refl^^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 
 .\\'ith fruits and fertile promise, and the 
 
 Spring "trive. 
 
 Come forth her work of gladness to con- 
 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 
 I turn'd from all she brought to those she 
 
 could not bring. 
 
 X-X.XI 
 
 I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whoni 
 each 
 
 And one as aU a ghastly gap did make 
 
 In his own kind and kindred, whom to 
 teach 
 
 Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
 
 The .\rchangers trump, not Glorv's, 
 must awake 
 
 Those whom they thirst for ; though the 
 sound of Fame 
 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot 
 slake 
 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honour'd but assumes a stronger bit- 
 terer claim. ' 
 
 .x.xxn 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length • and 
 
 smiling, mourn : = . , 
 
 The tree will wither long before it fall • 
 
 ihe hull drives on, though mast and sail 
 
 be torn ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRI]VIAG£ 
 
 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 en- 
 thral ; 
 
 The day drags through though storms 
 keep out the sun ; 
 And thus the heart will break, yet bro-i 
 kenly live on : 
 
 xxxin 
 
 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 for-, 
 
 sakes. 
 Living in shatter'd guise ; and still, and 
 
 cold. 
 And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow 
 
 aches. 
 Yet withers on till all without is oldr 
 Showing no visible sign, for such things are/ 
 
 untold. ' 
 
 xxxiv 
 There is a very Ufe in our despair, ; 
 VitaUty of poison, ^a quick root 
 Which feeds these deadly branches ; for! 
 
 it were 1 
 
 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 com-'" 
 
 pute I 
 
 Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er; 
 
 Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say,il 
 
 would he name threescore ? 
 
 XXXV 
 
 The Psalmist number'd out the years of 
 
 man : 
 They are enough ; and if thy tale be 
 
 true, 
 Thou, who didst grudge him even that 
 
 fleeting span, 
 More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
 MiUions 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, 
 B.P.W. 
 
 217 
 
 One moment of the mightiest, and again 
 On Httle objects with like firmness fixt • 
 Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been 
 
 betwixt ; 
 Thy throne had still been thine, or ne\er 
 
 been ; 
 For daring made thy rise as fall : thou 
 
 seek'st 
 Even now to re-assume the imperial 
 
 mien, 
 And shake again the world, thp 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 thon 
 
 didst assert. 
 
 xx.xvm 
 Oh, more or less than man — in high or 
 
 low. 
 Battling with nations, flving from the 
 
 field ; 
 Now making monarchs' necks thy foot- 
 stool, 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. 
 
 X,XXIX 
 
 Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turn- 
 ing 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 smiled 
 
 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. 
 
 H 
 
2l8 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S. PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to sliow 
 That just habitual scorn, which could 
 
 contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to 
 
 feel, not so 
 To wear it e\"er on thy lip and brow, 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to 
 
 use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine over- 
 throw ; 
 *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 i 
 
 thrown) 
 Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
 For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide : 
 
 a den. 
 
 XLII 
 
 But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, I 
 
 And there hath been thy bane ; there is a I 
 
 fire [ 
 
 And motion of the soul which v/ill not 
 
 dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless e\er- 
 
 more, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire I 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core. 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever j 
 
 bore. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 This makes the madmen who have made 
 
 men mad 
 By their contagion ; Conquerors and 
 
 Kings, 
 Founders of sects and s^-stems, to whom 
 
 add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet 
 
 things 
 Which stir too stronglv 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 \vould un teach mankind the lust ti 
 
 shine ar rule : 
 
 Their breath is agitation, and their Ufe 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at 
 
 last. 
 And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
 That should theu: days, surviving perils 
 
 past, 
 I\Ielt 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 eats into itself, and rusts inglori- 
 
 ously. 
 
 XLV 
 
 He who ascends to moimtain-tops, shall 
 find 
 
 The loftiest peaks most wTapt in clouds 
 and snow ; 
 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind. 
 
 Must look down on the hate of those be- 
 low. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 divme, 
 A blending of all beauties ; streams and 
 
 dells. 
 Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, 
 
 moimtaiu, \ine, [farewells 
 
 And chiefless castlei breathing stem 
 
 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin 
 
 greenly dwells. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty 
 
 mind, 
 \\"orn. but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
 All tenantless, save to the cratmyin? 
 
 wind, 
 Or holcUng dark communion with the 
 
 cloud. 
 There was a day when they were yoiane 
 
 and proud ; • * 
 
 Banners on high, and battles pass'd be- 
 low ; ^ 
 
 ^"hroud' "^'° ^'"^^^^ "^^ ™ ^ ^^°°'^y 
 
 ■"iCsEin:^"'^ '-'''■''' -« ^bredless 
 
 ■'"'fSurebw'''"'""^"'^ *^ ^^^ "o 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Beneath these battlements, within those 
 
 walls, 
 Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in 
 
 proud state 
 Each robber chief upheld' his armed 
 
 halls. 
 Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
 Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
 What want these outlaws conquerors 
 
 should have 
 But History's piurchased page to call 
 
 them great ? 
 A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
 Their hopes were not less warm, their souls 
 
 were full as brave. 
 
 In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
 
 What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
 
 And Love, which lent a blazon to their 
 shields. 
 
 With emblems well devised by amorous 
 pride. 
 
 Through all the mail of iron hearts would 
 glide ; 
 
 But still their flame was fierceness, and 
 drew on 
 
 Keen contest and destruction near allied. 
 
 And many a tower for some fair mis- 
 chief won. 
 Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin 
 run. 
 
 L 
 
 But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
 Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
 Through banks whose beauty would 
 
 endure for ever 
 Could man but leave thy bright creation 
 
 so. 
 Nor its fair promise from the surface 
 
 mow 
 With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then 
 
 to see 
 Thy valley of sweet waters, were to 
 
 know 
 Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem 
 
 such to me. 
 Even now what wants thy stream ? — that 
 
 it should Lethe be. 
 
 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 welter- 
 ing 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 
 
 219 
 
 Glass' d, with its dancing light, the sunny 
 
 But o'er the blacken'd memory's blight- 
 ing dream 
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping 
 as they seem. 
 
 Lll 
 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along 
 Yet not insensible to all which here ' 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 In glens which might have made even 
 
 e.xile 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. 
 
 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 
 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 earhest nurture ; what sub- 
 dued. 
 To change like this,* a mind so far imbued 
 With scorn of man, it Httle 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. 
 
 And there was one soft breast, as hath 
 
 been said. 
 Which unto his was bound by stronger 
 
 ties ! 
 Than the church Hnks withal ; and, 
 
 though unwed. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 That love was pure, and, far above dis- 
 guise, 
 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 ?bsent 
 greetings pour ! 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels ^ 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the vine, 
 And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 
 And fields which promise corn and wine. 
 And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
 Whose far white walls along them shine, 
 Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy wert thou with me. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 3 
 I send the lilies given to me ; 
 Though long before thy hand'thev 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 nio-h 
 And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine' 
 And offer' d from my heart to thine ! 
 
 4 
 The river nobly foamS and flows. 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 Some fresher beauty varying round • 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ■ 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found ' 
 To nature and to me so dear. 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 
 
 L^'I 
 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, 
 FalUng for France, whose rights he battled 
 
 to resume. 
 
 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'er- 
 
 stept 
 The charter to chastise which she be- 
 stows 
 On such as wield her weapons ; he had 
 
 kept 
 The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er 
 
 him wept. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein,^ with her shat- 
 ter' d wall 
 Black with the miner's blast, upon her 
 
 height 
 Yet shows of what she was, when shell 
 
 and ball 
 Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
 A tower of \'ictory ! from whence the 
 
 flight [plain : 
 
 Of baffled foes was watch'd along the 
 But Peace destroy'd what War could 
 
 never bUght, 
 And laid those proud roofs bare to 
 
 Summer's rain — 
 On which the iron shower for years had 
 
 pour'd in vain. 
 
 LIX 
 
 .Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long 
 
 delighted 
 The stranger fain would linger on his 
 
 way ! 
 Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
 Or lonely Contemplation thus might 
 
 stray ; 
 And could the ceaseless vultures cease to 
 
 prey 
 On self-condemning bosoms, it were here. 
 Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too 
 
 ,gav, 
 T y'^'it'"' °,°' rude, awful yet not austere, 
 Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the 
 
 year. 
 
 LX 
 
 Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ' 
 thine""^" "° farewell to scene like 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 221 
 
 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 mighty spots may rise — more glar- 
 ing 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 be- 
 tween, 
 The wild rocks shaped, as they had tur- 
 rets 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 Em- 
 pires 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. 
 
 Lxm 
 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. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 While Waterloo with Cannse's carnage 
 
 vies 
 Morat and Marathon twm names shall 
 
 stand ; 
 
 They were true Glory's stainless vic- 
 tories. 
 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,' hath strew'd her 
 
 subject lands. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the 
 
 name ! — 
 Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
 Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, be- 
 neath 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, l%ave. 
 
 And then she died on him she could not 
 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, 
 Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal 
 
 The mirror where the stars and moon- 
 tains View 
 
222 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 The stilliies'^ of their aspect in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their far height 
 
 and hue : 
 There is too much of man here, to look 
 
 through 
 With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
 But soon in me shall' Loneliness renew 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd 
 
 than of old, 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me 
 
 in their fold. 
 
 To iiy from, need not be to hate, man- 
 kind : 
 All are not fit with them to stir and toil. 
 Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
 Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
 In the hot throng, where we become the 
 
 spoil 
 Of our infection, till too late and long 
 We may deplore and struggle with the 
 
 coil. 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for 
 wrong 
 Midst a contentious world, striving where 
 none are strong. 
 
 LXX 
 
 There, in a moment, we may plunge our 
 
 years 
 In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
 Of our own soul turn all our blood to 
 
 tears. 
 And colour things to come with hues of 
 
 Night ; 
 The race of hfe 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 arrowyRhone 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake ' 
 Which feeds it as a mother who doth 
 
 make 
 A fair but froward infant her o\vn 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 feeUng, but the 
 
 hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
 Class'd among creatures, when the soul 
 
 can flee. 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving 
 
 plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in 
 
 vain. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life ; 
 I look upon the peopled desert past. 
 As on a place of agony and strife. 
 Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was 
 
 cast, 
 To act and suffer, but remount at last 
 With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to 
 
 spring. 
 Though young, yet waxing \'igorous as 
 
 the blast 
 Which it would cope with, oa 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 hfe, 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 mv heart 
 
 With a pure passion ? should I not con- 
 temn 
 
 All objects, if compared with these ? and 
 stem 
 
 A tide of sufiering, rather than forego 
 
 Such feelings for the hard and worldlv 
 phlegm 
 
 Of those whose eves are only tum'd 
 below. 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts 
 which dare not glow ? 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 But this IS not my theme ; and I return 
 fo that which IS immediate, and require 
 To^ooiT^" ^"^ contemplation in the urn, 
 To^look on One, whose dust was once all 
 
 A native of the land where T respire 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 The clear air for awhile — a passing guest, 
 Where he became a being, — whose 
 
 desire 
 Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foohsh quest, 
 The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed 
 all rest. 
 
 Lxxvn 
 
 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 hea- 
 venly hue 
 
 Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as 
 they past 
 The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel- 
 ingly and fast. 
 
 Lxxvin 
 His love was passion's essence : — as a 
 
 tree 
 On fire by lightning, with ethereal flame 
 Kiijdled 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 existene, 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 Up 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-devour- 
 ing heat ; 
 In that absorbing sigh perchance more 
 
 blest . , „ ^^ 
 
 Than vulgar minds may be with all they 
 
 seek possest. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 His life was one long war with self- 
 sought foes, , 
 
 Or friends by him self-bamsh'd ; for his 
 mind 
 
 Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, an^l 
 
 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 lie was phrensied by disease or woe. 
 To that worst pitch of all, which wears a 
 
 reasoning show. 
 
 LXX.XI 
 
 l"or 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 ? which lay 
 
 before 
 Bow'd to the inborn twanny of years ? 
 Broken and trembhng to the yoke she 
 
 bore, [peers. 
 
 Till by the voice of him and his com- 
 
 Roused up to too much wrath, which 
 
 follows o'ergrown fears ? 
 
 LXX.XII 
 
 They made themselves a fearful monu- 
 ment ! [grew. 
 The wreck of old opinions — things which 
 Breathed frppi the birth of time : the 
 
 veil thev 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 refill' d, , . 
 
 As heretofore, because ambition was self- 
 will'd. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 But this wiU not endure, nor be endured ! 
 Mankind have felt their strength, and 
 
 made it felt. 
 Thev might have used it better, but. 
 
 By their new vigour, sternly have they 
 
 On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
 With her once natural chanties.— But 
 
 Who^in oppression's darkness caved had 
 
 They were not eagles, nourish'd with the 
 
 What mirvel then, at times, if they mis- 
 took their prey ? 
 
2^4 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD^S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 VVliat deep wouiids 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 : [power 
 
 It came, it cometh, and will come, — the 
 
 To punish or forgive — in one we shall be 
 
 slower. 
 
 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 1 
 
 loved 
 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmn 
 Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice re- 
 proved. 
 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 distinctlv 
 
 seen. 
 Save darken'd Jiira, 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 hght drip of the suspended oar. 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night 
 
 carol more : 
 
 LX.XXVII 
 
 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' 
 .•\11 silently their tears of love instil. 
 Weeping themselves a\va\-, till 'they 
 
 intuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of h"r 
 
 hues. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Ve 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. 
 
 L.XX.XIX 
 
 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 luU'd lalve and mountain- 
 coast, 
 
 All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is 
 lost, 
 mg . But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 Then .;.nri the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are Ic^xst alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being then 
 
 doth melt, 
 .\nd purifies from self ; it is a tone. 
 The soul and source of music, which 
 
 makes known 
 Eternal harmonv, and sheds a charm 
 Like to the fabled C\therea's zone. 
 Binding all things with beautv ;— 
 
 'twould disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantia] 
 
 power to harm. 
 
 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 arid unwali'd temple, there to seek 
 Ihe Spirit, m whose honour shrines are 
 
 weak, 
 Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and 
 
 compare 
 
 Columns and idol- dwellings, Goth or 
 (j-reek, 
 
 ^^and^a^*"""'" '''^"'' °^ "'"'^'^P- ^""^ 
 
 ^°' prav'rf "'^ "'°'''' '° circumscribe thy 
 
 Oh^niglu''"''' ■-="'' ^"^h - ^hairge ! 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 ^25 
 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are won- 
 drous strong. 
 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the hght 
 
 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 hiUs shakes with its moun- 
 tain-mirth. 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- 
 quake's birth. 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his 
 
 way between 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have 
 parted [vene, 
 
 In hate, whose mining depths so inter- 
 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 them- 
 selves to wage. 
 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath 
 
 cleft his way. 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en 
 
 his stand : [play, 
 
 For here, not one, but many, make their 
 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. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, 
 
 lightnings ! ye ! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, 
 
 and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeUng, well may 
 
 be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; 
 
 the far roll 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoU 
 Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
 But where of ye, tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human 
 
 breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some 
 
 high nest ? 
 
 xcvii 
 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. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 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 cont ain'd no tomb, — 
 And glowing into day : we may resume 
 The march of our existence : and thus I, 
 StiU on thy shores, fair Leman ! may 
 
 find room 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd 
 
 fittingly. 
 
 xcix 
 Clarens ! sweet Clarens! birthplace Df 
 
 deep Love ! 
 Thine air is the young breath of pas- 
 sionate thought ; 
 Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows 
 
 above 
 The very Glaciers have his colours 
 
 caught. 
 And sun-set into rose-hues sees thcra 
 
 \vrought , . , XI. 
 
 By raj'S which sleep there lovmgly : the 
 
 rocks. 
 The permanent crags tell here of Love, 
 
 who sought 
 
226 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
 VN'hich stir and sting the soul with hope 
 that woos, then mocks. 
 
 Ciarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are 
 
 trod, — 
 Undying Love's, who here ascends a 
 
 throne 
 To which the steps are mountain? ; where 
 
 the god 
 Is a i>ervading life and light, — so shown 
 Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
 In the still cave and forest ; o'er the 
 
 flower , 
 
 His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath 
 
 blown. 
 His soft and summer breath, whose 
 
 tender power 
 Passes the strength of storms in their most 
 
 desolate hour. 
 
 CI 
 
 All things are here of Mm ; from the 
 
 black pines. 
 Which are his shade on high, and the j 
 
 loud roar 
 Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the ' 
 
 vines 
 Which slope his green path downward to 
 
 the shore. 
 Where the bow'.d n'aters meet him, and 
 
 adore. 
 Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the 
 
 w'ood. 
 The covert of old trees, mth trunks all 
 
 boar. 
 But hght lea\-es, young as jov, stands 
 
 where it stood. 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous soli- 
 tude. 
 
 oil 
 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 beaut)', here 
 
 extend, 
 Mingling, and made by Love, unto one 
 
 mighty end. 
 
 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, oi 
 
 grows 
 Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 
 
 CIV 
 
 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this 
 
 spot, 
 Peophngit with affections ; but he found 
 It was the scene which passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings •; 'twas the 
 
 ground 
 Where early Love his Psyche's zone 
 
 unbound. 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a 
 
 sound. 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here 
 
 the Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the AJps 
 
 have rear'd a throne. 
 
 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 • 
 
 Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been 
 
 the abodes 
 Of names which unto you bequeath'd a 
 
 name ; ^^ 
 Mortals, who sought and found, by 
 
 dangerous roads, 
 A path to perpetuity of fame ; 
 They were gigantic minds, and their 
 
 steep aim 
 Was, Titan-hke, on daring doubts to pile 
 Thoughts which should call down 
 
 thunder, and the flame 
 Of Heaven again assail' d, if Heaven the 
 
 while 
 On man and man's research could deign do 
 
 more than smile. 
 
 cvi 
 
 The one was fire and fickleness, a child 
 Jlost mutable in wishes, but in mind 
 A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or 
 
 wild, — 
 Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; 
 He multipUed himself among mankind 
 The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
 Breathed most in ridicule,— whicii as 
 
 the wind, ' 
 
 Blew where it Hsted, laying all thin^-s 
 prone, — ' 
 
 Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake 
 a throne. 
 
 ^1lo°^M,' ^^"^^^'^^ ''°"' ^-^^"^ting 
 "^ «a'r''''"'^ wisdom with each studious 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 dwelt, with learaing 
 
 In meditation 
 
 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 doom'd hira to the zealot's ready 
 
 HeU, 
 Which answers to all doubts so eloquently 
 
 well. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 Yet, peace be with their ashes,- — tor by 
 
 them, 
 If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
 It is not ours to judge, — far less con- 
 demn ; 
 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. 
 
 ox 
 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 
 Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there 
 herfiU, 
 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's 
 imperial hill. 
 
 CXI 
 
 Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
 Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel 
 
 227 
 
 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 Jeeling, purpose, grief, or 
 
 zeal, — 
 Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought 
 
 Is a stern task of soul : — No matter it is 
 
 taught. 
 
 cxn 
 And tor 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 be- 
 guile 
 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 ; 
 That two, or one, are almost what they 
 seem. 
 That goodness is no name, and happiness 
 no dream. 
 
 cxv 
 My daughter I with thy name this song 
 begun ; 
 
S28 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRniAGE 
 
 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 ex- 
 tend : 
 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. 
 
 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 vet to 
 
 thee ! 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent's 
 
 kiss, — 
 This, it should seem, was not reserved for 
 
 me ; 
 Yet this was in my nature : as it is. 
 I know not what is there, yet something 
 
 like to this. 
 
 cxvii 
 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 gra\'e 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 bom in bitter- 
 ness, 
 
 And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
 
 These were the elements, and thiiieno 
 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 ! 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH 
 
 " Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Roma^na, 
 
 Quel Mnnte cHe divide, e quel che serra 
 Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la baj?na." 
 
 Ariosto, Satira iii. 
 
 I 
 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 d^ang Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when manv a subject 
 
 land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
 \^'he^e Venice sate in state, throned on her 
 
 hundred isles ! 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 At air^' 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 exhaust- 
 less 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 
 dignit> increased. 
 
 Ill 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore' 
 And music meets not always now the 
 
 ear : 
 Those days are gone — but Beautv still 
 
 is here. 
 States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth 
 
 not die, 
 N'or yet forget how \'i-nice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivitv 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of 
 
 Italy ! 
 
 IV 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell bevond 
 Her name m story, and her long arrav 
 Of mightv shadows, whose dim forms 
 
 despond 
 Abov e the dogeless citv's vanish'd swav • 
 Ours IS a trophy which will not decay ' 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 229 
 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, can not be swept or worn 
 
 away — 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all 
 
 were o'er 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 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 v/ild universe is skilful to diffuse : 
 
 I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them 
 
 go,— 
 They came like truth, and disappear d 
 
 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 sights 
 
 surround. 
 
 vni 
 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 sur- 
 prise ; 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 
 A country with — ay, or without man- 
 kind ; 
 
 Yet was I born where men are proud to 
 be, — 
 
 Not without cause ; and shoiild I leave 
 behind 
 
 The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
 And seek me out a home by a rimoter sea, 
 
 IX 
 
 Perhaps I loved it well ; and should 1 lav 
 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 inchne, — 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes 
 
 are. 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull 
 
 Oblivion bar 
 
 X 
 
 My name from out the temple where the 
 
 dead 
 Are honour'd by the nations — let it be — 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
 " Sparta hath many a worthier 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 spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
 And, annual marriage now no more 
 
 renew'd, 
 The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored. 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
 St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
 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 Venice was a queen with an un- 
 
 equall'd dower. 
 
 XII 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian 
 
 reigns — 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor 
 
 knelt ; 
 Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and 
 
 chains 
 Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
 From power's high pinnacle, when they 
 
 have felt 
 
ajo 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 The sunshine for a while, and downward 
 
 go 
 
 Like lauwine loosen d from the moun- 
 tain's belt ; 
 
 Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! ^ 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's con- 
 quering foe. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of 
 
 brass. 
 Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? 
 Are they not bridkii ? — 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 in- 
 famous repose. 
 
 In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre ; 
 Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
 The " Planter of the Lion," ' 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 anqi 
 
 sumptuous pile 
 Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid 
 
 trust ; 
 Their sceptre broken, and their sword in 
 
 rust, ' 
 
 Have yielded to the stranger : empty 
 
 halls. 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as 
 
 must 
 Too oft remind her who and what 
 
 enthrals. 
 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' 
 
 lovely walls. 
 
 XVI 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Svracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of 
 war, 
 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the 
 
 car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands, his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his cap- 
 tive's chains, 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom 
 and his strains. 
 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were 
 
 thine, 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot. 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard di\ine. 
 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, Shaks- 
 
 peare's art,^ 
 Had stamp'd her image in me, and even 
 
 so. 
 Although I found her thus, we did not 
 
 part ; 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of 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 meditationchasten'd down, enough ; 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or 
 
 sought ; 
 And of the happiest moments which 
 
 were WTought 
 ■Within the web of my existence, some 
 From thee, fair \'enice ! have their 
 
 colours caught ; 
 There are some feelings Time can not 
 
 benumb, 
 Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be 
 
 cold and dumb. 
 
 XX 
 
 But from their nature will the tannen 
 grow * 
 
 ^°rocks °° "°"'*^' ^"^ '^*^' shelter'd 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 ^31 
 
 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. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Existence may be borne, and the deep 
 
 root 
 Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
 In bare and desolated bosoms ; mute 
 The camel 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 repleniah'd and 
 
 rebuoy'd, 
 Return to whence they came — with Uke 
 
 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 ; [crime, 
 
 Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or 
 
 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 sUght 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 ; 
 
 XXIV 
 
 And how and why we know, not, nor 
 ean traos 
 
 Home to its cloud this Ughtning of the 
 
 mind. 
 But feel the shock renew'd, nor can 
 
 efface 
 The blight and blackening which it 
 
 leaves behind, 
 Which out of things familiar, undesign'd. 
 When least we deem of such, calls up to 
 
 view 
 The spectres whom no exorcism can 
 
 bind, — 
 The cold, the changed, perchance the 
 
 dead — anew, 
 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 com- 
 mand. 
 And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
 The master-mould of Nature's heavenly 
 
 hand ; 
 Wherein were cast the heroic and the 
 free. 
 The beautiful, the brave, the lords of earth 
 and sea, 
 
 XXVI 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of 
 
 Rome ! 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the 
 
 home 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
 Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
 More rich than other dunes' 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 Man's 
 
 crest . . , J , 
 
 Floats through the azure air— an island ot 
 
 the blest ! 
 
 X.XVIII 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven; 
 but still 
 
232 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and 
 
 remains 
 RolI'd o'er the peak of the far Rhratian 
 
 hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, 
 
 until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order : gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, — where their 
 
 hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
 Which streams upon her stream, and 
 
 glass'd within it glows, — 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, 
 
 from afar. 
 Comes do^\^l 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 awa}^. 
 The last still loveUest, 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 famihar 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 foe? : 
 Watering the tree which bears his lady's 
 
 name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself 
 
 to fame. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he 
 
 died ; 
 The mountain-\illage 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 venerablv simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental 
 
 fane. 
 
 xx.xii 
 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 displayed. 
 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. 
 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
 It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
 No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God 
 
 must strive : 
 
 xxxiv 
 Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
 The strength of better thoughts, and 
 
 seek their prey 
 In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
 Of moody texture from their earUest day, 
 And loved to dwell in darkness and dis- 
 may. 
 Deeming themselves predestined to a 
 
 doom 
 . Which is not of the pangs that pass 
 
 awav ; 
 Jlaking the sun like blood, the earth a 
 
 tomb. 
 The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier 
 
 gloom. 
 
 .x.xxv 
 Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown 
 
 streets, 
 ^^'hose 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 ^vithin thy walls, and was 
 
 of vore 
 
 n?'l°nf '-""''"'■■ *' ^^^ changing mood 
 wore ^°"''''' ™P="'<i. of those who 
 
 '''"' worn brtor^' ^•^'^'^'^ ^-- ^l-^- bad 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 23j 
 
 And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's 
 
 fame, 
 And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
 The miserable despot could not quell 
 The insulted mind he sought to quench, 
 
 and blend 
 With the surrounding maniacs, in the 
 
 hell 
 Where he had plunged it. Glory without 
 
 end 
 Scatter'd the clouds away ; and on that 
 
 name attend 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 The tears and praises of all time ; while 
 
 thine 
 Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
 Of worthless dust, which from thy 
 
 boasted line 
 Is shaken into nothing — but the link 
 Thou formest in his fortunes bids us 
 
 think 
 Of thy poor maUce, naming thee \vith 
 
 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 : 
 
 XXX vn I 
 Thcu ! form'd to eat, and be despised, 
 
 and die, 
 Even as the beasts that perish, save 
 
 that thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trough and wider 
 
 sty : 
 He! with a glory round his furrow'd 
 
 brow. 
 Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
 In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
 And 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 miUions ; but 
 
 how long 
 The tide of generations shall roll on. 
 And not the whole combined and count- 
 less throng 
 Compose a mind like thine ? though all 
 
 in one 
 Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would 
 
 not form a sun. 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 Great as thou art, yet parallel 'd bv those, 
 Thy countrymen, before thee born to 
 
 shine. 
 The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first 
 
 rose 
 The Tuscan father's comedv divine ; 
 Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
 The southern Scott, the mhistrel who 
 
 call'd forth 
 A new creation with his magic line. 
 And, like the Ariosto of the North, s 
 Sang ladye-love and war, roman.ce and 
 
 knightly worth. 
 
 XLI 
 
 The hghtning 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 
 Is of the tree no bolt of thimder cleaves. 
 And the false semblance but disgraced 
 
 his brow ; 
 Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieve.'s. 
 Know, that the hghtning sanctifies belov- 
 Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly 
 
 sacred now. 
 
 XLII 
 
 Italia ! oh Italia I thou who hast 
 
 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 naked- 
 ness 
 
 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 homelv and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For thv destructive charms ; then, still 
 untiled, [pour'd 
 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the 
 
 hostile horde 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 Quaff blood and water ; nor the stran- 
 ger's sword 
 Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of 
 friend or foe. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Wandering in \-uuth, 1 traced the path . 
 of him, 
 
 R 
 
234 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 The Roman friend of Rome's least- 
 mortal mind, 
 The friend of TuUy : as my bark did 
 
 skim 
 The bright blue waters mth a fanning 
 
 wind, 
 Came Megara before me, and behind 
 Mgina 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 moumM 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. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 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 n'as 
 
 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. 
 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still 
 are warm. 
 
 xL\"n 
 
 Yet, Italy ! through e-\'ery other laud 
 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from 
 side to side ; 
 
 Mother of Aits ! 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 r.jd'?em thee, and, all back- 
 ward driven. 
 Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be for- 
 given. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. 
 Where the Etrurian Athens claims and 
 
 keeps 
 A softer fseling for her fairy balls. 
 
 Girt bv her theatre of hills, she reaps 
 Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty 
 
 leaps 
 To laughing Ufe, with her redundant 
 
 horn. 
 Along the banks where smiling Arno 
 
 sweeps 
 Was modem Luxury of Commerce bom, 
 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 
 ^\'e stand, and in that form and face 
 
 behold 
 What ]\lind 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 FoUv — we have 
 
 eyes : 
 Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the 
 
 Dardan Shepherd's prize. 
 
 Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this 
 
 guise ? 
 Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or. 
 In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when Ues 
 Before thee thy own "vanquish'd Lord of 
 
 War? 
 And gazing in thy face as toward a star. 
 Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
 Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! while thy 
 
 lips are 
 With lava kisses melting while they bum, 
 Shower'd on his evelids, brow, and mouth. 
 
 as from an urn ! 
 
 Glowing, and circumfused in speechless 
 
 love, 
 Their full divinity inadequate 
 That feeling te express, or to iuiprovo. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 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, aijd create, 
 From what has been, or might be, things 
 
 which grow 
 Into thy statue's form, and look like gods 
 
 below. 
 
 Lni 
 I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
 The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
 How well his conuoisseurship under- 
 stands 
 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 
 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. 
 
 These are four minds, which, like the 
 
 elements, 
 Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 
 Time, which hath WTong'd thee with ten 
 
 thousand rents 
 Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
 And hath denied, to every other sky. 
 Spirits which soar irom ruin : thy decay 
 Is still impregnate with divinity. 
 Which gilds it with revivif5?ing ray ; 
 Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 
 
 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 ? Ar« they resolved to 
 
 dust. 
 
 235 
 
 And have their country's marbles nought 
 
 to say ? 
 Could not her quarries furnish forth one 
 
 bust ? 
 Did they not to her breast their filial earth 
 
 entrust ? 
 
 L\IT 
 
 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,*^ 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding 
 
 shore : 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil 
 
 war, 
 Proscribed the bard whose name for 
 
 evermore 
 Their children's children would in vain 
 
 adore 
 With the remorse of ages ; and the 
 
 crown 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow su- 
 premely wore. 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 
 His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled 
 
 — not thine own. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 
 His dust, — and lies it not her great 
 
 among. 
 With many a sweet and solemn requiem 
 
 bi-eathed 
 O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren 
 
 tongue ? 
 That music in itself, whose sounds are 
 
 song. 
 The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his 
 
 tomb 
 Uptorn, must bear the hj'aena bigot's 
 
 wrong, 
 No more amidst the meaner dead find 
 
 room. 
 Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told 
 
 for whom '. 
 
 LIX 
 
 And Santa Croce wants their mighty 
 
 dust ; 
 Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
 The 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. 
 
 What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
 Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
 Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
 
236 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Of mercliant-dukes ? the momentary 
 
 dews 
 Which, sparkling to the twihgnt stars, 
 
 infuse 
 Freshness in the green turf that wTaps 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 \'ies ; 
 There be more marvels yet — ^but not for 
 
 mine ; 
 For I have been accustom'd to entivine 
 My thoughts with Nature rather in the 
 
 fields, 
 Than Art in galleries : though a work 
 
 divine 
 Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it fields 
 Less than it feels, because the weapon 
 
 which it wields 
 
 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 be- 
 guiles 
 
 The host between the mountains and the 
 shore, 
 
 Where Courage falls in her despairing 
 files, 
 
 And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their 
 gore. 
 Reek through the sultry plain, with legions 
 scatter'd o'er. 
 
 Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
 And such the storm of battle on this dav, 
 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 ya\vning forth a grave for those 
 
 who lay 
 Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
 Such is the absorbing hate when warring 
 
 nations meet ! 
 
 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; Natures 
 
 lav/, 
 In them suspended, reck'd not of the 
 
 awe 
 Which reigns when mountams tremble, 
 
 and the birds 
 Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and with- 
 draw 
 From their down-toppling nests ; and 
 
 bellowing herds 
 Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's 
 
 dread hath no words. 
 
 L.xv 
 Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
 Her lake a sheet of sih-er, 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 san- 
 guine rain ; - 
 And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
 Made the earth wet, and tum'd the unwill- 
 ing waters red. 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest 
 
 wave ^ 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and 
 
 lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou 
 
 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 bv 
 
 slaughters — 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest 
 
 daughters ! 
 
 LXVII 
 
 And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 
 Upon a mild decUvity 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 tate. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGJi; 
 
 I.XVIII 
 
 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 hfe a moment lave it clean 
 With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye 
 
 must 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 
 
 The roar of waters ! — from the headlong 
 
 height 
 Velino cleaves the wave- worn precipice ; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
 The fiashhig 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, wnmg out from 
 
 this 
 Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks 
 
 of jet 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror 
 
 set. 
 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and 
 thence again 
 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which 
 round, 
 
 With its imemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 ' Is an eternal April to the ground, 
 
 Making it all one emerald : — how pro- 
 found 
 
 The gulf ! and how the giant element 
 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious 
 bound. 
 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward 
 worn and rent 
 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a 
 fearful vent 
 
 Lxx: 
 To the broad column which rolls on, and 
 
 shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 
 Tom from the womb of mountains by 
 
 the throes 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parents 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 match- 
 Jess cataract, 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge 
 From side to side, beneath the ghtterine 
 
 morn, 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and un- 
 worn 
 Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams 
 
 unshorn : 
 Resembhng, 'mid the torture of the scene 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable 
 mien. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Once more upon the woody Apennine 
 The infant Alps, which — had'l not before 
 Gazed on their mightier parents, where 
 
 the pine 
 Sits on more shaggy summits, and where 
 
 roar 
 The thundering lauwine — might be wor- 
 
 shipp'd more ; 
 But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau 
 
 rear 
 Her never-trodden snow, and seen the 
 
 hoar 
 Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both f<ir 
 
 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 height, dis- 
 
 play'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 rako. 
 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 
 In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to 
 
 rec9r4 
 
238 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRHVfAGE 
 
 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 tix'd inveteracy wrought 
 By the impatience of my early thought, 
 That, with the freshness wearing out 
 
 before 
 My mind could rehsh 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 
 
 Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a [ 
 curse I 
 
 To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
 To comprehend, but never lo\-e thy \'erse ; 
 Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
 Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, [ 
 Nor liveher Satirist the conscience pierce. 
 Awakening without wounding the touch'd 
 heart. 
 Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge 
 we part. 
 
 Lxxvm 
 
 Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to 
 thee. 
 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and con- 
 trol 
 
 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 tem- 
 ples. Ye ! 
 
 Whose agonies are evils of a dav — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as om: clay. 
 
 LX.XIX 
 
 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 ; 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
 Rise, with thy yellow wa\es, and mantle 
 
 her distress. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, 
 
 Flood, and Fire, ] 
 
 Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd citv's , 
 
 pride ; i 
 
 She saw her glories star by star expire. 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs 
 
 ride. 
 Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far 
 
 and wide 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a 
 
 site : 
 Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void. 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. 
 And say, " here was, or is," where all is 
 
 doubly night ? 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 The double night of ages, and of her, 
 Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt 
 
 and ^vrap 
 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. 
 
 Lxx.xn 
 Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
 The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the 
 
 day 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge 
 
 surpass 
 The conqueror's sword in bearing fame 
 
 away ! * 
 
 .\las, for Tully's voice, and \'u:girs 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 ! 
 
 Lxxxm 
 
 Oh thou, whose chariot roU'd on For- 
 tune's wheel, 
 Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst 
 
 subdue 
 Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst 
 
 pause to feel 
 The wrath of thy own WTongs, or reap 
 
 the due 
 Of hoai-ded vengeance tiU thine eagles 
 
 flew ° 
 
 O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with 
 
 thy frown 
 Annihilated senates — Roman too 
 With all thy vices, for thou didst lav 
 
 down •' 
 
 With an atoning sraile a more than earthlv 
 crown — 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 239 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 The dictatorial wTeath — couldst thou 
 
 divine 
 To what would one day dwindle that 
 
 which made 
 Thee more than mortal ? and that so 
 
 supine 
 By aught than Romans Rome should 
 
 thus be laid ? 
 She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
 Her warriors but to conquer — she who 
 
 veil'd 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and 
 
 display'd. 
 Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
 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 be- 
 neath 
 His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
 His day of double victory and death 
 Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, 
 yield his breath. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 The third of the same moon whose for- 
 mer course 
 Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame 
 
 day 
 Deposed him gently from his throne of 
 
 force, 
 And laid him with the earth's preceding 
 
 clay. 
 And show'd not Fortune thus how fame 
 
 and sway. 
 And all we deem delightful, and consume 
 Our souls to compass through each 
 
 arduous way. 
 Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
 Were they but so in man's, how different 
 
 were his doom ! 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
 The austerest form of naked majesty. 
 Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' 
 
 din. 
 At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar he. 
 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 
 .i scene ? 
 
 Lxxxvin 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of 
 
 Rome ! 
 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 ethereal 
 
 dart. 
 And thy limbs black .with lightning — 
 
 dost thou yet 
 Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond 
 
 charge forget ? 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Thou dost ; but all thy foster-babes are 
 
 dead — 
 The men of iron ; and the world hath 
 
 rear'd 
 Cities from out their sepulchres : men 
 
 bled 
 In imitation of the things they fear'd. 
 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, vanquish'd by himself, to his own 
 
 slaves a slave — 
 
 The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
 Of bastard Ctuiar, 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 re- 
 
 deem'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 \ictory. 
 With a deaf heart which never seem'd to 
 
 be 
 
 A hstener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
 
 With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
 
 Coquettish in ambition, still he aim'd — 
 
 At what ?can he avouch or answer what he 
 
 daim'd ? 
 
240 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 And would be all or nothing — nor could 
 wait 
 
 For the sure grave to level him ; few 
 years 
 
 Had fix'd him with the Cssars in his fate, 
 
 On whom we tread : For this the con- 
 queror 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 ^k for wTetched man's 
 abode, 
 And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rain- 
 bow, God ! 
 
 XCIII 
 
 What from this barren being do we reap ? 
 Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 
 Life short, and truth a gem which loves 
 
 the deep, 
 And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest 
 
 scale ; 
 Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
 Mantles the earth with darkness, until 
 
 right [pale 
 
 And wrong are accidents, and men grow 
 Lest their own judgments should become 
 
 too bright. 
 And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth 
 
 have too much light. 
 
 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-Uke, 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 
 IMan 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. 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be. 
 And Freedom find no champion and no 
 
 child 
 Such as Columbia saw -arise when s'le 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and unde- 
 
 filed? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the 
 
 wild. 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the 
 
 roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature 
 
 smiled 
 On infant Washington ? Has Earth no 
 
 more 
 Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no 
 
 such shore ? 
 
 xcvii 
 But France got drunk with blood to 
 
 vomit crime. 
 And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
 To Freedom's cause, in every 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 be- 
 hind ; 
 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the 
 
 rind, 
 Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and 
 
 little worth. 
 But the sap lasts, — and stiU 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 
 Stajiding with half its battlements alone' 
 -\nd with two thousand years of i\-v 
 
 grown. 
 The garland of eternity, where wave 
 The green leaves over all bv time o'er- 
 
 thrown :— 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE 
 
 241 
 
 What was this tower of strength ? with- 
 in its cave 
 What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A 
 woman's grave. 
 
 c 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste 
 
 and fair ? 
 Worthy a king's, or more — a Roman's 
 
 bed? 
 What race of chiefs and heroes did she 
 
 bear ? 
 What daughter of her beauties was the 
 
 heir ? 
 How lived, how loved, how 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 mor- 
 tal lot ? 
 
 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 anna); 
 
 say. 
 Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
 Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
 Profuse of joy — or-igainst it did she war,. 
 Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
 To the soft side of the heart, or wiselj* 
 
 bar 
 Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such 
 
 the affections are. 
 
 oil 
 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 
 
 recallj 
 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 Conjec- 
 ture stray ? 
 
 Thus much alone we know— Metella 
 died. 
 The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his 
 love or pride ! 
 
 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 ; 
 
 And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er 
 
 the rocks, 
 Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
 To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless 
 
 roar 
 Which rushes on the solitary shore 
 Where 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. 
 
 Then let the winds howl on ! their har- 
 mony 
 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. 
 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower 
 
 grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks 
 
 heap'd ^ 
 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, 
 
 column strown 
 
242 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 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 Learn- 
 ing reap'd 
 
 From her research hath been, that these 
 are walls — 
 Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the 
 mighty falls. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; 
 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past. 
 First Freedom, and then Glory — when 
 
 that fails. 
 Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at 
 
 last. 
 And History, with all her volumes \'ast, 
 Hath but one page, — 'tis better written 
 
 here, 
 Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus 
 
 amass' d 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or 
 
 ear, 
 Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away 
 
 with words ! draw near, 
 
 Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
 And looking to the stars : they had con- 
 
 tain'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 sus- 
 
 tain'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 — stiU we Trajan's 
 
 name adore. 
 
 Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep, — 
 
 for here 
 There is such matter for all feeUng : — 
 
 Man ! 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and 
 
 tear, I 
 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this 
 
 span, ' 
 
 This mountain, whose obhterated plan | 
 The pyramid of empires pinnacled, j 
 
 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van , 
 Till the sun's rays with added flame were ' 
 
 fill'd ! I 
 
 Where are its golden roofs ? where those ; 
 
 who dared to build ? ' 
 
 Where is the rock of Triumph, the high 
 
 place 
 Where Rome embraced her heroes ? 
 
 where the steep 
 Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
 The promontory whence the Traitor's 
 
 Leap 
 Cured aU ambition. Did the conquerors 
 
 heap 
 Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon 
 
 field below, 
 A thousand years of silenced factions 
 
 sleep — ^ 
 
 The Forum, where the immortal accents 
 
 glow, 
 .\n& still the eloquent air breathes — ^bums 
 
 with Cicero ! 
 
 Tully was not so eloquent as thou. 
 
 Thou nameless column with the buried 
 base ! 
 
 What are the laurels of the Cssar's 
 brow ? 
 
 Crown me with ivy from his dwelling- 
 place. 
 
 Whose arch or pillar meets me in the 
 face, 
 
 Titus or Trajan's ? — No 'tis that of 
 Time : 
 
 Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth dis- 
 place 
 
 Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
 To crush the imperial urn, whose mbm 
 >lept »ublima, | 
 
 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 conguer 
 
 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 \-oice of baser prosti- 
 tutes. 
 
 c.xiv 
 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 
 
 Of freedom's withw'd trunk puts 
 A Iwit, 
 
 loith 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIArAGE 
 
 Even tor thy tomb a garland let it be — 
 The forum's champion, and the people's 
 chief — 
 Her new-born Numa thou — with 
 alas ! too brief. 
 
 243 
 
 reign, 
 
 Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so 
 
 fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou 
 
 art 
 Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air. 
 The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
 Who found a more than common votary 
 
 there 
 Too much adoring ; whatso'er thy birth, 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly- 
 bodied forth. 
 
 cxvi 
 of thy fountain still are 
 
 The mosses 
 
 sprinlsled 
 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. 
 
 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 seat- 
 ing 
 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befel ? 
 
 Ihis cave was surely shaped out for the 
 greeting 
 
 Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the ceh 
 Haunted fey 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 — 
 .'\nd root from out the soul the deadly 
 
 weed which cloys ? 
 
 Alas ! our young affections rvm 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 Pas- 
 sion fhes 
 O'er the world's wilderness, »nd vainly 
 
 pants 
 For some celestial fruit forbidden to our 
 
 wants. 
 
 cxxi 
 Oh Love ! no habitant of earth art thou 
 An unseen seraph, we belie\'e in thee, — 
 A faith whose martyrs are the broken 
 
 heart, — 
 But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
 The naked eve, thy form, as it should 
 
 be; 
 The mind hath made thee, as it peopled 
 
 heaven. 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
 And to a thought such shape and image 
 
 given, 
 .As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd, 
 
 wearied, wrung, and riven. 
 
 cxxii 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
 And fevers into false creation : — where. 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's soul 
 
 hath seized ? 
 In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
 Where are the charms and virtues which 
 
 we dare 
 
244 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRniAGE 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — 
 but the cure i 
 
 Is bitterer still, as charm by charm un- 
 winds I 
 
 Which robed our idols, and we see too ; 
 sure I 
 
 Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out I 
 the mind's i 
 
 Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, ] 
 
 Reaping the whirlwind from the oft- I 
 sown winds ; I 
 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 
 Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest I 
 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. 
 
 C.X-XV 
 
 Few — none — find what they love or 
 
 could have lo^'ed, 
 Though accident, blind contact, and 
 
 the strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Antipatlnies — but to recur, ere long, 
 Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
 And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 And miscreator, makes and helps along 
 Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod". 
 Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the 
 
 dust we all have trod. 
 
 cxxvi 
 Our life is a false nature : 'tis not in 
 The harmony of things, — this hard de- 
 cree, 
 This uneradicable taint of sin. 
 This boundless upas, this all-blasting 
 
 tree. 
 Whose root is earth, whose leaves and 
 tranches 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 
 Tlie immedicable soul, with heart-aches 
 
 ever new. 
 
 C.\.\',*II 
 
 \'et let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 
 
 .\bandonment of reason to resign 
 
 Our right of thought — our last and only 
 place 
 
 Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be 
 mine : 
 
 Though from our birth the faculty di- 
 vine 
 
 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. 
 
 c-x.xvni 
 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 fight which streams here, 
 
 to iUume 
 This long-explored but still exhaustless 
 
 mine 
 Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies 
 
 assume 
 
 c.x.xi.x 
 Hues which ha\'e words, and speak to ye 
 
 of heaven, 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous mon- 
 ument. 
 And shadows forth its glory. There is 
 
 given 
 Unto the things of earth, which Time 
 
 hath bent, 
 .■\ spirit's feeling, and where he hath 
 
 leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a 
 
 power 
 .\nd 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. 
 
 c.x.x.x 
 
 Oh Time ! the beautifter of the dead 
 .\dorner of the ruin, comforter ' 
 
 And only healer when the hsart hath 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Time ! the corrector where our judg- 
 ments err, 
 The test of truth, love — sole philosopher, 
 For all beside are sophists — fiom 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 Neme- 
 sis ! 
 
 Here, where the ancient paid thee hom- 
 age long — [abyss. 
 
 Thou, who didst caU the Furies from the 
 
 And round Orestes bade them howl and 
 hiss 
 
 For that unnatural retribution — just, 
 
 Had it but been from hands less near — 
 in this 
 
 Thy former realm, I call thee from the 
 dust! 
 Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! 
 thou shalt, and must. 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
 For my ancestral faults or mine the 
 
 wound 
 I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 
 With a just weapon, it had flow'd un- 
 bound ; 
 But now ray 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 / have not taken for the sake — 
 But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt 
 yet awake. 
 
 245 
 
 CX.XXIV 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 
 that now 
 
 'tis not 
 
 I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him 
 speak 
 
 Who hath beheld decUne upon my brow 
 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it 
 weak ; 
 
 But in this page a record will 1 seek. 
 
 Not m the air shall these my words dis- 
 perse. 
 
 Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall 
 wTeak 
 
 The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of 
 my curse ! 
 
 cxxxv 
 
 That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have 
 I not — 
 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it. 
 Heaven 1 — 
 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 
 Have I not sufler'd things to be forgiven? 
 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my 
 heart riven, 
 
 Hopes sapp'd, name bhghted, Life's life 
 hed away ? 
 
 And only not to desperation driven. 
 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots into the souls of those whom I sur- 
 vey. 
 
 c.x.x.xvi 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 Have I not seen what human things 
 
 could do ? 
 From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few 
 And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 
 The Janus glance of whose significant 
 
 eye. 
 Learning to lie with silence, would seem 
 
 true, 
 And without utterance, save the shrug 
 
 or sigh. 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless 
 
 obloquy. 
 
 cxxxvii 
 But I have lived, and have not lived in 
 
 vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its 
 
 fire, 
 And my frame perish even in conquering 
 
 pain ; 
 But there is that within me which shall 
 
 tire 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when I 
 
 expire ; 
 Something unearthly, which they deem 
 
 not of. 
 Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre. 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and 
 
 move 
 In heai'ts all rocky now the late remorse of 
 
 love, 
 
246 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 CXXXVIII 
 
 The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou 
 
 dread power ! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which 
 
 here I 
 
 Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight I 
 
 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 
 Th^t 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 ap- ; 
 
 plause, I 
 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow 1 
 
 man. I 
 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, 
 
 but because 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, ' 
 And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore 
 
 not ? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the 
 
 maws 
 Of worms — on battle-plains or hsted 
 
 spot ? I 
 
 Both are but theatres where the chief 
 
 actors rot. ! 
 
 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 I 
 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone. 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which | 
 
 hail'd the wretch who won. 
 
 I 
 
 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 hy the Danube 
 
 lay, 
 There were his young barbarians all at 
 
 play, i 
 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, 
 
 their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday— 
 
 All this rushed 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 stra^ ? ; 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame 
 
 or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a 
 
 crowd, 
 lly voice soimds 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. 
 
 c.xLii: 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been 
 
 rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the spoil could have 
 
 appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but 
 
 clear'd ? 
 Alas ! 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. 
 
 • While stands the Coliseum, Rome 
 
 shall stand ; 
 ' ^^'hen falls the Coliseum, Rome shall 
 
 fall ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 247 
 
 "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 ioundations, and unalter'd all ; 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's 
 
 skill, 
 The World, the same wide den — of thieves, 
 
 or what ye mil. 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
 Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods. 
 From ]oVe to Jesus — spared and blest 
 
 by time ; 
 Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
 Arch, empire, each tiling round thee, and 
 
 man plods 
 His way through thorns to ashes — glori- 
 ous dome ! 
 Shalt thou not last ? 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 hondur'd forms, whose busts 
 
 around them close. 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear 
 
 light 
 What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look 
 
 again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my 
 
 sight — 
 Two insulated phantoms of the bram : 
 It is not so ; I see them full and plain— 
 An old man, and a female young and fair, 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar : — but what doth 
 
 she there. 
 With her unmantled neck, and bosom 
 
 white and bare ? 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 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 per- 
 ceives 
 
 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. 
 
 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 stream 
 
 rises higher 
 Than EgypTs river : from that gentle 
 
 side 
 Drink, drink and Uve, old man ! Heaven's 
 
 realm holds no such tide. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 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 fron 
 
 such a birth ! 
 
248 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 But lo ! the dome — the \'ast and wond- 
 rous dome,' 
 
 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 hyfflna and the jackal in their 
 shade ; 
 
 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
 
 Their glittering mass i' the sun, and 
 have survey'd 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Mos- 
 lem pray'd ; 
 
 CLIV 
 
 But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
 Standest aloue, 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 cloud 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 ; [mind. 
 
 And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy 
 Expanded by the genius of the spot. 
 Has grown colossal, and can only find 
 A fit abode wherein appsar enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so de- 
 fined, 
 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, 
 D iceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
 Vastness which grows, but grows to har- 
 monise — 
 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. 
 
 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 out- 
 ward sense 
 Is but of gradual grasp— and as it is 
 That what we have of feeljng most in- 
 tense [this 
 Outstrips our faint expression ; even so 
 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 contem- 
 plate. 
 
 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 sTiblimity displavs 
 Its depths, and thence may draw the 
 
 mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great 
 
 conceptions can. 
 
 CLX 
 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
 Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 With an immortal's patience blending: 
 
 Vain 
 The struggle ; vain, against the coiling 
 
 strain 
 And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's 
 
 grasp. 
 The old man's clench ; the long euve- 
 
 nom'd chain 
 Ri\-ets the living links,— the enormous 
 
 asp 
 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on 
 
 gasp. " ^ 
 
 CLXI 
 
 $u ^'^"','^« Lord of the unen-ing bow. 
 The God of life, and poesy, and light 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 The Sun in human Umbs 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 ex- 
 
 prest 
 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 
 With an eternal glory — which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human 
 
 thought ; 
 And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor 
 
 laid 
 One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it 
 
 caught 
 A -tinge of years, but breathes the flame 
 
 with which 'twas wrought. 
 
 CLXIV 
 
 But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song. 
 The being who upheld it through the 
 
 past ? 
 Methinks he cometh late and tarries 
 
 long. 
 He is no more — these breathings are his 
 
 last ; 
 His wanderings done, his visions ebbing 
 
 fast, 
 And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
 Aught but a phantasy, and could be 
 
 class'd 
 With forms which live and s iffer — let 
 
 that pass — 
 His shadow fades away int. - Destruction's 
 
 mass, 
 
 CLXV 
 
 Which gathers shadow, suV stance, life, 
 and all 
 
 249 
 
 That we mherit in its mortal shroud 
 And spreads the dim and universal pall 
 Through which all things grow phan- 
 toms ; and the cloud 
 Between us sinlcs 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 dis- 
 tract 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 pro- 
 ceeds, 
 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 rehef. 
 
 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 majesti", less beloved head ? 
 In the sad midnight, vt'hile thy heart still 
 
 bled. 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
 Death hush'd that pang for ever : with 
 
 thee fltd 
 The present happir. ess a.id promised joy 
 ■\Vhich fiU'd the impcnal isles so full it 
 
 secm'd to cloy. 
 
 S 
 
250 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 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 heav}', 
 
 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 du5t 
 The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is 
 
 laid. 
 The love of millions ! How we did en- 
 trust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly 
 
 deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and 
 
 bless'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose 
 
 promise seem'd 
 Like stars to shepherd's eyes ; — 'twas but 
 
 a meteor beam'd. 
 
 CLXXI 
 
 Woe unto us, not her ;8 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'er- 
 
 stung 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the 
 
 strange fate 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and 
 
 hath flung 
 Against their bUnd omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes 
 
 soon or late, — 
 
 CLX.XII 
 
 These might have been her destiny ; but 
 
 no. 
 Our hearts deny it : and so voung, so 
 
 fair. 
 Good without cflort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother — and no^^ 
 
 there ! 
 How many ties did that stern moment 
 
 tear ! 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's 
 
 breast 
 
 I^ liiik'd the electric chain of that des- 
 pair. 
 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, 
 and opprest 
 The land which loved thee so that none 
 could love thee best. 
 
 CLXXIII 
 
 Lo, Nemi ! ^ navell'd in the woody hills 
 So far, that the uprooting wind which 
 
 tears 
 The oak from his foundation, and which 
 
 spills 
 The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
 Its foam against the skies, reluctant 
 
 spares 
 The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
 And calm as cherish'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 sprung the Epic 
 
 war, 
 "' Arms and the man," whose re-ascend- 
 ing 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. 
 
 CL.X.X^' 
 
 But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine" is 
 
 won. 
 And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and 
 
 me, 
 And from the Alban Mount we now 
 
 behold 
 Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which 
 
 when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
 Those waves, we follo\\'d on till the dark 
 
 Euxine roU'd 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 Upon the blue Sympleg.ides : long vears — 
 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 : 
 \ et not in vain our mortal race hath run; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 251 
 
 We have had our reward, and it is here, — 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the 
 
 sun, 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as 
 
 dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is 
 
 clear. 
 
 CLXXVII 
 
 Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling- 
 place, 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
 That I might all forget the human race. 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely 
 be our lot. 
 
 CX.XXVI11 
 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 con- 
 trol 
 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, hke 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 anse 
 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile 
 strength he wields 
 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all des- 
 pise, 
 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the 
 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy play- 
 ful spray 
 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply 
 
 lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
 And dashest him again to earth : — there 
 
 let him lay. 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the 
 
 walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations 
 
 quake. 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs 
 
 make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of Lord of thee, and arbiter of war — 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 
 
 flake. 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, 
 which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Tra- 
 falgar. 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all 
 
 save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what 
 
 are they ? 
 Thy waters washed them power 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 thme azure 
 
 brow 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou 
 
 rollest now. 
 
 CLxxxni 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- 
 mighty'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 clirae 
 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. 
 
 CLX,XXIV 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my 
 
 joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to 
 
 be 
 
252 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 CLXX.XV 
 
 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 A\Tit, i^ 
 
 writ ; 
 Would it were worthier ! but I am not 
 
 now 
 
 That which I have been — and mv visions 
 
 flit 
 Less palpably Ijefore me — and the 
 
 glow 
 V'hich 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 ! 
 Ve ! who ha"\'e traced the Pilgrim to the 
 
 scene [dwell 
 
 Which is his last, if in yomr memories 
 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 mav rest the 
 
 pain, 
 f such there were — with you, the moral of 
 
 his strain. 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 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 sting." — Moore. 
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION' FOR HIS GENIUS 
 RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP 
 THIS PRODUCTION IS I.VSCRIBED, 
 BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 
 
 London, May^ 1813. BYRON 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 That rolls below the Athenian's grave. 
 That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 
 First greets the homeward-veering skiff. 
 High o'er the land he saved in vain ; 
 When shall such hero live again ? 
 •k * If 
 
 Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
 Benignant o'er those blessed I'^les, 
 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 au- 
 That wakes and wafts the odours there ! 
 For there the Rose, o'er crag or \al.?, 
 Sultana of the Nightingale, 
 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, 
 I'nbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
 i'ar from the winters of the west, 
 By every breeze and season blest, 
 Returns the sweets by nature given 
 In softest incense back to heaven • 
 And grateful N-ields that smiling sky 
 i Her fau-est hue and fragrant sigh ' 
 
THE GIAOUR: A fURKlSH TALt 
 
 253 
 
 And many a summer flower is there, 
 Arid many a shade that love might share, 
 And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
 That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
 Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
 Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 
 Till the gay mariner s guitar 
 Is heard, and seen the evening star ; 
 Then stealing with the 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 loved to trace, 
 As if for Gods, a dwelling place. 
 And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
 Within the paradise she fix'd. 
 There man, enamour'd of distress, 
 ■Should mar it into wilderness, 
 .And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
 That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
 Nor claims the culture of his hand 
 To bloom along the fairy land, 
 But springs as to preclude his care, 
 And sweetly woos him — 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, [dwell 
 And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should 
 The freed inheritors of hell ; 
 So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 
 So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 
 
 J He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
 f Ere the first day of death is fled. 
 The first dark day of nothingness. 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 (Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
 And mark'd the mild angelic air. 
 The rapture of repose that's there. 
 The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
 ■ The languor of the placid cheek. 
 And — ^but for that sad shrouded eye. 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow. 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
 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, list 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 
 cherish'd 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 ? 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 
 
 Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
 These waters blue that round you lave, — 
 
 Oh servile offspring of the free 
 Pronounce what sea, what shore i^ 
 
 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 
 Win add to theirs a name of fear 
 That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
 They too will rather die than shame : 
 For Freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
 Though baffled oft is ever won. 
 Bear witness, Greece, thy li\'ing 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 ! 
 'T were 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 swai;-. 
 
 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 ; 
 
254 
 
 -"-.MiVilS AND POEMS 
 
 Siain'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 ad^'ancing 
 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, 
 'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! 
 I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
 But in thy lineaments I trace 
 What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
 Though young and pale, that sallow front 
 Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
 Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
 As meteor-like thou glidest by. 
 Right well I \iew and deem thee one 
 Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 
 
 On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
 My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
 Though like a demon of the night 
 He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, 
 His aspect and his air imprcss'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 reck reliPN-os 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,^ 
 The flashes of each joyous peal 
 .\re 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 should'st either pause or flee ? 
 
 He stood — some dread was on his face. 
 Soon Hatred settled in its place : 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 Of transient Anger's hasty blush. 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb. 
 Whose 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 
 
 I blade ; 
 
 j 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. 
 'T was hut an instant he restrain'd 
 That fiery barb so sternlv rein'd ; 
 'T was but a moment that he stood, 
 Then sped as it 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 lo\-cs, or hates, or fears, 
 Such moment pours the grief of years'- 
 What felt he then, at once opprest 
 By all that most distracts the br<iast ' 
 That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
 Oh, who Its dreary lengtj shall date ! 
 Though in Time's record nearly nought, 
 It was Eternitv to Thought ' " 
 
TI-IE GIAOUR : A TURKISH TALE 
 
 255 
 
 For iufiuLte as. boundless space 
 
 The thought that Conscience must embrace, 
 
 Which in itself can comprehend 
 
 Woe without name, or hope, or end. 
 
 The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
 And dij 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 gloofn, 
 -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 flow, 
 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 seem'd each melting tone 
 Of Music mingled with its own. 
 But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 
 Along the brink at twilight's close : 
 The stream that fill'd that font is fled — 
 The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 
 And here no more shall human voice 
 Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
 The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
 Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
 That quench'd in silence, all is still, 
 " But the lattice that flaps ivhen 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 th.- verv voice of Grief 
 Ui^ht wake an Echo like relief — 
 At least 't would say, " All are not gone ; 
 There Imgers IJfe, though but in one " — 
 For many a gilded chamber's there, 
 Which Solitude might well forbear ; 
 Within that dome as yet Decay 
 Hath slowly work'd her cankering way~ 
 But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate. 
 Nor there the Fakir's self will wait ; 
 Nor there will wandering Dervise sta\'. 
 For bounty cheers not his delay ; 
 Nor there will weary stranger halt 
 To bless the sacred " bread and salt." 
 Alike must Wealth and Poverty 
 Pass heedless and unheeded by. 
 For Courtesy and Pity died 
 With Hassan on the mountain side. 
 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 ! 
 
 * + « 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet. 
 But not a voice mine ear 10 grert ; 
 More near — each turban I can scan, . 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan ; ^ 
 The foremost of the baud is seen 
 An Emir by his garb of green : 
 " Ho ! who art thou ? " — " This low 
 
 salam 
 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 v.'aif.' 
 
 "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 channell'd waters dark and deep. 
 Rest from your task — so — ^bravely done, 
 Our course has been right swiftly run 
 Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 
 That one of— * * * * 
 
 ^ if * * * '» 
 
 Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank. 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
 I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
 Some motion from the ciurent caught 
 Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
 That checker'd o'er tke living stream : 
 I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
 Like lessening pebble it mthdrew ; 
 Still less andless, a speck of white 
 That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the 
 
 sight ; 
 .And ail its hidden secrets sleep. 
 Known but to Genii of the deep. 
 
256 
 
 TALES AKD P0EA:S 
 
 Which, trembling in their coral caves, 
 They dare not vvhisper to the waves. 
 « * * 
 
 As rising on its purple wing 
 The insect-queen of eastern spring, 
 O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
 Invites the young pursuer near, 
 And leads him on from flower to flower 
 A weary chase and wasted hour, 
 Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
 With panting heart and tearful eye : 
 So Beauty lures the 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, 
 'T is 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 e\-ery failing but their own. 
 And every woe a tear can claim 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 
 * t « 
 
 The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes. 
 
 Is like the Scorpion girt by fire ; 
 In cirrle 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. 
 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 e^'es ; 
 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 lonr^er dwell ? 
 That tale can only H.iv-.,i^ tell ; 
 
 .'"strange rumours in our city say 
 l.'pon that eve she fled away 
 When Rhamazan's last sun v^fas set, 
 And flashing from each min aret 
 Jlillions of lamps proclaim'd tlie feavt 
 Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
 'T was then she went as to the bath. 
 Which Hassan vainly search'd in \vratli ; 
 For she was flown her master's rage 
 In likeness of a Georgian page, 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 
 i Had wroug'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
 
 ' Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
 But still so fond, so fair she seem'd. 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 Whose treachery' deserved a grave ; 
 And on that eve had gone to mosque. 
 And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
 Sticn is the tale his Nubians tell, 
 \Vho did not watch their charge too well ; 
 But others say, that on that night. 
 By pale Phingari's trembUng light, 
 The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
 Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
 \Vitb 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. 
 Yea, Soul, and should our prophet my 
 1 That form was nought but breathing clay, 
 ; B> Alia ! I would answer nav ; 
 Though on Al-Sirat's ■> arch I stood. 
 Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
 [ With Paradise within my view, 
 \ad all his Houris beckoning through. 
 I Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
 -Vid keep that portion of his creed 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 
 On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
 r hat through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 The young pomeejanate's blossoms strew 
 ; fheir bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 Her hair in hyacinthine flow, 
 '.V'hen left to roll its folds below, 
 .\s 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 nohlv walks the water ■ 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter. 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan ' ^' 
 As rears her crest the ruflled Swa" 
 
 And spurns the wave with win<r.i of pride 
 When pass the steps of stranger t-au 
 
THE GIAOUR. A TURKISH TALE 
 
 257 
 
 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 ! 
 
 * * * 
 Stem Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
 
 With twenty vassals in his train. 
 
 Each arm'd, as best becomes a man. 
 
 With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
 
 The chief before, as deck'd for war. 
 
 Bears in his belt the scimitar 
 
 Stain'd ivith the best of Arnaut blood, 
 
 When in the pass the rebels stood. 
 
 And few return'd to tell the tale 
 
 Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 
 Were those that once a pasha wore. 
 
 Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd 
 
 with gold. 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side ; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower. 
 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hill. 
 And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 't were vaia to seek 
 In cities lodged too near his lord. 
 And trembling for his secret hoard — 
 Here may he rest where none can see. 
 In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
 And with forbidden wine may stain 
 The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
 
 * * * 
 The foremost Tartar's in the gap 
 
 Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
 
 The rest in lengthening line the while 
 
 Wind slowly through the long defile : 
 
 Above, the mountain rears a peak. 
 
 Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
 
 And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
 
 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's 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 ? 
 '^ * * ,1, 
 
 ^ They reach the grove of pine at last ; 
 ' Bismillah ! « now the peril's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain. 
 And there we'll prick our steeds amain : •• 
 And Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
 A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
 The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 
 
 Scarce had they time to check the rein. 
 Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 
 
 But three shall never mount again : 
 Unseen the foes that gave the wound. 
 
 The dying ask revenge in vain. 
 With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent. 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant. 
 
 Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
 Some fly beneath 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 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, Araaun ! ' 
 In fuller sight, more near and near, 
 The lately ambush'd foes appear. 
 And, issuing from the g^o^-e, advance 
 Some who on battle-charger prance. 
 Who leads them on with fnrpign brand 
 Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
 " 'T is he ! 't is he ! I know hiirr now ; 
 I know him by his paUid brow ; 
 I know him by the evil eye 
 That aids his envious treachery : 
 I know him by his jet-blick barb ; 
 Though now array'd in ,A.rnaiit garb, 
 Apostate from his own vile faith. 
 It shall not save him from the death : 
 'T is 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, 
 
258 
 
 TALES AXD POEMS 
 
 The lightnings of the waters flash 
 In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
 That shines and shalies 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 deathshot hissing from afar ; 
 The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
 Reverberate along that vale, 
 i\Ljre 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 : 
 Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith ; 
 True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 iVith 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 flomng robe by falchion torn. 
 
 And crimson as those clouds of mom 
 
 That, streak'd mth dusky red, portend 
 
 The day shall have a stormy end ; 
 
 A stain on even- bush that bore 
 
 4 fragment ; f his palamprie ; ^ 
 
 His breast m*h wounds unnumber'd 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 
 
 Survi\'ing left his quenchless hate ; 
 
 And u'er him bends that foe with brow 
 
 As dark as his that bled below. — 
 
 * * * 
 
 " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wa-\-e. 
 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 p.iss'd, and thine accorded there ? 
 I w^'lch'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 — 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pasture green beneath her eye. 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
 " 'T is twihght — sure his train is nigh." 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 But gazed through the grate »f his steepest 
 
 tower 
 " Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
 Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
 Why sends not the Bridegroom his 
 
 promised gift ? 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less 
 
 swift ? 
 Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
 Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow. 
 And warily the steep descends. 
 And now within the valley bends ; 
 And he bears the gift at his saddle bow — • 
 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 spaka distress. 
 But this might be from weariness ; 
 His garb with sanguine spots was dved, 
 But these might be from his courser's side ; 
 He drew the token from his vest — 
 Angel of Death ! 't is Hassan's cloven 
 
 crest ! 
 His calpac ' rent — his caftan red — 
 " Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed ; 
 ?>Ie, 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 'carved in coarsest stone, 
 A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 
 Whereon can now be scarcely read 
 The Koran ^-erse that mourns the dead. 
 Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
 A -sictim in that lonely dell. 
 There sleeps as true an Osmaniie 
 As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
 ,\s ever scom'd forbidden wine. 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine. 
 In orisons resumed anew 
 At solemn sound of *' Alia Hu ! " 
 Y'et died he by a stranger's hand, 
 .Vnd stranger in his native land ; 
 Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
 .-Vnd 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. 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
 
THE GIAOUR: A TURKISH TALE 
 
 359 
 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 4> * * 
 
 But thou, false Infidel ! shalt writhe 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's "> scythe ; 
 And from its torment 'scape alone 
 To wander round lost Eblis' 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 sent, 
 Thy corse sliall from its tomb be rent : 
 Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
 And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
 There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
 At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
 Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
 Must feed thy livid living corse : 
 Thy victims ere they yet expire 
 Shall know the demon for tlieir sire, 
 As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
 Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
 But one that for thy crime must fall. 
 The youngest, most beloved of all. 
 Shall bless thee with a father's name — 
 That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
 Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
 Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
 And the last glassy glance must view 
 Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
 Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
 The tresses of her 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 : 't is 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. 
 
 *' 'T is 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 sta\' 
 Or pent within our penance cell 
 Should doom him there for aye to dwell 
 Much in his visions mutters he 
 Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
 Of sabres clashing, foemen flying. 
 Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
 On cliff he hath been known to stand. 
 And rave as to some bloody hand 
 Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
 Invisible to all but him. 
 Which beckons onward to his grave. 
 And lures to leap into the wave " 
 
 * t * 
 
 * * « 
 
 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 m it lurks that nameless spell, 
 
 Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
 
 A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 
 
 That claims and keeps ascendency ; 
 
 And like the bird whose pinions quake. 
 
 But cannot fly the gating 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, 
 .A.S if that eye and bitter smile 
 Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 
 Not oft to smile descendeth he. 
 And when he doth 't is sad to see 
 That he but mocks at Misery. 
 How that pale lip v/ill 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 joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
 But sadder still it were to trace 
 What once were feelings in that face : 
 Time hath not yet the features 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 
 
26o 
 
 Ti\LES AND POEMS 
 
 Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
 The close observer can espy 
 A noble soul, and lineage high : 
 Alas ! thoiigh both bestow'd in vain, 
 Which Grief could change, and Guilt could 
 
 stain. 
 It was no vulgar tenement 
 To which such lofty ?ifts 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 ; 
 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 skv, 
 That livid cheek, that stony air 
 Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 
 Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 
 Else may we dread the uTath divine 
 Made manifest by awful sign. 
 If ever evil angel bore 
 The form of mortal, such he wore ; 
 By all my hope of sins forgiven. 
 Such looks are not of earth nor heaven ! " 
 
 To love the softest hearts are prone, 
 But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
 Too timid in his woes to share. 
 Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
 And sterner hearts alone may feel 
 The wound that time can never heal. 
 The rugged metal of the mine 
 Must burn before its surface shine. 
 But plunged within the furnace-flame. 
 It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
 Then temper'd to thy want, or will. 
 
 'T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 
 A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 
 Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
 But if a dagger's form it bear. 
 Let those who shape its edge, beware ! 
 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 
 Tilight 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, 
 .\nd shudder, as the reptiles creep 
 To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
 ^Vithout the power to scare away 
 The cold consumers of their clay ! 
 It is as if the d6sert bird. 
 
 Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 
 
 To still her famish'd nestlings' scream. 
 Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd. 
 Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
 And find them flow-n her emptv nest. 
 The keenest pangs the wretched find 
 
 -Are rapture to the dreary' void. 
 The leafless desert of the mind. 
 
 The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
 Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
 -A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
 Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
 Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
 Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
 A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
 L>nseen to drop by dull decav ; — 
 Better to sink beneath the shock 
 Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ' 
 * • * ' 
 
 " Father ! thy da^-s 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 thv lot from vouth 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 
 \\ithm thy pure and pitving breast. 
 My days, though few, liave pass'd below 
 In much of joy, but more of woe ■ 
 \ ct still m hours of love or strif.- ' 
 I ve 'scaped the weariness of life'- 
 Now leagued with friends, now girt bv foes 
 
THE GIAOUR : A TURKISH TALE 
 
 261 
 
 1 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 
 ?<Iost noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
 Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
 Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
 Yet, lurks a wish within ray 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 spirit shrunk not to sustain 
 The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 
 Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
 Of ancient fool and modem knave : 
 Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
 And in the field it had been sweet. 
 Had danger wy^o'd me on to move 
 The slave of glory, not of love. 
 I've braved it — not for honour's boa^t ; 
 I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
 To such let others carve their way. 
 For high renown, or hireling pay ; 
 But place again Isefore ray 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 needst 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 : 
 'T was 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 tim his Houris still might wait 
 Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
 
 I loved her — love will find its way 
 Through paths where wolves would fe.ir t 
 
 prey ; 
 And if it dares enough, 't wpre 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 Avish she had not loved again. 
 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 me, pause ; 
 Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
 \'et 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, T laid him low : 
 Howe'er deserved her doom might be. 
 Her treachery was tr\xth to me ; 
 To me she gave her heart, that all 
 Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 
 And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
 Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
 'T was some relief, our foe a grave. 
 His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
 Has made me — what thou well mayst hate. 
 
 His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
 Warn'd by the voice of stem Taheer, 
 Deep in whose darkly boding ear 
 The deathshot peal'd of murder near 
 
 As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
 He died too in the battle broil, 
 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
 One cry to Mahomet for aid. 
 One prayer to Alia all he made : 
 He knew and cross'd me in the fray— 
 I gazed upon hira where he lay. 
 And watcli'd his spirit ebb awav : 
 Though pierced like pard by hunter'5 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 frora the grave. 
 And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
 « * « 
 
 " The cold in rlime are cold in blood. 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 But mine was like the lava flood 
 
 That boils in /F.tna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladve-Iove, and beauty's chain : 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vera, 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
 If bursting heart, and madd'ning bram. 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel. 
 And all that I have felt, and feel, 
 
262 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Betoken love — that love wa9 mine, 
 
 And sho^vn by many a bitter sign. 
 
 'T is true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 
 I die — but fir^t I have possess'd, 
 
 And come what may, I have been bless'd. 
 
 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 lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above, 
 But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught. 
 To wean from self each sordid thouglit ; 
 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, hets 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 wno lose 
 
 This present joy, this future hope. 
 
 No more with sftrrow meekly cope ; 
 In phrensy then their fate accuse ; 
 In madness do those fearful deeds 
 
 That seem to add but g^iilt 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 : 
 I read abhorrence on thy brow. 
 
 And this too was I born to bear ! 
 'T is true, that, like that bird of prey, 
 With havock have I mark'd my way : 
 But this was taught me by the dovi. 
 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 sinss 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 behe\'ing and betray'd. 
 Such shame at least was never mine — 
 Leila ! each thought was onh' thine ! 
 My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
 ^ly 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 ! 
 'T is all too late — thou wert, thou art 
 The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 
 
 "And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 
 
 But not the breath of human life : 
 A serpent round my heart was -wTeathed, 
 And stung my every thought to strife. 
 Alike all time, abhorr'd all place. 
 Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face. 
 Where e\'ery 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 seest I soon shall part from hence : 
 And if thy holy tale were true, 
 The deed that's done canst thou undo ? 
 Think me not thankless — but this grief 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
 My soul's estate in secret guess : 
 But wouldst thou pity more, sa\ less. 
 When thou canst bid my Leila live. 
 Then mil 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 WTung 
 From forest-cave her shrieking -^'oung. 
 And calm the lonely lioness : 
 But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 
 
 " In earlier da^'S, and calmer hours. 
 
 When heart with heart delights to blend. 
 Where bloom my native vallev's bowers. 
 
 I had — Ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
 To liim this pledge I charge thee send, 
 
 i\Icmorial of a youthful \-ow ; 
 I would remind him of ray end : 
 
 Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 
 Brief thought to distant friendship's claim. 
 Vet dear to him my blighted name. 
 'T is strange — he prophesied my doom, 
 
 .\nd I have smiled — I then could smile- 
 When Prudence w.aild his voice assume, 
 
 And warn — I rcck'd not what — the while : 
 But now remembrance wnispers o'er 
 
THE GIAOUR: A TURKISH TALE 
 
 263 
 
 Those accents scarcely mark'd belore. 
 Say — that his bodings came to pass, 
 And he will start to hear their truth, 
 And wish his words had not been sooth ; 
 Tell him, unheeding as I was. 
 Through many a busy bitter scene 
 Of all our golden youth had been. 
 In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
 To bless his memory ere I died ; 
 But Heaven in wrath would turn away. 
 If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
 I do not ask him not to blame. 
 Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
 And what have I to do with fame ? 
 I do not ask him not to mourn, 
 Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
 And what than friendship's manly tear 
 JMay better grace a brother's bier ? 
 But bear this ring, his own of old. 
 And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
 The withcr'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
 The wrack by passion left behind, 
 A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
 Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 
 * * * 
 
 " Tell me no more of fancy's gleam. 
 
 No, father, no, 't was not a flream ; 
 
 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 ray ™ll. 
 
 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. 
 
 'T was 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 I gaze on, as on her. 
 
 Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
 
 Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 
 
 To-morrow's night shall be more dark ■. 
 
 And I, before its rays appear. 
 
 That lifeless thing the living fear, 
 
 I wander, father ! for my soul 
 
 Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
 
 I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
 
 Forgetful of our former woes ; 
 And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
 And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
 I clasp — what is it that 1 clasp ? 
 No breathing form within my grasp. 
 No heart that beats reply to mine — ' 
 Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
 And art thou, dearest, changed so much 
 As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
 Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
 I care not so my arms enfold 
 The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
 Alas ! around a shadow prest 
 They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
 Yet still 't is there ! In silence stands. 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 With braided hair, and bright- black eye- 
 I knew 't was 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 rolled above 
 The face I view, the form I love ; 
 They told me — 't was 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. 
 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. 
 
264 
 
 TALES A^rD POEMS 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS : 
 
 A TURKISH TALE 
 
 ' Had we never loved so kindlv. 
 Had we never loved so blindly, 
 Never met or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted.' 
 
 -Burns. 
 
 THE RIGHT HON. LORD HOLLAND, 
 
 THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, 
 BV HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 BYRON'. 
 
 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 ! 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 
 
 ever shine ; 
 Where the light wings of Zephvr, op- 
 
 press'd with perfume 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Giil in her 
 
 bloom ; 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of 
 
 fruit, 
 And the voice of the nightingale ne\er 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 in dye ; 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 
 
 twine. 
 And aU, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of 
 
 the Sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children 
 
 have done ? 
 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' fare,vell ; 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the i 
 
 tales which they tell. J 
 
 II 
 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 sat in his Divan : 
 
 Deep thought was in his aged evt- ; 
 And though the face of Mu -.uhnan 
 
 Not oft betrays to slanders bv 
 
 The mind within, well skiU'd to hide 
 All but unconquerable pride, 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 " Let the chamber be clear' d." — The train 
 disapoear'd — ■ 
 " Now call jne the chief of the Haram 
 guard." 
 
 With GiafEir 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 mv 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 j'oung Sehm silence brake. 
 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
 And do^\'ncast look'd, and gentlv spake. 
 
 Still standing at the Pacha's feet ; 
 For son of Jloslem must expire, 
 Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 
 
 " Father ! for tear that thou should'st 
 
 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, 
 \Mth none to hsten and replv 
 To thoughts with which niv heart beat 
 
 high 
 Were iksome — for whate'er mv mood. 
 In sooth I love hot sohtude ■ 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS : A TURKISH TALE 
 
 20.-, 
 
 I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
 
 And, as thou knowest that for me 
 Soon turns the Haram's grating key. 
 Before the guardian slaves awoke 
 We to the cypress groves had flown. 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our 
 
 own ! 
 There linger'd we, beguiled too ling 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; ' 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour 
 Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
 To thee, and to my duty true, 
 Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
 But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
 Nay, Father, rage not — nor forget 
 That none can pierce that secret bower 
 But those who watch the women's 
 tower." 
 
 " 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 nre ! 
 Thou, who would'st see this battlement 
 By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
 Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
 Before the dogs of Moscow fall. 
 Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
 Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
 Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
 But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
 And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string ! " 
 
 No sound from Selim's lip was heard. 
 
 At least that met old Giaffir's ear. 
 But every frown and every word 
 Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
 
 " Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with 
 fear ! 
 
 Those gibes had cost another dear. 
 Son of a slave !— and who my sire ? " 
 
 Thus held his thoughts their dark 
 career ; 
 And glances 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 wTath 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 fell. 
 On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 
 
 That eye return'd him glance for 
 glance. 
 And proudly to his sire's was raised. 
 
 Till Giaf&r's quail'd and shrunk ask- 
 ance — 
 And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
 " Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
 WiU one day work me more annoy : 
 I never loved him from his birth. 
 And — but his arm is little worth, 
 .-\nd 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 ray 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. 
 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 
 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent 
 
 smiUng, , ,, 
 
 Whose image then was stamp d upon her 
 
 mind — 
 But once beguiled — and ever more be- 
 
 guiUng ; 
 DazzMng, as that, oh ! too transcendent 
 
 vision , , , I, 
 
 To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber 
 
 given, , . 
 
 When heart meets heart again m dreams 
 Elysian, . 
 
 And paints the lost on Earth revived in 
 Heaven ; 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
 Pure, as the prayer which Childhood waits 
 above ; 
 
 T 
 
266 
 
 TALES AXD POE:\rS 
 
 Was she — the daughter of that rude old 
 
 Chief, 
 Who met the maid with tears — but not of 
 
 grief. 
 
 Who hath not proved how feebly words 
 
 essay 
 To fix one spark of Beaut\'s heavenly ray ? 
 Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
 Faints into dimness with- its own delight. 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart con- 
 fess 
 The might, the majesty of Loveliness ? 
 Such was Zuleika, such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmark'd b>- 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 ! 
 
 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 ; 
 Affettion chain' d her to that heart ; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 " Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
 
 How dear this very day must telJ, 
 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 JVIoslem reck not much of blood ; 
 
 But 5'et the Mne 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 the death-firman, 
 Which others tremble but to scan. 
 And teach the messenger what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait. 
 And now thou knfuv'st thy father's will ; 
 
 .\U that thy sex hath need to know : 
 'T was mine to teach obedience still — 
 
 The way to love, thy lord may show." 
 
 In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 
 
 And if her eve 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 hke arrows sped. 
 
 What could such be but maiden fears ? 
 So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
 Lo\e 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,^ 
 
 And mounting featly for the mead. 
 With Maugrabee * 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 well the Haram's massy doors. 
 
 His head was leant upon his hand, 
 His eye look'd o'er the dark blue 
 water 
 That smftly glides and gently swells 
 Between the ^vinding Dardanelles ; 
 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
 Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
 
 Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
 Careering cleave the folded felt '' 
 With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
 Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
 Xor heard their OUahs ' wild and loud — 
 He thought but of old Giafiir's 
 daughter ! 
 
 X 
 
 No word from SeHm'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 tum'd. 
 But httle from his aspect leam'd : 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same : 
 Her heart confessed a gentler flame : 
 But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak. 
 She knew not whv. forbade to speak. 
 Vet speak she must — but when essav ? 
 " How strange he thus should turn away ! 
 Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
 Not thus shall be our parting yet '" 
 Thrice paced she slowlv through the 
 room. 
 And wa'tch'd his eve— it still was fix'd : 
 She snatch'd the urn wherein wa^ mix'd 
 The Persian Atar-gul's perfume 
 .\nd sprinkled all its odours o'er " 
 Tlie pictured roof and marble floor • 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS : A TURKISH TALE 
 
 The drops, that through his ghttering 
 
 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 ! " 
 She saw in curious order set 
 
 The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
 " He lov'd them once ; may touch them 
 
 yet, 
 If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
 The childish thought was liardly 
 
 breathed 
 Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
 " This rose to calm my brother's cares 
 A message from the Bulbul 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 ]ay 
 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 Carasraan 
 
 Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
 
 If so, I swear by JVIecca's shrine, — 
 If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
 To woman's step admit her vow, — 
 Without thy free consent, command, 
 The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
 Think' St thou that I could bear to part 
 With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
 Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side. 
 Where were thy friend — and who my 
 
 guide ? 
 Years have not seen, Time shall not see. 
 The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
 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 ! " 
 
 He lived, he breathed, he moved, he felt ; 
 He raised the maid from where slie knelt ; 
 
 267 
 
 His trance was gone, his keen eve 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 tjrant 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 lite 
 
 resign ; 
 Xow thou art mine, that sacred oath. 
 Though sworn by one, hath bound us 
 
 both. 
 Ves, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
 That vow hath sa\ed more heads than 
 
 one : 
 But blench not thou — thy simplest tre^~ 
 Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 That clusters round thy foreiiead l„ir. 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 Within tiie ca\'es of Istakar.s 
 This morning clouds upon mc lower'd. 
 Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
 .\nd Giaffir almost call'd me coward ! 
 Now I have motive to be brave ; 
 The son of his neglected slave. 
 Nay, start not, 't was the term he ga\e, 
 May show, though little apt t<:) vaunt, 
 A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
 His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee. 
 Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
 But let our plighted secret vow 
 Be only known to us as now. 
 I know the wretch who dares demand 
 From Giaf&r thy reluctant hand ; 
 More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
 Holds not a Musselim's control : 
 Was he not bred in Egripo ? ^ 
 A viler race let Israel show ! 
 But let that pass — to none be told 
 Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 
 To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
 I've partisans for peril's day : 
 Think not I am what I appear ; 
 I've arms, and friends, and vengeance 
 near." 
 
 XIII 
 
 " Think not thou art what thou appear- 
 est ! 
 Mv Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
 
TALES AND POEMS 
 
 This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 
 
 But now thou'rt from thyself e:t- 
 ranged. 
 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, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : 
 
 What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
 Mv own have nearly caught the same, 
 
 At least I feel my cheek, too. blushing. 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but ne^'er waste thy wealth. 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
 And Mghten half thy poverty ; 
 Do all but close thy dying eye. 
 For that I could not live to try ; 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
 More can I do ? or thou require ? 
 But, Sehm, 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 ijj me, 
 To be what I have ever been ? 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 
 
 What other can she seek to see 
 Than thee, companion of her bower, 
 
 The partner of her infancy ? 
 These cherish'd thoughts with life begun. 
 
 Say, why must I no more avow ? 
 What change is \\Tought 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 lea\-ing thee. 
 Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
 To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
 This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
 \\'hy wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
 1 know the Pacha's haughty mood 
 To thee hath never buded good ; 
 And he so often storms at nought, 
 Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
 And why I know not, but within 
 Mv heart concealment sveigha liks sin. 
 
 If then such secrecy be crime. 
 
 And such it feels while lurkmg here ; 
 Oh, Selim ! tell me vet in time. 
 
 Nor leave me thus to thoughts of tea'-. 
 Ah ! vonder see the Tchocadar,"> 
 My father leaves the minaic war ; 
 I tremble now to meet his eye — 
 Say, Sehm, canst thou tell me why ? " 
 
 " Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
 Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet ; 
 And now with him I fain must prate 
 Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
 There's fearful news from Danube's 
 
 banks. 
 Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 
 For v.'hich 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 wani'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 Hst our words, or stint our time ; 
 .\nd if he doth, I want not steel 
 Which some have felt, and more mav 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 hke 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." 
 
 CAXTO THE SECOND 
 
 I 
 
 The winds are high on Helle's wave, 
 
 As on that night of stormv 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 shnekmg sea-birds wam'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 lo\-e 
 The only star it hail'd above ■ 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS : A TURKl'SH TALE 
 
 269 
 
 His ear but ran^ with Hero's song, 
 
 " Ye waves, divide not lovers long! " — 
 
 That tale is old, but love anew. 
 
 May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 
 
 II 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
 Rolls darkly heaving to the main : 
 And Night's descending shadows hide 
 
 That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
 The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
 The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
 AH — save immortal dreams that could be- 
 guile 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 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. 
 JBelievlng 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 mightv heap of gather'd ground 
 Which Amnion's son ran proudly round. 
 By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd. 
 
 Is now a lone and nameless barrc>w ! 
 
 Within— thy dwelling-place how nar- 
 row! 
 Without — can only strangers breathe 
 The name of him that was beneath : 
 Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
 But Thou — thy very dust is gone ! 
 
 V 
 
 Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
 The swain, and chase the boatman s 
 
 fear ; 
 Till then— no beacon on the cliff 
 May shape the course of struggling skiff ; 
 The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay. 
 All, one by one, have died away ; 
 The only lamp of this lone hour 
 Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 
 Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber. 
 
 And o'er her silken ottom.an 
 Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber. 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; 
 Near these, with emerald ray^ beset. 
 
 (How could she thus that gem forget ? 
 Her mother's sainted amulet. 
 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text. 
 Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
 And by her comboloio ^ 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 ; 
 .\\\ that can eye or sense delight 
 Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 
 But yet it hath an air of ^loom. 
 She, of this Peri cell the sprite. 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a 
 night ? 
 
 VI 
 
 Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
 
 Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
 To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
 
 As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
 With cautious steps the thicket threading. 
 
 And starting oft, as through the glade 
 
 The gust its hollow moanings made. 
 Till on the smoother pathway treading. 
 More free her timid bosom beat. 
 
 The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
 And though her terror urged retreat. 
 
 How could she quit her Selim's side ? 
 
 How teach her tender lips to chide ? 
 
 VIl 
 
 They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 
 
 By nature, but enlarged by art, 
 \\'here oft her lute she wont to tune. 
 And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
 And oft in vouthful reverie 
 She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her Prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
 But SeHm'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 ? 
 
 vin 
 Since last she visited the spot 
 Some change seem'd wrought mthm the 
 
 grot : 
 It might be onlv 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 sufih as wield 
 The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
 But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 
 And one was red— p^chance with guilt ! 
 
270 
 
 TALES AND POEIMS 
 
 All ! how without can blood be spilt ? 
 A cup too on the board was set 
 That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
 What may this mean ? she tiirn'd to see 
 Her Selim — " Oh ! can this be he ? " 
 
 His robe of pride was thrt.rt'.n aside, 
 
 His brow no high-crowrj'd turban bore, 
 But in its stead a shawl of red, 
 
 Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 
 That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
 A\'ere worthy of a diadem. 
 No longer gUtter'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 grea\es below his knee that wound 
 \^'ith sih-ery scales were sheathed and 
 
 boimd. 
 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 Gahongi-e." 
 
 " 1 said I was not n'hat I seem'd ; 
 
 And now thou see'st my words were true : 
 I have a tale thout ha=t not dream a. 
 
 If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
 JMy 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 irrst — Oh I never wed another — 
 Zuleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 
 
 " Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 
 
 God ! am I left alone on earth 
 To mourn— I dare not curse — the day 
 
 That saw my solitary birth ? 
 Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 
 
 My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
 But know me all I was before. 
 
 Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
 Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 
 
 If thou 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 Giafiir always seem'd thy foe ; 
 And I, alas ! am GiaSir'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 thrine. 
 
 And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
 So may the Koran verse displav'd 
 Upon its steel direct my blade. 
 In danger's hour to guard us both. 
 As I preserve that awful oath ! 
 j The name in which thy heart hath prided 
 
 Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know. 
 That tie is widen'd, not divldid, 
 ' Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
 My father was to Giafiir all 
 
 That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
 That brother wrought a brother's fall, 
 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 .-Vnd luU'd me with a vain deceit 
 
 That yet a like return mav 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 boihng ; but for thy dear sake 
 No present vengeance will I take ; 
 
 Though here I must no more remain. 
 But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
 How Giafiir 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^ 
 
 .\nd Paswan's 3 rebel hordes attest 
 
 How little love they bore such guest : 
 
 His death is all I need relate. 
 
 The stern effect of GiafSr's hate ; 
 
 And how my birth disclosed to me, 
 
 Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me 
 free. 
 
 " When Paswan, after vears of strife, 
 ,A.t last for power, but first for life, 
 In Widdin's walls too proudly sate. 
 Our Pachas rallied round thestate'; 
 Xor last nor least in high command. 
 Each brother led a separate band ; 
 They gave their horse-tails * to the wind, 
 
 -And mustering in Sophia's plain 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 
 
 To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
 What need of words ? the deadly bowl. 
 
 By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
 \\'ith venom subtle as his soul, 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS : A TURKISH TALE 
 
 Dismibs'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
 But little deem'd a brother's wrath 
 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 He drank one draught, ^ nor needed more ! 
 If thou ray tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
 Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 *' Within thy father's house are foes ; 
 
 Not all who break his bread are triie : 
 To these should I my birth disclose, 
 
 His days, his very hours were few : 
 They only want a heart to lead, 
 A hand to point them to the deed. 
 But Haroun only knows, or knew 
 
 This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
 He in Abdallah's palace grew. 
 
 And held that post in his Serai 
 
 Which holds he here — he saw him die : 
 But what could single slavery do ? 
 Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
 Or save his son from such a fate ? 
 He chose the last, and when elate 
 
 With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
 Proud 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, -s^. 
 
 Removed he too from Roumelie 
 To this our Asiatic side, 
 j'ar from our seats by Danube's tide. 
 
 With none but Haroun, who retains 
 Such knowledge— and that Nubian feels 
 
 .\ tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
 iTora which the captive gladly steals, 
 ■\nd this and more to me reveals : 
 Such still to guilt just Alia sends— 
 Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 
 
 XVII 
 
 " All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ;' 
 
 But harsher still my tale must be : 
 Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds. 
 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
 
 I saw thee start this garb to see, 
 Yet is it one I oft have worn. 
 
 And long must wear ; this GaliongSe, 
 To whom thy plighted vow is sworn. 
 
 Is leader of those pirate hordes. 
 
 Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
 To hear whose desolating tale 
 Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
 Those arms thou see'st my band have 
 
 brought. 
 The hands that wield are not remote ; 
 This cup too for the rugged knaves 
 
 Is fill'd — once quaff'd, they ne'er repine : 
 Our prophet might forgive the slaves ; 
 
 They're onh' infidels in wine. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 " What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 
 
 And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
 
 And listless left — for Giathr'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 un-,viliing 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 endeai'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, 
 
 Jly thraldom for a season broke. 
 On promise to return before 
 The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
 'T is vain — my tongue can not 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, 
 .\nd 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 ! 
 
 j .XIX 
 
 j " The shallop of a trusty Moor 
 ! Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
 
272 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 I long'd to see the isles that gem 
 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 
 I sought by turns, and saw them all ; 
 
 But when and where I join'd the crew, 
 Vv']th whom I'm pledged to rise or fall. 
 
 When all that we design to do 
 Is done.'t will thenbe time more meet 
 To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 
 
 " 'T is true, they are a lawless brood, 
 But rough in fcrm, nor wild 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"^ patriots there 
 .■Anticipated freedom share ; 
 And oft around the cavern fire 
 On visionary schemes debate. 
 To snatch the Rayahs' from their fate. 
 So let them ease their hearts with prate 
 Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
 I have a love for freedom too. 
 Ay ! let me like the ocean- Patriarch roam, 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's homo ! 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
 .\re more than cities and Serais to me : 
 Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
 .\cross the desert, or before the gale, 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, 
 
 my prow ! 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer. 
 
 Thou! 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
 The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark' 
 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 
 
 awaj', 
 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 \-oice 
 
 endears. 
 For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
 
 A thousand swords, with Selim's heart 
 
 and hand. 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy 
 
 command ! 
 Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 
 The spMl of nations shall debeck my bride. 
 The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
 Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like 
 
 these : 
 Xot blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
 Unnumbered perils, — but one only love ! 
 Yet well my toils shall that fond breast 
 
 repay. 
 Though fortune frown, or falser friends be- 
 tray. 
 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, 't is mine our horde again to 
 
 guide ; 
 Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
 By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
 Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests 
 
 cease ! 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it — ^peace ! 
 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 — 
 -in-ay suspicion I — <io/ Zuleika's name ! 
 But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
 No more remains to mn, and much to fear : 
 Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing 
 
 thee, 
 By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stem 
 
 decree. 
 That dread shall vanish with the favouring 
 
 gale. 
 Which Love to-night hath promised to my 
 I sail ; 
 
 1 No danger daunts the pair his smile hath 
 
 blest, 
 I Their steps still roving, but their hearts at 
 I rest. 
 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime 
 
 hath charms ; 
 i:arth — sea alike — our world within our 
 
 arms ! 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABVDOS : A TURKISH TALE 
 
 273 
 
 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 elerneiTts 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 Giafiir's hate decline? 
 And is not Osman, who would part us, 
 
 thine ? 
 
 " 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 ^ince, though parted from my band 
 Too seldom now I leave the land. 
 No deed they've done, nor deed shall do. 
 Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 
 But now too long I've held thine ear ; 
 Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
 We leave behind but hate and fear. 
 To-morrow Osman with his train 
 Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
 And would'st thou save that haughty 
 Bey,— 
 
 Perchance his hfe who gave thee thine, — 
 With me this hour away — away ! 
 
 But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
 Would'st thou recall thy willing vow, 
 Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
 Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
 But be that peril on my head ! " 
 
 XXII 
 
 Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
 ■Stood like that statue of distress. 
 When, her last hope for ever gone. 
 The mother harden'd into stone ; 
 All in the maid that eye could see 
 Was but a younger Niobe. 
 But ere her Hp, 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 ! fiy — no more — yet now my more 
 
 than brother ! " 
 Far, wide, through every thicket spread 
 The fi^axlvi lights are gleaming red ; 
 
 Nor these alone — for each right hand 
 Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
 They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
 And last of all, his sabre waving, 
 Stem Giaffir in his fury rax'ing : 
 And now almost they touch the cave — 
 Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 
 
 is come — soon 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Dauntless he stood — " 'T 
 
 past — 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 
 
 But yet my band not far from shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few — the attempt nere rash ; 
 
 No matter — yet one effort more." 
 Forth to the cavern month 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 ? 
 No — as each crest save his may feel ! " 
 
 XXIV 
 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 
 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 
 A gasping head, a cjuivering 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, 
 Tlieir sabres ghtter through the spray ; 
 Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
 They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
 His heart's best blood is on the water. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
 Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 
 Had Sehm won, betray'd, beset. 
 To where the strand and billows met ; 
 
^74 
 
 TALES A^'D POEMS 
 
 There as his last step left the land, 
 
 And the la-t death-blow dealt his hand — 
 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 
 I'or her his eye but sought in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
 
 Hathdoom'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 ! " 
 V',"hose \'.)i' e is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
 VVho^e bullet through the night-air sang, 
 Too nearly, deadly aira'd to err ? 
 'T is thine — Abdallah's Murderer 1 
 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 choked 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 iii twain — one dark-red stain I 
 The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : I 
 
 But where is he who wore ? | 
 
 Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, I 
 
 Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
 Their burthen round Sigajum's steep 
 
 And cast on Lemnos' shore ; 
 The sea-birds shriek above the prey. 
 O'er which their hungry beaks dela\-, 
 As shaken on his restless pillow. 
 His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
 That hand, whose motion is not life, 
 "^'et feebly seems to menace strife. 
 Flung by the tossing tide on high. 
 
 Then levelTd 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 hmbs composed. 
 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone. 
 That heart hath burst — that eve was 
 closed — 
 
 Yea — closed belore his own ! 
 
 X.WII 
 
 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 destin'd lord is come too late : 
 He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 
 
 Can he not hear 
 The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear ? 
 Thy handmaids weeping at the gate. 
 The Koran- chanters of the hymn of fate, 
 The silent slaves with folded arms that 
 wait. 
 Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
 
 Tell him thy tale ! 
 Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
 
 That fearful moment when he left the 
 cave 
 
 Thy heart grew cliill : 
 He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — 
 
 thine all. 
 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 ! 
 .\h ! 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 vet loathes 
 
 the hght, 
 That winds around, and tears the quivering 
 
 heart ! 
 \hl wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
 Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
 A'ainly thou heap'st the dust upon thv 
 
 head, 
 \'ainly the sackcloth o'er thv hmbs dost 
 
 spread : 
 By that same hand Abdallah — Selim 
 bled. 
 Now let it tear thv beard in idle grief : 
 Thy pride of heart, thv bride for Osman's 
 
 bed. 
 She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
 Thy Daughter's dead ! 
 Hope of thine age, thv twilight's lonely 
 
 beam. 
 The Star hath set that shone on Helle's 
 stream. 
 What quench'd its ra\ ?— the blnod that 
 thou hast shed ! 
 
THE CORSAIR: A TALE 
 
 275 
 
 Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair : 
 " Where is my child ? " — an Echo an- 
 swers — " 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 
 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 moru-nful,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 haish be they that blame,) 
 That note so piercing and profound 
 Will shape and syllable its sound 
 
 Into Zuleika's name. 
 'Tis from her cypress summit heard, 
 That melts in air the Uquid word : 
 'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
 That white rose takes its tender birth. 
 There late was laid a marble stone ; 
 Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone ! 
 It was no mortal arm that bore 
 That deep fixed 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 hoher grave : 
 And there by night, reclin'd, 't is said, 
 Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 
 'T is named the " Pirate-phantom's pU- 
 low!" 
 
 Where first it lay that mourning flower 
 
 Hath flourish'd ; ilourisheth this hour. 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
 As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow s tale ! 
 
 THE CORSAIR 
 
 A TALE 
 
 " I suoi pensieri 
 
 Tasso. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST 
 
 - nessun maggior dolore, 
 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 
 Nella miseria, "—Dante. 
 
 I 
 " O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea. 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls 
 
 as free, 
 Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
 Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
 These are our realms, no Umits to their 
 
 sway — 
 Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 Oiurs the wild Ufe in tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
 
 lui dormir non ponno." 
 Gerusalemme Libnata, canto X, 
 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 ' 
 Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure can- 
 not 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. 
 
2 76 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 And turn what some deem danger to de- 
 light ; 
 That seeks what cra'.ens shun with more 
 
 than zeal. 
 And where the feebler faint can only feel — 
 Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
 Its hope awal<en and its spirit soar ? 
 No dread of death if with us die our foes — 
 Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
 Come when it will — 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 dav. 
 When those who win at length divide the 
 
 prey. 
 And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er 
 
 each brow. 
 How had the brave who fell e,\ulted jioa' .' " 
 
 II 
 
 Such were the notes that from the Pirate's 
 
 isle 
 Around the kindhng watch-fire rang the 
 
 while : 
 Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks 
 
 along, 
 _ And unto ears as rugged seem'd a sone ! 
 '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 stragghng 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 sup-' 
 
 plies. 
 With all the thirsting eve of Enterprise ; 
 Tell o'er the tales of manv a night of toil,' 
 .■\nd marvel where thev next ^Iiall seize a 
 
 spoil ; 
 
 Xo matter where — their chief's allotment 
 
 this ; 
 Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
 But who that Chief ? his name on every 
 
 shore 
 Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no 
 
 more. 
 With these he mingles not but to command : 
 ^ Few are his words, but keen his eye and 
 I hand. 
 
 • Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial 
 I , mess, 
 
 I iBut they forgive his silence for success. 
 Ke'er for his U_p 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 home- 
 liest roots, 
 .And scarce the summer luxury of fruits. 
 His short repast in humbleness supply 
 V/ith all a hermit's board would scarce 
 
 deny. 
 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
 His mind seems nourish'd by that abstin- 
 -^ ence. 
 J," Steer to that shore ! " — they sail. " Do -. 
 »" this ! " — 't is done : <- 
 
 " Now form and foUow me ! " — the spoil is t 
 won. " ^ 
 
 Thus prompt his accents and his actions 
 
 still. 
 And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
 To such, brief answer and contemptuous 
 i eye 
 
 I Convej- reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 i 
 
 -a promised prize to 
 
 ' A sail ! — a sail ! 
 
 Hope ! 
 
 Her nation — Sag — iiow speaks the tele- 
 scope ? 
 Xo prize, alas ! but yet a welcome sail : 
 The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. > 
 Ves — 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 fl^-ing— never from her 
 
 foes — 
 She waUis the waters like a thin" of life 
 And s?ems to dare the elements to strife ' 
 \\ ho would not brave the battle-fu'e the 
 
 wreck. 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 
 
 Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
 The sails are fwl'd ; and anchoring round 
 
 she smnss : 
 
THE CORSAIR: A TALE 
 
 And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
 Her boat descending from the latticed stern, 
 'Tismann'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 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 not of success — 
 But shall we see them ? 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 sur- 
 prise, 
 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 com- 
 ing — 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 ™ld flowers blossom- 
 ing, 
 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 yon- 
 der cave. 
 What lonely straggler looks along the wa\e ? 
 In pensive posture leaning on the brand. 
 Not oft a resting-staii to that red hand ? 
 " 'T is he — 't is Conrad — here, as wont, 
 
 alone ; 
 On— Juan ! — on — and make our purpose 
 known, 
 
 ^77 
 
 The bark he views — and tell him wc would 
 
 greet 
 His ear with tiding? he must quicklv meft : 
 We dare not yet approach — thou know'st 
 
 his mood. 
 When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 
 
 Him Juan sought and told of their intent ; — 
 He spake not, but a sign expressed assent. 
 These Juan calls — they come — to their 
 
 salute 
 He bends him slightly, but his lips ar; mute. 
 " These letters. Chief, are from the Greek 
 
 — the spy, 
 Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
 Whate'er his tidings, we can well report. 
 Much that " — " Peace, peace ! " — he cuts 
 
 their prating short. 
 Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each 
 
 to each 
 Conjecture whispers in his muttering 
 
 speech : 
 They watch his glance with many a steal- 
 ing look, 
 To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
 But, this as if he guessed, with head aside. 
 Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or 
 
 pride, 
 He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, 
 
 hark — 
 Where is Gonsalvo ? " 
 
 " In the anchor'd bark." 
 "There let him stay — to him this order 
 
 bear — 
 Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
 Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
 
 " To-night, Lord Conrad ? " 
 
 " Ay ! at set of sun : 
 
 The breeze iviU 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-ljck 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 hoiu- of stay 's expired." 
 
 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 de- 
 cides ? 
 That man of loneliness and mystery. 
 
278 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heaia to 
 
 sigh ; 
 Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
 And tints each swarthy cheek with salljwor 
 
 hue ; 
 Still sways their souls with that command- 
 ing 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 ! 
 *Tis Nature's doom — but let the wTetch 
 
 who toils. 
 Accuse not, hate not him who wears the 
 
 spoils. 
 Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid 
 
 chains. 
 How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 
 
 IX 
 
 Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
 Demons in act, but Gods at least in face. 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 
 Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance 
 
 of fire : 
 Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
 No giant frame sets forth his common 
 
 height ; 
 Yet, in the whole, who paused to look 
 
 again. 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar 
 
 men ; 
 They gaze and marvel how — and still con- 
 fess 
 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 \'arying 
 
 hue 
 At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 
 Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
 Such might it be — that none could truly 
 
 teU— 
 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 chief's 
 
 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 fare- 
 well ! 
 
 Slight are the outward signs of evil 
 
 thought, 
 Within — within — 't was there the spirit 
 
 wrought ! 
 Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, 
 
 Guile, 
 Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
 The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness 
 
 thrown 
 Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
 Of deeper passions ; and to judge their 
 
 mien. 
 He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
 Then — with the hurried tread, the upward 
 
 eye. 
 The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
 That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
 Approach intrusive on that mood of fear; 
 Then — with each feature working from tne 
 
 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 trem- 
 
 blest not. 
 Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his 
 
 lot! 
 Mark how that lone and blighted bosom 
 
 sears 
 The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
 Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall 
 
 see, 
 Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 
 
 XI 
 
 Yet was not Conrad thus by Xature sent 
 To lead the guilty— guilt's worse inst.'U- 
 ment — 
 
THE CORSAIR: A TALE 
 
 279 
 
 His soul was changed, before his deeds had 
 
 driven 
 Him forth to war with man and forfeit 
 
 heaven. 
 Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's 
 
 school, 
 In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
 Too firm to yield, and far too proud to 
 
 stoop, 
 Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
 He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
 And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
 Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better 
 
 men 
 Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
 Fear'd, shunn'd, belied, ere youth had lost 
 
 her force, 
 He hated man too much to feel remorse. 
 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 
 Tiie rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
 And scom'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 sur- 
 prise ; 
 But they that fear'd him dared not to de- 
 spise : 
 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 chngs. 
 And he may crush — not conquer — still it 
 
 stings ! 
 
 XII 
 
 None are all evil — quickening roimd 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 Lo\-e ! 
 
 Yes, it was love — unchangeable — un- 
 changed. 
 
 Felt but for one from whom he never 
 ranged ; 
 
 Though fairest captives daily met his eye. 
 
 He shunn'd, nor sjught, but coldly pass'd 
 them by ; 
 
 Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd 
 bower. 
 
 None ever sooth' d his most unguarded hour. 
 
 Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tender- 
 ness, 
 
 Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by dis- 
 tress. 
 Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime 
 And yet— Oh more than all !— untired bv 
 
 time ; 
 Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile 
 Lould render sullen were she near to 
 
 smile. 
 Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
 On her one murmur of his discontent • 
 \\ hich still would meet with joy, with calm- 
 ness 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 ! ^ 
 He was a villain — ay, reproaches shower 
 On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
 Which only proved, all other virtues gone. 
 Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest 
 one ! 
 
 xiii 
 He paused a moment — till his hastening 
 
 men 
 Pass'd the first winding Qo\vnward 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 foUowefs find me falter here. 
 ' I" is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
 Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
 And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune 
 
 smile. 
 We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral- 
 pile. 
 Ay, let them slumber — ^peaceful be their 
 
 dreams ! 
 Horn 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 ! 
 Y'et was I brave — mean boast where all axe 
 
 brave ! 
 Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to 
 
 save. 
 This common courage which with brutes 
 
 we share. 
 That owes its deadhest 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. 
 
TALES -AND POEMS 
 
 My lot hath long had little of my care. 
 But chafes my pride thus bafHed 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 
 
 hiU: 
 There at the portal paused — for wild and 
 
 soft • 
 
 He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
 Through the high lattice far vet sweet they 
 
 rung, 
 And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 
 
 I 
 " Deep in my soul that tender secret 
 dwells, 
 Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
 Save when to thine my heart responsive 
 swells, 
 Then trembles into silence as before. 
 
 2 
 
 " There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 Burns the slow flame, eternal, but un- 
 seen ; 
 Which not the darkness of despair can 
 damp, 
 Though vain its ray as it had never 
 been. 
 
 3 
 Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my 
 
 grave 
 Without one thought whose relics there j 
 recline : 
 The only pang my bosom dare not brave j 
 Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 
 
 " My fondest, faintest, latest accents 
 hear — 
 Grief for the dead not virtue can 
 reprove ; 
 Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear. 
 The first — last — sole reward of so much 
 love !" 
 
 He pass'd the portal, cross'd the corridor, 
 And reach'd the chamber as the strain 
 
 gave o'er : 
 " My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 
 
 " In Conrad's absence would'st thou have 
 
 it glad ? 
 Without thine ear to Hsten to my lay, 
 Still must my song my thoughts, mv soul 
 
 betray : 
 Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
 My heart unhush'd, although my lips were 
 
 mute ! 
 
 I Oh ! many a night on this lone couch 
 
 ! reclined, 
 
 , My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd 
 
 I the wind, 
 
 j And deem'd the breath that faintly fanu'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 weii 
 
 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 't was 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! 
 Would that those days were over ! wilt 
 
 thou ne'er, 
 My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to 
 
 share ? 
 Sure thou hast more than wealth, and 
 
 many a ho!ne 
 .A.5 bright as this invites us not to roam : 
 Thou kuow'st it is not peril that I fear, 
 I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
 Then not for mine, but that far dearer hfe, 
 Which flies from love and languishes for 
 
 strife — 
 How strange that heart, to me so tender 
 
 still, [will ! " 
 
 Should war with nature and its better 
 
 " Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath 
 
 long been changed ; 
 Worm-like 'twas trampled, adder-like 
 
 avenged, 
 Without one hope on earth bevoud thv 
 
 love, 
 .•\nd scarce a ghmpse of mercv from above. 
 Yet the same feeling which thou dost con- 
 demn, 
 My very love t.j thee is hate to them. 
 So closely mingling here, that disentwined 
 I cease to love thee when I love mankind • 
 \et dread not this— the proof of all the 
 
 past 
 .\ssures the future that my love will last • 
 Rut— Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart | 
 ihis hour agam— but not for long— we 
 part." 
 
THE COItSAIR : A TALE 
 
 " 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 
 
 would' st 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 bitter- 
 ness. 
 Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and 
 
 share 
 The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
 Light toil ! to cuU and drgss 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 su-occo s 
 
 damp : [along. 
 
 Then shall mv handmaids while the time 
 
 And join with me the dance, or wake the 
 
 song ; 
 Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
 Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine 
 
 ear, 
 We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
 Why, thou wert worse than he who broke 
 
 his vow 
 To that lost damsel, should'st thou leave 
 
 me now ; 
 Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee 
 
 smile, 
 When the clear skv show'd Ariadne s Isle, 
 Which I have pointed from these chffs the 
 
 while : 
 A id thus half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
 Lest Time should raise that doubt to m.ore 
 
 than dread, 
 Thus Conrad, too, will quit me fortheniain j 
 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 whv, the where — what boots it now to 
 tell ? 
 
 Since all must end in that wild word — fare- 
 Wfll! 
 
 Yet would I fain— -did time allow — dis- 
 close — 
 
 Fear not — these are no formidable fors ; 
 
 And here shall watch a more than wonted 
 guard, 
 
 For sudden siege and long defence pre- 
 pared : 
 
 Nor be thou lonely, though thy lord's away. 
 
 Our matrons and thy handmaids with theo 
 stay ; 
 
 And this thy comfort — -that, when next ^ve 
 meet, 
 
 Security shall make repose more sn'cpt. 
 
 List !— ^'tis the bugle ! " — Juan shrilly 
 blew — 
 
 " One kiss— one more — another — Oh '. 
 Adieu ! " 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his 
 embrace. 
 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden 
 face : 
 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye , 
 
 Which do\vncast 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 ! 
 
 Ittold'twas sunset, and he cursed that sun. 
 
 Again — again — that form he madly press'd. 
 
 Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
 
 And tottering to the couch his bride he bore. 
 
 One moment gazed, as if to gaze no more ; 
 
 Felt that for him earth held but her alone, 
 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Con- 
 rad gone ? 
 
 XV 
 
 " And is he gone ? " — on sudden solitude 
 How oft that fearful question v,'ill intrude I 
 " 'T was but an instant past, and here he 
 
 stood ! 
 And now " — without the portal's porch sh. 
 
 rush'd. 
 And then at length her tears in freeaom 
 
 gush'd ; 
 Big bright, and fast, unknown to her ,hC5 
 
 fell ; 
 But still her lips refused to send— Fare- 
 well ! " 
 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 lo\-mg eye 
 Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
 
 U 
 
282 
 
 TALES AND POE]\IS 
 
 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 de%v'd 
 With drops of sadaess oft to be renew'd. 
 "He's gone ! " — against her heart that 
 
 hand is driven. 
 Convulsed and quick-:r-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 turned with sickening soul within the 
 
 gate— 
 "It is no dream — and I am desolate ! 
 
 Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar 
 
 view : 
 For well had Conrad leam'd to curb the 
 
 crowd, 
 By arts that \eil, 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-bom eye. 
 That checks low mirth, but lacks not 
 
 courtesy ; 
 All these he melded to command assent : 
 But where he wished to win, so well unbent 
 That kindness cancell'd fear in those who 
 
 heard. 
 And others' gifts show'd mean beside his 
 
 ^^'o^d, 
 When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
 His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
 But suth was foreign to his wonted mood, 
 He cared not what he soften'd, but sub- 
 dued : 
 The e\-il passions of his youth had made 
 Him value less who loved— than what 
 
 obey'd. 
 
 Around him mustering ranged his readv 
 guard. 
 
 Before him Juan stands— " Are all pre- 
 pared ? " 
 
 "They are— nay more — embark'd ; the 
 
 latest boat 
 Wails but my chief " 
 
 " My sword, and my capote." 
 Soon firmly girded on. and lightly slung, 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders 
 
 flung ; 
 "Call Pedro here!" He comes— and 
 ' ^ Conrad bends, 
 
 \^'ith 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 Ansehno's 
 bark 
 ; Arrives, let him ahke these orders mark : 
 i In three days (serve the breeze) the sun 
 aloft, ! shall shine 
 
 From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped 
 Stem Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his 
 
 head ; 
 But shrunk whene'er the windings of his 
 
 wa}^ 
 Forced on his e^'e what he would not survey. 
 His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep. 
 That hailed him first when homeward from 
 
 the deep ; 
 And she — the dim and m.elancholy star. 
 Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar. 
 On her he must not gaze, he must not 
 
 think. 
 There he might rest — but on Destruction's 
 
 brink : 
 Yet once almost he stopp'd, and nearly 
 
 gave 
 His fate to chance, his projects to the 
 
 wave : 
 But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
 May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
 He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
 And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
 Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
 The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 
 The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore. 
 The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
 As marks his eye the 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 fla^ , 
 
 He marvell'd how his heart could seem ^^o . On our return — till 
 
 suit. . I thine ! " 
 
 Fjremhisglance, and wildness in his breast, I This said, his brother Pirate's hand he 
 He feels of all his former self posse^t • ' ^^Tlmg, 
 
 rea"ch '''' flies— until his footsteps Then to his boat with haughty gesture 
 
 ^■"^ beafh """"" """^^ '"^ ^''ff' begins the j Flash^JThe dipt oars, and sparkling ,rith 
 There checks his speed- but n,„„-i . A ">f ftrolve, 
 
 breathe ^ ' ""' t'""'-^* 'e^s to I Around th,. waves' phosphoric brightness 
 
 The breezy freshness of the deep beneath. The ''" ' 
 
 then all peace bo 
 
 Then there his wonted state! 
 
 ler step renew ; 
 
 stand.s.- 
 
 \essel — on the deck lie 
 
THE CORSAIR: A TALE 
 
 283 
 
 Shrieks the shrill whistle, ply the busy 
 hands — 
 
 He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
 
 How gallant all her crew, and deigns to 
 praise. 
 
 His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
 
 Why doth he start, and inly seem to 
 mourn ? 
 
 Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
 
 And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
 
 She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ; 
 
 Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
 
 But much must yet be dotie ere dawn of 
 day — 
 
 Again lie mans himself and turns away ; 
 
 Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
 
 And there unfolds his plan, his means, and 
 ends ; 
 
 Before them bums the lamp, and spreads 
 the chart, 
 
 And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
 
 They to the midnight watch protract de- 
 bate ; 
 ■ To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
 
 Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
 
 And fasl and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
 
 Pass'd the high headlands of each cluster- 
 ing isle, 
 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morn- 
 ing smile : 
 
 And soon the night-glass through the nar- 
 row bay 
 
 Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 
 Count they each sail, and mark how there 
 supine 
 
 The hghts in vain o'er heedless Moslem 
 shine. 
 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
 
 Aild anchor'd where his ambush meant to 
 lie; 
 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape. 
 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from 
 sleep — 
 
 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 ! 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 " Conosceste i dubiosi desiri ? " — Dante. 
 
 I 
 
 In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
 
 Through Coron's lattices the lamps are 
 
 bright, 
 For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to- 
 night : 
 A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
 When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers 
 
 home ; 
 This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
 And faithful to his firman and his word, 
 
 His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
 And great the gathering crews, and loud the 
 
 boast ; 
 Already shared the captives and the prize. 
 Though far the distant foe they thus de- 
 spise ; 
 'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
 Will see the Pirates bound, their haven 
 
 won ! 
 Meantime the watch, may slumber, if they 
 
 will. 
 Nor only v/ake 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 e\'ening 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. 
 
 n 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
 Around — the bearded chiefs he came to 
 
 lead. 
 Remov'dthe 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 " dissolving cloud 
 
 supply, 
 While dance the Almas » to wild min- 
 strelsy. 
 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 ; 
 .\nd yet the numbers crowded in his host 
 .Might .warrant more than even the Pacha's 
 
 boast. 
 
 With cautious reverence from the outer 
 
 gate 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to 
 
 wait. 
 
284 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Bows his bent head, his hand salutes the 
 
 floor, 
 Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
 " A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here — himself would tell the 
 
 rest." 
 He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
 And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
 His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
 His step was feeble, and his look 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 Allah 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 plundered wealth, and robber's rock, 
 to guard ? 
 
 Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
 
 To view with fire their .scorpion nest con- 
 sumed ? " 
 
 " 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 httle deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
 Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the 
 
 chance 
 That leads me here — if eyed mth 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 banquet- 
 ing : 
 The supper done — prepare thee to reply. 
 Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 
 'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious 
 
 man. 
 Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
 Nor show'd high relish for the banquet 
 
 prest. 
 And less respect for every fellow guest. 
 'Twas 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 for- 
 sook : 
 The feast was usher'd in, but sumptuous 
 
 fare 
 He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there, 
 por one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
 Methinks he strangeiy spares the rich re- 
 past. 
 
 " What ails thee, Dervise ? eat— dost thou 
 
 supfiose 
 This ieast a Christian's ? or mv friends thy 
 
 foes ? 
 Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred 
 
 pledge. 
 Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's 
 
 edge. 
 Makes ev'n contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And hated hosts seem brethren to the 
 
 sight ! " 
 
THE CORSAIR: A TALE 
 
 285 
 
 " Salt seasons dainties — and my food is 
 
 still 
 The humblest root, my drink the simplest 
 
 rill ; 
 And my stern vow and order's * laws op- 
 pose 
 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." 
 
 " Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
 
 One question answer ; then in peace de- 
 part. 
 
 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 thSf tidings — 
 thou 
 
 Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay 
 him now ! " 
 
 Up rose the Dervise with that burst of Ught, 
 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 minghng yell— 
 For swords began to clash, and shouts to 
 
 swell — , . „ 1 
 
 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 !— sfeize on 
 
 7 3.t 3.11.3.1 ' 
 
 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 ; 
 'T 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 rise to guard its 
 
 head ; 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, witii 
 
 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 — kneel- 
 ing throws 
 The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'er- 
 
 flows ! 
 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 mangUng in his lair ! 
 But short their greetmg, 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 mmaret 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 hke a deadly knell 
 Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's 
 
 yell. 
 " Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on 
 
 vour lives 
 One ' female form— remember— «b« have 
 
 wives. . 
 
 On them such outra^ie Veageance wUl re- 
 pa;/ ; 
 
286 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay : 
 
 But still we spared — must spare the weaker 
 prey. 
 
 Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live ; 
 
 Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
 
 He climbs the crackhng stair, he bursts the 
 door. 
 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the 
 floor ; 
 
 His breath choked gasping with the 
 voiumed smoke. 
 
 But still from room to room his way he 
 broke. 
 
 They search — they find — they save : with 
 lusty arms 
 
 Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
 
 Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sink- 
 ing 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 con- 
 vey, 
 
 From wreaking pile and combat's wreck, 
 away — 
 
 Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 
 
 The Haram queen — but still the slave of 
 Seyd! 
 
 Brief time aad Conrad now to greet Gul- 
 
 nare,'' 
 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 unpur- 
 
 sued. 
 First slowlier fled — then rallied — then with- 
 stood. 
 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 re- 
 
 pell'd : 
 
 " One effort — one — to break the circling 
 
 host ! " 
 They form — unite — charge — waver — all is 
 
 lost! 
 Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset. 
 Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle 
 
 yet — 
 Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
 Hemm'd in, cut off, cleft down, and 
 
 trampled o'er ; 
 But each strikes singly, silently, and home. 
 And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his 
 
 breath. 
 Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of 
 
 death ! 
 
 But first, ere came the rallying host to 
 
 blows, 
 And rank to rank, and hand to hand op- 
 pose, 
 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 hfe and fame 
 
 that flow'd : 
 And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gul- 
 nare, 
 Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in 
 
 despair. 
 Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
 That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his 
 
 eye : 
 'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore 
 
 bedew' d, 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest 
 
 mood. 
 The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 Must seem deUghted with the heart he gave ; 
 The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed 
 
 affright. 
 As if his homage were a woman's right. 
 " The wish is wTong — 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 battUng with a host 
 That deem right dearly won the field he 
 
 lost, 
 Fell'd, bleeding — baffled of the death he 
 
 sought, 
 .-\nd snatch'd to expiate all tlie ilk he 
 
 "Tought ; 
 
THE CORSAIR . A TALE 
 
 287 
 
 Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
 While Vengeance ponder'd o^er new plans 
 
 of pain, 
 And stanch' d the blood she saves to shed 
 
 again — 
 But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
 Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 
 Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
 When his red hand's wild gestiure waved, a 
 
 law ! 
 'T is he indeed — disarm'd but undeprest, 
 ' His sole regret the Ufe 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 ? 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
 Who more than all had striven and struck 
 
 for death ? 
 He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must 
 
 feel. 
 When thus reversed on faithless fortune's 
 
 wheel, 
 For crimes committed, and the victor's 
 
 threat 
 Of lingering torrures to repay the debt — 
 He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
 That led to perpetrate, now serves to hide. 
 Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
 A conqueror's more than captiv-e's air is 
 
 seen. 
 Though faint with wasting toil and stiffen- 
 ing 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 stiU forbears to 
 
 slake. 
 
 While famish'd vultures flit around the 
 
 stake. 
 " Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate 
 
 denies 
 Thi victim's prayer, for if he drinks he dies. 
 This was his doom ; — the Leech, the guard, 
 
 were gone, 
 And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 
 
 'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings 
 
 grew— 
 It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
 There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
 When all its elements convulsed, combined, 
 Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
 And gnashing with impenitent Remorse — 
 That juggling fiend, who never spake be- 
 fore. 
 But cries " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed 
 
 is o'er. 
 Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 
 r.Iay writhe, rebel — the weak alone repent I 
 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, un- 
 sought. 
 But the wild prospect when the soul re- 
 views, 
 All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
 Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret. 
 Endangered 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 quicklv on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
 Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps re- 
 member 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 imreveal'd, 
 Not cankering less because the more con- 
 ceal' 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 hath some fear, and he who least 
 
 betrays. 
 The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
 Not the' loud recreant wretch who blasts 
 
 and flies ; , ., ,. 
 
 B ut hi; who looks on death— and silent dies. 
 
:&8 
 
 TALES AND- POEMS 
 
 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 clanliing 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, 
 .\nd, whatsoe'er his visions, quickh- slept. 
 'Twas hardly midnight when that fray 
 
 begun. 
 For Conrad's plans matured, at once were 
 
 done 
 .\nd Havoc loathes so much the waste of 
 
 time. 
 She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
 One hour beheld him since the tide he 
 
 stemm'd — 
 Disguised, discover'd, conquering, ta'en, 
 
 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 ! happv if in i 
 
 death ! 
 He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber 
 
 bends ? t 
 
 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 1 
 
 hid, 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
 And once unclosed — but once ma^• close 
 
 again. 
 That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so 
 
 fair, , 
 
 And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided | 
 
 hair; I 
 
 With shape of fairy Hgh'ne^s — naked foot, 
 
 That shines like snow, and falls on earth 
 as mute — 
 
 Through guards and dunnest night how 
 came it there ? 
 
 .\h ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
 
 Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gul- 
 nare ! 
 
 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 adom'd her hand 
 before — 
 
 And with it, scarcely question' d, won her 
 way 
 
 1 hrough drowsy guards that must that sign 
 obey. 
 
 Worn out with toil, and tired with changing 
 blows, 
 
 Their ej'es had envied Conrad his repose ; 
 
 And chill and nodding at the turret door. 
 
 They stretch their Ustless limbs, and 
 watch no more ; 
 
 Just raised their heads to hail the signet- 
 ring, 
 
 Xor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 
 
 XIII 
 
 She gazed in wonder, ' ' Can he calmly sleep, 
 
 I While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
 
 And mine in restlessness are wandering 
 
 here — 
 What sudden speU hath made this man so 
 
 dear ? 
 True — 't is to him my life, and more, I owe, 
 .\nd me and mine lie spared from worse 
 
 than woe : 
 'T is late to think — but soft, his slumber 
 
 breaks — 
 How heavilv he sighs ! — he starts — 
 
 awakes ! " 
 
 He raised his liead, and dazzled with the 
 
 light, 
 Her 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, mv jailor's face shows wondrous 
 
 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 thv more 
 
 fearful band. 
 1 come through darkness — and I scarce 
 
 know why 
 Vet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
 If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 
 
THE CORSAIR : A TALE 
 
 289 
 
 That would not here in that gay hope de- 
 light : 
 
 Theirs is the chance — and let them use 
 their right. 
 
 But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 
 
 That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 
 
 Strange though it seem — yet with ex- 
 
 tremest 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 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 hfe. 
 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. 
 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 
 
 an. 
 
 Or faU'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, 
 TiU 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 crouchmg ot 
 
 despair ; 
 It is enough — I breathe, and I can bear. 
 Jly 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." 
 
 " Ladv, methought thy love was his, for 
 
 whom 
 This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb.'' 
 
 " My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No — No— 
 not my love — 
 
 Yet much this heart, that strives no more, 
 once strove 
 
 To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
 
 I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the 
 free. 
 
 I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
 ! To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 
 
 Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
 ; Of — ' Dost thou love ? ' and burn to an- 
 1 swer, ' 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, 
 I And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
 1 He takes the hand I give not, nor with- 
 I hold— 
 
 i 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 
 j rest. 
 
 I Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
 ! The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
 
 But still he goes unmourn'd, returns un- 
 sought. 
 
 And oft when present — absent from my 
 thought. 
 
 Or when reflection comes — and come it 
 must — 
 
 I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring dis- 
 gust ; 
 
 I am his slave — but, in despite of pride. 
 
2 go 
 
 TALES AND P0E:MS 
 
 'T wexe worse than bondage to become his 
 
 bride. 
 Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would 
 
 cease ! 
 Or seek another and give mine release, 
 But j-esterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
 \'es, 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, mom breaks, and I must now 
 
 away : 
 'T will cost me dear — but dread no deatli 
 
 to-day ' " 
 
 XV 
 
 She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart. 
 
 And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to de- 
 part, j 
 
 And noiseless as a lo\e]y dream is gone. 
 
 And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 
 •What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er 
 his chain ? 
 
 The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 
 
 That starts at once — bright — pure — from 
 Pity's mine. 
 
 Already polish' d by the hand ch\-iae ! 
 
 Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
 
 In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
 
 That weapon of her we^^^ness she can \vield. 
 
 To save, subdue — at once her spear and 
 shield ; 
 
 Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wi^dt-ni errs. 
 
 Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
 
 What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 
 
 The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
 
 Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; 
 
 By this — how many lose not earth — but 
 heaven ! 
 
 Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 
 
 And seal their own to spare some wanton's 
 woe ! 
 
 XVI 
 
 'Tis morn, >and o'er his alter'd features play 
 The beams — without the hope of yesterday-. 
 What shall he be ere night ? perchancea 
 
 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 1 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD 
 " Come vedi — ancor non m'abbandona." — D.\nte. 
 1 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race bo run, 
 Along Korea's liills the settmg sun ; 
 Not, as in Northern chmes, obscurely lH-ii;hit. 
 But one unclouded blaze of living light I 
 
 O'er the hush'd deep the yelio-,v beam he 
 
 throws, 
 Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it 
 
 glows. 
 On old .^gina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
 The god ofgladness sheds his parting smile; 
 O'er his own regions liagermg, loves to 
 
 shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast the mojntain shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches throug.'i the long ex- 
 panse 
 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing 
 
 glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits 
 
 driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and o^vn the hues of 
 
 heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
 When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his 
 
 last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell 
 
 ray. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's latest day ! 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonising eyes. 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful 
 
 dyes : 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to 
 
 pour, 
 The land, where Phcebus never frown'd be- 
 fore ; 
 But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head. 
 The cup r.f woe was quaff' d — the spirit fied ; 
 The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or iiy — 
 Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 
 
 But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain. 
 The queen of night asserts l^er silent reijiu. 
 No murky vapour, herald of the *torm. 
 Hides her fair face, nor gurds her glowing 
 
 form ; 
 With cornice glimmering as the moon- 
 beams play, [rav. 
 There the white column greets her grateful 
 And, bright around with qui\-enng beams 
 
 beset, 
 Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
 The gro\-es of ohve scatter'd dark and 
 
 wide 
 Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening b\- the sacred 
 
 mosque. 
 The gleaming turret of the gav kiosk, 
 And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm. 
 Near Theseus' fane von solitar\- pahn. 
 
 All tinged with varied" hues arrest the eye 
 
 And dull were liis that pass'd them heedless 
 
THE CORSAIR : A TALE 
 
 2gi 
 
 Again the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant 
 
 isle, 
 That frown — where gentler ocean seems to 
 smile. 
 
 II 
 Not now my theme — why turn my 
 
 thoughts to thee ? 
 Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
 Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale. 
 So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
 Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set. 
 Fair Athens ! could thine evening face for- 
 get ? 
 Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance 
 
 frees. 
 Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
 Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain, 
 His Corsair's isle was once thine own do- 
 main — 
 Would that with freedom it were thine 
 again ! 
 
 Ill 
 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. 
 
 TBe 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 ; x tv, * 
 
 Till grew such certainty irom tnat 
 
 suspense — 
 His very Sight had shock d from hte 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, flutter'd, 
 
 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." 
 'T is more than nature's ; like the burning 
 
 might 
 DeUrium gathers from the fever's height. 
 
 " Silent you stand — nor would I hear you 
 
 tell 
 What — speak not — breathe not — for I 
 
 know it well — 
 Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
 Xhe — quick your answer — tell me where he 
 
 hes." 
 " 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 
 
 aUve." 
 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 weep- 
 ing eyes. 
 They yield such aid as Pity's haste supphes : 
 Dash o'er her deathUke cheek the ocean dew. 
 Raise, fan, sustain — till Ufe returns anew ; 
 Awake her handmaids, with the matron's 
 
 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. 
 
292 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 In that wild council words wax'd warm and 
 strange, 
 
 With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and re- 
 venge ; 
 
 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 Cap- 
 tive'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 rechned 
 Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom 
 
 of mind ; 
 While many an anxious glance her large 
 
 dark eye 
 Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 
 But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
 " Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy 
 
 crest 
 Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the 
 
 rest ! 
 His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his 
 
 fate 
 Was 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 if this my Pacha were the lord ! 
 While baffled, weaken'dby 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 Stamboul's diadem ; 
 If for each hair of his a massy mine 
 Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 
 If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
 Of wealth were here — that gold should not 
 
 redeem ! 
 It had not now redeem'a 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 com- 
 mand." 
 
 " His capture could ! — and shall I then re- 
 sign 
 One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 
 Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? 
 
 — thine ! 
 Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude. 
 That thus repays this Giaour's relenting 
 
 mood, 
 Which thee and thine alone of all could 
 
 spare, 
 No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair. 
 My thanks and praise ahke 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 hngering there with him to 
 
 fly? 
 Thou need'st not answer — thy confession 
 
 speaks. 
 Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and 
 
 beware : 
 'T is not his life alone may claim such care ! 
 Another word and — nay^I need no more. 
 Accursed was the moment when he bore 
 Thee from the flames, which better far — 
 
 but no — 
 I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's 
 
 woe — 
 Now 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful 
 
 thing ! 
 Know'st thou that I can clip th\- wanton 
 
 wing ? 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
 Look to thyself, nor deem thv falsehood 
 
 safe ! " 
 
 He rose— and slowly, sternh- thence with- 
 drew, 
 
 Rage in his eve and threats in his adieu • 
 
 Ah ! httle reck'd that chief of womanhood 
 
 Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces 
 subdued ; 
 
 And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gul- 
 nare ! 
 
 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 compas- 
 sion grew — 
 
THE CORSAIR: A TALE 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Meanwhile long, anxious, weary, still the 
 
 same 
 Roll'd day and night : his soul could terror 
 
 tame — 
 This fearful interval of doubt and dread. 
 When every hour might doom him worse 
 
 than dead, 
 When every step that echo'd by the gate. 
 Might entering lead where axe and stake 
 
 await ; 
 When every voice that grated on his ear 
 Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
 Could terror tame — that spirit stern and 
 
 high 
 Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
 'T 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 — 
 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 He, 
 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 leavs't 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 
 
 iU? 
 Since not to sink beneath, is something 
 
 still I 
 
 293 
 
 -he saw not her — 
 
 The first day pass'd- 
 
 G ulnar e — 
 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 mingline 
 
 might. " ° 
 
 Oh ! how he li-ten'd to the rushing deep, 
 i hat 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 rais'd 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 ! 
 
 The midnight pass'd, and to the massy 
 
 door 
 A light step came — it paused — it moved 
 
 once more ; 
 Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
 'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
 Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint. 
 And beauteous still as hermit's hope can 
 
 paint ; 
 Yet changed since last within that cell she 
 
 came, 
 More pale her cheek, more tremulous her 
 
 frame : 
 On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
 Which spoke before her accents — " Thou 
 
 must die ! 
 Yes, thou must die — there is but one re- 
 source. 
 The last — the worst — if torture were not 
 
 worse." 
 
''94 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 " Lady ! 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 ! did'st 
 
 thou not 
 Redeem my life from worse than sla\'erv's 
 
 lot ? 
 Why should I seek ? — hath misery made 
 
 thee blind 
 To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
 And must I say ? — albeit my heart rebel 
 With all that woman feels, but should not 
 
 tell— 
 Because, despite thy crimes, that heart is 
 
 moved : 
 It fear'd thee, thank'd thee, pitied, mad- 
 
 den'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 ! 
 What hath such gentle dame to do with 
 
 home ? [head 
 
 But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my 
 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 slumber- 
 ing head ! 
 
 Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
 
 Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 
 
 " IVIisdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the 
 
 guard, 
 Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
 .\ 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 e\il, for thy sake the crime : 
 The crime — 'tis none to punish those of 
 
 Seyd. 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
 I see thee shudder, but my soul is 
 
 changed — 
 Wrong'd, spum'd, reviled, and it shall he 
 
 avenged — 
 
 Accused of what till now my heart dis' 
 
 dain'd — 
 Too faithful, though to bitter bondage 
 
 chain'd. 
 Ves, 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 
 Xew torments for thy Ufe, and my despair. 
 Mme too he threatens ; but his dotage still 
 Would fain reserve me for his lordh- will ; 
 When wearier of these fleeting charms and 
 
 me, 
 There yawns the sack, and yonder rolls the 
 
 sea I 
 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. 
 Xow I am all thine own, for all prepared : 
 Thou lov'st me not, nor know'st — or but 
 
 the worst. 
 Alas ! this love — that hatred — are the first — 
 Oh ! could'st thou prove my truth, thou 
 
 would'st not start. 
 Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern 
 
 heart ; 
 '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 ! " 
 
 '' Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
 My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
 Seyd is mine enemy ; had swept my bind 
 From earth with ruthless but with open 
 
 hand, 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
 To smite the spiiter with the scimitar ; 
 Such is my weapon — not the secret knife ; 
 Who spares a woman's seek? not slumber's 
 
 life. 
 
THE CORSAIR : A TALE 
 
 Thine saved I gladly, Lady — not for thi= : 
 Let me not deem that mercy shown ami s. 
 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. 
 I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
 If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
 My life, my love, my hatred — all bcl-nv 
 Are on this cast — Corsair ! 't is but a blow ! 
 Without it flight were idle — how e\-ade 
 His sure pursuit ? — my wrongs too un- 
 
 repaid, 
 My youth disgraced, the long, long wasted 
 
 years. 
 One blow shall cancel with our future 
 
 fears ; 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than 
 
 brand, 
 I'll try the firmness of a female hand. 
 The guards are gain'd — one moment all 
 
 were o*er — 
 Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 
 If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
 Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my 
 
 shroud." 
 
 IX 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply. 
 But his glance followed 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 pre- 
 clude, 
 He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
 'T was dark and winding, and he knew not 
 
 where 
 That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard was 
 
 there : 
 He sees a dusky ghmmering — 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 reached an open gallery — on his eye 
 Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing 
 
 skj' ; 
 Yet scarcely heeded these — another hght 
 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 out^vard past, 
 Then paused, and turn'd — and paused — 
 
 'tis She at last ! 
 No poignard in that hand, nor sign of ill — 
 " Thanks to that softening heart — she 
 
 could not kill 1 " 
 
 295 
 
 Again he look'd, the wildness of her eve 
 
 Starts^from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
 
 She stopp'd — threw back her dark far- 
 floating hair. 
 
 That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair. 
 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 
 They meet — upon her brow — unknown, 
 forgot — 
 
 Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a 
 spot — 
 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce with- 
 stood — 
 
 Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 
 'tis blood ! 
 
 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, capti\ity, 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 ! 
 
 " 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is 
 
 done. 
 Corsair ! he perish' d — thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain — away — 
 
 away ! 
 Our bark is tossing — 'tis akeady day, 
 The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
 And these thy yet surviving band shall 
 
 juin : 
 Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. 
 When once .our sail forsakes this hated 
 
 strand." 
 
 XII 
 
 She clapp'd her hands, and through the 
 
 gallery pour, 
 Equipp'd for flight, her vassals— Greek 
 
 and Moor ; 
 Silent but quick they stoop, his chains 
 
 unbind ; 
 Once more his limbs are free as mountain 
 
 wind ! , J t 
 
 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 hes behind— thev speed, they reach 
 The glad waves dancing on the yeho\i 
 I beach ; 
 
296 
 
 TALES AND POEH/IS 
 
 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. 
 
 xm 
 Embark'd, the sail unfurl' d, the light breeze 
 
 blew — 
 How much had Conrad's memory to re- 
 view ! 
 Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape 
 Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant 
 
 shape. 
 Ah ! since that fatal night, though brief the 
 
 time. 
 Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
 As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
 He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
 He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band. 
 His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
 He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
 He tum'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 
 
 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 may'st forgive though Allah's self 
 
 detest ; 
 But for that deed of darkness what wert 
 
 thou? 
 Reproach me but not yet — Oh ! spare me 
 
 now ! 
 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." 
 
 She wrongs his thoughts, they more himse! i 
 
 upbraid 
 Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he 
 
 made ; 
 But speechless all, deep, dark, and unex- 
 
 prest, 
 They bleed within that silent cell — his 
 
 breast. 
 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 canvi^ss woos the wind from 
 
 high ; 
 
 She bears her Aovm 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 era- 
 brace. 
 He, half forgetting danger and defeat. 
 Returns their greeting as a chief may greet. 
 Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's 
 
 hand, 
 -And feels heyet can conquer and command I 
 
 .XVI 
 
 These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'er- 
 
 flow. 
 Yet grieve to vda him back without a biov.- ; 
 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 won their 
 
 way. 
 With many an asking smile, and wondering 
 
 stare. 
 The}' whisper round, and gaze upon Gul- 
 nare ; 
 And her, at once above — ^beneath her 
 
 sex, 
 \Vhn;n blood appall'd not, their regards 
 
 perplex. 
 To Conrad turns her faint imploring eve. 
 She drops her veil, and stands in silence b v ; 
 Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
 Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the 
 
 rest. 
 Though worse than frenzf could that 
 
 bosom fill 
 Extreme in love or hate, ih good or ill, 
 The worst of crimes had left her woman 
 
 still ! 
 
 XVII 
 
 This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could 
 
 he less ? — 
 Hate of that deed, but grief for her distress ; 
 What she has done no tears can wash awav, 
 And Heaven must punish on its angrv day : 
 But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her 
 
 guilt. 
 
THE CORSAIR: A TALE 
 
 207 
 
 For him that poniard smote, that blood was 
 
 spilt ; 
 And he was free ! and she for him had given 
 Her all on earth, and more than all in 
 
 heaven ! 
 And now he tum'd him to that dark-eyed 
 
 slave 
 Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance 
 
 he gave, 
 Who now seem'd changed and humbled, 
 
 faint and meek. 
 But varying oft the 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 ! 
 
 xvni 
 They gain by twilight's hour their lonely 
 
 isle. 
 To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
 The haven hums with many a cheering 
 
 sound. 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations 
 
 round. 
 The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through 
 
 the spray ; 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant 
 
 shriek, 
 Greets like the welcome of his tuneless 
 
 "beak ! 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice 
 
 gleams, 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim 
 
 the beams. 
 Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
 Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's 
 
 troubled foam ? 
 
 s.p.w. 
 
 The hghts 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, hers alone is dark. 
 'Tis 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 hke 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 famihar 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 knock'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 crjrridor. 
 Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
 His steps the chamber gain — his eyes be- 
 hold 
 All that his heart believed not — yet fore- 
 told ! 
 
 He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not— 
 
 flx'd his look. 
 And set the anxious frame that lately 
 
 shook : 
 He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
 And know, but dare not own, we gaze m 
 
 vain! . 
 
 In life itself she was so still and fair. _ 
 That death with gentler aspect wither d 
 
 there ; 
 And the cold flowers her colder hand con- 
 
 tain'd, 
 
 X 
 
TALES AND POEMS 
 
 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 forebore to 
 
 smile, 
 And \vish*d repose, — but only for a while ; 
 But the white shroud, and each extended 
 
 tress. 
 Long, fair — but spread in utter lifelessness. 
 Which, late the sport of every summer 
 
 wind, 
 Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to 
 
 bind ; 
 These — and the pale pure cheek, became 
 
 the bier — 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 XXI 
 
 He ask'd no question — all were answer' d 
 
 now 
 By the first glance on that still, marble 
 
 brow. 
 It was enough — she died — what reck'd it 
 
 how ? 
 The loye of youth, the hope of better vcars. 
 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 : 
 Tiie 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 ? 
 Full many a stoic eye and aspect stv rn 
 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 fmrnd in 
 
 none; 
 
 No words suffice tiie secret soul to show, 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to AVoe. 
 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 fjow'd — he dried them to 
 
 depart. 
 In helpless — hopeless — brokeimess of 
 
 heart : 
 The Sim 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 — v/arp'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 fiov.er 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 
 
 'T 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, 
 
LARA 
 
 299 
 
 And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
 ilount, grotto, cavern, valley searcli'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 conies not, came not since that 
 
 day : 
 Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
 
 Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
 Long mourn'd his band whom none could 
 
 mourn beside ; 
 And fair the monument they gave his 
 
 bride : 
 For him they raise not the recording stone — 
 His death yet dubious, deeds too widely 
 
 known ; 
 fie left a Corsair's name to other times, 
 Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand 
 
 crimes. 
 
 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 wmdow, 
 
 plays 
 The unwonted faggot's hospitable blaze ; 
 And gay retainers gather round the hearth. 
 With tongues all loudness, and with eyes 
 
 all mirth. 
 
 II 
 The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
 And why had Lara cross'd the boundmg 
 
 main ? , , ^ 
 
 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 m 
 
 time 
 The thousand paths that slope the way to 
 . crime ; , , 
 
 Then, when he most required command- 
 ment, 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 
 
 But [ong enough to leave him half undone. 
 
 Ill 
 And Lara left in youth his father- land ; 
 But from the hour he waved his parting 
 
 Each Skce wax'd fainter of his course, till 
 
 all 
 Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
 Sfs srre 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 im- 
 patient heir, 
 And sighs for sables which he must not 
 
 wear. 
 A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy 
 
 grace 
 The Laras' 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 greet- 
 ing's o'er. 
 Not that he came,but came not long before : 
 No train is his beyond a single page, 
 Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
 Years had roU'd on, and fast they speed 
 
 away 
 To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
 But lack of tidings from another clime 
 Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
 They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
 The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
 
 He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's 
 
 Though^sear'd by toil, and something 
 
 touch'd by time ; 
 His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce for- 
 
 Mighf be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
 Nor good nor ill of late were known, his 
 
 MieM^v^t uphold his patrimonial fame : 
 Hifsoul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
 No more than pleasure from the striphng 
 
 Andtuch', if not yet harden'd in their 
 
 Migh't°be"redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 
 
300 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 And they indeed were changed— 't is 
 
 quickly seen, 
 Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had 
 
 been: 
 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 latelv they had been alive ; 
 And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
 At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 
 
 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 — un- 
 known : 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Bom of high lineage, link'd in high com- 
 mand. 
 
 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 renewed ; 
 
 Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain. 
 
 Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's 
 
 pain : . , , 
 
 Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
 Repell'd approach, and show'd him still 
 
 alone ; 
 Upon his eye 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 conf ess'd 
 They deem'd him better than his air ex- 
 
 press'd. 
 
 vni 
 '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 ex- 
 treme. 
 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. 
 
 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 awav : 
 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 
 
 fro^^Ti'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. 
 \Vhy 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 ? 
 Wliy slept he not when others we're at rest ? 
 Why heard no music, and received no 
 
 guost ? 
 
LARA 
 
 301 
 
 All was aot well, they deem'd — but where 
 the wrong ? 
 
 Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale 
 too long ; 
 
 And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
 
 To more than hint their knowledge in sur- 
 mise ; 
 
 But if they would — they could " — around 
 the board 
 
 Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 
 
 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 lo\e. 
 These deck the shore ; the waves their 
 
 channel make 
 In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 
 AH was so still, so soft in earth and air. 
 You scarce would start to meet a spirit 
 
 there ; 
 Secure that "nought of evil could delight 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 
 It was a moment only for the good : 
 So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood. 
 But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 
 Such scene his soul no more could contem- 
 plate : 
 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 
 
 Where hiEtory 5 penits praise or blame sup- 
 
 plie?, 
 •\ndlies like tnith, and still most tnilv lies. 
 
 He wandering mused, and as the moon- 
 beam 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. 
 
 XTII 
 
 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 
 
302 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 In terms that seem not of his native 
 tongue ; 
 
 Distinct but strange, enough they under- 
 stand 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 sucli 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 genth' 
 
 seem 
 To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
 If dream it were, that thus could o^'er- 
 
 throw 
 A breast that needed not ideal woe. 
 
 "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 'djuorning 
 
 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 fiU'd the passing hours. 
 Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead 
 
 lowers, 
 Than these were wont ; and if the coining 
 
 night 
 Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight. 
 He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
 Whose shuddering pro\'ed 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 Ih^y behold or hear their thought 
 
 appals, 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark grev walls . 
 
 Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unrav- 
 
 ell'd gloom 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
 His vassals more amazed nor less afraid. 
 Had memory \'anish'd then with sense re- 
 stored ? 
 Since «cird, 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 ? his the oppress'd. o'er- 
 
 labour'd heart 
 That ceased to beat, the look that made 
 
 them start ? 
 Could he who thus had sufEer'd so forget, 
 When such as saw that suffering shudder 
 
 yet ? 
 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 uu- 
 "fold. 
 
 XVII 
 
 In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and 
 
 fear'd ; 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 
 In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' 
 
 prate — 
 They guess'd, they gazed, they fain would 
 
 know his fate. 
 What had he been ? what was he, thus 
 
 unknown. 
 Who walk'd their world, his lineage onlv 
 
 known ? 
 A hater of his kind ? yet some would say. 
 With them he could seem gav 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 pa^s'd 
 
 not by, 
 None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
 Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
 -\t times, a heart as not by nature hard. 
 But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to 
 
 chide 
 Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
 
LARA 
 
 303 
 
 And stecl'd itself, as scorning t(i redeem 
 One doubt from others' half withheld 
 
 esteem ; 
 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
 Which tenderness might once have wrung 
 
 from rest ; 
 In vigilance of grief that would compel 
 The soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 There was in him a vital scorn of all ; 
 
 As if the worst had fall'n which could 
 
 befall, 
 He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
 An erring spirit from another 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 halt 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 foUow'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 baside ; 
 And this same impulse would, in tempting 
 
 time. 
 Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
 So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk be- 
 neath, , 
 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 mth guilt had 
 
 glow'd. 
 But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 
 'Tis true, with other men their path he 
 
 walk'd, 
 And Hke the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 
 Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor 
 
 start. 
 His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 
 And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
 His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 
 
 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 anotlier'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 \'ain, 
 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, orin 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 ; .„ , ^ ..u 
 
 His presence haunted still ; and from the 
 
 breast 
 He forced an all unwiUing interest ; 
 Vain was the struggle in that mentalnet ; 
 His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 
 
 XX 
 
 There is a festival, where knights and 
 
 dames. 
 And aught that wealth or lofty hneage 
 claims, . 
 
 j^ppear— a high-born 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 ' . u ■ <. 
 
 Links grace and harmony in happiest 
 
 Blest'^aretlie early hearts and gentle hands 
 That mingle there in well according bands ; 
 It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
 
304 
 
 TALE:. AjSD fCH.MS 
 
 And make Age smile, and dream itself to 
 
 youth, 
 And Youth forget such hour was past 
 
 on earth. 
 So springs the exulting besom to that mirth ! 
 
 And Lara gazed on these, sedatelj' glad, 
 His brow belied him if his scul was sad; 
 And his glance followed 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. 
 
 " 'Tis he ! " the stranger cried, and those 
 
 that heard 
 Re-echoed fast and far the whi^per'd word. 
 " 'Tis he I " — " 'Tis who ? " they question 
 
 far and near. 
 Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
 So widely spread, few bosoms well could 
 
 brook 
 The general marvel, or that single look : 
 But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the sur- 
 prise 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
 Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor 
 
 raised 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the 
 
 stranger gazed ; 
 And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, mth haughty 
 
 sneer, 
 " 'Tis he ! — how came he thence ? — what 
 
 doth he here ? " 
 
 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. 
 'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or 
 
 Qsk? 
 
 I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
 " Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — 
 
 is there none 
 Thy heart must answer, though thine ear 
 would shun ? 
 I And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze 
 
 again ! 
 At least thy memory was not given in \-ain. 
 ' Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
 i Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
 i \\'ith slow and searching glance upon his 
 I face 
 
 j Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could 
 
 trace 
 They knew, or chose to know — with dubi- 
 ous look 
 He deign'd no answer, but his head he 
 
 shook, 
 And half contemptuous turn'd to pass 
 
 awaj' ; 
 But the stern stranger motiou'd him to 
 
 stay. 
 " A word ! — I charge thee stay, and an- 
 swer 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 dispro\'e the word — 
 But as thou wast and art, on thee looks 
 
 down. 
 Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy 
 frown. 
 
 Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 
 
 " Whate'er I be, 
 Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
 I list no further ; those with whom they 
 
 weigh 
 May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
 The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can 
 
 tell. 
 Which thus begins so courteously and well. " 
 Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
 To him mv thanks and thoughts shall be 
 
 express'd." 
 And here their wondering host hath inter- 
 posed — 
 " Whate'er there be between vou undis- 
 closed. 
 This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
 The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
 If thou, Sir Ezzehn, hast aught to show 
 Which it befits Comit Lara's ear to know. 
 To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as mav 
 
 best 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the 
 
 rest ; 
 I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
 f hough, hke Count Lara, now return' d 
 
 alone 
 From other lands, almost a stranger gro-mi; 
 And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
 I augur right of courage and of worth, 
 He will not that untainted line beUe, 
 
LARA 
 
 3«5 
 
 Noi' aught that knighthood may accord, 
 deny." 
 
 "To-morrow be it," Ezzehn replied, 
 
 " And here oiir several worth and truth be 
 
 tried ; 
 I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
 My words, so may I mingle with the blest ! " 
 What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
 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 
 
 -ay, to-morrow ! " 
 
 fur- 
 
 " To-morrow !- 
 
 ther 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 strugglmg 
 
 pride 
 That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
 But that of one in his own heart secure 
 Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
 Could this mean peace ? the cahnness 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 dis- 
 cern 
 Truths which it wrings the unpractised 
 
 heart to learn. 
 
 XXV 
 
 And Lara call'd his page, and went his 
 
 way — ,. , ■ u 
 
 Well could that stnphng word or sign obey : 
 His only follower from those climes atar, 
 Where the soul glows beneath a brighter 
 
 star ; , , ^ 
 
 For Lara left the shore from whence he 
 
 sprung, J , ^ „ ■ 
 
 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 com- 
 mand ; 
 
 But fleet his step, and clear his tones would 
 come. 
 
 When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of 
 home : 
 
 Those accents, as his native mountains 
 dear, 
 
 Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
 
 Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice 
 recall, 
 
 Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his 
 all: 
 
 For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
 
 What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 
 
 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 dehghted 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 m ithdrawn, 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 hve apart 
 From all that lures the eye, and fills the 
 
 heart ; , , ^ , c 
 
 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 , . a J , 
 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
 
 In mute attention ; and his care, which 
 guess' d 
 
3o6 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Each wish, lulfiU'd it ere the tongue ex- 
 press' 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. 
 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 dis- 
 dain. 
 But that well-worn reserve which proved 
 
 he knew 
 No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
 His soul, whate'er his station or his stem. 
 Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
 Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
 So femininely white it might bespeak 
 Another sex, when match'd with that 
 
 smooth cheek, 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 
 More mid and high than woman's eye be- 
 trays ; 
 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 his mountain-shore ; 
 For sometimes he would hear, however 
 
 nigh. 
 That name repeated loud without reply, 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 
 Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that 
 
 spake. 
 For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all 
 awake. 
 
 X.XVIII 
 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mai'k'd of 
 
 aU: 
 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 yoimg 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 icintss 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 \\-?.z enow 
 To seal his lip, but agonise his bri 'W. 
 He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
 That sidelong smile upon the knight he 
 
 past ; 
 When KaJed 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, 
 AU had so mix'd their feelings with that 
 
 scene. 
 That when his long dark shadow through 
 
 the porch 
 No more reheves 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, jei 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- appro\-ing guest ; 
 Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
 ^^'he^e joy subsides, and sorrow si£;hs to 
 
 sleep, 
 And man, o'erlabour'd mth his beine's 
 
 strife, 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgetfuhiess of life : 
 There he lo\'e'3 feverish hope, and cun- 
 ning's guile. 
 Hate's working brain, and luU'd ambition's 
 
 wile ; 
 O'er each \'ain eye obHvion's pinions wave, 
 .And quench'd existence crouches in a 
 
 grave. 
 What better name mav slumber's bed be- 
 come ? 
 Night's sepulchre, the universal home. 
 Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue 
 sunk supine, " ' 
 
 .-Vlike in naked helplessness recUne ■ 
 Glad for a while to heave unconscious 
 
 breath. 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death 
 And shun, though dav but dawn on ills 
 
 increased, 
 That sleep, the loN-eliest, since it drearaj 
 the least. 
 
LARA 
 
 307 
 
 CA.VTO THE SECOND 
 
 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 A-alley, 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 moiTow comes when they are not for 
 
 thee : 
 And grieve what may above thy senseless 
 
 bier, 
 Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
 Nor cloud shall gather more, ilor leaf shall 
 
 faU, 
 Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, I 
 
 for all ; 1 
 
 But creeping things shall revel in their spoil. 
 And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. 
 
 'T is morn — 't is noon — assembled in the 
 hall, 
 
 The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
 
 'T is now the promised hour, that must pro- 
 claim 
 
 The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
 
 When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
 
 And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
 
 His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise 
 given. 
 
 To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
 
 Why comes he not ? Such truths to be 
 divulged, 
 
 Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 
 
 Ill 
 The hour is past, and Lara too is there. 
 With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
 Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
 And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's 
 
 o'ercast. 
 " 1 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 hstening ear 
 To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue 
 Whose words ateady 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 knev/ 
 111 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 alternatue 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 circUng chieftains roimd 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, 
 \'am Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly 
 
 wound. 
 Stretch' d by a dextrous sleight along the 
 
 ground. 
 " Demand thy Ufe ! " He answer'd not : 
 
 and then 
 From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 
 For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
 Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
 And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
 Than when his foe's was leveU'd at his 
 
 brow ; 
 Then all was stern collectedness and art. 
 Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his 
 
 heart ; 
 So little sparing to the foe he feU'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 ; 
 
308 
 
 TALES AXD POEMS 
 
 But to a moment's thought that piurpose 
 
 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. 
 Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and 
 
 went. 
 To leave no other trace of his intent. 
 He left the dome of Otho long ere morn. 
 In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
 He could not miss it : near his dweUing lay ; 
 But there he was not, and with coming day 
 Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought. 
 Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
 A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
 His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires 
 
 distress'd : 
 Their search extends along, around the path , 
 In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' 
 
 ttTath : 
 But none are there, and not a break hath 
 
 borne 
 Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
 Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
 Which still retains a mark where murder 
 
 was ; 
 Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
 The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
 When 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, •v\hispering Lara's 
 
 name, [fame ; 
 
 Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd 
 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 Otlm's wounds are 
 heal'd, 
 
 But not his pride ; and hate no more con- 
 ceal' d ; 
 
 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 
 
 The friend of all who sought to work him 
 woe. 
 
 And from his country's justice now de- 
 mands 
 
 Account of Ezzehn at Lara's hands. 
 
 Who else than Lara could have cause to 
 fear 
 
 His presence ? who had made him disap- 
 pear, 
 
 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 : 
 
 Where had his arm unwarhke caught that 
 art ? 
 
 Where had that fierceness grown upon his 
 heart ? 
 
 For it was not the bhnd capricious rage 
 
 -\ word can kindle and a word assuago ; 
 
 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. 
 
 And he must answer for the absent head 
 
 Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 
 
 vin 
 Within that land was many a malcontent, 
 Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
 That soil full many a wTinging despot sawj 
 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 ' ' 
 
 Xciv havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
 AVhich loiows no neuter, owns but foes' or 
 
 friends ; 
 Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord 
 In word and deed obev'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 norr, diverted by his milder swav 
 
LARA. 
 
 300 
 
 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 sohtude : 
 And though his lonely habits threw of 
 
 late 
 Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his 
 
 gate; 
 For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed 
 
 withdrew, 
 For them, at least, his soul compassion 
 
 knew. 
 Cold to the great, contemptuous to the 
 
 high. 
 The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
 Much he would speak not, but beneath his 
 
 roof 
 They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
 And they who watch'd might mark that, 
 
 day by day, 
 Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
 But most of late, since Ezzehn was lost. 
 He play'd the courteous lord and bounte- 
 ous host : 
 Perchance his strife with Otho made him 
 
 dread 
 Some snare prepared for his obnoxious 
 
 head ; 
 Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
 With 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 ; 
 From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
 They but required a shelter, and 't was 
 pven. ~ 
 
 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 recom- 
 pense [thence : 
 Detain'd, till all too late to part from 
 To hate he offer' d, with the coming change, 
 The deep reversion of delay' d revenge ; 
 To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
 The well-won charms success was sure to 
 
 snatch. 
 All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
 That slaver}' nothing which was still a 
 
 name. 
 The moment came, the hour when Otho 
 
 thought 
 -Secure at last the vengeance which he 
 sought : 
 
 His summons found the destined criminal 
 Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 
 Fresh from their feudal fetters newlv 
 
 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 1 
 Such is their cry — some watchward foi 
 
 the fight 
 Must vindicate the wrong, and warp th'- 
 
 right ; 
 Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you 
 
 will, 
 A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
 Some factious phrase by cunning caught 
 
 and spread. 
 That guilt may reign, and wolves and 
 
 worms be fed ! 
 
 IX 
 
 Throughout thaf 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 ofi 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 minghn^ with his own the cause of all, 
 E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
 The sullen calm th at 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. 
 VV hat cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
 He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
 He had hoped quiet in his suUai lair, 
 But man and destiny beset him there : 
 Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
 And they must kiU, they cannot snare the 
 
 prey. 
 
3IO 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
 Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
 But diagg'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 
 
 tliat yield ? 
 The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
 In this the struggle was the same with all ; 
 Sa\'c that distemper'd passions lent their 
 
 force 
 In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
 None sued, for JMercy knew her cry was 
 
 \ain, 
 The captive died upon the battle-slain : 
 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 re- 
 
 main'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. 
 
 .\i 
 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 light delay' d, i 
 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 art. 
 Of these they had not deem'd : the battle- 
 day 
 They could encounter as a \'eterau may ; 
 But more preferr'd the fur\' of the strife, 
 
 Arid present death, to hourly suffering 
 
 hte : 
 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 imbent ; 
 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 nati\'e 
 
 war ; 
 .\nd bear within them to the neighbouing 
 
 state 
 An e.xile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate ; 
 ! Hard is the task their father-land to quit. 
 But harder still to perish or submit. 
 
 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 ; 
 Already. they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
 .\way ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
 Return or fly I — ^\'hat ghtters in the rej.r ? 
 'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's spejj ! 
 -Are those the shepherds' fires upon the 
 
 height ? 
 .A.las ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
 Cut oft' from hope, and compass'd in the 
 
 toil. 
 Less blood perchance hath bought a richer 
 
 spoil ! 
 
 .XIII 
 
 .A. moment's pause — 't is but to breathe 
 
 their band. 
 Or shall they onward press, or here with- 
 stand ? 
 It matters little — if they charge the foes 
 \\'ho 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 
 NVere fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
 Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
 .\iid the ne.\t word shall scarce outstrip 
 
 the deed : 
 In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
 How many shall but hear the voice of death I 
 
 XIV 
 
 His blade is bared, — in him there is an 
 
 air 
 As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
 
LARA 
 
 311 
 
 A something of ijidifference more than then 
 Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
 He tum'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
 And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
 Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twi- 
 light threw 
 Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
 Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint ex- 
 
 press'd 
 The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
 This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 
 It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
 His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
 His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not 
 
 part ! 
 Thy band may perish, or thy friends may 
 
 flee. 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 
 
 The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward 
 
 driven, 
 Poiurs the link'd band through ranks 
 
 asunder riven : 
 Well has each steed obey'd the armed 
 
 heel. 
 And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
 Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still 
 
 oppose 
 Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
 And blood is mingled with the dashing 
 
 stream, 
 Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 
 
 Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
 Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to 
 
 fall, 
 Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strilces 
 
 his steel, 
 Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight 
 
 were vain ; 
 But those that waver tium to smite again. 
 While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 kecoil before their leader's look and blow : 
 Now girt with numbers, now almost alonr. 
 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 has stricken down yon arm of 
 
 pride. 
 The word of triumph fainted from his 
 
 tongue ; 
 That hand, so raised, how droopmgly 
 
 it hung ! 
 But yet the sword instinctively retams. 
 Though from its fellow shrink the falling 
 
 reins ; 
 
 dizzy with the 
 
 These Kaled snatches : 
 
 blow. 
 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bo;?. 
 Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge 
 
 again ; 
 Too mi.x'd the slayers now to heed the 
 
 slain ! 
 
 XVI 
 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
 The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
 The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody 
 
 girth ; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life 
 
 remain'd, 
 The heel that lurged him and the hand that 
 
 rein'd ; 
 And some too near that rolUng torrent lie, 
 Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the 
 
 breath 
 Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
 In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
 One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
 With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
 Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have 
 
 crept ; 
 The faint remains of life such struggles 
 
 waste. 
 But yet they reach the stream, and bend to 
 
 taste : 
 They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
 Why pause ? No further thirst have they 
 
 to slake — 
 It is unqueuch'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
 It was an agony — but now forgot ! 
 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene. 
 Where but for him that 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 watcliful 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 pam. 
 He clasps the hand that pang which would 
 
 assuage, 
 And sadly smiles his shanks to that dark 
 
 page, 
 Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, noi 
 
 sees, 
 Save that damp brow which rests upon his 
 
 knees ; 
 
312 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 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 ; 
 
 And he repMed, 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 separ- 
 ate fate, 
 
 Whose darkness none beside should pene- 
 trate. 
 
 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-mo\'ing pale lips 
 
 Slj,jke ; 
 But L-:ra'^ voice, though low, at lirst was 
 
 clear 
 And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd 
 
 hoarsely near ; 
 But from his visage little could ive guess. 
 So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
 Sa\'e that whenstruggling nearer to his last, 
 Upon that page his p>'e was kindly cast ; 
 And once, as Kaled's answering accents 
 
 ceased. 
 Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East 
 
 Whether (as then the breaking sun from 
 
 high 
 RoU'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 tum'd 
 
 away. 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
 And shrunk his glance before that morning 
 
 light. 
 To look on Lara's brow — ^where all grew 
 
 night. 
 Yet sense seem'd left, though better were 
 
 its loss ; 
 For when one near display'd the absolving 
 
 cross. 
 And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
 Of which his parting soul might own the 
 
 need, 
 He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
 And smiled — Heaven pardon 7 if 't were 
 
 with disdain t 
 And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor with- 
 drew 
 From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture 
 
 swift. 
 Flung back the hand which held the sacred 
 
 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. 
 
 x.x 
 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 e'er 
 The weak vet still untiring knee that bore; 
 He press'd the hand he held upon his 
 
 heart — 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 \\'ith the cold gra-p, 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 L.ua which thou look'st upon. 
 
 He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd awav 
 The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 
 And those around have roused him from 
 
 his trance. 
 But cannot tear from thence his fixed 
 
 glance ; 
 And when, in raising him from where he 
 
 bore 
 
LARA 
 
 313 
 
 Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
 He saw the head his breast would still sus- 
 tain, 
 , 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 be- 
 neath 
 The breast of man such trusty love may 
 
 breathe ! 
 That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
 . The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
 Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex con- 
 
 fess'd ; 
 Andlifereturn'd, and Kaled feltnoshame- 
 What now to her was Womanhood or 
 Fame? 
 
 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. 
 
 \'ain 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 be- 
 hind 
 
 Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
 
 Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — 
 be still— 
 
 Is human love the growth of human will ? 
 
 To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes 
 discern. 
 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not 
 how 
 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips 
 avow. , 
 
 They were not common links, that form d 
 the chain 
 
 That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and 
 brain ; 
 
 But that wild tale she brook'd not to un- 
 fold, 
 
 And seal'd is now each lip that could have 
 told. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 They laid him in the earth, and on his 
 
 — "hTPJlSt 
 
 Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest. 
 They found the scatter'd dints of many a 
 scar, 
 
 B.F.W 
 
 Which were not planted there in recent 
 
 war ; 
 Where'er had pass'd his summer years of 
 
 hfe. 
 It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
 But all unknown his glory or his guilt. 
 These only told that somewhere blood was 
 
 spilt. 
 And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the 
 
 past, 
 Retum'd no more — that night appear'd 
 
 his last. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
 A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale. 
 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 chil- 
 dren'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, 
 ^d 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. 
 And follow with his step the stream that 
 
 flow'd. 
 As if even yet too much its surface sh' tv: d ; 
 At once he started, stoop'd, around him 
 
 strown 
 The winter floods had scatter d heaps ot 
 
 stone ; , ^i . 1 
 
 Of these the heaviest thence ne gather d 
 
 there. 
 And slung them with a more than common 
 
 care. 
 Meantime the Serf had crept to where 
 
 unseen , , i, . ■ w 
 
 Himself might safely mark what this might 
 
 mean.; „ . i, » 
 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating brea=t, 
 Y 
 
314 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Aiid 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 ^tar 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 f«ll. 
 
 XXV 
 
 And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone. 
 Alike ^\'ithout 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 ne\er loud ; 
 
 But frurious would you tear her from tne 
 
 spot 
 Where yet she scarce believed that he was 
 
 not. 
 Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
 That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 
 But left to waste her weary moments there, 
 She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air. 
 Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
 And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
 And she would sit beneath the very tree 
 Where lay his drooping head upon her 
 
 knee ; 
 And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
 His words, his lioks, his djang grasp recall; 
 And she had shorn, but saved her raven 
 
 hair, 
 And oft would snatch it from her bosom 
 
 there, 
 And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
 As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's 
 
 wound. 
 Herself would question, and for him reply; 
 Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
 From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
 Then seat her do^Nm upon some linden's 
 
 root, 
 And hide her ^-isage 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 
 
 proxed. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 January 22nd, 1S16. 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., 
 
 THIS POEM IS IXSCRIBED BV HIS 
 
 FRIEND 
 
 In the vear since Jesus died for inen, 
 
 Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
 
 We were a gallant company. 
 
 Riding o'er land, and saihng o'er sea. 
 
 Oh ! but we went merrily ! 
 
 We forded the river, and clomb the high 
 
 hill. 
 Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
 Whether we lay in the ca\'e or the shed, 
 Oiir sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 
 Whether wo couch'd in our rough capote, 
 On the rougher plank of our gliding bn.\t. 
 Or stroll h'd on thu beach, or our saddles 
 
 spread 
 As a pillow beneath the resting head. 
 Fresh \vo woke upon the morrow : 
 
 .■\11 our thoughts and words had scope, 
 We had health, and we had hope. 
 Toil and travel, but no sorrow. . 
 
 We were of all tongaes and creeds ; — 
 Some were those who counted beads. 
 Some of mosque, and some of church. 
 
 And some, or I mis-sav, of neither ; 
 Vet through the wide " world might vc 
 search, 
 
 Kijr find a mother crew nor bKther. 
 
 But some are dead, and some are gone, 
 .■\nd some are scatter'd and alone, 
 And some are rebels on the hills 
 
 That look along Epirus' vallevs. 
 
 Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
 .\nd paxs in blood oppression's ills ; 
 
 And some are in a far countree, 
 .\nd some all restlessly at home ; 
 
 But never more, oh ! never, we 
 Shall meet to revel and to roam. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 But those hardy days flew cheerily ! 
 
 And when they now fall drearily, 
 
 iMy thoughts, like swallows, skim the main. 
 
 And bear my spirit back again 
 
 Over the earth, and through the air, 
 
 A wild bird and a wanderer. 
 
 'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 
 
 And oft, too oft, implores again 
 
 The few who may endure my lay. 
 
 To follow me so far away. 
 
 Stranger — wilt thou follow now. 
 
 And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 
 
 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 faU'n, looks proudly on that hiU, 
 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 
 
 skie^. 
 Than yon tower-capp'd AcropoMs, 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 
 
 On dun Cithairon's ridge appears 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
 From shore to shore of either main. 
 The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
 Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands ' advance 
 Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
 And far and wide as eye can reach 
 The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd. 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 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, 
 
 315 
 
 Oer dusty plaL.Q and smoky skies. 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 Ihe summons of the Infidel 
 
 But near- and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall. 
 With deeper skill in war's black art' 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
 From post to post, and deed to deed, 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed. 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
 Or where the battery, guarded well, 
 Remains as yet impregnable, 
 Alighting cheerly to inspire 
 The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
 To guide the follower o'er the field. 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield. 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 
 
 IV 
 
 From Venice — once a race of worth 
 His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
 But late an exile from her shore. 
 Against his countrymen he bore 
 The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
 And here, before her walls, with those 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes. 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
 Which young and fiery converts feel, 
 Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ; " 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 Within the " Lion's mouth " had placed 
 A charge against him uneffaced : 
 He fled in time, and saved his Ufe, 
 To waste his future years in strife. 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
 'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 
 And battled to avenge or die. 
 
 Coumourgi ' — he whose closing scene 
 Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain. 
 The last and mightiest of the slain. 
 He sank, regretting not to die. 
 But cursed the Christian's victory — 
 Coumourgi— can his glory cease. 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 
.=!i6 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
 A hundred years have roll'd away 
 Since he refixed 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. 
 
 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 crackhiig dome 
 
 Was fired before the exploding bomb ■ 
 
 And as the fabric sank beneath 
 
 The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 
 
 In red and wreathing columns ilash'd 
 
 The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd. 
 
 Or into countless meteors driven, 
 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven ■ 
 
 Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun 
 
 Impervious to the hidden sun, 
 
 ^^'ith 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 sternlv teach 
 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
 
 Within these walls a maid was pent 
 
 His hope would win, without consent 
 
 Ut that inexorable sire. 
 
 Whose heart refused him in its ire 
 
 When Alp, beneath his Christian name 
 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim 
 
 .%" '?,*PPier mood, and earlier time 
 
 While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime 
 
 (-rayest m gondola or hall 
 
 He ghtter'd through the Carnival ■ 
 
 And tuned the softest serenade ' 
 
 That e'er on Adria's waters plav'd 
 
 At midnight to Itahan maid. 
 
 And many deem'd her heart was won ■ 
 For sought by numbers, given to none,' 
 ^AU°TJ ^/■^<='=-^<=a's hand remaiu'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 e\'es 
 ^'"'^.conquer'd hearts they ceased to 
 
 With listless look she seems to gaze : 
 
 j With humbler care her form arravs ; 
 
 1 Her voice less livelv 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 Eubosa'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 voke,. 
 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. 
 
 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 bauds are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
 The fuU of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn. 
 And vnn 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 ]' 
 
 { T IS midnight : on the mountains brown 
 [ ^he cold, round moon shines deeplv down • 
 j Blue roU the waters, blue the sky ^ 
 j Spreads like an ocean hung on high 
 Bespangled with those isles of light ' 
 So wildlv, spiritually bright ; ' 
 
 Who e'.-cr gazed upon them shining 
 I And turn d to earth without repining 
 I Aor wish d for wings to flee away 
 And mix with their eternal ray ' 
 Ihe waves on either shore lav' there 
 Cairn, clear, and azure as the air ■ 
 And scarce their foam the pebblk shook 
 j But murmur'd meeklv as the brook 
 ; The winds were pillow'd on the waves ■ 
 The banners droop'd along their staves 
 
 Abo^fth"''^' 1^" ^'"°""<^ tfiem furl ng ' 
 tnd that T "'°'?' *^ '='"'=^'=™t curlilg ; 
 
 ^Ku^STiii^^i^-eiio:^!--,, 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 317 
 
 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, 
 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. 
 
 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 aU 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 foUow'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. 
 
 They envied even the faithless fame 
 
 He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 
 
 Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
 
 In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
 
 They did not know how pride can stoop, 
 
 When baffled feelings withering droop ; 
 
 They 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 hons o'er the jackal sway ; 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey. 
 Then on the vulgar yelling press, ' 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
 xm 
 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 rould 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, v/orse their toil ? 
 And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
 While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 A night of sleep, perchance their last. 
 In sickly vigil wander'd on. 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 XIV 
 
 He felt his soul become more hght 
 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 hghtest, 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. 
 
3i8 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
 And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 
 
 XV 
 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
 And through this night, as on he wander' d, 
 And o'er the past and present ponder'd. 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 Who there in better cause had bled, 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim 
 The fame that could accrue to him. 
 Who cheer'd the band, and waved the 
 
 sword, 
 A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
 And led them to the lawless siege. 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 Not so had those his fancy number' d. 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slum- 
 
 ber'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 grey, 
 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 
 RoU'd mingling vnth their fame for ever. 
 Despite of every yoke she bears. 
 That land is glory's still and theirs ! 
 'T is still a watch-word to the earth ; 
 When man would do a deed of worth 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread. 
 So sanction'd, on the t)Tant's head : 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 Where Ufe is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 
 And woo'd the freshness Night difl'used. 
 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 >'ellow sand 
 Between it and the greener land. 
 
 He wander'd on along the beach, 
 
 Till nithin 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's 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 skuU 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. 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot 
 
 where they fed ; 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 With those who had fallen for that night's 
 
 repast. 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that roU'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, * 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 
 The scalps were ui 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. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 
 Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
 But he better could brook to behold the 
 
 dying. 
 Deep m the tide of their warm blood lying 
 Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writh- 
 ing in vain, 
 
THE SIEGE OF COKiNTH 
 
 319 
 
 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 humbUng to tread 
 O'er the weltering lield 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 colunms, 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, 
 Fragnaents of stone, reai'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, 
 
 Dechning was his attitude ; 
 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 
 . Fever' d, throbbing, and oppress'd ; 
 
 And o'o: his brow, so doivnward 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 wouM awakem. 
 
 There he sate all heavily. 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigli. 
 
 Wasit the wind through some koUow stone. 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan ? 
 
 He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass — it waved not 
 
 a blade ; 
 How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
 He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still. 
 So did the leaves on Cithseron's hill. 
 And he felt not a breath come over hi^ 
 
 cheek ; 
 What did that sudden sound bespealc ? 
 He turn'd to the left — is. he sure of sight ? 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 He st.irted up with more of fear 
 
 Than if an armed foe were near. 
 
 " God of my fathers ! what is here ? 
 
 Who art thou ? and wherefore sent 
 
 .Sii 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 <vho might have been his bride ! 
 
 The rose was yet upon her chcrk. 
 But mellow'd with a tenderer streak ; 
 Where was the play of her soft lips lied ? 
 Gone was the smile that enliven'd their re-l. 
 The ocean's calm within their view, 
 Beside her eye had less of blue ; 
 But like that cold wave it stood sliU, 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
 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 shcjw'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 nst 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 \-ain. 
 Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 In falling awav from thy fathers' 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 ? 
 I'vT to-morrow we gi^'e to the slaughter and 
 
 flame 
 
330 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian 
 
 name. 
 None, save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 
 Shall be left upon the mom : 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our 
 
 sorrow forgot. 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
 When once again I've quell'd the pride 
 Of Venice ; and her hated race 
 Have felt the arm they would debase 
 Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
 Whom vice and envy made my. foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own — 
 
 Light was the touch, but it thriU'd to the 
 
 bone. 
 And shot a chillness 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, lon.g 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 
 
 glarp. 
 Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air. 
 So seen by the dving lamp's fitful light. 
 Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 
 As they seem, through the dimness, about 
 
 to C'une down 
 From the shadowy wall where their images 
 
 frouTi ; 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
 As the guests on the tapestry come and go. 
 
 " If not for Inve 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 with- 
 in : 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 Its love for ever shut from thee. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon^ 
 'T 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 a\'enged ; 
 Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
 Thine immortaUty of iU." 
 
 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 
 RoU'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 1' lok'd upon it earnestly, 
 
 \Vithout an accent of reply ; 
 
 Hf watch'd it parsing ; it is flo^vn : 
 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone. 
 
 And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 
 
 I 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, I must be, 
 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 
 But thou art safe : oh, flv mth 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. 
 
 XXII 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun 
 As if that morn were a jocund one 
 Lightlx- and brightlv breaks awav 
 The M. irnmg from her mantle grey 
 And the Noon will look on a sultry day 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum. 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous 
 horn, 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 3^1 
 
 And the flap of the banners, that flit as 
 
 they *re borne, 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multi- 
 tude's bum, 
 And the clash, and the shout, " They come ! 
 
 they come ! " 
 The horsetails ^ are plucked 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, 
 Tliat 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 camion 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. 
 Gcd 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 msh ; let him ask it, 
 
 and have ! " 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless 
 
 vizier ; 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and 
 
 spear. 
 And the shout of fierce thousands m 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 ruar, 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gorp, 
 He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
 The foremost, who rush on his strength but 
 
 to die : 
 Thus against the wall they went. 
 Thus the first were backward bent ; 
 Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
 Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
 Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
 The ground whereon they moved no more : 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay, 
 Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
 When his work is done on the 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 thi.\' 
 
 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. 
 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 Pirasus' bay. 
 
 XXV 
 
 From the noint 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 
 
 But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
 Against the foe may still be found. 
 
322 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 1 i.sperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
 Make a pause, and turn again — 
 AVith banded backs against tlie 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 gT;>y. 
 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 nlight have been the sire 
 Who fell that day beneath his ire : 
 For, sonless left long years ago. 
 His wrath made many a childless foe ; 
 And since the day, when in the strait ^ 
 His only boy had met his fate. 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 Ml ire than a human hecatomb. 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 Than his. Minotti's son, who died 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on 
 
 the shore ; 
 What of them is left, to tell 
 Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their 
 
 graves ; 
 But they live in the verse that immortally 
 
 saves. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Hark to the 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 kno^vn : 
 Others a gaudi.^r 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. 
 
 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 s-ike." 
 
 " 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 ! ' ' 
 
 "She is safe," — "Where? where?" — 
 
 " In heaven ; 
 From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
 Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled. 
 As he saw Alp staggering bow 
 Before his words, as with a blow. 
 
 " Oh God ! when died she ? " — " VeitLX- 
 
 night — 
 Nor weep I for ber spirit's flight : 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
 Come on ! " — That challenge is in vain — 
 .\lp 's already \vith the slain ! 
 While Minotti's words were wTeaking 
 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 \iew the wound 
 That crash'd through the brain of the 
 
 infidel, 
 Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
 \ flash like fire within his eyes 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 
 .\nd then eternal darkness sunk 
 Through all the palpitating trunk ; 
 Nought of life left, save a quivering 
 \\'here his limbs were slightly shi-sering : 
 They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 323 
 
 And brow were stain'd with gore and dust. 
 
 And through his Ups the life-blood oozed, 
 
 From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
 
 But in bis pulse there was no throb, 
 
 Nor on his Ups one dying sob ; 
 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 
 Heralded his way to death : 
 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 
 Unanel'd he pass'd away. 
 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
 
 To the last a Renegade. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Fearfully the yell arose 
 
 Of his followers, and his foes ; 
 
 These in joy, in fury those : 
 
 Then again in conflict mixing. 
 
 Clashing swords, and spears transfixing. 
 
 Interchanged the blow and 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 tram. 
 
 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 added ranks and raging boast, 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 Where still the Christians yielded not ; 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vamly 
 try J 
 
 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 g^o^v^ 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 hira shone. 
 Painted in heavenlj^ 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 loiee, 
 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 
 
 flame. 
 Inward and onward the lliissulman came, 
 
 X.XXl 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
 
 Their names were on the graven floor, 
 
 But now illegible with gore ; 
 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 
 The varied marble's veins diffuse. 
 
 Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and 
 
 strown 
 With broken swords, and helms o'er- 
 
 thrown ; 
 There were dead above, and the dead 
 
 below 
 Lay cold in many a coffin'd row ; 
 Vou 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 Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
 To these a late form'd train now led, 
 Minotti's last and stern resource 
 Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 To strive, and those must strive m vain : 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake. 
 With barbarous blows that gash the dead, 
 And lop the already Ufeless head. 
 And fell the statues from their niche, 
 And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
 And from each other's rude hands wrest 
 The silver vessels saints had bless d. 
 To the high altar on they go ; 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 
 
324 
 
 TALES AXD POEMS 
 
 On its table still behold 
 The cup of consecrated gold ; 
 Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
 That mom it held the holy wine, 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
 Which his worshippers drank at the break 
 
 of day. 
 To shrive their souls ere theyjoin'd in the 
 
 fray. 
 Still a few drops within it lay ; 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row. 
 From the purest metal cast ; 
 A spoil — the richest, and the last. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd 
 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with the torch the train — 
 
 'T is fired ! [slain, 
 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the 
 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 \vild roar expired ! 
 The "shatter'd town — the walls thrown 
 
 down — 
 The waves a moment backward bent — 
 The hills that shake, although unrent, 
 
 As if an earthquake pass'd — 
 The thousand shapeless things all driven 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven. 
 
 By that tremendous blast — 
 Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long afflicted shore : 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 
 All that mingled there below : 
 Many a tall and goodly man, 
 Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
 When he fell to earth again 
 Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 
 Some fell in the gulf, which received the 
 
 sprinkles 
 With a thousand circling wTinkles ; 
 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 Umbs away. 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 Could discern their offspring more ; 
 That one moment left no trace 
 More of human form or face 
 Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
 And down came blazing rafters, strown 
 Around, and many a falling stone. 
 Deeply dinted in the clay. 
 All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
 All the living things that heard 
 The deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 
 The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
 And howling left the unburied dead ; 
 The camels from their keepers broke ; 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain. 
 And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
 Deep-mouth'd arose, and doublv harsh ; 
 The wolves yell'd on the cavem'd hill 
 Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
 The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, 
 Bay'd from afar complainingly. 
 With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
 Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
 With sudden wing, and ruffled breast. 
 The eagle left his rocky nest. 
 And mounted nearer to the sun, 
 The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
 Their smoke assail'd his startled beak. 
 And made him higher soar and shriek — 
 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won 1 
 
 PARISINA 
 
 SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
 BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND ^'ALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Januayy 22, 1816. 
 
 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 wa\"e i^ deeper blue, 
 
 And on the leaf a browner hue, 
 
 .\nd in the heaven that clear obscure. 
 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure. 
 
 Which follows the dechne of day, 
 
 As twihght melts beneath the nioon away. 
 
 II 
 But it is not to hst 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 ; 
 
PARISIKA 
 
 325 
 
 And if she bits in Este's bower, 
 
 'r is not for tfie 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 rust- 
 ling 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. 
 
 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 passed away. 
 
 They only for each other breathe ; 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that did it not decay. 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour ? 
 Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
 But yet — they are already past ! 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 We know such vision comes no more. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The spot of guilty gladness past : 
 And though they hope, and vow, they 
 grieve, 
 
 As if that parting were the last. 
 The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 
 
 The lip that there would cling for ever, 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 
 
 The Heaven she fears will not forgive her. 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 Beheld her frailty from afar — 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace. 
 Yet binds them to their trysting place. 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 In fearful heaviness of heart. 
 With all the deep and shuddering chill 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 
 To covet there another's bride ; 
 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 
 But fever' d in her sleep she seems, 
 
 And red her cheek with troubled dreams. 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 A name she dare not breathe bv dav. 
 
 And clasps her Loid 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 ! — 
 'T 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. 
 
 He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath. 
 But sheath'd it ere the point was bare ; 
 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe. 
 He could not slay a thing so fair — 
 At least, not smiling — sleeping — there : 
 
 Nay more : — he did not wake her then. 
 But gazed upon her with a glance 
 Which, had she roused her from her 
 trance. 
 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again ; 
 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 
 Gle-jm'd on the dew-drops Dig and damp. 
 
 She spake no more — but still she 
 slumber' d — 
 
 While, in his thought, her days are num- 
 ber' d. 
 
 VIII 
 
 And with the morn he sought and found. 
 In many a tale from those around, 
 The proof of all he fear'd to know. 
 Their present guilt, his future woe ; 
 The long-conniving damsels seek 
 
 To save themselves, and would tr-insfer 
 
326 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 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. 
 
 He was not one who brook'd delay : 
 
 Within the chamber of his state. 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 
 Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
 His nobles and his guards are there, — 
 Before him is the sinful pair ; 
 Both young, — and one how passing fair ! 
 With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
 Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 
 
 Before a father's face ! 
 Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
 And hear the sentence of his ire. 
 
 The tale of his disgrace ! 
 And yet he seems not overcome, 
 Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 
 Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
 How changed since last her speaking eye 
 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering 
 room. 
 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 ? 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, her 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 hberty ; 
 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 ]iea\ily, and fill, 
 As tear on tear g»ows gathering still. 
 
 , And he for her had also wept. 
 
 But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
 j His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 
 ! Stern and erect his brow_ was raised. 
 Whate'er the grief his soul'avow'd. 
 He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
 But yet he dared not look on her ; 
 Remembrance of the hours that were — 
 His guilt, his love, his present state — 
 His father's wrath, all good men's hate — 
 His earthly, his eternal fate — 
 And 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. 
 
 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. 
 Mj' life must hnger on alone ; 
 Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not 
 
 one 
 Who would not do as I have done : 
 Those ties are broken — not by me ; 
 
 Let that too p ass ; — the doom's prepared ! 
 Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
 
 And then — thy crime's reward ! 
 Away ! address th> 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 ! shaft 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 Hfe I give." 
 
 XIII 
 
 And here stern .A.zo hid his face — 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
 The hot blood ebb'd and fiow'd again; 
 And therefore bow'd he for a space, 
 .And pass'd his shaking hand along 
 His eye, to veil it from the throng ■ 
 While Hugo raised his chained hands' 
 And for a brief delay demands 
 His father's ear : the silent sire 
 Forbids not what his words require. 
 
 " It is not that I dread the death — 
 For thou hast seen me by thv side 
 AH redly through the battle ride, 
 And that — not once a useless brand — 
 Thy slaves have wrested from my hand 
 Hath sbej more blood in cause of tliine, 
 Ihan e er can stain the axe of mine : 
 
PARISINA 
 
 Thou gav'st, and may'st refaumc 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 hcive lanced my courser's flank 
 Before proud chiefs ot princely rank. 
 When charging to the cheering cry 
 Of ' Este and of Victory ! ' 
 I will not plead the cause of crime. 
 Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
 A few brief hours or days that must 
 At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
 Such maddening moments as my past. 
 They could not, and they did not, last. 
 Albeit my birth and name be base. 
 And thy nobility of race 
 Disdain' d to deck a thing like me — 
 Yet in my lineaments they trace 
 Some features of my father's face, 
 And in my spirit — all of thee. 
 From thee this tamelessness of heart — 
 From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou 
 
 start ? — 
 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 1 
 Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
 I am no bastard in my soul. 
 For that, like thine, abhorr'd control ; 
 And for my breath, that hasty boon 
 Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
 I valued it no more than thou. 
 When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
 
 327 
 
 And we, all side by side, have striven, 
 And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
 Ihe 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 rnv destined bride, 
 
 I feel thou art my lather still : 
 And harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
 'T is not unjust, athough from thee. 
 Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
 My life begun and ends the same : 
 As err'd the sire, so err'd the son. 
 And thou must punish both in one. 
 My crime seems worst to human view, 
 But God must judge between us too ! " 
 
 XIV 
 
 He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 And not an ear but felt as wounded. 
 Of all the chiefs that there were ranjc'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, ^1 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 gla&y ga^.e she stood 
 As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
 But every now and then a tear 
 So large and slowly gather'd slid 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid. 
 It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
 And those who saw, it did surprise. 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
 Was choked within her swelling throat. 
 Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
 Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
 It ceased — agam 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 hved — 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, 
 
328 
 
 TALES AKD POEMS 
 
 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, 
 
 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 v.'ho ? 
 She had forgotten :^-did she breathe ? 
 Could this be still the earth beneath. 
 The sky above, and men around ; 
 Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
 On one, before whose eyes each eye 
 Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
 All was confused and undefined 
 To her all-Jarr'd and wandering mind ; 
 A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
 And now in laughter, now in tears. 
 But madly still in each extreme. 
 She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
 For so it seem'd on her to break : 
 Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing, 
 
 But mournfully and slow ; ' 
 In the grey square turret swinging. 
 
 With a deep sound, to and fro. 
 
 Heavily to the heart they go ! 
 Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
 
 The song for the dead below. 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
 For a departing being's soul 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells 
 
 knoll : 
 He is near his mortal goal : 
 Kneeling at the Friar's knee. 
 Sad to hear, and piteous to see — 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
 With the block before and the guards 
 
 around. 
 And the headsman with his bare arm ready, 
 That the blow may be both swift and 
 
 steady, 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the 
 Father ! 
 
 XVI 
 
 It is a lovely hour as yet 
 
 Before the summer sun shall set, 
 
 Which rose upon that heavy day. 
 
 And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 
 
 And his evening beams are shod 
 
 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 awav- 
 
 That high sun on his head did glisten 
 
 As he there did bow and listen. 
 
 And the rings of chestnut hair 
 
 Curl'd half down his neck so bare; 
 
 But brighter still the beam was thrown 
 
 Upon the axe which near him shone — 
 
 With a clear and ghastly glitter — 
 
 Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
 
 Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
 
 Dark the crime, and just the law — 
 
 Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 
 
 I 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 manthng 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 headsman's hands prepared to bind 
 
 Those eyes which would not brook such 
 
 blind. 
 As if they dared not look on death. 
 " No — yours my forfeit blood and breath ; 
 These hands are chain'd, but let me die 
 At least with an unshackled eye — 
 Strike : " — and as the word he said. 
 Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 
 These the last accents Hugo spoke : 
 " Strike " — and flashing fell the stroke — 
 RoU'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 aad prav'd. 
 As not disdaining priestlv aid. 
 
 Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
 
 .And while before the Piior kneeling. 
 
 His heart w.as wean'd from earthly feelin" ; 
 
 His wrathful sire, his paramour^ 
 
 What were they in such an hour ? 
 
 No more reproach, no more despair. 
 
 No thought but heaven, no word but 
 prayer — 
 
 Save the few which from him broke, 
 
 When, bared to meet the headsman's 
 stroke. 
 
PARISINA 
 
 329 
 
 He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
 His sole adieu to those around. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Still as the lips that close in death, 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 A cold electric shiver ran, 
 As down the dgadly 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. 
 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. 
 
 Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour. 
 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower. 
 
 Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 
 Her name: — as if she ne'er had been — 
 
 Was banish'd from each lip and ear. 
 
 Like words of wantonness or fear ; 
 
 And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 
 
 Was mention heard of wife or son ; 
 
 No tomb, no memory had they ; 
 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay — 
 
 At least the knight's who died that day. 
 
 But Parisina's fate lies hid 
 
 Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 
 
 Whether in convent she abode. 
 
 And won to heaven her dreary road. 
 
 By blighted and remorseful years 
 
 Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 
 
 ■Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 
 
 For that dark love she dared to feel ; 
 
 'Or if, upon the moment smote. 
 
 She died by tortures less remote, 
 
 Like him she saw upon the block. 
 
 With heart ,that shared the headsman's 
 
 shock. 
 In quicken' d brokenness that came, 
 In pity, o'er her shattered frame, 
 None knew — and none can ever know : 
 
 But whatsoe'er its end belov/, 
 Her hfe began and closed in woe ! 
 
 XX 
 
 And Azo found another bride, 
 
 And goodly sons grew by his side ; 
 
 But none so lovely and so brave 
 
 As him who wither'd in the grave ; 
 
 Or if thev were-^on his cold eye 
 
 Their growth but glanced unheeded bv, 
 
 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 birow were wrought 
 
 The intersected lines of thought ; 
 
 Those furrows which the burning share 
 
 Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
 
 Scars of the lecerating 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 hes quick below, 
 
 And flows, and cannot cease to flow. 
 
 Still was his seal'd-up bosom haurited 
 
 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. 
 
 With inward starts of feeling left. 
 
 To throb o'er those of hfe bereft. 
 
 Without the power to fill again 
 
 The desert gap which made his pain ; 
 
 Without the hope to meet them where 
 
 United souls shall gladness share ; 
 
 With all the consciousness that he 
 
 Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
 
 That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 
 
 Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
 
 The tainted branches of the tree. 
 
 If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 
 All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
 But if the' hghtning, in its wrath, 
 The waving boughs with fury scathe. 
 The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
 And never more a leaf reveals. 
 
330 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON 
 
 Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of" thee alone can 
 
 bind ; 
 And when thy sons[to fetters are consign' d — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 
 
 gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their mar- 
 tyrdom. 
 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 ! May none those marks 
 efface ! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 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. 
 
 My hair is grey, but not with years. 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night. 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 My hmbs 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 lire, and two in field. 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd. 
 Dying as their father died, 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast. 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
 There are seven columns, massy and grey. 
 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 : 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
 And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
 We could not move a single pace, 
 We could not see each other's face, 
 But mth that pale and Mvid light 
 That made us strangers in our sight : 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 Fetter'd in hand, but joined 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 fuU and free. 
 As they of yore were wont to be ; 
 It might be fancy, but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 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 mv father Io\-ed 
 Because our mother's brow was given ' 
 To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 
 For him my soul was sorelv mov-ed • 
 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 m his natural spirit gay 
 \Vitli tears for nought but others' iUs, 
 And then they flow'd like mountain rills 
 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 \\ hich he abh.irr'd to view below 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 
 
 33.1 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But forin'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 cliains to pine : 
 His spirit witiier'd with their clank, 
 
 I saw it silently dechne — 
 
 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 followed there the deer and wolf ; 
 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 
 
 Which round about the wave inthralls : 
 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 dechned, 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 't was coarse and rude. 
 For v.'e were used to hunter's fare. 
 And for the hke had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat. 
 Our bread was such as captives' tears 
 Have moistened many a thousand years, 
 Since man first pent his fellow men 
 Like brutes within an iron den ; 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side • 
 But 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 vam. 
 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 fooHsh 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 — 
 Thay 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 
 
 --\ 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, 
 
 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 bluom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray ; 
 
 An eye of most transparent liKht, 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright. 
 
 And not a word of murmur, not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 
 A httle talk of better days,^ 
 
 .\ 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 Usten'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 I heard a sound— 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
 
 And rush'd to him :— I tound him not. 
 
332 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 / only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived, I only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last, the sole, the dearest hnk 
 
 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. 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I could not die, 
 I had no earthly hope but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 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 grey ; 
 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 Ufe 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, 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to sav them all for me ! 
 I never sa'.v it? like bef( ire, 
 
 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 cheerin.y from my dungeon s brmk. 
 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 thme ! 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; [while 
 
 For— Heaven forgive that thought ! the 
 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 ' twas 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. 
 
 A kind of change came in mj' 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 ; 
 And round the pillars one by one. 
 Returning where my walk begun. 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 Jly breath came gaspingly and thick. 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 .XI I 
 
 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 ; 
 
 .\nd the whole earth would henceforth be 
 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 
 Xo child, no sire, no kin had I, 
 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 j 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. 
 
MAZEPPA 
 
 333 
 
 1 saw them, and they were the same, 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On higli — their wide long lal^e 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 Uttle isle, 
 Which, in my very face did smile. 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor. 
 But in it there were three tall trees. 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there were young flowers growing, 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall, 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly ; 
 And then new tears came in my eye. 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave, 
 
 Closing o'er one we sought to sa\'e, — 
 And yet my glance, too much opprest. 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 I I was at length the same to me, 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 .And thus when they appear'd at last, 
 .And all ray bonds aside were cast, 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home ; 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race, 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell ; 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 MAZEPPA 
 
 '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. 
 
 II 
 Such was the hazard of the die ; 
 The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
 By day and night through field and flood, 
 Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
 And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 
 Ambition in his humbled hour. 
 When truth had 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 ? 
 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 ; 
 
334 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 For danger le\-els 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 i^kraine's Hetman, calm and bold ; 
 But first, outspent with this long course, 
 The Cossack prince rubl^'d down his liorse, 
 And made for him a leafy bed. 
 
 And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his 
 rein. 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
 For until now he had the dread 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 To browse beneath the midnight dews i 
 But he was hardy as his lord, 
 And little cared for bed and board ; 
 But spirited and docile too, 
 What'^'er was to be done, would do. 
 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
 All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
 Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
 And knew him in the midst of all : 
 Though thousands were around, — and 
 
 Night, 
 Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
 That steed from sunset until dawn 
 His chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 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 fiU'd the pan. 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt. 
 And whether they had chafed his belt ; 
 And next the venerable man, 
 From out his havresack and can, 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 The whole or portion ofier'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. abo\'e 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 da\'s till now, 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
 All Scythia's fame to thine should jdeld 
 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, «h«efore 
 so, 
 
 Since thou hast learn'd the art so 
 
 well ? " 
 Mazeppa said — " 'T were long to tell ; 
 And we ha\e 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 ha\e need of rest. 
 And 1 wiU be the sentinel 
 Of this your troop." — " But I request," 
 Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
 This tale of thine, and I may reap. 
 Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 The hope of present slumber flies." 
 
 " Well, Sire, with such a hope, I '11 track 
 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 
 I think 't was in my twentieth spring, — 
 
 A\-, 't was, — when Casimir was king — 
 
 John Casimir, — I was his page 
 
 Six summers, in mj- 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 ; 
 
 Not that he had no cares to vex ; 
 
 He loved the muses and the sex ; 
 
 And sometimes these so froward axe. 
 
 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 M'arsaw gather'd round bis 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, 
 
 \\'here 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 sih'er mine ; 
 And he was proud, ye mav divine. 
 
 As if from heaven he had been sent : 
 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 
 .\s tew could match beneath the throne ; 
 And he would gaze upon his store. 
 And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
 Until by some confusion led. 
 Which almost look'd hke want of head. 
 
 He thought their merits were his own! 
 His ivife « as not of his opinion ; 
 
 His junior she by thirty years, 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion'; 
 
 .-^nd, after wishes, hopes, and fears 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, ' 
 
AIAZEPPA 
 
 335 
 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 
 A( 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, gaiety, 
 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 ere age 
 Had ta'en my features for his page : 
 With years, ye know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales beneath a tree. 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 
 But let me on : Theresa's form — 
 Methinks it glides before me now. 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough. 
 
 The memory is so quick and warm ; 
 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 nune defines — 
 Involuntary sparks of thought. 
 Which strike from out the heart o'ei-- 
 
 wrought. 
 And form a strange intelligence, 
 AUke mysterious and intense, 
 \\'bich link the burning chain that binds. 
 Without their will, young hearts and 
 
 minds ; 
 Con\eying, as the electric wire, 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire. 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
 And still reluctant distance kept. 
 Until I was made known to her, 
 And we might then and there confer 
 Without suspicion — then, even then, 
 
 I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
 But on my Mps they died again. 
 
 The accents tremulous and weak. 
 Until one hour. — There is a game, 
 
 A frivolous and foolish play. 
 
 Wherewith we while away the day ; 
 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 And we to this, it seems, were set. 
 By some strange chance, which I forget : 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost. 
 
 It was enough for me to be 
 
 So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
 The being whom I loved the most. 
 I watch' d her as a sentinel, 
 (May oui's this dark night watch as well !) 
 
 Until I sav,', 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 
 \'et bound her to the place, though not 
 That hers might be the winning lot. 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did 
 pass. 
 Even as a flash of hghtning there. 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom mo to despair ; 
 And on the thought my words broke forth, 
 
 All incoherent as they wore ; 
 Their eloquence was little worth. 
 But yet she listen' d — 't is enough — 
 
 Who listens once will listen twice ; 
 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice. 
 And One refusal no rebufi. 
 
 " I lo\'ed. and was beloved again — 
 The\- 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 born to reign, 
 Or o'er their passions, or as vou 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 
336 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 I am — or rather was — a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 Them on where each would foremost 
 bleed ; 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 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. 
 M'e 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 
 E.xcept 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 natiure's gift of youth and health. 
 We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
 S'^me say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 My hfe 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 \'ent — 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 Surprised and seized us both. 
 The Count was something more thau 
 
 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 awav 
 
 From city or from succour near. 
 And almost on the break of dav ; 
 I did not think to see another. 
 
 My moments seem'd reduced to tew ; 
 And with one prayer to -Mary Mother, 
 
 And, it may be, a saint or two. 
 As I resign'd me to my fate, 
 The\' led me to the castle gate : 
 Theresa's doom I never knew. 
 Our lot was henceforth separate. 
 An angry man, ye ma)^ 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 pedij^ree ; 
 Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
 His noble 'scutcheon should ha\-e 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, 
 
 " ' Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was 
 brought ; 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his hmbs ; but he was wild, 
 
 WUd 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-bom 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 1 — and on we dash ! 
 1 orrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 "Away! — away! — My breath was gone, 
 I sa«- not where he hurried on : 
 'T was scarcely yet the break of day, 
 .\nd on he foam'd — away ! — away ! 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 .\s 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 wTench'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 \(;xes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it well in after da^-s : 
 There is not of that castie gate. 
 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left • 
 Nor of its fields a blade" of grass. ' 
 
 Sa\-e what grows L.n a ridge of wall. 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the'hall • 
 .\nd many a time vc there might pass 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was' 
 I saw Its turrets in a blaze. 
 Their crackling battlement's all cleft 
 
 And the hot lead pour down like 'rain 
 From o« thescorch'd and blackening roof 
 
 Xh!r. 'rl',"';t' '™u "':' ^^geancefproof: 
 They little thought that dav of pain 
 
MAZEPPA 
 
 337 
 
 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, 
 I When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
 They bound me to his foaming flank : 
 At length I play'd them one as frank — 
 For time at last sets all things even — 
 
 And if we do but watch the hour. 
 
 There never yet was human power 
 Wliich could evade, if unforgiven. 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
 XI 
 
 " Away, away, my steed and I, 
 Upon the pinions of the wind, 
 All human dwellings left behind ; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky. 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is ohequer'd with the northern light : 
 "Town — village — none were on our track. 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent. 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some strong hold. 
 Against the Tartars built of old. 
 No trace of man. The year before 
 A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod : 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray. 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by^ 
 I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
 But fast we fled, away, away, 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear. 
 He flew upon his far career : 
 At times I almost thought, indeed, 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angry might. 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony 
 Increas'd his fury and affright ; 
 I tried my voice, — 't was faint, and low, 
 But yet he swerv'd as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame. 
 
 XII 
 
 " We near'd the wild wood — '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 doNv-n 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 unpierc'd 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. 
 \ye rustled through the leaves like w'ind, 
 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 mnding 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 died amidst the horde. 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destrojnng many a foe. 
 i When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won ; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain 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 fore«t-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 wntry stream. 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 I well could count their causes o er : 
 
33? 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 And what with fury, lear, and wrath. 
 The tortures which beset my path. 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
 Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 The 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 roU'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 sides spim 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 blaclaiess come and go. 
 
 And strove to wake ; but could not 
 make 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 I felt as on a plank at sea. 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
 At the same time upheave and whelm, 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 Mv 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. 
 
 " Mv 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 ; 
 Mv ear ™th 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 s^vims the wilder stre.im ! 
 The bright broad ii\-er's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far ,;nd wide, 
 .\iid we are half-way, struggling o'er 
 Ti3 yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance, 
 
 And ivith a temporary strength 
 
 Mv stiffeu'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 My courser's broad breast proudly braves. 
 And dashes off the ascending waves. 
 And onward we advance ! 
 We reach the sUppery shore at length, 
 
 A haven I but little prized, 
 For all behind was dark and drear. 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 How many homrs 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 repelhng 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 Mght, 
 As rose the moon upon my right : 
 
 But nought distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate ; 
 No twinkUng taper from afar 
 Stood hke a hospitable star ; 
 Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
 To make him merry with my woes 
 
 That very cheat had cheer' d me then ! 
 Although detected, welcome still. 
 Reminding me, through every Ul, 
 
 C)f 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 tameness nought avail'd — . 
 My hmbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 
 
 Perchance, had thev been free. 
 With feeble, effort still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied. 
 
 But still it was in \-am ; 
 i\Iy Umbs were only wrung the more. 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 
 
 \\hich but prolong'd their pain : 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done. 
 Although no goal was nearlv won : 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun 
 
 How slow, alas I he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day ; 
 How heav.ly it roU'd awa\-^ 
 
 Bifore the .v.ileru flame 
 
MAZEPPA 
 
 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 pfint 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. JMany 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 reehng on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is It the wind those branches stirs ? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my hps were dumb. 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 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, 
 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 Umbs 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, 
 
 _339 
 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath rac stretch. 
 Relieved from that unwonted weight. 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me — and there we lay, 
 
 The dying on the dead ! 
 I little deem'd another day 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
 
 " And there from morn to twihght bound, 
 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round, 
 
 With just enough of hfe 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 
 
 Present the worst and last of fears : 
 
 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 \iew'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, repahr'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 dazzhng 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 dawu upon his grave ? 
 
 XVllL 
 
 " The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 
 Chain'd to the chill and stiftening 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. 
 .\nd there between me and the sun 
 
340 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 I Faw the expecting raven fly, 
 
 Who scarce would wait till both should dip, 
 
 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 
 strengtli ; 
 But the slight motion of my hand, 
 And feeble scratching of the sand. 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise. 
 Which scarcely could be called 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. 
 
 xrx 
 " I woke — where was I ? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on me ? 
 And doth a roof above me close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
 That watches me with gentle glance ? 
 
 I closed my own again once more, 
 .■\s doubtful that my 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, 
 E\en with my first return of thought ; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pit\'ing glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be, — 
 But that I In-ed, 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 essayed to speak, 
 
 But fail'd — and she approach'd, and 
 made 
 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strii-e 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 foUow'd her Mght 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 
 ^Vere near, at my command or call. 
 
 And she would not delay 
 Her due return : — while she %vas gone 
 Mothought I felt too much alone. 
 
 XX 
 
 " She came with mother and with sire — 
 What need of more ? — I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest. 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
 They found me senseless on the 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 ? 
 
 Let none despond, let none despair ! 
 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 May see our C' Pursers graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank, and never 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 
 As I shall yield when safely there. 
 Comrades, good night ! " — The Hetman 
 threw 
 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 .A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him, who took his rest whene'er 
 The hour arrived, no matter where : 
 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles foreot 
 To thank his tale, he wondcr'd not, — 
 
 The king had been an hour asleep. 
 
THE ISLAND 
 
 341 
 
 THE ISLAND: 
 
 CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES 
 
 CAXTO THE FIRST 
 I 
 The morning watch was come ; the vessel 
 
 lay 
 Her course, and gently made her liquid 
 
 way ; 
 The cloven billow flash'd from off her 
 
 prow 
 In furrows form' d by that majestic plough ; 
 The waters with their world were all before ; 
 Behind, the South Sea'smany an islet shore. 
 The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to 
 
 wane. 
 Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
 The dolphins, not unconscious of the day. 
 Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
 The stars from broader beams began to 
 
 creep, 
 And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
 The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white, 
 And the wind ilutter'd with a freshening 
 
 flight; 
 The purpling ocean owns the coming sun. 
 But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 
 
 The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
 Secure in those by whom the watch was 
 
 kept ; 
 His dreams were of Old England's welcome 
 
 shore, 
 Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 
 His name was added to the glorious roll 
 Of those who search the storm-s^Irrounded 
 
 Pole. 
 
 The worst was over, and the rest seem'd 
 
 sure, 
 
 >, And why should not his slumber be secure ? 
 
 Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet. 
 
 And wilder hands would hold the vessel's 
 
 sheet ; 
 Young hearts, which languish'd for some 
 
 sunny isle, 
 Where summer years and summer women 
 
 smile ; 
 Men without country, who, too long 
 
 estranged. 
 Had found no native home, or found it 
 
 changed. 
 And, half uncivilised, preferr'd the cave 
 Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
 The gushing fruits that nature gave untiU'd ; 
 The wood without a path but where they 
 
 will'd ; 
 The field o'er which promiscuous Plenty 
 pour'd ! 
 
 Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 
 
 The wish— which ages have not yet sub- 
 dued 
 
 In man — to have no master save his mood ; 
 
 the earth, whose mine was on its face, un- 
 sold. 
 
 The glowing sun and produce all its gold • 
 
 The freedom which can call each grot a 
 home ; 
 
 The general garden, where all steps may 
 roam, 
 
 Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 
 
 Exultmg in the enjoyment of the wild ; 
 
 Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth 
 they know. 
 
 Their unexploring navv, the canoe ; 
 
 Their sport, the dashing breakers and the 
 chase ; 
 
 Their strangest sight, an European face : — 
 
 Such was the country which these stranger? 
 yeam'd 
 
 To see again ; a sight they dearly eam'd. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 
 
 Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 
 
 Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
 
 Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and 
 fear. 
 
 Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy 
 breast ; 
 
 The hands, which trembled at thy voice, 
 arrest ; 
 
 Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy com- 
 mand 
 
 The obedient helm shall veer, the sail ex- 
 pand ; 
 
 That savage spirit, which would lull by 
 wrath 
 
 Its desperate escape from duty's path. 
 
 Glares round thee, in the scarce believing 
 eyes 
 
 Of those who fear the -chief they sacrifice : 
 
 For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage. 
 
 Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 
 
 IV 
 
 In vain, not silenced by the eye of death. 
 
 Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced 
 breath : — 
 
 They come not ; they are few, and, over- 
 awed. 
 
 Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts ap- 
 plaud. 
 
 In vain thou dost demand the cause : a 
 curse 
 
 Is all the answer, with the threat of wors''. 
 
 Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering 
 blade, 
 
342 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet 
 
 laid. 
 The levell'd muskets circle round thy 
 
 breast 
 In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 
 Thou dar'st them to their worst, exclaiming 
 
 —"Fire! " 
 But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 
 Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
 Restrain'd them longer than their broken 
 
 law ; 
 They would not dip their souls at once in 
 
 blood, 
 But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 
 
 " Hoist out the boat ! " was now the 
 
 leader's cry ; 
 And who dare answer " No ! " to Mutiny, 
 In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 
 The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power ? 
 The boat is lower'd with all the haste of 
 
 hate. 
 With its slight plank between thee and thy 
 
 fate ; 
 Her only cargo such a scant supply 
 As promises the death their hands deny ; 
 And just enough of water and of bread 
 To keep, some days, the dying from the 
 
 dead : 
 Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and 
 
 tmne, 
 But treasures all to hermits of the brine, 
 Werp added after, to the earnest prayer 
 Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air ; 
 And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 
 The feeling compass — Navigation's soul. 
 
 VI 
 
 And now the self-elected chief finds time 
 
 To stun the first sensation of his crime. 
 
 And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the 
 bowl ! " 
 
 Lest passion should return to reason's 
 shoal. 
 
 " Brandy for heroes ! " Burke could once 
 exclaim — 
 
 No doubt a liquid p'ath to epic fame ; 
 
 .\nd such the new-born heroes found it 
 here. 
 
 And drain'd the draught with an applaud- 
 ing cheer. 
 
 " Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry. 
 
 I-Iow strange such shouts from sons of 
 Mutin>- ! 
 
 The Ki-ntle inland, and the genial soil. 
 
 The friendly hearts, the feasts without a 
 toil, 
 
 The courteous manners but from nature 
 caught, 
 
 The wealth uiihoarded, and the love un- 
 l)Ought ; 
 
 Could these ]\,ive rlK'rnis lO' rudest sea- 
 boys, drivcu 
 
 Before the mast by every wind of hea\en ? 
 And now, even now prepared with others' 
 
 woes 
 To earn mild ^'irtue's vain desire, repose ? 
 Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 
 At the same end by pathways not the same ; 
 Our means, our birth, our nation, and our 
 
 name. 
 Our fortune, temper, even our outward 
 
 frame. 
 Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
 Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
 Yet still there whispers the small voice 
 
 within. 
 Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er 
 
 Glory's din : 
 Whatever creed be taught, or land be trod, 
 Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 
 
 The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
 Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
 But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
 Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
 And view'd their captain's fate with piteous 
 
 eyes ; 
 While others scoff'd his augur'd miseries, 
 Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail, 
 And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
 The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
 The sea-bom sailor of his shell canoe. 
 The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
 Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
 He, when the lightning-wing'd tornados 
 
 sweep 
 The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
 And triumphs o'er the armadas of man- 
 kind. 
 Which shake the world, yet crumble in the 
 wind. 
 
 When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
 Which hail'd her master in the mutineer, 
 A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
 Show'd the vain p;t\- which but irritates ; 
 Watch 'd his late rlucftain with exploring 
 
 eye. 
 And told, in signs, repentant svmpathv ; 
 Held the moist shaddock to his parched 
 
 mouth. 
 Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter 
 
 drouth. 
 But soon observed, this guardian was with- 
 drawn. 
 Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
 Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward 
 
 boy 
 Hi< chief had cherish'd onlv to destroy. 
 And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
 Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is 
 
 death ! " 
 Yet then, c\en then, his feelings ceased not 
 
 all ; 
 
THE ISIAKD 
 
 In that last moment could a word recall 
 Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
 And what he hid from many show'd to one ; 
 When Bligh in stern reproach demanded 
 
 where 
 Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
 Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
 And blazon Britain's thousand glnries 
 
 higher ? 
 His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy 
 
 spell, 
 " 'T is that ! 't is that ! I am in hell ! in 
 
 hell ! •* 
 No more he said ; but urging to the bjrk 
 His chief, commits him to his fragile ark ; 
 ^ These the sole accents from his tongue that 
 fell, 
 But volumes lurk'd below his fierce fare- 
 well. 
 
 The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
 The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from 
 
 his cave ; 
 As on the JEoMaa harp, his fitful wings 
 Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean 
 
 strings. 
 With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd 
 
 skiff 
 Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce seen 
 
 cliff, 
 Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
 That boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
 
 But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief. 
 Their constant peril, and their scant relief ; 
 Their days of danger, and their nights of 
 
 pain ; 
 Their manly courage even when deem'd in 
 
 vain ; 
 The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
 Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
 The ills that lessen'd still their little store. 
 And starv'd even Hunger till he wTung no 
 
 more ; 
 The varying frowns and f avoms of the deep, 
 That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to 
 
 creep 
 With crazy oar and shatter'd strength 
 
 along 
 The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 
 The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
 Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that 
 
 burst 
 Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
 In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 
 And from the outspread canvass gladly 
 
 wrings 
 A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs ; 
 The savage foe escap'd, to seek again 
 More hospitable shelter from the main ; 
 The ghastly spectres which were doom'd 
 
 at last 
 To tell as true a tale of dangers past. 
 
 343 
 
 As c\ ,T tin; dark annals of the deep 
 Uibclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 
 
 We leave them to their fate, but not un- 
 known 
 
 Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her 
 own : 
 
 Roused discipline aloud proclaims their 
 cause. 
 
 And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
 
 Pursue we on his track the mutineer. 
 
 Whom distant vengeance had not taught 
 to fear. 
 
 Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 
 
 Ouce more his eyes shall hail the welcome 
 bay ; 
 
 Once more the happy shores without a laiv 
 
 Receive the outlaws whom thev lately saw ; 
 
 Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman — 
 woos 
 
 To lands where, save their conscience, none 
 accuse ; 
 
 Where all partake the earth without dis- 
 pute, 
 
 And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit ; 
 
 Where none contest the fields, the woods,, 
 the streams : — 
 
 The goldless age, where gold disturbs no 
 dreams, 
 
 Inhabits or inhabited the shore. 
 
 Till Europe taught them better than before 
 
 Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs 
 
 But left her vices also to their heirs. 
 
 Away with this ! behold them as they were,. 
 
 Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
 
 " Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry. 
 
 As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
 
 The breeze springs up ; the lately flapping 
 sail 
 
 Extends its arch before the grcwing gale - 
 
 In swifter ripples stream aside the seas. 
 
 Which her bold bow flings off with dashing- 
 ease. 
 
 Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's \4rgin 
 foam. 
 
 But those she wafted still look'd back to 
 home ; 
 
 These spurn their country with their rebel 
 bark, 
 
 And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
 
 And yet they seek to nestle with the dove. 
 
 And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND 
 
 I 
 
 How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai, 
 
 When summer's sun went down the coral 
 
 bay ! 
 Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 
 And hear the warbhng birds ! the damsels. 
 
 said : 
 The wood-dove from the forest depth shall 
 
 coo. 
 
344 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Like voices of tlie gods from Bolotoo ; 
 We '11 cull the flowers that grow above the 
 
 dead, 
 For these most bloom where rests tho 
 
 warrior's head ; 
 And we will sit in twilight's face, and sea 
 The sweet moon glancing through the tooa 
 
 tree. 
 The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 
 Shall sadly please us as we lean belrw ; 
 Or climb the steep, and view the surf in 
 
 vain 
 Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 
 Which spurn in columns back the baffled 
 
 spray. 
 How beautiful are these ! how happy they, 
 Who, from the toil and tumult of their li\-es. 
 Steal to look down where nought but ocean 
 
 strives ! 
 Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, 
 And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the 
 
 Yes — from the sepulchre we '11 gather 
 
 flowers. 
 Then feast like spirits in their promised 
 
 bowers. 
 Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf. 
 Then lay our limbs along the tender turf. 
 And, wet and shining from the sportive 
 
 toil. 
 Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, 
 And plait our garlands gather'd from the 
 
 gra\'e, 
 And wear the wreaths that sprung from 
 
 out the brave. 
 But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us 
 
 back, 
 The sound of mats are heard along our 
 
 track ; 
 Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its 
 
 sheen 
 In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 
 And we too will be there ; we too recall 
 The memorj- bright with many a festival. 
 Ere Fiji blew the shell of war. when foes 
 For the first time were wafted in canoes. 
 Alas ! for them the flower of mankind 
 
 bleeds ; 
 Alas ! for them our fields are rank with 
 
 weeds : 
 Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown. 
 Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
 But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 
 The club, and rain our arrows o'er the fi^ld : 
 Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 
 But feast to-night ! to-morrow we depart. 
 Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 
 Drain every drop ! — to-morrow wc may 
 
 die. 
 In summer garments be our limbs arrav'd ; 
 Around our waists the tappa's white clis- 
 
 play'd ; 
 
 Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like 
 
 spring's, 
 And round our necks shall glance the hooni 
 
 strings ; 
 So shall their brighter hues contrast the 
 
 glow 
 Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 
 
 Ill 
 But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
 Ah, pause ! nor vet put out the social smile. 
 To-morrow for the Mooa we depart. 
 But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
 Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo. 
 Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
 How lovely are your forms ! how every 
 
 sense 
 Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, 
 Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep. 
 Which fling their fragrance far athwart the 
 
 deep ! — 
 We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my 
 
 heart ! — 
 What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
 Before the winds blew Europe o'er these 
 
 climes. 
 True, they had vices — such are Nature's 
 
 groivth — 
 But only the barbarian's — we have both ; 
 The sordor of ci\ilisation, mix'd 
 With all the savage which man's fall hath 
 
 fix'd. 
 Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign. 
 The prayers of Abel Unk'd to deeds of Cain? 
 Who such would see may from his lattice 
 
 view 
 The Old World more degraded than the 
 
 New, — 
 Now neiD no more, save where Columbia 
 
 rears 
 Twin giants, bom by Freedom to her 
 
 sphere.s. 
 Where Chimborazo, over a\t, earth, wave. 
 Glares irith his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 
 
 Such was this ditty of Tradition's davs. 
 Which to the clead« lingering fame coiivevs 
 In song, where fame as vet hath left no 
 
 sign 
 Beyond the sound whose charm is half 
 
 di\Tne ; 
 Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye. 
 But yields young historv all to harmonv • 
 A boy .\chilles, with the centaur's Ivre 
 In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire 
 For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple 
 
 stave. 
 Rung from the rock, or mingled with the 
 
 wave. 
 
 Or from the bubbling streamlet's firassv 
 side, ■" 
 
THE ISLAND 
 
 345 
 
 Or gathering mountain echoes as they 
 
 glide, 
 Hath greater power o'er each true heart 
 
 and ear, 
 Than all the columns Conquest's minions 
 
 rear ; 
 Invites, when hieroglyphics are. a theme 
 For sages' labours, or the studeu't's dream ; 
 Attracts, when History's volumes are a 
 
 toil,— 
 The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 
 Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the 
 
 rude — 
 But such inspir'd the Norseman's solitude, 
 -Who came and conquer'd ; such, wherever 
 
 rise 
 Lands which no foes destroy or civilise. 
 Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 
 Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd 
 
 heart ? 
 
 VI 
 
 And sweetly now those untaught melodies 
 Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 
 The sweet siesta of a summer day, 
 The tropic afternoon of Toobohai, 
 When every flower was bloom, and air was 
 
 balm. 
 And the first breath began to stir the palm. 
 The first yet voiceless wind to urge the 
 
 wave 
 All gently to refresh the thirsty cave. 
 Where sat the songstress with the stranger 
 
 boy. 
 Who taught her passion's desolating joy. 
 Too powerful over every heart, but most 
 O'er those who know not how it may be 
 
 lost; 
 O'er those who, burning in the new-born 
 
 fire. 
 Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 
 With such devotion to their ecstasy. 
 That life knows no such rapture as to die : 
 And die they do ; for earthly life has nought 
 Match'd with that burst of nature, even in 
 
 thought ; 
 And all our dreams of better Ufe above 
 But close in one eternal gush of love. 
 
 VII 
 
 There sat the gentle savage of the mid. 
 In growth a woman, though in years a child, 
 As childhood dates within our colder clime. 
 Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save 
 crime ; 
 I The infant of an infant world, as pure 
 From nature — lovely, warm, and prema- 
 ture, ; 
 Dusky like night, but night with all her 
 
 stars ; 
 Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 
 'With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
 A form like- Aphrodite's in her shell, 
 With all her loves around her on the deep, 
 Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 
 
 Yet full of life — for through her tropic 
 
 cheek 
 The blush would make its way, and all but 
 
 speak ; 
 The sun-bom blood suffused her neck, and 
 
 threw 
 O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue, 
 Like coral reddening through the darken'd 
 
 wave, - 
 Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 
 Such was this daughter of the southern 
 
 seas. 
 Herself a billow in her energies. 
 To bear the bark of others' happiness. 
 Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less : 
 Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom 
 
 knew 
 No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er 
 
 drew 
 Aught from experience, that chill touch- 
 stone, whose 
 Sad proof reduces all things from their hues: 
 She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not. 
 Or what she knew was soon — too soon — 
 
 forgot : 
 Her smiles and tears liad pass'd, as hght 
 
 winds pass 
 O'er lakes to rulBe, not destroy, their glass, 
 Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains 
 
 from the hill. 
 Restore their surface, in itself so still, 
 Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave. 
 Root up the spring, and trample on the 
 
 wave,« 
 And crush the living waters to a mass. 
 The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 
 And must their fate be hers ? The eternal 
 
 change 
 But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 
 And they who fall but fall as wurlds will 
 
 fall. 
 To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 
 
 VIII 
 
 And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern 
 
 child 1 
 Of isles more ImoAvn to man, but scarce less 
 
 wild ; 
 The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides, 
 \'Vhere roars the Pentland with its whirlmg 
 
 Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind. 
 The tempest-born in body and in mind, 
 His young eves opening on the ocean-foam. 
 Had from that moment deem'd the deep 
 
 his home. 
 The giant comrade of his pensive moods. 
 The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 
 The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 
 His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and 
 
 air ; , , . ^ ■ 
 
 A careless thing, who placed his choice m 
 
 Nursed by the legends cf his land's romance ; 
 A A 
 
346 
 
 TALES AND POE.AIS 
 
 Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 
 Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 
 Placed in the Arab's cUme, he would have 
 
 been 
 As bold a rover as the sands have seen. 
 And braved their thirst with as enduring 
 
 lip 
 As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ; 
 Fix'd upon ChiU's shore, a prou4 cacique ; 
 On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek ; 
 Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 
 Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
 For the same soul that rends its path to 
 
 sway. 
 If rear'd to such," can find no further prey 
 Beyond itself, and must retrace its way. 
 Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 
 Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst 
 
 shame, 
 A humbler state and discipline of heart, 
 Had formed his glorious namesake's 
 
 counterpart ; 
 But grant his vices, grant them all his o'wn. 
 How small their theatre %vithout a throne ! 
 
 Thou smilest : — these comparisons seem 
 
 high 
 To those who scan all things with dazzled 
 
 eye ; 
 Link'd with the unknown name of one 
 
 whose doom 
 Has nought to do with glory or \vith Rome, 
 With Chili, Hellas, or with Arab*- ;— 
 Thou smilest ? — Smile ; 'tis better thus 
 
 than sigh ; 
 Yet such he might have been ; he was a 
 
 man, 
 A soarihg spirit, ever in the van, 
 A patriot hero or despotic chief, 
 To form a nation's glory or its grief, 
 Born under auspices which make us more 
 Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
 But these are visions ; say, what was he 
 
 here ? 
 A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 
 The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's 
 
 spray, 
 The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 
 
 By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the 
 
 waters, — 
 Neuha, the sun-flower of the island 
 
 daughters, 
 Highborn, (a birth at which the herald 
 
 smiles, 
 Without a scutcheon for these secret isles.) 
 Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 
 The naked knights of sa\-age chivalry. 
 Whose grassy cairns ascend along the 
 
 shore ; 
 And thine — I 've seen — Achilles ! do no 
 
 more. 
 
 She, when the thunder-bearing strangers 
 
 came. 
 In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 
 Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than 
 
 the palm, 
 Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm : 
 Bui whenjhe winds awaken'd, shot forth 
 
 wings * 
 Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 
 And sway'd the waves, Uke cities of the sea, 
 Making the very billows look less free ; — 
 She, with her paddling oar and dancing 
 
 prow. 
 Shot through the surf, hke reindeer through 
 
 the snow. 
 Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening 
 
 edge, 
 Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge. 
 And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk. 
 Which heaved from wave to wave its 
 
 trampling bulk. 
 The anchor dropp'd ; it lay along the 
 
 deep. 
 Like a huge lion in the sun asleep. 
 While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting 
 
 chain, 
 Like summer bees that hum around his 
 
 mane. 
 
 XI 
 
 The white man landed ! — need the rest be 
 
 told? 
 The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to 
 
 the Old ; 
 Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
 Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
 Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 
 -■Vud kinder stiU their daughters' gentler 
 
 fires. 
 Their union grew : the children of the 
 
 storm 
 Found beauty link'd with many a dusky 
 
 form ; 
 While these in turn admired the paler glow. 
 Which seem'd so white in climes that knew 
 
 no snow. 
 The chase, the race, the hbertv to roam, 
 The soil where every cottage show'd a 
 
 home ; 
 The sea-spread net, the lightly launch'd 
 
 canoe. 
 Which stemm'd the stu.Unl archipelago. 
 O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 
 The healthy slumber, eam'd bv sportive 
 
 toils ; 
 The pahn, the loftiest dryad of the woods, 
 Within whose bosom infant Bacchus 
 
 broods. 
 While eagles scarce build higher than the 
 
 crest 
 ^\■hich sliadows o'er the \inevard in her 
 
 breast ; 
 The c,i\a least, the vam. the cocoa's root. 
 W hich bears at once the cup, and milk, and 
 
 fruit ; 
 
THE ISLAND 
 
 347 
 
 The bread-tree, which, without the plough- 
 share, fields 
 The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 
 And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
 Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, 
 And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 
 A priceless market for the gathering 
 
 guest ; — 
 These, with the luxuries of seas and woods. 
 The airy joys of social solitudes, 
 Tamed each rude wanderer to the sym- 
 pathies 
 Of those who were more happy, if less 
 
 wise. 
 Did more than Europe's discipline had 
 
 done, 
 And civilised Civilisation's son ! 
 
 Of these, and there was many a willing 
 
 pair, 
 Neuha and Torquil were not the least 
 
 . fair : 
 Both children of the isles, though distant 
 
 far; 
 Both born beneath a sea-presiding star ; 
 Both nourish'd amidst nature's native 
 
 scenes. 
 Loved to* the last, whatever intervenes 
 Between us and our childhood's sympathy. 
 Which still reverts to what first caugKt the 
 
 eye. 
 He who first met the Highlands' swelling 
 
 blue 
 Will love each peak that shows a kindred 
 
 hue. 
 Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
 .\nd clasp the mountain in his mind's em- 
 brace. 
 Long have I roam'd through lands which 
 
 are not mine. 
 Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
 Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
 Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 
 But 't was not all long ages' lore, nor all 
 Their nature held me in their thrilMng 
 
 thrall ; 
 The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
 And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er 
 
 Troy, 
 Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian 
 
 mount, 
 And Highland Unns with Castalie's clear 
 
 fount. 
 Forgive me. Homer's universal shade ! 
 Forgive me, Phcebus ! that my fancy 
 
 stray'd ; 
 The north and nature taught me to adore 
 Your scenes sublime, from those beloved 
 
 before. 
 
 XIII 
 
 TH6 love which maketh all things fond and 
 fair, 
 
 The youth which makes one rainbo\/ of the 
 
 air. 
 The dangers past, that make even man 
 
 enjoy 
 The pause in which he ceases to destroy. 
 The mutual beauty, which the sternest 
 
 feel 
 Strike to their hearts hke lightning to the 
 
 steel, 
 United the half savage and the whole, 
 The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
 No more the thundering memory of the 
 
 fight 
 Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark 
 
 delight ; 
 No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
 Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest. 
 Whose whetted beak and far-pervading 
 
 eye 
 Darts for a victim over all the sky ; 
 His heart was tamed to that \oiuptuous 
 
 state, 
 At once Elysian and effeminate. 
 Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's 
 
 urn ; — 
 These wither when for aught save blood 
 
 they burn ; 
 Vet when their ashes in their nook are 
 
 laid, 
 Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
 Had Cajsar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
 Rome had been free, the world had not 
 
 been his. 
 And what have Cesar's deeds and Caesar's 
 
 fame 
 Done for the earth ? We feel them in our 
 
 shame 
 The gory sanction of his glory stains 
 The rust which tyrants cherish on our 
 
 chains. 
 Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, 
 
 bid 
 Roused millions do what single Brutus 
 
 did— 
 Sweep these mere mock-birdr of the des- 
 pot's song 
 From the tall bough where they have 
 
 perch'd so long, — 
 Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing 
 
 owls. 
 And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 
 When but a word of freedom would dispel 
 These bugbears, as their terrors show too 
 
 well. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of Ufe, 
 Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife. 
 With no distracting ivorld to call her off 
 From love ; with no society to scoff 
 At the new transient flame ; no babbUng 
 
 crowd 
 Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
 Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
 Her duty, and her glory, and her joy : 
 
1(8 
 
 TALES AXD POEMS 
 
 With faith and feehngs nalced as her form, 
 She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
 Changing its hues with bnght variety, 
 But still expanding lovelier o'er the skv, 
 Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours 
 
 mo\'e. 
 The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 
 
 Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn 
 
 shore. 
 They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
 Nor long the hours — they ne^'er paused o'er 
 
 time. 
 Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime. 
 Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 
 And points and mocks with iron .laugh at 
 
 man. 
 What deem'd they of the future or the 
 
 past ? 
 The present, hke a tyrant, held tliem fast : 
 Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the 
 
 tide. 
 Like her smooth billow, saw their moments 
 
 glide ; 
 Their clock the sun, in his unbounded 
 
 tow'r ; 
 They reckou'd not, whose day was but an 
 
 hour ; 
 The nightingale, their only ^'e^per-beIl, 
 Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ; 
 The broad sun set, but not with lingering 
 
 sweep. 
 As in the north he mellows o'er the deep ; 
 But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
 The world for ever, earth of light bereft, 
 Plunged with red forehead down along the 
 
 \vave, 
 As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
 Then rose they, looking lirst along the skies, 
 And then for light into each other's eyes. 
 Wondering that summer show'd so brief a 
 
 sun. 
 And asking if indeed the day were done. 
 
 XVI 
 
 And let not this seem strange : the devo- 
 tee 
 
 Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 
 
 Around him days and worlds are heedless 
 driven. 
 
 His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
 
 Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod, 
 
 Alike uphfted gloriously to God ; 
 
 (Jr Imk'd to all we know li heaven below, 
 
 Ihe other better self, whose jov or woe 
 
 Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing 
 flame 
 
 Which, kindled by another, grows the 
 same, 
 
 Wrapt in one blaze ; the pure, vet funeral 
 pile, 
 
 Where gentle hearts, Uke Bramins, sit and 
 smile. 
 
 How often we forget all time, when lone, 
 Admiring Nature's universal throne, 
 Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the in- 
 tense 
 Reply of hers to our intelligence ! 
 j Live not the stars and mountains ? Are 
 the waves 
 U'ithout a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 
 ( Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 
 { No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their 
 I spheres, 
 
 j Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 
 
 I Its hour, and merge our soul in the great 
 
 shore. 
 
 Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 
 
 Who thinks of self when gazing on the sky ? 
 
 And who, though gazing lower, ever 
 
 thought. 
 In the young moments ere the heart is 
 
 taught 
 Time's lesson, of man's basene3s or his 
 
 own ? 
 All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 
 
 Neuha arose, and Torquil ; twilight's hour 
 Came sad and softly to their rockv bower, 
 Which, kindling by degrees its dewv spars, 
 Echoed their dim hght to the mustering 
 
 stars. 
 Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
 Sought out their cottage, built beneath the 
 
 palm : 
 Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
 Lovelv as Love — the spirit ! — when serene'. 
 The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his 
 
 swell. 
 Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the 
 
 shell. 
 As, far di^dded from his parent deep. 
 The. sea-bom infant cries, and will not 
 
 sleep. 
 Raising his Httle plaint in vain, to rave 
 For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
 The woods droop'd darkly, as inchned to 
 
 rest. 
 The tropic burd wheel'd rockward to his 
 
 nest, 
 .\nd the blue sky spread round them like a 
 
 lake 
 Of peace, where Piety her thirst might 
 
 slake. 
 
 x-nii 
 But through the palm and plantain, hark 
 
 a \'oice ! ' 
 
 Not such as would have been a lover's 
 
 choice. 
 In such an hour, to break the air so still ■ 
 No dvmg night-breeze, harping o'er the 
 
 Striking the strings of nature, rock and 
 
 tree. 
 Tiiose best and earliest hTes of harmonv, 
 
THE ISLAND 
 
 3-^0 
 
 With Echo for their chorus ; nor the 
 
 alarm 
 Of the loud war-hoop to dispel the charm ; 
 Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 
 Exhaling all his solitary soul, 
 The dim though large-eyed winged 
 
 anchorite, 
 Who peals his dreary psean o'er the night ; 
 I3ut a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
 As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
 And then a pause, and then a hoarse, 
 
 ■' Hillo ! 
 Torquil, my boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! 
 
 brother, ho ! " 
 " Who hails ? " cried Torquil, following 
 
 with his eye 
 The sound. " Here's one," was all the 
 
 brief reply. 
 
 XIX 
 
 But here the herald of the self-same mouth 
 Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 
 Not like a " bed of violets " on the gale. 
 But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale. 
 Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet 
 
 had blown 
 Its gentle odours over either zone, 
 And, puff d where'er winds rise or waters 
 
 roll, 
 Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to 
 
 the Pole, 
 Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd. 
 And reek'd, 'midst mountain-billows, un- 
 
 abash'd, 
 To /Eolus a constant saarifice. 
 Through every change of all the varying 
 
 skies. 
 And what was he who bore it ? — I may err. 
 But deem him sailor or philosopher. 2 
 Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 
 Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's 
 
 rest ; 
 Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 
 His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 
 Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, 
 Though not less loved, in Wapping or the 
 
 Strand ; 
 Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 
 When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and 
 
 ripe ; 
 Like other charmers, wooing the caress, 
 More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 
 Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
 Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 
 
 XX 
 
 Through the approaching darkness of the 
 
 wood 
 A human figure broke the solitude. 
 Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
 A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
 Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
 When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep. 
 And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
 
 Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd 
 
 car ; 
 And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his 
 
 name 
 Revive once more, though but in mimic 
 
 game 
 Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
 Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
 Still the old god delights, from out the 
 
 main, 
 To snatch some glimpses of his ancient 
 
 reign. 
 Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
 His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd 
 
 dim. 
 His foremast air, and somewhat rolling 
 
 gait, 
 Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
 But then a sort of kerchief round his head. 
 Not over tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
 And, 'stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
 For even the mildest woods will have their 
 
 thorn) 
 A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
 Now served for inexpressibles and liat ; 
 His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt 
 
 face, 
 Perchance might suit aUke with either 
 
 race. 
 His arms were all his own, our Europe's 
 
 growth. 
 Which two worlds bless for ci vihsing both ; 
 The musket swung behind his shoulders 
 
 broad. 
 And somewhat stoop'd by his marine 
 
 abode. 
 But brawny as the boar's ; and hung be- 
 neath. 
 His cutlass droop' d, unconscious of a 
 
 sheath. 
 Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
 Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
 (Let not this metaphor appear a scoff. 
 Though one miss'd fire, the other would go 
 
 off) ; 
 These, with a bayonet, not so free from 
 
 rust 
 As when the arm-chest held its brighter 
 
 trust, 
 Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
 Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 
 
 XXI 
 
 " What cheer, F en Bunting ? " cried 
 (when in full view 
 
 Our new acquaintance) Torquil. " Aught 
 of new ? " 
 
 " Ev, ey ! " quoth Ben, " not new, but 
 ' news enow ; „ ., , . 
 
 A strange sail in the offing."— ' Sail ! and 
 how ? . 
 
 What ! could you make her out ? It can- 
 not be ; 
 
 I've seen no rag of canvass '^.n the «ea. ' 
 
35° 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 " Belike," said Ben, " you might not from 
 
 the bay, 
 But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd 
 
 to-day, 
 I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 
 Was light and baffling." — " When the sun 
 
 declined 
 Where la}^ she ? had she anchor'd ? " — 
 
 " No, but still 
 She bore down on us, till the wind grew 
 
 still" 
 " Her flag ? " — " I had no glass : but fore 
 
 and aft. 
 Egad ! she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 
 " Arm'd ? " — " I expect so ; — sent on the 
 
 look-out ; 
 'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 
 " About ? — Whate'er may have us now in 
 
 chase. 
 We '11 make no running fight, for that were 
 
 base ; 
 We will die at our quarters, like true men." 
 " Ey, ey ! for that 't is all the same to Ben." 
 "Does Christian know this?" — "Ay; 
 
 he has piped all hands 
 To quarters. They afe furbishing the 
 
 stands 
 Of arms ; and we have got some guns to 
 
 bear. 
 And scaled them. You are wanted." — 
 
 " That's but fair ; 
 And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
 To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
 My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
 Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
 But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
 Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
 A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes ! " 
 " Right," quoth Ben ; " that will do for 
 
 the marines." 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD 
 
 The fight was o'er ; the flashing through 
 
 the gloom, 
 Which robes the cannon as he wings a 
 
 tomb. 
 Had ceased ; and sulphury vapours up- 
 ward driven 
 Had left the earth, and but polluted 
 
 heaven : 
 The rattling roar wliich rung in e\-ery 
 
 volley 
 Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
 No more they shriek'd their horror, boom 
 
 for boom ; 
 The strife was done, the vanquish'd had 
 
 their doom ; 
 The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or 
 
 ta'en. 
 Or lived to deem the happiest were the 
 
 slain. 
 
 Few, few escaped, and these were hunted 
 
 o'er 
 The isle they loved beyond their native 
 
 shore, 
 No further home was theirs, it seem d, on 
 
 earth. 
 Once renegades to that which gave them 
 
 birth ; 
 Track'd like wild beasts, like them they 
 
 sought the wild. 
 As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
 But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, 
 And still more vainly men escape firom men. 
 
 Beneath a rock whose jutting base pro- 
 trudes 
 Far over ocean in its fiercest moods, 
 When scaMng his enormous crag the wave 
 Is hurled down headlong, like the foremost 
 
 brave. 
 And falls back on the foaming crowd be- 
 hind. 
 Which fight beneath the banners of the 
 
 wind. 
 But now at rest, a Kttle remnant drew 
 Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 
 But still their weapons in their hands, and 
 
 stm 
 With something of the pride of former will. 
 As men not all unused to meditate, 
 And strive much more than wonder at 
 
 their fate. 
 Their present lot was what they had fore- 
 seen, 
 And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
 Yet stm the lingering hope, which deem'd 
 
 their lot 
 Not pardon'd,but unsought for or forgot. 
 Or trusted that, if sought, their distant 
 
 caves 
 Might still be miss'd amidst the world of 
 
 waves. 
 Had wean'a their thoughts in part from 
 
 what they saw 
 And felt, the vengeance of their country's 
 
 law. 
 Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won para- 
 dise. 
 No more could shield their \-irtue or their 
 
 vice : 
 Their better feelings, if such were, were 
 
 thrown 
 Back on themselves, — theu: sins remain'd 
 
 alone. 
 Proscribed even in their second country 
 they ' 
 
 Were lost ; in vain the world before them 
 
 lay ; 
 AH outlets seem'd secured. Their new 
 
 allies 
 Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ■ 
 But what avail'd the club and spear and- 
 arm ' 
 
TiIE ISLAND 
 
 Of Hercules, against the sulphurv rhanii, 
 The magic of the thunder, which destroy' d 
 The warrior ere his strength could bo 
 
 employ'd ? 
 Dug, lilie a spreading pestilence, the grave 
 No less of human bravery than the 
 
 brave ! 
 Their own scant numbers acted all the lev/ 
 Against the many oft will dare and do ; 
 But though the choice seems native to die 
 
 free. 
 Even Greece can boast but one Thermop>'l, o, 
 Till now, when she has forged her broken 
 
 chain 
 Back to a sword, and dies and hves again ! 
 
 Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd, 
 Like the last remnant of the red-deer's 
 
 herd ; 
 Their eyes were -feverish, and their aspect 
 
 worn. 
 But still the hunter's blood was on their 
 
 horn, 
 A little stream came tumbling from the 
 
 height, 
 And straggling into ocean as it miglit, 
 Its bounding crj'stal frolick'd in the ray, 
 And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless 
 
 spray ; 
 Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
 And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 
 Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 
 As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the 
 
 steep, 
 While far below the vast and sullen swell 
 Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 
 To this young spring they rush'd, — all feel- 
 ings first 
 Absorbed in passion's and in nature's 
 
 thirst,— 
 Drank as they do who drink their last, and 
 threw 
 - Their arms a'-ide to revel in its dew ; 
 Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd 
 
 the gory stains 
 From wounds whose only bandage might 
 
 be chains ; 
 Then, when their drought was quench'd, 
 
 look'd sadly round. 
 As wondering how so many still were found 
 Alive and fetterless : — but silent all. 
 Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
 On him for language which his hps denied. 
 As though their voices with their cause had 
 died. 
 
 Stem, and aloof a little from the rest. 
 Stood Christian, -with his arms across his 
 
 chest. 
 The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once 
 
 spread 
 Along his check was livid now as lead ; 
 
 _35i 
 
 His light-brown locks, so graceful in their 
 
 How, 
 Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow 
 btill as a statue, with his hps coraprest 
 lo stifle even the breath within his breast, 
 l-ast by the rock, all menacing, but mut.- 
 He stood ; and, save a shght beat of hi^ 
 
 foot. 
 Which deepen'd now and then the sandy 
 
 dint 
 
 Beneath his heel, his formseem'dturn'd to 
 
 flint. 
 Some paces further Torquil lean'd hi^ head 
 Against a bank, and spoke not, but he 
 
 bled, — 
 Not mortally : — his worst wound was 
 
 within ; 
 His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
 And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow 
 
 hair, 
 Show'd that his faintness came not from 
 
 despair. 
 But nature's ebb. Beside him was another 
 Rough as a bear, but willing as a'brother,— 
 Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and 
 
 wipe, 
 And bind his wound — then calmly lit his 
 
 pipe, 
 A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
 A beacon which had dheer'd ten thousand 
 
 nights. 
 The fourth and last of this deserted group 
 Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, 
 
 then stoop 
 To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
 Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
 Then cast his eyes on his companions — 
 
 then 
 Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
 And then his former movements would 
 
 redouble. 
 With something between carelessness and 
 
 trouble. ( 
 
 This is a long description, but applies 
 To scarce five minutes ipass'd before the 
 
 eyes ; 
 But yet what minutes ! Moments like to 
 
 these 
 Rend men's lives into immortalities. 
 
 At length Jack Skyscrapc, a mercurial man, 
 Who flutter'd over all things like a fan. 
 More brave than firm, and more disposed to 
 
 dare 
 And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
 Exclaim'd, " G — d damn ! " — those syl- 
 lables intense, — 
 Nucleus of England's native eloquence. 
 As the Turk's " Allah ! " or the Roman's 
 
 more 
 Pagan " Proh Jupiter ! " was wont of 
 
 yore 
 To give their first impressions such a vent. 
 
35^ 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 By way of echo to erabarrassraent. 
 
 Jack was embarrass'd. — never hero more. 
 
 And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 
 
 Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial 
 sound 
 
 Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe pro- 
 found ; 
 
 He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full 
 wise. 
 
 But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
 
 Thus rendering the imperfect phrase com- 
 plete, 
 
 A peroration I need not repeat. 
 
 But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
 Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 
 Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
 Of Passion reeking from his clouded face ; 
 Till lifting up again his sombre eye. 
 It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly 
 
 by. 
 " And is it thus ? " he cried, " unhappy 
 
 boy ! 
 And thee, too, thee — my madness must 
 
 destroy ! 
 He said, and strode to where young Torquil 
 
 stood, 
 Yet dabbled with his lately flov.-ing blood ; 
 Seized his hand wistfully, but did not 
 
 press, 
 And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
 Enquired into his state ; and when he he.ird 
 The wound was slighter than he deem'd or 
 
 fear'd. 
 A moment's brightness pass'd along his 
 
 brow. 
 As much as such a moment would allov/. 
 " Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the 
 
 toil. 
 But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
 Dearly they have bouglit us — dearly still 
 
 may buv, — 
 And I must fall ; but have you strength to 
 
 fly? 
 'T would be some comfort still, could you 
 
 survive ; 
 Our dwindled band is now too few to 
 
 strive. 
 Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell, 
 To bear you hence to where a hope may 
 
 dwell ! 
 For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be. 
 In Ufe or death, the fearless and the free." 
 
 VII 
 
 Even as he spoke, around thQ promontory, 
 Which nodded o'er the billows high and 
 
 hoary, 
 A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
 Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 
 Onward it came — -and, lo ! a second fol- i 
 
 low'd — 
 
 Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale 
 
 was hollow' d ; 
 And near, and nearer, till the dusky crev.- 
 Prf sented well-known aspects to the view, 
 Till on the surf their slamming paddles 
 
 play, 
 Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the 
 
 spray ; — 
 Now perching on the wave's high curl, and 
 
 now 
 Dash'd downward in the thundering foam 
 
 be^'l^v. 
 Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on 
 
 sheet. 
 And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into 
 
 sleet : 
 But floating still through surf and swell, 
 
 drew nigh 
 The barks, like small birds through a lower- 
 ing sky. 
 Their art s'eem'd nature — such the skill to 
 
 sweep 
 The wave of these bom playmates of the 
 
 deep. 
 
 And who the first that, springing on the 
 
 strand, 
 Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land, 
 "With dark tut brilliant sldn, and dewy eye 
 Shining with love, and hope, and con- 
 stancy ? 
 Neuha — the fond, t'ne faithful, the adored — 
 Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent 
 
 pour'd ; 
 And smiled, and wept, and near, and 
 
 nearer clasp'd, 
 -\s if to be assured 't was him she grasp'd ; 
 Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and 
 
 then, 
 To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
 She was a warrior's daughter, and could 
 
 bear 
 Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not 
 
 despair. 
 Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could 
 
 blight 
 That fuU-blo-vvn moment in its all delight : 
 Joy trickled in her tears, joy fiU'd the 
 
 sob 
 That rock'd her heart till almost heard to 
 
 throb ; 
 And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
 Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy. 
 
 The sterner spirits who beheld that meet- 
 ing 
 
 Were not unmo\-ed ; who are, when hearts 
 are greeting ? 
 
 Even Christian'gazed upon the maid and 
 boy 
 
 \\'ith tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
 
THE ISLAND 
 
 Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul 
 
 arrays 
 In hopeless visions of our better days, 
 When all's gone— to the rainbow's latest 
 
 ray. 
 " And but for me ! " he said, and turn'd 
 
 away ; 
 Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
 A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 
 And then relapsed into his sullen guise. 
 As heedless of his further destinies. 
 
 time for good or evil 
 
 But brief their 
 
 thought ; 
 
 The billows round the promontory brought 
 The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 
 That sound a dread ? All around them 
 
 seem'd array'd 
 Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
 She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er 
 
 the bay 
 Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to com- 
 plete 
 The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
 Beckon'd the natives round her to their 
 
 prows, 
 Embark'd their guests and launch'd their 
 
 light canoes. 
 In one placed Christian and his comrades 
 
 twain ; 
 But she and Torquil must not part again. 
 She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away ! 
 They clear the breakers, dart along the 
 
 bay. 
 And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
 The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hoUow'd 
 
 lair. 
 They skim the blue tops of the billows ; 
 
 fast 
 They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers 
 
 chased. [again, — 
 
 They gain upon them — now they lose 
 Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
 And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
 And follow different courses o'er the tide. 
 To baffle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 
 As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
 And more than life or lives to Neuha : 
 
 Love 
 Freights the frail bark and urges to the 
 
 cove ; 
 And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
 Yet, yet a moment ! Flv, thou light ark 
 
 fly! 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH 
 I 
 White as a white sail on a dusky sea. 
 When half the horizon's clouded and half 
 
 free, 
 Fluttering between the dim wave and the 
 
 sky. 
 Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
 
 353 
 
 Her anchor parts ; but still her snowv sail 
 Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale • 
 1 hough every wave she cHmbs divides us 
 
 more. 
 The heart still follows from the loneliest 
 
 shore. 
 
 II 
 Not distant from the isle of Toobonai 
 A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray 
 The haunt of.birds, a desert to mankind. 
 Where the rough seal reposes from the wind. 
 And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun,' 
 Or gambols with huge frohc in the sun :' 
 There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
 The startled echo of the ocean bird, 
 Who rears on its bare breast her callow' 
 
 brood. 
 The feather'd fishers of the sohtude. 
 A narrow segment of the vellow sand 
 On one side forms the outhne of a strand ; 
 Here the young turtle, crawhng from his 
 
 shell. 
 Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell; 
 Chipp'dby thebeam, a nursling of the day. 
 But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 
 The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
 Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 
 A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
 Which late went down, and envy the lost 
 
 wreck. 
 Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
 To shield her lover from his following foes ; 
 But all its secret was not told ; she knew 
 In this a treasure hidden from the view. 
 
 Ere the canoes divided, near the spot. 
 The men that mann'd what held her 
 
 Torquil's lot. 
 By her command removed, to strengthen 
 
 more 
 The sldff which wafted Christian from the 
 
 shore. 
 This he would have opposed ; but with a 
 
 smile 
 She pointed calmly to the craggy isle. 
 And bade him" speed and prosper." She 
 
 would take 
 The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 
 They parted with this added aid ; afar 
 The proa darted hke a shooting star. 
 And gain'd on the pursuers, who now 
 
 steer'd 
 Right on the rock which she and Torquil 
 
 near'd. 
 They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, 
 
 was free 
 And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 
 .A.nd yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier 
 
 strength. 
 The prow now almost lay within its lengtli 
 Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 
 With nought but soundless waters for its 
 
 base ; 
 
354 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 Within a hundred boats' length was the [o-^, 
 And now what refuge but their frail canoe .' 
 This Torquil asl^'d with half upbraiding eye, 
 Which said — " Has Neuha brought me 
 
 here to die ? 
 Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 
 And yon huge rock the tombstone of the 
 
 wave ? '* 
 
 They rested on their paddles', and uprose 
 Neuha, and pointing to the approaching 
 
 foes, 
 Cried, " Torquil, follow me, and fearless 
 
 follow ! " 
 Then plunged at once into the ocean's 
 
 hollow. 
 There was no time to pause — the foes were 
 
 near — 
 Chains in his eye, and menace in hi-, ear ; 
 \Vith vigour they puU'd on, and as they 
 
 came, 
 Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name, 
 lieadlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's 
 
 skill 
 Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
 But how, or where ? He dived, and rose 
 
 no more ; 
 The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea 
 
 and shore. 
 There was no landing on that precipice, 
 St2ep, harsh, and shppery as a berg of ice. 
 The/watch'd awhile to see him float again. 
 But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 
 The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face, 
 Since their first plunge recall'd a single 
 
 trace ; 
 The little whirl which eddied, and shght 
 
 foam. 
 That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest 
 
 home. 
 White as a sepulchre above the pair 
 Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
 The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
 Wa5 all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 
 -And but for this alone the whole might 
 
 seem 
 The vanish'd phantom of, a seaman's 
 
 dream. 
 They paused and search'd in vain, then 
 
 pull'd away ; 
 Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
 Some said he had not plunged into the 
 
 wave, 
 But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a 
 
 grave ; 
 Others, that something supernatural 
 Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
 While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
 There was a dead hue of eternity. 
 Still as their oars receded from the eras, 
 Round every weed a moment would tliev 
 
 lag, 
 Expectant of some token of their prey ; 
 
 But no — he had melted from them like the 
 spray. 
 
 v 
 And where was he the pilgrim of the deep, 
 Following the nereid ? Had they ceased 
 
 to weep 
 For ever ? or, received in coral caves, 
 Wrung life and pity from the softening 
 
 waves ? 
 Did they With ocean's hidden sovereigns 
 
 dwell. 
 And sound with mermen the fantastic 
 
 shell ? 
 Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her 
 
 hair 
 Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air ? 
 Or had th»v perish'd, and in silence slept 
 Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt ? 
 
 VI 
 
 Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
 FoUow'd : her track beneath her native sea 
 Was as a native's of the element, 
 So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went. 
 Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
 Which struck and flashed like an amphi- 
 bious steel. 
 Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
 The depths where divers hold the pearl in 
 
 chase, 
 Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 
 Pursued her liquid steps with heart and 
 
 ease. 
 Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
 The way — then upward soar'd — and as she 
 
 spread 
 Her arms, and flimg the foam from oii£ her 
 
 locks. 
 Laugh' d, and the sound was answer' d bj- 
 
 the rocks. 
 They had gaiu'd a central realm of earth 
 
 again. 
 But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in 
 
 vain. 
 Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 
 Whose only portal was the kevless wa\e, 
 (A hoUow archwav bv the sun miseeni 
 Save through the billows' glassy veil of 
 
 green, 
 In some transparent ocean holiday, 
 \\'hen all the finny people are atplav.) 
 Wiped with her hair the brine fromTor- 
 
 quil's eyes, 
 And clapp'd her hands with joy at his sur- 
 prise ; 
 Led him to where the rock appeared to jut. 
 And form a something like a Triton's hut ; 
 For all was darkness for a space, tiU dav' 
 1 hrough clefts abo\-e let in a sober'd ray ' 
 .\s in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
 Ihe dusty monuments from light recoil 
 Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
 The \ault drew half her shadow from the 
 
THE ISLAND 
 
 355 
 
 Forth from her bosom the young savage 
 
 drew 
 A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 
 A plantain-leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
 Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
 This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
 Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 
 A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the 
 
 blade 
 Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus 
 
 array'd 
 The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and 
 
 high. 
 And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy ; 
 The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 
 The architrave some earthquake might 
 
 erect ; 
 The buttress from some mountain's bosom 
 
 hurl'd. 
 When the Poles crash' d, and water was the 
 
 world ; 
 Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing 
 
 fire, 
 While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral 
 
 pyre; 
 The fretted pmnacle. the aisle, the nave. 
 Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from 
 
 her cave. 
 There, with a httle tinge of phantasy. 
 Fantastic faces mop'd and mow'd on high. 
 And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
 The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
 Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
 And built herself a chapel of the seas. 
 
 And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
 And waved along the vault laer kindled 
 
 brand. 
 And led him into each recess, and show'd 
 The secret places of their new abode. 
 Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
 Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared; 
 The mat for rest ; for dress the £re?h gnatoo. 
 And sandal oil to fence against the dew ; 
 For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
 Born of the fruit ; for board the plantain 
 
 spread 
 With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which 
 
 bore 
 A banquet in the flesh it cover' d o'er ; 
 The gourd with water recent from the rill. 
 The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
 A pine-torch pile to keep undying light. 
 And she herself, as beautiful as night. 
 To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene. 
 And make their subterranean world serene. 
 She had foreseen, since first the stranger's 
 
 sail 
 Drew to their isle, that force or flight might 
 
 fail, 
 And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
 For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
 
 Each dawn had wafted there her light 
 
 canoe, 
 Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
 Each eve had seen her gUding through the 
 
 hour 
 With all could cheer or deck their sparry 
 
 bower ; 
 .'ind now she spread her little store with 
 
 smiles. 
 The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 
 
 She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, 
 
 press'd 
 Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd 
 
 breast ; 
 And suited to her soft caresses, told 
 An olden tale of love, — for love is old. 
 Old as eternity, but not outworn 
 With each new being born or to be born : 
 How a young chief, a thousand moons ago, 
 Diving for turtle in the depths below, 
 Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey. 
 Into the cave which round and o'er them 
 
 lay ; 
 How in some desperate feud of'after-time 
 He shelter'd there a daughter of the chme, 
 A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 
 Saved by his tribe but for a captive's «'oe ; 
 How, when the storm of war was still'd, he 
 
 led 
 His island clan to where the waters spread 
 Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky 
 
 door, 
 Then dived — itjseem'd as if to rise no more : 
 His wondering mates, amazed within their 
 
 bark. 
 Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue 
 
 shark ; 
 Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
 Then paused upon their paddies from the 
 
 shock ; 
 When, fresh and springing from the deep, 
 
 they saw 
 A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their 
 
 awe ; 
 And their companion, glorious by her side, 
 Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 
 And how, when undeceived, the pair they 
 
 bore 
 With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to 
 
 shore ; 
 How they had gladly hved and calmly died, 
 And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 
 Not mine to teU the rapturous caress 
 Which foUow'd wildly in that wild recess 
 This tale ; enough that all within that cave 
 Was love, though buried strong as in the 
 
 grave 
 Where Abelard, through twenty years of 
 
 death, 
 When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
 Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, 
 
 and press'd 
 
356 
 
 TALES AND POEMS 
 
 The kindling aslies to his kindled breast. 
 
 The waves without sang round their couch, 
 their roar 
 
 As much unheeded as if hfe were o'er ; 
 
 Within, their hearts made all their har- 
 mony. 
 
 Love's broken murmur and more broken 
 sigh. 
 
 And they, the cause and sharers of the 
 
 shock 
 Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
 Where were they ? O'er the sea for hfe 
 
 they plied, 
 To seek fromHeaven the shelter men denied. 
 Another course had been their choice — but 
 
 where ? 
 The wave which bore them still their foes 
 
 would bear, 
 Who, disappointed of their former chase, 
 In search of Christian now renew'd their 
 
 race. 
 Eager with anger, their strong arms made 
 
 way. 
 Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
 They gained upon them, all whose safety 
 
 lay 
 In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
 No further chance or choice remain'd ; and 
 
 right 
 For the first further rock which met their 
 
 sight 
 They steer' d, to take their latest view of 
 
 land. 
 And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
 Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, 
 
 who 
 Would still have battled for that scanty 
 
 crew ; 
 But Christian bade them seek their shore 
 
 again, 
 Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 
 For what were simple bow and savage spear 
 Against the arms which must be wielded 
 
 here ? 
 
 They landed on a wild but narrow scene, 
 Where few but Nature's footsteps vet had 
 
 been ; 
 Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy 
 
 eye. 
 Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity, 
 When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains, 
 To cheer resistance against death or 
 
 chains, — 
 They stood, the three, as the three hundred 
 
 stood 
 Who dved Thermopyte with holv blood. 
 But, ah ! how different ! 'tis 'the cause 
 
 makes all. 
 Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
 O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, 
 
 Blazed through the clouds of death and 
 
 beckon'd hence ; 
 No grateful country, smiling through her 
 
 tears. 
 Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
 No nation's eyes would on their tomb be 
 
 bent, 
 No heroes envy them their monument ; 
 However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 
 Their hfe was shame, their epitaph was 
 
 guilt. 
 And this they knew and felt, at least the 
 
 one. 
 The leader of the band he had undone : 
 Who, born perchance for better things, had 
 
 set 
 His Hfe upon a cast which linger' d yet : 
 But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
 The chances were in favour of his fall : 
 And such a fall ! But still he faced the 
 
 shock. 
 Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
 Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd 
 
 gun. 
 Dark as a suUen cloud before the sun. 
 
 .1.11 
 The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm 
 
 the crew 
 To act whatever duty bade them do ; 
 Careless of danger, as the onward wind 
 Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 
 And yet perhaps, they rather wished to go 
 .\gainst a nation's than a native foe. 
 And felt that this poor victim of self-\\'il], 
 Briton no more, had once been Britain's 
 
 stiU. 
 They hail'd him to surrender — ^no reoly; 
 Their arms were poised, and ghtter'd iii the 
 
 sky. 
 They hail'd again — no answer ; vet once 
 
 more 
 They offer'd quarter louder than before. 
 The echoes only, from the rock's rebound, 
 Took their last farewell of the dving sound' 
 Then flashed the flint, and blazed the 
 
 volleying flame, 
 And the smoke rose between them and their 
 
 aim, 
 While the rock rattled with the bullets' 
 
 knell. 
 Which peal'd in vain, and flatteu'd as thev 
 
 fell ; 
 Then flew the only answer to be given 
 E>- those who had lost all hope in earth or 
 
 heaven. 
 After the first fierce peal, as thev pull'd 
 
 nigher. 
 
 They heard the voice of Christian shout, 
 
 .Now fire ! " 
 And ere the word upon the echo died 
 1 wo feU ; the rest assail'd the rock's roueh 
 
 side, ^ 
 
 \nd, furious at the madness of their foes 
 
THE ISLAND 
 
 Disdain'd all further efforts, save to close. 
 But steep the crag, and all without a path, 
 Each step opposed a bastion to their 
 
 wrath, 
 While, placed 'midst clefts the least acces- 
 sible, 
 Which Christian's eve was train'd to mark 
 
 full well, 
 The three maintain'd a strife which must 
 
 not yield, 
 In spots where eagles might have chosen 
 
 to build. 
 Their every shot told ; while the assailant 
 
 fell, 
 Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet 
 
 shell ; 
 But still enough survived, and mounted 
 
 still. 
 Scattering their numbers here and there, 
 
 until 
 Surrounded and commanded, though not 
 
 nigh 
 Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 
 The desperate trio held aloof their fate 
 But by a thread, like sharks who have 
 
 gorged the bait ; 
 Yet to the very last they battled well. 
 And not a groan inform'd their foes who 
 
 feU. 
 Christian died last — twice wounded ; and 
 
 once more 
 Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 
 Too late for life, but not too late to die, 
 With, though a hostile hand, to close his 
 
 eye. 
 A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
 The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
 The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 
 Some passion which a weakly gesture spake: 
 He beckon'd to the foremost, who drew 
 
 nigh. 
 But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon 
 
 high— 
 His last ball had been aim'd, but from his 
 
 breast 
 He tore the topmost button from his vest, 
 Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and 
 
 smiled 
 As his foe fell ; then, lilce a serpent, coil'd 
 His wounded, weary form, to where the 
 
 steep 
 Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 
 Cast one glance back, and clench'd his 
 
 hand, and shook 
 His last rage 'gainst the earth which he 
 
 forsook ; 
 Then plunged : the rock below received 
 
 like glass 
 His body crush'd into one gory mass. 
 With scarce a shred to tell of human form. 
 Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
 A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood 
 
 and weeds, [deeds ; 
 
 Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and 
 
 357 
 
 Some splinters of his weapons (to the last, 
 
 .\s long as hand could hold, he held them 
 fast) 
 
 Yet glitter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
 
 To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
 
 The rest was nothing — save a life mis- 
 spent. 
 
 And soul — but who shall answer where it 
 went ? 
 
 'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and 
 they 
 
 Who doom to hell, themselves are on the 
 way, 
 
 Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
 
 Are pardon'd their bad hearts for tlieir 
 worse brains. 
 
 XITI 
 
 The deed was over ! All were gone or 
 ta'en. 
 
 The fugitive, the capti\-e, or the slain. 
 
 Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant 
 crew. 
 
 They stood with honour, were the wretched 
 few 
 
 Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 
 
 But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
 
 Cold lay they where they fell, and welter- 
 ing. 
 
 While o'er them flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy 
 wing. 
 
 Now wheeling nearer from the neighbour- 
 ing surge. 
 
 And screaming high their harsh and hungry 
 dirge : 
 
 But calm and careless heaved the wave 
 below. 
 
 Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
 
 Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 
 
 And sprung the flying fish against the sun. 
 
 Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief 
 height, 
 
 To gather moisture for another flight. 
 
 XIV 
 
 'T was mom ; and Neuha, who by dawn of 
 
 day 
 Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising 
 
 ray. 
 And watch if aught approach'd the am- 
 phibious lair 
 Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
 It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale 
 Bent its broad arch : her breath began to 
 
 fail 
 With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick 
 
 and high. 
 While yet a doubt sprung where its course 
 
 might lie. 
 But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
 The shadow less?n'd as it clear'd the bay. 
 She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her 
 
 eyes. 
 To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
 On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
 
358 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Diminish'd," dwindled to a very speck — 
 Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was 
 
 joy! 
 Down plunged she through the cave to 
 
 rouse her boy ; 
 Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, 
 
 and all 
 That happy love could augur or recall ; 
 Sprung forth again, with Torquil following 
 
 free 
 His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 
 Swam round the rock, to where a shallow 
 
 cleft 
 Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
 Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 
 That eve the strangers chased them from 
 
 the shore ; [prow. 
 
 But when these vanish'd, she pursued her 
 Regain'd, and urged to where they found 
 
 it now ; 
 Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
 Than now were wafted in that slender ark. 
 
 Again their own shore rises on the view, 
 No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 
 
 No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 
 A floating dungeon : — all was hope and 
 
 home ! 
 A thousand proas darted o'er the bay. 
 With sounding shells, and heralded their 
 
 way ; 
 The chiefs came down, around the people 
 
 pour'd. , 
 And welcom'd Torquil as a son restored ; 
 The women throng'd, embracing and em- 
 braced 
 By Neuha, asking where they had been 
 
 chased. 
 And hov.' escaped ? The tale was told ; 
 
 and then 
 One acclamation rent the sky again ; 
 And from that hour a new tradition gave 
 Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's 
 
 Cave." 
 A hundred fires, far flickering from the 
 
 height, 
 Blazed o'er the general revel of the night. 
 The feast in honour of the guest, retum'd 
 To peace and pleasure, perilously eam'd ; 
 A night succeeded by such happy days 
 As only the yet infant world displays. 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 MANFRED : 
 
 A D.RAJMATIC POEM* 
 
 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 
 
 DR.\MATIS PERSON-.B. 
 
 MaN'FRED. 
 
 Ch.\mois Huntfr. 
 Abbot of St. jMaurice. 
 
 M.ANUEL. 
 
 Herman. 
 
 Witch of the Alps. 
 
 Arimanes. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 The Destinies, 
 
 Spirits, etc. 
 
 The Scene of the Drama is amongst tlie Higher Alps 
 — partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly 
 in the Mountains. 
 
 ACT I 
 Scene i. — Manfred alone. — Scene, a 
 Gothic Gallery. — Time, Midnight. 
 Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, 
 but even then 
 It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
 My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
 But a ccintinuance of enduring thought, 
 
 * [" \'ou may call it a ' Poem," for it is no 
 if you will; anything but a green -room synonymi 
 
 Which then I can resist not : in mv heart 
 There is a wgil, and these eyes biit close 
 To look within ; and vet I live, and bear 
 The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructor of the 
 
 wise ; 
 Sorrow- is knowledge : they who know the 
 
 most 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth. 
 The Tree of Knowiedge is not that of Life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisd.im of the w-orld, 
 I have essav'd, and in mv mind there is 
 A power to make these subject to itself — 
 liut they avail not : I have done men ijood. 
 And I have n- et with good even among meu— 
 But this avail'd not : I have had m\- toes 
 And none have baflied, manv fallen before 
 
 me — 
 But tins avail'd not :_Good. or evil life 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings! 
 Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
 
 F•■^'-lo:/B'^.^Tr. ^.ti;;.!'' °'~' p-t°»-e.' 
 
MANFRED 
 
 355 
 
 Since ,that all-nameless hour. I have no 
 
 dread, 
 And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes 
 
 or wishes, 
 Or lurking \ove of something on the earth. 
 Now to my task. — 
 
 Mysterious Agency ! 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded Univi-rS'' ! 
 Whom I have sought in darkness and in 
 
 light— 
 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
 In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
 Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar 
 
 things — 
 I call upon ye by the written charm 
 Which gives me power upon you — Ris; ! 
 Appear ! 
 
 [A pause. 
 They come not yet. — Now by the voice of 
 
 him 
 Wl.o is the first among you — by this sign. 
 Which makes you tremble — by the claims 
 of him 
 
 Who is undying — Rise ! Appear ! 
 
 Appear ! 
 
 [A pause. 
 If it be so — Spirits of earth and air. 
 Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell. 
 Which had its birthplace in a star con- 
 
 demn'd, 
 The burning wTcck of a demolish'd world, 
 A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
 By the strong curse which is upon my srul, 
 The thought which is within me and around 
 
 me, 
 I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 
 
 [A star is seen at the darker end of the 
 gallery : it is stationary ; and a 
 voiee is heard singing. 
 First Spirit. 
 Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
 From my mansion in the cloud, 
 \Vhich the breath of twilight builds, 
 And the summer's sunset gilds 
 With the azure and vermilion. 
 Which is mix'd for my pavilion : 
 Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
 On a star-beam I have ridden : 
 Jo thine adjm'ation bow'd, 
 Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 
 
 Voice of the Second Spirit. 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; 
 
 Thev crown'd him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds 
 
 With a diadem of snow. 
 Around his waist are forests braced, 
 
 Tb" .Avalanche in hi;, hand ; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 Must pause for my command. 
 
 The Glacier's cold and restless mass 
 
 iMoves onward day by day ; 
 But I am he who bids it pass. 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the spirit of the place. 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his cavern'd base — 
 
 And what with me would'st Thou ? 
 
 Voice of the Third Spirit. 
 
 in the blue depth of the waters, 
 
 Where the wave hath no strife. 
 Where the wind is a stranger. 
 
 And the sea-^nake hath Hfe, 
 Where the Mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells, 
 Like the storm on the surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spells ; 
 O'er my calm Hall of Coral 
 
 The deep echo roU'd — 
 To the Spirit of Ocean 
 
 Thy Wishes unfold ! 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 
 Where the slumbering earthquake 
 
 Lies pillow'd on fire. 
 And the lakes of bitumen 
 
 Rise boilingly higher ; 
 Where the roots of the Andes 
 
 Strike deep in the earth. 
 As their summits to heaven 
 
 Shoot soaringly forth ; 
 I have quitted my birthplace, 
 
 Thy bidding to bide — 
 Thy spell hath subdued me. 
 
 Thy will be my guide ! 
 
 Fifth Spirit. 
 I am the Rider of the wind, 
 
 The Stirrer of the storm ; 
 The hurricane I left behind 
 
 Is yet with lightning warm ; 
 To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 
 
 I swept upon the blast : 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, _and yet 
 
 'T will sink ere night be past. 
 Si.xth Spirit. 
 Jh- dwelling is the shadow of the night. 
 Why doth thy magic torture me with hght ? 
 
 Seventh Spirit. 
 The star which rules thy destiny 
 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 
 It was a world as fresh and fair 
 As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 
 Its course was free and regular. 
 Space bosom'd not a loveher star. 
 The hour arrived — and it became 
 A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
 .i pathless comet, and a curse, 
 The menace of the universe ; 
 Still roUing on with innate force. 
 Without a sphere, without a course, 
 .\ bright deformity on high, 
 
36o 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 The monster of the upper sky ! 
 And thou ! beneath its influence born — 
 Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
 Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
 \nd lent thee but to make thee mine) 
 Aor this brief moment to descend, 
 Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
 -''.nd parley with a thing like thee — 
 U'hat would'st thou, Child of Clay ! with 
 
 The Seven Spirits. 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, 
 winds, thy star, 
 Arp at thv beck and bidding. Child 
 of Clay ! 
 Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 
 What would'st thou with us, son of 
 mortals — say ? 
 
 Man. Forgetfulness- 
 
 First Spirit. Of what — of whom 
 
 — and why ? 
 Man. Of that which is within me ; read 
 it there — 
 Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 
 
 Spirit. We can but give thee that 
 which we possess : 
 Ask of us subjects, so\-ereigiity, the power 
 O'er earth — the whole, or portion — or a 
 
 sign 
 Which shall control the elements, whereof 
 We are the dominators, — each and all. 
 These shall be thine. 
 
 Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion ! 
 
 Can ye not wring from out the hidden 
 
 realms 
 Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 
 Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our 
 skill ; 
 But — thou may'st die. 
 
 Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 
 
 Spirit. We are immortal, and do not 
 forget ; 
 We are eternal ; and to us the past 
 Is, as the future, present. Art thou 
 answer'd ? 
 Man. Ye mock me — but the 
 which brought ye here 
 Hath made you mine. Sla\'es, scoff not at 
 
 my will ! 
 The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
 The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
 Pervading, and far darting as your own. 
 And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd 
 
 in clay 1 
 Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 
 Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our 
 reply 
 Is even in thine own words. 
 Man. Why say ve so ? 
 
 Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence 
 be as ours. 
 We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
 
 power 
 
 Mortals call death hath nought to do with 
 us. 
 Man. I then have call'd ye from your 
 realms in vain : 
 Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 
 
 Spirit. . Say, 
 
 What we possess we offer : it is thine : 
 Bethink ere thou dismiss us ; ask again ; 
 Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and 
 
 length of days 
 
 Man. Accursed ! what have I to do 
 with days ? 
 They are too long already. — Hence — ^be- 
 gone ! 
 Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our 
 mil would do thee service ; 
 Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
 Which we can make not worthless in thine 
 eyes ? 
 Man. No, none : yet stay — one mo- 
 ment, ere we part, 
 I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
 Yom: voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
 As music on the waters ; and I see 
 The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
 But nothing more. Approach me as ye are. 
 Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 
 Spirit. We have no forms, beyond the 
 elements 
 Of which we are the mind and principle : 
 But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
 Man. I ha\-e no choice ; there is no form 
 on earth 
 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
 Who is most powerful of ve, take such 
 
 aspect 
 As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 
 Seventh Spirit. {Appearing in the 
 shape of a beautiful fenmle figure,. 
 Behold ! 
 Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
 Art not a madness and a mockery, 
 I yet might be most happy. I will clasp 
 thee. 
 
 And we again will be 
 
 [The figure vanishes. 
 
 Jh' heart is crush'd i 
 
 [M.\NFRED falls senseless. 
 
 {A voice is heard in the Incaniation which 
 follows.) 
 
 When the moon is on the ivave. 
 And the glow-worm in the grass 
 
 And the meteor on the grave, ' 
 
 And the wisp on the morass • 
 
 When the falling stars are shooting 
 
 And the answer'd owls are hootin"' 
 
 And the silent leaves are still "' 
 
 In the shadow of the hill. 
 
 Shall my soul be upon thine, 
 
 With a power and with a sign. 
 
 Though thy slumber mav be deep 
 Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; 
 
ArANFRED 
 
 361 
 
 There are shades which will not vanish, 
 There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
 Bv a power to thee unknown, 
 Thou canst never be alone ; . 
 Thou art wrapt as with a shroud. 
 Thou art gather'd in a cloud : 
 And for ever shalt thou dwell 
 In the spirit of this spell. 
 
 Though thou seest me not pass by, 
 Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
 As a thing that, though unseen. 
 Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
 And when in that secret dread 
 Thou hast turn'd aroimd thy head. 
 Thou shalt marvel I am not 
 As thy shadow on the spot. 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 Hath baptised thee with a curse ; 
 And a spirit of the air 
 Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 And to thee shall night deny 
 All the quiet of her skj' ; 
 And the day shall have a sun. 
 Which shall make thee wish it done. 
 
 From thy false tears I did distil 
 
 An essence which hath strength to kill ; 
 
 From thy own heart I then did \\Ting 
 
 The black blood in its blackest spring ; 
 
 From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake. 
 
 For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
 
 From thy own lip I drew the charm 
 
 Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 
 
 In proving every poison known, 
 
 I found the strongest was thine own. 
 
 By the cold breast and serpent smile. 
 
 By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. 
 
 By that most seeming virtuous eye, 
 
 By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 
 
 By the perfection of thine art 
 
 Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 
 
 By thy delight in others' pain, 
 
 And bv thy brotherhood of Cain, 
 
 I call upon thee ! and compel 
 
 Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 
 
 And on thv head I pour the vial 
 
 Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 
 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
 
 Shall be in thy destiny ; 
 
 Though thy death shall still seem near 
 
 To thy wish, but as a fear ; 
 
 Lo ! the spell now works around thee. 
 
 And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 
 
 O'er thy heart and brain together 
 
 Hath the word tieen pass'd — now wither ! 
 
 B.P.W 
 
 SCE.\-E II 
 
 The Mmintain of the Jun^frau. — Time, 
 Morning. — Ma.vfred alone upon the 
 Cliffs. 
 
 M((n. The spirits I have raised aban- 
 don me. 
 The spells which I have studied baffle me, 
 The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
 I lean no more on superhuman aid ; 
 It hath no power upon the past, and for 
 The future, till the past be gulf'd in dark- 
 ness,- 
 It is not of my search. — My mother Earth ! 
 And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye 
 
 Mountains, 
 Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
 And thou, the bright eye of the universe, _ 
 That openest over all, and unto all 
 Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose e.xtrerae 
 
 edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, ■ 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
 To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
 I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is 
 
 firm ; 
 There is a power upon me which withholds. 
 And makes it my fatality to live, — 
 If it be life to wear within myself 
 This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
 My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
 To justify my deeds unto myself — 
 The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 
 [An eagle passes. 
 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven. 
 Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I 
 
 should be 
 Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou 
 
 art gone 
 Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but 
 
 thine 
 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
 With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
 How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
 How glorious in its action and itself ! 
 But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, 
 
 we. 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 To sink or soar, with our mix'd. essence 
 
 make 
 .\ conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 The breath of degradation and of pride. 
 Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
 Till our mortality predominates, 
 .\nd men are — what they name not to them- 
 selves. 
 
352 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 jViid trust not to each other. Hark ! the 
 note, 
 
 [The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is 
 heard. 
 The natural music of the mountain reed — 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
 Mix'd with the sweet bells of the saunter- 
 ing herd ; 
 My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, 
 
 that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
 A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
 A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
 With the blest tone which made me ! 
 
 Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 
 
 Chamois Hunter. Even so 
 
 Tfiis way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
 •Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will 
 
 scarce 
 Repay my break-neck travail. — What is 
 
 here ? 
 Who seems not of my. trade, and yet hath 
 
 reach'd 
 A Ijeight which none even of our moun- 
 taineers. 
 Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
 Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
 Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this dis- 
 tance : 
 I will approach him nearer. 
 
 Man. {not perceiving the other.) To be 
 thus — 
 Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted 
 
 pines. 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branch- 
 less, 
 A bhghted trunk upon a cursed root, 
 Which but supphes a feeling to decay — 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
 Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd 
 
 o'er 
 With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, — 
 
 not by years, — 
 And hours, all tortured into ages — hours 
 Which I outlive ! — Ye toppMng crags of ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
 In mountainous o'erwhelmiag, come and 
 
 crush me ! 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
 Orash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 
 And only faJl on things that still would 
 
 live ; 
 On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
 C. Hu/i. The mists begin to rise from 
 up the valley 
 I'll v>'arn him to descend, or he may chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 Man. The mists boil up around the 
 glaciers ; clouds 
 Rise curMng fast beneath me, white and 
 sulphury, 
 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep 
 
 Hell, 
 Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
 Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I 
 
 am giddy. 
 C. Hun. I must approach him cauti- 
 ously ; if near, 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 
 Man. JNIountains have fallen. 
 
 Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the 
 
 shock 
 Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
 The ripe green valleys with destruction's 
 
 sphnters ; 
 Damming the rivers with a sudden dash. 
 Which crush'd the waters into mist, and 
 
 made 
 Their fountains find another channel — thus. 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
 Why stood I not beneath it ? 
 
 C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 
 
 Your next step may be fata] ! — for the 
 
 love 
 Of him who made you, stand not on that 
 
 brink ! 
 Man. [not hearing him.) Such would 
 
 have been for me a fitting tomb ; 
 lly bones had then been quiet in their depth; 
 They had not then been strewn upon the 
 
 rocks 
 For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus 
 
 they shall be — 
 In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening 
 
 heavens ! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
 You were not meant for me — Earth ! take 
 
 these atoms ! 
 
 \_As JIanfred is in act to spring from 
 
 the cliff, the Chamois Hu.vter seizes 
 
 and retains him with a sudden grasp. 
 
 C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though 
 
 aweary of thy life, 
 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty 
 
 blood : 
 
 Away with me 1 will not quit mv hold. 
 
 Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, 
 
 grasp me not — 
 I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
 Spinning around me 1, grow blind 
 
 What art thou ? 
 C. Hun. I 'U answer that anon. — Away 
 
 with me 
 
 The clouds grow thicker there — now 
 
 lean on me — 
 Place >-our foot here — here, take this staff, 
 
 and cling 
 A moment to that shrub — now give me 
 
 your hand. 
 And hold fast b\- m>- girdle — softly — well^ 
 The Chalet w ill be Kdin'd withinan hour : 
 Come on, we'll quicklv find a surer footing, 
 And something like a path\\'a\-, which the 
 
 torrent 
 
MANFRED 
 
 3^53 
 
 Which makes thee people vacancy, what.'er 
 Thy dread and sufferance be, there's om- 
 
 fort yet — . 
 The aid of holy men, and heavenly 
 
 patience 
 
 Ulan, f^atience and patience ! Hence — 
 
 that word was made 
 For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; 
 Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
 I am not of thine order. 
 
 C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! / 
 
 I would not be of thine for the free fame 
 Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill. 
 It must be borne, and these wild starts are 
 
 useless. 
 Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me 
 
 — I live. 
 C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no 
 
 healthfLil hfe. 
 Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived 
 
 many years, 
 Many long years, but they are nothing now 
 To those which I must number ; ages — 
 
 ages — 
 Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
 With the fierce thirst of death — and still 
 
 unslaked ! 
 C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of 
 
 middle age 
 Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 
 Man. Think'st thou existence doth de- 
 pend on time ? 
 It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
 Have made my days and nights imperish- 
 able. 
 Endless, and all aUke, as sands on the shore. 
 Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
 Barren and cold, on which the wild waves 
 
 break. 
 But nothing rests, save carcasses and 
 
 wrecks, 
 Rocks, and the salt-si.u"f weeds of bitter- 
 ness. 
 C. Hull. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I 
 
 must not leave him. 
 RIan. I would I were — for then the 
 
 things I sed 
 Would be but a distemper'd dream. 
 
 C. Hun. What is it 
 
 That thou dost see, or think thou look'st 
 
 upon ? 
 Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of 
 
 the Alps — 
 Thy humble virtues, hospitable home. 
 And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free ; 
 Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent 
 
 thoughts ; 
 Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; 
 
 thy toils, 
 .By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
 Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
 With cross and garland over its green turf, 
 And th\' grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
 This do" 1 see — and then I look within — 
 
 Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 't is 
 
 bravely done — 
 You should have been a hunter. — Follow 
 
 me. 
 
 As they descend the rocks with diffi- 
 culty, tht. scene closes. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. — A Cottage amongst the Bernese 
 Alps. 
 
 Ma.xfked and tlie Chamois Hunter. 
 
 C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou 
 
 must not yet go forth : 
 Thy mind and body^are ahke unfit- 
 To trust each other, for some hours, at least; 
 When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
 But whither ? 
 
 Man. It imports not : I do know 
 
 My route full well, and need no further 
 
 guidance. 
 C. Hun. Thy garb and Jgait bespeak 
 
 thee of high hneage — 
 One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
 Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
 May call thee lord ? I only know their 
 
 portals ; 
 My way of life leads me but rarely down 
 To bask by the huge hearths of those old 
 
 halls. 
 Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths. 
 Which step from out om: mountains to their 
 
 doors, 
 I know from childhood — which of these is 
 
 thine ? 
 Man. No matter. 
 C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the 
 
 question. 
 And be of better cheer. Come, taste my 
 
 wine ; 
 'T is of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
 'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, 
 
 now 
 Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me 
 
 fairly. 
 Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon 
 
 the brim ! 
 Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 
 C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy 
 
 senses wander from thee. 
 Man. I say 't is blood — my blood ! the 
 
 pure warm stream 
 Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and m 
 
 ours 
 When we were in our youth, and had one 
 
 heart, 
 And loved each oth r as we should not love. 
 And this was shed ; but still it rises up. 
 Colouring the clouds, that shut me out 
 
 from heaven. 
 Where thou art not— and I shall never be. 
 C. Hun. Man of strange words, and 
 
 some half-maddening sin, 
 
364 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 It matters not — my soul was scorch'd 
 already ! 
 C. Hun. And would'st, thou then ex- 
 change thy lot for mine ? 
 Man. No, friend ! I would not wrong 
 thee, nor exchange 
 My lot with Hving being : I can bear — 
 However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
 In life what others could not brook to dream, 
 But perish in their slumber. 
 
 C. Hull, And with this — 
 
 This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
 Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 
 Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd 
 
 revenge 
 Upod his enemies ? 
 
 Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 
 
 My injuries came down on those who loved 
 
 me — 
 On those whom I best loved : I ne\cr 
 
 quell'd 
 An enemy, save in my just defence — 
 But mv embrace was fatal. 
 
 C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 
 
 And penitence restore thee to thyself ; 
 My prayers shall be for thee. 
 
 Alati. I need them not. 
 
 But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
 'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold, and 
 
 thanks for thee — 
 No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
 I know my path — the mountain peril's past ; 
 And once again I charge thee, follow not '. 
 
 [Exit Manfreb. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 
 
 Enter Manfred. 
 
 It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
 And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
 The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
 But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
 I should be sole in this s\\'eet solitude, 
 And with the Spirit of the place divide 
 The homage of these waters. — I will call 
 her. 
 
 [Manfred takes some of the water into 
 
 the palm of his hand, and fiini^s it 
 
 into the air. mtitterin^the adjuration. 
 
 After a pause, the Witch of the 
 
 Alps rises beneath the arch of the 
 
 sunbow of the torrent. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 
 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
 
 The charms of earth's least mortal daughters 
 
 grow 
 Tc an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 
 Of purer elements ; while the hues of 
 
 youth, — 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
 Rock'd by the beating of her mother's 
 
 heart. 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight 
 
 leaves 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 
 The blush of earth embracing with her 
 
 heaven, — 
 Tinge thv celestial aspect, and make tame 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends 
 
 o'er thee. 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow. 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
 Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers per- 
 j mit 
 
 I At times to commune mth them — if that he 
 Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus^ 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Son of Earth ! 
 
 I know thee, and the powers which give 
 
 thee power ; 
 I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
 And deeds of good and iU, extreme in both, 
 Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
 I have expected this — what would'st thou 
 
 with me ? 
 Man. To look upon thy beauty — no- 
 thing further. 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd me, 
 
 and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those who govern her — 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have 
 
 sought 
 From them what they could not bestow, 
 
 and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 Witch. What could be the quest 
 
 Which is not in the power of the most 
 
 powerful. 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 Man. A boon ; 
 
 But why should I repeat it ? 't were in vain. 
 Witch. I know not that ; let thv lips 
 
 utter it. 
 Man. Well, though it torture me, 't is 
 
 but the same ; 
 My pang shall find a voice. From m>' youth 
 
 upwards 
 My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
 N'or look'd upon the earth with human eves ; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
 The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
 My joys, ray griefs, my passions, and my 
 
 powers, 
 \ Made me a stranger ; though I wore the 
 
 form, 
 I I had no s\rapathy with breathing flesh. 
 Nor midst the creatures of clav that 
 
 girded me 
 
MANFRED 
 
 365 
 
 Was there but one who — but of her anon. 
 I said with men, and with the thoughts of 
 
 men, 
 I held but slight communion ; but instead, 
 My joy was in the wilderness, — to breathe 
 Tlie difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
 Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's 
 
 wing 
 Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
 Into the torrent, and to roll along 
 On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 In these my early strength exulted ; or 
 To follow through the night the moving 
 
 moon, 
 The stars and their development ; or catch 
 The dazzling Ughtnings till my eyes grew 
 
 dim ; 
 Or to look, Ust'ning, on the scatter'd leaves. 
 While Autumn winds wererat their evening 
 
 song. 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
 Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 
 I felt myself degraded back to them. 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived. 
 In my lone wanderings, -to the caves of 
 
 death, 
 Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
 From wither'd bones, and skulls, and 
 
 heap'd-up dust. 
 Conclusions most forbidden. Then I 
 
 pass'd 
 The nights of years in sciences untaught. 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and 
 
 toil. 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 As in itself hath power upon the air. 
 And spirits that do compass air and earth. 
 Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
 Mine eyes famihar with Eternity, 
 Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 He who from out theu: fountain dwellings 
 
 raised 
 Eros and Anteros,i at Gadara, 
 As I do thee ;— and with my knowledge 
 
 grew 
 The thirst of knowledge, and the power 
 
 and jov 
 
 Of this most bright intelligence, untu 
 
 Witch. Proceed. 
 
 Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong d my 
 
 words. 
 Boasting these idle attributes, because 
 As I approach the core of my heart's grief— 
 But to my task. I have not named to thee 
 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being. 
 With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
 If I had such, they seem'd not such to me ; 
 
 Yet there was one 
 
 Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed. 
 
 Man. She was like me in hneaments ; 
 
 her eyes, 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 
 Even of her voice, they said were like to 
 
 mine ; 
 But soften'dall, and temper'd into beauty : 
 She had the same lone thoughts and wan- 
 derings. 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 To comprehend the universe : nor these 
 Alone, but with them gentler powers than 
 
 mine. 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had 
 
 not ; 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 HumiUty — and that I never had. 
 Her faults were mine — her virtues were 
 
 her own — 
 I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 
 
 Witch. With thy hand ? 
 
 Man. Not with my hand, but heart, 
 
 which broke her heart ; 
 It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have 
 
 shed 
 Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood 
 
 was shed ; 
 I saw — and could not stanch it. 
 
 Witch. And for this — 
 
 A being of the race thou dost despise, 
 The order, which thine own would rise 
 
 above, 
 .Mingling with us and ours, — thou dost 
 
 forego 
 The gifts of our great knowledge, and 
 
 shrink' St back 
 
 To recreant mortaUty Away ! 
 
 Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, 
 
 since that hour — 
 But words are breath — look on me in my 
 
 sleep. 
 Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by 
 
 me ! 
 My sohtude is solitude no more. 
 But peopled with the Furies ;— I have 
 
 gnash'd 
 My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
 Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I ha\'e 
 
 pray'd , . , . , 
 
 For madness as a blessing — t is denied me. 
 I have affronted death — but in the war 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
 And fatal things pass'd harmless ; the cold 
 
 hand 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back. 
 Back by a single hair, which would not 
 
 break. 
 In fantasy, imagination, all 
 The affluence of my soul— which one day 
 
 K Croesus in creation— I plunged deep, 
 'But like an ebbing wave, it da^h'd me back 
 Into the gulf of my uniathom'd thought. 
 I plung'd amidst mankind— Forgetfulness 
 I sought in all, save where 't is to be found, 
 \nd that I have to le'arn ; my sciences. 
 My long pursued and superhuman art. 
 Is mortal here ; I dwell in my despair— 
 
366 
 
 DRAl\rAS 
 
 And live — and live for e\'er. 
 
 Witch. It may be 
 
 That I can aid thee. 
 
 Man. To do this thy power 
 
 Must wake the dead, or lay me low with 
 
 them. 
 Do' so — in any shape — in any hour — 
 With any torture — so it be the last. 
 Witch. That is not in my province ; but 
 if thou 
 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
 My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
 Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and 
 whom ? the spirits 
 Whose presence I command, and be the 
 
 slave 
 Of those who served me — Never ! 
 
 Witch. Is this all? 
 
 Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet be- 
 think thee. 
 And pause ere thou rejectest. 
 
 Man. I have said it. 
 
 Witch . Enough ! I may retire then — 
 
 say ! 
 Alan. Retire ! 
 
 [The Witch disappears. 
 Man (alone). We are the fools of time 
 and terror : Days 
 Steal on us, and steal from us ; yet we live, 
 Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
 In all the days of this detested yoke — 
 This vital weight upon the struggling heart. 
 Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick 
 
 with pain, 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
 In all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no present, we can number 
 How few — how less than few — wherein the 
 
 soul 
 Forbears to pantfor death, and yet draws 
 
 back 
 As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
 Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
 Still in my science — I can call the dead. 
 And ask them what it is w.e dread to be : 
 The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
 
 And that is nothing. If they answer not 
 
 The buried Prophet answered to the Hag 
 Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
 From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping 
 
 spirit 
 An answer and his destiny — he slew 
 That which he loved, unknowing what he 
 
 slew. 
 And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in 
 
 aid 
 The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
 The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
 The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
 Or fix her term of vengeance — she rephed 
 In words of dubious import, but fulfiU'd. 
 -.If I had never lived, that which I love 
 Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
 ■Jhat which I love would still be beautiful, 
 
 Happv and giving happiness. What is she ? 
 What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
 A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
 Within few hours I sKall not call in vain — 
 Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
 Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon mj' heart. 
 But I can act even what I most abhor. 
 And champion human fears. — The night 
 approaches. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene III 
 The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 
 
 Enter First Destiny. 
 The moon is rising broad, and round, and 
 
 bright ; 
 And here on snows, where never human foot 
 Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
 .\nd leave no traces : o'er the savage sea. 
 The glassy ocean of the mountain ice. 
 We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
 The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam. 
 Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpoul's 
 
 image : 
 And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 
 The fretwork of some earthquake — where 
 
 the clouds 
 Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
 Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
 Here do I wait my sisters, on our wav 
 To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
 Is our great festival — 't is strange they 
 
 come not. 
 
 A Voice ii'ithoiil, singing. 
 The Captive Usurper, 
 
 Hurl'd down from the throne, 
 Lay buried in torpor, 
 
 Forgotten and lone : 
 I broke through his slumbers, 
 
 I shivered his chain, 
 I leagued him with numbers — 
 He 's TjTant again ! 
 With the blood of a million he '11 answer 
 
 my care. 
 With a nation's destruction — his flight and 
 despair. 
 
 Second Voice, unthout. 
 The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
 But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
 There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
 And there is not a WTetch to lament o'er his 
 
 wreck ; 
 Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the 
 
 hair, 
 .\nd he was a subject well worthv my care ; 
 
 A traitor on land, and a pirate 'at sea 
 
 But I saved him to wreak further havoc 
 
 for me ! 
 
MA^ FKED 
 
 First Destiny, answering, 
 
 The city lies sleeping ; 
 
 The morn, to deplore it, 
 May dawn on it weeping : 
 
 Sullenly, '^luwly, 
 The black plague flew o'er it — 
 
 Thousands he lowly ; 
 Tens of thousands shall perish ; 
 
 The hving shall fly from 
 The sick they should cherish ; 
 
 But nothing can vanquish 
 The touch that they die from. 
 
 Sorrow and anguish, 
 And evil and dread, 
 
 En\'elope a nation ; 
 The blest are the dead, 
 Who see not the sight 
 Of their own desolation ; 
 This work of a night — 
 This wreck of a realm — this deed of my 
 / doing — 
 
 For ages I've done, and shall still be re- 
 newing ! 
 Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 
 The Three. 
 
 Our hands contain the hearts ot men, 
 
 Our footsteps are their graves ; 
 We only give to take again 
 The spirits of our slaves ! 
 First Des. Welcome ! — Where's Neme- 
 sis ? 
 Second Des. At some great work ; 
 
 But what I know not, for my hands were 
 fuU. 
 Third Des. Behold she cometh. 
 
 Enter Nemesis. 
 First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 
 My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 
 'Nem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd 
 thrones. 
 Marrying fools, restoring dynasties. 
 Avenging men upon their enemies. 
 And making them repent their own revenge ; 
 Goading the wise to madness ; from the 
 
 dull 
 Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
 Afresh, for they were waxing out of date. 
 And mortals dared to ponder for them- 
 selves, 
 To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
 Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
 We have outstay'd the hour — mount we 
 our clouds ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Scene IV 
 - The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his 
 Throne, a Globe of Fire, surrounded 
 by the Spirits. 
 
 Hymn of the Spirits. 
 Hail to om- Master ! — Prince of Earth and 
 Air! 
 
 3[7 
 
 Who walks the clouds and waters— in 
 his hand 
 The sceptre of the elements, which tear 
 Themselves to chaos at his high com- 
 mand ! 
 He breatheth— and a tempi.st shakes the 
 sea; 
 He speaketh — and the clouds reply in 
 thunder ; 
 He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams 
 flee ; 
 He moveth — earthquakes rend the world 
 asunder. 
 Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 
 His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
 The comets herald through the crackling 
 skies ; » 
 
 And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
 To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 
 
 To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is 
 his, 
 With all its infinite of agonies — 
 And his the spirit of whatever is ! 
 Enter the Destinies and Ne.mesis. 
 First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the 
 earth 
 His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
 His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 
 Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! wc 
 who bow 
 The necks of men, bow down before his 
 throne ! 
 Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we 
 await 
 His nod ! 
 
 Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are 
 thine. 
 And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
 And most things wholly so ; still to in- 
 crease ■ 
 Our power, increasing thine, demands our 
 
 care. 
 And we are vigilant. Thy late commands 
 Have been fulfiU'd to the utmost. 
 Enter Manfred. 
 A Spirit. What is here ? 
 
 A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal 
 
 wretch. 
 Bow down and worship ! 
 
 Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
 
 A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 
 Third Spiiit. Bow down and worship, 
 slave ! — What, know'st thou not 
 Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and 
 obey ! 
 All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and 
 thy condemned clay. 
 Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 
 Man. I know it ; 
 
 And yet ye see I kneel not. 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 'T will be taught thee. 
 Man. 'T is taught akeady ; — many a 
 night on the earth. 
 
368 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down 
 
 my face, 
 And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have 
 
 known 
 The fulness of humiliation, for 
 T sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
 To my own desolation. 
 
 Fitth Spirit. Dost thou dare 
 
 Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
 What the whole earth accords, beholding 
 
 not 
 The terror of his Glory ? — Crouch ! I say. 
 Man. Bid him bow down to that which 
 is above him. 
 The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
 Who made him not for worship — let him 
 
 kneel, 
 And we will kneel together. 
 
 The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 
 
 Tear him in pieces ! — 
 
 First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he 's mine. 
 Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers 
 
 and will, 
 .\s far as is compatible with clay. 
 Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been 
 
 such 
 As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the 
 
 earth, 
 And they have only taught him what we 
 
 know — 
 That knowledge is not happiness, and 
 
 science 
 But an exchange of ignorance for that 
 Which is another kind of ignorance. 
 This is not all — the passions, attributes 
 Of earth and heaven, from which no power, 
 
 nor being, 
 Nor breath from the worm upwards is 
 exempt, [sequence 
 
 Have pierced his heart ; and in their con- 
 Made him a thing, which I, who pity not. 
 Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine. 
 And thine, it may be ; be it so, or not. 
 No other Spirit in this region hath 
 A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
 Nem. What doth he here then ? 
 First Des. Let him answer that. 
 
 Man. Vc know what I ha\e known ; 
 and without power 
 I could not be amongst ye ; but there are 
 Powers deeper still beyond — I come in 
 
 quest 
 Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
 Nem. What would'st thou ? 
 Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 
 
 Call up the dead — my question is for 
 them. 
 Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will 
 avouch 
 
 The wishes of this mortal ? 
 Ari. Yea. 
 
 Nem. ' Whom would st thou 
 
 Uncharnel ? 
 
 Man. One without a tomb — call up 
 Astarte. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 Shadow ! or Spirit ! 
 
 Whatever thou art. 
 Which still doth inherit 
 . The whole or a part 
 Of the form of thy birth. 
 
 Of the mould of thy clay. 
 Which return'd to the earth, 
 
 Re-appear to the day ! 
 Bear what thou borest. 
 
 The heart and the form. 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 Redeem from the worm. 
 Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
 Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
 [The Phantom of Astarte rises and 
 
 stands in the mids t. 
 Man. Can this be death ? there's bloom 
 upon her cheek ; 
 But now I see it is no living hue. 
 But a strange hectic — like the unnatural 
 
 red 
 Wliich Autumn plants upon the perish'd 
 
 leaf. 
 It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should 
 
 dread 
 To lool< upon the same — Astarte ! — Xo, 
 I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 By the power which hath broken 
 The grave which enthrall'd thee. 
 
 Speak to him who hath spoken. 
 Or those who have call'd thee ! 
 
 She is silent, 
 am more than 
 
 silence I 
 
 extends no further. 
 ;ommand her 
 
 Man. 
 And in that 
 answer'd. 
 Xem. My power 
 Prince of Air ! 
 It rests with thee alone 
 voice. 
 
 .-1 1 i. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! 
 A';'m. ' Silent still ! 
 
 She is not of our order, but belongs 
 To the other powers. Jlortal ! thy quest 
 
 is vain, 
 And we are baffled also. 
 
 ^!an. Hear me, hear me — 
 
 Aitartfe ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
 
 I ha\-e so much endured — so much endure 
 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not changed 
 
 thee more 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst 
 
 me 
 Too much, as I lo\ed thee : we were not 
 made 
 
MANFRED 
 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do 
 
 bear 
 This punishment for both — that thou wilt 
 
 be 
 One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 Which makes me shrink from immortahty — 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
 I feel but what thou art, and what I am ; 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 The voice which was my music — Speak to 
 
 me ! 
 For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
 Startled the slumbering birds from the 
 
 hush'd boughs, 
 And woke the mountain wolves, and made 
 
 the caves 
 Acciuainted with thy vainly echoed name. 
 Which answer'd me — many things an- 
 swered me — • 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
 Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the 
 
 stars. 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of 
 
 thee. 
 Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the 
 
 earth. 
 And never found thy likeness— Speak to 
 
 me ! 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for 
 
 me : 
 I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but 
 
 say — 
 I reck not what — but let me hear thee 
 
 once — 
 This once — once more ! 
 
 Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 
 Man. Say on, say on — 
 
 I hve but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
 Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine 
 earthly ills. 
 Farewell ! 
 Man. Yet one word more — am I for- 
 given ? 
 Phan. Farewell ! 
 
 Man Sav, shall we meet again ? 
 
 Phan. Farewell ! 
 Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou 
 
 lovest me. 
 Phan. Manfred ! " 
 
 [The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 
 Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 
 Her words will be fulfill' d. Return to the 
 earth. 
 A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be 
 a mortal 
 And seek the things beyond mortality. 
 Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth 
 himself, and makes 
 
 369 
 
 His torture tributary to his will. 
 
 Had he been one of us, he would have made 
 
 An awful spirit. 
 
 Nem. Hast thou further question 
 
 Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 
 Man. None. 
 
 Nem. Then for a time farewell. 
 
 Man. We meet then ! Where ? On 
 the earth ? — 
 Even as thou wilt : and for the grace 
 
 accorded 
 I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 
 [Exit Manfred. 
 [Scene closes.) 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 
 Man. What is the hour ? 
 Her. It wants but one till sunset. 
 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Man. Say, 
 
 Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
 As I directed ? 
 
 Her. All, my lord, are ready : 
 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 Man. It is well : 
 
 Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. 
 
 Man. {alone.) There is a calm upon me — 
 Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
 Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
 If that I did not know philosophy 
 To be of all our vanities the motliest. 
 The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
 From out the schoolman's jargon, I should 
 
 deem 
 The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," 
 
 found, 
 And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
 But it is well to have known it, though but 
 
 once : 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new 
 
 sense. 
 And I within my tablets would note down 
 That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice 
 craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 
 Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 
 Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to 
 these walls ; 
 Thy presence honours them, and blesseth 
 
 those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 .ibbot. Would it were so. Count ! — 
 
 But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
 Man. Herman, retire. — What would my 
 reverend guest ? 
 
37° 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Abbot. Thus, without prekide : — Age 
 and zeal, my office. 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
 Our near, though not acquainted neighbour- 
 hood. 
 May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
 And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
 And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
 For centuries : may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd ! 
 
 Man. Proceed, — I listen. 
 
 Abbot. 'T is said thou holdest converse 
 with the things 
 Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
 That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
 The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
 Which walk the valley of the shade of 
 
 death, 
 Thou communest. I know that with man- 
 kind. 
 Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy soli- 
 tude 
 Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 
 Alan. And what are they who do avouch 
 
 these things ? 
 Abbot. My pious brethren — the sacred 
 peasantry — 
 Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
 With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in 
 peril. 
 Man. Take it. 
 
 A bbot. I come to save, and not destroy ; 
 I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
 But if these things be sooth, there still is 
 
 time 
 For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
 With the true church, and through the 
 church to heaven. 
 Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : 
 whate'er 
 I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
 Heaven and myself. I shall not choose a 
 
 mortal 
 To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
 Against your ordinances ? prove and 
 punish ! 
 Abbot. My sou ! I did not speak of pun- 
 ishment. 
 But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
 The choice of such remains — and for the 
 
 last, 
 Our institutions and our strong belief 
 Have given me power to smooth the path 
 
 from sin 
 To higher hope and better thoughts ; the 
 
 first 
 I leave to heaven, — " Vengeance is mine 
 
 alone ! " 
 
 So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
 
 His servant echoes back the awful word. 
 
 Man. Old man ' there is no power in 
 
 holy men. 
 
 Nor charm in prayer^ nor purifying form 
 
 Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast. 
 Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
 The innate tortures of that deep despair. 
 Which is remorfe mthout the fear of hell, 
 But all in all sufficient to itself 
 Would make a hell of heaven — can exor- 
 cise 
 From out the imbounded spirit the quick 
 
 sense 
 Of its iwm sins, wrongs, sufferance, and 
 
 revenge 
 Upon itself ; there is no future pang 
 Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
 He deals on his own soul. 
 
 Abbot. All this is well ; 
 
 For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
 By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
 With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
 Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
 Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
 And the commencement of atonement is 
 The sense of its necessity. Say on — 
 And all our church can teach thee shall be 
 
 taught ; 
 And all we can absolve thee shall be par- 
 don' d. 
 Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was 
 near his last. 
 The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
 To shun the torments of a public death 
 From senates once his slaves, a certain 
 
 soldier. 
 With show of loyal pity, would have 
 
 stanch'd 
 The gushing throat with his oficious robe ; 
 The d^dng Roman thrust him back, and 
 
 said — 
 Some empire still in his expiring glance — 
 " It is too late — is this fidelity ? " 
 .-1 bbot. And what of this ? 
 Man. I answer with the Roman — 
 
 " It is too late ! " 
 
 Abbot. It never can be so. 
 
 To reconcile thyself with thy o^vn soul. 
 And thy own soul with heaven. Hast 
 
 thou no hope ? 
 'T is strange — even those who do despair 
 
 aboA'e, 
 Yet shape themselves some fantasy on 
 
 earth. 
 To which frail twig thev cling, Uke drown- 
 ing men. 
 Man. .\y — father ! I have had those 
 earthly ^-isions. 
 And noble aspirations in my youth, 
 To make my own the mind of other men, 
 The enhghtener of nations : and to rise 
 I knew not whither— it might be to fall; 
 But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
 \\ hich having leapt from its more dazzling 
 
 height, 
 Even m the foaming strength of its abyss, 
 (\\ hich casts up misty columns that "be- 
 come 
 
MANFRED 
 
 Clouds rainins from the re-asceiidcd skies,) 
 
 Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 
 
 My thoughts mistook themselves. 
 
 Abbot. And wherefore so ? 
 
 Man. I could not tame my nature down; 
 
 for he 
 
 Must serve who fain would sway ; and 
 
 soothe, and sue, 
 And watch all time, and pry into all place, 
 And be a living lie, who would become 
 A mighty thing amongst the mean, and 
 
 such 
 The mass are ; I disdaiu'd to mingle with 
 A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
 The lion is alone, and so am I. 
 
 Abbot. And why not live and act with 
 
 other men ? 
 Man. Because my nature was averse 
 from life ; 
 And yet not cruel ; for I would not make. 
 But find a desolation. Like the wind, 
 The red-hot breath of the most lone sim- 
 oom, [o'er 
 Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps 
 The barren sands which bear no shrubs to 
 
 blast, 
 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
 And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
 But being met is deadly,— -such hath been 
 The course of my existence ; but there 
 
 came 
 Things in my path which are no more. 
 Abbot. Alas ! 
 
 I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
 From me and from my calling ; yet -so 
 
 young, 
 I still would — - 
 
 Man. Look on me ! there is an order 
 Of mortals on. the earth, who do become 
 Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
 Without the violence of warhke death ; 
 Some perishing of pleasure, some of study. 
 Some worn with toil, some of mere weari- 
 ness. 
 Some of disease, and some insanity, 
 And some of wither' d, or of broken hearts ; 
 For this last is a malady which slays 
 More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
 Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
 Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
 One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
 Am what I am, but that I ever was, 
 Or having been, that I am still on earth. 
 
 Abbot. Yet, hear me still 
 
 Man. Old man ! I do respect 
 
 Thine order, and revere thine years ; I 
 
 deem 
 Thy piurpose pious, but it is in vain : 
 Think me not churUsh ; I would spare thy- 
 self, 
 Far more than me, in shunnmg at this time 
 All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 
 
 [Exit M.1NFRED. 
 
 371 
 
 Abbot. This should have been a noble 
 
 creature : he 
 Hath all the energy which would have made 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
 Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is. 
 It IS an awful chaos— light and darkness, 
 And mind and dust, and passions and pure 
 
 _ thoughts 
 Mix'd, and contending without end or 
 
 order, — 
 All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
 And yet he must not ; I will try once more) 
 For such are worth redemption ; and mv 
 
 duty 
 Js to dare all things for a righteous end. 
 
 I 'U 
 
 follow 
 surely. 
 
 him — but cautiously, thouglj 
 [Exit Abbot. 
 
 Scene II 
 Another Chamber. 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you 
 
 at sunset : 
 He sinks behind the mountain. 
 
 Man. Doth he so ? 
 
 I will look on him. 
 
 [Manfred advances to t'le Window of the 
 
 Hall. 
 Glorious Orb ! the ido 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw- 
 down 
 The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
 The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
 Tliou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, 
 
 the hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
 Themselves in orisons ! Thou material 
 
 God! 
 And representative of the Unknown — 
 Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou 
 
 chief star ! 
 Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our 
 
 earth 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the 
 
 climes, 
 And those who dwell in them ! for near or 
 
 far. 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost 
 
 rise, 
 And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee 
 
 well! 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first 
 
 glance 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 
372 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 yiv latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth have 
 
 been 
 Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 I follow. [Exit Manfred. 
 
 Scene III 
 The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at 
 some distance — A Terrace before a 
 Tower. — Time, Tivilight. 
 Herman, Mavuel, and other Dependants of 
 Manfred. 
 Her, 'T is strange enough ; night after 
 night, for years, 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. 
 Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
 So have we all been oft-times ; but from it, 
 Or its contents, it were impossible 
 To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
 His studies tend to. To be siure, there is 
 One chamber where none enter ; I would 
 
 give 
 The fee of what I have to come these three 
 
 years, 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 Manuel. 'T were dangerous ; 
 
 Content thyself with what thou know'st 
 
 already. 
 
 Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and 
 
 wise. 
 
 And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt 
 
 within the castle — 
 How many years is 't ? 
 
 Manv.el. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 
 I served his father, whom he nought re- 
 sembles. 
 Her. There be more sons in like predica- 
 ment. 
 But wherein do they differ ? 
 
 Manuel. I speak not " 
 
 Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
 Count Sigismund was proud, but gay and 
 
 free, — 
 .\ warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
 With books and solitude, nor made the 
 
 night 
 A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
 Merrier than day ; he did not walk the 
 
 rocks 
 And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their delights. 
 
 Her. Beshrew the hour, 
 
 But those were jocund times ! I would 
 
 that such 
 Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 Manuel. These walls 
 
 Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I 
 
 have seen 
 
 Some strange things in them, Herman. 
 
 Her. Come, be friendh- ; 
 
 Relate me some to while away our watch : 
 
 T 've heard thee darkly speal; of an p\ent 
 
 Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same 
 
 tower. 
 Manuel. That was a night indeed! I 
 
 do remember 
 T' was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
 Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which 
 
 rests 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
 So hke that it might be the same ; the wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the mountain 
 
 snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within his ". 
 
 tower, — 
 How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
 The sole companion of his wanderings 
 And watchings — her, whom of all earthly 
 
 things 
 That lived, the only thing he seem'd to 
 
 love, — 
 As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 
 
 The lady Astarte, his 
 
 Hush ! who comes here ? 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. Where is your master ? 
 
 Her. Yonder in the tower. 
 
 Abbot. I must speak with him. 
 
 Manuel. 'T is impossible ; 
 
 He is most private, and must not be thus 
 Intruded on. 
 
 Abbot. Upon myself I take 
 
 The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
 But I must see him. 
 
 Her. Thou hast seen him once 
 
 This eve already. 
 
 Abbot. Herman ! I command thee. 
 
 Knock, and apprize the Count of my 
 approach. 
 
 Her. We dare not. 
 
 Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
 Of my own purpose. 
 
 Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 
 
 I pray you pause. 
 
 Abbot. Why so ? 
 
 Manuel. But step this wav. 
 
 And I will tell you further. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Interior of the Tou'er. 
 
 Manfred alone. 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the 
 
 tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beauti- 
 ful ! 
 I linger yet with Xature, for the Night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 rii.™ that of man ; and in her starrv shade 
 or dmi and solitary loveliness, 
 I learn'd the language of another world 
 1 do remember me, that in mv youth' 
 
MANFRED 
 
 373 
 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a 
 
 night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
 'Midst the chief reUcs of almighty Rome ; 
 The trees which grew along the broken 
 
 arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the 
 
 stars 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; 
 
 and 
 More near from out the Cajsars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly. 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn 
 
 breach 
 Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they 
 
 stood 
 Within a bowshot. Where the Cassars 
 
 dwelt, 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, 
 
 amidst 
 A grove which springs through levell'd 
 
 battlements. 
 And twines its roots with the imperial 
 
 hearths, 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; 
 But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble "wreck in ruinous perfection. 
 While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan 
 
 halls. 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, 
 
 upon 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light. 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 
 As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 And making that which was not, till the 
 
 place 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old, — 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who 
 
 still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns. 
 
 'T was such a night ! 
 'T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest 
 
 flight 
 Even at the moment when they should 
 
 array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. My good lord! 
 
 I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
 But vet let not my humble zeal offend 
 By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
 Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
 May light upon your head — could I say 
 heart— 
 
 Could I touch that, with words or prayers, 
 
 I should 
 Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
 But is not yet all lost. 
 
 Man. Thou know'st me not ; 
 
 My days are number'd, and my deeds 
 
 recorded : 
 Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 
 Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace 
 
 me ? 
 Man. Not I ; 
 I simply tell thee peril is at hand. 
 And would preserve thee. 
 
 Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Man. Look there ! 
 
 What dost thou see ? 
 
 Abbot. Nothing. 
 
 Man. Look there, I say. 
 
 And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou 
 se3st ? 
 Abbot. That which should shake me, — 
 but I fear it not : 
 I see a dusk and awful figure rise. 
 Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
 His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
 Robed as with angry clouds : he stands 
 
 between 
 Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
 Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not 
 harm thee — but 
 His sight may shock thine old limbs into 
 
 palsy. 
 I say 'to thee — Retire ! 
 
 Abbot. And I reply — 
 
 Never — till I have battled with this fiend : — 
 What doth he here ? 
 
 Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? 
 I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 
 Abbot. Alas I lost mortal! what with 
 guests like these 
 Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake : 
 Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
 Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
 Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
 Avaunt ! — 
 
 Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
 Spirit. Come ! 
 
 Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? 
 
 answer ! — speak ! 
 Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — 
 
 Come ! 't is time. 
 Man. I am prepared for all things, but 
 deny 
 The power which summons me. Who sent 
 thee here ? 
 Spirit. Thou 'It know anon — Come! 
 
 come ! 
 Man. I have commanded 
 
 Things of an essence greater far than thine. 
 And striven with thy masters. Get thee 
 hence ! 
 Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come- 
 Away ! I say. 
 
374 
 
 dra:>ias 
 
 Man. I knew, and know my hour is 
 
 come, but not 
 
 To render up my soul to such as thee : 
 
 Away ! I '11 die as I have lived — alone. 
 
 Spirit. Then I must summon up m}' 
 
 brethren. — Rise ! 
 
 [Other Spirits rise up. 
 Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — A vaunt! 
 I say ; 
 Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
 
 And I do charge ye in the name 
 
 Spirit. Old man ! 
 
 We know ourselves, our mission, and thine 
 
 order ; 
 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
 It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him — Away ! Away ! 
 Man. I do defy ye, — though I feel my 
 soul 
 Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly 
 
 breath 
 To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly 
 
 strength 
 To ^vrestle, though with spirits ; what ye 
 
 take 
 Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 
 
 Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 
 
 Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
 The world invisible, and make himself 
 Almost our equal ? Can it be that thou 
 Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
 Which made thee wretched ! 
 
 Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 
 
 My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that 
 
 hour ; 
 I do not combat against death, but thee 
 And thy surrounding angels ; my past 
 
 power 
 Was purchased by no compact with thy 
 
 crew. 
 But by superior science — penance, daring. 
 And length of watching, strength of mind, 
 
 and sldll 
 In knowledge of our fathers — when the 
 
 earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by side. 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 
 
 Spirit. But thy many crimes 
 
 Have made thee — — 
 
 ' Man. What are they to such as thee ? 
 ' :\Iust crimes be punish'd but by other 
 
 crimes, 
 [ And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
 ,' Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
 j Tliou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
 ' What I have done is done ; I bear within 
 A tortm-e which could nothing gain from 
 
 thine : 
 The mind which is immortal makes itself 
 Requital for its g.iod or evil thoughts, — 
 Is its own origin of ill and end 
 And its own place and time : its innate 
 
 sense. 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 No colour from the fleeting things without. 
 But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy. 
 Born from thekno\\'led,^e of its owTi desert. 
 Thou didst not tempt nie, and thou couldst 
 
 not tempt me ; 
 I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy 
 
 prey — 
 But "was my o\\ti destroyer, and will be 
 My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled 
 
 fiends ! 
 The hand of death is on me — but not 
 yours ! 
 
 [The Demons dis,ipp:ar. 
 Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art — thy 
 lips are white — 
 And thy breast heaves — and in thv gasping 
 
 throat 
 The accents rattle : Gi\'e thy prayers to 
 
 hea\Tn — 
 Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not 
 thus. 
 Man. 'T is over — my dull eves can fix 
 thee not ; 
 But all things swim aroimd me. and the 
 
 earth 
 Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee 
 
 well — 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 A bbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — 
 But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it 
 with thee ? 
 Man. Old man ! 't is not so difficult to 
 die. 
 
 [M.iN'FRED expires. 
 Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en 
 its earthless flight ; 
 Whither ? I dread to think— but he is 
 gone. 
 
IVIARINO I'ALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 -<75 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 AN HISTOIiiCAL TRAGEDY, 
 
 IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 " DuxinquietiturbidusAdriffi." — Horace. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.S: 
 Men 
 Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
 Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge, 
 LrONi, a. Patrician and Senator. 
 Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
 Michel Steno, One of the three Capi of the Forty. 
 Israel Bertuccio, Chief of , 
 
 the Arsenal, 
 Philip Calendaro, I Const>irators. 
 
 Dagolino, 
 Bertram, / 
 
 ( " Signore di Nolle," one of 
 Signor of tlie Night, \ the Officers belonging to the 
 
 K Republic. 
 First Citizen. 
 
 Second Citizen. '■ 
 
 Third Citizen. 
 ViNCENZO, ") 
 
 PiETRQ, I O fleers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
 Battista, ) 
 
 Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
 Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten, 
 The GLunta, etc., etc. 
 
 Women 
 Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
 JIarianna, hey Friend. 
 
 Female Attendants, etc. 
 Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. — An Antecliamber in the Ducal 
 Palace. 
 
 PiETRO speaks, in entering, to Battista. 
 
 Pie. Is uot the messenger return'd ? 
 
 Bat. Not yet ; 
 
 I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
 But still the Signory is deep in council, 
 And long debate on Steno's accusation. 
 
 Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the 
 Doge. 
 
 Bat. Huw bears he 
 These moments of suspense ? 
 
 Pie. With struggling patience. 
 
 Placed at the ducal table, cover'd o'er 
 With all the apparel of the state ; petitions. 
 Despatches, judgments, acts, reprie\es, 
 
 reports, 
 He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
 He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
 Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
 Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye 
 
 wanders, 
 And he will start up from his chair, then 
 
 pause. 
 And seat himself again, and fi.\ his gaze 
 Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
 
 For the last hour he has not turned a leaf. 
 Bat. 'T is said he is much moved, — and 
 doubtless 't was 
 Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grrisslv. 
 Pie. Ay, if a poor man: Stent's a 
 patrician. 
 Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 
 
 Bat. Then you think 
 
 He \yill not be judged hardly ? 
 
 Pie. 'T were enough 
 
 He be judged justly, but 't is not for us 
 To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 
 Bat. And here it conies. — What news, 
 Vinceuzo ? 
 
 EntCf ViNCENZO. 
 
 Vin. 'T is 
 
 Decided ; but as yet his doom 's unknown : 
 I saw the president in act to seal 
 The parchment which will bear the Forty's 
 
 judgment 
 Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The Ducal Chamber. 
 
 Marino Faliero, Doge; and his Nephew, 
 Bertuccio Faliero. 
 
 Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do 
 
 you justice. 
 Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori ' did, 
 Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
 To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
 Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect 
 him ; such an act 
 Would bring contempt on all authority. 
 Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know 
 you not the Forty ? 
 But we shall see anon. 
 
 Ber. F. {addressing Vincenzo, then 
 entering) . 
 
 How now — what tidings ? 
 Vin. I am charged to tell his higliness 
 that the court 
 Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
 .\s the due forms of judgment are gone 
 
 through. 
 The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
 In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
 The Prince of the Republic, a.^A entreat 
 His acceptation of theu: duty. 
 
 Doge. Yes — 
 
 They are wond'rous dutiful, and c\er 
 
 humble. 
 Sentence is pass'd, you say ? 
 
376 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Vm. It is, your highness : 
 
 The president was sealing it, when I 
 Was call'd in, that no moment might be 
 
 lost 
 In forwarding the intimation due 
 Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
 But the complainant, both in one united, 
 Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you 
 have perceived. 
 Of their decision ? 
 
 Vin. No, my lord ; you know 
 
 The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 
 Ber. F. True ; but there still is some- 
 thing given to guess. 
 Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye 
 
 would catch at ; 
 A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
 More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
 The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 
 And wise, and just, and cautious — this I 
 
 grant — 
 And secret as the grave to which they doom 
 The guilty : but mth all this, in their 
 
 aspects — 
 At least in some, the juniors of the num- 
 ber — 
 A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vin- 
 cenzo, [nounced. 
 
 Would read the sentence ere it was pro- 
 Vin. My lord, I came away upon the 
 moment. 
 And had no leisure to take note of that 
 Which pass'd among the judges, even in 
 
 seeming ; 
 My station near the accused too, Jlichel 
 Steno, 
 
 Made me 
 
 Doge (abruptly). And how look'd he? 
 
 deliver that. 
 Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood 
 resign' d 
 To the decree, whate'er it were ; — but lo ! 
 It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 
 Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 
 Sec. The high tribunal of the Fort v sends 
 Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
 Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
 His highness to peruse and to approve 
 The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, born 
 Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
 Contain'd, together with its penalty, 
 Withm the rescript which I now present. 
 Doge. Retire, and wait without. 
 
 [Exeunt Secretary and Vin-cenzg. 
 Take thou this paper : 
 The misty letters vanish from my ej'es ; 
 I cannot fix them. 
 
 Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 
 
 Why do you tremble thus ? — nav, doubt 
 
 not, all 
 Will be as could be wish'd. 
 
 Doge. Sav on. 
 
 Ber. F. (reading). ■' Decreed 
 
 In council, without one dissenting voice, 
 That Michel Steno, by his own confession. 
 Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
 Of haX'ing graven on the ducal throne 
 
 The following words " 
 
 Doge. Would'st thou repeat them ? 
 
 Would'st thou repeat them — tliou, a Faliero, 
 Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
 Dishonour'd in its chief — that chief the 
 
 prince 
 Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 
 Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will 
 obey — 
 (Reads). " That Michel Steno be detain'd 
 
 a month 
 In close arrest," 
 
 Doge. Proceed. 
 
 Ber. F. My lord, 't is finish'd. 
 
 Doge. How say you ? — finish'd ! Do I 
 
 dream ? — 't is false — 
 
 Give me the paper — (Snatches the paper 
 
 and reads) — " 'T is decreed in council 
 
 That Michel Steno " Nephew, thine 
 
 arm ! 
 Ber. F. Nay, 
 
 Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is 
 
 uncall'd for — 
 Let me seek some assistance. 
 
 Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not — 
 
 'T is past. 
 
 Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
 The sentence is too slight for the ofience ; 
 It is not honourable in the Forty 
 To affix so slight a penalty to that 
 Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
 To them, as being your subjects ; but 't is 
 
 not 
 "^'et without remedy : you can appeal 
 To them once more, or to the A^■ogado^i, 
 Who, seeing that true justice is withheld. 
 Will now take up the cause thev onc6 
 
 declined. 
 And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
 Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do 
 
 you stand 
 So fix'd ? You heed me not : — I prav you, 
 hear me ! 
 Doge (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and 
 offering to trample upon it, exclaims, 
 as he is withheld by his nephew^ 
 Oh ! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
 Thus would I do him homage. 
 ^Ber. F. For the sake 
 Of Jieaven and all its saints, my lord 
 
 Dos: 
 
 Awav ! 
 
 at 
 
 Oh, that the Genoese were in tlie port 
 Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew 
 
 Zara 
 Were ranged aroundthe palace ' 
 
 T ^''■- ^- . V. , 'T i5 not well 
 
 I-nA enice' Duke to sav so. 
 
 mu"^''- ■ ^ , ■ Venice' Duke ! 
 
 Who now is Duke in \'enice ? let me see 
 him, 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 377 
 
 That he may do mc right. 
 
 Ber. F. If you forget 
 
 Your of&ce, and its dignity and duty, 
 Remember that of man, and curb this 
 
 passion. 
 
 The Duke of Venice 
 
 Doge {interrupting him). There is no 
 
 such thing — 
 It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by- 
 word : 
 The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, 
 
 helpless wretch, 
 Who begs his bread, if 't is refused by one, 
 May win it from another kinder heart ; 
 But he, wlio is denied his right by those 
 Whose place it is to do no \vrong, is poorer 
 Than the rejected beggar — he 's a slave — 
 And that am I, and thou, and all our house. 
 Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
 Will point the finger, and the haughty 
 
 noble 
 May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 
 
 Ber. F. The law, my prince 
 
 Doge (interrupting him). You see what 
 
 it has done ; 
 I asked no remedy but from the law, 
 I sought no vengeance but redress by law, 
 I call'd no judges but those named by law ; 
 As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subj-ects. 
 The very subjects who had made me 
 
 sovereign. 
 And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
 The rights of place and choice, of birth and 
 
 service. 
 Honours and years, these scars, these 
 
 hoary hairs. 
 The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues. 
 The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
 Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the 
 
 foulest stain, 
 The grossest insult, most contemptuous 
 
 crime 
 Of a rank, rash patrician — and found 
 
 wanting ! 
 And thi^i is to be borne ! 
 
 Ber. F. I say not that : — ■ 
 
 In case your fresh appeal should be re- 
 
 icctcd. 
 We will find other means to make all even. 
 Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my 
 
 brother's'son ? 
 A scion of the house of Faliero ? 
 The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
 Which hath already given three dukes to 
 
 Venice ? 
 But thou say'st well — we must be humble 
 
 now. 
 Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too 
 
 much moved ; — 
 I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
 ' Left without fitting punishment : but still 
 This fury doth exceed the provocation. 
 Or any provocation -. if we are wTong'd, 
 We will ask justice ; if it be denied, 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 We '11 take it ; but may do all this in calm- 
 ness — 
 
 Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep 
 Silence. 
 
 I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
 
 I love our house, I honour you, its chief. 
 
 The guardian of my youth, and its instruc- 
 tor— 
 
 But though I understand your grief, and 
 enter 
 
 In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
 
 To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
 
 O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to 
 air. 
 Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee — what 
 thy father 
 
 Would have required no words to compre- 
 hend ? 
 
 Hast thou no feeling save the external 
 sense 
 
 Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no 
 soul 
 
 No pride — no passion — no deep sense of 
 honour ? 
 Ber. F. 'T is the first time that honour 
 has been doubted. 
 
 And were the last, from any other sceptic. 
 Doge. You know the full offence of this 
 born villain. 
 
 This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted 
 felon. 
 
 Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel. 
 
 And on the honour of — Oh God ! my wife. 
 
 The nearest, dearest part of all men's 
 honour. 
 
 Left a base slur to pass from mouth to 
 mouth 
 
 Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul 
 comments. 
 
 And villainous jests, and blasphemies 
 obscene ; 
 
 While sneering nobles, in more polish'd 
 guise, 
 
 Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
 
 Which made me look like them — a 
 courteous wittol. 
 
 Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dis- 
 honour. 
 Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew 
 it false. 
 
 And so did all men. 
 
 Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 
 
 Said, " Cffisar's wife must not even be sus- 
 pected," 
 
 And put her from him. 
 
 Ber. F. True — but in those days 
 
 Doge. What is it that a Roman would 
 not suffer. 
 
 That a Venetian prince must bear ? old 
 Dandolo 
 
 Refused the diadem of all the Cajsars, 
 
 And wore the ducal cap I trample on. 
 
 Because 't is now degraded. 
 Ber. F. 'T is even so. 
 
 Q c 
 
378 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Doge. It is — it is ; — I did not ^•isit on 
 The innocent creature ttius most vilely 
 
 slander'd 
 Because she took an old man for her lord, 
 For that he had been long her father's 
 
 friend 
 And patron of her house, as if there were 
 No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
 And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
 Visit the villain's infamy on her, 
 But craved my country's justice on his 
 
 head, 
 The justice due unto the humblest being 
 \\'ho hath a wife whose faith is sweet to 
 
 him, 
 V\'ho hath a home whose hearth is dear to 
 
 him, 
 \\'ho hath a name whose honour 's all to 
 
 him, 
 \\'hen these are tainted by the accursing 
 
 breath 
 Of calumny and scorn. 
 
 Ber. F. And what redress 
 
 Did you expect as his ht punishment ? 
 Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign 
 
 rif the state — 
 Insulted on his very throne, and made 
 A mockery to the men who should obey 
 
 me ? 
 Was I not injured as a husband ? scorn'd 
 As man ? re^"iled, degraded, as a prince ? 
 \\'as not offence like his a complication 
 Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
 Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
 Stamp'd the same brand upon a peasant's 
 
 stool, 
 His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the 
 
 carle 
 Had stabb'd him on the instant. 
 
 Ber. F. Do not doubt it. 
 
 He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
 The means, and calm youi'self. 
 
 Doge. Hold, nephew : this 
 
 Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at 
 
 present 
 I have no further "wrath against this man. 
 Ber. F What mean you ? is not the 
 
 offence redoubled 
 By this most rank — I will not sav — 
 
 acquittal ; 
 For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
 Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 
 Doge. It is redoubled, but not now bv 
 
 him ; 
 The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
 We must obey the Forty. 
 
 Ber. F. Obey them ! 
 
 Who have forgot their duty to the sox'e- 
 
 reign ? 
 Doge. Why yes ; — boy, you perceive it 
 
 then at last : 
 Whether as fellow citizen who sues 
 For justice, or as sovereign who commands 
 
 it, 
 
 They have defrauded me of both my rights 
 (For here the sovereign is a citizen) ; 
 But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a 
 
 hair 
 Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 
 Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had 
 
 you left to me 
 The mode and means : if you had calmly 
 
 heard me, 
 I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
 But wish'd you to suppress such gusts of 
 
 passion. 
 That we more surely might devise together 
 His taking off. 
 
 Doge. ^ No, nephew, he must li^'e ; 
 
 At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
 Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden 
 
 time 
 Some sacrifices ask'd a single \'ictim, 
 Great expiations had a hecatomb. 
 
 Ber. F. Your wishes are my law : and 
 
 yet I fain [heart 
 
 Would pro\e to you how near unto my 
 The honoiu: of our house must e^•er be. 
 Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and 
 
 place of proof : 
 But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
 I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
 I pray you, pardon me. 
 
 Ber. F. \\'hy. that's my uncle ! 
 
 The lead.r, and the statesman, and the 
 
 chief 
 Of commonwealths, and sovereiscn of him- 
 self ! 
 I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
 All prudence in your fury at these 5'ears, 
 
 Although the cause 
 
 Doge. Ay. think upon the cause — 
 
 Forget it not : — When you lie do«-nto rest, 
 Let it be black among your dreams ; and 
 
 when 
 The mom returns, so let it stand between 
 The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
 I'pon a summer day of festi^'al : 
 So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, 
 
 stir not, — 
 Leave all to me ; we shall have much to do. 
 And you shall ha\e a part. — But now retire, 
 'T is fit I were alone. 
 
 Ber. F. {taking up and placing the ducal 
 
 bonnet on the table). 
 
 Ere I depart, 
 I pray you to resume what you have 
 
 spurn'd. 
 Till yon can change it haplv for a cro\\'n. 
 .-Vnd now I take my lea\-e, imploring vou 
 In all things to rely upon mv duty 
 As doth become your near and faithful 
 
 kinsman. 
 And not less loyal citizen and subject. 
 
 [Exit Bertuccio F.\liero. 
 Doge (solus). Adieu, mv worthv nephew. 
 
 — Hollow bauble ! 
 
 [Taking up the ducal cap. 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 379 
 
 Bcspt with all the thorns that line a crown 
 Without investing the insulted brow 
 With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 
 Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy. 
 Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. 
 
 [Puts it on. 
 How my brain aches beneath thee ! and 
 
 my temples 
 Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
 Could I not turn thee to a diadem ? 
 Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
 Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
 Making the people nothing, and the prince 
 A pageant ? In my life 1 have achieved 
 Tcisks not less difficult — achieved for them, 
 Who thus repay me ! Can I not requite 
 
 them ? 
 Oh for one year ! Oh ! but for even a day 
 Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
 My soul as serves the generous steed his 
 
 lord, 
 I would have dash'd amongst them, asking 
 
 few 
 In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 
 But now I must look round for other hands 
 To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall 
 
 plan 
 In such a sort as will not leave the task 
 Herculean, though as yet 't is but a chaos 
 Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
 In her first work, more nearly to the light 
 Holding the sleeping images of things 
 F' r the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
 
 The troops are few in 
 
 Enter Vincenzo. 
 Vin. There is one without 
 
 Craves audience of your highness. 
 
 Doge, I'ni unwell — 
 
 I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
 Let him refer his business to the council. 
 
 Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
 It cannot much import — he 's a plebeian, 
 The master of a galley, I believe. 
 
 Doge. How ! did you say the patron of 
 
 a galley ? 
 That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
 Admit him, ho may be on public service. 
 [Exit Vincenzo. 
 Doge (solus). This patron may be 
 
 sounded ; I will try him. 
 I know the people to be discontented : 
 They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse 
 
 day. 
 When Genoa coaquer'd : they have further 
 
 cause. 
 Since they are nothing in the state, and m 
 The city worse than nothing — mere 
 
 machines, 
 To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
 The troops have long arrears of pay, oft 
 
 promised. 
 And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
 Will draw them forward : they shall pay 
 
 themselves 
 
 With plunder : — but the priests — I doubt 
 
 the priesthood 
 Win not be with us ; they have hated me 
 Since that rash hour, when, maddcn'd with 
 
 the drone, 
 I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
 Quickening his holy march ; yet, ne'erthe- 
 
 less. 
 They may be won, at least their chief at 
 
 Rome, 
 By some well-timed concessions ; but, 
 
 above 
 All things, I must be speedy : at my hour 
 Of twilight little light of lire remains. 
 Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
 I had lived too long, and willingly would 
 
 sleep 
 Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting 
 
 this. 
 Better that sixty of my fourscore years 
 Had been already where — how soon, I care 
 
 not — 
 The whole must be extinguish'd ; better 
 
 that 
 They ne'er had been, than drag me on to 
 
 be 
 The thing these arch-oppressors fain would 
 
 make me. 
 Let me consider — of efficient troops 
 There are three thousand posted at 
 
 Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 
 
 Vin. May it please 
 
 Your highness, the same patron whom I 
 
 spake of 
 Is here to crave your patience. 
 
 Doge. Leave the chamber, 
 
 Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincenzo. 
 
 Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 
 
 /. Ber. Redress. 
 
 Doge. Of whom ? 
 
 /. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 
 
 Doge. Alas ! my friend, you ''".ek it of 
 the twain 
 Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
 You must oddress the council. 
 
 /. Ber. *T were in vain ; 
 
 For he who injured me is one of them. 
 
 Doge. There's bhiod upon thy face — 
 how came it there ? 
 
 /. Ber. 'T is mine, and not the first 
 I 've shed for Venice, 
 But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
 A noble smote me. 
 
 Doge. Doth he live ? 
 
 /. Ber. Not long-^ 
 
 But for the hope I had and have, that you. 
 My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
 Him, whom the laws of discipline and 
 
 Venice 
 Permit not to protect himself : — if not — 
 I say no more. 
 
 Doge. But something you would do — 
 Is it not so ? 
 
38o 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 I. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 
 Dog,e. ^Vhy so is he who smote you. 
 /. Ber. He is call'd so ; 
 
 Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in 
 
 Venice : 
 But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
 And treats me like a brute, the brute may 
 
 turn — 
 'T is said the worm will. 
 Doge. Say — his name and lineage ? 
 
 /. Bet. Barbaro. 
 
 Doe.e. What was the cause ? or the pre- 
 text ? 
 /. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, 
 employ'd 
 At present in repairing certain galleys 
 But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
 This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
 Full of reproof, because our artisans 
 Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
 To execute the state's decree : I dared 
 To justify the men — he raised his hand : — 
 Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er 
 
 flow'd 
 Dishonourably. 
 
 Doge. Have you long time served ? 
 
 /. Ber. So long as to remember Zara's 
 siege. 
 And fight beneath the chief who beat the 
 
 Huns there. 
 Sometime my general, now the Doge 
 Faliero. — 
 Doge. How ! are we comrades ? — the 
 state's ducal robes 
 Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
 Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
 So that I recognised you not. Who placed 
 you ? 
 7. Ber. The late Doge ; keeping still my 
 old command 
 As patron of a galley : my new office 
 Was given as the reward of certain scars 
 (So was your predecessor pleased to say) : 
 I little thought his bounty would conduct 
 
 me 
 To his successor as a helpless plaintiff ; 
 At least, in such a cause. 
 
 Doge. Are you much hurt ? 
 
 I. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 
 Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being 
 stung at heart, 
 What would you do to be revenged on thU 
 man ? 
 /. Ber. That which I dare not name, and 
 
 yet will do. 
 Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 
 /• Ber. I come for justice. 
 
 Because my general is Doge, and will not 
 See his old soldier trampled on. Had any. 
 Save Faliero. fill'd the ducal throne. 
 This blood had been wash'd out in other 
 blood. 
 Doge. You come to me for justice — unto 
 me ! 
 
 The Dcigc of Venice, and I cannot give it < 
 I cannot even obtain it — 't was denied 
 To me most solemnly an hour ago ! 
 /. Ber. How says your highness ? 
 Doge. Steno is condemn'd 
 
 To a month's confinement. 
 
 I. Ber. What ! the same who dared 
 
 To stain the ducal throne with those foul 
 
 words, 
 That have cried shame to every ear in 
 Venice ? 
 Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd 
 o'er the arsenal, 
 Keeping due time with every hammer's 
 
 clink 
 As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
 Or making chorus to the creaking oar. 
 In the vile tune of every gaUey-slave, 
 Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
 He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 
 I. Ber. Is 't possible ? a month's im- 
 prisonment ! 
 No more for Steno ? 
 
 Doge. You have heard the oSence, 
 
 And now you know his punishment ; and 
 
 then 
 You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
 Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel 
 
 Steno ; 
 They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 
 I. Ber. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 
 Doge. Give them breath. 
 
 Mine have no further outrage to endure. 
 /. Ber. Then in a word, it rests but on 
 your word 
 To punish and avenge — I will not say 
 My petty wrong, for what is a mere "blow, 
 However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — ■ 
 But the base insult done your state and 
 person. 
 Doge. You overrate my pov.er, which is 
 a pageant. 
 This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these 
 
 robes 
 Might move compassion, Hke a beggar's 
 
 rags ; 
 Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and 
 
 these 
 But lent to the poor puppet, who must 
 
 play 
 Its part with all its empire in this ermine 
 /. Ber. Wouldst thou be kint; ? 
 Doge. Ws — of a happy people. 
 
 /. Ber. \\ ,5uldst thou be sovereign lord 
 
 of Venice ? 
 Doge. i^^. 
 
 It that the people shared that sovereigntv' 
 So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
 To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hvdra 
 The poisonous heads of whose envenom' d 
 
 body 
 Have breathed a pestilence upon us all, 
 /. Ber Vet, thou wast bom. and s 
 
 vast 
 hast hved, patrician. 
 
 bom, and stUl 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 381 
 
 Do^e. In evil hour was I so born ; my 
 
 birth 
 Hath made me Doge to be insulted ; but 
 I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
 Of Venipe and her people, not the senate ; 
 Their good and my own honour were my 
 
 guerdon. 
 I have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, 
 
 and conquered ; 
 Have made and marr'd peace oft in 
 
 embassies, 
 As it might chance to be our country's 
 
 'vantage ; 
 Have traversed land and sea in constant 
 
 duty. 
 Through almost sixty years, and still for 
 
 Venice, 
 My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear 
 
 spires. 
 Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
 It was reward enough for me to view 
 Once more ; but not for any knot of 
 
 men. 
 Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
 But would you know why I have done all 
 
 this? 
 Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
 Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird 
 
 a voice. 
 She 'd tell thee 't was for all her little ones. 
 /. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 
 Doge. They made me so ; 
 
 I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
 Returning from my Roman embassy, 
 And never having hitherto refused 
 Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did 
 
 not, 
 At these late years, decline what was the 
 
 highest 
 Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
 In what we have to do and to endure ; 
 Bear witness for me thou, my injured 
 
 subject, 
 When I can neither right myself nor thee. 
 /. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess 
 
 the will ; 
 And many thousands more not less 
 
 oppress'd. 
 Who wait but for a signal— will you give 
 
 it? 
 Doge. You speak in riddles. 
 /. Ber. Which shall soort be read 
 
 At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
 To lend a patient ear. 
 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 I jjgy^ Not thou. 
 
 Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
 .Contemn'd and trampled on; but the 
 
 whole people 
 Groan with the strong conception of their 
 
 wrongs ; 
 The foreign soldiers in the senate s pay 
 Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
 The native mariners, and civic troops. 
 
 Feel with their friends ; for who is he 
 
 amongst them 
 Whose brethren, parents, children, wi\'e^, 
 
 or sisters. 
 Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
 From the patricians ? And the hopeless 
 
 war 
 Against the Genoese, which is still main- 
 
 tain'd 
 With the plebeian blood, and treasure 
 
 wrung 
 From their hard earnings, has inflamed 
 
 them further : 
 Even now — but, I forget that speaking 
 
 thus. 
 Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 
 Doge. And suffering what thou hast 
 
 done — fear'st thou death ? 
 Be silent then, and Uve on, to be beaten 
 By those for whom thou hast bled. 
 
 /. Ber. No, I will speak 
 
 At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
 Should turn delator, be the shame on him. 
 And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 
 Than I. 
 
 Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with 
 
 it ! 
 /. Ber Know then, that there are met 
 
 and sworn in secret 
 A band of brethren, valiant hearts and 
 
 true ; 
 Men who have proved all fortunes, and 
 
 have long 
 Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
 To do so ; having served her in all cUmes, 
 And having rescued her from foreign foes. 
 Would do the same from those within her 
 
 walls. 
 They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
 For their great purpose ; they have arms, 
 
 and means. 
 And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and 
 
 patient courage. 
 Doge. For what then do they pause ? 
 / Ber. An hour to strike. 
 
 Doge [aside). Saint Mark's shall strike 
 
 that hour ! 
 I. Ber. I now have placed 
 
 My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes 
 Within thv power, but in the firm behef 
 That injuries like ours, sprung from one 
 
 cause. 
 Will generate one vengeance : should it be 
 
 so. 
 Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 
 Doge. How many are ye ? 
 / Ber I '11 not answer that 
 
 Till I am answer' d. 
 
 Doge. How, sir ! do you menace ? 
 
 /. Ber. No ; I affirm. I have betray'd 
 
 myself ; 
 But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 
 Which undermine your palace, nor in 
 
 those 
 
382 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Not less appalling cells, the "leaden 
 
 roofs," 
 To force a single name from me of others. 
 The Pozzi ^ and the Piombi were in vain ; 
 They might wring blood from me, but 
 
 treachery never. 
 And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of 
 
 Sighs," 
 Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
 Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which 
 
 flows 
 Between the murderers and the murder' d, 
 
 washing 
 The prison and the palace walls : there are 
 Those who would live to think on 't, and 
 
 avenge me. 
 Doge. If such your power and purpose, 
 
 why come here 
 To sue for justice, being in the course 
 To do yourself due right ? 
 - /. Ber. Because the man. 
 
 Who claims protection from authority. 
 Showing his confidence and his submission 
 To that authority, can hardly be 
 Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
 Had I sate down too humbly with this 
 
 blow, 
 A moody brow and mutter'd threats had 
 
 made me 
 A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
 But loud complaint, however angrily 
 It shapes its phrase, is httle to be fear'd, 
 And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
 I had another reason. 
 Doge. What was that ? 
 
 /. Bev. Some rumours that the Doge 
 
 was greatly moved 
 By the reference of the Avogadori 
 Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
 Had reach'd me. I had served you, 
 
 honour'd you. 
 And felt that you were dangerously 
 
 insulted. 
 Being of an order of such spirits, as 
 Requite tenfold both good and evil ; 't was 
 My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
 Now you know all ; and that I speak the 
 
 truth, 
 Jly peril be the proof. 
 
 Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 
 
 But ajl must do so who would greatlv win : 
 Thus far I'll answer you — your secret's 
 
 safe. 
 I. Bcr. And is this all ? 
 Doge. Unless with all intrusted. 
 
 What would you have me answer ? 
 
 /. Ber. I would have you 
 
 Trust him who leaves his life in trust with 
 
 you. 
 Doge. But I must know your plan, your 
 
 names, and numbers ; 
 The last may then be doubled, and the 
 
 former 
 Matured and strengthen'd. 
 
 /. Ber. We're enough already ; 
 
 You are the sole ally we covet now. 
 
 Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of 
 
 your chiefs. 
 /. Bey. That shall be done upon your 
 formal pledge 
 To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 
 Doge. When ? where ? 
 /. Ber. This night I'll bring to your 
 apartment 
 Two of the principals : a greater number 
 Were hazardous. 
 
 Doge. Stay, I must think of this. — 
 \Vhat if I were to trust myself amongst you. 
 And leave the palace ? 
 
 /. Ber. You must come alone. 
 
 Doge. With but my nephew. 
 /. Ber. Not were he your son. 
 
 Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my 
 son ? He died in arms 
 At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
 Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
 Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
 I should not need the dubious aid of 
 strangers. 
 /. Ber. Not one of all those strangers 
 whom thou doubtest. 
 But wiU regard thee with a filial feeling. 
 So that thou keep'st a father's faith with 
 them. 
 Doge: The die is cast. Where is the 
 
 place of meeting ? 
 I. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and 
 mask'd 
 Where'er your highness pleases to direct 
 
 me, 
 To wait your coming, and conduct you 
 
 where 
 You shall receive our homage, and pro- 
 
 uoimce 
 Upon our project. 
 
 Doge. At what hour arises 
 
 The moon ? 
 
 /. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is 
 thick and dusk}', 
 'T is a sirocco. 
 
 Doge. At the midnight hour, then. 
 
 Near to the church where sleep my sires ; 
 
 the same. 
 Twin-named from the apostles John and 
 
 Paul ; 
 .A gondola, with one oar onlv, will 
 Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by 
 Be there, 
 
 / Ber. I will not fail. 
 
 Doge. And now retire 
 
 /. Ber. In the fuU hope your highness 
 will not falter 
 In your great purpose. Prince, I take my 
 leave. 
 
 [Exit Israel Bertuccio. 
 Doge (solus). At midnight, by the 
 church Saints John and Paul, 
 Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair 
 
MARINO TALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 383 
 
 To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
 With common ruffians leagued to ruin 
 
 states ! 
 And will not my great sires leap from the 
 
 vault, 
 Where lie two dogos who preceded me, 
 And pluck me down amongst them? Would 
 
 they could ! 
 For I should rest in honour with the 
 
 honour'd. 
 Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
 Who have made me thus unv/orthy of a 
 
 name 
 Noble and brave as aught of consular 
 On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
 Back to its antique lustre in our annals» 
 By sweet revenge on all that 's base in 
 
 Venice, 
 And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
 To all the growing calumnies of time, 
 Which never spare the fame of him who 
 
 fails. 
 But try the Casar, or the Catiline, 
 By the true touchstone of desert — success, 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. — An Apartment in the Ducal 
 Palace. 
 
 Angiolina {wife of the Doge) and Mari- 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 Ang. What was the Doge's answer ? 
 
 Mar. That he was 
 
 That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
 But 't is by this time ended. I perceived 
 Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
 \nd the last gondola may now be seen 
 Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
 The glittering waters. 
 
 Ang. Would he were return'd ! 
 
 He has been much disquieted of late ; 
 And Time, which has not tamed his fiery 
 
 spirit, 
 Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame. 
 Which seems to be more nourish'd by a soul 
 So quick and restless that it would consume 
 Less hardy clay — Time has but httle power 
 On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
 To other spirits of his order, who, 
 In the first burst of passion, pour away 
 Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in 
 
 him 
 An aspect of eternity : his thoughts. 
 His feehngs, passions, good or evil, all 
 Havenothiagcfoldage ; and his bold brow 
 Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts 
 
 of years. 
 Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
 Has been more agitated than his wont. 
 Would he were come ! for I alone have 
 power ! 
 
 Upon his troubled spirit. 
 
 Mar. It is true. 
 
 His highness has of late been greatly moved j 
 
 By the affront of Steno, and with cause : 
 But the offender doubtless oven now 
 Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
 Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
 To female virtue, and to noble blood. 
 Ang. 'T was a gross insult ; but I heed 
 it not 
 For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself. 
 But for the effect, the deadly deep impres- 
 sion 
 Which it has made upon Faliero's soul. 
 The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
 To all save me : I tremble when I think 
 To what it may conduct. 
 
 Mar. Assuredly 
 
 The Doge can not suspect you ? 
 
 Ang. Suspect -me ! 
 
 Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd 
 
 his lie, 
 Grovelhng by stealth in the moon's glim- 
 mering fight. 
 His own still conscience smote him for the 
 
 act, 
 And every shadow on the walls frown'd 
 
 shame 
 Upon his coward calumny. 
 
 Mar. 'T were fit 
 
 He should be punish'd grievously. 
 
 Ang. He is so. 
 
 Alar. What ! is the sentence passed ? 
 
 is he condemn'd ? 
 Ang. I know not that, but he has been 
 
 detected. 
 Mar. And deem you this enough for such 
 
 foul scorn ? 
 Ang. I wouldnot be a judge in my own 
 cause. 
 Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
 May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 
 But if his insults sink no deeper in 
 The minds of the inquisitors than they 
 Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquit- 
 tance. 
 Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 
 Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd 
 
 virtue. 
 Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a 
 victim ? 
 Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
 The dying Roman said, " 't was but a 
 
 name:" 
 It were indeed no more, if human breath 
 Could make or mar it. 
 
 Mar. Yet full many a dame. 
 
 Stainless and faithful, would feel all the 
 
 wrong 
 Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, 
 Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
 And all-inexorable in their cry 
 For justice. 
 
 Ang. This but proves it is the name 
 ,\nd not the quahty they prize ; the first 
 Ha\'e found it a hard task to hold their 
 honour, 
 
384 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
 And those who have not kept it, seek its 
 
 seeming 
 As they would look out for an ornament 
 Of which they feel the want, but not be- 
 cause 
 They think it so ; they live in others' 
 
 thoughts, 
 And would seem honest as they must seem 
 fair. 
 Alar. You have strange thoughts for a 
 
 patrician dame. 
 Ans. And yet they were my father's ; 
 with his name, 
 The sole inheritance he left. 
 
 Mar. Vou want none ; 
 
 Wife to a prince, the chief of the Repubhc. 
 Ang. I should have sought none though 
 a peasant's bride. 
 But feel not less the love and gratitude 
 Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
 Upon hi; early, tried, and trusted friend. 
 The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 
 JMar. And with that hand did he bestow 
 
 your heart ? 
 AyiK- He did so, or it had not been 
 
 bestow'd. 
 May. Yet this strange disproportion in 
 your years, 
 And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
 JVIight make the world doubt whether such 
 
 an union 
 Could make you wisely, permanently 
 happy. 
 Ang. The world will think with world- 
 lings ; but my heart 
 Has still been in my duties, which are 
 
 many, 
 But never difhcult. 
 
 iVfl/-. And do you love him ? 
 
 .iiig. I love all noble quahties which 
 merit 
 Love, and I loved my father, who first 
 
 taught me 
 To single out what we should love in others. 
 And to subdue all tendency to lend 
 The best and purest feelings of our nature 
 To baser passions. He bestow'd mv liand 
 Upon Faliero : he had known him noble, 
 Brave, generous ; rich in all the qualities 
 Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
 . Such have I found him as my father said. 
 His faults are those that dwell in the high 
 
 bosoms 
 Of men who have commanded ; too much 
 
 pride. 
 And the deep passions iiercelv foster'd b>' 
 The uses of patriciams, and a life 
 Spent in the storms of state and war ; and 
 
 also 
 From the quick sense of honour, which I 
 becomes | 
 
 A duty to a nrtam sign, a vice 
 When overstrain' d, and this I fear in him. 
 
 And then he has been rash from his youth 
 
 upwards. 
 Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 
 In such sort, that the wariest of repubUcs 
 Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him, 
 From his first fight to his last embassy. 
 From which on his return the dukedom 
 met him. 
 Mar. But previous to this marriage, had 
 your heart 
 Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth. 
 Such as in years had been more meet to 
 
 match 
 Beauty hke yours ? or since have you ne'er 
 
 seen 
 One, who, if vour fair hand were still to 
 
 give. 
 Might now pretend to Loredano'; daughter ? 
 Ang. I answer'd your first question 
 when I said 
 I married. 
 
 Mar. And the second ? 
 
 Ang. Needs no answer. 
 
 May. I pray you pardon, if I have 
 
 offended. 
 Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : 
 I knew not 
 That wedded bosoms could permit them- 
 selves 
 To ponder upon what they now might 
 
 choose, 
 Or aught save their past choice. 
 
 i^t"'. 'T is their past choice 
 
 That far too often makes them deem they 
 
 would 
 Now choose more wiseh-, could thev cancel 
 it. 
 Ang. It may be so, I knew not of such 
 
 thoughts. 
 May. Here comes the Doge — shall I re- 
 tire ? 
 -4"g, It mav 
 
 Be better you should quit me ; he seems 
 
 rapt 
 In thought. — How pensivelv he takes his 
 way ! 
 
 [Exit M.\RiAX,\-.\ 
 Enter the Doge and Pietro. 
 Doge (musing). There is a certain 
 Philip Calendaro 
 Now ua the .Arsenal, who holds command 
 Of eighty men, and has great influence 
 Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
 This man, I hear, is bold and poDular 
 Sudden and daring, and vet" secret • 
 
 t would 
 Be well that he were won : I needs must 
 
 hope 
 That Israel Bertuccio has secured him 
 But fain would be ' 
 
 .1, -^V" , ■ ■^'^' '°'''^' P'" '"''*" pardon me 
 
 l^or breaking in upon your medititjon • 
 The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman ' 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 385 
 
 Charged me to follow and enquire yoiir 
 
 pleasure 
 To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 
 Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — 
 
 let me see — 
 Say in the second hour of night. 
 
 [Exit PlETRO. 
 
 Ang. My lord ! 
 
 Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — 
 
 why delay 
 
 So long approaching me ? — I saw you not. 
 
 Ang. You were absorb'd in thought, and 
 
 he who now 
 
 Has parted from you might have words of 
 
 weight 
 To bear you from the senate. 
 
 Doge. From the senate? 
 
 Ang. I would not interrupt him in his 
 duty 
 And theirs. 
 
 Doge. The senate's duty ! you mis- 
 take ; 
 'T is we who owe all service to the senate. 
 Ang. I thought the Duke had held com- 
 mand in Venice. 
 Doge. He shall. — But let that pass. — 
 We will be jocund. 
 How fares it with you ? have you been 
 
 abroad ? 
 The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
 Favours the gondolier's light skimming 
 
 oar ; 
 Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
 Or has your music made you solitary ? 
 Say — is there aught that you would will 
 
 within 
 The httle sway now left the Duke ? or 
 
 aught 
 Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure. 
 Social orlonely, that would glad your heart. 
 To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
 On an old man oft moved with many cares? 
 Speak, and 't is done. 
 
 Ang. You're ever kind to me. 
 
 I have nothing to desire, or to request. 
 Except to see you oftener and calmer. 
 Doge. Calmer ? 
 
 Ang. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — 
 Ah, why 
 Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
 And let such strong emotions stamp your 
 
 brow. 
 As not betraying their full import, yet 
 Disclose too much ? 
 
 Doge. Disclose too mucli ! — of what ? 
 What is there to disclose ? 
 
 Ang. ''^ heart so ill 
 
 At ease. 
 
 Doge. 'T is notliing, child. — But m 
 the state 
 You know what daily cares oppress all 
 
 those 
 Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
 Nov/ suffering from the Genoese without, 
 
 And malcontents within — 'tis this which 
 
 makes me 
 More pensive and less tranquil than my 
 
 wont. 
 Ang. Yet this existed long before, and 
 
 never 
 Till in these late days did I see vou thus. 
 Forgive me ; there is something at your 
 
 heart 
 More than the mere discharge of pubhc 
 
 duties, 
 Which long use and a talent hke to vours 
 Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, 
 To keep your mind'from stagnating. 'T is 
 
 riot 
 In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shako 
 
 you, — 
 You, who have stood all storms and never 
 
 sunk. 
 And chmb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
 And never fainted by the way, and stand 
 Upon it, and can look down steadily 
 Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel 
 
 dizzy. 
 Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
 Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
 You are not to be wrought on, but would 
 
 fall. 
 As you have risen, with an unalter'd 
 
 , brow : 
 Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
 Something has stung your pride, not patri- 
 otism. 
 Doge. Pride ! AngioUna ? Alas ! none 
 
 is left me. 
 Ang. Yes — the same sin that overthrew 
 
 the angels. 
 And of all sins most easily besets 
 Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
 The vile are only vain ; the great are 
 
 proud. 
 Doge. I had the pride of honour, of your 
 
 honour, 
 Deep at my heart But let us change the 
 
 theme. 
 A ng. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your 
 
 kindness 
 In all things else, let me not be shut out 
 From your distress : were it of public 
 
 import, 
 You know I never sought, would never 
 
 seek 
 To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
 Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
 To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
 When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
 Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed. 
 And I would soothe you back to what you 
 
 were. 
 Doge. To what I was ! — have you heard 
 
 Steno's sentence ? 
 Ang. No. 
 
 Doge. A month's arrest. 
 Ang. Is it not enough ? 
 
386 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Doge. Enough 1 — yes, for a drunken 
 
 galley slave, 
 Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at 
 
 his' master ; 
 But not for a deliberate, false, cool 
 
 villain. 
 Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour 
 Kven on the throne of his authority. 
 Ang. There seems to be enough in the 
 
 conviction 
 Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
 All other punishment were light unto 
 His loss of honour. 
 
 Doge. Such men have no honour ; 
 
 They have but their vile Uves — and"these 
 
 are spared. 
 Ang. You would not have him die for 
 
 this offence ? 
 Doge. Not now : — being still alive, I 'd 
 
 have him live 
 Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit 
 
 death ; 
 The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred 
 
 judges. 
 And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 
 Ang. Oh! had this false and flippant 
 
 libeller 
 Shed his young blood for his absurd lam- 
 poon. 
 Ne'er from that moment could this breast 
 
 have known 
 \ joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 
 Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say 
 
 blood for blood ? 
 And he who taints kills more than he who 
 
 sheds it. 
 Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, 
 That makes such deadly to the sense of 
 
 man ? 
 Do not the laws of man say blood for 
 
 honour, — 
 And, less than honour, fur a little gold ? 
 Say not the laws of nations blood for trea- 
 son ? 
 Is't nothing to ha^'e fill'd these veins with 
 
 poison 
 For their once healthful current ? is it 
 
 nothing: 
 To have stain'd your name and mine — the 
 
 noblest names ? 
 Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 
 A prince before his people ? to have fail'd 
 In the respect accorded by manldnd 
 To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
 To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
 In ours ? — But let them look to it who 
 
 have saved him. 
 Ang. Hoa\-en bids us to forgive our 
 
 enemies. 
 Doge. Doth Heaven forgi\e her own ? Is 
 
 Satan sa\cd 
 From wrath eternal ? 
 
 .■lug. Do not speak thus wildly — 
 
 Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 
 
 Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive 
 
 them ! 
 Ang. And will you ? 
 
 Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 
 4 ,ig. And not till then ? 
 
 Doge. What matters my forgiveness ? 
 an old man's. 
 Worn out, scorn' d, spurn'd, abused ; what 
 
 matters then- 
 My pardon more than my resentment, both 
 Being weak and worthless ? I have lived 
 
 too long ; 
 But let us change the argument. — Jly 
 
 child ! 
 My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
 The brave, the chivalrous, how Httle deem'd 
 Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
 That he was hnking thee to shame ! — Alas ! 
 Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. 
 
 Hadst thou 
 But had a different husband, a,ny husband 
 In Venice save the Doge, this bUght, this 
 
 brand, 
 This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
 So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure. 
 To suffer this, and yet be imavenged ! 
 Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still 
 love me. 
 And trust, and honour me ; and all men 
 
 know 
 That you are just, and I am true : what 
 
 more 
 Could I require, or you command ? 
 
 Doge. ' 'Tis n-ell. 
 
 And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
 Be thou at least kind to my memory. 
 A ng. Why speak you thus ? 
 Doge. It is no matter why ; 
 
 But I would still, whatever others think, 
 Have your respect both now and in my 
 grave. 
 A ng. Why should you doubt it ? has it 
 
 ever fail'd ? 
 Doge. Come hither, chUd ; I would a 
 word with you. 
 Your father was my friend ; unequal for- 
 tune 
 Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
 W hich bind the good more firmly : when, 
 
 oppress' d 
 With his last malady, he wUl'd osr union, 
 It was not to repay me, long repaid 
 Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
 His object was to place your orphan beauty 
 In honourable safety from the perils, 
 Which, in this scorpion nest of \ace, assail 
 .\ lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
 Think with him, but would not oppose the 
 
 thought 
 Which soothed his death-bed. 
 
 -■1"!;. I have not forgotten 
 
 The nobleness with which you bade me 
 
 speak 
 If my young heart held any preference 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 387 
 
 Which would have made me happier ; nor 
 
 yom: offer 
 To make my dowry equal to the rank 
 Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
 My father's last injunction gave you. 
 
 Doge. Thus, 
 
 'T was not a fooUsh dotard's vile caprice, 
 Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
 Which made me covetousof girlish beauty, 
 And a young bride : for in my fieriest 
 
 youth 
 I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my 
 
 age 
 Infected with that leprosy of lust 
 Which taints the hoariest years of vicious 
 
 men, 
 Making them ransack to the very last 
 The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joj's ; 
 Or buy in selfish marriage some young vic- 
 tim. 
 Too helpless to refuse a state that 's honest, 
 Too feeling not to know herself a^wretch. 
 Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
 Freedom from me to choose, and urged in 
 
 answer 
 Your father's choice. 
 
 Ang. I did so ; I would do so 
 
 In face of earth and heaven ; for I have 
 
 never 
 Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours. 
 In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 
 Doge. I knew my heart would never 
 
 treat you harshly ; 
 I knew my days could not disturb you long ; 
 And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
 His worthy daughter, free to choose again. 
 Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
 Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
 By passing these probationary years 
 Inheriting a prince's name and riches. 
 Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
 An old man for some summers, against all 
 That law's chicane or envious kinsmen 
 
 might 
 Have urged against her right ; my best 
 
 friend's child 
 Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 
 And not less truly in a faithful heart. 
 Ang. My lord, 1 look'd but to my father's 
 
 wishes, 
 HaUow'd bv his last words, and to my heart 
 Vox doing all its duties, and replying 
 With faith to him with whom I was afhanced. 
 Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; 
 
 and should 
 The hour you speak of come, it will be seen 
 
 so. 
 Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you 
 
 true : 
 For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
 I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
 Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
 No lure for me, in my most passionate day^. 
 And could not be so now, did such exist. 
 
 But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
 As a true feeling for your weltare, and, 
 A free compliance with all honest wishes, — 
 A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
 Not shown, but shadowing o'er such httle 
 
 failings 
 As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
 Rashly, but win 3'ou from them ere you 
 
 loiew 
 You had been won, but thought the 
 
 change yom- choice ; 
 A pride not in your beauty, but your con- 
 duct ; 
 A trust in you ; a patriarchal love, 
 And not a doting homage ; friendship, 
 
 faith,— 
 Such estimation in your eyes as these 
 Might claim, I hoped for. 
 
 Ang. And have ever had. 
 
 Doge. I think so. For the difference in 
 our years 
 You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I 
 
 trusted 
 Not to my qualities, nor would have 
 
 faith 
 In such, nor outward ornaments of nature, 
 Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
 I trusted to the blood of Lorcdano 
 Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
 God gave you — to the truths your father 
 
 taught you — 
 To your belief in Heaven — to your mild 
 
 virtues — 
 To your own faith and honour, for nly own. 
 Ang. You have done well. — I thank yuu 
 for that trust, 
 Which I have never for one moment ceased 
 To honour you the more for. 
 
 Doge. Where is honour. 
 
 Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the 
 
 rock 
 Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
 Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
 Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart. 
 Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
 'T were hopeless for humanity to dream 
 Of honesty in such infected blood. 
 Although 't were wed to him it covets most : 
 An incarnation of the poet's god 
 In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
 The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
 His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
 Would not suffice to bind where virtue is 
 
 not ; 
 It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
 Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
 The once fall'n woman must for ever fall ; 
 For vice must have variety, while virtue 
 Stands like the sun, and all which rolls 
 
 around 
 Drinks life, and light, and glory from her 
 aspect. 
 Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth 
 in others, 
 
388 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 (I pray you pardon me ; ) but wherefore 
 
 yield 3'ou 
 To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
 Disquiet your great thoughts with restless 
 
 hate 
 Of such a thing as Steno ? 
 
 Doge. You mistake me. 
 
 It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
 
 Had it been so, he should but let that 
 
 pass. 
 Ang. What is 't you feel so deeply, then, 
 
 even now ? 
 Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
 At once insulted in her lord and laws. 
 Ang. Alas ! why will you thus consider 
 it? 
 
 Doge. I have thought on 't till but let 
 
 me lead you back 
 To what I urged ; all these things being 
 
 noted, 
 I wedded you ; the world then did me 
 
 justice 
 Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
 They did me right, while yours was all to 
 
 praise : 
 You had all freedom, all respect, all trust 
 From me and mine ; and, bom of those who 
 
 made 
 Princes at home, and swept kings from 
 
 their thrones 
 On foreign shores, in all things you ap- 
 
 pear'd 
 Worthy to be our first of native daines. 
 Ang. To what does this conduct ? 
 Doge. To thus much — that 
 
 A miscreant's angry breath may blast it 
 
 all— 
 A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing. 
 Even in the midst of our great festival, 
 I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
 How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
 A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
 The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
 And this shall spread itself in general 
 
 poison ; 
 And woman's innocence, man's honour, 
 
 pass 
 Into a b5'-',vord ; and the doubly felon 
 (Who first insulted virgin modesty 
 By a gross affront to your attendant dam- 
 sels 
 Amidst the noblest of oin: dames in public) 
 Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
 By blackening publicly his sovereign's 
 
 consort. 
 And be absolved by his upright compeers. 
 Ang. But he has been condemn'd into 
 
 captivity. 
 Doge. For such as him a dungeon were 
 acquittal ; 
 And his brief term of mock- arrest will pass 
 Within a palace. But Vvv done with him ; 
 The rest must be with you. 
 
 A ng. With me, my lord ? 
 
 Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; 
 I 
 Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
 My life cannot be long ; and fain would 
 
 have you 
 Regard the injunctions you will find within 
 
 This scroll {Giving her a paper) Fear 
 
 not ; thev are for your advantage : 
 Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 
 Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you 
 shall 
 Be honour'd still by me : but may your 
 
 days 
 Be many yet — and happier than the pre- 
 sent ! 
 This passion will give way, and you will be 
 Serene, and what you should be — what you 
 
 I will be what I should be, or be 
 nothing ; 
 But never more — oh ! never, never more, 
 O'er the Jew days or hours which yet await 
 The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
 Sweet quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 
 Those summer shadov/s rising from the past 
 Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious Ufe, 
 Mellowing the last hours as the night 
 
 approaches, 
 Shall sootheme to my moment of long rest. 
 I had but little more to ask, or hope. 
 Save the regards due to the blood and swaat, 
 And the soul's labour through which I had 
 
 toil'd 
 To make my country honour'd. As her 
 
 servant — 
 Her servant, though her chief — I would 
 
 have gone 
 Down to rny fathers with a nam.e serene 
 And pure as theirs ; but this has been 
 
 denied me. 
 Would I had died at Zara ! 
 
 Ang. There vou saved 
 
 The state ; then live to sa\-e her still. A 
 
 day. 
 Another day like that would be the best 
 Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 
 Doge. But one such day occurs within an 
 age; 
 My Ufe is little less than one, and 't is 
 Enough for Fortune to have granted once. 
 That which scarce one more favour'd 
 
 citizen 
 May win in many states and vears. But 
 
 why 
 Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that 
 
 day — 
 Then why should I remember it ? — Fare- 
 well, 
 Sweet Angiolina ! I must to mv cabinet ; 
 There's much for me to do — and the hour 
 hastens. 
 Ang. Remember what you were. 
 Doge. It were in vain ! 
 
 Joy s recollection is no longer joy, 
 
■MARINO FALTERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 389 
 
 Wliile sorrow's memory i'i a sorrow stiii. 
 Ang. At le.ist, whate'er may urge, let 
 me implore 
 That you will take some little pause of rest : 
 Your sleep for many nights has been so 
 
 turbid, 
 That it had been relief to have awaked you, 
 Had I not hoped that Nature would o'er- 
 
 power 
 At length the thoughts which shook yoiir 
 
 slumbers thus. 
 An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
 With fitter thoughts andf reshen'd strength. 
 Doge. I cannot — 
 
 I must not, if I could ; tor never was 
 Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
 Yet a few days and dream -perturbed nights. 
 And I shall slumber well — but where ? — 
 
 no matter. 
 Adieu, my Angiolina. 
 
 Ang. Let me be 
 
 An instant — yet an instant your compan- 
 ion ! 
 I cannot bear to leave you thus. 
 
 Doge. Come then. 
 
 My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert 
 
 made 
 For better fortunes than to share in mine. 
 Now darkling in their close toward the 
 
 deep vale 
 Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping 
 
 shadow. 
 When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
 Even these years warrant, for there is that 
 
 stirring 
 Within, above, around, that in this city 
 Will make the cemeteries populous 
 As e'er thev were by pestilence or war, — 
 When I am nothing, let that which I was 
 Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
 A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
 Which would not have thee mourn it, but 
 
 remember. 
 Let us begone, my child — the time is 
 pressing. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II 
 
 A retired spot near the Arsenal. 
 
 Israel Bertuccio and Philip Cal- 
 
 ENDARO. 
 
 Cat. How sped you, Israel, in your late 
 complaint ? 
 
 I. Bet. Why, well. 
 
 Cat. Is 't possible ! will he be 
 
 punish'd ? 
 
 I. Ber. Ves. 
 
 Cat With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 
 
 J g^f With death ! 
 
 Cat. Now you rave, or must intend re- 
 venge. 
 Such as I counsell'd you, with your own 
 hand. 
 
 /. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught 
 of hate, forego 
 The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
 And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
 Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thou- 
 sands stinginf^ 
 My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
 No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood. 
 Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of 
 his 
 
 For their requital but not only his ; 
 
 We will not strike for private wrongs alone': 
 Such are for selfish passions and rash men. 
 But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 
 
 Cat. You have more patience than I care 
 to boast. 
 Had I been present when you bore this 
 
 insult, 
 I must have slain him, or expired myself 
 In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 
 /. Ber. Thank Heaven you were not — 
 all had else been marr'd : 
 As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 
 
 Cal. You saw 
 
 The Doge — what answer gave he ? 
 
 /. Ber. That there was 
 
 No punishment for such as Barbaro. 
 Cat. I told you so before, and that ' t was 
 idle 
 To think of justice from such hands. 
 
 /. Ber. At least. 
 
 It lull'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
 Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
 Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
 A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 
 
 Cal. But wherefore not address you to 
 the Council ? 
 The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
 Obtain right for himself. Why speak to 
 him ? 
 I. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 
 Cal. Why not now? 
 
 7. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. 
 Get your musters, 
 And bid our friends prepare their com- 
 panies ; 
 Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
 Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long 
 
 waited 
 For a fit time — that hour is on the dial. 
 It may be, of to-morrow's sun : delay 
 Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
 That all be punctual at our place of meet- 
 ing. 
 And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
 Who will remain among the troops to wait 
 The signal. 
 Cal. These brave words have breathed 
 new life 
 Into my veins ; I am sick of these pro- 
 tracted 
 And hesitating councils : day on day 
 Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
 To our long fetters, and some fresher OTong 
 
390 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
 Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated 
 
 strength. 
 Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
 For the result, which must be death or 
 
 freedom ! 
 I'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 
 /. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! 
 the grave 
 Is chainless. Have you all the musters 
 
 ready ? 
 And are the sixteen companies completed 
 To si.xty ? 
 
 Cal. All save two, in which there are 
 Twenty-five wanting to make up the num- 
 ber. 
 /. Ber. No matter ; we can do without. 
 
 Whose are they ? 
 Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both 
 of whom 
 Appear less forward in the cause than we 
 are. 
 /. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you 
 deem all those 
 Who are not restless cold : but there exists 
 Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
 Than in more loud avengers. Do not 
 doubt them. 
 Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in 
 Bertram 
 There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
 I o enterprise like ours : I've seen that man 
 Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
 Of others, heedless of his o^vn, though 
 
 greater ; 
 And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
 Turn sick at sight of blood, although a 
 villain's. 
 I. Bir. The truly brave are soft of heart 
 and eyes. 
 And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
 I have known Bertram long ; there doth 
 
 not breathe 
 A soul more full of honour. 
 
 Cal. It may be so : 
 
 I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
 Yet as he has no mistress, and no ^\-ife 
 To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
 He may go through the ordeal ; it is 
 
 well 
 He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
 A woman or a child had made him less 
 Than either in resolve. 
 
 I- Ber. Such ties are not 
 
 For those who are call'd to the high des- 
 tinies 
 Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
 We must forget all fc.'lings save the oh,-. 
 We must resign all passions save our pur- 
 pose. 
 We must behold no object save our coun- 
 try, 
 And only look on death as beautiful, 
 So that the sacrifice ascend to hea\en, 
 
 And draw down freedom on her evermore. 
 
 Cal. But if we fail 
 
 /. Ber. They never fail who die 
 
 In a great cause : the block may soak their 
 
 gore; 
 Their heads may sodden in the sun ; theu: 
 
 limbs 
 Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
 But still their spirit walks abroad. Though 
 
 years 
 Elapse, and others share as dark a doom. 
 They but augment the deep and sv.-eepiug 
 
 thoughts 
 Which overpower all others, and conduct 
 Tiie world at last to freedom. What were 
 
 we. 
 If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giv- 
 ing 
 Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — ■ 
 A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
 V\^hich multiplies itself throughout all time. 
 When wicked men wax mighty, and a 
 
 state 
 Turns servile. He and his high friend were 
 
 styled 
 " The last of Romans ! " Let us be the 
 
 first 
 Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman 
 
 sires. 
 Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
 Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
 On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's 
 
 ooze. 
 To own a thousand despots in his place. 
 Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
 A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms 
 
 masters ! 
 The first at least was man, and used his 
 
 sword 
 As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
 Command our swords, and rule us with a 
 
 word 
 As with a spell. 
 
 /. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 
 
 You say that all things are in readiness ; 
 To-da}- I have not been the usual round. 
 And why thou knowest ; but thv vigilance 
 Will better have supplied my care : these 
 
 orders 
 In recent council to redouble now 
 Our eftV.rts to repair the galleys, have 
 Lent a fair colour to the introduction 
 Of many of our cause into the arsenal. 
 As new artificers for their equipment. 
 Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
 The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with 
 
 arms ? 
 Cal. All who were deem'd trust-worthy : 
 
 there are some 
 Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
 Till it be time to strike, and then supply 
 
 them ; 
 \Mien in the heat and hurry of the hour 
 They have no opportunity to pause. 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 But needs must on with those who will 
 surround them. 
 /. Ber. You have said well. Have you 
 
 remark'd'all such ? 
 Cal. I've noted most ; and caused the 
 other chiefs 
 To use like caution in their companies. 
 As far as I have seen, we are enough 
 To make the enterprise secure, if 't is 
 Commenced to-morrow ; but, till 't is be- 
 gun, 
 Each hour is pregnant with a thousand 
 perils. 
 /. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the 
 wonted hour. 
 Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
 And Marco Giuda, who will keep their 
 
 watch 
 Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
 Expectant of the signal we will fix on 
 Cal. We will not fail. 
 /. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 
 
 I have a stranger to present to them. 
 Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the 
 
 secret ? 
 /. Ber. Yes. 
 
 Cal. And have you dared to peril your 
 friends' lives 
 On a rash confidence in one we know not ? 
 /. Ber. I have risk'd no man's life except 
 my own — 
 Of that be certain : he is one who may 
 Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
 His aid ; and if reluctant, 'he no less 
 Is in our power : he comes alone with 
 
 me. 
 And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not 
 swerve. 
 Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know 
 him : 
 Is he one of our order ? 
 
 I- Ber. lAy, in spirit, 
 
 Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
 Who would become a throne, or overthrow 
 
 one — 
 One who has done great deeds, and seen 
 
 great changes ; 
 No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
 Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
 In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet 
 
 wary : 
 Yet for all this, so full of certain passions. 
 That if once stirr'd and baffled, as he has 
 
 been 
 Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 
 In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
 His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
 Grows capable of all things for revenge ; 
 And add too, that his mind is liberal, 
 He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 
 And shares their sufferings. Take him all 
 
 in all. 
 We have need of such, and such have need 
 of us. 
 
 391 
 
 Cal. And what part would you have 
 
 him take with us ? 
 I. Ber. It may be, that of chief. 
 ,, *-"'• What ! and resign 
 
 Your own command as leader ? 
 ,/■ ^.«''- Even so. 
 
 iMy object is to make your cause end well. 
 And not to push myself to power. Ex- 
 perience, 
 Some skill, and your own choice, had 
 
 mark'd me out 
 To act in trust as yoiu: commander, till 
 Some worthier should appear : if I have 
 
 found such 
 As you yoiu-selves shall ov:a mere worthy, 
 
 think you 
 That I would hesitate from selfishness. 
 And, covetous of brief authority. 
 Stake our deep interest on my single 
 
 thoughts. 
 Rather than yield to one above me in 
 All leading qualities ? No, Calendaro, 
 Know your friend better ; but you all shall 
 
 judge. 
 Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
 Be vigilant, and all will yet go well, 
 
 Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known 
 
 5'Ou ever 
 Trusty and brave, with head and heart to 
 
 plan 
 What I have still been prompt to execute. 
 For my own part, I seek no other chief ; 
 What the rest will decide I know not, but 
 I am with vou, as I have ever been. 
 In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
 Until the hour of midnight sees us mecl. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene t. — Scene, the Space between the 
 Canal and the Church of San Giovanni 
 e San Paolo. .4 n equestrian Statue 
 before it. — A Gondola lies in the Canal 
 at some distance. 
 
 Enter the Doge alone, disguised. 
 Doge (solus). I am before the hour, the 
 
 hour whose voice. 
 Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
 These palaces with ominous tottering. 
 And rock their marbles to the corner-stone. 
 Waking the sleepers from some hideous 
 
 dream 
 Of indistinct but awful augury 
 Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud 
 
 city ! 
 Thou must be cleansed of the black blood 
 
 which makes thee 
 A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
 Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
 And therefore was I punish'd, seeinr this 
 Patrician pestilence spread on and on, 
 Until at length it smote me in my slumbers. 
 And I am tamted, and must wash away 
 
',Q2 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 The plague spots in the healing wave. Tail 
 
 fane ! 
 Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues 
 
 shadow 
 The floor which doth divide us from the 
 
 dead, 
 Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold 
 
 blood, 
 Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
 In one shrunk heap what once made many 
 
 heroes. 
 When what is now a handful shook the 
 
 earth — 
 Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our 
 
 house ! 
 Vault where two Doges rest — my sires ! who 
 
 died 
 The one of toil, the other in the field. 
 With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
 And sages, whose great labours, wounds, 
 
 and state 
 I have inherited, — let the graves gape, 
 Till all thine aisles be peopled with the 
 
 dead, 
 And pour them from thy portals to gaze on 
 
 me ! 
 I call them up, and them and thee to wit- 
 ness 
 What it hath been which put me to this 
 
 task — 
 Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of 
 
 glories, 
 Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 
 Xot by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
 We fought to make our equals, not our 
 
 lords : 
 And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave. 
 Who perish'd in the field, where I since 
 
 conquer'd. 
 Rattling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
 Of thine and Venice' foes, there offer'd up 
 By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 
 Spirits ! smile down upon me ; for my cause 
 Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 
 Your fame, your name, all mingled up in 
 
 mine. 
 And in the future fortunes of our race ! 
 Let me but prosper, and I make this city 
 Free and immortal, and our house's name 
 Worthier of wdiat you were, now and here- 
 after ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bertuccio. 
 /. Ber. Who goes there ? 
 Doge. A friend to Venice 
 
 /. Ber. 'T is he. 
 
 Welcome, my lord, — you are before the 
 
 time. 
 Doge. I am ready to proceed to your 
 
 assembly. 
 I. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and 
 
 pleased to see 
 Such conhdent alacrity, ^■our doubts 
 Since our last meeting, tlii-n, are all di.i- 
 
 pell'd ? 
 
 Doge. Xot so — but I have set my little 
 
 left 
 Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
 When I first listen'd to yoiur treason. — 
 
 Start not ! 
 That is the word ; I cannot shape my 
 
 tongue 
 To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
 Though I be wrought on to commit them. 
 
 When 
 I heard you tempt your sovereign, and 
 
 forbore 
 To have you dragg'd to prison, I becamB 
 Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
 If it so please you, do as much by me. 
 I. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and 
 
 most tmmerited : 
 I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 
 Doge. We — Tit" .' — no matter — you have 
 
 eam'd the right 
 To talk of us. — But to the point. — If this 
 Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd 
 
 free 
 And flourishing, when we are in our graves. 
 Conducts her generations to our tombs. 
 And makes her children with their little 
 
 hands 
 Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, 
 
 then 
 The consequence will sanctify the deed. 
 And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
 The annals of hereafter ; but if not. 
 If we should fail, emploving bloody means 
 And secret plot, although to a good end. 
 Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
 No less than he who was thy sovereign 
 Six hours ago, and now thybrother rebel. 
 I. Ber. 'T is not the moment to consider 
 
 thus. 
 Else I could answer. — Let us to the meet- 
 ing. 
 Or we may be obser\ed in lingerin; here. 
 Doge. \\t are obser-\'ed, and ha-\'e been. 
 i- Ber. We observed ! 
 
 Let me disco\'er — and this steel 
 
 Ooge. Put up ; 
 
 Here are no human witnesses : lo^k there — 
 What see you ? 
 
 /. Ber. Onlv a tall warrior's statue 
 
 Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
 Of the full moon. 
 
 Doge. That warrior w,;5 the sire 
 
 Of m>- sire's fathers, and that statue was 
 
 Decreed to him by the twice rescued citv : 
 
 Think you that he looks down on us or no : 
 /. Ber. Mv lord, these are mere fantasies: 
 
 there are 
 Xo eyes in marble. 
 
 Doge But there are in Death. 
 
 I tell thee, man. there is a spirit in 
 Such things that acts and se.-s unseen 
 
 though felt ; " ' 
 
 And, if there be a spell to stir the dead 
 'Tis m such deeds as we are now upon. ' 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as 
 
 mine 
 Can rest, when he,, their last descendant 
 
 chief. 
 Stands plotting on the brink of their pure 
 
 graves 
 With stung plebeians ? 
 „ I- Bey. It had been as well 
 
 Id have ponder'd this before,— ere you 
 
 embark'd 
 In our great enterprise. — Do you repent ' 
 Doge. No— but I feel, and shall do to the 
 
 last. 
 I cannot quench a glorious life at once 
 Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be. 
 And take men's lives by stealth, without 
 
 some pause : 
 Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling, 
 And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
 Which is your best securitv. There 'snot 
 A roused mechanic in your' busy plot 
 So wrong'd as I, so fail'n, so loudly call'd 
 To his redress : the very means I am forced 
 By these fell tyrants to adopt is such. 
 That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
 Which I must do to pay them back for 
 
 theirs. 
 /. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour 
 
 strikes. 
 Doge. On— on— 
 
 It is our knell, or that of Venice — On, 
 /. Ber. Say rather, 't is her freedom's 
 rising peal 
 Of triumph. This way — we are near the 
 place. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 The House where the Qonspiraiors meet. 
 Dagoli.no, Doro, Bertram, Fedele 
 Trevisano, Calen'daro, Antoxio 
 
 DELLE BeNDE, etc., CtC. 
 
 Cal. (entering). Are all here ? 
 Dag. All with you ; except the three 
 On duty, and our leader Israel, 
 Who is expected momently. 
 
 Cal. Where 's Bertram ? 
 
 Ber. Here ! 
 
 Cal. Have you not been able to com- 
 plete 
 The number wanting in your company ? 
 Ber. I had mark'd out some : but I have 
 not dared 
 To trust them with the secret, till assured 
 That they were worthy faith. 
 
 Cal. There is no need 
 
 Of trusting to their faith ; who, save our- 
 selves 
 And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
 Fully of our intent ? they think themselves 
 Engaged in secret to the Signory, 
 To punish some more dissolute youngnobles 
 Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 
 B.p.w. 
 
 pause till all have 
 
 thou spare ? 
 
 / spare ? 
 
 I only ques- 
 
 393 
 
 But once drawn up, and their new s«ords 
 
 well flesh 'd 
 In the rank hearts of the more odious 
 
 senators. 
 They will not hesitate to follow up 
 Their blow upon the others, when they sec 
 The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
 Will set them such, that they for vr-r\- 
 
 shame 
 And safety will not 
 perish'd. 
 Ber. How say you ? all ! 
 Cal. Whom wouldst 
 
 Ber. 
 I have no power to spare. 
 
 tion'd, 
 Thinking that even amongst these wicked 
 
 men 
 There might be some, whose age ami 
 
 qualities 
 Might mark them out for pity. 
 
 C'''. Yes, such pilv 
 
 As when the viper hath been cut to pieces 
 The separate fragments quix-pring in tlic ■ 
 
 sun. 
 In the last energy of venomous life , 
 Deserve and have. Why, I should think 
 
 as soon 
 Of pitying some particular fang which made 
 One m the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
 Of saving one of these : they form but 
 
 links 
 Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, 
 
 one body ; 
 They eat, and drink, and live, and breed 
 
 together. 
 Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
 So let them die as one ! 
 
 Da^. Should one survive. 
 
 He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is 
 
 not 
 Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
 The spirit of this aristocracy 
 Which must be rooted out ; and if there 
 
 were 
 A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
 'Twould fasten in the soil, and spring again 
 To gloomy^verdure and to bitter fruit. 
 Bertram, we must be firm ! 
 
 Cal. Look to it well, 
 
 Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 
 
 Ber. Who 
 
 Distrusts me ? 
 
 Cal. Not I ; for if I did so, 
 
 Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of 
 
 trust : 
 It is thy softness, not thy want of faith. 
 Which makes thee to be doubted. 
 
 Ber. You should know 
 
 Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
 Roused like yourselves to overthrow 
 
 oppression ; 
 .A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
 Of you have found me ; and if brave or no. 
 
394 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 ■i'ou, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have 
 
 seen me 
 Put to the proof ; or, if you should hSLve 
 
 doubts, 
 I' 11 clear them on your person ! 
 
 Cal. You are welcome. 
 
 \\'hen once our enterprise is o'er, which 
 
 must not 
 Be interrupted by a private brawl. 
 
 Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear 
 
 myself 
 .\s far among the foe as any he 
 Who hears me ; else why have I been 
 
 selected 
 To be of your chief comrades ? but no les- 
 T own my natural ^veakness ; I have nijt 
 Vet leara'd to think of indiscriminate 
 
 murder 
 Without some sense of shuddering ; and 
 
 the sight 
 Of blood which spouts through hoary 
 
 scalps is not 
 To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
 Of man surprised a glory. Well — too well 
 I know that we must do such things on 
 
 those 
 Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; 
 
 but 
 If there were some of these who could be 
 
 saved 
 From out this sweeping fate, for our own 
 
 sakes 
 And for our honour, to take off some stain 
 Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
 I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
 For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 
 
 Dag. Calm thee, Bertram, 
 
 For we suspect thee not, and take good 
 
 heart. 
 It is the cause, and not our will, which ask^ 
 Such actions from our hands : we'll wash 
 
 away 
 All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bertuccio, and the Doge, 
 
 disguised. 
 
 Da^g. Welcome, Israel. 
 
 Consp. Most welcome. — Brave ISertuccio, 
 thou art late — 
 Who is this stranger ? 
 
 Cal. It is time to name him. 
 
 Our comrades are even now prepared to 
 
 greet him 
 In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
 That thou wouldst add a brother to our 
 
 cause, 
 Approved by thee, and thus approved bv 
 
 all. 
 Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
 Let him unfold himself. 
 
 I. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 
 
 [The Doge discovers himself. 
 Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it 
 is the Doge ! 
 
 Down with them both .' our traitorous 
 
 captain, and 
 The tyrant he hath sold us to. 
 
 Cal. (drawing his six'ordy Hold ! hold ! 
 Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! 
 
 hear 
 Bertuccio — What ! are you appall'd to 
 
 see 
 A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
 Amongst you ? — Israel, speak ; what 
 means this mystery ? 
 I. Ber. Let them ad\ance and strike at 
 their own bosoms. 
 Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
 Depend their oi\'n. their fortunes, and their 
 hopes. 
 Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a 
 death more fearful 
 Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
 I should not now be here : Oh, noble 
 
 Courage ! 
 The eldest bom of Fear, which makes you 
 
 brave 
 Against this solitary hoary head ! 
 See the bold chiefs, who would reform a 
 
 state 
 And shake do'mi senates, mad with "RTath 
 
 and dread 
 At sight of one patrician ! Butcher me ! 
 You can, I care not. — Israel, are these men 
 The mighty hearts you spoke of ? look upon 
 them \ 
 Cal. Faith ! he hath shamed us, and 
 deservedly. 
 Was this your trust in your true chief 
 
 Bertuccio, 
 To turn your swords against him and 
 
 his guest ? 
 Sheathe them, and hear him. 
 
 I- Ber. " I disdain to speak. 
 
 They might and must have knoivn a heart 
 
 like mine 
 Incapable of treachery ; and the power 
 They ga^•e me to adopt all fitting means 
 To further their design was ne'er abused. 
 They might be certain that whoe'er was 
 
 brought 
 By me into this council had been led 
 To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 
 Doge. And which am I to be ? your 
 actions leave 
 Some cause to doubt the freedom of the 
 choice. 
 /. Ber. My lord, we would have perish'd 
 here together. 
 Had these rash men proceeded ; but, be- 
 hold. 
 They are ashamed of that mad moment's 
 
 impulse. 
 And droop their heads ; believe me, they 
 
 are such 
 As I described them.— Speak to them. 
 
 •i,.'^'''' „ ,. Av. speak; 
 
 \\ e are all listenmg in wonder. 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 395 
 
 /. Ber. [addressing the conspirators.) Vuq 
 
 are safe, 
 Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen 
 
 then, 
 And know my words for truth. 
 
 Doge. You see me here, 
 
 As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd. 
 Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw 
 
 me 
 Presiding i.i the hall of ducal state. 
 Apparent sovereign of our himdred isles, 
 Robed in official purple, dealing out 
 The edicts of a power which is not mine. 
 Nor yjurs, but of our masters — the 
 
 patricians. 
 Why I was there you know, or think you 
 
 know ; 
 Why I am here, he who hath been most 
 
 wrong'd, 
 He who among you hath been most insulted, 
 Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
 If he be worm or no, may answer for 
 
 me, 
 Asking of his own heart what brought him 
 
 here ? 
 You know my recent story, all men know it, 
 And judge of it far differently from those 
 Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on 
 
 scorn. 
 But spare me the recital — it is here. 
 Here at my heart the outrage — but my 
 
 words, 
 Already spent in unavailing plaints. 
 Would only show my feebleness the more. 
 And I come here to strengthen even the 
 
 strong. 
 And urge tlaem on to deeds, and not to war 
 With woman's weapons ; but I need not 
 
 urge you. 
 Our private wrongs have sprung from 
 
 public vices, 
 In this — I cannot call it commonwealth. 
 Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince 
 
 nor people. 
 But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
 Without its virtues — temperance and 
 
 valour. 
 The Lords of Lacedamon were true soldiers, 
 But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
 Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
 Although dress'd out to head a pageant, as 
 The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves 
 
 to form 
 A pastime for their children. You are met 
 To overthrow this monster of a state. 
 This mockery of a government, this spectre, 
 Which must be exorcised with blood, — and 
 
 then 
 We will renew the times of truth and 
 
 justice. 
 Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
 Not rash equality but equal rights, 
 Proportion'd like the columns to the temple. 
 Giving and taking strength reciprocal. 
 
 And making firm the whole with grace and 
 
 beauty, 
 So that no part could be removed without 
 Infringement of the general symmetry. 
 In operating this great change, I claim 
 To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
 If not, strike home, — my life is com- 
 promised. 
 And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
 Than live another day to act the tyrant 
 As delegate of tyrants : such I am not. 
 And never have been — ^read it in our 
 
 annals ; 
 I can appeal to my past government 
 In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
 If I were an oppressor, or a man 
 Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 
 Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
 A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 
 To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 
 A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
 A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 
 A sceptic of all measiures which had not 
 The sanction of " the Ten," a council- 
 fawner, 
 A tool, a tool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 
 Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What 
 
 I suffer 
 Has reach'd me through my pity for the 
 
 people ; 
 That many know, and they who know not 
 
 yet 
 Will one day learn : meantime I do devote, 
 Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 
 My present power such as it is, not that 
 Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 
 Before he was degraded to a Doge, 
 And still has individual means and mind ; 
 I stake my fame (and* had fame) — my 
 
 breath — 
 (The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) 
 My heart, my hope, my soul, upon this 
 
 cast ! 
 Such as I am, I offer me to you 
 And to yom: chiefs ; accept me or reject 
 
 me, — 
 A Prince who fain would be a citizen 
 Or nothing, and who has left his throne to 
 
 be so. 
 Cat. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall 
 
 be free ! 
 Consp. Long live Faliero ! 
 /. Ber. Comrades ! did I well ? 
 
 Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 
 Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor 
 
 place 
 For exultation. Am I one of you ? 
 
 Cat. Ay, and the first among us, as thou 
 
 hast been 
 Of Venice — be our general and chief. 
 Doge. Chief ! — general ! — I was general 
 
 at Zara, 
 And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus. prin<e in 
 
 \'er'.ce ; 
 
396 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 
 
 Tk lead a band of patriots : wlienlla\- 
 
 Aside the dignities which I have born:-, 
 'T is not to put on others, but to be ^ 
 Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
 Israel has stated to me your whole plan— 
 'T is bold, but feasible if I assist it. 
 And must be set in motion Instantly. 
 Cat E'en when thou wilt. Is it not so, 
 my friends ? , , , , 
 
 I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
 When shall it be then ? 
 
 Doge. At sunrise. 
 
 _g^« So soon ? 
 
 Doge. So soon?— so late— each hour 
 accumulates 
 Peril on peril, and the more so now 
 Since I have mingled with you ; — Imow you 
 
 not 
 The Council, and " the Ten ? " the spies, 
 
 the eyes 
 Of the patricians dubious of their slaves. 
 And now more dubious of the prince they 
 
 have made one ? 
 I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly. 
 Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will 
 follow. 
 Cal. With all my soul and sword, I yield 
 assent ; 
 Our companies are ready, sixty each. 
 And all now under arms by Israel's order; 
 Each at their different place of re,idezvous, 
 And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
 Let each repair for action to his post ! 
 And now, my lord, the signal ? 
 
 Doge. When you hear 
 
 The great bell of Saint Mark's, which mav 
 
 not be ^ 
 
 Struck without special order of the Doge 
 (The last poor privilege they leave their 
 
 prince) , 
 March on Saint Mark's ! 
 
 /• Ber. And there ? — 
 
 Doge. By different routes 
 
 Let your march be directed, every sixty 
 Entering a separate avenue, and still 
 Upon the way let your cry be of war 
 And of the Genoese fleet, bv the first dawn 
 Discern'd before the port ; 'form round the 
 
 palace. 
 Within whose court will be d^a^vll out in 
 
 arms 
 My nephew and the clients of our house, 
 Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on, 
 Shout ye, " Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our 
 waters ! " 
 Cal. I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 
 Doge. All the patricians flocking to the 
 Council, 
 (Which they dare not refuse, at the dread 
 
 signal 
 Pealing from out their patron saint's proud 
 
 tower,) 
 Will then be gather'd in unto the harvest. 
 
 And we will reap them with the swurd for 
 
 If somf few should be tardy or absent them, 
 'TwiU be but to be taken famt and single, 
 When the majority are put to rest. 
 
 Cal. Would that the hour were come! 
 
 we will not scotch, 
 But kill. . .^^ , 
 
 Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, 
 
 I 
 Would now repeat the questiop which I 
 
 ask'd 
 Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
 This great ally who renders it more sure, 
 And therefore safer, and as such admits 
 Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
 Our victims — must all perish in this 
 
 slaughter ? 
 Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be 
 
 sure. 
 The mercy they have shown, I show. 
 
 Consp. ' All ! aU ! 
 
 Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 
 Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 
 /. Ber. Bertram, 
 
 This false compassion is a folly, and 
 Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
 Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
 Some for escape, they Uve but to avenge 
 The fallen ? and how distinguish now the 
 
 innocent 
 From out the guilty? all their acts are ohc — ■ 
 A single emanation from one body, 
 Together knit for our oppression ! 'T is 
 Much that we let their children live ; I 
 
 doubt 
 If all of these even should be set apart : 
 The hunter may reser\'e some single cub 
 From out the tiger's litter, but who e'er 
 Would seek to save the spotted sire or 
 
 dam. 
 Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 
 I will abide by Doge FaUero's counsel : 
 Let him decide if any should be saved. 
 Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with 
 
 such a question — 
 Decide yourselves. 
 
 /. Ber. You know their private virtues 
 Far better than we can, to whom alone 
 Their pubhc vices, and most foul oppres- 
 sion, 
 Have made them deadlv ; if there be 
 
 amongst them 
 One who deser\-es tobe repeal' d, pronounce. 
 Doge. Dolfino's father was inv friend, 
 
 and Lando 
 Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro 
 
 shared 
 iVIy Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
 Of \eaiero— shall I save it twice ? 
 Would that I could save- them and Venice 
 
 All 
 
 also ! 
 these men, 
 friends 
 
 or their fathers. 
 
 were mv 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 397 
 
 Till they became my subjects ; then tell 
 
 from me 
 As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown 
 
 flower, 
 And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
 Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; 
 So, as they let me wither, let them perish. 
 Cal. They cannot co-exist with Venice' 
 
 freedom ' 
 Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our 
 
 mutual mass 
 Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
 What fatal poison to the springs of life. 
 To human ties, and all that's good and dear, 
 Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
 All these men were my friends ; I loved 
 
 them, they 
 Requited honourably my regards ; 
 We served and fought ; we srniled and 
 
 wept in concert 
 We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
 We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
 We grew in years and honours fairly, — till 
 Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
 Them choose me for their prince, and then 
 
 farewell ! 
 Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
 In common ! and sweet bonds which link 
 
 old friendships, 
 When the survivors of long years and 
 
 actions. 
 Which now belong to history, soothe the 
 
 days 
 Which yet remain by treasuring each other, 
 And never meet, but each beholds the 
 
 mirror 
 Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
 And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
 Fht round them whispering of the days 
 
 gone by, 
 And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
 Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious 
 
 band, 
 Which once were one and many, still retain 
 A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to 
 
 speak 
 Of deeds that else were silent, save on 
 
 marble 
 
 Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 
 /. Ber. My lord, you are much moved : 
 
 it is not now 
 That such things must be dwelt upon. 
 
 Doge. Your patience 
 
 A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
 The gloomy vices of this government. 
 From the hour they made me Doge, the 
 
 Doge THEY made me — 
 Farewell the past ! I died to all that had 
 
 been. 
 Or rather they to me : no friends, no kmd- 
 
 ness, 
 No privacy of life — all were cut off : 
 They came not near me, such approach 
 
 gave umbrage ; 
 
 They could not love me, such was not the 
 
 law ; 
 They thwarted me, 't was the state's policy - 
 They baffled me, 't was a patrician's duty ; 
 They wrong' d me, for such lyas to right the 
 
 state ; 
 They could not right me, that would give 
 
 suspicion ; 
 So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 
 So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
 Begirt with spies for guards, with robes for 
 
 power, 
 With pomp for freedom, gaolers for a 
 
 council, 
 Inquisitors for friends, and hell for life ! 
 I had one only fount of quiet left. 
 And that they poison'd ! My pure house- 
 hold gods 
 Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their 
 
 shrine 
 Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
 /. Ber. You have been deeply wrong'd, 
 
 and now shall be 
 Nobly avenged before another night. 
 Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but 
 
 I bore it — 
 Till this last running over of the cup 
 Of bitterness — until this last loud insult, 
 Not only unredress'd, but sanction'd ; then. 
 And thus, I cast all further feelings from 
 
 me — 
 The feelings which they crush'd for me, 
 
 long, long 
 Before, even in their oath of false allegi- 
 ance ! 
 Even in that very hour and vow, they 
 
 abjured 
 Their friend and made a sovereign, as boy? 
 
 make 
 Playthings, to do their pleasure — and he 
 
 broken ! 
 I from that hour have seen but senators 
 In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
 Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear ; 
 They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
 From out their grasp, and he abhorring 
 
 tyrants. 
 To me, then, these men have no private life. 
 Nor claim to ties they have cut off from 
 
 others ; 
 As senators for arbitrary acts 
 Amcnabli., I look on them — as such 
 Let them be dealt upon. 
 
 Cal. And now to action ! 
 
 Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may 
 
 this be 
 The last night of mere words : I'd fain be 
 
 doing ! 
 Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall fi.id 
 
 me wakeful ! 
 /. Ber. Disperse then to yo'u: posts : be 
 
 firm and vigilant ; 
 Think on the wrongs we bear, the.nghts we 
 
 claim, 
 
398 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 This day and night shall be the last of 
 
 peril ! 
 A\'atch for the signal, and then march. I 
 
 go 
 To join my band ; let each be prompt to 
 
 marshal 
 His separate charge : the Doge will now 
 
 return 
 To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
 We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
 Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my 
 
 homage to you 
 Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 
 Dogs, No ; let him be reserved unto the 
 
 last, 
 Nor turn aside to strike at such a prejs 
 Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
 Was a mere ebulhtion of the vice. 
 The general corruption generated 
 By the foul aristocracy : he could not — 
 He dared not in more honourable days 
 Have risk'd it. I have merged all private 
 
 wrath 
 Against him in the thought of our great 
 
 purpose. 
 A slave insults me — I require his punish- 
 ment 
 From his proud master's hands ; if he re- 
 fuse it, 
 The offence grows his, and let him answer 
 
 it. 
 Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the 
 
 alliance 
 
 ^Vhich consecrates our undertaking more, 
 
 I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
 
 I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 
 
 Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I 
 
 the head ; 
 You would but smite the scholar, I the 
 
 master ; 
 You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
 I cannot pause on individual hate, 
 In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge. 
 Which, like the sheeted fire from hea-\'en, 
 
 must blast 
 Without distinction, as it fell of yore, 
 Where the Dead Sea hath quench' d two 
 
 cities' ashes. 
 /. Ber. Away, then, to your posts ! I 
 
 but remain 
 A moment to accompany the Doge 
 To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
 Have been upon the scout, and thence I 
 
 hasten 
 To where my allotted band is under arms. 
 Cal. Farewell, then, — until dawn ! 
 /. Ber. Success go with you ! 
 
 Consp. We will not fail — Away ! My lord, 
 
 farev/ell ! 
 
 [The Cimspiriiloys salute the Doge and 
 Israel Bertuccio, and retire, 
 headed by Philip Calendaro. The 
 DocE and Israel Bertl'ccio 
 remain. 
 
 1. Ber. We have them in the toil — it 
 
 cannot fail ! 
 Now thou' rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt 
 
 make 
 A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
 Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
 Caesars have fallen, add even patrician 
 
 hands 
 Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
 Has reach'd patricians : but, until this 
 
 hour. 
 What prince has plotted for his people's 
 
 freedom ? 
 Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 
 For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
 Against the people, to abuse their hands 
 To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
 Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
 On yoke, and slavery and death may 
 
 whet, 
 Kot glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
 Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; — 'tis 
 
 great. 
 And greater the reward ; why stand 5'ou 
 
 rapt ? 
 A moment back, and you were all im- 
 patience ! 
 Doge. And is it then decided ! must they 
 
 die? 
 /. Ber. Who ? 
 Doge. My own friends by blood 
 
 and courtesy. 
 And many deeds and days — the senators ? 
 /. Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it 
 
 is a just one. 
 Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you; 
 You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
 The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — 
 I blame j'ou not — you act in your vocation ; 
 They smote you, and oppress'd you, and 
 
 despised you ; 
 So they have r>ve : but you ne'er spake with 
 
 them ; 
 You never broke their bread, nor shared 
 
 their salt ; 
 You never had their uine-cup at your lips ; 
 You grew not up with them, nor laugh'dj 
 
 , nor wept. 
 Nor held a revel in their company ; 
 Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd 
 
 their smile 
 In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
 Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I 
 
 have : 
 These hairs of mine are grey, and so are 
 
 theirs. 
 The elders of the council : I remember 
 When all our locks were like the raven's 
 
 wing. 
 As we went forth to tak-- our prey around 
 The isles WTung from the false JIahomet m • 
 And can I see them dabbled o'er with 
 
 blood ? 
 Each stab to them will seem my suicide,- 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 399 
 
 /. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation 15 
 
 unworthy 
 A child ; if you are not in second childhood, 
 Call back your nerves to your own purpose, 
 
 nor 
 Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! 
 
 I'd rather 
 Forego oven now, or fail in our intent. 
 Than see the man I venerate subside 
 From high resolves into such shallow weak- 
 ness ! 
 You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
 Your own and that of others ; can you 
 
 shrink then 
 From a few drops from veins of hoary 
 
 vampires. 
 Who but give back what they have drain' d 
 
 from millions ? 
 Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and 
 
 blow on blow, 
 I will divide with you ; think not I waver : 
 Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
 Which I must do doth make me tremble 
 
 thus. 
 But let these last and lingering thoughts 
 
 have way. 
 To which you only and the night are con- 
 scious. 
 And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 
 'T is mine to sound the knell, and strike the 
 
 blow. 
 Which shall unpeople many palaces, 
 And hew the highest genealogic trees 
 Down to the earth, strew'd with their 
 
 bleeding fruit. 
 And crush their blossoms into barrenness : 
 This will I^-must I — have I sworn to do, 
 Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
 But still I quiver to behold what I 
 Must be, and think what I have been ! 
 
 Bear with me. 
 /. Ber. Re-man your breast ; I feel no 
 
 such remorse, 
 I understand it not : why should you 
 
 change ? ,, .„ 
 
 You acted, and you act, on your free wiU. 
 
 Doge Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor 
 
 do I, 
 Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
 A thousand lives, and killing, do no murder ; 
 You feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
 As if these high-bom men were steers for 
 
 shambles : . 
 When all is over, you '11 be free and merry. 
 And calmly wash those hands incarnaduie ; 
 But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
 In this surpassing massacre, shall be. 
 Shall see and feel — oh God ! oh God ! ' tis 
 
 true. 
 
 And thou dost well to answer that it was 
 " My own free will and acl," and yet you 
 
 err. 
 For I loill do this ! Doubt not— fear not ; 1 
 Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
 
 And yet I act no more on iriy free will. 
 Nor my own feelings — both compel me 
 
 back ; 
 But there is hell within me and around. 
 And like the demon who believes and 
 
 trembles 
 Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
 Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 
 To gather the retainers of our house. 
 Doubt not. Saint Mark's great bell shall 
 
 wake all Venice, 
 Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 
 Be broad upon the Adri.itie there 
 Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall 
 
 drown 
 
 The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
 I am resolved — come on. 
 
 /. Ber. With all my soul ! 
 
 Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of- 
 
 passion ; 
 Remember what these men have dealt to 
 
 thee. 
 And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
 By ages of prosperity and freedom 
 To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
 Would have depopulated empires, nor 
 Have felt the strange compunction which 
 
 hath wrung you 
 To punish a few traitors to the people. 
 Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
 Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
 Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the 
 
 chord which jars 
 All nature from my heart. Hence to our 
 
 task! 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene i. — Palazzo of the Patrician Lioni. 
 LiONi laying aside the mask and cloak 
 which the Venetian Nobles wore in pub- 
 lic, attended by a Domestic. 
 
 Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this 
 
 revel. 
 The gayest we have held for many moons. 
 And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not ; 
 There came a heaviness across my heart. 
 Which, in the lightest movement of the 
 
 dance. 
 Though eye to eve, and hand in hand united 
 Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd 
 
 me. 
 And through my spkit chill'd my blood, 
 
 until 
 A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I 
 
 strove 
 To laugh the thought away, but 't would 
 
 not be ; 
 Through all the music ringing in my ears 
 A knell was sounding as distinct and clear. 
 Though low andfar, as e'er the Adrian wave 
 Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
 
400 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Dashing against the outward Lido's bul- 
 wark : 
 So that I left the festival before 
 It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my 
 
 pillow 
 For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetful- 
 
 ness. 
 Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and 
 
 light 
 The lamp within my chamber. 
 
 Ant. Yes, my lord : 
 
 Command you no refreshment ? 
 
 Lioni. Nought, save sleep, 
 
 Which win not be commanded. Let me 
 
 hope it, 
 
 [E?:it Antonio 
 Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will 
 
 try 
 -Whether the air will calm my spirits : 't is 
 A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which 
 
 blew 
 From the Levant hath crept into its ca\'e. 
 And the broad moon has brighten'd. What 
 
 a stillness ! 
 
 [Goes to an open lattice. 
 And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
 Where the tall torches' glars, and silver 
 
 lamps' 
 More pallid gleam along the tapestried 
 
 walls, 
 Spread over the reluctant gloom which 
 
 haunts 
 Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
 A dazzling mass of artificial light. 
 Which show'd all things, but nothing as 
 
 they were. 
 There Age essaying to recall the past. 
 After long striving for the hues of youth 
 At the sad labour of the toilet, and 
 Full many a glance at the too faithful 
 
 mirror, 
 Prank'd forth in all the pride of ornament. 
 Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
 Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet 
 
 hide. 
 Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
 ThereYouth, which needed not, nor thought 
 
 of such 
 Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and 
 
 health. 
 And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome 
 
 press 
 Of flushed and crowded wassailers, and 
 
 wasted 
 Its hours of rest in dreaming this was 
 
 pleasure. 
 And so shall waste them till the sunrise 
 
 streams 
 On shallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which 
 
 should not 
 Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
 The music, and the banquet, and the wine. 
 The garlands, the rose odours, and the 
 
 flowers, 
 
 The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments, 
 The white arms and the raven hair, the 
 
 braids 
 And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the 
 
 necklace. 
 An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
 The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes; 
 Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze 
 
 and heaven ; 
 The many-twinkling feet so small and 
 
 sylphlike. 
 Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
 Of the fair forms which terminate so well- 
 All the delusion of the dizzy scene. 
 Its false and true enchantments — art and 
 
 natm-e. 
 Which swam before my giddy eyes, that 
 
 drank 
 The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
 On Arab sands the false mirage, which 
 
 offers 
 A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
 Are gone. Aroimd me are the stars and 
 
 waters — 
 Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodher 
 
 sight 
 Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
 And the great element, which is to space 
 What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue 
 
 depths, 
 Soften'd mth the first breathings of the 
 
 spring ; 
 The high moon sails upon her beauteous 
 
 way, 
 Sereneh' smoothing o'er the loftv walls 
 Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 
 Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly 
 
 fronts. 
 Fraught with the orient spoil of many 
 
 marbles, 
 Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 
 Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
 Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less 
 
 strangely 
 Than those more massy and mysterious 
 
 giants 
 Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 
 Which point in Egj^jt's plains to times that 
 
 have 
 \o other record. .\11 is gentle; nought 
 Stirs rudely : but, congenial with the night, 
 Whatexer walks is gliding like a spirit. 
 The tinkhngs of some vigilant guitars 
 Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress, 
 .\nd cautious opening of the casement, 
 
 showing 
 That he is not unheard ; while her voung 
 
 hand, 
 Fair as the moonlight of which it seems 
 
 part. 
 So dehcately v, hite. it trembles in 
 The act of opming the forbidden lattice. 
 To let m love through music, makes his 
 
 heart 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 401 
 
 Thrill like liis lyre-strings at tlie siglit ; the 
 
 dash 
 Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinl-ile 
 Of the far lights of skimming gondolas, 
 And the responsive voices of the choir 
 Of boatmen answering back with verse for 
 
 verse ; 
 Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto ; 
 Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering 
 
 spire. 
 Are all the sights and sounds whicli here 
 
 pervade 
 The ocean-born and earth- commanding 
 
 city — 
 How sweet and soothing is this hour of 
 
 calm ! 
 I thank thee, Niglit ! for thou hast chased 
 
 away 
 Those horrid bodements which, amidst the 
 
 throng, 
 I could not dissipate : and with the blessing 
 Of thy benign and quiet influence. 
 Now will I to my couch, although to rest 
 
 Is almost wronging such a night as this. 
 
 [A knocking is heard from without. 
 Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a 
 
 moment ? 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 Ant. i\Iy lord, a man without, on urgent 
 
 business. 
 Implores to be admitted. 
 
 Lioni. Is he a stranger ? 
 
 Ant. His face is muffled in his cloak, 
 
 but both 
 His voice and gestures seem familiar to 
 
 me; 
 I craved his name, but this he seem'd 
 
 reluctant 
 To trust, save to yourself ; most earnestly 
 He sues to be permitted to approach you. 
 Lioni. 'T is a strange hour, and a sus- 
 picious bearing ! 
 And yet there is slight peril: 'tis not in 
 Their houses noble men are struck at ; still. 
 Although I know not that I have a foe 
 In Venice, 't will be wise to use some 
 
 caution. 
 Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
 Some of thy fellows, who may wait with- 
 out. — 
 Who can this man be ? — 
 
 [Exit Antonio, and returns with Ber- 
 tram muffled. 
 Qgf My good lord Lioni, 
 
 I have no time to lose, nor thou, — dismiss 
 This menial hence ; I would be private 
 
 with you. 
 Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — 
 
 Go, Antonio. 
 
 [E.xit Antonio. 
 Now, stranger, what would you at such an 
 
 hour ? 
 Ber (discovering himself). A boon, my 
 
 noble patron ; you have granted 
 
 Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
 This one, and make him happy. 
 
 Lioni. Thou hast known me 
 
 From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
 In all ixa objects of advancement, which 
 Beseem one of thy station ; I would 
 
 promise 
 Ere thy request was heard, but that the 
 
 hour. 
 Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried 
 
 mode 
 Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
 Hath some mysterious import — but say 
 
 on — 
 What has occurred, some rash and sudden 
 
 broil ?— 
 A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
 Mere things of every day ; so that thou 
 
 hast not 
 Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ; 
 But then thou must withdraw, for angry 
 
 friends 
 And relatives, in the first burst of \en- 
 
 geance, 
 Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 
 
 Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 
 
 Lioni. But what? You have not 
 
 Raised a rash hand against one of our 
 
 order ? 
 If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
 I would not slay — but then I must not save 
 
 thee ! 
 
 He who has shed patrician blood 
 
 Ber. I come 
 
 To save patrician blood, and not to shed 
 
 it! 
 And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
 Each minute lost may lose a life ; since 
 
 Time 
 Has changed his slow scythe for the two- 
 edged sword. 
 And is about to take, instead of sand, 
 The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour 
 
 glass ! — 
 Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 
 
 Lioni. Wherefore not ? — 
 
 What means this menace ? 
 
 Ber. Do not seek its meaning, 
 
 But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
 Whate'er be stirring ; though the roar of 
 
 crowds — 
 The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
 The groans of men — the clash of arms — the 
 
 sound 
 Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow 
 
 bell. 
 Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth. 
 Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
 Till I return ! 
 
 Liono. Again, what does this mean ? 
 Ber Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by 
 all 
 Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by 
 all 
 
402 
 
 dra:\ias 
 
 The souls of thy great fattiers, and thy 
 
 hope 
 To emulate them, and to leave behind 
 Descendants worthy both of them and 
 
 thee — 
 By all thou hast of bless'd in hope or 
 
 menii )ry — 
 By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
 By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
 Good I would now repay with greater 
 
 Remain within — trust to thy household 
 
 gods, 
 .And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
 As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost ! 
 Lioni. I am indeed already lost in 
 wonder ; 
 Surely thou ravest ! what have / to dread ? 
 Who are my foes ? or if there be such, why 
 Art thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or if 
 
 so leagued. 
 Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
 And not before ? 
 
 B&Y. I cannot answer this. 
 
 Wilt thou go forth despite of this true 
 warning ? 
 Lioni. I was not born to shrink from 
 idle threats. 
 The cause of which I know not : at the 
 
 hour' 
 Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
 Be found among the absent. 
 
 Bey. Sa}' not so ! 
 
 Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 
 Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which 
 
 shall impede me ! 
 Ber. Then, Hea\"en have mercy on thy 
 soul ! — Farewell ! 
 
 {Going. 
 Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than 
 my own safety 
 Which makes me call thee back ; we must 
 
 not part thus : 
 Bertram, I have known thee long. 
 
 Ber. From childhood, signor. 
 
 You ha\e been my protector : in the days 
 Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets. 
 Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
 Its cold prerogative, we play'd together ; 
 Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were 
 
 mingled oft ; 
 My father was your father's cHent, I 
 His son's scarce less than foster-brother ; 
 
 years 
 Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 
 Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours 
 and this ! 
 Liuni. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast for- 
 gotten them. 
 Ber. Nor now, nor e\-er ; whatso'er 
 betide, 
 I would ha^'e saved you : when to man- 
 hood's growth 
 We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 
 
 As suits your station, the more humble 
 
 Bertram 
 Was left unto the labours of the humble, 
 Still you forsook me not ; and if my 
 
 fortunes 
 Have not been towering, 't was no fault of 
 
 him 
 Who ofttimes rescued and supported me, 
 When struggling with the tides of circum- 
 stance, 
 Which bear away the weaker : noble 
 
 blood 
 Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
 Has proved to me, the poor plebeian 
 
 Bertram. 
 Would that thy fellow senators were like 
 
 thee ! 
 Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say 
 
 against the senate ? 
 Bcr. Nothing. 
 Lioni. I know that there are angry 
 
 spirits 
 And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
 Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
 Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
 Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
 And desperate hbertines who brawl in 
 
 taverns ; 
 Thou herdest not with such : 't is true, of 
 
 late 
 I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert 
 
 wont 
 To lead a temperate life, and break thy 
 
 bread 
 \\'ith honest mates, and bear a cheerful 
 
 aspect. 
 A\'hat hath come to thee ? in thy hollow 
 
 e}"e 
 And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet 
 
 motions. 
 Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at 
 
 war 
 To waste thee. 
 
 Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 
 On the accursed tyranny which rides 
 The \ery air in \'enice, and makos men 
 iladden as in the last hours of the plague 
 Which sweeps the soul dehriouslv from 
 
 Ufe ! 
 Lioni. Some villains ha\e been tamper- 
 ing with thee, Bertram ; 
 This is not thy old language, nor own 
 
 thoughts ; 
 Some wretch has made thee drmrk with dis- 
 affection : 
 But thou must not be lost so ; thou wcrt 
 
 good 
 And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
 As \ice and \-illany would put thee to : 
 Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my 
 
 nature. 
 \Miat is it thou and thine are bound to do 
 \'\ inch should prevent thy friend, the only 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 403 
 
 Of liim who wa^ a friend unto thy father, 
 So that our good-wifl is a heritage 
 We should bequeath to our posterity 
 Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 
 I say, what is it thou must do, that I 
 Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the 
 
 house 
 Like a sick girl ? 
 
 Ber. Nay, question me no further : 
 
 I must be gone. 
 
 Lioni. And I be murder' d ! — say. 
 
 Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle 
 Bertram ? 
 Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I 
 of murder ? 
 'T is false ! I did not utter such a word. 
 Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out 
 thy wolfish eye, 
 So changed from what 1 knew it, there 
 
 glares forth 
 The gladiator. If my life's thine object. 
 Take it — I am unarmed, — and then away ! 
 I would not hold my breath on such a 
 
 . tenure 
 As the capricious mercy of such things 
 As thou and those who have set thee to thy 
 task-work. 
 Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril 
 mine ; 
 Sooner than harm a hair of thme, I place 
 In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
 As noble, nay, even nobler than thine 
 own 
 Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, 
 Bertram ; 
 I am not worthy to be singled out 
 From such exalted hecatombs — who are 
 
 thev ^ , 
 
 That are in danger, and that make the 
 
 danger? , . , ., 
 
 Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, 
 
 are 
 
 Divided like a house against itself. 
 
 And so will perish ere to-morrow's twihght ! 
 
 Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones ! 
 
 But now. 
 
 Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
 
 Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 
 
 And thou art safe and glorious . for 't is 
 
 more 
 Glorious to save than slay, and slay 1 the 
 dark too — , , ' ^, , 
 
 Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
 How would it look to see upon a spear 
 The head of him whose heart was open to 
 
 thee, , , . 
 
 Borne by thy hand before the shuddering 
 
 people ? 
 And such may be my doom ; for here I 
 
 swear, 
 Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
 Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 
 Unlec's tbou dost detail the cause, and show 
 The consequence of all which led thee here ! 
 
 Ber. Is there no way to save thee ? 
 minutes fly. 
 And thou art lost ! — Ihou ! iriy sole bene- 
 factor. 
 The only being who was constant to m't 
 Through every change. Yet, make me not 
 
 a traitor ! 
 Let me save thee — but spare my honour ! 
 Lioni. Where 
 
 Can lie the honour in a league of murder ? 
 And who are traitors save unto the 
 state ? 
 Ber. A league is still a compact, and 
 more binding 
 In honest hearts when words must stand 
 
 for law ; 
 And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
 He whose domestic treason plants the 
 
 poniard 
 Within the breast which trusted to his 
 truth. 
 Lioni. And who will strike the steel to 
 mine ? 
 
 Ber. Not I ; 
 
 I could have wound my soul up to all 
 
 things 
 Save this. Thou must not die ! and think 
 
 how dear 
 Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
 Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
 Of future generations, not to be 
 The assassin thou miscall'st me : — once, 
 
 once more 
 I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy thres- 
 hold ! 
 Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go 
 
 forth. 
 Ber. Then perish Venice rather than 
 my friend ! 
 I will disclose — ensnare — betray — de- 
 stroy — ^ ^, , 
 Oh what a villain I become for thee ! 
 Liom. Say, rather thy friend's saviour 
 and the state's ! — , „ , , 
 Speak— pause not— all rewards, all pledges 
 
 Thy s°afety and thy welfare ; wealth such 
 
 The state accords her worthiest servants ; 
 
 NobiUtv itself I guarantee thee, 
 So that thou art sincere and penitent. 
 Ber. I have thought again ; it must 
 not be— I love thee— 
 Thou knowest it— that I stand here is the 
 
 Not kast' though last; but having done 
 my duty , , 
 
 By thee, I now must do it by my country • 
 Farewell— we meet no more in hfe !— fare- 
 well ' 
 Lioni. 'what, ho !— Antonio— Pedro— 
 
 to the door ! 
 See that none pass— arrest this man ! 
 
404 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Enter Antoxio and other armed Dnmeslics, 
 who seize Bertram. 
 
 Linni {continues). Take care 
 
 He bath no harm ; bring me my sword and 
 
 cloak, 
 And man the gondola with four oars — 
 quick — 
 
 l^Exit Antonio. 
 We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
 And send for Marc Cornaro : — fear not, 
 
 Bertram ; 
 This needful violence is for thy safety, 
 No less than for the general \veal. 
 
 Ber. Where would'st thou 
 
 Bear me a prisoner ? 
 
 Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten ; " 
 
 Next to the Doge. 
 
 Ber. To the Doge ? 
 
 Lioni. Assuredly : 
 
 Is he not chief of the state ? 
 
 Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 
 
 Lioni. What mean you ? — but we 'II 
 
 know anon. 
 Ber. Art sure ? 
 
 Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can 
 make ; and if 
 They fail, you know " the Ten " and their 
 
 tribunal, 
 And that St. Mark's has dungeons, and the 
 
 dungeons 
 A rack. 
 
 Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
 Now hastening into heaven. — One more 
 
 such word, 
 And you shall perish piecemeal, by the 
 
 death 
 You think to doom to me. 
 
 Re-enter Antonio. 
 Ant. The bark is readv, 
 
 My lord, and all prepared. 
 
 Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 
 
 Bertram, I '11 reason with thee as we go 
 To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. 
 
 [Exemit. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The Ducal Palace. — The Doge's Apartment. 
 
 The Doge and his Nephew Bertuccio 
 Faliero, 
 
 Doge. Are all the people of our house in 
 
 muster ? 
 Ber. F. They are array' d, and eager 
 for the signal. 
 Within our palace precincts at San Polo. 
 I come for your last orders. 
 
 Doge. It had been 
 
 As \rell had there been time to have got 
 
 together. 
 From my own fief, \'al di Marino, more 
 Of our retainers — but it is too late. 
 
 Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 't is better 
 as it is : 
 
 A sudden swelling of our retinue 
 
 Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce 
 
 and trusty. 
 The vassals of that district are too rude 
 And quick in quarrel to have long main- 
 
 tain'd 
 The secret discipline we need for such 
 A ser\-ice, till our foes are dealt upon. 
 Doge. True ; but when once the signal 
 has been gi\'en, 
 These are the men for such an enterprise ; 
 These city slaves have all their private 
 
 bias. 
 Their prejudice against or for this nobl3, 
 Which may induce them to o'erdo or 
 
 spare 
 Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce 
 
 peasants. 
 Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
 Would do the bidding of their lord without 
 Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
 Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 
 A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
 They are not used to start at those vain 
 
 names, 
 Nor bow the knee before a civic senate ; 
 A chief in armour is their Suzerain, 
 And not a thing in robes. 
 
 Ber. F. We are enough ; 
 
 And for the dispositions of our clients 
 Against t^^e senate I v.-ill answer. 
 
 Doge. Well, 
 
 The die is thrown ; but for a warlike ser- 
 vice, 
 Done in the field, commend me to my peas- 
 ants : 
 They made the sun shine through the 
 
 host of Huns 
 When sallow burghers slunk back to their 
 
 tents. 
 And cower'd to hear their own \-ictorious 
 
 trumpet. 
 If there be small resistance, vou will find 
 These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
 But if there's much to do, you '11 wish with 
 
 me, 
 A band of iron rustics at our backs. 
 
 Ber. F. Thus thinking, I must marvel 
 you resolve 
 To strike the blow so suddenly. 
 
 Doge. Such blows 
 
 Must be struck suddenlv or never, ^'rhen 
 I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
 \\'hich yearn'd about mv heart, too fondly 
 
 yielding 
 A moment to the feelings of old davs, 
 I was most fain to strike ; and, hrstly,' that 
 I might not yield again to such emoti ins ; 
 And, secondlv, because of all these men 
 Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
 I know not well the courage or the faith : 
 To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor 
 
 to us. 
 As yesterdav a thousand to the senate ; 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 105 
 
 But once in, with tlieir hilts hot in their 
 
 hands, 
 They mu?t nn for their own sakes ; one 
 
 stroke struck. 
 And the mere instinct of the first-born 
 
 Cain, 
 Which ever lurks somewhere in human 
 
 hearts, 
 Though circumstance may keep it in abey- 
 ance, 
 Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the 
 
 sight 
 Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of 
 
 more. 
 As the first wine-cup leads to the long 
 
 revel ; 
 And you will iind a harder task to quell 
 Than urge them when they have com- 
 menced, but till 
 That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a 
 
 shadow. 
 Are capable of turning them aside. — 
 How goes the night ? 
 
 Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 
 
 Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the 
 
 bell. 
 Are the men posted ? 
 
 Ber. F. By this time they are ; 
 
 But they have orders not to strike, until 
 They have command from you through 
 
 me in person. 
 Doge. 'T is well. — Will the morn never 
 
 put to rest 
 These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the 
 
 heavens ? 
 I am settled and bound up, and being so, 
 The very effort which it cost me to 
 Resolve to cleanse this coipmonwealth 
 
 with fire, 
 Now leaves my mind more steady. I have 
 
 wept, 
 And trembled at the thought of this dread 
 
 duty ; 
 But now I have put down all idle passion, 
 And look the growing tempest in the face, 
 As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
 Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman ?) it 
 
 hath been 
 A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
 Beheld their fate merged in the approach- 
 ing fight, 
 Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
 Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to 
 
 spill 
 The rank polluted current from the veins 
 Of a few bloated despots needed more 
 To steel me to a purpose such as made 
 Timoleon immortal, than to face 
 The toils and dangers of a hfe of war. 
 Ber. F. It gladdens me to see 5'our 
 
 former wisdom 
 Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
 You were decided. 
 j^o'e. It was ever thus 
 
 With me ; the hour of agitation came 
 
 In the first ghmmerings of a purpose, when 
 
 Passion had too much room to sway ; but 
 
 in 
 The hour of action I have stood as calm 
 As were the dead who lay around me : this 
 They knew who made me what I am, and 
 
 trusted 
 To the subduing power which I preserved 
 Over my mood, when its first burst was 
 
 spent. 
 But they were not aware that there are 
 
 things 
 Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
 And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
 The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured 
 
 souls 
 Oft do a public right with pri\'ate wrong. 
 And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
 IWethinks the day breaks — is it not so ? 
 
 look, 
 Tliine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air 
 
 puts on 
 A morning freshness, and, at least to me. 
 The sea looks greyer through the lattice. 
 Ber. F. True. 
 
 The morn is dappling in the sky. 
 
 Doge. Away then ! 
 
 See that they strike without delay, and 
 
 with 
 The first toll from St. Mark's, march on 
 
 the palace 
 With all our house's strength ; here I will 
 
 meet you ; 
 The Sixteen and their companies will move 
 In separate columns at the self-same 
 
 moment : 
 Be sure you post yourself at the great gate : 
 I would not trust " the Ten " except to 
 
 us — 
 The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
 Glut the more careless swords of those 
 
 leagued with us. 
 Remember that the cry is still " Saint 
 
 Mark! 
 The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
 Saint Mark and Liberty ! " — Now — now to 
 
 action ! 
 Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! 
 
 we will meet 
 In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 
 Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one 
 
 embrace ; 
 Speed, for the day grows broader ; send 
 
 me soon 
 A messenger to tell me how all goes 
 When you rejoin our troops, and then 
 
 sound — sound 
 The- storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 
 
 [E.xit Bertuccio Faliero. 
 
 Doge (solus). He is gone, 
 
 And on each footstep moves a life. 'T is 
 
 done. 
 Now the destroying angel hovers o'er 
 
4o6 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Venice, and pauses ere he pours the \*iaL 
 Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
 And for a moment, poised in middle air. 
 Suspends the motion of his mighty wings, 
 Theii swoops with his unerring beak. 
 
 Thou day ! 
 That slowly walk'st the waters ! march — 
 
 march on — 
 I would not smite i' the dark, but rather 
 
 see 
 That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea 
 
 waves ! 
 I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply 
 
 too. 
 With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore. 
 While that of Venice flow'd too, but vic- 
 torious. 
 Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; 
 
 no 
 Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
 Unto that horrible incarnadine. 
 But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
 And have I lived to fourscore years for 
 
 this ? 
 I, who was named Preserver of the City ? 
 I, at whose name the million's caps were 
 
 flung 
 Into the air, and cries from tens of thou- 
 sands 
 Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me 
 
 blessings, 
 And fame, and length of days — to see this 
 
 day ? 
 But this day, black within the calendar. 
 Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
 Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
 To vanquish empires, and refuse their 
 
 crown ; 
 I will resign a crown, and make the state 
 Renew its freedom — but oh ! by what 
 
 means ? 
 The noble end must justify them. ^\'hat 
 Are a few drops of human blood ? 't is false. 
 The blood of tyrants is not human ; they. 
 Like to incarnate -Molochs, feed on ours. 
 Until 't is time to give them to the tombs 
 Which they have made so populous. — Oh 
 
 world ! 
 Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs. 
 That we must work by crime to punish 
 
 crime ? 
 And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 
 \\'hen a fc.v years would make the sword 
 
 superfluous ? 
 And I, upon the verge of th' unkno^vn 
 
 realm. 
 Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 
 I must not ponder this. [A pause. 
 
 Hark ! was there nut 
 .\ murmur as of distant voices, an,l 
 The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
 What phantoms even of sound our wishes 
 
 raise ! 
 It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
 
 Why pauses it ? Wy nephew's messenger 
 Should be upon his way to me, and he^ 
 Himself perhaps even now draws grating 
 
 back 
 Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower 
 
 portal, 
 Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell. 
 Which never knells but for a princely 
 
 death. 
 Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
 Tremendous bodements ; let it do its 
 
 office. 
 And be this peal its awfuUest and last 
 Sound till the strong tower rock ! — What ! 
 
 silent still ? 
 I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
 To be the centre of re-union to 
 The oft discordant elements which form 
 Leagues of this nature, and to keep com- 
 pact 
 The wavering of the weak, in case of con- 
 flict ; 
 For if they should do battle, 't will be here, 
 \\'ithin the palace, that the strife will 
 
 thicken : 
 Then here must be my station, as becomes 
 
 The master-mover. Hark ! he comes — 
 
 he comes. 
 My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
 What tidings ? Is he marching ? hath he 
 
 sped ? 
 They here ! — all's lost — yet will I make an 
 effort. 
 
 Enter a Sign'OR of the Xight, -dith Guards 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 
 Doge. lie ! 
 
 Thy prince, of treason ! — Who are taey 
 
 that dare 
 Cloak their own treason under such an 
 order ? 
 Sig. {showing his order.) Behold my 
 
 order from the assembled Ten. 
 Doge. And -d'ha-e are they, and -dhy 
 assembled ? no 
 Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
 Preside there, and that duty 's mine : on 
 
 thine 
 I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
 To the council chamber. 
 
 Sig. Duke ! it mav not be : 
 
 Nor are they in the wonted Hall' of Coun- 
 cil, 
 But sitthig in the convent of Saint Savi- 
 our's. 
 Doge. You dare to disobey me, then ? 
 ■S'?- I serve 
 
 The state, and needs must serve it faitli- 
 
 fully ; 
 Sly «ai-rant is the will of those who rule 
 it. 
 Doge. And till that warrant lias my 
 signature 
 
TiTARINO FALIERO, DOCE OF VENICE 
 
 It is illegal, and, as now applied, 
 Rebellious. Hast thou weigh'd well thy 
 
 life's worth. 
 That thus you dare assume a lawless func- 
 tion ? 
 Sig. 'T is not my office to reply, but 
 
 act — 
 I am placed here as guard upon thy person. 
 And not as judge to hear or to decide. 
 Doge (aside). I must gain time. So 
 
 that the storm-bell sound. 
 All may be well >et. — Kinsman, speed — 
 
 speed — speed ! — 
 Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
 Woe to the vanquish'd ! be they prince and 
 
 people. 
 Or slaves and senate — 
 
 [The great bell of Saint Mark's tolls. 
 
 Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 
 
 Doge (aloud). Hark, Signor of the 
 
 Night ! and you, ye hirelings. 
 Who wield your mercenary staves in fear. 
 It is your loiell — Swell on, thou lusty 
 
 peal ! 
 Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 
 Sig. Confusion ! 
 
 Stand to your arms, and guard the door — 
 
 all's lost 
 Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
 The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose. 
 Or met some unforeseen and hideous 
 
 obstacle. 
 Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
 Straight to the tower ; the rest remain with 
 
 me. [Exit part of the Guard. 
 
 Doge. W'retch ! if thou wouldst have 
 
 thy vile life, implore it ; 
 It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
 Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
 They never shall return. 
 
 Sig. So let it be ! 
 
 They die then in their duty, as will I. 
 Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at 
 
 nobler game 
 Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live 
 
 on, 
 So thou provok'st not peril by resistance, 
 And learn (if souls so much obscured can 
 
 bear 
 To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 
 Sig. And learn thou to be captive. It 
 
 hath ceased, [The bell ceases to toll. 
 The traitorous signal, which was to have 
 
 The bloodhound mob on their patrician 
 
 prey — 
 The knell hath rung, but it is not the 
 senate's ! 
 Doge (after a pause). All 's silent, and 
 
 all 's lost ! 
 Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 
 
 As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
 Have I not done my duty ? 
 
 Peace, thou thing ! 
 
 407 
 
 TIioii hast dune a worthy deed, and earn'd 
 
 the price 
 Of blood, and they who use thee will re^va; d 
 
 tliee. 
 But thou Wert sent to watch, and not to 
 
 prate, 
 As thou said' st even now — then do thine 
 
 office, 
 But let it be in silence, as behoves tliec, 
 Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy 
 prince. 
 S/;, I did not mean to fail in the res- 
 pect 
 Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 
 Uouc (aside). There now is nothing left 
 me save to die ; 
 And yet how near success ! I would have 
 
 fallen, 
 And proudly, irj the hour of triumph, but 
 
 To miss it thus ! 
 
 Enter other Signors of the Night, with 
 Bertuccio Faliero t'risoner. 
 2nd Sig. We took him in the act 
 
 Of issuing from the tower, where, at his 
 
 order. 
 As delrgated from the Doge, the signal 
 Had thus begun to sound. 
 
 xst Sig. ' Are all the passes 
 
 Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 
 
 2nd Sig. They are — besides, it matters 
 
 not ; the chiefs 
 
 Are all in chains, and some even now on 
 
 trial — 
 Their followers are dispersed, and many 
 taken. 
 Ber. F. Uncle ! 
 
 Doge. It is in vain to war with For- 
 tune ; 
 The glory hath departed from our house. 
 Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it ? — Ah ! 
 
 one moment sooner ! 
 Doge. That moment would have 
 changed the face of ages ; 
 This gives us to eternity — We '11 meet it 
 As men whose triumph is not in success. 
 But who can make their own minds all in all. 
 Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 't is 
 But a brief passage — I would go alone. 
 Yet if they send us, as 't is Uke, together. 
 Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 
 Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 
 1st Sig. Lords, our orders 
 
 Are to keep guard on both in separate 
 
 chambers. 
 Until the council call ye to your trial. 
 Doge. Our trial ! will they keep their 
 mockery up 
 Even to the last ? but let them deal upon 
 
 us. 
 As we had dealt on them, but with less 
 
 pomp. 
 'T is but a game of mutual homicides. 
 Who have cast lots for the first death, and 
 they 
 
4o8 
 
 DRAJIAS 
 
 Have won with false dice. — Who hath been 
 our Judas ? 
 ist Sig. I am not warranted to answer 
 
 that. 
 Ber. F. I'll answer for thee — 't. is a cer- 
 tain Bertram, 
 
 Even now deposing to the secret giimta. 
 Dogs. Bertram, the Bergamask ! With 
 what \ile tools 
 
 We operate to slay or save ! This creature, 
 
 Black Vv'ith a double treason, now will earn 
 
 Rewards and honours, and be stamp'd in 
 story 
 
 With the geese in the Capitol, which gab- 
 bled 
 
 Till Rome awoke, and had an annual 
 triumph. 
 
 While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, 
 was cast 
 
 From the Tarpeian. 
 
 ist Sig. He aspired to treason, 
 
 And sought to rule the state. 
 
 Doge. He saved the state, 
 
 And sought but to reform what he re- 
 vived — 
 
 But this IS idle Come, sirs, do your 
 
 work. 
 15/ Sig. Noble Bertuuccio, we must now 
 remove you 
 
 Into an inner chamber. 
 
 Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 
 
 If we shall meet again in life I know not. 
 
 But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 
 Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall 
 yet go forth. 
 
 And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, 
 hath fail'd in ! 
 
 They cannot quench the memory of those 
 
 Who would have hurl'd them from their 
 guilty thrones. 
 
 And such examples will find heirs, though 
 distant. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I. — The Hall of the Council of Ten 
 assembled with the additional SefwJors, 
 juho, on the Trials of the Conspirators 
 for the Treason of M.^rixo Faliero, 
 composed what was called the Giunta. — 
 Guards, Officers, etc. etc. — Israel 
 Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro 
 as Prisoners. — Bertra.m, Lioni, and 
 Witnesses, etc. 
 
 The Chief of the Ten, Beninten'de. 
 
 Ben. There now rests, after such con- 
 viction of 
 Their manifold and manifest offences. 
 But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
 The sentence of the law : — a grie\ous task 
 To those who hear, and thisise who speak. 
 
 ,\.las ! : 
 
 That it should fall to me ! and that my 1 
 
 days j 
 
 Of office should be stigmatised through all 
 The years of coming time, as bearing re- 
 cord J 
 To this most foul and complicated treason 
 Against a just and free state, known to all 
 The earth as being the Christian bulwari 
 
 'gainst 
 The Saracen and the schismatic Grr-c-k, 
 The savage Him, and not less barbarous 
 
 Frank ; 
 A city which has open'd India's wealth 
 To Europe ; the last Roman refuge from 
 O'erwhelming Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 
 Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'T is to sap 
 The throne of such a city, these lost men 
 Have risk'd and forfeited their v,orthless 
 
 lives — 
 So let them die the death. 
 
 /. Ber. We are prepared ; 
 
 Your racks have done that for us. Let us 
 die. 
 Ben. If ye have that to say which would 
 obtain 
 Abatement of your punishment, the Giimla 
 Will hear you ; if you have aught to con- 
 fess. 
 Now is yriur time, perhaps it may avail ye. 
 /. Ber. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
 Be',1. Your crimes 
 
 .Axe fully pro^'ed by your accomplices, 
 And all which circumstance can add to aid 
 
 them ; 
 Yet we would hear from your own lips com- 
 plete 
 Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
 Of that dread gulf which none repass, the 
 
 truth 
 Alone can profit you on earth or hea^'en — • 
 Say, then, what was your motive ? 
 /. Ber. Justice ! 
 
 Ben. A\'hat 
 
 Your object ? 
 
 I. Bey. Freedom ! 
 
 Ben. \'ou are brief, sir. 
 
 /. Ber. So my life grows : I 
 Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 
 
 Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt 
 brevity 
 To brave >our judges to postpone the sen- 
 tence ? 
 /. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and be- 
 lieve me, 
 I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 
 Ben. Is this your sole reply to tiie tri- 
 bunal ?- 
 /. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they 
 have wTung from us. 
 Or place us there again ; we have still some 
 
 blood left, 
 .Vnd some slight sense of pain in these 
 
 wrench'd limbs : 
 But this ye dare not do ; for if we die 
 
 there — 
 And you have left us little life to spend 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 409 
 
 Upon your engines, gorged with pangs al- 
 ready — 
 Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
 You would appal your slaves to further 
 
 slavery ! 
 Groans are not words, nor agony assent. 
 Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
 Should overcome the soul into a lie, 
 For a short respite — must we bear or die ? 
 Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 
 /. Ber. The Senate. 
 
 Ben. What do you mean ? 
 /. Ber. Ask of the suffering people. 
 
 Whom your patrician crimes have driven 
 to crime. 
 Ben. You know the Doge ? 
 /. Ber. I served with him at Zara 
 
 In the field, when you were pleading here 
 
 your way 
 To present office ; we exposed our lives. 
 While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
 Alike by accusation or defence ; 
 And for the rest, all Venice knows her 
 
 Doge, 
 
 Through his great actions, and the Senate's 
 
 insults. 
 
 Be>t. You have held conference with him ? 
 
 /. Ber. I am weary — 
 
 Even wearier of your questions than your 
 
 tortures : 
 I pray you pass to judgment. 
 
 Ben. It is Coming. 
 
 And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
 Have you to say why you should not be 
 doomed ? 
 Cal. I never was a man of many words. 
 And now have few left worth the utterance. 
 Ben. A further application of yon engine 
 May change your tone. 
 
 Cal. Most true, it will do so ; 
 
 A former application did so ; but 
 It will not change my words, or, if it did — 
 Ben. What then ? 
 
 Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack 
 
 Stand good in law ? 
 Ben. Assuredly. 
 
 Cal. Whoe'er 
 
 The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 
 Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought 
 
 up to trial. 
 Cal. And on this testimony would he 
 
 perish ? 
 Ben. So your confession be detail'd and 
 full. 
 He will stand here in peril of his life. 
 Cal. Then look well to thy proud self. 
 President ! 
 For by the eternity which yawns before 
 
 me, 
 I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
 The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
 If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 
 One of the Ghmta. Lord President, 't were 
 best proceed to judgment ; 
 
 There is no more to be drawn from these 
 men. 
 Ben. Unhappy men ! prepare for in- 
 stant death. 
 
 The nature of your crime, our law, and 
 peril 
 
 The statenow stands in, leave not an hour's 
 respite. 
 
 Guards ! lead them forth, and' upon the 
 balcony 
 
 Of the red columns, where, on festal Thurs- 
 day, 
 
 The Doge stands to behold the chase of 
 bulls. 
 
 Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
 
 Their wavering relics, m the place of judg- 
 ment. 
 
 To the full view of the assembled people ! 
 
 And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 
 The Giunta. Amen ! 
 
 I. Ber. Signors, farewell ! we shall not 
 all again 
 
 Meet in one place. 
 
 Ben. And lest they should essay 
 
 To stir up the distracted multitude — 
 
 Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd even 
 in the act 
 
 Of e.xecution. Lead them hence ! 
 
 Cal. What ! must we 
 
 Not even say farewell to some fond friend. 
 
 Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 
 Ben. A priest is waiting in the ante- 
 chamber ; 
 
 But, for your friends, such inter\-iews 
 would be 
 
 Painful to them, and useless all to you. 
 Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; 
 at least 
 
 All those who had not heart to risk their 
 lives 
 
 Upon their open thoughts ; but still I 
 deem'd 
 
 That in the last few moments, the same 
 idle 
 
 Freedom of speech accorded to the dying. 
 
 Would not now be denied to us ; but 
 
 since 
 
 /. Bey. Even let them have then: way, 
 brave Calendaro ! 
 
 What matter a few syllables ? let 's die 
 
 Without the slightest show of favour from 
 them ; 
 
 So shall our blood more readily arise 
 
 To Heaven against them, and more testify 
 
 To their atrocities, than could a volume 
 
 Spoken or ivritten of our dying words ! 
 
 They tremble at our voices— nay, they dread 
 
 Our very silence — ^let them live in fear ! 
 
 Leave them unto their thoughts, and let 
 us now 
 
 Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we 
 are ready. 
 Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd 
 unto me 
 
 E E 
 
410 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 It had not now been thus ; and yon pale 
 villain, 
 
 The coward Bertram, would 
 
 /, Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 
 
 What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 
 
 Bert. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with 
 
 me : 
 
 I did not seek this task ; 't was forced upon 
 
 me : 
 Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
 'Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not 
 thus ! 
 /. Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 
 Cal. (spitting at him). I die and scorn 
 thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and 
 Philip Calendaro, Guards, etc. 
 Ben. Now that these criminals have 
 been disposed of, 
 'T is time that we proceed to pass our sen- 
 tence 
 Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
 In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
 The proofs and process are complete ; the 
 
 time 
 And crime require a quick procedure : 
 
 shall 
 He now be call'd in to receive the award ? 
 The Giunta. Ay, ay. 
 Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 
 Be brought before the Council. 
 
 One of the Giunta. And the rest, 
 
 When shall they be brought up ? 
 
 Ben. When all the chiefs 
 
 Have been disposed of. Some have fled 
 
 to Chiozza ; 
 But there are thousands in pursuit of them. 
 And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 
 As well as in the islands, that we hope 
 None will escape to utter in strange lands 
 His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the 
 senate. 
 
 Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with 
 Guards, etc. etc. 
 
 Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and 
 
 by the law 
 Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
 When you must doff the ducal bonnet from 
 That head, which could not wear a cro\^Ti 
 
 more noble 
 Than empires can confer, in quiet honour. 
 But it must plot to overthrow your peer.-^. 
 Who made you what you are, and quench 
 
 in blood 
 A city's glory — we have laid already 
 Before you in your chamber at full length, 
 By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
 Which have appear'd against you ; and 
 
 more ample 
 Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
 Confront a traitor. What ha\'e you to say 
 In your defence ? 
 Doge. What shall I say to ye, 
 
 Since my defence must be your condem- 
 nation ? 
 You are at once offenders and accusers. 
 Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
 Upon your power. 
 
 Ben. Your chief accomplices 
 
 Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 
 Doge. And who be they ? 
 Ben. In number many ; but 
 
 The first now stands before you in the court, 
 Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you ques- 
 tion him ? 
 Doge {looking at him contemptnously) . No . 
 Ben. And two others, Israel Ber- 
 tuccio, 
 And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
 Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 
 Doge. And where .are they ? 
 Ben. Gone to their place, and now 
 
 Answering to Heaven for what they did on 
 earth. 
 Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he 
 gone ? 
 And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ? — 
 How did they meet their doom ? 
 
 Ben. Think of your own : 
 
 It is approaching. You decline to plead, 
 
 then ? 
 
 Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
 
 Can recognise your legal power to try me. 
 
 Show me the law 1 
 
 Ben. On great emergencies, 
 
 The law must be remodell'd or amended : 
 Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
 Of such a crime, as on the old Roman 
 
 tables 
 The sentence against parricide was left 
 In pure forgetfulness ; they could not ren- 
 der 
 That penal, which had neither name nor 
 
 thought 
 In their great bosoms ; who would have 
 
 foreseen 
 That nature could be filed to such a crime 
 As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst 
 
 their realms ? 
 Your sin hath made us make a law which 
 
 will 
 Become a precedent 'gainst such haught 
 
 traitors. 
 As would with treason mount to tyranny ; 
 Not e\-en contented with a sceptre, till' 
 They can com-ert it to a tWo-edged sword ! 
 Vi'as not the place of Doge sufficient for 
 
 ye ? 
 \Vhat 's nobler than the signorv of Venice ? 
 Doge. The signory of ^'enice ! You 
 betray'd me — 
 You — you, who sit there, traitors as vc are ! 
 From my equality with you in birth. 
 And my superiority in action. 
 You drew me from my honomable toils 
 In distant lands — on flood, in held, in 
 cities — 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 411 
 
 at 
 
 You singled me out like a victim to 
 Stand crown' d, but bound and helpless, 
 
 the altar 
 Where you alone could minister. I knew 
 
 not, 
 I sought not, wish'd not.dream'd not the 
 
 electii >n, 
 Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I 
 
 obey'd ; 
 But found on my arrival, that, besides 
 The jealous vigilance which always led you 
 To mock and mar your sovereign's best 
 
 intents, 
 You had, even in the interregnum of 
 My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
 And mutilated the few privileges 
 Yet left the duke : all this 1 bore, and would 
 Have borne, until my very hearth was 
 
 stain'd 
 By the pollution of your ribaldry, 
 And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst 
 
 you — • 
 
 Fit judge in such tribunal ! 
 
 Ben. {interrupting him). Michel Steno 
 Is here in virtue of his office, as 
 One of the Forty; "the Ten" having 
 
 craved 
 A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
 To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
 And novel as the present : he was set 
 Free from the penalty pronounced upon 
 
 him, 
 because the Doge, who should protect the 
 
 law. 
 Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
 No punishment of others by the statutes 
 Which he himself denies and violates ! 
 Doge. His PUNISHMENT ! I rather see 
 
 him there, 
 Where he now sits, to glut him with my 
 
 death. 
 Than in the mockery of castigation. 
 Which your foul, outward, jugghng show 
 
 of justice 
 Decreed as sentence ! Base as ^^■as his 
 
 crime, 
 'Twas purity compared with your pro- 
 tection. .^ 
 Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge 
 
 of Venice, 
 With three parts of a century of years 
 And honom-s on his head, could thus allow 
 His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
 All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on 
 
 such , , 1 1 
 
 A provocation as a young man s petulance .^ 
 
 Doge. A spark creates the flame— t is 
 
 the last drop 
 Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine 
 
 was full . 
 
 Already : you oppress d the pnnce ana 
 
 people ; ,■,,,■ 
 
 I would have freed both, and have fail d m 
 
 both! 
 
 The price of such success would have been 
 
 glory. 
 Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
 As would have made Venetian history 
 Rival to that of Greece and Sjnracuse 
 Wlien they were freed, and ilourish'd ages 
 
 after. 
 And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : 
 Failing, I know the penalty of -failure 
 Is present infamy and death — the future 
 Will judge, when Venice is no more, or 
 
 free ; 
 Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause 
 
 not ; 
 I would have shown no mercy, and I seek 
 
 none ; 
 My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, 
 And being lost, take what I would have 
 
 taken ! 
 I would have stood alone amidst your 
 
 tombs : 
 Now you may flock round mine, and tram- 
 ple on it, 
 As you have done upon my heart while 
 living. 
 Ben. You do confess then, and admit 
 the justice 
 Of our tribunal ? 
 
 Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 
 
 Fortune is female : from my youth her 
 
 favours 
 Were not withheld, the fault was mine to 
 
 hope 
 Her former smiles again at this late hour. 
 Ben. You do not then in aught an-aign 
 
 our equity ? 
 Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not 
 with questions. 
 I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
 Have something of the blood of brighter 
 
 days. 
 And am not over-patient. Pray you, 
 
 spare me 
 Further interrogation, which boots noth- 
 ing. 
 Except to turn a trial to debate. 
 I shall but answer that which will offend 
 
 vou. 
 And please your enemies — a host already ; 
 'T is true, these sullen walls should yield no 
 
 echo : 
 But walls have ears — nay, more, they have 
 
 tongues ; and if 
 There were no other way for truth to o'er- 
 
 leap them, 
 You who condemn me, you who fear and 
 
 slay me, 
 Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
 What you would hear from me of good or 
 
 evil ; 
 The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
 Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
 A danger which would double that you 
 escape, 
 
412 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Such my defence would lie, had 1 fult 
 
 scope 
 To make it famous ; for true words are 
 
 things, 
 And dying men's are things which long 
 
 outlive, 
 And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine, 
 If ye would fain survive me : take this 
 
 counsel. 
 And though too oft ye made me li\'e in 
 
 wrath, 
 Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ; 
 I deny nothing, defend nothing, nothing 
 I ask of you, but silence for myself. 
 And sentence from the court ! 
 
 Ben. This full admission 
 
 Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
 The torture to elicit the whole truth. 
 Doge. The torture ! you have put me 
 
 there already, 
 Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
 Add the corporeal rack, you may ; these 
 
 limbs 
 Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
 There 's that within my heart shall strain 
 
 your engines. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Fa- 
 liero 
 Requests admission to the Giimta's pre- 
 sence. 
 Ben. Say, conscript fathers, shall she be 
 
 admitted ? 
 One of the Ginnta. She may have reve- 
 lations of importance 
 Unto *he state, to justify compliance 
 With h r request. 
 
 Ben. Is this the general will ? 
 
 All. It is. 
 
 Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 
 Which would admit the wife, in the full 
 
 hope 
 That she might testify against the husband. 
 What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
 But such blasphemers 'gainst all honour, 
 
 as 
 Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
 Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
 I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
 And my own \'iolent death, and thy vile 
 life. 
 
 The Duchess enters. 
 
 Ben. Lady ! this just tribimal has re- 
 solved. 
 Though the request be strange, to grant it, 
 
 and 
 Whatever be its purport, to accord 
 A patient hearing with the due respect 
 Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and 
 
 virtues : 
 But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the 
 lady! 
 
 Place a chair instantly. 
 
 A ng. A moment's f aintness — 
 
 'T is past ; I pray you pardon me, — I sit not 
 In presence of my prince and of my hus- 
 band. 
 While he is on his feet. 
 
 Ben. Your pleasure, lady J 
 
 Ang. Strange rumours, but most true, 
 if all I hear 
 And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I 
 
 come 
 To know the worst, even at the worst ; 
 
 forgive 
 The abruptness of my entrance and my 
 bearing. 
 
 Is it 1 cannot Sfieak — I cannot shape 
 
 The question — but you answer it ere 
 
 spoken. 
 With eyes averted, and with gloomy 
 
 brows — 
 Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 
 Ben. (after a pause) . Spare us, and spare 
 thyself the repetition 
 Of our most awful, but inexorable 
 Duty to Heaven and man ! 
 
 Ang. Yet speak ; I cannot — 
 
 I cannot — no — even now believe these 
 
 things. 
 Is he condemned ? 
 Ben. Alas ! 
 
 Ang. And was he guilty ? 
 
 Ben. Lad}'! the natural distraction of 
 Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the 
 
 question 
 Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
 Against a just and paramount tribunal 
 Were deep offence. But question even the 
 
 Doge, 
 And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
 Guiltless as thy own bosom. 
 
 ■i ng- Is it so ? 
 
 !My lord, my sovereign, my poor father's 
 
 friend. 
 The mighty in the field, the sage in coun- 
 cil. 
 Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art 
 silent ! 
 Ben. He hath alreadv o^^■n'd to his OTS-n 
 guilt. 
 Nor, as thou see'st, doth he denv it now. 
 Ang. Ay, but he must not die ! Spare 
 his few years. 
 Which grief and shame mil soon cut i.ovra 
 
 to days ! 
 One day of bafljed crime must not efface 
 Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave 
 acts. 
 Ben. His doom must be fulfill'd without 
 remission 
 Of time or penalty — 't is a decree. 
 Ang. He hath been guilty, but there 
 
 may be mercy. 
 Ben. Not in this case mth justice. 
 -l"f- Alas! signor, 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 IIo who is only just is cruel ; who 
 Upon the earth would live were all judged 
 justly ? 
 Ben. His punishment is safety to the 
 
 state. 
 Ang. He was a subject, and hath served 
 the state ; 
 He was your general, and hath saved the 
 
 state 
 He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the 
 state. 
 One of the Council. He is a traitor, and 
 
 betray'd the state. 
 Ang. And, but for him, there now had 
 been no state 
 To save or to destroy ; and you, who sit 
 There to pronounce the death of your de- 
 liverer. 
 Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar. 
 Or digging in the Huonish mines in 
 fetters ! 
 One of the Council. No, lady, there are 
 others who would die 
 Rather than breathe in slavery ! 
 
 Ang. If there are so 
 
 Within these walls, thou art not of the num- 
 ber : 
 The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 
 Is there no hope ? 
 Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 
 
 Ang. (turning to the Doge). Then die, 
 Faliero ! since it must be so ; 
 But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
 Thou hast been guilty of a great offence. 
 Half cancell'd by the harshness of these 
 
 men. 
 I would have sued to them, have pray'd to 
 
 them. 
 Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for 
 
 bread. 
 Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
 For mercy, and be answer'd as they ans- 
 wer, — 
 Had it been fitting for thy name or mine. 
 And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
 Had not announced the heartless wrath 
 
 within. 
 Then, as a prince, address thee to thy 
 doom ! 
 Doge. I have lived too long not to know 
 how to die ! . 
 Thy suing to these men were but the bleat- 
 ing 
 Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
 Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
 A life eternal, granted at the hands 
 Of wretches, from .whose monstrous vil- 
 
 lanies 
 I sought to free the groaning nations ! 
 
 Michel Steno. Doge, 
 
 A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
 Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
 Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part. 
 Could cancel the inexorable past ' 
 
 413 
 
 But smce that cannot be, as Cliristians 1, t 
 
 us 
 Say farewell, and -in peace .- with full con- 
 trition 
 I crave, not pardon, but compassion from 
 
 you. 
 And give, however weak, my prayers for 
 both. 
 Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief judge 
 of Venice, 
 I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
 Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
 Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's 
 
 daughter. 
 Further than to create a moment's pity 
 For such as he is : would that others had 
 Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
 My honour to a thousand lives, could sucL 
 Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
 A single life of others lost for that 
 Which nothing human can impugn — the 
 
 sense 
 Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
 A good name for reward, but to itself. 
 To me the scomer's words were as the wind 
 Unto the rock : but as there are — alas ! 
 Spirits more sensitive, on which such 
 
 things 
 Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 
 To v/hom dishonour's shadow is a sub- 
 stance 
 More terrible than death, here and here- 
 after ; 
 Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing. 
 And who, though proof against all bland- 
 ishments 
 Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are 
 
 feeble 
 When the proud name on which they pin- 
 nacled 
 Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the 
 
 eagle 
 Of her high aiery ; let what we now 
 Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
 To wretches how they tamper in their 
 
 spleen 
 With beings of a higher order. Insects 
 Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 
 r the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the 
 
 brave ; 
 A wife's dishonour was the bane of Troy ; 
 A wife's dishonour unking'd Rome for 
 
 ever ; 
 An injured husband brought the Gauls to 
 
 Clusium, 
 And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a 
 
 .time ; 
 An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
 His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties ; 
 A virgin's wTong made Spain a Moorish 
 
 province ; 
 And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless 
 
 lines. 
 Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
 
414 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 A senate which hath stood eight hundred 
 
 years, 
 Dibcrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless 
 
 head. 
 And forged new fetters for a groaning 
 
 people ! 
 Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 
 Who fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 
 If it so please him — 't were a pride fit for 
 
 him ! 
 But let him not insult the last hours of 
 Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 
 By the intrusion of his very prayers ; 
 Nothing of good can come from such a 
 
 source, 
 Nor would we aught with him, nor now, 
 
 nor ever : 
 We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 
 Of human baseness. Pardon is for men. 
 And not for reptiles — we have none for 
 
 Steno, 
 And no resentment : things like him must 
 
 sting, 
 And higher beings suffer ; 't is the charter 
 Of life. The man who dies by the adder's 
 
 fang 
 May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no 
 
 anger : 
 'T was the worm's nature ; and some men 
 
 are worms 
 In soul, more than the living things of 
 
 tombs. 
 Doge {to Ben.). Signor ! complete that 
 
 which you deem your dutv 
 Ben. Before we can proceed upon that 
 
 duty. 
 We would request the princess to with- 
 draw ; 
 'T will move her too much to be witness to 
 
 it. 
 Ang. I know it will, and yet I must 
 
 endure it, 
 For 't is a part of mine — I will not quit. 
 Except by force, my husband's side. — 
 
 Proceed ! 
 Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
 Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — 
 
 Speak ! 
 I have that within which shall o'ermaster 
 
 all. 
 Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
 Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
 And some time General of the Fleet and 
 
 Army, 
 Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
 Intrusted by the state with high employ- 
 ments. 
 Even to the highest, hsten to the sentence. 
 Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 
 And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
 Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
 Until this trial — the decree is death. 
 Thy goods are confiscate unto the state, 
 Thy name is razed from out her records, save 
 
 Upon a public day of thanksgiving 
 For this our most miraculous deliverance. 
 When thou art noted in our calendars 
 With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign 
 
 foes, 
 And the great enemy of man, as subject 
 Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in 
 
 snatching 
 Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 
 The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst 
 
 be painted, 
 With thine illustrious predecessors, is 
 To be left vacant, with a death-black 
 
 veil 
 Flung over these dim words engraved 
 
 beneath, — 
 ' ' This place is of Marino FaHero, 
 Decapitated for his crimes." 
 
 Doge. " His crimes ! " 
 
 But let it be so : — it wiU be in vain. 
 The veil which blackens o'er this blighted 
 
 name. 
 And hides, or seems to hide, these linea- 
 ments. 
 Shall draw more gazers than the thousand 
 
 portraits 
 Which glitter round it in their pictured 
 
 trappings — 
 Your delegated slaves — the people's 
 
 tyrants ! 
 " Decapitated for his crimes ! " — What 
 
 crimes ? 
 Were it not better to record the facts, 
 So that the contemplator might approve, 
 Or at the least learn whence the crimes 
 
 arose ? 
 When the beholder knows a Doge con- 
 spired, 
 Let him be told the cause — it is your 
 history. 
 Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons 
 will judge 
 Their fathers' judgment, which I now 
 
 pronounce. 
 As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
 Thou Shalt be led hence to the Giant's 
 
 Staircase, 
 Where thou and all our princes are in- 
 vested ; 
 And there, the ducal crown being first 
 
 resumed 
 Upon the spot where it was first assumed. 
 Thy head shall be struck off ; and Heaven 
 
 have mercy 
 Upon thy soul I 
 Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence ? 
 Ben. It is. 
 
 Doge. I can endure It.— And the time .' 
 
 Ben. Must be immediate. Make thy 
 
 peace with God : 
 
 Within an hour thou must be in His 
 
 presence. 
 
 Doge. I am already ; and my blood will 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 415 
 
 To Heaven before the souls of those who 
 
 shed it. 
 Are all my lands confiscated ? 
 
 Ben. They art: ; 
 
 And goods, and jewels, and all kind of 
 
 treasure, 
 Except two thousand ducats — these dis- 
 pose of. 
 Doge. That 's harsh. — I would have fain 
 reserved the lands 
 Near to Treviso, which I hold by invest- 
 ment 
 From Laurence the Count-bishop of 
 
 Ceneda, 
 In fief perpetual to myself and heirs. 
 To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 
 My palace and my treasures, to your for 
 
 feit) 
 Between my consort and my kinsmen. 
 
 Ben. These 
 
 Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy 
 
 nephew. 
 In peril of his own life ; but the council 
 Postpones his trial for the present. If 
 Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd 
 
 princess. 
 Fear not, for we will do her justice. 
 
 A ng. Signors, 
 
 I share not in your spoil ! From hence- 
 forth, know 
 I am devoted unto God alone. 
 And take my refuge in the cloister. 
 
 Doge. Come ! 
 
 The hom- may be a hard one, but 't will 
 
 end. 
 Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 
 Ben. You have nought to do, except 
 confess and die. 
 The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, 
 And both await without. — But, above all. 
 Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
 Are now by thousands swarming at the 
 
 gates, 
 But these are close.d : the Ten, the Avoga- 
 
 dori. 
 The Giunta, and the chief men of the 
 
 Forty, 
 Alone will be beholders of thy doom. 
 And they are ready to attend the Doge. 
 Doge. The Doge ! 
 
 Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast hved 
 
 and thou shaft die 
 A sovereign ; till the moment which pre- 
 
 The separation of that head and trunk. 
 That ducal crown and head shall beunited. 
 Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deignmg 
 To plot with petty traitors ; not so we. 
 Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
 The prince. Thy vile accomphces have 
 
 died 
 The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou 
 
 Shalt fall 
 As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
 
 By those who feel a pr(_)ud compassion for 
 
 thee. 
 And mourn even the inevitable death 
 Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal 
 
 fierceness. 
 Now wc remit thee to thy preparation : 
 Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
 Thy guides unto the place where first we 
 
 were 
 United to thee as thy subjects, and 
 Thy senate ; and must now be parted from 
 
 thee 
 As such for ever, on the self-same spot. 
 Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his 
 
 chamber. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II 
 
 The Doge's Ajnirlincnl. 
 
 The Doge as Prisoner, and the Duchess 
 attending liitji. 
 
 Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 't 
 were useless all 
 To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
 But one pang more, the pang of parting 
 
 from thee. 
 And I v/ill leave the few last grains of sand, 
 V/hich vet remain of the accorded hour. 
 Still falling — I have done with Time. 
 
 Aug. Alas! 
 
 And I have been the cause, the unconscious 
 
 cause ; 
 And for this funeral marriage, this black 
 
 union, 
 Which thou, compliant with my father s 
 
 wish. 
 Didst promise at his death, thou hast 
 seal'd thine own. 
 Doge. Not so : there was that in my 
 spirit ever 
 Which shaped out for itself some great 
 
 reverse ; 
 The marvel is, it came not until now — ■ 
 And yet it was foretold me. 
 
 ^„g. How foretold 5'ou ? 
 
 Doge. Long years ago— so long, they 
 are a doubt 
 In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
 When I was in my youth, and served the 
 
 senate 
 And signory as podesta and captain 
 Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
 Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
 Convey' d the Host aroused my rash young 
 
 anger, , ^ , 
 
 By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
 To my reproof : I raised my '""-^ 
 smote him, . , , , ^, 
 
 Until he reel'd beneath his holy burthen ; 
 And as he rose from earth again, he laised 
 His tremulous hands in pious wrath 
 towards Heaven. , . , . , 
 
 Thence pointing to the Hos,t, which had 
 fallen from him, 
 
 hand and 
 
410 
 
 DRA]\IAS 
 
 He turn'd to me, and said, " The hour will 
 
 come 
 When he thou hast o'erthrown shall over- 
 throw thee : 
 The glory shall depart from out thy house, 
 The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 
 And in thy best maturity of mind 
 A madness of the heart shall seize upon 
 
 thee : 
 Passion shall tear thee when all passions 
 
 cease 
 In other men, or mellow into virtues ; 
 And majesty, which decks all other heads, 
 Shall crow^n to leave thee headless ; honours 
 
 shall 
 But prove to thee the heralds of destruc- 
 tion, 
 And hoary hairs of shame, and both of 
 
 death. 
 But not such death as fits an aged man." 
 Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is 
 
 come. 
 Ang. And with this warning couldst thou 
 
 not have striven 
 To avert the fatal moment, and atone. 
 By penitence, for that which thou hadst 
 
 done ? 
 Doge. I own the words went to my 
 
 heart, so much 
 That I remember'd them amid the maze 
 Of Ufe, as if they form'd a spectral voice. 
 Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 
 And I repented ; but 't was not for me 
 To pull in resolution : what must be 
 I could not change, and would not fear. — 
 
 Nay more, 
 Thou canst not have forgot, v/hat all 
 
 remember, 
 That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
 On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
 Unwonted density went on before 
 The Bucentaur, like the columnar cloud 
 Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
 The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 
 Between the pillars of Saint ;\Iark's, where 
 
 't is 
 The custom of the state to put to death 
 Its criminals, instead of touching at 
 The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is, — 
 So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 
 Ang. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
 Such things. 
 
 Doge. And yet I find a comfort in 
 
 The thought, that these things are the -.\ork 
 
 of Fate ; 
 For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
 Or cling to any creed of destiny. 
 Rather than deem these mortals, most of 
 
 whom 
 I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
 And weak as worthless, more than instru- 
 ments 
 Of an o'er-ruling power ; they in themselves 
 Were all incapable — they could not be ! 
 
 Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for 
 them. 
 Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspira- 
 tions 
 Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
 Even with these wretches take thy flight to 
 heaven. 
 Doge. I am at peace : the peace of cer- 
 tainty 
 That a sure hour will come, when their 
 
 sons' sons. 
 And this proud city, and these azure 
 
 waters. 
 And all which makes them eminent and 
 
 bright, 
 Shall be a desolation and a curse, 
 A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
 .\ Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel. 
 Ang. Speak not thus now : the surge of 
 passion still 
 Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost 
 
 deceive 
 Thyself, and canst not injure them — be 
 calmer. 
 Doge. I stand within eternity, and see 
 Into eternity, and I behold — 
 Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
 For the last time — tfie days which I 
 
 denounce 
 Unto aU time against these wave-girt walls, 
 And they who are indwellers. 
 
 Guard {coming forward). Doge of Venice, 
 The Ten are in attendance on your high- 
 ness. 
 Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one 
 embrace — 
 Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
 A fond but fatal husband — love my 
 
 memory — 
 I would not ask so much for me still h\'ing. 
 But thou canst judge of me m.ire kindly 
 
 now, 
 Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
 Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 
 Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, 
 
 and name. 
 Which generally leave some flowers to 
 
 bloom 
 Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, 
 
 not e\en 
 -K httle lo\'e, or friendship, or esteem, 
 Xo. not enough to extract an epitaph 
 From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 
 I have uprooted all my former life, 
 -A.nd outlived ever\-thing, except thv heart. 
 The pure, the good, the gentle, wnich mil 
 
 oft 
 With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 
 
 Stillkeep Thou turn'st sopale ! — Alas ! 
 
 she faints. 
 She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! 
 
 lend your aid — 
 I cannot leave her thus, and vet 't is better 
 Since e\-ery lifeless moment spares a pang.' 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE 
 
 417 
 
 When she shakes off this temporary death, 
 I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her 
 
 v/omen — 
 One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold 
 
 as mine 
 Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 
 
 And take my [last thanks 1 am ready 
 
 now. 
 
 [The Attendants of Angiohna enter, 
 and surround their Mistress, who 
 has fainted. — Exeunt the Doge, 
 Guards, etc., etc. 
 
 Scene III 
 
 The Court of the Ducal Palace ; the outer 
 gates are shut against the people. — The 
 Doge enters in his ducal robes, in pro- 
 cession with the Council of Ten and 
 other Patricians, attended by the 
 Guards, till they arrive at the top of the 
 " Giants^ Staircase " {where the Doges 
 took the oaths) ; the Executioner is 
 stationed there with his sword. — On 
 arriving, a Chief of the Ten takes off 
 the ducal cap from the Doge's head. 
 
 Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and 
 at last 
 I am again Marino Faliero ; 
 'T is well to be so, though but for a moment. 
 Here was I crown'd, and here, bear wit- 
 ness. Heaven ! 
 With how much more contentment I 
 
 resign 
 That shining mockery, the ducal bauble. 
 Than I received the fatal ornament. 
 
 One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 
 Doge. 'T is with age, then. 
 
 Ben. Faliero ! hast thou aught further 
 to commend. 
 Compatible with justice; to the senate ? 
 Doge. I would commend my nephew to 
 their mercy. 
 My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
 My death, and such a death, might settle all 
 Between the state and me. 
 
 Ben. They shall be cared for ; 
 
 Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of 
 crime. 
 Doge. Unheard of ! ay, there 's not a 
 history 
 But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
 Against the people ; but to set them free, 
 One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 
 Ben. And who were they who fell in 
 
 such a cause ? 
 Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge 
 of Venice — 
 Agis and Fahero ! 
 
 Ben. Hast thou more 
 
 To utter or to do ? 
 
 Doge. May I speak ? 
 
 Ben. Thou may'st ; 
 
 But recollect the people are without. 
 Beyond the compass of the human voice. 
 Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
 Of which T f^row a portitiri. nnt to man. 
 Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
 I hasten, let my voice be as a spun 
 Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore 
 
 my banner, 
 Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you 
 
 loved it. 
 And fiU'd my swelling sails as they ^vere 
 
 wafted 
 To many a triumph ! Thou, my native 
 
 earth. 
 Which I have bled for ! and thou, foreign 
 
 earth, 
 Which drank this willing blood from many 
 
 a wound ! 
 Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, 
 
 but 
 Reek up to heaven ! Ye skies, which will 
 
 receive it ! 
 Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, 
 
 and Thou ! 
 Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — 
 
 Attest ! 
 I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
 I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
 Float up from the abyss of time to be. 
 And show these eyes, before they close, the 
 
 doom 
 Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
 On her and hers for ever ! Yes, the 
 
 hours 
 Are silently engendering of the day. 
 When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bul- 
 wark. 
 Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely 
 
 yield, 
 Unto' a bastard Attila, without 
 Shedding so much blooel in her last defence, 
 As these old veins, oft drain' d in shielthng 
 
 her. 
 Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be 
 
 bought 
 And sold, and be an appanage to those 
 Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to 
 
 be 
 A province for an empire, petty town 
 In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 
 Then when the Hebrew 's in thy palaces, 
 The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
 Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for 
 
 his ; 
 When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
 In narrow streets, and in their shameful 
 
 need 
 Make their nobihty a plea for pity ; 
 Then, when the few who still retain a 
 
 wreck 
 Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
 Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice- 
 gerent, 
 
418 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Even in the palace where they sway'd as 
 
 sovereigns, 
 Even in the palace where they slew their 
 
 sovereign, 
 Proud of some name they have disgraced, 
 
 or sprung 
 From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 
 With some large gondolier or foreign 
 
 soldier, 
 Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
 To the third spurious generation ; — when 
 Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 
 Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the 
 
 victors. 
 Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 
 And scorn'd even by the \icious for such 
 
 vices 
 As in the monstrous grasp of their concep- 
 tion 
 Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
 Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject 
 
 kingdom, 
 All thine inheritance shall be her shame 
 Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, 
 
 grown 
 A wider proverb for worse prostitution : — 
 When all the ills of conquer'd states shall 
 
 cling thee, 
 Vice without splendour, sin without relief 
 Even from the gloss of love to smooth it 
 
 o'er. 
 But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude. 
 Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewd- 
 ness, 
 Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 
 When these and more are heavy on thee, 
 
 when 
 Smiles without mirth, and pastimes with- 
 out pleasure. 
 Youth without honour, age without respect. 
 Meanness and weakness, and a sense of 
 
 woe 
 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and 
 
 dar'st not murmur. 
 Have made thee last and worst of peopled 
 
 deserts, 
 Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 
 Amidst thy many murders, think of mine ! 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of 
 
 princes ! 
 Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
 Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
 Thee and thy serpent seed ! 
 [Here the Doge turns and addresses the 
 Executioner. 
 
 Slave, do thine oiEce ! 
 Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I 
 
 would 
 Have struck thu«c tyrants ! Strike deep 
 
 as my curse ! 
 Strike — and but once ! 
 [The Doge throws liiiiiself upon his knees, 
 and as the Executioner raises hi^ sword 
 the scene closes. 
 
 Scene IV 
 The Piazza and Piazzetta of St. Me^rk's. — 
 The people in crowds gathered round 
 the grated gates of the Ducal Palace, 
 which are shut. 
 First Citizen. I ' have gain'd the gate, 
 and can discern the Ten, 
 Robed in their gowns of state, ranged 
 round the Doge. 
 Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with 
 mine utmost effort. 
 How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
 Is thus prohibited unto the people. 
 Except the occupiers of those bars. 
 First Cit. One has approach'd the Doge, 
 and now they strip 
 The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
 He raises his keen eyes to heaven ; I see 
 Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! 
 hush ! — no, [distance ! 
 
 'T v?as but a murmur — Curse upon the 
 His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
 Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would 
 
 we could 
 But gather a sole sentence ! 
 
 Second Cit. Hush ! we perhaps may 
 
 catch the-somad. 
 Fir:.t Cit. 'T is vain. 
 
 I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
 Streams on the wind like foam upon the 
 
 wave ! 
 Now — now — he kneels — and now they 
 
 form a circle 
 Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 
 
 The lifted sword in air Ah ! hark ! it 
 
 falls ! [The people n::irmur. 
 
 Third Cit. Then they have murder'd 
 
 him who would ha\e freed us. 
 Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the 
 
 commons ever. 
 Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their 
 portals barr'd. 
 Would we had known the work they were 
 
 preparing 
 Ere we were summon' d here — w-e would 
 
 have brought 
 Weapons, and forced them ! 
 
 Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead ? 
 
 Fiist Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo ! 
 
 what have we here ? 
 
 Enter on the Balcony of the Palace ivhie''. 
 
 fronts SI. Mark's Place a Chief of the 
 
 Tex, with a bloody sword. He iceives 
 
 it till ice before the People, and exclaims, 
 
 " Justice hath dealt upon the mi';hty 
 
 Traitor ! " 
 
 [The gates are opened ; the populace 
 rush in tow.Mds the •' Gianis' Stair- 
 case," where the execution has taken 
 place. The foremost of them exclaims 
 to those behind, 
 " The gory head roUs down the Giants' 
 ^'eps! " [The curtain falls. 
 
SARD AN AP ALUS 
 
 419 
 
 SARD ANAP ALUS 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 
 
 A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGl LORD, 
 THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN 
 COUNTRY, AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 
 
 THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION 
 
 WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM IS ENTITLED, 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON-E 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Sardanapalus, King of Nineveh and Assyria, etc. 
 
 Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to tke Throne, , 
 
 Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
 
 Salemenes, the Kings Brother-in-Law. 
 
 Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
 
 Pania. 
 
 Zames. 
 
 Sfero. 
 
 Balea. 
 
 Women, 
 Zarina, the Queen. 
 Myrbha, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favourite 
 
 of Sardanapalus. 
 Women composing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 
 
 Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, 
 
 Scene.— A hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 
 ACT I 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Palace. 
 Salemenes (solus). He hath wrong'd his 
 
 queen, but still he is her lord ; 
 He hath wrong'd ray sister, still he is my 
 
 brother ; 
 He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their 
 
 sovereign. 
 And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
 Ha must not perish thus. I will not see 
 The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
 Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred 
 
 years 
 01 empire ending lil^e a shepherd s tale ; 
 He must be roused. In his effeminate 
 
 heart 
 There is a careless courage which corruption 
 Has not all quench' d, and latent energies, 
 Repress'd by circumstance, but not 
 
 destroy'd — 
 Steep' d, but not drown' d, in deep voluptu- 
 ousness. 
 If born a peasant, he had been a man _ 
 To have reach'd an empire : to an empire 
 
 born. 
 He will bequeath none ; nothing but a 
 
 name. 
 Which his sons will not prize in heritage : — 
 Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
 His sloth and shame, by only being that 
 Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
 
 He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
 To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
 To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
 He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his 
 
 soul. 
 And saps his goodly strength, in toils which 
 
 yield not 
 Health hke the chase, nor glory like the 
 
 war — 
 He must be roused. Alas ! there is no 
 
 sound 
 
 {Sound of soft music heard from within. 
 To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! 
 
 the lute. 
 The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tink- 
 
 lings 
 Of lulUng instruments, the softening voices 
 Of women, and of beings less than women, 
 Must chime in to the echo of his revel. 
 While the great king of all we know of earth 
 Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
 Lies negligently by to be caught up 
 By the first manly hand which dares to 
 
 snatch it. 
 Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
 The reeking odours of the perfumed trains. 
 And see the bright gems of the glittering 
 
 girls. 
 At once his chorus and his council, flash 
 Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels. 
 As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female. 
 The grandson of Semiramis, the man- 
 queen. — 
 He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and 
 
 front him. 
 And tell him what all good men tell each 
 
 other. 
 Speaking of him and his. They come, the 
 
 slaves 
 Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 
 
 Scene II 
 Enter Sardanapalus effemitiately dressed, 
 Iiis Head crowned with Flou'ers, and his 
 Robe negligently flowing, att^tded by a 
 Train of Women and young Slaves. 
 Sar (speaking to some of his attendants). 
 Let the pavilion over the Euphrates 
 
420 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish' d forth 
 
 For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
 
 Of midnight we will sup there : see nought 
 
 wanting, 
 And bid the galley bo prepared. There is 
 A cooling breeze which crisps the broad 
 
 clear river : 
 We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who 
 
 deign 
 To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
 We'll meet again in that the sweetest 
 
 hour. 
 When we shall gather like the stars above 
 
 us. 
 And you mil form a heaven as bright as 
 
 theirs ; 
 Till then, let each be mistress of her time. 
 And thou, my own Ionian Ihrrha, choose 
 Wilt thou along with them or me ? 
 
 Myr. My lord ■ 
 
 Sar. Jly lord, my life ! why answerest 
 thou so coldly ? 
 It is the curse of kings to be so answer' d. 
 Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, 
 
 wouldst thou 
 Accompany our guests, or charm away 
 The moments from me ? 
 
 Myr. The king's choice is mine, 
 
 Sar. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest 
 joy 
 Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
 I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
 Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou 
 
 art still 
 Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for 
 others. 
 Myr. I would remain : I have no happi- 
 ness 
 
 Save in beholding thine ; yet 
 
 Sar. Yet ! what vet ? 
 
 Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
 Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 
 Myr. I think the present is the wonted 
 hour 
 Of council ; it were better I retire. 
 
 Sal. (comes forward and says) The Ionian 
 
 s\a\e says well : let her retire. 
 Sar. Who answers ? How now, bro- 
 ther ? 
 Sal. The queen's brother, 
 
 And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 
 Sar. (addressing his train). As I have 
 said, let all dispose their hours 
 Till midnight, when again we pray your 
 presence. 
 
 [The court retiring. 
 {To Myrrh A, who is going). MjTrha ! I 
 thought thou wouldst remain. 
 
 xt.^^",--^. . Great king,. 
 
 Thou did?t not say so. 
 
 Sar. But thou lookedst it : 
 
 I kno^v each glance of those Ionic eyes 
 Which said thou wouldst not leave" me. 
 
 J^^y- Sire ! your brother— 
 
 Sal. His consort's brother, minion of 
 
 Ionia ! 
 
 How darest thou name me and not blush ? 
 
 Sar. Not blush ! 
 
 Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make 
 
 her crimson 
 Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
 Where sunset tints the snow with rosy 
 
 shadows. 
 And then reproach her with thine own cold 
 
 blindness. 
 Which will not see it. What ! in tears, my 
 Myrrha ? 
 Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for 
 more than one. 
 And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 
 Sar. Cursedbehe who caused those tears 
 
 to flow ! 
 Sat Curse not thyself — millions do that 
 
 already. . 
 Sar. Thou dost forget thee : make me 
 not remember 
 I am a monarch. 
 Sal. Would thou couldst ! 
 
 Myr. My sovereign, 
 
 I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my 
 absence. 
 Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl 
 has check'd 
 Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
 That we must forthwith meet : I had rather 
 
 lose 
 An empire than thy presence. 
 
 [Exit MVRRHA. 
 
 ^'^^- It may be, 
 
 Thou wilt lose both, and both for e%-er ! 
 
 Sar. Brother! 
 
 I can at least command mvself, who listen 
 To language such as this : vet urge me not 
 Beyond my easy nature. 
 
 Sal. 'T is beyond 
 
 That easy, far too easv, idle nature, 
 Which I would urge thee. O that I could 
 
 rouse thee ! 
 Though 't were against mvself. 
 
 Sar. By the god Baal ! 
 
 Ihe man would make me tT,Tant. 
 
 5a/. 
 
 So thou art. 
 
 Think'st thou there is no tvrannvbut that 
 Of blood and chains ? The despotism of 
 
 vice. 
 The weakness and the wickedness of luxury 
 The negligence, the apath\-, the evils 
 Ot sensual sloth— produce ten thousand 
 
 tyrants, 
 V\Tiose delegated cruelty surpasses 
 fhe worst acts of one energetic master 
 However harsh and hard in his own bear- 
 
 The false and loud examples of thy lusts 
 Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sao 
 
 And those who should sustain it ; so that 
 whether 
 
SARD AN AP ALUS 
 
 421 
 
 A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
 Distract within, both will alike prove fatal ; 
 The first thy subjects have no heart to con- 
 quer ; 
 The last they rather would assist than van- 
 quish. 
 Sar. Why, what makes thee the mouth- 
 piece of the people ? 
 Sal. Forgiveness of the queen's, my 
 sister's wrongs ; 
 A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
 Faith to the king, a faith he may need 
 
 shortly, 
 In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's 
 
 line ; 
 Also, another thing thou knowest not. 
 Sar. What 's that ? 
 Sal. To thee an unknown word. 
 
 Sar. Yet speak it ; 
 
 I love to learn. 
 Sal. Virtue. 
 
 Sar. Not know the word ! 
 
 Never was word yet rung so in my 
 
 ears — ■ 
 Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting 
 
 trumpet : 
 I 've heard thy sister talk of nothing eke. 
 Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, 
 
 hear of vice. 
 Sar. From whom ? 
 
 Sal. Even from the winds, if thou 
 
 couldst listen 
 Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 
 Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou know- 
 est, patient. 
 As thou hast often proved — speak out, 
 what moves thee ? 
 Sal. Thy peril. 
 Sar. Say on. 
 
 Sal. Thus, then : all the nations. 
 
 For they are many, whom thy father left 
 In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 
 Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the 
 
 slaves ? 
 Sal. A king. 
 
 Sar. And what 
 
 Am I then ? 
 
 Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 
 
 In mine a man who might be something 
 still. 
 Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what 
 would they have ? 
 Have they not peace and plenty ? 
 
 Sal. Of the first 
 
 ■ More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
 Than the king recks of. 
 
 5(jr. Whose then is the crime. 
 
 But the false satraps, who provide no 
 -better ? 
 Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who 
 ne'er looks 
 . Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
 Beyond them, 't is but to some mountain 
 palace. 
 
 Till summer heats wear down. O glorious 
 
 Baal! 
 Who built up this vast empire, and wert 
 
 made 
 A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
 Through the long centuries of thy renown. 
 This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er be- 
 held 
 As king the kingdoms thou didst leave, as 
 
 hero, 
 Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, 
 
 and peril ! 
 For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
 Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 
 Sar. I understand thee — thou wouldst 
 have me go 
 Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
 Which the Chaldeans read — the restless 
 
 slaves 
 Deserve that I should curse them with their 
 
 wishes, 
 And lead them forth to glory. 
 
 Sal. Wherefore not ? 
 
 Semiramis — a woman only — led 
 These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
 Of Ganges. 
 
 Sar. 'T is most true. And how return d ? 
 Sal. Why, like a inan — a hero ; baffled, 
 but 
 Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, 
 
 she made 
 Good her retreat to Bactria. 
 
 Sar. And how many 
 
 Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 
 
 Sal. Our annals say not. 
 
 Sar. Then I will say for them — 
 
 That she had better woven within her 
 
 palace 
 Some twenty garments, than with twenty 
 
 guards 
 Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens. 
 And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the 
 
 three, 
 Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this 
 
 glory ? 
 Then let me live in ignominy ever. 
 Sal. All warlike spirits have not the 
 same fate. 
 Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
 A hundred kings, although she fail d in 
 
 India, 
 Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the 
 
 realm . , 
 
 Which she once sway' d— and thou nnght st 
 
 sway. 
 g^,,^ I sway them — 
 
 She but subdued them. 
 
 gg^l It may be ere long 
 
 That they will need her sword more than 
 your sceptre. 
 Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was 
 there not? 
 I 've heard my Greek iris speak of such— 
 they say 
 
422 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 He was a god, that is. a Grecian god, 
 An idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 
 Who conquer'd this same golden realm of 
 
 Ind 
 Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was 
 vanquish'd. 
 Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and 
 thou perceiv'st 
 That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 
 Sar. And in his godship I will honour 
 • him — 
 Not much as man. What, ho ! my cup- 
 bearer ! 
 Sal. What means the king ? 
 Sar. To worship your new god 
 
 And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 
 
 Enicy Cupbearer. 
 
 Sar. {addressing the Cupbearer). Bring 
 
 me the golden goblet thick with gems, 
 
 Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. 
 
 Hence, 
 Fill full, and bear it quickly. 
 
 [Exit Cupbearer. 
 Sal. Is this moment 
 
 A fitting one for the resumption of 
 Thy yet unslept-off revels ? 
 
 Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 
 
 Sar. [taking the cup from hivi). Noble 
 
 kinsman, 
 If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
 And skirts of these our realms lie not, 'this 
 
 Bacchus 
 Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not ? 
 Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a 
 
 deity. 
 Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few 
 
 columns, 
 Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
 Thought them worth purchase and con- 
 veyance, are 
 The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed. 
 The realms he wasted, and the hearts he 
 
 broke. 
 But here, here in this goblet is his title 
 To immortaUty — the immortal grape 
 From which he first express'd the soul, and 
 
 gave 
 To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
 For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
 Had it not been tor this, he would have 
 
 been 
 A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
 And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
 A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
 Here's that which deified him — let it now 
 Humanise thee ; my surly, chiding 
 
 brother, 
 Pledge me to the Greek god ! 
 
 Sal. For all thy realms 
 
 I would not so blaspheme our country's 
 creed. 
 
 Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a 
 hero. 
 That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 
 Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchant- 
 ment, 
 Which cheers the sad, revives the old, 
 
 inspires 
 The yormg, makes weariness forget his 
 
 toil. 
 And fear her danger ; opens a new world 
 When this, the present, palls. Well, then 
 
 / pledge thee 
 -And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
 In good or evil to surprise mankind. 
 
 [Drinks. 
 Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this 
 
 hour ? 
 Sar. And if I did, 't were better than a 
 trophy. 
 Being bought without a tear. But that is 
 
 not 
 My present purpose : since thou wilt not 
 
 pledge me. 
 Continue what thou pleasest. 
 (To the Cupbearer). Boy, retire. 
 
 [Exit Cupbearer. 
 Sal. I would but have recaH'd thee from 
 thy dream ; 
 Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 
 Sar. Who should rebel ? or why ? what 
 cause ? pretext ? 
 I am the lawful king, descended from 
 A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
 What have I done to thee, or to the people, 
 That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up 
 against me ? 
 Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I 
 
 speak not. 
 Sar. But 
 
 Thou thmk st that I have wrong'd the 
 queen : is 't not so ? 
 5a/. Think ! Thou hast WTong'd hex ! 
 Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 
 
 She has all power and splendour of her 
 
 station. 
 Respect, the tutelage of Ass\T-ia's heirs. 
 The homage and the appanage of sove- 
 reignty. 
 I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
 And loved her as most husbands love their 
 
 wives. 
 If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
 Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
 Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor 'man- 
 kind. 
 5(7/ I pray thee, change the theme • 
 blood disdains 
 Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
 Reluctant lo\e e^•en from Assvria's lord ' 
 X'or would she deign to accept divided 
 
 passion 
 \yith foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves, 
 ihe queen is silent. 
 •Sa''- \ n d wh v not her brother ? 
 
 my 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 423 
 
 Sal. I only echo thee the voice of 
 empires, 
 Which he who long neglects not long will 
 govern. 
 Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious 
 slaves ! they uiurmur 
 Because I have not shed their blood, nor 
 
 led them 
 To dry into the desert's dust by myriads, 
 Or whiten with their bones the banks of 
 
 Ganges ; 
 Nor decimated them with savage laws. 
 Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
 Or Babylonian walls. 
 , Sal. Yet these are trophies 
 
 ; More worthy of a people and their prince 
 Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and con- 
 cubines, 
 And lavish'd treasm'es, and contemned 
 virtues. 
 Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded 
 cities : 
 There 's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
 In one day — what could that blood-loving 
 
 beldame, 
 My martial grandam, chaste Scmiramis, 
 Do more, except destroy thcni ? 
 
 Sal. 'T is most true ; 
 
 I own thy merit in those founded cities. 
 Built for a whim, recorded with a verse, 
 Which shames both them and thee to 
 coming ages. 
 Sar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, 
 though well built. 
 Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say 
 
 what 
 Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of lite oV 
 
 rule. 
 But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief 
 
 record. 
 Why, those few lines contain the history 
 Of all things human : hear — " Sardana- 
 
 palus, 
 The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
 In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
 Eat, drink, and love ; the rest's not worth 
 a fillip." 
 Sat. A worthy moral, and a wise inscrip- 
 tion. 
 For a king to put up before his subjects ! 
 Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless 
 set up edicts — 
 " Obey the king — contribute to his 
 
 treasure — 
 Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at 
 
 bidding — 
 Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
 Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
 Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
 These are their sepulchres, and this his 
 
 trophy." 
 I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
 For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
 Tlie weight of human misery less, and glide 
 
 I take no license 
 
 We all are men. 
 
 been revered as 
 
 L'ngroaning to the tomb 
 
 Which I deny to them. 
 
 Sal. Thy sires have 
 
 , Sar. In dust 
 
 And death, where they are neither gods nor 
 
 men. 
 Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
 At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
 And died for lack. of farther nutriment. 
 Those gods were merely men ; look to their 
 
 issue — 
 I feel a thousand mortal things about mc, 
 But nothing godlike, — unless it may be 
 The thing which you condemn, a dis- 
 position 
 To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
 The follies of my species, and (that's 
 
 human) 
 To be indulgent to my own. 
 
 Sal. Alas ! 
 
 The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Woe — \vi le 
 To the unrivall'd city ! 
 
 Sar. What dost dread ? 
 
 Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes : in 
 a few hours 
 The tempest may break out which over- 
 
 v.-hclms thee, 
 
 j\nd thine and mine ; and in another day 
 
 What IS shall be the past of Belus' race. 
 
 Sar. What inust we dread ? 
 
 Sal. Ambitious treachery. 
 
 Which has environ'd thee w^ith snares ; but 
 
 yet 
 There is resource : empower me with thy 
 
 signet 
 To quell the machinations, and I lay 
 The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 
 Sar. The heads — how many ? 
 Sal. Must I stay to number 
 
 When even thine own 's in peril ? Let me 
 
 go; 
 Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 
 Sar. I ^^ ill trust no man with unlimited 
 live J. 
 When we take those from others, we nor 
 
 know 
 What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 
 Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives 
 
 who seek for thine ? 
 Sar. That 'sa hard question— But I an- 
 swer. Yes. 
 Cannot the thing be done without ? Wh(.i 
 
 are they 
 Whom thou suspectest ?— Let them be 
 arrested. 
 Sal. I would thou \\'0uldst not ask me ; 
 the next moment 
 Will send my answer through thy babbling 
 
 troop 
 Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the 
 
 palace. 
 Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
 Trust me. 
 
424 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
 Take thou the signet. [Gives the signet. 
 
 Sal. I have one more request, 
 
 Sar. Name it. 
 
 Sal. That thou this night forbear the 
 
 banquet 
 In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 
 
 Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all 
 the plotters 
 That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them 
 
 come, 
 And do their worst : I shall not blench for 
 
 them ; 
 Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the gob- 
 let ; 
 Nor crown me with a single rose the 
 
 less ; 
 Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them 
 not. 
 Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst 
 
 thou not, if needful ? 
 Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest 
 armour, and 
 A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
 And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod 
 
 forth : 
 A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
 And now I think on't, 'tis long since I 've 
 
 used them, 
 Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, 
 brother ? 
 Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic 
 trifling ? — 
 If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 
 
 Sar. Will I not ? 
 
 Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
 Will not be ruled with less, I'll use the 
 
 sword 
 Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 
 Sal. They say thy sceptre's turn'd to 
 
 that already. 
 Sar. That 's false ! but let them say so : 
 the old Greeks, 
 Of whom our captives often sing, related 
 The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
 Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou 
 
 seest 
 The populace of all the nations seize 
 Each calumny they can to sink their 
 sovereigns. 
 Sal. They did not speak thus of thy 
 
 fathers. 
 Sar. No ; 
 
 They dared not. They were kept to toil 
 
 and combat ; 
 And never changed their chains but for 
 
 their armour : 
 Now they have peace and pastime, and the 
 
 license 
 To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
 I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
 For all the popular breath tliat e'er divided 
 A name from nothing. What are the rank 
 tongues 
 
 Of this \'ile herd, grown insolent with feed- 
 
 ■"§• . i 
 
 That I should prize their noisy praise, or^ 
 
 dread 
 Their noisome clamour ? 
 
 Sal. You have said they are men ; 
 
 As such their hearts are something. 
 
 Sar. So my dogs' are; 
 
 And better, as more faithful : — but, pro- 
 ceed ; 
 Thou hast my signet ; — since they are 
 
 tumultuous, 
 Let them be temper'd, vet not roughly, till 
 Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain. 
 Given or received ; we have enough within 
 
 us. 
 The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
 Not to add to each other's natural burthen 
 Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
 By mild reciprocal alleviation. 
 The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
 But this they know not, or they will not 
 
 knov/. 
 I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe 
 
 them : 
 I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
 I interfered not with their civic lives, 
 I let them pass their days as best might suit 
 
 them. 
 Passing my own as suited me. 
 
 Sal. Thou stopp'st 
 
 Short of the duties of a king ; and there- 
 fore 
 They sav thou art unfit to be a monarch. 
 
 Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
 To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
 The meanest Mede might be the king 
 
 instead. 
 Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who 
 
 seeks to be so. 
 Sar. What mean'st thou ! — 't is thy 
 
 secret ; thou desirest 
 Few questions, and I 'm not of curious 
 
 nature. 
 Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
 Requires. I sanction and support thee. 
 
 Ne'er 
 Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
 The peaceful only : if thev rouse me, better 
 They had conjured up stem Nimrod from 
 
 his ashes, 
 "The mighty hunter." I will ttim these 
 
 realms 
 To one wide desert chase of brutes, who 
 
 were. 
 But would no more, by their own choice, 
 
 be human. 
 What they have found me, they belie • 
 
 that which ' ' 
 
 They vet may find me — shall defy their 
 
 wish 
 To speak it worse ; and let them thank 
 
 themseh-es. 
 Sill Then thou at last canst feel ? 
 
SAJ<DANAPALUS 
 
 425 
 
 Sar. Feel ! who feels not 
 
 Ingratitude ? 
 
 Sal. I will not pause to answer 
 
 With words; but deeds. Keep thou awaki- 
 
 that energy 
 Which sleeps at times, but is not dead 
 
 " within thee, 
 And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy 
 
 reign , 
 As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 
 
 [Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. {solus). Farewell ! 
 
 He 's gone ; and on his finger bears my 
 
 signet, 
 Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
 As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
 To feel a master. What may be the 
 
 danger 
 I know not : he hath found it, let him quell 
 
 it. 
 Must I consume my life — this little life — 
 In guarding against all may make it less ? 
 It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
 Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 
 Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me. 
 Because they are near ; and all who are 
 
 remote. 
 Because they are far. But if it should be 
 
 so — 
 If they should sweep me off from earth and 
 
 empire. 
 Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 
 I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my 
 
 image ; 
 To die is no less natural than those 
 Acts of this clay ! 'T is true I have not 
 
 shed 
 Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
 My name became the synonyme of death — 
 A terror and a trophy. But for this 
 I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 
 If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
 Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vem 
 Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest 
 
 coin 
 Of Nineveh's vast treasures e er been 
 
 lavish'd 
 On objects which could cost her sons a tear ; 
 If then they hate me, 't is because I hate 
 
 not : 
 If they rebel, 't is because I oppress not. 
 Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, 
 
 not sceptres, 
 And mow'd down like the grass, else all we 
 
 reap . , , 
 
 Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
 Of discontents infecting the fair soil. 
 Making a desert of fertility — 
 
 I '11 think no more. Within there, ho ! 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 Sac Slave, tell 
 
 The Ionian Myrrha we, would crave her 
 
 presence. 
 Attend. King, she is here. 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 M'i'r.RH.v enters. 
 Sar. (apart to Attendant). Away ! 
 (A ddressing Myrrha) . Beautiful being ! 
 Thou dost almost anticipate rny heart ; 
 It throbb'd for thee, and here thou cumest : 
 
 let me 
 Deem that some unknown influence, some 
 
 sweet oracle. 
 Com municates between us, though unseen. 
 In absence, and attracts us to each other. 
 Myr. There doth. 
 
 Sar. I know there doth, but not its 
 name : 
 What is it ? 
 
 Myr. In my native land a God, 
 
 And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
 Exalted ; yet I own 't is only mortal ; 
 For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 
 
 That is, it would be happy ; but 
 
 [IMyrrha pauses. 
 
 Sar. There comes 
 
 For ever something between us and what 
 
 We deem our happiness : let me remove 
 
 The barrier Nvhich that hesitating accent 
 
 Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 
 
 Myr. My lord ! — 
 
 Sar. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign; 
 
 thus it is — 
 
 For ever thus, address'd with awe. I 
 
 ne'er 
 Can see a smile, unless in some broad 
 
 banquet's 
 Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
 Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
 Or I have quafl'd me down to their abase- 
 ment. 
 Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these 
 
 names. 
 Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time 
 
 was I prized them ; 
 That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and 
 
 nobles ; 
 But when they falter from the lips I love, 
 The lips which have been press'd to mine, 
 
 a chill 
 Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the 
 
 falsehood 
 Of this my station, which represses feeling 
 In those for whom I have felt most, and 
 
 makes me 
 Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
 And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
 With thee, and wear no crowns but those 
 of flowers. 
 Myr. Would that we could ! 
 Sar And dost thou feel this ?— Why ? 
 Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou 
 canst never know. 
 
 Sar. And that is 
 
 Myr. The true value" of a heart ; 
 
 At least, a woman's. 
 
 Sar. I have proved a thousand — 
 
 A thousand, and a thousand. 
 
 j^/jyf Hearts ? 
 
 F F 
 
t26 
 
 DRA^rAS 
 
 Say. I think so. 
 
 il/iT. Not one ! the time may come thou 
 
 may'st. 
 
 Sar. It ^^■iIl. 
 
 Hear, M>Trha ; Salemenes has declared — 
 
 Or why or how he hath di\ined it, Belus, 
 
 ^\'ho founded our great realm, knows more 
 
 than I— 
 But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
 In peril. 
 
 Alyr. He did well. 
 
 Sar. And say'st thou so ? 
 
 Thou whom he spum'd so harshly, and now 
 
 dared 
 Drive from our presence with his savage 
 
 jeers, 
 And made thee weep and blush ? 
 
 .^lyr. I should do both 
 
 More frequently, and he did well to call me 
 Back to my duty. But thou spakest of 
 peril — 
 
 Peril to thee 
 
 Sar. Ay. from dark plots and snares. 
 
 From Medes — and discontented troops 
 
 and nations. 
 I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
 A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
 Thou know'st the man — it is his usual 
 
 custom. 
 But he is honest. Come, we '11 think no 
 
 more on 't — 
 But of the midnight festival. 
 
 Myr. 'T is time 
 
 To think of aught save festivals. Thou 
 
 hast not 
 Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 
 
 Sar. What ? — and dost thou fear ? 
 Myr. Fear ! — I 'm a Greek, and how 
 should I feaji death ? 
 A slave, and wherefore should I dread my 
 freedom ? 
 Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so 
 
 pale ? 
 il/v. I love. 
 
 Say. -And do not I ? I love thee far — 
 far more 
 Than either the brief life or the wide realm. 
 Which, it may be, are menaced'; — yet I 
 blench not. 
 Myr. That means thou lovest nor thy- 
 self nor me ; 
 For he who loves another lo\es himself, 
 Even for that other's sake. This is too rash ; 
 Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 
 Sar. Lost ! — why. who is the aspiring 
 chief who dared 
 Assume to win them ? 
 
 Myr. Who is he should dread 
 To try so much ? \\'hen he who is their 
 
 ruler 
 Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 
 Say. M\TTha ! 
 
 Myr. i'rnwn not tipon nic : you ha^'c 
 smiled 
 
 Too often on me not to make those 
 
 fro'^vns 
 Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
 Which they may augur. — King, I am your 
 
 subject ! 
 Master, I am your slave ! Man, I l;ave 
 
 lo\'ed you ! — 
 Loved you, I know not by what fatal weak- 
 ness. 
 Although a Greek, and bom a foe to 
 
 mnnarchs — 
 A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
 And, therefore, when I I'jve a stranger, 
 
 more 
 Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
 Still I have lo^•ed you. If that love were 
 
 strong 
 Enough to overcome all former nature, 
 Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 
 Sar. Siwe me, my beauty ! Thou art 
 ■\'ery fair. 
 And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 
 Myr. And without love where dwells 
 
 security ? 
 Sar. I speak of woman's love. 
 -^fyy. The very first 
 
 Of human life must sprnig from woman's 
 
 breast. 
 Your first small words are taught you from 
 
 her lips, 
 Your first tears quench'd by her, and vour 
 
 last sighs 
 Too often breathed out in a woman's hear- 
 ing, 
 When men have shrunk from the ignoble 
 
 care 
 Of watching the last hour of him who led 
 them. 
 Say. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st 
 music ; 
 The very chorus of the tragic song 
 I have heard thee talk of as the favourite 
 
 pastime 
 Of thy far father-laud. Xav, weep not- 
 calm thee. 
 Myr. I weep not.— But I prav thee, do 
 not speak 
 About my fathers or their land. 
 
 ■5"' ■ -Yet oft 
 
 Thou speakest of them. 
 
 ...■]{>'■ True— true: constant thought 
 U 111 overflow m words unconsciouslv ; 
 But when another speaks of Greece, it 
 wounds me. 
 Sar. \\ell. then, how wouldst thou save 
 
 me, as thou saidst ? 
 Myr. By teaching thee to save thvself. 
 and not 
 Th>self alone, but these vast realms, from 
 
 all 
 The rage of the worst war— the war of 
 brethren. 
 Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and 
 ^^■amors ; 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 427 
 
 what can 
 
 I live in peace and pleasure 
 
 man 
 Do more ? 
 
 Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
 There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
 The substance of sweet peace ; and, for a 
 
 king, 
 'T is sometimes better to be fear'd than 
 loved. 
 Sar. And I have never sought but for 
 
 the last. 
 Myr. And now art neitlier. 
 Sar. Dust thou say so, Myrrha ? 
 
 Myr. I speak of civic popular love, self- 
 love, 
 Which means that men are kept in awe and 
 
 law, 
 Yet not oppress'd — at least they must not 
 
 think so, . 
 Or if they think so, deem it necessary. 
 To ward oft worse oppression, their own 
 
 passions. 
 A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and 
 
 revel, 
 And love, and mirth, was never king of 
 glory, 
 Sar. Glory ! what s that ? 
 Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 
 
 Sar. They cannot answer ; when the 
 priests speak for them, 
 'T is for some small addition to the temple. 
 Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's 
 
 founders. 
 Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, 
 I cannot. 
 But what wouldst have ? the empire has 
 
 been founded. 
 I cannot go on multiplying empires. 
 Myr. Preserve thine own. 
 Sar. At least, I will enjoy it. 
 
 Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates : 
 The hour invites, the galley is prepared. 
 And the pavilion, deck'd for our return. 
 In fit adornment for the evening banquet. 
 Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
 It seems unto the stars which are above us 
 Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
 Crowned with fresh flowers like — 
 'Myr. Victims. 
 
 Sar. No, like sovereigns, 
 
 The shepherd king of patriarchal times. 
 Who knew no brighter gems than summer 
 
 wreaths, 
 And none but tearless triumphs. Let us 
 on. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 Pan. May the king live for ever ! 
 Sar. Not an hour 
 
 Longer than he can love. How my soul 
 
 hates 
 This language, which makes life itself a lie. 
 Flattering dust with eternity. Well, 
 
 Pania ! 
 Be brief. 
 
 Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
 Reiterate his prayer unto the king. 
 That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
 The palace : when the general returns, 
 He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
 His daring, and perhaps obtain the pard<in 
 Of his presumption. 
 
 Sar. What ! am I then coop'd ? 
 
 Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
 The breath ot heaven ? Tell prince 
 
 Salemenes. 
 Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
 In mutinous myriads, I would still go 
 forth. 
 
 Pan. I must obey, and yet 
 
 I\lyr. Oil, monarch, listen. — 
 
 How many a day and moon thou hast 
 
 reclined 
 Within these palace walls in silken dalliance. 
 And never shown thee to thy people's long- 
 ing ; 
 Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified. 
 The satraps uncontioll'd, the gods un- 
 
 worshipp'd. 
 And all things in the anarchy of sloth. 
 Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the 
 
 realm ! 
 And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, — 
 A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt 
 
 thou not 
 Yield to the few still faithful a few hours. 
 For them, for thee, for thy past father's 
 
 race. 
 And for thy sons' inheritance ? 
 
 Pan. 'T is true ! 
 
 From the deep urgency with which the 
 
 prince 
 Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
 Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
 Which now has spoken. 
 
 Sar. No, it must not be. 
 
 Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 
 Sar. Away ! 
 
 Pan. For that 
 
 Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
 Round thee and thine. 
 
 Sar. These are mere fantasies : 
 
 There is no peril : — 't is a sullen scheme 
 Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal, 
 And show himself more necessary to us. 
 Mvr. By all that's good and glorious 
 
 take this counsel. 
 Sar. Business to-morrow. 
 Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 
 
 Sar ' Why let it come then unexpectedly, 
 'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and 
 
 love ; , , , , , 1 
 
 So let me fall like the pluck'd rose 1— far 
 
 better 
 Thus than be wither'd. 
 
 Myr Then thou wilt not yield. 
 
 Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
 A monarch into action, to forego 
 A trifling revel. 
 
428 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 No. 
 
 Sar. 
 
 Myr. Then yield for m!'«(^; 
 
 For my sake ! 
 
 Sar. Thine, my lIjTrha ! 
 ilyr. 'Tis the first 
 
 Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 
 Sar. That's true, and were 't my king- 
 dom, must be granted. 
 Well, for thy sake, I 5'ield me. Pania, 
 
 hence ! 
 Thou hear'st me. 
 
 Pan. And obey. [Exit Pania. 
 
 Sar. I marvel at thee. 
 
 What is thy motive, MjTrha, thus to urge 
 
 me ? 
 
 Myr. Thy safety ; and the certainty that 
 
 nought 
 
 Could urge the prince thy kinsman to 
 
 require 
 Thus much from thee, but some impending 
 danger. 
 Sar. And if I do not dread it, why 
 
 shouldst thou ? 
 Myr. Because ihou dost not fear, I fear 
 
 for thee. 
 Say. To-morrow thou wilt smile at 
 
 these vain fancies. 
 Myr. If the worst come, I shall be 
 where none weep. 
 And that is better than the power to smile. 
 And thou ? 
 
 Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 
 
 Myr. Where ? 
 
 Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and 
 
 Semiramis, 
 Sole in Assjnria, or with them elsewhere. 
 Fate made me what I am — may make 
 
 me nothing — 
 But either that or nothing must I be : 
 I will not live degraded. 
 
 Myr. Hadst thou felt 
 
 Thus always, none would ever dare degrade 
 thee. 
 Sar. And who will do so now ? 
 Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 
 
 Sar. Suspect ! — that's a spy's office. 
 Oh ! we lose 
 Ten thousand precious moments in vain 
 
 words. 
 And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye 
 
 slaves, deck 
 The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
 If I must make a prison of our palace, 
 At least we '11 wear our fetters jocimdlv ; 
 If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
 The summer dwelling on its beauteous 
 
 border. 
 Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ] within 
 there ! 
 
 [Exit Saedanapalus. 
 Myr. (soltis). Why do I love this man ? 
 My country's daughters 
 Lo-^e none but heroes. But I have no 
 country ! 
 
 The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I 
 
 love him ; 
 And that 's the heaviest link of the long 
 
 chain — 
 To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
 The hour is coming when he '11 need all love. 
 And find none. To fall from him now were 
 
 baser 
 Than to have stabb'd him on his throne 
 
 v.-hen highest 
 Would have been noble in my country's 
 
 creed : 
 I w-as not made for either. Could I save 
 
 him, 
 I should not love him better, but myself; 
 And I have need of the last, for I have 
 
 fallen 
 In my own thoughts, by loving this soft 
 
 stranger : 
 And yet methiiiks I love him more, per- 
 
 cei\'ing 
 That he is hated of his own barbarians. 
 The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
 Could I but wake a single thought like 
 
 those 
 Which even the Phrygians felt when 
 
 battling long 
 'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart. 
 He would tread down the barbarous 
 
 crowds, and triumph. 
 He loves me, and I love him ; the slave 
 
 loves 
 Her master, and would free him from his 
 
 vices. 
 If not, I have a means of freedom still. 
 And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
 :Uay show him how alone a king can bave 
 His throne. I must not lose him from my 
 
 sight. [Exit. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. — The Portal of the same Hall of 
 the Palace. 
 
 Beleses (solus). The sun goes down : 
 methinks he sets more slowly. 
 
 Taking his last look of .-VssTOa's empire. 
 
 How red he glares amongst those deepen- 
 ing clouds, 
 
 Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain, 
 
 Thou sun that sinkest, and ve stars which 
 rise, 
 
 I have outwatch'd ve. reading ray by ray 
 
 The edicts of your orbs, which make time 
 tremble 
 
 For what he brings the nations, 't is the 
 furthest 
 
 Hour of .\ssi,Tia's vears. And vet how 
 calm ! 
 
 .\n earthquake should announce so great 
 a fall — 
 
 \ summer's sun discloses it. Von disk. 
 
 10 the star- rep- Chaldean, bears upon fa 
 
 Its everlasting page the end of what / *■ 
 
SARD AN AP ALUS 
 
 429 
 
 Seein'd everlasting ; but oh !^hou true sun ! 
 The buraing oracle of all that live, 
 As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
 Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou 
 
 limit 
 Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
 Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
 All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not 
 
 dart 
 A beam of hope athwart the future years, 
 As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh, 
 
 hear me ! 
 I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy 
 
 servant — 
 I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall. 
 And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day 
 
 beams. 
 When my eye dared not meet thee. I have 
 
 watch'd 
 For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
 And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd 
 
 thee. 
 And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd 
 
 —but 
 Only to thus much : while I speak, he 
 
 sinks — 
 Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his 
 
 knowledge, 
 To the delighted west, which revels in 
 Its hues 01 dying glory. Yet what is 
 Death, so it be but glorious ? 'T is a sunset ; 
 And mortals may be happy to resemble 
 The gods but in decay. 
 
 Enter Arbaces by an inner door. 
 Arb. Beleses, why 
 
 So wrapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou 
 
 stand 
 Gazing to trace thy disappeanng god 
 Into some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
 
 Our business is with night — 't is come 
 
 Bel. But not 
 
 Gone. 
 
 Arb. Let it rojl on — we are ready. 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Would it were over ! 
 
 Arb. Does the prophet doubt. 
 
 To whom the very stars shine victory ? 
 Bel. I do not doubt of victory— but the 
 
 victor. 
 Arb. Well, let thy science settle that. 
 Meantime 
 I have prepared as many glittermg spears 
 As will out-sparkle our allies— your planets. 
 There is no more to thwart us. The she- 
 king. 
 That less than woman, is even now upon 
 The waters with his female mates. The 
 
 order 
 Is issued for the feast in the pavilion 
 The first cup which he drains will be the 
 
 last 
 Ouaff'd by the line of Nimrod. 
 
 p^l 'T was a brave one. 
 
 Arb. And is a weak one — 't is worn out — 
 
 we'll mend it. 
 Bel. Art sure of that ? 
 Arb. Its founder was a hunter — 
 
 I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 
 Bel. The soldier. 
 
 Arb. ■ And the priest, it may be: but 
 If yoit thought thus, or think, why not 
 
 retain 
 Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
 Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
 No less than mine ? 
 
 Bel. Look to the sky ! 
 
 Arb. I look. 
 
 Bel. What seest thou ? 
 Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 
 
 The gathering of the stars. 
 
 Bel. And midst them, mark 
 
 Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so 
 
 quivers, 
 As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 
 Arb. Well ! 
 Bel. 'T is thy natal ruler — thy birth 
 
 planet. 
 Arb. {touching his scabbard). My star is in 
 this scabbard : when it shines. 
 It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
 Of what is to be done to justify 
 Thy planets and their portents. When we 
 
 conquer. 
 They shall have temples — ay, and priests 
 
 — and thou 
 Shalt be the pontiff of — v/hat gods thou 
 
 wilt ; 
 For I observe that they are ever just. 
 And own the bravest for the most devout. 
 Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave 
 — thou hast not 
 Seen me turn back from battle. 
 
 Arb. No ; I own thee 
 
 As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain. 
 As skilful in Chaldea's worship : now. 
 Will it but please thee to forget the priest. 
 And be the warrior ? 
 
 Bel Why not both ? 
 
 Arb. ' The better ; 
 
 And yet it almost shames me. we shall have 
 
 So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
 
 Degrades the very conqueror. To have 
 
 pluck'd . 
 
 A bold and bloody despot from his throne. 
 And grappled with him, clashing steel with 
 
 steel. 
 That were heroic or to win or rail ; ^ 
 But to upraise my sword against this silk- 
 worm. 
 
 And hear him whine, it may be 
 
 j^^l Do not deem it ; 
 
 He has that in him which may make you 
 
 strife yet ; 
 And were he all you think, his guards are 
 
 hardy, ^ , 
 
 And headed by the cool, stem Salemenes. 
 Arb. They '11 not resist, 
 
430 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Bel. Why not ? they are soldiers, 
 
 Arb. True, 
 
 And therefore need a soldier to command 
 
 them. 
 
 Bel. That SalemeneS is. 
 
 Arb. But not their king. 
 
 Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that 
 
 governs. 
 For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you 
 
 not 
 He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 
 
 Bel. But 
 
 Not from the council — there he is ever con- 
 stant. 
 Arb. And ever thwarted : what would 
 you have more 
 To make a rebel out of ? A fool reigning, 
 His blood dishonour'd, and himself dis- 
 
 dain'd : 
 Why, it is Ms revenge we work for. 
 
 Bel. Could 
 
 He but be brought to think so : this I 
 doubt of. 
 Arb. What, if we sound him ? 
 Bel. Yes — if the time served. 
 
 Enter Balea. 
 Bal. Satraps ! The king commands 
 youi presence at 
 The feast to-night. 
 
 Bel. To hear is to obey. 
 
 In the pavilion ? 
 
 Bal. No ; here in the palace. 
 
 Arb. How ! in the palace ? it was not 
 
 thus order'd. 
 Bal. It is so order'd now. 
 Arb. And why? 
 
 Bal. I know not. 
 
 May I retire ? 
 Arb. Stay. 
 
 Bel. (to Arb. aside). Hush ! let him go his 
 way. 
 (Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the 
 
 monarch, kiss the hem 
 Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
 Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter 
 
 from 
 His royal table at the hour — was 't mid- 
 night ? 
 Bal. It was : the place, the hall of Nim- 
 rod. Lords, 
 I humble me before you, and depart. 
 
 [Exit Balea. 
 Arb. I like not this same sudden change 
 of place ; 
 There is some mystery : wherefore should 
 he change it ? 
 Bel. Doth he not change a thousand 
 times a day ? 
 Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
 And moves more parasangs in its intents 
 Than generals in their marches, when they 
 
 seek 
 To leave their foe at fault.— Whv do^l thou 
 muse ? 
 
 .irb. He lo-j^d that gay pavilion, — it 
 was ever 
 His summer dotage. 
 
 Bel. And he loved his queen — 
 
 And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — . 
 And he has loved all things by turns, except 
 Wisdom and glor^-. 
 
 Atb. Still — I like it not. 
 
 If he has changed — why, so must we : the 
 
 attack 
 Were easy in the isolated bower. 
 Beset with drowsy guards and drimken 
 
 courtiers ; 
 But in the hall of Ximrod- 
 
 Bel. Is it so ? 
 
 Melhought the haughty soldier fear'd to 
 
 mount 
 A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
 To find there is a slipperier step or two 
 Than what was counted on ? 
 
 .i rb. When the hour comes. 
 
 Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
 Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily 
 
 play'd for : 
 But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 
 
 Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt 
 win it ; 
 Then on, and prosper. 
 
 .Arb. Now were I a soothsaver, 
 
 I would ha\e boded so much to myself. 
 But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
 With them, nor their interpreter. ^Vho 's 
 here ? 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. Satraps ! 
 
 Bel. My prince ! 
 
 Sal. Well met — I sought ye both. 
 
 But elsewhere than the palace. 
 
 Arb. ^ \^'herefore so ? 
 
 Sal. 'i is not the hour. 
 
 Arb. The hour ! — ^what hour ? 
 
 Sal. Of midnight. 
 
 Bel. Midnight, mv lord ! 
 
 Sal. \\'hat, are you not invited ? 
 
 Bel. Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 
 
 ■S«'- Is it usual 
 
 Thus to forget a sovereign's in\-itation ? 
 
 Arb. Why — ^we but now received it. 
 
 Sal. Then whv Here ? 
 
 -Irb. On duty. 
 
 Sal. On what duty ? 
 
 Bel. On the state's. 
 
 \^ e have the privilege to approach the 
 
 presence ; 
 But fomid the monarch absent. 
 , Sal. xn& I too 
 
 .A.m upon duty. 
 
 ■< rb. Mav we crave its purport ? 
 
 6(J/. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! 
 \\ithin there ! 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 Sal. (continuing). 
 Your swords. 
 
 Satraps, 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 431 
 
 Bel. (delivering his). My lord, behold 
 
 my scimitar. 
 Arb. (drawing his sword). Take mine. 
 Sal. [advancing). I will. 
 
 Arb. But in your heart the blade — 
 
 The hilt quits not this hand. 
 
 Sal. (drawing). How ! dost thou brave 
 me ? 
 'T is well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
 Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 
 
 Arb. Soldiers ! Ay — 
 
 Alone you dare not. 
 
 Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 
 
 What is there in thee that a prince should 
 
 shrink from 
 Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
 Thy strength : thy tooth is nought without 
 
 its venom — 
 The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him 
 down. 
 Bel. (interposing). Arbaces ! .\re you 
 mad ? Have I not render'd 
 My sword ? Then trust like me our 
 sovereign's justice. 
 Arb. No — I will sooner trust the stars 
 thou prat'st of, 
 And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
 Of my own breath and body — so far that 
 None else shall chain them. , 
 
 Sal. (to the Guards). Vou hear him 
 and me. 
 Take him not, — kill. 
 
 [The Guards attack Arbaces, who defends 
 himself valiantly and dexterously till 
 they waver. 
 Sal. Is it even so ; and must 
 
 I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! 
 
 see 
 How you should fell a traitor. 
 
 [Salemenes attacks Arbaces. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 
 
 Sar. Hold your hands — 
 
 Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or 
 
 drunken ? 
 My sword ! fool, I wear no sword : here, 
 
 fellow. 
 Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 
 
 [Sardanapalus snatches a sword from one 
 of the soldiers, and rushes between the 
 combatants — they separate. 
 Sar. In my yf.ry palace ! 
 
 What hinders me from cleaving you in 
 
 twain. 
 Audacious brawlers ? 
 
 Bel. Sire, your justice. 
 
 Sal. Or— 
 
 Your weakness. 
 
 Sar. (raising the sword.) How ? 
 Sal. Strike ! so the blow 's repeated 
 
 Upon yon traitor — ^whom you spare a 
 
 moment, 
 I trust, for torture — I 'm content. 
 
 5a;', What — him ! 
 
 Wlio dares assail Arbaces ? 
 
 Sal. I ! 
 
 Sar. Indeed ! 
 
 Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what 
 warrant ? 
 
 Sal. (shewing the signet). Thine. 
 
 Arb. (confused). The king's ! 
 
 Sal. \&s ' and let the king confirm it. 
 
 Sar. I parted not from this for sucli a 
 purpose. 
 
 Sal. Y( )u parted with it for your safety — 
 
 Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in 
 
 person. 
 Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
 I was your representative. 
 
 Sar. Then sheathe 
 
 Your swords. 
 
 [Arbaces and Salemenes return their 
 swords In the scabbards. 
 Sal. Mine 's sheathed : I pray you 
 sheathe not yours : 
 'T is the sole sceptre left you now with 
 safety. 
 Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts 
 my hand. 
 (To a Guard.) Here, follow, take thy 
 
 weapfni back. Well, sirs, 
 What doth this mean ? 
 
 Bel. The prmce must answer that. 
 
 Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon 
 
 theirs. 
 Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery a'ld 
 Beleses ! 
 That were an union I will not believe. 
 Bel. Where is the proof ? 
 Sal. I '11 answer that, if once 
 
 The king demands your fellow-traitor's 
 
 sword. 
 ■ Arb. (to Sal). A sword which hath been 
 
 drawn as oft as thine 
 Against his foes. 
 
 Sal. And now against his brother, 
 
 And in an hour or so against himself. 
 Sar. That is not possible ; he dared 
 not ; no — 
 No — I'll not hear of such things. These 
 
 vain bickerings 
 Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and 
 
 baser 
 Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's 
 
 lives. 
 You must have been deceived, my brother. 
 Sal. First 
 
 Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
 Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
 And I will answer all. 
 
 Sar. Why, if I thought so — 
 
 But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces — 
 The trusty, rough, tru3 soldier — the best 
 captain 
 
 Of all who discipline oiT nations No, 
 
 I '11 not insult him thus, to bid him render 
 The scimitar to me he never yielded 
 
432 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your 
 weapon. 
 Sal. {delivering back the signet). Monarch, 
 
 take back your signet, 
 Sar. No, retain it ; 
 
 But use it with more moderation. 
 
 Sal. Sire, 
 
 I used it for your honour, and restore it 
 Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
 Bestow it on Arbaces. 
 
 Sar. So I should : 
 
 He never ask'd it. 
 
 Sal. Doubt not, he will have it, 
 
 Without that hollow semblance of respect. 
 
 Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced 
 
 the prince 
 
 So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than 
 
 whom none 
 Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 
 Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless 
 soldier ! thoii 
 Unit'st in thy o\vn person the worst \ices 
 Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
 Keep thy smooth words and juggling homi- 
 lies 
 For those who know thee not. Thy fel- 
 low's sin 
 Is, at the least, a bold one, and not tem- 
 
 per'd 
 By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 
 
 Bel. Hear him. 
 
 My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
 The worship of the land, which bows the 
 
 knee 
 Before your fathers. 
 
 Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 
 
 Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
 
 The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
 
 Am mortal, and belie\ing that the race 
 
 From whence I sprung are — what I see 
 
 them — ashes. 
 
 Bel. King ! Do not deem so : they are 
 
 with the stars, 
 
 And 
 
 Sar. You shall join them ere they will 
 rise. 
 If you preach farther — Why, this is rank 
 treason. 
 Sal. i\ly lord ! j 
 
 Sar. To school me in the worship of 
 
 Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
 Give him his swoiu. i 
 
 Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, j 
 I pray ye pause. ' 
 
 Sar. Yes, and be sermonised. 
 
 And dinn'd, and dcafcn'd with dead men 
 
 and Baal, 
 And all Chaldea's starry mysteries, 
 Bel. Monarch ' respect them. 
 Sar. 0> ' for that — I love them ; 
 
 I love to watch tliem in the deep blue 
 
 vault, 
 .\nd to compare them with my Alj-rrha's 
 eyes ; 
 
 I love to see their rays redoubled in 
 The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave, 
 As the light breeze of midnight crisps the 
 
 broad 
 And rolling water, sighing through the 
 
 sedges 
 Which fringe his banks : but whether they 
 
 may be 
 Gods, as some sav, or the abodes of gods. 
 As others hold, or simply lamps of night. 
 Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor 
 
 care not. 
 There 's something sweet in my uncertainty 
 I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
 Besides, I know of these all clay can know 
 Of aught above it, or below it — ^nothing. 
 I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 
 When they shine on my grave I shall know 
 
 neither. 
 Bel. For neither, sire, say better. 
 Sar. I will wait. 
 
 If it so please you, pontiff, for that know- 
 ledge. 
 In the mean time receive your sword, and 
 
 know 
 That I prefer your service militant 
 Unto your ministry — ^not loving either, 
 Sal. [aside). His lusts have made him 
 
 mad. Then must I save him. 
 Spite of himself. 
 
 Sar. Please you to hear me. Satraps ! 
 And chiefly thou, my priest, bgcause I 
 
 doubt thee 
 More than the soldier ; and would doubt 
 
 thee all 
 Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
 In peace — I '11 not sav pardon — which must 
 
 be 
 Eam'd by the guilty ; this I 'U not pro- 
 nounce ye. 
 Although upon this breath of mine depends 
 Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my 
 
 fears. 
 But fear not — for that I am soft, not fear- 
 ful— 
 And so live on. Were I the thing some 
 
 think me. 
 Your heads would now be dripping the last 
 
 drops 
 Of their attainted g;ore from the high gates 
 Of this our palace, into the dry dust. 
 Their only purtion cf the coveted kingdom 
 They would be cro\\-n'd to reign o'er — let 
 
 that pass. 
 .\s I have said, I will not deem ve guiltv, 
 Nor doom ye guiltless, .\lbeit better men 
 Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
 And should I leave \-our fate to sterner 
 
 judges. 
 And proofs of all kinds. I might sacrifice 
 Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are 
 
 were ' ' 
 Once honest. Ye are free, sirs, 
 '^''o- Sire, this clemency 
 
SARD ANAP ALUS 
 
 433 
 
 Bel. (interrupting him). Is worthy of 
 yourself ; and, alttiough innocent, 
 
 We thank 
 
 Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings 
 for Belus ; 
 His offspring needs none. 
 
 Bel. But being innocent 
 
 Sar. Be silent. — Guilt is loud. If ye are 
 loyal, 
 Ye are injured men, and should be sad, 
 not grateful. 
 Bel. So we should be, were justice al- 
 ways done 
 By earthly power omnipotent ; but inno- 
 cence \ 
 Must oft receive her right as a mere favour. 
 Sar. That 's a good sentence for a homily, 
 Though not for this occasion. Prithee 
 
 keep it 
 To plead thy sovereign's cause before his 
 people. 
 Bel. I trust there is no cause. 
 Sar. No cause, perhaps ; 
 
 But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
 In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
 On earth, or should you read of it in 
 
 heaven 
 In some mysterious twinkle of the stars. 
 Which are your chronicles. I pray you note. 
 That there are worse things betwixt earth 
 
 and heaven 
 Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
 And, hating not himself, yet loves his 
 
 fellows 
 Enough to spare even those who would not 
 
 spare him 
 Were they once masters — but that's 
 
 doubtful. Satraps ! 
 Your swords and persons are at liberty' 
 To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
 I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
 Follow me. 
 
 [Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and 
 the Train, etc., leaving Arbaces and 
 Beleses. 
 Arb. Beleses ! 
 
 Bel. Now, what think you ? 
 
 Arb. That we are lost. 
 Bel. That we have won the kingdom. 
 Arb. What ? thus suspected — with the 
 sword slung o'er us 
 But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
 To be blown down by his imperious breath 
 Which spared us — why, I know not. 
 
 Bel. Seek not why ; 
 
 But let us profit by the interval. 
 The hour is still our own — our power the 
 
 same — 
 The night the same we destined. He hath 
 
 changed 
 Nothing except our ignorance of all 
 Suspicion into such a certainty 
 As must make madness of delay. 
 Arb. And yet 
 
 Bel. What, doubting still ? 
 Arb. He spared our lives, nay, more, 
 Saved them from Salemenes. 
 
 B^l- And how long 
 
 Will he so spare ? till the first drunken 
 minute. 
 Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it 
 nobly ; 
 Gave royally what we had forfeited 
 
 Bas=ly 
 
 B;l. Say bravely. 
 
 .irb. Somewhat of both, perhaDs. 
 
 But it has touch'd me. and, whate'er betide, 
 I will no further on. 
 
 Bel. And lose the world ! 
 
 Arb. Lose any thing except my own 
 
 esteem. 
 Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives 
 to such 
 A king of distaffs ! 
 
 Arb. But no less we owe them ; 
 
 And I should blush far more to take the 
 grantor's ! 
 Be/. Thou may' St endure whate'er thou 
 wilt — the stars 
 Have written othi^rwise. 
 
 Arb. Though they came down. 
 
 And marshall'd me the way in all their 
 
 brightness, 
 I would not follow. 
 
 Bel. This is weakness — worse 
 
 Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the 
 
 dead. 
 And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 
 Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod 
 as he spoke. 
 Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
 Looking the monarch of the kingsaround it, 
 And sways, while they but ornament, the 
 temple. 
 Bel. I told you that you had too much 
 despised him, 
 And that there was some royalty within 
 
 him — 
 What then ? he is the nobler foe. 
 
 Arb. But we 
 
 The meaner. — Would he had not spared us ! 
 
 Bel. So— 
 
 Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 
 
 Arh. No — but it had been better to have 
 
 dird 
 
 Than li\'e ungrateful. 
 
 Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ! 
 
 Thou wouldst digest what some call trea- 
 son, and 
 Fools treacher}' — and, behold, upon the 
 
 sudden, 
 Because for something or for nothing, this 
 Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
 'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art tum'd 
 Into — what shall I sav ? — Sardanapalus ! 
 I know no name more ignominious. 
 
 Arb. But 
 
 An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
 
434 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Had held his life but hghtly — as it is, 
 I must forgi\'e you, even as he for;^a\-c us — 
 Semiramis herself would not have done it. 
 Bel. No — the queen liked no sharers of 
 the kingdom, 
 Not even a husband. 
 
 Arb. I must serve him truly — ' — 
 
 Bel. And humbly ? 
 
 Ayb. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 
 I shall be nearer thrones than you to 
 
 heaven ; 
 And if not quite so haughty, yet n.nrc 
 
 lofty. 
 You may do your own deeming — you have 
 
 codes. 
 And mysteries, and corollaries of 
 Right and wrong, which I lack for ray direc- 
 tion. 
 And must pursue but what a plain heart 
 
 teaches. 
 And now you know me. 
 
 Bel. Have you finish'd ? 
 
 A rb. Yes — 
 
 With you. 
 
 Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 
 As quit me ? 
 
 Arb. That 's a sacerdotal thought. 
 
 And not a soldier's. 
 
 Bel. Be it what yiu will — 
 
 Truce with these wranglings, and but 
 
 hear me. 
 
 Arb. No — 
 
 There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
 
 Than in a phalanx. 
 
 Bel. If it must be so — 
 
 1 '11 on alone. 
 
 Arb. Alone ! 
 
 Bel. Thrones hold but one. 
 
 Arb. But this is fill'd. 
 
 Bel. With worse than vacancy — 
 
 A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
 
 I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and 
 
 urged you ; 
 Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
 To serve and save Assj'ria. Heaven itself 
 Seem'd to consent, and all events were 
 
 friendly. 
 Even to the last, till thatyour spirit shrunk 
 Into a shallow softness; but now. rather 
 Than see my country languish, I will be 
 Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 
 Or one or both, for sometimes both are 
 
 one ; * 
 And if I win, Arbaces is my ser\'ant. 
 Arb. Your ser\-ant ! 
 
 Bel. Why not ? better than be sla\-e. 
 The pardon'd slave of she Sardanapalus ! 
 Enter Pani.a. 
 Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the 
 
 king. 
 Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 
 Bel. Notwithstanding, 
 
 Let '-i hear it. 
 
 Fan. Forthwith, on this very night, 
 
 Repair to your respective satrapies 
 Of Babylon and Media. 
 
 Bel. \Mth our troops ? 
 
 Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
 Their household train. 
 
 A rb. But 
 
 Bel. It must be obey'd : 
 
 Say, we depart. 
 
 Pan. lly order is to see you 
 
 Depart, and not to bear your answer. 
 
 Bel. {aside) . Ay 
 
 \\ ell, sir, we will accompany you hence. 
 Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the 
 guard 
 Of honour which befits yomr rank, and v/ait 
 Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds 
 not. [Exit Pania. 
 
 Bel. Xow then obey ! 
 Arb. Doubtless. 
 
 Bel. Yes, to the gates 
 
 That grate the palace, which is now oiur 
 
 prison — 
 No further. 
 
 Arb. Thou hast harp'd the truth 
 
 indeed! 
 The realm itself, in all its vfide extension, 
 Ya\A'ns dungeons at each step for thee and 
 me. 
 Bel. Graves ! 
 
 Arb. If I thought so, this good sword 
 
 should dig 
 One more than mine. 
 
 Bel. It shall have work enough. 
 
 Let me hope better than thou augurest ; 
 At present, let us hence as best we may. 
 Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
 This order as a sentence ? 
 
 ^rb. Whv. what other 
 
 Interpretation should it bear ? it is 
 The very policy of orient monarchs — 
 
 Pardon and poison — favours and a sword 
 
 A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
 Hnw many satraps in his father's time^ 
 
 For he I own is, or at least arts, bloodless 
 
 Bel. But will not, can not be so n^iw 
 „^''''- I doubt it. 
 
 How many satraps have I seen set out 
 In his sire's day for mightv vice-rovaltie? 
 Whose tombs are on their path ! I know 
 
 not how, 
 But tlicy all sicken'd bv the way. 
 Sm huig and heavy. 
 
 Bel. Let us but regain 
 
 Tlie free air of the citv. and we '11 shorten 
 The journey. 
 
 Arb. 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates, 
 It may be. 
 
 Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that. 
 
 lhc\ mean us to die privatelv. but not 
 \\ ithm the palace or the citv walk 
 Where we are known, and may have par- 
 
 tisans: 
 If tlie>- liad meant to slay us here, we were 
 No loui;ii- with the living. Let us hence. 
 
 It was 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 435 
 
 Arb. If I but thought he did not mean 
 
 my life 
 
 Bel. Fool ! hence — what else should 
 despotism alarm'd 
 Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and 
 march. 
 Arb. Towards our provinces ? 
 Bel. No ; towards your kingdom. 
 
 There's time, there's heart, and hope, and 
 
 power, and means. 
 Which their half measures leave us in full 
 
 scope. — 
 Away ! 
 
 Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
 Relapse to guilt ! 
 
 Bel. Self-defence is a virtue, 
 
 Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
 Let 's leave this place, the air grows thick 
 
 and choking. 
 And the walls have a scent of night-shade 
 
 — hence ! 
 Let us not leave them time for further 
 
 council. 
 Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
 Our quick departure hinders our good 
 
 escort, 
 The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
 The orders of some parasangs from hence : 
 
 Nay, there 's no other choice, but hence, 
 
 I say. 
 
 [Exit with Arbaces, who follows re- 
 luctantly. 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes. 
 Sar. Well, all is remedied, and without 
 bloodshed. 
 That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
 We are now secure by these men's exile. 
 
 Sal. ■,. , Yes, 
 
 As who he treads on flowers is from the 
 
 adder 
 Twined round their roots. 
 
 Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do ? 
 Sal. Undo what you have done. 
 Sar. ' Revoke my pardon ? 
 
 Sal. Replace the crown now tottering 
 
 on your temples. 
 Sar. That were tyrannical. 
 Sal. But sure. 
 
 Sar. We are so. 
 
 What danger can they work upon the 
 frontier ? 
 Sal. They are not there yet— never 
 should they be so, 
 Were I well listen'd to. 
 - Sar. Nay, I have listen'd 
 
 Impartially to thee— why not to them ? 
 Sal. You may know that hereafter ; 
 as it is 
 I take my leave to order forth the guard. 
 Sar. And you will join us at the banquet ? 
 Sal. Sire, 
 
 Dispense_ with me— I am no wassailer : 
 Command me in all service save the Bac- 
 chant's. 
 
 Sai'. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and 
 
 then. 
 Sal. And fit that some should watch 
 for those who revel 
 Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 
 
 Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good 
 
 Salemenes, 
 My brother, my best subject, better prince 
 Than I am king You should have been 
 
 the monarch, 
 And I — I know nut what, and care not ; 
 
 but 
 Think not I am insensible to all 
 Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet 
 
 kind, 
 Though oft reproving, sufferance of my 
 
 follies. 
 If I have spared these men against thy 
 
 counsel. 
 That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
 The advice was sound ; but, let them live : 
 
 we will not 
 Cavil about their lives — so let them mend 
 
 them. 
 Their banishment will leave me still sound 
 
 sleep. 
 Which their death had not left me. 
 
 Sal. Thus you run 
 
 The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
 A moment's pang now changed for years of 
 
 crime. 
 Still let them be made quiet. 
 
 Sar. Tempt me not ; 
 
 My word is past. 
 
 Sal. But it may be recall'd. 
 
 Sar. 'T is royal. 
 
 Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 
 This half indulgence of an exile serves 
 But to provoke — a pardon should be full. 
 Or it is none. 
 
 Sac. And who persuaded me 
 
 After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
 Only dismiss'd them from our presence, 
 
 who 
 Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 
 Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that 
 is, sire. 
 If they e'er reach'd their satrapies — why, 
 
 then. 
 Reprove me more for my advice. 
 
 Sar. And if 
 
 They do not reach them — look to it ! — in 
 
 safety, 
 In safety, mark me — and security — 
 Look to thine own. 
 
 Sal. Permit me to depart ; 
 
 Their safety shall be cared for. 
 Sar. 
 
 And, prithee, 
 brother. 
 
 Sal. Sire, I 
 sovereign. 
 
 Sar. (solus). 
 severe ; 
 
 Get thee hence, then ; 
 think more gently of thy 
 
 shall ever duly serve my 
 
 [Exit Salemenes. 
 
 That man is of a temper too 
 
436 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
 From all the taints of common earth — 
 
 while I 
 Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers : 
 But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
 If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
 Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
 I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
 With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes 
 
 pleasure ; 
 A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
 To count its throbs, not quicken them, and 
 
 ask 
 Questions which mortal never dared 
 
 to ask me, 
 Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — 
 Albeit his marble face majestical 
 Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
 His brows to changed expression, till at 
 
 times 
 I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
 Away with these vain thoughts, I will be 
 
 joyous — 
 And here comes Joy's true herald. 
 Enter Myrrha. 
 Myr. King ! the skv 
 
 Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
 In clouds that seem approaching fast, and 
 
 show 
 In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
 Will you then quit the palace ? 
 
 Sar. Tempest, say'st thou ? 
 
 Myr. Ay, my good lord. 
 Sar. For my own part, I should be 
 
 Not ill content to vary the smooth scene. 
 And watch the warring elements ; but this 
 Would little suit the silken garments and 
 Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, 
 
 Myrrha, 
 Art thou of those who dread the roar of 
 clouds ? 
 Myr. In my own country we respect 
 their voices 
 As auguries of Jove. 
 
 Say. Jove ! — ay. your Baal — 
 
 Ours also has a property in thunder. 
 And ever and anon some falling bolt 
 Proves his divinity, — and yet sometimes 
 Strikes his o^vn altars. 
 
 Myr. That were a dread omen. 
 
 Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will 
 not go forth 
 Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
 Our feast within. 
 
 Myr. Kow, Jove be praised ! that he 
 Hath heard the pra;-cr thou wouldst not 
 
 hear. The gods 
 Are kinder to thee than thou to thvself. 
 And flash this storm between thee and thv 
 
 foes, 
 To shield thee from them. 
 
 Sar. Child, if there be peril, 
 
 Methinks it is the same within these walls 
 As on the river's brink. 
 
 Myr. Not so ; these walls 
 
 Are high and strong, and guarded. Trea- 
 son has 
 To penetrate through many a winding way, 
 And massy portal ; but in the paviUon 
 There is no bulwark. 
 
 Sar. No. nor in the palace, 
 
 Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
 Of cloud- fenced Caucasus, where the eagle 
 
 sits 
 Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
 Even as the arrow finds the airy king. 
 The steel will reach the earthly. But be 
 
 calm ; 
 The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
 Banish'd, and far upon their way. 
 
 Myr. They live, then ? 
 
 Sar. So sanguinary ? Thou ! 
 Myr. I would not shrink 
 
 From just infliction of due punishment 
 On those who seek your life : were't 
 
 otherwise, 
 I should not merit mine. Besides, you 
 
 heard 
 The princely Salamenes. 
 
 Sar. This is strange ; 
 
 The gentle and the austere are both against 
 
 me. 
 And urge me to revenge. 
 
 Myr. 'TisaGreek virtue. 
 
 Sar. But not a kingly one — I'll none on't ; 
 or 
 If ever I indulge in 't. it shall be 
 With kings — my equals. 
 
 Myr. These men sought to be so. 
 
 Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and 
 springs 
 
 From fear 
 
 Myr. For you. 
 
 Sar. No matter, still 't is fear. 
 
 I have observed your sex, once roused to 
 
 wrath, 
 Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
 Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
 I thought you were exempt from this, as 
 
 from 
 
 The childish helplessness of Asian women. 
 
 ,1/yr. My lord, I am no boaster of my 
 
 love, ' 
 
 Nor of my attributes ; I have shared vour 
 
 splendour. 
 And will partake vour fortunes, 'i'ou may 
 
 live 
 To find one sla\-e more true than subject 
 
 mmads 
 But this the gods avert ! I am content 
 1. be beloved on trust for what I fee! 
 Rather than prove it to vou in vour griefs. 
 Which might not vield to any cares of mine. 
 Sar. Crrief cannot come where perfect 
 love exists. 
 Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
 That which It ciald not scare away. Let 's 
 
SARD ANAP ALUS 
 
 437 
 
 The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
 To meet the in\'ited guests who grace our 
 feast. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III 
 Scene I. — The Hall of the Palace illnmin- 
 ated — Sardanapalus and his Guests 
 at Table. — A storm without, and Thun- 
 der occasionally heard during the 
 Banquet. 
 Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should 
 be : here 
 Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and 
 
 faces 
 Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 
 Zain. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, 
 
 pleasure sparkles. 
 Sar. Is not this better now than Nim- 
 rod's huntings. 
 Or my wild grandam's chase in search of 
 
 kingdoms 
 She could not keep when conquer'd ? 
 
 Alt. Mighty though 
 
 They were, as all thy royal line have been , 
 Yet none of those who went before have 
 
 reach'd 
 The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
 Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true 
 glory. 
 Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to 
 which glory 
 Is but the path. What is it that we seek ? 
 Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short 
 
 to it, 
 And not gone tracking it through human 
 
 ashe=, 
 Making a grave with every footstep. 
 
 Zam. '^^ ' 
 
 All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
 The king of peace, who holds a world in 
 jubilee. 
 Sar. Art sure of that? I have heard 
 otherwise ; 
 Some say that there be traitors. 
 
 Zam. Traitors they 
 
 Who dare to say so ! — 'T is impossible. 
 
 What cause ? ^„ , , , ^ 
 
 Sar. What cause ? true,— fill the goblet 
 
 up ; 
 
 We will not think of them ; there are none 
 
 such. 
 Or if there be, they are gone. 
 
 Alt. Guests, to my pledge ! 
 
 Down on your knees, and drink a measure 
 
 to 
 The safety of the king— the monarch, say 
 
 I? 
 
 The god Sardanapalus ! ^ , , , , 
 [Zames and the Guests kneel, ana 
 
 exclaim — 
 
 Mightier than 
 
 His father Ba^l, the god Sardanapalus ! 
 
 [It thunders as they kneel ; some start up in 
 confusion. 
 Zam. Why do you rise, my friends ? 
 in that strong peal 
 His father gods consented. 
 
 Myv. Menaced, rather. 
 
 King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 
 
 Sar. Impiet^■ ! — nay, if the sires who 
 
 reign'd 
 
 Before me can be gods, I '11 not disgrace 
 
 Their lineage. But arise, my pious 
 
 friends ; 
 Hoard your devotion for the thunderer 
 
 there : 
 I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 
 
 Alt. Both— 
 
 Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 
 Sar. Methinks the thunders still in- 
 crease : it is 
 An awful night. 
 
 Jl/yi'. Oh yes, for those who have 
 
 No palace to protect their worshippers. 
 Sar. That's true, my Myrrha ; and 
 could I convert 
 Jly realm to one wide shelter for the 
 
 wretched, 
 I 'd do it. 
 
 Myr. Thou 'rt no god, then, not to 
 be 
 Able to work a will so good and general, 
 As thy wish would imply. 
 
 Sar. And your gods, then. 
 
 Who can, and do not ? 
 
 Myr. Do not speak of that. 
 
 Lest we provoke them. 
 
 Sar. True, they love not censure 
 
 Better than mortals. Friends, a thought 
 
 has struck me : 
 Were there no temples, would there, think 
 
 ye, be 
 Air worshippers ? that is, when it is angry. 
 And pelting as even now. 
 
 Myr. The Persian prays 
 
 Upon his mountain. 
 
 Sar. Yes, when the sun shines 
 
 Myr. And I would ask if this your 
 palace were 
 Unroof'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
 Would lick the dust in which the king lay 
 low ? 
 Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
 Upon a nation whom she knov.T not wel\ ; 
 The AssjTians know no pleasure but their 
 
 king's. 
 And homage is their pride. 
 
 5a;'. Nay, pardon, guests. 
 
 The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 
 
 ^ H Pardon ! sire : 
 
 We honour her of all things next to thee. 
 Hark ! v/hat was that ? . 
 
 Zam. That ! nothing but the jar 
 
 Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 
 Alt. It sounded like the clash of— had-: 
 again ! 
 
438 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 2um. The big rain pattering on the 
 
 roof. 
 Sar. No more. 
 
 M>Trha, my love, hast thou thy shell in 
 
 order ? 
 Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou 
 know'st, 
 
 Who in thy country threw 
 
 Enlef Pania, with his sword and garments 
 
 bloody, and disordered. The guests rise in 
 
 confusion. 
 
 Pan. [to the Guards). Look to the 
 
 portals ; 
 
 And with your best speed to the walls 
 
 mthout. 
 Your arms ! To arms ! The king 's in 
 
 danger. Monarch 
 Excuse this haste, — 't is faith. 
 
 Sar. Speak on 
 
 Pan. It is 
 
 As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless 
 
 satraps 
 
 Sar* \'ou are wounded — give some 
 
 wine Take breath, good Pania. 
 Pari. 'T is nothing — a mere flesh wound. 
 I am worn 
 More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
 Than hurt in his defence. 
 
 Myr. Well, sir, the rebels ? 
 
 Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses 
 
 reach'd 
 
 Their stations in the city, they refused 
 
 To march ; and on my attempt to use the 
 
 pov/er 
 Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
 Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defi- 
 ance. 
 Myr. All ? 
 
 Pan. Too many. 
 
 Sar. Spare not of thy free speech, 
 
 To spare mine ears the truth. 
 
 Pan. My own slight guard 
 
 Were faithful, and what 's lett of it is still 
 so. 
 Myr. And are these all the force still 
 
 faithful ? 
 Pan. No— 
 
 The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes. 
 Who even then was on his way, still urged 
 B\' strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
 Are numerous, and make strong head 
 
 against 
 The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and form- 
 
 mg 
 An orb around the palace, where they mean 
 To centre all their force, and save the king. 
 
 (He hesitate':.) I am charged to 
 
 Myr. "T is no time for hesitation. 
 
 Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore 
 the king 
 To arm himself, although but for a 
 
 moment, 
 And show himself unlo the soldiers : his 
 Soleprcscnerin this iiiNtant might do more 
 
 Than hosts can do in his behalf. 
 
 Sar. What ho ! 
 
 !\Iv armour there. 
 'Myr. And wilt thou ? 
 
 Sar. Will I not ? 
 
 Hm, there ! — but seek not for the bucklir : 
 
 'tis 
 Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
 Where are the rebels ? 
 
 Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 
 
 From the outward wall the fiercest con- 
 flict rages. 
 Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. 
 Sfero, ho ! 
 Order my horse out. — There is space 
 
 enough 
 Even in om- coirrts, and by the outer gate. 
 To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 
 [Exit Sfero for the armour* 
 Myr. How I do l'"i\'e thee ! 
 Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 
 
 Myr. But now I know thee. 
 Sar. [to his Attendant). Bringdown 
 
 my spear too. — 
 Where's Salemenes ? 
 
 Pan. Where a soldier should be. 
 
 In the thick of the fight. 
 
 Sar. Then hasten to him Is 
 
 The path still open, and communication 
 Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 
 Pan. 'T was 
 
 When I late left him, and I have no fear : 
 Our troops were steady, and the phalanx 
 form'd. 
 Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the 
 present. 
 And that I will not spare my own — and say 
 I come. 
 
 Pan. There's \rictory in the verv word. 
 [£.!(■/ Pan u. 
 Sar. .A.Hada — Zames — forth, and arm 
 ye ! There 
 Is alt in readiness in the armourv. 
 See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
 In the remote apartments : let a guard 
 i3e set before them, with strict charge to 
 
 quit 
 The post but with their lives — command 
 
 it, Zames. 
 .\ltada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
 Your jiost is near our prrson. 
 
 [Exeunt Zames. .\ltada, and all save 
 
 MVRRHA. 
 
 Enter Sfero and others -a'ith the King's 
 
 Arms. etc. 
 
 S^e King ! vour armour. 
 
 ill)-, {arming himself). Give me the 
 
 cuirass — so : mv baldric ; now 
 
 My 5«'ord : I had forgot the helm — where 
 
 is it? 
 That 's well — no, 't is too hea\T : vou mis- 
 take, too — 
 It was not this I me.int, but th.-it which 
 bears 
 
SARDANAPALTTS 
 
 439 
 
 A diadem around it. 
 
 Sfe. Sire, I deem'd 
 
 That too conspicuous from the precious 
 
 stones 
 To risk your sacred brow beneath — and 
 
 trust me, 
 This is of better metal, though less rich. 
 Sar. \in\ deem'd ! Are you too turn'd 
 a rebel ? Fellow ! 
 Your part is to obey : return, and — no — 
 It is too late — I will go forth without it. 
 Sfe. At least, wear this. 
 Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 't ir, 
 
 A mountain on my temples. 
 
 Sfe. Sire, the meanest 
 
 Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to 
 
 battle. 
 All men will recognise you — for the storm 
 Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in 
 her brightness. 
 Sar. I go forth to be recognised, and 
 thus 1 
 
 Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I'm 
 arm'd. 
 
 [In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
 
 Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror. 
 
 Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 
 
 Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass. 
 
 Brought from the spoils of India — but be 
 
 speedy. 
 
 [Exit Sfero. 
 Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of 
 safety. 
 Why went you not forth with the other 
 damsels ? 
 ilyr. Because my place is here. 
 
 Sar. And when I am gone 
 
 Myr. I follow. 
 Sar. You ! to battle ? 
 Myr. If it were so. 
 
 'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the 
 
 path. 
 I will await here your return. 
 
 Sar. The place- 
 
 Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
 If they prevail ; and, if it be so, 
 
 And I return not 
 
 il/yr. Still we meet again. 
 
 Sar. How ? 
 
 J\Iyr. In the spot where all must meet 
 at last — 
 In Hades ! if there be. as I believe, 
 A shore beyond the Styx ; and if there be 
 
 not. 
 In ashes. 
 Sar. Darest thou so much ? 
 Myr. I dare all things 
 
 Except survive what I have loved, to be 
 A rebel's booty : forth, and do your 
 bravest. 
 Re-enter Sfero with the mirror. 
 
 Sar. (looking at hinisell). This cuirass 
 fits me well, the baldric better, 
 
 And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 
 [Flings<iiway the helmet after trying it 
 a'^ain. 
 Passing well in these toys ; and now to 
 
 prove them. 
 Altada ! Where's Altada ? 
 ,.,?(*■ Waiting, sire. 
 
 Without : he has your shield in readiness. 
 Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield- 
 bearer 
 By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
 MjTrha, embrace me ; — yet once more — 
 
 once more — 
 Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest 
 
 glory 
 Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 
 Myr. Go forth, and conquer ! 
 
 [Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sfero. 
 
 Now, I am alone, 
 
 All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
 
 Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, 
 
 and 
 Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
 For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
 About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
 Not for that he is king ; for now his king- 
 dom 
 Rocks underneath his throne, and the 
 
 earth yawns 
 To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
 And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty 
 
 Jove ! 
 Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
 Who knows not of Olympus 1 yes, I Io\'e 
 him 
 
 Now, now, far more than Hark — to the 
 
 war shout ! 
 Jlcthinks it nears me. If it should be so, 
 [She draws forth a small vial. 
 This cunning Colchian poison, which my 
 
 father 
 I Leam'd to compound on Euxine shores, 
 I and taught me 
 
 ' How to preserve, shall free me ! It had 
 
 freed me 
 Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
 I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
 Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude. 
 So they are served in turn by something 
 
 lower 
 In the degree of bondage, we forget 
 That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
 Are chains. Again that shout ! and now 
 the clash 
 
 Of arms — and now — and now 
 
 Enter Altada. 
 
 Alt. Ho, Sfero, ho ! 
 
 Myr. He is not here ; what wouldst thou 
 with him ? How 
 Goes on the conflict ? 
 
 Alt. Dubiously and fiercely. 
 
 ^[vr. And the king ? 
 
 A It. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 
 
44f> 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 And bring him a new spear with his own 
 
 lielmet. 
 He fights till now bare-headed, and by far 
 Too much exposed. The soldiers knew 
 
 his face, 
 And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad 
 
 light, 
 His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
 iVIake him a mark too royaL Every arrow 
 Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features. 
 And the broad fillet which crowns both. 
 
 Alyr. Ye gods, 
 
 Who fulminate o'er my father's land, pro- 
 tect him ! 
 Were you sent by the king ? 
 
 Alt. By Salemenes, 
 
 Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
 Without the knowledge of the careless 
 
 sovereign. 
 The king ! the king fights as he revels ! 
 
 ho! 
 What, Sfero ! I will seek the armoury — 
 He must be there. [Exit Altada. 
 
 Myr. 'T is no dishonour — no — 
 
 'Tisno dishonour to have loved this man. 
 I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
 Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
 Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
 She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff ; 
 
 sm'ely 
 He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
 Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to 
 
 manhood. 
 And rushes from the banquet to the battle. 
 As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
 That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
 And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek 
 
 tomb 
 His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 
 Enter an officer. 
 Officer. Lost, 
 
 Lost almost past recovery, Zames ! Where 
 Is Zames ? 
 
 Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 
 To watch before the apartment of the 
 women. 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 Myr, (sola). He's gone; and told no 
 more than that all 's lost ! 
 What need have I to Icnow more ? In 
 
 those words. 
 Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
 A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
 Of thousands, and tlae fortune of all left 
 With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the 
 
 great, 
 Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
 Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the 
 
 least, 
 My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
 Shall count me with his spoils. 
 Enter P-\nia. 
 Pan. Awav with me, 
 
 Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
 
 A moment — all that 's left us now. 
 
 Myr. The king ? 
 
 Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, 
 beyond 
 The river, by a secret passage. 
 
 Myr. Then 
 
 He lives 
 
 Pan. And charged me to secure 
 
 your life. 
 And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
 He can rejoin you. 
 
 Myr. Will he then give way ? 
 
 Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he 
 does whate'er 
 Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
 The very palace. 
 
 Myr. They are here, then : — ay, 
 
 Their shouts come ringing through the an- 
 cient halls. 
 Never profaned by rebel echoes till . 
 This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's hne ! 
 Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
 Is now no more. 
 
 Pan. .Away with me — away ! 
 
 Myr. No : I'll die here ! — Away, and 
 tell your king 
 I loved him to the last. 
 
 Enter Sardamapalus and Salemenes with 
 Soldiers. Pania quits Myrrha, and 
 ranges himself with them. 
 
 Sar. Since it is thus, 
 
 We '11 die where we were born — in our own 
 
 halls. 
 Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have 
 
 despatch'd 
 A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
 AH fresh and faithful ; they'll be here anon. 
 All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 
 
 [Pania returns toK-ards Myrrha. 
 Sal. We have breathing time ; yet once 
 more charge, my friends — 
 One for Assyria ! 
 
 Sar. Rather say for Bactria ! 
 
 My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
 King of your nation, and we '11 hold together 
 This realm as pro\ince. 
 
 Sal. Hark ! they come — they come. 
 Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the 
 Rebels. 
 
 .{rh Set on, we have them in the toil. 
 
 Charge ! charge ! 
 Bel. On ! on !— Heaven fights for us, 
 and with us — On ! 
 
 [Theych.i'oe the King and Salemenes 
 with their troops, who defend them- 
 selves till the arrival of Zames with 
 the Guard before mentioned. The 
 Rebels arc then driven off, and pur- 
 sued by Salemexes, etc. As tlie 
 King is going to join tfie pursuit, 
 Beleses crosses him. 
 Bel. Ho ! tyrant — / will end this war 
 
SARDANAPAIX'S 
 
 441 
 
 Sar. Even so, 
 
 My warlike priest, and precious prophet, 
 
 and 
 Grateful and trusty subject : yield, I pray 
 
 thee. 
 I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
 Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
 Bel. Thine Hour is come. 
 Sar. No, thine. — I've lately read, 
 
 Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
 And ranging round the zodiac, found thy 
 
 fate > 
 
 In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
 That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
 
 Bel. But not by thee. 
 
 [They fight ; Beleses is wounded and 
 disarmed. 
 Sar. {raising his sword to despatch him, 
 exclaims) — 
 Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
 From the sky to preserve their seer and 
 credit ? 
 
 [A party of rebels enter and rescue 
 Beleses. They assail the King, who, 
 in turn, is rescued by a Party of his 
 Soldiers, who drive the Rebels off. 
 The villain was a prophet after all. 
 Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 
 * \_E.xit in pursuit. 
 Myr. [to Pan.) Pursue ! Why stand's! 
 thou here, and leavest the ranks 
 Of fellow-soldiers conquering without 
 thee? 
 Pan. The king's command was not to 
 
 quit thee. 
 Myr. Me ! 
 
 Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
 Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
 I need no guard : what, with a world at 
 
 stake, 
 Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I 
 
 say, 
 Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then, I will 
 
 go forth, 
 A feeble female, 'midst their desperate 
 
 strife. 
 And bid thee guard me there — ^where thou 
 
 shouldst shield 
 Thy sovereign. 
 
 [Exit Myrrha. 
 Pan. Yet stav, damsel! — She's gone. 
 If aught of ill betide her, better I 
 Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
 Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
 For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
 Who never iiash'd a scimitar till now ? 
 Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
 In disobedience to the monarch. 
 
 [Exit Pania. 
 Enter Ai.tada and Sfero by an opposite 
 door. 
 Alt. Myrrha ! 
 
 What, gone ? yet she was here when the 
 fight raged, 
 
 And Pania also. Can aught have befallen 
 them ? 
 Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the 
 rebels fled ; 
 They probably are but retired to make 
 Their way back to the harem. 
 
 All. If the king 
 
 Prove victor, as it seems even now he must. 
 And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
 To worse than captive rebels. 
 
 Sfe. Let us trace them ; 
 
 She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she 
 
 makes 
 A richer prize to uiar soft sovereign 
 Than his recover'd kingdom. 
 
 .ill. Baal himself 
 
 Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, 
 
 than 
 His silken son to save it : he defies 
 All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
 The close and sultry summer's day, which 
 
 bodes 
 A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such 
 
 thunder 
 As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
 The man's inscrutable. 
 
 Sfe. Not more than others. 
 
 All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
 Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
 Tortur'd for his infatuation, and 
 Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, etc. 
 Sal. The triumph is 
 
 Flattering : they are beaten backward from 
 
 the palace. 
 And we have open'd regular access 
 To the troops station'd on the other side 
 Euphrates, v/ho may still be true ; nay, 
 
 must be. 
 When they hear of our victory. But 
 
 where 
 Is the chief victor ? where 's the king ? 
 Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, etc., and 
 Myrrha. 
 Sar. Here, brother. 
 
 Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 
 Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
 
 We've clear'd the palace 
 
 Sal. And I trust the citv. 
 
 Our numbers gather ; and I 've order'd 
 
 onward 
 A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
 All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
 In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 
 Sar. It is already, or at least they 
 march'd 
 Faster than I could follow with my Bac- 
 
 trians. 
 Who spared no speed. I am spent : give 
 me a seat. 
 Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 
 Sar. 'T is no place to rest on, 
 
 For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 
 [They place a seat. 
 
 Q a 
 
442 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — 
 
 now 
 I breathe more freely. 
 
 Sal. This great hour has proved 
 
 The brightest and most glorious of your 
 life. 
 Sar. And the most tiresome. Where 's 
 iny cupbearer ? 
 Bring me some water. 
 
 5a/. [smiling). 'T is the first time he 
 
 Ever had such an order : even I, 
 Your most austere of counsellors, would 
 
 now 
 Suggest a purpler beverage. 
 
 Sar. Blood — doubtless. 
 
 But there 's enough of that shed ; as for 
 
 wine, 
 I have learn'd to-night the price of the 
 
 pure element : 
 Thrice have 1 drank of it, and thrice 
 
 renew'd. 
 With greater strength than the grape ever 
 
 gave me. 
 My charge upon the rebels. Where's the 
 
 soldier 
 Who gave me water in his helmet ? 
 
 One of the Guards. Slain, sire ! 
 
 An arrow pierc'd his brain, while, scatter- 
 ing 
 The last drops from his helm, he stood in 
 
 act 
 To place it on his brows. 
 
 Sar. Slain ! unrewarded ! i 
 
 And slain to serve my thirst : that 'shard, 
 
 poor slave ! I 
 
 Had he but lived, I would have gor( 
 
 with 
 Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er 
 
 repay 
 The pleasure of that draught ; for I was 
 
 parch'd 
 As 1 am now. 
 
 [They bring water — he drinks. 
 I live again — from henceforth 
 The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
 But war on water. 
 
 Sal. And that bandage, sire, 
 
 Which girds your arm ? 
 
 Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses 
 
 Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 
 Sar. Mot too much of that • 
 
 And yet it feels a little stiff and painful, ' 
 Now I am cooler. 
 
 Myr. You have bound it with 
 
 Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first 
 time 
 That ornament was e\'er aught to me. 
 Save an incumbrance. 
 
 Myr. {to the Attendants). Summon 
 speedily 
 A leech of the most skilful : pra\', retire : 
 I will unbind your wound and tend it. 
 
 Sin: Do so. 
 
 For now it throbs sufBcientlv : but what 
 
 Know'st thou of wounds ? yet wherefore 
 
 do I ask ? 
 Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted 
 
 on 
 This minion ? ^ * 
 
 Sal. Herding with the other females, 
 Like frighten'd antelopes. 
 
 Sar. No': like the dam 
 
 Of the young lion, femininely raging 
 (And femininely meaneth furiously, 
 Because all passions in excess are female,) 
 Agaiifet the hunter flying with her cub, 
 She urged on with her voice and gesture. 
 
 and 
 Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the 
 
 soldiers, 
 In the pursuit. 
 Sal. Indeed ! 
 
 Sar. You see, this night 
 
 Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
 To look upon her, and her kindled 
 
 cheek ; 
 Her large black eyes, that flash'd through 
 
 her long hair 
 As it stream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that 
 
 rose 
 Along her most transparent brow ; her 
 
 nostril 
 Dilated from its sytnmetry ; her lips 
 Apart ; her voice that clove through all 
 
 the din. 
 As a lute pierceth through the cymbal's 
 
 clash, 
 Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud 
 brattling ; her 
 him Waved arms, more dazzling with their own 
 bom whiteness 
 Than the steel her hand held, v,'hich she 
 
 caught up 
 From a dead soldier's grasp ;— all these 
 
 thmgs made 
 Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
 Of victory, or Victory herself. 
 Come down to hail us hers 
 
 Aifniff- ^., This is too much. 
 
 Agam the love-fit 's on him, and all's lost, 
 Unless we turn his thoughts. 
 
 W/oH(i.) But pray thee, sire, 
 ihmk of your wound— you said even now 
 t was painful. 
 Sac_ That 's true, too ; but I must not 
 
 thmk of it. 
 Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, 
 ana wiil now 
 
 Orderr^sT^^H "' P'^S^"^^' '^'^'^^ *" ^^^h 
 Orders as I had given, and then return 
 
 Be it so. 
 
 To hear your further plea"sm-r 
 Sar. 
 Sal. {in retiring). l^Trha ' 
 
 ^,-ii \-„ 1, , t'rince ! 
 
 .>ai \ ou have shown a soul to-ni<'ht 
 Uhich, were he not my sister's lord^^ 
 
 13 Lit now 
 I have no time : thou lovest the king ? 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 443 
 
 Myr. I love 
 
 Sardanapalus. 
 
 Sal. But wouldst have him king still ? 
 Myy. I would not have him less than 
 
 what he should be. 
 Sal. Well then, to have him king, and 
 yours, and all 
 He should, or should not be ; to have him 
 
 live, 
 Let him not sink back into luxury. 
 You have more power upon his spirit than 
 Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebel- 
 lion 
 Raging without : look well that he relapse 
 not. 
 Myr. There needed not the voice of 
 Salemenes 
 To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
 
 All that a woman's weakness can 
 
 Sal. Is power 
 
 Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his : 
 Exert it wisely. [E.tit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. Myrrha ! what, at whispers 
 
 With my stern brother ? I shall soon be 
 jealous. 
 Myr. (smiling). You have cause, sire; 
 for on the earth there breathes not 
 A man more worthy of a woman's love, 
 A soldier's trust, a subject's reverence, 
 A king's esteem — the whole world's admira- 
 tion ! 
 Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I 
 must not 
 Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in 
 
 aught 
 That throws me into shade ; yet you speak 
 truth. 
 Myr. And now retire, to have your 
 wound look'd to. 
 Pray, lean on me. 
 
 Sar. Yes, love ! but not from pain. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I. — Sardanapalus discovered sleep- 
 ing upon a Couch, and occasionally 
 disturbed in his slumbers, with Myrrha 
 watching. 
 
 Myr. (sola, gazing). I have stolen upon 
 
 his rest, if rest it be. 
 Which thus convulses slumber ; shall I 
 
 wake him ? 
 No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of 
 
 Quiet ! 
 Whose reign is o'er sealed eyelids and soft 
 
 dreams, 
 Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be uu- 
 
 fathom'd. 
 Look like thy brother. Death, — so still, so 
 
 stirless — 
 For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
 Are happiest of all within the realm 
 Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twin. 
 
 Again he moves — again the play of pain 
 Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
 Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
 Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the 
 
 blast 
 Ruffles the autumn lea\'es, that drooping 
 
 cling 
 Faintly and motionless to their loved 
 
 boughs. 
 I must awake him — yet not yet ; who 
 
 knows 
 From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; 
 
 but if 
 I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
 Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
 His wound, though slight, may cause all 
 
 this, and shake 
 Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
 Let Nature use her own maternal means, 
 And I await to second, not dist urb her. 
 Sar. (awakening). Not so — although ye 
 
 multiplied the stars. 
 And gave them to me as a realm to share 
 From you and with you ! I would not so 
 
 purchase 
 The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
 Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye. 
 Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes ! 
 Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier 
 
 idols. 
 If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly 
 
 beldame ! 
 Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling 
 
 on 
 The carcasses of Inde — away ! away ! 
 Where am I ? Where the spectres ? 
 
 Where No— that 
 
 Is no false phantom : I should know it 
 
 'midst 
 All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
 From their black gulf to daunt the living. 
 
 Myrrha ! 
 Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy 
 
 brow the drops 
 Gather like night dew. My beloved, 
 
 hush — 
 Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another 
 
 world. 
 And thou art lord of this. Be of good 
 
 cheer ; * 
 
 All will go well. 
 
 Sar. Thy hand — so — 't is thy hand ; 
 'T is flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I 
 
 feel 
 Myself that which I was. 
 
 Myr. At least know me 
 
 For what I am, and ever must be — thine, 
 
 Sar. I know it now. I know this life 
 
 again. 
 Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall 
 
 be. 
 Myr. My lord ! 
 Sar. I've been i' the grave — where 
 
 worms are lords. 
 
444 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 
 
 I thought 't was nothing. 
 
 Myi'. So it is ; except 
 
 Unto the timid, who anticipate 
 That which may never be. 
 
 Sac. Oh, Myrrha ! if 
 
 Sleep shows such things, what may not 
 
 death disclose ? 
 Myr. I know no evil death can show, 
 
 which life 
 Has not already shown to those who live 
 Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
 A shore where mind survives, 't will be as 
 
 mind. 
 All unincorporate : or if there l!it^ 
 A shadow of this cumbrous clog of ciay. 
 Which stalks, methinks, between our souls 
 
 and heaven, 
 And fetters us to earth — at least the 
 
 phantom, 
 Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear 
 
 death. 
 Say. I fear it not ; but I have felt — have 
 
 seen — 
 A legion of the dead. 
 
 Myr. And so have I. 
 
 The dust we ttead upon was once alive. 
 And wretched. But proceed : what hast 
 
 thou seen ? 
 Speak it, 't will lighten thy dimm'd mind. 
 
 Sar. Methought 
 
 Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain 
 
 — exhausted ; all 
 Which can impair both strength and spirit : 
 
 seek 
 Rather to sleep again. 
 
 Sar. Not now — I would not 
 
 Dream ; though I know it now to be a 
 
 dream 
 What I have dreamt : — and canst thou 
 
 bear to hear it ? 
 Myr. I can bear all things, dreams of 
 
 life or death. 
 Which I participate with you in semblance 
 Or full reality. 
 
 Sar. And this look'd real, 
 
 I tell you ; after that these eyes were open, 
 I saw them in their flight — for then they 
 
 fled. 
 Myr. Say on. 
 
 Sar. I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 
 Here — here — even where we are, guests as 
 
 we were. 
 Myself a host that deem'd himself but 
 
 guest, 
 Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
 But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
 Of thee and Zames, and our custom'd meet- 
 ing. 
 Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, 
 
 dark, i 
 
 And deadly face ; I could not recognise it, 
 Yet I had seen it, though I knew not | 
 
 where : 
 
 The features w-ere a giant's, and the eye 
 Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd 
 
 down 
 On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver 
 
 rose 
 With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's 
 
 wing. 
 That peep'd up bristling through his 
 
 serpent hair. 
 I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
 Between us, but he answer'd not ; I fiird 
 
 it ; 
 He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
 I trembled at the fixed glare of his eye : 
 I frown'd upon him as a king should frown ; 
 He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon 
 
 me 
 With the same aspect, which appall'd me 
 
 more. 
 Because it changed not ; and I tum'd for 
 
 refuge 
 To milder guests, and sought them on the 
 
 right. 
 
 Where thou wert wont to be. But 
 
 [He pauses. - 
 Myr. What instead ? 
 
 Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place 
 
 in the banquet — 
 I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
 Instead — a grey-hair'd, wither'd, bloody- 
 eyed. 
 And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing. 
 Female in garb, and cro^\Ti'd upon the 
 
 hro'.v. 
 Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the 
 
 passicn 
 Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
 Sate ; — my veins curdled. 
 
 -Vvf. Is this all ? 
 
 Sar. Upon 
 
 Her right hand — her lank, bird-like, right 
 
 hand — stood 
 A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
 Her left, another, fill'd with — what I saw 
 
 not. 
 But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
 The table sate a range of crowned wretches. 
 Of various aspects, but of one expression. 
 Myr. And felt you not this a mere 
 
 vision ? 
 Sar. No : 
 
 It was so palpable, I could have touch'd 
 
 them. 
 I turn'd from one face to another, in 
 The hope to find at last one which I knew 
 Ere I saw theirs : but no — all tum'd upon 
 
 me, 
 And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but 
 
 stared. 
 Till I grew stone, as they seem'd halt to be, 
 ; 'St breathing stone, for I felt life in them, 
 Ami life in me : there was a horrid kind 
 Ut sympathy between us, as if they 
 Had lost a part of death to come to me 
 
SARD AN AP ALUS. 
 
 445 
 
 And I the half of life to sit by them. 
 
 We were in an existence all apart 
 
 From heaven or earth — And rather let me 
 
 see 
 Death all than such a being ! 
 
 Myr. And the end ? 
 
 Sar. At last I sate, marble, as they, 
 
 when rose 
 The hunter and the crone ; and smil ing on 
 
 me — 
 Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
 The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
 His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the 
 
 woman's 
 Thin lips relax'd to something like a smile. 
 Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each 
 
 hand 
 Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
 Mere mimics even in death — but I sate 
 
 still : 
 A desperate courage crept through every 
 
 limb. 
 And at the last I fear'd'them not, but 
 
 laugh'd 
 Full in their phantom faces. But then — 
 
 then 
 The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it, 
 And grasp'd it — but it melted from my 
 
 own ; 
 While he too vanish' d, and left nothing 
 
 but 
 The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 
 Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, 
 
 too, 
 And thine no less. 
 
 Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman. 
 
 The female who remain'd, she flew upon 
 
 me. 
 And burnt my lips up with her noisome 
 
 kisses ; 
 And, flinging down the goblets on each 
 
 hand, 
 Methought their poisons flow'd around us, 
 
 till 
 Each form'd a hideous river. Still she 
 
 clung ; 
 The other phantoms, like a row of statues. 
 Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
 Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as 
 
 if, 
 In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
 Had been the son who slew her for her 
 
 incest. 
 Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome 
 
 things 
 Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, 
 
 yet feeling — 
 Buried, and raised again— consumed by 
 
 worms, . 
 
 Purged by the flames, and wither d m the 
 
 air ! 
 I can fix nothing further of my thoughts. 
 Save that I longed for thee, and sought for 
 
 thee, 
 
 In all these agonies, — and woke and found 
 thee. 
 Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy 
 side, 
 Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
 But think not of these things — the mere 
 
 creations 
 Of late events, acting upon a frame 
 Unused to toil, yet over-wrought by toil 
 Such as might try the sternest. 
 
 Sar. I am better. 
 
 Now that I see thee once more, what \\»as 
 
 seen 
 Seems nothing. 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 Sal. Is the king so soon awake ? 
 
 Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not 
 slept : 
 For all the predecessors of our line 
 Rose up, methought, to drag me down to 
 
 them. 
 My father was amongst them, too ; but he, 
 I know not why, kept from me, lea\'ing me 
 Between the hunter-founder of our racp. 
 And her, the homicide and husband-kill';r. 
 Whom you call glorious. 
 
 Sal. So I term 3'ou also. 
 
 Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
 By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
 And charge once more the rebel crew, who 
 
 still 
 Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not 
 quite quell'd. 
 Sar. How wears the night ? 
 Sal. There yet remain some hours 
 
 Of darkness : use them for your further 
 rest. 
 Sar. No, not to-night, if 't is not gone ; 
 methought 
 I pass'd hours in that vision. 
 
 Myr. Scarcely one ; 
 
 I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour, 
 But an hour only. 
 
 Sar. Let us then hold council ; 
 
 To-morrow we set forth. 
 
 Sal. But ere that time, 
 
 I had a grace to seek. 
 
 Sar. 'T is granted. 
 
 Sal. Hear it 
 
 Ere you reply too readily ; and 't is 
 For vour ear only. 
 
 Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 
 
 [Exit Myrrha. 
 Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 
 Sar. Freedom only ! 
 
 That slave deserves to share a throne. 
 
 Sal. Your patience — 
 
 'T is not yet vacant, and 't is of its partner 
 I come to speak with you. 
 
 Sar. How ! of the queen ? 
 
 Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for 
 their safety. 
 That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her 
 children 
 
446 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
 Governs ; and there at all events secure 
 My nephews and your sons their lives, and 
 
 with them 
 Their just pretensions to the crown in 
 
 case 
 
 Sar. I perish — as is probable : well 
 thought — 
 Let them set forth with a sure escort, 
 
 Sal. That 
 
 Is all provided, and the galley ready 
 To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
 
 Depart, will you not see 
 
 Sar. My sons ? It may 
 
 Unman my heart, and the poor boys will 
 
 weep ; 
 And what can I rgply to comfort them. 
 Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn 
 
 smiles ? 
 You know I cannot feign. 
 
 Sal. But you can feel! 
 
 At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
 Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 
 Sar. Unto what end ? what purpose ? 
 I will grant 
 Aught — all that she can ask — ^but such a 
 meeting. 
 Sal. You know, or ought to know, 
 enough of women. 
 Since you have studied them so steadily. 
 That what they ask in aught that touches 
 
 on 
 The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
 Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
 I think as 3'ou do of my sister's wish ; 
 But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
 Her husband — will you grant it ? 
 
 Sar. 'T will be useless : 
 
 But let her come. 
 
 Sal. I go. 
 
 [Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. We have lived asunder 
 
 Too long to meet again — and riow to meet ! 
 
 Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
 
 To bear alone, that we must mingle 
 
 sorrows. 
 Who have ceased to mingle love ? 
 Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 
 Sal. My sister ! Courage : 
 
 Shame not our blood with trembling, but 
 
 remember 
 From whence we sprung. The queen is 
 present, sire. 
 Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 
 Sal. Since you ask it. 
 
 [Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Zar. Alone with him ! How many a 
 
 year has pass'd. 
 Though we are still so young, since we have 
 
 met, 
 Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
 He loved me not : yet he seems little 
 
 changed — 
 
 Changed to me only — ^would the change 
 
 were mutual ! 
 He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a 
 
 word. 
 Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and 
 
 aspect. 
 Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 
 Sar. Zarina ! 
 
 Zar. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
 That tone — that word — annihilate long 
 
 years. 
 And things which make them longer. 
 
 Sar. 'T is too late 
 
 To think of these past dreams. Let 's not 
 
 reproach — 
 That is, reproach me not-^for the last 
 
 time 
 
 Zar. And first. I ne'er reproach'd you. 
 Sar. 'T is most true ; 
 
 And that reproof comes heavier on my 
 heart 
 
 Than But our hearts are not in our 
 
 own powerT 
 Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 
 Sar. Your brother said 
 
 It was your will to see me, ere you went 
 
 From Nineveh with (He hesitates). 
 
 Zar. Our children : it is true. 
 
 I wish'd to thank you that you have not 
 
 divided 
 My heart from all that 's left it now to 
 
 love — 
 Those who are yours and mine, who look 
 
 like you. 
 And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
 
 Once But they have not changed. 
 
 Sar. Nor ever will. 
 
 I fain would have them dutiful. 
 
 Zar. I cherish 
 
 Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
 Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
 They are now the only tie between us. 
 
 Sar. Deem not 
 
 I have not done you justice : rather make 
 
 them 
 Resemble 3'our own line than their own 
 
 sire. 
 I trust them with you — to you : fit them 
 for 
 
 A throne, or, if that be denied You 
 
 have heard 
 Of this night's tumults ? 
 
 Zar. I had half forgotten. 
 
 And could have welcomed any grief save 
 
 yours. 
 Which gave me to behold your face again. 
 Sar. The throne — I say it not in fear — 
 but 't is 
 In peril : they perhaps may never mount it ; 
 But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
 I will dare all things to bequeath it them ; 
 But if I fail, then they must win it back 
 Br.i\cly — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
 Have wasted do^™ my royalty. 
 
feARt)ANAPALUS 
 
 447 
 
 Zuf. They ne'er 
 
 Shall know from me of aught but what 
 
 may honour 
 Their father's memory. 
 
 Sar. Rather let them hear 
 
 The truth from you than from a trampling 
 
 world. 
 If they be in adversity, they '11 learn 
 Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownlcss 
 
 princes, 
 And find that all their father's sins are 
 
 theirs. 
 My boys ! — I could have borne it were I 
 childless. 
 Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison 
 all 
 My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
 A father. If thou conquercst, they shall 
 
 reign. 
 And honoiu: him who saved the realm for 
 them. 
 
 So little cared for as his o^vn ; and if 
 
 Sar. ' T is lost, all earth will cry out, 
 
 thank your father ! 
 
 And they will swell the echo with a curse. 
 
 Zar. That they shall never do ; but 
 
 rather honoiu: 
 
 The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
 
 In his last hoiurs did more for his own 
 
 memory 
 Than many monarchs in a length of days, 
 Which date the flight of time, but make no 
 annals. 
 Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto 
 their close ; 
 But at the least, whate'er the past, their 
 
 end 
 Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 
 Zar. Yet be not rash — be careful of your 
 life, 
 Live but for those who love. 
 
 Sar. And who are they ? 
 
 A slave, who loves from passion — I '11 not 
 
 say 
 Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, 
 
 and loves ; 
 A few friends who have revell'd till we are 
 As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
 A brother I have injured — children whom 
 
 I have neglected and a spouse 
 
 2ar. Who loves. 
 
 Sar. And pardons ? 
 
 Zar. I have never thought of this. 
 
 And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 
 Sar. My wife ! 
 
 Zar. Now blessings on thee for 
 
 that word ! 
 
 I never thought to hear it more— from thee. 
 
 Sar. Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my 
 
 subjects. Yes — 
 
 These slaves whom I have nurtured, pam- 
 
 per'd, fed. 
 And swoln with peace, and gorged with 
 plenty, till 
 
 They reign themselves — all monarchs in 
 
 their mansions — 
 Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
 His death, who made their lives a jubilee ; 
 While the few upon whom I have no claim 
 Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 
 
 Zar. 'T is 
 
 Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
 Tui-n poison in bad minds. 
 
 Sar. And good ones make 
 
 Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, , 
 Which hives not but from wholesome 
 
 flowers. 
 Zar. Then reap 
 
 The honey, nor inquire whence 'tisderivcd. 
 Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd 
 Sar. My life insures me that. How long, 
 
 bethink you. 
 Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 
 That is, where mortals are, not where they 
 
 must be ? 
 Zar. I know not. But yet live for my — 
 
 that is, 
 Your children's sake I 
 
 Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 
 
 I am the very slave of circumstance 
 And impulse — borne away with every 
 
 breath ! 
 Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in 
 
 life. 
 I know not what I could have been, but feel 
 I am not what I should be — let it end. 
 But take this with thee : if I was not 
 
 form'd 
 To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine. 
 Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I 've 
 
 doted 
 On lesser charms, for no cause save that 
 
 such 
 Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
 All that look'd like a chain for me or 
 
 others 
 {This even rebellion must avouch) ; yet 
 
 hear 
 These words, perhaps among my last — 
 
 that none 
 E'er valued more thy virtues, though he 
 
 knew not 
 To profit by them — as the miner lights 
 Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
 That which avails him nothing : he hath 
 
 found it. 
 But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
 Placed him to dig, but not divide the 
 
 wealth 
 Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
 Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturn- 
 ing 
 The sullen earth. 
 
 Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 
 
 Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
 I ask no more — but let us hence together, 
 And 7 — let me sav we — shall vet be happy. 
 Assyria is not all the «arth— we '11 find 
 
448 
 
 'DRAMAS 
 
 A world out of our own — and be more 
 
 bless'd 
 Than I have ever been; or thou, v/ith all 
 An empire to indulge thee. 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. I must part ye — 
 
 The moments, which must not be lost, are 
 passing. 
 Zar. Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus 
 ' weigh out 
 
 Instants so high and blest ? 
 Sat. Blest ! 
 
 2ar. He hath been 
 
 So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
 Of quitting. 
 
 Sal. So — this feminine farewell 
 
 Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
 I thought as much, and yielded against all 
 -AIv better bodings. But it must not be. 
 Zar. Not be ? 
 
 Sal. Remain, and perish 
 
 Zar. With my husband 
 
 Sal. And children. 
 Zar. Alas ! 
 
 Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
 
 My sister : — all 's prepared to make vour 
 
 safety 
 Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes; 
 'T is not a single question of mere feeling, 
 Though that were much — but 't is a point 
 
 of state : 
 The rebels would do more to seize upon 
 The offspring of their sovereign, and so 
 
 crush 
 
 Zar. Ah ! do name it. 
 Sa. Well, then, mark me : when 
 
 They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, 
 
 the rebels 
 Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinc- 
 tion of 
 The Une of Nimrod. Though the present 
 
 king 
 Fall, his sons live for victory and venge- 
 ance. 
 Zar. But could not I rtmain, alone ? 
 Sal. What ! leave 
 
 Your children, with two parents and vet 
 
 orphans — 
 In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 
 Zar. No— 
 
 My heart will break. 
 Sal. Now you know all — decide. 
 
 Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
 Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
 Remaining hsn 
 
 parting, 
 You save the better part of what is left. 
 To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
 As yet beat in these kingdoms. 
 Sal. The time presses 
 
 Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, 
 perhaps 
 I may be worthier of you — and, if not. 
 
 Nay, sister, 
 
 you shall 
 
 live alone ? 
 but lonely 
 
 Remember that my faults, though not 
 
 atoned for. 
 Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
 Grieve more about the blighted name and 
 
 ashes 
 Which once were mightiest in Assyria — 
 
 than 
 
 But I grow womanish again, and must nut ; 
 I must learn sternness now. Mv sins have 
 all 
 
 Been of the softer order hide thy tears-^ 
 
 I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
 Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
 Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
 But let me not behold them ; they unman 
 
 me 
 Here when I had remann'd myself. .My 
 
 brother 
 Lead her awav. 
 
 Zar. Oh, God ! I never shall 
 
 Behold him more ! 
 
 Sal. (striving to conduct her) . 
 
 I must be obey'd. 
 Zar. I must remain — away 
 not hold me. 
 What, shall he die alone ? — / : 
 Sal. He shall not die alone ; 
 you 
 Have lived for years. 
 
 Zar. That's fale ! I knew he lived. 
 And lived upon his image — let me go ! 
 5a;. (conducting her off the stage). Nav. 
 then, I must use some fraternal force. 
 Which you will pardon. 
 
 ^"r. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 
 
 Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
 Torn from thee ? 
 
 Sal. Hay — then all is lost again, 
 
 If that this moment is not gain'd. 
 
 '^"''- - Mv brain turns — - 
 
 My eyes fail — where is he ? 
 
 . [She taints. 
 
 Sar. (advancing). No — set her down : 
 She's dead — and you have slain her. 
 
 •?"'■ 'T is the mere 
 
 t-amtness ot o'erwTought passion: in the 
 
 air 
 She will recover. Prav, keep back.^ 
 
 [Aside.] I must 
 Avail m>-self of this sole moment to 
 Bear her to where her children are em- 
 
 bark'd, 
 I' the ro\'al galley on the ri\-er. 
 
 [Salemexes bears her off. 
 Sar. (solus). This ton— 
 
 you may lose all ; de- : And this too must I suffer— I, w^ho nev^ 
 Inflicted purposelv on human hearts 
 A \-oluntary pang ! But that is false- 
 She loved me, and I lo\-ed her.- 
 
 passion ! 
 \Vhy dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
 "'-■"■- thou hast lighted up at once? 
 
 -Fatal 
 
 Which 
 
 Zarina ! 
 I niust pay dearly for the desolation 
 
SARPANAPALUS 
 
 449 
 
 unop- 
 
 Now brought upon thee. Had I never 
 
 loved 
 But thee, I should have been an 
 
 posed 
 Monarch of honouring nations. To what 
 
 gulfs 
 A single deviation from the track 
 Of human duties leads even those who 
 
 claim 
 The homage of mankind as their born due, 
 And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 
 Enter Myrrha. 
 Sar. You here ! Who call'd you ? 
 Myf. No one — but I heard 
 
 Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
 
 And thought 
 
 Sar. It forms no portion of 
 
 your duties 
 To enter here till sought for. 
 
 Myr. Though I might, 
 
 Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours 
 (Although they too were chiding), which re- 
 proved me, 
 Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
 Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
 To heed no time nor presence, but ap- 
 proach you 
 Uncall'd for : — I retire. 
 
 Sar. Yet stay — being here. 
 
 I pray you pardon me : events have soured 
 
 me 
 Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
 Soon be myself again. 
 
 Myr. I wait with patience, 
 
 What I shall see with pleasure. 
 
 Sar. Scarce a moment 
 
 Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
 Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 
 Myr. Ah ! 
 
 Sar. Wherefore do you start ? 
 
 Myr. Did I do so ? 
 
 Sar. 'Twas well you enter'd by another 
 portal, 
 Else you had met. That pang at least is 
 spared her ! 
 Myr. I know to feel for her. 
 Sar. That is too much. 
 
 And beyond nature — ' t is nor mutual 
 Nor possible. You cannot pity her. 
 
 Nor she aught but 
 
 Myr. Despise the favourite slave ? 
 
 Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 
 
 Sar. Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of 
 
 your sex, 
 
 And lord it o'er the heart of the world's 
 
 lord? 
 Myr. Were you 'the lord of twice ten 
 
 thousand worlds — 
 As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
 I did abase myself as much in being 
 Your paramoiu:, as though you were a 
 
 peasant — 
 Nay, more, if that the peasant were a 
 
 Greek. 
 
 Sar. You talk it well 
 
 ^^y- Ancl truly. 
 
 nc ''' , In 'he hour 
 
 Ut man s adversity all things grow daring 
 .A.gamst the falling ; but as I am not 
 Quite fall'n, nor now disposed to bear re- 
 proaches. 
 Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
 Let us then part while peace is still between 
 us. 
 Myr. Part ! 
 
 Sar. Have not all past human beings 
 parted, 
 And must not all the present one day Dart ' 
 Myr. Why ? ^ f ■ 
 
 Sar. For your safety, which I will 
 have look'd to. 
 With a strong escort to your native land ; 
 And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
 A queen, shall make your dowry worth a 
 kingdom. 
 Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 
 Sar. The queen is gone : 
 
 You need not shame to follow. I would 
 
 fall 
 Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 
 Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting 
 not. 
 You shall not force me from you. 
 
 Sar. Think well of it — 
 
 It soon may be too late. 
 
 Myr. So let it be ; 
 
 For then you cannot separate me from you . 
 Sar. And will not ; but I thought you 
 
 wish'd it. 
 Myr. I ! 
 
 Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 
 Myr. And I feel . it 
 
 Deeply — more deeply than all things but 
 love. 
 Sar. Then fly from it. 
 Myr. 'T will not recall the past — 
 
 'T will not restore my honour, nor my 
 
 heart. 
 No — here I stand or fall. If that you con- 
 quer, 
 I live to joy in your great triumph : should 
 Your lot be different, I '11 not weep, but 
 
 share it. 
 You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 
 Sar. Your courage never — nor your love 
 till now ; 
 And none could make me doubt it save 
 yourself. 
 
 Those words 
 
 Myr. Were words. I pray you, let 
 the proofs [praise 
 
 Be in the past acts you were pleased to 
 This very night, and in my further bearing. 
 Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 
 Sar. I am content : and, trusting in ray 
 cause. 
 Think we may yet be victors and return 
 To peace — the only victory I covet. 
 
450 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 To me war is no glory — conquest no 
 Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my 
 
 right 
 Sits heavier on my heart than all the 
 
 wrongs 
 These men would bow me down with. 
 
 Never, never 
 Can I forget this night, even should I live 
 To add it to the memory of others. 
 I thought to have made mine inoffensive 
 
 rule 
 An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
 A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
 On which the future would turn back and 
 
 smile. 
 And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
 Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
 I thought to have made my realm a para- 
 
 • dise, 
 And everymoon an epoch of new pleasures. 
 I took the rabble's shouts for love — the 
 
 breath 
 
 Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
 
 My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha : 
 
 [He kisses hey . 
 
 Kiss me. Now let them take my realm 
 
 and life ! 
 They shall have both, but never thee ! 
 
 Myr. No, never ! 
 
 Man may despoil his brother man of all 
 That 's great or glittering — kingdoms fall, 
 
 hosts yield. 
 Friends fail, slaves fly, and all betray — 
 
 and, more 
 Than all, the most indebted — ^but a heart 
 That lo%-es without self-love I 'T is here — 
 
 now prove it. 
 
 Enlcf Salemekes. 
 
 Sal. I sought you — How ! she here 
 again ? 
 
 Say. Return not 
 
 A'niii to reproof : methinks your aspect 
 
 speaks 
 Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 
 
 Sal. The only 'ivoman whom it much im- 
 ports me 
 At such a moment now is safe in absence— 
 The queen' s embark'd. 
 
 Say. And well ? say that much. 
 
 Sal. Yes. 
 
 Her transient wealaiess has pass'd o'er ; 
 
 at least. 
 It settled into tearless silence : her 
 Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
 Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
 Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
 Stole down the hurrying stream beneath 
 
 the starlight ; 
 But she said nothing. 
 
 Say. Would I felt no more 
 
 Than she has said ! 
 
 Sal. 'T is now too late to feel. 
 
 Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
 
 To change them, my advices bring sure 
 
 tidings 
 That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees. 
 
 marshall'd 
 By their two leaders, are already up 
 In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
 Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
 Been join'd by other satraps. 
 
 Say. What ! more rebels ? 
 
 Let us be first, then. 
 
 Sal. That were hardly prudent 
 
 Xow, though it was our first intention. If 
 By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
 I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall 
 
 be 
 In strength enough to venture an attack, 
 Ay, and pursuit too ; but, till then, my 
 
 voice 
 Is to await the onset. 
 
 Sar. I detest 
 
 That waiting ; though it seems so safe to 
 
 fight 
 Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
 Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on 
 
 spikes 
 Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
 My soul seems lukewarm ; but when 1 set 
 
 on them, 
 Though they were piled on mountains, I 
 
 would have 
 A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
 Let me then charge. 
 
 Sal. You talk like a young 
 
 soldier. 
 Sar. I am no soldier, but a man ; speak 
 
 not 
 01 soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
 ^^"ho pride themselves upon it ; but direct 
 
 me 
 \Vhere I may pour upon them. 
 
 Sal. You must spare 
 
 To expose your life too hastily ; 't is not 
 Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
 The whole war turns upon it — with it ; 
 
 this 
 Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench 
 
 it — 
 Prolong it — end it. 
 
 Say. Then let us end both ! 
 
 'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong 
 
 either ; 
 I 'm sick of one, perchance of both. 
 
 [A trumpet sounds witlwut. 
 Sal. Hark ! 
 
 Sar. Let us 
 
 Reply, not listen. 
 
 Sal. And yom: wound ! 
 
 , ■^■'»'- T is bound— 
 
 T IS heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away ! 
 A leech's lancet would' have scratch'j'me 
 
 deeper ; 
 The sla\e that gave it might well be 
 
 ashamed 
 To have struck so weakly. 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 451 
 
 Sal. Now, may none this hour 
 
 Strike with a better aim ! 
 
 Sar. Ay, if we conquer ; 
 
 But if not, they will only leave to me 
 A task they might have spared their king. 
 Upon them ! 
 
 [Trumpet sounds again. 
 Sal. I am with you. 
 Sar. Ho, my arms ! again, 
 
 my arms ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I. — The same Hall in the Palace. 
 
 Myrrha and Balea. 
 
 Myy. (at a window). The day at last has 
 broken. What a night 
 Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in 
 
 heaven ! 
 Though varied with a transitory storm. 
 More beautiful in that variety ! 
 How hideous upon earth ! where peace and 
 
 hope. 
 And love and revel, in an hour were tram- 
 pled 
 By human passions to a human chaos. 
 Not yet resolved to separate elements — 
 'T is warring still ! And can the sun so rise, 
 So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
 Vapours more lovely than the unclouded 
 
 sky, 
 With golden pinnacles, and sno^iy moun- 
 tains, 
 And billows purpler than the ocean's, mak- 
 ing 
 In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
 So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
 So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
 Beyond a vision, 't is so transiently 
 Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
 It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the 
 
 soul. 
 And blends itself into the soul, until 
 Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
 Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark 
 
 not, 
 Know not the realms where those twin genii 
 . (Who chasten and who purify oiu: hearts. 
 So that we would not change their sweet 
 
 rebukes 
 For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
 The air with clamour) build the palaces 
 Where their fond votaries repose and 
 
 breathe 
 Briefly ; — ^but in that brief cool calm m- 
 
 hale 
 Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
 The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
 And dream them through in placid suffer- 
 ance 
 Though seemingly employ'd like all the 
 
 rest 
 Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
 
 Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feel- 
 
 .ing. 
 Which our internal, restless agony 
 Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
 Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 
 Bal. You muse right calmly : and 'can 
 you so watch 
 The sunrise which may be our last ? 
 
 Myr. It i^ 
 
 Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
 Those eyes, which never may behold it 
 
 more. 
 For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
 Without the reverence and the rapture due 
 To that which keeps all earth from being as 
 
 fragile 
 As I am in this form. Come, look upon it. 
 The Chaldee's god which, when I gaze upon 
 I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 
 Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once 
 on earth 
 He sway'd. 
 
 Myr. He sways it now far more, 
 
 then ; never 
 Had earthly monarch half the power and 
 
 glory 
 Which centres in a single ray of his. 
 Bal. Surely he is a god ! 
 ilyr. So we Greeks deem too ; 
 
 And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous 
 
 orb 
 Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
 Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he 
 
 breaks 
 Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes 
 
 with light 
 That shuts the world out. I can look no 
 more. 
 Bal. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 
 Myr. No, 't was mere fancy ; 
 
 They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
 As in late midnight (%nflict. in the very 
 Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
 Since that insidious hour ; and here, with- 
 in 
 The \'ery centre, girded by vast courts 
 And regal halls of pyramid proportions. 
 Which must be carried one by one before 
 They penetrate to where they then arrived. 
 We are as much shut in even from the sound 
 Of peril as from glory. 
 
 Bal. But they reach'd 
 
 Thus far before. 
 
 Myr. Ves. by surprise, and were 
 
 Beat back by valour: now at once we have 
 Courage and vigilance to guard us. 
 
 Bal. May they 
 
 Prosper ' 
 
 il/iT. That is the priyer of many, and 
 The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
 I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas I 
 How vainly ! 
 
 Bal. It is said the king's demeanour 
 
 In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
 
452 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 The rebels than astonish'd his true sub- 
 jects. 
 Myr. 'T is easy to astonish or appal 
 The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of 
 
 slaves ; 
 But he did bravely, 
 
 Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 
 
 I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 
 
 Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but 
 
 rescued to 
 
 Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd 
 
 him 
 In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
 And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 
 Bal. Hark ! 
 
 Myr. Yon are right ; some steps ap- 
 proach, but slowly. 
 
 Enter Soldiers, bearing in Saleme>:es 
 wounded, with a broken javelin in his 
 side : thev seat him upon one of the 
 couches which furnish the Apartment. 
 
 Myr. Oh, Jove ! 
 
 Bal. Then all is over. 
 
 Sal. That is false. 
 
 Hew down the slave who says so, if a sol- 
 dier. 
 Myr. Spare him — he's none : a mere 
 court butterfly, 
 That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 
 Sal. Let him live on, then. 
 Myr. So wilt thou, I trust. 
 
 Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and 
 the event. 
 But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me 
 here ? 
 Sol. By the king's order. When the 
 javelin struck you. 
 You fell and fainted : 't was his strict com- 
 mand 
 To bear you to this hall. 
 Sal. , • 'Twas not ill done : 
 
 For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
 The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 
 
 't is vain, 
 I feel it ebbing ! 
 
 Myr. Let me see the wound ; 
 
 I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
 'T is part of our instruction. War being 
 
 constant. 
 We are nerved to look on such things. 
 
 Sal. Best extract 
 
 The javelin. 
 
 Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 
 
 Sal. I am sped, then ! 
 Myr. With the blood that fast 
 
 must follow 
 The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 
 Sal. And I not death. Where was the 
 king when you 
 Convey'd me from the spot where I was 
 stricken ? 
 Sal. Upon the same ground, and encour- 
 aging 
 
 With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
 Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 
 Sal. Whom heard ye 
 
 Named next to the command ? 
 Sol. I did not hear. 
 
 Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 't was my 
 last request 
 That Zames take my post until the junc- 
 tion. 
 So hoped for. yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
 Satrap of Susa. Lea\e me here : our 
 
 troops 
 Are not so numerous as to spare your 
 absence. 
 
 Sol. But prince 
 
 Sal. Hence, I say ! Here 's 
 
 a courtier and 
 A woman, the best chamber company. 
 As you would not permit me to expire 
 Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
 About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my 
 bidding ! 
 
 [Exeunt the Soldiers. 
 Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must 
 the earth 
 So soon resign thee ? 
 
 Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 't is 
 
 The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
 The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
 As 't is, I have not outlived them. 
 
 Myr. You wax paler. 
 
 Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon 
 but prolongs 
 My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
 To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
 And my life with it, could I but hear how 
 The fight goes. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 
 
 Sar. My best brother ! 
 
 Sal. And the battle 
 
 Is lost ? 
 
 Sar. (despondingly) . You see me here. 
 
 Sal. I 'd rather see you thus ! 
 
 [He draws out the weapon from the 
 wound, and dies : 
 
 Sar. And thus I will be seen ; unless the 
 succour. 
 The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes. 
 Arrive with Ofratanes. 
 
 Myr. Did you not 
 
 Receive a token from your dying brother, 
 Appointing Zames chief ? 
 
 Sar. I did. 
 
 Myr. Where 's Zames ? 
 
 Sar. Dead. 
 
 Mvr. And Altada ? 
 
 Sar. Dving. 
 
 My- Pania ? Sfero ? 
 
 Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero 's fled 
 or captive. 
 I am alone. 
 
 Myr. And is all lost ? 
 
 -'""■ Our walls. 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 453 
 
 Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out 
 
 against 
 Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
 
 But i' the field 
 
 Myr I thought 't was the intent 
 
 Of Salemenes not to risk a saily 
 Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected 
 suftcours. 
 Sar. I over-ruled him. 
 Myr. Well, the fault's a brave one. 
 
 Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I 
 would give 
 These realms, of which thou wert the orna- 
 ment. 
 The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming 
 honour, 
 
 To call back But I will not weep for 
 
 thee ; 
 Thou Shalt be mourn'd for as thou would^t 
 
 be mourn'd. 
 It grieves me most that thou couldst quit 
 
 this life 
 Believing that I could survive what thou 
 Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 
 If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
 Of thousands, tears of millions, for atone- 
 ment 
 (The tears of all the good are thine already). 
 If not, we meet again soon, — if the spirit 
 Within us lives beyond : — thou readest 
 
 mine. 
 And dost me justice now. Let me once 
 
 clasp 
 That yet warm hand, and fold that throb- 
 less heart 
 
 [Embraces the body. 
 To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
 The body hence. 
 Soldier. Where ? 
 Sar. To my proper chamber. 
 
 Place it beneath ray canopy, as though 
 The king lay there : when this is done, we 
 
 will 
 Speak further of the rites due to such 
 ashes. 
 
 [Exeunt Soldiers withthe body of Sale- 
 menes 
 
 Enter Pani.v. 
 Sar. Well, Pania ! have you placed the 
 guards, and issued 
 The orders fl.x'd on ? 
 
 Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 
 
 Sar. And do the soldiers keep ther 
 
 hearts up ? 
 Pan. Sire ? 
 
 Sar. I'm answer'd ! When a king asks 
 twice, and has 
 A question as an answer to his question, 
 It is a portent. What ! they are dis- 
 hearten'd ? 
 Paw. The death of Salemenes, and the 
 shouts 
 Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
 Have made them 
 
 Sar. Rage — not droop — it should ha-\'i' 
 been. 
 We '11 find the means to rouse them. 
 
 Pan. Such a loss 
 
 Might sadden even a victory. 
 
 Sar. Alas ! 
 
 Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
 Though coop'd within these walls, they are 
 
 strong, and we 
 Ha\'e those without will break their way 
 
 through hosts. 
 To make their sovereign's dwelling what it 
 
 was — 
 A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 
 Enter an Officer hastily. 
 Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 
 Offi. I dare not. 
 
 Sar. Dare not ? 
 
 While millions dare revolt with sword in 
 
 hand ! 
 That's strange. I pray thee break that 
 
 loyal silence 
 Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we 
 
 can hear 
 Worse than thou hast to tell. 
 
 Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 
 
 Offi. The wall which skirted near the 
 
 river's brink 
 
 Is thrown dcATi by the sudden inundation 
 
 Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 
 
 From the enormous mountains where it 
 
 , rises. 
 By the late rains of that tempestuous 
 
 region, 
 O'erflocds its banks, and hath destroy'd 
 the bulwark. 
 Pan. That's a black augury ! it has been 
 said 
 For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
 " To man, until the river grew its foe." 
 Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the 
 ravage. 
 How much is swept down of the wall ? 
 
 Offi. About 
 
 Some twenty stadia. 
 
 Sar. And all this is left 
 
 Pervious to the assailants ? 
 
 Off^. For the present 
 
 The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
 But when he shrinks into his wonted chan- 
 nel. 
 And may be cross'd by the accustom'd 
 
 barks. 
 The palace is their own. 
 
 Sar. That shall be never. 
 
 Though men, and gods, and elements, and 
 
 omens. 
 Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er pro- 
 voked them, 
 My father's house shall never be a cave 
 For wolves to horde and howl in. 
 
 Pan. With your sanction, 
 
 I will proceed to the spot, and take such 
 measures 
 
454 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 For the assurance of the vacant space 
 As time and means permit. 
 
 Sar. About it straight, 
 
 And bring me back, as speedily as full 
 And fair investigation may permit, 
 Report of the true state of this irruption 
 Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer, 
 
 Myr. Thus the very waves rise up 
 Against you. 
 
 Sar. They are not my subjects, girl. 
 
 And may be pardon'd, since they can't be 
 punish'd. 
 Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you 
 
 not. 
 Sar. I am past the fear of portents : 
 they can tell me 
 Nothing I have not told myself since mid- 
 night : 
 Despair anticipates such things. 
 
 Myr. Despair ! 
 
 Sar, No ; not despair precisely. When 
 we know 
 All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
 Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
 Word than this is to give it utterance. 
 But what are words to us ? we have well 
 
 nigh done 
 With them and all things. 
 
 Myr. Save one deed — the last 
 
 And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
 Of all that was, or is, or is to be — 
 The only thing common to all mankind. 
 So different in their births, tongues, sexes, 
 
 natures. 
 Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, 
 
 intellects. 
 Without one point of union save in this, 
 To which we tend, for which we 're born, 
 
 and thread 
 The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 
 Sar. Our clew being well nigh wound 
 out, let 's be cheerful. 
 They who have nothing more to fear may 
 
 well 
 Indulge a smile'at that which once appall'd ; 
 As children at discowr'd bugbears. 
 
 Re-enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. 'Tis 
 
 As was reported : I have order'd there 
 A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
 Where it was strongest the required addi- 
 tion 
 To watch the breach occasion'd by the 
 waters. 
 Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, 
 and as 
 My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
 Draw near a close — I pray you take this 
 key : 
 
 [Gives a key. 
 It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
 Behind the courh in my own chamber. 
 (Now 
 
 I Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it 
 I bore — [down 
 
 Though a long line of sovereigns have lain 
 Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
 .\. time what late was Salemenes). Search 
 The secret covert to which this will lead 
 
 you ; 
 'T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 
 And your companions : there 's enough to 
 
 load ye, 
 Though ye be many. Let the slaves be 
 
 freed, too ; 
 And all the inmates of the palace, of 
 Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
 Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd 
 
 for' pleasure, 
 And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
 The river 's broad and sv/oln, and uncom- 
 
 manded 
 {More potent than a king) by these be- 
 siegers. 
 Fly ! and be happy ! 
 
 Pan. Under your protection ! 
 
 So you accompany your faithful guard, 
 Sar. No, Pania ! that must not be ; get 
 thee hence. 
 And leave me to my fate. 
 
 Pan. 'T is the first time 
 
 I ever disobey'd : but now 
 
 Sar. So all men 
 
 Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
 Apes Treason from without. Question no 
 
 further ; 
 '1 is my command, my last command. 
 
 Wilt thou 
 Oppose it ? thou ! 
 
 Pan. But yet — ^not vet. 
 
 Sar. "Well, then, 
 
 Swear that you will obey when I sliall give 
 The signal. 
 
 Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 
 I promise. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis enough. Now order here 
 
 Faggots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, 
 
 and such [spark ; 
 
 Things as catch fire and blaze v,-ith one sole 
 
 Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and 
 
 spices. 
 And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
 Bring frankincense and mvrrh. too, for it is 
 For a great sacrifice. I build the pyre ! 
 And heap them round von throne. 
 
 Pan. Jfy lord ! ^ 
 
 '^^''^ I have said it. 
 
 And you have sworn. 
 
 ■P""- And could keep mv faith 
 
 V. ithout a vow. [E.Kil Pania. 
 
 Myr. What mean you ? 
 
 •^'"■- Vou shall know 
 
 Anon— what the whole earth shall ne'er 
 forget. 
 Pan-i\. returning with a Herald. 
 Pan. My king, in going forth upon mv 
 dutv. 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 Tliis herald has been brought before me, 
 
 craving 
 An audience. 
 
 Say. Let hirn spealc. 
 
 Her. The King Arbaces 
 
 Sar. What, crown'd already ? — But, 
 
 proceed. 
 Her. Seleses, 
 
 The anointed high-priest 
 
 Sar. Of what god or demon ? 
 
 With new kings rise new altars. But, pro- 
 ceed ; 
 You are sent to prate your master's will, 
 
 and not 
 Reply to mine. 
 
 Her. And Satrap Ofrataucs 
 
 Sar. Why, he is ours. 
 Her. (showing a ring). Be sure that he is 
 now 
 In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
 His signet ring. 
 
 Sar. 'T is his. A worthy triad ! 
 
 Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
 To see one treachery the less : this 
 
 man 
 Was thy true friend and my most trusted 
 
 subject. 
 Proceed. 
 Her. They offer thee thy life, and 
 freedom 
 Of choice to single out a residence 
 In any of the further provinces. 
 Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in 
 
 person. 
 Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; 
 
 but on 
 Condition that the three young princes are 
 Given up as hostages. 
 
 Sar. {ironieally) . The generous victors ! 
 Her. I wait the answer. 
 Sar. Answer, slave ! How 
 
 long 
 Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 
 Her. Since they were free. 
 Sar. Mouthpiece of 
 
 mutiny ! 
 Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
 Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
 Let his head be thrown from our walls 
 
 within 
 The rebels' lines, his carcass down the 
 
 river. 
 Away with him ! 
 
 [Pania and the Guards seizing him. 
 Pan. I never yet obey'd 
 
 Your orders with more pleasure than the 
 
 present. 
 Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this 
 
 hall 
 Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
 Put him to rest without. 
 
 Her. A sing le word : 
 
 My office, king, is sacred. 
 
 Sar. And what 's mine ) 
 
 A^'S 
 
 That thou shouldst come and dare to ask 
 
 of me 
 To lay it down ? 
 
 Her. I but obey'd mv orders. 
 
 At the same peril if refused, as now 
 Incurr'd by my obedience. 
 
 Sar. So there are 
 
 New monarchs of an hour's growths as 
 
 despotic 
 As sovereigns swathed in purple, and 
 
 enthroned 
 From birth to manhood ! 
 
 Her. My life waits your breath. 
 
 Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — 
 
 yours 
 May also be in danger scarce less imminent: 
 Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
 Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
 A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
 And violate not only all that man 
 Holds sacred between man and man — but 
 
 that 
 More holy tie which links us with the 
 • gods ? 
 Sar. He 's right — Let him go free. — My 
 
 life's last act 
 Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, 
 take 
 
 \_Gives him a golden cup from a table 
 near. 
 This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
 And think of me ; or melt it into ingots, 
 And think of nothing but their weight and 
 value. 
 Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and 
 this 
 Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more 
 
 precious. 
 But must I bear no answer ? 
 
 Sar. Yes, — I ask 
 
 An hour's truce to consider. 
 
 Her. ■ But an hour's ? 
 
 Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
 
 That time your masters hear no further 
 
 from me. 
 They are to deem that I reject their terms. 
 And act befittingly. 
 
 Her. I shall not fail 
 
 To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 
 Sar. And hark ! a word more. 
 Her. I shall not forget it, 
 
 Whate'er it be. 
 
 Sar. Commend me to Beleses ; 
 
 And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
 Him hence to meet me. 
 Her. Where ? 
 
 Sar. At Babylon. 
 
 At least from thence he will depart to meet 
 me. 
 Her. I shall Obey you to the letter. 
 
 \Exit Heiald. 
 Sar. Pania !— 
 
 Now, my good Pania ! — quick — with what 
 I order'd. 
 
456 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already 
 charged. 
 And see ! they enter. 
 
 [Soldiers enter, and' form a. Pile about 
 the Throne, etc. 
 Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 
 
 And thicker yet ; and see that the founda- 
 tion 
 Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
 Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be 
 
 quench'd 
 With aught officious aid would bring to 
 
 quell it. 
 Let the throne form the core of it ; I would 
 
 not 
 Leave that, save fraught v/ith fixe un- 
 quenchable. 
 To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
 'Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
 Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an 
 
 aspect ! 
 How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
 For a king's obsequies ? 
 
 Pan, Ay, for a kingdom'^. 
 
 I understand you, now. 
 Sac. ' And blame me ? 
 
 Pan. No — 
 
 Let me but fire the pile, and share it with 
 you. 
 Myr. That duty 's mine. 
 Pan. A woman's ! 
 
 Myr. 'T is the soldier's 
 
 Part to die for his sovereign, and why not 
 The woman's with her lover ? 
 
 Pan. 'T is most strange ! 
 
 Myr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou 
 think'st it. 
 In the mean time, live thou. — Farewell ! 
 
 the pile 
 Is ready. 
 
 Pan. I should shame to leave my so\er- 
 eign 
 With but a single female to partake 
 His death. 
 
 Sar. Too many far have heralded 
 
 Me to the dust already. Get thee hence ; 
 Enrich thee. 
 
 Pan. And live wretched ! 
 
 Sar. Think upon 
 
 Thy vow : — 't is sacred and irrevocable. 
 Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 
 Sar. Search well my chamber. 
 
 Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
 Remember, what you leave you leave the 
 
 slaves 
 Who slew me : and when you have borne 
 
 away 
 All safe off to yom: boats, blow one long 
 
 blast 
 Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
 The river*s brink is too remote, its stream 
 Too loud at present to permit the echo 
 To reach distinctly from its banks. Then 
 fly,- 
 
 And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep. 
 
 on 
 Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
 The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
 Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court. 
 Say, what you saw at parting, and request 
 That she remember what I said at one 
 Parting more mournful still. 
 
 Pan. That royal hand ! 
 
 Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
 And these poor soldiers who throng round 
 
 you, and 
 Would fain die with you ! 
 [The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, 
 
 hissing his hand and the hem of his robe. 
 
 Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 
 
 Let 's not unman each other : part at once : 
 
 All farewells should be sudden, when for 
 
 ever. 
 Else they make an eternity of moments, 
 And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
 Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
 Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
 Is past than present ; — for the future, 't is 
 In the hands of the deities, if such 
 There be ; I shall know soon. Farewell- 
 Farewell. 
 
 [Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 
 Myr. These men were honest : it is 
 
 comfort still 
 That our last looks should be on loving 
 
 faces. 
 Sar. And lovely ones, my beautiful ! — 
 
 but hear me ! 
 If at this momeiit, — for we now are on 
 The brink, — thou feel'st an inward shrink- 
 ing from 
 This leap through flame into the future, 
 
 say it : [more, 
 
 I shall not love thee less ; nav, perhaps 
 For yielding to thy nature : and there 's 
 
 time 
 Vet for thee to escape hence. 
 
 -Vi/ . Shall I light 
 
 One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
 
 The ever-burning lamp that bums without, 
 
 Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 
 
 Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 
 
 'Vy. Thou Shalt see. 
 
 [Exit JIyrrha. 
 Sar. (solus). She 's firm. Mv fathers! 
 
 whom I will rejoin. 
 It may be, purified bv death from some 
 Of the gross stains of too material being. 
 I would not leave your ancient first abode 
 To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
 If I ha\e not kept vour inheritance 
 As ye bequeath'd it. this bright part of it. 
 Your treasure, vour abode, your sacred 
 
 relics 
 Of arms, and records, monuments, and 
 
 spoils, 
 In which they would have revell'd, I bear 
 
 with me 
 
SARDANAPALUS 
 
 457 
 
 To you in that absorbing element, 
 Which most personifies the soul as leaving 
 The least of matter unconsumed before 
 Its fiery workings : — and the light of this 
 Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
 Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 
 A beacon in the horizon for a day. 
 And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
 To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 
 Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench 
 
 full many 
 A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
 Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
 Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 
 Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it 
 
 up 
 A problem tew dare imitate, and none 
 Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
 Which led to such a consummation. 
 
 Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one 
 Handy and a Cup m the other. 
 
 Myr. Lo ! 
 
 I've lit the lamp which lights us to the 
 stars. 
 Sar. And the cup ? 
 
 Myr. 'T is my country's custom to 
 
 Make a libation to the gods. 
 
 Sar. And mine 
 
 To make libations amongst men. I 've not 
 Forgot the custom ; and although alone, 
 Will drain one draught in memory of many 
 A joyous banquet past. 
 [SARDANAPALUS takes the cup, and after 
 drinking and tinkling the reversed cup, 
 as a drop falls, exclaims — 
 
 And this libation 
 Is for the excellent Beleses. 
 
 Myr. Why 
 
 Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's 
 
 name 
 Than on his mate's in villany ? 
 
 Sar. The other 
 
 Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
 Of human sword in a friend's hand ; the 
 
 other 
 Is master-mover of his warlike puppet ; 
 But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet 
 
 pause 
 My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
 Freely and fearlessly ? 
 
 Myr. And dost thou think 
 
 A Greek girl dare not do for love, that 
 
 which 
 An Indian widow braves for custom ? 
 
 Sar. Then 
 
 We but await the signal. 
 
 Myf- It is long 
 
 In sounding. 
 
 Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 
 Myr. Embrace, but fiot the last ; there is 
 
 one more. 
 Sar. True, the commingling fire mil mix 
 
 our ashes. 
 Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, 
 snail they. 
 Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly 
 
 passion. 
 Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet 
 irks me. 
 Sar. Say it. 
 
 Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 
 The dust of both into one urn. 
 
 Sar. The better : 
 
 Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
 The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 
 Than be polluted more by human hands 
 Of slaves and traitors. In this blazing 
 
 palace, 
 And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
 We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
 Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er 
 
 dead kings. 
 Or kine, for none know whether those 
 
 proud piles 
 Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
 So much for monuments that have for- 
 gotten 
 Their very record ! 
 
 Myr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 
 
 And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 
 Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
 Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
 Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, 
 were of thee ! 
 Sar. And that ? 
 Mvr. Is yours. 
 
 [The trumpet of Pania sounds without. 
 Sar. Hark ! 
 
 Myr. Now ! 
 
 Sar. Adieu, Assyria ! 
 
 I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' 
 
 land, 
 And better as my country than my king- 
 dom. 
 I sated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
 Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing, 
 Not even a grave. [He mounts the pile. 
 
 Now, Myrrha ! 
 Myr. Art thou ready ? 
 
 Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 
 
 [Myrrha fires the pile. 
 Myr. 'T is fired ! I come. 
 
 [As Myrrha springs forward to throw her- 
 self into the flames, the Curtain falls. 
 
458 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY 
 "The father softens, but the governor 's resolved." — Critic. 
 
 DR.\JIAT1S PERSONS 
 
 Men. 
 Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
 Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
 James Loredano, a Patnctan. 
 Marco Memmo, a Chief of tjie Forty, 
 Barbarigo, a Senator. 
 
 Other Senators, The Council of Ten, Guards, Atten- 
 dants, etc., etc. 
 
 Woman. 
 Marina, Wife of youjtg Foscari. 
 Scene — The Ducal Palace, Venice. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
 Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 
 
 Lor. Where is the prisoner ? 
 
 Bar. Reposing from 
 
 The Question. 
 
 Lor. The hour 's past — ^fix'd yesterday 
 For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
 Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
 Urge his recall. 
 
 Bar Nay, let him profit by 
 
 A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
 He was o'erwrought by the Question yester- 
 day, 
 And may die under it if now repeated. 
 
 Lor. Well ? 
 
 Bar. I }'ield not to you in love of 
 
 justice, 
 Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
 Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
 But the poor wretch has sufier'd beyond 
 
 nature*s 
 Most stoical endurance. 
 
 Lor. Without oivning 
 
 His crime ? 
 
 Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 
 But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
 Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
 Such weakness. 
 
 Lor. We shall see. 
 
 Bar. You. Loredano, 
 
 Pursue hereditary hate too far. 
 
 Lor. How far ? 
 
 Bar. To extermination. 
 
 Lor. When they are 
 
 Extinct, you may say this. — Let 's in to 
 council. 
 
 Bar. \et pause — the number of our 
 colleagues is not 
 Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
 Proceed. 
 
 Lor. And the chief judge, the Dogt ? 
 
 Bar. No — lu'. 
 
 With more tlian Roman fortitude, is evei 
 First at the board in this unhappy process 
 
 Against his last and only son. 
 
 I,or. True — true — 
 
 His last. 
 
 Bar. Will nothing move you ? 
 Lor. Feels he, think you ? 
 
 Bar. He shows it not. 
 Lor. I have mark'd that — thS wretch ! 
 Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
 To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the 
 
 threshold 
 The old man fainted. 
 
 Lor. It begins to work, then. 
 
 Bar. The work is half your own. 
 Lor. And should be all mine — 
 
 My father and my uncle are no more. 
 Bar. I have read their epitaph, which 
 says they died 
 By poison. 
 
 Lor. When the Doge declared that he 
 Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
 The death of Peter Loredano, both 
 The brothers sicken'd shortly : — he is 
 sovereign. 
 Bar. A ivretched one. 
 Lor. tt'hat should they be who make 
 
 Orphans ? 
 
 Bar. But did the Doge make you so ? 
 Lor. Yes. 
 
 Bar. What solid proofs ? 
 Lor. AViien princes set themselves 
 
 To work in secret, proofs and process are 
 Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
 Of tlie first, as shall make the second need- 
 less. 
 Bar. But you will move by law ? 
 Lor. By all the laws 
 
 Which he would leave us. 
 
 Bar. They are such in this 
 
 Our state as render retribution easier 
 Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
 That you have written in your books of 
 
 commerce, 
 (The wealthy practice of our highest nobles) 
 " Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
 Of Jlarco and Pietro Loredano? 
 My sire and uncle ? " 
 
 Lor. It is written thus. 
 
 Bar. And will -s-ou lea\-e it unerased ? 
 Lor. Till balanced. 
 
 Bar. And how ? 
 
 [Tii'o Senators pass over the stage, as 
 in their wnv to " the Hall of the 
 Council of Ten." 
 Lor. You see the number is complete. 
 Follow me. [E.rit Loredano. 
 
 Bar. (solus). Follow thee J I have 
 foUow'd long 
 Thy path of desolation, as the ^va\■e 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 Sweeps after that before it, alike wlielniing 
 The wrecli that creaks to the wild winds, 
 
 and wretcli 
 Who shri{;l<s within its riven ribs, as gush 
 Tlie waters tlirough them ; but this son and 
 
 sire 
 Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
 Must I on hardily like them — Oh ! would 
 I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
 Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! 
 
 they are 
 Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou 
 
 beat 
 For those who almost broke thee ? 
 Enler Guards, with young Foscari as 
 prisoner, etc. 
 Guard. Let him rest. 
 
 Signor, take time. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I 'm 
 feeble ; 
 But thou may'st stand reproved. 
 Guard. I'll stand the hazard. 
 Jac. Fos. That 's kind: — I meet some 
 pitv, but no mercy ; 
 This is the first. 
 
 Guard. And might be the last, did 
 they 
 Who rule behold us. 
 
 Bar. (advancing to the Guard) . There is 
 
 one who does : 
 
 Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
 
 Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past, 
 
 Wait their last summons — I am of " the 
 
 Ten." 
 And waiting for that summons, sanction 
 
 you 
 Even by my presence : when the last call 
 
 sounds. 
 We '11 in together. — Look well to the 
 prisoner ! 
 Jac. Fos. What voice is that ? — ^T is 
 Barbarigo's ! Ah ! 
 Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 
 Bar. To balance such a foe, if such 
 there be, 
 Th^• father sits amongst thy judges. 
 
 Jac. Fos. True, 
 
 He judges. 
 
 Bar. Then deem not the laws too 
 harsh 
 Which yield so much indulgence to a sire. 
 As to allow his voice in such high matter 
 
 As the state's safety 
 
 Jac. Fos. And his son's. I 'm faint ; 
 Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
 Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the 
 
 waters. 
 Enter an Officer, who whispers Barbarigo. 
 Bar. [to the Guard). Let him approach. 
 I must not speak with him 
 Further than thus : I have transgress'd my 
 
 duty 
 In this brief parley, and must now redeem 
 it 
 
 459 
 
 Within the Council Chamber. 
 
 [Exit Barbarigo. 
 [Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the 
 
 window. 
 Guard. There, sir, 't is 
 
 Open. — How feel you ? 
 
 fac Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice ! 
 
 Guard. And your limbs ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they 
 
 borne me 
 Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have 
 
 skimm'd 
 The gondola along in childish race, 
 And, masqued as a young gondolier, 
 
 amidst 
 My gay competitors, noble as I, 
 Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of 
 
 strength ; 
 While the fair populace of crowding 
 
 beauties. 
 Plebeian as patrician, cheered us on 
 With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible. 
 And waving kerchiefs, and applauding 
 
 hands. 
 Even to the goal ! — How many a time have 
 
 I 
 Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more 
 
 daring. 
 The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's 
 
 stroke 
 Flinging the billows back from my drench'd 
 
 hair, 
 .\nd laughing from my lip the audacious 
 
 brine. 
 Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
 The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
 The loftier thev uplifted me ; and oft. 
 In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
 Into their green and glassy gulfs, and mak- 
 ing 
 My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
 By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; 
 
 then 
 Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
 As show'd that 1 had scarch'd the deep : 
 
 exulting. 
 With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing 
 
 deep 
 The long-susp;nded breath, again I spum'd 
 The foam which broke around me, and 
 
 pursued 
 My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy 
 
 then. 
 Guard. Be a man now : there never was 
 
 more need 
 Of manhood's strength. 
 
 Jac. Fos. {looking from tlie lattice). Jly 
 
 beautiful, my ov,'n, 
 My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy 
 
 breeze. 
 Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my 
 
 face ! • 
 
 Thy very winds feel native to my veins, 
 .\nd cool them into calmness ! How unlik? 
 
460 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
 Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, 
 
 and 
 Made my heart sick. 
 
 Guard. 1 see the colour conies 
 
 Back to your cheek : Heaven send you 
 
 strength to bear 
 What more may be imposed ! — I dread to 
 think on 't. 
 Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again ? 
 — No — ^no, 
 Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 
 
 Guard. Confess, 
 
 And the rack will be spared you. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I confess'd 
 
 Once — twice before : both times they 
 exiled me. 
 Guard. And the third time will slay you. 
 Jac. Foe. Let them do so, 
 
 So I be buried in my birth-place : better 
 Be ashes here than aught that lives else- 
 where. 
 Guard. And can you so much love the 
 
 soil which hates you? 
 Jac. Fos. Thi soil! — Oh no, it is the 
 seed of the soil 
 Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
 Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
 I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
 A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 
 Enter an Officer. 
 Offl. Bring in the prisoner ! 
 Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a sum- 
 mons ; 't is 
 The third time they have tortured me : — 
 
 then lend me 
 Thine arm. [To the Guard. 
 
 Offl. Take mine, sir ; 't is my duty to 
 Be nearest to your person. 
 
 Jac. Fos. You ! — you are he 
 
 Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
 Awav ! — rU walk alone. 
 
 Offl. As you please, signor ; 
 
 The sentence was not of my signing, but 
 I dared not disobey the Council when 
 
 They 
 
 Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their 
 horrid engine. 
 I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
 The time will come they will renew that 
 
 order. 
 But keep off from me till 't is issued. As 
 I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
 Quiver with the anticipated wrenching. 
 And the cold drops strain through my brow, 
 
 as if 
 
 But onward — I have borne it — I can bear 
 
 it.— 
 How looks my father ? 
 
 Offl. Withhis wonted aspect. 
 
 Jac. Fof. So 'does the earth, and sky. 
 the blue of ocean, 
 The brightness of our city, and her dome*, 
 
 The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
 Its merry hum of nations pierces here. 
 Even here, into these chambers ol the un- 
 known 
 Who govern, and the unknown and the un- 
 
 number'd 
 Judged and destroy'd in silence, — all things 
 
 wear 
 The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! 
 Nothing can sympathise with Foscari, 
 Not even a Foscari. — Sir, 1 attend you. 
 
 [E.xeunt J.aCOPo Fosc.\ri, Officer, etc. 
 Enter Memmo and another Senator. 
 Mem. He 's gone — we ar^ too late : — 
 think you " the Ten " 
 Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 
 Sen. They say the prisoner is most 
 obdurate. 
 Persisting in his first avowal ; but 
 More I know not. 
 
 Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 
 
 Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
 From us, the premier nobles of the state. 
 As from the people. 
 
 Sen. Save the wonted rumours. 
 
 Which — like the tales of spectres, that are 
 
 rife 
 Near ruin'd buildings — never have been 
 
 proved. 
 Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as 
 
 little 
 Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
 Unfathom'd mysteries. 
 
 Mem. But with length of time 
 
 We ^in a step in knowledge, and I look 
 Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 
 Sen. Or Doge ? 
 
 Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 
 Sen. 'T is the first station of the state, 
 and ma\' 
 Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
 Attain'd by noble as'pirants. 
 
 Mem. To such 
 
 I leave it ; though bom noble, my ambition 
 Is limited : I'd rather be an unit 
 Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
 Than shine a lonely, though a gilded 
 
 cipher. 
 
 j Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 
 Enter Marinw. with a female Attendant. 
 Mar. What, no one ? — I am Avrong, 
 there still are two ; 
 But they are senators. 
 
 .^lem. Most noble lady. 
 
 Command us. 
 
 Mar. I com)nand ! — Alas ! my life 
 Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 
 Mem. I understand thee, but I must 
 
 not answer. 
 Mar. (fiercely). True — none dare answer 
 here save on the rack. 
 
 Or question save those 
 
 ISlem. (inleriupting her). High-born 
 
 dame ! bethink thee 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 46 T 
 
 Where thou now art. 
 
 Maf. Where I now am ! — It was 
 
 My husband's father's palace. 
 Mem. The Duke's palace. 
 
 Mar. And his son's prison ! — True, I 
 have not forgot it ; 
 And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
 Remembrances, would thank the illustrious 
 
 Memmo 
 For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 
 Mem. Be calm ! 
 
 Mar. (looking up towards heaven) . I am ; 
 but oh, thou eternal God ! 
 Canst thou continue so, with such a world ? 
 Mem. Thy husband yet maybe absolved. 
 Mar. He is, 
 
 In heaven. I pray you, signer senator, 
 Speak not of that ; you are a man of office. 
 So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake 
 Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
 Or had ; they are there within, or were at 
 
 least 
 An hour since, face to face, as judge and 
 
 culprit : 
 Will he condemn him ? 
 
 Mem. I trust not. 
 
 Mar. But if 
 
 He does not, there are those will sentence 
 both. 
 Mem. They can. 
 
 Mar. ' And with them power and will 
 are one 
 In wickedness : — my husband 's lost ! 
 
 Mem. Not so ; 
 
 Justice is judge in Venice. 
 
 Mar. If it were so. 
 
 There now would be no Venice. But let it 
 Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
 Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's " 
 
 is quicker. 
 And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voice of 
 wail ! 
 
 [A faint cry within. 
 Sen. Hark ! 
 
 Mem. 'T was a cry of — 
 
 Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 
 
 Not Foscari's. 
 
 Mem. The voice was — 
 
 Mar. Not his : no. 
 
 He shriek ! No ; that should be his 
 
 father's part. 
 Not his — not his — he '11 die in silence. 
 
 [A faint groan again within. 
 Mem. What ! 
 
 Again ? ,j T -n J. 
 
 Mar. His voice ; it seem d so : I will not 
 
 Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot 
 
 cease 
 To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have 
 
 been 
 A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from 
 
 him. " , , , J, 
 
 Sen. And, feeling for thy husband s 
 
 wrongs, wouldst thou 
 
 Have him bear more than mortal pain in 
 silence ? 
 Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I 
 have not 
 Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
 Though they sweep both the Doge and 
 
 son from life ; 
 I have endured as much in giving life 
 To those who will succeed them, as they can 
 In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs : 
 And yet they wrung me till I could have 
 
 shriek'd, 
 But did not ; for my hope was to bring 
 
 forth 
 Heroes, and \vould not welcome them with 
 tears. 
 Mem. All 's silent now. 
 Mar. Perhaps all's over ; but 
 
 I will not deem it : he hath nerved him- 
 self. 
 And now defies them. 
 
 Enter an Officer hastily. 
 Mem. How now, friend, what seek you ? 
 Ofp. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 
 [Exit Officer. 
 Mem . Lady, 
 
 'T were better to retire. 
 
 Sen. [offering to assist her). I pray thee 
 
 do so. 
 Mar. Off ! / will tend him. 
 Mem. You ! Remember, lady ! 
 
 Ingress is given to none within those 
 
 chambers. 
 Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 
 
 Mar. Well, 
 
 I know that none who enter there return 
 As they have enter'd — many never ; but 
 Thev shall not balk my entrance. 
 
 Mem. Alas ! this 
 
 Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
 And worse suspense. 
 
 Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 
 
 Mem. They 
 
 Whose duty 't is to do so. 
 
 Mar. 'T is their duty 
 
 To trample on all human feelings, all 
 Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
 The fiends who will one day requite them 
 
 in 
 Variety of torturing ! Yet I'll pass. 
 Mem. It is impossible. 
 Mar. That shall be tried. 
 
 Despair defies even despotism : there is 
 That in my heart would make its way 
 
 through hosts 
 With levell'd spears ; and think you a few 
 
 jailors 
 Shall put me from my path ? Give me, 
 
 then, way ; 
 This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
 Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son. 
 And they shall hear this ! 
 
 Mem. It will only serve 
 
 More to exasperate his judges. 
 
462 
 
 DRA]\IAS 
 
 Mar. What 
 
 Are judges who- give way to anger ! they 
 
 Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 
 
 [Exit IIaeina. 
 
 Sen. Poor lady ! 
 
 Mem. 'T is mere desperation : she 
 
 Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 
 
 Sen. And 
 
 Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
 But, see, the oificer returns. 
 
 [The Officer passes over the stage with 
 another person. 
 Mem. I hardly 
 
 Thought that "the Ten" had even this 
 
 touch of pity 
 
 Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 
 
 Sen. Pity ! Is't pity to recall to feeling 
 
 The wretch too happy to escape to death 
 
 By the compassionate trance, poor nature's 
 
 last 
 Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 
 Mem. I marvel they condemn him not 
 
 at once. 
 Sen, That 's not their poUc;' : they'd 
 have him live, 
 Because he fears not death ; and banish 
 
 him. 
 Because all earth, except his native land, 
 To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
 Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
 Consuming but not killing. 
 
 Mem. Circumstance 
 
 Confirms his crimes, but he a^-ows them not. 
 Sen. None, sa\'e the Letter, which he 
 says was \vritten, 
 Address' d to Milan's duke, in the full know- 
 ledge 
 That it would fall into the senate's hands. 
 And thus he should be re-convey' d to 
 Venice. 
 Mem. But as a culprit. 
 Sen. Yes, but to his countrv ; 
 
 And that was all he sought, — so he 
 avouches. 
 Metn. The accusation of the bribes was 
 
 proved. 
 Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of 
 homicide 
 Has been annuH'd by the death-bed con- 
 fession 
 Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
 Chief of " the Ten." 
 
 Mem. Then why not clear him ? 
 
 Sen. That 
 
 They sought to answer ; for it is well known 
 That Almoro Donato, as I said, 
 \\as slain by Erizzo tor pri\'ate \engeance. 
 Mem. There must be more in this strange 
 process than 
 The apparent crimes of the accused dis- 
 close — 
 But here come two of " the Ten ; " let us 
 retire. 
 
 E.ieunt .MtMMO and Senator. 
 
 Enter LoREDAN'o and Barbarigo. 
 Bar. {addrcsnng Lor). That were too 
 much : believe me, 't was not meet 
 The trial should go further at this moment. 
 Lor. And so the Council must break up, 
 and Justice 
 Pause in her full career, because a woman 
 Breaks in on our deliberations ? 
 
 Bar. No 
 
 That's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's 
 state. 
 Lor. And had he not recover' d ? 
 Bar. To relapse 
 
 Upon the least renewal. 
 
 Lor. 'T was not tried 
 
 Bar. 'T is vain to murmur ; the 
 majority 
 In council were against you. 
 
 Lor. Thanks you, sir, 
 
 .\nd the old ducal dotard, who combined 
 
 The worthy \'oices which o'er-ruled my own. 
 
 Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess 
 
 that part 
 
 Of our stern duty, which prescribes the 
 
 Question, 
 And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
 
 JMakes me wish 
 
 Lor. What ? 
 
 Bar. ^ That you would sometimes feel, 
 .\s I do always. 
 
 Lor. Go to, you 're a child. 
 
 Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
 About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
 And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
 For ^'enice ! and a worthy statesman to 
 Be partner in my policy. 
 
 Bar. He shed 
 
 No tears. 
 
 Lor. He cried out twice. 
 Bar. A saiat had done so, 
 
 Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 
 .\t such inhuman artifice of pain 
 As was forced on him ; but he did not cr%' 
 For ] ity ; not a word nor groan escaped 
 
 him, 
 And those two shrieks were not in sup- 
 plication. 
 But wrung from pangs, and foUow'd by no 
 prayers. 
 Lor. He mutter'd many times between 
 his teeth. 
 But inarticulately. 
 
 Bar. That I heard not ; 
 Von stood more near him. 
 
 Lor. I did so. 
 
 Bar. Methought, 
 
 To my surprise too, you were touch'd with 
 
 mercy. 
 And were the first to call out for assistance 
 When he was failing. 
 
 Lor. I believed that swoon 
 
 His last. 
 Bar. And have I not oft heard thee 
 name 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 His and his father's death your nearest 
 
 wish ? 
 
 Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say, 
 
 With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented, 
 
 Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his 
 
 memory ? 
 Lor. Wouldst thou have 
 
 His state descend to his children, as it must 
 If he die unattainted ? 
 
 Bar. War with them too ? 
 
 Lor. With all their house, till theirs or 
 
 mine are nothing. 
 
 Bar. And the deep agony of his pale 
 
 wife. 
 
 And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
 
 And princely brow of his old father, which 
 
 Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though 
 
 rarely. 
 Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
 In stern serenity ; these moved you not ? 
 
 [Exit LOREDANO. 
 
 He 's silent in his hate, as Foscari 
 Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch 
 
 moved me 
 More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
 Could have effected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 
 When his distracted wife broke through 
 
 into 
 The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 
 What we could scarcely look upon, long 
 
 used 
 To such sights. I must think no more of 
 
 this. 
 Lest I forget in this compassion for 
 Our foes, their former injuries, and lose 
 The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 
 For him and me ; but mine would be con- 
 tent 
 With lesser retribution than he thirsts for. 
 And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 
 To milder thoughts ; for the present, 
 
 Foscari 
 Has a short hourly respite, .granted at 
 The instance of the elders of the Council, 
 Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance 
 
 in 
 The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! 
 
 they come : 
 Hov/ feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 
 To look on them again in this extremity : 
 I '11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 
 
 [Exit Barbarigo. 
 
 ACT II 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Dock's Palare. 
 
 The Doge and a Senator. 
 Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the re- 
 port 
 Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 
 
 Doge. Now ; i 
 
 I pverlook'd it yesterday : it wants i 
 
 463 
 
 i Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 
 [The Doge sits down and signs the 
 paper, 
 j There, signer. 
 
 Sen. (looking at the paper). You have for- 
 I got ; it is not sign'd. 
 
 j Doge. Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my 
 
 eyes begin 
 To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
 That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 
 Sen. [dipping the pen into the ink, and 
 placing the paper before the Doge). 
 Your hand, too, shakes, my lord : 
 allow me, thus — 
 Doge. 'T is done, I thank you. 
 Sen. Thus the act confirm'd 
 
 By you and by " the Ten" gives peace 
 to Venice. 
 Doge. 'T is long since she enjoy'd it : 
 may it be 
 As long ere she resume her arms ! 
 
 Sen. 'T is almost 
 
 Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless war- 
 fare 
 With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
 The state had need of some repose. 
 
 Doge. No doubt : 
 
 I found her Queen of Ocean, andl leave her 
 Lady of Lombardy ; it is a comfort 
 That I have added to her diadem 
 The gems of Brescia and Ravenna ; Crema 
 And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
 By land has grown by thus much in my 
 
 reign. 
 While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 
 
 Sen. 'T is most true. 
 
 And merits all our country's gratitude. 
 Doge. Pcr'iap^ so. 
 
 Sen. Which should be made manifest. 
 Doge. I have not romplain'd, sir. 
 Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 
 
 Doge. For what ? 
 
 Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 
 
 Doge. For me, signor ? 
 
 Sen. And for your 
 
 Doge. Stop ! 
 
 Sen. It must have way, my lord : 
 
 I have too many duties towards you 
 And all your house, for past and present 
 
 kindness, 
 Not to feel deeply for your son. 
 
 Doge. Was this 
 
 In your commission ? 
 Sen. What, my lord ? 
 
 Doge. This prattle 
 
 Of things you know not : but the treaty s 
 
 sign'd ; 
 Return with it to them who sent you. 
 
 Sen. 
 
 Obey. I had in charge, too, from the 
 Council [union. 
 
 That you would fix an hour for their re- 
 Doge. Say, when they will — now, even 
 at this moment, 
 
464 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 If it so please them : I am the state's 
 servant. 
 Sen. They would accord some time for 
 
 your repose. 
 Doge. I have no repose, that is, none 
 which shall cause 
 The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 
 Let them meet when they will, I shall be 
 
 found 
 Where I should be, and what I have been 
 ever. 
 
 [Exit Senator. The Dooe re- 
 mains in silence. 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 Att. Prince ! 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 Att. The illustrious lady Foscari 
 
 Requests an audience. 
 
 Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 
 
 Jlarina ! 
 
 [Exit Attendant. The Doge re- 
 mains i}i silence as before. 
 Enter Marina. 
 il/ar. I have ventured, father, on 
 Your privacy. 
 
 Doge. I have none from you, my child. 
 Command my time, when not commanded 
 
 by 
 The state. 
 
 Mar. I wish'd to speak to vou of him. 
 Doge. Your husband ? 
 Mar. And your son. 
 
 Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 
 
 Mar. I had obtain'd permission from 
 " the Ten " 
 To attend my husband for a limited num- 
 ber 
 Of hours. 
 
 Doge. You had so. 
 l^lar. 'T is revoked. 
 
 Doge. Bv whom ? 
 
 Mar. "The Ten." — When 'we had 
 reach'd " the Bridge of Sighs," 
 Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
 The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
 Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
 " The Ten ; " — but as the court no 
 
 longer sate, 
 And no permission had been given in 
 
 writing, 
 I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
 Until that high tribunal re-assembled 
 The dungeon walls must still divide us. 
 
 Doge. True, 
 
 The form has been omitted in the haste 
 With which the court adjoum'd ; and till 
 
 it meets, 
 'T is dubious. 
 
 Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets, 
 They'll torture him again ; and he and I 
 Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
 The interview of husband and of wife. 
 The holiest tie beneath the heavens ' — 
 Oh God ! 
 
 Dost thou see this ? 
 
 Doge. Child — child 
 
 Mar. (abruptly). Call /«enot " child ! " 
 You soon will have no children — you de- 
 serve none — 
 Y*ou, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
 In circumstances which would call forth 
 
 tears 
 Of blood from Spartans ! Though these 
 
 did not weep 
 Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
 That they beheld them perish piecemeal, 
 
 nor 
 Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 
 
 Doge. You behold me : 
 
 I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
 Each white hair on this head were a young 
 
 life. 
 This ducal cap the diadem of earth. 
 This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
 A talisman to still them — I'd give all 
 For him. 
 
 Mar. With less he surely might be 
 
 saved. 
 Doge. That answer only shows you know 
 not Venice, 
 Alas ! how should you ? he knows not 
 herself, [aim 
 
 In all her mystery. Hear me — thev who 
 .■^t Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
 The sire's destruction would not save the 
 
 son ; 
 They work by different means to the same 
 end, 
 
 .4nd that is ^but thev have not con- 
 
 quer'd yet. 
 -1/ar. But they have crush'd. 
 Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 
 
 Mar. And vour son, — how long will he 
 
 - live ? 
 Doge. I trust, 
 
 ior all that yet is past, as manv years 
 And happier than his father. The rash boy 
 With womanish impatience to return 
 Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter : 
 A high crime, which I neither can deny 
 Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
 Had he but borne a little, little longer 
 
 His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has 
 
 quench'd them — 
 He must return. 
 
 .Mar. To exile ? 
 
 Doge. I have said it. 
 
 Mar. And can I not go with him ' 
 „,-?''S^- , You well know 
 
 ihis prayer of vours was twice denied be- 
 fore 
 Bv the assembled " Ten," and hardlv now 
 Will be accorded to a third request 
 Since aggravated errors on the part 
 Of your lord renders them still more 
 austere. 
 Mar. Austere ? 
 human fiends, 
 
 Atrocious ! The old 
 
THE TWO FOSCARl 
 
 4&5 
 
 With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, 
 
 strange 
 To tears save drops of dotage, with long 
 
 white 
 And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and 
 
 heads 
 As palsied as their hearts are hard, they 
 
 counsel, 
 Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
 Were no more than the feelings long ex- 
 
 tinguish'd 
 In their accursed bosoms. 
 
 Doge. You know not^ 
 
 Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, 
 
 methinks — [that 
 
 That these are demons : could it be else 
 
 Men, who have been of women born and 
 
 suckled — 
 Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — ■ 
 
 have given 
 Their hands in sacred vows — have danced 
 
 their babes 
 Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd 
 
 above them — 
 In pain, in peril, or in death — who are. 
 Or were at least in seeming, human, could 
 Do as they have done by yours, and you 
 
 yourself — 
 You, who abet them ? 
 
 Doge, I forgive this, for 
 
 You know not what you say. 
 
 Mar. You know it well. 
 
 And feel it nothing. 
 
 Doge. I have borne so much. 
 
 That words have ceased to shake me. 
 
 Mar. Oh, no doubt ! 
 
 You have seen your son's blood flow, and 
 
 your flesh shook not ; 
 And after that, what are a woman's words ? 
 No more than woman's tears, that they 
 should shake you. 
 Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of 
 thine, I tell thee, 
 Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
 
 Which but 1 pity thee, my poor Marina! 
 
 Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from 
 me ; 
 Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 't is a word 
 Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy 
 lips ? 
 Doge. I must bear these reproaches, 
 though they wrong me. 
 
 Couldst thou but read 
 
 Mar. 'T is not upon thy brow. 
 
 Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where 
 
 then 
 Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 
 Doge (pointing downwards). There. 
 Mar. Iq the earth ? 
 
 Doge. To which I am tending : 
 
 when 
 It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
 Loaded -with marble, than the thoughts 
 %vhich press it 
 
 Now, you will know me better. 
 
 Mar. Are you, then, 
 
 Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 
 
 Doge. Pitied ! None 
 
 Shall ever use that base word, with which 
 
 men 
 Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit 
 
 one 
 To mingle with my name ; that name shall 
 
 be. 
 As far as / have borne it, what it was 
 When I received it. 
 
 Mar. But for the poor children 
 
 Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not 
 
 save, 
 You were the last to bear it. 
 
 Doge. Would it were so ! 
 
 Better for him he never had been born ; 
 Better for me. — I have seen our house dis- 
 
 honour'd. 
 Mar. That 's false ! A truer, nobler, 
 
 trustier heart, 
 More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
 Within a human breast. I would not 
 
 change 
 My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
 Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, over- 
 
 whelra'd, 
 Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
 In story or in fable, with a world 
 To back his suit. Dishonour'd ! — he dis- 
 
 honour'd ! 
 I tell thee, Doge, ' tis Venice is dishonour'd ; 
 His name shall be her foulest, worst re- 
 proach, 
 For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
 'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 
 Did you but love your country like this 
 
 victim 
 Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
 Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
 You'd fling yourselves before him, and im- 
 plore 
 His grace for your enormous guilt. 
 
 Doge. He was 
 
 Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
 The deaths of the two sons Heaven took 
 
 from me. 
 Than Jacopo's disgrace. 
 
 Mar. That word again ? 
 
 Doge. Has he not been condemn'd ? 
 Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 
 
 Doge. Time may restore his memory — I 
 
 would hope so. 
 He was my pride, my but 't is useless 
 
 now — 
 I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
 When he was born : those drops were 
 
 ominous. 
 Mar. I say he's innocent ! And were he 
 
 not so, 
 Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
 In fatal moments ? 
 
 Doge. I shrank not from him ; 
 
466 
 
 DRA?.IAS 
 
 But I have other duties than a father's ; 
 The state would not dispense me from 
 
 these duties ; 
 Twice I demanded it, but was refused : 
 They must then be fulfill'd. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Att. A message from 
 
 "The Ten." 
 Doge. Who bears it ? 
 Att. Noble Loredauo. 
 
 Doge. He ! — but admit him. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 Mar. Must I then retire ? 
 
 Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 
 
 Concerns j'our husband, and if not 
 
 Well, signer, 
 Your pleasure ! 
 
 \To LOREDANO entering. 
 Lor. I bear that of " the Ten." 
 
 Doge. They 
 
 Have chosen well their envoy. 
 
 Lor. 'T is their choice 
 
 Which leads me here. 
 
 Doge. It does their wisdom honour, 
 And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 
 Lor. We have decided. 
 Doge. We ? 
 
 Lor. " The Ten " in council. 
 
 Doge. \A'hat ! have they met again, and 
 met without 
 Apprising me ? 
 
 Lor. They wish'd to spare your feel- 
 ings. 
 No less than age. 
 
 Doge. That 's ne'w — when spared 
 
 they either ? 
 I thank them, notwithstanding. 
 
 Lor. You know well 
 
 That they have power to act at their dis- 
 cretion. 
 With or without the presence of the Doge. 
 Doge. 'T is some ye«rs since I learn'd 
 this, long before 
 I became Doge, or dream'd of such ad- 
 vancement. 
 \ovL need not school me, signor ; T sate in 
 That council when you were a young 
 patrician. 
 Lor. True, in my father's time ; I have 
 heard him and 
 The ^admiral, his brother, say as much. 
 Your highness may remember them ; they 
 
 both 
 Died suddenly. 
 
 Doge. And if they did so, better 
 
 So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 
 Lor. No doubt : yet most men like to 
 
 live their days out. 
 Doge. And did not they ? 
 Lor. The grave knows best : they 
 
 died, 
 As I said, suddenly. 
 
 Doge. Is that so strange, 
 
 That you repeat the word emphatically ? 
 Lor. So far from strange, that never was 
 there death 
 In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
 Think you not so ? 
 
 Doge. What should I think of 
 
 mortals ? 
 Lor. That they have mortal foes. 
 Doge. I understand you ; 
 
 Your sires were mine, and you are heir in 
 all things. 
 Lor. You best know if I should be so. 
 Doge. I do. 
 
 Your fathers were my foes, and I have 
 
 heard 
 Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also 
 
 read 
 Their epitaph attributing their deaths 
 To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 
 Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
 A fable. 
 Lor. Who dares say so ? 
 Doge. I ! — 'T is true 
 
 Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
 As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
 Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
 I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
 Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
 Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
 The proof is, your existence. 
 
 Lor. I fear not. 
 
 Doge. You ha\-e no cause, being what I 
 am ; but were I 
 That you would have me thought, you long 
 
 ere now 
 Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I 
 care not. 
 Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
 In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
 That is, by open means. 
 
 Doge. But I. good signor. 
 
 Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke, 
 In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they 
 
 know 
 ^Vho dreaded to elect me, and have since 
 Stri^'en all they dare to v.^eigh me doMTi : be 
 
 sure. 
 Before or since that period, had I held you 
 x\t so much price as to require your absence, 
 A word of mine had set such spirits to 
 
 work 
 As would ha^'e made you nothing. But in 
 
 all things 
 I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
 Not for the laws alone, for those you have 
 
 strain'd 
 (I do not speak of you but as a single 
 \'oice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
 I could enforce'for my authoritv. 
 Were I disposed to birawl ; but, as I said, 
 I have observed with \'eneration, like 
 .\ priest's for the high altar, even unto 
 The sacrifice of my own blood anfl quiet, 
 Safety, and all save honour, the decrees. 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 467 
 
 The health, the pride, and welfare of the 
 
 state. 
 And now, sir, to your business. 
 
 Lor. 'T is decreed. 
 
 That, without further repetition of 
 The Question, or continuanr-e of the trial. 
 Which only tends to show how stubborn 
 guilt is, [law 
 
 (" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter 
 Which still prescribes the Question till a 
 
 full 
 Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
 Avow'd his crime in not denying that. 
 The letter to the Duke of Milan ^s his), 
 James Foscari return to banishment, 
 And sail in the same galley which con- 
 vey' d him. 
 Mar. Thank God ! At least they will 
 not drag him more 
 Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
 But think so, to my mind the happiest 
 
 doom, 
 Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
 Desire, were to escape from such a land. 
 Doge. That is not a \'enetian thought, 
 
 my daughter. 
 Mar. No, 't was too human. May I 
 
 share his exile ? 
 Lor. Of this " the Ten " said nothing. 
 Mar. So I thought ! 
 
 That were too human, also. But it was 
 
 not 
 Inhibited ? 
 
 Lor. It was not named. 
 Mar. (to the Doge). Then, father. 
 
 Surely you can obtain or grant me thus 
 much : 
 
 [To LOREDANO 
 
 And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
 Permitted to accompany my husband. 
 
 Doge. I will endeavour. 
 
 Mar. And you, signer ? 
 
 Lor. Lady ! 
 
 'T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
 Of the tribunal. 
 
 Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
 To use for the decrees of 
 
 Doge. Daughter, know you 
 
 In what a presence you pronounce these 
 things ? 
 
 Mar. A prince's and his subject s. 
 
 Lor. Subject ! 
 
 Mar. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
 You think ; but that you are not, nor would 
 
 be. 
 Were he a peasant :— well, then, you re a 
 
 prince, 
 A princely noble ; and what then am 1 .' 
 Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 
 21^3^ And wedded 
 
 To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 
 The presence that should silence my tree 
 
 thoughts ? 
 
 Lor. The presence of your husband's 
 
 judges. 
 Doge. And 
 
 The deference due even to the lightest 
 
 word 
 That falls from those who rule in Venice. 
 
 Mar. Keep 
 
 Those maxims for 3'our mass of sacred 
 
 mechanics. 
 Your merchants, your Dalmatian and 
 
 Greek slaves. 
 Your tributaries, your dumb cizizens. 
 And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
 Your spies, your galley and your other 
 
 slaves, 
 To whom your midnight carryings of£ and 
 
 drownings, 
 Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or 
 
 under 
 The water's level ; your mysterious meet- 
 ings. 
 And unknown dooms, and sudden exe- 
 cutions. 
 Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangling 
 
 chamber, and 
 Your torturing instruments, have made ye 
 
 seem 
 The beings of another and worse world ! 
 Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I 
 
 know ye ; 
 Have known and proved your worst, in the 
 
 infernal 
 Process of my poor husband ! Treat me 
 
 as 
 Ve treated him : — you did so, in so dealinR 
 With him. Then what have I to fear from 
 
 you, 
 Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
 I trust I am not ? 
 
 Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 
 
 Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 
 
 Lor. Lady ! words 
 
 Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
 
 Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
 
 Between the Duke and me on the stale's 
 
 service. 
 Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 
 
 Doge. Something from 
 
 The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 
 
 Lor. Ah- mission here is to the Doge. 
 
 Doge. ' Then say 
 
 The Doge will choose his own ambassador. 
 
 Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
 
 The father 
 
 Lor. I remember mine. — Farewell ! 
 I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady. 
 And bow me to the Duke. 
 
 [Exit LOREDANO. 
 
 Mar. Are you content ? 
 
 Doge. I am what you behold. 
 Mar. And that 's a mystery. 
 
 Doge. All things are so to mortals ; who 
 can read them 
 Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few 
 
■ r.p, 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
 That loathsome ^'olume — man, and pored 
 
 upon 
 Those black and bloody leaves, his heart 
 
 and brain, 
 But learn a magic which recoils upon 
 The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
 We find in others, nature made our own ; 
 All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
 Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her acci- 
 dents, 
 And when we cry out against Fate, 't were 
 
 well 
 Vv'e should remember Fortune can take 
 
 nought 
 Save what she gave — the rest was naked- 
 ness. 
 And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
 The universal heritage, to battle 
 With as we may, and least in humblest 
 
 stations, 
 Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 
 And the original ordinance, that man 
 Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all 
 
 passions 
 Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low. 
 And false, and hollow — clay from first to 
 
 last, 
 The prince's urn no less than potter's ves- 
 sel. 
 Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
 Less than their breath ; our durance upon 
 
 days. 
 Our days on seasons ; oxa whole being on 
 Something which is not us ! — So, we are 
 
 slaves. 
 The greatest as the meanest — nothing 
 
 rests 
 Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
 Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
 And -when we think we lead, we are most 
 
 led. 
 And still towards death, a thing which 
 
 comes as much 
 Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
 -Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old 
 
 world. 
 And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
 
 Eternal. 
 Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
 On earth. 
 
 Doge. And how then shall we judge 
 
 each other. 
 Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd 
 
 upon 
 To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
 My country faithfully — victoriously — 
 I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
 She was and is : my reign has doubled 
 
 realms ; 
 And, in reward, the gratitude of \'enice 
 Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 
 Mnr. And Foscari ? I do not think of 
 
 such things. 
 
 So I be left with him. 
 
 Doge. Vou shall be so ; 
 
 Thus much thev cannot well deny. 
 
 Mar. And if 
 
 They should, I will fly with him. 
 
 Doge. That can ne'er be. 
 
 And whither would you fly ? 
 
 Mar. I know not, reck not — 
 
 To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
 Any where, where we might respire un- 
 
 fetter'd. 
 And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
 To edicts of inquisitors of state. 
 
 Doge. What, wouldst thuu have a rene- 
 gade for husband. 
 And turn him into traitor ? 
 
 Mar. He is none ! 
 
 The country is the traitress, which thrusts 
 
 forth 
 Her best and bravest from her. Tyraimy 
 Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou 
 deem [who 
 
 Xone rebels except subjects ? The prince 
 Neglects or violates his trust is more 
 A brigand than the robber-chief. 
 
 Doge. I cannot 
 
 Charge me with such a breach of faith. 
 
 Mar. No ; thou 
 
 Observ'st, obey'st such laws as make old 
 
 Draco's 
 A code of mercy by comparison. 
 
 Doge. I found the law ; I dij not make 
 it. Were I 
 A subject, still I might find parts and por- 
 tions 
 Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
 Would change, for the sake of my house, 
 I the charter 
 
 Left by our fathers. 
 
 Mar. Did thev make it for 
 
 The ruin of their children ? 
 
 i Doge. Under such laws, Venice 
 
 Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
 
 In deeds, and davs, and swav, and, let me 
 
 add. 
 In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
 Amongst us), all that historv has be- 
 
 queath'd 
 Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, 
 ivhen 
 [ The people sway'd bv senates. 
 
 'Var. Rather sav, 
 
 Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 
 
 Doge. Perhaps so ; 
 
 I But yet subdued the world : in such a 
 ( state 
 
 .An individual, be he richest of 
 ' Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
 \\'ithout a name, is alike nothing, when 
 . The policy, iixevocabh- tending " 
 To one great end, must be maintain'd in 
 vigour. 
 j Mar. This means that vou are more a 
 ' Doge than father. 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 469 
 
 Doge. It means, I am more citizen than 
 either. 
 If we had not for many centuries 
 1-Iad thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
 I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 
 Mar. Accursed be the city where the 
 laws 
 tVould stifle nature's ! 
 
 Doge. Had I as many sons 
 
 As I have years, I would have given them 
 
 all, 
 Not without feeling, but I would have 
 
 given them 
 To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
 On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
 As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism. 
 Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
 She might decree. 
 
 Mar. And this is patriotism ? 
 
 To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
 Let me seek out my husband : the sage 
 
 "Ten," 
 With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
 So far with a weak woman as deny me 
 A moment's access to his dungeon. 
 
 Doge. I '11 
 
 So far take on myself, as order that 
 You may be admitted. 
 
 Mar. And what shall I say 
 
 To Foscari from his father ? 
 
 Doge. That he obey 
 
 The laws. 
 
 Mar. And nothing more ? Will you 
 
 not see him 
 
 Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 
 
 Doge. The last !— my boy ! — the last 
 
 time I shall see 
 
 My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III 
 Scene I. — The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 
 Jac. Fas. (solus). No light, save yon 
 
 faint gleam which shows me walls 
 Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sotmds. 
 The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
 Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the 
 
 groan 
 Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 
 And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
 With some faint hope, 't is true, that time, 
 
 which wears 
 The marble down, had worn away the hate 
 Of men's hearts ; but I knew them not, 
 
 and here 
 Must I consume my own, which never beat 
 For Venice but with such a yeammg as 
 The dove has for her distant nest, when 
 
 wheeling 
 High in the air on her return to greet 
 Her callow brood. What letters are these 
 
 vv'hich [Approaching the wall. 
 
 Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
 
 Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! 
 
 the names 
 Of my sad predecessors in this place, 
 The dates of their despair, the brief words 
 
 of 
 A grief too great for many. This stone 
 
 page 
 Holds like an epitaph their history ; 
 And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
 His dungeon barrier, like flie lover's record 
 Upon the bark of some tall tree, which 
 
 bears 
 His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
 I recognise some names familiar to me. 
 And blighted like to mine, which I will add. 
 Fittest for such a chronicle as this. 
 Which only can be read, as writ, by 
 
 wretches. 
 
 [He engraves his name. 
 
 Enter a Familiar of " the Ten." 
 
 Fam. I bring you food. 
 Jac. Fos. • I pray you set it down ; 
 I am past hunger : but my lips are 
 
 parch'd — 
 The water ! 
 
 Fam. There. 
 
 Jac. Fos. [after drinking). I thank you : 
 
 I am better. 
 Fam. I am commanded to inform you 
 that 
 Your further trial is postponed. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Till when ? 
 
 Fam. I know not. — It is also in my 
 orders 
 That your illustrious lady be admitted. 
 Jac. I'^os. Ah ! they relent, then — I had 
 ceased to hope it : 
 'T was time. 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 Mar. Mv best beloved ! 
 
 Jac. Fos.(embrac<niiher). Mytruewife, 
 And only friend ! What happiness ! 
 
 Mar. We '11 part 
 
 No more. 
 
 Jac. Fos. How ! wouldst thou share a 
 
 dungeon ? 
 Mar. Ay, 
 
 The rack, the grave, all — any thing with 
 
 thee. 
 But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
 Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
 Share that — all things except new separa- 
 tion ; 
 [t is too much to have survived the first . 
 How dost thou ? How are those worn 
 limbs ? Alas ! 
 
 Why do I ask ? Thy paleness 
 
 Jac. Fos. 'T is the joy 
 
 Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
 Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
 Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like 
 
 thine. 
 For thou art pale too, my Marina ! 
 
47° 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 ilar. 'T is 
 
 The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
 Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
 Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
 To darkness more than light, by lending to 
 The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke, 
 Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even 
 
 thine eyes — 
 No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how 
 they sparkle ! 
 fac. Fos. And thine ! — but I am blinded 
 
 by the torch. 
 Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst 
 
 thou see here ? 
 Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use 
 and time had taught me 
 Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
 And the grey twilight of such glimmerings 
 
 as 
 Glide through the crevices made by the 
 
 winds 
 Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun. 
 When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
 Save those of Venice ; but a moment ere 
 Thou camest hither I was busy writing. 
 Mar. What ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. lly name : look, 't is there — 
 recorded next 
 The name of him who here preceded me, 
 If dungeon dates say true. 
 
 Mar. And what of him ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's 
 ends ; they only 
 Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such 
 
 stern walls 
 Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
 Or those who soon must be so. — What of 
 
 him ? 
 Thou askest. — What of me ? may soon be 
 
 ask'd, 
 With the like answer — doubt and dreadful 
 
 surmise — 
 Unless thou tell'st my tale. 
 
 Mar. I speak of thee ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. And wherefore not ? All then 
 shall speak of me ; 
 The tyranny of silence is not lasting. 
 And, though events be hidden, just men's 
 
 groans 
 Will burst all cerement, even a living 
 
 grave's ! 
 I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
 And neither do I fear. 
 
 Mar. Thy life is safe. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 
 Mar. The mind should make its own. 
 Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 
 't is a sound, 
 A music most impressive, but too transient : 
 The mind is much, but is not all. The 
 
 mind 
 IJath nerved me to endure the risk of death. 
 And torture p(Kiti\-e, far worse than death 
 (If ()-■ ith be a deep sleep), without a groan. 
 
 Or with a cry which rather shamed my 
 
 judges 
 Than me ; but 't is not all, for there are 
 
 things 
 More woful — such as this small dungeon, 
 
 where 
 I may breathe many years. 
 
 Mar. Ala; ! and this 
 
 Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
 Of this mde realm, of which thy sire is 
 
 prince. 
 Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely 
 
 aid me to endure it. 
 My doom is common ; many are in dun- 
 geons. 
 But none like mine, so near their father's 
 
 palace ; 
 But then my heart is sometimes high, and 
 
 hope 
 Will stream along those moted rays of light 
 Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
 Our only day; for, save the gaoler's torch. 
 And a strange firefly, which was quickly 
 
 caught 
 Last night in yon enormous spider's net,' 
 I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
 I know if mind ma^^ bear us up. or no. 
 For I have such, and shoivn it before men ; 
 It sinks in solitude ; my soul is social. 
 Mar. I ^nll be with thee. 
 Jac. Fos. Aiy. if it were so .' 
 
 But thai they never granted — nor will 
 
 grant. 
 And I shall be alone : no men ; no books — 
 Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
 I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
 Which thev term annals, history, what von 
 
 will. 
 Which men bequeath as portraits, and tlit^v 
 
 were 
 Refused me, — so these walls have been my 
 
 study. 
 More faithful pictures of Venetian storv. 
 With all their blank, or dismal stains, than 
 
 is 
 The Hall not far from hence, which bears 
 
 on high 
 Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and 
 
 dates. 
 Mnr. I come to tell thee the result of 
 
 their 
 Last council on thy doom. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I know it — look ! 
 
 [He points to Ms limbs, as referring to 
 
 the Question wliich he had iinierptne. 
 Mar. No — no — no more of that : even 
 
 they relent 
 From that atrocity. 
 Jac. Fos. ' What then ? 
 
 Mar. That vou 
 
 Return to Candia. 
 
 Jac. Fos-. Then my List hope 's gone. 
 I could endure my dungeon, for 't was 
 
 Venice ; 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 471 
 
 I could support the torture, there was 
 
 something 
 In my native air thatbuoy'd my spirits up 
 Lilce a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
 But proudly still bestriding the high waves. 
 And holding on its course ; but there, afar. 
 In that accursed isle of slaves and captives. 
 And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck. 
 My very soul seem'd mouldering in my 
 
 bosom, 
 And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 
 ATaf. And l^ei^e ? 
 Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as 
 
 briefer. 
 What ! would they even deny me my sire's 
 
 sepulchre. 
 As well as home and heritage ? 
 
 Mar. My husband ! 
 
 I have sued to accompany thee hence. 
 And not so hopelessly. This lo"re of thine 
 For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
 Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me. 
 So I could see thee with a quiet aspect. 
 And the sweet freedom of the earth and 
 
 air, 
 I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
 This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
 A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
 Were wretched exiles. 
 Jac. Fos. Well I know Aoio wretched ? 
 Mar. And yet you see how, from their 
 
 banishment 
 Before the Tartar into these salt isles. 
 Their antique energy of mind, all that 
 Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance. 
 Created by degrees an ocean Rome ; 
 And shall an evil, which so often leads 
 To good, depress thee thus ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 
 
 From my own land, like the old patriarchs, 
 
 seeking 
 Another region, with their flocks and herds; 
 Had I been cast out like the Jews from 
 
 Zion, 
 Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
 From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
 I would have given some tears to my late 
 
 country. 
 And many thoughts ; but afterwards ad- 
 
 dress'd 
 Myself, with those about me, to create 
 A new home and fresh state : perhaps I 
 
 could 
 Have borne this — though I know not. 
 Mar. Wherefore not ? 
 
 It was the lot of millions, and must be 
 The fate of myriads more. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 
 
 Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
 Their numbers and success ; but who can 
 
 number 
 The hearts which broke in silence at that 
 
 parting, 
 Or after their departure ; of that malady 
 
 Which calls up green and native fields to 
 
 view 
 From the rough deep, with such identity 
 To the poor exile'^ fever'd eye, that he 
 Can scarcely be restrained from treading 
 
 them ? 
 That melody, which out of tones and tunes 
 Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
 Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
 From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds. 
 That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous 
 
 thought. 
 And dies. You call this weakness ! It is 
 
 strength, * 
 I say, — the parent of all honest feeling. 
 He who loves not his country, can love no- 
 thing. 
 Mar. Obey her, then : 't is she that 
 
 puts thee forth. 
 Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; 't is like a 
 
 mother's curse 
 Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
 The exiles you speak of went forth by 
 
 nations. 
 Their hands upheld each other by the way, 
 Their tents were pitch'd together — I'm 
 
 alone. , 
 
 Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go 
 
 with thee. 
 Jac. Fos. Jly best Marina ! — and our 
 
 children ? 
 
 Mar. They, 
 
 I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
 
 Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
 
 As threads, which may be broken at her 
 
 pleasure) , 
 Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 
 Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 
 Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 
 
 But — I can leave them, children as they are, 
 To teach you to be less a child. From thi;, 
 Learn you to sway your feelings, when ex- 
 acted 
 By duties paramount ; and 't is our first 
 On earth to bear. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 
 Mar. Too much 
 
 From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
 To teacii you not to shrink now from a lot. 
 Which, as compared with what you have 
 
 undergone 
 Of late, is mercy. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 
 
 Were far away from Venice, never saw 
 Her beautiful towers in the recedmg dis- 
 
 While everv furrow of the vessel's track 
 Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart : 
 
 you never 
 Saw day go down upon your native spires 
 So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
 And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
 Of them and theirs, awoke and found them 
 I not. 
 
472 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Let us 
 
 li/ar. I will divide this with you. 
 think 
 Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
 (Since you must love it, as it seems), and 
 
 this 
 
 Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
 
 Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
 
 And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 
 
 Jac. Fos. That 's sudden. Shall I not 
 
 behold my father ? 
 Mar. You will. 
 Jac. Fos. Where ? 
 
 May. Here, or in the ducal chamber — ■ 
 He said not which. I woald that you could 
 
 bear 
 Your exile as he bears it. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 
 
 I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
 He could not now act otherwise. A show 
 Of feeling or compassion on his part 
 Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
 Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon mine 
 Accumulated ills. 
 
 Mar. Accumulated ! 
 
 What pangs are those they have spared 
 you ? 
 Jac. Fos. That of leaving 
 
 Venice without beholding him or you, 
 Which might have been forbidden now, as 
 
 't was 
 Upon my former exile. 
 
 Mar. That is true, 
 
 .A.nd thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
 And shall be more so when I see us both 
 Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
 Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
 
 Unjust, and 
 
 Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
 Who dares accuse my country ? 
 
 Mar. ' Men and angels ! 
 
 The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
 The groans of slaves in chains, and men in 
 
 dungeons, 
 Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and 
 
 subjects, 
 Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
 Though last, not least, thy silence ! Couldst 
 
 thou say 
 .4.ught in its favour, who would praise like 
 thee ? 
 Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since 
 so it must be. 
 To our departure. Who comes here ? 
 Enter Loredano, attended by Faviiliars. 
 Lor. (to the Familiars). Retire, 
 
 But leave the torch. 
 
 [Exeunt the two Familiars. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signer. 
 
 I did not deem this poor place could have 
 
 drawn 
 Such presence hither. 
 
 Lor. 'T is not the first time 
 
 I have \-isited these places. 
 
 l\Iar. N'or would be 
 
 The last, were all men's merits v.-ell re- 
 warded. 
 Came you here to insult us, or remain 
 As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 
 
 Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
 I am sent hither to your husband, to 
 Announce " the Ten's " decree. 
 
 Mar. That tenderness 
 
 Has been anticipated : it is known. 
 Lor. As how ? 
 
 Mar. I have inform'd him, not so 
 gently. 
 Doubtless, as your nice feelings wouH pre- 
 scribe. 
 The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he 
 
 knew it. 
 If you come for our thanks, take them, and 
 
 hence ! 
 The dungeon gloom is deep enough without 
 
 you. 
 And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, 
 
 though 
 Their sting is honester. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you : 
 
 What can avail such words' ? 
 ^ Mar. To let him know 
 
 That he is known. 
 
 Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 
 
 Her sex's privilege. 
 
 Mar. I have some sons, sir. 
 
 Will one day thank you better. 
 
 Lor. You do ivell 
 
 To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
 I YoVlT sentence, then ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Return to Candia ' 
 
 I ^ ''"':■ True— 
 
 For hfe. 
 
 Jcic. Fos. Xot long. 
 
 Lor. I said— for life 
 
 Jac. Fos. And! 
 
 Repeat — not long. 
 
 Lor. A year's imprisonment 
 
 In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
 The whole isle. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Both the same to me • 
 after 
 Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
 Is 't true my wife accompanies me ' ' 
 
 Lor. 
 If she so wills it, 
 
 ■y""' ^ ^^ '"^ obtain'd that justice ? 
 
 Lo!. One who ivars not with women. 
 ,,'"'■, But oppresses 
 
 Men : howsoever let him have mv thanks 
 1-or the only boon I would have ask'd or 
 
 taken 
 From him or such as he is. 
 
 , ^^"J'- „ , , He receives them 
 
 -■Vs they are oiier d. 
 
 Mar. May they thrive with him 
 
 So much ! — no more. 
 Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole rais- 
 
 the 
 
 Yes, 
 
 sion ? 
 
 ! Because we have brief time for preparation, 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 473 
 
 And you perceive your presence doth dis- 
 quiet 
 This lady, of a house noble as yours. 
 Mar. Nobler ! 
 Lor. How nobler ? 
 
 Mar. As more generous ! 
 
 We say the " generous steed " to express 
 
 the purity 
 Of his high blood. Thus much I' ve learnt, 
 
 although 
 Venetian (who see few steeds save of 
 
 bronze). 
 From those Venetians who have skimm'd 
 
 the coasts 
 Of Egypt and her neighbour Araby : 
 And why not say as soon the " generous 
 
 man ? ' ' 
 If race be aught, it is in qualities 
 More than in years ; and mine, which is as 
 
 old 
 As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
 Look not so stern — but get you back, and 
 
 pore 
 Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
 Of leaves and most .mature of fruits, and 
 
 there 
 Blush to find ancestors, who would have 
 
 blush'd [hater ! 
 
 For such a son — thou cold inveterate 
 Jac. Fos. Again. Marina ! 
 Mar. Again ! still, Marina. 
 
 See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
 With a last look upon our misery ? 
 Let him partake it ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 
 
 Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes 
 
 it now — 
 Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
 And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes 
 
 it. 
 A few brief words of truth shame the devil's 
 
 servants 
 No less than master ; I have probed his 
 
 soul 
 A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long. 
 Will reach it always. See how he shrinks 
 
 from me ! 
 With death, and chains, and exile in his 
 
 hand, 
 To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit ; 
 They are his weapons, not his armour, for 
 I have pierced him to the core of his cold 
 
 heart. 
 I care not for his frowns ! We can but die. 
 And he but live, for him the very worst 
 Of destinies : each day secures him more 
 His tempter's. 
 
 Jac. Fos. This is mere msanity. 
 Mar. It may be so ; and who hath made 
 
 us mad ? 
 Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 
 If^ar. That 's false ! 
 
 You came here to enjoy a heartless tri- 
 umph 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You 
 
 came 
 To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears. 
 And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the 
 
 wreck 
 Which you have made a prince's son — my 
 
 husband ; 
 In short, to trample on the fallen — an 
 
 office 
 The hangman shrinks from, as all men 
 
 from him ! 
 How have yoy sped ? We are wretched, 
 
 signor, as 
 Your plots could make, and vengeance 
 
 could desire us. 
 And how feel you ? 
 Lor. As rocks. 
 
 Mar. By thunder blasted ■ 
 
 They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. 
 
 Come, 
 Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
 The sole fit habitant of such a cell. 
 Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
 Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 
 Enter the Doge. 
 Jac. Fos. My father ! 
 Doge (embracing Mm). Jacopo ! my son 
 
 — my son ! 
 Jac. Fos. My father still ! How long 
 it is since I 
 Have heard thee name ray name — our 
 name ! 
 Doge. My boy ! 
 
 Couldst thou but knov/ 
 
 Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have mur- 
 
 mur'd. 
 Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 
 Mar. Doge, look there ! 
 
 [She points to Loredano. 
 Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 
 Mar. Caution ! 
 
 Lor. Bemg 
 
 The virtue which this noble lady most 
 May practise, she doth well to recommend it 
 Mar. Wretch ! 't is no virtue, but the 
 policy 
 Of those who fain must deal perforce with 
 
 vice ; 
 As such I recommend it, as I would 
 To one whose foot was on an adder's path . 
 Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I 
 have long 
 Known Loredano. 
 Lor. You may know him better. 
 
 Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 
 Jac. Fos. Father, let not these 
 
 Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
 Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — ■ 
 
 is it. 
 Indeed, our last of meetings ? 
 
 Doge. You behold 
 
 These white hairs ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that 
 mine 
 
 I I 
 
474 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Will never be so white. Embrace me, 
 
 father ! 
 I loved you ever — never more than now. 
 Look to my children — to your last child's 
 
 children : 
 Let them be all to you which he was once, 
 And never be to you what I am now. 
 May I not see them also ? 
 Mar. No — not here. 
 
 Jac. Fos. They might behold their 
 
 parent any where. 
 Mar. I would that they beheld their 
 father in 
 A place which would not mingle fear with 
 
 love. 
 To freeze their young blood in its natural 
 
 current. 
 They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not 
 
 that 
 Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
 I know his fate may one day be their herit- 
 age. 
 But let it only be their heritage, 
 And not their present fee. Their senses, 
 
 though 
 Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
 And these vile damps, too, and yon thick 
 
 green wave 
 Which floats above the place where we now 
 
 stand — 
 A cell so far below the Water's level, 
 Sending its pestilence through every cre- 
 vice. 
 Might strike them : this is not their at- 
 mosphere. 
 However you — and you — and most of all. 
 As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
 May breathe it without prejudice. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I have not 
 
 Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
 I shall depart, then, without meeting them? 
 Doge. Not so : they shall await you in 
 
 my chamber. 
 Jac. Fos. And must I leave them — all ? 
 Lor. You must. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Not one ? 
 
 Lnr. They are the state's. 
 Mar. I thought they had been mine. 
 Lor. They are, in all maternal things. 
 Mar. That is, 
 
 In all things painful. If they 're sick, they 
 
 ■will 
 Be left to me to tend them ; should they 
 
 die. 
 To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
 They live, they '11 make you soldieri, sena- 
 tors, [are 
 Slaves, exiles — what yoii will ; or if they 
 Females with portions, brides and bribes 
 
 for nobles ! 
 Behold the state's care for its sons and 
 mothers ! 
 Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind 
 is fair. 
 
 Jac. Fos. How know you that here, 
 
 where the genial wind 
 
 Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 
 
 Lor. 'T was so 
 
 When I came here. The galley floats 
 
 within 
 A bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 
 Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to pre- 
 cede me, and 
 Prepare my children to behold their father. 
 Doge. Be firm, my son ! 
 Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavour. 
 
 Mar. Farewell ! at least to this de- 
 tested dungeon. 
 And him to whose good offices you owe 
 In part your past imprisonment. 
 
 Lor. And present 
 
 Liberation. 
 Doge. He speaks truth. 
 Jac. Fos. No doubt ! but 't is 
 
 Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe 
 
 him. 
 He knows this, or he had not sought to 
 
 change them. 
 Bht I reproach not. 
 Lor. „ The time narrows, signor. 
 Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so 
 lingeringly 
 To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
 That every step I take, even from this cell. 
 Is one away from Venice, I lookback 
 
 Even on these dull damp walls, and 
 
 Doge. 'Boy! no tears. 
 
 Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not oil 
 the rack 
 To shame him, and they cannot shame him 
 
 now. 
 They will relieve his heart — that too kind 
 
 heart — 
 And I will find an hour to wipe away 
 Those tears, or add my own : I could weep 
 
 now. 
 But would not gratify von wretch so far. 
 Let us proceed. Doge, lead the wav. 
 Lor. {to the Familiar) . The torch, there ! 
 Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral 
 pyre. 
 With Loredano mourning like an heir. 
 Doge. My son, you are feeble ; take this 
 
 hand. 
 Jac. Fos. .\las ! 
 
 Must youth support itself on age, and I 
 Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 
 Lor. Take mine. 
 
 Mar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 't will 
 sting you. Signor, 
 Stand off ! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
 Would raise us from the gulf wherein we 
 
 are plunged. 
 
 No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet 
 
 it- [vou ; 
 
 Corie, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave 
 
 It could not save, but will support you ever. 
 
 iE):eunt. 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 475 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
 Enter Loeedano and Barbarigo. 
 
 Bat. And have you confidence in such a 
 
 project ? 
 Lor. I have. 
 
 Bar. 'T is hard upon his years. 
 
 Lor. Say rather 
 
 • Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 
 Bar. T 'will break his heart. 
 Lor. Age has 
 
 no heart to break. 
 He has seen his son's half broken, and, ex- 
 cept 
 A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
 Swerved. 
 
 Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, 
 never ; 
 But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
 So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
 Had nought to envy him within. Where 
 is he ? 
 Lor. In his own portion of the palace, 
 with 
 His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 
 Bar. Bidding farewell. 
 Lor. A last. As soon he shall 
 
 Bid to his dukedom. 
 
 Bar. When embarks the son ? 
 
 Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is 
 taken. 'T is 
 Time to admonish them again. 
 
 Bar. Forbear ; 
 
 Retrench not from their moments. 
 
 /,(,,. Not I, now 
 
 We have higher business for our own. 
 
 This day 
 Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign. 
 As the first of his son's last banishment. 
 And that is vengeance. 
 
 Bar. In my mind, too deep. 
 
 Lor. 'T is moderate— not even life for 
 life, the rule 
 Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
 They owe me still my father's and my 
 uncle's. , ... 
 
 Bar. Did not the Doge deny this 
 
 strongly ? 
 l^or Doubtless. 
 
 Bar. And did not this shake your sus- 
 picion ? 
 Lor. No. . , ,j 4 , 
 
 Bar. But if this deposition should take 
 place 
 By our united influence in the Council, 
 It must be done with all the deference 
 Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 
 Lor As much of ceremony as you will, 
 So that the thing be done. You may, tor 
 
 aught , . , 
 
 I care depute the Council on their knees, 
 (Like Barbarossa to the Pope.) to beg him 
 To have the courtesy to abdicate. 
 
 Bar. What if he will not ? 
 Lor. We'll elect another. 
 
 And make him null. 
 
 Bar. But will the laws uphold us ? 
 
 Lor. What laws ? — " The Ten " are 
 laws ; and if they were not, 
 I will be legislator in this business. 
 Bar. At your own peril ? 
 Lor. There is none, I tell you. 
 
 Our powers are such. 
 
 Bar. But he has twice already 
 
 Solicited permission to retire. 
 And twice it was refused. 
 
 Lor. The better reason 
 
 To grant it the third time. 
 
 Bar. Unask'd ? 
 
 Lor. It shows 
 
 The impression of his former instajices : 
 If they were from his heart, he may be 
 
 thankful : 
 If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 
 Come, they ate met by this time ; let us 
 
 join them. 
 And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
 I have prepared such arguments as will not 
 Fail to move them, and to remove him : 
 
 since 
 Their thoughts, their objects, have been 
 
 sounded, do not 
 You, with your wonted scruples, teach us 
 
 pause, 
 And all will prosper. 
 
 Bar. Could I but be certain 
 
 This is no prelude to such persecution 
 Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
 I would support you. 
 
 Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 
 
 His fourscore years and five may linger on 
 As long as he can drag them : 't is his 
 
 throne 
 Alone is aim'd at. 
 
 Bar. But discarded princes 
 
 Are seldom long of life. 
 
 Lor. And men of eighty 
 
 More seldom still. 
 
 Bar. And why not wait these few 
 
 years ? 
 Lor. Because we have waited long 
 enough, and he 
 Lived longer than enough. Hence ! in to 
 council ! 
 
 [Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 
 Enter Memmo and a Senator. 
 
 Sen. A summons to " the Ten ! " why 
 so ? 
 
 Mem. "The Ten 
 
 Alone can answer ; they are rarely wont 
 To let their thoughts anticipate their pur- 
 pose fmon' d — 
 By previous proclamation. We are sum- 
 That is enough. 
 
 Sen. For them, but not for us ; 
 
 I woirid know why. 
 
476 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Mem. You \vill know why anon, 
 
 ff you obey : and, if not, you no less 
 Will know why you should have obey'd. 
 
 Sen. I mean not 
 
 To oppose them, but — ■ — 
 
 Mem. In Venice " but " 's a traitor. 
 
 But me no " huts" unless you would pass 
 
 o'er 
 The Bridge which few repass. 
 
 Sen. I am silent. 
 
 Mem. Why ' 
 
 Thus hesitate ? " The Ten " have call'd 
 
 in aid 
 Of their deliberation five and twenty 
 Patricians of the senate — you are one. 
 And I another ; and it seems to me 
 Both honour'd by the choice or chance 
 
 which leads us 
 To mingle with a body so'august. 
 Sen. Most true. I say no more. 
 Mem. As we hope, signer, 
 
 And all may honestly, (that is, all those 
 Of noble blood may,) one day hope to be 
 Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
 Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
 Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
 To view the mysteries. 
 
 Sen. Let us view them : thev. 
 
 No doubt, are worth it. 
 
 Mem. Being worth our lives 
 
 If we divulge them, doubtless they are 
 
 worth 
 Something, at least to you or me. 
 
 Sen. I sought not 
 
 A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
 Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
 I shall fulfil my office. 
 
 Mem. Let us not 
 
 Be latest in obeying "the Ten's " summons. 
 Sen. All are not met, but I am of your 
 thought 
 So far — let 's in. 
 
 Mem. The earliest are most wel- 
 
 come 
 In earnest councils — we will not be least so. 
 
 [Exenni, 
 Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscaei, and 
 Marina. 
 Jac. Eos. Ah, father ! though I must 
 and will depart. 
 Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
 That I once more return unto my home, 
 Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
 A point of time, as beacon to my heart, 
 With any penalty annex'd thev please. 
 But let me still return. 
 
 Doge. Son Jacopo, 
 
 Go and obey our country's will : 't is not 
 For us to look beyond. 
 
 Jac. Eos. But still I must 
 
 Look back. I pray you think of me. 
 
 Doge. Alas ! 
 
 You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
 
 They were more numerous, nor can be less 
 so [mand 
 
 Now you are last ; but did the state de- 
 The exile of the disinterred ashes 
 Of your three goodly brothers, now in 
 
 earth, 
 And their desponding shades came flitting 
 
 round 
 To impede the act, I must no less obey 
 A duty, paramount to every duty. 
 
 .Mar. My husband ! let us on : this but 
 prolongs 
 Our sorrow. 
 
 Jac. Eos. But we are not summon'd 
 yet ; 
 The galley's sails are not unfiirl'd : — who 
 
 knows ? 
 The wind may change. 
 
 Mar. And if it do, it will not 
 
 Change their hearts, or your lot : the 
 
 galley's oars 
 Will quickly clear the harbour. 
 
 Jac. Eos. O, ye elements ! 
 
 Where are your storms ? 
 
 Mar. In human breasts. Alas ! 
 
 Will nothing calm 5'ou ? 
 
 Jac. Eos. Never yet did mariner 
 
 Put up to patron saint such pravers for 
 
 prosperous 
 And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you. 
 Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
 Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
 To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves. 
 And waken Auster, sovereign of the tem- 
 pest ! 
 Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
 A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
 Where I may mingle with the sands which 
 
 skirt 
 The land I love, and never shall see more ! 
 Mar. And wish you this with me beside 
 
 you ? 
 Jac. Eos. No — 
 No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! 
 
 May'st thou 
 Live long to be a mother to those children 
 Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 
 Of such support ! But for myself alone. 
 May all the winds of heaven howl down the 
 
 Gulf, 
 And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 
 Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me. 
 As the Pheuicians did on Jonah, then 
 Cast me out from amongst them, as an offer- 
 ing 
 To appease the waves. The billow which 
 
 destroys me 
 Will be more merciful than man, and bear 
 
 me 
 Dead, but still bear me to a native grave. 
 From fishers' (hands, upon the desolate 
 
 strand. 
 Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er 
 recei^'ed 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 One lacerated like the heart which then 
 Will be. — But wherefore breaks it not ? 
 why live I ? 
 Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, 
 to master 
 Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
 A sufferer, but not a loud one : why 
 What is this to the things thou hast borne 
 
 in silence — 
 Imprisonment and actual torture ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Double, 
 
 Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are 
 
 right, 
 It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 
 
 Doge. Would 
 
 It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast 
 it. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Forgive 
 
 Doge. What ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Mv poor mother, for my 
 
 birth. 
 And me for having lived, and you yourself 
 (As I forgive you), for the gift of life, 
 Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 
 Mar. What hast thou done ? 
 Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot 
 
 charge 
 My memory with much save sorrow : but 
 I have been so beyond the common lot 
 Chasten'd and visited, I needs^must think 
 That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
 WHat I have undergone here keep me from 
 A like hereafter ! 
 
 Mar. Fear not : that's reserved 
 
 For your oppressors. 
 Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 
 
 Mar. Hope not ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them all they 
 
 have inflicted. 
 Mar. All.' the consummate fiends! 
 A thousand fold 
 May the worm which ne'er dieth feed upon 
 them ! 
 Jac. Fos. They may repent. 
 Mar. And if they do, Heaven will not 
 Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 
 Enter an Officer and Guards. 
 Offi. Signor ! the boat is at the shore — 
 the wind 
 Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 
 Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once 
 more, father, 
 Your hand ! 
 
 Doge. Take it. Alas ! how thine 
 
 own trembles I 
 Jac. Fos. No — you mistake ; 't is yours 
 that shakes, my father. 
 Farewell ! 
 Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 
 Jac. Fos. No — nothing. 
 
 [To the Officer. 
 Lend me j'our arm, good signor. 
 
 Offi. You turn pale — 
 
 477 
 
 Let me support you — paler — ho ! some aid 
 
 there ! 
 Some water ! 
 
 Mar. Ah, he is dying ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. Now, I'm readv — 
 
 My eyes swim strangely — where 's "the 
 
 door ? 
 
 Mar. Awav ! 
 
 Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, 
 
 God! 
 How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 
 Jac. Fos. The light ! 
 
 /s it the light ? — I am faint. 
 
 [Officer presents him with water. 
 Offi. He will be better, 
 
 Perhaps, in the air. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father — 
 
 wife — 
 Your hands ! 
 
 Mar. There's death in that damp, 
 clammy grasp. 
 Oh, God ! — My Foscari, how fare you ? 
 Jac. Fos. Well ! 
 
 [He dies. 
 Offi. He 's gone ! 
 Doge. He 's free. 
 
 Mar. No — no, he is not dead ; 
 
 There must be life yet in that heart — he 
 
 could not 
 Thus leave me. 
 
 Doge. Daughter ! 
 Mar. Hold thy peace, old man ! 
 
 I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
 Oh, Foscari ! 
 
 Offi. We must remove the body. 
 Mar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! 
 your base of&ce 
 Ends witli his life, and goes not beyond 
 
 murder. 
 Even by your murderous laws. Leave his 
 
 remains 
 To those who know to honour them. 
 
 Offi. I must 
 
 Inform the signory, and learn their 
 
 pleasure. 
 
 Doge. Inform the signory from me, the 
 
 Doge, 
 
 They have no further power upon those 
 
 ashes : 
 While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a sub- 
 ject — 
 Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy ! 
 [Exit Officer. 
 Mar. And I must live. 
 Doge. Your children live, Marina. 
 
 Mar. Jly children ! true — they live, and 
 I must live 
 To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
 As died their father. Oh ! what best of 
 
 blessings 
 Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my 
 
 mother 
 Had been so ! 
 
 Doge. My unhappy children ! 
 
478 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 May. What ! 
 
 You feel it then at last — you ! — Where is 
 
 now 
 The stoic of the state ? 
 Doge {throwing himself down by the 
 
 body). Here! 
 Mar. Ay, weep on ! 
 
 I thought you had no tears — you hoarded 
 
 them 
 Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he 
 
 never 
 Shall weep more — never, never more. 
 
 Enter Loredano and Barearigo. 
 
 Lor. What 's here ? 
 
 Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the 
 dead ! Avaunt ! 
 Incarnate Lucifer ! 't is holy ground. 
 A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make 
 
 it 
 A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of 
 torment ! 
 Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event. 
 But pass'd here merely on our path from 
 council. 
 Mar. Pass on. 
 
 Lor. We sought the Doge. 
 
 Mar. {pointing to the Doge, who is still 
 on the ground by his son's body). He 's 
 busy, look. 
 About the business you provided for him. 
 Are ye content ? 
 
 Bar. We will not interrupt 
 
 A parent's sorrows. 
 
 Mar. No, ye only make them. 
 
 Then leave them. 
 
 Doge {rising). Sirs, I am ready. 
 Bar. No — not now. 
 
 Lor. Yet 't was important. 
 Doge. If 't was so, I can 
 
 Only repeat — I am ready. 
 
 Bar. It shall not be 
 
 Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the 
 
 deep 
 Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 
 Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which 
 you bring 
 Are evil, you may say them ; nothing 
 
 further 
 Can touch me more than him thou look'st 
 
 on there ; 
 If they be good, say on ; you need not fear 
 That they can comfort me. 
 
 Bar. I would they could ! 
 
 Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Lore- 
 dano. 
 He understands me. 
 
 Mar. Ah ! I thought it'would be so. 
 
 Doge. What mean you ? 
 Mar. Lo ! there is the blood be- 
 
 ginning 
 To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
 The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 
 [To Loredano. 
 
 Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
 How death itself bears witness to thy deeds 1 
 Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of 
 grief. 
 Bear hence the body. [To his attendants.] 
 
 Signors, if it please you, 
 Within an hour I '11 hear you. 
 [Exeunt Doge, Marina, and attendants 
 unth the body. Manent Loredano 
 and Barearigo. 
 Bar. He must not 
 
 Be troubled now. 
 
 Lor. He said himself that nought 
 
 Could give him trouble farther. 
 
 Bar. These are words ; 
 
 But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
 Upon it barbarous. 
 
 Lor. Sorrow preys upon 
 
 Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
 From its sad visions of the other world, 
 Than calling it at moments back to this. 
 The busy have no time for tears. 
 
 Bar. And therefore 
 
 You would deprive this old man of all 
 business ? 
 Lor. The thing 's decreed. The Giunta 
 and " the Ten " 
 Have made it law — who shall oppose that 
 law ? 
 Bar. Hiynanity ! 
 
 Lor. Because his son is dead ? 
 
 Bar. And yet unburied. 
 Lor. Had we known this when 
 
 The act was passing, it might have sus- 
 pended 
 Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 
 Bar. I'll not consent. 
 Lor. You have consented to 
 
 All that 's essential — leave the rest to me. 
 Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 
 Lor. The feelings 
 
 Of private passion may not interrupt 
 The public benefit ; and what the state 
 Decides to-day must not give way before 
 To-morrow for a natural accident. 
 Bar. You have a son. 
 Lor. I have — and had a father. 
 
 Bar. Still so inexorable ? 
 Lor. Still. 
 
 Bar. But let him 
 
 Inter his son before we press upon him 
 This edict. 
 
 Lor. Let him call up into life 
 My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
 Even aged men, be, or appear to be. 
 Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
 An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
 The victims are not equal ; he has seen 
 His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
 My sires by \-iolent and mysterious mala- 
 dies. 
 I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
 Of the destructive art of healing, to 
 Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 479 
 
 His sons — and he had four — are dead, 
 
 without 
 My dabbling in vile drugs. 
 
 Bar. And art thou sure 
 
 He dealt in such ? 
 
 Lor. , Most sure. 
 
 Bar. And yet he seems 
 
 All openness. 
 
 Lor. And so he seem'd not long 
 
 Ago to Carmagnuola. 
 
 Bar. The attainted 
 
 And foreign traitor ? 
 
 Lor. Even so : when he, 
 
 After the very night in which " the Ten " 
 (Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruc- 
 tion. 
 Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
 Demanding whether he should augur him 
 " The good day or good night ? "his Doge- 
 ship ansWer'd, [vigil, 
 " That he in truth had pass'd a night of 
 " In which (he added with a gracious smile) , 
 "There often has been question about you." 
 'T was true ; the question was the death 
 
 resolved 
 Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
 And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, 
 
 smiled on him 
 With deadly, cozenage, eight long months 
 
 beforehand — 
 Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
 Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Car- 
 magnuola ■ 
 Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his 
 
 brethren — 
 I ilever smiled on them. 
 
 Bar. Was Carmagnuola 
 
 Your friend ? 
 
 Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 
 In early life its foe, but in his manhood. 
 Its saviour first, then victim. 
 
 Bar. Ah ! that seems 
 
 The penalty of saving cities. He 
 Whom we now act against not only saved 
 Our own, but added others to her sway. 
 Lot. The Romans (iixA we ape them) 
 gave a crown 
 To him who took a city ; and they gave 
 A crown to him who saved a citizen 
 In battle : the rewards are equal. Now, 
 If we should measure forth the cities taken 
 By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
 Destroy'd by him, or through him, the ac- 
 count 
 Were fearfully against him, although 
 
 narrow'd 
 To private havoc, sUch as betwefen him 
 And my dead father. 
 
 Bar Are you then thus nx d .' 
 
 Lor Why, what should change me ? 
 Bar. That which changes me : 
 
 But tou, I know, are marble to retain 
 A feud. But when all is accomplish d, 
 when 
 
 The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
 His sons all dead, his family depress'd, 
 And you and yours triumphant, shall you 
 sleep ? 
 Lor. More soundly. 
 
 Bar. That's an error, and you'll find it 
 Ere you sleep with your fathers. 
 
 Lor. They sleep not 
 
 In their accelerated graves, nor will 
 Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
 Stalk frowning round my couch, and, point- 
 ing towards 
 The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 
 Bar. Fancy's distemperature ! There 
 is no passion 
 More spectral or fantastical than Hate ; 
 Not even its opposite, Love, so peoples air 
 With phantoms, as this madness of the 
 heart. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 
 Offl. By the ducal order 
 
 To forward the preparatory rites 
 For the late Foscari's interment. 
 
 Bar. Their 
 
 Vault has been often open'd of late years. 
 
 Lor. ' Twill be fhll soon, and may be 
 
 closed for ever. 
 Offi. May I pass on ? 
 Lor. You may. 
 
 Bar. How bears the Doge 
 
 This last calamity ? 
 
 Offi. With desperate firmness. 
 
 In presence of another he says little, 
 But I perceive His lips move now and then ; 
 And once or twice I heard him, from the 
 
 adjoining 
 Apartment, mutter forth the words — "My 
 
 son ! " 
 Scarce audibly. I inust proceed. 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 Bar. This stroke 
 
 Will move all Venice in his favour. 
 
 Lor. Riglit ! 
 
 We must be speedy : let us call together 
 The delegates appointed to conVey 
 The Council's resolution. 
 
 Bar. I protest 
 
 Against it at this moment. 
 
 Lor. As you please — 
 
 I'll take their voices on it ne'ertheless,. 
 And see whose most may sway them, yoUrs 
 or miiie. 
 [Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano. 
 
 ACT V 
 Scene I. — The Doge's Apartment. 
 The Doge and A Uendants. 
 Alt. My lord, tlie deputation is in wait- 
 ing ; 
 But add, that if another hour woiild better 
 Accord «-ith your will, they will make it 
 theirs. 
 
480 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Doge. To me all hours are like. Let 
 them approach. 
 
 [Exit Alleiidant. 
 An Officer. Prince ! I have done your 
 
 bidding. 
 Doge. What command ? 
 
 Offi. A melancholy one — to call the 
 attendance 
 
 Of 
 
 Doge. True — true — true ; I crave your 
 pardon. I 
 Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
 Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
 Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
 To overtake me. 
 
 Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of 
 the Signory and the Chief of the Ten. 
 
 Noblemen, your pleasure ! 
 Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the 
 Coumcil doth condole 
 With the Doge on his late and private grief. 
 Doge. No more — no more of that. 
 Chief of the Ten. \\'ill not the Duke 
 
 Accept the homage of respect ? 
 
 Doge. I do 
 
 Accept it as 't is given — ^proceed. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. " The Ten," 
 
 With a selected giunta from the senate 
 Of twenty-five of the best bom patricians, 
 Having deliberated on the state 
 Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
 Which, at this moment, doubly must 
 
 oppress 
 Your years, so long devoted to your coun- 
 try. 
 Have judged it fitting, with all reverence. 
 Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
 Upon reflection must accord in this). 
 The resignation of the ducal ring, 
 Which you have worn so long and venera- 
 bly : 
 And to prove that they are not ungrateful, 
 
 nor 
 Cold to your years and services, they add 
 An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
 Ducats, to make retirement not less splen- 
 did 
 Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
 Do^e. Did I hear rightlv ? 
 Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 
 Do^e. No — Have you done ? 
 Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty- 
 four 
 Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
 Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 
 Chief of the Ten. ' \\e 
 
 Will now retire. 
 
 Doge. Stay ! four and twenty hours 
 
 Will alter nothmg which I have to say. 
 Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 
 Doge. When I twice before reiterated 
 Uy wish to abdicate, it was refused me : 
 And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
 
 An oath from me that I would ne^'e^ more 
 Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
 \ In full exertion of the functions, which 
 My country call'd me here to exercise, 
 According to my honour and my con- 
 science — 
 I cannot break my oath. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 
 
 To the alternative of a decree. 
 Instead of your compliance. 
 
 Doge. Providence 
 
 Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me; 
 But ye have no right to reproach my length 
 Of days, since every hour has been the 
 
 country's. 
 I am ready to lay down my life for her. 
 As I have laid down dearer things than life : 
 But for my dignity — I hold it of 
 The whole republic : when the general will 
 Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an 
 answer ; but it cannot 
 Avail you aught. 
 
 Doge. I can submit to all things, 
 
 But nothing will advance ; no, not a 
 
 moment. 
 Whaf you decree — decree. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 
 Return to those who sent us ? 
 
 Doge. You have heard me. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence 
 we retire. 
 
 [Exeunt the Deputation, etc. 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Att. My lord, 
 
 The noble dame Marina cra\-es an audience. 
 Doge. My time is hers. 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 ^lar. My lord, if I intrude- 
 
 Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 
 
 Doge. Alone ! 
 
 Alone, come all the world around me, I 
 
 Am now and evermore. But we vnW bear 
 
 it. 
 
 il/of. \\'e will, and for the sake of those 
 
 who are. 
 
 Endeavour Oh, my husband ! 
 
 Doge. ' Give it way : 
 
 I cannot comfort thee. 
 
 ^^i"- He might have lived, 
 
 So form'd for gentle privacy of life. 
 So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
 Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
 As my poor Foscari ? Nothing was want- 
 ing 
 Unto his happiness and mine save not 
 To be ^'enetian. 
 
 Doge. Or a prince's son. 
 
 Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to 
 other men's 
 Imperfect happiness or high ambition 
 By some strange destiny, to him proved 
 dcafUv. 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 481 
 
 The country and the people whom he loved, 
 The prince of whom he was the elder born, 
 
 And 
 
 Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 
 Mar. How ? 
 
 Doge. They have taken my son from me, 
 and now aim 
 At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
 Let them resume the gewgaws ! 
 
 Mar. Oh, the tyrants ! 
 
 In such an hour too ! 
 
 Doge. 'T is the fittest time ; 
 
 An hour ago I should have felt it. 
 
 Mar. And 
 
 Will you not now resent it ? — Oh, for 
 
 vengeance ! 
 But he, who, had he been enough protected. 
 Might have repaid protection in this mo- 
 ment. 
 Cannot assist his father. 
 
 Doge. Nor should do so 
 
 Against his country, had he a thousand 
 lives 
 
 Instead of that 
 
 Mar. They tortured from him. This 
 May be pure patriotism. I am a woman ; 
 To me my husband and my children were 
 Country and home. I loved him — how 
 
 I loved him ! 
 I have seen him pass through such an ordeal 
 
 as 
 The old martyrs would have shrunk from : 
 
 he is gone, 
 And I, who would have given my blood for 
 
 him, 
 Ha\-e nought to give but tears ! But 
 
 could I compass 
 The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, 
 
 well! 
 I have sons, who shall be men. 
 
 Doge. Your grief distracts you. 
 
 Mar. I thought I could have borne it, 
 when I saw him 
 Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I 
 
 thought 
 That I would rather look upon his corse 
 Than his prolong'd captivity:—! am 
 
 punish'd 
 For that thought now. Would I were m 
 his grave ! 
 Doge. I must look on him once more. 
 
 Come with me ! 
 Is he 
 
 Mar. 
 Doge. 
 Mar. 
 
 Mar. 
 
 Our bridal bed is now his bier. 
 And he is in his shroud ! 
 
 Come, come, old man ! 
 [Exeunt the Doge and M.^rina. 
 Enter Barbarigo and, Loredano. 
 Bar. (to an attendant). Where is the 
 
 Doge ? . ^ , 
 
 Jilt. This mstant retired hence, 
 
 With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 
 Lor. Where ? 
 Att. To the chamber where the body lies. 
 
 Bar. Let us return, then. 
 Lor. You forget, you cannot. 
 
 We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
 To await their coming here, and join them 
 
 in 
 Their office : they '11 be here soon after us. 
 Bar. And will they press their answer on 
 
 the Doge ? _ 
 Lor. 'T was his own wish that all should 
 be done promptly. 
 He answer'd quickly, and must so be 
 
 answer'd ; 
 His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
 Cared for — what would he more ? 
 
 Bar. Die in his robes : 
 
 He could not have lived long ; but I have 
 
 done 
 My best to save his honours, and opposed 
 This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
 Why would the general vote compel me 
 hither ? 
 Lor. 'T was fit that some one of such dif- 
 ferent thoughts 
 From ours should be a witness, lest false 
 
 tongues 
 Should whisper that a harsh maiority 
 Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 
 Bar. And not less, I must needs think, 
 for the sake 
 Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
 You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
 Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
 A very Ovid in the art of hating ; 
 'T is thus (although a secondary object. 
 Yet hate has microscopic eyes), to you 
 I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous. 
 This undesired association in 
 Your Giunta's duties. 
 
 Lor How ! — mv Giunta! 
 
 Bar. ^'°«"'5 •' 
 
 They speak your language, watch your 
 
 nod, approve 
 Your plans, and do your work. Are they 
 not yours ? 
 Lor. You talk unwarily. 'T were best 
 they hear not 
 This from you. 
 
 Bar. Oh ! they '11 hear as much one day 
 From louder tongues than mine ; they have 
 
 gone beyond 
 Even their exorbitance of power ; and when 
 This happens in the most contemn d and 
 
 abject . 
 
 States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 
 Lor. You talk but idly. 
 Bar. That remains for proof. 
 
 Here come our colleagues. 
 
 Enter the Deputation as before. 
 Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 
 We seek his presence ? 
 
 Att He shall be inform'd. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 Bar. The Duke is with his son. 
 
482 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 ChicI of the Ten. If it be so, 
 
 We will remit him till the rites are over. 
 Let us return. 'T is time enough to- 
 morrow. 
 Lof. [aside to Bar.), Now the rich man's 
 hell-fire upon your tongue, 
 Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I'll have it 
 torn [utter 
 
 From its vile babbling roots, till you shall 
 Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! 
 
 Sage signors, 
 I pray ye be not hasty. 
 
 [Alottd to the others. 
 Bar. But be human ! 
 
 Lor. See, the Duke comes ! 
 
 Enter the Doge. 
 
 Doge, I have obey'd your summons. 
 Chief of the Ten. We come once more to 
 
 urge our past request. 
 Do^e, And I to answer. 
 Chief of the Ten. What ? 
 
 Doge, My only answer. 
 
 You have heard it. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last 
 decree. 
 Definitive and absolute ! 
 
 Doge, To the point — ■ 
 
 To the point ! I know of old the forms of 
 
 office, 
 Andjgentle preludes to strong acts. — Go on! 
 Chief of the Ten. You are no longer 
 Doge ; you are released 
 From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
 Your ducal robes must be put off ; but for 
 Your services, the state allots the appanage 
 Already mention'd in our former congress. 
 Three days are left you to remove from 
 
 hence. 
 Under the penalty to see confiscated 
 All your own private fortune. 
 
 Doge, That last clause, 
 
 I am proud to say, would not enrich the 
 treasury. 
 Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 
 Lor, Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 
 
 Doge. If I could have foreseen that my 
 old age 
 >Vas prejudicial to the state, the chief 
 Of the republic ne^-er would have shown 
 Himself so far imgrateful, as to place 
 His own high dignity before his country ; 
 But this life having been so man}' years 
 Not useless to that country, I would fain 
 Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
 But the decree being rendered, I obey. 
 Chief of the Ten. If you would have the 
 three days named extended, 
 We willingly mil lengthen them to eight. 
 As sign of our esteem. 
 
 Doge. Not eight hours, signor. 
 
 Nor even eight minutes — there 's the ducal 
 ring. 
 
 [Taking off his ring and cap. 
 
 And there the ducal diadem. And so 
 The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 
 
 Chief of the Ten, Yet go not forth so 
 quickly. . 
 
 Doge, I srn old, sir. 
 
 And even to tnove but slowly must begin 
 To move betimes. . Methinks I see amongst 
 
 you 
 A face I know not. — Senator ! your name, 
 You, by your garb, Chief of the Forty ! 
 
 Mem. Signor, 
 
 I am the son of Marco Memmo. 
 
 Doge, Ah ! 
 
 Your father was my friend. — But sons 
 
 and fathers ! — 
 What, ho ! my servants there ! 
 Atten. My prince ! 
 
 Doge, No prince — 
 
 There are the princes of the prince ! 
 [Pointing to the Ten's Deputation.] — Pre- 
 pare 
 To part from hence upon the instant. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Why 
 
 So rashly ? 't will give scandal. 
 
 Doge. Answer that ; 
 
 [To the Ten. 
 
 If is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves: 
 
 [To the Servants. 
 
 There is one burthen which I beg you bear 
 
 With care, although 't is past all farther 
 
 harm — 
 But I will look to that myself. 
 
 Bar. He means 
 
 The body of his son. 
 
 Doge. And call Marina, 
 
 My daughter ! 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 Doge, Get thee ready, we must mourn 
 Elsewhere. 
 
 Mar, And every where. 
 Doge, True ; but in freedom, 
 
 Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
 Signors, you may depart : what would you 
 
 more ? 
 We are going : do you fear that we shall 
 
 bear 
 The palacri -n-ith us ? Its old walls, ten 
 
 times 
 As old- as I am, and I 'm verv old. 
 Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
 Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
 To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
 The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
 The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
 Such power I do believe there might exist 
 In such a curse as mine, provoked bv sttch 
 As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good 
 
 signors ! 
 May the next duke be better than the 
 present ! 
 Lor. The present duke is Paschal Mali- 
 
 piero. 
 Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of 
 these doors. 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI 
 
 483 
 
 Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon 
 about to toll 
 For his inauguration. 
 
 Doge Earth and heaven ! 
 
 Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
 Live to hear this !— the first doge who 
 
 e'er heard 
 Such sound for his successor : happier he, 
 My attainted predecessor, stem Faliero — 
 This insult at the least was spared him. 
 
 Lor What ! 
 
 Do you regret a traitor ? 
 
 Doge. No — I merely 
 
 Env\' the dead. 
 
 Chiel of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
 Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
 Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
 By the private staircase, which conducts 
 
 you towards 
 The landing-place of the canal. 
 
 Doge No. I 
 
 Will now descend the stairs by which I 
 
 mounted 
 To sovereignty — the Giants' Stairs, on 
 
 whose 
 Broad eminence I was invasted duke. 
 My services have called me up those steps. 
 The malice of my foes will drive me down 
 
 them. 
 There five and thirty years ago was I 
 Install'd, and traversed these same halls, 
 
 from which 
 I never thought to be divorced except 
 A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for 
 
 them — 
 But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 
 But come ; my son and I will go together — 
 He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 
 Chief of thi.Ten. What ! thus in public ? 
 Doge. I was publicly 
 
 Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
 Marina ! art thou willing ? 
 
 Mar. Here 's my arm ! 
 
 Doge. And here my staff : thus propp'd 
 
 will I go forth. 
 Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the 
 
 people will perceive it. 
 
 Doge. The people ! — ^There *s no people, 
 
 you well know it. 
 
 Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
 
 There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
 
 May shame you ; but they dare not groan 
 
 nor curse you, 
 Save with their hearts and eyes. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion, 
 
 Else 
 
 Doge. You have reason. I have spoken 
 much 
 More than my wont : it is a foible which 
 Was not of mine, but more excuses you. 
 Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
 A dotage which may justify this deed 
 Of yours, although the law does not, nor 
 ■ will. 
 
 Farewell, sirs ! 
 
 Bar. You shall not depart without 
 
 An escort fitting past and present rank. 
 We will accompany, with due respect. 
 The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
 My brethren, will we not ? 
 
 Different voices. Ay ! — Ay ! 
 
 Doge. You shall not 
 
 Stir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
 As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
 By the same portals, but as citizen. 
 All these vain ceremonies are base insults. 
 Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
 Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
 Pomp is for princes — I am none ! — That 's 
 
 false, 
 I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 
 
 Lor. Hark ! 
 
 \The great hell of St. Mark's tolls. 
 
 Bar. The bell ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls 
 for the election 
 Of Malipiero. 
 
 Doge. Well I recognise 
 
 The sound ! I heard it once, but once be- 
 fore. 
 And that is five and thirty years ago ; 
 Even then I was not young. 
 
 Bar. Sit down, my lord ! 
 
 You tremble. 
 
 Doge. 'T is the knell of my poor boy ! 
 My heart aches bitterly. 
 
 'Bar. I pray you sit. 
 
 Doge. No ; my seat here has been a 
 throne till now. 
 Marina ! let us go. 
 
 Mar. Most readily. 
 
 Doge (walks a few steps, then stops). 
 I feel athirst — will no one bring me here 
 A cup of water ? 
 
 Bar. I 
 
 Mar. -Vnd I 
 
 Lcr. And I 
 
 [The Doge takes u. goblet from the hand of 
 
 LOREDANO. 
 
 Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the 
 hand 
 Most fit for such an hour as this. 
 Lor. Why so ? 
 
 Doge. 'T is said that our Venetian crys- 
 tal has 
 Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
 To burst, if ought of venom touches it. 
 You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
 Lor. Well, sir ! 
 
 Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. 
 For my own part, I credit neither ; 't is 
 An idle legend. 
 
 Mar. You talk wildly, and 
 
 Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
 Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my 
 husband ! 
 Bar. He sinks ! — support him ! — quick 
 — a chair — support him ! 
 
484 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 The bell tolls on ! — let 's hence — 
 ray brain's on fire ! 
 Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 
 Doge. No ! 
 
 A sovereign should die standing. My poor 
 
 boy ! — 
 Off with your arms ! — That bell ! 
 
 [The Doge drops down and dies. 
 Mar. My God ! My God ! 
 
 Bar. {to Lor). Behold! your work 's com- 
 pleted ! 
 Chief of the Ten. Is there then 
 
 No aid ? Call in assistance ! 
 
 ^«. 'Tis all over. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his 
 obsequies 
 Shall be such as befits his name and nation. 
 His rank and his devotion to the duties 
 Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
 To do himself and them full justice. 
 
 Brethren, 
 Say, shall it not be so ? 
 
 Bar. He has not had 
 
 The misery to die a subject where 
 He reigu'd : then let his funeral rites be 
 princely. 
 Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then ? 
 All, except Lor., answer. Yes. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with 
 
 him ! 
 Mar. Signers, your pardon : this is 
 mockery. 
 Juggle no more with that poor remnant, 
 
 which, 
 A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
 (A soul by whom you have increased your 
 
 empire, 
 And made your power as proud as was his 
 
 glory,) 
 You banish'd from his palace, and tore 
 
 down 
 From his high place, with such relentless 
 
 coldness ; 
 And now, when he can neither know these 
 honours, [signors. 
 
 Nor would accept them if he could, you. 
 Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp. 
 To make a pageant over what you tram- 
 pled. 
 A princely funeral will be your reproach. 
 And not his honour. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
 Our purposes so readily. 
 
 Mar. I know it, 
 
 As far as touches torturing the living. 
 I thought the dead had been beyond even 
 
 you. 
 Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to 
 
 powers which may 
 Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
 Leave him to me ; you would have done 
 
 so for 
 His dregs of life, which you ha\e kindh- 
 shorten'd : 
 
 It is my last of duties, and may prove 
 A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
 Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead. 
 And the apparel of the grave. 
 
 Chief of the Ten Do you 
 
 Pretend still to this office ? 
 
 Mar. I do, signer. 
 
 Though his possessions have been all con- 
 sumed 
 In the state's service, I have still my 
 
 dowry, 
 Which shall be consecrated to his rites. 
 
 And those of 
 
 [She stops with agitation. 
 Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your 
 
 children. 
 Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank 
 
 you. 
 Chief of the Ten. We 
 
 Cannot comply with your request. His 
 
 relics 
 Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and 
 
 foUow'd 
 Unto their home by the new Doge, not 
 
 clad 
 As Doge, but simply as a senator. 
 
 ISIar. I have heard of murderers, who 
 have interr'd 
 Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until 
 
 this hour, 
 Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 
 O'er those they slew. I 've heard of 
 
 widows' tears — 
 Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks 
 , to you ! [none 
 
 I ve heard of heirs in sables — you have left 
 To the deceased, so you would act the part 
 Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! 
 
 as one day, v 
 
 I trust. Heaven's will be done too ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady. 
 
 To whom ye speak, and perils of such 
 
 speech ? 
 
 Mar. I know the former better than 
 
 yourselves ; 
 
 The latter — like yourselves ; and can face 
 
 both. 
 Wish you more funerals ? 
 
 Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 
 Her circumstances must excuse her bearin" 
 Chief of the Ten. We will not note them 
 
 down. 
 Bar. (turning to Lor., who is aTilin' 
 upon his tablets). 
 
 \xr-*u .. ^''*' ^^*- *liO" writing. 
 
 With such an earnest brow, upon thv 
 tablets ? 
 Lor. (pointing to the Doge's body) That 
 he has paid me ! 
 
 vou'?'''' "^ ""' ^''"' '^"''" "^"^^ '^''^ ^'^ °^^'« 
 
 ^"ju"} '°?S ^"■'^ i"5' ™«; Nature's 
 uobt and mine. 
 
 [Cur.c::n rails. 
 
CAIN 
 
 485 
 
 CAIN: 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART., 
 
 THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN IS INSCRIBED, 
 BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 Men. 
 Adam. 
 Caik. 
 Abel. 
 
 Spirits. 
 Angel of the Lord. 
 Lucifer. 
 
 Women. 
 Eve. 
 Adah. 
 
 ZiLLAH. 
 
 ACT I 
 Scene I. — The Land without Paradise. — 
 
 Time, Sunrise. 
 Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, 
 offering a Sacrifice. 
 Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite ! All- 
 wise ! — 
 Who out of darkness on the deep didst 
 
 make 
 Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 
 Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 
 Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and 
 separate 
 Morning from night, till then divided 
 
 never — 
 Who didst divide the wave from wave, and 
 
 call 
 
 Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 
 
 Abel. God ! who didst call the elements 
 
 into 
 
 Earth, ocean, air and fire, and with the day 
 
 And night, and worlds which these illumin- 
 
 Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them. 
 And love both them and thee — all hail ! all 
 
 hail ! 
 Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all 
 
 things ! .... 
 
 Who didst create these best and beauteous 
 
 beings. 
 To be beloved, more than all, save thee— 
 Let me love thee and them :— All hail ! all 
 
 hail ! , ■ , • 
 
 Zillah. Oh, God ! who loving, making, 
 
 blessing all, 
 
 Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in. 
 
 And drive my father fortli from Paradise, 
 
 Keep us from further evil :— Hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, where- 
 fore art thou silent ? 
 Cain. Why should I speak ? 
 Adam. To pray, 
 
 Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 
 
 Adam. We have, most fervently. 
 Cain. And loudly : I 
 
 Have heard you. 
 
 Adam. So will God, I trust. 
 
 A bel. Amen ! 
 
 Adam. But thou, my eldest bom, art 
 
 silent still. 
 Cain. 'T is better I should be so. 
 Adam. Wherefore so ? 
 
 Cain. I have nought to ask. 
 Adam. Nor aught to thank for ? 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Adam. Dost thou not live ? 
 Cain. Must I not die ? 
 
 Eve. Alas ! 
 
 The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
 To fall. 
 
 Adam. And we must gather it again. 
 Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of 
 knowledge ? 
 Cain. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the 
 tree of life ? 
 Ye might have then defied him. 
 
 Adam. Oh ! my son. 
 
 Blaspheme not : these are serpent's words. 
 
 Cain. Why not ? 
 
 The snake spoke truth ; it was the tree of 
 
 knowledge ; 
 It was the tree of life : knowledge is good. 
 And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 
 Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke, 
 in sin, 
 Before thy birth : let me not see renew d 
 My misery in thine. I have repented. 
 Let me not see my offspring fall into 
 The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
 Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his 
 
 parents. 
 Content thee with what is. Had we been 
 
 so. 
 Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my 
 son ! 
 Adam. Our orisons completed, let us 
 hence. 
 
485 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
 Needful : the earth is young, and yields us 
 
 kindly 
 Her fruits with little labour. 
 
 Eve. Cain, my son, 
 
 Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd, 
 And do as he doth. 
 
 [Exeunt Adam and E^'e. 
 Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 
 Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom 
 
 upon thy brow, 
 Which can avail thee nothing save to 
 
 rouse 
 The Eternal anger ? 
 
 Adah. My beloved Cain, 
 
 Wilt thou frown even on me ? 
 
 Cain. No, Adah ! no ; 
 
 I fain would be alone a little while. 
 Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass ; 
 Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
 And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind ; 
 Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
 I'll follow you anon. 
 
 Adah. If not, I will 
 
 Return to seek you here. 
 
 Abel. The peace of God 
 
 Be on your spirit, brother ! 
 
 [Exeunt Abkl, Zillah, and Adah. 
 Cain, (solus). And this is 
 
 Life ! — ^Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? 
 
 — because 
 My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
 What had I done in this ? — I was unborn : 
 I sought not to be bom ; nor love the 
 
 state 
 To which that birth has brought me. Why 
 
 did he 
 Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or. 
 Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in 
 
 this ? 
 The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
 If not, why place him near it, where it grew. 
 The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
 One answer to all questions, " 'T was his 
 
 will. 
 And he is good." How know I that ? 
 
 Because 
 He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, 
 
 follow ? 
 I judge but by the fruits — and they are 
 
 bitter — 
 Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
 Whom have we here ? — A shape like to the 
 
 angels 
 Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
 Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
 Why should I fear him more than other 
 
 spirits. 
 Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
 Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
 In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of 
 
 those 
 Gardens which arc my just inheritance. 
 Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
 
 And the immortal trees which overtop 
 
 The cherubim-defended battlements ? 
 
 If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd 
 
 angels. 
 Why should I quail from him who now 
 
 approaches ? 
 Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor 
 
 less 
 Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
 As he hath been, and might be : sorrow 
 
 seems 
 Half of his immortality. And is it 
 So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 
 He Cometh. 
 
 Enter Lucifer. 
 Lucifer. Mortal ! 
 
 Cain. Spirit, who art thou? 
 
 Lucifer. Master of spirits. 
 Cain. And being so, canst thou 
 
 Leave them, and walk with dust ? 
 
 Lucifer. I know the thoughts 
 
 Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 
 
 Cain. How ! 
 
 You know my thoughts ? 
 
 Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 
 
 Worthy of thought ; — 't is your immortal 
 
 part 
 Which speaks within you. 
 
 Cain. What immortal part ? 
 
 This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
 Was withheld from us by my father's folly. 
 While that of knowledge, by my mother's 
 
 haste. 
 Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit 
 is death ! 
 Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou 
 
 Shalt live. 
 Cain. I live. 
 
 But live to die ; and, living, see nothing 
 To make death hateful, save an innate 
 
 clinging, 
 A loathsome, and \-et all inducible 
 Instinct of life, %vhich I abhor, as I 
 Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
 And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 
 Lucifer. Thou livest. and must live for 
 ever : think not 
 The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, 
 
 is 
 Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
 No less than thou art now. 
 
 Cai«. Xo less ! and why 
 
 No more ? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 
 Cam. And ye ? 
 Lucifer. .A.re everlasting. 
 Cain. \re ve happy ? 
 
 Luc'fcr. We are mighty. 
 Catn. Are ve happy ' 
 
 ^""f'"'- , ■ No : art thou ? 
 
 Cain. How should I be so ?Look on me ' 
 Luat'-r. Poor cjav ! 
 
 And thou pretendest to be wretched ' 
 Thou ! 
 
CAIN 
 
 487 
 
 Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy ' 
 might, what art thou ? / i 
 
 Lucifer. One who aspired to be what 
 made thee, and 
 Would not have made thee what thou art. 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 Thou look'st almost a god ; and 
 
 Lucifer. I am none : 
 
 And having fail'd to be one, would be 
 
 nought 
 Save what I am. He conquer'd ; let him 
 reign ! 
 Cain. Who ? 
 Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the 
 
 earth's. 
 Cain. And heaven's, 
 
 And all that in them is. So I have heard 
 His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 
 Lucifer. They say — ^what they must sing 
 and say, on pain 
 Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
 Of spirits and of men. 
 
 Cain. And what is that ? 
 
 Lucifer. Souls who dare use their 
 immortality- 
 Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tjTant 
 
 in 
 His everlasting face, and tell him that 
 His evil is not good ! If he has made. 
 As he saith — which I Imow not, nor be- 
 lieve — 
 But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
 We are Immortal ! — nay, he 'd have us so, 
 That he may torture : — let him ! He is 
 
 great — 
 But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
 We in our conflict ! Goodness would not 
 
 make 
 Evil ; and what else hath he made ? But 
 
 let him 
 Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
 Creating worlds, to make eternity 
 Less burthensome to his immense existence 
 And unparticipated solitude ; 
 Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
 Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ; 
 Could he but crush himself, 't were the best 
 
 boon 
 He ever granted : but let him reign on. 
 And multiply himself in misery ! 
 Spirits and Men, ,at least we sympathise — 
 And, suffering in concert, make our pangs 
 Innumerable, more endurable, 
 By the unbounded sympathy of all 
 With all ! But He ! so wretched in his 
 
 height. 
 So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
 
 Create, and re-create . 
 
 Cain. Thou speak'st to me of thmgs 
 which long have swum 
 In visions through my thought : I never 
 
 could 
 Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
 My father and my mother talk to me 
 
 Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
 The gates of what they call their Paradise 
 Guarded by fiery-srtorded cherubim. 
 Which shut them out and me : I feel the 
 
 weight 
 Of daily toil, and constant thought : I look 
 Around a world where I seein nothing, with 
 Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
 Could master all things — but I thought 
 
 alone 
 This misery was mine. My father is 
 Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the 
 
 mind 
 Which made her thirst for knowledge at the 
 
 risk 
 Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
 A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
 The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
 The earth yield nothing to us without 
 
 sweat ; 
 My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
 Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
 Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
 The mind which ovenvhelms me : never 
 
 till 
 Now met I aught to sympathise with me. 
 'T is well — I rather would consort with 
 spirits. 
 Lucifer And hadst thou not been fit by 
 thine own soul 
 For such companionship, I would not now 
 Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
 Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
 Cain. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 
 Lucifer. I tempt none. 
 
 Save with the truth : was not the tree, the 
 
 tree 
 Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life 
 Still fruitful ? Did / bid her pluck them 
 
 not ? 
 Did / plant things prohibited withm 
 The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
 By their own innocence ? I would have 
 
 made ve 
 Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, 
 so thrust ye . ['"'"> 
 
 Because " ye should not eat the fruits ol 
 " And become gods as we." Were those 
 his words ? , , c 
 
 Cain. They were, as I have heard from 
 those who heard them; 
 In thunder. , , , tt„ 
 
 Liiciler. Then who was the demon .' He 
 Who would not let ve live, or he who would 
 Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
 And power of knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. Would they had snatch d both 
 The fruits, or neither ! 
 
 Lucifer . One is yours already 
 
 The other may be still. 
 
 Cain. How so ? 
 
 L«cifer. , By being 
 
 Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing 
 can 
 
tiRAMAS 
 
 Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
 And centre of surrounding things — 't is 
 
 made 
 To sway. 
 
 Cain . But didst thou tempt my parents? 
 
 Lucifer. I ? 
 
 Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, 
 
 or how ? 
 
 Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 
 
 Lucifer. Who 
 
 Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
 
 The proud One will not so far falsify. 
 
 Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
 
 Would make him cast upon the spiritual 
 
 nature [snake — 
 
 His own low failing. The snake was the 
 
 No more ; and yet not less than those he 
 
 tempted, 
 In nature beng earth also — more in wisdom, 
 Since he could overcome them, and fore- 
 knew 
 The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
 Think'st thou I'd take the shape of things 
 that die ? 
 Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 
 Lucifer. He but woke one 
 
 In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
 I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
 Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
 ^\"ho guard the tempting tree. When 
 
 thousand ages 
 Have roU'd o'er your dead ashes, and your 
 
 seed's. 
 The seed of the then world may thus arrav 
 Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
 To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
 That bows to him, who made things but to 
 
 bend 
 Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
 But we, who see the truth, must speak it. 
 
 Thy 
 Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 
 And fell. For what should spirits tempt 
 
 them ? What 
 Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
 Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
 
 Space but I speak to thee of what thou 
 
 know'st not. 
 With all thy tree of knowledge. 
 
 Cain. But thou canst not 
 
 Speak aught of knowledge which I would 
 
 not Imow, 
 And do not thirst to know, and bear a 
 
 mind 
 To know. 
 Lucifer. 
 Cain. 
 Lucifer. 
 Cain. 
 Been seen. 
 Lucifer. 
 Cain. 
 
 And heart to look on ? 
 
 Be it proved. 
 
 Barest thou look on Death ? 
 
 He has not yet 
 
 But must be undergone. 
 
 My father 
 
 Says he is something dreadful, and my 
 mother 
 
 Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel lifts 
 
 his eyes 
 To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth. 
 And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
 And speaks not. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou ? 
 
 Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 
 
 Crowd in my breast to burning, when I 
 
 hear 
 Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems. 
 Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
 I wrestled with the lion, when a boy. 
 In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 
 Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb 
 all things 
 That bear the form of earth-bom being. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 I thought it was a being : who could do 
 Such evil things to beings save a being ? 
 Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 
 Cain. Who ? 
 
 Lucifer. The Maker — call him 
 
 Which name thou wilt : he makes but to 
 destroy. 
 Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, 
 since I heard 
 Of death : although I know not what it is, 
 Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
 In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
 And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
 The umbrage of the walls of Eden, 
 
 chequer'd 
 By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
 I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; 
 
 for 
 With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
 What .'t was which shook us all — ^but 
 
 nothing came. 
 And then I turn'd mv weary eyes from off 
 Our native and forbidden "Paradise, 
 Up to the lights above us, in the azure. 
 Which are so beautiful : shall they too, die ? 
 Luciter. Perhaps — but long outlive both 
 
 thine and thee. 
 Cain. I'm glad of that : I would not 
 have them die — 
 They are so lovely. \\Tiat is death ? I 
 
 fear, 
 I feel, it is a dreadful thing , but what, 
 I cannot compass : 't is denounced against 
 
 us, 
 Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an 
 
 ill— 
 What ill ? 
 
 Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 
 Cain. But shall I know it ? 
 Lucifer. As I know not death, 
 
 I cannot answer. 
 
 Cain. Were I quiet earth. 
 
 That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
 .•Vught else but dust ! 
 
 Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish, 
 
 Les* than thy father's, for he wish'd to 
 know. 
 
CAIN 
 
 489 
 
 Cain. But not to live, or wherefore 
 pluck'd he not 
 The life-tree ? 
 
 Lucifer, He was hindcr'd. 
 
 Cain. Deadly error ! 
 
 Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he 
 
 pluck'd 
 The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
 Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
 And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 
 Lticifer. And I, who know all things, 
 fear nothing ; see 
 What is true Icnowledge. 
 
 Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 
 Cai't. Name it. 
 
 Lucifer. That 
 
 Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy 
 Lord. 
 Cain. Thou art not the Lord nny father 
 
 worships. 
 Lucifir. No. 
 
 Cain. His equal ? 
 
 Lucifer. No ; — I have nought in common 
 
 with him ! [beneath — 
 
 Nor would : I would be aught above — 
 
 Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
 
 His power. I dwell apart ; but I am 
 
 great : — 
 Many there are who worship me, and more 
 Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 
 
 Cain . I never 
 
 As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
 Although my brother Abel oft implores 
 That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
 Why should I bow to thee ? 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 
 
 To him ? 
 
 Cain. Have I not said it ? — need I say it ? 
 Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee 
 that? 
 Lucifer. He who bows not to him has 
 
 bow'd to me. 
 Cain. But I will bend to neither. 
 Lucifer. Ne'er the less, 
 
 Thou art my worshipper ; not worshipping 
 Him makes thee mine the same. 
 
 Cain. And what is that ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and here- 
 after. ^ ^ , , 
 Cain. Let me but 
 Be taught the mystery of my being 
 
 Lucifer. 
 Where I will lead thee. 
 
 Cam. But I must retire 
 
 To till the earth— for I had promised 
 
 Lucifer. What ? 
 
 Cain. To cull some first-fruits. 
 Lucifer. ^^^ \ 
 
 Cain. To offer up 
 
 With Abel on an altar 
 
 Luci'er Said st thou not 
 
 Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made 
 thee ? 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 Follow 
 
 Cain. Ves — 
 
 But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon 
 
 me ; 
 The offering is more his than mine — and 
 
 Adah 
 
 Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 
 Cain. She is my sister. 
 
 Born on the same day, of the same womb ; 
 
 and 
 She wrung from me, with tears, this pro- 
 mise ; and 
 Rather than see her weep, I would, me- 
 
 thinks. 
 Bear all — and worship aught. 
 
 Lucifer. Then follow me ! 
 
 Cain. I will. 
 
 Enter Adah. 
 .idah. My brother, J have come 
 
 for thee ; 
 It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
 Have less without thee. Thou hast 
 
 labour'd not 
 This morn ; but I have done thy task : 
 
 the fruits 
 Are ripe, and glowing as the light which 
 
 ripens : 
 Come away. 
 
 Cain. Seest thou not ? 
 
 Adah. I see an angel ; 
 
 We have seen many ; will he share our 
 
 hour 
 Of rest ? — he is welcome. 
 
 Cain. But he is not like 
 
 The angels we have seen. 
 
 Adah. Are there, then, others? 
 
 But he is welcome, as they were : they 
 
 deign' d 
 To be our guests — will he ? 
 
 Cain (to Lucifer). Wilt th&u ? 
 
 Lucifer. I ask 
 
 Thee to be mine. 
 
 Cain. I must away with him. 
 
 A dah. And leave us ? 
 Cain. Ay. 
 
 Adah. And me? 
 
 ■ Cain. Beloved Adah ! 
 
 Adah. Let me go with thee. 
 Lucifer. No, she must not. 
 
 .idah. W'" 
 
 Art thou that steppest between heart and 
 heart ? 
 Cain. He is a god. 
 Adafi How know'st thou ? 
 
 Cain. He speaks like ' 
 
 ^dah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 
 Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah !— was not 
 the tree that 
 Of knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. A^ — to our eternal sorrow. 
 
 Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge 
 — so he lied not : 
 And if he did betray you, 't was with truth ; 
 
 K K 
 
490 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 And truth in its own essence cannot be 
 But good. 
 
 A dah. But all we know of it has gather' d 
 Evil on ill ; expulsion from our home, 
 And dread, and toil, and s^Yeat, and heavi- 
 ness ; 
 Remorse of that which was — and hope of 
 
 that 
 Which Cometh not. Cain ! walk not vi'ith 
 
 this spirit. 
 Bear with what we have borne, and love 
 
 me — I 
 Love thee. 
 Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy 
 
 sire ? 
 Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 
 Liicfier. No, not yet ; 
 
 It one day will be in your children. 
 
 Adah. What ! 
 
 Must not my daughter love her brother 
 
 Enoch ? 
 
 Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God ! 
 
 Shall they not love and bring forth things 
 
 that love 
 Out of their love ? have they not drawn 
 
 their milk 
 Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
 Born of the same sole womb, in the same 
 
 hour 
 With me ? did we not love each other ? and 
 In multiplying our being multiply 
 Things which will love each other as we love 
 Them ? — ^And as I love thee, my Cain ! go 
 
 not 
 Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 
 Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my 
 making. 
 And cannot be a sin in you — whate'cr 
 It seem 'in those who will replace ye in 
 Mortality. 
 
 Adah. What is the sin which is not 
 Sin in itself ? Can circumstance make sin 
 Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
 
 Of 
 
 Lucifer. Higher things than ye are 
 slaves : and higher 
 Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
 Prefer an independency of torture 
 To the smooth agonies of adulation. 
 In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking 
 
 prayers. 
 To that which is omnipotent, because 
 It is omnipotent, and not from love. 
 But terror and self-hope. 
 
 Adah. Omnipotence 
 
 Must be all goodness. 
 Lucifer. Was it so in Eden ? 
 
 Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with 
 beauty ; thou art fairer 
 Than was the serpent, and as false. 
 
 Lucifer. As true. 
 
 Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not 
 the knowledge 
 
 Of good and evil ? 
 
 Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 
 
 Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine off- 
 spring 
 Than to thyself ; thou at the least hast 
 
 pass'd 
 Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
 And happy Intercourse with happy spirits : 
 But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
 Are girt about by demons, who assume 
 The words of God, and tempt us with our 
 
 own 
 Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
 Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most 
 
 flush'd 
 And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
 I cannot answer this immortal thing 
 Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor 
 
 him ; 
 I look upon him with a pleasing fear. 
 And yet I fly not from him ; in his eye 
 There is a fastening attraction which 
 Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
 Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws 
 
 me near. 
 Nearer and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me 
 from him ! 
 Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is 
 
 no ill spirit. 
 Adah. H« is not God — nor God's: I have 
 beheld 
 The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks 
 
 not 
 Like them. 
 
 Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — • 
 The archangels. 
 
 Lucifer. And still loftier than the 
 
 archangels. 
 .4dah. Ay — but not blessed. 
 Lucifer. If the blessedness 
 
 Consists in slavery — no. 
 
 ■idah. I have heard it said. 
 
 The seraphs love most — cherubim know 
 
 viost — 
 And this should be a cherub — since he loves 
 not. 
 Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge 
 quenches love. 
 What must he be you cannot love when 
 
 Ivnown ? 
 Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
 The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
 That they are not compatible, the doom 
 Of thy fond parents, for their daring, 
 
 proves. 
 Choose betwixt lo\-e and knowledge — since 
 
 there is 
 No other choice : your sire hath chosen 
 
 already : 
 His worship is but fear. 
 
 ■■idah. Oh, Cain ! choose love. 
 
 Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not 
 — it was 
 Born with me — but I love nought else. 
 
CAIN 
 
 49r 
 
 Adah. Our parents ? 
 
 Cain. Did they love us when they 
 snatch'd from the tree 
 That which hath driven us all from Para- 
 dise ? 
 Adah. We were not born then — and it 
 we had been, 
 Should we not love them and our children, 
 Cain ? 
 Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping 
 sister ! 
 Could I but deem them happy, I would half 
 
 Forget but it can never be forgotten 
 
 Through thrice a thousand generations ! 
 
 never 
 Shall men love the remembrance of the 
 
 man 
 Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 
 In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree 
 
 of science 
 And sin — and, not content with their own 
 
 sorrow, 
 Begot me — thee — and all the few that are. 
 And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 
 Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may 
 
 be. 
 To inherit agonies accumulated 
 By ages ! — and I must be sire of such 
 
 things ! 
 Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy. 
 The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 
 All we love in our children and each other. 
 But lead them and ourselves through many 
 
 years 
 Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 
 Intercheck'd with an instant of brief plea- 
 sure. 
 To Death — the unknown ! Metbinks the 
 
 tree of knowledge 
 Hath not fulfiU'd its promise :— if they 
 
 sinn'd, 
 At least they ought to have known all 
 
 things that are 
 Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
 What do they know ? — that they are miser- 
 able. 
 What need of snakes and fruits to teach us 
 that ? 
 Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if 
 thou 
 
 Wert happy 
 
 Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone— 
 I will have nought to do with happiness, 
 Which humbles me and mine. 
 
 Adah. Alone I could not. 
 
 Nor would be happy ; but with those 
 
 around us 
 I think I could be so, despite of death. 
 Which, as I know it not, I dread not, 
 
 though 
 It seems an awful shadow — if 1 may 
 Tudge from what I have heard. 
 
 Luci/cr. And thou couldst n(5t 
 
 Alone, thou say'st, be happy ? 
 
 Adah. Alone ! Oh, my Gud ! 
 
 Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
 To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
 When I think how soon I shall see my 
 
 brother. 
 His brother, and our children, and our par- 
 ents. 
 Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone ; and is 
 he happy. 
 Lonely, and good ? 
 
 Adah. He is not so ; he hath 
 
 The angels and the mortals to make happy. 
 And thus becomes so in diffusing joy. 
 What else can joy be, but the spreading 
 joy? 
 Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh 
 from Eden ; 
 Or of his first-born son : ask your own 
 
 heart ; 
 It is not tranquil. 
 
 Adah. Alas ! no ! and you— 
 
 Are you of heaven ? 
 
 Lucifer. If I am not, enquire 
 
 The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
 (Which you proclaim) of the all-great and 
 
 good 
 Maker of life and living things ; it is 
 His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear. 
 And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
 His seraphs say : but it is worth the trial. 
 Since better may not be without : there is 
 A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
 To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
 Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
 The star which watches, welcoming the 
 morn. 
 Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
 Its beauty. 
 
 Lucifer. And why not adore ? 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 Adores the Invisible only. 
 
 Lucifer. But the symbols 
 
 Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
 Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
 Is leader of the host of heaven. 
 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
 Who made him and our mother. 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou seen him ? 
 
 Adah. Yes— in his works. 
 Lucifer. But in his being ? 
 
 Adah. ^° — 
 
 Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
 Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
 And brighter, yet less beautiful and power- 
 ful 
 In seeming : as the silent sunny noon, 
 All light, they look upon us ; but thou 
 
 seem'st 
 Like an ethereal night, where long white 
 clouds , , , , 
 
 Streak the deep purple, and unnumber d 
 stars . , 
 
 I Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
 
4Q2 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 With things that look as if they would be j Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled 
 
 So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing. 
 Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
 They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost 
 
 thou. 
 Thou seem'st unhappy ; do not make us 
 
 so. 
 And I will weep for thee. 
 
 Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
 
 Couldst thou but know what oceans will be 
 shed — 
 Adah. By me ? 
 Lucifer. By all. 
 Adah. What all? 
 
 Lucifer. The million millions — 
 
 The myriad m\Tiads — the all-peopled 
 
 earth — 
 The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled 
 
 hell, 
 Of which thy bosom-is the germ. 
 
 Adah. O Cain ! 
 
 This spirit curseth us. 
 
 Cain. Let him say on ; 
 
 Him will I follow. 
 
 Adah. Whither ? 
 
 Lucifer. To a place 
 
 Whence he shall come back to thee in an 
 
 hour ; - 
 But in that hour see things of many days. 
 Adali. How can that be ? 
 Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 
 
 Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
 And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
 Show in an hour what he hath made in 
 
 many. 
 Or hath destroy'd in few ? 
 
 Cain. Lead on. 
 
 Adah. ^ Will he. 
 
 In sooth, return within an hour ? 
 
 Lucifer. He shall. 
 
 With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
 Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
 Or stretch an hour into eternity ; 
 We breathe not by a mortal measurement 
 But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with 
 me. 
 Adah. Will he return ? 
 Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 
 
 Of mortals from that place (the first and 
 
 last 
 Who shall return, save One), shall come 
 
 back to thee, 
 To make that silent and expectant world 
 As populoiis as this : at present there 
 Are few inhabitants. 
 
 Adah. Where dwellest thou ? 
 
 Lucifer Throughout all space. \\'here 
 should I dwell ? Where are 
 Thy God or Gods — there am I ; all things 
 
 are 
 Divided with me : life and death — and 
 time — [that 
 
 Eternity — and heaven and earth — and 
 
 with , 
 
 Those who once peopled or shall people 
 both — , , .,. , ,. .J ■ 
 
 These are my realms ! So th at I do divide 
 His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
 His If I were not that which I have said. 
 Could I stand here ? His angels are with- 
 in 
 Your vision. . 
 
 Adah. So they were when the fair 
 
 serpent 
 Spoke with our mother first. 
 Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast 
 
 heard. 
 If thou dost long for knowledge, I can 
 
 satiate 
 That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of 
 
 fruits 
 Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
 The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 
 Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 
 
 [Exeunt Lucifer and Cain ! 
 Adah (follows exclaiming). Cain ! my 
 brother ! Cain ! 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. — The Abyss of Space. 
 
 Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet 
 I fear 
 To sink. 
 
 Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou 
 shalt be 
 Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 
 Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 
 Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt 
 — and perish ! thus 
 Would run the edict of the other God, 
 Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
 Echo the sound to miserable things. 
 Which, knowing nought beyond our shallow 
 
 senses. 
 Worship the word which strikes their ear, 
 
 and deem 
 E\dl or good what is proclaim'd to them 
 In their abasement. I will have none such : 
 Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
 The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
 Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life. 
 With torture of my dooming. There v.nll 
 
 come 
 An hour, when, toss'd upon some water- 
 drops, 
 A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me. 
 And walk the waters ; " and the man shall 
 
 walk 
 The billows and be safe. I \y\\\ not say, 
 Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
 To save thee ; but fl v with me o'er the gulf 
 Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
 What thou dar'st not deny, — the history 
 Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 
 
CAIN 
 
 493 
 
 Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er 
 thou art. 
 Is yon our earth ? 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou not recognise 
 
 The dust which form'd your father ? 
 
 Cain. Can it be ? 
 
 Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether. 
 With an inferior circlet near it still, 
 Which looks like that which lit our earthly 
 
 night ? 
 Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
 And they who guard them ? 
 
 Lucifer. Point me out the site 
 
 Of Paradise, 
 
 Cain. How should I ? As we move 
 
 Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and 
 
 smaller. 
 And as it waxes little, and then less. 
 Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
 Which shone the roundest of the stars, 
 
 when I 
 Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
 Methinks they both, as we recede from 
 
 them, 
 Appear to join the innumerable stars 
 Which are around us ; and, as we move on. 
 Increase their myriads. 
 
 Lucifer. And if there should be 
 
 Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
 By greater things, and they themselves far 
 
 more 
 In number than the dust of thy dull earth. 
 Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
 All living, and all doom'd to death, and 
 
 wretched. 
 What wouldst thou think? 
 
 Cain. I should be proud of thought 
 
 Which knew such things. 
 
 Lucifer. But if that high thought were 
 
 Link'd to'a servile mass of matter, and. 
 
 Knowing such things, aspiring to such 
 
 things, , . ,j 
 
 And science still beyond them, were cham d 
 
 down 
 To the most gross and petty paltry wants. 
 All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
 Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
 A most enervating and filthy cheat 
 To lure thee on to the renewal of 
 Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to 
 be 
 
 As frail, and few so happy . . , t 
 
 Cain. Spirit ! 1 
 
 Know nought of death, save as a dreadful 
 
 thing 
 Of which I have heard my parents speak, as 
 
 of 
 A hideous heritage I owe to them 
 No less than life ; a heritage not happy. 
 If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! if 
 It be as thou hast said (and I within 
 Feel the prophetic torture of its truth). 
 Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
 Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
 
 Methinks is merely propagating death, 
 And multiplying murder. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou canst not 
 
 All die — there is what must survive. 
 
 Cain. The Other 
 
 Spake not of this unto my father, when 
 He shut him forth from Paradise, with 
 
 death 
 Written upon his forehead. But at least 
 Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
 I may be in the rest as angels are. 
 Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be 
 
 as I am ? 
 Cain. I know not what thou art : I see 
 thv poiver. [power. 
 
 And see thou show'st me things beyond »«v 
 Beyond all power of ray bom faculties, 
 Although inferior still to my desires 
 And my conceptions. 
 
 Lucifer. What are they which dwell 
 So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
 With worms in clay ? ' 
 
 Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 
 So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
 Nature and immortality — and yet 
 Seem'st sorrowful ? 
 
 Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 
 
 And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
 Wouldst be immortal ? 
 
 Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 
 
 Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
 This until lately — but since it must be, 
 Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
 To anticipate my immortality. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon 
 
 thee. 
 Cain. How ? 
 
 Lucifer. By suffering. 
 Cain. And must torture be immortal ? 
 Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. 
 But now, behold ! 
 Is it not glorious ? 
 
 Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 
 
 And unimaginable ether ! and 
 Ye multiplying masses of increased 
 And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? 
 
 what 
 Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
 Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
 The leaves along the limpid streams of 
 
 Eden ? , ^ j 
 
 Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
 Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
 Through an aerial universe of endless 
 Expansion — at which my soul aches to 
 
 think — 
 Intoxicated with eternity ? 
 Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are-! 
 How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
 Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
 They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die. 
 (If that they die) or know ve in your might 
 And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in 
 this hour 
 
494 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Look there ! 
 
 Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
 
 Spirit I let me expire, or see them nearer. 
 
 Lucifer. Art tliou not nearer ? lools back 
 
 to thine earth ! 
 Cain. Whereisit? I see nothmg save 
 a mass 
 Of most innumerable lights. 
 Lucifey. 
 Cain. I cannot see it. 
 Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 
 
 Cain. That ! — yonder ! 
 Lucifer. Yea. 
 
 Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 
 
 Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire- 
 worms 
 Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green 
 
 banks 
 In the dim twilight, brighter than yon 
 
 world 
 Which bears them. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and 
 worlds. 
 Each bright and sparkling — what dost 
 think of them ? 
 Cain. That they are beautiful in their 
 own sphere. 
 And that the night, which makes both 
 
 beautiful. 
 The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
 And the immortal star in its gteat course, 
 Must both be guided. 
 Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 
 
 Cain. Show me. 
 
 Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? 
 Cain. How know I what 
 
 I dare behold ? As yet, thou hast shown 
 
 nought 
 I dare not gaze on further. 
 
 Lucifer. On, then, with me. 
 
 Wouldst thou behold things mortal or 
 immortal ? 
 Cain. Why, what are things ? 
 Lucifer. Both partly : but what 
 
 doth 
 Sit next thy heart ? 
 
 Cain The things I see. 
 
 •^au'"'"- . : , But what 
 
 ^aie nearest it ? 
 
 N '^°"'' u ,J^'' "^'"Ss I have not seen 
 Nor ever sha ll-the mysteries of death 
 
 Which have died 
 As I have shown thee much which cannot 
 Cain. Do so. 
 Liici/er .\\yav. then 
 
 wings. 
 ■ Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue i 
 stars fade from us ! 
 The earth ! where is mv earth ? 
 
 look on it. 
 For I was made of it. 
 
 Lucilcr. 'T is now bevond thee 
 
 Lp;5, in the universe, than thou in it ■ 
 
 on our mighty 
 The 
 Let me 
 
 Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ;, 
 
 Shalt ^oon return to earth, and all its dust : 
 T is part of thy eternity, and mine. 
 Cain. Where dost thou lead nie .' 
 Lucifer. To what was betore thee ! 
 
 The phantasm of the world ; of which thy 
 
 world 
 Is but the wreck, 
 
 Cain. What ! is it not then new ? 
 
 Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that 
 
 was ere thou 
 
 Or I were, or the things which seem to us 
 
 Greater than either : many things will have 
 
 No end ; and some, which would pretend 
 
 to have 
 Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
 .A.S thou ; and mightier things have been 
 
 extinct 
 To make way for much meaner than we can 
 Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
 Have been and must be all uncltangeable. 
 But changes make not death, except to 
 
 clay ; 
 But thou art clay — and canst but compre- , 
 
 hend 
 That which was clay, and such thou shalt 
 behold. 
 Cain. Clay, spirit ! what thou wilt, I 
 
 can survey. 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! 
 Cain. But the lights fade from me 
 fast, 
 And some till now grew larger as we ap- 
 
 proach'd. 
 And wore the look of worlds. 
 
 Lucifer. And such they are. 
 
 Cain. And Edens in them ? 
 Lucifer. It may be. 
 
 Cain. And men ? 
 
 Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 
 Ca in . xy ! and serpents too ? 
 
 Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men with- 
 out them ? must no reptiles 
 Breathe, save the erect ones ? 
 
 Cain. How the lights recede! 
 
 Where fly we ? 
 
 Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, 
 
 which 
 Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 
 Cain. But it grows dark, and dark — the 
 
 stars are gone ! 
 Lucifer. And vet thou seest. 
 Cain. 'Tis a fearful light ! 
 
 No sun. no moon, no lights innumerable. 
 The \n-y blue of the empurpled night 
 t-ades to a dreary twilight, vet I see 
 Huge dusky masses ; but unlike the worlds 
 "l^^jfj ''PP'^'^^'^ting, which, begirt with 
 
 ""''"sphlre °' '"' '"^" ^^l'^" 'h"^ "too- 
 ''"ihl^eT"'^-^"''^""^^-'^ '"em taking 
 
CAIN 
 
 Unequal, of deep valleys and vast moun- 
 tains ; 
 And some emitting sparks, and some dis- 
 playing 
 Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
 With luminous belts, and floating moons, 
 
 which took. 
 Like them, the features of fair earth : — 
 
 instead. 
 All here seems dark and dreadful. 
 
 Lucifer. But distinct. 
 
 Thou seekest to behold death, and dead 
 
 things ? 
 
 Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there 
 
 are 
 
 Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and 
 
 me, 
 And all that we inherit, liable 
 To such, I would behold at once, what I 
 Must one day see perforce. 
 Lucifer. Behold ! 
 
 Cain. ' T is darkness. 
 
 Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we 
 will 
 Unfold its gates ! 
 
 Cain. Enormous vapours roll 
 
 Apart — what 's this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Enter ! 
 
 Cain. Can I return ? 
 
 Lucifer. Return! be sure: how else 
 should death be peopled ? 
 Its present realm is thin to what it will be. 
 Through thee and thine. 
 
 Cain. The clouds still open wide 
 
 And wider, and make widening circles 
 round us. 
 Lucifer. Advance ! 
 Cain. And thou ! 
 
 Lucifer. Fear not — without 
 
 me thou 
 Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. 
 On ! on ! 
 
 [They disappear through the clouds. 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Hades. 
 
 Enter Lucifer and Cain. 
 
 Cain. How silent and how vast are these 
 dim worlds ! 
 For they seem more than one, and yet more 
 
 peopled 
 Than the huge brilliant lumiiious orbs 
 
 which swung 
 So thickly in the upper air, that I 
 Had deem'd them rather the bright popu- 
 lace 
 Of some all unimaginable Heaven, 
 Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
 But that on drawing near them I beheld 
 Their swelling into palpable immensity 
 Of matter, which seem'd made for life to 
 dwell on, 
 
 495 
 
 Kather than life itself. But here, all is 
 bo shadowy, and so full of twilight, that 
 U speaks of a day past. 
 
 Liicile.r. It is the realm 
 
 Ut death. — Wouldst have it present ? 
 r^S"^"- ■ Till I know 
 
 that which it really is, I cannot answer 
 But if It be as I have heard my father 
 
 Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing 
 
 Oh God ! I dare not think on't ! Cursed be 
 He who invented life that leads to death i 
 Or the dull mass of life, that, being life, 
 Could not retain, but needs must forfeit 
 
 it- 
 Even for the innocent ! 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father ? 
 
 Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me mv 
 
 birth? ^ 
 
 Cursed he not me before mv birth, in daring 
 
 To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou say'st well ; 
 
 The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and 
 
 thee — 
 But for thy sons and brother ? 
 
 Cain. Let them share it 
 
 With me, their sire and brother ! What 
 
 else is 
 Bequeath'd to me ? I leave them my 
 
 inheritance. 
 Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
 Of swimming shadows and enormous 
 
 shapes, 
 Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
 Mighty and melanchply — what are ye ? 
 Live ye, or have ye lived ? 
 
 Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 
 
 Cain. Then what is death ? 
 Lucifer. What ? Hath not he who 
 made ye 
 Said 't is another life ? 
 
 Cain. Till now he hath 
 
 Said nothing, save that all shall die. 
 
 Lucifer. Perhaps 
 
 He one day will unfold that further secret. 
 Cain. Happy the day ! 
 Lucifer. Yes ; happy ! when un- 
 
 folded. 
 Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
 With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
 Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
 All to be animated for this only ! 
 
 Cain. What are these mighty phantoms 
 which I see 
 Floating around me ? — They wear not the 
 
 form 
 Of the intelligences I Jiave seen 
 Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
 Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd 
 
 it 
 In Adam's and in Abel's, and in inine. 
 Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my chil- 
 dren's : 
 Amd yet they have an aspect, which, though 
 not 
 
496 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Of men nor angels, looks like something, 
 
 which, 
 If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
 Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
 Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
 Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear 
 
 not 
 The wing of seraph, nor the face of man. 
 Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that 
 
 is 
 Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
 As the most beautiful and mighty which 
 Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
 Can call them living. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet they lived. 
 
 Cain. Where ? 
 
 Lucifer. Where 
 
 Thou livest. 
 
 Cain. When ? 
 
 Lucifer. On what thou callest 
 
 earth 
 They did inhabit. 
 
 Cain. Adam is the first. 
 
 Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too 
 mean to be 
 The last of these. 
 
 Cain. And what are they ? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 
 Thou shalt be. 
 
 Cain. But what were they ? 
 Lucifer. Living, high. 
 
 Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things. 
 As much superior unto all thy sire, 
 .\dam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
 The sixty-thousandth generation shall be. 
 In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
 Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they 
 
 are, judge 
 By thy own flesh. 
 
 Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 
 
 Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou 
 
 wilt fade from thine. 
 Cain. But was mine theirs ? 
 Lucifer. It was. 
 
 Cain. But not as now. 
 
 It is too little and too lowly to 
 Sustain such creatures. 
 
 Lucifer. True, it was more glori- 
 
 ous. 
 Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 
 Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 
 
 CflJ». But how ? 
 
 Lucifer. By a most crushing and in- 
 exorable 
 Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
 Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
 Subsiding has struct out a world : such 
 
 things. 
 Though rare in time, are frequent in 
 
 eternity. — 
 Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 
 
 Cain. 'T is awful ! 
 
 Lucifer. And true. Behold these phan- 
 toms ! they were once 
 
 Material as thou art. 
 
 Cain. And must I be 
 
 Like them ? 
 
 Lucifer. Let He who made thee 
 
 answer that. 
 I show thee what thy predecessors are. 
 And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
 Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
 Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
 Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
 What ye in common have with what they 
 
 had 
 Is life, and what ye shall have — death : the 
 
 rest 
 Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
 Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
 Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
 A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
 Things whose enjoyment was to be in 
 
 blindness — 
 A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
 Knowledge was barred as poison. But be- 
 hold 
 What these superior beings are or were ; 
 Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
 The earth, thy task — I '11 waft thee there 
 
 in safety. 
 Cain. No : I'll stay here. 
 Lucifer. How long ? 
 
 Cain. For ever ! Since 
 
 I must one day return here from the earth, 
 I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
 That dust has shown me — let me dwell in 
 
 shadows. 
 Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now be- 
 
 hoidest as 
 A vision that which is reality. 
 To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
 Must pass through what the things thou 
 
 see'st have pass'd — 
 The gates of death. 
 
 Cain. By v.-hat gate have we euter'd 
 Even now ? 
 
 Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to 
 
 return. 
 My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in re- 
 gions 
 Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze 
 
 on ; [hour 
 
 But do not thmk to dwell here till thine 
 Is come. 
 
 Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er 
 
 repass 
 To earth again ? 
 
 Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 
 So changed by its coiuulsion, they would 
 
 not 
 Be conscious to a single present spot 
 Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 
 
 't was — 
 Oh: what a beautiful world it ivas ! 
 ..T"'"- . And is. 
 
 It IS not with the earth, though 1 must till 
 
 it, 
 
CAIN 
 
 A91 
 
 I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
 By what it bears of beautiful, untoiling. 
 Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
 yVith knowledge, nor allay my thou- 
 sand fears 
 Of death and hfe. 
 Lucifer. What thy world is, thou 
 
 see'st, 
 But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
 That which it was. 
 
 Cain. And those enormous creatures. 
 Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
 (At least so seeming) to the things we have 
 
 pass'd. 
 Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
 Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest 
 
 which 
 Roar nightly in the forest, but ten- fold 
 In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
 The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
 Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which 
 
 fence them 
 And tusks projecting Uke the trees stripp'd 
 
 of 
 Their bark and branches — what were they? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 
 The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these 
 
 lie 
 By myriads underneath its surface. 
 
 Cain. But 
 
 None on it ? 
 
 Lucifer. No : for thy frail race to 
 
 war 
 With them would render the curse on it 
 
 useless — 
 'T would be destroy'd so early. 
 
 Cain. But why war ? 
 
 Lucifer. You have forgotten the de- 
 nunciation 
 Which drove your race from Eden — war 
 
 with all things, 
 And death to all things, and disease to 
 
 most things. 
 And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the 
 
 fruits 
 Of the forbidden tree. 
 
 Cain. But animals — 
 
 Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die? 
 Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were 
 
 made for you. 
 As you for him. — You would not have 
 
 their doom 
 Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
 Fallen, all had stood. 
 
 Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 
 
 They too must share my sire's fate, like his 
 
 " sous ; 
 Like them, too, without having shared 
 
 the apple ; [knowledge ! 
 
 I,ike them, too, without the so dear-bought 
 It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
 At least it promised knowledge at the price 
 Of death — but knowledge still : but what 
 
 knows man ? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be death leads to the 
 . highest knowledge ; 
 And being of all things the sole thing cer- 
 tain. 
 At least leads to the surest science : there- 
 fore 
 The tree was true, though deadly. 
 
 Cain. These dim realms ! 
 
 I see them, but I know them not. 
 
 Lucifer. Because 
 
 Thy horn: is yet afar, and matter cannot 
 Comprehend spirit wholly — but 't is 
 
 something 
 To know there are such realms. 
 
 Cain. We knew already 
 
 That there was death. 
 
 Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 
 Cain. Nor know I now, 
 Lucifer. Thou knowest that 
 
 there is 
 A state, and many states beyond thine 
 
 own — 
 And this thou knewest not this morn. 
 
 Cain. But all 
 
 Seems dim and shadowy. 
 
 Lucifer. Be content ; it will 
 
 Seem clearer to thine immortality. 
 
 Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid 
 space 
 Of glorious azure which floats on beyond 
 
 us, 
 Which looks like water, and which I should 
 
 deem 
 The river which flows out of Paradise 
 Past my own dwelling, but that it is bank- 
 less 
 And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
 What is it ? 
 
 Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
 Although inferior, and thy children shall 
 Dwell near it — 't is the phantasm of an 
 ocean. 
 Cain. 'T is like another world ; a liquid 
 sun — 
 And those inordinate creatures sporting 
 
 o'er 
 Its shining surface ? 
 
 Lucifer. Are its inhabitants, 
 
 The past leviathans. 
 
 Cain. And yon immense 
 
 Serpent, which rears his dripping mane 
 
 and vasty 
 Head ten times higher than the haughtiest 
 
 cedar 
 Forth from the abyss, looking as he could 
 
 coil 
 Himself around the orbs we lately look'd 
 
 on — 
 Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
 The tree in Eden ? 
 
 Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, besi 
 
 Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 
 Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt 
 the other 
 
498 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Had more of beauty. 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er behejd 
 
 him ? 
 Cain. Many of the same kind (at least 
 so call'd), 
 But never that precisely which persuaded 
 The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 
 Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 
 Cain. No : 't was my mother 
 
 Who tempted him — she tempted by the 
 serpent. 
 Lucifer. Good man .' whene'er thy wife, 
 or thy sons' wives, 
 Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new 
 
 or strange, 
 Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted 
 them. 
 Cam. Thy precept comes too late : 
 there is no more 
 For serpents to tempt woman to. 
 
 Lucifer. But there 
 
 Are some things still which woman may 
 
 tempt man to. 
 And man tempt woman : — let thy sons 
 
 look to it ! 
 My counsel is a kind one ; for 't is even 
 Given chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 
 'T will not be foUow'd, so there 's little lost. 
 Cain. I understand not this. 
 Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 
 
 Thy world and thou are still too 3'oung ! 
 
 Thou thinkest 
 Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
 Not so ? 
 
 Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for 
 pain, 
 I have felt much. 
 
 Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 
 Thy present state of sin, and thou art evil — 
 Of sorrow, and thou sufferest — are both 
 
 Eden 
 In all its innocence compared to what 
 Thou shortly may'st be ; and that state 
 
 again. 
 In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
 To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
 In generations like to dust (which they 
 In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
 Now let us back to earth ! 
 
 Cain. And wherefore didst thou 
 
 Lead me here only to inform me this ? 
 Lucifer Was not thy quest for know- 
 ledge ? 
 Cniii Yes ; as being 
 
 The road to happiness. 
 
 Lucifer. If truth be so. 
 
 Thou hast it. 
 
 Cain. Then mv father's God did well 
 When he prohibited the fatal tree. 
 
 Lucifer. But had done better in not 
 planting it. 
 But ignorance of e\'il doth not save 
 From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
 A part of all things. 
 
 Cain. Not of all things. No: 
 
 I '11 not belie^'e it — for I thirst for good. 
 
 Lucifer. And who and what doth not ? 
 
 Wlw covets evil 
 
 For its own bitter sake ? — None — nothing ! 
 
 't is 
 The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 
 Cain. Within those glorious orbs 
 which we behold. 
 Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable. 
 Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
 111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 
 Cain. And what of that ? 
 
 Distance can but diminish glory — they, 
 \Mien nearer, must be more ineffable. 
 Lucifer.- Approach the things of earth 
 most beautiful. 
 And judge their beauty near. 
 
 Cain. I have done this — 
 
 The loveliest thing I know is loveliest 
 nearest. 
 Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — 
 What is that, 
 Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
 More beautiful than beauteous things re- 
 mote ? 
 Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of 
 heaven, 
 The^ deep blue noon of night, lit bv an orb 
 Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
 The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous 
 
 coming — 
 His setting indescribable, which fills 
 My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
 Him sink, and feel my heart float softly 
 
 mth him 
 Along that western paradise of clouds, 
 The forest shade, the green bough, the 
 
 bird's voice — 
 The \-esper bird's, which seems to sing of 
 
 love. 
 And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
 As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
 All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart. 
 Like Adah's face : I turn •from earth and 
 
 heaven 
 To gaze on it. 
 
 Lucifer. 'T is fair as frail mortality. 
 In the first dawn and bloom of young 
 
 creation. 
 And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
 Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 
 tain. \ou think so. being not her 
 
 brother. 
 Lucifer. Mortal' 
 
 My brotherhood 's with those who have no 
 children. 
 Ca,n. Then thou canst have no fellow- 
 ship with us. 
 Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall 
 be for me. 
 But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
 Being beyond all beauty in thine eves 
 
CAIN 
 
 499 
 
 Why art thou wretched ? 
 
 Cain. Why do I exist ? 
 
 Why art thou wretched ? why are all things 
 
 so ? 
 Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
 Of things unhappy ! To produce des- 
 truction 
 Can surely never be the task of joy. 
 And yet my sire says he 's omnipotent : 
 Then why is evil — he being good ? I 
 
 ask'd ^^ 
 
 This question of my father ;^^i he said. 
 Because this evil only was the path 
 To good. Strangegood, that must arise 
 
 from out 
 Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
 A lamb stung by a»eptile : the poor suck- 
 ling 
 Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
 And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
 My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid 
 them to [wretch 
 
 The wound ; and by degrees the helpless 
 Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
 The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
 Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
 Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from 
 
 . evil 
 Spriijgs good ! 
 
 Lucifer. What didst thou answer ? 
 Cain. Nothing ; for 
 
 He is my father: but I thought, that 'twere 
 A better portion for the animal 
 Never to have been stung at all, than to 
 Purchase renewal of its little life 
 With agonies unutterable, though 
 Dispell'd by antidotes, 
 
 Lucifer. But as thou saidst 
 
 Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
 Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth 
 hers 
 
 Unto thy children 
 
 Cain. Most assuredly : 
 
 What should I be without her ? 
 
 Lucifer. What am I ? 
 
 Cain. Dost thou love nothing ? 
 Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 
 
 Cctin All things, my father says ; but I 
 confess 
 I see it not in their allotment here. 
 Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not 
 see if / love 
 Or no, except some vast and general pur- 
 pose, [snows. 
 To which particular things must melt like 
 Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 
 Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 
 What thy remoter offspring must en- 
 counter ; 
 But bask beneath the clime which knows 
 no winter. 
 Cain. But dost thou not love something 
 
 like thyself ? 
 Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself ? 
 
 Cain. ■ Yes, but love more 
 
 What makes my feelings more endurable, 
 And is more than myself, because I love it. 
 Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 't is 
 beautiful 
 As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
 And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
 Will cease, like any other appetite. 
 
 Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can 
 
 that be ? 
 Lucifer. With time. 
 
 Cain. But time has past, and 
 
 hitherto 
 Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
 Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
 But very fair. 
 
 Lucifer. All that must pass away 
 
 In them and her. 
 
 Cain. I 'm sorry for it ; but 
 
 Cannot conceive my love for her the less ; 
 And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
 He who creates all beauty will lose more 
 Than me in seeing perish such a work. 
 Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what 
 
 must perish. 
 Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 
 Lucifer. And thy brother — 
 
 Sits he not near thy heart ? 
 
 Cain. Why should he not ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy father loves him well^so 
 
 does thy God. 
 Cain. And so do I. 
 
 Lucifer. 'T is well and meekly done. 
 Cain. Meekly ] 
 
 Lucifer. He is the second born of 
 flesh, 
 And is his mother's favourite. 
 
 Cain. Let him keep 
 
 Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
 To win it. 
 
 Lucifer. And his father's ? 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To me ? should I not love that which all 
 love ? 
 Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indul- 
 gent Lord, 
 And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
 He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 
 
 Cain. I 
 
 Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 
 Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 
 Cain. Rarely. 
 
 Lucifer. But 
 
 Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
 His sacrifices are acceptable. 
 
 Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me 
 
 of this ? 
 Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of 
 
 this ere now. 
 
 Cain. And if 
 
 I have thought, why recall a thought that 
 
 — [he pauses, as agitated) — Spirit ! 
 
 Here we are in thy world ; speak nut of 
 
 mine. 
 
500 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Thou hast showii me wonders : thou hast 
 
 shown me those 
 Mighty pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
 Of which ours is the wreck : thou hast 
 
 pointed out 
 Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
 Is the dim and remote companion, in 
 Infinity of life : thou hast shoivn me 
 
 shadows 
 Of that existence with the dreaded name 
 Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou 
 
 hast shown me much — 
 But not all : show me where Jehovah 
 
 dwells, 
 In his especial Paradise — or thine : 
 Where is it ? 
 Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 
 Cain. But ye 
 
 Have some allotted dwelling — as all 
 things ; [tenants ; 
 
 Clay has its earth, and other worlds their 
 All temporary breathing creatures their 
 Peculiar element ; and things which have 
 Long ceased to breathe our breath, have 
 
 their's, thou say'st ; 
 And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
 Ye do not dwell together ? 
 
 Lucifer. No, we reign 
 
 Together ; but our dwellings are asunder, 
 Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! 
 perchance 
 An unity of purpose might make union 
 In elements which seem now jarr'd in 
 
 storms. 
 How came ye, being spirits, wise and 
 
 infinite. 
 To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
 Your essence, and your nature, and your 
 glory ? 
 Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 
 Cain. We are brethren, 
 
 And so we shall remain ; but were it not so. 
 In spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
 Infinity with Immortality ? 
 Jarring and turning space to misery — 
 For what ? 
 Lucifer. To reign. 
 
 Cain. Did ye not tell me that 
 
 Ye are both eternal ? 
 Lucifer. Yea ! 
 
 Cain. And what I have seen. 
 
 Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 
 Lucifer. Ay. 
 
 Cain. And cannot ye both reign, then ? 
 — is there not 
 Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 
 Lucifer. We both reign. 
 
 Cain. But one of you makes evil. 
 Lucifer. Which ? 
 
 Cain. Thou ! for 
 
 If thou canst do man good, why dost thou 
 not ? 
 Lucifer. And why not he who made ? / 
 jnade ye not ; 
 
 Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 
 
 Cain. Then leave us 
 
 His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or 
 
 show me 
 Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 
 
 Lucifer. I could show thee 
 
 Both ; but the. time will come thou shalt 
 
 see one 
 Of them for evermore. 
 
 Cain. And why not now ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely 
 grasp ta'-gather 
 The little I have shown thee into calm 
 And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go 
 
 on aspiring 
 To the great double Mysteries ! the two 
 
 Principles ! 
 And gaze upon them on their secret 
 
 thrones ! 
 Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
 Either of these would be for thee to perish ! 
 Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 
 Lucifer. There 
 
 The son of her who snatch'd the apple 
 spake ! [them ; 
 
 But thou wouldst only perish, and not see 
 That sight is for the other state. 
 
 Cain. ' Of death ? 
 
 Lucifer. That is the prelude. 
 Cain. Then I dread it less. 
 
 Now that I know it leads to something 
 definite. 
 Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to 
 thy world, 
 Where thou shalt multiply the race of 
 
 Adam, 
 Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, 
 sleep, and die. 
 Cain. And to what end have I beheld 
 these things . 
 Which thou hast shoiAm me ? 
 
 Lucifer. Didst thou not require 
 
 Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I 
 
 show'd. 
 Taught thee to know thyself ? 
 
 Cain. Alas ! I seem 
 
 Nothing. 
 Lucifer. And this should be the human 
 sum 
 Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's 
 
 nothingness ; 
 Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
 'T will spare them many tortures. 
 
 Cain. Haughty spirit ! 
 
 Thou speak'st it proudly ; but "thyself, 
 
 though proud. 
 Hast a superior. 
 
 Lucifer. No ! By heaven, which He 
 
 Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
 
 Of worlds and life, which I hold with him 
 
 No ! 
 I ha\-e a victor— true ; but no superior 
 Homage he has from all— but none from 
 me ; 
 
CAIN 
 
 501 
 
 1 battle it against him, as I battled 
 
 In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
 
 And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
 
 And the interminable realms of space, 
 
 And the infinity of endless ages. 
 
 All, all, will I dispute ! And world by 
 
 world. 
 And star by star, and universe by universe, 
 Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
 Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
 Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
 And what can quench our immortality, 
 Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
 He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
 Evil ; but what will be the good he gives ? 
 Were I" the victor, his works would be 
 
 deem'd 
 The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
 And scarce born mortals, what have been 
 
 his gifts 
 To you already, in your little world ? 
 Cain. But few ; and some of those but 
 
 bitter. 
 Lucifer. Back 
 
 With me, then, to thine earth, and try the 
 
 rest 
 Of his celestial boons to you and yours. 
 Evil and good are things in their own 
 
 essence, 
 And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
 But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
 Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
 Till ye know better its true fount ; and 
 
 judge 
 Not by words, though of spirits, but the 
 
 fruits 
 Of your existence, such as it must be. 
 One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
 Your reason ; — let it not be over-sway'd 
 By tyrannous threats to force you into 
 
 faith 
 'Gainst all external sense and inward 
 
 feeling : 
 Think and endure, — and form an inner 
 
 world. 
 In your own bosom — where the outward 
 
 fails ; 
 So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
 Nature, and war triumphant with your 
 own. 
 
 [They disappear. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I. — The Earth, near Eden, as in A ct I. 
 Enter Cain and Adah. 
 
 Adah. Hush, tread softly, Cain. 
 Cain. I will ; but wherefore ? 
 
 Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon 
 bed 
 Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 
 
 Cain. Cypress I 't is 
 
 .\ gloomv tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
 O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst 
 
 thou choose it 
 For our child's canopy ? 
 
 Adah. Because its branches 
 
 Shut out the sun like night, and therefore 
 
 seem'd 
 Fitting to shadow slumber. 
 
 Cain. Ay, the last — 
 
 And longest ; but no matter — lead me to 
 him. 
 
 [They go up to the child. 
 How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks. 
 In their pure incarnation, vying with 
 The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 
 
 Adah. And his lips, too, 
 
 How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall 
 
 not 
 Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake 
 
 soon — 
 His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
 But it were pity to disturb him till 
 'T is closed. 
 
 Cain. You have said well ; I will con- 
 tain. 
 My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! 
 
 . — sleep on, 
 And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
 Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, 
 
 and smile ! 
 Thine are the hours and days when both 
 
 are cheering 
 And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the 
 
 fruit — 
 Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must 
 
 the time 
 Come thou shalt be amerced for sins un- 
 known, 
 Which were not thine nor mine ? But now 
 
 sleep on ! • 
 
 His cheeks are reddening into deeper 
 
 smiles, 
 And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
 Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves 
 
 o'er them ; 
 Half open, from beneath them the clear 
 
 blue 
 Laughs out, although in slumber. He 
 
 must dream — 
 Of wh at ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it. 
 My disinherited boy ! 'T is but a dream ; 
 For never more thyself, thy sons, nor 
 
 fathers, 
 Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 
 Adah. Dear Cain! Nay, do not whisper 
 o'er our son 
 Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
 Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
 Can we not make another ? 
 
 Cain. Where ? 
 
 Adah. Here, or 
 
 Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I 
 
 feel not 
 The want of this so much regretted Eden 
 
502 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and 
 
 brother, 
 And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
 To whom we owe so much besides our 
 
 birth ? 
 Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the 
 
 debts we owe her. 
 Adah. Cain Ithatproudspirit, who with- 
 drew thee hence. 
 Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had 
 
 hoped 
 The promised wonders which thou hast 
 
 belield. 
 Visions, thou say'st, of past and present 
 
 worlds, 
 Would have composed thy mind into the 
 
 calm 
 Of a contented knowledge ; but I see * 
 Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I 
 
 thank him, 
 And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
 Hath given thee back to us. 
 
 Cain. So soon ? 
 
 Adah. 'T is scarcely 
 
 Two hours since ye departed : two long 
 
 hours 
 To me, but only hours upon the sun. - 
 Cain. And yet I have approach'd that 
 
 sun, and seen 
 Worlds which he once shone on, and never 
 
 more 
 Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : me- 
 
 thoflght 
 Years had roll'd o*er my absence. 
 
 Adah. Hardly hours. 
 
 Cain. The mind then hath capacity of 
 
 time, 
 And measures it by that which it beholds. 
 Pleasing or painful ; little or almight3^ 
 I had beheld the immemorial works 
 Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguished 
 
 worlds ; 
 And, gazing on eternity, methought 
 I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
 From its immensity : but now I feel 
 My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
 That I was nothing ! 
 
 A dah. Wherefore saidheso? 
 
 Jehovah said not that. 
 
 Cain. No : he contents him 
 
 With making us the nothing which we are ; 
 And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
 Eden and Immortality, resolves 
 It back to dust again — for what ? 
 
 Adah. Thou know'st — 
 
 Even for our parents' error. 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 
 Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is 
 
 that thought 
 Thy own, but of the spirit who was with 
 
 thee. 
 Would / could die for them, so they might 
 
 live ! 
 
 Cain. Why, so say I — ^pro\'ided that one 
 victim 
 Might satiate the insatiable of life. 
 And that our little rosy sleeper there 
 Might never taste of death nor human 
 sorrow, [him. 
 
 Nor hand it down to those who spring from 
 Adah. How know we that some such 
 atonement one day 
 May not redeem our race ? 
 
 Cain. By sacrificing 
 
 The harmless for the guilty ? what atone- 
 ment 
 Were there ? why, we are innocent : what 
 
 have we 
 Done, that we must be victims fot- a deed 
 Before our birth, or need have victims to 
 Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin^- 
 If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 
 A dah . Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : 
 thy words 
 Sound impious in mine ears. 
 
 Cam. Then leave me ! 
 
 Adah. Never, 
 
 Though thy God left thee. 
 
 Cain. Say. what have we here ? 
 
 Adah. Two altars, which our brother 
 Abel made 
 During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
 A sacrifice to God on thy return. 
 
 Cain. And how knew he, that / would be 
 so ready 
 With the burnt offerings, which he daily 
 
 brings 
 With a meek brow, whose base humility 
 Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
 To the Creator ? 
 
 Adah. Surely, 't is well done. 
 
 Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no 
 
 offering. 
 Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, 
 beautiful 
 Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and 
 
 fruits ; 
 These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
 Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
 Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and.. 
 sweaten in the sun. 
 According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
 For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
 With all the elements ere they will vield 
 The bread we eat ? For what must I be 
 
 grateful ? 
 For being dust, and grovelling in the dust. 
 Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing— 
 For nothing shall I be an hypocrite. 
 And seem well-pleased with pain ? For 
 
 what should I 
 Be contrite ? for mv father's sin, alreadv 
 Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
 And to be more than expiated by 
 The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
 Little deems cuir voung blooming sleeper, 
 there, 
 
CAIKr 
 
 503 
 
 The germs of an eternal misery 
 
 To myriads is witliin him ! better 't were 
 
 I snatch'd liim in liis sleep, and dash'd him 
 
 'gainst 
 
 The rocks, than let him live to 
 
 Adah, Oh, my God ! 
 
 Touch not the child — my child ! thy child ! 
 
 Oh, Cain ! 
 Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all 
 
 the power 
 Which sways them, I would not accost yon 
 
 infant 
 
 With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
 
 Adah. Then, why soawfulin thy speech ? 
 
 Cain. I said, 
 
 'Twere better that he ceased to live, than 
 
 give 
 Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
 Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but 
 
 since 
 That saying jars you, let us only say — 
 'Twere better that he never had been born. 
 Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were 
 
 then the joys, 
 The mother's joys of watching, nourishing. 
 And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet 
 
 Enoch ! 
 
 [She goes to the chitd. 
 Oh, Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life. 
 Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of 
 
 joy. 
 How like to me — how like to thee, when 
 
 gentle, 
 For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? 
 Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
 fleflected in each other ; as they are 
 In the clear waters, when they are 
 
 and 
 When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my 
 
 Cain ! 
 And love thyself for our sakes, for we love 
 
 thee. 
 Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his 
 
 arms. 
 And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine. 
 To hail his father ; while his little form 
 Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of 
 
 pain ! 
 The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
 The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, 
 
 Cain ! 
 As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
 His heart will, and thine own too. 
 
 Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 
 
 If that a mortal blessing may avail thee. 
 To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 
 
 Adah. It shall. 
 
 Surely a father's blessing may avert 
 A reptile's subtlety. 
 
 Cain. Of that I doubt ; 
 
 But bless him ne'er the less. 
 
 Adah. Our brother comes. 
 
 Cain. Thy brother Abel. 
 Enter Abei-. 
 
 Abel. Welcfinie, Cain ! My brother. 
 The peace of God be-on thee ! 
 
 Cain. Abel, hail ! 
 
 Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast 
 been wandering. 
 In high communion with a spirit, far 
 Beyond our wonted range. Was he of 
 
 those 
 We have seen and spoken with, like to our 
 father ? 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Abel. Why then commune with him ? 
 he may be 
 A foe to the Most High. 
 
 Cain. And friend to man. 
 
 Has the Most High been so — if so you term 
 him ? 
 Abel. Term hi 111 ! your words are strange 
 to-day, my brother. 
 My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
 We mean to sacrifice. 
 
 Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 
 
 But first embrace thy son. May his soft 
 
 spirit. 
 And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
 To peace and holiness ! 
 
 [Exit Adah, with her child. 
 A bel. Where hast thou been ? 
 
 Cain. I know not. 
 
 Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 
 
 Cain. The dead. 
 
 The immortal, the unbounded, the omni- 
 potent. 
 The overpowering mysteries of space — 
 The innumerable worlds that were and 
 
 are — 
 A whirlwind of such overwhelming things. 
 Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud- 
 voiced spheres 
 Singing in thunder round me, as have made 
 
 me 
 Unfit fnr mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
 Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with un- 
 natiu'al light — 
 Thy cheek is fiush'd with an unnatural 
 
 hue — 
 Thy words are fraught with an unnatural 
 
 sound — 
 What mav this mean ? 
 
 Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave 
 
 me. 
 Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sacri- 
 ficed together. 
 Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
 Jehovah loves thee well. 
 
 Abel. Both well, I hope. 
 
 Cain. But thee the better : I care not 
 for that ; 
 Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
 Revere him, then — but let it be alone — • 
 At least, without me. 
 
 Abel. Brother, I should ill 
 
 Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
 tf, as my elder, I revered thee not. 
 
504 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 And in the worship of our God, call'd not 
 On thee to join me, and precede me in 
 Our priesthood — 't is thj' place. 
 
 Cain. But I have ne'er 
 
 Asserted it, 
 
 Abel. The more my grief ; I pray thee 
 To do so now : thy soul seems labouring in 
 Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 
 
 Cain. No ; 
 
 Nothing can calm me more. Calm! say 
 
 I ? Never 
 Knew I what calm was in the soul, al- 
 though 
 T have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, 
 
 leave me ! 
 Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 
 
 Abd. Neither ; we must perform our 
 task together. 
 Spurn me not. 
 
 Cain. If it must beso ^well, then, 
 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 
 
 Cain. Choose for me ; they to me are so 
 much turf 
 And stone. 
 
 Abel. Choose thou ! 
 
 Cain, I have chosen. 
 
 Abel. 'T is the highest. 
 
 And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
 Thine offerings. 
 
 Cain. Where are thine ? 
 
 .i bel. Behold them here — 
 
 The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
 A shepherd's humble offering. 
 
 Cain. I have no flocks ; 
 
 I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
 
 Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 
 
 [He gathers fniits. 
 
 Behold them in their various bloom and 
 
 ripeness. 
 [They dress their altars, and kindle a flame 
 upon them. 
 
 Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
 Thyprayprand thanksgiving with sacrifice. 
 
 Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou 
 the way, 
 And I will follow — as I may. 
 
 Abel [kneeling). Oh, God ! 
 
 Who made us, and who breathed the breath 
 
 of life 
 Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us. 
 And spared, despite our father's sin, to 
 make [been. 
 
 His children all lost, as they might ha\'e 
 Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
 The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
 Acjcord a pardon like a Paradise, 
 Compared with our great crimes : — Sole 
 
 Lord of light. 
 Of good, and glory, and eternity ! 
 Without whom all were evil, and ™th whom 
 Nothing can err, except to some good end 
 Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
 Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill'd — 
 
 Accept from out thy humble first of 
 
 shepherd's 
 First of the first-born flocks — an offering, . 
 In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
 Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
 The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
 The face of thy high heaven, bowing his 
 
 own 
 Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
 Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 
 Cain (standing erect during this speech). 
 
 Spirit whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
 Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good. 
 Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from 
 
 evil ; 
 Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
 And it may be with other names, because 
 Thine attributes seem many, as thy 
 
 works : — 
 If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
 Take them ] If thou must be induced 
 
 with altars. 
 And soften'd with a sacrifice, recei\'e them ! 
 Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
 If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, 
 
 which smokes 
 On my right hand, hath shed it for thy 
 
 service 
 In the first of his flock, whose limbs now 
 
 reek 
 In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
 Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of 
 
 earth. 
 And milder seasons, which the unstain'd 
 
 turf 
 I spread them on now offers in the face 
 Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may 
 
 seem 
 Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
 Suffer'd in limb or life, and rather form 
 -A sample of thy works, than supplication 
 To look on ours .' If a shrine without 
 
 victim. 
 And altar without gore, mav win thy 
 
 favour. 
 Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it. 
 He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks 
 
 nothing 
 Which must be won by kneeling : if he 's 
 
 evil. 
 Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and 
 
 may'st — 
 For what can he oppose ? If he be good, 
 Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! 
 
 since all 
 Rests upon thee ; and good and e\il seem 
 To have no power themselves, sa^•e in thy 
 
 will ; 
 Aud whether that be good or ill I know not, 
 Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
 Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
 Its mandate ; which thus far I have 
 
 endured. 
 
 [The fire upon the altar of Abel kindles 
 
CAIM 
 
 505 
 
 into a column of the brightest flame, 
 and ascends to heaven ; while a 
 whirlwind throws down the altar 
 of Cain, and scatters the fruits 
 abroad upon the earth. 
 Abel {kneeling). Oh, brother, pray ! 
 
 Jehovah's wroth with thee. 
 Cain. Why so ? 
 Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the 
 
 earth. 
 Cain. From earth they came, to earth 
 let them return ; 
 Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the 
 
 summer ; 
 Thy burnt flesh-off'ring prospers better ; 
 
 see 
 How heav'n licks up the flames, when thick 
 with blood ! 
 Abel. Think not upon my offering's 
 acceptance, 
 But make another of thine own before 
 It is too late. 
 
 Cain. I will build no more altars, 
 
 Nor suffer any 
 
 A bel (rising) . Cain ! what meanest thou ? 
 
 Cain. To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of 
 
 the clouds, 
 
 The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
 
 Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and 
 
 kids. 
 Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 
 A bel (opposing him) . Thou shall not : — 
 add not impious works to impious 
 Words ! let that altar stand — 't is hallow'd 
 
 now 
 By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
 In his acceptance of the victims. 
 
 Cain. His ! 
 
 His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure 
 
 in 
 The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking 
 
 blood. 
 To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
 Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the 
 
 pangs 
 Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
 Thy pious knife ? Gi^•e way ! this bloody 
 record [tion ! 
 
 Shall not stand in the sun, to shame crea- 
 Abel. Brother, give back ! thou shall 
 not touch my altar 
 With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it, 
 To try another sacrifice, 't is thine. 
 
 Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or 
 else 
 
 That sacrifice may be 
 
 Abel. What mean'st thou ? 
 
 Cain. Give — 
 
 Give way ! — thy God loves blood ! — then 
 
 look to it : — 
 Give way, ere he hath more ! \ 
 
 Abel. In his great name, i 
 
 I stand between thee and the shrine which 
 hath i 
 
 Had his acceptance. 
 
 Cain. If thou lov'st thyself, 
 
 Stand back till I have strew'd this turf 
 along 
 
 Its native soil : — else 
 
 Abel (opposing him). I love God far 
 more 
 Than life. 
 
 Cain (striking him with a brand, on the 
 temples, which he snatches from the ■ 
 altar). Then take thy life unto thy 
 God, 
 Since he loves lives. 
 
 Abel (falls). What hast thou done, my 
 
 brother ? 
 Cain. Brother ! 
 
 Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, 
 and 
 Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
 He did — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; 
 
 and tell 
 Poor Zillah— 
 
 Cain (after a moment's stupefaction). 
 
 My hand ! 't is all red, and with 
 
 What ? 
 
 [A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 
 Where am I ? alone ! Where's 
 Abel ? where 
 Cain ? Can it be that I am he ? M3' 
 
 brother, 
 Awake ! — why liest thou so long on the 
 
 green earth ? 
 *T is not the hour of slumber : — why so 
 pale ? 
 
 What, hast thou ! thou wert full of 
 
 life this morn ! 
 Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 
 Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
 Wouldst thou oppose me ? This is mock- 
 ery ; 
 And only done to daunt me : — 't was a 
 
 blow — 
 And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only 
 
 stir! 
 Why, so — that 's well !• — thou breath'st ! 
 
 breathe upon me ! 
 Oh, God ! Oh ! God ! 
 
 Abel (very faintly). What 's he who 
 
 speaks of God ? 
 Cain. Thy murderer. 
 Abel. Then may God forgive him ! 
 Cain, 
 Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one 
 
 brother 
 
 Now. [Abel dies. 
 
 Cain: And I none ! — Who makes me 
 
 brotherless ? 
 
 Kis eves are open ! then he is not dead ! 
 
 Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down 
 
 our hds. 
 His lips, too, are apart ; why then he 
 
 breathes ; 
 And yet I feel it not.— His heart !— his 
 heart ! — ■ 
 
 T, I, 
 
5g6 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks — 
 
 No ! — no ! 
 This is a vision, else I am become 
 The native of another and worse world. 
 The earth swims round me ; — what is 
 
 this ? — 't is wet ; 
 [Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at 
 
 it. 
 And yet there are no dews ! 'T is blood — 
 
 my blood — 
 lly brother's and my own ! and shed by 
 
 me ! 
 Then what have I further to do with life. 
 Since I have fallen life from my own flesh ? 
 But he can not be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
 No ; he will wake ; then let me watch 
 
 by him. 
 Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench' d 
 Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me 
 
 since — 
 What shall I say to him ? — My brother ] — 
 
 No: 
 He will not answer to that name ; for 
 
 brethren 
 Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak 
 
 to me. 
 Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
 That I may bear to hear my own again ! 
 Enter Zillah. 
 Zillah. I heard a heavy sound ; what 
 
 can it be ? 
 'T is Cain ; and watching bv my husband. 
 
 What 
 Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? 
 
 Oh, heav'n ! 
 What means this paleness, and yon stream ? 
 
 — No, no ! 
 It is not blood ; for who would shed his 
 
 blood ? 
 Abel ! what 's this ? — who hath done this ? 
 
 He moves not ; 
 He breathes not : and his hands drop doivn 
 
 from mine 
 With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
 Why cam'st thou not in time to save him 
 
 from 
 This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd 
 
 him. 
 Thou wert the stronger, and shouldst 
 
 have stepp'd in 
 Between him and aggression ! Father I — 
 
 Eve!— 
 Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the 
 
 world ! 
 
 [Exit Zillah, calling on her Parents, etc. 
 Cain (solus). And who hath brought 
 
 him there ? — I — who abhor 
 The name of Death so deeply, that the 
 
 thought 
 Empoison'd all m\- life, before I knew 
 His aspect — I ha\'e led him here, and gi\''n | 
 My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
 As if he would not have asserted his I 
 
 Inexorable claim without my aid. | 
 
 I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
 Had madden'd me ; — but he shall ne'er 
 
 awake ! 
 Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 
 Adam. A \'oi(.e of woe from Zillah 
 brings me here. — 
 What do I see ? — 'T is true ! — My sou ! — 
 
 my son ! 
 Woman, behold the serpent's work, and 
 thine ! 
 
 [To Eve. 
 Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the ser- 
 pent's fangs 
 Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
 Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
 A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 
 
 Adam. ^^"ho, 
 
 Or what hatli done this deed ? — speak, 
 
 Cain, since tliou 
 Wert present ; was it some more hostile 
 
 angeli 
 Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some 
 
 wild 
 Brute of the forest ? 
 
 Eve. Ah ! a li\'id light 
 
 Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! 
 
 yon brand 
 Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the 
 altar, 
 
 And black with smoke, and red with 
 
 Adam. Speak, mv son ! 
 
 Speak, and assm-e us, wretched as we are, 
 That we are not more miserable stiU. 
 Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not 
 
 thou ! 
 Eve. It was. 
 
 I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
 And covers his ferocious eye with" hands 
 Incarnadine. 
 
 J^dah. Mother, thou dost him wTong — 
 Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
 Which grief «Tings from our parent. 
 
 Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
 
 May the eternal serpent's ciu-se be on him ! 
 For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
 
 May all his days be desolate ! Mav 
 
 Adah. Hold! 
 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
 -And my betroth'd. 
 
 Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 
 Zillah no husband — me no son ! for thus 
 I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
 All bonds I break between us, as he broke 
 
 That of his nature, in von Oh death ! 
 
 death ! 
 \\'hy didst thou not take mc, who lirst 
 
 incurr'd tliee ? 
 V^'liy dost thou not so now ? 
 
 ■J''"'" Eve ! let not this, 
 
 Thy natural grief, lead to impietv ! 
 -A heavy doiou was long forespoken' to us ; 
 And now that it begins, let it be borne 
 In such sort as may show our God, that we 
 
CAIN 
 
 507 
 
 Are faithful servants to his holy will. 
 Eve (pointing to Cain). His will! the 
 will of yon incarnate spirit 
 Of death, whom I have brought upon the 
 
 earth 
 To strew it with the dead. May all the 
 
 curses 
 Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
 Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
 From Eden, till his children do by him 
 As he did by his brother ! May the 
 
 swords 
 And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
 By day and night — snakes spring up in his 
 
 path — 
 Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the 
 
 leaves 
 On which he lays his head to sleep be 
 
 strew'd 
 With scorpions ! May his dreams be of 
 
 his victim ! 
 His waking a continual dread of death ! 
 May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
 Stoops down to stain them with his raging 
 
 hp! 
 May every element shun or change to him ! 
 May he live in the pangs which others die 
 
 with ! 
 And death itself wax something worse 
 
 than death 
 To him who first acquainted him with 
 
 man ! 
 Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is 
 
 Cain, 
 Through all the coming myriads of man- 
 kind. 
 Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert 
 
 their sire ! 
 May the grass wither from thy feet ! the 
 
 woods 
 Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
 A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her 
 God! 
 
 [Exit Eve. 
 Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell 
 no more together. 
 Depart ! and leave the dead to me — I am 
 Henceforth alone — we never must meet 
 more. 
 Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my 
 father : do not 
 Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 
 Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his 
 curse. 
 Come, Zillah !• 
 
 Zillah. I must watch my husband's 
 
 corse. 
 Adam. We will return again, when he 
 is gone 
 Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
 Come, Zillah ! 
 
 Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 
 And those hps once so warm — my heart ! 
 my heart ! 
 
 [Exeunt Adam and Zillah, weeping. 
 Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must 
 go forth, I am ready. 
 So shall our children be. I will bear 
 
 Enoch, 
 And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
 Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
 Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak 
 
 to me. 
 To me — thine own. 
 
 Cain, Leave me ! 
 
 Adah. Why, all have left thee. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? 
 
 Dost thou not fear 
 
 To dwell with one who hath done this ? 
 
 Adah. I fear. 
 
 Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
 
 Shrink from the deed which leaves thee 
 
 brotherless. 
 I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
 And the great God. 
 
 A Voice from within exclaims, Cain ! 
 
 Cain ! 
 Adah. Hear'st thou that voice ? 
 
 The Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 
 Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 
 
 Enter the Angel of the Lord. 
 Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 
 Cain. Am I then 
 
 My brother's keeper ? 
 
 Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done ? 
 
 The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries 
 
 out. 
 Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — 
 
 Now art thou 
 Cursed from the earth, which opened late 
 
 her mouth 
 To drink thy brother's blood from thy 
 
 rash hand. 
 Henceforth,when thou shalt till the ground, 
 
 it shall not 
 Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt 
 
 thou 
 Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 
 Adah. This punishment is more than 
 he can bear. 
 Behold thou drivest him from the face of 
 
 earth. 
 And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
 A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
 'T will come to pass, that whoso findeth 
 
 him 
 Shall slav him. 
 
 Cain. Would they could ! but who are 
 they 
 Shall slay me ? Where are these on the 
 
 lone earth 
 As yet unpeopled ? 
 
 ^ ngel. Thou hast slain thy 
 
 brother, 
 And who shall warrant thee against thy 
 son ? 
 Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor 
 say 
 
5o8 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
 A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 
 Angel. Then he would be what his 
 father is. 
 Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
 To him thou now seest so besmear'd with 
 
 blood ? 
 The fratricide might well engender parri- 
 
 cades. — 
 But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
 And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
 On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
 Who slaveth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance 
 
 shall 
 Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 
 ■ Cain. What 
 
 Wouldst thou with me ? 
 
 Angel. To mark upon thy brow 
 
 Exemption from such deeds as thou hast 
 done. 
 Cain. No, let me die ! 
 Angel. It must not be. 
 
 [The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow. 
 
 Cain. It burns 
 
 My brow, but nought to that which is 
 
 within it. 
 Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 
 .ingel. Stern hast thou been and stub- 
 born from the womb. 
 As the ground thou must henceforth till ; 
 
 but he 
 Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he 
 
 tended. 
 Cain. After the fall too soon was I 
 
 begotten ; 
 Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
 The serpent, and my sire still mourn' d for 
 
 Eden. 
 That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
 For life, nor did I make mvself ; but c^ul-' 
 
 I 
 With my own death redeem him from the 
 
 dust — 
 And why not so ? let him return to day, ! 
 And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored \ 
 By God the life to him he loved ; and ' 
 
 taken . 
 
 From me a being I ne'er loved to beaf. } 
 Angel. Who shall heal murder ? what 
 
 is done, is .done ; 
 Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
 Unhke the last ! [The .\\gel disappears. 
 Adah. He 's gone, let us go forth ; 
 
 I hear our little Enoch cry within 
 Our bower. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he 
 
 weeps for ! 
 And I who have shed blood cannot shed 
 
 tears ! 
 But the four rivers would not cleanse my 
 
 soul. 
 Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on 
 
 me ? 
 
 .idah. If I thought that he would not,I 
 
 would 
 
 Cai:i (interrupting her). Xo, 
 
 Xo more of threats : we have had too many 
 
 of them : 
 Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 
 Adah. 1 will not leave thee lonely with 
 
 the dead ; 
 Let us depart together. 
 
 Cam. Oh ! thou dead 
 
 And everlasting witness ! whose unsink- 
 
 ing 
 Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what 
 
 thou now art 
 I know not ! but if thou seest what / am, 
 I think thou ^vilt forgive him, whom his 
 
 God 
 Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Fare- 
 well ! 
 I must not, dare not touch what I have 
 
 made thee. 
 I, who sprung from the same womb with 
 
 thee, drain'd 
 The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my 
 
 own, 
 In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
 Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
 To do that for thee, which thou shouldst 
 
 have done 
 For me — compose thy limbs into their 
 
 grave — 
 The first grave yet dug for mortaUtv. 
 But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ! 
 
 Oh, earth ! 
 For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, 
 
 I 
 Give thee back this. — Now for the wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 [Ad.\h stoops down and kisses the body of 
 Abel. 
 
 Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my 
 
 brother, 
 Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for 
 
 thee, 
 I alone must not weep. Mv office is 
 Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed 
 
 them ; 
 But >et of all who mourn, none mourn 
 
 like me, 
 Xot onh- for thyself, but him who slew 
 
 thee. 
 Xow, Cain ! I \\ill divide thv burden with 
 
 thee. 
 Cain. Eastward from Eden wiU we take 
 
 our way ; 
 'T is the most desolate, and suits mv 
 
 steps. 
 Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be mv guide 
 
 and mav our God 
 Be thine! Xoxv let us carry forth our 
 
 children. 
 
 Cain. And he who lieth there was child- 
 less. I 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 Have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
 Which might have graced his recent 
 
 marriage couch, 
 And might have temper'd this stern blood 
 
 of mine, 
 
 50 9 
 
 Uniting with our children Abel's offsprine ' 
 O Abel ! F t, ■ 
 
 Adali. Peace be with him ! 
 
 Cain. But with me ! 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH : 
 
 A MYSTERY 
 
 ,, . FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP VI 
 
 And it came to pass . . . that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they 
 were fair ; and they took them wives of all which they chose." 
 
 " And woman waihng for her demon lover." — Coleridge. 
 
 Anah. I should have loved 
 
 Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
 I am glad he is not. I cannot outUve him. 
 And when I think that his immortal wings 
 Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
 Of the poor child of clay which so adored 
 
 him, 
 As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
 Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
 His grief will be of ages, or at least 
 Mine would be such for him, were I the 
 
 seraph. 
 And he the perishable. 
 
 Aho. Rather say. 
 
 That he will single forth some other daugh- 
 ter 
 Of earth, and love her as he once loved 
 Anah. 
 Anah. And if it should be so, and she 
 loved him. 
 Better thus than that he should weep forme. 
 Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love. 
 All seraph as he is, I 'd spurn him from me. 
 But to our invocation ! — 'T is the hour. 
 Anah. Seraph ! 
 
 From thy sphere ! 
 Whatever star contain thy glory ; 
 In the eternal depths of heaven 
 Albeit thou watchest with " the seven," 
 Though through space infinite and hoary 
 Before thy bright wings worlds be driven. 
 Yet hear ! 
 Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 
 
 And though she nothing is to thee. 
 Yet think that thou art all to her. 
 
 Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
 Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
 The bitterness of tears. 
 Eternity is in thine years. 
 Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
 With me thou canst not sympathise. 
 Except in love, and there thou must 
 Acknowledge that more loving dust 
 Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
 Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 
 
 The face of him who made thee great. 
 As he hath made me of the least 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON/E 
 
 Angels. 
 Samiasa. 
 Azaziel. 
 Raphael, the Archangel. 
 
 Men. 
 Noah ahd his Sons. 
 Irad. 
 Japhet. 
 
 Women, 
 Anah. 
 Aholib.^mah. 
 
 Chortts of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of MoHals 
 PARTI 
 
 Scene I. — A woody and mountainous dis- 
 trict near Mount Ararat. — Time, midnight. 
 Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 
 Annh. Our father sleeps : it is the hour 
 V. hen they 
 Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
 Through the deep clouds o'er rocky 
 
 Ararat : — 
 How my heart beats ! 
 
 Aho. L et us proceed upon 
 
 Our invocation. 
 
 Anah. But the stars are hidden. 
 
 I tremble. 
 
 Aho. So do I, but not with fear 
 Of aught save their delay. 
 
 Anah. My sister, though 
 
 I love Azaziel,more than oh, too much ! 
 
 What was I going to say ? my heart grows 
 impious. 
 Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
 Celestial natures ? 
 
 Anah. But, Aholibamah, 
 
 I love our God less since his angel loved me : 
 This cannot be of good ; and though I 
 
 know not 
 That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
 Which are not ominous of right. 
 
 Aho. Then wed thee 
 
 Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
 There 's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved 
 
 thee long : 
 Marry, and bring forth dust ! 
 
510 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
 Yet, Seraph dear ! 
 Oh hear ! 
 For thou hast loved me, and I would not 
 die 
 Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
 That thou forget'st in tliine eternity 
 Her whose heart death could not keep 
 from o'erflowing 
 For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
 Great is their love who love in sin and 
 fear ; 
 And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
 A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
 
 Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts 
 appear, 
 For sorrow is our element f 
 Delight 
 An Eden kept afar from sight. 
 
 Though sometimes with our visions 
 blent. 
 
 The hour is near 
 Which tells me we are not abandon'd 
 quite. — 
 
 Appear ! Appear ! 
 Seraph ! 
 My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
 ' And leave the stars to their own hght. 
 Aho. Samiasa ! 
 
 Wheresoe'er 
 Thou rulest in the upper air — 
 Or warring with the spirits who may 
 dare 
 
 Dispute with him 
 Who made all empires, empire : or re- 
 calling 
 Some wandering star, which shoots through 
 the abyss, 
 Whose tenants dying, while their world is 
 faUing, 
 Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
 Or joining with the inferior cherubim. 
 Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
 Samiasa ! 
 I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 
 Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
 If that thy spirit do^vn to mine may move 
 thee, 
 Descend and share my lot ! 
 Though I be formed of clay 
 
 And thou of beams 
 More bright than those of day 
 
 On Eden's streams, 
 Thine immortality can not repay 
 With love more warm than mine 
 My love. There is a ray 
 
 In me. Which, though forbidden yet to 
 
 shine, 
 
 I feel was hghted at thy God's and thine. 
 
 It may be hidden long ; death and decay 
 
 Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my 
 
 heart 
 
 Defies it : though this life must pass away. 
 
 Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
 
 Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 
 
 I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
 All pains, all tears, all fears, and peal. 
 
 Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
 Into my ears this truth — " Thou liv'st for 
 ever ! " 
 
 But if it be in joy 
 I know not, nor would know ; 
 That secret rests with the Almighty giver. 
 Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and 
 woe. 
 
 But thee and me he never can des- 
 troy ; 
 Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; 
 
 we are 
 Of as eternal essence, and must war 
 With him if he will war with us : with 
 thee 
 1 can share aU things, even immortal 
 sorrow ; 
 For thou hast ventured to share life with 
 
 me, 
 And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 
 No ! though the serpent's sting should 
 pierce me thorough, 
 And thou thyself wert like the serpent, 
 
 coil 
 Around me stiU ! and I will smile. 
 And curse thee not ; but hold 
 Thee in as warm a fold 
 
 As but descend, and prove 
 
 A mortal's love 
 For an immortal. If the skies contain 
 More joy than thou canst give and take, re- 
 main ! 
 Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them vring- 
 ing 
 Their bright way through the parted night. 
 Aho. The clouds from off their pinions 
 flinging, 
 As though they bore to-morrow's Hght. 
 Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 
 A ho. He would but deem it was the moon 
 Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
 An hour too soon. 
 
 Anah. They come! ^i« comes! — Azaziel! 
 Aho. Haste 
 
 To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
 My spirit, while they hover there, 
 To Samiasa's breast ! * 
 
 Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the 
 west, 
 Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 
 On Ararat's late secret crest 
 A mild and many- colour' d bow. 
 The remnant of their flashing path, 
 Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
 Return'd to night, as rippling foam. 
 
 Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
 From his unfathomable home. 
 When sporting on the face of the calm deep,- 
 Subsides soon after he again hath dashed 
 Down, down, to where the ocean's foun- 
 tains sleep. J 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 511 
 
 Aho. They have touch'd earth ! Sami- 
 
 asa ! 
 Anah. My Azaziel ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Scene II 
 Enter Irad and Japhet 
 Irad. Despond not : wherefore wilt 
 thou wander thus 
 To add thy silence to the silent night, 
 And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
 They cannot aid thee, 
 
 Japh. But they soothe me — now 
 
 Perhaps she looks upon them a? I look. 
 Methinks a being that is beautiful 
 Becometh ^lore so as it looks on beauty, 
 The eternal beauty of undying things. 
 Oh, Anah ! 
 
 Irad. But she loves thee not, 
 Japh. ^ Alas ! 
 
 Irad. And proud. Aholibamah spurns me 
 
 also. 
 Japh. I feel for thee too. 
 Irad. Let her keep her pride. 
 
 Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
 It may be, time too will avenge it. 
 
 Jnph. Canst thou 
 
 Find joy in such a thought ? 
 
 Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow, 
 
 I loved her well ; I would have loved her 
 
 better, 
 Had love b'eeii met with love : as 'tis, I 
 
 leave her 
 To brighter destinies, if so she deems them, 
 Japh. What destinifes ? 
 Irad. I have some cause to think 
 
 She loves another. 
 
 JapH. Anah ! 
 
 Irad. No ; her sister. 
 
 Japh. What other ? 
 Irad. That I know not ; but her air. 
 If not her words, tells me she loves another. 
 Japh. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves 
 
 her God. 
 Irad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves 
 thee not, 
 What can it profit thee ? 
 
 Japh. True, nothing ; but 
 
 I love. 
 
 Irad. And so did I . 
 
 Japh. And now thou lov'st not,- 
 
 Or think'st thou lov'st iiot, art thou hap- 
 pier ? 
 Irad. Yes, 
 Japh. I pity thee. 
 Irad. Me ! why ? 
 
 Japh. For being happy. 
 
 Deprived of that which makes my misery 
 Irad. I taAe thy taunt as part of thy dis- 
 temper. 
 And would not feel as thou dost for more 
 
 shekels 
 Than all our father's herds would bring, if 
 weigh' d 
 
 Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
 The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
 As if such useless and discolour'd trash. 
 The refuse of the earth, could be received 
 For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, 
 
 and all 
 Our flocks and wilderness afford, — Go, 
 
 Japhet, 
 Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the 
 
 moon — 
 I must back to my rest. 
 
 Japh. And so would 1 
 
 If I could rest. 
 Irad. , Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 
 Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, 
 whose 
 Mouth they say opens from the internal 
 
 , world 
 To let the inner spirits of the earth 
 Forth when they walk its surface, 
 
 Irad. Wherefore so ? 
 
 What wouldst thou there ? 
 
 Japh. Soothe further my sad spirit 
 
 With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot. 
 And I am hopeless. 
 
 Irad. But 't is dangerous ; 
 
 Strange sounds and sights have peopled it 
 
 with terrors. 
 I must go with thee. 
 
 Japh. Irad, np ; believe me 
 
 I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 
 
 Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the 
 
 more 
 
 As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
 
 Or let mine be with thine. 
 
 Japh. No, neither, Irad ; 
 
 I must proceed alone. 
 
 Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 
 
 [Exit Irad. 
 Japh. (solus). Peace ! I have sought it 
 where it should be found. 
 In love — with love, too, which perhaps de- 
 served it ; 
 And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart, 
 A weakness of the spirit, listless days. 
 And nights inexorable to sweet sleep. 
 Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? 
 
 the calm 
 Of desolation, and the stillness of 
 The untrodden forest, only broken by 
 The sweeping tempest through its groaning 
 
 boughs ; 
 Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
 Of my mind overworn. The earth 's grown 
 
 wicked, 
 And many signs and portents have pro- 
 claim'd [doom 
 
 A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming 
 To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 
 When the dread hour denounced shall open 
 
 wide 
 The fountains of the deep, how miglitest 
 
 thou 
 I Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
 
DRAMAS 
 
 The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 
 Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more 
 vainly, 
 
 While thine Oh, God ! at least remit to 
 
 her 
 Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the fail- 
 ing 
 As a star in the clouds, which cannot 
 
 quench, 
 Although they obscure it for an hour. Mv 
 
 Anah ! 
 How would I have adored thee, but thou 
 
 wouldst not ; 
 Aid still would i redeem thee — see thee live 
 v/hen ocean is earth's grave, and, unop- 
 posed 
 By rock or shallow, the leviathan. 
 Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world. 
 Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 
 [Exit Japhet. 
 Enter Noah and Shem. 
 Noah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 
 Shem. He went forth, 
 
 According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
 He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
 Towards Anah's tents, round which he 
 
 hovers nightly, 
 Like a dove round and round its pillaged 
 
 nest ; 
 Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
 Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 
 
 Noah. What doth he there ? It is an 
 evil spot 
 Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
 Than even wicked men resort there : he 
 Still loves this daughter of a fated race. 
 Although he could not wed her if she Icn'ed 
 
 him, 
 And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy 
 
 hearts 
 Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
 The destiny and e\il of these days, 
 And that the hour approacheth, should in- 
 dulge 
 In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the 
 
 way ; 
 He must be sought for ! 
 
 Shem. Go not forward, father : 
 
 I will seek Japhet. 
 
 Noah. Do not fear for me : 
 
 All evil things are powerless on the man 
 Selected by Jehovah. — Let us on. 
 
 Shan. To the tents of the father of the 
 
 sisters ? 
 Noah. No; to the cavern of the Cau- 
 casus. 
 
 [Exeunt Noah and Shem. 
 
 SCEN'E III 
 
 The mountains. — A cavcryi. and the rochs of 
 Caucasus. 
 
 Japh. (solus). Ve wilds, that look eter- 
 nal ; and thou cave. 
 
 Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye 
 
 mountains, 
 So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
 Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
 And toppling trees that twine their roots 
 
 with stone 
 In perpendicular places, where the foot 
 Of man would tremble, could he reach them 
 
 — yes. 
 Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days. 
 Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, 
 
 rent, hurl'd 
 Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave, 
 Which seems to lead into a lower world. 
 Shall have its depths search'd by the sweep- 
 ing wave. 
 And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 
 And man' Oh, men ! mv fellow-beings ! 
 
 Who 
 Shall weep above your imiversal grave, 
 Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? Mj' 
 
 kinsmen, 
 Alas ! what am I better than ye are. 
 That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall 
 
 be 
 The pleasant places where I thought of 
 
 Anah 
 \\'hile I had hope ? or the more savage 
 
 haunts. 
 Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for 
 
 her? 
 .\ud can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak. 
 Whose ghttering top is hke a distant star. 
 Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 
 No more to have the morning sun break 
 
 forth. 
 And scatter back the mists in floating folds 
 From its tremendous brow ? no more to 
 
 have 
 Day's broad orb drop behind its head at 
 
 even, 
 Lea\-ing it with a crown of many hues ? 
 N"© more to be the beacon of the world. 
 For angels to ahght on, as the spot 
 Nearest the stars ? And can those words, 
 
 '* no nwre " 
 Be meant for thee, for all things, save for 
 
 us. 
 And the predestined creeping things re- 
 served 
 By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? Mav 
 He preserve them, and 7 not have the power 
 To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters 
 
 from 
 A doom which even some serpent, with his 
 
 mate. 
 Shall 'scape to save his kind to be pro- 
 
 long'd. 
 To hiss and sting through some emerging 
 
 world. 
 Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose 
 
 ooze 
 Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this, until 
 The salt morass subside into a sphere 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 513 
 
 Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 
 The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 
 Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How 
 
 much 
 Breath will be ?tiU'd at once ! All beaute- 
 ous world ! 
 So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 
 With a cleft heart look on thee day by day. 
 And night by night, thy number'd days 
 
 and nights. 
 I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
 Whose love had made me love thee more ; 
 
 but as 
 A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
 Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
 Such as — Oh God ! and canst thou — 
 
 [He pauses. 
 
 A rushing sound from the cavern is 
 
 heard, and shouts of laughter — 
 
 afterwards a Spirit passes. 
 
 Japh. In the name 
 
 Of the Most High, what art thou ? 
 
 Spirit (laughs). Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Japh. By all that earth holds hohest, 
 
 speak ! 
 Spirit (laughs) . Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by 
 the earth 
 Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
 The deep which wiU lay open all her foun- 
 tains ! 
 The heaven which will convert her clouds 
 
 to seas, 
 And the Omnipotent who makes and 
 
 crushes ! 
 Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
 Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
 Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 
 Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 
 
 Japh. For earth and all her children. 
 Spirit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Spirit vanishes. 
 Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures 
 of a world. 
 The coming desolation of an orb. 
 On which the sun shall rise and warm no 
 
 life! 
 How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
 Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
 Why should they wake to meet it ? What 
 
 are here, 
 Which look like death in life, and speak 
 
 like things 
 Born ere this dying world ? They come 
 like clouds ! 
 [Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 
 Spirit. Rejoice ! 
 
 The abhorred race 
 Which could not keep in Eden their high 
 place. 
 
 But listen'd to the voice 
 Of knowledge without power, 
 Are nigh the hour 
 Of death ! 
 
 Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor 
 sorrow, 
 Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's 
 sapping motion, 
 ShaU they drop off. Behold their last to- 
 morrow ! 
 
 Earth shall be ocean ! 
 And no breath. 
 Save of the winds, be on the unbounded 
 wave ! 
 Angels shall tire their wings, but find 
 no spot : 
 Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 
 
 Shall lift its point to save. 
 Or show the place where strong Despair 
 
 hath died. 
 After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
 
 For the expected ebb which cometh 
 not : 
 
 All shall be void. 
 
 Destroyed ! 
 
 Another element shall be the lord 
 
 Of life, and the abhorr'd 
 Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each 
 
 hue 
 Of earth nought left but the unbroken 
 
 blue; 
 And of the variegated mountain 
 Shall nought remain 
 Unchanged, or of the level plain ; 
 Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in 
 vain : 
 All merged within the universal fountain, 
 Man, earth, and fire, shall die. 
 And sea and sky 
 Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
 Upon the foam 
 Who shall erect a home ? 
 Japh. (coming forward). My sire ! 
 Earth's seed shall not expire ; 
 Onlv the evil shall be put away 
 From day. 
 A\'aunt ! ye exulting demons of the 
 waste ! 
 Who howl your hideous joy 
 When God destroys whom you dare not 
 destroy ; 
 
 Hence ! haste ! 
 Back to your inner caves ! 
 Until the waves 
 Shall search you in your secret place. 
 And drive your sullen race 
 Forth, to be roU'd upon the tossing winds. 
 In restless wretchedness along all 
 space ! 
 Spirit. Son of the saved ! 
 
 When thou and thine have brave d 
 The wide and warring element ; 
 When the great barrier of the deep is 
 rent. 
 Shall thou and thine be good or happv ? — 
 
 No! 
 Thy new world and new race shall be of 
 woe — 
 
514 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
 Less than the glorious giants, who 
 Yet walk the world in pride, 
 The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal 
 bride. 
 Thine shall be nothing of the past, save 
 tears. 
 
 And art thou not ashamed 
 
 Thus to survive, 
 And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
 With a base heart so far subdued and 
 
 tamed, 
 
 As even to hear this wide destruction 
 
 named, [rather 
 
 AVithout such grief and courage, as should 
 
 Bid thee await the world- dissolving wave, 
 
 Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd 
 
 father, 
 
 And build thy city o'er the dro^vn'd 
 earth's grave ? 
 
 Who would outlive their kind, 
 Except the base and blind ? 
 Mine 
 Hateth thine 
 As of a different order in the sphere. 
 
 But not our own. 
 There is not one who hath not left a throne 
 Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness 
 here. 
 Rather than see his mates endure alone. 
 
 Go, wretch ! and give 
 
 A life like thine to other wretches — live ! 
 
 And when the annihilating waters roar 
 
 Above what they have done. 
 
 Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
 
 And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
 
 Thyself for being his son ! 
 
 Cliui us of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 
 Rejoice ! 
 No more the human voice 
 Shall vex our joys in middle air 
 With prayer ; 
 No more 
 
 Shall they adore ; 
 And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 
 
 The prayer-exacting Lord, 
 To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
 
 Is vice ; 
 We, we shall view the deep's salt sources 
 
 pour'd 
 Until one element shall do the work 
 Of all in chaos ; until they. 
 The creatures proud of their poor clay. 
 Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall 
 lurk 
 In caves, in dens, in clefts of moun- 
 tains, where 
 The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 
 Where even the brutes, in their des- 
 pair. 
 Shall cease to prey on man and on each 
 other. 
 And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
 
 Beside the lamb, as though he were his 
 brother ; 
 Till all things shall be as they were. 
 Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
 While a brief truce 
 Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
 The little remnant of the past creation, 
 To generate new nations for his use ; 
 This remnant, floating o'er the undula- 
 tion 
 Of the subsiding deluge, from its sUme, 
 When the hot sun hath baked the reeking^ 
 soil, 
 Into a world, shall give again to Time 
 New beings — years, diseases, sorrow, 
 crime — 
 With all companionship of hate and toil. 
 
 Until— 
 Japh. (interrupting them). The eternal will 
 Shall deign to expound this dream 
 Of good and evil ; and redeem 
 
 Unto himself all times, all things; 
 And, gather'd under his almighty 
 wings. 
 Abolish hell ! 
 And to the expiated Earth 
 Restore the beauty of her birth. 
 
 Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
 Where man no more can fall as once he 
 
 fell, 
 And even the very demons shall do 
 well ! 
 Spirits. And when shall take effect this 
 
 wondrous spell ? 
 Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first 
 in pain. 
 
 And then in glorv. 
 Spirit. Meantime still struggle in the mor- 
 tal chain. 
 
 Till earth wax hoarj' ; 
 ^Var with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, 
 in vain. 
 
 Until the clouds look gori' 
 With the blood reeking from each battle 
 
 plain ; 
 New times, new climes, new arts, new 
 
 men ; but still. 
 The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest 
 
 ill, 
 Shall be amongst your race in different 
 forms ; 
 
 But the same moral storms 
 Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
 In a few hours the glorious giants' 
 graves. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits. 
 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 Mortal, farewell ! 
 Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
 Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
 The winds, too, plume their piercing 
 
 wmgs ; 
 The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs; 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 515 
 
 The fountains of the great deep shall be 
 broken, 
 And heaven set wide her windows ; 
 while mankind 
 View, unacknowledged, each tremendous 
 token — 
 Still, as they were from the beginning, 
 blind. 
 We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
 The mustering thunders of the threat- 
 ening sphere ; 
 Yet a few hours their coming is 
 delay'd ; 
 Their flashing banners, folded still on high. 
 
 Yet undisplay'd. 
 Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 
 
 Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
 Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth ; 
 Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink 
 below 
 
 The ocean's overflow ! 
 The wave shall break"* upon your cliffs ; 
 and shells. 
 The little shells, of ocean's least things 
 be 
 Deposed where now the eagle's offspring 
 dwells — 
 How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless 
 sea ! 
 And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
 Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching 
 
 swell ; — 
 While man shall long in vain for his broad 
 wings. 
 The wings which could not save : — 
 Where could he rest them, while the whole 
 space brings 
 Nought to his eye beyond the deep, 
 his grave ? 
 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
 
 All die. 
 Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 
 
 The seed of Seth, 
 Exempt for future sorrow's sake from 
 death. 
 
 But of the Sons of Cain 
 None shall remain ; 
 And all his goodly daughters 
 Must lie beneath the desolating waters ; 
 Or, floating upward, with their long hair 
 
 laid 
 Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid, 
 Which would not spare 
 Beings even in death so fair. 
 It is decreed. 
 All die ! 
 And to the universal human cry 
 The universal silence shall succeed ! 
 Fly, brethren, fly ! 
 But still rejoice ! 
 We fell ! 
 They fall ! 
 So perish all 
 
 These petty foes of Heaven who shrink 
 
 from hell ! 
 
 [The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards, 
 Japh. (solus). God hath proclaim'd the 
 
 destiny of earth ; 
 My father's ark of safety hath announced 
 
 it ; 
 The very demons shriek it from'their caves ; 
 The scroll of Enoch prophesied it long 
 In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
 More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
 And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
 Walk darkling to their doom ; which, 
 
 though so nigh. 
 Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
 Than their last cries shall shake the Al- 
 mighty purpose. 
 Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
 No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
 The clouds are few, and of their wonted tex- 
 ture ; 
 The sun will rise upon the earth's last 
 
 day. 
 As on the fourth day of creation, when 
 God said unto him, " Shine 1 " and he broke 
 
 forth 
 Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
 Unform'd forefather of mankind — but 
 
 roused 
 Before the -human orison the earlier 
 Made and far sweeter voices of the birds. 
 Which in the open firmament of heaven 
 Have wings like angels, and like them 
 
 salute 
 Heaven first each day before the Adamites : 
 Their matins now draw nigh — the east is 
 
 kindling — 
 And they will sing ! and day will break ! 
 
 Both near. 
 So near the awful close ! For these must 
 
 drop 
 Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and 
 
 day. 
 After the bright course of a few brief mor- 
 rows, — , 
 Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? — a 
 
 chaos, 
 Which was ere day ; and which, renew'd, 
 
 makes time 
 Nothing 1 for, without life, what are the 
 
 hours ? • 
 No more to dust than is eternity 
 Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
 Without him, even eternity would be 
 A void : without man, time, as made for 
 
 man. 
 Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that 
 
 deep 
 Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
 Devour'd by that which drowns his infant 
 
 world. — 
 What have we here ? Shapes of both earth 
 
 and air ? 
 No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
 
5i6 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 I cannot trace their features ; but their 
 
 forms, 
 How lovelily they move along the side 
 Of the grey mountain, scattering its mist ! 
 And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
 Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
 Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall 
 
 be 
 Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
 To tell me the reprieve of our young world. 
 For which I have so often pray'd — They 
 
 come ! 
 Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 
 
 Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah, and 
 Aholibamah. 
 
 Anah. Japhet ! 
 
 Satii. Lo ! 
 
 A son of Adam ! 
 
 Aza. What doth the earth-born here, 
 While all his race are slumbering ? 
 
 Japh. Angel ! what 
 
 Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be 
 on high ? 
 Aza. Know'st thou not, or forget'st 
 thou, that a part 
 Of our great function is to guard thine 
 earth ? 
 Japh. But all good angels have forsaken 
 earth. 
 Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil 
 
 fly 
 The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! 
 
 my 
 In vain, and long; and still to be, beloved ! 
 Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those 
 
 hours 
 When no good spirit longer lights below ? 
 Anah. JapheL, I cannot answer thee ; 
 yet, yet 
 
 Forgive me 
 
 Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no 
 more 
 Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly 
 tempted. 
 Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of 
 Noah ! 
 We know thee not. 
 
 Japh. The hour may come when thou 
 May'st know me better ; and thy sister 
 
 know 
 
 Me still the same which I have ever been. 
 
 Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath 
 
 ever been 
 
 Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts. 
 
 And thy wurds seem of sorrow, mix'd 
 
 with wrulh, 
 How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on 
 
 thee 
 Wrong ? 
 
 Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; 
 but thou 
 Say'st well ; though she be dus*. I did not, 
 could not. 
 
 I Deserve her. Farewell, Anah'! I have 
 
 said 
 That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
 To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
 Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the 
 
 power 
 To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
 Children of Cain ? 
 
 Aza. From what ? 
 
 Japh. And is it so. 
 
 That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! 
 
 ye 
 Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, 
 
 now must 
 Partake his pimishment ; or, at the least. 
 My sorrow. 
 
 Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 
 To hear an .A.damite speak riddles to me. 
 Japh. And hath not the Most High 
 expounded them ? 
 Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 
 
 Aho. So be it ! 
 
 If they love as they are loved, they will 
 
 not shrink 
 More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
 An immortality of agonies 
 With Samiasa ! 
 i Anah. Sister ! sister ! speak not 
 Thus. 
 
 Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 
 Anah. Yes, for thee : 
 
 I would resign the greater remnant of 
 This little life of mine, before one horn: 
 I Of thine eternity should know a pang. 
 j Japh. It is for him, then ! for the seraph 
 j thou 
 
 j Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou 
 I hast not 
 
 j Left thy God too ! for unions like to these. 
 Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
 I Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
 
 Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
 I Are made to minister on high unto 
 The Highest : but if he can save thee, soon 
 The hour will come in which celestial aid 
 Alone can do so. 
 
 Anah. Ah ! he sneaks of death. 
 
 Sam. Of death to us ! and those who are 
 with us ! 
 But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
 Could smile. • 
 
 Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 
 I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
 Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
 Righteous enough to save his children 
 
 Would 
 His power was greater of redemption ! or 
 That by exchanging my own life for hers. 
 Who could alone have made mine happy, 
 
 she. 
 The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could 
 
 share 
 The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
 The seed of Seth ! 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 517 
 
 Aho. And dost thou think that we, 
 
 With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, 
 
 blood 
 Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! who was 
 
 begotten 
 In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's 
 
 children ? 
 Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's 
 
 dotage ? 
 No, not to save all earth, were earth in 
 
 peril ! 
 Our race hath always dwelt apart from 
 
 thine 
 From the beginning, and shall do so 
 
 ever, 
 Japh,. I did not speak to thee, Aholi- 
 
 bamah ! 
 Too much of the forefather whom thou 
 
 vauntest 
 Has come down in that haughty blood 
 
 which springs 
 From him who shed the first, and that a 
 
 brother's ! 
 But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee 
 
 mine. 
 Albeit thou art not ; 't is a word I cannot 
 Part with, although I must from thee. 
 
 My Anah ! 
 Thou who dost rather make me dream 
 
 that Abel 
 Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
 Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
 The rest ol: the stern Cainites, save in 
 
 beautv. 
 For all of them are fairest in their favour — 
 Aho. (interrupting him). And wouldst 
 
 thou have her like our father's foe 
 In mind, in soul ? If / partook thy 
 
 thought. 
 And dream'd that ought of Abd was in 
 
 her ! — 
 Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest 
 
 strife. 
 
 Japh. Off springof Cain,thy father did so! 
 
 A}w. But 
 
 He slew not Seth : and what hast thou to do 
 
 With other deeds between his God and him? 
 
 Japh. Thou speakest well : his God 
 
 hath judged him, and 
 I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
 Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
 From what he had done. 
 
 Aho. He was our father's father ; 
 
 The eldest born of man, the strongest, 
 
 bravest. 
 And most enduring : — Shall I blush for him 
 From whom we had our being ? Look upon 
 Our race ; behold their stature and their 
 
 beautv, 
 Their courage, strength, and length of 
 
 days 
 
 Japh. They are number'd. 
 
 Aho. Be it so ! but while yet their hours 
 
 endure. 
 
 I glory in rny brethren and our fathers. 
 Japh. My sire and race but glory in their 
 
 God, 
 Anah ! and thou ? — 
 
 Anah. Whate'er our God decrees. 
 
 The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey. 
 And mil endeavour patiently to obey. 
 But could I dare to pray in his dread hour 
 Of universal vengeance (if such should be). 
 It would not be to live, alone exempt 
 Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my 
 
 sister ! 
 What were the world, or other worlds, or 
 
 all 
 The brightest future, without the sweet 
 
 past — 
 Thy love, my father's, all the life, and all 
 The things which sprang up with me, like 
 
 the stars. 
 Making my dim existence radiant with 
 Soft lights which were not mine ? Aholi- 
 
 bamah ! 
 Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, 
 
 find it : 
 I abhor death, because that thou must die. 
 Aho. What, hath this dreamer, with 
 
 his father's ark. 
 The bugbear he hath built to scare the 
 
 world. 
 Shaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 
 Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
 Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 
 Rather than thus But the enthusiast 
 
 dreams 
 The 'vorst of dreams, the fantasies engen- 
 
 der'd 
 By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
 Slial! shake these solid mountains, this 
 
 firm earth. 
 And bid those clouds and waters take 1" 
 
 shape 
 Distinct from that which we and all our 
 
 sires 
 Have s ;en them wear on their eternal way ? 
 Who s'lall do this ? 
 
 Japh. He whose one word produced 
 
 them. 
 Aho. Who heard that word ? 
 Japh. The universe, which leap'd 
 
 To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still 
 
 in scorn ? 
 Turn to thy seraphs : if they attest it not, 
 They are none. 
 
 Sam. Aholibamah. own thy God ! 
 
 a)w. I have ever hail'd our Maker, 
 
 Samiasa, 
 As thine, and mine : a God of love, nut 
 
 sorrow. 
 Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? 
 
 Even 
 He who made earth in love had soon to 
 
 grieve 
 .\bove its first and best inhabitants. 
 .ikn. 'Tis said so. 
 
518 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Japh. 
 
 It is even so. 
 Enter Noah and Shem. 
 
 Noah. Japhet! What 
 
 Dost thou here with these children of the 
 
 wicked ? 
 Dread'st thou not to partake their coming 
 doom ? 
 Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
 To save an eartti-born being ; and behold, 
 These are not of the sinful, since they have 
 The fellowship of angels. 
 
 Noah. These are they, then. 
 
 Who leave the throne of God, to take them 
 
 wives 
 From out the race of Cain ; the sons of 
 
 heaven, 
 Who seek earth's daughters for their 
 beauty ? 
 Aza. Patriarch ! 
 
 Thou hast said it. 
 
 Noah. Woe, woe, woe to such 
 
 communion ! 
 Has not God made a barrier between earth 
 And heaven, and limited each, kind to 
 kind? 
 Sajn. Was not man made in high Jeho- 
 vah's image ? 
 Did God not love what he had made ? 
 
 And what 
 Do we but imitate and emulate 
 His love unto created love ? 
 
 Noah. I am 
 
 But man, and was not made to judge 
 
 mankind. 
 Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
 Has deign'd to commune with me, and 
 
 reveal 
 His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
 Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
 Unto a perishable and perishing, 
 Even on the very eve of perishing, world, 
 Cannot be good. 
 
 Aza. What ! though it were tosave ? 
 
 Noah. Not ye in all your glory can re- 
 deem 
 What he who made you glorious hath con- 
 
 demn'd. 
 Were your immortal mission safety, 
 
 't would 
 Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
 And beautiful they are, but not the less 
 Condemn'd. 
 
 faph. Oh, father ! say it not. 
 
 Noah. Son ! son ! 
 
 If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, 
 
 forget 
 That they exist : they soon shall cease to 
 
 be. 
 While thou shall be the sire of a new world. 
 And better. 
 
 Japh. Let me die with this, and them ! 
 Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, 
 but shalt not ; he 
 
 Who can, redeems thee. 
 
 Sam. And why him and thee. 
 
 More than what he, thy son, prefers to 
 both ? 
 Noah. Ask him who made thee greater 
 than myself 
 And mine, but not less subject to his own 
 Ahnightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
 Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 
 
 Enter Raphael the Archangel. 
 
 Raph. Spirits ! 
 
 Whose seat is near the throne, 
 What do ye here ? 
 Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
 Now that the hour is near 
 When earth must be alone ? 
 Return ! 
 Adore and burn, 
 In glorious homage with the elected 
 *' seven." 
 
 Your place is heaven. 
 Sam. Raphael ! 
 
 The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
 
 How long hath this been law. 
 That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 
 
 Earth ! which oft saw- 
 Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
 The world he loved, and made 
 For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
 His frequent mission with delighted 
 pinions : 
 Adoring him in his least works dis- 
 play'd ; 
 Watching this yoimgest star of his domin- 
 ions ; 
 And, as the latest birth of his great 
 
 word. 
 Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
 Why is thy brow severe ? 
 And wherefore speak' st thou of destruction 
 near ? 
 Raph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
 In their true place, with the angelic choir. 
 Written in fire 
 They would have seen 
 Jehovah's late decree. 
 And not enquired their Maker's breath of 
 me : 
 
 But ignorance must ever be 
 A part of sin ; 
 And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow 
 less 
 
 As they wax proud within ; 
 
 For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 
 
 When all good angels left the world, ye 
 
 stay'd. 
 
 Stung with strange passions, and debased 
 
 By mortal feelings for a mortal maid : 
 But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
 With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! 
 away ! 
 
 Or stay. 
 And lose eternity by that delay! 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 519 
 
 Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbid- 
 den 
 
 In the decree 
 To us until this moment hidden, 
 Dost thou not err as we 
 In being here ? 
 Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit 
 
 sphere, 
 In the great name and at the word of 
 God. 
 Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce 
 less dear 
 That which I came to do : till now we 
 trod 
 Together the eternal space ; togfther 
 Let us still walk the stars. True, earth 
 must die ! 
 Her race, return'd into her womb, must 
 wither, 
 And much which she inherits : but oh ! 
 
 why 
 Cannot this earth be made, or be des- 
 
 troy'd, 
 Without involving ever some vast void 
 In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 
 
 In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
 Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
 Rather than longer worship dared en- 
 dure ! 
 But ye who still are pure ! 
 Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest 
 one, 
 Think how he was undone ! 
 And think if tempting man can compen- 
 sate 
 For heaven desired too late ? 
 
 * Long have I warr'd, 
 Long must I war 
 With him who deem'd it hard 
 To be created, and to acknowledge him 
 Who midst the cherubim 
 
 Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
 
 Leaving the archangels at his right hand 
 
 dim. 
 
 I loved him — ^beautiful he was : oh, 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 Save his who made, what beauty and what 
 
 power 
 Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
 In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
 The wish is impious ; but, oh ye ! 
 Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 
 With him, or with his God, is in your 
 choice : 
 He hath not tempted you ; he cannot 
 
 tempt 
 The angels, from his further snares exempt: 
 
 But man hath Hsten.'d to his voice, 
 And ye to woman's — beautiful she is. 
 The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
 The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she 
 
 will draw 
 A second host from heaven, to break 
 heaven's law. 
 
 Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
 Ye cannot die ; 
 But they 
 Shall pass away, 
 While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 
 For perishable clay, ' 
 
 Whose memory in your immortality 
 
 Shall long outlast the sun which gave 
 them day. 
 Think how your essence dil'fereth from 
 
 theirs 
 In all but suffering ! why partake 
 The agony to which they must be heirs — ■ 
 Born to be plough'd with years, and sov/n 
 with cares, 
 Andreap'dby Death, lord of the huruan 
 soil ? 
 Even had their days been left to toil their 
 
 path 
 Through time to dust, unshorten'd by 
 God's wrath. 
 Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's 
 
 spoil. 
 Alio. Let them ily ! 
 I hear the voice which says that all must 
 
 die, 
 Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs 
 died ; 
 
 And that on high 
 An ocean is prepared. 
 While from below 
 The deep shall rise to meet heaven's over- 
 flow. 
 
 Few shall be spared. 
 It seems ; and, of that few, the race of 
 
 Cain 
 Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
 Sister ! since it is so. 
 And the eternal Lord 
 In vain would be implored 
 For the remission of one hour of woe. 
 Let us resign even what we have adored. 
 And meet the wave, as we would meet the 
 sword. 
 If not unmoved, yet undismay'd, 
 And wailing less for us than those who 
 
 shall 
 Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 
 
 And,.',when the fatal waters are allay'd. 
 Weep for the myriads who can weep no 
 
 more. 
 Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
 Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
 Our portion is to die. 
 And yours to live for ever : 
 But which is best, a dead eternity. 
 Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
 Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
 I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
 An hour beyond his mil ; 
 Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
 For all the mercy which Seth's race 
 Find still. , 
 Fly ! 
 
520 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 And as your pinions bear ye bade to 
 heaven, 
 Thinli that my love still mounts with thee 
 on high, 
 
 Samiasa ! 
 And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
 'T is that an angel's bride disdains to 
 
 weep, — 
 Farewell ! Xo\v rise, inexorable deep ! 
 Anah. And must we die ? 
 
 And must I lose thee too, 
 Azaziel ? 
 Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 
 
 Thy prophecies were true ! 
 And yet thou wert so happ}^ too ! 
 The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as 
 new : 
 
 But yet depart ! 
 Ah ! why ? 
 Yet let me not retain thee — fly 
 My pangs can be but brief ; but thine 
 
 would be 
 Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
 Too much already hast thou deign'd 
 To one of Adam's race ! 
 Our doom is sorrow : not to us alone, 
 
 But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
 To love us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 
 The first who taught us knowledge hath 
 been hurl'd 
 From his once archangelic throne 
 Into some unknowTi world ; 
 And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
 Thou Shalt not suffer woe 
 For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
 Thou canst not weep ; but vet 
 May'st suffer more, not weeping : then 
 forget 
 Her, whom the surges of the all-strang- 
 ling deep 
 Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
 Being gone, 't will be less difficult to die. 
 Japh. Oh say not so ! 
 
 Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
 Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
 That pure severe serenity of brow : 
 
 Let them not meet this sea without a 
 
 shore. 
 Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
 Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
 If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 
 Do God no ^v^ong ! I 
 
 Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
 A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 
 Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
 To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish 
 plaint. 
 Wouldst thou have (.~iod commit a sin for 
 thee ? 
 
 Such \vould it be 
 To alter his intent 
 For a mere mortal ^urmw. Be a man ' 
 And bear what Adam's race must bear, and 
 can. 
 
 Japli. Ay, father ! but when they are 
 gone, 
 And we are all alone. 
 Floating upon the azure desert, and 
 The depth beneath us hides our o^Ti dear 
 land. 
 And dearer, silent friends and brethren, 
 
 all 
 Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
 Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then 
 command ? 
 Can we in desolation's peace have rest ? 
 Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
 Yet while 't is time ! 
 Renew not Adam's fall : 
 
 Mankind were then but twain. 
 But they are numerous now as are the 
 waves 
 And the tremendous rain, 
 Whose drops shall be less thick than v.'ould 
 their graves, [Cain. 
 
 Were graves permitted to the seed of 
 Noah. Silence, vain boy ! each word of 
 thine 's a crime. 
 Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 
 Raph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in 
 passion : Ye ! 
 Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
 .May now return with me. 
 
 Sam. It may not be: 
 
 We have chosen, and will endure. 
 Raph. Say'st thou ? 
 .-Im. He hath said it, and I sav, Amen ! 
 Raph. Again ! 
 Tiien from this hour. 
 Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
 And aliens from your God, 
 Farewell ! 
 Japh. Alas ! where shall thev dwell ? 
 Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper 
 still. 
 Are howling from the mountain's bosom ■ 
 There 'snot a breath of wind upon the hill, 
 Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each 
 blossom : 
 Earth groans as if beneath a heavv load 
 Noah. Hark, hark ! the sea-birds cry ' 
 In clouds the>- o\erspread the lurid sk^' 
 And hover round the mountain, where 
 before 
 Ne\-er a white i\ing, wetted by the wave, 
 
 Yet dared to soar, 
 E\en when the waters wax'd too fierce 
 to brave. 
 Soon it shall be their onlv shore, 
 And then, no more ! 
 Japh. The sun ! the sur ' 
 He riseth, but his better light is gone • 
 And a black circle, bound ' 
 
 His glaring disk around. 
 Proclaims earth's last of summer davs hath 
 shone ! 
 The clouds return into the hues of 
 night. 
 
HEAVEN AXD EARTH 
 
 Save where their brazea-colour'd edges 
 
 streak 
 The verge where brighter morns were wont 
 to break. 
 Noah. And lo ! yon flash of light, 
 The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 
 
 It Cometh ! lience, away ! 
 Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
 Hence to where our all-hallowed ark up- 
 rears 
 
 Its safe and wreckless sides ! 
 Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
 Leave not my Anah to the swallowing 
 tides ! 
 Noah . Must we not leave all life to such ? 
 
 Begone ! 
 Japh. Not I. 
 
 Noah. Then die 
 
 With them ! 
 How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
 And seek to save what all things now con- 
 demn, 
 
 In overwhelming unison 
 
 With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
 Japh. Can rage and justice join in the 
 
 same path ? 
 Noah. Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur 
 
 even now ! 
 
 Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! 
 
 smooth thy brow : 
 
 Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink : 
 
 He knows not what he says, yet shall not 
 
 drink [waters ; 
 
 With sobs the salt foam of the swelling 
 
 But be, when passion passeth, good as thou. 
 
 Nor perish like heaven's children with 
 
 man's daughters. 
 Aha. The tempest cometh ; heaven and 
 earth unite 
 For the annihilation of all life. 
 Unequal is the strife 
 Between our strength and the Eternal 
 Might ! 
 Sam. But ours is with thee ; we will 
 
 bear ye far 
 To some untroubled star. 
 Where thou and Anah shalt partake our 
 lot: 
 And if thou dost not weep for thy lost 
 earth. 
 Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
 Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my 
 place of birth, 
 And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye 
 
 are not, 
 Who shall dry up my tears ? 
 
 Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 
 
 Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven, 
 Yet much is ours, whence we can not be 
 driven. 
 Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as 
 thy deeds 
 Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming 
 sword, 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 521 
 
 Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
 Still flashes in the angelic hands. 
 
 Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten dust 
 with death, 
 And talk of weapons unto that which 
 
 bleeds. 
 What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
 Raph. The moment cometh to approve 
 thy strength ; 
 And learn at length 
 How \a.m. to war with what thy God com- 
 mands ; 
 Thy former force was in thy faith. 
 
 Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! 
 
 oh God ! 
 What have we done ? Yet spare ! 
 Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth 
 
 their prayer ! 
 The dragon crawls from out his den. 
 To herd, in terror, innocent with men : 
 And the birds scream their agony through 
 
 air. 
 Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
 Of wrath, and pity thine own world's 
 
 despair ! 
 Hear not man only but all nature plead \ 
 Raph. Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched 
 
 sons of clay, 
 I cannot, must not, aid you. 'T is decreed ! 
 [Exit Raphael. 
 Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures 
 
 for their prey. 
 While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
 At which their wrathful vials shall be 
 
 pour'd. 
 No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
 Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death 
 
 hath risen : 
 In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
 Hath wound itself around the dying air. 
 Aza. Come, Anah ! quit this chaos- 
 founded prison, 
 To v/hich the elements again repair. 
 To turn it into what it was : beneath 
 The shelter of these wings thou shalt be 
 
 safe, 
 As was the eagle's nestling once within 
 Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
 With all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
 A brighter world than this, where thou 
 
 shalt breathe 
 Ethereal life, will we explore : 
 These darken'd clouds are not the only 
 
 skies. 
 
 [AZAZIEL and Samiasa fly off, and dis- 
 appear with Anah and Aholibamak. 
 Japh. They are gone ! They have dis- 
 
 appear'd amidst the roar 
 Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
 Whether they live, or die with all earth'j 
 
 life, 
 
 M M 
 
522 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Now near its last, can aught restore 
 Anah unto these eyes. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 bh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
 What ! wilt thou leave us all — all — all 
 
 behind ? 
 \A'hile safe amidst the elemental strife, 
 Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
 A Mother {offering her infant to Japhet). 
 
 Oh let this child embark ! 
 I brought him forth in woe, 
 
 . But thought it joy 
 To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
 Why was he born 
 What hath he done — 
 My unwean'd son — 
 To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
 What is there in this milk of mine, that 
 death 
 Should stir all heaven and earth up to 
 destroy 
 
 My boy. 
 And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
 Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
 Or cursed be — with him who made 
 Thee and thy race, for which we are be- 
 tray'd ! 
 Japh. Peace ! 't is no hour for curses, but 
 for prayer ! 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 For prayer ! ! ! 
 And where 
 Shall prayer ascend. 
 When the swoln clouds unto the mountains 
 bend 
 
 And burst. 
 And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
 Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
 Accursed 
 Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
 We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 
 
 But as we know the worst, 
 Why should our hymn 'oe raised, our knees 
 
 be bent 
 Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
 Since we must fall the same ? 
 If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, 
 To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they 
 come. 
 The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 
 And with their roar make wholesome 
 
 nature dumb ! 
 The forests' trees (coeval with the hour 
 When Paradise upsprung. 
 
 Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her 
 
 dower, 
 
 Or Adam his first hymn of slaverv sung). 
 
 So massy, vast, yet green in their'old age. 
 
 Are overtnpp'd, 
 
 Tlieir summer blossoms by the surges 
 
 lopp'd, 
 Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
 
 Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 
 
 They meet the seas. 
 And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
 Fly, son of Noah, fly ! and take thine 
 ease, 
 in thine allotted ocean-tent ; 
 And view, all floating o'er the element, 
 The corpses of the world of thy j'oung days .' 
 Then to Jehovah raise 
 Thy song of praise ! 
 A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
 Who die in the Lord ! 
 And though the waters be o'er earth out- 
 spread. 
 
 Yet, as his word. 
 Be the decree adored ! 
 He gave me life — he taketh but 
 The breath which is his own : 
 And though these eyes should be for ever 
 shut. 
 Nor longer this weak voice before his 
 
 throne 
 Be heard in supplicating tone. 
 
 Still blessed be the Lord, 
 For what is past. 
 For that which is : 
 For all are his. 
 From first to last — 
 Tim.e, space, eternity, life, death — 
 
 The vast known and immeasurable un- 
 kno^vn. 
 He made, and can unmake ; 
 
 And shall /, for a little gasp of breath, 
 Blaspheme and groan ? 
 
 Xo ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith. 
 Nor quiver, though the universe 
 quake! 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 Where shall we flv ? 
 Not to the mountains high ; 
 For now their torrents rush, with double 
 roar, 
 To meet the ocean, which. advau«ing 
 
 may 
 
 still, 
 ^ Already grasps each drowning hill. 
 Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 
 
 Efiti'r a Woman. 
 
 Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
 Our valley is no more : 
 
 My father and my father's tent. 
 My brethren and my brethren's herds, 
 The pleasant trees that o'er om: noonday 
 bent. 
 And sent forth evening songs from sweetest 
 
 birds, 
 The little ri\u!et which freshen'd all 
 Our pastures green, 
 No more are to be seen. 
 When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this 
 morn, 
 I turn'd to bless the spot, 
 
WERNER 
 
 523 
 
 And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 
 
 And now they are not ! — 
 Why was I born ? 
 
 Japh. To die ! in youth to die ! 
 
 And happier in that doom, 
 Than to behold the universal tomb, 
 
 Which I 
 Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
 
 Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 
 \The waters rise; Men fly in every 
 direction.; many are overtaken by the 
 ■waves; the Chorus of Mortals dis- 
 perses in search of safety up the 
 mountains : Japhet remains upon a 
 rock, while the Ark floats towards him 
 in the distance. 
 
 WERNER ; OR, THE INHERITANCE 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 
 
 BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLJTST ADMIRERS, THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.© 
 
 Men. 
 Werner. 
 
 Ui-RIC. 
 
 StR BLENHEIM, 
 
 Idenstein, 
 
 Gabor. 
 
 Fritz. 
 
 Henrick. 
 
 Eric. 
 
 Arnheim. 
 
 Meister. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 LUPWIG. 
 
 Women. 
 Josephine. 
 Ida Stralenheim. 
 
 Scene. — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and 
 partlj- in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 
 Time. — The Close of the Thiily Years' War. 
 
 ACT I 
 Scene I. — The Hall of a decayed Palace 
 near a small Town on the Northern 
 Frontier of Silesia — the Night tem- 
 pestuous. 
 
 Werner and Josephine, Ms Wife. 
 Jos. My love, be calmer ! 
 Wer. I am calm. . 
 
 Jos. To me— 
 
 Yes, but not to thyself : thy pace is hurried. 
 And no one walk's a chamber like to ours 
 With steps like thine when his heart is at 
 
 rest. 
 Were it a garden, I should deem thee 
 
 happy. 
 And stepping with the bee from flower to 
 
 flower ; 
 But here ! 
 
 Wer. 'T is chill ; the tapestry lets 
 through I,, , • 
 
 The wind to which it waves : my blood is 
 frozen. 
 
 thou 
 
 Jos. Ah, no ! 
 
 Wer. (smiling). Why ! wouldst 
 
 have it so ? 
 Jos. I would 
 
 Have it a healthful current. 
 
 II'i'c. Let it flow 
 
 Until 't is spilt or check* d — how soon, I 
 care not. 
 Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 
 Wer. .All— all. 
 
 Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which 
 
 must break mine ? 
 Wer. (approaching her slowly). But for 
 thee I h£jd been — no matter what. 
 But much of good and evil ; what I aiji, 
 Thou knowest ; what I might or should 
 
 have been, 
 Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, 
 
 nor 
 Shall aught divide us. 
 
 [Werner walks on abruptly, and then 
 approaches Josephine. 
 
 The storrii of the night, 
 Perhaps afiects me ; I'm a thing of feelings, 
 .\nd ha\'e of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
 Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, 
 
 my love ! 
 In watching me. 
 Jos. To see thee well is much — 
 
 To see thee happy 
 
 Wer. Where hast thou seen such ? 
 
 Let me be wretched with the rest ! 
 
 Jos. But think 
 
 How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
 Beneath the biting wind and hea\y rain, 
 Whose e\'ery drop bows them down 
 
 nearer earth. 
 Which hath no chamber for them save be- 
 neath 
 Her surface, 
 
 Wer. And that 's not the worst : who 
 cares 
 
524 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches 
 
 whom 
 Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round 
 
 them, and 
 The dull and dropping rain saps in their 
 
 bones 
 The creeping marrow. I have been a 
 
 so dier, 
 A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
 A beggar, and should know the thing thou 
 
 talk'st of. 
 Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd 
 
 from them all ? 
 Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 
 Jos. And that is something. 
 
 Wer. True — to a peasant. 
 Jos. Should the nobly born 
 
 Be thankless for that refuge which their 
 
 habits 
 Of early delicacy render more 
 Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
 Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of 
 
 life? 
 Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is 
 
 not : we 
 Have borne all this, I '11 not say patiently, 
 E.xcept in thee — but we have borne it. 
 Jos. Well ? 
 
 Wer. Something beyond our outward 
 
 sufferings (though 
 These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
 Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, 
 
 now. 
 When, but for this untoward sickness, 
 
 which 
 Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
 Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but 
 
 means, 
 And leaves us — no ! this is beyond me ! — 
 
 but 
 For this I had been happy — than been 
 
 happy— 
 The splendour of my rank sustain' d — my 
 
 name — 
 My father's name — been still upheld ; and, 
 
 more 
 
 Than those 
 
 Jos. (abruptly). i\Iv son — our son — our 
 
 Ulric, 
 Been clasp'd again in these long-empty 
 
 arms, 
 And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
 Tweh'e years ! he was but eight then : — 
 
 beautiful 
 He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
 My Ulric ! my adored ! 
 
 Wer. I have been full oft 
 
 The chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'er- 
 
 taken 
 My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
 Sick, poor, and lonely. 
 
 Jos. Lonely ! rav dear husband ? 
 
 Wer. Or worse — involving all I lo\-e, in 
 
 this 
 
 Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had 
 
 died, 
 And all been over in a nameless grave. 
 Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but 
 pray take 
 Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and 
 
 they who strive 
 With Fortune win or weary her at last, 
 So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
 Further. Take comfort, — we shall find 
 our boy. 
 Wer. We were in sight of him, of every 
 thing [sorrow — 
 
 Which could bring compensation for past 
 And to be baffled thus ! 
 
 Jos. We are not baliSed. 
 
 Wer. Are we not penniless ? 
 Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. 
 
 Wer. But I was bom to wealth, and rank, 
 and power ; 
 Enjoy' d them, loved them, and, alas ! 
 
 abused them, 
 And forfeited them by my father's v.Tath, 
 In my o'er-fervent youth : but for the abuse 
 Long sufferings have atoned. My father's 
 
 death 
 Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
 This cold and creeping kinsman, who so 
 
 long 
 Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
 The fluttering bird, hath ere this time out- 
 
 stept me, 
 Become the master of my rights, and lord 
 Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
 Dominion and domain. 
 
 Jos. Who know^s ? our son 
 
 May have retum'd back to his grandsire, 
 
 and 
 Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 
 
 Wer. 'T is hopeless. 
 
 Since his strange disappearance from my 
 j father's, 
 
 Eaiailing, as it were, mv sins upon 
 Flimself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 
 I parted with him tn his grandsire, on 
 The promise that his anger would stop 
 
 short 
 Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
 To claim her stern prerogati\-e. and visit 
 Upon n'ly boy his father's faults and follies. 
 Jos. I must hope better still, — at least 
 we have }'et 
 Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 
 Wer. We should have done, but for this 
 fatal sickness ; 
 , More fatal than a mortal malady-. 
 Because it takes not life, but life's sole 
 solace : 
 I Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
 I By the snares of this a%-aricious fiend : — 
 I How do I know he hath not track'd us 
 
 here ? 
 I Jos. He does not know thy person ; and 
 I his spies, 
 
WERNER 
 
 Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at 
 
 Hamburgh. 
 Our unexpected journey, and this change 
 Of name, leaves all discovery far behind : 
 None hold us here for aught save what we 
 seem. 
 Wer. Save what we seem ! save what 
 we are — sick beggars, 
 Even to our very hopes. — Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Jos. Alas ! 
 
 That bitter laugh ! 
 
 Wer. Who would read in this form 
 
 The high Soul of the son of a long line ? 
 Who, in this garb, the heir of princely 
 
 lands ? 
 Vr'ho, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
 Of rank and ancestry ? In this worn 
 
 cheek 
 And famine-hoUow'd brow, the lord of halls 
 Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 
 
 Jos. You 
 
 Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly 
 
 things. 
 My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose 
 
 for bride 
 The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 
 Wer. And exile's daughter with an out- 
 cast son. 
 Were a fit marriage : but I still had hopes 
 To lift thee to the state we both were born 
 
 for. 
 Your father's house was noble, though 
 
 decay'd ; 
 And worthy by its birth to match v.'ith ours. 
 Jos. Your father did not think so, 
 though 't was noble ; 
 But had my birth been all my claim to 
 
 match 
 With thee, I should have deem'd it what 
 it is. 
 Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 
 Jos. All which it 
 
 Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 
 
 Wer. How — nothing ? 
 
 Jos. Or v,'orse ; for it has been a canker 
 in 
 Thy heart from the begirming : but for 
 
 ■ this, . 
 We had not felt our poverty but as 
 Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
 But for these phantoms of thy feudal 
 
 fathers, 
 Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread, as 
 
 thousands earn it ; 
 Or, if that seem too humble, tried by com- 
 merce, 
 Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 
 Wer. (ironically). And been an Han- 
 
 seatic burgher ? Excellent ! 
 Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, 
 to me thou art 
 What no state high or low can ever change, 
 My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, ' 
 knowing neither 
 
 my own 
 
 525 
 
 Thy birth, thy hopes, thv pride ; nought, 
 
 save thy sorrows ; 
 While they last, let me comfort or divide 
 
 them : 
 When they end, let mine end with them, or 
 thee ! 
 Wer. My better angel! Such I have 
 ever found thee ; 
 This rashness, or this weakness of my 
 
 temper, , 
 Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or 
 
 thine. 
 Thou didst not mar my fortunes : 
 
 nature 
 
 In youth was such as to unmake an empire, 
 Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
 Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught 
 
 to know 
 Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
 Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth 
 
 spring. 
 My father barr'd me from my father's 
 
 house. 
 The last sole scion of a thousand sires 
 (For I was then the last), it hurt me less 
 Than to behold my boy and my boy's 
 
 mother 
 Excluded in their innocence from what 
 My faults deserved — exclusion ; although 
 
 then 
 My passions were all living serpents, and 
 Twined like the Gorgon's round me. 
 
 [A loud knocking is hefird. 
 Jos. Hark ! 
 
 Wer. A knocking ! 
 
 Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? 
 We have 
 Few visitors. 
 
 Wer. And poverty hath none. 
 
 Save those who come to make it poorer 
 
 still. 
 Well, I am prepared. 
 
 [Werner puts his hand into his bosom, 
 
 as if to search for some weapon. 
 Jos. Oh ! do not look so. I 
 
 Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
 In this lone spot of wintry desolation : — 
 The very desert saves man from mankind. 
 [She goes to the door. 
 Enter Idenstein. 
 Men. A fair good evening to my fairer 
 hostess 
 
 And worthy What 's your name, my 
 
 friend ? 
 Wer. Are you 
 
 Not afraid to demand it ? 
 
 Iden. Not afraid ? 
 
 Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
 I ask'd for something better than your 
 
 name, 
 Bv the face you put on it. 
 
 Wer. Better, sir ! 
 
 Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony :- 
 what 
 
526 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Shall I say more ? You have been a guest 
 
 this month 
 IJere in the prince's palace — (to be sure, 
 His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
 And rats these twelve, years — but 't is still 
 
 a palace) — 
 I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
 We do not know your name. 
 
 Wer. My name is Werner. 
 
 Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy 
 name. 
 As e'er was g:ilt upon a trader's board ; 
 I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
 Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
 The same. He is an officer of trust. 
 Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon). 
 And has done miracles i' the way of busi- 
 ness. 
 Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 
 Wer. To yours ? 
 
 Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 
 [4side to Werner.) Cannot you humour 
 
 the dull gossip till 
 We learn his purpose ? 
 
 Iden. Well, I 'm glad of that ; 
 
 I thought so all along, such natural yearn- 
 ings 
 PUy'd round my heart : — blood is not 
 
 water, cousin ; 
 And so let 's have some wine, and drink unto 
 Our better acquaintance ; relatives should 
 
 be 
 Friends. 
 
 Wer. You appear to have drank 
 enough already ; 
 And if you have not, I '\'e no wine to offer. 
 Else it were yours : but this you know, or 
 
 should know : 
 You seel am poor, and sick, and will not see 
 That I would be alone ; but to your busi- 
 ness ! 
 What brings you here ? 
 
 Iden. Why, what should bring me 
 
 here ? 
 Wer. I know not, though I think that I 
 could guess 
 That which will send you hence. 
 
 Jos. {aside). Patience, dear \\'erner ! 
 I Jen. Yuu don't know what has hap- 
 
 pen'd, then ? 
 Jos. How should we ? 
 
 Iden. The river has o'erflow'd. 
 Jos. Alas ! we have known 
 
 That to our sorrow for these Ave days ; 
 
 since 
 It keeps us here. 
 
 Iden. But what you don't know is, 
 
 That a great personage, who fain would 
 
 cross 
 Against the stream and three postilions' 
 
 wishes. 
 Is drown'd below the ford, with five post- 
 horses, 
 A Wionkey. and a mastiff, and a valet. 
 
 Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 
 Iden. Yes, of the monkey. 
 
 And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
 We know not if his excellency 's dead 
 Or no ; vou noblemen are hard to drown, 
 As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
 But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
 Enough of the Oder to have burst two 
 
 peasants ; 
 And now a Sa.xon and Hungarian traveller, 
 Who. at their proper peril, snatch' d him 
 
 froip 
 The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
 -A lodging, or a grave, according as 
 It may turn out with the hve or dead body. 
 Jos. And where will you receive him ? 
 here, I hope. 
 If we can be of service — say the word. 
 Iden. Here ? no ; but in the prince's 
 own apartment. 
 As fits a noble guest : — 't is damp, no doubt, 
 Not having been inhabited these twelve 
 
 years ; 
 But then he comes from a much damper 
 
 place, 
 So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be 
 Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
 He '11 be worse lodged to-morrow ; ne'er- 
 
 theless, 
 I have order'd fire and all appliances 
 To be got ready for the worst — that is. 
 In case he should survive. 
 
 Jos. Poor gentleman, 
 
 I hope he will, with ajl my heart. 
 
 Wer. Intendant, 
 
 Have you not leam'd his name? (Aside 
 
 to his wife.) My Josephine, 
 Retire : I '11 sift this fool. 
 
 [Exit JosEPHI^fE. 
 Iden. His name ? oh Lord ! 
 
 Who knows if he hath now a nanie or no ? 
 'Tis time enough to ask it when he 's able 
 To gi\e an answer ; or if not, to put 
 His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
 Just now you chid me for demanding 
 names ? 
 Wer. True, true, I did so : vou say well 
 and wisely. 
 
 Enter G.\bor. 
 
 Gab. If I intrude, I crave 
 
 ^'''"" Oh, no intrusion ! 
 
 This IS the palace ; this a stranger like 
 \ourself; I pray j-ou make yourself at 
 
 home : 
 But where 's his excellency ? and how fares 
 he ? 
 Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of 
 peril ; 
 He paused to change his garments in a 
 
 cottage, 
 (Where I doft'd mine for these, and came on"^ 
 hither) 
 
 And has almost fecover'd from his drench- 
 mg. 
 
Werner 
 
 5^7 
 
 He will be here anon. 
 
 Idm. What ho, there ! bustle ! 
 
 Without thfere, Herman, WcilbUrg, Peter, 
 Conrad ! 
 
 {Gives directions to different servants 
 ^ho enter. 
 
 A nobletilan sleeps here to-night — see that 
 All is in order in the damask chamber — 
 ^feep Up the stove — I will myself to the 
 
 cellar — 
 And Madame Idenstein (my consort, 
 
 stranger,) 
 Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for. 
 To say the truth, theyjare marvellous scant 
 
 of this 
 Within the palace precincts, since his high- 
 
 iless 
 Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
 His excellencv will sup, doubtless ? 
 
 Gab. Faith ! 
 
 I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 
 Would please him better than the table, 
 
 after 
 His soaking in your river : but for fear 
 Your Viands should be thrown away, I mean 
 To sup myself, and have a friend without 
 Who will do honour to your good cheer 
 
 with 
 A traveller's appetite. 
 
 Iden. But are you siire 
 
 His excellencv But his name : what 
 
 is it ? ■ 
 Gab. I do not know. 
 Iden. And yet you saved his life. 
 
 Gab. I help'd my friend to do so. 
 Iden. Well, that 's strange, 
 
 To save a man's life whom you do not 
 know. 
 Gab. Not so ; for there are some I knoiV 
 so well, 
 I scarce shpuld give myself the trouble. 
 
 Iden. Pray, 
 
 Good friend, and who may you be ? 
 
 Gab. By my family 
 
 Hungarian. 
 
 Iden. Which is call'd ? 
 Gab. It matters little. 
 
 Iden. (aside). I think that all the world 
 are grown anonymous. 
 Since no one cares to tell me what he's 
 
 call'd ! 
 Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 
 G(j*. Sufficient. 
 
 Iden. How many ? 
 
 Gab. I did not count them. 
 
 We came up by mere accident, and just 
 In tiitie to drag him through his carriage 
 wihdow. 
 Iden. Well, what would I give to save 
 a great man ! 
 No doubt you '11 have a swingeing sum as 
 recompense. 
 Gab. Perhaps. 
 
 Iden. Now, how mtlch do you 
 
 teclton on ? 
 Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
 In the mean tim.e,i-ny best reward would be 
 A glass of your Hockcheimer — a green 
 
 glass, 
 Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal 
 
 devices, 
 0'erflo\yingwith the oldest of your vintage : 
 For which I promise vou, in case you e'er 
 Rim hazard of being drown' d, (although I 
 
 own 
 It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for 
 
 you,) 
 I 'U puU you out for nothing. Quick, mv 
 
 friend. 
 Arid think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
 A wave the less may roll above your head. 
 Iden. (aside). I 'don't much like this 
 
 fellow — close and dry 
 He seems, — two things which suit me not ; 
 
 however. 
 Wine he shaJl have ; if that unlocks him not, 
 I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 
 
 [Exit Idenstein. 
 
 Gab. (to Werner). This master of the 
 ceremonies is 
 The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
 T is a fine building, but decay'd. 
 
 Wer. The apartment 
 
 Desigh'dfor him you rescued win be foulid 
 In fitter order for a sickly guest. 
 
 Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not. 
 For you seem delicate in health. 
 Wef. (quickly). Sir I 
 
 Gab. Pray 
 
 Excuse me : have I said aught to offend 
 you ? 
 Wer. Nothing : but we are strangers 
 
 to each other. 
 Gab. And that 's the reason I would 
 have us less so : 
 I thought our bustling gUest without had 
 
 said 
 You were a chance and passing guest, the 
 
 counterpart 
 Of me and my companions. 
 
 Wer. Very true. 
 
 Gab. Then, as we never met before, and 
 never. 
 It may be, may again encounter, why, 
 I thought to cheer up this old dungeon 
 
 li^re 
 (At least to me) by asking you to share 
 The fare of my Companions and myself. 
 
 Wer. Prayj pardon me ; my health 
 
 Gab. Even as you please. 
 
 I have been a soldier, and perhaps airt blunt 
 In bearing. 
 
 Wer. I have also seirved, and can 
 
 Requite a soldier's greeting. 
 
 Gab. • In what service ? 
 
 The imperial ? 
 
528 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Wer^ [quickly, and then intermpiing 
 himself). I commanded — no — I mean 
 I served ; but it is many years ago, 
 When first Boliemia raised her banner 
 
 'gainst 
 The Austrian. 
 
 Gab. Well, that 's over now, and peace 
 Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts 
 
 adrift 
 To live as they best may : and, to say 
 
 truth, 
 Some take the shortest. 
 
 Wer. What is that ? 
 
 Gab. Whate'er 
 
 They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
 Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
 Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
 Their maintenance : the Chatelains must 
 
 keep 
 Their castle walls — beyond them 't is but 
 
 doubtful 
 Travel for yoiu: rich count or full-blown 
 
 baron. 
 
 My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
 I 've little left to lose now. 
 
 Wer. And I — nothing. 
 
 Gab. That 's harder still. You say you 
 were a soldier. 
 Wer. I was. 
 
 Gab. You look one still. All 
 
 soldiers are 
 Or should be comrades, even though ene- 
 mies. 
 Our swords when drawn rnust cross, our 
 
 engines aim 
 (While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; 
 
 but when 
 A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
 The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
 The spark which lights the matchlock, we 
 
 are brethren. 
 You are poor and sickly — I am not rich, but 
 
 healthy ; 
 I want for nothing whch I cannot want ; 
 You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 
 [Gabor pulls out his purse. 
 Wer. Who 
 
 Told you I was a beggar ? 
 
 Gab. You yourself, 
 
 In saying you were a soldier during peace- 
 time. 
 Wer. [looking at him with suspicion). 
 
 You know me not ? 
 Gab. I know no man," not even 
 
 Myself ; how should I then know one I ne'er 
 Beheld till half an hour since ? 
 
 Wer. Sir, I thank you. 
 
 Your offer 's noble were it to a friend, 
 And not unkind as to an unknown stranger. 
 Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I 
 
 thank you. 
 I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
 And when I beg of any one, it shall be 
 Of him who was the first to offer what 
 
 Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. 
 
 [Exit Werner. 
 Gab. [solus). A goodly fellow by his 
 looks, though worn, 
 
 As most good fellows are, by pain or plea- 
 stu-e. 
 
 Which tear life out of us before our time ; 
 
 I scarce know which most quickly : but 
 he seems 
 
 To have seen better days, as who has not 
 
 Who has seen yesterday ? — But here 
 approaches 
 
 Our sage intendant, with the wine : how- 
 ever. 
 
 For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer. 
 
 Enter Idenstein. 
 
 Iden. 'T is here ! the supernaculum ! 
 twenty years 
 Of age, if 't is a day. 
 
 Gab. Which epoch makes 
 
 Young w^omen and old wine; -and 't is 
 
 great pity. 
 Of two such excellent things, increase oi 
 
 years. 
 Which still improves the one, should spoil 
 
 the other. 
 Fill full — Here 's to our hostess ! — your 
 fair wjfe ! 
 
 [Takes the glass, 
 Iden. Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste 
 in wine is equal 
 To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge 
 
 you 
 Nevertheless. 
 
 Gab. Is not the lovely woman 
 
 I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
 An air, and port, and eye, which would 
 
 have better 
 Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days 
 (Though in a garb adapted to its present 
 Abandonment), return' d my salutation — 
 Is not the same your spouse ? 
 
 Iden. I would she were ! 
 
 But you 're mistaken : — that 's the stran- 
 ger's wife. 
 Gab. And by her aspect she might be a 
 prince's : 
 Though time hath touch'd her too, she still 
 
 retains 
 Much beauty, and more majestv. 
 
 Iden. ' And that 
 
 Is more than I can say for/ Madame Iden- 
 stein, » 
 At least in beauty : as for majesty. 
 She has some of its properties which might 
 Be spared — but never mind ! 
 ,,•?«*■ I don't. But who 
 May be this stranger ? He too hath a 
 
 bearing 
 .Abo\-e his outward fortunes. 
 „ I'^"^- There I differ. 
 
 He s poor as Job, and not so patient ; 
 but 
 
WERNER 
 
 529 
 
 \. ho he may be, or what, or aught of him. 
 Except his name (and that 1 only learn'd 
 To-night), I know not. 
 
 G«&. But how came he here ? 
 
 Idcn. In a most miserable old caleche, 
 About a month since, and immediately 
 Fell sick, almost to death. He should have 
 died. 
 Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 
 Iden. Why, what is life 
 
 Without a living ? He has not a stiver. 
 Gab. In that case, I much wonder that 
 a person 
 Of your apparent prudence should admit 
 Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 
 Iden. That 's true : but pity, as you know, 
 does make 
 One's heart commit these follies ; and 
 
 besides, 
 They.had some valuables left at that time. 
 Which paid their way up to the present 
 
 hour ; 
 And so I thought they might as well be 
 lodged [them 
 
 Here as at the small tavern, and I gave 
 The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
 They served to air them, at the least as 
 
 long 
 As they could pay for firewood. 
 
 Gab. Poor souls ! 
 
 Iden. Ay, 
 
 Exceeding poor. 
 
 Gab. And yet unused to poverty. 
 
 If I mistake not. Whither were they 
 
 going ? 
 
 Iden. Oh ! Heaven knows where, unless 
 
 to heaven itself. 
 
 Some days ago that looked the likeliest 
 
 journey 
 For Werner. 
 
 Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name : 
 But it may be a feign'd one. 
 
 ■ Iden. Like enough ! 
 
 But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
 A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
 As destiny, his excellency's come. 
 I must beat my post ; will you not join me. 
 To help him from his carriage, and present 
 Your humble duty at the door ? 
 
 Gab. I dragg'd him 
 
 From out that carriage when he would 
 
 have given 
 His barony or county to repel 
 The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
 He has valets now enough : they stood 
 
 aloof then. 
 Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
 All roaring " Help ! " but offering none ; 
 
 and as 
 For duty (as you call it)— I did mme then. 
 Now do yours. Hence, and bow and 
 cringe him here ! 
 Iden. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the 
 opportunitj' — 1 
 
 Plague take it ! he '11 be here, and I not 
 there ! 
 
 [AnY Idenstein hastily. 
 Re-enter Werner. 
 
 Wer. (to himself). I heard a noise of 
 wheels and voices. How 
 All sounds now jar me ! 
 
 Still here ! Is he not 
 [Perceiving Gabor. 
 A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer 
 So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
 The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
 For friends are slow at such. 
 
 Gab. Sir, you seem rapt ; 
 
 And yet t'ne time is not akin to thought. 
 These old walls will be noisy soon. The 
 
 baron. 
 Or count (or whatsoe'er this half drown'd 
 
 noble 
 May be), for whom this desolate village and 
 Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
 Than did the elements, is come. 
 
 Iden. (without). This way — 
 
 This way, your excellency : — have a care. 
 The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
 Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
 So high a guest — Pray take ray arm, my 
 lord! 
 
 Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and 
 Attendants — partly his own, and partly 
 Retainers of the Domain of which 
 Idenstein is Intendant. 
 
 Stral. I 'U rest me here a moment. 
 
 Iden. (to the servants). Ho ! a chair ! 
 
 Instantly, knaves ! [Stra,lenheim st'is down. 
 
 Wer. (aside) . 'T is he ! 
 
 Stral. I'm better now. 
 
 Who are these strangers ? 
 
 Iden. Please you, my good lord. 
 
 One says he is no stranger. 
 
 Wer. (aloud and hastily). W^o says that ? 
 {They look at him with surprise, 
 
 Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to 
 you ! — ^but 
 Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 
 To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 
 
 Gab. I seek not to disturb 
 
 His noble memory. 
 
 Stral. I apprehend 
 
 This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
 I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 
 [Pointing to Werner. 
 My state when I was succour'd must excuse 
 My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 
 
 Iden. He ! — no, my lord ! he rather 
 wants for rescue 
 Than can afford it. 'Tis a poor sick man. 
 Travel -tired, and lately risen from a bed 
 From whence he never dream'd to rise. 
 
 Stral. Wethought 
 
 That there were two. 
 
 Gab. There were, in company ; 
 
53° 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 But, in the service render'd to your lord- 
 ship, 
 I needs must say but one, atid he is absent. 
 The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
 Was his : it was his fortune to be first.. 
 My will was not inferior, but his strength 
 And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do 
 
 not waste 
 Your thanks on me. I was but a glad 
 
 second 
 Unto a nobler principal. 
 
 Stral. Where is he ? 
 
 An Atten. Ii'Iy lord, he tarried in the 
 
 cottage where 
 Your excellency rested for an hour. 
 And said he would be here to-morrow. 
 
 Stral. Till 
 
 That hour arrives, I can. but offer thanks. 
 
 And then 
 
 Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
 So much. My comrade may speak for 
 
 himself. 
 Stral. (fixing Ms eyes upon Werner : 
 
 then aside). 
 It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd 
 
 to. 
 'T is twenty years since I beheld him with 
 These eyes ; and, though my agents still 
 
 have kept 
 Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
 My own from his, not to alarm him into 
 "Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
 At Hamburgh those who would have made 
 
 assurance 
 If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now, 
 To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
 In haste, though even the elements appear 
 To light against me, and this sudden flood 
 
 May keep me prisoner here till 
 
 [He pauses and looks at Werner ; then 
 
 resumes. 
 
 This man must 
 Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
 His father, rising from his grave again, 
 Would pass him by unknown. I must be 
 
 wary : 
 An error would spoil all. 
 
 Iden. Your lordship seems 
 
 Pensive. Will it not please you to pass 
 
 on ? 
 Stral. 'T is past fatigue, which gives my 
 
 weigh' d-down spirit 
 An outward show of thought. I will to 
 
 rest. 
 Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, 
 
 with all 
 The very furniture the prince used wheii 
 Last here, in its full splendour. 
 
 (Aside). Somewhat tatter' d. 
 And devilish damp, but fine enough by 
 
 torch-light ; 
 And that 's enough for your right noble 
 
 blood ' 
 
 Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
 
 So let their bearer sleep 'neath something 
 
 like one 
 Now, as he one day will for ever he. 
 
 Stral. (rising and turning to Gabor). 
 Good-night, good people ! Sir, I 
 trust to-thorrow 
 Will find me apter to requite your service 
 In the meantime I crave your company 
 A moment in my chamber. 
 
 Gab. I attend you. 
 
 Stral. (after a fem steps, patises, and calls 
 
 Werner) . Friend ! 
 Wer. Sur ! 
 
 Iden. Sir ! Lord — oh Lord ! Why 
 
 don't you say 
 His lordship, oi- his excellency ? Pray, 
 My lord, excuse this poor man's Want of 
 
 breeding : 
 He hath not been accustom' d to admission 
 To such a presence. 
 
 Stral. (to Idenstein). Peace, intendaut ! 
 Iden. Oh ! 
 
 I am dumb. 
 
 Stral. (lo Werner). Have you been long 
 
 here ? 
 Wer. Long ? 
 Stral. I sought 
 
 An answer, not an echo. 
 
 Wer. You may seek 
 
 Both from the walls. I am not used to 
 
 answer 
 Those whom I know not. 
 
 Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 
 
 You might reply with courtesy to what 
 Is ask'd in kindness. 
 
 Wer. When I know it such, 
 
 I w^ill requite — that is, reply — in unison. 
 Stral. The intendant said, you had been 
 detain'd by sickness — 
 If I could aid you — jommeying the same 
 way ? 
 Wer. (quickly). I am not joumej-ing the 
 
 same way ! 
 Stral. How know ye 
 
 That, ere you know my route ? 
 
 Wer. Because there is 
 
 But one way that the rich and poor must 
 
 tread 
 Together. You diverged from that dread 
 
 path 
 Some hours ago, and I some davs : hence- 
 forth 
 Our roads must lie asunder, though they 
 
 tend 
 All to one home. 
 
 Stral. Yoiur language is above 
 
 Your station. 
 
 Wer. (bitterly). Is it ? 
 Stral. Or, at least, beyond 
 
 Your garb. 
 
 Wer. 'T is well that it is not be- 
 
 neath it. 
 As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
 But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
 
WERNER 
 
 531 
 
 Stral. (startled). 
 
 Wer. Yes— you ! You know me 
 and question me, 
 
 And wonder that I answer not- 
 knowing 
 
 My inquisitor. Explain what you would 
 have, 
 
 And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 
 Stral. I knew not that you had reasons 
 
 for reserve. 
 Wer. Many have such : — Have you 
 
 none ? 
 Stral. None which can 
 
 Interest a mere stranger. 
 
 Wer. Then forgive 
 
 The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
 
 He wishes to remain so to the man 
 
 Who can have nought in common with him. 
 Stral. Sir, 
 
 I will not balk your humour, though unto- 
 ward : 
 
 I only meant you service^-but go.od-night ! 
 
 Intendant, show the way ! (to Gabor). 
 Sir, you will with me ? 
 [Exeunt Stralenheim and Attendants ; 
 Idenstein and Gabor. 
 Wer. (solus) . 'T is he ! I am taken in 
 the toils. Before 
 
 I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late 
 steward, 
 
 Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
 
 From Brandenburg's elector, for the arrest 
 
 Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) 
 when 
 
 I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
 
 Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
 
 Its walls — fool that I was to quit them S 
 But 
 
 I deem'd this humble garb, and route 
 obscure. 
 
 Had baffled the slow hounds in their pur- 
 suit. 
 
 What 's to be done ? He knows me not 
 by person ; 
 
 Nor could aught, save the eye of appre- 
 hension, 
 
 Have recognised him, after twenty years. 
 
 We met so rarely and so coldly in 
 
 Our youth, But those about him ! Now 
 I can 
 
 Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, 
 who 
 
 No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralen- 
 heim'S, 
 
 To sound and to secure me. Without 
 
 -begirt too with the flooding 
 
 means 
 Sick, poor- 
 rivers. 
 Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
 All the appliances which purchase modes 
 Of overpowering perils, with men's lives, — 
 How can I hope ! An hour ago methought 
 My state beyond despair ;• and now, 'tis 
 such. 
 
 I ? ! The past seems paradise. Another day, 
 not, And I 'm detected, — on the very eve 
 
 I Of honours, rights, and my inheritance, 
 -not I When a few drops of gold might save me 
 ' still 
 
 In favouring an escape. 
 
 Enter Idenstein and Fritz in conversation- 
 Fritz. Immediately. 
 Men. I tell you, 't is impossible, 
 Fritz. It must 
 Be tried, however ; and if one express 
 Fail, you must send on others, till the 
 
 answer 
 Arrives from Frankfort, from the com- 
 mandant. 
 Iden. I will do what I can. 
 Fritz. And recollect 
 
 To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
 Tenfold. 
 
 Iden. The baron is retired to rest ? 
 Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an 
 easy chair 
 Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has 
 
 order'd 
 He may not be disturb'd until eleven. 
 When he will take himself to bed, 
 
 Iden. Before 
 
 An hour is past I '11 do my best to serve him. 
 
 Fritz. Remember ! [Exit Fritz, 
 
 Iden. The devil take these great men ! 
 
 they 
 
 Think all things made for them. Now 
 
 here must 1 
 Rouse up some half a dozen shivering 
 
 vassals 
 From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
 Their lives, despatch them o'er the river 
 
 towards 
 Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own 
 
 experience 
 Some hours ago might teach him fellow- 
 feeling : 
 But no, "it must," and there 's an end. 
 
 How now ? 
 Are you there. Mynheer Werner ? 
 
 Wer. You have left 
 
 Your noble guest right quickly. 
 
 Iden. Yes — he 's dozing. 
 
 And seems to like that none should sleep 
 
 besides. 
 Here is a packet for the commandant 
 Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
 But I must not lose time : Good night ! 
 
 [Exit Iden. 
 Wer. " To Frankfort ! " 
 
 So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the command- 
 ant," 
 This tallies well with all the prior steps 
 Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
 Between me and my father's house. No 
 
 doubt 
 He writes for a detachment to convey me 
 Into some secret fortress. —Sooner than 
 
532 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 This- 
 
 [WTiRyERlooks aioiDid, and snatches up 
 a knife lying on a table in a recess. 
 Now I am master of myself at least. 
 
 Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that 
 Stralsnheim 
 
 Vv'ill wait for even the show of that autho- 
 rity 
 
 Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
 
 That he suspects me 's certain. I 'm alone ; 
 
 He with a numerous train. I weak ; he 
 strong 
 
 In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
 
 I nameless, or involving in my name 
 
 Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
 
 He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
 
 Still further on these obscure petty bur- 
 ghers 
 
 Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! 
 nearer still ! 
 
 I '11 to the secret passage, which communi- 
 cates 
 
 With the No ! all is silent — 't was my 
 
 fancy ! — 
 
 Still as the breathless interval between 
 
 The flash and thunder : — I must hush my 
 soul 
 
 Amidst its perils. Vet I will retire, 
 
 To see if still be unexplored the passage 
 
 I wot of : it will serve me as a den 
 
 Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 
 
 [Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing 
 it after him. 
 
 Enter Gabor and Josephine. 
 
 Gah. Where is your husband ? 
 Jos. Here, I thought : I left him 
 
 Not long since in his chamber. But these 
 
 rooms 
 Have manv outlets, and he may be gone 
 To accompany the intendant. 
 
 Gab. Baron Stralenheim 
 
 Put many questions to the intendant on 
 The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
 I have my doubts if he means well. 
 
 Jos. Alas ! 
 
 What can there be in common with the 
 
 proud 
 And wealthy baron, and the unknown 
 Werner ? 
 Gab. That you kno\v best. 
 Jos. Or, if it were so, how 
 
 Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
 Rather than that of him whose life you 
 saved ? 
 Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril ; 
 but 
 I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
 Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
 Their thousand modes of trampling on the 
 
 poor. 
 1 have proved them ; and ln^' spirit boils 
 
 up when 
 I find them practising against the weak : — 
 
 This is my only motive. 
 
 Jos. It would be 
 
 Not easy to persuade my consort of 
 Your good intentions. 
 
 Gab. Is he so suspicious ? 
 
 Jos. He was not once ; but time and 
 troubles have 
 Made him what you beheld. 
 
 Gab. I 'm sorry for it. 
 
 Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 
 With its own weight impedes more than 
 
 protects. 
 Good night ! I trust to meet with him at 
 day-break. [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Re-enter Idenstei.n' and some Peasants. 
 Josephine retires up the Hall. 
 First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd ? 
 I den Why, you will be well paid for 't , 
 And have risk'd more than drowning for 
 
 as much, 
 I doubt not. 
 
 Second. Peasant. But our wives and 
 
 families ? 
 Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, 
 and may 
 Be better. 
 
 Third Peasant. I have neither, and will 
 
 venture. 
 Iden. That 's right. A gallant carle, and 
 fit to be 
 A soldier. I '11 promote you to the ranks 
 In the prince's body-guard — if you suc- 
 ceed : 
 And you shall baveibesides, in sparkling 
 
 coin. 
 Two thalers. 
 
 Third Peasant. No more ! 
 Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 
 
 Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
 I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
 Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
 Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
 Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one 
 
 thaler ? 
 When had you half the sum ? 
 
 Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 
 
 The less I must have three. 
 
 Iden. Have you forgot 
 
 Whose vassal you were bom, knave ? 
 
 Third Peasant. No — the prince's, 
 
 And not the stranger's. 
 
 Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 
 
 Absence, I am sovereign ; and the baron is 
 i\h- intimate connection ; — " Cousin Iden- 
 
 stein ! 
 {Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen vil- 
 lains." 
 .And so, you villains ! troop — march — 
 
 march, I say ; 
 .^nd if a single dog's ear of this packet 
 Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
 For every page of paper, shall a hide 
 Of yours be stretch'd .is v archment on a 
 drum, 
 
WERNER 
 
 Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
 Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
 Impossibilities. — Away, ye earth-worms I 
 [Ex-it, driving them out. 
 Jos. {coming forward). I fain would shun 
 these scenes, too oft repeated. 
 Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
 I cannot aid, and' will not witness such. 
 Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull 
 
 spot. 
 The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
 The insolence of wealth in poverty 
 O'er something poorer still — the 'pride of 
 
 rank 
 In servitude, o'er something still more 
 
 servile ; 
 And vice in misery affecting still 
 A tatter'd splendour. What a state of 
 
 being ! 
 In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 
 Our nobles were but citizens and mer- 
 chants, 
 Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 
 As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing 
 
 valleys 
 Made poverty more cheerful, where each 
 
 herb 
 Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
 Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which 
 
 makes glad 
 The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 
 (But rarely clouded, and when clouded, 
 
 leaving 
 His warmth behind in memory of his 
 
 beams) 
 Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, 
 
 less 
 'Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd 
 
 purple. 
 But, here ! the despots of the north appear 
 To imitate the ice- wind of their clime, 
 Searching the shivering ^'assal through his 
 
 rags, 
 To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 
 His form. And 't is to be amongst these 
 
 sovereigns 
 My husband pants ! and such his pride of 
 
 birth— 
 That twenty years of usage, such as no 
 Father born in a humble state could nerve 
 His soul to persecute a son withal. 
 Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 
 But I, born nobly also, from my father's 
 Kindness was taught a different lesson. 
 
 Father ! 
 May thy long-tried and now rewarded 
 
 spirit 
 Look down on us and our so long desired 
 Ulric I I love my son, as thou didst me ! 
 What 's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be ? 
 
 and thus ? 
 Enter V/erner hastily, with the knife in his 
 hand; by the secret panel, which he 
 (closes hw}iedly after him, \ 
 
 533 
 
 Wer. (not at first recognising her). Dis- 
 
 cover'd ! then I'll stab (recognising 
 
 her.) " *■ 
 
 Ah ! Josephme, 
 \-fhy art thou not at rest ? 
 „/'"^- What rest ? My God ! 
 
 What doth this mean ? 
 
 Wer. (showing a rouleau). Here's gold — 
 gold, Josephine, 
 Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 
 Jos. And how obtain'd ? — that knife ' 
 Wer. 'Tis bloodless— ve<. 
 
 Away — we must to our chamber. 
 
 Jos. But whence comest thou ? 
 
 Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where 
 
 we shall go — 
 
 This — this will make us way — (showing the 
 
 gold) — I'll fit them now. 
 
 Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of 
 
 dishonour. 
 Wer. Dishonour ! 
 Jos. I have said it. 
 
 , W'ej-. Let us hence : 
 
 Tis the last night, I trust, that we need 
 pass here. 
 Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 
 Wer. Hope ! I make sure. 
 
 But let us to our chamber. 
 
 Jos. Yet one question — 
 
 What hast thou done ? 
 
 Wer. (fiercely). Left one thing undone, 
 which 
 Had made all well : let me not think of it ! 
 Away ! 
 
 Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace. 
 
 Enter Ide.mstein and Others. 
 
 Iden. Fine doings ! goodly doings ! 
 honest doings ! 
 A baron pillaged in a prince's palace ! 
 Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er vv-as 
 heard of. 
 Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats 
 despoil'd 
 The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 
 Iden Oh ! that I e'er should, live to see 
 this day ! 
 The honour of our city 's gone for ever. 
 Fritr,. Well, but now to discover the 
 delinquent : 
 The baron is determined not to lose 
 This sum \\'ithout a search. 
 
 Id,en. And so am I. 
 
 Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 
 Jden. Suspect ! all people 
 
 Without — within — above — below — Hea- 
 ven help me ! 
 Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the 
 
 chamber ? 
 Iden. None whatsoever. 
 
534 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Fritz. Are you sure of that ? 
 
 Iden. Certain. I have lived and served 
 here since my birth. 
 And if there were such, must have heard of 
 
 such, 
 Or seen it. 
 
 Fritn. Then it must be some one who 
 Had atcess to the antechamber. 
 
 Iden. Doubtless. 
 
 Fritz. The man call'd Werner *s poor ! 
 Iden. Poor as a miser. 
 
 But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
 By which there 's no communication with 
 The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
 Besides, I bade him " good-night " in the 
 
 hall. 
 Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
 To his own apartment, about the same time 
 When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
 Appears to have been committed. 
 
 Fritz. There 's another. 
 
 The stranger 
 
 Iden. The Hungarian ? 
 
 Fritz He who help'd 
 
 To fish the baron from the Oder. 
 
 Iden. Not 
 
 Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have 
 
 been 
 One of the suite ? 
 
 Fritz. How ? We, sir ! 
 
 Iden. No — not you. 
 
 But some of the inferior knaves. Ynu 
 
 say 
 The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
 The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night- 
 gown ; 
 His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
 A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
 Several rouleaux of gold ; of which o"Ae 
 
 only 
 Has disappear'd : — the door unbolted, with 
 No difficult access to anj'. 
 
 Fritz. Good sir, 
 
 Bf not so quick ; the honour of the corps 
 Which forms the baron's household 's 
 
 unimpeach'd 
 From steward to scullion, save in the fair 
 
 way 
 Of peculation ; such as in accorapts. 
 Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery. 
 Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
 Pdstage of letters, gathering of rents. 
 Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
 The honest trades who furnish noble 
 
 masters ; 
 But for your petty, picking, downright 
 
 thie\'ery, 
 We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
 Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
 Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
 His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd . 
 all; I 
 
 AK" tlip eabmet, if portable. | 
 
 Idi'n. There is some sensr in that 
 
 Fritz. No, sir, be sure 
 
 'T was none of our corps ; but some petty, 
 
 trivial 
 
 Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
 
 The only question is — Who else could have 
 
 Access, save the Hungarian and yourself ? 
 
 Iden. You don't mean me ? 
 
 Fritz. No, sir ; I honour more 
 
 Your talents 
 
 Iden. And my principles, I hope. 
 
 Fritz. Of course. But to the point : 
 
 What 's to be done ? 
 Iden. Nothing — but there 's a good deal 
 to be said. 
 We '11 offer a reward ; move heaven and 
 
 earth. 
 And the police (though there 's none nearer 
 
 than 
 Frankfort) ; post notices in manuscript 
 (For we 've no printer) ; and set by my . 
 
 clerk 
 To read them (for few can, save he and I). 
 We '11 send out villains to strip beggars, and 
 Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
 All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow 
 
 people. 
 Prisoners we '11 have at least, if not the 
 
 culprit ; 
 And for the baron's gold — if 't is not found, 
 At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
 Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
 The ghost of this rouleau. Here 's alchemy _ 
 For your lord's losses ! 
 Fritz. He hath found a better. 
 
 Iden. Where ? 
 
 Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 
 The late Count Siegendorf , his distant kins- 
 man. 
 Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my 
 
 lord 
 Is on his way to take possession. 
 
 Iden. Was there 
 
 No heir ? 
 
 Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
 Long from the world's eye. and perhaps the 
 
 world. 
 A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
 For the last twenty years ; for whom his 
 
 sire 
 Refused to Idll the fatted calf ; and, there- 
 fore, 
 If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
 The baron would find means to silence him, 
 Were he to re-appear : he 's politic, 
 And has much influence with a certain . 
 court. 
 Iden. He 's fortunate. 
 Fritz. 'T is true, there is a gran4son, 
 \\horn the late count reclaim'd from his 
 
 son's hands, 
 .\nd educated as his heir ; but then 
 His birth is doubtful. 
 
 Iden. How so? 
 
 Prili. His sire made 
 
WERNER 
 
 A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of 
 
 marriage. 
 With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
 Noble, they say, too ; but no match for 
 
 such 
 A house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill 
 Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er 
 
 be brought 
 To see the parents, though he took the son. 
 Iden. If he 's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
 Dispute your claim, arjd weave a web that 
 
 may 
 Puzzle your baron to unravel. 
 
 Fritz. Why, 
 
 For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 
 He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
 And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
 The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
 The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
 Some months ago. 
 Iden. The devil he did ! 
 
 Fritz. Why, yes : 
 
 It must have been at his suggestion, at 
 An hour so critical as was the eve 
 Of the old man's death, whose heart Was 
 broken by it. 
 Iden. Was there no cause assign'd ? 
 Fritz. Plenty, no doubt. 
 
 And none perhaps the true one. Some 
 
 averr'd 
 It was to seek his parents ; some because 
 The old man held his spirit in so strictly 
 (But that could scarce be, for he doted on 
 
 him) ; 
 A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
 But peace being made soon after his de- 
 parture. 
 He might have since return'd, were that 
 
 the motive ; 
 A fourth set charitably have surmised, 
 As there was something strange and mystic 
 
 in him, 
 That iii the wild exuberance of his nature 
 He had join'd the black bands, who lay 
 
 waste Lusatia, 
 The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
 Since the last years of war had dwindled 
 
 into 
 A kind of general condottiero system 
 Of bandit warfare ; each troop w ith its 
 
 ' chief. 
 And all against mankind. 
 
 Iden. That camnot be. 
 
 A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury. 
 To risk his life and honours with disbanded 
 Soldiers and desperadoes ! 
 
 Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 
 
 But there are human natures so allied 
 Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
 That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
 I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your 
 
 Indian, 
 Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
 Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 
 
 same thing upon a grand 
 they are gone, and peace 
 
 535 
 
 Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
 Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and 
 
 Weimar, 
 Were but the 
 
 scale ; 
 And now that 
 
 proclaim'd. 
 They who would follow the same pastime 
 
 must 
 Pursue it on their own account. Here 
 
 comes 
 The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
 Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
 But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
 Until this morning. 
 
 Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. ' 
 Stral. Since you have refused 
 
 All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
 Inadequate thanks, you almost check even 
 
 them. 
 Making me feel the worthlessness of words. 
 And blush at ray own barren gratitude. 
 They seem so niggardly, compared with 
 
 what 
 Your courteous courage did in my be- 
 half 
 
 Ulr. I pray you press the theme no 
 
 further. 
 Stral. But 
 
 Can I not serve you ? You are young, and 
 
 of 
 That mould which throws out heroes ; fair 
 
 in favour ; 
 Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
 And doubtlessly, with such a form and 
 
 heart. 
 Would look into the fiery eyes of war. 
 As ardently for glory as you dared 
 An obscure death to save an unknown 
 
 stranger. 
 In an as perilous, but opposite, element. 
 You are made for the service : I have 
 
 served ; 
 Have rank by birth and soldiership, and 
 
 friends, 
 Who shall be yours. 'T is true this pause 
 
 of peace 
 Favours such views at present scantily ; 
 But 't will not last, men's spirits are too 
 
 stirring ; 
 And, after thurty years of conflict, peace 
 Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
 In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
 War will reclaim his own ; and, in the 
 
 meantime. 
 You might obtain a post, which would 
 
 ensure . 
 
 A higher soon, and, by my mfluence, fail 
 
 not 
 To rise. I speak of Bradenburgh, wherein 
 I stand well with the elector ; in Bohemia, 
 Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
 Upon its frontier, 
 
536 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Ulr. Vou percei\'e my garb 
 
 Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
 To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
 Your offer, 't is with the same feeling which 
 Induced it. 
 
 Stral. Why, this is mere usury ! 
 
 I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
 The acquittance of the interest of the debt. 
 To heap more obligations on me, till 
 I bow beneath them. 
 
 Ulr. You shall say so when 
 
 I claim the payment. 
 
 Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 
 You are nobly born ? 
 
 Ulr. I ha\-e heard my kinsmen say so. 
 • Stral. Your actions show it. Might I 
 ask your name ? 
 
 Ulr. Ulric. 
 
 Stral. Your house's ? 
 
 Ulr. When I'm worthy of it, 
 
 I'll answer vou. 
 
 Stral. {aside). Most probably an Aus- 
 trian, 
 Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
 His lineage on these wild and dangerous 
 
 frontiers. 
 Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 
 
 [Aloud to Fritz and Idenstein. 
 
 So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your re- 
 searches ? 
 Iden. Indifferent well, your excellency. 
 Stral, Then 
 
 I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 
 Iden. Humph ! — not exactly. 
 Stral. Or at least suspected ? 
 
 Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much 
 
 suspected. 
 Stral. ^Vho may he be ? 
 Ideti. Why, don't you know, my lord ? 
 Stral. How should I? I was fast asleep. 
 Iden. And so 
 
 Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 
 Than does your excellency. 
 Stral. -Dolt ! 
 
 Iden. Why, if 
 
 Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recog- 
 nize 
 The rogre ; how should I, not being robb'd, 
 
 idei.tify 
 The thief among so many ? In the crcavd. 
 May it please your excellency, your thiet 
 
 looks 
 Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
 'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon, 
 That wise men know your felon by his 
 
 features ; 
 But I'll engage, that if seen there but once. 
 Whether he be found criminal or no. 
 His face shall be so. 
 
 Stral. {to Fritz). Prithee, Fritz, inform 
 me 
 What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 
 Fritz. Faith ! 
 
 ily lord, not much as yet, except conjec- 
 tirre. 
 Stral. Besides the loss (which, I must 
 own, affects me ' 
 Just now materiallv), I needs would find 
 The villain out of public motives ; for 
 So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
 Through my attendants, and so many 
 
 peopled 
 And "lighted chambers, on my rest, and 
 
 snatch 
 The gold before tny scarce-closed eyes, 
 
 w'ould soon 
 Leave bare vour borough. Sir Intendant ! 
 Iden. ' True ; 
 
 If there were aught to carry off, mv lord. 
 Ulr. What is all this ? 
 Stral. You join'd us but this morning, 
 And have not heard that I was robb'd last 
 night. 
 Ulr. Some rumour of it reach' d me as I 
 pass'd 
 The outer chambers of the palace, but 
 I know no further. 
 
 Stral. It is a strange business ; 
 
 The intendant can inform you of the facts. 
 
 IdeJt. Most willingly. You see 
 
 Stral. {impatiently). Defer your tale, 
 
 Till certain of the hearer's patience. 
 
 Iden. That 
 
 Can only be approved by proofs. You 
 
 see 
 
 Stral. {af^aiii interrupting him, and ad- 
 dressing Ulric). 
 In short, I was asleep upon a chair. 
 My cabinet before me, with some gold 
 Upon it (more than I much like to lose. 
 Though in part only) : some ingenious 
 
 person 
 Contrived to glide through all my own 
 
 attendants. 
 Besides those of the place, and bore away 
 A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
 I w^ould be fain, and there 's an end. Per- 
 haps 
 You (as I still am rather faint) would 
 
 add 
 To yesterday's great obligation, this. 
 Though slighter,'yet not slight, to aid these 
 
 men 
 
 (Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it ? 
 
 Ulr. Most Avillingly, and without loss of 
 
 time — 
 
 (To Idexstein) Come hither, mraheer ! 
 
 Ideit. But so much haste bodes 
 
 Righl little speed, and 
 
 C '' Standing motionless 
 
 None ; so let 's march : we '11 talk as we go 
 on. 
 
 Iden. But 
 
 Ulr. Show the spot, and then I '11 an- 
 swer you. 
 Fntz. 1 will, sir, with his excellency's 
 leave. 
 
WERNER 
 
 537 
 
 Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with 
 
 you. 
 Frilz. Hence ! 
 Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy 
 
 riddle ! 
 
 [Exit with Idenstein and Fritz. 
 Stral. (solus). A stalwart, active, soldier- 
 looking stripling. 
 Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour. 
 And with a brow of thought beyond his 
 
 years 
 When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
 In answering yours. I wish I could engage 
 
 him : 
 I have need of some such spirits near me 
 
 now. 
 For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
 And though I am not the man to yield 
 
 without one. 
 Neither are they who now rise up between 
 
 me 
 And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a 
 
 bold one ; 
 But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 
 Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
 Champion his claims. That 's well. The 
 
 father, whom 
 For years I 've track' d, as does the blood- 
 hound, never 
 In sight, but constantly in scent, had put 
 
 me 
 To fault ; but here I have him, and that 's 
 
 better. 
 It must be he ! All circumstance proclaims 
 
 it; 
 
 And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
 Of my enquiries, still confirm it. — Yes ! 
 The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
 Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, 
 
 too, 
 The intendant gave (for I have not beheld 
 
 her) 
 Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ; 
 Besides the antipathy with which we met, 
 As snakes and lions shrink back from 
 
 each other 
 By secret instinct that both must be foes 
 Deadly, without being natural prey to 
 
 either ; 
 All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 
 We '11 grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few 
 
 hours 
 The order comes from Frankfort, if these 
 
 waters 
 Rise not the higher (and the weather 
 
 favours 
 Their quick abatement), and I'll have him 
 
 safe 
 Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
 His real estate and name ; and there 's no 
 
 harm done. 
 Should he prove other than I deem. This 
 
 robbery 
 (Save for the actual loss) is lucky also ; 
 
 He ■ 
 
 s suspicious — he 's 
 —True, we have no 
 
 s poor, and that 
 unknown, 
 And that's defenceless. 
 
 proofs 
 
 Of guilt, — but what hath he of innocence ? 
 Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 
 In other bearings, I should rather lay 
 The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
 Hath something which I like not ; and 
 
 alone 
 Of all around, except the intendant, and 
 The prince's household and my own, had 
 
 ingress 
 Fasiiliar to the chamber. 
 
 Enter Gabor. 
 
 Friend, how fare you ? 
 Gab. As tliose who fare well everywhere, 
 when they 
 Have supp 'd and slumber'd, no great 
 
 matter how — 
 And you, my lord ? 
 
 Stral. Better in rest than purse : 
 
 Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 
 
 Gab. I heard 
 
 Of your late loss ; but 't is a trifle to 
 One of your order. 
 
 Stral. You would hardly think so, 
 
 Were the loss yours. 
 
 Gab. I never had so much 
 
 (At once) in my whole life, and therefore 
 
 am not — ^^ 
 
 Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
 Your couriers are turn'd back — I ha^'c out- 
 
 stripp'd them, 
 In my return. 
 
 Stral. "You !— Why ? 
 
 Gab. I went at daybreak. 
 
 To watch for the abatement of the river. 
 As being anxious to resume my journey. 
 Your messengers were all check'd like my- 
 self ; 
 And seeing the case hopeless, I await 
 The current's pleasure. 
 
 Stral. Would the dogs were in it ! 
 
 Why did they not, at least, attempt the 
 
 passage ? 
 I order'd this at all risks. 
 
 Gab. Could you order 
 
 The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
 The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the 
 
 flood 
 Of the swoln stream), and be obey'd, per- 
 haps 
 Thev might have ventured. 
 
 Stral. I must see to it .- 
 
 The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall 
 smart for this. 
 
 [Exit Stralenheui. 
 Gab. (solus). There goes my noble, 
 feudal, self-will'd baron ! 
 Epitome of what brave chivalry 
 The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
 Have left us. Yesterday he would have 
 given 
 
 N N 
 
538 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer, 
 His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh 
 
 air 
 As would have fiU'd a bladder, while he lay- 
 Gurgling and foaming half way through the 
 
 window 
 Of his o'erset and water-logg'd convey- 
 ance ; 
 And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
 Because they love their livestoo ! Yet, 
 
 he's right : 
 'Tis strange they should, when such as he 
 
 may put them 
 To hazard at his pleasure. Oh, thou world ! 
 Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! 
 
 [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Scene II 
 
 The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Josephine and Ulric. 
 
 Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee 
 again ! 
 My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
 After twelve years ? 
 
 Ulr. My dearest mother ! 
 
 Jos. Yes ! 
 
 My dream is realised — how beautiful ! — 
 How more than all I sigh'd for I Heaven 
 
 receive ■' 
 
 A mother's thanks ! a mother's tears of joy ! 
 This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, 
 
 too, 
 He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 
 Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must 
 double 
 WTiat I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
 A part of the long debt of duty, not 
 Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — for- 
 give me ! 
 This long delay was not my fault. 
 
 Jos. I know it, 
 
 But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
 If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
 My memory by this oblivious transport ! — • 
 My son ! 
 
 Enter Werner. 
 
 Wer. What have we here, — more 
 strangers ? 
 
 Jos. No ! 
 
 Look upon him ! What do you see ? 
 
 Wer. A stripling. 
 
 For the first time — 
 
 Ulr. {kneeling). For twelve long years, 
 my father ! 
 
 Wer. Oh, God ! 
 
 Jos. He faints ! 
 
 Wer. No — I am better now — 
 
 Ulric ! {Embraces hi in.) 
 
 Ulr. My father, Siegendorf ! 
 
 Wer. {starting). Hush ! boy — 
 
 The walls may hear that name I 
 
 Ulr. What then ? 
 
 Wer. Why, then— 
 
 Butwewilltalkof that anon. Remember, 
 I must be known here but as Werner. 
 
 Come ! 
 Come to my arms again ! Why, thou 
 
 look'st all 
 I should have been, and was not. Jose- 
 phine ! 
 Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
 But, had I seen that forrii amid ten thous- 
 and 
 Youth ofthe choicest, myheart wouldhave 
 
 chosen 
 This for my son ! 
 
 Ulr. And yet you knew me not ! 
 
 Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my 
 soul 
 Which makes me look on all men with an 
 
 eye 
 That only knows the evil at first glance. 
 Ulr. My memorv served me far more 
 fondly : I 
 Have not forgotten aught ; and oft-times in 
 The proud and princely hails of — (I '11 not 
 
 name them. 
 As you say that 't is perilous) — but i' the 
 
 pomp 
 Of your sire 's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
 To the Bohemian mountains many a sun- 
 set, 
 And wept to see another day go down 
 O'er thee and me, with those huge hills 
 
 between us. 
 They shall not part us more. 
 
 Wer. I know not that. 
 
 Are you aware my father is no more ? 
 Ulr. Oh, heavens ! I left him in a green 
 old age. 
 And looking like the oak, worn, but still 
 
 steady 
 Amidst the elements, %vhilst younger trees 
 Fell fast around him. 'T was scarce three 
 months since. 
 Wer. Why did you leave him ? 
 Jos. {embracing Ulric). Can you ask 
 that question ? 
 Is he not here ? 
 
 Wer. True ; he hath sought his parents, 
 And found them ; but, oh ! hou\ and in 
 what state ! 
 Ulr. All shall be better'd. Wh.a.t we 
 have to do 
 Is to proceed, and to assert our rights. 
 Or rather yours ; for I wai\e all, unless 
 Your father has disposed in such a sort 
 Of his broad lands as to make mine the 
 
 foremost, 
 So that I must prefer my claim for form : 
 But I trust better, and that all is vours. 
 Wer. Have you not heard of Stralen- 
 heim ? 
 
 „.^''r; ^ I saved 
 
 His life but yesterday ; he 's here. 
 
 " '''• You saved 
 
WERNER 
 
 539 
 
 The serpent who will sting us all ! 
 
 Ulr. You speak 
 
 Riddles : what is this Stralenheim to us ? 
 Wer. Every thing. One who claims our 
 father's lands = 
 
 Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 
 Ulr. I never heard his name till now. 
 The count, 
 
 Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, 
 who, 
 
 If his own line should fail, might be re- 
 motely 
 
 Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
 
 Were never named before me — and what 
 then? 
 
 His right must yield to ours. 
 
 Wer. Ay, if at Prague ; 
 
 But here he is all-powerful ; and has 
 spread 
 
 Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
 
 He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
 
 By favour. 
 
 Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 
 Wer. No ; but he guesses shrewdly at 
 my person, 
 
 As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 
 
 But owe my temporary liberty 
 
 To his uncertainty. 
 
 iriy. I think you wrong him 
 
 (Excuse me for the phrase) ; but Stralen- 
 heim 
 
 Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
 
 He owes me something both for past and 
 present. 
 
 I saved his life, he therefore trusts m me. 
 
 He hath been plunder'd too, smce he came 
 hither : 
 
 Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
 
 Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd 
 
 him : , j ..,, 
 
 I have pledged myself to do so ; and the 
 
 business 
 Which brought me here was chielly that : 
 
 but I . , ,^ , 
 
 Have found, in searchmg for another s 
 
 dross, , , 
 
 My own whole treasure— you, my parents ! 
 
 Wer. (agitatedly). Who 
 
 Taught you to mouth that name ot 
 
 " villain ? " 
 
 Ulr. 
 
 What 
 
 More noble name belongs to common 
 thieves ? , , ^ j 
 
 Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an 
 unknown being 
 With an infernal stigma ? 
 
 jjl^. My own feehngs 
 
 Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds^ 
 
 Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and 
 
 ill-found boy I that . 
 
 It would be safe for my own son to msuit 
 
 Ub^^i named a villain. What is there 
 ha common 
 
 With such a being and my father ? 
 
 Wer. Every thing ! 
 
 That ruffian is thy father ! 
 
 Jos. Oh, my son ! 
 Believe him not — and yet ! (her voice 
 
 falters). 
 Ulr. (starts, looks earnestly at Werner, 
 
 and then says slowly). 
 
 And you avow it ? 
 Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise 
 
 your father, 
 Learn to divine and judge his actions. 
 
 Young, 
 Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's 
 
 lap, 
 Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
 Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not 
 
 long. 
 It Cometh like the night, and quickly) — 
 
 Wait !— 
 Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted 
 
 —till 
 Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your 
 
 cabin ; 
 Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
 Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but 
 
 not 
 From sleep, and judge ! Should that day 
 
 e'er arrive — 
 Should you see then the serpent, who hath 
 
 coil'd 
 Himself around all that is dear and noble 
 Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your 
 
 path. 
 With but h is folds between your steps and 
 
 happiness. 
 When he, who lives but to tear from you 
 
 name, . 
 
 Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
 Chance your conductor ; midnight for your 
 
 mantle ; 
 The bare knife in your hand, and earth 
 
 Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 
 
 'twere 
 Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
 His death alone can save you :— Thank 
 
 your God ! 
 If then, like me, content with petty 
 
 plunder, 
 You turn aside 1 did so. 
 
 Ulr. ^"'~7r 
 
 Wer. (abruptly). Hear me ! 
 
 I will not brook a human voice— scarce 
 
 dare , , ,.,,, 
 
 Listen to my own (if that be human still)— 
 Hear me ! you do not know this man— 1 do. 
 He 's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
 Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; 
 
 but learn 
 None are secure from desperation, few 
 From subtil ty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
 Housed in a prince's palscs, couch d 
 I within 
 
54° 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
 An instant — a mere motion — the least 
 
 impulse — 
 Had swept him and all fears of mine from ; 
 
 earth. 
 
 He was within my power — my knife was 
 
 raised — | 
 
 Withdrawn — and I 'm in his : — are you ' 
 
 not so ? I 
 
 Who tells you that he knows you twt ? '\ 
 
 Who says 
 He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
 To plunge you, with your parents, in a 
 dungeon ? [He pauses, j 
 
 Vlr. Proceed — proceed ! ! 
 
 Wey. Mc he hath ever kno^vn. 
 
 And hunted through each change of time 
 
 — name — fort une — 
 And why not you ? Are you more versed 
 
 in men ? 
 He wound snares round me ; flung along 
 
 my path 
 Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have 
 
 spurn'd 
 Even from my presence ; but, in spurning 
 
 now, 
 Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
 More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are 
 
 crimes 
 Made venial by the occasion, and tempta- 
 tions 
 Which nature cannot master or forbear. 
 Ulr. (who looks first at him and then at 
 
 Josephine). My mother ! 
 Wer. Ah ! I thought so : you have now 
 Only one parent. I have lost alike 
 Father and son, and stand alone. 
 
 Vlr. But stay ! 
 
 [Werner rushes out of the chamber. 
 
 ^Jos. (to Ulric). Follow him not, until 
 
 this storm of passion 
 
 Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well 
 
 for him, 
 I had not follow' d ? 
 
 Vlr. I obey you, mother, 
 
 . Although reluctantly. My first act shall 
 not 
 Be one of disobedience. 
 
 /os- Oh ! he is good ! 
 
 Condemn him not from his own mouth 
 
 but trust ' 
 
 To me, who have borne so much with him, 
 
 and for him, 
 That this is but the surface of his soul, 
 And that the depth is rich in better things. 
 Vlr. These then are but my father's 
 principles ? 
 My mother thinks not «ith him ? 
 „/°f- ^ Nor doth he 
 
 Ihink as he speaks. Alas ! long years of 
 
 grief 
 Have made him sometimes thus. 
 
 ^'''- Explain to me 
 
 More clearly, then, these claims of Stralen-"" 
 
 heim, 
 That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
 I may prepare to face him, or at least 
 To extricate you from your present perils. 
 I pledge myself to accomplish this — but 
 
 would 
 I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 
 
 Jos. Ay ! 
 
 Hadst thou but done so ! 
 
 I have sought you. 
 
 Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Atte,i- 
 dants. 
 
 Gab. (to Ulric). 
 comrade. 
 So this is my reward ! 
 
 Ulr. What do you mean ? 
 
 Gab. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these 
 years, and for this ! 
 (To Idenstein.) But for your age and 
 
 folly, I would 
 
 Iden. Help ! 
 
 Hands off ! Touch an intendant ! 
 
 _ Gab. Do not think 
 
 I'll honour you so much as save your 
 
 throat 
 From the Ravenstone ' by choking you 
 myself. 
 Iden. I thank you for the respite : but 
 there are 
 Those who have greater need of it than me. 
 
 Vlr. Unriddle this vile wraugUng, or 
 
 '5a6. At once, then, 
 
 The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
 This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
 His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er 
 
 saw 
 Till yester' evening. 
 
 Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 
 
 My own acquaintances ? "i'ou have to 
 
 learn 
 That I keep better companv. 
 „''''^- ^ , ' You shall 
 
 Keep the best shortly, and the last for all 
 
 men. 
 The worms ! you hound of malice ! 
 
 [G.'iBOR seizes on Mm. 
 Vlr. (interfering). Nav, no violence : 
 
 He s old, unarm'd— be temperate, Gabor ' 
 Gao. (letting go Idenstein). True ■ 
 
 I am a fool to lose myself because 
 Fools deem me knave : it is their homage 
 Ulr. (to Idenstein). How 
 
 Fare you ? "°"^ 
 
 Iden. Help ! 
 
 YJ''- I have help'd you 
 
 I'lltayso. Kiil him! then 
 
 Gab. I am calm— live on ' 
 
 In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 
 
WERNER 
 
 541 
 
 Gab. Does he abet you in your accusa- 
 tion ? 
 Iden. Does he not ? 
 
 Gab. Then next time let him go sink 
 Ere I go hang for snatching him from 
 
 drowning. 
 But here he comes ! 
 
 Enter Stralenheim. 
 Gab. {goes up to him). My noble lord, I 'm 
 
 here ! 
 Strdl. Well, sir ! 
 
 Gab. Have you aught with me ? 
 
 Stral. What should I 
 
 Have with you ? 
 
 Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 
 
 Flood has not wash'd away your memory ; 
 But that 's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
 In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
 Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
 Or chamber : — is the charge your own or 
 his? 
 Stral. I accuse no man. 
 Gab. Then you acquit me, baron ? 
 
 Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to 
 acquit. 
 Or scarcely to suspect. 
 
 Gab. But you at least 
 
 Should know whom not to suspect. I am 
 
 insulted — 
 Oppress'd here by these menials, and I 
 
 look 
 To you for remedy — teach them their 
 
 duty ! 
 To look for thieves at home were part of it. 
 If duly taught ; but, in one word, if I 
 Have an accuser, let it be a man 
 Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
 I am your equal. 
 Stral. You ! 
 
 Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 
 
 Aught that you know, superior ; but pro- 
 ceed — 
 I do not ask for hints, and surmises. 
 And circumstance, and proof : I know 
 
 enough 
 Of what I have done for you, and what you 
 
 owe me. 
 To have at least waited your payment 
 
 rather 
 Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
 Your gold. I also know, that were I even 
 The villain I am deem'd, the service ren- 
 
 der'd 
 So recently would not permit you to 
 Pursue me to the death, except through 
 
 shame, 
 Such as would leave your scutcheon but a 
 
 blank. 
 But this is nothing : I demand of you 
 Justice, upon your unjust servants, and 
 From your own lips a disavowal of 
 All sanction of their insolence ; thus much 
 You' owe to the unknown, who asks no 
 more, 
 
 And never thought to have ask'd so much. 
 Stral. This tone 
 
 May be of innocence. 
 
 Gab. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it. 
 
 Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 
 
 Stral. You 
 
 Are hot, sir. 
 
 Gab. Must I turn an icicle 
 
 Before the breath of menials, and their 
 master ? 
 Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; I 
 found him in 
 Your company. 
 Gab. We found you in the Oder ; 
 
 1 Would we had left you there ! 
 
 Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 
 
 Gab. I 've eam'd them ; but might ha\'e 
 earn'd more from others, 
 Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 
 Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ? 
 Gab. No more than you do. 
 
 If he avouches not mv -honour. 
 
 Vlr. I 
 
 Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
 Own brief connection led me, honour. 
 
 Stral. Then 
 
 I *m satisfied. 
 
 Gab. (ironically). Right easily, methinks. 
 What is the spell in his asseveration 
 More than in mine ? 
 
 Stral. I merely said that / 
 
 Was satisfied — not that you are absolved. 
 Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 
 Stral. Go to ! 
 
 You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
 And general suspicion be against you. 
 Is the fault mine ? Is 'tnot enough that I 
 Decline all question of your guilt or inno- 
 cence ? 
 Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere 
 cozenage, 
 A vile equivocation ; you well know 
 Your doubts are certainties to all around 
 
 you — 
 Your looks a voice — your frowns a sen- 
 tence ; you 
 Are practising your power on me — because 
 You have it ; but beware ! you know not 
 
 whom 
 You strive to tread on. 
 
 Stral. Threat'st thou ? 
 
 Qab. Not so much 
 
 As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
 And I retort it with an open warning. 
 Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe 
 you something, 
 For which you seem disposed to pay 
 yourself. 
 Gab. Not with your gold. 
 Stral. With bootless insolence. 
 
 [To his Attendants and Idenstein. 
 You need not further to molest this man. 
 But let him go his way. Ulric, good 
 morrow ! 
 
542 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 [Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 Gab. (follotaing). I 'U after him and 
 
 Ulf. (stopping him). Not a step 
 
 Gab. Who shall 
 
 Oppose me ? 
 
 Ulr. Your own reason, with a moment's 
 Thought. 
 
 Gab. Must I bear this ? 
 Ulr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 
 
 The arrogance of something higher than 
 Ourselves — the highest cannot temper 
 
 Satan, 
 Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
 I 've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
 Things which had made this silkworm cast 
 
 his skin — 
 And shrink you from a few sharp sneers 
 
 and words ? 
 Gab. Must I bear to be deem'd a thief ? 
 
 If 't were 
 A bandit of the woods, I could have borne 
 
 it- 
 There 's something daring in it : — but to 
 
 steal 
 The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 
 
 Ulr. It seems, then. 
 
 You are not guilty. 
 
 Gab. Do I hear aright ? 
 
 You too ! 
 
 Vlr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 
 Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would 
 answer " No " — 
 To you I answer thus. [He draws. 
 
 Ulr. (drawing). With all my heart ! 
 
 Jos. Without there ! Ho ! help ! help ! I 
 — Oh, God ! here's murder ! 
 
 {Exit Josephine, shiicking. 
 Gabor and Ulric fight. Gabor is dis- 
 armed just as Stralenheim, Jose- 
 phine, Idenstein, etc., re-ente: . 
 Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He 's safe ' 
 Sttal. (to Josephine). Who 's safe i 
 
 Jos. jj^, 
 
 Vlr. (interrupting her with a stern look 
 and turning afterwards to Stealen-- 
 
 „ «■="•)■ ^ Both! 
 
 Here s no great harm done. 
 
 Stml. What hath caused all this ? 
 
 Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the 
 effect 
 Is^harmless, let it not disturb you.—Gabor ! 
 
 " ' ; and when you bare it 
 
 There is your sword 
 
 next 
 Let it not be against your friends. 
 
 [Ulric pronounces the last words 
 slowly and emphatically in a low I 
 voice to Gabor. 
 
 Less for my life than for vour counsel^ ^ °" 
 Slral. ' ' ' 
 
 Gab. (taking his sword). They shall. 
 You'\'e wrong'd me, Ulric, 
 More with your unkind thoughts than 
 
 sword : I would 
 The last were in my bosom rather than 
 The first in yours. I could have borne 
 
 yon noble's 
 Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
 And dull suspicion are a part of his 
 Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
 But I may fit him yet : — you have van- 
 
 quish'd me. 
 I was the fool of passion to conceive 
 That I could cope with 5'ou, whom I had 
 
 seen 
 Already proved by greater perils than 
 Rest in this arm. We may meet by and 
 
 by. 
 However — but in friendship. 
 
 [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Stral. I will brook 
 
 No more ! This outrage following up his 
 
 insults. 
 Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
 I owed him heretofore for the so- vaunted. 
 Aid which he added to vour abler succour 
 Ulric, you are not hurt ? — 
 
 Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 
 
 Stral. (to Iden-stein). Intendant ! take 
 your measures to secure 
 Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity 
 He shall be sent to Frankfort with an 
 
 escort, 
 The instant that the waters have abated 
 Idcn. Secure him! He hath got his 
 sword again — 
 And seems to know the use on't ; 'tis his 
 
 trade. 
 Belike ; — I 'm a civilian. 
 
 S^™^. Fool ! are not 
 
 \ on score of vassals doggmg at your heels 
 Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! 
 after him ! 
 Vlr. Baron, I do beseech you 1 
 
 nu''"} ^T I must be 
 
 Obey d. No words ' 
 
 Id en. -vVell, if it must be so- 
 
 .MaiLh, vassals ! I 'm your leader, and wiU 
 bring 
 
 Fv^^n^P • ''■™^<' general ne^er should 
 Expose his precious life-^n which all rests. 
 t like that article of war. 
 
 [Exit Idexstei.n and Attendants. 
 Come hither. 
 Oh! 
 
 Stral. 
 ^''"•^^^^hat does that womanTere"" 
 1 recognise her. 
 
 \\-hom"thev «:;„,J*^ \v:per'"^^''' ''"' 
 'Tis his name. 
 
 Brawls must end here. 
 
 These 
 
 Ulr 
 Stral. 
 
 ^5 ?°* ^;"?"'^ husband visible 
 Jos. \\ ho seeks him ? 
 
 I^;™Luld^^S^l^?-^-esenr^.hut 
 
 Indeed ! 
 fair dame ? — 
 
WERNER 
 
 543 
 
 -and acts like these 
 
 Alone. 
 
 Ulr. I will retire with you. 
 Jos. Not so ; 
 
 You are the latest stranger, and command 
 All places here. 
 (Aside to Ulric, as she goes out.) O Ukic ! 
 
 have a care — 
 Remember what depends on a rash word ! 
 Ulr {to Josephine). Fear not ! — 
 
 [Exit Josephine. 
 Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust 
 you ; 
 You saved my life- 
 beget 
 Unbounded confidence. 
 
 Ulr. Say on. 
 
 Stmt. Mysterious 
 
 And long- engender' d circumstances (not 
 To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
 This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 
 Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 
 Stral. No— this " Werner "— 
 
 With the false name and habit. 
 
 Ijly^ How can this be ? 
 
 He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
 Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
 The man is helpless. 
 
 Stral. He is — 't is no matter ; — 
 
 But if he be the man I deem (and that 
 He is so, all around us here — and much 
 That is not here— confirm my apprehen- 
 sion) 
 He must be made secure ere twelve hours 
 further. 
 Ulr. And what have I to do with this .' 
 Stral. 1 have sent 
 
 To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
 (I have the authority to do so by 
 An order of the house of Brandenburg), 
 For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
 Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 
 Ulr. It is abating. 
 Stral. That is well. 
 
 Ulf, But how 
 
 Am I concern'd ? , ,. , u 
 
 Stral. As one who did so much 
 
 For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
 That which is of more import to me than 
 The life you rescued.— Keep your eye on 
 
 him ! 
 The man avoids me, knows that 1 now 
 
 know him. — ^ , *!, 
 
 Watch him !— as you would watch the 
 
 wild boar when , , ^ . 
 
 makes against you m the hunter s 
 
 He 
 
 gap- 
 
 Like him he must be spear' d. 
 
 Ulr Why so ? 
 
 Stral. He stands 
 
 Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
 Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 
 
 Ulr hope =" 
 
 StraL It is the richest of the 
 Bohemia, 
 
 rich 
 
 Unscathed by scorching v/ar. It lies s ' 
 
 near [sword 
 
 The strongest city, Prague, that fire and 
 
 Have skimm'd it lightly : so that now, 
 
 besides 
 Its own exuberance, it hears double value 
 Confronted with whole realms far and near 
 Made deserts. 
 
 Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 
 
 Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would 
 say so — ^but. 
 As I have said, you shall. 
 
 Ulr. I accept the omen. 
 
 Stral. Then claim a recompense from it 
 and me, 
 Such as both may make worthy your 
 
 acceptance 
 .■Vnd services to me and mine for ever. 
 Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable 
 wretch — 
 This way-worn stranger — stands between 
 
 you and 
 This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
 The devil and his) — [Aside]. 
 Stral. He doth. 
 
 Ulr. Hath he no right ? 
 
 Stral. Right ! none. A disinherited 
 prodigal, 
 Who for these twenty years disgraced his 
 
 lineage 
 In all his acts— but chiefly by his marriage. 
 And living amidst commerce-fetching 
 
 burghers. 
 And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 
 Ulr He has a wife, then ? 
 Stral. You 'd be sorry to 
 
 CaU such your mother. You have seen 
 
 the woman 
 He calls his wife. 
 
 Ulr, Is she not so ? 
 
 Stral. ^'-' more 
 
 Than he 's your father : — an Italian girl. 
 The daughter of a banish'd man, who 
 
 lives 
 On love and poverty with this same 
 Werner. 
 Ulr. They are childless, then ? 
 Stral. There is or was a bastard, 
 
 Whom the old man— the grandsire (as old 
 
 age 
 Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom. 
 As it went chilly downward to the grave ; 
 But the imp stands not in my path— he 
 has fled, , .., , j ^ 
 
 No one knows whither ; and if he had not, 
 His claims alone were too contemptible 
 To stand. — Why do you smile ? 
 
 jjlf At your vain fears : 
 
 A poor man almost in his grasp— a child 
 Of doubtful birth— can startle a grandee ! 
 Stral. All 's to be fear'd, where all is to 
 
 be gain'd. 
 Ulr. True ; and aught done to save or 
 to obtain it. 
 
5M 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Stral. You have liarp'd the very string 
 next to my heart. 
 I may depend upon you ? 
 
 Ulr. 'T were too late 
 
 To doubt it. 
 
 Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 
 
 Your bosom (for the appearance of the 
 
 man 
 Is pitiful) — he is a ^vretch, as likely 
 To have robb'd me as thefello'.v more sus- 
 pected, 
 Except that circumstance is less against 
 
 him ; 
 He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
 Without approach to mine ; and, to say 
 
 truth, 
 I think too well of blood alUed to mine, 
 To deem he would descend to such an act : 
 Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
 Once — though too rash. 
 
 Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 
 
 By our experience, never plunder till 
 They knock the brains out first — wliich 
 
 makes them heirs, 
 Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, 
 
 can lose nothing. 
 Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a 
 
 bequest — 
 No more. 
 
 Siral. Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
 I may be sure }'Ou '11 keep an eye on this 
 
 man, 
 And let me know his slightest movement 
 
 towards 
 Concealment or escape ? 
 
 Ulr. You may be sure 
 
 You vourself could not watch him more 
 
 than I 
 Will be his sentinel. 
 
 Stral. By this you make me 
 
 Yours, and for ever. 
 
 Ulr. Such is my intention. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene I. — .i Hall in the same Palace, from 
 whence the secret Passage leads. 
 
 Enter Werner and Gabor. 
 
 Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so 
 please you 
 To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
 If,not, I '11 try my fortune elsewhere. 
 
 HV?. How 
 
 Can I, so wretched, give to Miserv 
 A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 
 As e'er the hunted deer a covert 
 
 Gab. Or 
 
 The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
 You rather look lilve one would turn at bay. 
 And rip the hunter's entrails. 
 
 Wer. Ah ! 
 
 Gab. I care not 
 
 If it be sn, being much disposed to do 
 
 The same myself. But will you shelter 
 
 me ? 
 I am oppress'd like you — and poor like 
 you — 
 
 Disgraced 
 
 Wer. (abruptly). Who told you that I 
 
 was disgraced ? 
 Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : 
 with 
 Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
 I said / was so — and would add, with truth, 
 .\i undeservedly as you. 
 
 Wer. Again ! 
 
 As I ? 
 
 Gab. Or any other honest man. 
 What the devil would you have ? You 
 
 don't believe me 
 Guilty of this base theft ? 
 
 Wer. No, no — I cannot. 
 
 Gab. Why that 's my heart of honour ! 
 
 yon young gallant — 
 
 Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
 
 All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
 
 I am the worst clothed, and least named 
 
 amongst them ; 
 Although, were Momus' lattice in your 
 
 breasts. 
 My soul might brook to open it more widely 
 Than theirs : but thus it is — 5'ou poor and 
 
 helpless — 
 Both still more than myself. 
 
 Wer. How knew you that ? 
 
 Gab. You 're right : I ask for shelter at 
 
 the hand 
 
 Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
 
 I were \-ie\\ paid. But you, who seem to 
 
 have proved 
 The wholesome bitterness of life, know 
 
 weU, 
 By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
 Of the New World the Spaniard boasts 
 
 about 
 Could never tempt the man n-ho knows its 
 
 worth 
 Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 
 Save in such guise (and there I grant its 
 
 power. 
 Because I feel it,) as may leave no night- 
 mare 
 Upon his heart o' nights. 
 
 !''«'•■ ^\■hat do vou mean ? 
 
 Gab. Just what I say ; I thought my 
 speech was plain ; 
 You are no thief — nor I — and. as true men. 
 Should aid each other. 
 
 " ^ It is a damn'd world, sir. 
 
 Gab. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
 
 The priests sa\- (and no doubt thev should 
 
 know best), 
 Therefore I '11 stick bv this— as being loth 
 To suffer mart>Tdom, at least with such 
 -■Vn epitaph as 'larceny upon mv tomb. 
 If is but a night's lodgi^ig which I .-rave ; 
 T. '-morrow I will trv the waters, as 
 
WERNER 
 
 545 
 
 The dove did, trusting that they have 
 abated. 
 Wer. Abated ? Is there hope of that ? 
 Gab. There was 
 
 At noontide. 
 
 Wer. Then we may be safe. 
 Gab. Arc you 
 
 In peril ? 
 
 Wer. Poverty is ever so. 
 Gab. That I know by long practice. Will 
 you not 
 Promise to make mine less ? 
 
 Wer. Your poverty ? 
 
 Gab. No — you don't look a leech for 
 that disorder ; 
 t meant my peril only : you 've a roof, 
 And I have none ; I merely seek a covert . 
 Wer. Rightly ; for how should such a 
 wretch as I 
 Have gold ? 
 
 Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth 
 on 't, ' [baron's. 
 
 Although I almost wish you had the 
 Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 
 Gab. What ? 
 
 Wer. Are you aware 
 
 To whom you speak ? 
 
 Gab. No ; and I am not used 
 
 Greatly to care. {A noise heard without.) 
 But hark ! they come ! 
 Wer. Who come ? 
 
 Gab. The intendant and his man- 
 hounds after me : 
 I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
 Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall 
 
 I go? 
 But show me any place. I do assure you, 
 If there be faith in man, I am most guilt- 
 less : 
 Think if it were your own case ! 
 
 Wer. (aside). Oh, just God ! 
 
 Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still? 
 Gab. I see you 're moved ; and it shows 
 well in you : 
 I may live to requite it. 
 
 ]Ver. ^^ y°^ '^°' 
 
 A spy of Stralenheim's ? 
 
 Gai Not I ! and if 
 
 I were, what is there to espy m you ? 
 Although, I recollect, his frequent question 
 About you and your spouse might lead to 
 
 some 
 Suspicion ; but you best know— what— and 
 
 why. 
 I am his deadliest foe. 
 
 Wer. '^'o" • 
 
 Gab. 
 
 After such 
 
 A treatment for the service v/hich m part 
 
 I render'd him, I am his enemy ; 
 
 If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 
 
 Wer. I will. 
 
 Gab. But how ? ^^ , . 
 
 Wer. (showing the panel). There is a 
 secret spring : 
 
 Remember, I discover'd it by chance. 
 And used it but for safety. 
 
 Gab. Open it. 
 
 And I will use it for the same. 
 
 Wer. I found it. 
 
 As I have said : it leads through winding 
 
 walls, 
 (So thick as to bear paths within their ribs. 
 Yet lose no jot of strength or statelincss,) 
 And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
 I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
 Give me your word. 
 
 Gab. It is unnecessary : 
 
 How should I make my way in darkness 
 
 through 
 A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 
 Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place 
 it may lead ? 
 /know not — (mark you !) — ^but who knows 
 
 it might not 
 Lead even into the chamber of your foe ? 
 So strangely were contrived these galleries 
 By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
 \Vhen man built less against the elements 
 Than his next neighbour. You must not 
 
 advance 
 Beyond the two first windings ; if you do 
 (Albeit I never pass'd them), I '11 not 
 
 answer 
 For what you may be led to. 
 
 Gab. But I will. 
 
 ,\ thousand thanks ! 
 
 Wer. You '11 find the spring more obvious 
 On the other side ; and, when you would 
 
 return. 
 It yields to the least touch. 
 
 Gab. I '11 in — farewell ! 
 
 [Gabor goes in by the secret panel. 
 
 Wer. (solus). What have I done ? ,\las ! 
 
 what had I done 
 
 Before to make this fearful ? Let it be 
 
 Still some atonement that I save the man. 
 
 Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my 
 
 own — 
 They come ! to seek elsewhere what is 
 'before them ! 
 
 Enter Idenstein and Others. 
 
 Iden. Is he not here ? He must have 
 
 vanish'd then 
 Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid 
 Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow 
 Casements, through which the sunset 
 
 streams like sunrise 
 On long pearl-colour'd beards and crimson 
 
 crosses, 
 And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and 
 
 cowls. 
 And helms, and twisted armour, and long 
 
 swords. 
 All the fantastic furniture of windows 
 DiiTj -vith brave knights and holy hermits, 
 
 whose 
 I Likpness and fame alike rest in some panes 
 
54t 
 
 DRA-AIAS 
 
 Of crj'stal, which each rattling wind pro- 
 claims 
 As frail as any other life or glory. 
 He 's gone, however. 
 
 Wer. Whom do you seek ? 
 
 J den. A villain. 
 
 Wer. Why need you come so far, then ? 
 
 Idcii. In the search 
 
 Of him who robb'd the baron. 
 
 Wer. Are you sure 
 
 You have divined the man ? 
 
 Iden. As sure as you 
 
 Stand there : but where 's he gone ? 
 
 Wer. Who ? 
 
 Iden. He we sought. 
 
 Wer. You see he is not here. 
 
 Iden. And yet we traced him 
 
 Up to this hall. Are 5'ou accomplices ? 
 Or deal you in the black art ? 
 
 Wer. I deal plainly, 
 
 To many men the blackest. 
 
 Iden. It may be 
 
 I have a question or two for yourself 
 Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
 Our search for t' other. 
 
 Wer. You had best begin 
 
 Your inquisition now : I may not be 
 So patient always. 
 
 Iden. I should like to know, 
 
 In good sooth, if you really are the man 
 That Stralenheim 's in quest of. 
 
 Wer. Insolent ! 
 
 Said you not that he was not here ? 
 
 Iden. Yes, one ; 
 
 But there 's another whom he tracks more 
 
 keenly. 
 And soon, if may be, with authority 
 Both paramount to his and mine. But, 
 
 come ! 
 Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 
 
 [Exit Idexstein' and Attendants. 
 
 Wer. In what 
 
 A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
 And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
 The leaving undone one far greater. Dowb, 
 Thou busy devil, rising in my heart ! 
 Thou art too late ! I '11 nought to do with 
 blood. 
 
 Enter Ulric. 
 
 Ulr. I sought you, father. 
 
 Wer. Is 't not dangerous ? 
 
 Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of aU 
 Or any of the ties between us : more — 
 He sends me here a spy upon your actions. 
 Deeming me wholly his. 
 
 Wer. I cannot think it : 
 
 'T is but a snare he winds about us both, 
 To swoop the sire and son at once. 
 
 t'lr. I cannot 
 
 Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
 
 The doubts that rise like briers in our path, 
 
 But must break through them, as an un- 
 
 arm'd carle 
 
 Would, though with naked limbs, were the 
 
 wolf rustling 
 In the same thicket where he hew'd for 
 
 bread. 
 Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught 
 
 so : 
 We '11 overfly or rend them. 
 
 Wer. Show me how ? 
 
 Ulr. Can you not guess ? 
 Wer. I cannot. 
 
 Ulr. That is strange. 
 
 Came the thought ne'er into yoiur mind 
 last luj^ht ? 
 Wer. I understand you not. 
 Ulr. Then we shall never 
 
 More understand each other. But to 
 change 
 
 The topic 
 
 Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 
 
 'T is of our safety. 
 
 Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 
 
 I see the subject now more clearly, and 
 Our general situation in its bearings. 
 The waters are abating ; a few hours 
 Will bring his summon'd mj-rmidons from 
 
 Frankfort, 
 When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 
 And I an outcast, bastardised by practice 
 Of this same baron to make way for him. 
 Wer. And now yom: remedy ! I thought 
 to escape 
 By means of this accrursed gold ; but now 
 I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
 Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
 For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
 And, for the sovereign's head, my own 
 
 begirt 
 With hissing snakes, which curl around my 
 
 temples. 
 And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain ! 
 [7; . You must not use it, at least now ; 
 but take 
 This ring. [He gives Werxer a iewel. 
 
 Wer. .A gem ! It was mv father's ! 
 Ulr. ' And 
 
 As such IS now your own. With this x'ou 
 
 must 
 Bribe the iutendant for his old caleche 
 And horses to pursue your route at sunrise. 
 Together with my mother. 
 ^ '^'^'■- And leave you, 
 
 So lately found, in peril too ? 
 
 '^''■- Feair nothing ! 
 
 The only fear were if we fled together, 
 For that would make our ties beyond all 
 
 doubt. 
 The waters only lie in flood between 
 This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our 
 
 favour. 
 The route on to Bohemia, though encum- 
 
 ber'd, 
 Is not impassable ; and when vou gain 
 A few hours' start, the difiiculties will be 
 The same to your pursuers. Once beyom! 
 
WERNER 
 
 547 
 
 The frontier, and you 're safe. 
 
 ^^f"- My noble boy ! 
 
 Ulr. Hush ! hush ! no transports : we '11 
 indulge in them 
 In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold ! 
 Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 
 And have look'd through him) : it will 
 
 answer thus 
 A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
 No jewel : therefore it could not be his ; 
 And then the man who was possest of this 
 Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
 The baron's coin, when he could thus con- 
 vert 
 This ring to more than Stralenheim has 
 
 lost 
 By his last night's slumber. Be not over 
 
 timid 
 In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
 And Idenstein will serve you. 
 
 Wer. I will follow 
 
 In all things your direction. 
 
 Ulr. I would have 
 
 Spared you the trouble ; but had I ap- 
 
 pear'd 
 To take an interest in you, and still more 
 By dabbling with a jewel in your favour. 
 All had been known at once. 
 
 Wer, My guardian angel ! 
 
 This overpays the past. But how wilt 
 
 thou 
 Fare in our absence ? 
 
 Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 
 
 Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
 I will but wait a day or two with him 
 To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my 
 father. 
 
 Wer. To part no more ! 
 
 Ulr. I know not that ; but at 
 
 The least we '11 meet again once more. 
 
 Wer. My boy ! 
 
 My friend ! my only child, and sole pre- 
 server ! 
 Oh, do not hate me ! 
 
 Ulr. Hate my father ! 
 
 Wer. Ay, 
 
 My father hated me. Why not my son ? 
 
 Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 
 
 Wer. Scorpions 
 
 Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in 
 
 this guise 
 Thou canst not know me, I am not myself ; 
 Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 
 
 Ulr. I 'U wait ! 
 
 In the mean time be sure that all a son 
 Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 
 
 Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
 Further — that you despise me. 
 
 Ulr. Wherefore should I ? 
 
 Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 
 
 Ulr. No ! 
 
 I have fathom'd it and you. But let us 
 
 talk 
 Of this no more. Or of it must be ever, 
 
 Not now. Your error has redoubled all 
 The present difficulties of our house. 
 At secret war with that of Stralenheim : 
 All we have now to think of is to baffle 
 Him. I have shown one way. 
 
 W«''- The only one, 
 
 And I embrace it, as I did my son, 
 Who show'd himself and father's safety in 
 One day. 
 
 Ulr. You shall be safe ; let that suffice. 
 Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bo- 
 hemia 
 Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
 Admitted to our lands ? 
 
 Wer. Assuredly, 
 
 Situate as we are now, although the first 
 Possessor might, as usual, prove the strong- 
 est. 
 Especially the next in blood. 
 
 Ulr. Blood ! 't is 
 
 A word of many meanings ; in the veins. 
 And out of them, it is a different thing — 
 And so it should be, when the same in blood 
 (As it is call'd) are aliens to each other. 
 Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 
 A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 
 Wer. I do not apprehend you. 
 Ulr. That may be — 
 
 And should, perhaps — and yet — but get 
 
 ye ready ; 
 You and my mother must away to-night. 
 Here comes the intendant : sound him with 
 
 the gem ; 
 'T will sink into his venal soul like lead 
 Into the deep, and bring up slirne and mud. 
 And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead 
 
 doth 
 With its greased understratum ; but no less 
 Will serve to warn our vessels through 
 
 these shoals. 
 The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 
 Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your 
 hand, 
 
 My father ! 
 
 Wer. Let me embrace thee ! 
 
 Ulr. We may be 
 
 Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 
 Keep off from me as from your foe ! 
 
 ]yer^ Accursed 
 
 Be he who is the stifling cause which 
 
 smothers 
 The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts ; 
 At such an hour too ! 
 
 Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 
 
 Here is the intendant. 
 
 Enter Idenstein. 
 
 Master Idenstein, 
 How fare you in your purpose ? Have you 
 
 caught 
 The rogue ? 
 
 Iden. No, faith ! 
 
 Ulr Well, there are plenty more : 
 
 You may have better luck another chase. 
 
548 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 \\'her ; is the baron ? 
 
 hicn. Gone back to his chamber : 
 
 And now I think on 't, asking after you 
 With nobly-born impatience. 
 
 Ulr. Your great men 
 
 Must be answer'd on the instant, as the 
 
 bound 
 Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 
 'T is well they have horses, too ; for if they 
 
 had not, 
 I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
 They say kings did Sesostris. 
 
 Iden. Who was he ? 
 
 Vlr. An old Bohemian — an imperial 
 
 gipsy. 
 Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, *t is the 
 same. 
 For they pass by both names. And was he 
 one ? 
 Ulr. I' ve heard so ; but I must take 
 leave. Intendant, 
 Your servant ! — Werner (to Werner 
 
 slightly), if that be your name. 
 Yours. [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young 
 man ! 
 And prettily behaved ! He knows his 
 
 station. 
 You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
 Precedence ! 
 
 V/er. I perceix-ed it, and applaud 
 
 His just discernment and your own. 
 
 Iden. That 's well- 
 
 That 's very well. You also know j'our 
 
 place, too : 
 And yet I don't know that I know your 
 place. 
 Wer. (showing the ring). Would this 
 
 assist your knowledge ? 
 Iden. How !— What !— Eh ! 
 
 A jewel ! 
 
 Wer. *T is your own on one condition. 
 Iden. Mine ! — Name it ! 
 Wer. That hereafter you permit me 
 
 At thrice its value to redeem it : 't is 
 A family ring. 
 
 Iden. A family ! — yours ! — a gem ! 
 I 'm breathless ! 
 
 Wer. You must also furnish me. 
 
 An hour ere daybreak, with all means to 
 
 quit 
 This place. 
 
 Iden. But is it real? Let me look on it : 
 Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 
 
 Wer. Come, I '11 trust you : 
 
 You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was 
 
 born above 
 My present seeming. 
 
 Iden. 1 can't say I did, 
 
 Though this looks like it : this is the true 
 
 breeding 
 Of gentle blood ! 
 
 Wer. I have important reasons 
 
 Uov i.vishing to continue privily 
 
 My journey hence. 
 
 Iden. So then you are the man 
 
 Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of ? 
 
 Wer. I am not ; 
 
 But being taken for him might conduct 
 I So much embarrassment to me just now. 
 And to the baron's self hereafter — 't is 
 To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 
 Iden. Be you the man or no, 't is not my 
 business ; 
 Besides, I never could obtain the half 
 From this proud, niggardly noble, who 
 
 would raise 
 The countn,' for some missing bits of coin, 
 And never offer a precise reward — 
 But this ! — another look ! 
 
 Wer. Gaze on it freely ; 
 
 At day-dawn it is yours. 
 
 Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 
 
 Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
 Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself ! 
 Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou load- 
 star of 
 The soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
 All hearts point dul;' north, like trembling 
 
 needles ! 
 Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, 
 
 sitting 
 High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
 More worship than the majesty who sweats 
 Beneath the crown which makes his head 
 
 ache, like 
 Mtlhons of hearts which bleed to lend it 
 
 lustre ! 
 Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, 
 
 already 
 A little king, a lucky alchymist ! — 
 A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
 \Vithout the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
 ^^'f■^ne^, or what else ? 
 
 Wer. Call me Werner still ; 
 
 You may yet know me by a loftier title. 
 Iden . I do believe in thee ! thou art the 
 spirit 
 Of whom I long have dream'd in a low 
 
 garb. — 
 But come, I '11 serve thee ; thou shalt be as 
 
 free 
 
 As air, despite the waters ; let us hence : 
 
 I I '11 show thee I am honest — (oh, thou 
 
 I je"'el !) [means 
 
 1 Thou shalt be furnish'd. Werner, with such 
 
 Offlight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
 
 i Should overtake thee. — T,et uie gaze again ! 
 
 I have a foster-brother in the mart 
 
 Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones. 
 
 How many 
 Carats may it 'weigh ?— Come, Werner, I 
 will wing thee. [Exeunt 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Stralenheim's Chamber. 
 Stralenheim and Fritz. 
 Frit:. .AH 's ready, my good lord ! 
 
WERNER 
 
 549 
 
 Stral. I am not sleepy, 
 
 And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
 To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
 Too dull fi)r wakefulness, too quick for 
 
 slumber, 
 Sits on me as a cloud along the sk>-. 
 Which will not let the sunbeams thr.jugh, 
 
 nor yet 
 Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
 'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between 
 
 man 
 And man, an everlasting mist : — I will 
 Unto my pillow. 
 Fritz. May you rest there well ! 
 
 Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 
 Friiz. And wherefore fear ? 
 
 Stral. I know not why, and therefore do 
 fear more. 
 Because an undescribable — but 't is 
 All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
 Changed, to-day, of this chamber ? for last 
 
 night's 
 Adventure makes it needful. 
 
 Fritz. Certainly, 
 
 According to your order, and beneath 
 The inspection of myself and the young 
 
 Saxon 
 Who saved your Ufe. I think they call 
 him " Ulric." 
 Stral. You think ! you supercilious slave ! 
 What right 
 Have you to tax your memory, which 
 
 should be 
 Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
 Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
 Whose daily repetition mai'ks your duty.— 
 Get hence ! " Vow think" indeed ! you, who 
 
 stood still 
 Howling and drippling on the bank, whilst 
 
 Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 
 The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
 Thank him — and despise you. " You 
 
 think ! " and scarce 
 Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
 More words on you. Call me betimes. 
 Fritz. Good night ! 
 
 I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
 To renovated strength and temper. 
 
 [The scene closes. 
 
 Scene III. 
 The secret Passage. 
 Gab. {solus). Four — 
 
 Five — six hoiurs have I counted, like the 
 
 guard 
 Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
 That hollow tongue of time, which, even 
 
 when 
 It sounds for joy, takes something from en- 
 joyment 
 With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell. 
 Though for a marriage-feast it rings : each 
 stroke 
 
 Peals for a hope the less ; the funeral notp 
 Ut Love deep-buried without resiurrection 
 In the gra\e of Possession ; while the knoll 
 Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
 To triple Time in the son's ear. 
 y, , I 'ni cold — 
 
 1 m dark ; — I 've blown my fingers — num- 
 
 ber'd o'er 
 And o'er my steps — and knock'd rny head 
 
 against 
 Some fifty buttresses— and roused the rats 
 And bats in general insurrection, till 
 Their cursed pattering feet and whirling 
 
 wings 
 Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
 A light ! It is at distance (if 1 can 
 Measure in darkness distance) : but it 
 
 blinks 
 As through a crevice or a key-hole, in 
 The inhibited direction : I must on. 
 Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
 A distant lamp-light is an incident 
 In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it 
 
 lead me 
 To nothing that may tempt me ! Else — 
 
 Heaven aid me 
 To obtain or to escape it ! Shining still ! 
 Were it the star of Lucifer himself, 
 Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
 Contain no longer. Softly : mighty well ! 
 That corner's turh'd — so — ah ! no ; — right ! 
 
 it draws 
 Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so. 
 That 's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Sup- 
 pose it leads 
 Into some greater danger than that which 
 I have escaped — no matter, 't is a new one ; 
 And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 
 Wear more magnetic aspects ; — I will on, 
 And be it where it may — I have my da,gger 
 Which may protect me at a pinch. — Bum 
 
 still. 
 Thou little hght ! Thou art my ignis 
 
 fatuus ! 
 My stationary^ Will-o'-the-wisp ! — So ! so ! 
 He hears my' invocation, and fails not. 
 [The scene closes. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 A Garden. 
 
 Enter Werner. 
 
 Wer. I could not sleep — and now the 
 
 hour 's at hand ; 
 All 's ready. Idenstein has kept his word ; 
 And station'd in the outskirts of the town. 
 Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
 Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
 To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
 Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, 
 
 never 
 Shall I forget them. Here I came most 
 
 poor, 
 But not dishonour'd ; and I leave them 
 
 with 
 
55° 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
 My heart ! — a never-dying canker-worm. 
 Which all the coming splendour of the 
 
 lands, 
 And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
 Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find 
 Same means of restitution, which would 
 
 ease 
 My soul in part : but how without dis- 
 covery ? — 
 It must be done, however ; and I '11 pause 
 Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
 The madness of my misery led to this 
 Base infamy ; repentance must retrie-s-e 
 
 it : 
 I will have nought of Stralenheim's upon 
 . My spirit, though he would grasp all of 
 mine ; 
 Lands, freedom, life — and yet he sleeps 
 
 as sodndly, 
 Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous cur- 
 tains 
 Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows, 
 
 Such as when Hark ! what noise is 
 
 that ? Again ! 
 The branches shake ; and some loose stones 
 
 have fallen 
 From yonder terrace. 
 
 [Ulric leaps down from the terrace. 
 Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
 
 Thrice welcome now ! this filial 
 
 Ulr. Stop ! Before 
 
 We approach, tell me 
 
 Wer. Why look you so ? 
 
 Ulr. Do I 
 
 Behold my father, or — — 
 
 Wer. What ? 
 
 Ulr. An assassin ? 
 
 Wer. Insane or insolent ! 
 Ulr. R^ply, sir, as 
 
 You prize your life, or mine ! 
 
 Wer. To what must I 
 
 Answer ? 
 
 Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
 Of Stralenheim ? 
 
 Wer. I was never- as yet 
 
 The murderer of any man. What mean 
 you ? 
 Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night 
 before) 
 Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 
 Alain revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? 
 
 and 
 
 [Ulric pauses. 
 Wer. Proceed. 
 
 Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 
 
 Wer. Great God ! 
 
 Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my 
 father 's innocent ! 
 Embrace me ! Yes, — your tone — -your 
 
 look — yes, yes, — 
 \'et say so. 
 
 Wer If I e'er, in heart or mind, 
 
 Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
 
 But rather strove to trample back to hell 
 Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a mo- 
 ment through 
 The irritation of my oppressed spirit- 
 May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes, 
 As from mine eyes ! 
 
 L'Lr. But Stralenheim is dead. 
 
 Wer. "t is horrible ! 't is hideous, as't is 
 hateful ! — 
 But what I have to do with this ? 
 
 Ulr. No bolt 
 
 Is forced ; no violence can be detected. 
 Save on his body. Part of his own house- 
 hold 
 Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
 Absent, I took upon myself the care 
 Of mustering the police. His chamber 
 
 has. 
 Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse 
 me, 
 
 If nature 
 
 Wer. Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 
 Of dark fataUty, like clouds, are gathering 
 Above our house ! 
 
 Ulr. My father ! I acquit you ! 
 
 But will the world do so ? will even the 
 judge, 
 
 If But you must away this instant. 
 
 Wer. No ! 
 
 I '11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 
 Ulr. Yet 
 
 You had »o guests — no visitors — ^no life 
 Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 
 Wer. Ah ! 
 
 The Hungarian ! 
 
 Ulr. He is gone .' he disappear'd 
 
 Ere simset. 
 
 Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 
 
 Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 
 
 Ulr. There I'll find him 
 
 [Ulric is going. 
 Wer. It is too late : he had left the 
 palace ere 
 Iquittedit. I found the secret panel 
 Open, and the doors which lead from that 
 
 hall 
 Which masks it : I but thought he had 
 
 snatch'd the silent 
 And favourable moment to escape 
 The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
 Dogging him yester-even. 
 
 Ulr. You reclosed 
 
 The panel ? 
 
 Wer. Yes ; and not mthout reproach 
 (And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
 At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
 His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
 Of a discovery. 
 
 Ulr. You are sure you closed it ? 
 
 Wer. Certain. 
 
 Ulr. That 's well ; but had been better, if 
 
 You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for 
 
 [He pauses. 
 
Wer. 
 
 Thieves ! 
 
 Thou wouldst say : 1 must bear it, and 
 deserve it ; 
 
 But not 
 
 UIt. No, father ; do not speak of this : 
 This is no hour to think of petty crimes, 
 But to prevent the consequence of great 
 
 ones, 
 ffliy should you shelter this man ? 
 
 Wer. Could I shun it ? 
 
 A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
 For my own crime : a victim to fiiy safety. 
 Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
 The very wretch who was the cause he 
 needed [not 
 
 Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could 
 Have in such circumstances thrust him 
 forth. 
 Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid 
 you. But 
 It is "too late to ponder thus : — you must 
 Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
 Trace the murderer, if 't is possible. 
 Wer. But this my sudden flight will 
 give the IMoloch 
 Suspicion : two new victims in the lieu 
 Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
 
 Who seems the culprit, and 
 
 Ulr. Who seems ? Who else 
 
 Can be so ? 
 
 Wer. Not /, though just now you 
 doubted — 
 
 You, my sort ! — doubted 
 
 jjlr^ And do you doubt of hrni 
 
 The fugitive ? 
 
 ^rgf. ' Boy ! since I fell mto 
 
 The abyss of crime (though not of such 
 
 crime), I, 
 Having seen the innocent oppress d tor me. 
 May doubt even of the g.uilty's guilt. Your 
 
 heart . ^, ^ 
 
 Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to 
 
 accuse 
 Appearances ; and views a crimmal 
 In Innocence's shadow, it may be. 
 Because 't is dusky. , ., , ^ 
 
 jjlf. And if I do so. 
 
 What' will mankind, who know you not, 
 
 or knew ^ ^ , ^, 
 
 But to oppress ? You must not stand the 
 
 hazard, 
 ^.^ay '—I '11 make all easy. Idenstem 
 Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
 His peace — he also is a partner in 
 
 Your flight— moreover 
 
 Wer Fly '■ and leave my nanie 
 
 Linlied with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd 
 
 as poorest, * , , , , 
 
 To bear the brand of bloodshed .' 
 
 Uly Pshaw ! leave any thing 
 
 E*cept our fathers' sovereignty and castles, 
 Fo'r which you have so long panted, and m 
 vain ! 
 
 WERNER 551 
 
 What name? You have no name, since 
 
 that you bear 
 Is feign'd. 
 
 Wer. Most true : but still I would not 
 have it 
 Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 
 Though in this most obscure abode of 
 men — 
 
 Besides, the search • 
 
 Ulr. I will provide against 
 
 Aught that can touch you. No one knows 
 
 you here 
 As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 
 Suspects, 't is but suspicion, and he is 
 A fool : his folly shall have such employ- 
 ment, 
 Too, that the unknown Werner shall give 
 
 way 
 To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if 
 
 e'er 
 Laws reacb'd this village) are all in abey- 
 ance 
 With the late general war of thirty years. 
 Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 
 To which the march of armies trampled 
 
 them. 
 Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
 Here, save as such — without lands, influ- 
 ence. 
 Save what hath perish'd with him. Few 
 
 prolong 
 A week beyond their funeral rites their 
 
 sway 
 O'er men, unless by relatives, whose mterest 
 Is roused : such is not here the case ; he 
 
 died 
 Alone, unknown,— a solitary grave. 
 Obscure as his deserts, without ascutcheon, 
 Is all he '11 have, or wants. If / discover 
 The assassin, 't will be well— if not, believe 
 
 None else ; though all the full-fed train of 
 
 menials 
 May howl above his ashes (as they did 
 Around him in his danger on the Oder), 
 Will no more stir a finger now than iheiu 
 Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your 
 
 answer. — Look! 
 The stars are almost faded, and the grey 
 Begins to grizzle the black hair of night 
 You shall not answer :— Pardon me that I 
 Am peremptory ; 't is your son that speaks 
 Youi long- lost, late-found son.— Let scaU 
 
 mv mother ! , , ,, , 
 
 Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
 To me: I'll answer for the event as far 
 As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
 Xl ml first duty, which shall be observed. 
 We^llmeet in Castle Siegendorf-once 
 
 Our tanners shall be glorious ! Think of 
 
 Alont and leaNe aU other thoughts to me, 
 
SS2 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Whose youth may better battle with them 
 
 — Hence ! 
 And may your age be happy ! — I will kiss 
 My mother once more, then Heaven's 
 speed be with you ! 
 Wer. This counsel 's safe — but is it 
 
 honourable ? 
 Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief 
 honour. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I. — A Gothic Hall in the Castle 
 of Siegendorf, near Prague. 
 
 Enter Eric and Henrick, Retainers of the 
 Count. 
 
 Eric. So, better times are come at last ; 
 to these 
 Old walls new masters and high wassail — 
 
 both 
 A long desideratum. 
 
 Hen. Yes, for masters. 
 
 It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
 Though made by a new grave : but as for 
 
 wassail, 
 Methinks the old Count Siegendorf main- 
 tain' d 
 His feudal hospitality as high 
 As e'er another prince of the empire. 
 
 Eric. Why 
 
 For the mere cup and trencher, we no 
 
 doubt 
 Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
 And sport, without which salt and sauces 
 
 season 
 The cheer but scantily, our siziugs were 
 Even of the narrowest. 
 
 Hen. The old count loved not 
 
 The roar of revel ; are you sure that this 
 does ? 
 Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as 
 he 's bounteous. 
 And we all love him. 
 
 Hen. His reign is as vet 
 
 Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
 And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
 Anon, we shall perceive his real swav 
 And moods of mind. 
 
 Eiic. Pray Heaven he keep the present ! 
 Then his brave son, Count Ulric — there 's 
 
 a knight ! 
 P)tv the wars are o'er ! 
 
 Hen. Why so ? 
 
 Eiic. Look on him ! 
 
 And answer that yourself. 
 
 Hen. He 's very youthful. 
 
 And stron.g and beautiful as a voung tiger. 
 
 Elk. That 's not a faithful vassal's 
 
 likeness. 
 Hen. But 
 
 Perhaps a true one. 
 
 Eric. Pity, as I said. 
 
 The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
 Count Ulric for a well-supported pride, 
 Which awes, but vet offends not ? in the 
 
 field, 
 Who like him with his spear in hand, 
 
 when, gnashing 
 His tusks, ripping up from right to left 
 The howling hounds, the boar makes for 
 
 the thicket ? 
 
 or bears a hawk, or 
 Whose plimie nods 
 
 Who backs a horse, 
 
 wears 
 A sword like him ? 
 knightlier ? 
 Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not 
 fear, if war 
 Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
 Will make it for myself, if he hath not 
 Already done as much. 
 
 Eric. What do you mean ? 
 
 Hen. You can't deny his train of fol- 
 lowers 
 (But few our native fellow- vassals born 
 On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
 
 As [Pauses. 
 
 Eric. What ? 
 
 Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves 
 Uving. 
 Like other parents, she spoils her worst 
 children. 
 Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave iron- 
 visaged fellows. 
 Such as old TiUy loved. 
 
 Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 
 
 Ask that at Madgebourg — or for that 
 matter 
 
 Wallenstein either ; — thev are gone to 
 
 Eric. Rest ! 
 
 But what beyond 't is not ours to pronounce. 
 
 Hen. I wish they had left us something 
 
 of their rest ; 
 
 The country (nominally now at peace) 
 
 Is over-run with — God knows who : thev 
 
 fly 
 By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
 Leave us no less desolation, nay. even more, 
 Than the most open warfare. 
 
 Eric. But Count Ulric— 
 
 What has all this to do with him ? 
 
 Hen. ',\-ith him ! 
 
 He might pre\-ent it. As you sav he 's 
 
 fond 
 Of war, why makes he it not on those 
 marauders ? 
 Eric. You 'd better ask himself. 
 Hen. I would as soon 
 
 Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 
 Eric. .\nd here he comes ! 
 Hen. The devil ! -you '11 hold vour 
 
 tongue ? 
 Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 
 
 _ ^;','' "T is nothing — but 
 
 Be silent. 
 
 Eric. I will, upon what you have said. 
 
WERNER 
 
 Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — 
 a mere sport 
 Of words, no more ; besides, had it been 
 
 otherwise. 
 He is to espouse the gentle Baroness 
 Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress ; 
 And she, no doubt, will soften whatsocx'er 
 Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
 Have given all natures, and most unto those 
 Who were bom in them, and bred up upon 
 The Imees of Homicide ; sprinlded, as it 
 
 were. 
 With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, 
 
 peace 
 On all that I have said ! 
 
 Enter Ulric and Rodolph, 
 
 Good morrow, count. 
 Vlr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. 
 Eric, is 
 All ready for the chase ? 
 
 Eric. The dogs are order' d 
 
 Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
 To beat the bushes, and the day looks 
 
 promising. 
 Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
 What courser will you please to mount ? 
 Ulr. The dun, 
 
 Walstein. 
 
 Eric. I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
 The toils of Monday : 't was a noble chase : 
 You spear'd four with your own hand. 
 
 Ulr. True, good Eric ; 
 
 I had forgotten — ^let it be the grey, then. 
 Old Ziska : he has not been out this fort- 
 night. 
 Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. 
 How many 
 Of your immediate retainers shall 
 Escort you ? 
 
 Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgh. our 
 Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 
 
 Rodolph ! 
 Rod. My lord ! 
 
 Ulr. The news 
 
 Is awkward from the 
 
 [Rodolph points to Henrick. 
 How now, Henrick ? why 
 Loiter you here ? 
 Hen. For your commands, my lord. 
 Ulr. Go to my father, and present my 
 duty. 
 And learn if he would aught with me before 
 I mount. [Exit Henrick. 
 
 Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
 Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
 'Tis rumour' d that the column sent against 
 
 them 
 Is to be strengthen' d. I must join them 
 soon. 
 Rod. Best wait for further and more 
 
 sure advices. 
 Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not 
 well 
 Have fallen out at » time more opposite 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 553 
 
 -keep the forests on 
 
 To all my plans. 
 
 Rod. It will be difficult 
 
 To excuse your absence to the count your 
 father. 
 Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our 
 domain 
 In high Silesia will permit and cover 
 My journey. In the mean time, when we 
 
 are 
 Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty 
 
 men 
 Whom Wolffe leads- 
 
 your route i 
 You know it well ? 
 Rod. As well as on that night 
 
 When we 
 
 Ulr. We will not speak of that until 
 We can repeat the same with like success : 
 And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg 
 this letter. 
 
 [Gives a letter. 
 Add further, that I have sent this slight 
 
 addition 
 To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald 
 
 of 
 M}' coming, though I could but spare them 
 
 ill 
 At this time, as my father loves to keep 
 Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
 Until this marriage, and its feasts and 
 
 fooleries. 
 Are rung out with its peal of nuptial non- 
 sense. 
 Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida ? 
 Ulr. Why, 
 
 I do so — but it follows not from that , 
 I would bind in my youth and glorious 
 
 years. 
 So brief and burning, "ith a lady's zone. 
 Although 't were that of Venus : — but I 
 
 love her. 
 As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 
 Rod. And constantly ? 
 Ulr. I thinlv so ; for I love 
 
 Nought else. — but I have not the time to 
 
 pause 
 Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great 
 
 things 
 We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! 
 good Rodolph ! 
 Rod. On my return, however, I shall 
 find 
 The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegen- 
 dorf ? 
 Ulr. Perhaps my father wishes it ; and 
 sooth 
 'T is no bad policy : this union with 
 The last bud of the rival branch at once 
 Unites the future and destroys the past. 
 Rod. Adieu. 
 
 Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep 
 together 
 Until the chase begins ; then draw thou 
 off, 
 
 O O 
 
554 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 And do as I have said. 
 
 ■ Rod. I will. But to 
 
 Return — 't was a most kind act in the 
 
 count 
 Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
 For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
 To hail her as his daughter. 
 
 Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 
 
 Especially as little kindness till 
 Then grew between them. 
 
 Rod. The late baron died 
 
 Of a fever, did he not ? 
 
 Ulr. How should I know ? 
 
 Rod. I have heard it whisper'd there was 
 something strange 
 About his death — and even the place of it 
 Is scarcely known. 
 
 Ulr. Some obscure village on 
 
 The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 
 
 Rod. He 
 
 Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 
 
 Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary. 
 So cannot say. 
 
 Rod. Ah ! here 's the lady Ida. 
 
 Enter Ida Stealenheim. 
 
 Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 
 
 Ida. Not too early. 
 
 Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
 Why do you call me " cousin F ** 
 
 Ulr. (smiling). Are we not so ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; 
 methinks 
 It sounds so cold, as if 5'ou thought upon 
 Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 
 
 UJr. (starling). Blood ! 
 
 Ida. Why does yours start from your 
 cheeks ? 
 
 Ulr. Ay ! doth it ? 
 
 Ida. It doth — but no ! it rushes like a 
 torrent 
 Even to your brow again. 
 
 Ulr. {recovering hitnself). And if it fied, 
 It only was because your presence sent it 
 Back to my heart, which beats for j-ou, 
 sweet cousin ! 
 
 Ida. " Cousin " again. 
 
 Ulr. Nay, then, I '11 call you sister. 
 
 Ida. I like that name still worse — Would 
 we had ne'er 
 Been aught of kindred ! 
 
 Ulr. (gloomily). Would we never had! 
 
 Ida. Oh, heavens ! and can you wish 
 thai ? 
 
 Ulr. Dearest Ida ! 
 Did I not echo your own wish ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, Ulric, 
 
 But then I wish'd it not n-ith such a glance, 
 And scarce knew what I said ; but let me 
 
 be 
 Sister, or cousin, what yoU will, so that 
 I still to you am something. 
 
 Ulr. You shall be 
 
 All— all 
 
 Ida. And you to me are- so already ; 
 
 But I can wait. 
 
 Ulr. Dear Ida ! 
 
 Ida. Call me Ida, 
 
 Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else 's — 
 Indeed I have none else left, since my poor 
 father — 
 
 \Slie pauses. 
 Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 
 Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 
 
 My father could but view my happiness. 
 Which wants but this ! 
 
 Ulr. ■ Indeed! 
 
 Ida. You would have lo^'ed him. 
 
 He you ; for the brave ever love each 
 
 other : 
 His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
 Proud (as is birth's prerogative) ; but 
 under 
 
 This grave exterior Would you had 
 
 known each other ! 
 Had such as you been near him on his 
 
 journey. 
 He had not died without a friend to soothe 
 His last and lonely moments. 
 
 Ulr. Who says that ? 
 
 Ida. What ? 
 
 Ulr. That he died alone. 
 
 Ida. The general rumour. 
 
 And disappearance of his servants, who 
 Have ne'er retum'd : that fever was most 
 
 deadly 
 Which swept them all away. 
 
 Ulr. If they were near him. 
 
 He could not die neglected or alone. 
 Ida. Alas I what is a menial to a death- 
 bed. 
 When the dim eye rolls vainly round for 
 
 \vhat 
 It loves ? — They say he died of a fever. 
 
 ^'If- Say ! 
 
 It was so. 
 
 Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 
 Ulr. All dreams are false. 
 Ida. And yet I see him as 
 
 I see vou. 
 
 Ulr. Where? 
 
 Id"- In sleep — I see him lie 
 
 Pale , bleeding, and a man with a raised 
 
 knife 
 Beside him. 
 
 Ulr. But you do not see his tec .' 
 
 hhi (looking at him). No ! Oh, my God ' 
 
 do you ? 
 Uli . ^^"hy do vou ask ? 
 
 Ida. Because you look as ii \ou saw a 
 
 murderer ! 
 Ulr. (agitatedly). Ida, this is mere child- 
 ishness ; vouT weakness 
 Infects ine, to my shame : but as all feelino-s 
 Of vours are common to me, it affects me. 
 
 Pnthec, sweet child, change- 
 
 ,, {f'l- Child.' indeed I I have 
 
 bull fifteen summers ! [A bugle sounds. 
 
WERNER 
 
 555 
 
 Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 
 
 Ida {peevishlv to Rodolph). Why need 
 you tell nim that ? Can he not hear 
 it 
 Without your echo ? 
 
 Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 
 
 Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you 
 earn it 
 By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
 Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 
 
 Rod. You will not, 
 
 Lady, need aid of mine. 
 
 Ulr. I must not now 
 
 Forego it. 
 
 Ida. But you shall ! 
 Ulr. Shall ! 
 
 Ida. Yes, or be 
 
 No true knight — Come, dear Ulric ! yield 
 
 to me 
 In this, for this one day : the day looks 
 
 heavy, 
 And you are turn'd so pale and ill, 
 
 Ulr. You jest. 
 
 Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rodolph. 
 
 Rod. Truly, 
 
 My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
 
 Youhavechanged more than e'erl saw you 
 
 change 
 In years. 
 
 Ulr. 'T is nothing; but if 't were, the air 
 Would soon restore me. I 'm the true 
 
 chameleon, , 
 
 And live but on the atmosphere ; your 
 
 feasts 
 In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse 
 
 not 
 My spirit — I 'm a forester and breather 
 Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love 
 
 all 
 The eagle loves. 
 
 Ida. ' Except his prey, I hope. 
 
 Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, 
 and I 
 Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies 
 home. 
 Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You 
 shall not go ! 
 Come ! I will sing to you. 
 
 Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 
 
 Will make a soldier's wife. 
 
 Ida. I do not wish 
 
 To be so ; for I trust these wars are over. 
 And you will live in peace on your domains. 
 
 Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf. 
 Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it 
 
 grieves me 
 With such brief greeting.— You have heard 
 
 our bugle ; 
 The vassals wait. 
 
 Sieg. So let them. — You forget 
 
 To-morrow is the appointed festival 
 In Prague for peace restored. You are apt 
 
 to fellow 
 
 The chase with such an ardour as will 
 
 scarce 
 Permit you to return to-day, or if 
 Return'd, too much fatigued to join to- 
 morrow . 
 The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 
 
 Ulr, You, count. 
 
 Will well supply the place of both — I am 
 
 not 
 A lover of these pageantries. 
 
 Sieg. No, Ulric : 
 
 It were not well that you alone of all 
 
 Our young nobility 
 
 Ida. And far the noblest 
 
 In aspect and demeanour. 
 
 Sieg. (to Ida). True, dear child, 
 
 Though somewhat frankly said for a fair 
 
 damsel. — 
 But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
 So lately reinstated in our honours. 
 Believe me, 'twould be raark'd in any house. 
 But most in ours, that one should be found 
 
 wanting 
 At such a time and place. Besides, the 
 
 Heaven 
 Which gave us back our own, in the same 
 
 moment 
 It spread its peace o'er all, hath double 
 
 claims 
 On us for thanksgiving : first, for our 
 
 country ; 
 And next, that we are here to share its 
 blessings. 
 Ulr. (aside). Devout, too ! Well, sir, I 
 obey at once. 
 [Then aloud to a servant.) Ludwig, dismiss 
 the train without ! 
 
 [Exit Ludwig. 
 Ida. And so 
 
 You yield at once to him what I for hours 
 Might supplicate in vain. 
 
 Sieg. (smiling). You are not jealous 
 
 Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
 Would sanction disobedience against all 
 Except thyself ? But fear not ; thoushalt 
 
 rule him 
 Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 
 Ida. But I should like to govern now. 
 Sieg. Yovl shall. 
 
 Your harp, which by the way awaits you 
 
 with 
 The countess in her chamber, bhe com- 
 plains 
 That you are a sad truant to your music : 
 She attends you. . 
 
 Ida. Then good morrow, my kind 
 kinsmen ! 
 Ulric you '11 come and hear me ? 
 
 Ulr. By and by. 
 
 Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than 
 
 your bugles ; 
 
 Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 
 
 T '11 Dlav vou King Gustavus' march. 
 
 fr;y And why not 
 
556 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Old Tilly's ! 
 
 Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 
 My harp-strings rang with groans, and not 
 
 \\ith music, 
 Could aught of his sound on it-: — but come 
 
 quickly ; 
 Your mother will be eager to receive you. 
 [Exit Ida. 
 Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you 
 
 alone. 
 Ulr. My time 's your vassal. — 
 (/Isirft'toRoDOLPH.) Rodolph, hence! and do 
 As I directed : and by his best speed 
 And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 
 Rod. Count Siegendorf, command you 
 aught ? I am bound 
 Upon a journey past the frontier. 
 
 Sieg. (starts). Ah ! — 
 
 Where ? on what frontier ? 
 
 Rod. The Silesian, on 
 
 My way — (Aside to Ulric). — Where shall I 
 say ? 
 Ulr. {nside to Rodolph.) ToHamburgh. 
 (Asideto himself). That 
 Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
 His further inquisition. 
 Rod. Count,'to Hamburgh. 
 
 Sieg. (agitated), Hamburgh ! No, I 
 have nought to do there, nor 
 Am aught connected with that city. Then 
 God speed you ! 
 
 Rod. Fare ye well. Count Siegendorf ! 
 [Exit Rodolph. 
 Sieg. Ulilc, this man, who has just de- 
 parted, is 
 One of those strange companions whom I 
 
 fain 
 Would reason with you on. 
 
 Ulr. My lord, he is 
 
 Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
 In Saxony. 
 
 Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 
 But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of 
 him. 
 Vlr. So they will do of most men. Even 
 the monarch 
 Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slan- 
 der, or 
 The sneer of the last courtier whom he has 
 
 made 
 Great and ungrateful. 
 
 Sieg. If I must be plain. 
 
 The world speaks more than lightly of this 
 
 Rodolph : 
 They say he is leagued with the " black 
 
 bands " who still 
 Ravage the frontier. 
 
 Ulr. And'will'you believe 
 
 The world ? 
 
 Sieg. In this case — yes. 
 
 Ulr. In any case, 
 
 I thought you knew it better than to take 
 An accusation for a sentence. 
 
 Sien. Son ! 
 
 I understand you : you refer to but 
 
 My destiny has so involved about me 
 Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
 Like the poor fly, but break it,not. Take 
 
 heed, 
 Uhric ; you have seen to what the passions 
 
 led me : 
 Twenty long years of misery and famine 
 Quench'd them not — twenty thousand 
 
 more, perchance. 
 Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
 Might date for years, did Anguish make the 
 I dial) 
 
 ilay not obliterate or expiate 
 The madness and dishonour of an instant. 
 Uhric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 
 Bv mine, and you behold me ! 
 
 Ulr. I behold 
 
 The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
 Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour'd 
 By those he rules and those he ranks with. 
 Sie^. Ah ! 
 
 \Vh>' wilt thou call me prosperous, whfle I 
 
 fear 
 For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me 
 
 not ! 
 All hearts but one may beat in kindness for 
 
 me — 
 
 But if my son's is cold ! 
 
 Ulr. \Vho dare say that ? 
 
 Sieg. None else but I, who see it — feel it 
 
 — keener 
 Than would your adversary, who dared 
 
 say so. 
 Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
 The wound. 
 
 Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 
 To outward fondling ; how should it be so, 
 After twelve years' divorcement from my 
 
 parents ? 
 Sieg. And did not 7 too pass those twelve 
 
 torn years 
 In a like absence ? But 't is vain to urge 
 
 you — 
 Nature was never call'd back bv remon- 
 strance. 
 Let 's change the theme. I wish you to 
 
 consider 
 That these young violent nobles of high 
 
 name. 
 But dark deeds {ay, the darkest, if all 
 
 Rumour 
 Reports be true), with whom thou con- 
 
 sort est. 
 
 Will lead thee 
 
 Ulr. (impatiently). I '11 be M by no man. 
 ^^'"■S- ^ ■ Nor 
 
 Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
 To wean thee from the perils cf th\- youth 
 And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
 That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida- 
 more 
 .\s thou appear'st to love her. 
 
 ^ '*■■ I have s.-iid 
 
WERNER 
 
 557 
 
 I will obey your orders, were they to 
 Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 
 Sieg. He says too much in saying this. 
 It is not 
 The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
 Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
 Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
 The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
 (For Glory's pillow is but restless, if 
 Love lay not down his cheek there) : some 
 
 strong bias, 
 Some master fiend is in thy service, to 
 Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 
 And makes his every thought subservient ; 
 else [and 
 
 Thou 'dst say at once — "I love young Ida, 
 Will wed her ; " or, " Ilovehernot, and all 
 The powers of earth shall never make me." 
 
 —So 
 Would I have answer'd. 
 
 Ulr. Sir, you wed for love. 
 
 Sieg. I did, and it has been my only re- 
 fuge 
 In many miseries. 
 
 Ulr. Which miseries 
 
 Had never been but for this love-match. 
 
 Sieg. Still 
 
 Against your age and nature ! Who at 
 
 twenty 
 E'er answer'd thus till now ? 
 
 Ulr. Did you not warn me 
 
 Against your own example ? 
 
 Sieg. Boyish sophist ! 
 
 In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 
 Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
 Obey you in espousin g her ? 
 
 Sieg. As far 
 
 As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
 She.'s young — all-beautiful — adores you — 
 
 is 
 Endow'd with qualities to give happiness. 
 Such as rounds common life into a dream 
 Of something which your poets cannot 
 
 paint. 
 And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
 For which Philosophy might barter Wis- 
 dom '^ 
 And giving so much happiness, deserves 
 A little in return. I would not have her 
 Break her heart for a man who has none to 
 
 Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
 Deserted by the bird she thought a 
 nightingale. 
 
 According to the Orient tale. She is 
 
 Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, 
 your f 06 : , , , 
 
 I'll wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say 
 
 truth. 
 Just now I am not violently transported 
 In favour of such unions. 
 
 Sigg But she loves you. 
 
 Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would 
 think twice. 
 
 Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 
 Ulr. Then 't is time 
 
 He should begin, and take the bandage 
 
 from 
 His eyes, and look before he leaps ; till now 
 He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 
 
 Sieg. But you consent ? 
 
 Ulr. I did, and do. 
 Sieg. Then fix the day. 
 
 Ulr. 'T is usual. 
 
 And certes courteous, to leave that to the 
 lady. 
 Sieg. / will engage for her. 
 Ulr. So will not / 
 
 For any woman ': and as what I fix, 
 I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
 Her answer, I '11 give mine. 
 
 Sieg. But 'tis your office 
 
 To woo. » 
 
 Ulr. Count, '1 is a marriage of your mak- 
 ing. 
 So be it of your wooing ; but to please you, 
 I will now pay my duty to my mother. 
 With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
 What would you have ? You have forbid 
 
 my stirring 
 For manly sports beyond the castle walls. 
 And I obey; you bidme turn a chamberer. 
 To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting- 
 needles. 
 And list to songs and tunes, and watch for 
 
 smiles. 
 And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
 The eyes of feminine, as though'they were 
 The stars receding early to our wish 
 Upon the da-ivn of a world- winnin g battle,— 
 What can a son or man do more ? 
 
 [Exit Ulric. 
 Sieg. (solus). Too much ! — 
 
 Too much of duty, and too Uttle love ! 
 He pays me in the coin he owes me not : 
 For such hath been my wayward fate, I 
 
 could not 
 Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
 Till now ; but love he owes me, for my 
 
 thoughts 
 Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without 
 
 tears 
 To see m\- child again, and now I have 
 
 found him ! 
 But how — obedient, but with coldness ; 
 
 duteous 
 In my sight, but with carelessness ; 
 
 mysterious — 
 Abstracted — distant — much given to long 
 
 absence, 
 And where — none know — ^in league with 
 
 the most riotous 
 Of our young nobles ; though, to do him 
 
 justice. 
 He never stoops down to therr vulgar 
 
 pleasures ; 
 Yet there 's some tie between them which I 
 can not 
 
558 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Unravel. They look up to him — consult 
 
 him — 
 Throng round him as a leader : but with 
 
 me 
 He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
 After — M'hat ! doth my father's curse 
 
 descend 
 Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian 
 
 near 
 To shed more 'blood ? or — Oh ! if it should 
 
 be! 
 Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these 
 
 walls 
 To wither him and his — ^who, though they 
 
 slew not, 
 Unlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 
 
 'T was not 
 Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe, 
 And«yet I spared thee when my own 
 
 destruction 
 Slept with thee, to awake with thine 
 
 awakening ! 
 And only took — Accursed gold ! thou liest 
 Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use 
 
 thee. 
 Nor part from thee ; thouNCamest in such 
 
 a guise, 
 Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all 
 
 hands 
 Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for 
 
 thee. 
 Thou villanous gold ! and thy dead master's 
 
 doom, 
 Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
 As if he were my brother ! I have ta' en 
 His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
 ViTio wiU be mine. 
 
 Enter cm Atte.ndant. 
 Atten. The abbot, if it please 
 
 Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
 Upon you. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 Enter the Prior Albert. 
 
 Prior. Peace be with these walls, and 
 all 
 Within them ! 
 
 Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
 And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men 
 have need 
 
 Of such, and I 
 
 Prior. Have the first claim to all 
 
 The prayers of our community. Our con- 
 vent. 
 Erected by your ancestors, is still 
 Protected by their children. 
 
 Sieg. Yes, good father ; 
 
 Continue daily orisons for us 
 In these dim days of heresies and blood. 
 Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
 Gone home. 
 
 Prior. To the endless home of unbe- 
 lievers, 
 
 Where there is everlasting wail and woe. 
 Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and 
 
 fire 
 Eternal, and the worm which dieth not ! 
 Sieg. True, father : and to avert those 
 pangs from one, [church. 
 
 Who, though of our most faultless holy 
 Yet died without its last and dearest offices. 
 Which smooth the soul through purgatorial 
 
 pains, 
 I have to offer humbly this donation 
 In masses for his spirit. 
 
 [SiEGENDORF offers the gold which he 
 had taken /rom Stralenheim. 
 Prior. Count, if I 
 
 Receive it, 't is because I know too well 
 Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
 The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
 An^ every mass no less sung for the dead. 
 Our house needs no donations, thanks to 
 
 yours. 
 Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
 And yours in all meet things *t is fit we obey. 
 For whom shall mass be said ? 
 
 Sieg. (faltering). For — for — the dead. 
 Prior. His name ? 
 
 Sieg. 'T is from a soul, and not a name. 
 I would avert perdition. 
 
 Prior. I meant not 
 
 To pry into your secret. We will pray 
 For one vmlmown, the same as for the 
 proudest. 
 Sieg. Secret ! I have none : but, father, 
 he who 's gone 
 Might have one ; or, in short, he did be- 
 queath — 
 No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
 For pious purposes. 
 
 Prior. A proper deed 
 
 In the behalf of our departed friends. 
 Sieg. But he who's gone was not my 
 friend, but foe; 
 The deadliest and the stanchest. 
 
 Prior. Better stiU ! 
 
 To employ our means to obtain heaven for 
 
 the souls 
 Of our dead enemies is worthv those 
 Who can forgive them living." 
 
 Sieg. But I did not 
 
 Forgive this man. I loathed him to the 
 
 last, 
 As he did me. I do not love him now. 
 
 But 
 
 Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure re- 
 ligion ! 
 You fain would rescue him you hate from 
 
 hell— 
 An evangelical compassion — with 
 Your o\vn gold too ! 
 
 •S»«g- Father, 't is not mv gold. 
 
 Prior. \\'hose then ? You said it was 
 
 no legacy. 
 Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, 
 th,-it he 
 
WERNER 
 
 559 
 
 Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
 In that which it may purchase from your 
 
 altars : 
 'T is yours, or theirs. 
 
 Prior. Is there no blood upon it ? 
 
 Sieg. No ; but there 's worse than blood 
 
 — eternal shame ! 
 Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bed ? 
 Sieg. Alas ! 
 
 He did. 
 
 Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
 If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 
 Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep 
 
 in blood. 
 Prior. You said he died in his bed, not 
 
 battle. 
 Sieg. He 
 
 Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd 
 
 i' the dark, 
 And now you have it — perish'd on his 
 
 pillow 
 By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look 
 
 upon me ! 
 / am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on 
 
 that point. 
 As I can one day God's. 
 
 Prior. Nor did he die 
 
 By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 
 
 Sieg. No ! by the God who sees and 
 
 strikes 1 
 Prior. Nor know you 
 
 Who slew him ? 
 
 Sieg. I could only guess at one. 
 
 And he to me a stranger, imconnected, 
 As unemploy'd. Except by one day's 
 
 knowledge, 
 I never saw the man who was suspected. 
 Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 
 Sieg. (eagerly). Oh ! am I ? — say ! 
 
 Prior. You have said so, and know best. 
 Sieg. Father ! I have spoken 
 
 The truth, and nought but truth, if not the 
 
 whole ; 
 Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
 Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it. 
 Though, by the Power who abhorreth 
 
 human blood, 
 I did not ! — nay, once spared it, when I 
 
 might 
 And eould — ay, perhaps, should (if our self- 
 safety 
 Be e'er excusable in such defences 
 Against the attacks of over-potent foes) : 
 But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
 For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
 I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
 As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray 
 
 for me, 
 Father ! I have pray'd myself m vam. 
 
 Prior. I will. 
 
 Be comforted ! You are mnocent, and 
 
 should 
 Be calm as innocence. 
 Sieg But calmness is not 
 
 Always the at tributive of innocence. 
 I feel it is not. 
 
 Prior. But it will be so. 
 
 When the mind gathers up its truth within 
 
 it. 
 Remember the great festival to-morrow. 
 In which you rank amidst our chiefest 
 
 nobles, 
 As well as your brave son ; and smooth 
 
 your aspect. 
 Nor in the general orison of thanks 
 For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not 
 
 rise 
 A cloud upon your thoughts. This were 
 
 to be 
 Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
 Such things, and leave remorse unto the 
 
 guilty. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I. — A large and magnificent Gothic 
 Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, decor- 
 ated with Trophies, Banners, and Arms 
 of that Family. 
 
 Enter Arnheim and Meister, attendants of 
 Count Siegendorf. 
 
 Am. Be quick! the count will soon 
 return : the ladies 
 Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
 The messengers in search of him he seeks 
 for? 
 ISIeis. I have, in all directions, over 
 Prague, 
 As far as the man's dress and figure could 
 By your description track him. The devil 
 
 take 
 These revels and processions ! All the 
 
 pleasure 
 (If such there be) must fall to the specta- 
 tors. 
 I 'm sine none doth to us who make the 
 show. 
 Am Go to ! my lady countess comes. 
 :\[eis. I 'd rather 
 
 Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
 Than follow in the train of a great man. 
 In these dull pageantries. 
 
 jly„ Begone ! and rail 
 
 Within. {Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Countess Josephine Siegen- 
 dorf and Ida Stralenheim. 
 Jos. Well, Heaven be praised ! the show 
 
 is over. 
 Ida. How can you say so ? Never have 
 I dreamt 
 Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the 
 
 boughs, 
 The banners, and the nobles, and the 
 
 laiights. 
 The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy 
 faces. 
 
560 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
 Streaming through the stain'd windows, 
 
 even the tombs, 
 Which look'd so calm, and the celestial 
 
 hymns. 
 Which seem'd as if they rather came from 
 
 heaven 
 Than mounted there. The bursting 
 
 organ's peal 
 Rolling on high like an harmonious thun- 
 der ; 
 The white robes and the lifted eyes ; the 
 
 world 
 At peace ! and all at peace with one an- 
 other ! 
 Oh, my sweet mother ! 
 
 [Embracing Josephine. 
 Jos. My beloved child ! 
 
 For such, I trust, thou shalt be shorth'. 
 
 Ida. Oh ! 
 
 I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 
 Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it 
 throb 
 With aught more bitter. 
 
 Ida. Never shall it do so ! 
 
 How should it ? What should make us 
 
 grieve ? I hate 
 To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
 Who love each other so entirely ? You, 1 
 The count, and Ulric, and your daughter 
 Ida. 
 Jos. Poor child ! 
 Ida. Do you pity me ? 
 
 Jos. No : I but envy, 
 
 And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
 Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
 i^Iore general than another. 
 
 Ida. I'll not hear 
 
 A word against a world which still contains 
 \ ou and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
 Aught like him ? How he tower'd amongst 
 
 them all ! 
 How all eyes foUow'd him I The flowers 
 
 fell faster — 
 Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, me- 
 
 thought. 
 Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 
 1 dare be sworn that they grow still, nor 
 
 e'er 
 Will wither. 
 
 Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer. 
 If he should hear you. 
 
 Ida. But he never will. 
 
 I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 
 Jos. Why so ? he loves you well. 
 Ida. But I can never 
 
 Shape my thoughts of him into words to 
 
 him : 
 Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 
 Jos. How so ? 
 
 Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes 
 suddenly, 
 Yet he says nothing. 
 Jos. It is nothing : all men, 
 
 Especially in these dark troublous times, 
 Have much to think of. 
 
 Ida. But I cannot think 
 
 Of aught save him. 
 
 Jos. Yet there are other men, 
 
 In the world's eye, as goodly. There's, for 
 
 instance, 
 The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once 
 
 withdrew 
 His eyes from yours to-day. 
 
 Ida I did not see him, 
 
 But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
 When all knelt, and I wept ? jmd yet me- 
 
 thought. 
 Through my fast tears, though they were 
 
 thick and warm, 
 I saw him smiling on me. 
 
 Jos. I could not 
 
 See aught save heaven, to which my eyes 
 
 were raised. 
 Together with the people's. 
 
 Ida. I thought too 
 
 Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 
 
 Jos. Come, 
 
 Let us retire ! they will be here anon 
 Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
 Aside these nodding plumes and dragging 
 trains. 
 Ida. And, above all, these stiff and 
 heavy jewels. 
 Which make my head and heart ache, as 
 
 both throb 
 Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and 
 
 zone. 
 Dear mother, I am with you. 
 
 Enh-y Count Siegexdokf, in full dress, 
 from the solemnity, and Ludwig. 
 
 ■S^eJ- • Is he not found ? 
 
 Lua. Strict search is making e\ery 
 where ; and if 
 The man be in Prague, be sure he will be 
 found. 
 Sieg. Where 's Ulric ? 
 Liid. He rode round the other wav 
 
 tt ith some young nobles ; but he left them 
 
 soon ; 
 And, if I err not, not a minute since 
 I heard his excellencv, with his train 
 uallop o'er the west drawbridge. 
 
 Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed. 
 Sieg. (to LuDwiG). See they cease not 
 iheir quest of him I have described. 
 
 [Exit LuDwiG. 
 
 u ., T , , , . Oil' Ulric ! 
 
 How have I long'd for thee ! 
 
 D F'^j . '^°^ ™s^ is granted— 
 
 Behold me ! 
 
 Sieg. I have seen the murderer 
 
 Ulr. Whom ? Where ? 
 
 Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Straleu- 
 
 heim. 
 Uli. You dream. 
 
WERNER 
 
 561 
 
 Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 
 Heard him ! he dared to utter even my 
 name. 
 Uh. What name ? 
 
 Sie,g. Werner ! Hwas mine. 
 
 Ulr. It m.ust be so 
 
 No more ; forget it. 
 
 Sieg. Never ! never ! all 
 
 My destinies were woven in that name : 
 It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
 But it may lead me there. 
 
 Ulr. To the point the Hungarian ? 
 
 Sieg. Listen ! — The church was throng'd : 
 the hymn was raised ; 
 " Te Deum " peal'd from nations rather 
 
 than 
 From choirs, in one great cry of " God be 
 
 praised " 
 For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread 
 
 years. 
 Each bloodier than the former : I arose. 
 With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
 Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
 Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, 1 
 Saw, like a flash of lightning (for I saw 
 A moment and no more), what struck me 
 
 sightless 
 To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
 Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
 Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
 Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanks- 
 giving 
 Was over, and we march'd back in pro- 
 cession. 
 Ulr. Continue. 
 
 Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's 
 bridge. 
 The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
 .Barks mann'd with revellers in their best 
 
 garbs. 
 Which shot along the glancing tide below. 
 The decorated street, the long array, 
 The clashing music, and the thundering 
 Of far artillery, v/hich seem'd to bid 
 A long and loud farewell to its great doings. 
 The standards o'er me, and the tramplings 
 
 round, 
 The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all 
 
 could not 
 Chase this man from my mind, although 
 
 mv senses 
 No longer held him palpable. 
 
 Ulr. You saw him 
 
 No more, then ? 
 
 Sieq. I look'd, as a dying soldier 
 
 Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
 
 But still I saw him not ; but in his stead 
 
 Ulr. What in his stead ? 
 Sieg. lly eye for ever fell 
 
 Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest. 
 As on the loftiest and the loveliest head. 
 It rose the highest of the stream of plumes. 
 Which overirlow'd the glittering streets of 
 Prague. ' 
 
 Ulr. What 's this to the Hungarian ? 
 
 Sieg. Much ; for I 
 
 Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
 When just as the artillery ceased, and 
 
 paused 
 The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
 Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
 Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
 Than the late cannon's volume, this word 
 — " Werner ! " 
 
 Ulr. Uttered by 
 
 Sieg. Him ! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 
 
 Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 
 
 Sieg. The officious care ' 
 
 Of those around me dragg'd me from the 
 
 spot. 
 Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause ; 
 You, too, were too remote in the procession 
 (The old nobles being divided from their 
 
 children) 
 To aid me. 
 
 Ulr. But I'll aid you now. 
 
 Sieg. In what ? 
 
 Ulr. In searching for this man, or 
 
 When he 's found, 
 What shall we do with him ? 
 
 Sieg. I know not that. 
 
 Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 
 
 Sieg. Because I cannot rest 
 
 Till he is found. His fate, and Stralen- 
 
 heim's. 
 And ours, seem intertwisted ! nor can be 
 Unravell'd, till 
 
 Enler an Attendant. 
 
 Atten. A stranger to wait on 
 
 Your excellency. 
 
 Sieg. Who ? 
 
 Atten. He gave no name. 
 
 Sieg. Admit him, ne'erthelcss. 
 
 [The Attendant introduces G-abor, 
 and afler-d.'ards exit. 
 Ah ! 
 Gab. 'T is then Werner ! 
 
 Sieg. (haiighHly) . The same you knew, 
 
 sir, by that name ; and you ! 
 Gab. {looking round). I recognize you 
 both : father and son. 
 It seems. Count, I have heard that you, 
 
 or yours, 
 Have lately been in search of me : I am 
 here. 
 Sieg. I have sought you, and have foimd 
 you : you are charged 
 (Your owii heart may inform \'ou why) 
 with such 
 
 A crime as [He pauses. 
 
 Gab. Give it utterance, and then 
 
 I'll meet the consequences. 
 
 Sieg. You shaU do so — 
 
 Unless 
 
 Gab. First, who accuses me ? 
 Sieg. All things. 
 
 If not" all men : the universal rumour — 
 
562 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 My own presence on the spot — the place — • 
 
 the time — 
 And every speck of circumstance miite 
 To fix the blot on you. 
 
 Gab. And on me only ? 
 
 Pause ere you answer : is no other name, 
 Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 
 
 Sieg. Trifling villain ! 
 
 Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all 
 
 that breathe 
 Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
 'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy 
 
 bloody slander. 
 But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
 Further .than justice asks. Answer at once. 
 And without quibbling, to my charge. 
 Gab. "I is false ! 
 
 Sieg. Who says so ? 
 Gab. I. 
 
 Sieg. And how disprove it ? 
 
 Gab. By 
 
 The presence of the murderer. 
 
 Sieg. Name him. 
 
 Gab. He 
 
 May have more names than one. Your 
 
 lordship had so 
 Once on a time. 
 
 Sieg. If you mean me, I dare 
 
 Your utmost. 
 
 Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 
 I know the assassin. 
 
 Sieg. Where is he ? 
 
 Gab. (pointing to Ulric). Beside you ! 
 [Ulric rushes forward to attack G abor ; 
 SiEGENDORF interposes. 
 Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not 
 be slain ; 
 These walls are mine, and you are safe with- 
 in them. 
 
 [He turns to Ulric. 
 Ulric, repel this calumnj', as I 
 Will do. I avow it is a growth so mon- 
 strous, 
 I could not deem it earth-born : but be 
 
 calm ; 
 It will refute itself. But touch him not. 
 [Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 
 Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear 
 
 me. 
 Sieg. [first to Gabor, and then looking at 
 Ulric). I hear thee. 
 
 My God ! you look 
 
 Ulr. How ? 
 
 Sieg. As on that dread night, 
 
 When we met in the garden. 
 
 Ulr. (composing himself). It is nothing. 
 Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. 
 I came hither 
 Not seeking you, but sought. When I 
 knelt down [not 
 
 Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd 
 To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
 Of senators and princes ; but you have 
 call'd me, 
 
 And we have met. 
 
 Sieg. Go on, sir. 
 
 Gab. Ere I do so, 
 
 Allow me to inquire, who profited 
 By Stralenheim's death ? Was 't I — as 
 
 poor as ever ; 
 And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
 The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
 Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — ' 
 A life which stood between the claims of 
 
 others 
 To honours and estates scarce less than 
 princely. 
 Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, 
 attach no less 
 To me than to my son. 
 
 Gab. I can't help that. 
 
 But let the consequence alight on him 
 Who feels himself the guilty one amongst 
 
 us. 
 I speak to 5'ou, Count Siegendorf, because 
 I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
 But ere I can proceed — dare you protect 
 
 me ? 
 Dare you command me ? 
 
 (Siegendorf first looks at the Hun- 
 garian, and then at Ulric, who has 
 unbuckled his sabre, and is dra-d-ing 
 lines -with it on the floor — siill in its 
 sheath. 
 Ulr. (looks at his father, and says,) Let 
 
 the man go on ! 
 Gab. I am unarm'd, count — bid your son 
 lay down 
 His sabre. 
 
 Ulr. (offers it to him contemptuously). 
 
 Take it. 
 Gab. No, sir, 't is enough 
 
 That we are both unarm'd — I would not 
 
 choose 
 To wear a steel which may be stain'd with 
 
 more 
 Blood than came there in battle. 
 
 Ulr. (casts the sabre from him in con- 
 tempt). It — or some 
 Such other weapon, in my hand — spared 
 
 yours 
 Once, when disarm' d and at mj' mercy. 
 
 Gab. True — 
 
 I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
 Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
 .4.n ignominy not my own. 
 
 Vlr. Proceed. 
 
 The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
 But is it of my father to hear further ? 
 
 [To SlEGEXDORF. 
 
 Sieg. (takes his son by the hand). My sou, 
 I know my own innocence, and doubt 
 not 
 Of yours — but I have promised this man 
 
 patience ; 
 Let him continue. 
 
 Gab. I will not. detain you. 
 
 By speaking of myself much : I began 
 
WERNER 
 
 563 
 
 Life early — and am what the world has 
 
 made me. 
 At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
 A winter in obscurity, it was 
 My chance at several places of resort 
 (Which I frequented sometimes, but not 
 
 often) 
 To hear related a strange circumstance 
 In February last. A martial force, 
 Sent by the state, had, after strong resist- 
 ance. 
 Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
 Marauders from the hostile camp. — They 
 
 proved. 
 However, not to be so — but banditti. 
 Whom either accident or enterprise 
 Had carried from their usual haunt — the 
 
 forests 
 Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
 Many amongst them were reported of 
 High rank — and martial law slept for a 
 
 time. 
 At last they were escorted o'er the fron- 
 tiers. 
 And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 
 Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their 
 
 .fate 
 I know no more. 
 
 Sieg. And what is this to Ulric ? 
 
 Gab. Amongst them there was said to be 
 one man 
 Of wonderful endowments : — birth and 
 
 fortune. 
 Youth, strength, and beauty, almost super- 
 human. 
 And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 
 His by the public rumour ; and his sway. 
 Not only over his associates, but 
 His judges, was attributed to witchcraft, 
 Such was his influence : — I have no great 
 
 faith 
 In any magic save that of the mme — 
 I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my 
 
 soul 
 Was roused with various feelmgs to seek 
 
 out 
 This prodigy, if only to behold him. 
 S{eg. And did you so ? 
 Gab. You '11 hear. Chance favour d me : 
 A popular affray in the pubhc square 
 Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
 Occasions where men's souls look out of 
 them, . . 
 
 And show them as they are — even m their 
 
 The moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
 " This is the man ! " though he was then, 
 
 — as since, . , , ,^ 
 
 With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
 I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and 
 
 nearly ; . , t 
 
 I noted down his form— his gesture— tea- 
 
 Stature,-aiid bearing— and amidst them all, 
 
 'Midst every natural and acquired distinc- 
 tion, 
 I could discern, methought, the assassin's 
 
 eye 
 And gladiator's heart. 
 
 Ulr. (smiling). The tale sounds well. 
 Gab. And may sound better. — He ap- 
 
 pear'd to me 
 One of those beines to whom Fortune bends, 
 As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
 The fates of others oft depend ; besides. 
 An indescribable sensation drew me 
 Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
 Was to be fix'd by him. — There I was 
 
 wrong. 
 Sieg. And may not be right now. 
 Gab. I foUow'd him. 
 
 Solicited his notice — and obtain'd it — 
 Though not his friendship : — it was his 
 
 intention 
 To leave the city privately — we left it 
 Together — and together we arrived 
 In the poor town where Werner was con- 
 
 ceal'd, 
 And Stralenheim was succour'd Now 
 
 we are on 
 The verge — dare you hear further ? 
 
 Sieg. I must do so — 
 
 Or I have heard too much. 
 
 Gab. I saw in you 
 
 A man above his station — and if not 
 So high, as now I find you, in my then 
 Conceptions, 't was that I had rarely seen 
 Men such as you appear'd in height of rnind. 
 In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
 Poor, even to all save rags : I would ha\e 
 
 shared 
 My purse, though slender, with you — you 
 
 refused it. 
 Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to 
 
 you. 
 That thus you urge it ? 
 
 Gab. Still you owe me something. 
 
 Though not for that ; and I owed you my 
 
 safety, 
 At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
 Of Stralenheim pursued me on the groundst 
 That / had robb'd him. 
 
 Sieg. I conceal'd you — I, 
 
 Whom and whose house you arraign, re- 
 viving viper ! 
 Gab. I accuse no man — save m my 
 
 defence. 
 You, count, have made yourself accuser — 
 
 judge : 
 Your hall 's my court, your heart is my 
 
 tribunal. 
 Be just, and 7'11 be merciful ! 
 
 Sieg. You merciful ? — 
 
 You ! Base calumniator ! 
 
 Gab. I- 'T will rest 
 
 With me at last to be so. You conceal'd 
 
 me — 
 In secret passages known to yourself. 
 
564 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 You said, and to none eke. At dead of 
 
 night, 
 Weary \vith watching in the darii, and 
 
 dubious 
 Of tracing bad; my way; I saw a glimmer, 
 Through distant crannies, of a twinkling 
 
 light : 
 I foUow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
 Portal — which open'd to the chamber, 
 
 where. 
 With cautious hand and slow, having first 
 
 undone 
 As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
 I look'd through and beheld a purple bed. 
 And on it Stralenheim ! — 
 
 Sieg. Asleep ! And yet 
 
 You slew him ! — Wretch ! 
 
 Gah. He was already slain. 
 
 And bleeding like a sacrifice. My o\vn 
 Blood became ice. 
 
 Sicg. But he was all alone ! 
 
 ■^'ou saw none else ? You did not see 
 
 the 
 
 [He pauses from agiiaiion. 
 Gab. Ko, 
 
 He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
 Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
 The chamber. 
 
 Sieg. (to Ulric). Then, my boy! thou 
 
 art guiltless still — 
 Thou bad'st me say I was so once — Oh ! 
 
 now 
 Do thou as much. 
 
 Gab. Be patient ! I can not 
 
 Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
 Which frown above us. You remember, — 
 
 or 
 If not, your son does, — that the locks were 
 
 changed 
 Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
 Which led to this same night : how he had 
 
 enter' d 
 He best knows — but within an ante- 
 chamber. 
 The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
 A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and 
 
 oft 
 With stern and anxious glance gazed hack 
 
 upon 
 The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 
 Sieg. Oh ! God of fathers ! 
 Gab. I beheld his features 
 
 As I see yours — but yours they were not, 
 
 though 
 Resembling them — behold them in Count 
 
 Ulric' s ! 
 Distinct as I beheld them, though the ex- 
 pression fso 
 Is not now what it then was ! — but it was 
 When I first charged him with the crime — 
 
 so lately. 
 
 Sieg. This is so 
 
 Gab. (interrupting him). Nay — but hear 
 
 rae to the end ! 
 
 Now you must do so. — I conceived myself 
 Betrav'd by you and him (for now I saw- 
 There was some tie between you) into this 
 Pretended den of refuge, to become 
 The victim of your guilt ; and my fijrst 
 
 thought 
 Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a 
 
 short poniard 
 (Having left my sword without), I was no 
 
 match' 
 For him at any time, as had been proved 
 That morning— either in address or force. 
 I turn'd and fled — i' the dark : chance 
 
 rather than 
 Skill made me gain the secret door of the 
 
 hall. 
 And thence the chamber where you slept : 
 
 if I 
 Had found you making, Heaven alone can 
 
 tell 
 What vengeance and suspicion might have 
 
 prompted ; 
 But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that 
 
 night. 
 Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and 
 
 such brief sleep. 
 The stars had not gone dowm when I awpke. 
 Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of 
 
 my father — 
 And now my dream is out ! 
 
 Gab. 'T is not my fault, 
 
 If I have read it. — Well ! I fled and hid me- 
 Chance led me here after so many moons — 
 And show'd me Werner in Count Siegen- 
 
 dorf ! 
 Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
 Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
 You sought me and have found me — now 
 
 you know 
 -My secret, and may weigh its worth. 
 Sieg. (after a pause). Indeed ! 
 
 Gab. Is it revenge or justice which in- 
 spires 
 Your meditation ? 
 
 Siee. Neither — I was weighing 
 
 The value of your secret. 
 
 Gab. You shall know it 
 
 .\t once : — When you were poor, and I, 
 
 though poor, 
 Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
 As might have envied mine, I offered vou 
 Jly purse — you would not share it : — I Ml be 
 
 franker 
 With vou : you are wealthv, noble, trusted 
 
 by 
 The iriiperial powers — you understand me? 
 Steg. Yes, 
 
 Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, 
 
 and scarce true : 
 'T is no less true, howe\er, that mv for- 
 tunes 
 Have made me both at present. You shall 
 
 aid me : 
 I would ha\-e aided vou — and also- have 
 
WERNER 
 
 555 
 
 Been somewhat damaged in my name to 
 
 save 
 Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I 
 have said. 
 Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few 
 minutes' 
 Deliberation ? 
 
 Gab. {casts his eyes on Ulric, who is 
 leaning against a pillar). If I should do 
 so ? 
 Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. With- 
 draw into 
 This tower. [Opens a turret-door. 
 
 Gab. (hesitatingly). This is the second 
 safe asylum 
 You have offer'd me. 
 
 Sieg. And was not the first so ? 
 
 Gab. I know not that even now — but 
 will approve 
 The second. I have still a further shield. — 
 I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
 Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
 Some tongues without will wag in my 
 
 behalf. 
 Be brief in your decision ! 
 
 Sieg. I will be so. — 
 
 My word is sacred and irrevocable 
 Within these walls, but it extends no fur- 
 ther. 
 Gab. I '11 take it for so much. 
 Sieg. (points4o Ulric's sabre, still upon 
 the ground). Take also that — 
 I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
 Distrustfully. 
 
 Gab. (takes up the sabre). I will ; and so 
 provide 
 To sell my life — not cheaply. 
 
 [Gabor goes into the turret, which 
 SrEGENDORF closes. 
 Sieg. (advances to Ulric). Now, Count 
 Ubic! 
 For son I dare not call thee — What say'st 
 thou? 
 Ulr. His tale is true. 
 Sieg. True, monster ! 
 
 Ulr. Most true, father ! 
 
 And you did well to listen to it : what 
 We know, we can provide against. He 
 
 must 
 Be silenced. 
 
 Sieg. Ay, with half of my domams ; 
 And with the other half, could he and thou 
 Unsay this villany. 
 
 Ulr. It is no tfrne 
 
 For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
 His story 's true^ and he too must be 
 silenced. 
 Sieg. How so ? 
 
 Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
 As never to have hit on this before ? 
 When we met in the garden, what except 
 Discovery in the act could make me know 
 His death ? Or had the prince's household 
 been 
 
 Then summon'd, would the cry for the 
 
 police 
 Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
 Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could you, 
 
 Werner. 
 The object of the baron's hate and fears. 
 Have- fled, unless by many an hour before 
 Suspicion woke ? i sought and fathom'd 
 
 you. 
 Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
 Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
 Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
 At times your weakness. 
 
 Sieg. Parricide I no less 
 
 Than common stabber ! What deed of mw 
 
 life, 
 Or thought of mine, could make you deem 
 
 me fit 
 For your accomplice ? 
 
 Ulr. Father, do not raise 
 
 The devil you cannot la>' between us. This 
 Is time for union and for action, not 
 For family disputes. While you were tor- 
 tured. 
 Could / be calm ? Think you that I have 
 
 heard 
 This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — 
 
 You 
 Have taught me feeling for you and myself ; 
 For whom or what else did you ever teach 
 
 it? 
 Sieg. Oh ! my dead father's curse I 't is 
 
 working now. 
 Ulr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep 
 
 it down ! 
 Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 
 To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 
 Which winds its blind but livin.5 path be- 
 neath you. 
 Yet hear me still ! — If you condemn me, 
 
 yet 
 Remember who hath taught me once too 
 
 often 
 To listen to him ! Who proclaim'd to me 
 That there were crimes made venial by the 
 
 occasion ? 
 That passion was our nature ?, that the 
 
 goods 
 Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
 Who show'd me his humanity secured 
 By his nerves only ? Who deprived me of 
 All power to vindicate myself and race 
 In open day ? By his disgrace which 
 
 stamp'd 
 (It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
 Himself — a felon's brand I The man who 
 
 is 
 At once both warm and weak invites to 
 
 deeds 
 He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
 That I should act what you could think ? 
 
 We have done 
 With right and vwong ; and now must only 
 
 ponder 
 
566 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
 
 Whose life I saved from impulse, as un- 
 known, 
 
 I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I 
 slew 
 
 Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. 
 He 
 
 Was a rock in our way which I cut through, 
 
 As doth the bolt, because it stood between 
 us 
 
 And our true destination — but not idly. 
 
 As stranger I preserved him, and he o-wed 
 
 His life : when due, I but resumed the debt. 
 He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
 I have plunged our enemy. You kindled 
 
 first 
 The torch — you show'd the path ; now 
 
 trace me that 
 Of safety — or let me ! 
 
 Sieg. I have done with life ! 
 
 Ulr. Let us have done with that which 
 
 cankers life — 
 Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
 Of things which cannot be undone. We 
 
 have 
 No more to learn or hide : I know no fear. 
 And ha\'e within these very walls men who 
 (Although you know them not) dare ven- 
 ture all things. 
 You stand high with the state ; what 
 
 passes here 
 Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
 Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye. 
 Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to 
 
 me ; 
 We must have no third babblers thrust 
 
 between us. 
 
 \_ExU Ulric. 
 Sieg. {soliis). Am I awake ? are these my 
 
 father's halls ? 
 And you — my son ? My son ! mine ' who 
 
 ha\'e ever I 
 
 Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and vet ^ 
 Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
 I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
 The Himgarian's ! — Ulric — he hath par- 
 tisans, 
 It seems : I might have guess'd as much. 
 
 Oh fool ! 
 Wolves prowl in company. He hath the 
 
 key 
 (As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
 Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 
 To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
 Than of the criminal! HoIGabor! Gabor! 
 
 [Exit into the turret, closing the door 
 after him. 
 
 Scene II 
 The Interior of the Turret. 
 Gabor and Siegkndorf. 
 Cab. Who calls f 
 
 Sieg. I — Siegendorf ! Take these and By! 
 Lose not a moment ! 
 
 [Tears off a diamond star and other 
 jewels, and thrusts them into Gabor's 
 hand. 
 Gab. What am I to do 
 
 With these ? 
 
 Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or 
 hoard. 
 And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 
 Gab. You pledged your honour for my 
 
 safety ! 
 Sieg. And 
 
 Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not 
 
 master. 
 It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
 Retainers — nay, even of these very walls. 
 Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! 
 Fly! 
 
 Or you will be slain bj' 
 
 Gab. Is it even so ? 
 
 Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, 
 
 Count, 
 You sought this fatal interview ! 
 
 Sieg. I did : 
 
 Let it not be more fatal still ! — Begone ! 
 Gab. By the same path I enter'd ? 
 Sieg. Yes ; that 's safe still ; 
 
 But loiter not in ■ Prague ; — you do not 
 
 know 
 With v/hom j'ou have to deal. 
 
 Gab. I know too well — 
 
 And knew it ere yourself, imhappy sire ! ■ 
 
 Farewell ! [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Sieg. {solus and listening). He hath 
 
 clear'd the staircase. Ah ! I hear 
 
 The door sound loud behind him ! He is 
 
 safe ! 
 Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am 
 
 faint 
 
 [He leans doifn upon a stmie seat, near 
 the wall of the tower, in a drooping 
 posture. 
 
 Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with 
 weapons drawn. 
 Ulr. Despatch ! — he 's there ! 
 Lud. The count, my lord ! 
 
 Ulr. {recognising Siegendorf). You 
 
 here, sir ! 
 Sieg. Yes : if you want another -s-ictim, 
 
 strike ! 
 Ulr. {seeing him stript of his jewels). 
 Where is the ruffian who hath plun- 
 der' d you ? 
 Vassals, despatch in se.-jch of him ! You 
 
 see 
 'T was as I said— the wretch hath stript my 
 father ^ ' 
 
 Of jewels which might form a prince's heir- 
 loom ! 
 .■\way ! I'll follow you forthwith. 
 
 \Exeunt all but Siegendorf and UiRic. 
 What 's this ? 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORJVIED 
 
 Where is the villain ? 
 
 Sieg. There are two, sir ; which 
 
 Are you in quest of ? 
 
 Ulr. Let us hear no more 
 
 Of this : he must be found. You have not 
 
 let him 
 Escape ? 
 
 Sieg. He 's gone. 
 
 Ulr. With your connivance ? 
 
 Sieg. With 
 
 My fullest, freest aid. 
 
 Ulr. Then fare you well ! 
 
 [Ulrig is going. 
 Sieg. Stop ! I command — entreat — im- 
 plore ! Oh, Ulric ! 
 Will you then leave me ? 
 
 Ulr. What ! remain to be 
 
 Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; 
 
 and all 
 By your inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
 Seliish remorse, and temporising pity. 
 That sacrifices your whole race to save 
 A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count. 
 Henceforth you have no son ! 
 
 Sieg. I never had one ; 
 
 And would you ne'er had borne the useless 
 
 name ! 
 Where will you go ? I would not send you 
 
 forth 
 Without protection. 
 
 Ulr. Leave that unto me. 
 
 I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
 Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten 
 
 thousand 
 Swords, hearts, and hands are mine. 
 
 Sieg. The foresters ! 
 
 With whom the Hungarian found you first 
 
 at Frankfort ! 
 
 Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the 
 
 name ! Go tell 
 
 Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
 
 567 
 
 Their feast of peace was early for the 
 
 times ; 
 There are more spirits abroad than have 
 
 been laid 
 With Wallenstein ! 
 
 Enkr Josephine and Ida. 
 
 Jos. What is 't we hear ? My Siegen- 
 dorf ! 
 Thank Heav'n, I see you safe ! 
 Sieg. Safe ! 
 
 Ida. Yes, dear father ! 
 
 Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never 
 more 
 Call me by that worst name of parent. 
 
 Jos. What 
 
 Means my good lord ! 
 
 Sieg. That you have given birth 
 
 To a demon ! 
 
 Ida. (taking Ulric's hand). Who shall 
 
 dare say this of Ulric ? 
 Sieg. Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon 
 
 that hand. 
 Ida. (stooping to kiss it). I'd kiss it off, 
 
 though it were mine. 
 Sieg. It is so ! 
 
 Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! 
 
 [Exit Ulric. 
 Ida. Oh, great God ! 
 
 And I have loved this man ! 
 
 [Id.\ falls senseless — Josephine stands 
 speechless with horror. 
 Sieg. The wretch hath slain 
 
 Them both ! — My Josephine ! we are now 
 
 alone ! 
 Would we had ever been so !-r-All is over 
 For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy 
 
 grave ; 
 Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy 
 
 son 
 In mine !— The race of Siegendorf is past 1 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED : 
 
 A DRAMA 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^ 
 Stranger, afterwards C.es.\r, 
 Arnold. 
 Bourbon. 
 Philibert, 
 Cellini. 
 Bertha. 
 Olimpia. 
 Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, 
 Priests, Feasants, etc. 
 
 PART I 
 Scene I. — A Forest. 
 Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 
 Bert. Out, hunchback ! 
 
 4 rn I was born so, mother ! 
 
 Bert. , Out 
 
 Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of 
 
 seven soils. 
 The sole abortion ! 
 
 Am. Would that I had been so, 
 
 And never seen the light ! 
 
 lj,;ff^ I would so, too ! 
 
 But as thou hast—hancc, hence— and do 
 
 thy best ! . , ■ 
 
 That back of thine may bear its burthen ; 
 
 't is 
 More high, if not so broad as that of others. 
 Am It bears its burthen ;— but, my 
 heart ! Will it 
 
558 
 
 DRA?iIAS 
 
 Sustain that which you lay upon it, 
 mother ? 
 
 I love, or, at the least, I loved you : no- 
 thing 
 
 Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
 
 You nursed me — do not kill me ! 
 
 Bert. Yes — I nursed thee, 
 
 Because thou wert my first-bom, and I 
 knew not 
 
 If there would be another imlike thee, 
 . That monstrous sport of nature. But get 
 hence. 
 
 And gather wood ! 
 
 Am. I will : but when I bring it. 
 
 Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers 
 are 
 
 So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
 
 As the free chase they follow, do not spurn 
 me : 
 
 Our milk has been the same. 
 
 Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 
 
 Which sucks at midnight from the whole- 
 some dam 
 
 Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
 
 The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
 
 Call not thy brothers brethren ! Call me 
 not 
 
 Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
 
 As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
 
 Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, 
 out ! 
 
 [Exit Bertha. 
 
 Arv.. (solus). Oh, mother ! She is 
 
 gone, and I must do 
 Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
 I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
 A kind word in return. What shall I do ? 
 
 [Arnold begins to cut wood ; in doing 
 this he wounds one of his hands. 
 My labour for the day is over now. 
 Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
 For double curses will be my meed now 
 At home — What home ? I have no home, 
 
 no kin, 
 No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
 To share their sports or pleasures. JIust I 
 
 bleed, too. 
 Like them ? Oh, that each drop which 
 
 falls to earth 
 Would rise a snake to sting them, as they 
 
 have stung me ! 
 Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
 Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
 His form, why not his power ? Is it be- 
 cause 
 I have not his will too ? For one kind 
 
 word 
 From her who bore me would still reconcile 
 
 me 
 E\'eu to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
 The wound. 
 
 [Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to \ 
 wash his hand: he starts bac';. 
 
 They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows 
 
 me, 
 \\'hat she hath made me. I will not look 
 
 on it 
 Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hide- 
 ous wretch 
 That I am ! The very waters mock me 
 
 with 
 My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
 Deep in the fountain to scare back the 
 
 cattle 
 
 From drinking therein. [He pauses. 
 
 And shall I live on. 
 
 A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
 
 Unto what brought me into life ! Thou 
 
 blood. 
 Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let 
 
 me 
 Tr3' if thou ^nlt not in a fuller stream 
 Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
 On earth, to which I will restore at once 
 This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
 Resolve back to her elements, and take 
 The shape of any reptile save myself. 
 And make a world for m>'riads of new 
 
 worms ! 
 This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
 Thiswither'd slip of nature's nightshade — ■ 
 
 my 
 Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
 The green bough from the forest. 
 
 [Arnold places the knife in the ground, 
 with the point upwards. 
 
 Now 't is set, 
 And I can fall upon it. Vet one glance 
 On the fair dav, which sees no foul thing 
 
 like 
 Myself, and the sweet sim which warm'd 
 
 me, but 
 In vain. The birds — how jovously they 
 
 sing ! 
 So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
 But let their merriest notes be Arnold's 
 
 knell ; 
 The fallen leaves my monument ; the 
 
 murmur 
 Of the near fountain mv sole elegy. 
 Now, knife, stand firmlv, as I fain would 
 
 fall ! 
 
 [-•Is he rushes to throw hi)nself upon the 
 
 knife, his eye is suddenly caught by 
 
 the fountain, which seems in motion. 
 
 The fountain moves without a wind ; but 
 
 shall 
 The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
 No. Yet it moves again ! The waters 
 
 stir, 
 Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
 And rocking power of the mtemal world. 
 \\ hat 's here ? A mist ! No more ? — 
 
 [.-1 cloud comes from the fountain. He 
 stands ga:iiig upon i: : it is dispelled, 
 arul a tall black nun comes towards 
 him. 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFOKMED 
 
 569 
 
 Am. What would you ? Sneak ! 
 
 Spirit or man ? 
 
 Strati. As man is both, why not 
 
 Say both in one ? 
 
 Am. Your form is man's, and yet 
 
 You may be devil. 
 
 Stran. So many men are that 
 
 Which is so call'd or thought, that you may 
 
 add me 
 To which you please, without much wrong 
 
 to either. 
 But come : you vnsh to kill yourself ; — 
 
 pursue 
 Your purpose. 
 
 Am. You have interrupted me. 
 
 Stran. What is that resolution which can 
 e'er 
 Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
 You deem, a single moment would have 
 
 made you 
 Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
 And yet my coming saves you. 
 
 Am. I said not 
 
 You were the demon, but that your ap- 
 proach 
 Was like one. 
 
 Stran. Unless you keep company 
 
 With him (and you seem scarce used to 
 
 such high 
 Society) you can't tell how he approaches ; 
 And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
 And then on me, and judge which of us 
 
 twain 
 Looks likest what the boors believe to be 
 Their cloven-footed terror. 
 
 Arn. Do you — dare you 
 
 To taunt me with my born deformity ? 
 Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with 
 this 
 Qoven foot of thine, or the swift drome- 
 dary 
 With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
 Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
 Both beings are more swift, more strong, 
 
 more mighty. 
 In action and endurance than thyself. 
 And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
 With thee. Thy form is natural : 't was 
 
 only 
 Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
 The gifts which are of others upon man. 
 Arn. Give me the strength then of the 
 buffalo's foot. 
 When he spurs high the dust, beholding his 
 Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
 And patient swiftness of the desert-ship. 
 The helmless dromedary ! — and I'll bear 
 Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly pati- 
 ence. 
 Stran. I will. 
 
 Arn. {with surprise) . Thou canst ? 
 Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught 
 
 else ? 
 A rn. Thou mockest me. 
 
 Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 
 
 V\ hat all are mocking ? That 's poor sport, 
 
 methinks. 
 To talk to thee in human language (for 
 Thou canst not yet speak mine), the for- 
 „ «ster [boar, 
 
 Hunts not the wretched coney, but the 
 Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
 To petty burghers, who leave' once a yeir 
 Their walls, to fill their household cs.ldrons 
 
 with 
 Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at 
 
 thee, — 
 Now / can mock the mightiest 
 
 Arn. Then -waste not 
 
 Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 
 
 Stran. Your thoughts 
 
 Are not far from me. Do not send me 
 
 back : 
 I'm not so easily recall'd to do 
 Good service. 
 Arn. What wilt thou do for me ? 
 
 Stran. Change 
 
 Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so 
 
 irks you ; 
 Or form you to your wish in any shape. 
 Arn. Oh ! then you are indeed the de- 
 mon, for 
 Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 
 
 Stran. I'll show thee 
 
 The brightest which the world e'er bore, 
 
 and give thee 
 Thy choice. 
 
 Am. On what condition ? 
 Stran. There 's a question ! 
 
 An hour ago you would have given your 
 
 soul 
 To look like other men, and now you pause 
 To wear the form of heroes. 
 
 Arn. No ; I will not. 
 
 I must not compromise my soul. 
 
 Stran. What soul, 
 
 Worth naming so, would dwell in such a 
 
 carcass ? 
 
 Arn. 'T is an aspiring one, whate'er the 
 
 tenement 
 
 In which it is mislodged. But name your 
 
 compact : 
 Must it be sign'd in blood ? 
 
 Stran. Not in your own. 
 
 Arn. Whose blood then ? 
 Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 
 But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 
 Great things within you. You shall have 
 
 no bond 
 But your own will, no contract save your 
 
 deeds. 
 Are vou content ? 
 
 4rn. I take thee at thy word. 
 
 Stran. Now then ! — 
 
 [The Sirrr.scr approaches the fountain, 
 and turns to Arnold. 
 
 A little of your blood. 
 Am. For what? 
 
 P P 
 
570 
 
 DRAjAIAS 
 
 Stran. To mingle with the magic of the 
 waters, 
 .\nd malce the charm effective. 
 Am. [holding out his wounded arm). 
 
 Talie it all. 
 Stran. Not now. A few drops will 
 suffice for this. 
 
 [The Stranger takes some of Arnold's 
 blood in his hand, and casts it into 
 the fountain. 
 
 Shadows of beauty ! 
 
 Shadows of power ! 
 Rise to your duty — 
 This is the hour ! 
 Walk lovely and pliant 
 
 From the depth of this fountain, 
 As the.cloud-shapen giant 
 
 Bestrides the Hartz Mountain. 
 Come as ye were, 
 
 That our eyes may behold 
 The model in air 
 
 Of the form I will mould, 
 Bright as the Iris 
 
 When ether is spann'd ; — 
 Such his desire is, 
 
 [Pointing to Arnold. 
 Such my command ! 
 Den^ous heroic- 
 Demons who "wore 
 The form of the stoic 
 
 Or sophist of yore — 
 Or the shape of each victor. 
 
 From Macedon's boy, 
 To each high Roman's picture, 
 Who breathed to destroy — 
 Shadows of beauty ! 
 
 Shadows of power ! 
 Up to your duty — 
 This is the hoiu: ! 
 {Various phantoms arise from th^ 
 waters, and pass in succession before 
 the -Stranger and Arnold. 
 Am. What do I see ? 
 Stran. The black-p\-ed Roman, with 
 
 The eagle's beak between those eyes which 
 
 ile'er 
 Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
 The land he made not Rome's, while Rome 
 
 became 
 His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 
 Am. The phantom 's bald ; my quest is 
 beauty. Could I 
 Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 
 Stran. His brow was girt with laurels 
 more than hairs. 
 You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
 I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
 Must be long sought and fought for. 
 
 Am. I will fight, too, 
 
 But not as a mock Cajsar. Let him pass ; 
 Ilis aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 
 Siian. Then \ou ar.- far more difficult to 
 jilcaso 
 
 Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother. 
 Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
 When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
 But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 
 
 [The phantom of Julius CeBsar disappears. 
 
 A rn. And can it 
 
 Be, that the man who shook the earth is 
 
 gone. 
 And left no footstep ? 
 
 Stran. There you err. His substance 
 
 Left graves enough, and woes enough, and 
 
 fame 
 More than enough to track his memory ; 
 But for his shadow, 't is no more than yours. 
 Except a little longer and less crook'd 
 I* the sun. Behold another ! 
 
 [A second phantom passes. 
 Am. Who is he ? 
 
 Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest 
 of 
 Athenians. Look upon him well. 
 
 Am. He is 
 
 More lo^'ely than the last. How beautiful ! 
 Stran. Such was the curled son of CU- 
 nias ; — wouldst thou 
 Invest thee with his form ? 
 
 Am. AVould that I had 
 
 Been born with it ! But since I may 
 
 choose further, 
 I will look further. 
 
 [The shade of Alcibiades disappears. 
 Stran. Lo ! behold again ! 
 
 Am. What ! that low, swarthy, short- 
 nosed, round-eyed sat\T, 
 With the wide nostrils and Silenus' ^pect, 
 The splay feet and low stature ! I had 
 
 better 
 Remain that which I am. 
 
 Stran. And vet he was 
 
 The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
 And personification of all \'irtue. 
 But you reject him ? 
 
 ^4 rn. If his form could bring me 
 
 That which redeem'd it — no. 
 
 Stran. I have no power 
 
 To promise that ; but vou may tr\-, and 
 
 find it 
 Easier in such a form, or in your Own. 
 
 Arn. Xo. I was not bom for philosophy, 
 Though I ha^■e that about me which has 
 
 need oil 't. 
 Let him fleet on. 
 
 Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 
 [The shadow of Socrates disappears : 
 anotlicr rises. 
 Arn. What's here? whose broad brow 
 and whose curlv beard 
 And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
 Save that his jocund e\-e hath more of Bac- 
 chus 
 Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
 Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
 As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
 i .ir whom he had, fought. 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
 
 Stran. It was the man who lost 
 
 The ancient world for love. 
 
 Am. I cannot blame him, 
 
 Since I have risk'd my soul because I find 
 
 not 
 That which he exchanged the earth for. 
 
 Stran. Since so far 
 
 You seem congenial, will you wear his fea- 
 tures ? 
 Am. No. As you leave me choice, I am 
 difficult, 
 If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
 Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
 Whence they float back before us. 
 
 Stran. Hence, triumvir, 
 
 Thy Cleopatra's waiting. 
 
 [The shade of Antony disappears : 
 anothc/ rises. 
 Am. Who is this ? 
 
 Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
 Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and 
 
 stature, 
 If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
 In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
 Which he wears as the sun his rays — a 
 something [flashing 
 
 Which shines from him, and yet is but the 
 Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
 Was he e'er human only ? 
 
 Stran. Let the earth speak. 
 
 If there be atoms of him left, or even 
 
 Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 
 
 Am. Who was this glory of mankind ? 
 
 Stran. The shame 
 
 Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in 
 
 war — 
 Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
 Taker of cities. 
 
 Am. Yet one shadow more. 
 
 Stran. (addressing the shadow). Get thee 
 to Lamia's lap ! 
 
 [The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes 
 vanishes : another rises. 
 
 I'll fit you still. 
 Fear not, my hunchback : if the shadows of 
 That which existed please not your nice 
 
 taste, 
 I'll animate the ideal marble, till 
 Your soul be reconciled to her new gar- 
 ment. 
 Arn. Content ! I will fix here. 
 Stran. I must commend 
 
 Your choice. The godlike son of the sea- 
 goddess. 
 The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
 As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
 Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
 Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
 Rippled like flowing waters by the wind. 
 All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — 
 
 behold them ! 
 And him — as he stood by PoLixena, 
 With sanction'd and with soften'd love, 
 before 
 
 571 
 
 The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 
 With some remorse within for Hector slain 
 And Priam weeping, mingled with deep 
 
 passion 
 For the sweet downcast virgin, whose 
 
 young hand 
 Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
 He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
 Greece look'd her last upon her best, the 
 
 instant 
 Ere Paris' arrow flew. 
 
 A m. I gaze upon him 
 
 As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
 Envelope mine. 
 
 Stran. You have done well. The greatest 
 Deformity should only barter with 
 The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's 
 
 true 
 Of mortals, that extremes meet. 
 
 A rn. Come ! Be quick ! 
 
 I am impatient. 
 
 Stran. As a youthful beauty 
 
 Before her glass. You both see what is not. 
 But dream it is what must be. 
 
 Arn. Must I wait ? 
 
 Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a 
 
 word or two : 
 His stature is twelve cubits ; would you so 
 
 far 
 Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
 (To talk canonically) wax a son 
 Of Anak ? 
 
 .4 rn. Why not ? 
 
 Stran. Glorious ambition ! 
 
 I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
 Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
 His own Goliath down to a slight David : 
 But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
 Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
 If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
 A Utile less removed from present men 
 In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for 
 
 all 
 Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
 A new-found mammoth : and their cursed 
 
 engines, 
 "j heir culverins, and so forth, would find 
 
 way 
 Through our friend's armour there, with 
 
 greater ease 
 Than the adulterer's arrow through his 
 
 heel, 
 Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
 In Stvx. 
 
 4m. Then let it be as thou deem st best. 
 Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the 
 
 thing thou sefst, 
 
 And strong as what it was, and 
 
 Am. I ask not 
 
 For valour, since deformity is daring. 
 It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
 By heart and soul, and make itself the 
 
 equal — 
 Ay, the superior of the rest. There vi 
 
572 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 A spur in its halt movements, to become 
 All that the others cannot, in such things 
 As still are free to both, to compensate 
 For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
 They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of 
 
 fortune, 
 And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win 
 them. 
 Stran. Well spoken ! And thou doubt- 
 less wilt remain 
 Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the 
 
 mould 
 Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to 
 
 incase 
 This daring soul, which could achieve no 
 
 less 
 Without it. 
 
 Arn. Had no power presented me 
 
 The possibiUty of change, 1 would 
 Have done the best which spirit may to 
 
 make 
 Its way with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
 Discouraging weight upon me, like a moun- 
 tain. 
 In feeling, on my heart as on my shoul- 
 ders — 
 A hateful and unsightly molehill, to 
 The eyes of happier men. I would have 
 
 look'd 
 On beauty in that sex which is the type 
 Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
 Beyond the world they brighten, with a 
 
 sigh- 
 Not of love, but despair ; nor sought to 
 
 win. 
 Though to a heart all love, what could not 
 
 love me 
 In turn, because of this vile crooked clog. 
 Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could 
 
 have borne 
 It all, had not my mother spm-n'd me from 
 
 her. 
 The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
 Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was 
 
 hopeless. 
 Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
 I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
 Been a clod of the ',\->Iley, — happier no- 
 thing 
 Than what I am. But even thus, the 
 
 lowest, 
 Ugliest, and meanest of maiikind, what 
 
 courage 
 And perseverance could have done, per- 
 chance 
 Had made me something — as it has made 
 
 heroes 
 Of the same mould as mine. You latelv 
 
 saw me 
 Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
 And he who is so is the master Of 
 Whatever dreads to die. 
 
 Stran. Decide between 
 
 What you have been, or will be. 
 
 Aril. I have done so. 
 
 You have open'd brighter prospects to 
 
 my eyes. 
 And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
 I might be fear'd, admired, respected, 
 
 loved 
 Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
 Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
 A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
 Haste ! haste ! 
 
 Stran. And what shaU / wear ? 
 
 Arn. ' Surely, he 
 
 Who can command all forms will choose 
 
 the highest. 
 Something superior even to that which was 
 Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
 Who slew him, that of Paris : or — still 
 
 higher — 
 The poet's god, clothed in such hmbs as 
 
 are 
 Themselves a poetry. 
 
 Stran. Less will content me ; 
 
 For I, too, love a change. 
 
 Arn. Your aspect is 
 
 Dusky, but not uncomely. 
 
 Stran. If I chose, 
 
 I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
 For black — it is so honest, and besides 
 Can neither blush with shame nor pale with 
 
 fear ; 
 But I have worn it long enough of late, 
 And now I'll take your figure. 
 
 Arn. Mine ! 
 
 Stran. Yes. You 
 
 Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with 
 
 Bertha. 
 Your mother's ofispring. People have 
 
 their tastes ; 
 You have yours — I mine. 
 
 Am. Despatch ! despatch ! 
 
 Stran. Even so. 
 
 [Tlie Stranger takes some earth and moulds 
 it along th^ turf, and then addresses the 
 phantom of Achilles. 
 
 Beautiful shadow 
 
 Of Thetis's boy ! 
 Who sleeps in the meadow 
 
 ^\"hose grass grows o'er Troy : 
 From the red earth, like Adam, 
 
 Thy likeness I shape. 
 As the being who made him. 
 
 Whose actions I ape. 
 Thou clay, be all gloiring. 
 
 Till the rose in his cheek 
 Be as fair, as when blowing, 
 
 It wears its first streak ! 
 Ye violets, I scatter. 
 
 Now turn into eves ! 
 And thou, sunshiny water, 
 
 Of blood take the suise ! 
 Let these hyacinth boughs 
 
 Be his long flowing hair. 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
 
 .And wave o'er his brows. 
 
 As thou wavest in air ! 
 Let his heart be this marble 
 
 I tear from the rock ! 
 But his voice as the warble 
 
 Of birds on yon oak ! 
 Let his flesh be the purest 
 
 Of mould, in which grew 
 The lily-root surest, 
 
 And. drank the best dew ! 
 Let his limbs be the lightest 
 
 Which clay can compound. 
 And his aspect the brightest 
 
 On earth to be found ! 
 Elements, near me 
 
 Be mingled and stirr'd. 
 Know me, and hear me. 
 
 And leap to my word ! 
 Sunbeams, awaken 
 
 This earth's animation ! 
 'T is done ! He hath taken 
 
 His stand in creation ! 
 [Arnold falls senseless ; his soul 
 
 passes into the shape of Achilles, 
 
 which rises from the ground ; while 
 , the phantom has disappeared, part 
 
 by part, as the figure was formed from 
 
 the earth. 
 
 Am. (in his new form). I love, and I 
 shall be beloved ! Oh, life ! 
 At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 
 
 Stran. Stop ! 
 
 What shall become of your abandon'd 
 
 garment, 
 Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness. 
 Which late you wore, or wd'e ? 
 
 A rn. Who cares ? Let wolves 
 
 And vultures take it, if they will. 
 
 Stran. And if 
 
 They do, and are not scared by it, you'll 
 
 say 
 It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
 Abroad i' the fields. 
 
 Arti. Let us but leave it there ; 
 
 No matter what becomes on 't. 
 
 Stran. That 's ungracious. 
 
 If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be. 
 It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 
 Am. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a 
 gem 
 Which is now set in gold, as jewels should 
 be. 
 Stran. But if I give another form, it 
 must be 
 By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
 Who make men without women's aid have 
 
 long 
 Had patents for the same, and do not love 
 Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
 Not make them, — though he reap the 
 
 benefit 
 Of the original workmanship : — and there- 
 fore 
 
 573 
 
 Some one must be found to assume the 
 
 shape 
 You have quitted. 
 
 Arn. Who would do so ' 
 
 AnH?."- , T That 1 know not. 
 
 And therefore I must. 
 
 Arn. You I 
 
 v^/"''\ V. . I ^aid it ere 
 
 lou inhabited your present dome of 
 beauty. 
 
 Arn. True. I forget all things in the 
 new joy 
 Of this immortal change. 
 
 Strang In ^ f,,^^ moments 
 
 f will be as you were, and you shall see 
 Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 
 
 Arn. I would be spared this 
 
 Stran. 
 
 But it cannot be. 
 
 What ! shrink ahready, being what you are! 
 From seeing what you were '! 
 
 ^'■'*- Do as thou wilt. 
 
 Stran. (to the late form of Arnold. 
 
 extended on the earth) . 
 Clay ! not dead, but soul-less ! 
 
 Though no man would choose thee. 
 An immortal no less 
 
 Deigns not to refuse thee. 
 Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
 All clay is of equal merit. 
 Fire ! without which nought can live ; 
 Fure ! but in which nought can live. 
 
 Save the fabled salamander. 
 
 Or immortal souls which wander. 
 Praying what doth not fcrgive, 
 Howling for a drop of water. 
 
 Burning in a quenchless lot : 
 Fire ! the only element 
 
 Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 
 Save the worm which dieth not. 
 
 Can preserve a mrment's form. 
 But must with thyself be blent : 
 Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter : 
 Fire ! Creation's first-born daughter. 
 
 And Destruction's threaten'd son. 
 
 When heaven with the world hath done: 
 Fire ! assist me to renew 
 Life in what lies in my view 
 
 Stiff and cold ! 
 His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
 One little, marshy spark of flame — 
 And he again shall seem the same ; 
 
 But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
 
 [An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood 
 and rests on the brow of the body. 
 The Stranger disappears : the body 
 rises. 
 
 Arn. (in his new form). Oh ! horrible ! 
 
 Stran. (in Aruold's late shape). What I 
 tremblest thou ? 
 
 Arn. Not so — 
 
 I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
 Thou lately worest ? 
 
 Stran. To the world of shadows. 
 
574 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 But let us thread the present. Whither 
 wilt thou ? 
 Afn. Must thou be my companion ? 
 Stran. Wherefore not 
 
 Your betters keep worse company. 
 Am. My betters ! 
 
 Stran. Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of 
 your new form : 
 I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 
 
 's well ; 
 You improve apace ; — two changes in an 
 
 instant. 
 And you are old in the world's ways al- 
 ready. 
 But bear with me : indeed you 'U find me 
 
 useful 
 Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pro- 
 nounce 
 Where shall we now be errant ? 
 
 Am. Where the world 
 
 Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
 Its workings. 
 
 Stran. That 's to say, where there is war 
 And woman in activity. Let 's see ! 
 Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
 Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth. 
 There is small choice : the whole race are 
 
 just now 
 
 Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 
 
 Am. I have heard great things of Rome. 
 
 Stran. A goodly choice — 
 
 And scarce a better to be found on earth. 
 
 Since Sodom was put out. The field is 
 
 wide too ; 
 For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish 
 
 scion 
 Of the old \'andals, are at play along 
 The sunny shores of the world's garden. 
 Arn. How 
 
 Shall we proceed ? 
 
 Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 
 What, ho ! my chargers ! Never yet 
 
 were better. 
 Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
 Our pages too ! 
 
 Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses. 
 Am. A noble sight ! 
 
 Stran. And of 
 
 A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
 Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
 With these ! 
 
 Arn. The mighty stream, which 
 
 volumes high 
 From their proud nostrils, bmms the very 
 
 air ; 
 And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, 
 
 wheel 
 Around their manes 
 
 swarm 
 
 Round common steeds towards sunset. 
 Stran. Mount, my lord : 
 
 They and I are your srrvitors. 
 
 '^'■" And these 
 
 as common msects 
 
 Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their 
 names ? 
 Stran. You shall baptize them. 
 .irn. What ! in holy water ? 
 
 Stran. Why not ? The deeper sinner, 
 
 better saint. 
 Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, 
 
 sure, be demons. 
 Stran. True ; the devil 's always ugly ; 
 and your beauty 
 Is never diabolical. 
 
 Am. I'll call him 
 
 Who bears the golden horn, and wears sucb 
 
 bright 
 And blooming aspect, Huon ; for he looks 
 Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest. 
 And never found till now. And for the 
 
 other 
 And darker, and more thoughtful, who 
 
 smiles not. 
 But looks as serious though serene as night. 
 He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king 
 Whose statue txirns a harper once a day. 
 And you ? 
 
 Stran. I have ten thousand names, and 
 twice 
 As many attributes ; but as I wear 
 A human shape, will take a human name. 
 Arn. More human than the shape 
 (though it was mine once) 
 I trust. 
 
 Stran. Then call me Caesar. 
 Arn. Why, that name 
 
 Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
 By the world's lords. 
 
 Stran. And therefore fittest for 
 
 The devil in disguise — since so you deem 
 
 me, 
 Unless you call me pope instead. 
 
 Arn. Well, then, 
 
 Cssar thou shalt be. For myself, my 
 
 name 
 Shall be plain -\rnold still. 
 _^ Cies. We '11 add a title— 
 
 " Count Arnold " ■ it hath no ungracious 
 
 sound. 
 And will look well upon a billet-doux. 
 Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field. 
 Cces. (sings). To horse! to horse! my 
 coal-black steed 
 Paws the ground and snuffs the air ! 
 There 's not a foal of Arab's breed 
 
 More knows whom he must bear ; 
 On the hill he will not tire. 
 Swifter as it waxes higher ; 
 In the marsh he will not slacken. 
 On the plain be overtaken ; 
 In the wave he will not sink. 
 Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 
 In the race he will not pant, 
 In the combat he '11 not faint ; 
 On the stones he will not stumble. 
 Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 
 In the stall he will not stifien, 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
 
 But be winged as a griffin, 
 
 Only flying with liis feet : 
 
 And will not such a voyage be sweet ? 
 
 Merrily ! merrily ! never unsound, 
 
 Shall our bonny black horses skim over 
 
 the ground ! 
 From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or 
 
 fly ! 
 For we'll leave them behind in the glance 
 
 of an eye. 
 IThey moiinl their horses, and disappear. 
 
 Scene II 
 A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 
 Arnold and Cxsar. 
 
 Cces. You are well entered now. 
 Am. Ay ; but my path 
 
 Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
 Of blood. 
 
 CcBS. Then wipe them, and see clearly. 
 Why ! 
 Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
 And free companion of the gallant Bour- 
 bon, 
 Late constable of France : and now to be 
 Lord of the city which hath been earth's 
 
 lord 
 Under its emperors, and — changing sex. 
 Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
 Lady of the old world. 
 
 A rn. How old ? What ! are there 
 
 New worlds ? 
 
 Cess. To you. You '11 find there are such 
 shortly, 
 By its rich harvests , new disease, and gold ; 
 From one half of the world named a whole 
 
 new one. 
 Because 5'ou know no better than the_dull 
 And dubious notice of 5'our eyes and ears. 
 Am'. I'll trust them. 
 Cces. Do ! They will deceive you 
 sweetly. 
 And that is better than the bitter truth. 
 Am. Dog ! 
 Cms. Man ! 
 
 Am. Devil ! 
 
 Cces. Your obedient humble servant. 
 Am. Say master rather. Thou hast 
 lured me on. 
 Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am 
 here. 
 Cces. And where wouldst thou be ? 
 Am. Oh, at peace — in peace. 
 
 Cc3S. And where is that which is so ? 
 From the star 
 To the winding worm, all life is motion ; 
 
 and . 
 
 In life commotion is the extremest point 
 Of life. The planet wSieel.^ till it becomes 
 A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
 The stars, goes out. The poor worm 
 winds its way. 
 
 _575 
 
 Living upon the death of other things. 
 But still, like them, must live and die, the 
 
 subject 
 Of something which has made it live and 
 
 die. 
 You must obey what afl obey, the rule 
 Of fix'd necessity ; against her edict 
 Rebellion prospers not. 
 
 Am And when it prospers — 
 
 C cES. 'T is no rebellion. 
 
 Am. Willit prosper now ? 
 
 Ccr^. The Bourbon hath given orders 
 for the assault, 
 And by the dawn there will be work. 
 
 Am. . Alas! 
 
 .4nd shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
 Abode of the true God, and his true saint. 
 Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
 That sky whence Christ ascended from the 
 
 CPDSS, 
 
 Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
 Of joy (as once of torture unto him, 
 God and God's Son, man's sole and only 
 refuge) . 
 Cces. 'T is there, and shall be. 
 Am. What ? 
 
 Cces. The crucifix 
 
 Above, and many altar shrines below. 
 Also some culverins upon the walls, 
 .A.nd harquebusses, and what not ; besid.33 
 The m«n who are to kindle them to death 
 Of other men. 
 
 Am. And those scarce mortal arches, 
 Pile above pile of everlasting wall. 
 The theatre where emperors and their sub- 
 jects 
 (Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
 The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
 And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
 Of the then untamed desert, brought to 
 
 joust 
 In the arena (as right well they might. 
 When they had left no human foe uncon- 
 
 quer'd) ; 
 Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
 Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
 As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
 For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pass on 
 To a new gladiator ! " — Must it fall ? 
 Cies. The city, or the amphitheatre? 
 The church, or one, or all ? for you con- 
 found 
 Both them and me. 
 
 Am. To-morrow sounds the assault 
 With the first cock-crow. 
 
 Cas. Which, if it end with 
 
 The evening's first nightingale, will be 
 Something new in the annals of great 
 
 sieges ; 
 For men must have their prpv after long 
 
 Am. The sun goes down as calmly. anC 
 perhaps 
 More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
 
576 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 On the day Remus leapt her wall. 
 
 Cces. I saw him. 
 
 Am. You ! 
 
 Cces. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 
 Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape. 
 And a worse name. I 'm Cssar and a 
 
 hunchback 
 Now. Well ! the fiist of Ca-sars was a 
 
 bald-head, 
 And loved his laurels better as a wig 
 (So historj' says) than as a glory. Thus 
 The world runs on, but we '11 be merry still. 
 I saw your Romulus (simple as 1 am) 
 Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same 
 
 womb. 
 Because he leapt a ditch('t was then no wall, 
 Whate'er it now be) ; and Rome's earliest 
 
 cement 
 Was brother's blood ; and if its native 
 
 blood V 
 
 Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
 As e'er 't was yellow, it will never wear 
 The deep hue of the ocean and the earth. 
 Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
 Have made their never-ceasing scene of 
 
 slaughter 
 For ages. 
 
 Am. But what these have done, theirfar 
 Remote descendants, who have lived in 
 
 peace, 
 The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
 Piety ? 
 CiBS. And what had they done, whom 
 the old 
 Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 
 
 Am. They are soldiers singing 
 
 A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
 Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 
 Cas. And why should they not sing as 
 well as swans ? 
 They are black ones, to be sure. 
 
 Am. So, you are learn'd, 
 
 I see, too ? 
 
 Cas. In my grammar, certes. I 
 
 Was educated for a monk of all times. 
 And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
 
 Etruscan letters and — were I so minded 
 
 Could make their hieroglyphics plainer 
 
 than 
 Your alphabet. 
 A m. And wherefore do you not ? 
 
 C(ZS. It answers better to resolve the 
 alphabet 
 Back into hieroglyphics. Like your 
 
 statesman, 
 And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchvmist. 
 Philosopher, and what not, the}- Wave built 
 More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
 The stammering young ones of the flood's 
 
 dull ooze. 
 Who fail'd and fled each other. Why ? 
 
 why, marry. 
 Because no man could understand his 
 neighbour. 
 
 They are wiser now, and will not separate 
 For ' nonsense. Nay, It is their brother- 
 hood. 
 Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, 
 
 their 
 Cabala ; their best brick-work, where- 
 withal 
 
 They build more 
 
 Am. {interrupting him). Oh, thou ever- 
 lasting sneerer ! 
 Be silent ! How the soldier's rough strain 
 
 seems 
 Soften' d by distance to a hymn- like 
 
 cadence ! 
 Listen ! 
 
 Cms. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 
 Am. And demons howl. 
 CcBS. And man, too. Let us listen : 
 
 I love all music. 
 
 Song of the Soldiers within. 
 
 The black bands came over 
 The Alps and their snow ; 
 With Bourbon, the rover. 
 
 They pass'd the broad Po. 
 We have beaten all foemen. 
 We have captured a king, 
 We have turn d back on no men. 
 
 And so let us sing ! 
 Here 's the Bourbon for ever ! 
 
 Though pennyless all. 
 We '11 have one more endeavour 
 
 At yonder old wall. 
 With the Bourbon we '11 gather 
 
 At day-dawn before 
 The gates, and together 
 Or break or climb o'er 
 The wall : on the ladder 
 
 As mounts each firm foot. 
 Our shout shall grow gladder. 
 
 And death only be mute. 
 With the Bourbon we '11 motmt o'er 
 
 The walls of old Rome, 
 And who then shall count o'er 
 
 The spoils of each dome ? 
 Up ! up with the lilv ! 
 
 And down with the ke5's ! 
 In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 
 
 We '11 revel at ease. 
 Her streets shall be gory. 
 
 Her Tiber all red. 
 And her temples so hoary 
 
 Shall clang with our tread. 
 Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 
 
 The Bourbon for ave ! 
 Of our song bear the 'burden ! 
 
 And fire, fire awav ! 
 With Spain for the \-anguard. 
 
 Our varied host comes ■ 
 And next to the Spaniard 
 Beat Germanv's drums • 
 And Italy's lances 
 
 Are couch'd at their mother ; 
 But our leader from France is 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFOMIED 
 
 577 
 
 ^^'ho warr'd mth his brother. 
 Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 
 
 Sans country or home, 
 We 'U follow the Bourbon, 
 
 To plunder old Rome. 
 
 Ciss. An indifferent song 
 
 For those within the walls, methinks, to 
 
 hear. 
 
 Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. 
 
 But here comes 
 
 The general with his chiefs and men of 
 
 trust. 
 A goodly rebel ! 
 
 Enter the Constable Bourbon '' cum suis," 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Phil. How now, noble prince, 
 
 i'ou are not cheerful ? 
 Bourb. Why should I be so ? 
 
 Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as 
 ours, 
 Most men would be so. 
 
 Bourb. If I were secure ! 
 
 Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the 
 walls of adamant. 
 They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp 
 artillery. 
 Bourb. That they will falter is my least 
 of fears. 
 That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon 
 
 for 
 Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
 To marshal them on — were those hoary 
 
 walls 
 Mountains, and those 
 
 like the gods 
 Of the old fables, I 
 Titans ; — 
 
 But now 
 
 Phil. They are but men who war with 
 
 mortals. 
 Bourb. True : but those walls have 
 girded in great ages. 
 And sent forth 'mighty spirits. The past 
 
 earth 
 And present phantom of imperious Rome 
 Is peopled with those warriors ; and me- 
 thinks 
 They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
 And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy 
 
 hands, 
 And beckon me awav ! 
 
 Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 
 
 Turn back from shadowy menaces of sha- 
 dows ? 
 Bourb. They do not menace me. I 
 coiild have faced, 
 Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they 
 
 clasp, 
 And raise, and wring their dim and death- 
 like hands, 
 And with their thin aspen faces and fix'd 
 eyes 
 
 who guard them 
 would trust my 
 
 Fascinate mine. Look there ! 
 
 Phil. I look upon 
 
 A lofty battlement. 
 
 Bourb. And there ! 
 
 Phil. Not even 
 
 A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
 Shelter'd by the grey parapet from some 
 Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
 Practise in the cool twilight. 
 
 Bourb. You are blind. 
 
 Phil. If seeing nothing more than mav be 
 seen 
 Be so. 
 
 Bourb. A thousand years have mann'd 
 the walls 
 With all their heroes, — the last Cato 
 
 stands 
 And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
 The liberty of that I would enslave, 
 And the first Ciesar with his triumphs flits 
 From battlement to battlement. 
 
 Phil. Then conquer 
 
 The walls for which he conquer' d, and be 
 greater ! 
 Bourb. True : so I will, or perish. 
 Phil. You can not. 
 
 In such an enterprise to die is rather 
 The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 
 
 [Count Arnold and C^sar advance.. 
 
 Cas. And the mere men — do they too 
 
 sweat beneath 
 
 The noon of this same ever-scorching glory ? 
 
 Bourb. Ah ! 
 
 Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his 
 
 master, 
 The beauty of our host, and brave as beau- 
 teous, 
 And generous as lovely. We shall find 
 Work for you both ere morning. 
 
 CcES. You will find, 
 
 So please your highness, no less for yourself. 
 Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a 
 labourer 
 More forward, hunchback ! 
 
 Cces. You may well say so. 
 
 For vou have seen that back — as general. 
 Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
 Have never seen it. 
 
 Bomb. That 's a fair retort. 
 
 For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's 
 
 breast 
 Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
 In danger's face as yours, were you the 
 devil. 
 Cms. And if I were, I might have saved 
 myself 
 The toil of coming here. 
 
 Phil. Whv so ? 
 
 Cess. One half 
 
 Of your brave bands of their own bold 
 
 accord 
 Will go to him, the other half be sent, 
 More swiftly, not less surely. 
 
 Bourb. Arnold, your 
 
PRAMAS 
 
 Slight crooked friend 's as snalte-like in his 
 
 words 
 As his deeds. 
 
 Crcs. Your highness much mistakes 
 
 me. 
 
 The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
 
 And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 
 
 Bourb. Youarebra^'e, and that 's enough 
 
 for me ; and quick 
 
 In speech as sharp in action — and that 's 
 
 more. 
 I am not alone the soldier, but the soldiers' 
 Comrade. 
 
 C^s. They are but bad company, your 
 highness ; 
 And v.'orse even for their friends than foes, 
 
 as being 
 More permanent acquaintance. 
 
 Phil. How now, fellow ! 
 
 Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
 Of a buffoon. 
 
 CcES. You mean I speak the truth. 
 
 I '11 lie — it is as easy : then you '11 praise me 
 For calling you a hero. 
 
 Bourb. Philibert ! 
 
 Let him alone ; he 's bra^■e. and ever has 
 Been first, with that swart face and moun- 
 tain shoulder. 
 In field or storm, and patient in starva- 
 tion ; 
 And for his tongue, the camp is full of 
 
 licence, 
 And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
 Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
 The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
 Of amere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave, 
 AVhora nothing can convince save a full 
 
 meal, 
 And wine, and sleep, and a few m'aravedis, 
 With which he deems him rich. 
 
 Cces. It would be well 
 
 If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 
 
 Bourb. Be silent ! 
 
 Cas. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself 
 with words. 
 You have few to speak. 
 
 Phil. What means the audacious 
 
 prater ? 
 Cces. To prate, like other prophets. 
 Bourb. Philibert ! 
 
 Why will you vex him ? Have we not 
 
 enough 
 To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the 
 
 attack 
 To-morrow. 
 
 A rn. I have heard as much, ray lord. 
 Bourb. And you will follow ? 
 .1™. Since I must not lead. 
 
 Bourb. 'T is necessary for the further dar- 
 ing 
 Of our too needy army, that their chief 
 Plant the first foot upon the foremost 
 
 ladder's 
 First step. 
 
 Cces. Upon its topmost, let lis hope : 
 So shall he have his full deserts. 
 
 Bourb. ^ The world's 
 
 Great capital perchance is oiurs to-morrow. 
 Through every change the seven-hill'd city 
 
 hath 
 Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the 
 
 Cajsars 
 But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
 Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest. 
 Still the world's masters ! Civilised, bar- 
 barian. 
 Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
 Have been the circus of an empire. \^'ell ! 
 'T was Ihciy turn — now 't is ours ; and let 
 
 us hope 
 That w-e will fight as well, and rule much 
 better. 
 Cess, No dou'ot, the camp 's the school 
 of civic rights. 
 What would you make of Rome ? 
 
 Bourb. That w^hich it was. 
 
 C(zs. In Alaric's time ? 
 
 Bourb. No, slave ! in the first Cassar's, 
 
 Whose name you bear bke other curs 
 
 CcBS. And kings ! 
 
 'T is a great name for blood-hoimds. 
 
 Bourb. There 's a demon 
 
 In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. ^^ ilt 
 
 never 
 Be serious ? 
 
 Cces. On the eve of battle, no ; — 
 That were not soldier-like. 'T is for the 
 
 general 
 To be more pensive : we adventurers 
 Must be m' ire cheerful. Wherefore should 
 
 we think ? 
 Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape. 
 Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof 
 
 from hosts ! 
 If the knaves take to thinldng, you will 
 
 have 
 To crack those walls alone. 
 
 Bourb. You may sneer, since 
 
 'T is lucky for you that you fight no worse 
 for 't. 
 Cess. I thank you for the freedom ; 't is 
 the only 
 Pay I ha^'e taken in your highness' service. 
 Bourb. Well, sir, to-moiTow you shall 
 pay yourself. 
 Look on those towers ; they hold mv trea- 
 sury : 
 But, Philibert, we '11 in to coimcil. Arnold, 
 \\'e would request your presence. 
 
 Am. Prince! my service 
 
 Is yours, as in the field. 
 
 Bourb. In both we prize it, 
 
 And yours will be a post of trust at day 
 break. 
 C(is. And mine ? 
 
 Bourb. To follow glory with the 
 Bourbon. 
 Good-night ! 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
 
 570 
 
 Am. (to C^sar). Prepare our armour 
 for the assault, 
 
 And wait within my tent. 
 
 [Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Phili- 
 BERT, etc. 
 Cies. [solus). Within thy tent ! 
 
 Think'st thou that I pass from thee with 
 my presence ? 
 
 Or that this crooked coffer, which con- 
 tain'd 
 
 Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
 
 Except a mask ? And these are men, for- 
 sooth ! 
 
 Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's 
 bastards ! 
 
 This is the consequence of giving matter 
 
 The power of thought. It is a stubborn 
 substance! 
 
 And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 
 
 Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
 
 Well ! I must play with these poor pup- 
 pets : 't is 
 
 The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
 
 When I grow weary of it, I have business 
 
 Amongst the stars, which these poor crea- 
 tures deem 
 
 Were made for them to look at. 'Twere 
 a jest now 
 
 To bring one down amongst them, and set 
 fire 
 
 Unto their anthill : how the pismires then 
 
 Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, 
 ceasing 
 
 From tearing down each other's nests, 
 pipe forth 
 
 One universal orison ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Exit C^SAR. 
 
 PART II 
 Scene 1.— Before the walls of Rome. — The 
 Assault: the Army in motion, with 
 ladders to scale the walls ; Bourbon, 
 with a white scarf over his armour, fore- 
 most. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits' in the air. 
 
 'T is the morn, but dim and dark. 
 Whither flies the silent lark ? 
 Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
 Is the day indeed begun ? 
 Nature's eye is melancholy 
 O'er the city high and holy : 
 But without there is a din 
 Should arouse the saints withm. 
 And revive the heroic ashes 
 Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
 Oh ye seven hills ! awaken, 
 Pre your very base be shaken ! 
 
 Hearken to the steady stamp ! 
 
 Mars is in their every tramp ! 
 
 Not a step is out of tune, 
 
 As the tides obey the moon ! 
 
 On they march, though to self-slaughter. 
 
 Regular as rolling water, 
 
 Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 
 
 Of huge moles, but keep their order. 
 
 Breaking only rank by rank. 
 
 Hearken to the armour's clank ! 
 
 Look down o'er each frowning warrior. 
 
 How he glares upon the barrier : 
 
 Look on each step of each ladder, 
 
 As the stripes that streak an adder. 
 
 Look upon the bristling wall, 
 Mann'd without an interval ! 
 Round and round, and teir on tier. 
 Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
 Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon. 
 Gaping to be murderous soon ; 
 All the warlike gear of old, 
 Mix'd with what we now behold, 
 In this strife 'twixt old and new. 
 Gather like a locusts' crew. 
 Shade of Remus ! 't is a time 
 Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
 Christians war against Christ's shrine ; 
 Must its lot be like to thine ? 
 
 Near — and near — and nearer still. 
 As the earthquake saps the hill. 
 First with trembling, hollow motion. 
 Like a scarce awaken'd ocean, 
 Then with stronger shock and louder, 
 Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 
 Onward sweeps the rolling host ! 
 Heroes of the immortal boast !. 
 Mighty chiefs ! eternal shadows ! 
 First flowers of the bloody meadows 
 Which encompass Rome, the mother 
 Of a people without brother ! 
 Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
 Plough the root up of your laurels ? 
 Ye who weep o'er Carthage bi.rning. 
 Weep not — strike ! for Rome is mournmg 
 
 Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
 Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
 To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
 Numerous as wolves, and stronger. 
 On they sweep. Oh, glorious city ! 
 Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
 Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
 Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
 Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
 Rouse thee, thou eternal dty ; 
 
s8o 
 
 DRAIMaS 
 
 ^ouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
 With thine own hand to thy porch, 
 Than behold such hosts pollute 
 Your'worst dwelling with their foot. 
 
 Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
 Ilion's children find no Hector ; 
 Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
 Rome's great sire forgot his mother, 
 When he slew his gallant twin, 
 With inexpiable sin. 
 See the giant shadow stride 
 O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
 When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
 Its foundation moum'd thy fall. 
 Now, though towering like a Babel, 
 Who to stop his steps are able ? 
 Stalking o'er thy highest dome, • 
 Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 
 
 Now they reach thee in their anger : 
 Fire and smoke and hellish clangour 
 Are around thee, thou world's wonder 1 
 Death is in thy walls and under. 
 Now the meeting steel first clashes. 
 Downward then the ladder crashes. 
 With its iron load all gleaming. 
 Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
 Up again ! for every warrior 
 Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
 Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
 Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
 Rome ! although thy wall may perish. 
 Such manure thy fields will cherish. 
 Making gay the harvest-home ; 
 But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
 Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish. 
 Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 
 
 Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 
 
 Let not your quench'd hearths be Ates ! 
 
 Yet again, ye shadowy heroes. 
 
 Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 
 
 Though the son who slew his motlK-r 
 
 Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 
 
 'T was the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 
 
 Brennus was a baffled foeman. 
 
 Yet again, ye saints and martyrs. 
 
 Rise ! for yours are holier charters ! 
 
 Mighty gods of temples falling, 
 
 Yet in ruin still appalling ! 
 
 Mightier founders of those altars. 
 
 True and Christian, — strike the assaulters ! 
 
 Tiber ! Tiber ! let thy torrent. 
 
 Show even nature's self abhorrent. 
 
 Let each breathing heart dilated 
 
 Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 
 
 Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb. 
 
 But be still the Roman's Rome ! 
 
 [Bourbon, Arnold, C^sar, and 
 others, arrive at the foot of the wall. 
 Arnold is about to plant his ladder. 
 
 Bourb. Hold, Arnold .' I am first. 
 Am. Not so, my lord. 
 
 Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ! 
 I am proud 
 Of such a follower, but will brook no 
 leader. 
 
 [Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins 
 I to mount. 
 
 Now, boys ! On ! on ! 
 
 [A shot strikes him, and Bourbon 
 falls. 
 Cas. And off ! 
 
 A rn. Eternal powers ! 
 
 The host will be appall'd, — but vengeance ! 
 vengeance ! * 
 
 Bourb . 'T is nothing — lend me yoiu: hand. 
 
 [Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand, 
 and rises ; but as he puis his foot on 
 the step, falls again. 
 
 Arnold ! I am sped. 
 Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal 
 
 it ! 
 Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon; 
 Let not the soldiers see it. 
 
 Am. You must be 
 
 Removed ; the aid of 
 
 Bourb. No, mv gallant boy : 
 
 Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
 The Bourbon's spirit shall command them 
 
 still. 
 Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clav, 
 Till they are conquerors — then do as vou 
 may. 
 Goes. Would not your highness choose to 
 kiss the cross ? 
 We have no priest here, but the hilt of 
 
 sword 
 May serve instead :— it did the same for 
 Bayard. 
 Bourb. Thou bitter sla\-e .' to name him 
 at this time ! 
 But I deserve it. 
 
 Am. (to C^SAR). Villain, hold your 
 
 peace ! 
 Cess. What, when a Christian dies ? 
 Shall I not offer 
 A Christian " Vade in pace ? " 
 _,-^''"- Silence ! Oh i 
 
 Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd 
 
 the world. 
 And saw no equal. 
 
 Bourb. .Arnold, shouldst thou see 
 
 France But hark ! hark ! the assault 
 
 grows warmer — Oh !. 
 For but an hour, a minute more of life 
 To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold 
 hence ! ' 
 
 You lose time— they will conquer Rome 
 without thee. 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
 
 581 
 
 Ayn. And without </iee. 
 Bourb. Not so ; I 'U lead them still ! 
 
 In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe 
 
 not 
 That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! | 
 
 and be 
 Victorious. 
 
 Am. But I must not leave thee thus. 
 Bourb. You must — farewell — Up up 
 the world is winning. 
 
 [Bourbon dies. 
 CcBS. {to Arnold). Come, count, to busi- 
 ness. 
 Am. True. I'll weep hereafter. 
 
 [Arnold covei-s Bourbon's body with a 
 mantle, mounts the ladder, crying 
 The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! 
 Rome is ours ! 
 Cess. Goodnight, lord constable ! thou 
 - wert a man. 
 
 [C^SAR /o//oj»s Arnold ; they reach the 
 battlement ; Arnold and C«sar are 
 struck down. 
 Cas. A precious somerset ! Is your 
 
 countship injured ? 
 A m. No. [Remounts the laddci . 
 
 Cces. A rare blood-hound, when his 
 own is heated ! 
 And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes 
 
 them down ! 
 His hand is on the battlement — he grasps 
 
 it 
 As though it were an altar ; now his foot 
 
 Is on it, and What have we here ? — 
 
 a Roman ? iA man falls. 
 
 The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
 On the outside of the nest. Why, how 
 now, fellow ? 
 Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 
 Cos. Blood 's the only liquid 
 
 Nearer thaa Tiber. 
 
 Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. 
 
 [Dies. 
 Cces. And so did Bourbon, in another 
 sense. 
 Oh, these immortal men ! and their great 
 
 motives ! 
 But I must after my young charge. He 13 
 By this time i' the forum. Charge ! 
 
 ch.3X'''6 ! 
 
 [C^sAR mounts the ladder ; the seme closes. 
 
 Scene II 
 
 The City. — Combats betvoeen the Besiegers 
 and Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants 
 flying in confusion. 
 
 Enter Cmsa&. 
 Cces I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 
 With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
 The fueitives, or battle with the desperate. 
 What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
 
 That do not seem in love with mai'tyrrtom 
 How the old red-shanks scamper ! Coulcl 
 
 they doff 
 Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 
 
 't would be 
 A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
 But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
 Will not much stain their stockings, since 
 
 the mire 
 Is of the self-same purple hue. 
 
 Enter a Party fighting — Arnold at the head 
 of the J 
 
 He comes. 
 Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore 
 
 and Glory. 
 Holla ! hold, count ! 
 
 Am. Away ! they must not rally. 
 
 Cces. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden 
 bridge 
 Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
 A form of beauty, and an 
 Exemption from some maladies of body, 
 But not of mind, which is not mine to 
 
 give. 
 But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
 I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
 I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
 More than Pelides' heel ; why, then, be 
 
 cautious. 
 And know thyself a mortal still. 
 
 Arn. And who 
 
 With aught of soul would combat if he were 
 
 Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 
 
 Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions 
 
 roar ? 
 
 [Arnold rushes into the combat. 
 Cces. A precious sample of humanity I 
 Well, his blood 's up ; and if a Uttle 's shed, 
 'T will serve to curb his fever. 
 
 [Arnold engages with a Roman, who 
 retires towards a portico. 
 Arn. Yield thee, slave ! 
 
 I promise quarter. 
 
 Rom. That's soon said. 
 
 Am. And done — 
 
 My word is known. 
 
 Horn. So shall be my deeds. 
 
 [They re-engage. Cmsar comes forward. 
 Cces. Why, Arnold ! hold thine own : 
 thou hast in hand 
 A famous artisan, a cuiming sculptor ; 
 Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
 Not so, my musqueteer ; 't was he who 
 
 slew 
 The Bourbon from the wall. 
 
 ^ f„ Ay, did he so ? 
 
 Then he hath carved his monument. 
 
 Rom. , I ye' 
 
 Mav live to carve vour better 3. 
 
 Cces. Well said, my man of marble! 
 Benvenuto, 
 Thou hast some practice in both ways ; 
 and he 
 
582 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
 As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 
 [Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, 
 but slightly : the latter draws a pistol, 
 and fires ; then retires, and disap- 
 appears through the portico. 
 Cces. How farest thou ? Thou hast a 
 taste, methinks, 
 Of red Bellona's banquet. 
 
 Am. {staggers). 'T is a scratch. 
 
 J^end me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me 
 thus, 
 Cces. Where is it ? 
 Am. In the shoulder, not the sword 
 
 arrn 
 
 And that's enough. I am thirsty : would 
 
 I had 
 A helm of ^vater ! 
 
 CiES. That 's a liquid now 
 
 in requisition, but by no means easiest 
 To come at. 
 
 Am. And my thirst increases; — but 
 I 'II find a way to quench it. 
 
 Cess. Or be quench' d 
 
 Thyself. 
 
 Am. The chance is even ; we will 
 throw 
 The dice thereon. But I lose time in 
 
 prating ; 
 Prithee be quick. 
 
 [C^SAR binds on the scarf. 
 And what dost thou so id!v ? 
 -Why dost not strike ? 
 
 Ci^s. Your old philosophers 
 
 Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
 The Olympic games. When I behold a 
 
 prize 
 Worth wrestling for, I may be found a 
 Milo. 
 Am. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 
 Ciss. A forest, when it suits me : 
 
 I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
 Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine; 
 Which is just now to gaze, since aU these 
 
 labourers 
 Will reap my harvest gratis. 
 
 Arn. Thou art still 
 
 A fiend ! 
 
 C£BS. And thou — a man. 
 Arn. Why, such I fain would show me. 
 Ce&s. True — as men are. 
 
 Arn. And what is that ? 
 Cms. Thou feelest and thou see'st. 
 
 [Exit Arnold, joining in the comlutt 
 ivhich still continues between detached 
 parties. The scene closes. 
 
 Scene III 
 
 St. Peter*s- — The Interior of the Church — ■ 
 The Pope at the Altar— Priests, etc., 
 crowding in coiifusion, and Citizens 
 flying for refuge, pursued by Soldiery. 
 
 Enter C^sar. 
 A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, 
 comrades, seize upon those lamps ! 
 Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the 
 
 chine ! 
 His rosary 's of gold ! 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. Revenge ! revenge ! 
 f lunder hereafter, but for vengeance now- 
 Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 
 
 Cess, [interposing] . How now, schismatic ? 
 What wouldst thou ? 
 
 Luth. Sold. In the holy name of Christ, 
 Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Chris- 
 tian. 
 Ceas. Yea, a disciple that would make 
 the founder 
 Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
 Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to 
 plunder. 
 Luth. Sold. I s^y ne is thedevil. 
 Ciss. Hush ! keep that secret, 
 
 Lest he should recognise you for his own. 
 Luth. Sold. Why would you save him ? 
 I repeat he is 
 The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 
 Cess. And that 's the reason : would you 
 make a quarrel 
 With your best friends ? You had far best 
 
 be quiet ; 
 His hour is not yet come. 
 Luth. Sold. That shall be seen ! 
 
 [The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward : 
 a shot strikes kim from one of the 
 Papers Guards, and he falls at the 
 foot of the A Itar. 
 CcBS. [to the Lutheran). I told you so. 
 Luth. Sold. And will you not avenge me ? 
 CiES. Not I ! You know that " Venge- 
 ance is the Lord's : " 
 You see he loves no interlopers. 
 
 Lulh. Sold, [dying). Oh ! 
 
 Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
 Crown'd with eternal glory ] Heaven, 
 
 forgive 
 My feebleness of arm that reach'd him 
 
 not, 
 ■\nd take thy servant tothy mercy. 'Tis 
 .\ glorious triumph still ; proud Babvlon's 
 Xo more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
 Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sack- 
 cloth 
 .\nd ashes ! [The Lutheran dies. 
 
 Cos. Yes, thine own amidst the rc^t. 
 Well done, old Babel ! 
 
 [The Guards defend themselves desper- 
 ately, while the Pontiff escapes, by a 
 private passage, to the Vatican andthe 
 Castle of St. Angela. 
 Cas. Ha ! right noblv battled ! 
 
 Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great 
 
 professions. 
 Together by the ears and hearts ! I ha\e 
 
 not 
 Sefn a more comic pantomime since Titus 
 
THE DEFOR]\IED TRANSJ'ORMED 
 
 5»3 
 
 Took Jewry. But the Romans had the 
 
 best then ; 
 Now they must take their turn. 
 
 Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 
 
 I'ollow ! 
 
 Another Sold. They have barr'd the 
 
 Harrow passage up, 
 And it is clogg'd with dead even to the 
 
 door, 
 Cces. I atn glad he hath escaped : he 
 
 may thauk me for 't 
 In part. I would not have his bulls 
 
 abolish' d — 
 'T were worth one half our empire : his 
 
 indulgences 
 Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must 
 
 not 
 Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may 
 
 furnish 
 A future miracle, in future proof 
 Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish SoUHery. 
 
 Well, cut-throats ! 
 What do you pause for ? If you make not 
 
 haste, 
 There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
 'And you, too, catholics ! Would ye return 
 From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
 The very Lutherans have more true devo- 
 tion : 
 See how they strip the shrines ! 
 
 Soldiers. By holy Peter ! 
 
 He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
 The best away. 
 
 Cas. And that were shame ! Goto! 
 
 Assist in their conversion. 
 
 [The Soldiers disperse ; many quit the 
 Church, others enter. 
 Cces. They are gone, 
 
 And others come: so flows the wave on 
 
 wave 
 Of what these creatures call eternity, 
 Deeming themselves the breakers of the 
 
 ocean. 
 While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
 That foam is their foundation So another ! 
 
 Enter Olimpia, flying from the pursuit— 
 She springs upon the Altar. 
 
 Sold. She 's mine ! , > ,, 
 
 Another Sold, {opposing the former). You 
 lie, I track'd her first : and were she 
 The Pope's niece, I '11 not yield her. 
 
 [They fight. 
 3d. Sold, (advancing towards Olimpia). 
 You may settle 
 Your claims ; I '11 make mine good 
 
 Olimp. Infernal slave ! 
 
 You touch me not alive. , , , 
 
 od Sold Aln-e or dead ! 
 
 Olimp. [embracing a massive crucifix). 
 Respect vour God ! . . ,, 
 
 -,/ Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold. 
 Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 
 
 [As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong 
 and sudden effort, casts down the 
 crucifix; it strikes the Soldier, who 
 falls. 
 
 id Sold. Oh, great God ! 
 
 Olimp. Ah ! now you recognise hiro. 
 ■id Sold. My brain's crush'd ! 
 
 Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! 
 
 [He di:-. 
 Other Soldiers (ciotiing up). Slay her, 
 although she h^id a thousand lives : 
 She hath kill'd our comrade. 
 
 Olimp. Welcome such a death ! 
 
 You have no life to give, which the worst 
 
 slave 
 Would take. Great God ! through thy 
 
 redeeming Son, 
 And thy Son's Mother, now 'receive me as 
 I would approach thee, worthy her, and 
 him, and thee ! 
 
 Enter Arnold. 
 Am. What do I see? Accursed jackals! 
 Forbear ! 
 
 Ca-s. {aside and laughing). Ha ! ha ! 
 here 's equity ! The dogs 
 Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 
 Soldiers. Count, she hath slain ouj: com- 
 rade. 
 Am. With what weapon ? 
 Sold. The cross, beneath which he is 
 crush'd ; behold him 
 Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she 
 
 ■cast it 
 Upon his head. 
 
 A.m. Even so ; there is a woman 
 
 Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye 
 
 such. 
 Ye would have honour'd her. But get ye 
 
 hence. 
 And thank your meanness, other God you 
 
 have none, ^ ^ 
 
 For your existence. Had you touch a a 
 
 hair 
 Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have 
 
 thinn'd 
 Your ranks more than the enemy. Away 1 
 Ye jackals ! gnaw t!iK ho:ies the lion leaves, 
 But not even the-ic liM he permits. 
 
 A Sold. {munimriuL;). The lion 
 
 Might conquer for iiiinself then. ^ 
 
 Am. {cuts him dov.ni). Jlutineer ! 
 
 Rebel in heil— vou shall olne>- on earth ! 
 
 [The Soldiers assault Arnold. 
 Am. Come on ! I 'm glad on 't ! I will 
 show you, slaves. 
 How you should be commanded, and who 
 
 led vou 
 First o'er the wall vou were so shy to scale, 
 Until I waved my banners from its height. 
 As vou aro bold within it. 
 
 ' [Arnold mows down the hncwosi : ine 
 rest throw down their uims. 
 
584 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 Soldiers. Mercy ] mercy ! 
 
 Am. Then learn to grant it. Have I 
 taught you who 
 Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 
 Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; 
 yet forgive 
 A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
 The conquest which you led to. 
 
 Am. Get you hence I 
 
 Hence to vour quarters ! you will find them 
 
 fix'd' 
 In the Colonna palace. 
 
 Olimp. {aside]. In my father's 
 
 House ! 
 
 Am. {to the Soldiers) . Leave your arms ; 
 ye have no further need 
 Of such : the city's render' d. -And mark 
 
 well 
 You keep your hands clean, or I '11 find out 
 
 a stream 
 As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 
 Soldiers {deposing their arms and depart- 
 ing). We obey ! 
 Am. {to Olimpia). Lady, you are safe. 
 Olimp. I should be so, 
 
 Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
 Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the 
 
 marble. 
 Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
 Upon destruction, shall my head be 
 
 dash'd, 
 Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 
 Am. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
 Thine own, although I have not injured 
 thee. 
 Olimp. No ! Thou hast only sack'd my 
 native land, — 
 No injury !— and made my father's house 
 A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this 
 
 temple — 
 Slippery with Roman and with holv gore ! 
 No injury ! And now thou would'st pre- 
 serve me. 
 
 To be but that shall never be ! 
 
 [She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her 
 robe round her, and prepares to dash 
 herself down on the side of the Altar 
 opposite to that where Arnold stands. 
 
 Am. Hold ! hold ! 
 
 I swear. 
 
 Olim.p. Spare thine ahreadv forfeit soul 
 A perjury for which even hell'would loathe 
 
 thee. 
 I know thee. 
 
 Am. No, thou know'st me not ; I am 
 not 
 Of these men, though 
 
 Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates ; 
 
 It IS for God to judge thee as thou art. 
 I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
 Take mine, 't is all thou e'er shalt have 
 
 of me, 
 And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
 
 Where the baptismal font baptized me 
 
 God's, 
 I offer him a blood less holy 
 But not less pure (pure as it left me therr, 
 A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
 The saints have sanctified ! 
 
 Olimpia t^'flfes herliandto ARKOLDwith 
 disdain, and dashes herself on thepave- 
 meiit of the Altar. 
 Am. Eternal God ! 
 
 I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 
 Ci^. {approaches). I am here. 
 
 Am. Thou ! but oh, save her ! 
 Ctzs. {assisting him- to raise Olimpia). 
 She hath done it well ! 
 The leap was serious. 
 
 Am. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 
 
 Cess. If 
 
 She be so, I have nought to do with that : 
 The resurrection is beyond me. 
 
 Am. Slave ! 
 
 CiBs. Ay, slave or master, 't is all one : 
 methinks 
 Good words, hov/ever, are as well at times. 
 A rn. Words ! — Canst thou aid her ? 
 Cms. I will try. A sprinkling 
 
 Of that same holy water may be useful. 
 [He brings some in his helmet from the font. 
 Am. 'T is mix'd with blood. 
 Cess. There is no cleaner now 
 
 In Rome. 
 Am. How pale ! how beautiful ! how 
 lifeless ! 
 Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
 I love but thee ! 
 
 Cces. Even =0 Achilles loved 
 
 Penthesilea : mth his form it seems 
 You have his heart, and yet it was no soft 
 one. 
 Am. She breathes ! But no, 't was 
 nothing, or the last 
 Faint flutter life disputes with death. 
 Ci^. She breathes. 
 
 Am. Thou say' St it ? Then 't is truth. 
 C«s. You do me right — 
 
 The devil speaks truth much oftenerthan 
 
 he 's deem'd : 
 He hath an ignorant audience. 
 
 Am. {without attending to him). Yes ' her 
 heart beats. 
 Alas ! that the first beat of the onlyh^art 
 I ever wish'd to beat with mine should 
 
 vibrate 
 To an assassin's pulse. 
 „ 'l'^- , A sage reflection. 
 
 But somewhat late i' the day. Where 
 
 shall we bear her ? 
 I say she lives. 
 Arn. And will she live ? 
 
 A "^f^V -'^^ much 
 
 As dust can. 
 
 Arn. Then she is dead ' 
 
 C«.s. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 
 
 She will come to life — 
 
 And do not know it. 
 
THE DEFORIMED TilyVNSFOMIED 
 
 585 
 
 Such as you think so, such as you now 
 
 are ; 
 But we must work by human means. 
 
 Am. We will 
 
 Convey her into the Colonna palace, 
 Where I have pitch'd my banner. 
 
 Cces. Come then ! raise her up ! 
 
 Am. Softly ! 
 
 Ca^. As softly as they bear the dead, 
 Perhaps because they cannot feel the 
 jolting. 
 
 Am. But doth she live indeed ? 
 
 Cess. Nay, never fear ! 
 
 But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 
 
 Am. Let her but live ! 
 
 Cas. The spirit of her life 
 
 Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
 Count ! count ! I am your servant in all 
 
 things. 
 And this is a new office : — 't is not oft 
 I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
 How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
 On earth you have often only fiends for 
 
 friends ; 
 Now / desert not mine. Soft ! bear her 
 
 hence. 
 The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
 I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
 Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 
 
 Am. Thou ! 
 
 Cces. I ! But fear not. I '11 not be 
 your rival. 
 
 Am. Rival ! 
 
 Cces. I could be one right formidable ; 
 But since I slew the seven husbands of 
 Tobias' future bride (and after all • 
 Was smoked out by some incense), I have 
 
 laid 
 Aside intrigue : 't is rarely worth the 
 
 trouble 
 Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
 Getting rid of your prize again ; for there 's 
 The rub ! at least to mortals. 
 
 jirn. Prithee, peace ! 
 
 Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes 
 open ! 
 
 CcBS. Like stars, no doubt ; for that 's a 
 metaphor 
 For Lucifer and Venus. 
 
 ^^n. To the palace 
 
 Colonna, as I told you ! 
 
 Cces. Oh ! I know 
 
 My way through Rome. 
 
 Am. Now onward, onward ! Gently '■ 
 [Exeunt, bearing Olimpia. The scene closes. 
 
 PART III 
 
 c-„„j. T —A Castle in the Apennines, sur- 
 rounded by a wild but smiling Country . 
 Chorus of Peasants smgmg before the 
 Gates. 
 
 Chorus. 
 I 
 The wars are over. 
 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their home : 
 They are happy, we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo in everv 
 voice ! 
 
 The spring is come ; the violet "s gone. 
 The first-born child of the early sun : 
 With us she is but a winter's flower. 
 The snow on the hills cannot blast her 
 
 bower. 
 And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
 To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 
 
 And when the spring comes with her host 
 1 Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
 Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
 Her heavenly odour and virgin hues. 
 
 Pluck the others, but still remember 
 Their herald out of dim December — 
 The morning star of all the flowers, 
 The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
 Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget 
 The virgin, virgin violet. 
 
 Enter C/esar. 
 Cces. [singing). The wars are all over. 
 Our swords are all idle. 
 The steed bites the bridle. 
 The casque 's on the wall. 
 There 's rest for the rover ; 
 But his armour is rusty. 
 And the veteran grows crusty. 
 As he yawns in the hall. 
 
 He drinks— but what 's drinking r 
 A mere pause from thinking I 
 No bugle awakes him with life-and- 
 death call. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 But the hound bayeth loudly, 
 
 The boar 's in the wood. 
 And the falcon longs proudly 
 
 To spring from her hood : 
 On the wrist of the noble 
 
 She sits like a crest. 
 And the air is in trouble 
 
 With birds from their nest. 
 
 Cces. Oh ! sliadow of glory ! 
 Dim image of war ! 
 But the chase hath no story, 
 
 Her hero no star. 
 Since Nimrod, the founder 
 Of empire and chase, 
 
 QQ 
 
586 
 
 BEPPO : A VEXETIAX STORY 
 
 Who made the woods wonder 
 
 And quake for their race. 
 AMien the lion was young, 
 
 In the pride of his might, 
 Then 't was sport for the strong 
 
 To embrace hiir. in fight ; 
 To go forth, with a pine 
 
 For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 
 Or strike through the ravine 
 
 At the foaming behemoth ; 
 — While man was in stature 
 
 As towers in our time. 
 
 The first-born of Nature, 
 And, like her, sublime ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 But the wars are over, 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their home : 
 They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo from every 
 voice ! 
 
 [Exeuni the Peasantry , singing. 
 
 BEPPO : 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 'Tis kno-svn, at least it should be, that 
 throughout 
 All countries of the Catholic persuasion. 
 Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes 
 about. 
 The people take their fill of recreation. 
 And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
 However high their rank, or low their 
 station. 
 With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, 
 
 masquing, 
 And other things which may be had for 
 asking. 
 
 The moment night with dusky mantle 
 covers 
 The skies (and the more duskily the 
 betterj. 
 The time less liked by husbands than by 
 lovers 
 Begins, and prudery flings aside her 
 fetter ; 
 And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers. 
 
 Giggling with all the gallants who beset 
 her : 
 And there are songs and quavers, roaring, 
 
 humming, 
 Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 
 
 And there are dresses splendid, but fantas- 
 tical, 
 Masks of all times and nations, Turks 
 and Jews, 
 And harlequms and clowns, with feasts 
 gymnastical, 
 Greeks, Romans, Vankee-doodles, and 
 Hindoos ; 
 
 All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
 All people, as their fancies hit, ma.y 
 
 choose. 
 But no one in these parts may quiz the 
 
 clergy, — 
 Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I 
 
 charge ye. 
 
 You'd better walk about begirt with briars. 
 Instead of coat and smallclothes, than 
 p'ut on 
 A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 
 
 Although 5'ou swore it only was in fun : 
 
 They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the 
 
 fires 
 
 Of Phlegethon with everv mother's son, 
 
 Xor say one mass to cool the caldron's 
 
 bubble 
 That boil'd your bones, unless vou paid 
 them double. 
 
 But savmg this, you may put on whate'er 
 Vou like by wav of doublet, cape, or 
 cloak. 
 Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag 
 Fair, 
 Would rig j'ou out in seriousness or joke ; 
 .\nd even in Italy such places are. 
 
 With prettier name in softer accents 
 spoke. 
 For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 
 No place that's called " Piazza " in Great 
 Britain. 
 
 This feast is named the Cami\-al, which 
 being 
 Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh : " 
 
BEPPO : A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 587 
 
 So 
 
 call'd, because the name and thing 
 agreeing, 
 Through Lent they live on hah both salt 
 and fresh. 
 But why they usher Lent with so much 
 glee in, 
 Is more than 1 can tell, although I guess 
 'Tis as we take a glass with friends at part- 
 ing, 
 In the stage-coach or packet, just at start- 
 ing. 
 
 They've pretty faces yet, those same 
 Venetians, 
 Black eyes, arch'd brows,, and sweet 
 expressions still ; 
 Sudr as of old were copied from the Gre- 
 cians, 
 In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 
 And like so many Venuses of Titian's 
 1 (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, 
 
 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 IWuse), 
 From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
 To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 
 
 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, ChiU-vinegar, and Harvey, 
 Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh 
 starve ye ; 
 
 That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
 And you at Rome would do as Romans 
 do. 
 According to the proverb,— although no 
 man, , 
 
 If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
 If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 
 
 Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
 Dine and be d— d ! I don't mean to be 
 
 coarse. 
 But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 
 
 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 m all her glor>. 
 
 Whose tints are truth and beauty at their 
 best ; 
 
 ,\nd when you to Manfrini's palace go. 
 That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 
 
 Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
 It may perhaps be also to your zest, 
 
 And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so : 
 'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife. 
 And self ; but such a woman ! love in life ! 
 
 Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
 No nor ideal beaiitv, that fine name, 
 
 But something better still, so very real. 
 That the sweet model must have been 
 the same ; 
 
 A thing that you would purchase, beg, Or 
 
 Wer't not impossible, besides a shame ; 
 The face recalls some face, as 'twere with 
 
 pain, 
 You once have seen, 
 
 again ; 
 
 but ne'er will see 
 
 XIV 
 
 One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
 Are young, and fix our eyes on e%ery face ; 
 
 And oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
 In momentary gliding, the soft grace 
 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which 
 
 In m^anV a nameless being; we retrace, 
 WhosTcoLe and home we knew not, nor 
 
 Like 'the losmeiad seen no more below. 
 
 XV 
 
 ^isS^^ssrSmS^etoffa^) 
 
 And*trut"io say, they're mostly very 
 And?ath7r'like to show it, more's th. pity ! 
 
588 
 
 BEPPO : A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
 Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a 
 letter, 
 Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mer- 
 curies, 
 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 Desde- 
 mona 
 As very faur, but yet suspect in fame, 
 And to this day from Venice to Verona 
 
 Such matters may be probably the same. 
 Except that since those times was never 
 known a 
 Husband whom mere suspicion could 
 inflame 
 To suffocate a wife no more than twenty. 
 Because she had a " cavalier servente." 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
 Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
 
 Not 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. 
 
 Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear 
 You should not, I'll describe it you 
 exactly : 
 'Tisa long cover'd boat that's common here. 
 Carved at the prow, built lightly, but 
 compactly, 
 I^ow'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gon- 
 dolier," 
 It glides along the water looking blackly, 
 Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe. 
 Where none can make out what you say or 
 do. 
 
 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 woeful ttings belong, 
 
 For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 
 
 Like mourning coaches when the funeral's 
 done. 
 
 But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago. 
 It may be thirty, forty, more or less. 
 
 The Carnival was at its height, and so 
 Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
 
 A certain lady went to see the shov/, 
 Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
 
 And so we'll call her Laura, if you please. 
 
 Because it slips into my verse with ease. 
 
 She was not old, nor yotmg, nor at the years 
 Which certain people call a " certain 
 age, " 
 Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
 Because I never heard, nor could engage 
 A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or 
 tears. 
 To name, define by speech, or write on 
 page. 
 The period meant precisely by.that word, — 
 Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Laura was blooming still, had made the 
 best 
 Of time, and time retum'd the compli- 
 ment. 
 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. 
 
 -X.XIV 
 
 She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient. 
 Because in Christian countries 'tis a 
 rule 
 To view their little slips with eyes more 
 lenient ; 
 Whereas if single ladies play the fool, 
 (Unless within the period intervenient 
 A well-timed wedding makes the scan- 
 dal cool) 
 I don't know how they ever can get over it. 
 Except they manage never to discover it. 
 
 x.xv 
 Her husband saU'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, cali'd more briefly, 
 Beppo. 
 
BEPPO : A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 589 
 
 XXVI 
 
 He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
 Sunburnt with travel, vet a portly 
 figure ; 
 Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan- 
 yard. 
 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. 
 So much as to be thought almost invincible. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 But several years elapsed since they had 
 met ; 
 Some people thought the ship was lost, 
 and some 
 That he had somehow bluuder'dinto debt. 
 And did not like the thought of steering 
 home ; 
 And there were several offer'd any bet, 
 Or that he would, or that he would not 
 come ; 
 For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
 Will back their own opinions with a wager. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 'Tis said that their last parting was pathe- 
 tic. 
 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 loieeling 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 shut- 
 ters 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 theu: choice i) 
 Till Beppo should retui-n 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, fiddUng, French and 
 Tuscan ; 
 The last not easy, be it known to vou. 
 For few Italians speak the right Etrus- 
 can. 
 He was a critic upon operas, too. 
 
 And knew all niceties of sock and buskin ; 
 And no Venetian audience could endure ,n 
 Song, scene, or air, when he cried " secca- 
 tura ! " 
 
 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 Ri?lto 
 
 xxxm 
 He patronised the Improvisatori, 
 
 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 wh'ch 
 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 becomes more constant as they 
 cool. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 No wonder such accomplishments should 
 turn 
 A female head, l\owever sage and 
 steady — 
 
590 
 
 BEPPO : A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 With scarce a hope that Beppo couldreturn, 
 In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
 Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least 
 concern, 
 And she had waited several years 
 already ; 
 And really if a man won't let us know 
 That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
 (Although, God knows, it is a grievous 
 sin,) 
 'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men; 
 I can't tell who first brought the custom 
 in. 
 But " Cavalier Serventes " are quite 
 common, 
 And no one notices nor cares a pin ; 
 And we may call this (not to say the worst) 
 A second marriage which corrupts the first. 
 
 The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 
 But that is now grown vulgar and 
 indecent ; 
 The Spaniards call the persona "Cortejo," 
 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 defer- 
 ence 
 To the fair single part of the creation, 
 That married laclies should preserve the 
 preference 
 In tete a tite or general conversation^ 
 And this I say without peculiar reference 
 To England, France, ,or any other 
 nation — 
 Because they know the world, and are at 
 
 ease. 
 And being natural, naturally please. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charm- 
 ing, 
 But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
 So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming. 
 All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and 
 half Pout ; 
 And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's 
 harm in 
 What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 
 The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
 Besides, they always smell of bread and 
 butter, 
 
 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 tan and tippet, gloves and 
 shawl. 
 
 XLI 
 
 With all its sinful doings, I must say, 
 That Italv'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 'twould be dung, dust, or a 
 dray. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 I also like to dine on becaficas. 
 
 To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to- 
 morrow, 
 Not through a misty morning twinklhig 
 
 weak as 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin 
 
 sorrow. 
 But with all Heaven t'himself ; the day 
 
 will break as 
 Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to 
 
 borrow 
 That sort of farthing candlelight which 
 
 glimmers 
 Where reekuig 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, 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in. 
 
 That not a single accent seems uncouth, 
 Like our harsh northern whistling, grunt- 
 ing guttural, 
 
BEPPO : A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 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 ruddv 
 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 melan- 
 choly. 
 But clear, and with a wild and liquid 
 glance. 
 Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 
 Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies! 
 
 591 
 
 Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
 Italian beauty didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and 
 vies 
 With all we know of Heaven, or can 
 desire. 
 In what he hath bequeath'd us ? — in what 
 * guise, 
 
 Though flashing from the fervour of the 
 lyre, 
 Woul(| word% describe thy past and present 
 
 glow. 
 While yet Canova can create below ? 
 
 xLvn 
 " 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 quiil ; 
 I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've 
 got it) 
 I like a parliamentary debate. 
 Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 I like the taxes, when they're not too many ; 
 
 I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
 I like the beaf-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 standmg 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 baixkruptcies 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! 
 
 But to my tale of Laura,— for I find 
 digression is a sin, that by degrees 
 A°'?'^!,.'''"^'='^^''^S tedious to rav mind. 
 And, therefore, may the reader too dis- 
 please — 
 
 The gentle reader, who may v/ax unkind 
 And caring little for the author's ease ' 
 
 insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
 
 And hapless situation for a bard. 
 
 LI 
 
 Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
 What should-be easy reading ! could I 
 scale 
 Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
 Those pretty poems never known to 
 fail, 
 How quickly would I print (the world 
 delighting) 
 A Grecian, S;'rian, or Assyrian tale ; 
 And sell you, mix'd with western senti- 
 
 mentalism. 
 Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 
 
 But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
 (A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 
 
 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling 
 verse on, 
 The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels. 
 
 And when I can't find that, I put a worse on. 
 Nor 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 some- 
 times do. 
 For half a dozen 5'ears without estrange- 
 ment ; 
 They had their little differences, too ; 
 Those jealous whiffs, which never any 
 change meant ; 
 In such affairs there probably are few 
 Who have not had this pouting sort of 
 
 squabble. 
 From sinners of high station to the rabble. 
 
 LIV 
 
 But, on the whole, they were a happy pair. 
 As happy as unlawful love could make 
 them ; 
 The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 
 Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth 
 while to break them : 
 The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
 The pious only wish'd "the devil take 
 them !" 
 
592 
 
 BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 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 im- 
 
 couth — 
 One. of few things experience don't 
 
 improve. 
 Which is, perhaps, the reason why old 
 
 fellows 
 Are always so preposte-^ously jealous. 
 
 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 yoiur mind's made 
 up to go 
 To-night to ftlrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
 Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
 The only difference known between the 
 
 cases 
 Is — here, we have six weeks of " varnished 
 faces." 
 
 LVII 
 
 Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 
 
 A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
 Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door. 
 
 Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
 With all the fashions which the last month 
 wore. 
 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. 
 
 Lvm 
 They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 
 Where people dance, and sup, and dance 
 again ; 
 Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued 
 ball. 
 But that's of no importance to my strain ; 
 'Tis {on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
 Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain ; 
 The company is " mixed " (the phrase I 
 
 quote is 
 As much as saying, they're below your 
 notice) ; 
 
 LIX 
 
 For a " mix'd company " imphes that, save 
 Yourself and friends, and half a hundred 
 
 more, 
 Whom you may bow to without looking 
 
 grave, 
 
 The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
 Of public places, where they basely brave 
 
 The fashionable stare of twenty score 
 Of well-bred persons, call'd " The World ; " 
 
 but I, 
 Although I know them, really don't know 
 why. 
 
 LX 
 
 This is the case in England ; at least was 
 During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
 
 Perchance succeeded by some other class 
 Of imitated imitators : — how 
 
 Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
 The demagogues of fashion : all below 
 
 Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
 
 By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 
 
 LXI 
 
 Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern 
 Thor, 
 Who knock'd his army down with icy 
 hammer, 
 Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
 A blundering novice in his new French 
 grammar ; 
 Good cause had he tp doubt the chan<^ of 
 war. 
 And as for Fortune — but I dare not 
 d — n her. 
 Because, were I to ponder to infinity. 
 The more I should beheve in her divinity. 
 
 LXII 
 
 She rules the present, past, and all to be 
 yet. 
 She gi^'es 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 dispar- 
 ^ age. 
 We've not yet closed accounts, and we 
 shall see yet 
 How much she'll make amends for past 
 miscarriage ; 
 Meantime the Goddess I'll no more impor- 
 tune. 
 Unless to thank her when she's made mv 
 fortune. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take 
 it! 
 This story slips for ever through mv 
 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 mv present mea- 
 sure, 
 I'll take another when I'm next , t leisure. 
 
BEPPO ; A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 593 
 
 They went to the Ridotto ('tis a place 
 To which I mean to go myself to- 
 morrow, 
 Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 
 Because I'm rather hippish, and may 
 borrow 
 Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
 May lurk beneath each mask ; and as 
 my sorrow 
 Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or 
 
 find, 
 Something shall leave it half an hour be- 
 hind.) 
 
 LXV 
 
 Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd. 
 Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her 
 Hps ; 
 To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
 To some she curtsies, and to some she 
 dips. 
 Complains of warmth, and this complamt 
 avow'd, 
 Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 
 She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 
 Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 One has false curls, another too much 
 paint, 
 A third — where did she buy that fright- 
 ful ttirban ? 
 A fourth's so pale she fears she's gomg to 
 faint, . 
 
 A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and 
 suburban, 
 A sixth's white silk has got a ydlow tamt, 
 A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her 
 
 And lo ! an eighth appears, — I U see no 
 
 more ! " 
 For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a 
 
 score. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Meantime, while she was thus at others 
 
 others were levelling their looks at her ; 
 She heard themen's half-whisper'dmode of 
 praising, . ^ 
 
 And, till 'twas done, determined not to 
 
 stir ; . -i • 
 
 The women only thought it qmte 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 dis- 
 
 A thing^vhioh is a scandal to the land, 
 
 I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
 And if I were but in a gown and band. 
 
 Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
 I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and 
 
 Rorailly 
 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 broil- 
 ing, 
 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 philo- 
 
 gy"y' . , ^ . . . 
 
 Although their usage of their wives is 
 
 sad ; 
 
 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 
 
 Poor woman, whom they purchase like a 
 
 pad : 
 
 They have a number, though they ne'er 
 
 exhibit 'em. 
 Four wives by law, and concubines " ad 
 libitum." 
 
 LXXI 
 
 They lock them up, and veil, and guard 
 them daily. 
 They scarcely can behold their male re- 
 lations. 
 
 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 conversa- 
 tions, 
 
 Their days are either pass'd in doing no- 
 thing, , . , J 
 
 Or bathing, nursing, making love, and 
 clothing. 
 
 LX-KII 
 
 They cannot read, and so don't lisp in 
 criticism ; , .^ ,1 ^ ^u 
 
 Nor write, and so they don t afiect the 
 muse ; . . 
 
 Were never caught in epigram or witticism. 
 Have no romances, sermons, plays, re- 
 views, — , ,. , 
 In harams learmng soon would make a 
 pretty schism, 
 
504 
 
 BEPPO: A ^'EXETIAN STORY 
 
 But luckily these beauties are no 
 
 " Blues ; " 
 Iso 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 sub- 
 hme 
 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 I " (by no means 
 GOOD in law) 
 Humming like iJies 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 raiv. 
 Translating tongues he knows not even bv 
 
 letter. 
 And sweating plays so middling, bad were 
 better. 
 
 LX.XV 
 
 One hates an author that's ail author, 
 fellows 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink. 
 So very anxious, cle\er, fine, and iealous. 
 One don't know what to sav to them, or 
 think. 
 Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
 Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the 
 pink 
 .\ie preferable to these shreds of paper. 
 These unquench'd snufBngs of the mid- 
 night 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 cau't-be gentle- 
 men, 
 I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 
 Smug cotericj and literary lady. 
 
 LX.XVII 
 
 The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I men- 
 tion 
 
 Have none of these instructive pleasant 
 people. 
 And one would seem to them a new inven- 
 tion. 
 Unknown as bells within a Turkish 
 steeple ; 
 I think 'twould almost be worth while to 
 pension 
 (Though best-sown projects very often 
 reap ill) 
 A missionary author, just to preach 
 Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Kg chemistry for them unfolds her gases, 
 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 pic- 
 tures ; 
 They stare not on the stars from out their 
 
 attics, 
 Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathe- 
 matics. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 Why I thank God for that is no great 
 matter, 
 I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 
 And as, perhaps, they would not highly 
 flatter, 
 I'll keep them for my life (to come) in 
 prose ; 
 I fear I have a little turn for satire. 
 
 And yet methinks the older that one 
 grows 
 Inclines us more to laugh than scold, 
 
 though laughter 
 Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 
 
 L.x.x.x 
 Oh, mirth and innocence ! Oh. milk and 
 water ! 
 Ye happy mixtures of more happy davs ! 
 In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 
 
 .\bominable Man no more allays 
 His thirst with such piu-e beverage. Xo 
 matter, 
 I love you both, and both shall have my 
 praise ; 
 Oh. for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy '— 
 Meantime I drink to yomr return in brandy. 
 
 LXXXl 
 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eves upon 
 her. 
 Less in the Mussulman than Christian 
 way. 
 \\hich seems to say. " Madam, I do vou 
 honoiir, 
 " And while I please to stare, you'll 
 please to stay." 
 
BEPPO : A VENETIAN STORY 
 
 593 
 
 Could staring win a woman, this had won 
 
 her. 
 But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
 She had stood tire too long and well, to 
 
 boggle 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish 
 
 ogle. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 The morning now was on the point of 
 brealcing, 
 A turn of time at which I would advise 
 Ladies who have been dancing, or par- 
 taking 
 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 makes 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. 
 
 LX-XXIV 
 
 The name of this Aurora I'll not mention, 
 Although I might, for she was nought to 
 me 
 More than that patent work of God's inven- 
 tion, 
 A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 
 But writing names would merit reprehen- 
 sion, 
 Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 
 At the next London or Parisian ball 
 Vou still may mark her cheek, out-bloom- 
 ing all. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
 To meet thte 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. 
 
 LXXXV! 
 
 In this they're lik» our coachmen, and the 
 cause 
 
 Is much the same — the crowd, and pull- 
 ing, hauling. 
 With blasphemies enough to break their 
 jaws, 
 They make a never intermitted bawling. 
 At home, our Bow-street gem men keep the 
 laivs. 
 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. 
 
 LXXX\'III 
 
 " Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding 
 grave, 
 " Your unexpected presence here will 
 make 
 It necessary for myself to crave 
 
 Its import ? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
 I hope it is so ; and, at once to waive 
 
 All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
 " Sir," (quoth the Turk) " 'tis no mistake 
 at all :, 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 " That lady is my wife ! " Much wonder 
 paints 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well it 
 might ; 
 But where an Englishwoman sometimes 
 faints, 
 Italian females don't do so outright ; 
 They onlv 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 ? Why, 
 not a word : 
 But the Count courteously invited in 
 The stranger, much appeased by what he 
 heard : 
 " Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss 
 within," 
 Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves 
 absurd 
 
596 
 
 BEPPO : A VENETIAN STORl- 
 
 In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
 For then the chief and only satisfaction 
 Will be much quizzing on the whole trans- 
 action," 
 
 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 recovered, 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 ? 
 Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong ? 
 
 XCII 
 
 " And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 
 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'll 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 ? 
 
 XCIII 
 
 " Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you 
 
 not ; 
 It shall be shaved before you're a day 
 
 older : 
 Why do you wear it ^ Ch ! I had forgot — 
 Pray don't you think the weather here 
 
 is colder ? 
 How do I look ? You shan't stir from this 
 
 spot 
 In that queer dress, for fear that some 
 
 beholder 
 Should find you out, and make the storj' 
 
 known. 
 How short your hair is ! Lord ! how grey 
 
 it's grown ! " 
 
 xciv 
 What answer Beppo made to these de- 
 mands 
 Is more than I know. He was cast 
 away 
 .A.bout 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. 
 
 But he grewricb, and with his riches grew 
 so 
 Keen the desire to see his home again, 
 
 He thought himself in duty botmd 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 Proj'idence 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. 
 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-baptised 
 
 him, 
 (He made the church a present, by the 
 
 way ;) 
 He then threw off the garments which dis- 
 guised him. 
 And borrow'd the Count's smallclothes 
 
 for a day : 
 His friends the more for his long absence 
 
 prized him, [gay. 
 
 Finding he'd wherewithal to make them 
 
 With dinners, where he oft became tho 
 
 laugh of them, 
 For stories — but / don't believe the half 
 
 of them, 
 
 -xcix 
 Whate'er his youth had sufler'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 alwavs 
 friends. 
 My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
 
 Whichbeingfinish'd, here the story ends ; 
 'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
 But stories somehow lengthen when be^uq 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 599 
 
 DON jUAN 
 
 " Difficile est proprie communia dicere." — Horace. 
 Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale ? 
 — Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth, too ! — Shakspeare, 
 Twelfth Night, or What You. Will. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST* 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 On the back of the Poet's MS. of Canto I. 
 
 I WOULD to heaven that I were so much 
 clay, 
 As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, 
 feeling — 
 Because at least the past were pass'd away- 
 And for the future — (but I write this 
 reeling. 
 Having got drunk exceedingly to-day, 
 
 So tnat I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 
 I say — the future is a serious matter — 
 And so — for God's sake — hock and soda- 
 water ! 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 I 
 Bob Southey ! You're a poet — Poet- 
 laureate, 
 And representative of all the race ; 
 Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a 
 Tory at 
 Last, — yours has lately been a common 
 case ; 
 And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye 
 at ? 
 With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
 A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
 Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a 
 
 pye; 
 
 II 
 " Which pye being open'd they began to 
 sing " . 
 
 (This old song and new simile holds good), 
 " A daintv dish to set before the King," 
 Or Regent, who admires such kind of 
 food ; — 
 And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wmg. 
 But like a hawk encumber'd with his 
 hood, — 
 Explaining raetaphvsics to the nation— 
 I wish he would explain his Explanation. 
 
 HI 
 
 You Bob ' are rather insolent, you know 
 
 At being disappointed in your wish 
 To supersede all warblers here below 
 
 ■\nd be the onlv Blackbird in the dish ; 
 And then you overstrain yourself, or so 
 And tumble downward like the flying 
 fish 
 
 • I" Begun at Venice September 
 
 Gasping on deck, because you soar too 
 
 high. Bob, 
 And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry. 
 
 Bob! 
 
 IV 
 
 And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Ex- 
 cursion " 
 (I think the quarto holds five hundred 
 pages). 
 Has given a sample from the vasty version 
 Of his new system to perplex the sages ; 
 'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion, 
 And may appear so when the dog-star 
 rages — 
 And he who understands it would be able 
 To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 
 
 You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclu- 
 sion 
 From better company, have kept your 
 own 
 At Keswick, and, through still continued 
 fusion 
 Of one another's minds, at last have 
 grown 
 To deem as a most logical conclusion. 
 
 That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
 There is a narrowness in such a notion. 
 Which makes me wish you'd change your 
 lakes for ocean. 
 
 I would not imitate the petty thought. 
 
 Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
 For all the glory your conversion brought, 
 Since gold alone should not have been its 
 price. 
 You have your salary ; was't for that you 
 wrought 
 And Wordsworth has his place in the 
 Excise. 
 You're shabby fellows — true — but poets 
 
 still. 
 And duly seated on the immortal hill. 
 
 Your bays may hide the baldness of your 
 brows — 
 Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let 
 them go — 
 To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs— 
 
 6 ; finished N'uv. i, iSiS,"— B.] 
 
596 
 
 And for the fame you would engross be- 
 
 loWj 
 
 The field is universal, and allows 
 
 Scope to all such as feel the inherent 
 
 glow : 
 Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and 
 
 Crabbe, will try 
 'Gainst you the question with posterity. 
 
 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian 
 Muses, 
 Contend not with you on the winged 
 steed, 
 I wish your fate may yield ye, when she 
 chooses. 
 The fame you envy, and the skill you 
 need ; 
 And recollect a poet notjiing loses 
 
 In giving to his brethren their full meed 
 Of merit, and complaint of present days 
 Is not the certain path to future praise. 
 
 He that reserves liis laurels for posterity 
 (Who does not often claim the bright 
 reversion) 
 Has generally' no great crop to spare it, he 
 Being only injiured by his own assertion ; 
 A'ld although here and there some glorious 
 rarity 
 Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion. 
 The major part of such appellants go 
 To — God knows where — for no one else can 
 know. 
 
 If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
 Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time, 
 
 If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs. 
 And makes the word " Miltonic " mean 
 *' sublime," 
 
 He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs. 
 Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
 
 Hs did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
 
 But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 
 
 XI 
 
 Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old 
 Man — arise. 
 Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze 
 once more 
 The blood of monarchs with his prophecies. 
 
 Or be alive again — again all hoar 
 With time and trials, and those helpless 
 eyes, 
 And heartless daughters — worn — and 
 pale '^and poor ; 
 Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 
 The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ? 
 
 Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid mis- 
 QCeant I 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's 
 gore. 
 And thus for v/ider carnage taught to pant, 
 Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore. 
 The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could 
 want. 
 With just enough of talent, and no more, 
 To lengthen fetters by another fix' J, 
 -And offer poison long already mix'd. 
 
 An orator of such set trash of pfirase 
 j Ineffably — le^timately vile , 
 I That even its grossest flatterers dare not 
 [ praise. 
 
 Nor -foes — all nations — condescend to 
 smile ; 
 Not e\en a sprightly blunder's spark can 
 blaze 
 From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless 
 toil. 
 That turns and turns to give the world a 
 
 notion 
 Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 
 
 A bungler even in its disgustmg trade. 
 And botching, patching, leaWng still be- 
 hind 
 Something of which its masters are afraid, 
 States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be 
 confined, 
 Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
 
 Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 
 A tinkering sla\-e-maker, who mends old 
 
 chains. 
 With God and man's abhorrence for its 
 gains. 
 
 XV 
 
 If we may judge of matter bv the mind. 
 Emasculated to the marrow It 
 
 Hath but two objects, how to serve, and 
 bind. 
 Deeming the chain it wears even men 
 may fit, 
 
 Eutropius of its many masters. — blind 
 To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, 
 
 Fearless — because no feelmg dwells in ice. 
 
 Its very courage stagnates to a \-ice. 
 
 .XVI 
 
 Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds. 
 
 For I will never feel them ; — Ital\- ! 
 Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
 Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed 
 o'er thee — 
 Thy clanking chain, and Erin's vet green 
 wounds. 
 Have \oices— tongues to cry aloud for 
 me. 
 Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still. 
 And Southey lives to sing them \'erv ill. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 599 
 
 1\/T 
 
 Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedi- 
 cate, 
 In honest simple verse, this song to you. 
 And, if in flattering strains I do not pre- 
 dicate, 
 'Tis that I still retain my " buff and 
 blue ; " ' 
 My politics as yet are all to educate : 
 
 Apostacy's so fashionable, too. 
 To keep one creed!s a task grown quite Her- 
 culean ; 
 Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ? 3 
 
 Venice, September i6, 1818. 
 
 I WANT a hero : an uncommon want, 
 When every year and month sends forth 
 a new one, 
 
 Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant. 
 The age discovers he is not the true one : 
 
 Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 
 I'll therefore take our ancient friend 
 Don Juan — 
 
 We all have seen him, in the pantomime. 
 
 Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 
 
 Vernon,! tixe butcher Cumberland," Wolfe, 
 Hawke, 
 Prince Ferdinand,^ Granby,* Burgoyne,'' 
 Keppel,^ Howe, 
 Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk. 
 And fill'd their sign-posts then, hke 
 Wellesley now ; 
 Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs 
 stalk. 
 Followers of fame, " nine farrow " of 
 that sow : 
 France, too, had Buonaparte, and Du- 
 
 mourier 
 Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 
 
 Barnave,' Brissot,' Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
 Petion," Clootz,'" Danton, Marat, La 
 Fayette, 
 Were French, and famous people, as we 
 know ; 
 And there were others, scarce forgotten 
 yet, 
 Joubert, Hoche, Marceau," Lannes," 
 Desaix,i3 Moreau,'* 
 With many of the military set. 
 Exceedingly remarkable at times. 
 But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 
 
 Nelson wa3 once Britannia's god of war, 
 And still should be so, but the tide is 
 turn'd ; 
 
 There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
 'Tis with our hero quietly inuru'd ; 
 
 Because the army's grown more popular, 
 At which the naval people are concern'd ; 
 Besides, the prince is all for the land- 
 service. 
 Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and 
 Jervis. 
 
 v 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon 
 And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
 A good deal like him too, though quite the 
 same none ; 
 But then they shone not on the poet's 
 page. 
 And so have been forgotten : — I condemn 
 none. 
 But can't find any in the present age 
 Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; 
 So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 
 
 Most epic poets plunge " in 'medias res " 
 (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike- 
 road), 
 And then your hero tells, whene'er you 
 please. 
 What went before — by way of episode, 
 While seated after dinner at his ease. 
 
 Beside his mistress in some soft abode. 
 Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern. 
 Which serves the happy couple for a 
 tavern. 
 
 VII 
 
 That is the usual method, but not mine — 
 My way is to begin with the beginning ; 
 
 The regularity of my design 
 
 Forbids all wandering as the worst of 
 sinning. 
 
 And therefore I shall open with a line 
 (Although it cost me half an hour in 
 spinning) 
 
 Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 
 
 And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 
 
 In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 
 Famous for oranges and women — he 
 Who has not seen it will be much to pity. 
 
 So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 
 Of all the Spanish towns is none more 
 pretty, 
 Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may 
 see : — 
 Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
 A noble stream, and call'd the Guadal- 
 quivir. 
 
 IX 
 
 His father's name was Jose — Don, of course, 
 
 A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
 Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his 
 source 
 Through the most Gothic gentlemen of 
 Spain ; 
 A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 
 
6oo 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
 Than J6se, who begot our hero, who 
 
 Begot — but that's to come Well, to 
 
 renew : 
 
 X 
 
 His mother was a learned lady, famed 
 For every branch of e\ery science 
 known — 
 In every Christian language ever named 
 
 With virtues equall'd by her wit alone : 
 She made the cleverest people quite 
 ashamed, 
 And even the good with inward envy 
 groan, 
 Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
 In their own way by all the things that 
 she did. 
 
 XI 
 
 Her memory was a mine : she knew by 
 heart 
 All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 
 So that if any actor miss'd his part 
 
 She could have served him for the promp- 
 ter's copy ; 
 For her Feinagle's were an useless art,^^ 
 And he himself obliged to shut up shop 
 — he 
 Could never make a memory so fine as 
 That which adorn'd the brain of Donna 
 Inez. 
 
 XII 
 
 Her favourite science was the mathemati- 
 cal, 
 Her noblest virtue was her magnani- 
 mity. 
 
 Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit} was 
 Attic all, 
 Her serious sayings darken'd to sub- 
 limity ; 
 
 In short, in all things she was fairiy what 
 I call 
 A prodigy — her morning dress was 
 dimity. 
 
 Her evening silk, or, in the summer, mus- 
 lin. 
 
 A.nd other stuffs, with which I won't stay 
 puzzling. 
 
 Slie knew the Latin — that is, " the Lord's 
 prayer," 
 And Greek — the alphabet — I'm nearly 
 sure ; 
 She read some French romances here and 
 there, 
 Although her mode of speaking was not 
 pure ; 
 For native Spanish she had no great care, 
 At least her conversation was obscure ; 
 Her thoughts were theorems, her words a 
 
 problem. 
 As if she deern'd that mystery would 
 ennoble 'em. 
 
 She liked the English and the Hebrew- 
 tongue, 
 And said there was analogy between 
 'em ; 
 She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 
 But I must leave the proofs to those 
 who've seen 'em. 
 But this I heard her say, and can't be 
 wrong, 
 And all may think which way their 
 judgments lean 'em, 
 *' *Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which 
 
 means ' I am,' 
 The English always use to govern d — -n." 
 
 XV 
 
 Some women use their tongues — she 
 look'd a lecture. 
 Each eye a sermon, and her brow a 
 homily. 
 An all-in-all sufficient self-director, 
 Like the lamented late Sir Samuel 
 Romilly,is 
 The Law's expounder, and the State's 
 corrector. 
 Whose suicide was almost an anomalv — 
 One sad example more, that " All is 
 
 vanity," — 
 (The jury brought their verdict in " In- 
 sanity.") 
 
 XVI 
 
 la short, she was a walking calculation. 
 Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from 
 their covers, 
 Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, i" 
 Or " Ccelebs' Wife" ^8 set out in quest 
 of lovers, 
 Morality's prim personification. 
 
 In which not Envy's self a flaw dis- 
 covers ; 
 To others* share let " female errors fall." 
 For she had not even one — the worst of all. 
 
 Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
 Of any modern female samt's compari- 
 son ; 
 So far above the cunning powers of hell. 
 Her guardian angel had given up iiis 
 garrison ; 
 Even her minutest motions went as well 
 As those of the best time-piece made by 
 Harrison : 
 In virtues nothing earthlv could surpass 
 
 her. 
 Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar ! 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
 Insipid in this naughtv world of ours. 
 
 Where our first parents ne\ er learn'd to kiss 
 Till they were exited from their earlier 
 
 bowers. 
 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and 
 
 bhss, 
 (I wonder how they got through the 
 
 twelve hours), 
 Don J6se, like a lineal son of Eve, 
 Went plucking various fruit without her 
 
 leave. 
 
 He was a mortal of the careless kind. 
 With no great love for learning, or the 
 learn'd. 
 
 Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
 And never dream' d his lady was con- 
 cern' d ; 
 
 The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
 To see a Idngdom or a house o'erturn'd. 
 
 Whispered he had a mistress, some said two, 
 
 But for domestic quarrels one will do. 
 
 Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
 A great opinion of her own good quali- 
 ties ; 
 Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 
 And such, indeed, she was in her morali- 
 ties ; 
 But then she had a devil of a spirit, 
 
 .A.nd sometimes mix'd up fancies with 
 realities. 
 And let few opportunities escape 
 Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 
 
 This was an easy matter with a man 
 
 Oft in the wrong, and ne\'er on his guard ; 
 
 And even the wisest, do the best they can, 
 Have moments, hours, and days, so 
 unprepared. 
 
 That you might " brain them with their 
 lady's fan ; " 
 And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 
 
 And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 
 
 And why and wherefore no one understands 
 
 XXII 
 
 'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed 
 
 With persons of no sort of education. 
 
 Or gentlemen, who, though well born and 
 bred. 
 Grow tired of scientific conversation : 
 
 I don't choose to say much upon this head, 
 I'm a plain man, and in a single station. 
 
 But — Oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
 
 Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd 
 you all ? 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Don J6se and his lady quarrell'd — why. 
 
 Not any of the many could divine. 
 Though several thousand people chose to 
 
 try, 
 'Twas surely no concern of theurs nor 
 mine ; 
 
 B.P W- 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 601 
 
 I loathe that low vice — curiosity ; 
 
 But if there's any thing in which I shine, 
 'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs, 
 Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 And so I interfered, and with the best 
 Intentions, but their treatment was not 
 kind ; 
 I think the foolish people were possess'd. 
 
 For neither of them could I ever find. 
 Although their porter afterwards con- 
 fess'd — 
 But that's no matter, and the worst's 
 behind. 
 For little Juan o'er me threw, downstairs, 
 A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 
 
 A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 
 And mischief-making monkev from his 
 birth ; 
 His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
 Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
 Instead of quarrelling, had they been but 
 both in 
 Their senses, they'd have sent young 
 master forth 
 To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at 
 
 home. 
 To teach him manners for the time to come. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Don J6se and the Donna Inez led 
 
 For some time an unhappy sort of life. 
 
 Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
 They lived respectably as man and wife. 
 
 Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred. 
 And gave no outward signs of inM-ard 
 strife, 
 
 Until at length the smothered tire broke out , 
 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 For Inez call'd some druggists and physi- 
 cians. 
 And tried to prove her loving lord was 
 mad. 
 But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
 
 S he next decided he was onlv bad 
 Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions. 
 
 No sort of explanation could be had. 
 Save that her duty both to man and God 
 Required this conduct — which seem'd verv 
 odd. 
 
 X.XVIII 
 
 She kept a journal, where his faults ivcre 
 noted, 
 And open'd certain trunks of books and 
 letters, 
 .411 which might, if occasion served, be 
 quoted ; 
 And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
 P R 
 
6o2 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Besides her good old grandmother (who 
 
 doted) ; 
 
 The hearers of her case became repeaters, 
 
 Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 
 
 Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 And then this best and meekest woman 
 bore 
 With such serenity her husband's woes. 
 Just as the Spartan ladi^rs did of yore. 
 Who saw their spouses kiU'd, and nobly 
 chose 
 Ne\'er to sa}^ a word about them more — 
 
 Calmly she heardjCach calumny that rose, 
 And saw his agonies with such sublimity," 
 That all the world exclaim'd, " Wiiat 
 magnanimity ! " 
 
 No doubt this patience, when the world is 
 damning us, 
 Is philosophic in our former friends ; 
 *Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnani- 
 mous, 
 The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
 And what the la^'.^ers call a "malus aninuts^' 
 Conduct like this by no means compre- 
 hends : 
 Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue. 
 But then 'tis not my fault, if others hiurt you. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 And if our quarrels should rip up old 
 stories. 
 And help them with a lie or two 
 additional, 
 I'm not to blame, as 5'ou well know — no 
 more is 
 Any one else — they were become tradi- 
 tional ; 
 Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
 By contrast, which is what we just were 
 wishing all : 
 And science profits by this resurrection — 
 Dead scandals form good subjects for 
 dissection. 
 
 XV XII 
 
 Their friends had tried at reconciliation, 
 Then their relations, who made matters 
 worse, 
 
 ('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
 To whom it may be best to have re- 
 course — 
 
 I can't say much for friend or yet relation) : . 
 The lawyers did their utmost fur divorce. 
 
 But scarce a fee was paid on either side 
 
 Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 
 
 X.X.XIII 
 
 He died : and most unluckily, because, 
 
 According to all hints I could collect 
 From counsel learned in those kinds of 
 laws, 
 
 (Altliough their talk's obscure and cir- 
 cumspect) 
 His death contrived to spoil a charming 
 cause ; 
 A thousand pities also with respect 
 To public feeling, which on this occasion 
 Was manifested in a great sensation. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
 The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 
 
 His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
 A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 
 
 A priest the other — at least so they say : 
 I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 
 
 He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 
 
 And left his widow to her own aversion. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Yet J6se was an honourable man, 
 
 That I must sav, v,'ho knew him very 
 well ; 
 Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan, 
 Indeed there were not many more to tell : 
 And if his passi. ms now and then outran 
 
 Discretion, and v\-ere not so peaceable 
 As Numa's (who was also named Pom- 
 
 pilius), 
 He had been ill brought up, and was born 
 bilious. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Whate'er might be his worthlessness or 
 worth, 
 Poor fellow ! he had many things to 
 wound him. 
 Let's own — since it can do no good on 
 earth — 
 It was a tr^-iiig moment that which found 
 him 
 Standing alone beside his desolate hearth. 
 Where all his household gods lay shiver'd 
 round him : 
 No choice was left his feelings or his pride. 
 Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he 
 died. 
 
 -X.X.XVII 
 
 Djnng intestate, Juan -vN-as sole heir 
 To a chancery suit, and messuages and 
 lands, 
 Which, with a long minority and care. 
 Promised to turn out well- in proper 
 hands : 
 Inez became sole guardian, which v.-js fair, 
 And answer'd but to nature's just de- 
 mands ; 
 .\n only son left with an onlv mother 
 Is brought up much more wiselv than 
 another. 
 
 x.x.xvm 
 Sagest of women, e\cn of widows, she 
 Resoh-ed that Juan should be quite a 
 paragon, 
 And worthy of the uoblest pedigree : 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 603 
 
 (His sire was of Castile, his dam from 
 Aragon). 
 Then for accomplishments of chivalry. 
 In case our lord the king should go to 
 war again, 
 He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gun- 
 nery. 
 And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 But that which Donna Inez most desired. 
 And saw into herself each day before all 
 The learned tutors whom for him she hired. 
 Was, that his breeding should be strictly 
 moral : 
 Much into all his studies she inquired, 
 And so they were submitted first to her, 
 all. 
 Arts, sciences, no branch was mad: a 
 
 mystery 
 To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 
 
 XL 
 
 The languages, especially the dead. 
 
 The sciences, and most of all the 
 abstruse, 
 
 The arts, at least all such as could be said 
 To be the most remote from common use. 
 
 In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
 But not a page of any thing that's loose, 
 
 Or hi'its continuation of the species. 
 
 Was ever suffer' d, lest he should grow 
 vicious. 
 
 XLI 
 
 His classic studies made a little puzzle. 
 Because of filthy loves of gods and god- 
 
 flPSSGS 
 
 Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle. 
 But never put on pantaloons or bodices : 
 
 His reverend tutors had at times a tussle^ 
 And for their iEneids, Iliads, and Odys- 
 
 Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 
 For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. 
 
 XLII 
 
 Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
 Anacreon's morals are a still worse 
 sample, 
 
 Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 
 I don't think Sappho's Ode a good exam- 
 
 Althoigh Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
 
 Whe?e the sublime soars forth on wings 
 
 more ample ; t t-u^t 
 
 But Virgil's songs are pure, except that 
 
 BegiSwUh-Formosum Pastor Cory- 
 
 don." 
 
 XLIII 
 
 T ucretius' irreligion is too strong 
 
 For early stomachs, to prove wholesome 
 food ; 
 
 I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong. 
 Although no doubt his real intent was 
 good. 
 
 For speaking out so plainly in his song, 
 So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
 
 And then what proper person can be partial 
 
 To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Juan was taught from out the best edition. 
 Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
 Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's 
 vision, 
 The grosser parts ; but, fearful to 
 deface 
 Too much their modest bard by this omis- 
 sion. 
 And pitying sore his mutilated case. 
 They only add thern all in an appendix. 
 Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an 
 index ; 
 
 XLV 
 
 For there we have them all " at one fell 
 swoop," 
 Instead of being scatter'd through the 
 pages ; 
 They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome 
 troop, 
 To meet the ingenuous youth of future 
 ages. 
 Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 
 To call them back into their separate 
 cages. 
 Instead of standing staring altogether. 
 Like garden gods — and not so decent either. 
 
 XL VI 
 
 The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 
 
 Was ornamented in a sort of way 
 Which ancient mass-books often are, and 
 this all . J J u 
 
 Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how 
 they, , . , . 
 
 Who saw those figures on the margin kiss 
 
 all, , , 
 
 Could turn their optics to the text and 
 
 pray, ^ ^ , 
 
 Is more than I know— But Don Juan s 
 
 mother 
 Kept this herself, and gave her son 
 
 another. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Sermons he read, and lectures he endured. 
 And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 
 To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 
 He did not take such studies for 
 restraints ; , ■, .. 
 
 But how faith is acquired, and then en- 
 sured, . . 
 So well not one of the aforesaid paints 
 As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, 
 \\hich make the reader envy his transgres- 
 1 sions. 
 
6o4 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 This, too, was a seal'd book to little 
 Juan — 
 I can't but say that his mamma was 
 right. 
 If such an education was the true one. 
 She scarcely trusted him from out her 
 sight ; 
 Her maids were old, and if she took a new 
 one. 
 You might be sure she was a perfect 
 fright. 
 She did this during even her husband's 
 
 life— 
 I recommend as much to every wife. 
 
 XLI.X 
 
 Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace ; 
 At six a charming child, and at eleven 
 With all the promise of as fine a face 
 
 As e'er to man's maturer growth was 
 given, 
 He studied steadily, and grew apace. 
 And seem'd, at least, in the right road 
 to heaven, 
 For half his days were pass'd at church, 
 
 the other 
 Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 
 
 At six, I said, he was a charming child. 
 
 At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 
 Although in infancy a little wild. 
 
 They tamed him down amongst them : 
 to destroy 
 His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, — 
 
 At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's 
 
 joy [steady. 
 
 Was to declare how sage, and still, and 
 
 Her young philosopher was grown already. 
 
 I had my doubts, perhaps I have them 
 still. 
 
 But what I say is neither here nor there : 
 I knew his father well, and have some skill 
 
 In character — but it would not be fair 
 From sire to son to augur good or ill : 
 
 He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 
 But scandal's my aversion — I protest 
 Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 
 
 For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
 This I will say — my reasons are my 
 own — 
 That if I had an only son to put 
 
 To school (as God "be praised that I have 
 none), 
 'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
 
 Him up to learn his catechism alone. 
 No — no — I'd send him out betimes to cliI- 
 
 lege, 
 For there it was I pick'd up my own know- 
 ledge, 
 
 For there one learns — 'tis not for me to 
 boast, 
 Though I acquired — but I pass over 
 that, 
 As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 
 I say that there's the place — but " Ver- 
 bum sat,^* 
 I think I pick'd up too, as well as most, 
 Knowledge of matters — but no matter 
 what — 
 I never married — but, I think, I know 
 That sons should not be educated so. 
 
 Young Juan now was sixteen years of age. 
 Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit : 
 he seem'd 
 
 Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
 And every body but his mother deem'd 
 
 Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage 
 And bit her lips (for else she might have 
 scream'd) 
 
 If any said so, for to be precocious 
 
 Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 
 
 i.v 
 Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
 
 Selected for discretion and devotion. 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
 
 Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
 Of many charms in her as natural 
 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to 
 ocean. 
 Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, 
 (But this last simile is trite and stupid). 
 
 LVI 
 
 The darkness of her Oriental eye 
 Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
 
 (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 
 In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
 
 When proud Granada fell, and, forced to 
 
 fly, 
 
 Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
 Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
 Her great great grandmamma chose to re- 
 main. 
 
 LVI I 
 
 She married (I forget the pedigree) 
 
 With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
 His blood less noble than such blood should 
 be; 
 At such alliances his sires would frown, 
 In that point so precise in each degree 
 That they bred in and in, as might be 
 shown. 
 Marrying their cousins — uav, their aunts, 
 
 and nieces. 
 Which ahva\s spoils the breed, if it 
 increases. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 This heathenish cross restored the breed 
 again, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 605 
 
 Ruin'd its blood, but much improved 
 its flesh ; 
 For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
 Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 
 The sons no more were short, the daughters 
 plain : 
 But there's a rumour which I fain would 
 hush, 
 *Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
 Produced her Don more heirs at love than 
 law. 
 
 LIX 
 
 However this might be, the race went on 
 Improving still through every genera- 
 tion. 
 Until it centred in an only son. 
 
 Who left an only daughter ; my narra- 
 tion 
 May have suggested that this single one 
 Could be but Julia (whom on this occa- 
 sion 
 I shall have much to speak about), and she 
 Was married, charming, chaste, and 
 twenty-three. 
 
 LX 
 
 Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
 Was large and dark, suppressing half its 
 
 fire 
 Until she spoke, then through its soft 
 
 disguise 
 Flash'd an expression more of pride than 
 
 ire. 
 And love than either : and there would 
 
 arise 
 A something in them which was not de- 
 sire, 
 But would have been, perhaps, but for the 
 
 soul 
 Which struggled through and chasten'd 
 
 down the whole. 
 
 Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair, and 
 smooth ; 
 Her eyebrow's shape was like the aenal 
 bow, 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of 
 youth, 
 Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow. 
 As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in 
 sooth, 
 Possess'd an air and grace by no means 
 common : 
 Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 
 
 Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
 
 Of fifty, and such husbands are m 
 
 plenty ; , , , 
 
 And yet, I think, rastead of such a one 
 
 'Twere better to have two of five-and- 
 
 twenty, 
 
 Especially in countries near the sun ; 
 And now I think on't, " mi vien in 
 
 mente," 
 Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 
 Prefer a spouse whose age is short of 
 
 thirty. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say. 
 
 And all the fault of that indecent sun, 
 
 Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 
 
 But will keep baking, broiling, burning 
 
 on, 
 
 That howsoever people fast and pray, 
 
 The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
 What men call gallantry, and gods 
 
 adultery, 
 Is much more common where the climate's 
 sultry. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 Happy the nations of the moral North ! 
 
 Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
 Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth 
 
 ('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony 
 to reason) ; 
 Where juries cast up what a wife is worth. 
 
 By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they 
 please on 
 The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
 Because it is a marketable vice. 
 
 Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 
 A man well looking for his years, and who 
 
 Was neither much beloved nor yet ab- 
 horr'd : 
 They lived together as most people do, 
 
 Suffering each other's foibles by accord. 
 And not exactly either one or two ; 
 
 Yet he was jealous, though he did not 
 show.it, 
 
 For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
 With Donna Inez quite a favourite 
 friend ; 
 Between their tastes there was small sym- 
 pathy. 
 For not a line had Julia ever penn'd ; 
 Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they 
 lie, 
 For malice still imputes some private 
 end) 
 That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 
 Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 
 
 LXVII 
 
 And that still keeping up the old con- 
 nection, 
 Which time had lately render'd much 
 more chaste, 
 She took his lady also in affection. 
 And certainly this course was jnucb the 
 best: 
 
6o6 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 She flatter'd Julia with her sage protec- 
 tion, 
 And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
 
 And if she could not (who can ?) silence 
 scandal, 
 
 At least she left it a more slender handle. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
 With other people's eyes, or if her own 
 
 Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
 Of this, at least no symptom e'er was 
 shown ; 
 
 Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
 Indifferent from the first, or callous 
 grown : 
 
 I'm really puzzled what to think or say, 
 
 She kept her counsel in so close a way. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
 Caress'd him often — such a thing might 
 be 
 Quite innocently done, and harmless 
 styled, 
 When she had twenty years, and thirteen 
 he; 
 But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
 When he was sixteen, Julia twenty- 
 three ; 
 These few short years make wondrous 
 
 alterations, 
 Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 
 
 LXX 
 
 Whate'er the cause might be, they had be- 
 come 
 Changed ; for the dame grew distant, 
 the youth shy. 
 Their looks cast down, their greetings 
 almost dumb. 
 And much embarrassment in either eye ; 
 There surely will be little doubt with some 
 That Donna Julia knew the reason why. 
 But as for Juan, he had no more notion 
 Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 
 
 Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
 
 And tremulously gentle her small hand 
 
 Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
 
 A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
 
 And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
 
 'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's 
 
 wand 
 
 Wrought change with all Armida's fairy 
 
 art 
 Like what this light touch left on Juan's 
 heart. 
 
 Lxxn 
 And if she met him, though she smiled no 
 more. 
 She looked a sadness sweeter than her 
 smile. 
 
 As if her heart had deeper thoughts in 
 store 
 She must not own, but cherish'd more 
 the while 
 For that compression in its burning core ; 
 
 Even innocence itself has many a wile, 
 And will not dare to trust itself with truth. 
 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
 Even by its darkness ; as the blackest 
 sky 
 
 Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
 Its workings through the vainly guarded 
 eye. 
 
 And in whatever aspect it arrays 
 
 Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; 
 
 Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 
 
 Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 Then there were sighs, the deeper for sup- 
 pression. 
 And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft. 
 And burning blushes, though for no trans- 
 gression, 
 Tremblings when met, and restless- 
 ness when left ; 
 All these are little preludes to possession, 
 Of which young passion cannot be bereft. 
 And merely tend to show how greatly love 
 
 is 
 Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Poor J jlia's heart was in an awkward state ; 
 
 She felt it going, and resolved to make 
 The noblest efforts for herself and mate. 
 
 For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's 
 sake 
 Her resolutions were most truly great. 
 
 And almost might have made a Tarquin 
 quake : 
 She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
 As being the best judge of a lady's case. 
 
 LX.XVI 
 
 She vow'd she never would see Juan more. 
 
 And next day paid a \isit to his mother. 
 And look'd ext'remelv at the opening door. 
 
 Which, by the \'irgin's grace, let in 
 another ; 
 Grateful she was. and vet a little sore — 
 
 Again it opens, it can be no other, 
 'Tis surely Juan now — No ! I'm afraid 
 That night the \irgin was no further 
 pray'd. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 She now determined that a virtuous woman 
 Should rather face and overcome tempta- 
 tion, 
 That flight w.is base and dastardly, and no 
 man 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 607 
 
 Should ever give her heart the Ictist 
 sensation ; 
 That is to say, a tliought beyond the 
 common 
 Preference, that we must feel upon occa- 
 sion. 
 For people who are pleasanter than others, 
 But then they only seem so many brothers. 
 
 LXXVTII 
 
 And even if by chance — and who can 
 tell ? 
 The devil's so very sly — she could dis- 
 cover 
 That all within was not so very well, 
 
 And, if still free, that suchor such a lover 
 
 Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can 
 
 quell 
 
 Such thoughts, and be the better when 
 
 they're over ; 
 
 And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial ; 
 
 I recommend young ladies to make trial. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 And then there was such things as love 
 divine, 
 Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and 
 pure, 
 Such as the angels think so very fine, 
 And matrons, who would be no Jess 
 secure, 
 Platonic, perfect, " just such love as 
 mine : " 
 Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be 
 sure ; 
 And so I'd have her think, were I the man 
 On whom her reveries celestial ran. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Such love is innocent, and may exist 
 Between young persons without any 
 danger : 
 A hand may first, and then a lip be kist ; 
 For my part, to such doings I'm a 
 stranger. 
 But hear these freedoms form the utmost 
 list 
 Of all o'er which such love may be a 
 ranger : 
 If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime, 
 But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 
 
 Love, then, but love within its proper 
 limits. 
 Was Julia's innocent determination 
 In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 
 Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
 And, Ughted at too pure a shrine to dim its 
 Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persua- 
 sion. 
 He might be taught, by love and her to- 
 gether — 
 I really don't know what, nor Julia either. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 Fraught with this fine intention, and well 
 fenced 
 In mail of proof — her purity of soul. 
 She, for the future of her strength con- 
 vinced, 
 And that her honour was a rock, or mole, 
 Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
 With any kind of troublesome control ; 
 But whether Julia to the task was equal 
 Is that which must be raention'd in the 
 sequel. 
 
 Lxx.xm 
 Her plan she deem'd both innocent and 
 feasible. 
 And, surelv, with a stripling of sixteen 
 Not scandal's fangs could fix on much 
 that's seizable. 
 Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
 Nothing but what was good, her breast 
 was peaceable : 
 A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 
 Christians have burnt each other, quite 
 
 persuaded 
 That all the Apostles would have done as 
 they did. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 And if in the mean time her husband died, 
 But Heaven forbid that such a thought 
 should cross 
 Her brain, though in a dream ! (and then 
 she sigh'd) 
 Never could she survive that common 
 loss ; 
 But just suppose that moment should be- 
 tide, 
 I only say suppose it — inler nos. 
 (This should be entre nous, for Julia 
 
 thought 
 In French, but then the rhyme would go 
 for nought.) 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 I only say, suppose this supposition : 
 Juan being then grown up to man's 
 estate 
 Would fully suit a widow of coudition, 
 Even seven years hence it would not be 
 too late ; 
 And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
 The mischief, after all, could not be 
 great, 
 For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
 I mean the seraph way of those above. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to 
 Juan. 
 
 Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
 Of his own case, and never«it the true one ; 
 
 In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
 He puzzled over what he found a new one, 
 
 But not as yet imagined it could be a 
 
6o8 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Thing quite in course, and not at all alarm- 
 ing, 
 
 Which, with a little patience, might grow 
 charming. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
 His home deserted for the lonely wood. 
 
 Tormented with a wound he could not 
 know. 
 His, like all deep grief, plunged in soli- 
 tude : 
 
 I'm fond myself of solitude or so. 
 
 But then, I beg it may be understood, 
 
 By solitude I mean a Sultan's, not 
 
 A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 
 
 I.XX.XVIII 
 
 " Oh Love ! in such a wilderness as this. 
 Where transport and security entwine. 
 
 Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss. 
 And here thou art a god indeed divine." 
 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 
 With the exception of the second line. 
 
 For that same twining " transport and 
 security " 
 
 Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 The poet meant, no doubt, and thus 
 appeals 
 
 To the good sense and senses of mankind. 
 The very thing which everybody feels. 
 
 As all have found on trial, or may find. 
 That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 
 
 Or love. — I won't say more about 
 " entwined " 
 Or " transport," as we knew all that before, 
 But beg " Security " will bolt the door. 
 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 
 Thinking unutterable things ; he threw 
 Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
 Where the wild branch of the cork forest 
 grew ; 
 There poets find materials for their books, 
 And every now and then we read them 
 through, 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove un- 
 intelligible. 
 
 xci 
 He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth) so pur- 
 sued 
 His self-communion with his own high 
 soul. 
 Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
 Had mitigatOT part, though not the 
 whole 
 Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
 With things not very subject to control, I 
 
 And turn'd, without perceiving his con- 
 dition. 
 Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 
 
 XCII 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole 
 earth, 
 Of man the wonderful, and of the stars. 
 And how the deuce they ever could have 
 birth ; 
 And then he thought of earthquakes, 
 and of wars. 
 How many miles the moon might have in 
 girth. 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless 
 
 skies ; — 
 And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes 
 
 XCIII 
 
 In thoughts like these true wisdom -may 
 discern 
 Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
 \^'hich some are bom with, but the most 
 part learn 
 To plague themselves withal, they know 
 not why : 
 'Twas strange that one so young should 
 thus concern 
 His brain about the action of the sky ; 
 If you think 'twas philosophy that this 
 
 did, 
 I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 
 
 xciv 
 He pored upon the leaves, and on the 
 flowers, 
 And heard "a voice in all the winds ; and 
 then 
 He thought of wood-n>Tnphs and immortal 
 bowers. 
 And how the goddesses came down to 
 men ; 
 He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hour*, 
 And when he look'd upon his watch 
 again. 
 He found how much old Time had been a 
 
 winner — 
 He also found that he had lost his dinner. 
 
 ,xcv 
 Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
 
 Boscan.'S or Garcilasso ; "» — bv the wind 
 E\-en as the page is rustled while we look, 
 
 So by the poesv of his own mind 
 Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook. 
 
 As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 
 Their spells, and give them to the passing 
 
 gale, 
 .\croi-Umg to some good old woman's tale. 
 
 Thus would he while his lonelv hours away 
 Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he 
 wanted ; 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 5og 
 
 Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 
 
 Could yield his spirit that for which it 
 panted, 
 A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 
 And hear the heart beat with the love it 
 granted. 
 With several other things, which I for- 
 get, 
 Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 
 
 XCVII 
 
 Those lonely walks, and lengthening re- 
 veries. 
 Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
 She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
 But that which chiefly may, and must 
 surprise, 
 Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
 
 Her only son with question or surmise ; 
 Whether it was she did not see, or would 
 
 not. 
 Or, like all very clever people, could not. 
 
 xcvm 
 This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very 
 common ; 
 For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies 
 take 
 Leave to o'erstep the written rights of 
 woman. 
 
 And break the Which commandment 
 
 is't they break 
 (I have forgot the number, and think no 
 man 
 Should rashly quote, for fear of a mis- 
 take ) 
 I say, when these same gentlemen are 
 jealous, . 
 
 They make some blunder, which then: 
 ladies tell us. 
 
 xcix 
 A real husband always is suspicious, 
 But still no less suspects m the wrong 
 place, ■ 
 
 Jealous of some one who had no such 
 wishes, . 
 
 Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace. 
 By harbouring some dear friend extremely 
 vicious ; 
 The last indeed's infallibly the case : 
 And when the spouse and friend are gone 
 
 off wholly , , • J „ 
 
 He wonders at their vice, and not his tolly. 
 
 Till some confounded escapade has 
 blighted 
 The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 
 And then the mother cries, the father 
 
 swears. 
 And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 
 
 ci 
 But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 
 Of sight, that I must think, on this 
 occasion. 
 She had some other motive much more 
 near 
 For leaving Juan to this new temptation,. 
 But what that motive was, I shan't say 
 here ; 
 Perhaps to finish Juan's education. 
 Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 
 In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 
 
 cii 
 It was upon a day, a summer's day ; — 
 Summer's indeed a very dangerous sea- 
 son. 
 And so is spring about the end of May ; 
 The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing 
 reason ; 
 But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, 
 And stand convicted of more truth than 
 treason. 
 That there are months which nature grows 
 
 more merry in, — 
 March has its hares, and May must have 
 its heroine. 
 
 cm 
 summer's day- 
 
 -the sixth of 
 
 ThMS parents also are at times short- 
 sighted ; ,, , 
 Though watchful as the lynx, theyne er 
 
 discover, , . , u j 
 
 The while the wicked world beholds ae- 
 lighted. 
 Young Hopeful's 
 Fanny's lover. 
 
 also are at times 
 
 mistress. 
 
 'Twas on 
 June : — 
 I like to be particular in dates, 
 Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 
 They are a sort of post-house, where the 
 Fates 
 Change horses, making history change its 
 tune. 
 Then spur away o'er empires and o er 
 states. 
 Leaving at last not much besides chrono- 
 
 logv, 
 Excepting the post-obits of theology. 
 
 'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
 Of half-past si.x— perhaps still nearer 
 seven — 
 When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
 As e'er held houri in that heathenish 
 heaven 
 Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon 
 Moore, 
 To whom the lyre and laurels have been 
 given, 
 \Vith all the trophies of triumphant song— 
 iMiss ' He won them well, and may he wear them 
 long ! 
 
6io 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
 Hov/ this same interview had taken 
 place, 
 And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
 People should hold their tongues in ony 
 case ; 
 No matter how or why the thing befell, 
 But there were she and Juan, face to 
 face — 
 When two such faces are so, 'twould be 
 
 v/ise, 
 But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 
 
 cvi 
 How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious 
 heart ^ 
 
 Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no 
 wrong. 
 Oh Love ! how perfect is thy mystic art. 
 Strengthening the weak, and trampling 
 on the strong. 
 How self-deceitful is the sagest part 
 
 Of mortals whom thy lure hath led 
 along — 
 The precipice she stood on was immense, 
 So was her creed in her own innocence. 
 
 She thought of her own strength, and Juan'- 
 youth. 
 And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 
 
 And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years ; 
 
 I wish these last had not occurr'd, insooti , 
 
 Because that number rarely muclj 
 
 endears. 
 
 And through all climes, the snowy and the 
 
 sunny, 
 Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in 
 money. 
 
 When people say, " I've told you fifty 
 times," 
 They mean to scold, and very often do ; 
 When poets say, " I've «Titten fifir 
 rhymej," 
 They make you dread that they'll recite 
 them too ; 
 In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their 
 crimes ; 
 At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true. 
 But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
 A good deal may be bought fur fifty Louis. 
 
 Julia had honour. \'irtue, truth, and love 
 
 For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, 
 
 By all the vows below to powers above, 
 
 She never would disgrace the ring she 
 
 wore. 
 
 Nor leave a wish which wisdom might 
 
 reprove ; 
 
 And while she ponder'd this, besides 
 
 much more. 
 One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 
 Quite by mistake — she thoughi it was her 
 
 own ; 
 
 ex 
 Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
 Wliich play'd within the tangles of her 
 hair ; 
 And to contend with thoughts she could 
 not smother 
 She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 
 'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
 To leave together this imprudent pair. 
 She who for many years had watch'd her 
 
 son so — 
 I'm verv certain mine would not have done 
 
 The hand which still held Juan's, by de- 
 grees 
 Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp. 
 As if it said, " Detain me, if you please ; '* 
 Yet there's no doubt she only meant to 
 clasp 
 His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze ; 
 She would have shrunk as from a toad, 
 or asp. 
 Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
 A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 
 
 I cannot know what Juan thought of this. 
 But what he did, is much what you 
 would do : 
 His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kjss, 
 And then, abash'd at its own joy, with- 
 drew 
 In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, — 
 
 Love is so very timid when 'tis new : 
 She blush'd, and frowm'd not, but she 
 
 strove to speak, 
 And held her tongue, her voice was grown 
 so weak. 
 
 cxiir 
 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
 The devil's in the moon for mischief ; 
 they 
 Who cail'd her chaste, methinks, began 
 too soon 
 Their nomeuclatmre ; there is not a day, 
 The longest, not the twenty-first of June,, 
 Sees half the business in a wicked wav, 
 On which three single hours of moonshine 
 
 smile — 
 And then she looks so modest aU the while. 
 
 c.xiv 
 There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
 A stillness, which leaves room for the full 
 soul 
 To open all itself, without the power 
 Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 6ii 
 
 The silver light which, hallowing tree and 
 
 tower, 
 Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the 
 
 whole, 
 Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it 
 
 throws 
 A loving languor, which is not repose. 
 
 cxv 
 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 
 And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
 Which trembled lilie the bosom where 
 'twas placed ; 
 Yet still she must have thought there 
 was no harm. 
 Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist ; 
 But then the situation had its charm. 
 
 And then God knows what next — I 
 
 can't go on ; 
 I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 
 
 cxvi 
 Oh Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way, 
 
 With your confounded fantasies, to more 
 Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
 
 Your system feigns o'er the controulless 
 core 
 Of human hearts, than all the long array 
 
 Of poets and romancers : — You're a bore, 
 A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been. 
 At best, no better than a go-between. 
 
 cxvii 
 And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs. 
 Until too late for useful conversation ; 
 The tears were gushing from her gentle 
 eyes, 
 I wish, indeed, they had not had occa- 
 sion ; 
 But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 
 Not that remorse, did not oppose tempta- 
 tion ; 
 A little still she strove, and much repented. 
 And whispering " I will ne'er consent " — 
 consented. 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 'Tis said that Xerxes offer' d a reward 
 To those who could invent him a new 
 pleasure : 
 
 Methinks the requisition's rather hard, 
 And must have cost his majesty a 
 treasure : 
 
 For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard. 
 Fond of a little love (which I call leisure) ; 
 
 I care not for new pleasures, as the old 
 
 Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 
 
 cxix 
 Oh Pleasure ! you're indeed a pleasant 
 thing. 
 Although one must be damn'd for you, 
 no doubt : 
 I make a resolution every spring 
 
 Of reformation, ere the year run out, 
 
 But somehow, this my vestal vow takes 
 wing. 
 Yet still, i trust, it may be kept through- 
 out : 
 I'm very sorry, very much ashamed. 
 And mean, next winter, to be quite re- 
 claim'd. 
 
 cxx 
 Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take — 
 Start not ! still chaster reader — she'll be 
 nice hence- 
 Forward, and there is no great cause to 
 quake ; 
 This liberty is a poetic licence, 
 Which some irregularity may make 
 
 In the design, and as I have a high sense 
 Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 
 To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 
 
 cxxi 
 This licence is to hope the reader will 
 Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal 
 day 
 Without whose epoch my poetic skill 
 For want of facts would all be thrown 
 away). 
 But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
 In sight, that several months have 
 pass'd ; we'll say 
 'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 
 About the day — the era's more obscure. 
 
 cxxii 
 We'll talk of that anon.^'Tis sweet to hear 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit 
 deep 
 The song and oar of Adna s gondolier. 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters 
 sweep ; 
 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
 'Tis sweet to listen as the mght-winds 
 creep 
 From leaf to leaf ; 'tis sweet to view on 
 
 high ^, , 
 
 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 
 
 cxxm 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest 
 bark , , 
 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw 
 near home ; . 
 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we 
 come ; 
 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the 
 hum , r, ■ J 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 
 The lisp of children, and their earUest 
 words. 
 
 c.xxiv 
 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering 
 grapes 
 
6l2 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
 Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 
 
 From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 
 
 Sweet to the father is his first-bom's 
 burth, 
 Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 cxxv . 
 Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 
 
 The unexpected death of some old lady, 
 Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
 WhoVe made ** us youth " wait too — 
 too long already 
 For an estate, or cash, or country seat, 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so 
 steady. 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 Next owner for their double-damn'd post- 
 obits. 
 
 cxxvi 
 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's 
 laurels. 
 By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 
 To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our 
 quarrels. 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend : 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
 Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
 Against the world ; and dear the school- 
 boy spot 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 cxxvii 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than 
 all. 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands 
 alone. 
 Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd 
 — all's known — 
 And life yields nothing further to recall 
 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
 Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from 
 heaven. 
 
 CXXVIII 
 
 Man's a strange animal, and makes strange 
 use 
 Of his own nature, and the various ai'ts, 
 And likes particularly to produce 
 
 Some new experiment to show his parts ; 
 This is the age of oddities let loose. 
 Where different talents find their differ- 
 ent marts ; 
 You'd best begin with truth, and when 
 
 •you've lost your 
 Labour, there's a sure market for impos- 
 ture. 
 
 cxxix 
 
 What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 
 (Signs of true genius, and of empty 
 pockets.) " i 
 
 One makes new noses, one a guillotine. 
 One breaks your bones, one sets them in 
 their sockets ; 
 
 But vaccination certainly has been 
 
 A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 
 
 With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, 
 
 By borrowing a new one from an ox. 
 
 cxxx 
 Bread has been made (indifferent) from 
 potatoes ; 
 And galvanism has set some corpses 
 grinning. 
 But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
 
 Of the Humane Society's beginning. 
 By which men are unsuffocated gratis : 
 What wondrous new macliines have late 
 been spinning ! 
 I said the small-pox has gone out of late ; 
 Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great. 
 
 cxxxi 
 
 'Tis said the great came from America ; 
 
 Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
 The population there so spreads, they say 
 
 'Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, 
 With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 
 
 So that civilisation they may learn ; 
 And which in ravage the more loathsome 
 
 evil is — 
 Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis ? 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 This is the patent age of new inventions 
 
 For killing bodies, and for saving souls. 
 All propagated with the best intenlio-is ; 
 Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by wliich 
 coals 
 Are safely mined for in the mode he 
 mentions, 
 Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the 
 Poles,»i 
 Are ways to benefit mankind, as true. 
 Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 
 
 cx.xxm 
 
 Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
 And wonderful beyond aU wondrous 
 measure ; 
 'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that 
 Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a 
 pleasure ; 
 Few mortals know what end they would be 
 at. 
 But whether glory, power, or love, or 
 treasure. 
 The path is through perplexing wavs, and 
 
 when 
 The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and 
 then 
 
 cx.xxiv 
 What then ?— I do not know, no more do 
 you — 
 And so good night— Return we to our 
 story : 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 613 
 
 Twas in November, when fine days are few, 
 And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 
 And clap a white cape on their mantles 
 blue ; 
 And the sea dashes round the promon- 
 tory. 
 And the loud breaker boils against the 
 
 rock. 
 And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 
 
 cxxxv 
 'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ; 
 No moon, no stars, the wind was low or 
 loud 
 By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was 
 bright 
 With the piled wood, round which the 
 family crowd ; 
 There's something cheerful in that sort of 
 light, 
 Even as a summer sky's without a cloud : 
 I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that-, 
 A lobster-salad, and champagne, and chat. 
 
 cxxxvi 
 'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed. 
 Sleeping, most probably, — when at her 
 door 
 Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 
 
 If they had never been awoke before. 
 And that they have been so we all have 
 read, 
 And are to be so, at the least, once 
 more ; — 
 The door was fasten'd, but with voice and 
 
 fist 
 First knocks were heard, then " Madam — 
 Madam — hist ! 
 
 cx.xxvii 
 " For God's sake, Madam — Madam — here's 
 my master. 
 With more than half the city at his 
 back — 
 Was ever heard of such a curst disaster ! 
 "Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — 
 ' Alack ! 
 
 Do prav undo the bolt a little faster — 
 They're on the stair just now, and in a 
 
 Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly- 
 Surely the window's not so very high ! " 
 
 cxxxviii 
 Bv this time Don Alfonso was arrived. 
 With torches, friends and servants m 
 great number ; , ^ , 
 
 The major part of them had long been 
 
 And therefore paused not to disturb the 
 slumber ^ • j 
 
 nf anv wicked woman, who contrived 
 
 By stealth her husband's temples to en- 
 cumber ; 
 
 Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
 Were one not punish'd all would be out- 
 rageous. 
 
 cxxxix 
 I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 
 
 Could enter into Don Alfonso's head ; 
 But for a cavalier of his condition 
 
 It surely was exceedingly ill-bred. 
 Without a word of previous admonition, ' 
 
 To hold a levee round his lady's bed. 
 And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and 
 
 sword, 
 To prove himself the thing he most ab- 
 horr'd. 
 
 CXL 
 
 Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep, 
 (Mind — that I do not say — she had not 
 slept) 
 Began at once to scream, and yawn, and 
 weep ; 
 Her maid, Antonia, who was an adept. 
 Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a 
 heap. 
 As if she had just now from out them 
 crept ; 
 I can't tell why she should take all this 
 
 trouble 
 To prove her mistress had been sleeping 
 double. 
 
 CXLI 
 
 But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
 Appear' d like two poor harmless women, 
 who 
 Of goblins, but still more of men afraid. 
 Had thought one man might be deterr'd 
 bv two, 
 And therefore side by side were gently laid, 
 Until the hours of absence should run 
 through. 
 And truant husband should return, and 
 
 say, 
 " My dear, I was the first who came away." 
 
 Now Julia found at length a voice, and 
 cried, 
 " In heaven's name, Don .Alfonso, what 
 d'ye mean ? 
 Has madness seized you ? would that I had 
 died 
 Ere such a monster's victim 1 had been ! 
 What may this midnight violence betide, 
 A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 
 Dare you suspect me, whom the thought 
 
 would kill ? 
 Search, then, the room ! " — Alfonso said, 
 " I will." 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 He search' d, they search' d, and rummaged 
 everywhere, 
 Closet and clothes-press, chest and win- 
 dow-seat, 
 
6i4 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And found much linen, lace, and several 
 
 pair 
 Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, 
 
 complete, 
 With other articles of ladies fair, 
 To keep them beautiful, or leave them 
 
 neat : 
 Arras they prick' d and curtains with their 
 
 swords. 
 And wounded several shutters, and some 
 
 boards. 
 
 CXLIV 
 
 Under the bed they search'd,and there they 
 found — 
 No matter what — it was not that they 
 sought ; 
 They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
 Had signs or footmarks, but the earth 
 said nought ; 
 And then they stared each other's faces 
 round : 
 'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers 
 thought, 
 And seems to me almost a sort of blunder. 
 Of looking in the bed as well as under. 
 
 C.XLV 
 
 During this inquisition Julia's tongue 
 Was not asleep — " Yes, search and 
 search," she cried, 
 
 " Insult on insult heap, and wrong on 
 wrong ! 
 It was for this that I became a bride ! 
 
 For this in silence I have suffer'd long 
 A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
 
 But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain. 
 
 If there be law or lawyers, in all Spain. 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 " Yes, Don Alfonso ! husband now no 
 more, 
 If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
 Is't worthy of your years ? — you have 
 threescore — 
 Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same — 
 Is't wise or fitting, causeless to explore 
 For facts against a virtuous woman's 
 fame ? 
 Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Al- 
 fonso, 
 How dare you think your lady would go im 
 so ? 
 
 CXLVII 
 
 *' Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 
 The common privileges of my sex ? 
 
 That I have chosen a confessor s6 old 
 And deaf, that any other it would vox, 
 
 And never once he has had cause to sce-ld, 
 But found my very innocence perplex 
 
 So much, he always doubted I was mar- 
 ried — 
 
 How sorry you will be when I'\'e miscarried 
 
 cxLvin 
 " Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er 
 I yet have chosen from out the youth of 
 SeviUe ? 
 Is it for this I scarce went anywhere. 
 Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, 
 and revel ? 
 Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 
 I favour'd none — nay, was almost un- 
 civil ? 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 Who took Algiers, declares I used him 
 vilely ? 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 " Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
 
 Sing at my heart six months at least in 
 
 vain ? 
 
 Did not his countryman. Count Corniani, 
 
 Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? 
 
 Were there not also Russians, English, 
 
 many ? 
 
 The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain. 
 
 And Lord Mount Cofieehouse, the Irish 
 
 peer. 
 Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last 
 year. 
 
 " Have I not had two bishops at mv feet ? 
 The Duke of Ichar. and Don Fernau 
 Nunez ; 
 And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 
 I wonder in v.-hat quarter now the moon 
 is : 
 I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
 Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
 Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and 
 
 cock'd trigger, 
 Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? 
 
 Was it for this you took your sudden j our- 
 
 ney, 
 Under pretence of business indispen- 
 sable, 
 \Vith that sublime of rascals your attornev, 
 Whom I see standing there, and looking 
 sensible 
 Of having play'd the fool ? though both I 
 spurn, he 
 De4er\es the worst, his conduct's less 
 deieii^ible. 
 Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee, 
 .\nd not from any lo\e to you nor me. 
 
 CLII 
 
 " If he comes here to take a deposition, 
 ^ Bvall means let the gentleman proceed ; 
 You'\e made the apartment in a lit condi- 
 tion : — 
 There's pen and ink for 
 \'ou need — 
 
 5'ou, sir, when 
 Let every thing be noted with precision. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 615 
 
 1 would not you for nothing should be 
 
 fee'd — 
 Bui as my maid's undrest, pray turn your 
 
 spies out." 
 " Oh ! " sobb'd Antonia, " I could tear 
 
 their eyes out." 
 
 CLIII 
 
 " There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
 The antechamber — search them under, 
 over ; 
 There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 
 The chimney — which would really hold 
 a lover. 
 I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
 And make no further noise, till you dis- 
 cover 
 The secret cavern of this lurking treasiure — 
 And when 'tis found, let me, too, have that 
 pleasure. 
 
 CLIV 
 
 " And now, Hidalgo 1 now that you have 
 thrown 
 Doubt upon me, confusion over all. 
 Pray have the coiu-tesy to make it known 
 Who is the man you search for ? how d'ye 
 call 
 Him ? what's his lineage ? let him but be 
 shown — 
 I hope he's young and handsome — is he 
 tall? 
 Tell me — and be assured, that since you 
 
 stain 
 Mine honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 
 
 " At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years. 
 At that age he would be too old for 
 slaughter. 
 
 Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 
 (Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 
 
 I am ashamed of having shed these tears. 
 They are unworthy of my father's daugh- 
 ter ; 
 
 My mother dream'd not in my natal hour, 
 
 That I should fall into a monster's powers. 
 
 " Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous, 
 You saw that she was sleeping by my 
 side. 
 
 When you broke in upon us with your fel- 
 lows ; 
 
 ■ Look where you please— we've nothing, 
 sir, to hide ; 
 
 Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us. 
 Or for the sake of decency abide 
 
 A moment at the door, that we may be 
 
 Drest to .receive so much good company. 
 
 CLVil 
 
 " And now, sir, I have done, and Say no 
 more ; 
 The little I have said may serve to show 
 
 Tiie guileless heart in silence may grieve 
 u'or 
 The wrongs to whose exposure it is 
 
 slow : — ^ 
 
 I lra\-R you to your conscience as before, 
 'Twill one day ask you, why you used 
 me so ? 
 
 God grant you feel not" then the bitterest 
 grief ! — 
 
 Antonia ! ^vhere's my pocket-handker- 
 chief ? " 
 
 CLVIII 
 
 She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; 
 pale 
 She lay, her dark eyes flashing through 
 their tears, 
 Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a \'eil, 
 Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, 
 appears 
 Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, 
 but fail. 
 To hide the glossy shoulder, which up- 
 rears 
 Its snow through all; — her soft lips lie apart , 
 And louder than her breathing beats her 
 heart . 
 
 Then Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 
 
 Antonia bustled round the ransack'd 
 
 room. 
 
 And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 
 
 Her master, and his myrmidons, I'f 
 
 whom 
 
 Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 
 
 He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
 
 So there were quarrels, cared not for the 
 
 C3.U.S6 
 
 Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 
 
 CL-X 
 
 With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he 
 stood, 
 
 Following Antonia's motions here and 
 there. 
 With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
 
 For reputations he had little care ; 
 So that a suit or action were made good. 
 
 Small pity had he for the young and fan", 
 And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 
 Were proved by competent false witnesses. 
 
 CLXI 
 
 But Don Alfonso stood with downcast 
 
 looks, , r ,■ I. 
 
 And, truth to say, he made a foolish 
 figure ; ^ , j j 
 
 When, after searching in five hundred 
 nooks. 
 And treating a young wife with so much 
 rigour, 
 He gain'd no point, except some seii- 
 rebukes, . 
 
 Added to those his lady with such vigour 
 
6i6 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Had pom'd upon him iot the last half-hour. 
 Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder- 
 shower. 
 
 CLXII 
 
 At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 
 To which the sole reply was tears, and 
 sobs. 
 And indications of hysterics, whose 
 
 Prologue is always certain throes, and 
 
 throbs, 
 
 Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose: 
 
 Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of 
 
 Job's ; 
 
 ■ He saw too, in perspective, her relations, 
 
 And then he tried to muster all his patience. 
 
 CLXIII 
 
 He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 
 But sage Antonia cut him short before 
 The anvil of his speech received the 
 hammer, 
 With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say 
 no more, 
 Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter'd, 
 " D — n her," 
 But nothing else, the time of words was 
 o'er ; 
 He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
 He knew not wherefore, that which he was 
 bid. 
 
 CLXIV 
 
 With him retired his "posse comitatus," 
 The attorney last, who linger'd near the 
 door 
 Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
 
 Antonia let him — not a little sore 
 At this most strange and unexplain'd 
 " hiatus " 
 In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now 
 wore 
 .\n awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
 The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 
 
 CLXV 
 
 No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 
 Oh sin ! Oh sorrow ! and Oh womankind ! 
 How can you do such things and keep your 
 fame, 
 Unless this world, and t'other too, be 
 blind ? 
 Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name! 
 But to proceed — for there is more be- 
 hind : 
 With much heartfelt reluctance be it said, 
 Voung Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from 
 the bed. 
 
 CLx^•[ 
 He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 
 How, nor can I indeed describe the 
 where — 
 Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lav. 
 No doubt, in little compass, round or 
 square ; 
 
 But pity him I neither must nor may 
 His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 
 'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
 With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey 
 buft. 
 
 CLXVII 
 
 And, secondly, I pity not, because 
 He had no business to commit a sin. 
 
 Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws. 
 At least 'twas rather early to begin ; 
 
 But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 
 So much as when we call our old debts in 
 
 At sixty years, and draw the accompts ot 
 evil. 
 
 And find a deuced balance with the devil. 
 
 CLXVIII 
 
 Of his position I can give no notion : 
 
 'Tis WTitten in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
 
 How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
 
 Prescribed, by way of blister, a young 
 
 belle. 
 
 When old King Da^nd's blood grew dull in 
 
 motion, 
 
 And that the medicine answer'd 
 
 well ; 
 
 Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied, 
 For David lived, but Juan nearlv died. 
 
 very 
 
 cr.xix 
 What's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
 The moment he has sent his fools away. 
 Antonia's skill was put upon the rack. 
 But no device could be brought into 
 play— 
 And how to parry the renew'd attack ? 
 Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 
 Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not spesk. 
 But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's 
 cheek. 
 
 CLX.X 
 
 He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
 
 Call'd back the tangles of her wandering 
 
 hair 
 
 Even then their love they could not all 
 
 command. 
 
 And half forgot their danger and despair : 
 
 Antonia's patience now w.is at a stand 
 
 " Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooline 
 
 there," ^ 
 
 She whisper'd, in great math—" I must 
 
 deposit 
 This pretty gentleman within the closet : 
 
 CLX.XI 
 
 " Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier 
 night — 
 Who can have put mv master in this 
 mood ? 
 What will become on't— I'm in such a 
 fright. 
 The devil's in the urchin, and no good- 
 Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ' 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 617 
 
 Why, don't you know that it may end in 
 
 blood ? 
 \ ou'll lose your life, and I shall lose my 
 
 place. 
 My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 
 
 CLXXII 
 
 " Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
 Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make 
 haste) 
 But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
 I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 
 (Come, sir, get in) — my master must be 
 near : 
 There, for the present, at the least, he's 
 fast, 
 And if we can but till the morning keep 
 Our counsel — (Juan, mind, you must not 
 sleep)." 
 
 CLXXIII 
 
 Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone. 
 
 Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 
 
 She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone. 
 
 An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 
 However, present remedy was none. 
 And no great good seem'd answer'd if 
 she staid ; 
 Regarding both with slow and sidelong 
 
 view. 
 She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and with- 
 drew. 
 
 CLXXIV 
 
 Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
 Some strange excuses for his late pro- 
 ceeding ; 
 He would not justify what he had done. 
 To say the best, it was extreme ill-breed- 
 ing ; 
 But there were ample reasons for it, none 
 Of which he specified in this his pleading : 
 His speech was a fine sample, on the whole. 
 Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call " figma- 
 role." 
 
 CL.XXV 
 
 Julia said nought ; though all the while 
 there rose 
 A ready answer, which at once enables 
 A matron, who her husband's foible 
 knows. 
 By a few timely words to turn the tables. 
 Which, if it does not silence, still must 
 pose, — 
 Even if it should comprise a pack of 
 fables ; 
 'Tis to retort with firmness, and ^\ hen he 
 Suspects with one. do you reproach with 
 three. 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 Tuba in fact, had tolerable grounds,— 
 Alfonso's lo\es with Inez were well 
 
 known ; 
 B P.w. 
 
 But whether 'twas that one's own guilt 
 confounds — 
 But that can't be, as has been often 
 shown, 
 A lady with apologies abounds ; — 
 
 It might be that her silence sprang alone 
 From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 
 To whom she knew his mother's fame was 
 dear. 
 
 CLXXVII 
 
 There might be one more motive, which 
 makes two, 
 
 Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, — 
 Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 
 
 Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
 Conceal'd amongst his premises ; 'tis true. 
 
 His mind the more o'er this its mystery 
 brooded ; 
 To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
 Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 
 
 Silence is best, besides there is a tact — 
 (That modern phrase appears to me sad 
 stuff. 
 But it will serve to keep my verse com- 
 pact) — 
 Which keeps, when push'd by questions 
 rather rough, 
 A lady always distant from the fact : 
 The charming creatures lie with such a 
 
 grace. 
 There's nothing so becoming to the face. 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 They blush, and we believe them ; at least 
 I 
 Have always done so ; 'tis of no great 
 use, 
 In any case, attempting a reply. 
 
 For then their eloquence grows quite 
 profuse ; 
 And when at length they're out of breath, 
 they sigh. 
 And cast their languid eyes down, and let 
 loose 
 A tear or two, and then we make it up r 
 And then — and then — and then — sit down 
 and sup. 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her 
 pardon, 
 Which Julia half withheld, and then half 
 granted. 
 And laid conditions, he thought very hard, 
 on. 
 Denying several little things he wanted : 
 He stood like Adam lingering near his gar- 
 den. 
 With useless penitence perplex'd and 
 haunted, 
 
6i8 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Beseeching she no further would refuse, 
 When, lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 A pair of shoes ! — what then- ? not much, if 
 they 
 Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these 
 (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
 Were masculine ; to see them, and to 
 seize. 
 Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! well-a-day ! 
 My teeth begin to chatter, my veins 
 freeze — 
 Alfonso first examined well their fashion. 
 And then flew out into another passion. 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 He left the room for his relinquish'd sword. 
 
 And Julia instant to the closet flew. 
 " Fly, Juan, fly I for heaven's sake — not a 
 word — 
 The door is open — you may yet slip 
 through 
 The passage you so often have explored — 
 Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — 
 Adieu ! 
 Haste — haste ! I hear Alfonso's hurrying 
 
 feet — 
 Day has not broke — there's no one in the 
 street." 
 
 CLX.XXIII 
 
 None can say that this was not good advice. 
 The only mischief was, it came too late ; 
 
 Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 
 A sort of income-tax laid on by fate ; 
 
 Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
 And might have done so by the garden- 
 gate. 
 
 But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown. 
 
 Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd 
 him down. 
 
 CLX-XXIV 
 
 Dire was the scufSe, and out went the 
 
 light ; 
 
 Antonia cried out " Rape ! " and Julia 
 
 " Fire ! " 
 
 But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 
 
 Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire. 
 
 Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night ; 
 
 And Juan, too, blasphemed an octa\e 
 
 higher ; [Tartar, 
 
 His blood was up : though young, he was a 
 
 And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 
 
 CL.X-X.XV 
 
 Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could 
 draw it, 
 And they continued battling hand to 
 hand, 
 For Juan \'ery luckily ne'er ?aw it ; 
 
 His temper not being under great com- 
 mand, 
 
 If at that moment he had chanced to claw 
 
 it, 
 Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
 Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' 
 
 lives ! 
 And how ye may be doubly widows — 
 
 wives ! 
 
 CLXXXVI 
 
 j Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 
 I And Juan throttled him to get away, 
 I And blood ('twas from the nose) began to 
 flow ; 
 At last, as they more faintly wrestling 
 lay, 
 Juan contri\eJ to give an awkv.-ard blow, 
 And then his only garment quite gave 
 way ; 
 He fled, like Joseph, leaving it ; but there, 
 I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 
 
 CLXXXVII 
 
 Lights came at length, and men, and maids, 
 who found 
 An awkward spectacle their eyes before; 
 Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
 
 Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 
 
 Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the 
 
 ground, 
 
 Some blood, and several footsteps, but 
 
 no more : 
 
 Juan the gate gaiu'd, turn'd the key 
 
 about, 
 And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 
 
 CLX.X.XVIII 
 
 Here ends this canto. — Need I sing, or say, 
 How Juan, naked, favour'd bv the night, 
 Who favours what she should not, found his 
 way, 
 And reach'd his home in an unseemly 
 plight ? 
 The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 
 The nine days'wonder which was brought 
 to light. 
 And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 
 Were in the English newspapers, of course. 
 
 CL.X.XXI.X 
 
 If 5'ou would like to see the whole proceed- 
 ings, 
 The depositions and the cause at full. 
 The names of all the witnesses, the plead- 
 ings 
 Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul. 
 There's more than one edition, and the 
 readings 
 Are various, but they none of them are 
 dull ; 
 The best is that in short-hand ta'en, by 
 
 Gurney,^^ 
 WhotoSIadrid on purpose made a journey. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 619 
 
 But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
 
 Of one of the most circulating scandals 
 That had for centuries been known in 
 Spain, 
 At least since the retirement of the Van- 
 dals, , 
 First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in 
 vain) I 
 To Virgin Mary several pounds of can- i 
 dies ; 
 And then, by the advice of some Aid ladies. 
 She .sent her son to be shipp'd off from 
 Cadiz. 
 
 cxci 
 She had resolved that he should travel 
 through 
 All European climes, by land or sea. 
 To mend his former morals, and get new. 
 
 Especially in France and Italv. 
 (At least this is the thing most people do.) 
 
 Julia was sent into a convent : she 
 Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be 
 
 better 
 Shown in the following copy of her Letter : — 
 
 CXCII 
 
 " They tell me 'tis decided you depart : 
 'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a 
 pain ; 
 I have no further claim on your young 
 heart. 
 Mine is the victim, and would be again : 
 To love too much has been the only art 
 I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
 Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears; 
 My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no 
 tears. 
 
 CXCIII 
 
 " I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 
 State, station, heaven, mankind's, my 
 own esteem. 
 And yet cannot regret what it hath cost. 
 So dear is still the memory of that 
 dream ; 
 Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, 
 None can deem harshlier of me than I 
 deem : 
 I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
 I've nothing to reproach or to request. 
 
 cxciv 
 " Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 'Tis woman's whole existence ; man 
 may range 
 The court, camp, church, the vessel, and 
 the mart. 
 Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer m ex- 
 change 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart. 
 And few there are whom these can not 
 estrange ; 
 Men ha\e all these resources, we but one, 
 To love again, and be agam undons. 
 
 cxcv 
 
 " You will proceed in pleasure, and in 
 pride, 
 
 Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
 For me on earth, ( xcept some years to hide 
 
 My shame and sorrow deep in my 
 heart's core : 
 These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
 
 The passion which still rages as before, — 
 And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
 That word is idle now — but let it go. 
 
 cxcvi 
 ' ' My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 
 
 But still I think I can collect my mind ; 
 My blood still rushes where my spirit's set. 
 
 As roll the waves before the settled wind. 
 My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 
 
 To all, except one image, madly blind ; 
 So shakes the needle, and so stands the 
 
 pole. 
 As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 
 
 cxcvii 
 " I have no more to say, but linger still. 
 And dare not set my seal upon this sheet. 
 And \-et I may as well the task fulfil, 
 
 My misery can scarce be more complete : 
 
 I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
 
 Death shuns the wretch who fain the 
 
 blow would meet, 
 
 And I must even survive this last adieu. 
 
 And bear with life, to love and pray for 
 
 you ! " 
 
 CXCVIII 
 
 This note was ^vritten upon gilt-edged 
 paper 
 With a neat little crow-quill, slight and 
 new ; 
 Her small white hand could hardly reach 
 the taper, 
 It trembled as magnetic needles do. 
 And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 
 The seal a sun-flower : " Elle vous suit 
 parliKit," 
 The motto, cut upon a white cornelian ; 
 The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 
 
 cxcix 
 This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but 
 whether 
 I shall proceed with his adventures is 
 Dependent on the public altogether ; 
 
 We'll see, however, what they say to this. 
 Their favour in an author's cap's a feather, 
 And no great mischief's done by their 
 caprice ; 
 And if their approbation we experience, 
 Perhaps they'll have some more about a 
 year hence. 
 
 CO 
 
 My poem's epic, and is meant to be 
 
 Divided in twelve books ; each book con- 
 taining, 
 
620 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 
 A list of ships, and captains, and kings 
 reigning. 
 
 New characters ; the episodes are three : 
 A panoramic view of hell's in training, 
 
 After the style of Vnrgil and of Homer, 
 
 So that my name of Epic's no misnomer. 
 
 cci 
 All these things will be specified in tim«. 
 With strict regard to Aristotle's rules, 
 The Vade Meciim of the true sublime, 
 Which makes so many poets, and some 
 fools : 
 Prose poets like blank-verse, I'm fond of 
 rhyme, 
 Good workmen never quarrel with their 
 tools ; 
 I've got new mythological machinery. 
 And very handsome supernatural scenery. 
 
 ecu 
 There's only one slight difference between 
 
 Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
 -\nd here the advantage is my own, I ween 
 
 (Not that I have not several merits more, 
 But this will more peculiarly be seen) ; 
 
 They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore 
 Their labjTinth of fables to thread through. 
 Whereas this story's actually true. 
 
 CCIII 
 
 If any person doubt it, I appeal 
 To history, tradition, and to facts. 
 
 To newspapers, whose truth all know and 
 feel, 
 To plays in five, and operas in three acts ; 
 
 All these confirm my statement a good deal. 
 But that which more completely faith 
 exacts 
 
 Is. that myself, and several now in Seville, 
 
 Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 
 
 cciv 
 If ever I should condescend to prose, 
 
 I'll write poetical commandments, which 
 Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
 
 That went before ; in these I shall enrich 
 My text with many things that no one I 
 knows, j 
 
 And carry precept to the highest pitch ; i 
 I'll call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, ' 
 Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." j 
 
 Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, 
 
 nor 
 Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 
 
 ccvi 
 Thou shalt not covet .Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
 His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his, 
 Thou shalt not bear false witness like " the 
 -Blues " — 
 '(There's one, at least, is very fond of 
 this) ; 
 Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I 
 choose ; 
 This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
 Exactly as 3'ou please, or not — the rod ; 
 But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — ! 
 
 cc^-ii 
 If any person should prestune to assert 
 
 This story is not moral, first, I pray, 
 That they will not cry out before they're 
 hurt. 
 Then that they'll read it o'er again, and 
 say 
 (But doubtless, nobody will be so pert). 
 
 That this is not a moral tale, though gay ; 
 Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show 
 The verj' place where wicked people go. 
 
 ccvm 
 If, after all, there should be some so blind 
 
 To their own good this warning to despise. 
 Led by some tortuosity of mind, 
 
 Not to believe my verse and their own 
 eyes. 
 And cry that they " the moral cannot find " 
 
 I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies ; 
 Should captains the remark, or critics, make 
 They also he too — under a mistake. 
 
 cci.x 
 The public approbation I expect. 
 
 And beg they'll take mv word about the 
 moral. 
 Which I with their amusement will connect 
 (So children cutting teeth receive a coral)- 
 Meantime they'll doubtless please to recol- 
 lect 
 My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
 For fear some prudish readers should grow 
 skittish 
 
 I've bribed my grandmother's re\iew 
 
 the British.' 
 
 Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, 
 Pope ; 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Cole- 
 ridge, Southey ; 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint 
 and mouthy : 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope. 
 .■Vnd Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat 
 dtouthy : 
 
 ! I sent it in a letter to the Editor, 
 i Who thank'd me duly b v return of post— 
 I m for a handsome article his creditor • 
 Vet, if my gentle .Muse he please to roast ' 
 And break a promise after having made it 
 her. 
 Denying the receipt of what it cost, 
 ; Andsmear his page with gall instead of 
 ; honev, 
 
 ' All I can'say is— that he had the money, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 I thmk that with this holy new alhauce 
 1 may ensure the public, and defy 
 
 A'' other magazines of art or science, 
 Daily, or monthly, or three monthly ■ I 
 
 Have not essay'd to multiply their clients. 
 Because they tell me 'twere in vain to 
 try, 
 
 And that the Edinburgh Review and 
 Quarterly 
 
 Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 
 
 ^^ ccxii 
 
 ' Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventd 
 
 Consule Planco," Horace said, and so 
 Say I ; by which quotation there is meant 
 a 
 Hint that some six or seven good vears 
 ago 
 (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the 
 Brenta) 
 I was most ready to return a blow. 
 And would not brook at all this sort of 
 
 thing 
 In my hot youth — when George the Third 
 was King. 
 
 CCXIII 
 
 But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 
 
 (I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
 
 I thought of a peruke the other day — ) 
 
 My heart is not much greener ; and, in 
 
 short, I 
 
 Have squander'd my whole summer while 
 
 'twas May, 
 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
 
 Have spent my life, both interest and 
 
 principal. 
 And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul 
 invincible. 
 
 cc.xiv 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more on 
 me 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like 
 ' dew. 
 
 Which out of all the lovely things we see 
 Extracts emotions beautiful" and new ; 
 Hived in our bosoms like thebag o' the bee 
 Think'st thou the honey with those 
 objects grew ? 
 A.las ! 'twas not ia them, but in thy power 
 fo double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 ccxv 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my 
 heart. 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my 
 universe ! 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my 
 curse : 
 The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 
 Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, 
 
 621 
 
 And in thy stead I've got a deal of judg- 
 ment. 
 
 Though heaven knows how it ever found a 
 lodgment. 
 
 ccxvi 
 My days of love are over ; me no more 
 The charms of maid, wife, and still less of 
 widow, 
 Can make the fool of which they made 
 before — 
 In short, I must not lead the life I did do; 
 The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er. 
 
 The copious use of claret is forbid too. 
 So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 
 I think I must take up with avarice. 
 
 ccxvii 
 Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
 Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of 
 Pleasure ; 
 And the two last have left me many a 
 token 
 O'er which reflection may be made at 
 leisure ; 
 Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've 
 spoken, 
 " Time is, Time was. Time's past : " — a 
 chymic treasure 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent 
 
 betimes — 
 My heart in passion, and my head on 
 rh>-mes. 
 
 ccxviii 
 What is the end of fame ? 'tis but to fill 
 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper : 
 Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 
 
 Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in 
 vapour ; 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and 
 
 heroes kill. 
 And bards burn what they call their " mid- 
 night taper." 
 To have, when the original is dust, 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 
 
 ccxix 
 What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt's 
 King 
 Cheops erected the first pyramid 
 And largest, thinking it was just the thing 
 To keep his memory whole, and mummy 
 hid: 
 But somebody or other rummaging. 
 
 Burglariously broke his coffin's lid : 
 Let not a monument give you or me hopes. 
 Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 
 
 ccxx 
 But I being fond of true philosophy, 
 Sav very often .to myself, '* Alas ! 
 All things that have been born were bop' 
 to die. 
 
622 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And flesh (which Death mows down to 
 
 hay) is grass ; " 
 You've passed your youth not so un- 
 
 pleasantl)^, 
 And if you had it o'er again — 'twould 
 
 pass — 
 So thank your stars that matters are no 
 
 worse, 
 And read your Bible, sir, and mind your 
 
 purse." 
 
 ccxxi 
 But for the present, gentle reader ! and 
 Still gentler purchaser ! the bard — that's 
 I— 
 Must, with permission, shake you by the 
 hand. 
 And so your humble servant, and good- 
 b'ye ! 
 We meet again, if we should understand 
 Each other ; and if not, I shall not try 
 Your patience further than by this short 
 
 sample — 
 'Twere well if others foUow'd my example. 
 
 ccxxii 
 " Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 
 I cast thee on the waters — go thy waj^s ! 
 And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 
 
 The world will find thee after many days." 
 
 When Southey's read, and Wordsworth 
 
 understood, 
 
 I can't help putting in my claim to 
 
 praise — 
 
 The four first rhymes are Southey's every 
 
 line : 
 For God's sake, reader ! take them not for 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND * 
 
 Oh ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of 
 nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany, or 
 Spain, 
 I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 
 It mends their morals, never mind the 
 pain : 
 The best of mothers and of educations 
 
 In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain. 
 Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, 
 
 he 
 Became divested of his native modesty.- 
 
 II 
 Had he but been placed at a public school, 
 In the third form, or even in the fourth, 
 His daily task had kept his fancy cool. 
 At least, had he been nurtured in the 
 north ; 
 
 • ["Begun at Venire, December 13, i3i8, — 
 rinished January 20, i^jij." — B.j 
 
 Spain may prove an exception to the rule. 
 But then exceptions always prove its 
 v/orth — 
 A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
 Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 
 
 I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 
 
 If all things be consider'd : first, there 
 was 
 His lady-mother, mathematical, 
 
 A never mind ; — his tutor, an old 
 
 ass ; 
 A pretty woman — (that's quite natural, 
 Or else the thing had hardly come to 
 pass) 
 A husband rather old, not much in unity 
 With his young wife — a time, and oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 IV 
 
 Well — well ; the world must turn upon its 
 axis, 
 And all mankind turn with it, heads or 
 tails. 
 And live and die, make love and pay our 
 taxes, 
 And as the veering wind shifts, shift our 
 sails ; 
 The king commands us, and the doctor 
 quacks us, 
 The priest instructs, and so our life ex- 
 hales, 
 A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 
 Fighting, devotion, dust, — perhaps a name. 
 
 I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — ■ 
 
 A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
 'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade 
 is, 
 (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel,) 
 And such sweet girls — I mean, such grace- 
 ful ladies. 
 Their very walk would make your bosom , 
 swell ; 
 I can't describe it, though so much it 
 
 strike. 
 Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 
 
 An Arab horse, a stately 'stag, a barb 
 
 New broke, a camele'opard, a gazelle. 
 No — none of these will do ; — and then 
 their garb. 
 Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
 Upon such things would verv near absorb 
 A canto — then their feet and ankles — 
 well, 
 Thank Hoa\en I've got no metaphor quite 
 
 ready, 
 (.And so, my sober Muse — come, let's be 
 steady — 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 623 
 
 Chaste Muse ! — well, if you must, you 
 must) — the veil 
 Thrown back a moment with flie glanc- 
 ing hand, 
 While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you 
 pale, 
 Flashes into the heart ; — All sunny land 
 Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 
 
 To say my prayers — but never was 
 
 there plann'd 
 A dress through which the eyes give such a 
 
 volley 
 Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.' 
 
 VIII 
 
 But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 
 Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
 
 To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 
 But why ? — we leave the reader in the 
 dark — 
 
 'Twas for a voyage the young man was 
 meant. 
 As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark. 
 
 To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
 
 And send him like a dove of promise forth. 
 
 I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
 To see one's native land receding 
 through 
 
 The growing waters ; it unmans one quite, 
 Especially when life is rather new : 
 
 I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 
 But almost every other country's blue, 
 
 When gazing on them, mystified by dis- 
 tance. 
 
 We enter on our nautical existence. 
 
 So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck : 
 The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and 
 sailors swore, 
 And the ship creak' d, the town became a 
 speck. 
 From which away so fair and fast they 
 bore. 
 The best of remedies is a beef-steak 
 
 Against sea-sickness ; try it, sir, before 
 You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
 For I have found it answer — so may you. 
 
 Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 
 According to direction, then received 
 A lecture and some money ; for four springs 
 He was to travel ; and though Inez 
 grieved 
 (As every kind of parting has its stings). 
 She hoped he would improve — perhaps 
 believed : 
 A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
 Of good advice — and two or three of 
 credit. 
 
 X 
 
 In the mean time, to pass her hours away. 
 Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 
 
 For naughty children, who would rather 
 play 
 (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool ; 
 
 Infants of three years old were taught that 
 day, 
 Dunces werfe whipt, or set upon a stool : 
 
 The great success of Juan's education, 
 
 Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 
 
 XI 
 
 Juan embark' d— the ship got under way, 
 The wind was fair, ' the water passing 
 rough ; 
 A devil of a sea rolls in that bay. 
 As I, who've cross'd it oft, know 
 enough ; 
 And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 
 Flies in one's face, and makes it weather- 
 tough ; , , ■ 
 And there he stood to take, and take, again 
 His first — perhaps his last — farewell 
 Spain. 
 
 well 
 
 of 
 
 Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern. 
 
 Beheld his native Spain receding far ; 
 
 First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 
 
 Even nations feel this when they go to 
 
 war ; 
 
 There is a sort of unexprest concern, 
 
 A kind of shock that sets one's heart 
 ajar : 
 At leaving even the most unpleasant 
 
 people. 
 And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 
 
 But Juan had got many things to leave. 
 His mother, and a mistress, and no wife. 
 
 So that he had much better cause to grieve, 
 Than many persons more advanced in 
 life; 
 
 And if we now and then a sigh must heave 
 At quitting even those we quit in strife. 
 
 No doubt we weep for those the heart en- 
 dears — 
 
 That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 
 
 So Tuan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
 By Babel's waters, still remembering 
 Sion : . . , 
 
 I'd weep, — but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
 And such light griefs are not a thing to 
 die on ; 
 Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
 Themselves ; and the next time their 
 servants tie on 
 Behnid their carriages their new portman- 
 teau, 
 Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 
 
624 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and 
 thought, 
 While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt 
 sea, 
 " Sweets to the sweet ; " {I like so much to 
 quote ; 
 You must excuse this extract, — 'tis where 
 she. 
 The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
 Flowers to the grave ; ) and, sobbing 
 often, he 
 Reflected on his present situation. 
 And seriously resolved on reformation. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 " Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell ! " 
 he cried, 
 " Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
 But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 
 Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
 Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters 
 glide ! 
 Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is 
 o'er, 
 Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (here he 
 
 drew 
 Her letter out again, and read it through.) 
 
 " And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
 
 But that's impossible, and cannot be — 
 Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
 
 Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea. 
 Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair ! 
 
 Or think of any thing, excepting thee ; 
 A mind diseased no remedy can physic — 
 (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew 
 
 , sea-sick.) 
 
 XX 
 
 "Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he 
 fell sicker) 
 Oh, Julia ! what is every other woe ? — 
 (For God's sake let me fiave a glass of 
 liquor ; 
 Pedro, Battista, help me down belov,-.) 
 Julia, my love — (you rascal, Pedro, 
 quicker) — 
 Oh, Julia ! — (this curst vessel pitches 
 so) — 
 Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching ! " 
 (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 
 
 He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
 Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 
 
 Beyond the best apothecary's art. 
 
 The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 
 
 Or death of those we dote on, when a part 
 Of us dies with them as each fond hope 
 ends : 
 
 No doubt he would have been much more 
 pathetic, 
 
 But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 
 
 X-XII 
 
 Love's a capricious power : I've known it 
 hold 
 
 Out through a fever caued by its own 
 heat. 
 But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 
 
 And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 
 Against all noble maladies he's bold, 
 
 But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet. 
 Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh. 
 Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 
 
 X.XIII 
 
 But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
 About the lower region of the bowels ; 
 
 Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 
 Shrinks from the application of hot towels. 
 
 And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 
 Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, 
 how else 
 
 Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar 
 
 Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 
 
 XXIV 
 
 The ship, call'd the most holy " Trinadada," 
 Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 
 
 For there the Spanish family Moncada 
 Were settled long ere Juan's sire was 
 born : 
 
 They were relations, and for them he had a 
 Letter of introduction, which the mom 
 
 Of his departure had been sent him by 
 
 His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 
 
 x.xv 
 His suite consisted of three servants and 
 
 A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
 Who se\'eral languages did understand. 
 But now lay sick and speechless on his 
 pillow. 
 And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for 
 land. 
 His headache being increased bv every 
 billow ; 
 .\nd the waves oozing through the port- 
 hole made 
 His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 'Twas not without some reason, for the 
 wind 
 Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
 And though 'twas not much to a naval 
 mind, 
 Some landsmen would have look'd a 
 little pale. 
 For sailors are, in fact, a different kind • 
 
 At sunset they began to take in sail. 
 For the sky show'd it would come on to 
 
 blow. 
 And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 
 Threw the ship right into the trough of 
 the sea. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 625 
 
 Which struck her aft, and made an awk- 
 ward rift, 
 Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 
 
 Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she 
 .could Uft 
 Herself from out her present jeopardy. 
 
 The rudder tore away : 'twas time to 
 sound 
 
 The pumps, and there were four feet water 
 found. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 One gang of people instantly was put 
 
 Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
 To get up part of the cargo, and what not ; 
 But they could not come at the leak as 
 yet ; 
 At last they did get at it really, but 
 
 Still their salvation was an even bet : 
 The water rush'd through in a way quite 
 
 puzzling. 
 While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, 
 bales of muslin, 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Into the opening ; but all such ingredients 
 Would have been vain, and they must 
 have gone down, 
 Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 
 But for the pumps : I'm glad to make 
 them known 
 To all the brother tars who may have need 
 hence, 
 For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
 By them per hour, and they had all been un- 
 done. 
 But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. ' 
 
 As day advanced the weather seem'd to 
 abate, [reduce. 
 
 And then the leak they reckon'd to 
 And keep the ship afloat, though three 
 feet yet 
 Kept two hand and one chain-pump still 
 in use. 
 The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
 A squall came on, and while some guns 
 broke loose, 
 A gust — which all descriptive power tran- 
 scends — 
 Laid with one blast the ship on her beam 
 ends. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 There she lay, motionless, and seem'd up- 
 
 The water left the hold, and wash'd the 
 decks, 
 And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 
 For they remember battles, fires, and 
 wrecks. 
 Or any other thing that brings regret, 
 Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, 
 or necks ; 
 
 Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the 
 divers. 
 
 And swimmers, who may chance to be sur- 
 vivors. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Immediately the masts were cut away, 
 Both main and mizsn : first the mizen 
 went. 
 The main-mast foUow'd ; but the ship still 
 lay 
 Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
 Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and 
 they 
 Eased her at last (although we never 
 meant 
 To part with all till every hope was 
 
 blighted). 
 And then with violence the old ship 
 righted. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 It may be easily supposed, while this 
 
 Wasgoin^on, some people were unquiet, 
 That passengers would find it much amiss 
 To lose their lives, as well as spoil their 
 diet; 
 That even the able seaman, deeming his 
 Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to 
 riot. 
 As upon such occasions tars will ask 
 For grog, and sometimes drink rum from 
 the cask. 
 
 xxxiv 
 There's nought, no doubt, so much the 
 spirit calms 
 As rum and true religion : thus it was. 
 Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some 
 sung psalms. 
 The high wind made the treble, and as 
 bass 
 The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright 
 cured the qualms 
 Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick 
 maws : 
 Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, de- 
 votion, 
 Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 
 
 .XX. XV 
 
 Perhaps more mischief had been done, but 
 for 
 Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his 
 years. 
 Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
 
 It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears. 
 
 As if Death wore more dreadful by his door 
 
 Of iire than water, spite of oaths and 
 
 tears. 
 
 Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they 
 
 sunk. 
 Thought it would be becoming to die 
 drunk. 
 
626 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 " Give us more grog," they cried, " for it 
 will be 
 All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd 
 " No ! 
 'Tis true that death awaits both you and 
 me. 
 But let us die like men, not sink below 
 Xike brutes : " — and thus his dangerous 
 post kept he. 
 And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 
 And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor. 
 Was for some rum a disappomted suitor. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 The good old gentleman was quite aghast. 
 And made aloud and pious lamentation; 
 
 Repented all his sins, and made a last 
 Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 
 
 Nothing should tempt him more (this peril 
 past) 
 To quit his academic occupation, 
 
 la cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
 
 To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 But now there came a flash of hope once 
 
 more ; 
 Day broke, and the wind luU'd : the 
 
 masts were gone ; 
 The leak increased ; shoals round her, but 
 
 no shore. 
 The vessel swam, yet still she held her 
 
 own. 
 They tried the pumps again, and though 
 
 before 
 Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless 
 
 grown, 
 A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to 
 
 bale — 
 The stronger pump' d, the weaker thrumm' d 
 
 a sail. 
 
 XXXI.X 
 
 Under the vessel's keel the sail was past. 
 
 And for the moment it had some efii^ct ; 
 But with a leak, and not a stick of mast. 
 
 Nor rag of canvass, what could they ex- 
 pect ? 
 But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 
 
 'Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 
 And though 'tis true that man can only die 
 
 once, 
 'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 
 
 There winds and waves had hurl'd them, 
 and from thence, 
 Without their uill, they carried them 
 away ; 
 For they were forced with steering to dis- 
 pense. 
 And never had as yet a quiet day 
 On which they might repose, or even com- 
 mence 
 
 A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
 The ship would swim an horn", which, by 
 
 good luck. 
 Still swam — though not exactly like a 
 
 duck. 
 
 The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less. 
 But the ship labourM so, they scarce 
 could hope 
 To weather out much longer ; the distress 
 Was also great with which they had to 
 cope 
 For want of water, and their solid mess 
 
 Was scant enough : in vain the telescope 
 Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in 
 
 sigbt. 
 Nought but the heavy sea, and coming 
 night. 
 
 Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew 
 
 A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
 Water appear'd ; yet, though the people 
 knew 
 All this, the most were patient, and some 
 bold. 
 Until the chains and leathers were worn 
 through 
 Of all our pumps : — a wTeck complete 
 she roll'd. 
 At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
 Like human beings during civil war. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
 In his rough eves, and told the captain, 
 he 
 Could do no more : he was a man in years, 
 And long had voyaged through many a 
 stormy sea, 
 And if he wept at length, they were not 
 fears 
 That made his eyelids as a woman's be. 
 But he, poor fellow, had a wife and chil- 
 dren. 
 Two things' for dying people quite be- 
 wildering. 
 
 The slup was e\ idently settling now 
 
 Fast by the head ; and, all distinction 
 gone, 
 Some went to prayers again, and made a 
 
 \'0W 
 
 Of candles to their saints — but there 
 were none 
 To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er 
 the bow ; 
 Some hoisted out the boats ; and there 
 was one 
 That bcgg'd IVdriUo for an absolution, 
 Who told him to be damu'd — in his con- 
 fusion. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 627 
 
 Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; 
 some put on 
 Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 
 Some cursed the day on which they saw the 
 sun, 
 And gnash'd their teeth, and howling, 
 tore their hair ; 
 And others went on as they had begun. 
 
 Getting the boats out, being well aware 
 That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
 Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 
 
 XL VI 
 
 The worst of all was, that in their condi- 
 tion. 
 Having been several days in great dis- 
 tress, 
 'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
 As now might render their long sufiering 
 less : 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
 Their stock was damaged by the 
 weather's stress : 
 Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, 
 Were all that' could be thrown into the 
 cutter. 
 
 And the dim desolate deep : twelve days 
 
 had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was 
 
 here. 
 
 Some trial had been making at a raft. 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 A sort of thing at which one would have 
 laugh' d. 
 If any laughter at such times could be. 
 Unless with people who too much have 
 quaff' d. 
 And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 
 Half epileptical, and half hysterical : — 
 Their preservation would have been a 
 miracle. 
 
 LI 
 
 Athalf-pasteighto'clock, booms, hencoops, 
 spars. 
 And all things, for a chance, had been 
 cast loose 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling 
 tars, 
 For yet they strove, although of no 
 great use : 
 There was no light in heaven but a few 
 stars, 
 The boats put off o'ercrowded with their 
 
 ^^.„„ ^ , crews; 
 
 Some pound* of bread, though injured She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 
 
 ' And, going down head foremost — sunk, 
 in short. 
 
 But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
 
 by the wet , 
 Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
 
 Six flasks of wine : and they contrived to 
 
 get 
 A portion of their beef up from below. 
 
 And with a piece of pork, moreover, met. 
 But scarce enough to serve them for a 
 
 luncheon — 
 Then there was rum, eight gallons m a 
 
 puncheon. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
 Been stove in the beginnmg of the gale 
 
 And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
 As there were but two blankets for a sail. 
 
 And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
 Threw in by good 1 uck over the ship s rail ; 
 
 And two boats could not hold, far less be 
 •^torsd 
 
 To save one half the people then on board. 
 
 ■Twas twilight, and the sunless day went 
 
 Ove°\he waste of waters ; like a veil. 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose 
 
 Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the mght was 
 
 Aud°g^taly darkled o'er the faces pale, 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild fare- 
 well — 
 Then shriek' d the timid, and stood still 
 the brave, — 
 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful 
 
 yell, , . 
 
 As ea:,er to anticipate their grave ; 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirl- 
 ing wave. 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 LIII 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rush'd. 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was 
 hush'd, 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless 
 dash 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gush d, 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 Liv 
 The boats, as stated, had got off before. 
 And in them crowded several of the 
 
 crew ; 
 
628 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And yet their present hope was hardly 
 
 more 
 Than what it had been, for so strong it 
 
 blew 
 There was slight chance of reaching any 
 
 shore ; 
 And then they were too many, though so 
 
 few — 
 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 
 Were counted in them when they got 
 
 afloat. 
 
 All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred 
 souls 
 Had left their bodies ; and what's 
 worse, alas ! 
 When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 
 They must wait several weeks before a 
 mass 
 Takes oS one peck of purgatorial coals, 
 Because, till people know what's come to 
 pass, 
 They won't lay out their money on the 
 
 dead — 
 It costs three francs for every mass that's 
 said. 
 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 
 It seem'd as if they had exchang'd' their 
 
 care, 
 For Juan wore the magisterial face 
 Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's 
 
 pair 
 Of eyes were crying for their owner's 
 
 case : 
 Battista, though (a name call'd shortly 
 
 Tita) 
 Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 
 
 LVII 
 
 Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. 
 But the same cause, conducive to his 
 loss. 
 Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave 
 As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 
 And so he found a wine-and-watery grave ; 
 They could not rescue him although so 
 close. 
 Because the sea ran higher e\'or\' minute, 
 \nd for the boat — the crew kept crowding 
 in it. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 A small old spaniel, — v/hich had been Don 
 J6se's, 
 His father's, whom he loved, as ye may 
 think. 
 For on such things the memory reposes 
 With tenderness — stood howling on the 
 brink, 
 Knowing, (dogs ha\'e such intellectual 
 ijoses !) 
 
 No doubt, the vessel v/as about to sink ; 
 And Tuan caught him up, and ere be 
 
 stepp'd 
 Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 
 
 LIX 
 
 He also stuff'd his money where he could 
 About his person,, and Pedrillo's too. 
 
 Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would. 
 Not knowing what himself to say, or do. 
 
 As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
 But Juan, trusting they might still get 
 through. 
 
 And deeming there were remedies for any 
 ill. 
 
 Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 
 
 'Twas a rough night, and blew- so stiffly yet, 
 That the sail was becalm'd between the 
 seas. 
 Though on the wave's high top too much to 
 set. 
 They dared not take it in for all the 
 breeze : 
 Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept 
 them wet. 
 And bade them bale without a moment's 
 ease. 
 So that themselves as well as hopes were 
 
 damp'd, , 
 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 
 
 LXI 
 
 Nine souls more went in her : the long- 
 boat still 
 Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 
 Two blankets stitch'd together, answering 
 ill 
 Instead of sail, were to the oar made 
 fast : 
 Though every wave roll'd menacing to 
 fill, 
 And present peril all before surpass'd. 
 They griev'd for those who perish'd with 
 
 the cutter, 
 .\nd also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 
 
 LXII 
 
 The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
 
 Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
 
 Before the sf a until it should grow fine. 
 
 Was all thai for the present" could be 
 
 done : 
 
 A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
 
 Were scr\ cd out to the people, who 
 
 begun 
 
 To faint, and damaged bread wet through 
 
 the bags. 
 And most of them had little clothes but 
 rags. 
 
 Lxm 
 They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
 Which left scarce room for motion or 
 exertion ; 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 629 
 
 They did their best to modify their case, 
 One half sate up, tliougli numb'd with 
 the immersion. 
 While t'other half were laid down in their 
 place. 
 At watch and watch ; thus, shivering 
 like the tertian 
 Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, 
 With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 'Tis very certain the desire of life 
 
 Prolongs it : this is obvious to physi- 
 cians. 
 When patients, neither plagued with 
 friends nor wife, 
 Survive through very desperate condi- 
 tions. 
 Because they still can hope, nor shines the 
 knife 
 Nor shears • of Atropos before their 
 visions ; 
 Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 
 And makes men's miseries of alarming 
 brevity. 
 
 'Tis said that persons living on annuities 
 Are longer lived than others, — God 
 knows why. 
 Unless to plague the grantors,— yet so 
 true it is, 
 That some, I really think, do never die ; 
 Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 
 And thal's their mode of furnishing 
 supply : 
 In my young days they lent me cash that 
 
 way. 
 Which I found very troublesome to #ay. 
 
 'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 
 They live upon the love of Ufe, and bear 
 
 More than can be believed, or even thought, 
 And stand like rocks the tempest's wear 
 and tear ; „ •, , 
 
 And hardship still has been the sailors 
 
 lot, . ■ , A 
 
 Since Noah's ark went crmsing here and 
 there ; „ 
 
 She had a curious crew as well as cargo 
 Like the first old Greek privateer, '^' 
 Argo. 
 
 Your labouring people think beyond all 
 question 
 
 Beef, veal, and mutton, better for diges- 
 tion. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 
 For on the third day there came on a 
 calm. 
 And though at first their strength it might 
 renew. 
 And lying on their weariness like balm, 
 LuU'd them like turtles sleeping on the 
 blue 
 Of ocean, when they woke they felt a 
 qualm. 
 And fell all ravenously on their provision. 
 Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 
 
 the 
 
 LXVII 
 
 But man is a carnivorous production, 
 And must have meals, at least one 
 meal a day ; 
 He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suc- 
 
 But°like the shark and tiger, must have 
 
 AlthOTgh'his anatomical construction 
 Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way 
 
 The consequence was easily foreseen— 
 They ate up all they had, and drank 
 their wine, 
 In spite of all remonstrances, and then 
 On what, in fact, next day were they to 
 dine ? 
 They hoped the wind would rise, these 
 foolish men ! 
 And carry them to shore ; these hopes 
 were fine, 
 But as they had but one oar, and that 
 
 brittle. 
 It would have been more wise to save 
 their victual. 
 
 LX.X 
 
 The fourth day came, but not a breath of 
 
 air, 
 And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean d 
 
 child : 
 The fifth day, and their boat lay floating 
 
 there. 
 The sea and sky were blue, and clear, 
 
 and mild — 
 With their one oar (I wish they had had a 
 
 pair) 
 What could they do ? and hunger s rage 
 
 grew wild : 
 So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. 
 Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present 
 
 eating. 
 
 L.XXI 
 
 On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
 And Juan, who had still refused, because 
 
 The creature was his father's dog that died. 
 Now feeUng all the vulture m his jaws, 
 
 With some remorse received (though first 
 denied) 
 As a great favour one of the fore-paws. 
 
 Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 
 
 Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 The seventh day, and no wind — the burn- 
 ing sun 
 
630 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant 
 on the sea, 
 They la^' hke carcasses ; and hope was 
 none. 
 Save in the breeze that came not ; 
 savagely 
 They glared upon each other — all was 
 done, 
 ^^'ate^, and wine, and food, — and you 
 might see 
 The longings of the cannibal arise 
 (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish 
 eyes. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 At length one whisper'd his companion, 
 
 who 
 Whisper'd another, and thus it went 
 
 round. 
 And then into a hoarser murmur grew. 
 An ominous, and wild, and desperate 
 
 sound ; 
 And when his comrade's thought each 
 
 sufferer knew, 
 *Twas but his own, suppressed till now, 
 
 he found : 
 And out they spoke of lots for flesh and 
 
 blood , 
 And who should die to be his fellow's 
 
 food. 
 
 LX.XIV 
 
 But ere they came to this, they that day 
 
 shared 
 Scnie leathern caps, and what remain'd 
 
 of shoes ; 
 And then they look'd around them, and 
 
 despair'd, _ | 
 
 And none to be the sacrifice would 
 
 choose ; 
 At length the lots were torn up, and pre- 
 pared. 
 But of materials that must shock the 
 
 Muse — 
 Having no paper, for the «-ant of better, 
 They took by force from Juan Julia's 
 
 letter. 
 
 LX.W 
 
 The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd 
 and handed ' 
 
 In silent horror, and their distribu- 
 tion 
 Lull'd e\-en the sa-\'age hunger which 
 demanded. 
 Like the Promethean vulture, tliis 
 pollution ; 
 None in particular had sought or plann'd 
 
 LXxvr 
 He but requested to be bled to death : 
 The surgeon had his instruments, and 
 bled 
 Pedrillo, ond so gently ebb'd his breath. 
 You hardly could perceive when he was 
 dead. 
 He died as born, a Cathflic in faith. 
 Like most in the belief in v/hich they're 
 bred. 
 And first a little crQcifix he kiss'd, 
 And then held out his jugular and wrist. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 
 Had his first choice of morsels for his 
 pains ; 
 But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
 Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing 
 veins : 
 Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 
 And such things as the entrails and the 
 brains 
 Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the 
 
 billow — 
 The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 
 
 L.XXVIII 
 
 The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
 W'hrj were not quite so fond of animal 
 food ; 
 To these was added Juan. who. before 
 Refusing his o^^■n spaniel, hardly could 
 Feel now his appetite increased much 
 more ; 
 'Twas not to be expected that he should, 
 Even in extremity of their disaster. 
 Dine with them on his pastor and his 
 master. 
 « 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 'Twas better that he did not : for. in fact. 
 The consequence was awful in the 
 extreme ; 
 For they, who were most ra\'enous in the 
 act. 
 ^^■ent raging mad— Lord ! how thev did 
 bl.isphemi? ! 
 And foam, and roll, with strange conci- 
 sions rack'd. 
 Drinking salt-water Uke a mountain- 
 stream ; 
 Tearing, and grinning, howhng, screeching, 
 sweanng, °' 
 
 And, with hyajna-laughter, died despairing. 
 
 LX.\X 
 
 it. 
 
 '■'"MSi'on""'^"'""^'^"^--^'''>^y'his 
 
 ,-,- And all the rest u-pt-o +1 ; 
 
 Twas nature gnaw'd them to this reso- Heaven knows "^- enough. 
 
 By ;yh|£_n°"'^ "-- P--"«> '" bef"Mor°'"'''''"'"°^'"^""-^*'=- 
 And'lhe'lnt fell on Juan's Uukless tutor, j "thr.V woes '■ "'"' "'''" *"" P^-^^ved 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 631 
 
 But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
 
 As if not wum'd sufficiently by those 
 Who had already perish'd, sufiering madly, 
 For having used their appetites so sadly. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 And next they thought upon the master's 
 mate, , 
 As fattest ; but he saved himself, 
 because. 
 Besides being much averse from such a 
 fate, 
 There were some other reasons ; the first 
 was, 
 He had been rather indisposed of late ; 
 And that which chiefly proved his saving 
 clause, 
 Was a small present made to him at 
 
 Cadiz, 
 By general subscription of the ladies. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, 
 But was used sparingly, — some were 
 afraid, 
 And others still their appetites constrain'd. 
 
 Or but at times a little supper made ; 
 All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd. 
 Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some 
 lead ; 
 At length they caught two boobies, and a 
 
 noddy, 
 And then they left off eating the dead 
 body. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking 
 be. 
 Remember Ugolino condescends 
 To eat the head of his arch-enemy 
 
 The moment after he politely ends 
 His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 
 
 'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
 When shipwreck's short allowance grows 
 
 too scanty, 
 Without being much more horrible than 
 Dante. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 And the same night there fell a shower of 
 
 For which their mouths gaped, like the 
 cracks of earth ,,,■„. , ^. 
 
 When dried to summer dust ; till taught 
 by pain, , ^ , 
 
 Men really know not what good water s 
 worth ; ■ o • 
 
 If vou had been m Turkey or in Spain, 
 Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your 
 
 Or in the^desert heard the camel's bell. 
 You'd wish yourself where Truth is-in a 
 well. 
 
 LX.XXV 
 
 It pour'd down torrents, but they were no 
 richer. 
 Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 
 Which served them as a sort of spongy 
 pitcher, 
 And when they deera'd its moisture was 
 complete. 
 They wrung it out, and though a thirsty 
 ditcher 
 Might not have thought the scanty 
 draught so sweet 
 As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
 They ne'er till now had known the joys of 
 drinking. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 And their baked lips, with many a bloody 
 crack. 
 Sucked in the moisture, which like 
 nectar stream'd ; 
 Their throats were ovens, their swoln 
 tongues were black 
 As the rich man's in hell, who vainly 
 scream'd 
 To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
 A drop of dew, when e\'ery drop had 
 seem'd 
 To taste of heaven — If this be true, indeed. 
 Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
 And with them their two sons, of whom 
 the one 
 Was more robust and hardy to .the view. 
 But he died early ; and when he was 
 gone. 
 His nearest messmate told his sire, who 
 threw 
 One glance on him, and said, " Heaven s 
 will be done ! 
 I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown 
 Into the deep without a tear or groan. 
 
 L.XX.XVIII 
 
 The other father had a weaklier child. 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect deUcate ; 
 
 But the bov bore up long, and with a mild 
 And patient spurit held aloof hi, fate ; 
 
 Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 
 As if to win a part from ofi the weight 
 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
 
 With the deep deadly thought, that they 
 must part. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 
 His eyes from off his face, but wiped the 
 
 foam 
 
 From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed. 
 
 And when the wish'd-for shower at 
 
 length was come. 
 
632 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And the boy's eyes, which the dull film 
 
 half glazed, 
 Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to 
 
 roam, 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops 
 
 of rain 
 Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 
 
 The boy expired — the father held the clay. 
 And look'd upon it long, and when at 
 last 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen 
 lay 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope 
 were past, 
 He watch'd it wistfully,, until away 
 
 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 
 'twas cast ; 
 Then he himself sunk down all dumb and 
 
 shivering 
 And gave no sign of life, save his limbs 
 quivering. 
 
 Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
 The scattering clouds, shone, spanning 
 the dark sea. 
 Resting its bright base on the quivering 
 blue ; 
 And all within its arch appear'd to be 
 Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
 Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner 
 free. 
 Then changed like to a bow that's bent, 
 
 and then 
 Forsook the dim eyes of these ship-wreck'd 
 men. 
 
 It changed, of course ; a heavenly came- 
 leon, 
 The airy child of vapour and the sun. 
 Brought forth in purple, cradled in ver- 
 milion, 
 Baptised in molten gold, and swathed 
 in dun. 
 Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavi- 
 lion. 
 And blending every colour into one. 
 Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 
 (For sometimes we must box without the 
 muffle). 
 
 XCIII 
 
 Our shipwreck' d seamen thought it a good 
 omen — 
 It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
 'Twas an old custom of the Greek and 
 Roman, 
 And may become of great advantage 
 when 
 Folks are discouraged ; and most surely 
 no men 
 
 Had greater need to nerve themselves 
 
 again 
 Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like 
 
 hope — 
 Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 
 
 xciv 
 About this time a beautiful white bird. 
 Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 
 And plumage (probably it might have err'd 
 Upon its course), pass'd oft before their 
 eyes. 
 And tried to perch, although it saw and 
 heard 
 The men within the boat, and in this 
 guise 
 It came and went, and flutter'd round 
 
 them till 
 Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen 
 still. 
 
 But in this case I also must remark, 
 'Twas well this bird of promise did not 
 perch. 
 Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
 Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
 And had it been the dove from Noah's ark. 
 Returning there from her successful 
 search, 
 Which in their way that moment chanced 
 
 to fall. 
 They would have eat her, olive-branch 
 and all. 
 
 With twilight it again came on to blow, 
 But not with wolence ; the stars shone 
 out. 
 The boat made way ; yet now they were 
 so low% 
 They knew not where nor what they 
 were about ; 
 Some fancied they saw land, and some 
 said " No ! " 
 The frequent fog-banks gave them cause 
 to doubt — 
 Some swore that they heard breakers, 
 
 others guns, , 
 
 And all mistook about the latter once. 
 
 -XCVII 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died 
 
 away. 
 When he who had the watch sung out 
 
 and swore. 
 If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's 
 
 ray. 
 
 He wish'd that land he never might see 
 
 more : 
 And the rest rubb'd their eves, and saw a 
 
 bay. 
 Or thought thev saw, and shaped the 
 
 course for shore : 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew 
 uistmct, and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 xcvm 
 And then of these some part burst into 
 tears. 
 And others, looking with a stupid stare, 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from 
 fears. 
 And seem'd as if they had no further 
 care ; 
 While a few pray'd — (the first time for 
 some years) — 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 Asleep, they shook them by the hand and 
 
 head, 
 And tried to awaken them, but found them 
 dead. 
 
 The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 
 They foimd a turtle of the hawk's-bill 
 kind. 
 And by good fortune, gliding softly, 
 caught her, 
 Which yielded a day's life, and to their 
 mind 
 Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 
 Because it left encouragement behind : 
 They thought that in such perils, more 
 
 than chance 
 Had sent them this for their deliverance. 
 
 The land appear'd a high and rocky coast. 
 And higher grew the mountains as they 
 drew. 
 Set by a current, toward it : they were 
 lost 
 In various conjectures, for none knew 
 To what part of the earth they had been 
 tost, 
 So changeable had been the winds that 
 blew ; 
 Some thought it was Mount vEtna, some 
 
 the highlands 
 Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other 
 islands. 
 
 Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 
 Still set them onwards to the welcome 
 shore, 
 Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and 
 pal;: 
 Their living freight was now reduced to 
 four, 
 And three dead, whom their strength 
 could not avail 
 To heave into the deep with those 
 before. 
 Though the two sharks still follow'd them, 
 
 and dash'd 
 The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 
 
 6.33 
 
 Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and neat, had 
 done 
 Their work on them by turns, and 
 thinn'd them to 
 Such things a inother had not known 
 her son 
 Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 
 By night chili'd, by day scorch'd, thus one 
 by one 
 They perish'd, until wither'd to these 
 few. 
 But chiefly by a species of self-slaught«r, 
 In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 
 
 I As they drew nigh the land, which now was 
 j seen 
 
 I Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
 I They felt the freshness of its growing 
 1 green , 
 
 That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd 
 the air. 
 And fell upon their glazed eyes like a 
 screen 
 From glistening waves, and skies so hot 
 and bare — 
 : Lovely seem'd any object that should 
 
 sweep 
 Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 
 
 CIV 
 
 The shore look'd wild, without a trace of 
 man. 
 And girt by formidable waves ; but they 
 Were mad for land, and thus their course 
 they ran. 
 Though right ahead the roaring breakers 
 lay : 
 A reef between them also now began 
 To show its boiling surf and bounding 
 spray, 
 But finding no place for their landing 
 
 better. 
 They ran the boat for shore, — and overset 
 her. 
 
 cv 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
 Juan to lave his youthful limbs was 
 wont ; 
 And having learnt to swim in that sweet 
 river, 
 Had often turn'd the art to some 
 account : 
 A better swimmer you could scarce see 
 ever, 
 He could, perhaps, have pass'd the 
 Hellespont, 
 As once (a feat on which ourselves we 
 
 prided) 
 Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 
 
 cvi 
 So here, though faint, emaciated, and 
 stark, 
 
 T T 
 
6^4 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove 
 to ply 
 With the quick wa^e, and gain, ere it was 
 dark. 
 The beach which lay before him, high 
 and dry ; 
 The greatest danger here was from a shark. 
 That carried off his neighbour by the 
 thigh ; 
 As for the other two, they could not swim. 
 So nobody arrived on shore but him. 
 
 CVII 
 
 Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar. 
 Which, providentially for him, was 
 wash'd 
 Just as his feeble arms could strike no 
 more. 
 And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 
 'twas dash'd 
 Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore 
 The waters beat while he thereto was 
 lash'd ; 
 At last, with swimming, wading, scramb- 
 ling, he 
 RolI'd on the beach, half senseless, from the 
 sea : 
 
 There, breathless, with his digging nails he 
 clung 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
 From whose reluctant roar his life he 
 wrung, 
 Should suck him hack to her insatiate 
 grave : 
 And there he lay, full length, where he was 
 flung 
 Before the entrance of acliS-worn cave. 
 With just enough of life to feel its pain. 
 And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in 
 vain, 
 
 cix 
 With slow and staggering eiiort he arose. 
 But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
 And quivering hand ; and then he look'd 
 for those 
 Who long had been his mates upon the 
 sea ; 
 But none of them appear'd to share his 
 woes. 
 Save one, a corpse, from out the fam- 
 ish'd three. 
 Who died two days before, and now had 
 
 found 
 An unknown barren beach for burial- 
 ground. 
 
 ex I 
 
 And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast . , 
 
 And down he sunk ; and as he sunk, the 
 
 sand I 
 
 Swam rciuud and round, and ,tll his senses : 
 
 pass'd ; 
 
 He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd 
 hand 
 Droop 'd dripping on the oar (their jury- 
 mast), 
 And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 
 His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 
 As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 
 
 Ho^\• long in his damp trance young Juan 
 
 lay. 
 He knew not, for the earth was gone for 
 
 him, 
 And time had nothing more of night nor 
 
 day 
 For his congealing blood, and senses 
 
 dim ; 
 And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
 He knew not. till each painful pulse and 
 
 limb. 
 And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back 
 
 to life, 
 For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired 
 
 ivith strife. 
 
 CXII 
 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
 For all was doubt and dizziness ; he 
 thought 
 
 He still was in the boat, and had but dozed. 
 And felt again with his despair o'er- 
 
 WTOUght, 
 
 And wish'd it death in which he had re- 
 posed, 
 And then once more his feelings back 
 were brought. 
 And slowly by his swimming eves was seen 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 
 „ C-XUI 
 
 ' i was bending close o'er his, and the small 
 mouth 
 Seem'd almost priinginto his for breath ; 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of 
 youth 
 Recall' d his answering spirits back from 
 death ; 
 .^nd, bathmg his chill temples, tried to 
 soothe 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
 To these kind efforts made a low reply. 
 
 cxiv 
 Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle 
 flung 
 Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the 
 fair arm 
 Raised higher the faint head which o'er it 
 hung ; 
 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and 
 warm, 
 PiUow'd his death-like forehead ; then she 
 wruus; 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 63s 
 
 His dewy curls, long drench' d by every 
 
 storm ; 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb 
 
 that drew 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, 
 
 too. 
 
 And lifting him with care into the cave. 
 
 The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 
 Young, yet her elder, and of brow less 
 grave. 
 Arid more robust of figure — then begun 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 Light to the rocks that roof'd them, 
 which the sun 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and 
 fair. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her 
 hair, 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks 
 were roU'd 
 In braids behind ; and though her 
 stature were 
 Even of the highest for a female mould. 
 They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her 
 air 
 There was a something which bespoke 
 
 command, 
 As one who was a lady m the land. 
 
 cxvii 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 Were black as death, their lashes the 
 same hue, 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow 
 lies 
 Deepest attraction ; for when to the 
 view 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance 
 flies, 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow 
 flew ; 
 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his 
 
 length. 
 And hurls at once his venom and his 
 strength. 
 
 cjfvqi 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's 
 pirre dye 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us 
 sigh 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all's 
 done — 
 I've seen much finer women, ripa and real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their ston^ idc?l). 
 
 I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 
 One should not rail without a decent 
 cause : 
 There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
 
 I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
 A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
 Yield to stem Time and Nature's wrink- 
 ling laws. 
 They will destroy a face which mortal 
 
 thought 
 Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel 
 wrought. 
 
 And such was she, the lady of the cave : 
 Her dre&s was very different from the 
 Spanish, 
 Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave : 
 For, as you know, the Spanish women 
 banish 
 Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, 
 while wave 
 Around them (what I hope will never 
 vanish) 
 The basquiiia and the mantilla, they 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 C.X.'CI 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the case : 
 Her dress was many-colour'd, finely 
 spun ; 
 Her locks curl'd negligently round her face. 
 But through them gold and gems pro- 
 fusely shone : 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious 
 stone 
 Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was 
 
 shocking, 
 Her small snow feet had slippers, but no 
 stocking. 
 
 CXXII 
 
 The other female's dress was not unlike. 
 
 But of inferior materials : she 
 Had not so many ornaments to strike. 
 
 Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
 Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike. 
 
 Was coarser ; and her au:, though firm, 
 less free ; 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her 
 
 eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 And these two tended him, and cheer'd him 
 both 
 With food and raiment, and those soft 
 attentions. 
 Which are — (as I must own)^of fefnale 
 
 growth, 
 And have tsn thousand delicate inven- 
 tions : 
 
636 
 
 EON JUAN 
 
 They made a most superior mess of broth, 
 A thing which poesy but seldom 
 mentions, 
 But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since 
 
 Homer's 
 Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 
 
 cxxiv 
 I'll tell you who they were, this female 
 pair, 
 Lest they should seem princesses in dis- 
 guise ; 
 Besides, 1 hate all mystery, and that air 
 Oi clap-tiap, which your recent poets 
 pnze ; 
 And so, in short, the girls they really were 
 They shall appear before your curious 
 eyes, 
 Mistress and maid ; the first was only 
 
 daughter 
 Of an old man, who lived upon the water. 
 
 cxxv 
 A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
 
 And still a sort of fisherman was he; 
 But other speculations were, in soooth. 
 
 Added to his connection with the sea. 
 Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 
 
 A little smuggling, and some piracy. 
 Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
 Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 
 
 CXXVI 
 
 Aiisher, therefore, was he, — though of men. 
 Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fisl.'d 
 For wandering merchant vessels, now and 
 then. 
 And srm^timss caught as many as he 
 wish'd ; 
 The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
 He sought in the slave-market too, and 
 dish'd 
 Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade 
 By which, no doubt, a good deal may be 
 made. 
 
 CXXVII 
 
 He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
 (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 
 
 A very handsome house from out his guilt 
 And there he lived exceedingly at ease ' 
 
 Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood 
 he spilt, 
 A sad old fellow was he, if you please ; 
 
 But this I know, it was a spacious building! ' 
 
 Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding! I 
 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 How to accept a better in his turn. 
 
 cxxix 
 And walking out upon the beach, below 
 The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she 
 found. 
 Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
 Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half 
 drown' d ; 
 But being naked.she was shock'd, you know. 
 Yet deem'd herself in common pity 
 bound. 
 As far as in her lav, " to take him in, 
 A stranger " dying, with so white a skin. 
 
 cxxx 
 
 But taking him into her father's house 
 Was not exactly the best way to save, 
 
 But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
 Or people in a trance into their grave ; 
 
 Because the good old man had so much 
 
 Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 
 He would have hospitably cured the 
 
 stranger. 
 And sold him instantly when out of danger. 
 
 cxxxi 
 And therefore, with her maid, she thought 
 it best 
 (A virgin always on her maid relies) 
 To place him in the cave for present rest : 
 And when, at last, he open'd his black 
 eyes. 
 Their charity increased about their guest ; 
 And their compassion grew to such a size,' 
 
 It open'd half the turnpike gates to heaven 
 
 (St. Paul says, 'tis the toll which must be 
 given.) 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 They made a fire, — but such a fire as they 
 Upon the moment could contrive with 
 such 
 
 Materials as were cast up round the bay, 
 
 Some broken planks, and oars, that' to 
 
 the touch 
 
 Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay 
 
 A mast was almost crumbled to a cru tch • 
 
 But, by God's grace, here WTecks were iii 
 
 such plenty. 
 That there was fuel to ha\e fumish'd 
 tiventv. 
 
 CXXVIIl 
 
 He had an only daughter, call'd Haid^e, 
 The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; 
 
 Besides, so very beautiful was she. 
 
 Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles ; 
 
 Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
 She grew to womanhood, and between 
 whiles 
 
 i CXX.XIII 
 
 j He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse 
 
 For Haid6e stripped her sables' off to 
 
 make 
 
 I His couch ; 
 
 I ease, 
 
 j And warm, in case by chance he should 
 
 awake. 
 They also ga%-e a petticoat apiece, 
 
 and, that he might be more at 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 637 
 
 She and her maid, — and promised by 
 
 daybreak 
 To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 
 For brealcfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and 
 
 fish. 
 
 CXXXIV 
 
 And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
 Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 
 WIio sleep at last, perhaps, (God only 
 knows), 
 Just for the present ; and in his lull'd 
 head 
 Not even a vision of his former woes 
 Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which 
 sometimes spread 
 Unwelome visions of our former years. 
 Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 
 
 cxxxv 
 Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the 
 maid. 
 Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the 
 den 
 Look'd back upon him, and a moment staid. 
 And turn'd, believing that he call'd 
 again. 
 He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least 
 she said 
 (The heart will slip, even as the tongue 
 and pen). 
 He had pronounced her name — but she 
 
 forgot 
 That at this moment Juan knew it not. 
 
 cx.x.xvi 
 And pensive to her father's house she went, 
 
 Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
 Better than her knew what, in fact, she 
 meant. 
 She being wiser by a year or two : 
 A year or two's an age when rightly spent, 
 And Zoe spent hers, as most women do. 
 In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
 Which is acquired in Nature's good old 
 college. 
 
 cxxxvii 
 The morn broke, and found Juan slumber- 
 ing still 
 Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd 
 upon 
 His rest ; the rushing of the neighbouring 
 rill, 
 And the young beams of the excluded 
 sun. 
 Troubled him not, and he might sleep his 
 fill; 
 And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
 Had suffer'd more — his hardships were 
 
 comparative 
 To those related in my grand-dad's " Nar- 
 rative, 
 
 C.XXXVIII 
 
 Not so Haid^e : she sadly toss'd and tum- 
 bled, 
 And started from her sleep, and, turning 
 
 o'er, 
 Dream'd of a thousand wTccks, o'er which 
 
 she stumbled. 
 And handsome corpses strew'd upon the 
 
 shore ; 
 And woke her maid so early that she 
 
 grumbled. 
 And call'd her father's old slaves up, who 
 
 swore 
 In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and 
 
 Greek — 
 They knew not what to think of such a 
 
 freak. 
 
 c.xxxix 
 But up she got, and up she made them get. 
 With some pretence about the sun, that 
 makes 
 Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set ; 
 And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when 
 breaks 
 Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still 
 are wet 
 With mist, and every bird with him 
 awakes, 
 And night is flung off like a mourning suit 
 Worn for a husband, — or some other brute. 
 
 I say, the sun is a most glorious sight : 
 
 I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 
 I have sat up on purpose all the night. 
 Which hastens, as physicians say, one's 
 fate: 
 And so all ye, who would be in the right 
 In health and purse, begin your day to 
 date 
 From daybreak, and when coffin'd at four- 
 score. 
 Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 
 
 And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 
 Her own was freshest, though a feverish 
 flush 
 Had dyed it with the headlong blood, 
 whose race 
 From heart to cheek is curb'd into a 
 blush. 
 Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 
 That overpowers some Alpine river's 
 rush, 
 Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles 
 
 spread ; 
 Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 
 
 CXLII 
 
 And down the cliff the island virgin came. 
 And near the cave her quick light foot- 
 steps drew. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first 
 flame, 
 And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with 
 dew, 
 Taking her for a sister ; just the same 
 Mistake you would have made on seeing 
 the two, 
 Although;the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
 Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 
 
 All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
 That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; 
 And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in 
 awe 
 (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 
 And [wrapt him closer, lest the air, too 
 raw, 
 Should reach his blood, then o'er him still 
 
 as death 
 Bent, with hush'd lips, that drank his 
 scarce-drawn breath. 
 
 CXLIV 
 
 And thus like to an angel o'er the dying 
 Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; 
 and there 
 All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was 
 lying, 
 As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air : 
 But Zoe the meantime some eggs was fry- 
 ing. 
 Since, after all, no doubt the youthful 
 pair 
 Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they 
 
 should ask it, 
 She drew out her provision from the basket. 
 
 CXLV 
 
 She knew that the best feelings must have 
 
 victual, 
 And that a shipwreck'd youth would 
 
 hungry be ; 
 Besides, being less in love, she vawn'd a 
 
 little. 
 And felt her veins chill'd by the neigh- 
 bouring sea ; 
 And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a 
 
 tittle ; 
 I can't say that she gave them any tea. 
 But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, 
 
 fish, honC3', 
 With Scio wine, — and all for love, not 
 
 money. 
 
 C.'CLVI 
 
 And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
 
 The coffee made, would fain have 
 
 waken'd Juan ; 
 
 But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick 
 
 small hand. 
 
 And without word, a sign her finger drew 
 
 Her lip, which Zoe "needs must imderstand ; 
 And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared 
 
 a new one, 
 Because her mistress would not let her 
 
 break , 
 
 That sleep which seem'd as it would ne er 
 
 awake. 
 
 CXLVII 
 
 For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 
 
 A purple hectic play'd like djang day 
 On the snow-tops of distant hills ; the 
 streak 
 Of sufferance yet upon his forehead 1 ay. 
 Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, 
 shrunk, and weak ; 
 And his black curls were dewy with the 
 spray. 
 Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp 
 
 and salt, 
 Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
 Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's 
 breast, 
 Droop'd as the willow when no winds can 
 breathe, 
 Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at 
 rest. 
 Fair as the crowning rose of the whole 
 wreath. 
 Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 
 In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
 Although his woes had tum'd him rather 
 yellow. 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 He woke and gazed, and would have slept 
 again, 
 But the fair face which met his eyes for- 
 bade 
 Those eyes to close, though weariness and 
 pain 
 Had further sleep a further pleasure 
 made ; 
 For woman's face was ne\'er form'd in vain 
 For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 
 He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs 
 
 hairy, 
 To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 And thus upon his elbow he arose, 
 
 And look'd upon the lady, in whose 
 cheek 
 The pale contended with the purple rose. 
 As with an effort she began to speak ; 
 Her eyes were eloquent, her words would 
 pose. 
 Although she told him, in good modern 
 Greek, 
 With an Ionian accent, low and sweet , 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but 
 eat. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 639 
 
 Now Juan could not understand a word, 
 Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 
 
 And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
 So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 
 
 That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 
 
 Without knowing why — an overpowering 
 tone, 
 
 Whence melody descends as from a throne. 
 
 GUI 
 
 And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 
 By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
 
 Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
 By the watchman, or some such reality, 
 
 Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 
 At least it is a heavy sound to me. 
 
 Who like a morning slimiber — for the night , 
 
 Shows stars and women in a better light. 1 
 
 CLIII \ 
 
 And Juan, too, was help'd out from his 
 dream. 
 
 Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 
 A most prodigious appetite ; the steam 
 
 Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 
 Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
 
 O.f the new fire, which Zoe kept up, 
 kneeling. 
 To stir her viands, made him quite awake 
 And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak 
 
 But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 
 Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, 
 and mutton, 
 And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 
 A joint upon their barbarous spits they 
 put on 
 But this occurs but seldom, between whiles. 
 For some of these are rocks with scarce 
 a hut on ; 
 Others are fair and fertile, among which 
 This, though not large, was one of the most 
 rich. 
 
 CL\' 
 
 I say that beef is rare, and can't help think- 
 ing 
 That the old fable of the Mmotaur — 
 From which our modern morals, rightly 
 shrinking, 
 Condemn the royal lady s taste who wore 
 A cow's shape for a mask— was only (sink- 
 ing 
 The allegory) a mere type, no more, 
 That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 
 To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 
 
 CLVI 
 
 For we all know that English people are 
 Fed upon beef— I won't say much r.i 
 
 beer. , , . t 
 
 Because 'tis liquor only, and bemg far 
 
 From this my subject, has no business 
 here ; , 
 
 We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
 A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather 
 dear ; 
 So were the Cretans — from which I infer 
 That beef and battles both were owing to 
 her. 
 
 CLVII 
 
 But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
 His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
 
 A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 
 As all his latter meals had been quite raw. 
 
 Three or four things, for which the I^ord he 
 praised. 
 And, feeling still the famish'd vulture 
 gnaw. 
 
 He fell upon whate'er was offer' d, like 
 
 A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 
 
 CLVIII 
 
 He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 
 Who watch' d him like a mother, would 
 have fed 
 Him past all bounds, because she smiled to 
 see 
 Such appetite in- one she had deem'd 
 dead : 
 But Zoe, being older than Haidce, 
 
 Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er bad 
 read) 
 That famish'd people must be slowly nurst. 
 And fed by spoonfuls, else they always 
 burst. 
 
 CLIX 
 
 And so she took the liberty to state, 
 ■Rather by deeds than words, because 
 the case 
 \tas urgent, that the gentleman, whose 
 fate 
 Had made her mistress quit her bed to 
 trace 
 The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his 
 plate, 
 Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 
 She snatch' d it, and refused another morsel. 
 Saying, he had gorged enough to make a 
 horse ill. 
 
 CLX 
 
 Next they — he being naked, save atatter'd 
 Pair of scarce decent trowsers — went to 
 work. 
 And in the fire his recent rags they scatter' d. 
 And dress'd him, for the present, like a 
 Turk, 
 Or Greek — that is, although it not much 
 matter' d, 
 Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
 They furnish' d him, entire, except some 
 
 stitches. 
 With a clean shirt, and very spacious 
 breeches. 
 
640 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And then fair Haid^e tried her tongue at 
 speaking, 
 But not a word could Juan comprehend, 
 Although he liiten'd so that the young 
 Greek in 
 Her earnestness would ne'er have made 
 an end ; 
 And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
 
 Her speech out to her protege and friend, 
 Till pausing at the last her breath to take, 
 She saw he did not understand Romaic. 
 
 CLxn 
 And then she had recourse to nods, and 
 signs, 
 And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking 
 eye. 
 And read (the only book she could) the 
 lines 
 Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy. 
 The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
 And darts in one quick glance a long 
 reply ; 
 And thus in every look she saw exprest 
 A world of words, and things at which she 
 guess'd. 
 
 CLXIII 
 
 And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes. 
 And words repeated after her, he took 
 A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 
 No doubt, less of her language than her 
 look : 
 As he who studies fervently the skies 
 Turns oftener to the stars than to his 
 book. 
 Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
 From Haidee's glance than any grave'n 
 letter. 
 
 CLXIV 
 
 'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange 
 tongue 
 By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
 When both the teacher and the taught are 
 young. 
 As was the case, at least, where I have 
 been ; 
 They smile so when one's right, and when 
 one's wTong 
 They smile still more, and then there 
 intervene 
 Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste 
 
 kiss ; — 
 I learn'd the little that I know by this ; 
 
 That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and 
 
 Greek, 
 
 Italian not at all, having no teachers ; 
 
 Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 
 
 Learning that language chiefly from its 
 
 preachers, 
 
 Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every 
 week 
 I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
 Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
 I hate your poets, so read none of those. 
 
 CLXVI 
 
 As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 
 A wanderer from the British world of 
 
 fashion. 
 Where I, like other " dogs, have had my 
 
 day," 
 Like other men, too, may have had my 
 
 passion — 
 But that, like other things, has pass'd 
 
 away. 
 And ail her fools v/hom I could lay the 
 
 lash on : 
 Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought 
 
 to me 
 But dreams of what has been, no more to 
 
 be. 
 
 CL.xvn 
 Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
 To hear new words, and to repeat them, 
 but 
 Some feelings, universal as the sun, 
 
 Were such as could not in his breast be 
 shut 
 More than within the bosom of a nun : 
 He was in love, — as you would be, no 
 doubt, 
 With a young benefactress, — so was she, 
 Just in the way we very often see. 
 
 CL.XVIII 
 
 And every day by daybreak — rather early 
 For Juan, ivho w-as somewhat fond of 
 rest — 
 She came into the cave, but it was merely 
 
 To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 
 And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
 Without disturbing her yet slumbering 
 guest. 
 Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and 
 
 mouth. 
 As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 .And every morn his colour freshlier came, 
 -And every day help'd on his con\-ales- 
 cence ; 
 'Twas well, because health in the human 
 frame 
 Is pleasant, besides being true love's 
 essence. 
 For health and idleness to passion's flame 
 Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good 
 lessons 
 Are also leamt from Ceres and from 
 
 Bacchus, 
 Without vAom Venus will not long attack 
 us. 
 
t)ON JUAIS^ 
 
 641 
 
 CLXX 
 
 While Venus fills the heart (without heart 
 really 
 Love, though good always, is not quite 
 so good,) 
 Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, — 
 For love must be sustain'd like flesh and 
 blood. 
 While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a 
 jelly : 
 Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food ; 
 But who is their purveyor from above 
 Heavens knows, — it may be Neptune. Pan, 
 or Jove. 
 
 CLXXI 
 
 When Juan woke he found some good 
 things ready, 
 
 A. bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
 That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
 
 Besides her maid's, as pretty for their 
 size ; 
 But I have spoken of all this already — 
 
 And repetition's tiresome and unwise, — 
 Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea. 
 Came always back to coffee and Haid^e. 
 
 CLXXIl 
 
 Both were so young, and one so innocent, 
 That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan 
 seem'd 
 To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent. 
 Of whom these two years she had 
 nightly dream'd, 
 A something to be loved, a creature meant 
 To be her happiness, and whom she 
 deem'd 
 To render happy : all who joy would win 
 Must share it,— Happiness was born a 
 twin. 
 
 CLXXIII 
 
 It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
 
 Enlargement of existence to partake 
 Nature with him, to thrill beneath his 
 touch. 
 To watch himslumbering, and to see him 
 wake ; 
 To live with him for ever were too much ; 
 But then the thought of parting made 
 her quake : 
 He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 
 , Like a rich wreck — her first love, and her 
 last. 
 
 CLXXIV 
 
 And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 
 Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
 
 Such plentiful precautions, that still he 
 Remain'd' unknown within his craggy 
 nook ; 
 
 At last her father's prows put out to sea, 
 For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
 
 Not as of yore to carry off an lo. 
 
 But three Ragusan vessels bound for Scio. 
 
 CLX XV 
 
 Then came he'r Ireedom, for she had no 
 mother. 
 So that, her father being at sea, she Was 
 Free as a married woman, or such other 
 Female, as where she likes may freely 
 pass. 
 Without even the incumbrance of a brother, 
 The freest She that ever gazed on glass ; 
 I speak of Christian lands in this compari- 
 son. 
 Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in 
 garrison. 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 
 (For they must talk), and he had learnt 
 to say 
 
 So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
 For little had he wander'd since the day 
 
 On which, like a young flower snapp'd 
 from the stalk. 
 Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 
 
 And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon. 
 
 And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 
 
 CLXXVIt 
 
 It was a wild and breaker- beaten coast. 
 With cliils above, and a broad sandy 
 shore. 
 Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host. 
 With here and there a creek, whose 
 aspect wore 
 .\ better welcome to the tempest-tost ; 
 And rarely ceased the haughty billow's 
 roar. 
 Save on the dead long summer days, which 
 
 make 
 The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 
 Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your 
 champagne. 
 When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers 
 reach. 
 That spring-dew of the spirit ! the heart's 
 rain ! 
 Few things surpass old wine ; and they 
 may preach 
 Who please, — the more because they 
 preach in vain, — 
 Let us have wine and women, mirth and 
 
 laughter. 
 Sermon and soda-water the day after. 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 
 
 The best of life is but intoxication : 
 Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are 
 sunk 
 The hopes of all men, and of every na- 
 tion ; 
 Without their sap, how branchless were 
 i the trunk 
 
642 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occa- 
 sion : 
 
 But to return, — Get very drunk ; and 
 When 
 
 You wake witfi headache, you shall see 
 what then. 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
 Some hock and soda-water, then you'll 
 know 
 A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 
 For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with 
 snow, 
 Nor the first sparkle of the desert spring, 
 Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow, 
 After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter. 
 Vie with that draught of hock and soda- 
 water. 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
 Was just describing — Yes it was the 
 coast — 
 Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 
 The sands untumbled, the blue waves 
 untost, 
 And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's 
 cry. 
 And dolphin's leap, and httle billow 
 crost 
 By some low rock, or shelve, that made it 
 
 fret 
 .Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 
 
 CLXXXTI 
 
 And forth they wander'd, her sire being 
 gone, 
 As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
 And mother, brother, guardian, she had 
 none. 
 Save Zoe, who, although with due pre- 
 cision 
 She waited on her lady with the sun, 
 
 Thought daily service was her only mis- 
 sion. 
 Bringing warm water, wreathing her long 
 
 tresses. 
 And asking now and then for cast-off 
 dresses. 
 
 CL.XXXIII 
 
 ft was the cooling hour, just when the 
 rounded 
 Red sun sinks down behind the azure 
 hill. 
 Which then seems as if the whole earth it 
 bounded. 
 Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and 
 still. 
 With the far mountain-crescent half sur- 
 rounded 
 On one side, and the deep sea calm and 
 chill 
 
 Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 
 With one star sparkling through it like an 
 eye. 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 And thus they wander'd forth, and hand 
 in hand, 
 Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 
 Glided along the smooth and harden'd 
 sand, 
 And in the worn and wild receptacles 
 Work'd the storms, yet work'd as it 
 were plann'd. 
 In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and 
 cells. 
 They turu'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd by 
 
 an arm, 
 ■i'ielded to the deep twilight's purple 
 charm. 
 
 CLXXXV 
 
 They look'd up to the sky, whose floating 
 glow 
 Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 
 They gazed upon the glittering sea below. 
 Whence the broad moon rose circling 
 into sight ; 
 They heard the wave's splash, and the wind 
 so low. 
 And saw each other's dark eves darting 
 light 
 Into each other — and, beholding this. 
 Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 
 
 CLX.XXVI 
 
 A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
 And beauty, all concentrating like ravs 
 Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
 
 Such kisses as belong to earlv days. 
 
 Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert 
 
 move, 
 
 And the blood's lava, and the pulse a 
 
 blaze. 
 
 Each kiss a heart-quake,— for a kiss's 
 
 strength, 
 I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 CLXXXVII 
 
 By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 
 Heaven knows how long — no doubt they 
 never reckon'd ; 
 And if they had, thev could not have se- 
 cured 
 The sum of their sensations to a second :* 
 They had not spoken ; but thev felt allured, 
 As if their souls and lips each other 
 beckon'd, 
 Which, being join'd, like swarming bees 
 
 they clung — 
 Their hearts the flowers from whence the 
 honey sprung. 
 
 CLXxxvni 
 
 Tl\ey were alone, but not alone as thev 
 
 Who shut in chambers think it loneliness- 
 
DON JUAN- 
 
 The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 
 The twilight glow, which momently 
 
 grew less. 
 The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, 
 
 that lay 
 Around them, made them to each other 
 
 press. 
 As it there were no liie beneath the sky 
 Save theirs, and that their life coild never 
 
 die. 
 
 CLXXXIX 
 
 They fear'd no eves nor ears on that lone 
 beach. 
 They felt no terrors from the night ; 
 they were 
 All in all to each other ; though their 
 speech 
 Was broken words, they thought a lan- 
 guage there, — 
 And all the burning tongues the passions 
 teach 
 Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
 Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 
 Which Eve has left her daughters since hei 
 fall. 
 
 cxc 
 Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no 
 vows. 
 Nor offer'd any ; she had never heard 
 Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
 
 Or perils by a loving mai4 incurr'd ; 
 
 She was all which pure ignorance allows, 
 
 And flew to her young mate like a young 
 
 bird, 
 
 And never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
 
 Had not one word to say of constancy. 
 
 She loved, and was beloved — she adored. 
 
 And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's 
 
 fashion. 
 
 Their intense souls, into each other pour'd. 
 
 If souls could die. had perish'd in that 
 
 passion, — 
 
 But by degrees their senses were restored, 
 
 Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on ; 
 
 And, beating 'gainst kts bosom, Haidee's 
 
 lieart 
 Felt as if never more to beat apart, 
 
 cxcii 
 
 Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, 
 So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour. 
 
 Was that in which the heart is always full, 
 And, having o'er itself no further power. 
 
 Prompts deeds eternity can not annul. 
 But pays off moments in an endless 
 shower 
 
 Of hell-fire— all prepared for people giving 
 
 Pleasure or pain to one another liwng. 
 
 cxcm 
 Alas ! for Juan and Haidee I they were 
 So loving and so lovely — till then aevcr, 
 
 643 
 
 E.xcepting our first parents, such a pair 
 Had run the risk of being damn'd for 
 ever ; 
 And Haidee, being devout as well as fair. 
 Had doubtless, heard about the Stygian 
 river. 
 And hell and purgatory — biit forgot 
 Just in the very crisis she should not. 
 
 cxciv 
 
 They look upon each other, and their eyes 
 
 Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white 
 
 arm clasps 
 
 Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
 
 Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 
 
 She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs. 
 
 He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 
 
 And thus they form a group that's quite 
 
 antique. 
 Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 
 
 cxcv 
 And when those deep and burning moments 
 pass'd, 
 And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms. 
 She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
 Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's 
 charms ; 
 And now and then her eye to heaven is cast. 
 And then on the. pale cheek her breast 
 now warms, 
 Pillow'd on her o'eriJowing heart, which 
 
 pants 
 With all it granted, and with all it grants. 
 
 cxcvi 
 An infant when it gazes on a light, 
 
 A child the moment when it drains the 
 breast, 
 A devotee when soars the Host in sight, 
 
 An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
 A sailor when the prize has struck in fight. 
 A miser filling his most hoarded chest. 
 Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are 
 
 reaping 
 .\s they who v,ratch o'er what they love 
 while sleeping. 
 
 cxcvii 
 For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
 
 All that it hath of life with us is living ; 
 
 So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved. 
 
 And all unconscious of the joy 'tis 
 
 giving ; 
 
 All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 
 
 Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's 
 
 diving ; 
 
 There lies the thing we love with all its 
 
 errors 
 And all its charms, like death without its 
 terrors. 
 
 cxcviii 
 The lady watch'd h;r lover — and that hour 
 
644 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's 
 solitude, 
 O'erflow'd her soul witii their united power ; 
 Amidst the barren sand and rocljs so 
 rude 
 She and her wave-worn love had made 
 their bower. 
 Where nought upon their passion could 
 intrude, 
 And all the stars that crowded the blue 
 
 space 
 Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 
 
 cxcix 
 Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 
 
 And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring 
 To them but mockeries of the past alone, 
 
 And their revenge is as the tiger's spring. 
 Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as 
 
 real 
 Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. 
 
 They are right ; for man, to man so oft 
 unjust. 
 Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
 Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
 Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts 
 despond 
 Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
 Buys them in marriage — and what rests 
 beyond ? 
 A thankless husband , next a faithless lover. 
 Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's 
 over. 
 
 cci 
 Some take a lover, some take drams or 
 prayers, 
 Some mind their household, others 
 dissipation. 
 Some run away, and but exchange their 
 cares, 
 Losing the advantage of a virtuous sta- 
 tion ; 
 Few changes e'er can better their affairs. 
 
 Theirs being an unnatural situation. 
 From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 
 Some play the de\'il, and then write a novel. 
 
 Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not 
 this: 
 Haidee was Passion's child, born where 
 the sun 
 Showers triple light, and scorches even the 
 kiss 
 Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was 
 one 
 Made but to love, to feel that she was his 
 Who was her chosen : what was said or 
 done 
 
 Elsewhere was nothing. She had nought 
 
 to fear, 
 Hope, care, nor love beyond. — her heart 
 
 bear here. 
 
 And oh ! that quickening of the heart, 
 that beat ! 
 How much it costs us ! yet each rising 
 throb 
 Is in its cause as its effect so sweet. 
 
 That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
 Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat 
 
 Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has 
 a tough job 
 To make us understand each good old 
 
 maxim, 
 So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 
 'em. 
 
 cciv 
 And now 'twas done — on the lone shore 
 were plighted 
 Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial 
 torches, shed 
 Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 
 Ocean their witness, and the cave their 
 bed. 
 By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 
 Their priest was Solitude, and they were 
 wed: 
 And they were happy, for to their young 
 
 eyes 
 Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
 Oh, Love ! of whom great C»sar was the 
 suitor, 
 Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
 Horace, Catullus, scholars, 0\id tutor, 
 Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose 
 grave 
 All those may leap who rather would be 
 neuter — 
 (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the 
 wave) — 
 Oh, Love ! thou art the very god of evil, 
 For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 
 
 Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state 
 precarious. 
 And jestest with the bro\vs of mightiest 
 men : 
 CsEsar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
 Ha\e much employ'd the muse of his- 
 tory's pen : 
 Their lives and fortunes were extremely 
 various. 
 Such worthies Time will never see again ; 
 Yet to these four in three things the same 
 
 luck holds, 
 They all were heroes, conquerors, and 
 cuckolds. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 645 
 
 CCVIl 
 
 Thou mak'st philosophers ; there's Epicu- 
 rus 
 And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
 Who to immoral causes would allure us 
 
 By theories quite practicable too ; 
 If only from the devil they would insure us, 
 How pleasant were the maxim (not quite 
 new), 
 " Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest 
 
 avail us ? " 
 So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 
 
 CCVIII 
 
 But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 
 And should he have forgotten her so soon? 
 I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 
 Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, 
 the moon 
 Does these things for us, and whenever 
 newly a 
 Strong palpitation rises, 'tis her boon. 
 Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
 Have such a charm for us poor human 
 creatures ? 
 
 ccix 
 I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 
 Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal 
 made 
 Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 
 No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
 Love, constant love, has been my constant 
 guest. 
 And yet last night, being at a masquer- 
 ade, 
 I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from 
 
 Milan 
 Which gave me some sensations like a 
 villain. 
 
 ccx 
 But soon Philosophy came to my aid, 
 And whisper'd " Think of every sacred 
 tie ! " 
 " I will, my dear Philosophy ! " I said, 
 " But then her teeth, and then, oh. 
 Heaven ! her eye I 
 I'll just enquire if she be wife or maid. 
 
 Or neither — out of curiosity." 
 " Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so 
 
 Grecian, 
 (Though she was masqued then as a fair 
 Venetian ;) 
 
 CCXI 
 
 " stop ! " so I stopp'd. — But to return : 
 that which 
 
 Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
 Than admiration due where nature's rich 
 
 Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
 Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 
 
 A lovely statue we almost adore. 
 This sort of adoration of the real 
 Js but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 
 
 ccxii 
 'Tis the perception of the beautiful, 
 
 A fine extension of the faculties, 
 Platonic, universal, wonderful. 
 
 Drawn from the stars, and filter'd 
 
 through the skies, 
 Without which life would be extremely 
 
 dull; 
 In short, it is the use of our own eyes. 
 With one or two small senses added, just 
 To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 
 
 CCXIII 
 
 Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling. 
 For surely if we always could perceive 
 
 In the same object graces quite as killing 
 As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 
 
 'Twould save us many a heart-ach, many 
 a shilling, 
 (For we must get them any how, or 
 grieve,) 
 
 Whereas, if one sole lady pleased f8r ever. 
 
 How pleasant for the heart, as well as liverl 
 
 ccxiv 
 The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
 But changes night and day, too, like the 
 sky ; 
 Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be 
 driven. 
 And darkness and destruction as on high : 
 But when it hath been scorch'd, and 
 pierced, and riven. 
 Its storms expire in water-drops ; the 
 eye 
 Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd 
 
 to tears. 
 Which make the English climate of our 
 years. 
 
 ccxv 
 The liver is the lazaret of bile, 
 
 But very rarely executes its function. 
 For the first passion stays there such a while. 
 That all the rest creep in and form, a 
 junction, 
 Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 
 Rage, lear, hate, jealousy, revenge, com- 
 punction. 
 So that all mischiefs spring up from this 
 
 entrail. 
 Like earthquakes from the hidden fire 
 call'd " central." 
 
 ccxvi 
 In the mean time, without proceeding more 
 
 In this anatomy, I've finish'd now 
 Two hundred and odd stanzas as before. 
 That being about the number I'll allow 
 Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 
 .\nd, laying down my pen, I make my 
 bow. 
 Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
 For them and theirs with all who deign to 
 read. 
 
646 
 
 DOX JUAN 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD 
 
 I 
 Hail, Muse ! et caUra. — We left Juan 
 sleeping, 
 Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast. 
 And watch' d by eyes that never yet knew 
 weeping, 
 And loved by a young heart, too deeplv 
 blest 
 To feel the poison through her spirit creep- 
 ing, 
 Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, 
 Had soil'd the current of her sinless years. 
 And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to 
 tears ! 
 
 Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 
 Which makes it fatal to be loved ? All 
 why 
 With cypress branches hast thou wreathed 
 thy bowers, 
 And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
 As those who dote on odours pluck the 
 flowers, 
 And place them on theu: breast — but 
 place to die — 
 Thus the frail beings we would fondly 
 
 cherish 
 Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 
 
 In her first passion woman loves her lover. 
 
 In all the others all she loves is love, 
 Which grows a habit she can ne'er got o\er. 
 And fits her loosely — like an easy glove. 
 As you may find, whene'er you like to 
 prove her : 
 One man alone at first her heart can 
 move ; 
 She then prefers him in the plural nitmber, 
 Not finding that the additions much en- 
 cumber. 
 
 I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 
 But one thing's pretty sure ; a woman 
 planted 
 (Unless at once she plunge for life in 
 prayers) — 
 After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
 Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 
 Is that to which her heart is wholly 
 . granted ; 
 Yet there are some, they say, who have had 
 
 none, 
 But those who have ne'er end with pnly 
 one. 
 
 'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign 
 
 Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
 That love and marriage rarely can com- 
 bine, 
 
 Although they both are bom in the same 
 clime ,• 
 Marriage from love, like vinegar from 
 wine — 
 A sad, soiur, sober beverage — by time 
 Is sharpen' d from its high celestial flavour, 
 Down to a -^'ery homely household savour. 
 
 There's somethu;g of antipathy, as 'twere. 
 Between their present and their future 
 state ; 
 A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 
 
 Is used until the truth arrives too late — 
 Yet what can people do, except despair ? 
 The same things change their names at 
 such a rate ; 
 For instance — passion in a lover's glori- 
 ous, 
 But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 
 
 Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 
 
 They sometimes also get a little tired 
 (But that, of course, is rare), and then 
 despond : 
 The same thing cannot always be ad- 
 mired. 
 Yet 'tis " so nominated in the bond," 
 That both are tied till one shall have 
 expired. 
 Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was 
 
 adorning 
 Our days, and put one's servants into 
 mourning. 
 
 There's doubtless something in domestic 
 doings 
 Which forms, in fact, true love's an- 
 tithesis ; 
 Romances paint at full length people's 
 wooings. 
 But only gue a bust of marriages ; 
 For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. 
 There's nothing wrong in a connubial 
 kiss : 
 Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's 
 
 wife. 
 He would have \vritten sonnets all his life ? 
 
 IX 
 
 All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 
 
 All comedies are ended by a marri.ige ; 
 The luture states of both are left to faith, 
 For authors fear description might dis- 
 parage 
 The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath. 
 And then both worlds would punish their 
 miscarriage ; 
 So leaving each their priest apd prayer-book 
 
 ready, 
 They sa;''no more of Death or of the Lady.' 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 647 
 
 The only two that in my recollection 
 Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, 
 are 
 Dante ' and Milton, and of both the affec- 
 tion 
 Was hapless in their nuptials, for some 
 bar 
 Of fault or temper ruin'd the connexion 
 (Such things, in fact, it don't ask much 
 to mar) ; 
 But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
 Were not drawn from their spouses, you 
 conceive. 
 
 XI 
 
 Some persons say that Dante meant 
 th-eology 
 By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
 Although my opinion may rer|iiire apology, 
 
 Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
 Unless indeed it was from his own know- 
 ledge he 
 Decided thus, and show'd good reason 
 why ; 
 I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
 Meant to personify the mathematics. 
 
 Haidee and Juan were not married, but 
 The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not 
 fair. 
 Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 
 The blame on me, unless you wish they 
 were ; 
 Then if you'd have them wedded, please to 
 shut 
 The book which treats of this erroneous 
 pair. 
 Before the consequences grow too awful , 
 'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 
 
 Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 
 Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
 
 But more imprudent grown with every 
 visit, 
 Haidee forgot the island was her sire s : 
 
 When we. have what we like, 'tis hard to 
 miss it, 
 At least in the beginning., ere one tires 
 
 Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
 
 Whilst her piratical, papa was cruising. 
 
 Let not his mode of raising cash seem 
 strange. 
 Although he fleeced the flags of every 
 nation, 
 For into a prime minister but change 
 
 His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation ; 
 But he, more modest, took an humbler 
 range 
 Of life, and in an honester \'ocation 
 
 Pursued o'er the high seas his watery 
 
 journey. 
 And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 
 
 XV 
 
 The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
 By winds and waves, and some important 
 captures ; 
 And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 
 Although a squall or two had damp'd his 
 raptures, 
 By swamping one of the prizes ; he had 
 chain'd 
 His prisoners, dividing them like chap- 
 ters 
 In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and 
 
 collars. 
 And averaged each from ten to a hundred 
 dollars. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 
 
 Among his friends, the Mainots ; some 
 
 he sold 
 
 To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
 
 Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old) ; 
 
 The rest — save here and there some richer 
 
 one. 
 
 Reserved for future ransom in the hold. 
 
 Were Imk'd alike, as for the common 
 
 people he 
 Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 
 
 The merchandise was served in the same 
 way, 
 Pieced out for different marts in the 
 Levant, 
 I Except some certain portions of the prey. 
 Light classic articles of female want, 
 French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, 
 teapot, tray. 
 Guitars and castanets from Alicant,, 
 All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 
 Kobb'd for his daughter by the best of 
 fathers, 
 
 XVIII 
 
 A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw. 
 Two parrots, with a Persian cat and 
 kittens. 
 He chose from several animals he saw — 
 A terrier, too, which once had been a 
 Briton's, 
 Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 
 
 The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a 
 pittance. 
 These to secure in this strong blowing 
 
 weather. 
 He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Then having settled his marine affairs, 
 Despatching single cruisers here aiid 
 there, 
 
648 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 His vessel having need of some repairs, 
 He shaped his course to where his 
 daughtt-r fair 
 Continued still her hospitable cares ; 
 But that part of the coast being shoal and 
 bare, 
 And rough with reefs which ran out many 
 
 a mile. 
 His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 
 
 XX 
 
 And there he went ashore without delay, 
 Having no custom-house nor quarantine 
 
 To ask him awkward questions on the way. 
 About the time and place where he had 
 been ; 
 
 He left his ship to be hove down next day. 
 With orders to the people to careen j,- 
 
 So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 
 
 In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and 
 treasure. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Arriving at the summit of a hill 
 
 Which o'erlooked the white walls of his 
 home. 
 He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 
 Their bosoms who have been induced to 
 roam ! 
 With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 
 With love for many, and with fears for 
 some ; 
 All feelings which o'erleap the years long 
 
 lost, 
 And bring our hearts back to then: starting- 
 post. 
 
 x.xir 
 
 The approach of home to husbands and to 
 
 sires, 
 
 After long travelling by land or water. 
 
 Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
 
 A female family's a serious matter ; 
 (None trusts the sex more, or so much 
 admires — 
 But they hate flattery, so I never 
 flatter ; ) 
 Wives in their husbands' absences grow 
 
 subtler, 
 And daughters sometimes run off with the 
 butler. 
 
 XXIIl 
 
 An honest gentleman at his return 
 May not have the good fortune of 
 Ulysses ; (mourn. 
 
 Not all lone matrons for their husbands 
 Or show the same dislike to suitors' 
 kisses : 
 The odds are that he linds a handsome urn 
 To his memory — and two or three young 
 misses 
 Bom to some friend, who holds his wife 1 
 and riches ; — ■ [ 
 
 And that his Argus bites him by — the 
 breeches. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 If single, probably his plighted fair 
 
 Has in his absence wedded some rich 
 miser ; 
 
 But all the better, for the happy pair 
 May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 
 
 He may resume his amatory care 
 As cavalier servente, or despise her ; 
 
 And that his sorrow may not be a dumb 
 one. 
 
 Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. 
 
 And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
 Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 
 
 An honest friendship with a married lady — 
 The only thing of this sort e\er seen 
 
 To last — of all connexions the most steady, 
 And the true Hymen, (the first's but a 
 screen) — 
 
 Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 
 
 I've known the absent wrong'd four times 
 a day. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 
 
 Much less experience of dry land than 
 ocean. 
 On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt 
 glad ; 
 But not knowing metaphj-sics, had no 
 notion 
 Of the true reason of his not being sad. 
 
 Or that of any other strong emotion ; 
 He loved his child, and would have wept 
 
 the loss of her, 
 But knew the cause no more than a 
 philosopher. 
 
 XX VII 
 
 He saw his white walls shining in the sun. 
 
 His garden trees all shadowy and green; 
 
 He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 
 
 The distant dog-bark ; and perceived 
 
 between 
 
 The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun, 
 
 The moving figures, and the sparkling 
 
 sheen 
 
 Of arms (in the East all arm)— and various 
 
 dyes 
 Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 And as the spot where thev appear he nears 
 Surprised at these unwonted signs of 
 idling, 
 He hears — alas ! no music of the spheres 
 But an unhallow'd earthly sound of 
 fiddling ! 
 A melody which made him doubt his ears 
 The cause bemg past his guessing or un- 
 riddling ; 
 --\ pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after 
 \ most unoriental roar of laughter.' 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 649 
 
 XXIX 
 
 And still more nearly to the place advanc- 
 ing. 
 Descending lather quickly the declivity, 
 Through the waved branches, o'er the 
 greensward glancing, 
 'Midst other indications of festivity. 
 Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
 Like de'vises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
 Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so 
 
 martial. 
 To which the Levantines are very partial. | 
 
 XXX 
 
 And further on a group of Grecian girls. 
 The first and tallest her white kerchief 
 waving. 
 Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
 Link'd hand in hand, and dancing : each 
 too having 
 Down her white neck long floating auburn 
 curls — 
 (The least of which would set ten poets 
 raving) ; 
 Their leader sang — and bounded to her 
 
 song. 
 With choral step and voice, the virgm 
 throng. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 And here, assembled cross-legg'd round 
 their trays. 
 Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
 Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 
 And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
 And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 
 Above them their dessert grew on its 
 vine. 
 The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er 
 Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their 
 mellow store. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 A band of children, round a snow-white 
 ram, 
 There wreathe his venerable horns with 
 flowers ; , . , v. 
 
 While peaceful as if still an unwean d lamb. 
 The patriarch of the flock all gently 
 cowers 
 His sober head, majestically tame. 
 
 Or eats from out the palm, or playful 
 lowers 
 His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 
 Yielding to their small hands, draws back 
 again. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Their classical profiles, and glittering 
 dresses, , ,^ ^■ 
 
 Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic 
 cheeks, . 
 
 Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long 
 tresses, , ^ ^. 
 
 The gesture which enchants, the eye 
 that speaks, 
 
 The innocence which happy childhood 
 
 blesses. 
 Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
 So that the philosophical beholder 
 Sigh'd for their sakes — that they should 
 
 e'er grow older. 
 
 xxxiv 
 Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
 
 To a sedate grey circle of old smokers. 
 Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
 Of wonderful replies from Arab jokfrs. 
 Of charms to make good gold and cure bad 
 ails. 
 Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the 
 knockers, 
 Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, 
 Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's 
 a fact). 
 
 xxxv 
 
 Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
 
 For the imagination or the senses, 
 Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the 
 Persian, 
 All pretty pastimes in which no offence 
 is ; 
 But Lambro saw all these things with 
 aversion. 
 Perceiving in his absence such expenses. 
 Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
 The inflammation of his weeldy bills. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
 The happiest mortals even after dinner — 
 
 A day of gold from out an ape of iron 
 Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 
 
 Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at leastj's a 
 siren. 
 That lures, to flay alive, the young be- 
 ginner ; 
 
 Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 
 
 Wvis such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 He — being a man who seldom used a word 
 Too much, and wishing gladlv to surprise 
 
 (In general he surprised men with the sword) 
 His daughter — had not sent before to 
 advise 
 
 Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
 And long he stood to re-assure his eyes. 
 
 In fact much more astonish'd than de- 
 lighted. 
 
 To find so much good company invited. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
 
 That a report (especially the Greeks) 
 
 Avouch'd his death (sush people never 
 
 die). 
 
 And put his house in mourning several 
 
 weeks, — 
 
 But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 
 
 C U 
 
650 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's 
 cheeks. 
 Her tears, too, being return'd into their 
 
 foUQt, 
 
 She now kept house upon her own account. 
 
 .XXXIX 
 
 Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and 
 
 liddling. 
 Which turn'd the isle into a place oL 
 
 pleasure ; 
 The servants all were getting drunk or 
 
 idling, 
 A life which made them happy beyond 
 
 measure. 
 Her father's hospitality seem'd middling. 
 Compared mth what Haidee did with 
 
 his treasure ; 
 'Twas wonderful how things went on 
 
 improving. 
 While she had not one hour to spare from 
 
 loving. 
 
 Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this 
 feast, 
 
 He flew into a passion, and in fact 
 There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 
 
 Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
 The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 
 
 To teach his people to be more exact, 
 And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
 He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. 
 
 XLI 
 
 Vou're wrong, — He was the mildest 
 manner'd man 
 
 That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat. 
 With such true breeding of a gentleman. 
 
 You ne\-er could divine his real thought ; 
 No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
 
 Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
 Pity he loved adyenturous life's variety. 
 He was so great a loss to good society. 
 
 XLII 
 
 Ad\ancing to the nearest dinner trav. 
 Tapping the shoulder of the nighest 
 guest, 
 
 With a peculiar smile, which, by the way. 
 Boded no good, whatever it express' d. 
 
 He asked the meaning of this holiday ; 
 The vinous Greek to whom he had 
 address'd 
 
 His question, much too merry to di\-ine 
 
 The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 
 
 XLIII 
 
 And without turning his facetious head. 
 Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 
 
 Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
 " Talking's dry work, I have no time to 
 spare." 
 
 A second hiccup'd' " Our old master's dead, 
 
 You'd better ask our mistress who's his 
 
 heir." 
 " Our mistress ! " quoth a third : " Oiu: 
 
 mistress ! — pooh — 
 Vou mean our master — not the old, but 
 
 new." 
 
 These rascals, being new comers, knew not 
 whom 
 They thus address'd — and Lambro's 
 visage fell — 
 And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 
 Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously 
 to quell 
 The expression, and endeavouring to 
 resume 
 His smile, requested one of them to tell 
 The name and quality of his new patron. 
 Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a 
 matron. 
 
 " I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or 
 what 
 He is, nor whence he came — and little 
 care ; 
 But this I know, that this roast capon's fat. 
 And that good wine ne'er wash'd down 
 better fare ; 
 And if you are not satisfied w'ith that, 
 Direct your questions to my neighbour 
 there ; 
 He'll answer all for better or {or worse. 
 For none likes more to hear himself con- 
 verse." 
 
 XLVI 
 
 f said that Lambro was a man of patience, 
 And certainly he show'd the best of 
 breeding, 
 Which scarce even France, the paragon of 
 nations. 
 E'er saw her most polite of sous exceed- 
 ing ; 
 He bore these sneers against his near 
 relations, 
 His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding 
 The insults, too, of ever\- ser^-lle glutton' . 
 Who all the time was eating up his mutton! 
 
 XLVII 
 
 •'^'*™" '"■ a person used to much command- 
 To bid men come, and go, and come 
 agam — 
 
 '^Vn'' fl'^ °'',''^''^ '^°'^<^' '°°. 0"t of hand— 
 Whether the word was death, or but the 
 Cham — 
 
 ^' "bUuT" ^^""^^^ *° ^""^ ^'^ manners 
 
 ^■et such things are, which I can not ex- 
 piam, 
 
 ^'"""himstu"''*'^ ^^ "^° '^ command 
 Is good to govern— almost as a Guelf. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 65 r 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Not that he was not sometimes rash or sp, 
 But never in his real and serious mood ; 
 
 Then calm, concentrated, and still, and 
 slow. 
 He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood; 
 
 With him it never was a word and blow! 
 His angry word once o'er, he shed no 
 blood. 
 
 But in his silence there was much to rue. 
 
 And his one blow left little work for two. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 He ask'd no further questions, and pro- 
 ceeded 
 
 On to the house, but by a pri\ate way. 
 So that the few who met him hardly heeded. 
 
 So little they expected him that day ; 
 If love paternal in his bosom pleaded ' 
 
 For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say. 
 But certainly to one deem'd dead returning, 
 This revel seem'd a curious mode of 
 mourning. 
 
 If all the dead could now return to hfe, 
 (Which God forbid !) or some, or a great 
 many, 
 For instance, if a husband or his wife 
 
 (Nuptial examples are as good as any), 
 No doubt whate er might be their former 
 strife, 
 The present weather would be much 
 more rainy- 
 Tears shed into the grave of the connection 
 Would share most probably its resur- 
 rection. 
 
 He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
 A thing to human feelings the most try- 
 ing. 
 And harder for the heart to overcome. 
 Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of 
 dying ; 
 To find our hearth stone turn'd into a tomb, 
 And round its once warm precincts palel y 
 lying 
 The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief. 
 Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 
 
 He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
 For without hearts there is no home ; — 
 and felt 
 The solitude of passuig his own door 
 Without a welcome : there he long had 
 dwelt. 
 There his few peaceful days Time had 
 swept o'er, 
 There his warm bosom and keen eye 
 would melt 
 Over the innocence of that sweet child. 
 His only shrine of feelings uadefiled. 
 
 He was a man of a strange temperaiupnt, 
 
 Of mild demeanour though of savage 
 
 mood. 
 
 Moderate in all his habits, and content 
 
 With temperance in pleasure, as in food, 
 
 Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and 
 
 meant 
 
 For something better, if not wholly good ; 
 
 His countrj^'s wrongs and his despair to 
 
 save her 
 Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 
 
 The love of power, and rapid gain of gold. 
 The hardness by long habitude produced, 
 The dangerous life in which he had grown 
 old. 
 The mercy he had granted oft abused, 
 The sights he was accustomed to behold. 
 The wild seas, and wild men with whom 
 he cruised. 
 Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 
 And made him a good friend, but bad 
 acquaintance. 
 
 But something of the spirit of old Greece 
 Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 
 
 Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 
 His predecessors in the Colchian days ; 
 
 'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace — 
 Alas ! his country show'd no path to 
 praise : 
 
 Hate to the world and war with every 
 nation 
 
 He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 
 
 Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
 Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 
 
 Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
 A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 
 
 A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
 A pleasure in the gentle stream that 
 flow'd 
 
 Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, 
 
 Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 
 
 But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed 
 On that beloved daughter ; she had been 
 The only thing which kept his heart un- 
 closed 
 Amidst the savage deeds he had done 
 and seen, 
 A lonely pure affection unopposed : 
 
 There wanted but the loss of this to 
 wean 
 His feelings from all milk of human kind- 
 ness. 
 And turn him like the Cyclops mad with 
 blindness. 
 
652 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
 Is dreadful to tlie sheplierd and the 
 flock ; 
 
 The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
 Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 
 
 But violent things will sooner bear assuag- 
 
 i'g. 
 Their fury being spent by its own shock, 
 Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless 
 
 ire 
 Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 
 
 LIX 
 
 It is a hard although a common case 
 To find our children running restive — 
 they 
 In whom our brightest days we would re- 
 trace. 
 Our little selves re-formed in finer clay, 
 Just as old age is creeping on apace. 
 And clouds come o'er the sunset of our 
 day. 
 They kindly leave us, though not quite 
 
 alone, 
 But in good company— the gout or stone. 
 
 Yet a fine family is a fine thing 
 
 (Provided they don't come in after din- 
 ner) ; 
 'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 
 
 Her children up {if nursing them don't 
 thin her) ; 
 Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 
 To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sin- 
 ner). 
 A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
 Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling 
 pieces. 
 
 LXI 
 
 Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
 And stood within his hall at eventide ; 
 Meantime the lady and her lover sate 
 At wassail in their beauty and their 
 pride : 
 An ivory inlaid table spread with state 
 Before them, and fair slaves on every 
 side ; 
 Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service 
 
 mostly. 
 Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. 
 
 The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 
 Lamb and pistachio nuts — in short, all 
 meats, 
 And saffron soups, and sweetbreads ; and 
 the fishes 
 Were of the finest that e'er flounced in 
 nets, 
 Drest to a Sybarite's most pampered 
 wishes ; 
 The beverage was various sherbets 
 
 Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 
 Squeez'd through the rind, which makes it 
 best for use. 
 
 Lxni 
 These were ranged round, each in its 
 crystal ewer. 
 And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed 
 the repast, 
 And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure. 
 In small fine China cups, came in at last ; 
 Gold cups of filigree made to secure 
 The hand from burning underneath them 
 placed. 
 Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were 
 
 boil'd 
 Up with, the coffee, which (J think) they 
 spoil'd. 
 
 The hangings of the room were tapestry, 
 made 
 Of velvet panels, each of different hue. 
 And thick v.'ith damask fiowers of silk 
 inlaid ; 
 And round them ran a yellow border too ; 
 The upper border, richlv wrought, dis- 
 play'd, 
 Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue. 
 Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
 From poets, or the moralists their betters. 
 
 LXV 
 
 These Oriental writings on the wall. 
 
 Quite common in those countries, are a 
 kind 
 Of monitors adapted to recall, 
 
 Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to 
 the mind 
 The words which shook Belshazzar in his 
 hall. 
 And took his kingdom from him : You 
 will find. 
 Though sages may pour out their wisdom's 
 
 treasure. 
 There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
 A genius who has drunk himself to death, 
 
 A rake turn'd m.ethodistic, or Eclectic 
 
 (For that's the name thev like to prav 
 
 beneath) — 
 
 But most, an alderman struck apoplectic 
 
 Are things that reallv take away the 
 
 breath, — 
 
 And show that late hours, wine, and love 
 
 •ire able 
 To do not much less damage than the table. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Haid^e and Juan carpeted their feet 
 On crimson satin, bordered with Dale 
 blue ; ^ 
 
 Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 Of the apartment— and appear'd quite 
 new ; 
 The velvet cushions (for a throne more 
 meet)— 
 Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre 
 grew 
 A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tis- 
 sue, 
 Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Crystal and marbic, plate and porcelain. 
 Had done their work of splendour ; 
 Indian mats 
 And Persian carpets, which the heart bled 
 to stain, 
 Over tlie floors were spread ; gazelles 
 and cats, 
 And dwarfs and blacks, and such like 
 things, that gain 
 Their bread as ministers and favourites — 
 (that's 
 To say, by degradation) — mingled there 
 As plentiful as in a court or f air . 
 
 653 
 
 There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 
 
 The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
 With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at 
 hand, 
 Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods 
 made. 
 Fretted with gold or silver : — by command, 
 The greater part of these were reqdy 
 spread 
 With viands and sherbet3 in ice — and 
 
 wine — 
 Kept for all comers at all hours to dine . 
 
 Of all the dresses I select Haidfe's : 
 
 She wore two jelicks — one was of pale 
 
 yellow ; 
 Of azure, pink, and white was her che- 
 mise — 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a 
 
 little billow ; 
 With buttons form'd of pearls as large as 
 
 peas. 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's 
 
 fellow, 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that 
 
 bound her. 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd 
 
 round her. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely 
 arm, 
 Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
 That the hand stretch'd and shut it with- 
 out harm, 
 The limb which it adorn'd its only 
 mould ; 
 So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
 
 . And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, 
 The >urest ore enclosed the whitest skin 
 That ere by precious metal v/as held in. 
 
 LX.XII 
 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 A like gold bar above her instep rcil'd 
 Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on 
 out hand, 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's 
 fine fold 
 Below her breast was fasten'dwith a band 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could 
 scarce be told ; 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 
 About the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her 
 heeF 
 Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the 
 sun 
 Dyes with his morning light, — and would 
 conceal 
 
 Her person if allow'd at large to run, 
 
 .\nd still they seem'd resentfully to feel 
 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to 
 
 shun 
 
 Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught 
 
 began 
 To offer his young pinion as her fan. 
 
 L.XXIV 
 
 Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
 The very air seem'd lighter from her 
 eves. 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 I With all we can imagine of the skies. 
 And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
 Too pure even for the purest human 
 ties ; 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Her cyelashor, though dark as night, were 
 tinged "■ 
 (It is the country's custom), but in vain ; 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly 
 fringed, 
 The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
 Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but 
 again 
 The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
 
 The skin'relieved appear more fairly fair ; 
 
 She had no need of this, day ne'er will 
 
 break 
 
 On mountain tops more heavenly white 
 
 than her : 
 
 The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
 
^54 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 She was sn like a vision ; I miglit err., 
 But Shakespeare also says, 'tis very silly 
 " To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 ]uan had on a shawl of black and gold. 
 But a white baracan, and so transparent 
 The sparkling gems beneath you might 
 behold, 
 Like small stars through the milky way 
 apparent ; 
 His turban furl'd in many a graceful fold. 
 An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair 
 in't 
 Surmounted, as its clasp, a growing cres- 
 cent. 
 Whose rays shone ever trembUng, but in- 
 cessant. 
 
 Lxxvin 
 And now they were diverted by their suite, 
 . Dwarfs, dancing-girls, black eunuchs, 
 and a poet, 
 Which made their new establishment com- 
 plete ; 
 The last was of great fame, and liked to 
 show it ; 
 His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
 And for his theme — he seldom sung be- 
 lov/ it. 
 He being paid to satirise or flatter, 
 As the psalm says, " inditing a good mat- 
 ter." 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 He praised the present, and abused the 
 past, 
 Reversing the good custom of old days, 
 An Eastern anti-jacobin at last 
 
 He turn'd, preferring pudding to no 
 praise — 
 For some few years his lot had been o'er- 
 cast 
 By his seeming independent in his lays, 
 But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha 
 With truth like Southey, and with verse 
 like Crashaw. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 He was a man who had seen many changes, 
 And always changed as true as any 
 needle ; 
 His polar star being one which rather 
 ranges, 
 And not the fi.v'd — he knew the way to 
 wheedle : 
 So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft 
 avenges ; 
 And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd 
 ill), 
 He lied with such a fervour of intention — 
 There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate 
 pension. 
 
 L.XX.Xl 
 
 But he had genius, — when a turncoat has 
 it, 
 The " Vates irritabilis " takes care 
 That without notice few full moons shall 
 pass it ; 
 Even good men like to make the public 
 stare : — 
 But to my subject — let me see — what was 
 it ?— 
 Oh !— the third canto-^and the pretty 
 pair — 
 Their loves, and feasts, and house, and 
 
 dress, and mode 
 Of living in their insular abode. 
 
 LX.XXII 
 
 Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 
 In company a very pleasant fellow, 
 Had been the favourite of full many a 
 mess 
 Of men, and made them speeches when 
 half-mellow ; 
 And though his meaning they could rarely 
 guess. 
 Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to 
 bellow 
 The glorious meed of popular applause. 
 Of which the first ne'er knows the second 
 cause. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 But now being lifted into high society, 
 And having pick'd up several odds and 
 ends 
 Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety. 
 He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among 
 ii lends. 
 That without any danger of a riot, he 
 Might for long lying make himself 
 amends ; 
 And singing as he sung in his warm youth. 
 Agree to a short armistice with truth. 
 
 Lxxxrv 
 
 Hehad travell'd'mongst the Arabs Turk^. 
 and Franks, 
 And knew the self-loves of the different 
 nations ; 
 And having lived with people of all ranks. 
 Had something ready upon most occa- 
 sions — 
 Which got him a few presents and some 
 thanks. 
 He varied with some skill his adulations ; 
 To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 
 Of conduct was which he observed in 
 Greece. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing. 
 He gave the different nations something 
 
 national ; 
 'Twas all the «ame to him — " God »ave th« 
 
 king," 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 655 
 
 Or " Ca tra," according to the lasliion 
 
 all :' 
 
 His muse made increment of any thing 
 
 From the high lyric down to the low 
 
 rational : 
 
 If Pindar sang horse-races, what should 
 
 hinder 
 Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 In France for instance, he would write a 
 chanson ; 
 In lingland a six canto quarto tale ; 
 In Spain he'd make a ballad or romance on 
 The last war — much the same in Portu- 
 gal ; 
 In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 
 Would be old Goethe's — (see what says 
 de St a el); 
 In Italy he'd ape the " Trecentisti ; " 
 In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like 
 this t' ye : 
 
 I 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace. 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 2 
 The Scian 3 and the Teian muse,' 
 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 ' Have found the fame your shores refuse : 
 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 
 
 3 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 
 
 For standing on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 4 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 And when the sun set where were they ? 
 
 5 
 And where are they ? and where art thou, 
 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine. 
 Degenerate into hands like mine ? 
 
 , 6 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
 Even as I sing, suffuse ray face ; 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant ot our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopyte ! 
 
 What, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 
 
 And answer, " Let one living head ,_ 
 But one arise, — we come, we come ! " , 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. \ 
 
 9 
 
 In vain — in vain ; strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; 
 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 Yon have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 ir 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these I 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 12 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest fnend ; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! , , , , 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bmd. 
 
 13 . , 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wme I 
 * On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 14 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks— 
 They have a king who buys and sells: 
 In native swords, and native ranks. 
 
656 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The only hope of courage dwells : 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 15 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But gazing on each glowing maid. 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 i6 
 Place me on Sunium*s marbled steep. 
 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 A laud of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Thus sung, or would, or could, or should 
 have sung. 
 The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
 If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was 
 young. 
 Yet in these times he might have done 
 much worse : 
 His strain display'd some feeling — right or 
 wrong ; 
 And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
 Of others* feeling ; but they are such liars. 
 And take all colours — like the hands of 
 dyers. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 But words are things, and a small drop of 
 ink, [duces 
 
 Falling like dew, upon a thought, pro- 
 That which makes thousands, perhaps mil- 
 lions, think ; 
 'Tis strange, the shortest letter which 
 man uses 
 Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
 Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduc 's 
 Frail man, when paper — even a rag like 
 
 this, 
 Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's 
 his. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 And when his bones are dust, his grave a 
 blank, 
 
 His station, generation, even his nation, 
 Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
 
 In chronological commemoration. 
 Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, , 
 
 Or graven stone found in a barrack's 
 station 
 In digging the foundation of a closet. 
 May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. 
 
 xc 
 .\nd glory long has made the sages smile; 
 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, 
 wind — 
 
 Deoending more upon the historian s style 
 
 Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
 
 Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to 
 
 The present century was growmg band 
 To the great Marlborough's skill in giving 
 
 knocks. 
 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 
 
 xci 
 
 Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine : 
 An independent being in his day — 
 
 Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and 
 wine ; 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way. 
 We're told this great high priest of all 
 the Nine 
 Was whipt at college— a harsh sire — odd 
 
 spouse. 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 
 
 All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 
 Like Shakspeare's stealing deer. Lord 
 Bacon's bribes ; 
 Like Titus' youth, and Cesar's earliest 
 acts ; 
 Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well 
 describes) ; 
 Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although 
 truth exacts 
 These amiable descriptions from the 
 scribes. 
 As most essential to their hero's story. 
 They do not much contribute to his glory. 
 
 XCIII 
 
 All are not moralists, like Southev, when 
 He prated to the world of " Pantiso- 
 crasy ; " 
 Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who 
 then 
 Season'd his pedlar poems with demo- 
 cracy ; 
 Or Coleridge, long betore his flighty pen 
 Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 
 When he and Southey, followmg the same 
 
 path. 
 Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 
 
 .xciv 
 Such names at present cut a convict figure. 
 The very Botany Bay in moral geo- 
 graphy ; 
 Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, 
 Are good manure for their more bare 
 biography, 
 Wordsworth's last quarto, bv the way, is 
 
 Than any since the birthday of typo- 
 graphy ; 
 
 .\ drowzy frowzy poem, call'd the " Ex- 
 cursion," 
 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 657 
 
 He there builds up a formidable dyke 
 Between his own and others' intellect ; 
 But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, 
 like 
 J carina Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect. 
 Are things which in this century don't 
 strike 
 The public mind, — so few are the elect ; 
 And the new births of both their stale vir- 
 ginities 
 Have proved but dropsies, taken for divin- 
 ities. 
 
 xcvi 
 But let me to my story : I must own, 
 
 If I have any fault, it is digression. 
 Leaving my people to proceed alone. 
 
 While I soliloquize beyond expression : 
 But these are my addresses from the throne. 
 Which put off business to the ensuing 
 session : 
 Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
 The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 
 
 xcvii 
 
 I know that what our neighbours call 
 " longueurs,*' 
 (We've not so good a word, but have the 
 thing, 
 In that complete perfection which ensures 
 An epic from Bob Southey every Spring — ) 
 Form not the true temptation wliich 
 allures 
 The reader ; but 'twould not be hard to 
 bring 
 Some fine examples of the epopie. 
 To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 
 
 xcviii 
 We learn from Horace, " Homer some- 
 times sleeps ; " 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth some- 
 times wakes, — 
 To show with what complacency he creeps, 
 With his dear " Waggoners," around his 
 lakes. 
 He wishes for " a boat " to sail the deeps — 
 Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he 
 makes 
 Another outcrv for " a little boat," 
 And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 
 
 XCIX 
 
 If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal 
 plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his " Wag- 
 gon," 
 Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain ? 
 
 Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
 Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 
 He' fear'd his neck to venture such a nag 
 
 .Ajid he must needs mount nearer to the 
 
 Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 
 
 ■" Pedlars," and " Boats," and " Wag- 
 gons ! " Oh ! ye shades 
 Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast 
 abyss 
 Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack 
 Cades 
 Of sense and song above your graves 
 may hiss — 
 The " little boatman " and his " Peter 
 
 Bell" 
 Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " 
 
 T' our tale.^The feast was over, the slaves 
 gone, 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all re- 
 tired ; 
 The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
 
 And every sound of revelry expired ; 
 The lady and her lover, left alone. 
 
 The rosy flood of tv/ilight's sky admired; — 
 Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 
 That heavenliest hour of Heaven is 
 worthiest thee ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I so 
 oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant 
 tower. 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air. 
 And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd 
 with prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer 1 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above 1 
 
 Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the Al- 
 mighty dove — 
 
 What though 'tis but a pictured image 
 strike, 
 
 That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 
 
 Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
 In nameless print — that I have no devo- 
 tion ; 
 But set those persons down with me to 
 pray. 
 And you shall see who has the properest 
 notion 
 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
 My altars are the mountains and the 
 ocean, 
 
658 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the 
 
 great Whole, 
 Who hath produced, and will receive the 
 
 soul. 
 
 cv 
 Sweet hour of twilight ! — ^in the solitude 
 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
 
 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial 
 
 wood. 
 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave 
 
 flow'd o'er, 
 
 To where the last Cassarean fortress stood. 
 
 Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
 
 And Drj'den's lay made haunted ground to 
 
 me, 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and 
 thee! 
 
 cvi 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless 
 song. 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and 
 mine. 
 And vesper bell's that rose the boughs 
 along ; 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the 
 fair throng 
 Which learu'd from this example not to fly 
 From a true lover, — shadow'd my mind's 
 eye, 
 
 CVII 
 
 Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good 
 things- — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding 
 wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd 
 steer ; 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone 
 clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of 
 dear, 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's 
 breast. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts 
 the heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first 
 day 
 When they from their sweet friends are 
 torn apart ; 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start. 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something 
 mourns ! 
 
 cix 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom. 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy 'd, 
 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
 
 Of nations freed, and the world over- 
 
 J°y''l' ., „ 
 
 Some hands unseen strew d flowers upon 
 
 his tomb : 
 Perhaps the vreakness of a heart not void 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when 
 
 power 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 
 
 But I'm digressing ; what on earth has 
 Nero, 
 Or any such like sovereign buffoons. 
 To do with the transactions of my hero, 
 More than such madmen's fellow man — 
 the moon's ? 
 Sure my invention must be down at zero. 
 And I grown one of many " wooden 
 spoons " 
 Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs 
 
 please 
 To dub the last of honours in degrees). 
 
 CXI 
 
 I feel this tediousness will never do — 
 'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 
 
 {In copying) this long canto into two ; 
 They'll never find it out. unless I own 
 
 The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 
 And then as an improvement 'twill be 
 shown : 
 
 I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic 
 is 
 
 From Aristotle passim. — See noi7iri«>)s. 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH 
 
 I 
 Nothing so difflcult as a beginning 
 In poesy, unless perhaps the end ; 
 For oftentimes when Pegasus seems win- 
 ning 
 The race, he sprains a wing, and down 
 we tend,'' 
 Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for 
 sinning 
 Our sin the same, and hard as his to 
 mend. 
 Being pride, which leads the mind to soar 
 
 too far. 
 Till our own weakness shows us what we 
 are. 
 
 But Time, which brings all beings to their 
 level. 
 And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
 Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps 
 the devil. 
 That neither of their intellects are vast : 
 While youth's hot wishes in our red veins 
 re\'el. 
 We know not this— the blood flows on 
 too fast : 
 
EON JUAN 
 
 659 
 
 Lint as the torrent widens towards the 
 
 ocean, 
 We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 
 
 Ill 
 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
 And wish'd that others held the same 
 opinion ; 
 They took it up when my days grew more 
 mellow. 
 And other minds acknowledged my 
 dominion : 
 No\y my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
 Leaf," and Imagination droops her 
 pinion, 
 And the sad truth which hovers o'er my 
 
 desk 
 Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 
 
 And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 
 
 *Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
 
 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
 Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
 
 Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's 
 spring. 
 Ere what we least wish to behold will 
 sleep : 
 
 Thetis baptised her mortal son in Styx ; 
 
 A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 
 
 Some have accused me of a strange design 
 Ag-iinst the creed and morals of the land, 
 
 And trace it in this poem every line ; 
 I don't pretend that I quite understand 
 
 My own meaning when I would be v^ry 
 fine ; 
 But the fact is that I have nothing 
 plann'd. 
 
 Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
 
 A novel word in ray ^ icabulary. 
 
 VI 
 
 To the kind reader of our sober clime 
 This way of writing will appear exotic ; 
 
 Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme. 
 Who sang when chivalry was more 
 Quixotic, 
 
 And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 
 True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, 
 kings despotic : 
 
 But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
 
 I chose a modern subject as more meet. 
 
 VII 
 
 How I have treated it, I do not know ; 
 Perhaps no better than they have treated 
 me. 
 Who have imputed such designs as show 
 Not what they saw, but what they wish'd 
 to see ; 
 But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, 
 This is a liberal age, and thoughts are 
 free : 
 
 -Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
 .And tells me to resume my story here. 
 
 vni 
 Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
 To their own hearts' most sweet society ; 
 Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 
 With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; 
 he 
 Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. 
 Though foe to love ; and yet they could 
 not be 
 Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 
 Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 
 
 Their faces were not made for wrinkles, 
 their 
 Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts 
 to fail ; 
 The blank grey was not made to blast their 
 hair. 
 But like the climes that know nor snow 
 nor hail, 
 They were all summer ; lightning might 
 assail 
 And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 
 A long and snake-like life of dull decay 
 Was not for them — they had too little clay. 
 
 They were alone once more ; for them to be 
 Thus was another Eden ; they were 
 never 
 Weary, unless when separate : the tree 
 Cut from its forest root of years — the 
 river 
 Damm'd from its fountain — the child from 
 the knee 
 And breast maternal wean'd at once for 
 e\"er, — 
 Would wither less than these two torn 
 
 apart ; 
 Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 
 
 The heart — which may be broken : happy 
 they ! 
 Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile 
 mould, 
 The precious porcelain of human clay. 
 Break with the first fall ; they can ne'er 
 behold 
 The long year link'd with heavy day on day , 
 And all which must be borne, and never 
 
 While life's strange principle will often lie 
 Deepest in those who long the most to die. 
 
 XII 
 
 " Whom the gods love die young " was said 
 of yore, 
 And many deaths do they escape by 
 1 this : 
 
6r.o 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The death of friends, an'd that which slays 
 
 even more — 
 The death of friendship, love, youth, all 
 
 that is. 
 Except mere breath ; and since the silent 
 
 shore 
 Awaits at last even those who longest 
 
 miss 
 The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early 
 
 grave 
 Which men weep over may be meant to 
 
 save. 
 
 XIII 
 
 M-udee and Juan thought not of the dead. 
 The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd 
 made for them : 
 They found no fault with Time, save that 
 he fled ; 
 They saw not in themselves aught to 
 condemn ; 
 Each was the other's mirror, and but read 
 Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a 
 geip. 
 And knew such brightness was but the 
 
 reflection 
 Of their exchanging glances of affection. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The gentle pressure, and the thrillingtouch, 
 The least glance better understood than 
 words. 
 Which still said all, and ne'er could say too 
 much ; 
 A language, too, but like to that of birds. 
 Known but to them, at least appearing 
 such 
 As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 
 Sweet playful phrases, which would seem 
 
 absurd 
 To those v.'ho have ceased to hear such, or 
 ne'er heard. 
 
 All the?e were theirs, for they were children 
 still, 
 And children still they should have ever 
 been ; 
 They were not made in the real world to fill 
 
 A busy character in the dull scene. 
 But like two beings born from out a rill, 
 
 A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
 To pass their lives in fountains and on 
 
 flowers, 
 Andneverknow the weight of human hours. 
 
 XVT 
 
 Moons changing had roU'd on, and change- 
 less found 
 Those their bright rise had lighted to 
 such joys 
 As rarely they beheld throughout their 
 round ; 
 And these were not of the vain kind 
 which clovs, 
 
 were buoyant spirits, never 
 and that which 
 
 For theirs 
 
 bound 
 By the mere senses 
 
 destroys 
 
 Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 
 A thing which each endearment more 
 
 endear'd. 
 
 Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 
 But theirs was love in which the mind 
 delights 
 To lose itself, when the old world grows dull, 
 And we are sick of its hack sounds "and 
 sights, 
 Intrigues, adventures of the common 
 school. 
 Its pstty passions, marriages, and flights. 
 Where Hymen's torch but brands one 
 
 strumpet more. 
 Whose husband only knows her not a 
 wh — re. 
 
 xvm 
 Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which 
 many know. 
 Enough.— The faithful and the fairy pair. 
 Who never found a single hour too' slow, 
 What was it made them thus exempt 
 from care ? 
 Young innate feelings all have felt below. 
 Which perish in the rest, but in them 
 were 
 Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic. 
 And always envy, though we deem it 
 frantic. 
 
 This is in others a factitious state. 
 
 An opium dream of too much youth and 
 reading, 
 But was in them their nature or their fate : 
 No novels e'er had set their young hearts 
 bleeding. 
 For Haid6e's knowledge was by no means 
 great. 
 And Juan was a boy of saintl v breeding • 
 So that there was no reason for their loves 
 More than for those of nightingales or 
 do\'es. 
 
 They gazed upon the sunset ; 'tis an hour 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to their eve« 
 !> or It had made them what they were • "the 
 power 
 Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from 
 such skies, 
 When happiness had been their onh- dower, 
 And twilight saw them link'din pas- 
 sions ties ; 
 Charm'd with each other, aU things charm'd 
 that brought 
 
 "^^^ thou ht" '^°''=°'"* "' ^^^ present 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 66 1 
 
 i know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
 Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor 
 came. 
 And swept, as 'twere, across their heart's 
 delight. 
 Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a 
 flame. 
 When one is shook in sound, and one in 
 sight : 
 And thus some boding flash'd through 
 either frame. 
 And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low 
 
 sigh. 
 While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 
 
 That large black prophet eye seem'd to 
 dilate 
 And follow far the disappearing sun, 
 As if their last day of a happy date 
 
 With bis broad, bright, and dropping orb 
 were gone. 
 Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 
 He felt a grief, but knowing cause for 
 none, 
 His glance enquired of hers for some excuse 
 For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse . 
 
 XXIII 
 
 She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that 
 sort 
 Which makes not others smile ; then 
 turn'd aside : 
 Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
 And master'd by her wisdom or her pride; 
 When Juan spoke, too — it might b? in 
 sport — 
 Of this their mutual feeling, she replied— 
 " If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 
 Or I at least shall not survive to see," 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Juan would question further, but she 
 press'd 
 His lip to hers, and silenced him with 
 this, ^ , 
 
 And then dismiss'd the omen from her 
 breast. 
 Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 
 And no doubt of all methods 'tis the best : 
 Some people prefer wine— 'tis not amiss; 
 I have tried both ; so those v/ho would a 
 
 part take 
 May choose between the headache and the 
 heartache. 
 
 XXV 
 
 One of the two, according to your choice. 
 Woman or wine, you'll have to undergo ; 
 
 Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 
 But which to choose, I really hardly 
 know ; 
 
 And if I had to give a casting voic«. 
 
 For both sides I could many ■ reasons 
 
 show. 
 And then decide, without great wrong to 
 
 either. 
 It were much better to have both than 
 
 neither. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other 
 With swimming looks of speechless 
 tenderness. 
 Which raix'd all feelings, friend, child, 
 lover, brother ; 
 All that the best can mingle and express 
 When two pure hearts are pour'd in one 
 another. 
 And love too much, and yet can not love 
 less ; 
 But almost sanctify the s'veet excess 
 By the immortal wish and power to bless. 
 
 xxvn 
 Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in 
 heart. 
 Why did they not then die ? — they had 
 lived too long 
 Should an hour come to bid them breathe 
 apart ; 
 Years could but bring them cruel things 
 or wrong ; 
 The world was not for them, nor the 
 world's art 
 For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 
 Love was bom with them, in them, so 
 
 intense. 
 It was their very spirit — not a sense. 
 
 xxvin 
 They should have Uved together deep in 
 woods. 
 Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they 
 were 
 Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 
 Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, 
 and Care ; 
 How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
 The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 
 The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 
 Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving 
 sleep, 
 Haid6e and Juan their siesta took, 
 A gentle slumber, but it was not deep. 
 
 For ever and anon a something shook 
 
 Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would 
 
 creep ; [a brook 
 
 And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like 
 
 A worldless music, and her face so fair 
 
 Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with 
 
 the air ; 
 
 XXX 
 
 Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
 Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 
 
662 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 
 The mystical usurper of the mind — 
 
 Overpowering us to be whate'er may seem 
 Good to the soul which we no more can 
 bind ; 
 
 Strange state of being ! (for 'tis still to be) 
 
 Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 She dream 'd of being alone on the sea- 
 shore, 
 Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, 
 
 but stir 
 She could not from the spot, and the loud 
 
 roar 
 Grew, and each Avave rose roughly, 
 
 threatening her ; 
 And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, 
 Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon 
 
 they were 
 Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and 
 
 high — 
 Each broke to drown her, yet she could not 
 
 die. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Anon — she was released, and then she 
 stray'd 
 O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding 
 feet. 
 And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
 And something roU'd before her in a 
 sheet. 
 Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid : 
 *Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd 
 to meet 
 Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed 
 
 and grasp'd. 
 And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 The dream changed : — in a cave she stood, 
 its walls 
 Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
 Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 
 
 Wiiere waves might wash, and seals 
 
 might breed and lurk ; 
 
 Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
 
 Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, 
 
 and mirk 
 
 The sharp rocks look'd below each drop 
 
 they caught, 
 Which froze to marble as they fell, — she 
 thought. 
 
 XXXIV I 
 
 And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet. 
 Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead 
 brow, 
 Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how 
 sweet 
 Were once her cares, how idle seera'd 
 they now !) 
 Lay Juan, nor could aught ren«w the beat 
 
 Of his quench'd heart; and the se_a 
 dirges low --,, 
 
 Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid s song, 
 1 And that brief dream appeau d a lite too 
 long. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 And gazing on the dead, she thought his 
 
 Faded, or alter'd into something new- 
 Like to her father's features, till each trace 
 More like and like to Lambro's aspect 
 grew — 
 With all his keen worn look and Grecian 
 grace ; 
 And starting, she awoke, and what to 
 \-iew ? 
 Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye 
 
 meets she there ? 
 'Tis — 'tis her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 
 
 X.X.XVI 
 
 Then shrieking, she arose, and shriekins 
 fell, 
 With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to 
 see 
 Him whom she deem'd a habitant where 
 dwell 
 The ocean-buried, risen fromdeath.tobe 
 Perchance the death of one she loved too 
 well : 
 Dear as her father had been to Haidfe, 
 
 It was a moment of that awful kind 
 
 I ha\-e seen such — but must not call to 
 mind. 
 
 X.XXVII 
 
 Up Juan sprang toHaidee's bitter shriek, 
 And caught her falling, and from ofi the 
 wall 
 ^natch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to 
 v%Teak 
 \'engeance on him who was the cause of 
 all: 
 Then Lambro, who till now forebore to 
 speak. 
 Smiled scornfully, and said. " Within 
 my call, 
 A thousand scimitars await the word ; 
 Put up, young man, put up your silly 
 sword-" 
 
 xxxviji 
 .And Haidee clung around him • " luan, 
 
 'lis — 
 
 'Tis Lambro— 'tis mv father! Kneel 
 with me — 
 
 ^'iy'}^J'>^Siyeus~yes.-~it must be-yes. 
 Oh ! dearest father, in this asony 
 
 Thv'oL'men?'°lP''"-^^-«" -h"e I kiss 
 
 it bf ™ "''"^ transport, can 
 
 That^ doubt should mingle with my filial 
 
 DeaUvith me as thou wilt, but spare thli 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 663 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 High and inscrutable the old man stood, 
 Calm in his voice, and calm within his 
 eye — 
 Not always signs with him of calmest 
 mood : 
 He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 
 Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the 
 blood 
 Oft came and went, as there resolved to 
 die ; 
 In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
 On the first foe whom Lambro's call might 
 bring, 
 
 XL 
 
 " Young man, your sword ; " so Lambro 
 once more said : 
 Juan replied, " Not while this arm is 
 free." 
 'Ihe old man's cheek grew pale, but not 
 with dread. 
 And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
 Replied, " Your blood be then on your 
 own head." 
 Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
 'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the 
 
 lock — 
 And next proceeded quietly to cock. 
 
 It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 
 That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
 
 A moment more will brmg the sight to bear 
 Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; 
 
 A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 
 If you have got a former fnend for foe ; 
 
 But after being fired at once or twice. 
 
 The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 
 
 Lambro presented, and one instant more 
 Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's 
 breath, 
 When Haidee threw herself her boy before ; 
 Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, 
 " let death 
 Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal 
 shore 
 He found — but sought not. I have 
 pledged my faith ; 
 I love him — I will die with him : I knew 
 Your natures firmness — know your 
 daughter's too." 
 
 XLIIl 
 
 A minute past, and she had been aU tears, 
 And tenderness, and infancy ; but now 
 She stood as one who champion'd human 
 fears — 
 Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd 
 the blow ; 
 And tall beyond her sex, and their com- 
 peers, 
 She drew up to her height, as if to show 
 
 A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
 Her father's face — but never stopp'd his 
 hand. 
 
 He gazed on her, and she on him ; 'twas 
 strange 
 How like they look'd ! the expression was 
 the same ; 
 Serenely savage, with a little change 
 In the large dark eye's mutual-darted 
 flame ; 
 For she, too, was as one who could avenge. 
 If cause should be — a lioness, though 
 tame ; 
 Her father's blood before her father's face 
 Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 
 
 .XLV 
 
 I said they were alike, their features and 
 Their stature, differing but in sex and 
 years ; 
 Even to the delicacy of their hand 
 There was resemblance, such as true 
 blood wears ; 
 And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
 
 In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears. 
 And svv'eet sensations, should have wel- 
 comed both. 
 Show what the passions are in their full 
 growth. 
 
 .XLVI 
 
 The father paused a moment, then with- 
 drew 
 His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood 
 still. 
 And looking on her, as to look her through, 
 " Not /," he said, " have sought this 
 stranger's ill ; 
 Not / have made this desolation : few 
 Would bear such outrage, and forbear 
 to kill : 
 But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
 Done thine, the present vouches for the 
 past. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 " Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 
 
 His own shall roll before you like a ball 1 " 
 
 He raised his whistle, as the word he said. 
 
 And blew ; another answer'd to the call. 
 
 And rushing in disorderly, though led, 
 
 And arm'd from boot to turban, one and 
 
 all. 
 
 Some twenty of his train came, rank on 
 
 rank ; 
 He gave the word, " Arrest or slay the 
 Frank." 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Then, with a sudden movement, he with- 
 drew 
 His daughter ; while compress'd within 
 his clasp, 
 
 'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
 
664 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 In vain she struggled in her father's 
 grasp— 
 His arms were like a serpent's coil ; then 
 flew 
 Upon their prey, as darts an angry asD, 
 The file of pirates : save the foremost, who 
 Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut 
 through. 
 
 XLI.X 
 
 The second had his cheek laid open ; b\it 
 The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 
 The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
 His own well in : so well, ere you could 
 look, 
 His man was floor' d, and helpless at his 
 foot, 
 With the blood running like a little 
 brook 
 From two smart sabre gashes, deep and 
 
 red — 
 One on the arm, the other on the head. 
 
 And then they bound him where he fell, and 
 bore 
 Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
 Old Lambro bade them take him to the 
 shore, 
 Where lay some ships which were to sail 
 at nine. 
 They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
 Until they reach'd some galliots, placed 
 in line ; 
 On board of one of these, and under 
 
 hatches. 
 They stow'd him, with strict orders to the 
 watches. 
 
 The world is full of strange vicissitudes. 
 
 And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: 
 A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 
 
 Handsome and young, enjoying all the 
 present, 
 Just at the very time when he least broods 
 
 On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent. 
 Wounded and chain'd, so tliat he cannot 
 
 move. 
 And all because a lady fell in love. 
 
 Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 
 Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, 
 green tea ! 
 Than whom Cassandra was not more 
 prophetic ; 
 For if my pure libations exceed three, 
 I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 
 That i must have recourse to black 
 Bohea : 
 'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious. 
 For tea and coffee leave us much more 
 serious, 
 
 T 
 
 Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac ! 
 Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
 Ah I why the hver wilt thou thus attack. 
 And make, like other nymphs, thy 
 lovers ill ? 
 I would take refuge in weak punch, but 
 rack 
 (In each sense of the word), whene'er I 
 fill 
 My mild and midnight beakers to the brim. 
 Wakes me next mornmg with its synonym. 
 
 LIV 
 
 I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — 
 Not sound, poor fellow, but severely 
 wounded ; 
 Yet could his corporal pangs amount to 
 half 
 Of those with which his Haidee's bosom 
 bounded ! 
 She was not one to weep, and rave, and 
 chafe, 
 And then give way, subdued because sur- 
 rounded ; 
 Her mother was a Moorish maid from Fez, 
 ^^'here all is Eden, or a wilderness. 
 
 LV 
 
 There the large olive rams its amber store 
 In marble fonts ; there grain, and flour, 
 and fruit, 
 Gush from the earth until the land runs 
 o'er ; 
 But there, too, many a poison-tree has 
 root, 
 And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 
 And long, long deserts scorch the camel's 
 
 foot; 
 
 Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan ; 
 .And as the soil is, so the heart of man! 
 
 LVI 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
 
 Her human clay is kindled ; full of power 
 For good or evil, burning from its birth 
 The Moorish blood partakes the planet's 
 hour. 
 And like the soil beneath it will bring forth • 
 Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's 
 dower ; 
 But her large dark eve show'd deep 
 
 Passion s force, 
 Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 
 
 LVTI 
 
 Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray 
 Like summer clouds all sih-erv. smooth 
 and fair. 
 
 Till slowly charged with thunder thev dis- 
 play 
 
 uT.'^r^!,'.",,'''^'^' ^^'^ tempest to the air, 
 Had held till now her soft and milky way • 
 But overwrought with passion and 
 despau-, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 665 
 
 The fire burst forth from her Numidian 
 
 veins, 
 Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted 
 
 plains. 
 
 The last sight which she saw was Juan's 
 gore, 
 And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut 
 down ; 
 His blood was running on the very floor 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her 
 own ; 
 This much she view'd an instant and no 
 more, — 
 Her struggles ceased with one convulsive 
 groan ; 
 On her sire's arm, which until now scarce 
 
 held 
 Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
 
 A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure 
 dyes 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which 
 ran o'er ; 
 And her head droop'd, as when the lily lies 
 O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd 
 handmaids bore 
 Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
 Of herbs and cordials they produced 
 their store, 
 But she defied all means they could employ, 
 Like one life could not hold, nor death 
 destroy. 
 
 LX 
 
 Days lay she in that state unchanged, 
 
 though chill — 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were 
 
 red ; 
 She had no pulse, but death seem d absent 
 
 still; 
 No hideous sign proclaim d her surely 
 
 dead ; ■ j , -n 
 
 Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
 
 All hope ; to look upon her sweet face 
 
 New thoughts of life, for it seemed full of 
 
 She had so much, earth could not claim the 
 whole. 
 
 LXI 
 
 The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
 When exquisitely chisell'd, stUl lay 
 there, . , j ^ 
 
 But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect 
 throws , , , J ■ 
 
 O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair ; 
 O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 
 
 And ever-dying Gladiator's air. 
 Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
 YeUooks not life, for they are still the 
 same. 
 B.p.w 
 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers 
 wake. 
 Rather the dead, for life seem'd some- 
 thing new, 
 A strange sensation which she must par- 
 take 
 Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
 Struck not on memory, though a heavy 
 ache 
 Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat 
 still true 
 Brought back the sense of pain without 
 
 the cause. 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
 Lxm 
 She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 
 On many a token without knowing what ; 
 She saw them watch her without asking 
 why. 
 And reck'd not who around her pillow 
 sat ; 
 Not speechless, though she spoke not ; 
 not a sigh 
 Reliev'd her thoughts ; dull silence and 
 quick chat 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; 
 
 she gave 
 No sign, save breath, of having left the 
 grave. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 
 Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes 
 away ; 
 She recognised no being, and no spot, 
 
 However dear or cherish' d in then day ; 
 They changed from room to room, but all 
 forgot. 
 Gentle, but without memory she lay ; 
 At length those eyes, which they would 
 
 fain be weaning 
 Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful 
 meaning. 
 
 i,xv 
 And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 
 The harper came, and tuned his instru- 
 ment ; 
 At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 
 
 On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
 
 Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 
 
 Her thoughts from sorrow through her 
 
 heart re- sent ; 
 
 And he begun a long low island song 
 
 Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
 In time to his old tune ; he changed the 
 theme, 
 And sung of love ; the fierce name struck 
 through all 
 Her recollection ; on her flash'd the 
 dream 
 
 XX 
 
666 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
 To be so being ; in a gushing stream 
 The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded 
 
 brain. 
 Like mountain mists at length dissolved in 
 
 rain. 
 
 LX\'II 
 
 Short solace, vain relief ! — thought came 
 too quick. 
 And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she 
 arose 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, 
 And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
 Although her paroxysm drew towards 
 its close ; — 
 Herswas a phrensy which disdained to rave, 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to 
 save. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 
 Nothing could make her meet her father's 
 face. 
 Though on all other things with looks in- 
 tense 
 She gazed, but none she ever could 
 retrace ; 
 Food she refused, and raiment ; no pre- 
 tence 
 Avail'd for either ; neither change of 
 place. 
 Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give 
 
 her 
 Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for 
 
 Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; 
 at last. 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to 
 show 
 A parting pang, the spirit from her past : 
 And they who watch'd her nearest could 
 not know 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 Her sweet face into shadow, dull and 
 slow, 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the 
 
 black — 
 Oh ! to possess such lustre— and then lack ! 
 
 LXX 
 
 She died, but not alone ; she held within 
 A second principle of life, which might 
 
 Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; 
 But closed its little being without light, 
 
 And went down to the grave unborn, 
 wherein 
 Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one 
 blight ; 
 
 In vain the dews of Heaven descend above 
 
 The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of 
 
 LXXI 
 
 Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on 
 
 her 
 Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was 
 
 not made • 
 
 Through years or moons the inner weight 
 
 to bear, 
 Which colder hearts endiure till they are 
 
 laid 
 By age in earth : [her days and pleasures 
 
 were 
 Brief, but delightful — such as had not 
 
 staid 
 Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 
 By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to 
 
 dwell. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 That isle is now all desolate and bare. 
 Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd 
 away ; 
 None but her own and father's grave is 
 there, 
 And nothing outward tells of human 
 cl4y ; 
 Ye could not know where lies a thing so 
 fair. 
 No stone is there to show, no tongue to 
 say, 
 What was ; no dirge, except the hollow 
 
 sea's. 
 Mourns o'er the beauty of the C^'clades. 
 
 Lxxin 
 But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
 Sighs o'er her name ; and manv an 
 islander 
 With her sire's story makes the night less 
 long; 
 Valour was his, and beautv dwelt with 
 her ; 
 It she loved rashly, her life paid for wTong — 
 A heavy price must all pay who th\is err. 
 In some shape ; let none think to fly the 
 
 danger, 
 For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 
 
 L.XXIV 
 
 But let me change this theme, which grows 
 too sad. 
 And lay this sheet o"f sorrowsou the shelf ; 
 I don't much like describing people mad, 
 For fear of seeming rather touch'd my- 
 self — 
 Besides, V\ e no more on this head to add ; 
 
 And as mv Muse is a capricious elf, 
 We'll put about, and try another tack - 
 With Juan, left half-lcill'd some stanzas 
 back. 
 
 Wounded and fetter'd, '• cabin'd, cribb'd, 
 confined," 
 Some days and nights elap«ed before that 
 he 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 667 
 
 Could altogether call the past to mind ; 
 
 And when he did, he found himself at sea, 
 
 Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
 
 The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
 
 Another time he might have liked to see 
 
 'em, 
 But now was not much pleased with Cape 
 SigaBum. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 There, on the green and village-cotted hill, 
 is 
 (Flank'd by the Hellespont, and by the 
 sea) 
 Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, 
 Achilles ; 
 They say so — (Bryant says the con- 
 trary) : 
 And further downward, tall and towering 
 still, is 
 The tumulus — of whom? Heaven 
 knows ; 't may be 
 Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus ; 
 All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
 A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted 
 plain. 
 And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
 
 And old Scamander, (if 'tis he) remain ; 
 
 The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
 
 A hundred thousand men might fight 
 
 again, 
 
 With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's 
 
 walls. 
 The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise 
 crawls ; 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Troops of untended horses ; here and there, 
 Some little hamlets, with new names 
 uncouth ; 
 Some shepherds, (unlike Paris) led to stare 
 
 A moment at the European youth 
 Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings 
 bear ; 
 A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in 
 mouth. 
 Extremely taken with his own religion, 
 Are what I found there — but the devil a 
 Phrygian. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
 ( •■ From his dull cabin, foimd himself a slave ; 
 Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
 O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's 
 
 grave ; 
 Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could 
 
 urge 
 .\ few brief questions ; and the answers 
 
 gave 
 No very satisfactory mformation 
 ^About his past or present situation. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
 To be Italians, as they were in fact ; 
 
 From them, at least, their destiny he 
 heard. 
 Which was an odd one ; a troop going to 
 act 
 
 In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 
 
 In their vocation ; had not been attack'd 
 
 In sailing from Livorno by the pirate. 
 
 But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
 
 Juan was told about their curious case ; 
 For although destined to the Turkish 
 mart, he 
 Still kept his spirits up — at least his 
 face; 
 The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 
 And bore him with some gaiety and grace, 
 Showing a much more reconciled de- 
 meanour. 
 Than did the prima-donna and the tenor. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 In a few words he told their hapless story. 
 Saying, " Our Machiavelian impresario, 
 
 Making a signal off some promontory, 
 Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio 
 Mario ! 
 
 We were transferr'd on board her in a 
 hurry, . 
 Without a single scudo of salario ; 
 
 But if the Sultan has a taste for song. 
 
 We will revive our fortunes before long. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 " The prima-donna, though a little old, 
 And haggard with a dissipated life. 
 
 And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 
 Has some good notes ; and then the 
 tenor's wife. 
 
 With no great voice, is pleasing to behold ; 
 Last carnival she made a deal of strife. 
 
 By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna 
 
 From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 " And then there are the dancers ; there's 
 the Nini, 
 With more than one profession gains by 
 all; 
 Then there's that laughing slut the Pelegnni, 
 
 She, too, was fortunate last carnival, 
 And made at least five hundred good 
 zecchini, 
 Sut spends so fast, she has not now a 
 paul ; 
 And then there's the Grotesca — such a 
 
 dancer ! 
 Where men have souls or bodies she must 
 answer. 
 
668 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 " As for the figuranti, they are like 
 The rest of all that tribe ; with here and 
 there 
 A pretty person, which perhaps may 
 strike, 
 The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 
 There's one, though tall and stiffer than a 
 pike, 
 Yet has a sentimental kind of air 
 Which might go far, but she don't dance 
 
 with vigour ; 
 The more's the pity, with her fac® and 
 figure. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 " As for the men, they are a middling set ; 
 
 The musico is but a crack'dold basin, 
 But being qualified in one way yet. 
 
 May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
 And as a servant some preferment get ; 
 
 His singing I no further trust can place 
 in : 
 From all the Pope makes yearly 'twould 
 
 perplex 
 To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 " The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
 And for the bass, the beast can only I 
 bellow ; j 
 
 In fact, he had no singing education, I 
 An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless 
 fellow ; 
 But being the prima-donna's near relation, 
 Who swore his voice was very rich and 
 mellow. 
 They hired him, though to hear him you'd 
 
 believe 
 An ass was practising recitative. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 " 'Twould not become myself to dwell upon 
 
 My own merits, and though young — I 
 
 see, sir — you 
 
 Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you 
 
 one 
 
 To whom the opera is by no means new : 
 
 You've heard of Raucocanti ? i — I'm the 
 
 man : 
 
 The time may come when you may hear 
 
 me too ; 
 
 You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
 
 But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — 
 
 In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, 
 Having no heart to show, he shows his 
 teeth." 
 
 xc 
 Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 
 
 Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
 Who came at stated moments to invite all 
 The captives back to their sad berths ; 
 each threw 
 A rueful glance upon the waves, (which 
 bright all 
 From the blue skies derived a double 
 blue, 
 Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
 And then went down the hatchway one by 
 one. 
 
 xci 
 They heard next day — that in the Dar- 
 danelles, 
 Waiting for his Sublimity's firman. 
 The most imperative of sovereign spells. 
 Which everybody does without who 
 can. 
 More to secure them in their naval cells. 
 
 Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
 Were to be chain'd and lotted out per 
 
 couple. 
 For the slave-market of Constantinople. 
 
 XCII 
 
 It seems when this allotment was made out. 
 There chanced to be an odd male, and 
 odd female, 
 Who (after some discussion and some doubt. 
 If the soprano might be deem'd to be 
 male, 
 They placed him o'er the woman as a scout) 
 Were link'd together, and it happeu'd 
 the male 
 Was Juan, who, — an awkward thing at his 
 
 age, 
 Pair'd off 
 
 visage. 
 
 mth a Bacchante blooming 
 
 do go. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 " Our baritone I almost had forgot, 
 
 A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit ; 
 With graceful action, science not a jot, 
 A voice of no great compass, and not 
 sweet, 
 He always is complaining of his lot. 
 
 Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the 
 street ; 
 
 XCIIT 
 
 With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
 The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 
 Found only on the stage, and each more 
 pain'd 
 With this his tuneful neighbour than his 
 fate ; 
 Sad strife arose, for they were so cross- 
 grain'd. 
 Instead of bearing up without debate 
 that each puU'd diflerent ways with many 
 an oath, ' ' 
 
 " Arcades ambo " 
 both. 
 
 id est — blackguards 
 
 Juan s companion was a Romagnole 
 But bred within the March of old Ancoua. 
 
 With eyes that look'd into the very soul 
 (And other chief points of a " bella 
 donna,' ) 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 669 
 
 Bright — and as black and burning as a 
 coal ; 
 And through her clear brunette complex- 
 ion shone a 
 
 Grejt wish to please — a most attractive 
 dower, 
 
 Especially when added to the power. 
 
 But all that power was wasted upon him, 
 For sorrow o'er each sense held stern 
 command ; 
 Her eye might flash on his, but found it 
 dim: 
 And though thus chain' d, as natural her 
 hand 
 Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome 
 limb 
 (And she had some not easy to withstand) 
 Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel 
 
 brittle ; 
 Perhaps his recent wounds might help a 
 little. 
 
 XCVI 
 
 No matter ; we should ne'er too much 
 enquire. 
 But facts are facts : no knight could be 
 more true. 
 And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
 
 We will omit the proofs, save one or two : 
 
 'Tis said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
 
 By thought of frosty Caucasus ; " but 
 
 few, 
 
 I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 
 
 Was more triumphant, and not mucn less 
 
 real. 
 
 xcvii 
 Here I might enter on a chaste description, 
 Having withstood temptation in my 
 youth. 
 But hear that several people take excep- 
 tion 
 At the first two books having too much 
 truth ; 
 Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the 
 ship soon, . 
 
 Because the pubhstier declares, m sooth. 
 Through needles' eyes it easier for the 
 
 camel is ^ . ^ 
 
 To pass, than those two cantos mto 
 families. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 'Tis all the same to me ; I'm fond of 
 yielding, , , ^^ 
 
 And therefore leave them to the purer 
 
 Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 
 Who say strange things for so correct an 
 
 1 on^e^had great alacrity in wielding 
 My pen, ind Uked poetic war to wage, 
 
 And recollect the time when all this cant 
 Would have provoked remarks which now 
 it shan't. 
 
 As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a 
 squabble ; 
 But at this hour I wish to part in peace. 
 Leaving such to the literary rabble. 
 Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to 
 cease 
 While the right hand which wrote it still is 
 able. 
 Or of some centuries to take a lease ; 
 The grass upon my grave will grow as long, 
 And sigh to midnight winds, but not to 
 song. 
 
 c 
 Of poets who come down to us through 
 distance 
 Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of 
 Pame, 
 Life seems the smallest portion of exis- 
 tence ; 
 Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
 'Tis as a snowball which derives assistance 
 From every flake, and yet rolls on the 
 same, 
 Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow ; 
 But, arter all, 'tis nothing but cold snow. 
 
 ci 
 And so great names are nothing more than 
 nominal. 
 And love of glory's but an airy lust. 
 Too often in it's fury overcoming all 
 
 Who would as 'twere identify their dust 
 
 From out the wide destruction, which, 
 
 entombing all, 
 
 Leaves nothing till " the coming of the 
 
 just " — 
 
 Save change : I've stood upon Achilles 
 
 tomb. 
 And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt 
 of Rome. 
 
 oil 
 The very generations of the dead 
 
 Are swept away, and tomb inherits 
 tomb. 
 Until the memory of an age is fled. 
 
 And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring 3 
 doom : 
 Where are the epitaphs our fathers read ? 
 Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral 
 gloom . 
 
 Which once-named myriads nameless 
 
 lie beneath. 
 And lose their own in universal death. 
 
 I canter by the spot each afternoon 
 
 Where perish'd in his farhe the hero-boy, 
 Who lived too long for men, but died too 
 soon 
 
670 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 
 A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, 
 But which neglect is hastening to des- 
 troy, 
 Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the 
 base. 
 
 I pass each day where Dante's bones are 
 laid : 
 A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
 Protects his dust, but reverence here is 
 paid 
 To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's 
 column : 
 The time must come, when both alike 
 decay'd. 
 The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's 
 volume. 
 Will sink where lie the songs and wars of 
 
 earth. 
 Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 
 
 With human blood that column was 
 cemented. 
 With human filth that column is defiled. 
 As if the peasant's coarse contempt were 
 vented 
 To show his loathing of the spot he 
 soil'd : 
 Thus is the trophy used, and thus lament- 
 ed 
 Should ever be those blood-hounds, from 
 whose wild 
 Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 
 Those sufferings Dante saw in hell 
 alone. 
 
 Yet there will still be bards : though fame 
 is smoke. 
 Its fumes are frankincense to human 
 thought ; 
 And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
 Song in the world, will seek what then 
 they sought : 
 As on the beach the waves at last are 
 broke. 
 Thus to their extreme verge the passions 
 brought 
 Dash into poetry, which is but passion. 
 Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 
 
 cvn 
 If in the course of such a life as wis 
 At once adventurous and contemplative. 
 Men who partake all passions as they pass. 
 Acquire the deep and bitter power to 
 give 
 Their images again as in a glass, 
 
 And in such colours that they seem to 
 Uve; 
 
 You may do right forbidding them to 
 
 show 'em, 
 But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 
 
 Benign Ceruleans of the second sex ! 
 Who advertise new poems by your looks. 
 
 Your " imprimatur " will ye not annex ? 
 What ! must I go to the oblivious cooks, 
 
 Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian 
 wrecks ! 
 Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be, 
 Proscribed from tasting vour Castalian 
 tea ? 
 
 cix 
 What ! can I prove " a lion " then no more ? 
 A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press 
 darling ? 
 To bear the compliments of many a bore. 
 And sigh, " I can't get out," like Yor- 
 ick's starling ; 
 Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy 
 swore, 
 (Because the world won't read him, 
 always snarling) 
 That taste is gone, that fame is but a lot- 
 tery. 
 Drawn b}' the blue-coat misses of a 
 coterie. 
 
 ox 
 
 Oh ! ■• darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
 As some one somewhere singi about the 
 sky. 
 
 And I, ye learned ladies, sa^' of you ; 
 They say your stockings are so — (Heaven 
 knows why, 
 
 1 have examined few pair of that hue) ; 
 Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
 
 Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn 
 
 The festal midnight, and the levee mom. 
 
 CXI 
 
 Yet some of you are most seraphic 
 creatures — • 
 But times are alter'd since, a rh\'ming 
 lover. 
 You read my stanzas, and I read your 
 features : 
 And — but no matter, all those things 
 are over ; 
 Still I have no dislike to learned natures. 
 For sometimes such a world of \Trtues 
 cover ; 
 I knew one woman of that purple school, 
 The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a 
 fool. 
 
 cxii 
 the first of travellers," but 
 
 Humboldt 
 not 
 
 The last, if late accounts be accurate. 
 Invented, by some name I have forgot. 
 
 As well as the sublime discovery's date 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 671 
 
 An airy instrument, withi wliich he sought 
 
 To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
 By measuring " the intensity of blue : " 
 Oh, Lady Daphne ! let me measure you ! 
 
 CXIII 
 
 But to the narrative. — ^The vessel bound 
 
 With slaves .to sell off in the capital. 
 
 After the usual process, might be found 
 
 At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
 Her cargo, from the plague being safe and 
 sound , 
 Were landed in the market, one and all, 
 And there with Georgians, Russians, and 
 
 Circassians, 
 Bought up for different purposes and 
 passions. 
 
 cxiv 
 Some went off dearly ; fifteen hundred 
 dollars 
 For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were 
 given. 
 Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest 
 colours 
 Had deck'd her out in all the hues of 
 heaven : 
 Her sale sent home some disappointed 
 bawlers, 
 Who bade on till the hundreds reached 
 eleven ; 
 But when the offer went beyond, they 
 
 knew 
 'Twas for the Sultan, and at once with- 
 drew. 
 
 cxv 
 Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a 
 price 
 Which the West Indian market scarce 
 would bring. 
 Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it 
 twice 
 What 'twas ere Abolition ; and the 
 thing 
 Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 
 Is always much more splendid than a 
 king : 
 The virtues, even the most exalted, 
 
 Charity, 
 Are sa\'ing— vice spares nothing for a 
 rarity. 
 
 cxvi 
 But for the destiny of this young troop, 
 How some were bought by pachas, some 
 by Jews, 
 How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
 ■And others rose to the command of 
 crews 
 As renegadoes ; while in hapless group. 
 Hoping no very old vizier -miglvt choose. 
 The females stood, as one by one they 
 
 pick'd 'em. 
 To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or 
 victim : 
 
 ex VI I 
 All this must be reserved for further 
 son g ; 
 Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant 
 ( Because this Canto has become too long) , 
 Must be postponed discreetly for the 
 present ; 
 I'm sensible redundancy is wrong, 
 
 But could not for the muse of me put 
 less in't : 
 And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
 Till what iscall'd in Ossian the fifth Duan. 
 
 CANTO THE FIFTH 
 
 I 
 
 When amatory poets sing their loves 
 In liquid lines mellifluously bland, 
 And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her 
 doves. 
 They little think what mischief is in 
 hand ; 
 The greater their success the worse it 
 proves. 
 As Ovid's verse may pve to understand ; 
 Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due 
 
 severity. 
 Is the platonic pimp of all posterity. 
 
 I therefore do denounce all amorous writ- 
 ing. 
 Except in such a way as not to attract ; 
 Plain — simple — short, and by no means 
 inviting, 
 But with a moraj to each error tack'd, 
 Form'd rather for instructing than delight- 
 ing, 
 And with all passions in their turn 
 attack'd ; 
 Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill. 
 This poem will become a moral model. 
 
 Ill 
 The European with the Asian shore 
 Sprinkled with palaces ; the Ocean 
 stream 
 Here and there studded with a seventy- 
 four : 
 Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 
 The cypress groves ; Olympus high and 
 hoar ; 
 The twelve isles, and the more than I 
 could dream 
 Far less describe, present the \'ery view 
 Which charm'd the charming Mary Mon- 
 tagu. 
 
 IV 
 
 I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 
 For once it was a magic sound to me ; 
 
 And still it half calls up the realms of 
 fairy, 
 Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
 
6/2 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 All feelings changed, but this was last to 
 
 vary, 
 A spell from which even yet I am not 
 
 quite free ; 
 But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
 Which must not be pathetically told. 
 
 The wind swept down the Euxine, and the 
 
 wave 
 Broke foaming o'er the blue Symple- 
 
 gades ; 
 'Tis a grand sight from off " the Giant's 
 
 Grave " 
 To watch the progress of those rolling 
 
 seas 
 Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and 
 
 lave 
 Europe and Asia, you being quite at 
 
 ease ; 
 There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes 
 
 in, 
 Turns up more dangerous breakers than 
 
 the Euxine. 
 
 'Twasarawdavot Autumn's bleak begin- 
 ning, 
 When nights are equal, but not so the 
 days ; 
 
 The Parcffi then cut short the further spin- 
 ning 
 Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempest; 
 raise 
 
 The waters, and repentance for past sin- 
 ning 
 In all, who o'er the great deep take their 
 ways : 
 
 They vow to amend their lives, and yet 
 they don't ; 
 
 Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, 
 they won't. 
 
 .■\ crowd of shivering slaves of every 
 nation. 
 And age, and sex, were in the market 
 ranged ; 
 Each bevy with the merchant in his 
 station : 
 Poor creatures ! their good looks were 
 sadly changed. 
 All save the blacks seem'd jaded with 
 vexation. 
 From friends, and home, and freedom 
 far estranged ; 
 The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 
 Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 
 
 viii I 
 
 Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 
 As most at his age are, of hope, and 
 health ; 
 Yet I must own, he look'd a little dull. 
 
 And now and then a tear stole down 
 by stealth ; 
 Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
 ■ His spirit down : and then the loss of 
 wealth, 
 A mistress, and such comfortable quar- 
 ters, 
 To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 
 
 IX 
 
 Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 
 
 Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 
 
 His figure, and the splendour of his 
 
 dress. 
 
 Of which some gilded remnants still were 
 
 seen. 
 
 Drew all eyes on him, gi\'ing them to guefs 
 
 He was above the \uigar by his mien ; 
 
 And then, though pale, he was so very 
 
 handsome ; 
 And then — they calculated on his ransom. 
 
 X 
 
 Like a backgammon board the place w?i 
 dotted 
 With whites and blacks, in groups on 
 show for sale. 
 Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
 Some bought the jet, while others chose 
 the pale. 
 It chanced amongst the other people 
 lotted, 
 A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 
 With resolution in his dark grey eye, 
 ; Next Juan stood, till some might choose to 
 I buy. 
 
 XI 
 
 He had an English- look ; that is. was 
 
 square 
 In make, of a complexion -vN-hite and 
 
 ruddy, 
 Good teeth, with curling rather dark 
 
 brown hair. 
 And, it might be from thought, or toil, 
 
 or study, 
 Aa open brow a little mark'd Mith care • 
 One arm had on a bandage rather 
 
 bloody ; 
 And there he stood with such sang froid, 
 
 that greater 
 Could scarce be shown even by a mere 
 
 spectator. 
 
 XXI 
 
 But seeing at his elbow a mere lad. 
 Of a high spirit evidently, though 
 At present weigh'd down by a doom which 
 
 had 
 O'erthrown even men, he soon began to" 
 
 show 
 A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 
 ,,.u°l X ^° young a partner in the woe, 
 \\ hich for hmiself he seem'd to deem no 
 
 worse 
 Than -my oth." scrape, a thing of course 
 
t>ON JUAN 
 
 673 
 
 XIII 
 
 " My boy I " — said he, " amidst this mot- 
 ley crew 
 Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and 
 what not, 
 All ragamuffians differing but in hue. 
 
 With whom it is our luck to cast our lot 
 The only gentlemen seem I and you ; 
 So let us be acquainted, as we ought : 
 If I could yield you any consolation, 
 'Twould give me pleasure., — Pray, what is 
 your nation ? " 
 
 XIV 
 
 When Juan answer'd — " Spanish ! " he 
 replied, 
 " I thought, in fact, you could not be a 
 Greek ; 
 Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 
 Fortune has play'd you here a pretty 
 freak. 
 But that's her way with all men, till they're 
 tried ; 
 But never mind, — she'll turn, perhaps, 
 next week ; 
 She has served me also much the same as 
 
 you. 
 Except that I have found it nothing new." 
 
 " Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may pre- 
 sume, 
 What brought you here ? " — " Oh ! no- 
 thing very rare — 
 
 Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To 
 
 this doom 
 But what conducted, if the question's 
 fair. 
 
 Is that which I would learn. "^" I served 
 for some 
 Months with the Russian army here and 
 there. 
 
 And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
 
 A town, was ta'en myself instead of 
 Widdin." 
 
 XVI 
 
 " Have you no friends ? " — " I had — but, 
 by God's blessing. 
 Have not been troubled with them 
 lately. Now 
 I have answer'd all your questions without 
 pressing. 
 And you an equal courtesy should show." 
 " Alas ! " said Juan, " 'twere a tale dis- 
 tressing. 
 And long besides." — " Oh ! if 'tis really 
 so, 
 You 're right on both accounts to hold 
 
 your tongue ; 
 A sad tale saddens doubly when 'tis long. 
 
 XVII 
 
 " But droop not : Fortune at your time of 
 life. 
 
 Although a female moderately fickle. 
 Will hardly leave you (as she's not your 
 wife) 
 For any length of days in such a pickle. 
 To strive, too, with our fate were such a 
 strife 
 As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the 
 sickle : 
 Alen are the sport of circumstances, when 
 The circumstances seem the sport of men." 
 
 XVIII 
 
 " 'Tis not," said Juan, " for my present 
 doom 
 I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a 
 maid : " — 
 He paused, and his dark eye grew full of 
 gloom ; 
 A single tear upon his eyelash staid 
 A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to 
 resume, 
 'Tis not my present lot, as I have said. 
 Which I deplore so much ; for I have 
 
 borne 
 Hardships which have the hardiest over- 
 worn. 
 
 " On the rough deep. But this last blow — " 
 and here 
 He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his 
 face, 
 " Ay," quoth his friend, " I thought it 
 would appear. 
 That there had been a lady in the case ; 
 And these are things which ask a tender 
 tear. 
 Such as I, too, would shed if in your 
 place : 
 I cried upon my first wife's dying day. 
 And also when my second ran away : 
 
 " My third " — " Your third ! " quoth 
 
 Juan, turning round ; 
 " You scarcely can be thirty : have you 
 three ? " 
 " No — only two at present above 
 ground : 
 Surely, 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
 One person thrice in holy wedlock bound ! " 
 "Well, then, your thurd," said Juan; 
 " what did she ? 
 She did not run away, too, — did she, sir ? " 
 " No, faith." — " What then ? "— " I ran 
 away from her." 
 
 " You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. 
 
 " Why," 
 RepUed the other, " what can a man 
 
 do? 
 There still are many rainbows in youir 
 
 sky, 
 
674 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 But mine have vanish'd. All, when 
 life is new, 
 Commence with feelings warm and pros- 
 pects high ; 
 But time strips our illusions of their hue, 
 And oue by. one in turn, some grand mis- 
 take 
 Casts off its bright skin yearly like the 
 snake. 
 
 " 'Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh, 
 Or fresher, brighter ; but the year gone 
 through, 
 This skin must go the way, too, of all 
 flesh. 
 Or sometimes only wear a week or two : — 
 Love's the first net which spreads its 
 deadly mesh ; 
 Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, 
 glue 
 The glittering lime-twigs of our latter 
 
 days, 
 Where still we flutter on for pence or 
 praise." 
 
 XXIII 
 
 " All this is very fine, and may be true," 
 Said Juan ; " btrt I really don't see how 
 It betters present times with me or you." 
 " No ? " quoti the other ; " 3?et you will 
 allow 
 By setting things in their right point of 
 view, 
 Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for 
 instance, now, 
 We know what slavery is, and our disas- 
 ters 
 May teach us better to behave when 
 masters." 
 
 .XXIV 
 
 " Would we were masters now, if but to try 
 Their present lessons on our Pagan 
 friends here," 
 Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning 
 sigh : 
 '■ Heaven help the scholar, whom bis 
 fortune sends here ! " \ 
 
 " Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 
 Rejoiu'd the other, " when our bad 
 luck mends here. 
 Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to 
 
 eye us) 
 I wish to G — d that somebody would buy 
 
 •' But after all, what i% our present state ? ! 
 
 Tis bad.and may be better — all men's lot : J 
 
 Most men are slaves, none more so than t 
 
 the great, j 
 
 To their own whims and passions, and ' 
 
 what not ; | 
 
 Si ciety itsrlf, which should create 
 
 Kindness, destroys what little we had 
 ,got: 
 To feel for none is the true social art 
 Of the world's stoics — men without a 
 heart." 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Just now a black old neutral personage 
 Of the third sex stept up, and peering 
 over 
 
 The captives, seem'd to mark their looks 
 and age, 
 And capabilities, as to discover 
 
 If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
 No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 
 
 Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 
 
 Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 
 
 .X.XVII 
 
 As is a slave by his intended bidder. 
 
 Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow- 
 creatru"es ; 
 And all are to be sold, if you consider 
 Their passions, and are dext'rous ; 
 some by features 
 Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 
 Some by a place — as tend theu: vears or 
 nattrres ; 
 The most by ready cash — but all have 
 
 prices, 
 From crowns to kicks, according to their 
 vices. 
 
 .XXVIII 
 
 The eunuch having eved them o'er with 
 care, 
 Turu'd to the merchant, and began to 
 bid 
 First but for on«, and after for the pair ; 
 They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — 
 so they did ! 
 As though they were in. a mere Christian 
 fair. 
 Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or 
 kid; 
 So that their bargain sounded like a battle 
 For this superior yoke of human cattle. 
 
 x.xix. 
 At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
 And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
 Tm-ning each piece of silver o'er, and 
 tumbling 
 Some down, and weighing others in their 
 hand, 
 And by mistake sequins with paras jum- 
 bling. 
 Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 
 .And then the merchant giving change, 
 
 and signing 
 Receipts in full, began to think of dining, 
 
 xx.x 
 I wonder if his appetite was good ? 
 Or, if it were, if also his digestion ? 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 ^'IS 
 
 Methinks at meals some odd thoughts 
 might intrude, 
 And conscience ask a curious sort of 
 question. 
 About the right divine how far we should 
 Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has 
 opprest one, 
 I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
 Which turns up out of the sad twenty- four. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Voltaire says " No " he tells you that Can- 
 dide 
 Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
 He's wrong — unless man were a pig, indeed. 
 Repletion rather adds to what he feels, 
 Unless he's drunk, and then no doubt he's 
 freed 
 From his own brain's oppression while 
 it reels. 
 Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 
 Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and 
 one father ;) 
 
 XXXII 
 
 I think with Alexander, that the act 
 Of eating, with another act or two, 
 
 Makes us feel our mortality in fact 
 
 Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout. 
 
 And fish, and soup, by some side dishes 
 back'd. 
 Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
 
 Would pique himself on intellects, whose 
 use 
 
 Depends so much upon the gastric juice ? 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 The other evening ('twas on Friday last) — 
 This is a fact, and no poetic fab) e — 
 
 Just as mv great coat was about me cast, 
 My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
 
 I heard a shot — 'twas eight o'clock scarce 
 past — 
 And, running out as fast as I was able, 
 
 I found the military commandant 
 
 Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to 
 pant. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
 They had slain him with five slugs ; 
 and left him there 
 To perish on the pavement : so I had 
 Him borne into the house and up the 
 stair „ 
 
 And stripp'd, and look'd to,— But why 
 should I add 
 More circumstances ? vain was every 
 care ; . 
 
 The man was gone : m some Italian quar- 
 rel 
 Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun- 
 barrel. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 
 And though I have seen many corpses, 
 never 
 Saw one, whom such an accident befell. 
 So calm ; though pierced through 
 stomach, heart, and liver, 
 Up seem'd to sleep, — for you could scarcely 
 tell 
 (AS he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
 Of gore divulged the cause) that he was 
 
 dead : 
 So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 " Can this be death ? then what is life or 
 
 death ? 
 Speak ! " but he spoke not : " wake ! " 
 
 but still he slept : — 
 " But yesterday, and who had mightier 
 
 breath ? 
 A thousand warriors by his word were 
 
 kept 
 In awe : he said, as the centurion saith, 
 ' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth 
 
 he stepp'd. 
 The trump and bugle till he spake were 
 
 dumb — 
 And now nought left him but the muffled 
 
 drum." 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 And they who waited once and worshipp'd 
 —they 
 With their rough faces throng' d about 
 the bed [clay 
 
 To gaze once more on the commanding 
 Which for the last, though not the first, 
 time bled ; 
 And such an end ! that he who many a day 
 Had faced Napoleon's foes until they 
 fled,— 
 The foremost in the charge or in the sally. 
 Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 The scars of his old wounds were near his 
 new. 
 Those honourable scars which brought 
 him fame ; 
 And horrid was the contrast to the 
 
 view ■ 
 
 But let me quit the theme ; as such 
 things claim 
 Perhaps even more attention than is due 
 From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed 
 the same) 
 To try if I could wrench aught out of death 
 Which should confirm, or shake, or make a 
 faith ; 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 But it was all a mystery. Here we are. 
 And there we go : — but where ? five 
 bits of lead. 
 
676 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
 And is this blood, then, form'd but to be 
 shed? 
 Can every element our elements mar ? 
 And air — earth — water — fire live — and 
 we dead ? 
 We, whose minds comprehend all things. 
 
 No more ; 
 But let us to the story as before. 
 
 XL 
 
 The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
 Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
 Embarked himself and them, and off they 
 went thence 
 As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
 They look'd like persons being led to 
 sentence, 
 Wond'ring what next, till the caique 
 was brought 
 Up in a little creek below a wall 
 O ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and 
 tall. 
 
 XLl 
 
 Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
 Of a small iron door, 'twas orien'd, and 
 He led them onward, first through a low 
 thicket 
 Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd 
 on either hand ; 
 They almost lost their way, and had to 
 pick it — 
 For night was closing ere they came to 
 land. 
 The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
 Who row'd off, leaving them without a 
 word. 
 
 XLII 
 
 As they were plodding on their winding 
 way 
 Through orange bowers, and jasmine, 
 and so forth : 
 (Of which I might have a good deal to say. 
 There being no such profusion in the 
 North 
 Of oriental plants, " et cetera," 
 
 But that of late your scribblers think it 
 worth 
 Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their 
 
 works 
 Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the 
 Turks :) 
 
 XLIII 
 
 As they were threading on their way, there 
 
 came 
 Into Don Juan's head a thought, which 
 
 he 
 Whisper'd to his companion : — 'twas the 
 
 same 
 Which might have then occurr'd to you 
 
 or me. 
 " Methmks," — said he,—" it would be nr 
 
 great shame 
 
 If we should strike a stroke to set us free j 
 Let's knock that old black fellow on the 
 
 head. 
 And march awa}' — 'twere easier done than 
 
 said." 
 
 " Yes," said the other, " and when done, 
 what then ? 
 How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
 And when we once were fairly out, and 
 when 
 From Saint Bartholomew we have 
 saved our skin. 
 To-morrow 'd see us in some other den. 
 And worse off than we hitherto hav^ 
 been ; 
 Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would 
 
 take, 
 Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. 
 
 " We must be near some place of man 's 
 abode ; — • 
 For the old negro's confidencein creeping, 
 With his two captives, by so queer a road, 
 Shows that he thhiks his friends have not 
 been sleeping ; 
 A single cry would bring them all abroad : 
 'Tis better therefore looking before 
 leaping — 
 And there, you see, this turn has brought 
 
 us through. 
 By Jove, a noble palace ! — ^lighted too." 
 
 XLVl 
 
 It was indeed a wide extensive building 
 \\hich opea'd on their view, and o'er 
 the front 
 There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gild- 
 ing 
 And various hues, as is the Turkish 
 wont, — 
 A gaudy taste, for they are little skill'd in 
 The arts of which these lands were once 
 the font : 
 Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 
 New painted, or a prettv opera-scene. 
 
 XL\ai 
 And nearer as they came, a genial savour 
 Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and 
 pilaus. 
 Things which in hungry mortals' eyes 
 find favour. 
 Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 
 Aiid put himself upon his good behaviour : 
 His mend, too, adding a new saving 
 clause. 
 Said, " In Heaven's name let's get some 
 
 supper now. 
 And then I'm with you, if you're for a raw." 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 677 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 
 Some to men's feelings, others to their 
 reason ; 
 The last of these was never much the 
 fashion. 
 For reason thinks all reasoning out of 
 season ; 
 Some speakers whine, and others lay the 
 lash on, • 
 
 But more or less continue still to tease on, 
 With arguments according to their " forte ;" 
 But no one ever dreams of being short. — 
 
 XLIX 
 
 But I digress : of all appeals, — although 
 I grant the power of pathos, and of gold. 
 
 Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
 Method's more sure at moments to take 
 hold 
 
 Of the best feelings of mankind, which 
 grow 
 More tender, as we every day behold. 
 
 Than that all-softening overpowering knell, 
 
 The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 
 
 Turkey contains no bells, and yet men 
 dine ; 
 And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
 No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
 
 Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared. 
 
 Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire 
 
 shine, 
 
 And cooks in motion with their clean 
 
 arms bared. 
 
 And gazed around them to the left and 
 
 right. 
 With the prophetic eye of appetite. 
 
 And giving up all notions of resistance. 
 They foUow'd close behind their sable 
 guide. 
 Who little thought that his own crack'd 
 existence 
 Was on the point of being set aside : 
 He motion'd them to stop at some small 
 distance. 
 And knocking at the gate, 'twas open'd 
 wide. 
 And a magnificent large hall display'd 
 The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 
 
 LII 
 
 I won't describe ; description is my forte, 
 But every fool describes in these bright 
 days 
 His wondrous journey to some foreign court, 
 And spawns his quarto, and demands 
 your praise — 
 Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport ; 
 While Nature, tortured twenty thousand 
 wa75. 
 
 Resigns herself with exemplary patience 
 To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, 
 illustrations. 
 
 Along this hall, and up and down, some, 
 squatted 
 Upon their hams, were occupied at chess : 
 Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 
 
 And some seem'd much in love with 
 their own dress ; 
 And divers smoked superb pipes, decorated 
 With amber mouths of greater price or 
 less ; 
 And several strutted, others slept, and some 
 Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
 
 LIV 
 
 As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
 Of purchased Infidels, some raised their 
 eyes 
 A moment, without slackening from their 
 pace ; 
 • But those who sate, ne'er stirr'd in any 
 wise: 
 One or two stared the captives in the face. 
 Just as one views a horse to guess his 
 price ; 
 Some nodded to the negro from their 
 
 station, 
 But no one troubled him with conversation. 
 
 He leads them through the hall, and, with- 
 out stopping, 
 On through a farther range of goodly 
 rooms. 
 
 Splendid but silent, save in one, where, 
 dropping, 
 A marble fountain echoes through the 
 glooms 
 
 Of night, which robe the chamber, or where 
 popping 
 Some female head most curiously pre- 
 sumes 
 
 To thrust its black eyes through the door or 
 lattice, 
 
 As wondering what the devil noise that is. 
 
 LVI 
 
 Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty 
 walls 
 Gave light enough to hint their farther 
 way. 
 But not enough to show the imperial halls 
 
 In all the flashing of their full array ; 
 
 Perhaps there's nothing — I'll not say 
 
 appals. 
 
 But saddens more by night as well as day. 
 
 Than an enormous room without a soul 
 
 To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 
 
 Two or three seem so little, one seems 
 nothing ; 
 
678 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the 
 shore, 
 There solitude, we know, has her full 
 growth in 
 The spots which were her realms for 
 evermore ; 
 But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 
 More modem buildings and those built 
 of yore, 
 A kind of death comes o'er us all alone. 
 Seeing what's meant for many with but 
 one. 
 
 A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 
 A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
 
 Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 
 Are things which make an English even- 
 ing pass ; 
 
 Though certes by no means so grand a sight 
 As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
 
 I pass my evenings in long galleries solely. 
 
 And that's the reason I'm so melancholy. 
 
 Alas ! man makes that great which makes 
 him little : 
 I grant you in a church 'tis very well : 
 What speaks of Heaven should by no means 
 be brittle. 
 But strong and lasting, till no tongue 
 can tell 
 Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses 
 fit ill— 
 And huge tombs worse — mankind, since 
 Adam fell : 
 Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 
 Might teach them this much better than 
 I'm able. 
 
 Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then 
 A town of gardens, walls, and wealth 
 amazing. 
 Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 
 Reign'd, till one summer's day he took 
 to grazing. 
 And Daniel tamed the lions in their den. 
 
 The people's awe and admiration raising ; 
 'Twas famous, too, forThisbe and for Pyra- 
 
 mus, 
 And the calumniated queen Semiramis. — 
 
 That injured Queen, by chroniclers so 
 coarse. 
 Has been accused (I doubt not by con- 
 spiracy) 
 Of an improper friendship for her horse 
 (Love, like religion, sometimes rtrns to 
 heresy) : 
 This monstrous tale had probably its source 
 (For such ex aggerations here and there I 
 see) 
 
 In writing " Courser " by mistake for 
 
 " Courier ;" 
 I wish the case would come before a jury 
 
 here. 
 
 But to resume, — should there be (what 
 may not 
 Be in these days ?) some infidels, who 
 don't. 
 Because they can't, find out the very spot 
 Of that same Babel, ijr because they 
 won't 
 (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some 
 bricks has got. 
 And written lately two memoirs upon't,) 
 Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 
 Must be believed, though they believe not 
 you, 
 
 LXIII 
 
 Yet let them think that Horace has exprest 
 Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
 Of those, forgetting the great place of rest. 
 Who give themselves to architecture 
 wholly ; 
 We know where things and men must end 
 at best : 
 A moral (like all morals) melancholy. 
 And " Et sepulchriimmemorstruisdomos" 
 Shows that we build when we should but 
 entomb us. 
 
 At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
 Where echo woke as if from a long 
 slumber ; 
 Though full of all things which could be 
 desired. 
 One wonder' d what to do with such a 
 number 
 Of articles which nobody required ; 
 
 Here wealth had done its utmost to en- 
 cumber 
 With furniture an exquisite apartment. 
 Which puzzled Nature much to know what 
 Art meant. 
 
 It seem'd, however, but to open on 
 A range or suite of further chambers, 
 which 
 Might lead to heaven knows where ; but 
 in this one 
 The moveables were prodig,V;ly rich : 
 Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon, 
 
 So costly were they ; carpets cverv 
 stitch 
 Of workmanship so rare, they made you 
 
 wish 
 
 You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 
 
 The black, however, without hardh' deign- 
 ing 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 679 
 
 A glance at that which wrapt the slaves 
 in wonder, 
 Trampled what they scarce trod for fear 
 of staining, 
 As if the milky way their feet was under 
 With all its stars ; and with a stretch at- 
 taining 
 A certain press or cupboard niched in 
 yonder, 
 In that remote recess which you may see — 
 Or if you don't the fault is not in me, — 
 
 LXVII 
 
 1 wish to be perspicuous ; and the black, 
 
 I say, unlocking the recess, puU'd forth 
 
 A quantity of clothes fit for the back 
 
 Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
 
 And of variety there was no lack — 
 
 And yet, though I have said there was 
 no dearth, — 
 He chose himself to point out what he 
 
 thought 
 Most proper for the Christians he had 
 bought. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 The suit he thought most suitable to each 
 Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
 A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might 
 reach. 
 And trousers not so tight that they would 
 burst. 
 But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
 
 A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had 
 been nurst. 
 Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 
 In short, all things which form a Turkish 
 dandy. 
 
 While he was dressing, Baba, their black 
 friend. 
 Hinted the vast advantages which they 
 Might probably obtain both in the end, 
 If they would but pursue the proper way 
 Which Fortune plainly seem'd to recom- 
 mend ; 
 And then he added, that he needs must 
 say, 
 " 'Twould greatly tend to better their 
 
 condition. 
 If they would condescend to circumcision. 
 
 " For his own part, he really should rejoice 
 To see them true believers, but no less 
 
 Would leave his proposition to their 
 choice." 
 The other, thanking him for this excess 
 
 Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice 
 In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
 
 " Sufficiently " (he said) " his approbation 
 
 Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 
 
 " For his own share — he saw but small 
 objection 
 To so respectable an ancient rite ; 
 And, after swallowing down a slight refec- 
 tion. 
 For which he own'd a present appetite, 
 He doubted not a few hours of reflection 
 Would reconcile him to the business 
 quite." 
 " Will it ? " said Juan, sharply : " Strike 
 
 me dead, 
 But they as soon shall circumcise my head ! 
 
 LXXII 
 
 " Cut off a thousand heads, before " 
 
 — " Now, pray," 
 
 Replied the other, " do not interrupt : 
 You put me out in what I had to say. 
 
 Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supt, 
 I shall perpend if your proposal may 
 
 Be such as I can properly accept ; 
 Provided always your great goodness still 
 Remits the matter to our own free-will." 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 
 As dress yourself-^" and pointed out a 
 suit 
 In which a Princess with great pleasure 
 would 
 Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute. 
 As not being in a masquerading mood. 
 Gave it a slight kick with his Christian 
 foot ; 
 .\nd when the old negro told him to " Get 
 
 ready," 
 RepUed, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 " What you may be, I neither know nor 
 care," 
 Said Baba ; " but pray do as I desire : 
 I have no more time nor many words to 
 spare." 
 " At least," said Juan, " sure I may 
 inquire 
 The cause of this odd travesty ? " — 
 " Forbear," 
 Said Baba, " to be curious ; 'twill trans- 
 pire. 
 No doubt, in proper place, and time, and 
 
 season : 
 I have no authority to tell the reason." 
 
 LXXV 
 
 " Then if I do," said Juan, " I'll be " 
 
 — " Hold ! " 
 Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not pro- 
 voking ; 
 This spirit's well , but it may wax too bold, 
 And you will find us not too fond of 
 joking." 
 " What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be 
 told - 
 
G8o 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 That I unsex'd my dress ? " But 
 Baba, stroking 
 The things down, said, " Incense me, and I 
 
 call 
 Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 " I oi^er you a handsome suit of clothes : 
 A woman's true ; but then there is a 
 cause 
 Why you should wear them." — " What, 
 though my soul loathes 
 The effeminate garb ? " — thus, after a 
 short pause, 
 Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight 
 oaths, 
 " What the devil shall I do with all this 
 gauze ? " 
 Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 
 Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he 
 slipp'd 
 A pair of trousers of flesh-colour'd silk ; 
 Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd. 
 Which girt a slight chemise as white as 
 milk ; 
 But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 
 Which — as we say — or as the Scotch 
 say, whilk, 
 (The rhj'me obliges me to this ; sometimes 
 Monarchs are less imperative than 
 rhymes) — 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Whilk, which (or what you please), was 
 owing to 
 His garment's no\elty, and his being 
 awkward : 
 And yet at last he managed to get through 
 His toilet, though no doubt a little back- 
 ward : 
 The negro Baba help'd a little too, 
 When some untoward part of raiment 
 stuck hard ; 
 And, wrestling both his arms into a gown. 
 He paused, and took a survey up and down. 
 
 LX.XI.X 
 
 One difficulty still remain'd — his hair 
 Was hardly long enough ; but Baba 
 found 
 So many false long tresses all to spare. 
 That soon his head was most completely 
 crown'd. 
 After the manner then in fashion there ; 
 And this addition with such gems was 
 bound 
 .As suited the ensemble of his toilet. 
 While Baba made him comb his head and 
 oil it. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 And now being femininely all array'd. 
 With some small aid from scissors, paint, 
 and tweezers, 
 He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 
 And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, " You 
 see, sirs, 
 A perfect transformation here display'd : 
 And now, then, you must come along 
 with me, sirs, 
 That is — the Lady : " clapping his hands 
 
 twice. 
 Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 
 
 LX.XXI 
 
 " You. sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
 " Will please to accompany those gen- 
 tlemen 
 To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 
 Will follow me : no trifling, sir ; for 
 when 
 I say a thing, it must at once be done. 
 What fear you ? think you this a lion's 
 den ? 
 Why, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 
 Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 " You fool ! I tell you no one means you 
 harm." 
 " So much the better," Juan said, " for 
 them ; 
 Klse they shall feel the weight of this m-y 
 arm, 
 Which is not quite so light as you may 
 deem. 
 I yield thus far ; but soon will break the 
 charm. 
 If any take me for that w'hich I seem ; 
 So that I trust for every body's sake. 
 That this disguisemayleadtono mistake." 
 
 Lxx.xin 
 " Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth 
 Baba ; while 
 Don Juan, tm-uing to his comrade, who 
 Though somewhat grieved, could scarce 
 forbear a smile 
 Upon the metamorphosis in \'iew, — 
 "Farewell!" they mutually exclaim'd: 
 " this soil 
 Seems fertile in adventures strange and 
 new ; 
 One's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a 
 
 maid. 
 By 'this old black enchanter's unsought 
 aid." 
 
 L.XXXIV 
 
 " Farewell ! " said Juan : " should w-e meet 
 no more, 
 I wish vnu .1 good appetite." — " Fare- 
 well ! ' 
 
 Replied the other ; " though it grieves me 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 68 1 
 
 When we next meet, we'll have a tale to 
 tell: 
 We needs must follow when Fate puts frpm 
 shore. 
 Keep your good -name : though Eve her- 
 self once fell." 
 " Nay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self 
 
 shan't carry me, 
 Unless his highness promises to marry me." 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 And thus they parted, each by separate 
 doors ; 
 Baba led Juan onward room by room 
 Through glittering galleries, and o'er 
 marble floors, 
 Till a gigantic portal through the gloom. 
 Haughty and huge, along the distance 
 lowers ; 
 And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
 It seem'd as though they came upon a 
 
 shrine. 
 For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 The giant door was broad, and bright, and 
 high, 
 Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious 
 guise ; 
 Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 
 Here stalks the victor, there the van- 
 quish'd lies ; 
 There captives led in triumph droop the 
 
 And in perspective many a squadron 
 
 flies: 
 It seems the work of times before the Une 
 Of Rome transplanted fell with Constan- 
 
 tine. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 This massy portal stood at the wide close 
 Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
 
 Two little dwarfs, the least you could sup- 
 pose. 
 Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied ' 
 
 In mockery to the enormous gate which 
 
 O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 
 The gate so splendid was in all its features. 
 You never thought about those little crea- 
 tures, 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Until you nearly trod on them, and then 
 
 You started back in horror to survey 
 The wondrous hideousness of those small 
 men, ■ 
 Whose colour was not black, nor white, 
 nor grey, . 
 
 But an extraneous mixtiiire, which no pen 
 Can trace, although perhaps the pencil 
 
 mav ; . ■ j * j 
 
 They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and 
 
 dumb, — 
 
 Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous 
 sum. 
 
 I.X.XXIX 
 
 Their duty was — for they were strong, 
 and though 
 They look'd so little, did strong things 
 at times — 
 To ope this door, which they could really 
 do. 
 The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' 
 rhymes ; 
 And now and then, with tough strings ot 
 the bow. 
 As is the custom of these Eastern climes, 
 To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 
 For mutes are generally used for that, 
 
 xc 
 They spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at 
 all; 
 And looking like two incubi, they glared 
 As Baba with his fingers made them fall 
 To heaving back the portal folds ; it 
 scared 
 Juan a moment, as this pair so small. 
 With shrinking serpent optics on him 
 stared ; 
 It was as if their little looks could poison 
 Or fascinate whome'er they fixed their eyes 
 
 Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
 
 To Juan some slight lessons as his guide ; 
 
 " If you could just contrive," he said, 
 
 " to stint 
 
 That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 
 
 'Twould be as well, and, — (though there's 
 
 not much in't) 
 
 To swing a little less from side to side, 
 
 Which has at times an aspect of the 
 
 oddest ; — 
 And also could you look a little modest, 
 
 xcii 
 " 'Twould be convenient ; tur these mutes 
 have eyes 
 Like needles, which may pierce those 
 petticoats ; 
 And if they should discover yovir disguise. 
 You know how near us the deep Bos- 
 phorus floats ; 
 And you and I may chance, ere morning 
 rise, 
 To find our way to Marmora without 
 boats, 
 Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
 A good deal practised here upon occasion." 
 
 xciii 
 "With this encouragement, he led the way 
 Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
 .A rich confusion form'd a disarray 
 
 In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
 "■/ V 
 
682 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Could hardly carry any thing away. 
 Object on object flash'd so bright and 
 fast ; 
 A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and 
 
 glitter, 
 Magnificently mingled in a litter. 
 
 XCIV 
 
 Wealth had done wonders — taste not 
 much ; such things 
 Occur in Orient palaces, and even 
 In the more chasten'd domes of Western 
 kings 
 (Of which I have also seen some six or 
 seven) 
 Where I can' t say or gold or diamond flings 
 Great lustre, there is much to be for- 
 given ; 
 Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and 
 
 pictures. 
 On which I cannot pause to make my stric- 
 tures. 
 
 In this imperial hall, at distance lay 
 Under a canopy, and there reclined 
 Quite in a confidential queenly way, 
 A lady ; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling 
 sign'd 
 To Juan, who though not much used to 
 pray. 
 Knelt down by instinct, wondering in 
 his mind 
 What all this meant : while Baba bow'd 
 
 and bended 
 His head, until the ceremony ended. 
 
 .xcvi 
 The lady rising up with such an air 
 
 As Venus rose with from the wave, on 
 them 
 Bent Like an antelope a Paphian pair 
 Of eyes, which put out each surrounding 
 gem ; 
 And raising up an arm as moonlight fair. 
 She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the 
 hem 
 Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, 
 Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 
 
 xcvii 
 Her presence ^vas as lofty as her state ; 
 Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
 Whose force description only would abate : 
 ■ I'd rather leave it much to your own 
 mind , 
 Than lessen it by what I could relate 
 Of forms ond features ; it would strike 
 you blind 
 Could I do jusiice to tlie full detail ; 
 So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 
 
 .\C VIII 
 
 Thus much hoN\'evrr I mav add, — her 
 Vt.ars 
 
 Were ripe, they might make six-and- 
 twenty springs, 
 Bii.t there are forms which Time to touch 
 forbears. 
 And turns aside his scythe to vulgar 
 things : 
 Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots ; true 
 — tears 
 And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow 
 wrings 
 Charms from the charmer, yet some never 
 
 grow 
 Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 
 
 xcix 
 She spake some words to her attendants, 
 who 
 Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen. 
 And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too. 
 Who wore their uniform, by Baba 
 chosen : 
 They form'd a very nymph-like looking 
 crew. 
 Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 
 " cousin," 
 As far as outward show may correspond ; 
 I won't be bail for anything' beyond. 
 
 They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, re- 
 tiring. 
 But not by the same door through which 
 came in 
 Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring. 
 At some small distance, all he sawmthin 
 This strange saloon, much fitted for inspir- 
 ing 
 Marvel and praise ; for both or none 
 things win ; 
 And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 
 Great happiness of the " Xil Admirari." 
 
 " Not to admire is all the art I know 
 (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few 
 flowers of speech) 
 To make men happy, or to keep them so ; 
 (So take it in the \ery words of Creech) ." 
 Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago ; 
 And thus Pope quotes the precept to 
 re-teach 
 From his translation ; but had none ad- 
 
 Would Pupe have sung, or Horace been in- 
 spired ? 
 
 Baba, when all the damsels were with- 
 drawn!, 
 Motion'd to Juan to.pproach, and then 
 A second time desired lum to kneel down, 
 And kiss the ladv's foot ; which maxim 
 when 
 He heard repeated, Juan with a frowii 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 683 
 
 Drew himself up to his full height again. 
 And said," It grieved him, but he could 
 
 not stoop 
 To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope. 
 
 cm 
 Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 
 Made fierce remonstrances, and then a 
 threat 
 He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
 About a bow-string — quite in vain ; not 
 yet 
 Would Juan bend, though 'twere to Ma- 
 homet's bride : 
 There's nothing in the world like eiiqnclte 
 In kingly chambers or imperial halls. 
 As also at the race and county ball^. 
 
 He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
 About his ears, and nathless would not 
 bend ; 
 The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
 Boil'd in his veins, and rather than des- 
 cend 
 To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
 A thousand times of him had made an 
 end ; 
 At length perceiving the " fool " could not 
 
 stand, 
 Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 
 
 Here was an honourable compromise, 
 
 A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
 Where they might meet in much more 
 peaceful guise ; 
 And Juan now his willingness exprest 
 To use all fit and proper courtesies. 
 
 Adding, that this was commonest and 
 best. 
 For through the South, the custom still 
 
 commands 
 The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 
 
 cvi 
 
 And he advanced, though with but a bad 
 grace, 
 Though on more thorough-bred or fairer 
 fingers 
 No lips e'er left their transitory trace : 
 On such as these the hp too fondly 
 lingers. 
 And for one kiss would fain imprmt a brace , 
 As you will see, if she you love shall 
 bring hers . 
 
 In contact ; and sometimes even a fau: 
 
 stranger's 
 An almost twelvemonth's constancy en- 
 dangers. 
 
 CVII 
 
 The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
 
 Saba retire, which he obey'd in style. 
 
 As if well-u »d to the rstreRting trade ; 
 
 And taking hints in good part all the 
 while, 
 He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid. 
 And looking on him with a sort of smile, 
 Took leave, with such a fare of satisfaction. 
 As good men wear who have done a vir- 
 tuous action. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 When he was gone, tliere was a sudden 
 change : 
 I know not what might be the lady'- 
 thought. 
 But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult 
 strange, 
 And into her rlear cheek the blood wis 
 brought, 
 Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which 
 range 
 The verge of Heaven ; and in her largr- 
 eyes wrought, 
 A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 
 Of half- voluptuousness and half-command 
 
 Her form had all the softness of her se.K. 
 Her features all the sweetness of the 
 devil. 
 When he put on the cherub to perplex 
 Eve, and paved (God knows how) tht 
 road to evil ; 
 The sun himself was scarce more free from 
 specks 
 Than she from au'At at which the eye 
 could cavil ; 
 Yet, somehow, there was something some- 
 where wanting, 
 As if she rather order' d than was granting. — 
 
 Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
 A chain o'er all she did : that is, a chain 
 Was thi^vn as 'twere about the neck of 
 you, — 
 And rapture's self will seem almost a 
 pain 
 With aught which looks like despotism in 
 view ; 
 Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 
 We would against them make the flesh 
 
 obey — 
 The spirit in the end will have its way. 
 
 Her very smile was haughty, though sc 
 sweet ; 
 Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
 There was a self-will even in her small feet. 
 As though they were quite conscious ol 
 her station — 
 They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 
 Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
 A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
 ' She was a sultan's bride, (thank H«aven, 
 not mine !) 
 
684 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 ' To hear and to obej' " had been from 
 birth 
 The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
 All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 
 Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as 
 her will ; 
 Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of 
 earth : 
 Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood 
 still ; 
 Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
 We should have found out the " perpetual 
 motion." 
 
 Wh=ite'er she saw and coveted was brought; 
 Whatever she did not see, if she supposed 
 It might be seen, with diligence was sought, 
 And when 'twas found straightway the 
 bargain closed : 
 There was no end unto the things she 
 bought, 
 Nor to the trouble which her fancies 
 caused ; 
 Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
 The women pardon'd all except her face. 
 
 cxiv 
 Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
 
 Her eye in passng on his way to sale ; 
 She order'd him directly to be bought, 
 
 And Baba, who had ne'er been known to 
 fail 
 In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 
 
 At all such auctions knew how to prevaih 
 She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 
 Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 
 
 cxv 
 His youth and features favour'd the dis- 
 guise, '* 
 And should you ask how she, a sultan's 
 bride, 
 Could risk or compass such strange phan- 
 tasies, 
 ^ This I must leave sultanas to decide : 
 Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
 And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 
 As we may ascertain with due precision, 
 Some by experience, others by tradition, 
 
 cxvr 
 But to the main point, where we have been 
 tending : — 
 She now conceived all difficulties past. 
 And deem'd herself extremely condescend- 
 ing 
 When, being made her property at last, 
 Without more preface, in her blue eyes 
 blending 
 Passion and power, a glance on him she 
 oast, 
 
 And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou 
 
 love ? •' 
 Conceived that phrase was quite enough to 
 
 move. 
 
 cxvii 
 And so it was. In proper time and place ; 
 But Juan, who had still his mind o'er- 
 flowing 
 With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 
 Felt the warm blood, which in his face , 
 was glowing. 
 Rush back upon his heart, which fiU'd 
 apace. 
 And left his cheeks as pale as snow-drops 
 blowing : 
 These words went through his soul like 
 
 Arab-spears, 
 So ♦hat he spoke not, but burst into tears. 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 Shfc was a good deal shock'd ; not shock' d 
 at tears. 
 For women shed and use them at their 
 liking ; 
 But there is something when man's eye 
 appears 
 Wet, still more disagreeable and striking: 
 A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half 
 sears. 
 Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike 
 in 
 His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) 
 To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 
 
 CXIX ♦ 
 
 And she would have consoled, but knew 
 not how : 
 Having no equals, nothing which had 
 e'er 
 Infected her with sympathy till now. 
 And never havmg dreamt what 'twas to 
 bear 
 Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, al- 
 though 
 There might arise some pouting petty 
 care 
 To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so 
 
 near 
 Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 
 
 But nature teaches more than power can 
 spoil. 
 And. when a strong although a strange 
 sensation 
 Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 
 For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their 
 nation. 
 They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
 
 Samaritans in everv situation ; 
 And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not 
 
 why. 
 Felt an odd glistening moi«ture in her eye. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 O85 
 
 CXXI 
 
 But tears must stop like all things else ; 
 and soon 
 Juan, who for an instant had been moved 
 To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 
 Of one who dared to ask if " he had 
 loved," 
 Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which 
 shone 
 Bright with the very weakness he re- 
 proved ; 
 And although sensitive to beauty, he 
 Felt most indignant still at not being free. 
 
 CXXII 
 
 Gulbeyazl, for the first time in her days, 
 Was much embarrass'd, never having 
 met 
 In all her life with aught save prayers and 
 praise ; 
 And as she also risk'd her life to get 
 Him whom she meant to tutor in love's 
 w^ays. 
 Into a comfortable tete-4-tete. 
 To lose the hour would make her quite a 
 
 martyr. 
 And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 I also would suggest the fitting time. 
 To gentleman in any such like case, 
 
 That is to say — in a meridian clime, 
 With us there is more law given to the 
 chase. 
 
 But here a small delay forms a great crime : 
 So recollect that the extremes! grace 
 
 Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
 
 A moment more would hurt your reputa- 
 tion^ 
 
 cxxiv 
 Juan's was good; and might have been 
 still better, 
 But he had got Haidee into his head : 
 However strange, he could not yet forget 
 J^sr, ,. , ,„ 
 
 Which made him seem exceedmgly lU- 
 bred. 
 Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
 For having had him to her palace led, 
 Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
 Grow deadly pale, and then blush back 
 again. 
 
 cxxv 
 
 At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
 Her hand on his, and bending on him 
 eves, . ^ , 
 
 Whicli needed not an empire to persuade, 
 Look'd into his for love, where none re- 
 
 Her brow' grew black, but she would not 
 upbraid. 
 That being the last tbmg a proud woman 
 tries ; 
 
 She rose, and pausing one chaste moment. 
 
 threw 
 Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 
 
 cxxvi 
 This was an awkward test, as Juan found. 
 But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, 
 and pride : 
 With gentle force her white arms he un- 
 wound, 
 And seated her all drooping by his side, 
 Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 
 And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
 " The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 
 Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 
 
 c.x.xvii 
 " Thou ask'st, if I can love ? be this the 
 proof 
 How much I have loved — that I love not 
 thee I 
 In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and 
 woof, 
 Were fitter for me : Love is for the free ! 
 I am not dazzled by this splendid roof ; 
 Whate'er thy power, and great it seems 
 to be, 
 Headi bow, knees bend, eyes watch around 
 
 a throne. 
 And hand; obey — our hearts are still oiu- 
 own." 
 
 cxxviii 
 This was a truth to us extremely trite ;. 
 Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such, 
 things : 
 She deem'd her least command must yield 
 delight , 
 Earth being only made for queens and 
 kings. 
 If hearts lav on the Rft side or the rJjht 
 She hardly knew, to such perfection 
 brings 
 Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
 Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 
 
 cxxix 
 
 Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
 As even in a much humbler lot had made 
 A kingdom or confusion any where, 
 
 And also, as may be presumed, she laid 
 
 Some stress on charms, which seldom are, 
 
 if e'er. 
 
 By their possessors thrown into the 
 
 shade : 
 
 She thought her's gave a double " right 
 
 divine : " 
 And half of that opinion's also mine. 
 
 cxx.x 
 
 Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, 
 Ye ! who have kept your chastity when 
 
 young, 
 While some more desperate dowager has 
 
 been \vaging 
 
686 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Love with you, and been in the dog-days 
 stung 
 By your refusal, recollect her raging ! ' 
 
 Or recollect all that was said or sung 
 On such a subject ; then suppose the face 
 Of a young downright beauty in this case. 
 
 cxxxi 
 Suppose, — but you already have supposed, 
 The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby,' 
 Phfedra, and all which story has disclosed 
 Of good examples ; pity that so few by 
 Poets and private tutors are exposed, 
 To educate — ye youth of Europe — you 
 by! 
 But when you have supposed the few we 
 
 know, 
 You can't suppose Gulbeyar' angry brow. 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 
 Or any interesting beast of prey. 
 Are similes at hand for the distress 
 Of ladies who can not have their own 
 way ; 
 But though my turn will not be served 
 with less. 
 These don't express one half what I 
 should say : 
 For what is stealing young ones few or 
 
 many. 
 To cutting short their hopes of having any ? 
 
 cxxxni 
 The love of offspring, 's nature's general law, 
 From tigresses and cubs to ducks and 
 ducklings ; 
 There's nothing whets the beak, or arms 
 the claw. 
 Like an invasion of their babes and suck- 
 lings ; 
 And all who have seen a human nursery, 
 saw 
 How mothers love their children's squalls 
 and chucklings ; 
 This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
 Your patience) shows the cause must still 
 be stronger. 
 
 cxxxiv 
 If I said fire flash'd from Gulhevaz' eyes, 
 'Twere nothing — for her eves flash'd 
 always fire ; 
 Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest 
 dyes, 
 I should but bring disgrace upon the 
 dyer. 
 So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 
 For ne'er till now she knew a check'd 
 desire : 
 Even ye who know what a check'd woman 
 
 is 
 (Enough, God knows !) would much fall 
 short of thi-^. 
 
 cxxxv 
 Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas 
 
 well — 
 A moment's more had slain her ; but 
 
 the while 
 
 It lasted 'twas like a short glimpse of hell : 
 
 Nought's more sublime than energetic 
 
 bile. 
 
 Though horrible to see yet grand to tell. 
 
 Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 
 
 And the deep passions flashing through her 
 
 form 
 Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 
 
 cxxxvi 
 A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon 
 
 To match a common fury with he/ rage. 
 And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 
 Like moderate Hotspur on the immor- 
 tal page ; 
 Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune. 
 Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and 
 age— 
 Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," like 
 
 Lear's, 
 And then her thirst of blood was quench'd 
 in tears. 
 
 cxxxvii 
 A storm it raged, and like the storm it 
 pass'd 
 Pass'd without words — in fact she could 
 not speak ; 
 And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 
 
 A sentiment till then in her but weak, 
 But now it flow'd in natural and fast. 
 
 As water through an unexpected leak ; 
 For she felt humbled — and humiliation 
 Is sometimes good for people in her station. 
 
 CXXXVIII 
 
 It teaches them that they are flesh and 
 blood. 
 It also gently hints to them that others. 
 Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud ; 
 That urns and pipkins are but fragile 
 brothers. 
 And works of the same potterr. bad or 
 good. 
 Though not all born of the same sires 
 and mothers ; 
 It teaches — Hea\-en knows only what it 
 
 teaches. 
 But sometimes it may mend, and often 
 reaches. 
 
 CXXXIX 
 
 Her first thought was to cut off Juan's 
 head ; 
 Her second, to cut only his — acquaint- 
 ance ; 
 Her third, to ask him where he had been 
 bred ; 
 Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
 Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 
 
DOX JUAN 
 
 68; 
 
 Her sixth, to stab herself ; her seventh, 
 to sentence 
 The lash to Baba : — but her grand resource 
 Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 
 
 CXL 
 
 She thought to stab herself, but then she 
 had 
 The dagger close at hand, which made it 
 awkward ; 
 For Eastern stays are little made to pad, 
 So that a poniard pierces if 'tis stuck 
 hard : 
 She thought of killing Juan — but, poor 
 lad ! 
 Though he deserved it well for being so 
 backward, 
 The cutting off his head was not the art 
 Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 
 
 Juan was moved : he had made up his 
 mind 
 
 To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
 For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined. 
 
 Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish. 
 And thus heroically stood resign'd, 
 
 Rather than sin — except to his own wish : 
 But all his great preparatives for dying 
 Dissolved like snow before a woman cryin g. 
 
 CXLII 
 
 As through his palms Bob Acres' valour 
 oozed. 
 So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how ; 
 And first he wonder'd why he had refused; 
 And then, if matters could be made up 
 now ; 
 And next his savage virtue he accused. 
 
 Just as a friar may accuse his vow. 
 Or as a dame repents her of her oath. 
 Which mostly ends in some small breach of 
 both. 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 So he began to stammer some excuses ; 
 But words are not enough in such a 
 matter, 
 Although you borrow'd all that e er the 
 muses , , , ■■ i 
 
 Have sung, or even a Dandy s dandiest 
 chatter, 
 Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ; 
 
 Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
 His peace was making, but before he ven- 
 tured 
 Further, old Baba rather briskly enter d. 
 
 CXLIV 
 
 " Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the 
 
 Moon ! '* 
 ('Twas thus he spake,) " and Empress 
 
 of the Earth ! , „ . 
 
 Whose frown would put the spheres all out 
 
 of tune. 
 
 Whose smile makes all the planets 
 dance with mirth, 
 Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too 
 soon — 
 Which your sublime attention may be 
 worth : 
 The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, 
 To hint that he is coming up this way." 
 
 CXLV 
 
 " Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say ? 
 I wish to heaven he would not shine till 
 morning ! 
 But bid my women form the Milky- way. 
 Hence, my old comet ! give the stars 
 due warning — 
 And, Christian ! mingle with them as you 
 may, 
 And as you'd have me pardon your past 
 
 scorning " 
 
 Here they were interrupted by a humming 
 Sound, and then by a cry, " The Sultan's 
 coming ! " 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 First came her damsels, a decorous file. 
 And then his Highness' eunuchs, black 
 and white ; 
 
 The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 
 His majesty was always so polite 
 
 As to announce his visits a long while 
 Before he came, especially at night ; 
 
 For being the last wife of the Emperour, 
 
 She was of course the favourite of the four. 
 
 CXLVII 
 
 His Highness was a n;ian of solemn port, 
 Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the 
 eyes, 
 
 Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
 His lately bowstrung brother caused his 
 rise ; 
 
 He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
 .\s any mentioned in the histories 
 
 Of Cantemir, or KnoUgs, where few shine 
 
 Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 
 
 CXLVtll 
 
 He went to mosque in state, and said his 
 prayers 
 With more than " Oriental scrupul- 
 osity ; " 
 He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
 
 And show'd but little royal curiosity : 
 I know not if he had domestic cares — 
 
 No process proved connubial animosity ; 
 Four wives and twice five hundred maids, 
 
 unseen. 
 Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen . 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 If now and then there happen'd a slight 
 
 slip, 
 Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 
 The story scarcely pass'd a single lip— 
 
588 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The sack and sea had settled all in time, 
 From which the secret nobody could rip : 
 
 The public knew no more than does this 
 rhyme ; 
 No scandals made the daily press a curse — 
 Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 
 
 CL 
 
 He saw with his own eyes the moon was 
 round, 
 Was also certain that the earth was 
 square, 
 Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and 
 found 
 No sign that it was circular anywhere : 
 His empire also was without a bound : 
 
 'Tis true, a little troubled here and there, 
 By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 
 But then they never came to " the Seven 
 Towers ; " 
 
 Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
 To lodge there when a war broke out, 
 according 
 To the true law of nations, which ne'er 
 meant 
 Those scoundrels, who have never had a 
 sword in 
 Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 
 Their spleen in making strife, and safely 
 wording 
 Their lies, yclept despatches, \rithout risk 
 
 or 
 The singeing of a single inky whisker. 
 
 CLII 
 
 He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, 
 Of whom all such as came of age were 
 stow'd, 
 The former in a palace, where like nuns 
 They li\'ed till some Bashaw was sent 
 abroad, 
 When she, whose turn it was, was wed at 
 once. 
 Sometimes at six years old — though 
 this seems odd, 
 'Tis true ; the reason is, that the Bashaw 
 Must make a present to his sire in law. 
 
 CLIII 
 
 His sons were kept in prison, till they grew 
 Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 
 
 One or the other, but which of the two 
 Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 
 
 Meantime the education they went through 
 Was princely, as the proofs ha\'e always 
 shown ; 
 
 So that the lieir-apparent still was found 
 
 No less deserving to be hang'd than 
 crown'd. 
 
 His Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 
 With all the ceremonies of his r.mk. 
 
 Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and 
 
 smooth'd her brows, 
 As suits a matron who has play'd a 
 
 prank ; 
 These must seem doubly mindful of their 
 
 vows. 
 To save the credit of their breaking 
 
 bank : 
 To no men are such cordial greetings 
 
 given 
 As those whose wives have made them fit 
 
 for heaven. 
 
 His Highness cast around his great black 
 eyes. 
 And looking, as he always look'd, per- 
 ceived 
 Juan amongst the damsels in disguise. 
 At which he seem'd no whit surprised 
 nor grieved. 
 But just remark'dwith air sedate and wise, 
 While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz 
 heaved, 
 " I see you've bought another girl; 'tis 
 
 pity 
 That a mere Christian should be half so 
 pretty." 
 
 This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
 The new-bought virgin, made her blush 
 and shake. 
 Her comrades, also, thought themselves 
 undone : 
 Oh ! Mahomet ! that his Majesty should 
 take 
 Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
 
 Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 
 There was a general whisper, toss, and 
 
 wTiggle, 
 But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 
 
 CLVII 
 
 The Turks do well to shut — at least, some- 
 times — 
 The women up — ^because, in sad reality. 
 Their chastity in these unhappy climes 
 
 Ts not a thing of that astringent quality 
 Which in the north prevents precocious 
 crimes. 
 And makes our snow less pure than our 
 morality ; 
 The sun, which yearly mc-lts the polar ice. 
 Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 
 
 Thus in the East they are extremely strict. 
 And wedlock and a padlock mean the 
 same ; 
 
 Excepting only when the fcmer's pick'd 
 It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame 
 
 Spoilt, as a pipe of cljret is when prick'd 
 But then their own polygamv's to blame 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 6S9 
 
 Why dijii't they knead two virtuous souls 
 
 for life 
 Into that moral centaur, man and wife ? 
 
 Thus far our chronicle ; and now- we pause, 
 Though not for .want of matter ; but 'tis 
 time. 
 According to the ancient epic laws, 
 To slacken sail, and anchor with our 
 rhyme. 
 Let this fifth canto meet with due ap- 
 plause. 
 The sixth shall have a touch of the sub- 
 lime; 
 Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, 
 
 perhaps 
 You'll pardon to my Muse a few short naps. 
 
 CANTO THE SIXTH 
 
 I 
 " There is a tide in the affairs of men. 
 Which taken at the flood," — you know 
 the rest. 
 And most of us have found it now and then ; 
 At least we think so, though but few 
 have guess'd 
 The moment, till too late to come again. 
 
 But no doubt every thing is for the best — 
 Of which the surest sign is in the end : 
 When things are at the worst they some- 
 times mend. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of women 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads — God 
 knows where : 
 Those navigators must be able seamen 
 Whose charts lay down its current to a 
 hair ; 
 Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmeii ' 
 With its strange whirls and eddies can 
 compare : 
 Men with their heads reflect on this and 
 
 that — 
 But women with their hearts on heaven 
 knows what ! 
 
 Ill 
 And yet a headlong, headstrong, down- 
 right she, 
 Voung, beautiful, and daring — who 
 would risk 
 A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
 Bt'loA-ed in her own way, and rather 
 whisk 
 The stars from out the sky, than not be frer 
 As are the billows when the breeze is 
 brisk — 
 Though such a she's a devil (if there be 
 
 one), 
 Yet she would make full many a Maiiichean. 
 
 IV 
 
 Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
 By commonest ambition, that when pas- 
 sion 
 O'erthrows the same, we readily forget. 
 Or at the least forgive, the loving rash 
 one. 
 If Anthony be well remember'd yet, 
 
 *Tis not his coi;iquests keep his name in 
 fashion. 
 But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes. 
 Outbalances all Caesar's victories. 
 
 He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 
 I wish their years had been fifteen and 
 
 twenty. 
 For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but 
 
 a sport — I 
 Remember when, though I had no great 
 
 plenty 
 Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my 
 
 court, I 
 Gave what I had — a heart ; as the world 
 
 went, I 
 Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds 
 
 could never 
 Restore me those pure feelings, gone for 
 
 ever. 
 
 'Twas the boy's " mite," and like the 
 " widow's," may 
 Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 
 But whether such things do or do not 
 weigh. 
 All who have loved, or love, will still 
 allow 
 Life has nought like it. God is love, they 
 say. 
 And Love's a God, or was before the 
 brow " 
 Of earth was twinkled by the sins and tears 
 Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 
 
 VII 
 
 We left our hero and third heroine in 
 A kind of state more awkward than un- 
 common. 
 For gentlemen must sometimes risk their 
 skin 
 For that sad tempter, a forbidden 
 woman : 
 Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin. 
 And don't agree at all with the wise 
 Roman, 
 Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 
 Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 
 
 VIII 
 
 I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 
 
 I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
 But I detest all fiction even in song. 
 
 And so must tell the truth, howe'er you 
 blame it. 
 
ego 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Her reason being weak, her passion strong, 
 
 She thought that her lord's heart (even 
 
 could she claim it) 
 
 Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
 
 Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 
 
 I am not, likeCassio, " an arithmetician," 
 But by the " bookish theorio " it ap- 
 pears, 
 If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision, 
 That, adding to the account his Highness' 
 years. 
 The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 
 
 For, were the Sultan just to all his dears. 
 She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth 
 
 part 
 Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 
 
 X 
 
 It is observed that ladies are litigious 
 Upon all legal objects of possession. 
 And not the least so when they are religi- 
 ous. 
 Which doubles what they think of the 
 transgression ; 
 With suits and prosecutions they besiege 
 us. 
 As the tribunals show through many a 
 sesion. 
 When they suspect that any one goes shares 
 In that to which the law makes them sole 
 heirs. 
 
 Now, if this holds good in a Christian land. 
 The heathen also, though with lesser 
 latitude. 
 Are apt to carry things with a high hand. 
 And take, what kings call " an imposing 
 attitude ; " 
 And for their rights connubial make a 
 stand. 
 When their liege husbands treat them 
 with ingratitude ; 
 And as four wives must have quadruple 
 
 claims. 
 The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 
 
 XII 
 
 Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
 The favourite ; but what's favour 
 amongst four ? 
 Polygamy may well be held in dread. 
 
 Not only as a sin, but as a bore : 
 Most wise men with one moderate woman 
 wed. 
 Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 
 And all (except Mahometans) forbear 
 To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of 
 Ware." 
 
 XIII 
 
 His Highness, the sublimest of manldnd,— 
 So styled according to the usual forms 
 
 Of every monarch, till they are consign'd 
 
 To those sad hungry jacobins the worms, 
 Who on the very 'loftiest kings have 
 dined, — 
 His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' 
 charms. 
 Expecting all the welcopie of a lover 
 (A ' Highland welcome " all the wide 
 world over). 
 
 XIV 
 
 Now here we should distinguish ; for 
 howe'er 
 Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all 
 that, 
 May look like what is — ^neither here nor 
 there, 
 Thy are put on as easily as a hat, 
 Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
 Trimm'd either heads or hearts to de- 
 corate. 
 Which form an ornament, but no more part 
 Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 
 
 A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
 Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
 
 More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
 Rather to hide what pleases most un- 
 known. 
 
 Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
 Of love, when seated on his loveliest 
 throne, 
 
 A sincere woman's breast, — for over-icafm 
 
 Or GV&T-cold annihilates the charm. 
 
 For over-wajm, if false, is worse than 
 truth ; 
 If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire ; 
 For no one, save in very early vouth. 
 
 Would like (I think) to trust all to desire. 
 Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 
 And apt to be transferr'd to the first 
 buyer 
 At a sad discount : while vour over chilly 
 Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat 
 siUy. 
 
 XVII 
 
 That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
 
 For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 
 Who fain would have a mutual flame con- 
 fess' d. 
 And see a sentimental passion glow, 
 Even were St. Francis' paramour their 
 guest. 
 In his monastic concubine of snow ; — 
 In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe 
 
 is 
 Horatian, " Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 
 
 XVIII 
 
 The " tu" 's too much, — but let it stand, 
 — the verse 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 691 
 
 Requires it, that'3 to say, the English 
 rhyme, 
 A.nd not the pink of old hexameters ; 
 But, after all, there's neither tune nor 
 time 
 In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
 And was thrust in to close the octave's 
 chime : 
 I own no prosody can ever rate it 
 As a rule, but trulh may, if you translate it. 
 
 XIX 
 
 If fair Gulbeyar overdid her part, 
 
 I know not — it succeeded, and success 
 
 Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
 Than other articles of female dress 
 
 Self-love in man, too, tieats all female art ; 
 They lie, we lie, all lie, butlove no less : 
 
 And no one virtue yet, except starvation. 
 
 Could stop that worst of ^'ices — propaga- 
 tion. 
 
 XX 
 
 We leave this royal couple to repose : 
 A bed is not a throne, and they may 
 sleep, 
 
 Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes : 
 Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
 
 As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 
 Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
 
 'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which 
 wears 
 
 The soul out (like the stone) with petty 
 
 A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 
 
 To pay, unpaid, protested or discounted 
 At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 
 A favourite horse fallen lame just as he's 
 mounted, 
 A bad old woman making a worse will. 
 Which leaves you minus of the cash 
 you counted 
 As certain ; — these are paltry things, and 
 
 yet 
 I've rarely seen the man the^' did not fret. 
 
 I'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 
 Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! not 
 womankind ! 
 With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, 
 And then, my stoicism leaves nought be- 
 hind 
 Which it can either pain or evil call, 
 And I can give my whole soul up to 
 mind ; 
 Though what is soul, or mind, their birth 
 
 or growth, 
 Is more than I know — the deuce take them 
 both ! 
 
 xxiii 
 So now all things are d— n'd one feels at 
 ease. 
 
 As after reading Athanasius' curse. 
 Which doth your true believer so much 
 please : 
 
 I doubt if any now could make it worse 
 O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 
 
 'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse. 
 And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
 As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 
 
 Gulbevaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
 At least one of them ! — Oh, the heavy 
 night, 
 When witked wives, who love some bache- 
 lor. 
 Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 
 Of the grey morning, and look vainly for 
 Its twinkle through the lattice dusky 
 quite — 
 To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and 
 
 quake 
 Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should 
 wake ! 
 
 XXV 
 
 These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 
 
 Also beneath the canopy of beds 
 Four-posted and silk-curtain' d, which are 
 given 
 For rich men and their brides to lay 
 their heads 
 Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 
 " driven 
 Snow." Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when 
 one weds. 
 Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
 Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Don Juan in his feminine disguise. 
 
 With all the damsels in their long array, 
 Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial 
 
 eyes, , . 
 
 And at the usual signal ta'en their way 
 Back to their chambers, those long galler- 
 
 In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 
 Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms 
 
 there 
 Beating for love, as the caged bird s for air. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 I love the sex, and sometimes would re- 
 verse , . , , 
 The tyrant's wish, " that mankind only 
 
 One neck, which he with one fell stroke 
 
 might pierce ; " .. . , 
 
 My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, 
 
 And much more tender on the whole than 
 
 fierce ; , ■, 1 ji 
 
 It being (not now, but only while a lad) 
 
 That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 
 
 To kiss them all at once from North to 
 
 South. 
 
692 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 xxvm 
 Oh, enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 
 And heads, if thou hadst all things mul- 
 tiplied 
 In such proportion ! — But my Muse 
 withstands 
 The giant thought of being a Titan's 
 bride. 
 Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 
 
 So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
 Our hero through the labyrinth of love 
 In which we left him several lines above. 
 
 He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,* 
 At the given signal join'd to their array ; 
 And though he certainly ran many risks. 
 Yet he could not at times keep, by the 
 way, 
 (Although the consequences of such frisks 
 Are worse than the worst damages men 
 pay 
 In moral England, where the thing's a tax,) 
 From ogling all their charms from breasts 
 to backs. 
 
 XXX ■ 
 
 Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 
 The galleries from room to room they 
 walk'd, 
 A virgin-like and edifjing throng, 
 
 By eunuchs iJauk'd ; while at their 
 head there stalk'd 
 A dame who kept up discipline among 
 The female ranks, so that none stirr'd 
 or talk'd, 
 Without her sanction on their she-parades : 
 Her title was ' the Mother of the Maids." 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Whether she was a " mother," I Imow not, 
 Or whether they were maids who call'd 
 her mother ; 
 
 But this is her seraglio title, got 
 
 I know not how, but good as any other ; 
 
 So Cantemir 3 can tell you, or De Tott : * 
 Her office was to keep aloof or smother 
 
 AH bad propensities in fifteen hundred 
 
 Young women, and correct them when they 
 blunder'd. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
 More easy by the absence of all men — 
 
 Except his majesty, — who, with her aid, 
 And guards, and bolts, and walls, and 
 now and then, 
 
 A slight example, just to cast a shade 
 Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
 
 Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
 
 Where all the passions ha\-.-. alas ! but one 
 vent. 
 
 XX.XIII 
 
 And what U th.it ? Devotion. doubt!es<! 
 
 — how 
 
 Could you ask such a question ?^but 
 we will 
 Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
 
 Of ladies of all countries at the will 
 Of one good man, with stately inarch and 
 slow, 
 Like water-lilies floating do^vn a rill — 
 Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 
 Paced on most maiden-like and melan- 
 choly. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 But when they reach'd their own apart- 
 ments, there. 
 Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke 
 loose, 
 Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 
 When freed from bonds (which are of 
 no great use 
 After all), or like Irish at a fair. 
 Their guards being gone, and as it were a 
 truce 
 Establish'd between them and bondage, 
 
 they 
 Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and 
 play. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Their talk, of course, ran most on the new 
 
 comer ; 
 Her shape, her hair, her air, her everv- 
 
 thing ; 
 Some thought her dress did not so much 
 
 become her. 
 Or wonder'd at her ears mthout a ring ; 
 Some said her years were getting nigh their 
 
 summer. 
 Others contended they were but in 
 
 spring ; 
 Some thought her rather mascuUne in 
 
 height. 
 While others wish'd that she had been so 
 
 quite. 
 
 -XXXVI 
 
 But no one doubted on the whole, that she 
 Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel 
 fair, 
 And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly," 
 Who with the brightest Georgians 
 might compare : 
 They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could 
 be 
 So silly as to buy slaves who might share 
 (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 
 Her throne and power, and e^-ery thing 
 beside. 
 
 .X-X.XVII 
 
 But what was strangest in this \-irgiii crew, 
 Although her beauty was enough to vex. 
 
 After the first investigating view, 
 
 Th.-y all found out as few, or fewer, 
 specks 
 
 In the fair form of their companion new, 
 Than is the custom of the gejitle sex, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 (-9^ 
 
 When they survey, with Christian eyes or 
 Heathen, 
 
 In a new face " the ugliest creature breath- 
 ing." 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 And yet they had their little jealousies. 
 Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion, 
 Whether there are such things as sym- 
 pathies 
 Without our knowledge or our approba- 
 tion, 
 Although they could not see through his 
 disguise, 
 All felt a soft kind of concatenation. 
 Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
 You please — ^we will not quarrel about that i 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 But certain 'tis they all felt for their new 
 Companion something newer still, as 
 'twere 
 A sentimental friendship through and 
 through. 
 Extremely pure, which made them all 
 concur 
 In wishing her their sister, save a few 
 Who wish'd they had a brother just like 
 her. 
 Whom, if they were at home in sweet Cir- 
 
 cassia, 
 They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 
 
 Of those who had most genius for this sort 
 Of sentimental friendship, there were 
 three, 
 Lolah, Katinka.5 and Dudil ; in short, 
 
 (To save description) fair as fair can be 
 
 Were they, according to the best report, 
 
 Though differing in stature and degree, 
 
 And clime and time, and country and 
 
 complexion ; 
 They all alike admired their new connec- 
 tion. 
 
 XLI 
 
 Lolah was dusk as India and as warm; 
 Katinka was a Georgian,* white and red. 
 With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and 
 arm. 
 And feet so small they scarce seem d 
 made to tread, r, , ,, 
 
 But rather skim the earth ; while Dudil s 
 form 
 Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
 Being somewhat large, and languishmg, 
 
 and lazy. 
 Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 
 
 XLII 
 
 A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudil, 
 
 Yet very fit to " murder sleep in those 
 Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent 
 hue, 
 
 Her Attic forehead, and her Phidiaa 
 nose : 
 Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 
 Thinner she might have been, and y^l 
 scarce lose ; 
 Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say wher.; 
 It would not spoil some separate charm to 
 pare. 
 
 .XLIII 
 
 She was not violently lively, but 
 
 Stole on your spirit like a May-day break- 
 ing ; 
 Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half- 
 shut. 
 They put beholders in a tender taking l 
 She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 
 From marble, like Pygmalion's statue 
 waking, 
 The mort.l and the marble still at strife, 
 And timidly expanding into life. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
 " Juanna," — Well, a pretty name enough. 
 
 Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 
 " From Spain." — " But where is Spain ? " 
 — " Don't ask such stuff 
 
 Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for 
 shame ! " 
 Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough. 
 
 To poor Katinka ; ' ' Spain's an island near 
 
 Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 
 
 XLV 
 
 Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
 Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 
 
 And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, 
 As if she pitied her for being there, 
 
 A pretty stranger, without friend or guide. 
 And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 
 
 Which welcomes hapless strangers in all 
 places, 
 
 With kind remarks upon their mien and 
 faces. 
 
 XL VI 
 
 But here the Mother of the Maids drew near. 
 With " Ladies, it is time to go to rest : 
 
 I'mpuzzlsd what todowith you, my dear," 
 She added to Juanna, their new guest : 
 
 " Your coming has been unexpected here. 
 And every couch is occupied ; you had 
 best 
 
 Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
 
 We will have all things settled for you 
 fairly." 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you 
 Icnow 
 You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot 
 bear 
 That anybody should disturb you so ; 
 I'll take Juanna ; we're a slenderer pair 
 
694 DON 
 
 JUAN 
 
 f han 3'ou would make the half of ; — don't 
 
 LTI 
 
 say no ; 
 
 Dudu, a= has been said, was a sweet crea- 
 
 And I of your young charge will take due 
 
 ture, 
 
 care." 
 
 Not \'ery dashing, but extremely win- 
 
 But here Katinka interfered, and said, 
 
 ning, 
 
 *' She also had compassion and a bed. 
 
 With the most regulated charms of feature. 
 
 
 Which painters cannot catch like faces 
 
 " Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 
 The matron frown'd : " why so ? " — 
 " For fear of ghosts,'' 
 Replied Katinka ; " I am sure I see 
 
 A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
 
 .\nd then I have the worst dreams that can 
 
 be, 
 
 Of Guebros, Giaours, and Ginns, and 
 
 Gouls in hosts," 
 
 The dame replied, " Between your dreams 
 
 and >-ou, 
 I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 " You Lolah, must continue still to lie 
 Alone, for reasons which dou't matter; 
 you 
 The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
 
 And I shall place Juanna v/ith Dudu, 
 Who's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 
 
 And win not toss and chatter the night 
 through. 
 What say you, child ? " — Dudu said no- 
 thing, as 
 Her talents were of the more silent' class ; 
 
 But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's 
 brow 
 Between the eyes, and Lolah on both 
 cheeks, 
 Katinka too ; and with a gentle bow 
 (Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor 
 Greeks) 
 Siie took Juanna by the hand to show 
 Their place of rest, and left to both their 
 piques, 
 The others pouting at the matron's pre- 
 ference 
 Of Dudil, though they held their tongues 
 from deference. 
 
 It was a spacious chamber (Oda is 
 
 The Turkish title), and ranged round the 
 wall 
 Were couches, toilets — and much more 
 than this 
 I might describe, as I haye seen it all. 
 But it suffices — little was amiss ; 
 'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd 
 hall, 
 With all things ladies want, save one or 
 
 two, 
 And even thof<e were nearer than they 
 tasw. 
 
 smnmg 
 
 Against proportion — the wild strokes of 
 nature 
 Which they hit off at once in the begin- 
 ning, 
 
 Full of expression, right or wrong, that 
 strike. 
 
 And pleasing, or unpleasing, still are like. 
 
 But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
 Where all was harmony, and calm, and 
 quiet, 
 Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without 
 mirth, 
 ^A'hich, if nrit happiness, is much more 
 nigh it 
 Than are your Aighty passions and so forth, 
 Which some call " the subUme : " I 
 wish they'd try it : 
 I've seen your stormy seas and stormy 
 
 women, 
 And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 
 
 But she was pensive more than melancholy, 
 And serious more than pensive, and 
 serene. 
 It may be, more than either — not unholy 
 Her thoughts, at least till now, appear 
 to have been. 
 The strangest thing was. beauteous, she 
 was wholly 
 Unconscious, albeit tum'd of quick 
 seventeen. 
 That she wa: fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 
 She never thought about herself at all. 
 
 LV 
 
 And therefore was she kind and geutle as 
 The Age of Gold (when gold was vet un- 
 known, 
 By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
 Thus most appropriately has been 
 shown 
 " Lucas A non lucendo," not what was. 
 But what ilUs :iol ; a sort of stvle that's 
 grown 
 Extremely common in this age, whose 
 
 metal 
 The devil may decompose, but never settle: 
 
 LVI 
 
 I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," 
 Which was a mixture of all metals, but 
 The brazen uppermnstl. Kind reader! 
 pass . 
 
DOX JUAN 
 
 ''^05 
 
 This long paraithesis : I could not shut 
 It sooner for the soul of me, and class 
 My faults even with your own ! which 
 meaneth, Put 
 A kind construction upon them and me : 
 But that you won't — then don't — I am not 
 less free. 
 
 Lvn 
 'Tis time we should retiu'n to plain narra- 
 tion, 
 And thus my narrative proceeds : — 
 Dudu, 
 With every kindness short of ostentation, 
 Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and 
 through 
 This labyrmth of females, and each station 
 Described — what's strange — in words 
 extremely few : 
 I have but one simile, and that's a blunder, 
 For wordless woman, which is silent 
 thunder. 
 
 And next she gave her (I say her, because 
 The gender still was epicene, at least 
 
 In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
 An outline of the customs of the East, 
 
 With all their chaste integrity of laws. 
 By which the more a harem is increased. 
 
 The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
 
 Of any supernumerary beauties. 
 
 LIX 
 
 And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
 Dudii was fond of kissing — ^which I'm 
 sure 
 That nobody can ever take amiss, 
 
 Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, 
 
 And between females means no more than 
 
 this — 
 
 That they have nothing better near or 
 
 newer. 
 
 " Kiss " rhjTnes to " bliss " in fact as well 
 
 as verse — 
 I wish it never led to something worse! 
 
 LX 
 
 In perfect innocence she then unmade 
 
 Her toilet, which cost httle, for she was 
 A child of Xature, carelessly array'd : 
 
 If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 
 'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake 
 displav'd, 
 Beholds her own shy, shadowy image 
 pass, 
 When first she starts, and then returns to 
 
 peep. 
 Admiring this new native of the deep. 
 
 And one by one her articles of dress 
 Were laid aside ; but not before she 
 offer'd 
 Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 
 
 Of modfsly decUned the a,=i5tance 
 proffer'd : 
 Which pass'd well off — as she could do no 
 less ; 
 Though by this politesse she rather 
 sufier'd. 
 Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 
 Wliich surely were invented for our sins, — 
 
 LXII 
 
 Making a woman like a porcupine. 
 
 Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more 
 dread, 
 
 Oh, ye ! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine, 
 In early youth, to turn a lady's maid ; — 
 
 I did my very boyish best to shine 
 In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
 
 The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
 
 Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 
 
 LXllI 
 
 But these are foolish things to all the wise, 
 And I love wisdom more than she loves 
 me ; 
 My tendency is to philosophise 
 
 On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 
 
 But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge 
 
 flies. 
 
 What are we ? and whence came we ? 
 
 what shall be 
 
 Our ultimate ejdstence ? what's our present ? 
 
 Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
 And distant from each other burn'd the 
 lights. 
 And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
 Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites. 
 They should have walk'd there in their 
 sprightliest trim. 
 By way of change from their sepulchral 
 sites, 
 And show themselves as ghosts of better 
 
 taste 
 Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Many and beautiful lay those around. 
 Like flowers of different hue, and clime, 
 and root, 
 In some exotic garden sometimes found. 
 With cost, ana care, and ^varmth, induced 
 to shoot. 
 One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, 
 And fair brows gently drooping, as the 
 fruit 
 Nods from the, tree, was slumbering with 
 
 soft breath. 
 And lips apart, which show'd the pearls 
 beneath. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 One with herflush'd cheek laid on her white 
 arm, 
 
696 
 
 DOX JUAN 
 
 And raven ringlets gather'd in dark 
 crowd 
 Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and 
 warm ; 
 And smiling through her dream, as 
 through a cloud 
 Themoonbreaks.half unveil'd each further 
 charm, 
 As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud , 
 Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of 
 
 night 
 All bashfully to struggle into light. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for 
 'Twas night, but there were lamps, as 
 hath been said. 
 A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more 
 The traits of sleeping sorrow, and be- 
 tray'd 
 Through the heav'd breast the dream of 
 some far shore 
 Beloved and deplored ; while slowly 
 stray'd 
 (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, 
 
 tinges 
 The black bough), tear-drops through her 
 eyes* dark fringes. 
 
 LXVII! 
 
 A fourth as marble, statue-like and still. 
 Lay in a breathless, hush'd and stony 
 sleep ; 
 White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill. 
 Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep. 
 Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you 
 will ; — 
 My similes are gather'd in a heap. 
 So pick and choose — perhaps you'll be con- 
 tent 
 With a carved lady on a monument. 
 
 And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 
 
 A lady of " a certain age," which means 
 Certainly aged — what her years might be 
 
 I know not, never counting past their 
 teens ; 
 But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, 
 
 As ere that awful period intervenes 
 \\'hich lavs both men and women on the 
 
 shelf. 
 To meditate upon their sins and self. 
 
 LXX 
 
 But all this time how slept, or dream'd, 
 pudii ? 
 With strict inquiry I could ne'er dis- 
 cover. 
 And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 
 
 But ere the middle watch was hardly 
 over, 
 Just when the fading lamps waned dim and 
 blue, 
 
 And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to 
 
 hover, 
 To those who like their company, about 
 The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd 
 
 out : 
 
 And that so loudly, that upstarted all 
 The Oda. in a general commotion : 
 Matron and maids, and those whom you 
 may call 
 Neither, came crowding like the waves 
 of ocean. 
 One on the other, throughout the whole 
 hall. 
 All trembling, wondering, without the 
 least notion 
 More than I have myself of what could 
 
 make 
 The calm Dudii so turbulently wake. 
 
 LXXIl 
 
 But wide awake she was, and round her 
 bed, 
 With floating draperies and with flying 
 hair, 
 With eager eyes, and light but hurried 
 tread. 
 And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing 
 bare, 
 And bright as any meteor ever bred 
 
 By the North Pole, — they sought her 
 cause of care. 
 For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and 
 
 frighten'd. 
 Her eye dilated, and her colour heighten'd. 
 
 But what is strange — and a strong proof 
 how great 
 A blessing is sound sleep — Juanna lay 
 As fast as ever husband by his mate 
 
 In holy matrimony snores away. 
 Not all the clamour broke her happy 
 state 
 Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they 
 say 
 At least, — and then she, too, unclosed her 
 
 eyes, 
 .\nd yawned a good deal with discreet 
 surprise. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 And now commenced a strict investit;ation, 
 Which, as all spoke at once, and more 
 than once 
 
 Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narra- 
 tion, 
 Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 
 
 io answer in a \erv clear oration. 
 Dudii had never pass'd for wanting- sense, 
 
 But beiag " no orator as Brutus is " 
 
 Could not at first expound what \^-as amiss 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 697 
 
 LXXV 
 
 At length she said, that in a slumber sound 
 She dream 'd a dream, of walking in a 
 wood — 
 A " wood obscure," like that where Dante 
 found 
 Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 
 Life's half-way house, where dames with 
 virtue crown'd 
 Run much less risk of lovers turning 
 rude ; 
 And that this wood was full of pleasant 
 
 fruits, 
 And trees of goodly growth and spreading 
 roots ; 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
 A most prodigious pippin — ^but it hung 
 Rather too high and distant ; that she 
 threw 
 Her glances on it, and then, longing, 
 flung 
 Stones and whatever she could pick up, to 
 Bring down the fruit, which still per- 
 versely clung 
 To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight. 
 But always at a most provoking height ; — 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 That on a sudden, when she least had hope. 
 It fell down of its own accord before 
 
 Her feet ; that her first movement was to 
 stoop 
 And pick it up, and bite it to the core ; 
 
 That just as her young lip began to ope 
 Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
 
 A bee flew out, and stung her to the heart. 
 
 And so — she woke with a great scream and 
 start. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 All this she told with some confusion and 
 Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 
 Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
 To expound their vain and visionary 
 gleams. 
 I've known some odd ones which seem'd 
 really plann'd 
 Prophetically, or that which one deems 
 A " strange coincidence," to use a phrase 
 By which such things are settled now-a- 
 days. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 The damsels, who had thoughts of some 
 great harm. 
 Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
 To scold a little at the false alarm 
 
 That broke for nothing on their sleeping 
 ear. 
 The matron, too, was wrath to leave her 
 warm 
 Bed for the dream she had been obliged 
 to hear. 
 
 And chafed at poor Dudii, who only sigh'd. 
 And said, that she was sorry she had cried. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 " I've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 
 
 But visions of an apple and a bee. 
 To take us from our natural rest, and pull 
 
 The whole Oda from their beds at half- 
 past three. 
 Would make us think the moon is at its full. 
 
 You surely are unwell, child ! we must 
 see. 
 To-morrow, what his Highness's physician 
 Will say to this 'hysteric of a vision. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 " And poor Juanna, too, the child's first 
 night 
 Within these walls, to be broke in upon 
 With such a clamour — I had thought it 
 right 
 That the young stranger should not lie 
 alone. 
 And. as the quietest of all, she might 
 With you, Dudil, a good night's rest have 
 known : 
 But now I must transfer her to the charge 
 Of Lolah — though her couch is not so 
 large." 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 
 But poor Dudii, with large drops in her 
 own, 
 Resulting from the scolding. or the vision. 
 Implored that present pardon might be 
 shown 
 For this first fault, and that on no con- 
 dition 
 (She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
 Juanna should be taken from her, and 
 Her future dreams should be all kept in 
 hand. 
 
 Lxxxm 
 She promised never more to have a dream. 
 At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 
 She wonder'd at herself how she could 
 scream — ■ 
 'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 
 A fond hallucination, and a theme 
 
 For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 
 And begg'd they would excuse her ; she'd 
 
 get over 
 This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 And here Juanna kindly interposed. 
 
 And said she felt herself extremely well 
 
 Where she then was, as her sound sleep 
 
 disclosed. 
 
 When all around rang like a tocsin bell ; 
 
 She did not find herself the least disposed 
 
 To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 
 
 Z Z 
 
698 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Apart from one who had no sin to show, 
 Save that of dreaming once " mal-a- 
 propos." 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 As thus Juartna spoke, Dudii turn'd round 
 And hid her face within Juanna's breast : 
 
 Her necH alone was seen, but that was 
 found 
 The colour of a budding rose's crest. 
 
 I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can 
 expound 
 The mystery of this rupture of their rest ; 
 
 All that i know is, that the facts I state 
 
 Are true as truth has ever been of late. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 And so good night to them — or, if you will, 
 Good morrow — for the cock had crown, 
 and light 
 Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 
 
 And the rqosque crescent struggled into 
 sight 
 Of the long caravan, which in the chill 
 Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each 
 height 
 That stretches to the stony belt, which girds 
 Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the 
 Kurds. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, 
 Gulbeyaz rose from_ restlessness ; and 
 pale 
 As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 
 Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and 
 ■ veil. 
 The nightingale that sings with the deep 
 thorn. 
 Which fable places in her breast of wail. 
 Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 
 Whose headlong passions form their proper 
 woes. 
 
 Lxxxvni 
 And that's the moral of this composition, 
 If people would but see its real drift ;— 
 But that they will not do without suspicion. 
 Because all gentle r'-;aders have the gift 
 Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of 
 vision ; 
 While gentle writeis also love to lift 
 Their voices 'gainst each other, which is 
 
 natural, 
 The numbers are too great for them to 
 flatter all. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour. 
 Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 
 
 Aloud becmse his feelings were too tender 
 To brook a ruffled rose-leaf bv his side, — 
 
 So beautiful that art could little mend her. 
 
 Though pale with ronflicts between love 
 
 and pride ■, — 
 
 So agitated was she with her error. 
 
 She did not even look into the mirror. 
 
 Also arose about the self-same time, 
 Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
 
 Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 
 .-Vnd of a ^vife hy whom he was abhorr'd ; 
 
 .\ thing of much less import in that clime — 
 ."Vt least to those of incomes which afford 
 
 The filling tip their whole connubial cargo — 
 
 Than where two wives are under an em- 
 bargo. 
 
 .xci 
 He did not think much on the matter, nor 
 
 Indeed on any other: es a man 
 He liked to ha\e a handsome paramour 
 
 ."M hand, as o.ne may like to have a fan, 
 .\nd therefore of Circassians had good store, 
 
 .-\.s an amusenrent after the Divan ; 
 Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
 Had made him lately bask in his bride's 
 beauty. 
 
 And now he rose : and after dtie ablutioiis 
 Exacted by the customs of the East, 
 
 -And prayers and other pious e^-olutions, 
 He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
 
 And then withdrew to hear about the 
 Russians, 
 \Vhose victories had recently increased 
 
 In Catherine's reign, whom glory still 
 adores, 
 
 .\s greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 
 
 But oh, thou grand legitimate .Alexander ! 
 Her son's son, let not this last phrase 
 offend 
 Thine ear, if it should reach — and now 
 rhymes wander 
 Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
 A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 
 Of murmuring Liberty's wide waAes, 
 which blend 
 Their roar e\-en with the Baltic's — ^so you 
 
 be 
 Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. 
 
 xciv 
 To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 
 
 Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon 
 That hater of mankind, would be a shame' 
 -\ libel, or whate'er von please to rhyme 
 on : ^ 
 
 But people's ancestors are history's game ■ 
 And if onefcdy's slip could leave a crime 
 on 
 All generations, I should like to know 
 What pedigree the best would have to 
 show ? 
 
 Had Catlierine and the sultan understood 
 fheir own true interests, which kiues 
 rarely know, * 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 699 
 
 Until 'tis taught bv lessons rather rude, 
 There was a waj' to end their strife, 
 although 
 Perhaps precarious, had they but thought 
 good, 
 VVitljquLthe aid of prince or plenipo : 
 She to dismiss her guards and he his harem, 
 And for their other matters, meet and share 
 'em. 
 
 xcvi 
 But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
 
 His daily Council upon Ways and means 
 How to encounter with this martial scold, 
 
 This modern Amazon and queen of 
 queans ; 
 And the perplexity could not be told 
 
 Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
 Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 
 Of those Who cannot lay on a new tax. 
 
 XCVII 
 
 Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was 
 gone, 
 Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
 For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, 
 lone. 
 And rich with all contrivances which 
 grace 
 Those gay recesses : — many a precious 
 stone 
 Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
 Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers. 
 Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 
 
 xcvni 
 .Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble. 
 Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 
 And singing birds without were heard to 
 warble ; 
 And the stain'd glass which lighted this 
 fair grot 
 Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions 
 garble 
 The true effect, and so we had better not 
 Be too miaute ; an outline is the best, — 
 A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 
 
 xcix 
 And here she summon' d Baba, a!id required 
 Don Juan at his hands, and iiiforma tion 
 Of what had pass'd since all the slaves 
 retired, 
 And whether he had occupied their sta- 
 tion : 
 If matters had been managed as desired. 
 And his disguise with due consideration 
 Kept up ; and above all, the where and 
 
 how 
 He had pass'd the night, was what • she 
 wish'd to know. 
 
 ■Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 
 To this long catechism Of questions, 
 ask'd 
 
 .More easily than answer'd, — that he had 
 
 tried 
 His best to obey in what he had been 
 
 task'd ; 
 But there seem'd something that he wish'd 
 
 to hide. 
 Which hesitation more betray'd than 
 
 mask'd ; 
 He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
 To which embarrass'dpeoplehaverecomse. 
 
 CI 
 
 Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience. 
 Nor much disposed to wait in Word or 
 deed ; 
 
 She liked quick answers in all conversa- 
 tions ; 
 And when she saw him stumbling like a 
 steed, 
 
 In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh 
 ones ; 
 And as his speech grew still more broken- 
 kneed. 
 
 Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to 
 sparkle, 
 
 .And her proud brow's blue veins to swell 
 and darkle. 
 
 CII 
 
 When Baba saw these symptoms, which he 
 knew 
 To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
 Her anger, and beseech'd shS'd hear him 
 through — 
 He could not help the thing which he 
 related ; 
 Then out it came at length, that to Dudii 
 Juan was given in charge, as hath been 
 stated ; 
 But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore 
 
 on 
 The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 
 
 cm 
 The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
 
 The discipline of the whole harem bore. 
 As soon as they re-enter'd their own room. 
 For Baba's function stopt short at the 
 door, 
 Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
 (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do 
 more, ' 
 Without exciting such suspjcion as 
 Might make the matter still worse than it 
 was. 
 
 CIV 
 
 He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be 
 sure, 
 Juan had not betray'd himself ; in fact 
 'Twas certain that his conduct had been 
 pure. 
 Because a foolish ol imprudent act 
 Would not alone have made him insecure. 
 But ended in his being found out and 
 !,ack'd. 
 
700 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 
 Of all save Dudii's dream, which was no 
 joke. 
 
 This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 
 And talk'd away — and might have talk'd 
 till now. 
 For any further answer that he found, 
 So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' 
 brow : 
 Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain 
 whirl'd round. 
 As if she had received a sudden blow. 
 And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and 
 
 chilly 
 O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 
 
 Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
 Baba thought she would faint, but there 
 he err'd — 
 It was but a convulsion, which though 
 short 
 Can never be described ; we all have 
 heard. 
 And some of us have felt thus " all amort," 
 When things beyond the common have 
 occurr'd ; — 
 Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 
 What she could ne'er express — then how 
 should I ? 
 
 She stood a moment as a Pj^honess 
 
 Stands on a tripod, agonised, and full 
 Of inspiration gather'd from distress. 
 When all the heart-strings like wild 
 horses pull 
 The heart asunder ; — then, as more or less 
 Their speed abated or their strength 
 grew dull. 
 She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 
 And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trem- 
 bling knees. 
 
 Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
 Fell in long tresses like the weeping 
 willow. 
 Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
 
 Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, 
 A low, soft ottoman and black despair 
 Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a 
 billow. 
 Which rushes to some shore whose shingles 
 
 check 
 Its farther course, but must receive its 
 wreck. 
 
 cix 
 
 Her head hung do^vn, and her long hair ui 
 stooping 
 ConceaI'd her features better than a veil 
 
 And one hand o'er the ottoman lay droop- 
 ing, 
 White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
 
 Would that I were a painter ! to be group- 
 ing 
 All that a poet drags into detail ! 
 
 Oh that my words were colours ! but'their 
 tints 
 
 May serve perhaps as outlines or slight 
 hints. 
 
 ex 
 Baba, ivho knew bv experience when to 
 talk 
 And when to hold his tongue, now held it 
 till 
 This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to 
 balk 
 Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 
 At length she rose up. and began to walk 
 Slowly along the room, but silent still. 
 And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled 
 
 eye ; 
 The wind was down, but still the sea ran 
 high. 
 
 CXI 
 
 She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak 
 — ^but paused. 
 And then moved on again mth rapid 
 pace ; 
 Then slacken'd it, which is the march most 
 caused 
 By deep emotion : — you mav sometimes 
 trace 
 A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
 
 By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
 By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
 Their work even by the wav in which he 
 trode. 
 
 CXII 
 
 Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba : — 
 " Slave ! 
 Bring the two slaves ! " she said in a 
 low tone, 
 But one which Baba did not like to brave, 
 And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather 
 prone 
 To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to 
 crave 
 (Though he well knew the meaning) to be 
 sho^Ti 
 What sla\'e^ her highness wish'd to indi- 
 cate, 
 For fear of any error, like the late. 
 
 " The Georgian and her paramour " re- 
 plied 
 The imperial pride— and added " Let 
 the boat 
 Be ready by the secret portal's side : 
 \ou know the rest." The words stuck 
 ui her throat. 
 Despite her injured love and fierv pride • 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 701 
 
 And of this Baba willingly took note, 
 And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's 
 
 beard, 
 She would revoke the order he had heard. 
 
 cxiv 
 " To hear is to obey," he said ; " but still, 
 
 Sultana, think upon the consequence : 
 It is not that I shall not all fulfil 
 
 Your orders, even in their severest sense ; 
 But' such precipitation may end ill, 
 
 Even at your own imperative expense : 
 I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
 In case of any premature disclosure ; 
 
 " But your own feelings. Even should all 
 the rest 
 Be hidden by the rolling waves, which 
 hide 
 Already many a once love-beaten breast 
 
 Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 
 You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest. 
 
 And if this violent remedy be tried — 
 Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you. 
 That Idlli'ng him is not the way to cure 
 you." 
 
 cxvi 
 " 'What dost thou know of love or feeling ? 
 — "Wretch ! 
 Begone ! " she cried, with kindling eyes 
 ^-" and do 
 My bidding ! " Babavanish'd, for to stretch 
 His own remonstrance further he well 
 knew 
 Might end in acting as his ov/n Jack 
 Ketch ; " 
 And though he wish'd extremely to get 
 through 
 This awkward business without harm to 
 
 others, ^ 
 
 He still perferr'd his own neck to another s. 
 
 cxvii 
 Away he went then upon his commission. 
 Growling and grumbling in good Turkish 
 phrase 
 Against all women of whate'er condition. 
 
 Especially sultanas and then ways ; 
 Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision. 
 Their never knowing their own mind two 
 days, . . 
 
 The trouble that they gave, their immor- 
 
 - alitv, 
 Which made him daily bless his own neu- 
 trahty. 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 And then he call'd his brethren to his aid. 
 And sent one on a summons to the pair, 
 
 That they must instantly be well array'd, 
 \nd above all be comb'd even to a hair. 
 
 And brought before the empress, who had 
 made . , , . . , 
 
 Inquiries after them with kindest care : 
 
 At which Dudii look'd strange, and Juan 
 
 silly ; 
 But go thev must at once, and will I — nill 
 
 I. 
 
 CXIX 
 
 And here I leave them at their preparation 
 For the imperial presence, wherein 
 whether 
 Gulbeyazshow'd them both commiseration, 
 
 Or got rid of the parties altogether. 
 Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
 
 Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
 May settle ; but far be't from me to antici- 
 pate 
 In what way feminine caprice may dissi- 
 pate. 
 
 CXX 
 
 I leave them for the present with good 
 wishes. 
 Though doubts of their well doing, tn 
 arrange 
 .\nother part of history ; for the dishes 
 Of this om- banquet we must sometimes 
 change ; 
 And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 
 Although his situation now seems strange. 
 And scarce secure, as such digressions are 
 
 fair. 
 The Muse will take a little touch at warfare. 
 
 CANTO THE SEVENTH 
 
 I 
 O Love ! O Glory ! what are ye who fly 
 
 Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 
 There's not a meteor in the Polar sky 
 Of such transcendent and more fleeting 
 flight. 
 Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift 
 on high 
 Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
 A thousand and a thousand colours they 
 Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 
 
 II 
 
 And such as they are, such my present tale 
 is, 
 
 A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 
 A versified Aurora Borealis, 
 
 ■Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 
 ■When we know what all are, we must be- 
 wail us, 
 
 But ne'ertheless I hope it Is no crime 
 To laugh at all things — for I wish to know 
 What, after all, are all things — but a show ? 
 
 They accuse me — Me — the present writer 
 of 
 The present poem — of — I know not 
 what — 
 A tendency to under-rate and scoff 
 
 At human power and virtue, and all that ; 
 And this they say in language rather rough. 
 
702 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Good God ! I wonder what they would 
 
 beat ! 
 I say no more than hath been said in 
 
 Dante's 
 Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes ; 
 
 IV 
 
 By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
 By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 
 
 By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
 Who knew this life was not worth a 
 potato. 
 
 'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 
 For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 
 
 Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die. 
 
 But which is best, you know no more than I. 
 
 Socrates said, our only knowledge was 
 " To know that nothing could be 
 known ; " a pleasant 
 Science enough, which levels to an ass 
 Each man of wisdom, futiure, past, or 
 present. 
 Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas ! 
 Declared, with all his grand disco\'eries 
 recent. 
 That he himself felt only " like a youth 
 Picking up shells by the great ocean — 
 Truth." 
 
 Ecclesiastes said, " that all is vanity " — 
 iMost modern preachers sav the same, 
 or show it 
 By their examples of true Christianity : 
 In short, all know, or ^'ery soon may 
 know it ; 
 And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity. 
 By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by 
 poet. 
 Must I restrain me, through the fear of 
 
 strife. 
 From holding up the nothingness of life ? 
 
 Dogs or men ! — for I flatter you in saying 
 That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye 
 may 
 Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
 
 To show ye what ye are in every way. 
 As little as the moon stops for the baying 
 Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw 
 one ray 
 From out her skies — then howl your idle 
 
 wrath ! 
 While she still silvers o'er your gloomy 
 path. 
 
 VIII 
 
 " Fierce loves and faithless wars " — I am 
 not sure 
 If this be the right reading — 'tis no 
 matter ; 
 The fact's about the same, I am secure ; 
 I suig them both, and am about to batter 
 
 A town which did a famous siege endure. 
 And was beleaguer'd both by land and 
 water 
 Bv Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow, 
 Who loved blood as an alderman loves 
 marrow. 
 
 The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
 Upon the Danube's left branch and_ left 
 bank. 
 With buildings in the Oriental taste. 
 
 But still a Ifortress of the foremost rank. 
 Or was at least, unless 'tis since defaced, 
 Which with your conquerors is a com- 
 mon prank : 
 It stands some eighty versts from the high 
 
 sea. 
 And measures round of toises thousahds 
 three. 
 
 Within the extent of this fortification 
 A borough is comprised along the 
 height 
 
 Upon the left, which from its loftier sta- 
 tion 
 Commands the city, and upon its site 
 
 A Greek had raised around this elevation 
 A quantity of palisades upright. 
 
 So placed as to impede the fire of those 
 
 Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 
 
 This circumstance may serve to give a 
 notion 
 Of the high talents of this new Vauban ; 
 Bat the town ditch below was deep as 
 ocean. 
 The rampart higher than vou'd wish to 
 hang : 
 But then there was a great want of pre- 
 caution 
 (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang). 
 Nor work advanced, nor cover' d way was 
 
 there. 
 To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 
 
 XII 
 
 But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge. 
 And walls as thick as most skulls born as 
 yet; 
 Two "batteries, cap-^-pie, as our St. George, 
 Case-mated one, and t'other " i bar- 
 bette," 
 Of Danube's bank took formidable charge : 
 
 While two-and-twenty cannon duly set 
 Rose o\'er the town's right side, in bristling 
 
 tier. 
 Forty feet high upon a cavalier. 
 
 But from the river the town's open quite, 
 Beciuse the Turks could never be per- 
 suaded 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 703 
 
 A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 
 And such their creed was till they were 
 invaded. 
 ^Vhen it grew rather late to set things right : 
 But as the Danube could not well be 
 waded, 
 They look'd upon the iMuscovite flotilla. 
 And oulv shouted, " Allah ! " and " Bis 
 Millah ! " 
 
 The Russians now were ready to attack ; 
 But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
 How shall I spell the name of each Cos- 
 sacque 
 Who were immortal, could one tell their 
 story ? 
 Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 
 
 Achilles' self was not more grim and gory 
 Than thousands of this new and polish'd 
 
 nation. 
 Whose names want nothing but — pronun- 
 ciation. 
 
 Still I'll record a few, if but to increase 
 Our euphony : there was Strongenoff, 
 and Strokonoff, 
 Meknop, Serge Low, Arsniew of modern 
 Greece, 
 And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, 
 and Chokcnoff, 
 And others of twelve consonants apiece ; 
 And more might be found out, if I could 
 poke enough 
 Into gazettes ; - but Fame (capricious 
 
 strumpet), 
 It seemSi has got an ear as well as trumpet, 
 
 XVI 
 
 And cannot tune those discords of narra- 
 tion,. 
 Which may be names at Moscow, into 
 rhyme ; 
 Yet there were several worth commemora- 
 tion, 
 As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 
 Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration 
 Of Londonderry drawling against time 
 Ending in " i'schskin," " ousckin," 
 
 " iffskchy," " ouski," 
 Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski. 
 
 Scherematofi and Chrematoff, Koklophti, 
 Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin 
 Pouskin, 
 All proper men of weapons, as e'er seoff'd 
 high 
 Against a foe, or ran a sabre through 
 skin : 
 Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 
 Unless to make their kettle-drums a new 
 skin 
 
 Out of their hides, if parchment had groun 
 
 dear. 
 And no more handy substitute been near. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Then there were foreigners of much re- 
 nown. 
 Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 
 Not fighting for their country or its crown. 
 But wishing to be one day brigadiers ; 
 Also to have the sacking of a town ; 
 A pleasant thing to young men at their 
 years. 
 'Mongst them were several Englishmen of 
 
 pith. 
 Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen 
 named Smith. 
 
 Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson ; — all 
 
 the rest 
 Had been call'd " Jemmy," after the great 
 
 bard ; 
 I don't know whether they had arms or 
 
 crest. 
 But such a godfather's as good a card. 
 Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the 
 
 best 
 Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict 
 
 or ward 
 Was he, since so renown'd " in country 
 
 quarters 
 At Halifax ; " but now he served the 
 
 Tartars. 
 
 The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and 
 Bills, 
 But when I've added that the elder Jack 
 Smith 
 Was born in Cumberland among the hills. 
 And that his father was an honest black- 
 smith, 
 I've said all / know of a name that fills 
 Three lines of the despatch in taking 
 " Schmack-smith," 
 A village of Jloldavia's waste, wherein 
 He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 
 
 XXI 
 
 I wonder {although Mars no doubt's a god I 
 Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
 May make up for a bullet in his body ? 
 
 r hope this Uttle question is no sin. 
 Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 
 ' I think one Shakspeare puts the same 
 
 thought in 
 The mouth of some one in his plays so 
 
 doting. 
 Which many people pass for wits by quot- 
 
 iug. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, 
 young, and gay ; 
 
704 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 But I'm too great a patriot to record 
 
 Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 
 
 I'd rathea-tell ten lies than say a word 
 
 Of truth ; — such truths are treason ; they 
 
 betray 
 
 Their country ; and as traitors are 
 
 abhorr'd, 
 
 Who name the French in English, save to 
 
 show 
 How Peace should make John Bull the 
 Frenchman's foe. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 The Russians, having built two batteries on 
 
 An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 
 
 The first was to bombard it, and knock 
 
 down 
 
 The public buildings and the private 
 
 too, 
 
 No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
 
 The city's shape suggested this,' tis true ; 
 
 Form'd like an amphitheatre, each 
 
 dwelling 
 Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 The second object was to profit by 
 The moment of the general consterna- 
 tion, 
 To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh 
 Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its 
 station ; 
 But a third motive was as probably 
 
 To frighten them into capitulation ; 
 A phantasy which sometimes seizes 
 
 warriors. 
 Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox- 
 terriers. 
 
 May likewise put off for a time what story 
 Sometimes calls " murder," and at others 
 
 " glory." 
 
 '; XXVll 
 
 Whether it was their engineer's stupidity. 
 
 Their haste, or waste, I neither know 
 
 nor care. 
 
 Or some contractor's personal cupidity. 
 
 Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 
 
 Of homicide, but there was no solidity 
 
 In the new batteries erected there ; 
 jThey either miss'd, or they were never 
 
 miss'd, 
 And added greatly to the missing list. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 A sad miscalculation about distance 
 
 Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 
 
 Three fireships lost their amiable existence 
 Before they reach'd a spot to take effect ; 
 
 The match was lit too soon, and no assist- 
 ance 
 Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 
 
 Thev blew up in the middle of the river. 
 
 While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept 
 fast as ever. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 At seven they rose, howe\'er, and survey'd 
 I The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
 'Twas nine, when still advancing undis- 
 may'd, 
 Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
 Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 
 Which was return'd ^\-ith interest, I may 
 say. 
 And by a fire of musketry and grape, 
 And shells and shot of every size and 
 shape. 
 
 A habit rather blameable, which is 
 
 That of despising those we combat with. 
 Common in many cases, was in this 
 
 The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoii and 
 Smith ; 
 One of the valorous " Smiths " whom we 
 shall miss 
 Out of those nineteen who late rhymed 
 to " pith ; " 
 But 'tis a name so spread o'er " Sir " and 
 
 " IMadam," 
 That one would think the first who bore it 
 " Adam." 
 
 The Russian batteries were incomplete. 
 Because they were constructed in a 
 hurry ; 
 Thus the same cause which makes a verse 
 want feet. 
 And throws a cloud o'er Longman and 
 John Murray, 
 \Mien the sale of new books is not so Ikrl 
 As they who print them think is necessary, 
 
 For six hours bore they without inter- 
 mission 
 The Turkish fire, and, aided by their own 
 Land batteries, work'i their guns with 
 great precision ; 
 .-Vt length they found mere cannonade 
 alone 
 By no means would produce the town's sub- 
 mission, 
 .*\nd mnde a signal to retreat at one. 
 One bark blew up. a second near the works 
 Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 
 
 X.XXI 
 
 The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and 
 men ; 
 But when they saw the enemy retire. 
 Their Delhis niann'd some boats, and sail'd 
 again, 
 .And gall'd the Russians with a heavy 
 fire, 
 .\nd tried to make a landing on the main ; 
 But here the effect fell short of their 
 desire : 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 705 
 
 Count Damas drove them back into the 
 
 water 
 Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of 
 
 slaughter. 
 
 __ XXXII 
 
 ' If," (says the historian here) " I could 
 report 
 All that the Russians did upon this day, 
 I think that several volumes would fall 
 short. 
 And I should still have many things to 
 say ; " 
 And so he says no more — ^but pays his 
 court 
 To some distinguished strangers in that 
 fray ; 
 The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and 
 
 Damas, 
 Names great as any that the roll of Fame 
 has. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 This being the case, may show us what 
 Fame is : 
 For out of these three " preiix Chevaliers,'" 
 how 
 Many of common readers give a guess 
 That such existed ? (and they may live 
 now 
 For aught we know.) Renown's all hit or 
 miss ; 
 There's fortune even in fame, we must 
 allow. 
 'Tis true, the Memoirs of the Prince de 
 
 Ligne 1 
 Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's 
 screen. 
 
 xxxiv 
 But here are men who fought in gallant 
 actions 
 As gallantly as ever heroes fought. 
 But buried in the heap of such transactions 
 Their names are rarely found, nor often 
 sought. 
 Thus even good fame may suffer sad con- 
 tractions, 
 And is extinguish'd sooner than she 
 ought : 
 Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
 You can't repeat nine names from each 
 Gazette. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 In short, this last attack, though rich in 
 glory, 
 Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there 
 was a fault. 
 And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian 
 story) 
 Most strongly recommended an assault ; 
 In which he was opposed by young and 
 hoarv, 
 Which made a long debate ; but 1 must 
 halt. 
 
 For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 
 I doubt few readers e'er would mount the 
 breach. 
 
 xxxvi 
 
 There was a man, if that he was a man, 
 Not that his manhood could be call'd in 
 question. 
 For had he not been Hercules, his span 
 Had been as short in youth as indigestion 
 Made his last illness, when, all worn and 
 wan. 
 He died beneath a tree, as much unblest 
 on 
 The soil of the green province he had 
 
 wasted. 
 As e'er was locust on the land it blasted. 
 
 -XXXVII 
 
 This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
 When homicide and harlotry made 
 great ; 
 
 If stars and titles could entail long praise. 
 His glory might half equal his estate. 
 
 This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
 A kind of phantasy proportionate 
 
 In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 
 
 Who measured men as you would do a 
 steeple. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
 A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 
 
 In ordering matters after his own bent ; 
 I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 
 
 But shortly he had cause to be content. 
 In the mean time the batteries proceeded, 
 
 And fourscore cannon on the Danube's 
 border 
 
 Were briskly fired and answer'd in due 
 order. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 But on the thirteenth, when already part 
 
 Of the troops were embark'd, the siege 
 
 to raise, 
 
 A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
 
 Into all panters for newspaper praise, 
 
 As well as dilettanti in war's art, 
 
 By his despatches couch'd in pithy 
 phrase ; 
 Announcing the appointment of that lover 
 
 of 
 Battles to the command, Field-Marshal 
 Souvaroft. 
 
 XL 
 
 The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
 Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 
 Been one to which- a good heart could be 
 partial — 
 Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 
 But as it was mere lust of power to o'er- 
 arch all 
 With its proud brow, it merits slight 
 applause, 
 
706 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 
 " You will take Ismail at whatever price." 
 
 said God, " and 
 " says man, and 
 
 " Let there be hght I " 
 
 there was light ! " 
 
 " Let there be blood ! 
 
 there's a sea ! 
 
 The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night 
 
 (For Day ne'er saw his merits) could 
 
 decree 
 
 More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 
 
 Summers could renovate, though they 
 
 should be 
 
 Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit ; 
 
 For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 
 
 XLII 
 
 Our friends, the Turks, who with loud 
 " AUahs " now 
 Began to signalise the Russ retreat. 
 Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow. 
 In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
 (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, 
 though 
 I never think about it in a heat,) 
 But here I say the Turks were much mis- 
 taken, 
 Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their 
 bacoij. 
 
 XLTII 
 
 For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew 
 In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd 
 Cossacques 
 For some time, till they came in nearer 
 view. 
 They had but little baggage at their 
 backs, 
 For there were but three shirts between 
 the two ; 
 But on they rode upon two Ukraine 
 hacks. 
 Till, in approaching, were at length 
 
 descried 
 In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 
 
 " Great joy to London now ! " says some 
 great fool, 
 When London had a grand illumination. 
 Which to that bottle-conjuror, John Bull, 
 Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 
 So that the streets of colour'd lamps are 
 full. 
 That sage (said John) surrenders at 
 discretion 
 His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his 
 
 nonsense. 
 To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 
 
 'Tis strange that he should farther" Damn 
 his eyes," 
 
 For they are damn'd ; that once all- 
 famous oath 
 Is to the devil now no farther prize. 
 
 Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
 
 Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise ; 
 
 And Famine, with her gaunt and bony 
 
 growth. 
 
 Which stare him in the fnce, he won't 
 
 examine. 
 Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 But to the tale ; — great joy unto the camp ! 
 
 To Russian, Tartar, English, French, 
 Cossacque, 
 O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp, 
 
 Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
 Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp. 
 
 Which leads beholders on a boggy walk. 
 He flitted to and fro a dancing light, 
 Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or 
 right. 
 
 XI.VII 
 
 But certes matters took a different face ; 
 There was enthusiasm and much ap- 
 plause. 
 The fleet and camp saluted with great 
 grace, 
 And all presaged good fortune to their 
 cause. 
 Within a cannon-shot length of the place 
 They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd 
 flaws 
 In former works, made new, prepared 
 
 fascines, 
 And all kinds of benevolent machines. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 'Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 
 
 Makes that of multitudes taka one 
 direction. 
 As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 
 Or roams the herd beneath the bull's 
 protection ; 
 Or as a little dog will lead the blind. 
 Or a bell-wether form the flock's con- 
 nection 
 By tinkling sounds, when thev go forth to 
 
 victual ; 
 Such is the swav of vour great men o'er 
 little. 
 
 XLI.X 
 
 The whole camp rung with joy ; you would 
 haye thought 
 That the\- were going to a marriage feast 
 (This metaphor, I think, holds good is 
 aught. 
 Since there is discord after both at least): 
 There was not now a luggage boy but 
 sought 
 Danger and spoil with ardour much 
 increased ; 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 707 
 
 And why ? because a little — odd — old man, 
 Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the 
 van. 
 
 L 
 
 But so it was ; and every preparation 
 , Was made with all alacrity : the first 
 Detachment of three columns took its 
 
 station 
 And waited but the signal's voice to 
 
 burst 
 Upon the foe : the second's ordination 
 ^ Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
 For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 
 The third, in columns two, attack'd by 
 
 water. 
 
 New batteries were erected, and was held 
 A general council, in which unanimity, 
 That stranger to most councils, here pre- 
 vail'd. 
 As sometimes happens in a great ex- 
 tremity ; 
 And every difficulty being dispell'd, 
 
 Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 
 While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it, 
 Was teaching his recruits to use the 
 bayonet. 
 
 LII 
 
 It is an actual fact, that he, commander 
 In chief, in proper person deigii'd to drill 
 
 The awkward squad, and could afford to 
 squander 
 His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil; 
 
 Just as you'd break a sucking salamander 
 To swallow flame, and never take it ill ; 
 
 He show'd them how to mount a ladder 
 (which 
 
 Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 
 
 Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
 Like men with turbans, scimitars, and 
 dirks. 
 And made them charge with bayonets these 
 machines. 
 By way of lesson against actual Turks ; 
 And when well practised in these mimic 
 scenes. 
 He judged them proper to assail the 
 works ; ... 
 
 At which your wise men sneer'd m phrases 
 
 witty : 
 He made no answer ; but he took the city. 
 
 LIV 
 
 Most things were in this posture on the eve 
 
 Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
 
 A stern repose; which you would scarce 
 
 conceive ; , ., . , 
 
 Yet men resolved to dash through thick 
 
 and thin 
 
 Are very silent when they once believe 
 
 That all is settled : — there was littln dhi, 
 For some were thinking of their home and 
 
 friends. 
 And others of themselves and latter ends. 
 
 Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 
 
 Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, 
 pondering. 
 "For the man was, we safely may assert, 
 A thing to wonder at beyond most won- 
 dering ; 
 Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt. 
 Praying, instructing, desolating, plunder- 
 
 iiig ; 
 Now iWars, now Momus ; and when bent to 
 
 storm 
 A fortress. Harlequin in uniform. 
 
 The day before the assault, while upon 
 
 drill— 
 For this great conqueror play'd the cor- 
 poral — 
 Some Cassacques, hovering like hawks 
 
 round a hill. 
 Had met a party towards the twilight's 
 
 fall, 
 One of whom spoke their tongue — or well or 
 
 ill, 
 'Twas much that he was understood at 
 
 all; 
 But whether from his voice, or speech, or 
 
 manner. 
 They found that he had fought beneath 
 
 their banner. 
 
 Whereon immediately at his request 
 They brought him and his comrades to 
 head-quarters ; 
 Their dress was Moslem, but you might 
 have guess'd 
 That these were merely masquerading 
 Tartars, 
 .->Lnd that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd 
 vest 
 Lurk'd Christianity ; which sometimes 
 barters 
 Her inward grace for outward show, and 
 
 makes 
 It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 
 
 Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt 
 Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 
 
 Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert. 
 And lecturing on the noble art of killing, — 
 
 For deeming human clay but common dirt, 
 This great philosopher was thus instilling 
 
 His maxims, which to martial comprehen- 
 sion, 
 
 Pro^ ed death in battle equal to a pension ; 
 
7o8 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Suwarrow, when he saw thi"; company 
 Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd 
 round and cast 
 Upon them his slow bro'A' and piercing 
 eye : — 
 " VVhence come ye ? " — '' From Con- 
 stantinople last, 
 Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
 " What are ye ? " — " What you see us.'". 
 Briefly pass'd 
 This dialogue ; for he v/ho answer'd knew 
 To whom he spoke, and made his words but 
 few. 
 
 LX 
 
 " Your names ? " — " Mine's Johnson, and 
 my comrade's Juan ; 
 The other two are women, and the third 
 Is neither man nor woman." The chief 
 threw on 
 The party a slight glance, then said, " I 
 have heard 
 Your narne before, the second is a new one : 
 To bring the other three here was 
 absurd : 
 But let that pass : — I think I have heard 
 
 your name 
 In the Nikolaiew regiment ? " — " The 
 same." 
 
 L.XI 
 
 "You served at Widdin ? " — "Yes." — 
 " You led the attack ? " 
 " 1 did." — " What next ? " — " I really 
 hardly know." 
 " You were the first i'the breach ? " — 
 " I was not slack 
 At least to follow those who might be so " 
 " What follow'd ? "— " A shot laid me on 
 my back. 
 And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
 " You shall have vengeance, for the town 
 
 surrounded 
 Is twice as strong as that where you were 
 wounded. 
 
 LXII 
 
 " Where will you serve ? " — " Where'er 
 you please." — " I know 
 You like to be the hope of the forlorn. 
 And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
 After the hardships you've already borne 
 And this young fellow— say what can he 
 do ? 
 He with the beardless chin and garments 
 torn ? " 
 " Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
 In war than love, he had better lead the 
 assault." 
 
 Lxin 
 " He shall if that he dare." Here Juan 
 bow'd 
 Low as the compliment rl'-serv'd. Suwar- 
 row 
 
 I Continued : " Your old regiment's allow'd. 
 
 By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 
 
 Or it may be to-night, the assault : I have 
 
 vow'd 
 
 To several saints, that shortly plough or 
 
 harrow. 
 
 Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its 
 
 tusk 
 Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 " So now, my lads, for glory ! " — Here 
 he turn'd 
 And drill'd away in the most classic 
 Russian, 
 Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
 For cash and conquest, as if from a 
 cushion, 
 A preacher had held forth (who nobly 
 spurn'd 
 All earthly goods save tithes) and bade 
 them push on 
 To slay the Pagans who resi-ted, battering 
 The armies of the Christian Empress 
 Catherine. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
 Himself a favourite, ventur'd to address 
 
 Suwarrow, though engaged with accents 
 high 
 In his resumed amusement. " I confess 
 
 IWy debt in being thus allow'd to die 
 Among the foremost ; but if you'd 
 express 
 
 Explicitly our several post<. mv friend 
 
 And self would know what duty to attend." 
 
 L.XVI 
 
 " Right ! I was busv. and forgot. Whv 
 you " ' 
 
 Will join your former regiment, which 
 should be 
 
 Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him 
 
 (Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) 
 His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew : 
 
 The stranger stripling mav remain with 
 me ; 
 He's a fine boy. The women mav be sent 
 To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 
 
 L.XVII 
 
 But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 
 ihe ladies, — who bv no means had been 
 bred 
 To be disposed of in a wav so new 
 
 Although their harem education led 
 Doubtless to that of doctrines the most 
 true, 
 
 Passive obedience,— now raised up the 
 head, ^ 
 
 With flashing eyes and starting tears, and 
 flung 
 
 Their arms, as hens their wings about their 
 young. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 709 
 
 Lxvni 
 O'er the promoted couple of brave men 
 Who were thus honour'd by the greatest 
 
 chief 
 That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, 
 Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 
 Oh, foolish mortals ! Always taught in 
 vain ! 
 Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 
 Of thine imaginary deathless tree, 
 Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing 
 sea. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 Suwarrow. who had 'Small regard for tears. 
 
 And not much sympathy for blood, 
 
 survey'd 
 
 The women with their hair about their ears 
 
 And natural agonies, with a slight shade 
 
 Of feeling : for however habit sears 
 
 Men's hearts against whole millions, 
 when their trade 
 Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 
 Will touch even heroes — and such was 
 Suwarrow. 
 
 LX.X 
 
 He said, — and in the kindest Calmuck 
 tone, — 
 " Why, Johnson, what the devil do you 
 mean 
 By bringing women here ? They shall be 
 shown 
 All the attention possible, and seen 
 In safety to the waggons, where alone 
 In fact they can be safe. You should 
 have been 
 Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 
 Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives." 
 
 LXXl 
 
 " May it please your excellency," thus 
 
 replied 
 Our British friend, " these are the wives 
 
 of others, 
 And not our own. I am too qualified 
 ' By service with ray military brothers 
 To break the rules by bringing one's own 
 
 bride 
 Into a ■■amp • I know that nought so 
 
 bothers 
 The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 
 As leaving a small family at large. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 " But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
 With their attendant aided our escape, 
 
 .i^nd afterwards accompanied us through 
 A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
 
 To me this kind of life is not so new : 
 To them, poor things, it is an awkward 
 scrape, 
 
 I therefore, if you" wish me to fight freely. 
 
 Request that they may both be used gen- 
 teelly." 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Meantime these two poor girls, with swim- 
 ming eyes, 
 Look'd on as if in doubt if they could 
 trust 
 Their own protectors : nor was their sur- 
 prise 
 Less than their grief (and truly not less 
 just) 
 To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
 In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd witli 
 dust, 
 Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too 
 
 clean, 
 More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 For everything seem'd resting on his nod 
 As they could read in all eyes. Now tt 
 them, 
 
 WJio were accustom'd, as a sort of god. 
 To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 
 
 Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
 (That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,) 
 
 With all the pomp of power, it wa? a doubt, 
 
 How power could condescend to do without. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay. 
 Though little versed in feehngs oriental. 
 Suggested some slight comfort in his way : 
 Don Juan, who was much more senti- 
 mental. 
 Swore they should see him by the dawn of 
 day. 
 Or that the Russian army should repent 
 all ; 
 And, strange to say, they found some con- 
 solation 
 In this — for females like exaggeration. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 And then with tears, and sighs, and some 
 slight kisses, 
 They parted for the present — these to 
 await. 
 According to the artillery's hits or misses, 
 What sages call Chance, Providence, or 
 Fate — 
 (Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 
 
 A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
 While their beloved friends began to arm, 
 To burn a town which never did them 
 harm. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Suwarrow. — who but saw things in the 
 gross. 
 Being much too gross to see them in 
 detail, 
 Who calculated life as so much dross. 
 
 And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 
 And cared as little for his army's loss 
 (So that their efforts should at length pre- 
 vaU) 
 
yio 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 As wife and friends did for the boils of 
 
 Job,— 
 VVliat wast to him to hear two women sob ? 
 
 LXX\'I1I 
 
 Nothing. — The work of glory still went on 
 
 In preparations for a cannonade 
 As terrible as that of llion, 
 
 If Homer had found mortars ready 
 made ; 
 But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 
 
 We only can but talk of escalade. 
 Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, 
 
 bayonets, bullets ; 
 Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' 
 gullets. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst 
 charm 
 All ears, though long ; all ages, though 
 so short. 
 By merely wielding with poetic arm 
 Arms to which men will never more 
 resort. 
 Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
 Much less than is the hope of every 
 court, 
 Which now is leagued young Freedom to 
 
 annoy ; 
 But they will not find Liberty a Troy :— 
 
 LX.KX 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
 ■To paint a siege, wherein more men were 
 slain, 
 With deadlier engines and a speedier blow. 
 Than in thy Greek gazette of that cam- 
 paign ; 
 And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
 To vie with thee would be about as 
 vain 
 As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 
 But still we moderns equal you in blood ; 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 
 
 And fact is truth, the grand desidera- 
 tum ! 
 Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each 
 act, 
 There should be ne'ertheless a slight sub- 
 stratum. 
 But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 
 Great deeds are doing — how shall I re- 
 late 'em ? 
 Souls of immortal generals ! Phoebus 
 
 watches 
 To colour up his rays from your despatches. 
 
 L.X.X.XII 
 
 Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaimrtc ! 
 Oh, ye less grand long hsts of kill'd and 
 wounded I 
 Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty. 
 
 When my poor Greece was once, as now, 
 surrounded ! 
 Oh, CcBsar's Commentaries ! now impart, 
 ye 
 Shadr>ws of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
 A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
 So beautiful, so fleeting, to the JIuse. 
 
 Lxxxin 
 When I call " fading " martial immortality 
 
 I mean, that every age and every year, 
 And almost every day, in sad realitv. 
 
 Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear. 
 Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
 
 Of deeds to human happiness most dear. 
 Turns out to be a butcher in great business. 
 Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizzi- 
 ness. 
 
 LXXXtV 
 
 Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, 
 scarlet. 
 Are things immortal to immortal man, 
 .-Vs purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
 An uniform to boys is like a fan 
 To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet 
 But deems himself the first in Glory's 
 van. 
 But Glory's glory ; and if you would find 
 What that is — ask the pig who sees the 
 wind ! 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 At least he feels it, and some sav he tees. 
 Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
 
 Of, if that simple sentence should displease, 
 Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, 
 
 A schooner, or— but it is time to ease 
 This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fa- 
 tigue. 
 
 The next shall ring a peal to shake all 
 people. 
 
 Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 
 
 LX.XXVI 
 
 Hark ! through the silence of the cold dull 
 night. 
 The hum of armies gathering rank on 
 rank ! 
 Lo ! duikv masses steal in dubious sight 
 Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling 
 bank 
 Of the armd river, while with straggling 
 light °^ " 
 
 The stars peep through the vapours dim 
 and dank, 
 Which curl in curious wreaths :— how soon 
 
 the smoke 
 Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Here pause we for the present— as even 
 then 
 That awful pause, dividing life from 
 death, 
 Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 
 
DON JTTAN 
 
 711 
 
 Thousands of whom were drawing their 
 last breath ! 
 A moment— and all will be life again ! 
 The march 1 the charge ! the shouts o' 
 either faith, 
 Hurrah ! and Allah ! and — one momeni 
 
 more — 
 The death-cry drowning in thebattle'sroa; 
 
 CANTO THE EIGHTH 
 
 Oil. blood and thunder ! and oh, blood and 
 wounds ! 
 These are but vulgar oaths, as you ma\' 
 deem, 
 Too gentle reader ! and most shocUin;; 
 sounds : 
 And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's 
 dream 
 Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 
 At present such things, since they arc 
 her thenje. 
 So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
 Bellona, what you will — they mean but 
 wars. 
 
 rr 
 All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the 
 men 
 To wield therrr in their terrible array. 
 The army, like a lion from his den, 
 
 March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent 
 to slay, — 
 A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 
 To breathe destruction on its winding 
 way, 
 Whose heads were heroes, which cut off 
 
 in vain. 
 Immediately in others grew again. 
 
 History can only take things in the gross ; 
 But could we know them in detail, per 
 chance 
 In balancing the profit and the loss. 
 War's merit it by no means might en 
 hance. 
 To waste so much gold for a little dross. 
 As hath been done, mere conquest to 
 advance. 
 The drymg up a single tear has more 
 Ot honest fame, than shedding seas of gore 
 
 IV 
 
 And why ?^because it brings aelf-appro- 
 bation ; 
 Whereas the other, after all its glare. 
 Shouts, brrdges, arches, pensions from a 
 nation, , , ,, . 
 
 Which (it may be) has not much left to 
 spare, 
 A higher title, or a loftier station. 
 
 Though they may make CoTruption gape 
 or stare, 
 
 ' Yet, in the end, except in Freedonr's 
 I „ battles. 
 Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles, 
 
 And such they are — and such they will be 
 found : 
 Not so Leonidas and \\'ashingtQn, 
 Whose every battle-field is holy ground. 
 Which breathes of nations saved, nrit 
 worlds undone. 
 How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 
 While the mere victor's may appal or 
 stun 
 The servile and the vain, such names will be 
 ,A watchword till the future shall be free 
 
 The night was dark, and the thick mist 
 
 allow'd 
 Nought to be seen save the artillery's 
 
 flame. 
 Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud. 
 And in the Danube's waters shone the 
 
 same — 
 .-V mirror'd hell ! the volleying roar, and 
 
 loud 
 Long booming of each peal on peal, o'er- 
 
 came 
 The ear far more than thunder ; for Hea- 
 ven's flashes 
 Spare, or smite rarel y — man's make millions 
 
 ashes ! 
 
 The column order'd on the assault scarce 
 pass'd 
 Beyond the Russian batteries a few 
 toises, 
 When up the bristling Moslem rose at last. 
 Answering the Christian thunders with 
 like voices : 
 Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream 
 embraced. 
 Which rock'd as 'twere beneath the 
 mighty noises ; 
 While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, 
 
 when 
 The restless Titan hiccups in his den : 
 
 And one enormous shout of " Allah ! " rose 
 In the same moment, loud as even the 
 roar 
 Ot war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
 Hrrrling defiance : city, stream and 
 shore 
 Resounded " Allah ! " and the clouds which 
 close 
 With thick' ning canopy the conflict o'er. 
 Vibrate to the Eternal riame. Hark ! 
 
 through 
 All sounds it pierceth " Allah ! Allah ! 
 Hu ! " 
 
712 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The columns were in movement one and all. 
 But o£ the portion which attack'd by 
 water. 
 Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, 
 Though led by Arseniew. that great son 
 of slaughter, 
 As brave as ever faced both bomb and 
 ball. 
 " Carnage, (so Wordsworth tells you) 
 IS God's daughter . " 
 If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
 Just now behaved as m the Holy Land. 
 
 X 
 
 The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the 
 knee . 
 Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball 
 between 
 His cap and head, which proves the head to 
 be 
 Aristocratic as was ever seen. 
 Because it then received no injury 
 
 More than the cap ; in fact, the ball could 
 mean 
 iVo harm unto a right legitimate head ; 
 " .Ashes to ashes " — why not lead to lead 
 
 .\lso the General Markow, Brigadier, 
 
 Insisting on removal of the piince 
 .Amidst some groaning thousands dying 
 near, — 
 .All common fellows, who might writhe 
 and wince, 
 And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 
 The General Markow, who could thus 
 evince 
 His sympathy for rank, by the same token. 
 To teach him greater, had his own leg 
 broken. 
 
 Three hundred cannon threw up their 
 emetic. 
 And thirty thousand muskets flung their 
 pills 
 Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
 
 Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills : 
 
 Thy plagues, thy famines, thv physicians, 
 
 yet tick. 
 
 Like the death-watch, withinour ears the 
 
 ■ ills 
 
 Past, present, and to come : — but all mav 
 
 yield 
 To the true portrait of one battle-field; 
 
 There the still varying pangs, which multi- 
 ply I 
 Until their very number makes men hard 
 By the infinities of agony , [ 
 Which meet the gaze, whate'er it mav ' 
 regard— j 
 The groan, the roll in dust, the all while eye 
 
 Turn'd back within its socket. — these 
 
 reward 
 Your rank and file by thousands, while the 
 
 rest 
 -May win perhaps a riband at the breast I 
 
 XIV 
 
 Vet I love glory ; — glorv's a great thing : — 
 Think what it is to be in your old age 
 Maintain'd at the expense of your good 
 king : 
 .A moderate pension shakes full many a 
 sage, 
 .And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 
 Which is still better; thus in verse to 
 wage 
 Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 
 Half-pay for life, make mankind worth des- 
 troying. 
 
 XV 
 
 The troops, already disembark'd, push'd 
 on 
 To take a battery on the right ■ the 
 others, 
 Who landed lower down, their landing 
 done, 
 Had set to work as briskly as their 
 brothers : 
 Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one. 
 Cheerful as children climb the breasts of 
 mothers. 
 O'er the entrenchment and the palisade 
 Quite orderly, as if upon parade. ' 
 
 XVI 
 
 .And this was admirable ; for so hot 
 The fire was, that were red Vesuvius 
 loaded, 
 Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
 .And shells or hells, it could not more 
 have goaded. 
 Of oiBcers a third tell on the spot. 
 
 -A thing which victory bv no means boded 
 To gentlemen engaged in the assault . 
 Hounds, when the huntsman fumbles are 
 at fault. 
 
 .SVII 
 
 But here I leave the general ron.-ern 
 To track our hero on his path of fame: 
 
 He must his laurels separatelv earn . 
 For fifty thousand heroes, name bv name 
 
 Though all deserving equallv to turn 
 .A couplet, or an elegy to claim 
 
 Would form a lengthv lexicon of glorv 
 
 And what is worse still, a much longer 
 storv : 
 
 And therefore we must give the greater 
 number 
 
 To the Gazette— which doubtless fairly 
 dealt 
 By the deceased, who lie in famous slum- 
 ber 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 71. 
 
 In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 
 Their clay for the last time their souls en- 
 cumber ; — 
 Tiince happy he whose name has been 
 well spelt 
 In the despatch : I knew a man whose loss 
 Was printed Grove, although his name was 
 Grose. 
 
 Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, 
 And fought away with might and main, 
 not Ituowing 
 The way which they had never trod before, 
 And still less guessing where they might 
 be gomg ; 
 But on they march'd, dead bodies tramp- 
 Img o'er. 
 Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, 
 glowing. 
 But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, 
 To their two selves, one whole bright bul- 
 letin. 
 
 Thus on they wallow'd m the bloody mire 
 Of dead and dying thousands, — some- 
 times gaining 
 
 A yard or two of ground, which brought 
 them nigher 
 
 To some odd angle for which all were strain- 
 mg ; 
 
 At other times, repulsed by the close fire, 
 Which really pour'd as if all hell were 
 raining 
 
 Instead of heaven, they stumbled back- 
 wards o'er 
 
 A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 
 
 Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, 
 and though 
 The nightly muster and the silent march 
 In the chill dark, when courage does not 
 glow 
 So much as under a triumphal arch. 
 Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or 
 throw . 
 
 A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as 
 starch, - , , , , 
 
 Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wisn d lor 
 
 day , — 
 Yet tor all this he did not run away. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Indeed he could not. But what if he had ? 
 There have been and are heroes who 
 begun 
 With something not much better, or as 
 
 Frederick the Great from Molwitz deign'd 
 
 to run 
 For the first and last time : for. like a pad, 
 Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after 
 
 one 
 
 Warm bout are broken in to their new 
 
 tricks, 
 And fight like fiends lor pay or politics. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
 Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic ; — 
 (The antiquarians ' who can settle time, 
 Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, 
 or Runic, 
 Swear that Pat's language sprung from ti e 
 same clime 
 With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian 
 tunic 
 Of Dido's alphabet ; and this it rational 
 As any other notion, and not national) ; — 
 
 But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy." 
 A thing of impulse and a child of song ; 
 
 Now swimming in the sentiment of joy. 
 Or the idnsalion (if that phrase seem 
 wTong) , 
 
 And afterward, if he must needs destroy. 
 In such good company as always thron.t; 
 
 To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure. 
 
 No less delighted to employ his leisure , 
 
 But always without malice ; if he warr'd 
 Or loved, it was with what we call " the 
 best 
 Intentions," which form all mankind's 
 trump card, 
 To be produced when brought up to the 
 test. 
 The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
 Off each attack, when people are in quest 
 Of their designs, by saying they meant well : 
 'Tis pity " that such meaning should pavf 
 hell" 
 
 xxvr 
 I almost lately have begun to doubt 
 Whether hell's pavement — if it be so 
 paved — 
 .Must not have latterly been quite worn out. 
 Not by the numbers good intent bath 
 saved, 
 But by the mass who go below without 
 Those ancient good intentions, which 
 once shaved 
 And smooth'd the brimstone of ihat street 
 
 of hell 
 Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall 
 Mall. 
 
 .XXVIT 
 
 Juan, by some strange chance, which olt 
 divides 
 Warrior from v/arrior in their grim career. 
 Like chastest wives from constant hus- 
 bands' sides 
 Just at the close of the first bridal year. 
 By one of those old turns of Fortune's tides, 
 
 3 A 
 
714 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Was on a sudden rather puzzled here. 
 When, after a good deal of heavy firing, 
 He found himself alone, and friends retiring, 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 1 don't know how the thing occurr'd — it 
 might 
 Be that the greater part were kill'd or 
 wounded. 
 And that the rest had faced unto the right 
 About ; a circumstance which has con- 
 founded 
 Cji'Sar himself, who, in the very sight 
 Of his whole army, which so much 
 abounded 
 In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield, 
 And rally back his Romans to the field. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and 
 was 
 No C»sar, but a fine young lad, who 
 fought 
 He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
 Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 
 For a much longer time ; then, like an 
 ass — 
 (Start not, kind reader, since great 
 Homer thought 
 This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 
 Perhaps may find it better than a new 
 one) ; — 
 
 XXX 
 
 Then, hke an ass, he went upon his way, 
 And, what was stranger, never look'd 
 behind ; 
 But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
 
 Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 
 Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
 He stumbled on, to try if he could find 
 A path, to add his own slight arm and 
 
 forces 
 To corps, the greater part of which were 
 corses 
 
 XXXI 
 
 f^erceiving then no more the commandant 
 Of his own corps, nor even the corps, 
 which had 
 Quite disappear'd — the gods know how ! 
 (I can't 
 Account for exerything which mav look 
 bad 
 In history ; but we at least may grant 
 
 It was not marvellous that a mere lad. 
 In search of glory, should look on before. 
 Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps ;) — 
 
 xxxn 
 Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
 And left at large, like a young heir, to 
 make 
 His way to — where he knew not — single- 
 handed ; 
 As travellers follow over bog and brake 
 
 An " Ignis fatuus i " or as sailors stranded 
 Unto the nearest hut themselves betake ; 
 So Juan, following honour and his nose, 
 Rush'd where the thickest fire announced 
 most foes. 
 
 xxxm 
 
 He knew not where he was, nor greatly 
 cared, 
 For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
 Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit 
 shared 
 The hour, as is the case with lively 
 brains ; 
 And where .the hottest fire was seen and 
 heard. 
 And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest 
 strains, 
 He rush'd, while earth and air v.'ere sadly 
 
 shaken 
 By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
 Fell in with what was late the second 
 column. 
 Under the orders of the General Lascy, 
 
 But now reduced, as is a bulky volume 
 
 Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
 
 Of heroism, and took his place with 
 
 solemn 
 
 Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant 
 
 faces 
 And levell'd weapons still against the glacis, 
 
 xx.xv 
 Just at this crisis up came Johnson too. 
 Who had " retreated," as the phrase is 
 when 
 .Men run away much rather than go through 
 Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 
 But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 
 Knew when and how " to cut and come 
 again," 
 .\nd never ran away, except when running 
 Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning 
 
 X.XXX'I 
 
 \nd so, when all his corps were dead or dy- 
 ing. 
 Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose 
 More virgin \-afour'ne\'er dreamt of firing. 
 From ignorance of danger, which indues 
 Its votaries, like innocence reiving 
 
 On its own strength, with careless nerves 
 and thews. — 
 Johnson retired a little, just to rally 
 Those who catch cold in " shadows of 
 death's valley." 
 
 xxxvu 
 And there, a little sheltered from the shot, 
 Wliichrain'd from bastion, batterv, para- 
 pet, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 715 
 
 Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there 
 was not 
 In this extensive city, sore beset 
 By Christian soldiery, a single spot 
 Which did not combat like the devil, as 
 yet, — 
 He found a number of Chasseurs, all scat- 
 ter' d 
 By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 And these he call don ; and, what's strange, 
 
 they came 
 
 Unto his call, unlike " the spirits from 
 
 The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 
 
 Says Hotspur, long ere th'ey will leave 
 
 their home. 
 
 Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 
 
 At shrinking from a ballet or a bomb. 
 
 And that odd impulse, which in wars or 
 
 creeds 
 Makes men, like cattle, follow him who 
 1 eads. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 By Jove I he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
 And though his name, than Ajax or 
 Achilles, 
 Sounds less harmonious, underneath the 
 sun soon 
 We shall not see his likeness ; he could 
 kill his 
 Wan quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
 Her steady breath (which some months 
 the same siill is): 
 Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle. 
 And could be very busy without bustle ; 
 
 And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
 
 Upon reflection, kno%ving that behind 
 
 He would find others who would fain be rid 
 
 so 
 Of idle apprehensions, which like wind 
 Trouble heroic stomachs. Though then 
 lids so 
 Oft are soon closed, all heroes are 
 not blind. 
 But when they light upon immediate 
 
 death, 
 Retire a little, merely to take breath. 
 
 But Johnson only ran off, to return 
 With many other warriors, as we said, 
 
 U.ito that rather somewhat misty bourne, 
 Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of 
 dread. 
 
 To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight 
 
 concern : , j j. 
 
 His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 
 
 Acted upon the living as on wire. 
 
 And led them back into the heaviest fire. 
 
 Egad I they found the second time what 
 they ' 
 
 The first time thought quite terrible 
 enough 
 To fly from, malgre all which people say 
 Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 
 Which fills a regiment (besides their pay. 
 That daily shilling which makes 
 warriors tough) — 
 They found on their return the self-same 
 
 welcome. 
 Which made some think, and others knote, a 
 hell come. 
 
 They fell as thick as harvests beneath 
 hail. 
 Grass before scythes, or corn below the 
 sickle. 
 Proving that trite old truth, that life's as 
 frail 
 As any other boon for which men stickle. 
 The Turkish batteries thrash 'd them like a 
 flail. 
 Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 
 Putting the very bravest, who were 
 
 knock'd 
 Upon the head before their guns were 
 cock'd. 
 
 The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 
 Of the next bastion, fired away like 
 devils. 
 And swept, as gales sweep foam away, 
 whole ranks ; 
 However, Heaven knows how, the Fate 
 who levels 
 Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving 
 pranks, 
 So order'd it, amid these sulphury revels, 
 That Johnson and some few who had not 
 
 scamper'd, 
 Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart. 
 
 XLV 
 
 First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen 
 Came mounting quickly up, for it was 
 now 
 All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, 
 Flame was shower'd forth above, as 
 well's below. 
 So that you scarce could say who best had 
 chosen. 
 The gentlemen that were the -first to 
 show 
 Their martial faces on the parapet. 
 Or those who thought it brave to wait 
 as yet. 
 
 XLVl 
 
 But those who scaled, found out that 
 their advance 
 Was favour'd by an accident or blunder : 
 
7i6 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The Greek and Turkish Cohom's ignor- 
 ance 
 Had palisado'd in a way you'd wonder 
 To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 
 (Though these to our Gibraltar must 
 knock under) — 
 Right in the middle of the parapet 
 Just named, these palisades were primly 
 set : 
 
 XLVII 
 
 So that on either side some nine or ten 
 Paces were left, whereon you could con- 
 trive 
 To march ; a great convenience to our 
 men, 
 At least to all those who were left alive. 
 Who thus could form a line and fight 
 again ; 
 And that which farther aided them to 
 strive 
 Was, that they could kick down the 
 
 palisades. 
 Which scarcely rose much higher than 
 grass blades. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Among the first — I will not say the first, 
 For such precedence upon such occa- 
 sions 
 Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels 
 bru'St 
 Out between friends as well as allied 
 nations ; 
 The Briton must be bold who really durst 
 Put to such trial John Bull's partial 
 patience, 
 As say that Wellington at Waterloo 
 Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so 
 too ; — 
 
 XLIX 
 
 And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 
 And God knows who besides in " au " 
 and " ow," 
 Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
 Into the hearts of those who fought till 
 now 
 As tigers combat with an empt\' craw. 
 The Duke of Wellington had ceased to 
 show 
 His orders, also to receive his pensions ; 
 Which are the heaviest that our histor\' 
 mentions. 
 
 L 
 
 Bui never mind , — " God save the king ! " 
 and kings ! 
 ]'oi if he don't, 1 doubt it men will 
 longer — 
 1 think 1 hear a little bird, who sings 
 The people by and by will be the 
 strc^nger . 
 The veriest jade will wince whose harness 
 wrings 
 
 So much into the raw as quite to wrong 
 her 
 Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
 .4t'last fall sick of imit.uing Job. 
 
 LI 
 
 At first it grumbles, then it swears, and 
 then. 
 Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst 
 a giant ; 
 At last it takes to weapons such as men 
 Snatch when despair makes human 
 hearts less pliant. 
 Then comes the " tug of war ; " — 'twill 
 come again, 
 I rather doubt ; and I would fain say 
 " fie on't," 
 If I had not perceived that revolution 
 Alone can save the earth from hell's 
 pollution, 
 
 LII 
 
 But to continue : — I say not the first, 
 But of the first, our little friend Don 
 Juan, 
 Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail , as if nursed 
 Amidst such scenes — though this was 
 quite a new one 
 To him, and I should hope to most. The 
 thu-st 
 Of glory, which so pierces through and 
 through one. 
 Pervaded him — although a generous 
 
 creature. 
 As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 
 
 LIII 
 
 And here he was — who upon woman's 
 breast. 
 Even from a child, felt like a child ; 
 howe'er 
 The man in all the rest might be contest, 
 
 To him it was Elysium to be there ; 
 .\nd he could even withstand that awk- 
 ward test 
 Which Rousseau points out to the dubi- 
 ous fair, 
 " Observe your lover when he leaves your 
 
 arms ; " 
 But Juan never left them, while they had 
 charms, 
 
 LIV 
 
 Unless couipell'd by fate, or wave, or wind. 
 Or near relations, who are much the 
 same. 
 But here he was !— where each tie that can 
 bind 
 Humanity must vield to steel and flame ■. 
 .\nd he whose very bodv was all mind, 
 Flung here by fate or circumstance, 
 \vhich tame 
 The loftiest, hurried by the time and place. 
 nn=;h'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in 
 a race 
 
DOX JTIAN 
 
 717 
 
 So was his blood stirr'd while he found 
 resistance, 
 As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, 
 Or double post and rail, n'here the exist- 
 ence 
 Of Britain's youth depends upon their 
 weight. 
 The lightest being the safest ; at a dis- 
 tance 
 He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
 Blood, until heated — and even then his 
 
 own 
 At times would curdle o'er sotpe heavy 
 groan. 
 
 LVI 
 
 The General Lascy, who had been hard 
 press'd. 
 Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
 As were some hundred youngsters all 
 abreast. 
 Who came as if just dropp'd down irom 
 the moon, 
 To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 
 His thanks, and hopes to take the city 
 soon. 
 Not reckoning him to be a "base Bezo- 
 
 nian," ^ 
 (As Pistol calls it) but a young Livonian. 
 
 LVII 
 
 Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
 As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 
 In answer made an inclination to 
 
 The general who held him in command ; 
 
 For seeing one with ribands, black and 
 
 blue, 
 
 Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in 
 
 hand. 
 
 Addressing him in tones which seem'd to 
 
 thank. 
 He recognized an officer of rank. 
 
 Short speeches pass between two men who 
 speak . 
 
 No common language ; and besides, 
 in time 
 Of war and taking towns, when many a 
 shriek 
 Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a 
 crime 
 Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
 
 Upon the ear, and sounds of horror 
 chime 
 In like ciiurch-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, 
 
 yell, prayer. 
 There cannot be much conversation there. 
 
 ux 
 And therefore all we have related in 
 Two long octaves, pass'd in a little 
 minute ; 
 But in the same small mmute, every sin 
 
 Contrived to get itself comprised within 
 it. 
 The very cannon, deafen'd by the din. 
 Grew dumb, for you might almost hear 
 a linnet. 
 As soon as thunder, 'midst the general 
 
 noise 
 Of human nature's agonising voice ! 
 
 LX 
 
 The town ivas enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 
 " God made the country, and man made 
 the town," 
 So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
 
 Of his opinion, when I see cast down 
 Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, 
 All walls men know, and many never 
 known ; 
 And pondering on the present and the past. 
 To deem the woods shall be our home at 
 last :— 
 
 LXI 
 
 Of all men, saving Sylla, the man-slayer, 
 Who passes for in life and death most 
 lucky. 
 Of the great names which in our faces 
 stare. 
 The General Boon, back-woodsman of 
 Kentucky, 
 Was happiest amongst mortals any where ; 
 For killing nothing but a bear or buck, 
 he 
 Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 
 Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze, 
 
 LXIl 
 
 Crime came not near him — she is not the 
 
 child 
 Of solitude ; Health shrank not from 
 
 him — for 
 Her home is in the rarely trodden wild. 
 Where if men seek her not, and death 
 
 be more 
 Their choice than life, forgive them, as 
 
 beguiled 
 By habit to what their own hearts 
 
 abhor — 
 In cities caged. The present case in 
 
 point I 
 Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to 
 
 ninety ; 
 
 LXIII 
 
 And what's still stranger, left behind a 
 name 
 For which men vainly decimate the 
 -• throng. 
 Not only famous, but of that good fame. 
 Without which glory's but a tavern 
 song — 
 Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame. 
 Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge 
 with wrong ; , . -u 
 
 An active hermit, even in age the child 
 Of Nature, ot the Man of Rose run wilq, 
 
7i8 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 LXIV 
 
 'Tis true he shrank from men e\'en of his 
 nation, 
 When they built up unto bis darling 
 trees, — 
 He moved some hundred miles o2, for a 
 station 
 Where there were fewer houses and 
 more ease ; 
 The inconvenience of civilisaticm 
 
 Is, that you neither can be pleased nor 
 please ; 
 But where he met the individual man. 
 He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 
 
 LXV 
 
 He was not all alone : around him grew 
 A sylvan tribe of children of the chase. 
 Whose young, unawaken'd world was e\ er 
 new, 
 Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a 
 trace 
 On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you 
 view 
 A frown on Nature's or on human face ; — 
 The free-born forest found and kept 
 
 them free, 
 And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were 
 
 they, 
 Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abor- 
 tions. 
 Because their thoughts had never been the 
 
 prey 
 Of care or gain : the green woods were 
 
 their portions ; 
 No sinking spirits told them they grew 
 
 grey. 
 No fashion made them apes of her 
 
 distortions ; 
 Simple they were, not savage ; and their 
 
 rifles. 
 Though very true, were not yet used for 
 
 trifles. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Motion was in their days, rest in their 
 slumbers. 
 And cheerfulness the handmaid of their 
 toil ; 
 Nor yet too many nor too few their num- 
 bers ; 
 Corruption could not make their hearts 
 her soil ; 
 The lust which stings, the splendour 
 which encumbers. 
 With t^ie free foresters di\ide no spoil ; 
 Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 
 Of this unsighing people of tlie woods. 
 
 Lxvni 
 So much for Nature : — by way of variety, 
 Now back to thy great joys. Civilisation ! 
 
 And the sweet consequence of large society. 
 
 War, pestilence, the despot's desolation. 
 
 The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 
 
 The millions slain by soldiers for their 
 
 ration, 
 
 The scenes like Catharine's boudoir at 
 
 threescore, 
 With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 
 
 The town was enter'd ; first one column 
 
 made 
 Its sanguinary way good — then another ; 
 The reeking bayonet and the flashing 
 
 blade 
 Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe 
 
 and mother 
 With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to 
 
 upbraid : — 
 Still closer sulphury clouds began to 
 
 smother 
 The breath of morn and man, where foot 
 
 by foot 
 The madden'd Turks theur city still' dis- 
 pute. 
 
 LXX 
 
 Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 
 (With some assistance from the frost 
 and snow) 
 Napoleon on his bold and bloody track. 
 It happen'd was himself beat back just 
 now : 
 He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
 His jest alike in face of friend or foe. 
 Though life, and death, and victory were at 
 
 stake ; 
 But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to 
 take : 
 
 LXXI 
 
 For having thrown himself into a ditch, 
 FoUow'd in haste by various grenadiers. 
 
 Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich. 
 He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 
 
 But there his project reach'd its utmost 
 pitch 
 ('Mongst other deaths the General 
 Ribaupierre's 
 
 Was much regretted), for the Moslem men 
 
 Threw them all down into the ditch ag.ain. 
 
 L.XXII 
 
 And had it not been for some stray troops 
 landing 
 They knew not where, being carried by 
 the stream 
 To some spot, where they lost their under- 
 standing. 
 And wandor'd up and down as in a 
 dream , v 
 
 Until they reach'd, as daybreak was ex- 
 panding. 
 That which a portal to their eyes did 
 seem, — 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 719 
 
 The great and gay Koutousow might 
 
 have lain 
 Where three parts of his column yet 
 
 remain. 
 
 Lxxni 
 And scrambling round the rampart, these 
 same troops. 
 After the talking of the " Cavalier," 
 Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of 
 " hopes " 
 Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge 
 of fear, 
 Open'd the gate call'd " Kilia," to the 
 groups 
 Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near. 
 Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud, 
 Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cos- 
 sacques — 
 (I don't much pique myself upon ortho- 
 graphy. 
 So that I do not grossly err in facts. 
 Statistics, tactics, politics, and geo- 
 graphy)— 
 Having been used to serve on horses backs, 
 
 And no great dilettanti in topography 
 Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 
 Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to 
 pieces. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Their column, though the Turkish bat- 
 teries thunder'd 
 Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the 
 rampart. 
 
 And naturally thought they could have 
 plunder'd 
 The city, without being farther ham- 
 per'd ; 
 
 But as it happens to brave men, they 
 blunder'd — 
 The Turks at 6rst pretended to have 
 scamper'd. 
 
 Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion 
 corners, . 
 
 From whence they sallied on those Chris- 
 tian scorners. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 Then being taken by the tail— a taking 
 Fatal to bishops as to soldiers— these 
 
 Cossacques were all cut off as day was 
 breaking, 
 And found their lives were let at a short 
 
 lease — . . , ■ „ 
 
 But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 
 Leaving as ladders their heap'd car- 
 casses, ,^ , . 
 O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
 March'd with the brave battalion of 
 Polouzki : — 
 
 LXXVIl 
 
 This vahant man kill'd all the Turks he 
 met. 
 But could not eat them, being in his 
 turn 
 Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not 
 yet, ■ 
 Without resistance, see their city burn. 
 The walls were won, but 'tw.is an even bet 
 Which of the armies would have cause 
 to mourn : 
 'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by 
 
 inch. 
 For one would not retreat, nor t'other 
 flinch. 
 
 Another column also suffer'd much : — 
 And here we may remark with the his- 
 torian. 
 You should but give few cartridges to such 
 Troops as are meant to march with 
 greatest glory on ; 
 When matters must be carried by the touch 
 Of the bright bayonet, and they all 
 should hurry pn, 
 They sometimes, with a hankering for exis- 
 tence, 
 Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 A junction of the General Meknop's men 
 (Without the General, who had fallen 
 some time 
 Before, being badly seconded just then) 
 Was made at length with those who 
 dared to climb 
 The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 
 And though the Turks' resistance was 
 sublime. 
 They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 
 Defended, at a price extremely dear. 
 
 Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers 
 Among the foremost, offer'd him good 
 quarter 
 
 .\ word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
 Or at least suited not this valiant 
 Tartar. 
 
 He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
 A savage sort of military martyr. 
 
 An English naval officer, who wish'd 
 
 To make him prisoner, was also dish'd : 
 
 L.XXXl 
 
 For all the answer to his proposition 
 Was from a pistol-shot that laid him 
 dead ; 
 On which the rest, without more inter- 
 mission. 
 Began to lay about with steel and lead — 
 j The pious metals most in requisition 
 ' On such occasions : not a single head 
 
720 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Was spared ; — three thousand Moslems 
 
 perish'd here, 
 And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seras- 
 
 Mer. 
 
 LXXXII- 
 
 The city's talven — only part by part — 
 And death is drunk with gore : there's 
 not a street 
 Where fights not to the last some desperate 
 heart 
 For those for whom it soon shall cease to 
 beat. 
 Here War forgot his own destructive art 
 In more destroying Natiure ; and the 
 heat 
 Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden 
 
 slime, 
 Engender'd monstrous shapes of every 
 crime. 
 
 Lxxxm 
 A Russian officer, in martial tread 
 
 Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
 Seized fast, as if 'twere by the serpent's 
 head 
 Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed 
 to feel : 
 In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, 
 and bled, 
 And howl'd for help as wolves do for a 
 meal — 
 The teeth still kept their gratifying hold. 
 As do the subtle snakes described of old. 
 
 LX.XXIV 
 
 A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
 Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 
 The very tendon which is most acute — 
 (That which some ancient Muse or mod- 
 ern wit 
 Named after thee, Achilles) and quite 
 through't 
 He made the teeth meet, nor relin- 
 quish'd it 
 Even with his life — for (but they lie) 
 
 'tis said 
 To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 
 
 i.,xx,xv 
 However this may be, 'tis pretty sure 
 
 The Russian officer for life was lamed. 
 For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a 
 skewer. 
 And left him 'midst the invaUd and 
 maim'd ; 
 The regimental surgeon could not cure 
 His patient, and perhaps was to be 
 blamed 
 More than the head of the inveterate foe. 
 Which was cut off, and scarce even tlicii 
 let go. 
 
 l.X.XXVI 
 
 But then the fact's a fact— and 'tis the 
 part 
 
 Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
 Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 
 In leaving verse more free from the re- 
 striction 
 Of truth than prose, unless to suit the 
 mart 
 For what is sometimes call'd poetic 
 diction, 
 And that outrageous appetite for lies 
 Which - Satan angles with for souls, like 
 flies. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 The city's taken, but not render'd ! — Xo ! 
 There's not a Moslem that hath 5aelded 
 sword : 
 The blood may gush out, as the Danube's 
 flow 
 Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor 
 word 
 -Acknowledge aught of dread of death or 
 foe : 
 In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
 By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
 Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 
 
 L.x.x.xvin 
 The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves. 
 And human lives are la^'ish'd everv- 
 where. 
 As the year closing whirls the scarlet 
 leaves 
 When the stripp'd forest bows to the 
 bleak air, 
 ,\nd groans ; and thus the peopled citv 
 grieves, 
 Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left 
 bare ; 
 Bat still it falls in vast and awful splinters, 
 .\s oaks bloivn down with all their thousand 
 winters. 
 
 LX.XXI.X 
 
 It is an awful topic — but 'tis not 
 
 My cue for any time to be terrific : 
 For checker'd as is seen our human lot 
 With good, and bad, and worse, alike 
 prolific 
 Of melancholy merriment, to quote 
 
 Too much of one sort ^^■ould be 
 soporific; — 
 Without, or with, offence to friends or 
 
 foes, 
 I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 
 
 xc 
 And one good action in the midst of 
 crimes 
 Is " quite refreshing," in the affected 
 phrase 
 Of these- ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 
 
 With all tlieir pretty milk-and-water 
 ways, 
 .\nd may serve therefore to bedew these 
 rhymes, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 721 
 
 A little bcorch'd at present with the 
 blaze 
 Of conquest and its consequences, which 
 Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 
 
 Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
 Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet 
 warm group 
 Of murder'd women, who had found their 
 L way 
 
 To this vain refuge, made the good 
 heart droop 
 And shudder ; — while, as beautiful as May, 
 A female child of ten years tried to 
 stoop 
 And hide her little palpitating breast 
 Amidst the bodies luU'd in bloody rest. 
 
 Two villanous Cossacques pursued the 
 child 
 With flashing eyes and weapon? : 
 raatch'd with them, 
 The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild, 
 Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem , — 
 The bear is r.ivihzed, the wolf is mild : 
 And whom for this at last must we 
 condemn ? 
 1 heir natures ? or their sovereigns, who 
 
 employ 
 All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 
 
 XCIII 
 
 Their sabres glittor'd o'er her little head, 
 Whence her fair hair rose twining with 
 affright. 
 Her hidden face was plunged amidst the 
 dead ■ 
 When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad 
 sight, 
 I shall not say exactly what he said. 
 Because it might not solace " ears 
 poUte;" 
 But what did, was to lay on their backs. 
 The readiest way of reasoning with Cos- 
 sacques. 
 
 xciv 
 One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's 
 shoulder, 
 And drove them with their brutal yells 
 
 If there might be chirurgeons who 
 
 could solder 
 The wounds they richly merited, and 
 
 shriek . 
 
 Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing 
 
 colder 
 As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory 
 
 cheek, 
 Don Juan raised his little captive from 
 The heap a moment more had made her 
 
 tomb. 
 
 And she was chill as they, and on her face 
 A slender streak of blood announced 
 how near 
 Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 
 For the same blow which laid her mother 
 here 
 Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson 
 trace. 
 As the last link with all she had held 
 dear ; 
 But else unhurt, she opcn'd her large eyes, 
 And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise 
 
 xcvi 
 Just at this instant, while their eyes were 
 fix'd 
 Upon each other, with dilated glance. 
 In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, 
 mix'd 
 With joy to save, and dread of some 
 mischance 
 Unto his protegee ; while hers, transfix'd 
 With infant terrors, glared as from a 
 trance, 
 A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
 Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 
 
 XCVII 
 
 Up came John Johnson (T will not say 
 " Jack," 
 For that were vulgar, cold, and common- 
 place 
 On great occasions, such as an attack 
 
 On cities, as hath been the present case) : 
 
 Up .Johnson came, with hundreds at his 
 
 "back. 
 
 Exclaiming— " Juan ! Juan! On, boy! 
 
 brace 
 
 Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar. 
 
 That you and I will win St. George's collar. 
 
 xcviii 
 " The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head. 
 But the stone bastion still remains, 
 wherein 
 The old Pacha sits among some hundreds 
 dead. 
 Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the 
 din 
 Of our artillery and his own : 'tis said 
 
 Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin. 
 Lie round the battery ; but still it batters, 
 .And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, 
 scatters. 
 
 xcix 
 "Then up with me ! "—But Juan answer'd, 
 " Look 
 Upon this child — I saved her— must not 
 leave 
 Her life to chance ; but point^e out some 
 nook 
 Of safety, where she less may shrink and 
 grieve, 
 
7J2 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson 
 
 took 
 A glance around — and shrugg'd--and 
 
 twitch'd his sleeve 
 And black silk neckcloth— and replied, 
 
 " You're right , 
 Poor thing ! what's to be done .' I'm 
 
 puzzled quite " 
 
 c 
 Said Juan — " Whatsoever is to be 
 
 Done, I'll not quit her till she seems 
 
 secure 
 
 Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
 
 Quoth Johnson — " Neilher will I quite 
 
 ensure ; 
 
 But at the least von may die gloriously." — 
 
 Juan replied—" At least I will endure 
 Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 
 This child, who is parentless, and therefore 
 mine." 
 
 Johnson said — " Juan, we've no time to 
 lose ; 
 The child's a pretty child— a very 
 pretty — 
 I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now 
 choose 
 Between your fame and feelings, pride 
 and pity ; — 
 Hark I how the roar increases !--no citcuse 
 Will serve when there is plunder in a 
 city ; — 
 1 should be loth to march without you, but, 
 By God ! we'll be too late for the first cut." 
 
 But Juan was immoveable : until 
 
 Johnson, who really lo\ed him in his way, 
 Pick'd out amongst his followers with some 
 skill 
 Such as he thought the least given up to 
 prey ; 
 And swearing if the infant came to ill 
 That they should all be shot on the next 
 day ; 
 But if she were deliver'd safe and sound, 
 They should at least have fifty rubles 
 round, 
 
 cm 
 And all allowances besides of plunder 
 In fair proportion with their comrades ; 
 — then 
 Juan consented to march on through 
 thunder, 
 Which thinn'd at every step their rank"^ 
 of men ; 
 And yet the rest rush'd eagerly— no 
 wonder, 
 For they ^^ere heated by the hope of gain, 
 A thing which happens everywhere each 
 
 day- 
 No hero trusteth wholly to half pay. 
 
 And such is victory, and such is man ! 
 At least nine-tenths of what we call so ; 
 —God 
 May have another name for half we scan 
 
 As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
 But to our subject : a brave Tartar khan — 
 Or " sultan," as the author (to whose 
 nod 
 In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
 This chieftain — somehow would not yield 
 at all : 
 
 But flank'd by fiie brave sons, (such is 
 polygamy. 
 That she spawns warriors by the score, 
 where none 
 Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy), 
 
 He never would believe the city won 
 While courage clung but to a single fwig.^ 
 Am I 
 Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jo\'e's 
 son? 
 Neither — but a good, plain, old, temperate 
 
 man. 
 Who fought with his five children in the 
 van 
 
 To take him was the point. The truly 
 brave, 
 When they behold the brave oppress'd 
 with odds, 
 .\re touch'd with a desire to shield and 
 save : — 
 .\ mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 
 Are they — now furious as the sweeping 
 wa\"e, 
 Now moved with pity : even as some- 
 times nods 
 The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 
 Compassion breathes along the savage 
 mind, 
 
 C\'ll 
 
 But he would not be taken, and replied 
 To all the propositions of surrender 
 
 By mowing Christians down on eveiy side, 
 As obstinate as Swedish Charles at 
 Bender. 
 
 His five brave boys no less the foe defied ; 
 Whereon the Russian pathos grew less 
 tender. 
 
 As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
 
 Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. 
 
 cviu 
 And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
 
 Expended all their Eastern phraseology 
 In begging him, for God'ssake, just toshow 
 So much less fight as might form an 
 apology 
 
 For them in saving such a desperate foe 
 
 He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 723 
 
 When thei' dispute witli sceptics, and 
 
 with curses 
 Struck at his friends, as babies beat their 
 
 nurses. 
 
 cix 
 
 Nay. he had wounded, though but slightly, 
 both 
 Juan and Johnson ; whereupon they fell. 
 The first with sighs, the second with an 
 oath, 
 Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 
 And all around were grown exceeding 
 wroth 
 At such a pertinacious infidel. 
 And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain. 
 Which they resisted like a sandy plain 
 
 ex 
 
 That drinks and still is dry. At- last they 
 perish'd — 
 His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 
 His third was sabred ; and the fourth, 
 most cherish'd 
 Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 
 The fifth, who, by a Christian mother 
 nourish'd, 
 Had been neglected, ill-used, and what 
 not, 
 Because deform'd, yet died all game and 
 
 bottom. 
 To save a sire who blush'd that he begot 
 him. 
 
 CXI 
 
 The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 
 
 As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
 As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 
 Who only saw the black-eyed girls in 
 green. 
 Who make the beds of those who won t 
 cake quarter 
 On earth, in Paradise : and when once 
 seen, 
 Those houris. like all other pretty creatures. 
 Do just whate'er they please, by dint of 
 features. 
 
 And what they pleased to do with the 
 
 young khan 
 
 In heaven 1 know not, nor pretend to 
 
 guess , 
 
 But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
 
 *To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 
 
 And that's the cause no doubt why, if we 
 
 A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 
 For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran 
 
 You'll find ten thousand handsome cox- 
 combs bloody. 
 
 cxni 
 Youi houris also have a natural pleasure 
 In lopping off your lately married men, 
 
 Before the bridal hours have danced their 
 
 measure. 
 And the sad, second moon grows dim 
 
 again. 
 Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure 
 To wish him back a bachelor now and 
 
 then : 
 And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 
 01 these brief blossoms the immediate 
 
 fruits. 
 
 cxiv 
 Thus the young khan, with houris in his 
 sight. 
 Thought not upon the charms of four 
 young .brides. 
 But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly 
 night. 
 In short, howe'er our better faith 
 derides. 
 These black-eyed virgins make the Mos- 
 lems fight. 
 As though there v/ere one heaven and 
 none besides — 
 Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 
 And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 
 
 So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes. 
 That when the very lance was in his 
 heart, 
 He shouted " Allah 1 " and saw Paradise 
 With all its veil of mystery drawn apart. 
 And bright eternity without disguise 
 On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, 
 dart :— 
 With prophets, houris, angels, saints, 
 
 descried 
 In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he 
 died : 
 
 But with a heavenly rapture on his face, 
 The good old khan, who long had ceased 
 to see 
 Houris, or aught except his florid race 
 Who grew like cedais round him glori- 
 ously— 
 When he beheld his latest hero grace 
 The earth, which he became like a tell'd 
 tree, 
 Paused for a moment from the fight, and 
 
 cast 
 A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 
 
 cxvii 
 The soldiers, who beheld him drop his 
 point, 
 Stopp'd as if once more willing to con- 
 cede 
 Quarter, in case he bade them not ' aroynt! 
 As he before had done. He did not 
 heed 
 Their pause nor signs : his heart was out 
 of joint, 
 
7^4 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And shook (till now unshaken) like a 
 reed, 
 As he look'd down upon his children gone, 
 And felt— though done with life — he was 
 alone 
 
 cx\'ni 
 Dut 'twas a transient tremor : — with a 
 spring 
 Upon the Russian steel his breast he 
 flung. 
 As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
 Against the light wherein she dies ; he 
 clung 
 Closer, that all the deadlier they might 
 wring, 
 Unto the bayonets which had pierced his 
 young ; 
 And throwing back a dim look on his sons. 
 In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at 
 once. 
 
 'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough 
 soldiers, who 
 Spared neither se *■ nor age in their career 
 Of carnage, when this old man was pierced 
 through. 
 And lay before them with his children 
 near, 
 Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew. 
 Were melted for a moment ; though no 
 tear 
 Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red 
 
 with strife, 
 Thev honour'd such determined scorn of 
 life. 
 
 But the stone bastion still kept up its fire. 
 Where the chief pacha calmly held his 
 post : 
 
 Some twenty times he made the Russ retire. 
 And baffled the assaults of all their host : 
 
 At length he condescended to inquire. 
 If yet the city's rest were won or lost ■. 
 
 And being told the latter, sent a bey 
 
 To answer Ribas' summons to give way 
 
 In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great 
 sang-froid. 
 Among the scorching ruins he sat smok 
 ing 
 Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 
 
 Sawnothing like the scene around; — yet 
 looking 
 With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to 
 annoy 
 His stern philosophy ; but gently strok- 
 ing 
 His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial 
 
 gales, 
 ^9 if he had three lives, as well as tails. 
 
 CXXll 
 
 The town was taken — whether be might 
 yield 
 Himself or bastion, little matter d now : 
 His stubborn valour was no future shield. 
 Ismail's no more ! The crescent s 
 silver bow 
 Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the 
 field. 
 But red with no redeeming gore •- the 
 glow 
 Of burning streets, like moonlight on the 
 
 water. 
 Was imaged back in blood, the sea of 
 slaughter. 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 All that the mind vvould shrink from of 
 excesses ; 
 All that the body perpetrates of had ; 
 All that we read, hear, dream, of man's 
 distresses ; 
 All that the devil would do if run stark 
 mad ; 
 All that defies the worst which pen ex- 
 presses ; 
 AH by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
 As hell — mere mortals who their power 
 
 abuse — 
 Was here (as heretofore and since) let 
 loose. 
 
 rxxiv 
 If here and there some transient trait of 
 pity 
 Was shown, and some more noble heart 
 broke through 
 Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some 
 pretty 
 Child, or an aged, helpless man or two — 
 What's this in one annihilated citv, 
 
 Where thousand loves, and ties, and 
 duties grew ? 
 Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris ! 
 Just pjndei what a pious pastime war is 
 
 ex XV 
 
 Think how the joys of reading a Gazette 
 Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: 
 Or if these do not move vou, don't foi get 
 Such doom may be your own in after- 
 times. 
 Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh. and 
 Debt. 
 Are hints as good as sermons, or as 
 rhymes. 
 Read yoiu own hearts and Ireland's pres- 
 ent stor>'. 
 Then feed her famine lat with Welleslev's 
 glory. 
 
 ex XVI 
 
 But still there is unto a patriot nation, 
 Which lo\es so well its countrv and its 
 king, 
 A subject of sublimest exultation— 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 725 
 
 Bear it, ve Muses, on your brightest 
 wing ! 
 Howe'er tiie mighty locust, Desolation, 
 Strip your green fields, and to your 
 harvests cling, 
 Gaunt famine never shall approach the 
 
 throne — 
 Though Ireland starve, great George 
 weighs twenty stone. 
 
 CXXVII 
 
 But let me put an end unto my theme : 
 There was an end of Ismail — hapless 
 town ! 
 Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Dan- 
 ube's stream. 
 And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
 The horrid war-whoop and the shriller 
 scream 
 Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders 
 grown : 
 Of forty thousand who had mann'd the 
 
 wail. 
 Some hundreds breathed — the rest were 
 silent all ! 
 
 cxxviii 
 In one thing ne'ertheless 'tis fit to praise 
 The Russian army upon this occasion, 
 A virtue much in fashion now-a-davs, 
 And therefore worthy of commemora- 
 tion : 
 The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase — 
 .Perhaps the season's chill, and their long 
 station 
 In winter's depth, or want of rest and 
 
 victual. 
 Had made them chaste ; — they ravish'd 
 very little. 
 
 cxxix 
 Much did they slay, more plunder, and no 
 less . 
 
 Might here and there occur some viola- 
 tion 
 In the other line : — but not to such excess 
 As when the French, that dissipated 
 nation, 
 Talce towns by storm : no causes can I 
 guess, 
 Except cold weather and commiseration ; 
 But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 
 Were almost as much virgins as before. 
 
 cxxx 
 
 Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the 
 dark, 
 Which show'd a want of lanterns, or 01 
 taste — , ^, 
 
 Indeed the smoke was such they scarce 
 could mark 
 Their friends from foes, — besides such 
 things from haste 
 Occur though rarely, when there is a spark 
 Of light to save the venerably chaste : 
 
 liut six old damsels, each of seventy years. 
 Were all deflower'd by difierent grenadiers. 
 
 cxxxi 
 But on the whole their continence was 
 great ; 
 So that some disappointment there 
 ensued 
 To those who had felt the inconvenient 
 state 
 Of " single blessedness," and thought it 
 good 
 (Since it was not their fault, but only fate. 
 To bear these crosses) for each waning 
 prude 
 To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding. 
 Without the expense and the suspense of 
 bedding. 
 
 cxxxii 
 Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 
 
 Were also heard to wonder in the din 
 (Widows of forty wore these birds long 
 caged) 
 " Wherefore the ravishing did not be- 
 gin ! " 
 But while the thirst for gore and plunder 
 raged, 
 There was small leisure for superfluous 
 sin ; 
 But whether thev escaped or no, lies hid 
 In darkness — I can only hope they did. 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
 
 For Tim.our or for Zinghis in his trade. 
 While mosques and streets, beneath his 
 eyes, like thatch 
 Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce 
 allay'd. 
 With bloody hands he wrote his first des- 
 patch ; 
 And here exactly follows what he said : — 
 " Glory to God and to the Empress.! " 
 
 {Powers 
 Eternal 1 such names mingled !) " Ismail's 
 ours." 
 
 cxxxiv 
 Methinks these are the most tremendous 
 words, 
 Since " Mene, Mene, Tekel," and 
 " Upharsin," 
 Which hands or pens have ever traced of 
 swords. 
 Heaven help me ! I'm but little of a 
 parson : 
 What Daniel read was short-hand of the 
 Lord's, 
 Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no 
 farce on . 
 The fate of nations ; — but this Russ so 
 
 witty 
 Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 
 
726 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 cxxxv 
 He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, 
 Duly accompanied by shrieks and 
 groans, 
 Which few will sing, I trust, but none for- 
 get it— 
 For I will teach, if possible, the stones 
 To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let 
 it 
 Be said that we still truckle unto 
 thrones ; — 
 But \'e — our children's children ! think how 
 
 we 
 Show'd what things were before the world 
 was free ! 
 
 cxxxvi 
 That hour is not for us, but 'tis for you : 
 And as, in the great joy of your millen- 
 nium. 
 You hardly will believe such things were 
 true 
 As now occur, I thought that I would pen 
 you' em, 
 But may then* very memory perish too ' — 
 Yet if perchance remember'd, still dis- 
 dain you 'em 
 More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
 Who painted their bare limbs, but noi with 
 gore. 
 
 CXXXVII 
 
 And when j'ou hear historians talk of 
 thrones, 
 And those that sate upon them, let it be 
 As we now gaze upon the mammoth's 
 bones. 
 And wonder what old world such things 
 could see, 
 Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 
 The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
 Guessing at what shall happily be hid. 
 As the real purpose of a pwamid. 
 
 cxxxvm 
 Reader ' I have kept my word, — at least 
 so far 
 As the first canto promised. You have 
 now 
 Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, 
 war, — 
 All very accurate, you must allow. 
 And epic, if plain truth should prove no 
 bar ; 
 For I have drawn much less with a long 
 bow 
 Than my forerunners. Carelessly I smg. 
 But Phoebus lends me now and then a 
 string, 
 
 cx.xxix 
 With which I still can harp, and carp, and 
 fiddle. 
 What farther hath befallen or niav befall 
 The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 
 I by and hy mK\- tell you, it at all : 
 
 i But now I choose to break off in the middle, 
 I Worn out with battering Ismail's stub- 
 born wall. 
 While Juan is sent off with the despatch, 
 For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 
 
 CXL 
 
 This special honour was couferr'd, because 
 
 He had beha\ed with courage and 
 
 humanity — 
 
 Which last men like, wlien they have time 
 
 to pause 
 
 F'rom their ferocities produced by vanity. 
 
 His little captive gain'd him some applause 
 
 For saving her amidst the wild msanity 
 
 Of carnage, — and I think he was more 
 
 glad in her 
 Safety, than his new order of St. \1adimir. 
 
 rxu 
 The Moslem orphan went with her pro- 
 tector, 
 For she was homeless, houseless, help- 
 less ; all 
 Her friends, like the sad famih' of Hector, 
 Had perish'd in the field or by the \vall : 
 Her very place of burth was but a spectre 
 ' Of what it had been ; there the .Muezzin's 
 call 
 To prayer was heard no more ! and Juan 
 
 wept, 
 And made a vow to shield her, which he 
 kept. 
 
 CAXTOTHE NINTH 
 I 
 Oh, Wellington ! (or " ViUainton " — for 
 Fame 
 Sounds the heroic syllables both wavs ; 
 France could not even conquer your great 
 name, 
 But punn'd it down to this facetious 
 phrase — 
 Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,) 
 ■\'ou have obtain'd great pensions and 
 much praise : 
 Glory like yours should anv dare gainsav, 
 Humanity would rise, and thund(?r 
 " Nay ;"i 
 
 II - 
 I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite 
 well 
 In Marinet's affair « — in fact 'twas 
 shabby. 
 And like some other things won't do to tell 
 Upon your tomb in ,\\'estminster's old 
 abbt-y. 
 Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell. 
 Such tales being for the tea-hours of 
 some tabby ; 
 But though your years as man tend fast to 
 
 zero. 
 In fact your grace is still but a iviing htro. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 7.27 
 
 Though Britain owes (and pays you too) 
 so much, 
 Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly 
 more : 
 You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, 
 A prop not quite so certain as before : 
 The Spanish, and the French, as well as 
 Dutch, 
 Have seen, and felt, how strongly you 
 restore ; 
 And Waterloo has made the world your 
 
 debtor 
 (I wish your bards would sing it rather 
 better). 
 
 IV 
 
 You are " the best of cut-throats : " — do 
 not start ; 
 The phrase is Shakspeare'c, and not mis- 
 applied ; — 
 War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting 
 art. 
 Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
 If you have acted once a generous part, 
 The world, not the world's masters, will 
 decide, 
 And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
 Save you and yours, have gain'd by Water- 
 loo ? 
 
 v 
 I am no flatterer — you've supp'd full of 
 flattery : 
 They say you like it too — 'tis no great 
 wuiider. 
 He whose whole life has been assault and 
 battery, 
 At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
 And swallowing eulogy much more than 
 satire, he 
 May like being praised for every lucky 
 blunder, 
 Call'd " Saviour of the Nations "—not yet 
 
 saved, , 
 
 And " Europe's Liberator " — still enslaved. 
 
 VI 
 
 I've done. Now go and dine from off the 
 
 Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
 And send the sentinel before your gate 
 
 A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 
 He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
 
 Some hunger, too, they say the people 
 feels : — , 
 
 There is no doubt that you deserve your 
 
 ration, ,, .. 
 
 But pray give back a little to the nation. 
 
 VII 
 
 I don't mean to reflect— a man so great as 
 You, my lord duke ! is far above reflec- 
 
 The h^h Roman fashion, too, of Cincinna- 
 tus, 
 
 With modern history has but small con- 
 nection : 
 Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, 
 You need not take them under your 
 direction ; 
 And half a million for your Sabine farm 
 Is rather dear ! — I'm sure I mean no harm. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Great men have always scom'd great re- 
 compenses : 
 Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died. 
 Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 
 George Washington had thanks, and 
 nought beside. 
 Except the all-cloudless glory (which few 
 men's is) 
 To free his country : Pitt too had his 
 pride, 
 ."Vnd as a high-soul'd minister of state is 
 Kenown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. 
 
 Never had mortal man such opportunity, 
 
 Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
 You might have freed fallen Europe from 
 the unity 
 Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to 
 shore : 
 ,\nd now — what is your fame ? Shall the 
 Muse tune it ye ? 
 Now — that the rabble's first vain shouts 
 are o'er ? 
 Go ! hear it in your famish'd country's 
 
 cries ! 
 Behold the world ! and curse your victories I 
 
 X 
 
 As these new cantos touch on warlike feats. 
 To you the unflattering Muse deigns to 
 inscribe 
 Truths, that you will not read in the 
 Gazettes, 
 But which 'tis time to teach the hireling 
 tribe 
 Who fatten on theu: country's gore, and 
 debts. 
 Must be recited — and without a bribe. 
 You did great things ; but not being great 
 
 in mind, 
 Have left undone the greatest — and man- 
 Idnd. 
 
 x'l 
 
 Death laughs— Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
 With which men image out the unknown 
 thing 
 That hides the oast world, like to a set sun 
 Which still elsewhere may rouse a 
 brighter spring— 
 Death laughs at all you weep for ;— look 
 upon , , 
 
 This hourly dread of all ! whose threaten d 
 sting 
 
728 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Turns life to terror, even though in its 
 sheath : 
 
 Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins with- 
 out breath ! 
 
 Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you 
 are ! 
 And yet 'was what you are : from ear to 
 ear 
 It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 
 So call'd ; the Antic long hath ceased to 
 heat. 
 But still he smiles ; and whether near or far 
 He strips from man that mantle {far 
 'more dear 
 Than even the Tailor's), his incarnate skin. 
 White, black, or copper — the dead bones 
 will grin. 
 
 XIII 
 
 And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merri- 
 ment. 
 But still it is so ; and with such example 
 Why should not Lif&.be equalh" content 
 
 With his superior, in a smile to trample 
 
 Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
 
 Like bubbles on an ocean much less 
 
 ample 
 
 Than the eternal deluge, which devours 
 
 Suns _ as rays — worlds like atoms — years 
 
 like hours ? 
 
 XIV 
 
 " To be, or not to be ? that is the question," 
 Says Shakspeare, who just now is much 
 in fashion. 
 I am neither Alexander nor Hephastion. 
 Nor ever had for abstract fame much 
 passion ; 
 But would much rather have a sound diges- 
 tion. 
 Than Buonaparte's cancer : — could I 
 dash on 
 Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 
 Without a stomach — what were a good 
 name ? 
 
 XV 
 
 " Oh dura ilia messorum ! " — " Oh 
 
 Ye rigid guts of reapers ! " I tr.inslate 
 
 For the great benefit of those who know 
 
 What indigestion is — that inward fate 
 
 Which makes all Styx through one small 
 
 liver flow. 
 
 A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's 
 
 estate : 
 
 Let this one toil for bread — that rack for 
 
 rent. 
 He who sleeps best may be the most content . 
 
 x\\ 
 " To be, or not to be ? " — Ere I decide, 
 I should be glad to know that which is 
 being ; 
 'Tis true we speculate both far and wide, 
 
 I And deem, because we see, we are all- 
 
 ' seeing : 
 
 For my part, I'll enlist on neither side. 
 Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 
 For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 
 Rather than life a mere affair of breath." 
 
 " Que sfais-Je ? " was the motto of Mon- 
 taigne, 
 As also of the first academicians ; 
 That all is dubious which man may attain, 
 Was one of their most favourite posi- 
 tions. 
 There's no such thing as certainty, that's 
 plain 
 As any of Mortality's conditions ; 
 So little do we know what we're about in 
 This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubt- 
 ing. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
 Like Pyrrho,' on a sea of speculation ; 
 But what if carrying sail capsize the boat ? 
 Your wise men don't know much of navi- 
 gation ; 
 And swimming long in the abyss of thought 
 Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station 
 Well nigh the shore, where one stoops donTi 
 
 and gathers 
 Some pretty shell, is best for moderate 
 bathers. 
 
 XIX 
 
 " But heaven," as Cassio says, " is above 
 all— 
 No more of this, then, let us pray ! " We 
 have 
 Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's 
 fall. 
 Which tumbled all mankind into the 
 grave. 
 Besides fish, beasts, and birds, " The spar- 
 row's fall 
 Is special providence," though how it 
 gave 
 Offence, we know not ; probablv it perch'd 
 Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 
 
 XX 
 
 Oh ! ye immortal Gods ! what is theogony ? 
 Oh ! thou, too, mortal man ! wnat is 
 philanthropy ? 
 Oh ! world, which was and is, what is cos- 
 mogony ? 
 Some people have accused me of mis- 
 anthropy ; 
 And yet I know no more than the mahog- 
 any 
 That forms this desk, of what they mean ; 
 lykanthropy 
 I comprehend, for without transformation 
 Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 m 
 
 But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 
 Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have 
 ne'er 
 Done anything exceedingly unkind, — 
 And (though I could not now and then 
 forbear 
 Following the bent of body or of mind) 
 Have always had a tendency to spare, — 
 Why do they call me misanthrope ? Be- 
 cause 
 They hate me, not I them : — and here we'll 
 pause. 
 
 'Tis time we should proceed with our good 
 poem, — 
 
 For I maintain that it is really good, 
 Not only in the body but the proem, 
 
 However little both are understood 
 Just now, — -but by and by the Truth will 
 show 'em 
 
 Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
 And till she doth, I fain must be content 
 To share her beauty and her banishment. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader ! 
 yours — ) 
 Was left upon his way to the chief city 
 Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors. 
 Who still have shown themselves more 
 brave than witty. 
 I know its mighty empire now allures 
 Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and 
 that's a pity. 
 For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
 Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 And I will war, at least in words (and — 
 should 
 My chance so happen — deeds) with all 
 who war 
 With Thought ; — and of Thought's foes by 
 far most rude. 
 Tyrants and sycophants have been and 
 are. 
 I know not who may conquer : if I could 
 Have such a prescience, it should be no 
 bar 
 To this my plain, sworn, downright detes- 
 tation 
 Of every despotism in every nation. 
 
 XXV 
 
 It is not that I adulate the people : 
 Without me, there are demagogues 
 enough, 
 And infidels, to pull down every steeple. 
 And set up in their stead some proper 
 stuff. ^. . ^ 
 
 Whether they may sow scepticism to reap 
 
 hell, 
 
 As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 
 I do not know ;■ — I wish men to be free 
 As much from mobs as kings — from yon as 
 me. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 The consequence is, being of no party, 
 I shall offend all parties : — nevermind ! 
 
 My words, at least, are more sincere and 
 hearty 
 Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 
 
 He who has nought to gain can have small 
 art : he 
 Who neither wishes to be bound or bind, 
 
 May still expatiate freely, ab will I, 
 
 Nor give my voice to slavery's jackall cry. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 That's an appropriate simile, that jackall ; — - 
 I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins 
 howl 
 By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 
 Power's base purveyors, who for pickings 
 prowl, 
 And scent the prey their masters would 
 attack all. 
 However, the poor jackalls are less foul 
 (As being the brave lions' keen providers) 
 Than human insects, catering for spiders. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Raise but an arm ! 'twill brush their web 
 awav, 
 And without that, their poison and their 
 claws 
 Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I 
 sav — 
 (Or rather peoples) — go on without 
 pause ! 
 The web of these tarantulas each day 
 Increases, till you shall make common 
 cause : 
 None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee. 
 As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Don Juan, who had shone in the late 
 slaughter. 
 Was left upon his way with the despatch , 
 Where blood was talk'd of as we would of 
 water ; 
 And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
 O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
 Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on 
 the match 
 Between these nations as a main of cocks, 
 Wherein she liked her own to stand like 
 rocks. 
 
 XXX 
 
 And there in a hibitha he roll'd on, 
 
 (A cursed sort of carriage without springs. 
 
 Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a 
 whole bone,) 
 Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings. 
 
 And orders, and on all that he had done — 
 
 3B 
 
no 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And wishing tliat post-horses had the 
 wings 
 Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 
 Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways 
 
 XXXI 
 
 At every jolt — and they were many — still 
 He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge. 
 
 As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
 Than he, in these sad highways left at 
 large 
 
 To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, 
 Who is no pavinur, nor admits a barge 
 
 On her canals, where God takes sea and 
 land. 
 
 Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 
 
 xxxu 
 At least he pays no rent, and has best 
 right 
 To be the first of what we used to call 
 " Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out 
 quite. 
 Since lately there have been no rents at 
 all, 
 And " gentlemen " are in a piteous plight. 
 And " farmers " can't raise Ceres from 
 her fall : 
 She fell with Buonaparte — What strange 
 
 thoughts 
 Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 
 
 xxxiji 
 But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
 Whom he had saved from slaughter — 
 what a trophy ! 
 Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 
 With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive 
 Sophy, 
 Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 
 
 And scarce to the Jlogul a cup of coffee 
 To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the 
 
 sinner ! 
 Because he could no more digest his din- 
 ner ; — 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Oh ye ! or we ! or he ! or she ! reflect, 
 
 That one life saved, especially if young 
 Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 
 Far sweeter than the greenest laurels 
 sprung 
 From the manure of human clay, though 
 deck'd 
 With all the praises ever said or sung : 
 Though hymn'd by every harp, unless with- 
 
 Your heart joins chorus. Fame is but a din. 
 
 xxxv 
 Oh ! ye great authors luminous, volumin- 
 ous ! 
 Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily 
 scribes ! 
 
 Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, 
 illumine us ! 
 Whether you're paid by government in 
 bribes. 
 
 To prove the public debt is not consuming 
 us — 
 Or, roughly treading on the " courtier's 
 kibes " 
 
 With clownish heel, your popular circula- 
 tion 
 
 Feeds you by printing half the realm's 
 starvation ; — 
 
 x.x.wi 
 Oh, ye great authors ! — " Apropos des 
 botte-.," — 
 I have forgotten what I meant to sa}-, 
 As sometimes have been greater sages' 
 lots ; — 
 'Twas something calculated to allav 
 All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 
 Certes it would ha\-e been but throim 
 away, 
 And that's one comfort for mv lost advice, 
 Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 
 
 XXXVTI 
 
 But let it go : — it will one dav be found 
 With other relics of " a former world," 
 When this world shall be former, under- 
 ground, 
 Thrown topsy-turvj', twisted, crisp 'd 
 and curl'd, 
 Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or 
 drown'd. 
 Like all the worlds before, which ha\-e 
 been hurl'd 
 First out of, and then back again to chaos 
 The superstratum which will overlay us. 
 
 -XXXVIII 
 
 So Cuvier says :— and then shaU come again 
 
 Unto the new creation, rising out 
 From our old crash, some mystic, ancient 
 strain 
 Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt 
 Like to the notions we now entenain 
 
 Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
 Some hundred feet in height, not to sav 
 miles, ' 
 
 And niammoths, and your winged croco- 
 diles. 
 
 -XX.KI.X 
 
 Think If then George the Fourth should be 
 dug up. 
 
 How the new worldings of the then new 
 
 -bast 
 
 Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
 
 kast'"' "'^'"^«'''""-'* ■'^•'11 be but of the 
 
 Even \vorUK misc.irr>-, when too oft they 
 
 And e\-ery nesv creation hath decreased 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 731 
 
 In size, from overworking the material — 
 Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's 
 burial.) 
 
 XL 
 
 How will — to these young people, just 
 thrust out 
 From some fresh Paradise, and set to 
 plough. 
 And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves 
 about. 
 And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, 
 and sow, 
 Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
 
 Especially of war and taxing, — how, 
 I say, will these great relics, when they see 
 
 'em, 
 Look like the monsters of a new museum ? 
 
 XLI 
 
 But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
 
 " The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 
 
 I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical. 
 
 And deviate into matters rather dry, 
 I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I 
 call 
 Much too poetical : men should know 
 why 
 They wnrite, and for what end ; but, note 
 
 or text, 
 I never know the word which will come 
 next. 
 
 So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
 Now pondering : — it is time we should 
 narrate. 
 I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 
 Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great 
 rate. 
 I shall not be particular in stating 
 
 His journey, we've so many tours of late : 
 Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; sup- 
 pose 
 That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 
 A scarlet coat, black facings, a long 
 plume, 
 Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 
 Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room. 
 And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn 
 Gorme, 
 Of yellow casimere we may presume, 
 \\'hite stockings drawn uncurdled as new 
 
 milk 
 O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk ; 
 
 Suppose him sword by side, and hat in 
 hand. 
 Made up by youth, fame, and an army 
 tailor — 
 
 That great enchanter, at whose rod's com- 
 mand 
 
 Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self 
 turns paler. 
 Seeing how Art can make her work more 
 grand 
 (When she don't pin men's limbs in Uke a 
 gaoler) , — 
 Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 
 Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery ! 
 
 XLV 
 
 His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat ; 
 His wings subdued to epaulettes ; his 
 quiver 
 Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 
 His side as a small sword, but sharp as 
 ever: 
 His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 
 But still so like, that Psj'che were more 
 clever 
 Than some wives (who make blunders no 
 
 less stupid), 
 If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, 
 and 
 The empress smiled : the reigning favour- 
 ite frown'd — 
 I quite forget which of them was in hand 
 Just then ; as they are rather numerous 
 found. 
 Who took by turns that diiBcult command 
 Since first her majesty was singly 
 crown 'd : 
 But they were mostly nervous six-foot 
 
 fellows. 
 All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Juan was none of these, but slight and 
 slim. 
 Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ert'.ie- 
 less 
 There was a something in his turn of limb. 
 And still more in his eye, which seem'd 
 to express, 
 That though he look'd one of the seraphim, 
 There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's 
 dress. 
 Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy. 
 And had just buried the fair-faced Lans- 
 koJL. 
 
 XL VIII 
 
 No wonder then that Yermolofi, or Momo- 
 noff. 
 Or Scherbatoft, or any other off 
 Or on, might dread her majesty had not 
 room enough 
 Within her bosom (which was not too 
 tough) 
 For a new flame ; a thought to cast of 
 gloom enough 
 Along the aspect, whether smooth or 
 rough, 
 
732 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Of him who, in the language of his station, 
 Then held that " high official situation." 
 
 O, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 
 
 The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
 
 Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
 
 His parts of speech ; and in the strange 
 
 displays 
 
 Of that odd string of words, all in a row, 
 
 Which none divine, and every one obeys, 
 
 Perhaps you may pick out some queer no 
 
 meaning, 
 Of that weak wordy harvest the sole glean- 
 ing. 
 
 L 
 
 I think I can explain myself without 
 
 That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 
 That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a 
 doubt, 
 Did not his deeds unriddle them each 
 day — • 
 That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long 
 spout 
 Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 
 And here I must an anecdote relate, 
 But luckily of no great length or weight. 
 
 LI 
 
 An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
 
 What were the actual and official duties I 
 Of the strange thing, some women set a 
 value on, 
 Which hovers oft about some married 
 beauties, 
 Call'd " Cavalier servente ? " a Pygmalion 
 Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too 
 true 'tis) 
 Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to 
 
 disclose them. 
 Said — " Lady, I beseech you to suppose 
 them." 
 
 LII 
 
 And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
 
 And mildest, matron-hke interpretation, 
 
 Of the imperial favourite's condition. 
 
 'Twas a high place, the highest in the 
 
 nation 
 
 In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
 
 Of any one's attaining to his station, 
 
 No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of 
 
 shoulders. 
 If rather broad, made stocks rise and their 
 holders. 
 
 LIII 
 
 Juan, I said, was a most beauteous bo)-, 
 
 And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 
 
 The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, 
 
 With beards and whiskers, and the like' 
 
 the fond 
 
 Parisian aspect, which upset old Trov 
 
 And founded Doctors' Commons : I 
 
 have conn'd 
 
 The history of divorces, which, though 
 
 chequer'd. 
 Calls Uion's the first damages on record. 
 
 LIV 
 
 And Catharine, who loved all things (save 
 her lord, 
 Who was gone to his place), and pass'd 
 for much, 
 Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
 Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
 Of sentiment : and he she most adored 
 Was the lamented Lanskol, who was 
 such 
 A lover as had cost her many a tear, 
 And yet but made a middling grenadier. 
 
 LV 
 
 Oh thou," teterrima causa " of all " belli " — 
 Thou gate of life and death — thou non- 
 descript ! 
 Whence is our exit and our entrance, — ^well 
 I 
 May pause in pondering how all souls 
 are dipt 
 In thy perennial fountain : — how man 
 fell, I 
 Know not, since knowledge saw her 
 branches stript 
 Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and 
 
 rises, 
 Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 
 
 LVI 
 
 Some call thee " the worst cause of war " 
 but I 
 Maintain thou art the best : for after all 
 From thee we come, to thee we go, and 
 why 
 To get at thee not batter down a wall, 
 Or waste a world ? since no one can deny 
 Thou dost replenish worlds both great 
 and small : 
 With, or without thee, all things at a stand 
 Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry 
 land ! ' 
 
 LVI I 
 
 Catharine, who was the grand epitome 
 Of that great cause of war, or peace, or 
 what 
 You please (it causes all the things which 
 be, 
 So you may take your choice of this or 
 that) — 
 Catharine, I say, was verv glad to see 
 The handsome herald, on whose plumage 
 
 Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 
 With his despatch, forgot to break the 
 seal. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
 Forgetting quite the woman (which com- 
 posed 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 733 
 
 At least three parts ot this great whole), 
 she tore 
 The letter open with an air which posed 
 The court, that watch'd each look her 
 visage wore, 
 Until a royal smile at length disclosed 
 Fair weather for the day. Though rather 
 
 spacious, 
 Hei^ face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth 
 gracious. 
 
 LIX 
 
 Great joy was hers, or rather joys : the 
 iirst 
 Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 
 Glory and tnumph o'er the aspect burst. 
 
 As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 
 These quench'd a moment her ambition's 
 thirst- 
 So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 
 In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless 
 
 sands. 
 Blood only serves to wash Ambition's 
 hands ! 
 
 LX 
 
 Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 
 She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, 
 who threw 
 Into a Russian couplet rather dull 
 
 The whole gazette of thousands whom h» 
 slew. 
 Her third was feminine enough to annul 
 The shudder which runs naturally 
 through 
 Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns 
 
 think it best 
 To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 
 
 txi 
 
 The two first feelings ran their course com 
 plete, 
 And lighted first her eye, and then her 
 mouth ; 
 The whole court look'd immediately most 
 sweet, 
 Like flowers well water'd after a long 
 drouth : — 
 But when on the lieutenant at her feet 
 
 Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 
 Almost as much as on h new despatch. 
 Glanced mildly, all the world was on the 
 watch. 
 
 LXIl 
 
 Though somewhat large, exuberant, and 
 truculent. 
 When wroth — while pleased, she was as 
 fine a figure 
 As those who like things rosy, ripe, and 
 succulent, 
 Would wish to look on, while they are in 
 vigour. 
 She could repay each amatory look you lent 
 With interest, and in turn was wont with 
 rigour 
 
 To exact of Cupid's bills the full amouni 
 At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 With her the latter, though at times con- 
 venient, 
 Was not so necessary ; for they tell 
 That she was handsome, and though fierce 
 look'd lenient. 
 And always used her favourites too well. 
 If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in 
 ye went. 
 Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to 
 swell 
 A man " (as Giles says) ; for though she 
 
 would widow all 
 Nations, she liked man as an individual. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 What a strange thing is man ' and what a 
 stranger 
 Is woman ! What a whirlwind is her 
 head. 
 And what a whirlpool full of depth and 
 danger 
 Is all the rest about her I Whether wed, 
 Or widow, maid, or mother, she can 
 change her 
 Mind like the wind : whatever she has 
 said 
 Oi done, is light to what she'll say or do ; — 
 The oldest thing on record, and yet new ' 
 
 LXV 
 
 Oh Catherine ! (for of all interjections. 
 To thee both oh I and ah .' belong of 
 right 
 
 In love and war) how odd are the connec- 
 tions 
 Of human thoughts, which jostle in 
 their flight ! 
 
 Just now yours were cut out in different 
 sections : 
 First Ismail's capture caught your fancy 
 quite ; 
 
 Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious 
 batch ; 
 
 And thirdly he who brought you the des- 
 patch ! 
 
 L.XVI 
 
 Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
 New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; " 
 And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 
 While her young herald knelt before her 
 still. 
 T' is very true the hill seem'd rather high, 
 For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill 
 Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by 
 
 God's blessing 
 With youth and health all kisses are 
 " heaven-kissing." 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Her majesty loOk'd down, ihe youth look'd 
 up— 
 
734 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And so they fell in love ; — she with his 
 face, 
 His grace, his God-knows- what : for Cupid's 
 cup 
 With the first draught intoxicates apace, 
 A quintessential laudanum or " black 
 drop," 
 Which makes one drunk at once, with- 
 out the base 
 Expedient of full bumpers , for the eye 
 In love drinks all life's fountains (save 
 tears) dry. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 He, on the other hand, if not l,n love. 
 
 Fell into that no less imperious passion, 
 Self-love — which, when some soi t of thing 
 above 
 Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in 
 fashion, 
 Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to 
 prove " 
 ('Tis Popes phrase) a great longmg, 
 though a rash one. 
 For one especial person out of many, 
 IWakes us believe ourselves as good as any. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 Besides, he was of that delighted age 
 Which makes all female ages equal- 
 when 
 We don't much care with whom we may 
 engage, 
 As bold as Daniel in the lions' den, 
 So that we can our native sun assuage 
 In the next ocean, which may fiow just 
 then, 
 To make a twilight m, just as Sol's heat is 
 Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or 
 Thetis 
 
 LXX 
 
 And Catherine (we must say thus much for 
 Catherine), 
 Though bold and bloody, was the kind of 
 thing 
 Whose temporary passion was quite 
 flattering. 
 Because each lover look'd a sort of king. 
 Made up upon an amatory pattern, 
 
 A royal husband in all save the ring — 
 Which, being the damn'dest part of matri- 
 mony, 
 Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the 
 honey . 
 
 J XXI 
 
 And when you add to this, her womanhood 
 
 In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray 
 
 (The last, if they have soul, are quite as 
 good. 
 Or better, as the best examples say : 
 Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), 
 should 
 I. end to thai colour a transcendent ray • 
 
 And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, 
 Too wise to look through optics black or 
 blue)— 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Her sweet smile, and her then majestic 
 figure, 
 Her plumpness, her imperial condescen- 
 sion, 
 Her preference of a boy to men much 
 bigger 
 (Fellows whom Messalina's self would 
 pension). 
 Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, 
 With other extras, which we need not 
 mention, — 
 All these, or any one of these, explain 
 Enough to make a stripling very vain. 
 
 Lxxiir 
 And that's enough, for love is vanity, 
 
 Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
 Except where 'tis a mere insanity, 
 
 A maddening spirit which would strive 
 to blend 
 Itself with beauty's frail inanity. 
 
 On which the passion's self seems to 
 depend : 
 And hence some heathenish philosophers 
 Make love the main sprmg of the universe. 
 
 LXXIU 
 
 Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
 
 Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 
 Of faithful pairs — I needs must ihyme with 
 dove, 
 That good old steam boat which keeps 
 verses moving 
 'Gainst reason — Reason ne'er was hand- 
 and-glove 
 With [rhyme, but always leant less to 
 improving 
 The sound than sense) besides all these 
 
 pretences 
 To love, there are those things which 
 words name senses ; 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Those movements, those improvements in 
 our bodies 
 Which make all bodies anxious to get out 
 Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a god- 
 dess. 
 For such all women are at first no doubt. 
 How beautiful that moment ! and how odd 
 is 
 That fever which precedes the languid 
 rout 
 Of our sensations ! What a curious wav 
 The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
 To end ot to begin with ; the next 
 grand 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 735 
 
 Is that which may be christen'd love 
 canonical, 
 Because the clergy take the thing in 
 hand ; 
 The third sort to be noted in our chronicle 
 
 As flourishing in every Christian land, 
 Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 
 Add what may be call'd marriage in dis- 
 guise. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Well, we won't analyse — our story must 
 Tell for itself; the sovereign was smit 
 ten, 
 Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ; — 
 I cannot stop to alter words once written. 
 And the two are so mix'd with human 
 dust, 
 ihat he who names one, both perchance 
 may hit on ; 
 But in such matters Russia's mighty em- 
 press 
 Behaved no better than a common semp 
 stress 
 
 Lxxvni 
 The whole court melted into one wide 
 whisper, 
 And all lips were applied unto all cars ! 
 The eldei ladies' wrinkles curl'd much 
 crisper 
 As they beheld ; the younger cast some 
 leers 
 On one another, and each lovely lisper 
 Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er ; 
 but tears 
 01 nvalship rose in each clouded eye 
 Of all the standing army who stood by. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 All the ambassadors of all the powers 
 Inquired, Who was this very new young 
 man, 
 Who promised to be great in some few 
 hours ? 
 Which is full soon (though life is but a 
 span). 
 Already they beheld the silver showers 
 
 Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can. 
 Upon his cabinet, besides the presenits 
 Of several ribands, and some thousand 
 peasants. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Catherine was generous, — all such ladies 
 are : 
 Love, that great opener of the heart and 
 all 
 The ways that lead there, be they near or 
 far. 
 Above, below, by turnpikes great or 
 small,— 
 Love— (though she had a cursed taste for 
 war, 
 And was not the best wife, unless we call 
 
 Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 'tis 
 
 better 
 That one should die, than two drag on the 
 
 fetter)— 
 
 Lxxxr 
 Love had made Catherine make each 
 lover's fortune. 
 Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
 Whose avarice all disbursements did im- 
 portune, 
 If history, the grand liar, ever saith 
 The truth ; and though grief her old age 
 might shorten. 
 Because she put a favourite to death. 
 Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation. 
 And stinginess, disgrace her sex and 
 station. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 But when the lev^erose, and all was bustle 
 In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
 
 Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 
 Round the young man with their con- 
 gratulations. 
 
 Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
 Of gentle dames, among whose recre- 
 ations 
 
 It is to speculate on handsome faces, 
 
 Especially when such lead to high places, 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 
 
 A general object of attention, made 
 His answers with a very graceful bow. 
 
 As if born for the ministerial trade. 
 Though modest, on his unembarrass'd 
 brow 
 Nature had written " gentleman." Ke 
 said 
 Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
 Flung hovering graces o'er him like a 
 banner. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 An order from her majesty consign'd 
 
 Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
 Of those in office : all the world look'd kind, 
 (.4s it will look sometimes with the first 
 stare. 
 Which youth would not act ill to keep in 
 mind,) 
 As also did Miss Protasoff then there. 
 Named from her mystic office " I'Eprou- 
 
 veuse," 
 A term inexplicable to the Muse. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 With her then, as in humble duty bound, 
 
 Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
 
 My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 
 
 We have just lit on a " heaven-kissing 
 
 hill," 
 
 So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, 
 
 I And all my fancies whhling like a mill ; 
 
736 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, 
 To taice a quiet ride in some green lane. 
 
 CANTO THE TENTH 
 
 I 
 
 When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
 In that slight startle from his contempla- 
 tion — 
 'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground 
 
 For any sage's creed or calculation) — 
 A mode of proving that the earth turned 
 round 
 In a most natural whirl, called " gravita- 
 tion ; " 
 And this is the sole mortal who could 
 
 grapple, 
 Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. 
 
 Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
 If this be true ; for we must deem the 
 mode 
 In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose 
 Through the then unpaved stars the 
 turnpike road, 
 A thing to counterbalance human woes ; 
 For ever since immortal man hath 
 glow'd 
 With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 
 Steam-engines will conduct him to the 
 moon. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And _ wherefore this exordium? — Why, 
 just now, 
 
 In taking up this paltry sheet of paper. 
 My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 
 
 And my internal spirit cut a caper': 
 And though so much inferior, as I know. 
 
 To those who, by the dint of glass and 
 vapour, 
 Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
 I wish to do as much by poesy. 
 
 In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail , 
 but for 
 The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
 But at the least I have shuim'd the corn 
 mon shore. 
 And leaving land far out of sight, would 
 skim 
 The ocean of eternity : the roar 
 
 Of breakers has not daunted my slight 
 
 trim.' ' 
 
 But sW« sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
 
 Where ships have founder'd, as doth many 
 
 a boat. 
 
 We lelt our hero, juan, in the bloom 
 Of favour! tisrn, but not yet in the 6/ns7i ;— 
 
 And far be it from inv /l/ases to presume 
 (For I have more than one Muse at a 
 push) 
 
 To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
 It is enough that Fortune found him 
 
 flush 
 Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those 
 
 things 
 Which for an instant clip enjoyment's 
 
 wings. 
 
 But soon they grow again and leave their 
 nest. 
 " Oh ! " saith the Psalmist, " that I had 
 a dove's 
 Pinions to flee away, and be at rest ! " 
 And who that recollects young years and 
 loves, — 
 Though hoary now, and with a withering 
 breast. 
 And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
 Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but 
 
 would much rather 
 Sigh like his son, than cough like his grand- 
 father ? 
 
 But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') 
 shrink, 
 Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, 
 So narrow as to shame then wintry brink. 
 Which threatens inundations deep and 
 yellow ! 
 Such difference doth a few months make. 
 You'd think 
 Grief a rich field which never would lie 
 fallow ; 
 No more it doth, its ploughs but i-hange 
 
 their boys, 
 Who furrow some new soil to sow tor joys. 
 
 VIM 
 
 But coughs will come when sighs depart — 
 and now 
 And then before sighs cease ; for oft the 
 one 
 Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
 
 Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 
 Of life reach'd ten o'clock ; and while a 
 glow, 
 Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh 
 done, 
 O'erspreads the cheek which seems too 
 
 pure for clay, 
 Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,— how 
 happy they ! — 
 
 But Juan was not meant to die so soon 
 We left him in the focus of such glory 
 As may be won bv favour of the moon 
 Or ladies' fancies— rather transitorv 
 1 erhaps ; but who would scorn the month 
 of June, 
 Because December, with his breath so 
 hoary, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 737 
 
 Must come ? Much rather should he 
 
 court the ray. 
 To hoard up warmth against a wintry day 
 
 X 
 
 Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
 Middle-aged ladies even more than 
 young : 
 The former know what's what ; while new- 
 fledged chicks 
 Know little more of love than what is 
 sung 
 In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play 
 tricks) 
 In visions of those skies from whence 
 Love sprung. 
 Some reckon women by their suns or years, 
 I rather think the moon should date the 
 dears. 
 
 And why ? because she's changeable and 
 chaste. 
 I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
 Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 
 May choose to tax me with ; which is not 
 fair. 
 Nor flattering to " their temper or their 
 taste," 
 As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an 
 air : 
 However, I forgive him, and I trust 
 He will forgive himself ; — if not, I must. 
 
 XII 
 
 Old enemies who have become new friends 
 Should so continue— 'tis a point of 
 honour ; 
 And I know nothing which could make 
 amends 
 For a return to hatred : I would shun her 
 Like garlic, howsoever she extends 
 
 Her hundred arms and legs, and fain 
 outrun her. 
 Old flames, new wives, become our bitter 
 
 est foes — 
 Converted foes should scorn to join with 
 those. 
 
 XIII 
 
 This were the worst desertion ; — rene- 
 
 gadoes, 
 Even shuffling Southev, that incarnate 
 
 lie, 
 Would scarcely join again the " reforma- 
 
 does," 
 Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's 
 
 sty : 
 And honest men from Iceland to Bar- 
 
 badoes, 
 Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
 Should not veer round with every breath, 
 
 nor seize 
 To pain, the moment when you cease to 
 
 please. 
 
 The lawyer and the critic but behold 
 
 The baser sides of literature and life, 
 And nought remains unseen, but much un- 
 told, 
 By those who scour those double vales 
 of strife. 
 While common men grow ignorantly old, 
 The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's 
 knife. 
 Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
 And with it all the process of digestion. 
 
 XV 
 
 A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper. 
 And that's the reason he himself's so 
 dirty ; 
 The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
 Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 
 Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, 
 At least some twenty-nine do out of 
 thirty. 
 In all their habits ; — not so you, I own ; 
 As Cssar wore his robe you wear your 
 gown. 
 
 XVI 
 
 And all our little feuds, at least all mine. 
 
 Dear Jeffrey, onre my most redoubted foe 
 (As far as rhyme and criticism conibine 
 To make such puppets of us things be- 
 low). 
 Are over : Here's a health to " Auld Lang 
 Syne ! " 
 I do not know you, and may never know 
 Your face— but you have acted on the 
 
 whole 
 Most nobly, and ] own it from my soul, 
 
 xvn 
 And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang 
 Syne ! " 
 'Tis not address'd to you— the more's 
 the pity 
 For me, for I would rather take my wine 
 With you, than aught (save Scott) in 
 your proud city 
 But somehow,— it may seem a schoolboy's 
 whine. 
 And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 
 But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 
 A whole one, and my heart flies to my 
 head, — 
 
 XVIII 
 
 As " Auld Lang Syne " brings Scotland, 
 one and all, 
 Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue 
 hills, and clear streams, 
 The Dee,, the Don, Balgounie's brig's 
 black wall,' 
 All m\' boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 
 Of what I then dreamt, clothed in then own 
 pall, 
 Like Banquo's offspring ;— floating past 
 me seems 
 
738 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 y childhood in this childishness of mine, 
 care not — 'tis a glimpse of " Auld Lang 
 
 iM. 
 1 care 
 
 Syne." 
 
 And though, as you remember, in a fit. 
 Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and 
 curly, 
 I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
 Whicli must be own'd was sensitive and 
 surly. 
 Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit. 
 They cannot quench young feelings 
 fresh and early : 
 I " scotch'd not liill'd " the Scotchman in 
 
 my blood. 
 And love the land of " mountain and of 
 flood." 
 
 Don Juan, who was real, or ideal, — 
 
 For both are much the same, since what 
 men think 
 Exists when the once thinkers are less real 
 Than what they thought, tor mind can 
 never sink. 
 And 'gainst the body makes a strong 
 appeal ; 
 And yet 'tis very puzzling on the brink 
 Of what is call'd eternitj', to stare. 
 And know no more of what is here, than 
 there ; — 
 
 XXI 
 
 Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 
 
 How we won't mention, why we need not 
 
 say ; 
 
 Few youthful minds can stand tlie strong 
 
 concussion - 
 
 On any slight temptation in their way ; 
 
 But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
 
 Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour: 
 
 gay 
 
 Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 
 Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny, 
 
 XXII 
 
 The favour of the empress was agreeable ; 
 And though the duty wa.-i'd a little hard, 
 Young people at his time of life should be 
 able 
 To come off handsomely in that regard 
 He was now growing up like a green tree. 
 able 
 For love, war, or ambition, which re- 
 ward 
 Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
 iMake some prefer the circulating medium. 
 
 xxin 
 About this time, as might have beeti anti- 
 cipated, 
 Seduced by youth and daiiycrous c.'s- 
 amples, 
 Don Juan grew, I fear, a little di^^ipatcd ; 
 
 Which is a sad thing, and not only tram- 
 ples 
 On our fresh [feelings, but — as being par- 
 ticipated 
 With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
 Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, 
 .\ri(i shut our souls up in us like a sheil-fish. 
 
 This we pass over. We will also pass 
 The usual progress of intrigues between 
 
 Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 
 A yoimg lieutenant's with a not old queen, 
 
 But one who is nrjt so youthful as she was 
 In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 
 
 Sovereigns Tnay sway materials, but not 
 matter, 
 
 And wrinkles, the d d democrats, won't 
 
 flatter. 
 
 XXV 
 
 And death, the sovereign's sovereign, 
 though the great 
 Gracchus of all mortality, who levels. 
 With his Agrarian laws, the high estate 
 Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, 
 and revels. 
 To one small grass-grown patch (which 
 must await 
 Corruption for its crop) with the poor 
 devils 
 Who never had a foot of land till now,— 
 Death's a reformer, all men must allow. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 He lived (not Death, but Juau) iu a hurry 
 Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, 
 and glitter. 
 In this gay clime of bear-skins black and 
 furry — 
 Which (though I hate to say a thing 
 that's bitter) 
 Peep out sometimes, when things are in a 
 flurry. 
 Through all the " purple and fine linen," 
 fitter 
 For Babylon's than Russia's loval harlot— 
 And neutralise her outward show of scarlet. 
 
 xxvu 
 And this same state we won't describe ; we 
 would 
 Perhaps from hearsay, or from recol- 
 lection ; 
 But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure 
 wood," 
 That horrid equinox, that hateful section 
 Of human years, that half-wav house, that 
 rude 
 Hut, whence wise travellers drive with 
 circumspection 
 Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary 
 
 frontier 
 Of age, and looking back to youth, give 
 one tear ; — 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 739 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 1 won't describe, — that is, if I can help 
 Description ; and 1 won't reflect, — that 
 is, 
 If I can stave off thought, which — as a 
 whelp 
 Clings to its teat — sticks to me through 
 the abyss 
 Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
 
 Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 
 Drains its first draught of Hips : — but, as I 
 
 said, 
 I won't philosophise, and will be read. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Juan, instead of courting courts, was 
 courted,— 
 A thing which happens rarely ; this he 
 owed 
 Much to his youth, and much to his re- 
 ported 
 Valour ; much also to the blood he show' d , 
 Like a race-horse ; much to each dress he 
 sported, 
 Which set the beauty off in which he 
 glow'd. 
 As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but 
 
 most 
 He owed to an old woman and his post , 
 
 XXX 
 
 He wrote to Spain : — and all his near 
 relations. 
 Perceiving he was in a handsome %vay 
 Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
 For cousins also, answer'd the same day 
 Several prepared themselves for emigra 
 tions ; 
 And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 
 That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 
 Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a 
 piece. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too. 
 That in the lieu of drawing on his 
 banker. 
 Where his assets were waxing rather few, 
 He had brought his spending to a hand 
 some anchor,— 
 Keplied, " that she was glad to see him 
 through 
 Those pleasures after which wild youth 
 will hanker ; 
 As the sole sign of man's being in his 
 
 senses 
 Is, learning to reduce his past expenses- 
 
 XXXIl 
 
 " She also recommended him to God, 
 And no less to God's Son, as well as 
 
 Mother, 
 Warn'd him against Greek worship, which 
 
 looks odd 
 
 In Catholic eyes ; but told him, too, 
 to smother 
 Outward dislike, which don't look well 
 abroad ; 
 Inform'd him that he had a little brother 
 Born in a second wedlock ; and above 
 All, praised the empress's maternal love. 
 
 " She could not too much give her appro- 
 bation 
 Unto an empress, who preferr'd young 
 
 men 
 Whose age, and what was better still, 
 
 whose nation 
 And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now 
 
 and then) : — 
 At home it might have given her some 
 
 vexation ; 
 But where thermometers sink down to 
 
 ten, 
 Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 
 Believe that virtue thaw'd before the 
 
 river." 
 
 XXX IV 
 
 Oh for a forly-parson power to chant 
 
 Thy praise, Hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 
 Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt , 
 Not practise! Oh for trump of cheru- 
 bim ! 
 Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
 Who. though her spectacles at last grew 
 dim. 
 Drew quiet consolation through its hint. 
 When she no more could read the pious 
 print, 
 
 XXXV 
 
 She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul. 
 But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
 
 As anybody on the elected roll. 
 
 Which portions out upon the judgment 
 day 
 
 Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday 
 scroll. 
 Such as the conqueror William did repay 
 
 His knights with, lotting others' properties 
 
 Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
 Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty 
 manors 
 (If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
 Were their reward for following Billy's 
 banners : ... 
 
 And though 1 can't help thinking twas 
 scarce fair ' , ,., 
 
 To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like 
 tanners ; . , , 
 
 Yet as they founded churches with the 
 
 produce. 
 You'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a 
 fc/ood use. 
 
740 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 xxxvn 
 The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
 He felt like other plants call'd sensitive, 
 Which shrink from touch, as monarchs 
 do from rhymes, 
 Save such as Southey can atford to give. 
 Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes 
 In which the Neva's ice would cease to 
 live 
 Before May-day : perhaps, despite his 
 
 duty, 
 In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not 
 seek 
 For causes young or old : the canker- 
 worm 
 Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek. 
 As well as further drain the vrither'd 
 form : 
 Care, like a housekeeper, brings ever^' week 
 His bills in, and however we maystorm, 
 They must be paid : though six days 
 
 smoothly run. 
 The seventh will bring blue devils oi a dun. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
 
 The empress was alarm'd, and her 
 
 physician 
 
 (The same who physick'd Peter) found the 
 
 tick 
 
 Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
 
 Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
 
 Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 
 
 .\t which the whole court was extremely 
 
 troubled, 
 The sovereign shock'd, and all his medi- 
 cines doubled. 
 
 XL 
 
 Low were the whispers, manifold the 
 rumours, 
 Some said he had been poison'd by 
 Potemkin ; 
 Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours. 
 Exhaustion, or disorders of the same 
 kin ; 
 Some said 'twas a concoction of the 
 humours. 
 Which with the blood too readily will 
 claim kin ; 
 Others again were ready to maintain, 
 " 'Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 
 
 XLI 
 
 But here is one prescription out of many : 
 " Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. MannEeoptim, 
 Aq. fervent, f. Jifs. 3ij, tinct. Sennae 
 Haustus." (and here the surgeon came 
 and cupp'd him) 
 " R. Pulv. Com. gr. iij. Ipecacuanha " 
 (With more beside if Juan had not 
 stopp'd 'em). 
 
 " Bolus Potass32 Sulphuret. sumendus, 
 Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 
 
 XLIl 
 
 This is the way physicians mend or end us. 
 Secundum artem ; but although we 
 sneer 
 
 Id health — when iU, we call them to attend 
 us, 
 Without the least propensity to jeer ; 
 
 While that " hiatus maxime defiendus " 
 To be fill'd up by spade or mattocks near. 
 
 Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 
 
 We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abemethy.^ 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 
 Quit ; and though death had threaten'd 
 an ejection. 
 His youth and constitution bore him 
 through, 
 And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
 But still his state was delicate : the hue 
 Of health but flicker'd with a faint 
 reflection 
 Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to 
 
 gravel 
 The faculty — who said that he must travel. 
 
 The climate was too cold, they said, for him. 
 Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
 Made the chaste Catherine look a little 
 grim. 
 Who did not like at first to loose her 
 minion ; 
 But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
 And drooping like an eagle's with dipt 
 pinion. 
 She then resolved to send him on a mission. 
 But in a style becoming his condition. 
 
 There was just then a kind of a discussion, 
 A sort of treaty or negotiation. 
 
 Between the British cabinet and Russian, 
 Maintain'dwith all the due prevarication 
 
 With which great states such things are apt 
 to push on ; 
 Somthing about the Baltic's navigation. 
 
 Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of 
 Thetis, 
 
 Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 
 
 So Catherine, who had a handsome way 
 
 Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd 
 This secret charge on Juan, to display 
 
 At once her royal splendour, and reward 
 His services. He kiss'd hands the next 
 dav. 
 Received instructions how to play his 
 card. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 741 
 
 Was laden with all kinds of gifts and 
 
 ^ honours, 
 Which show'd what great discernment was 
 the donor's. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 But she was lucky, and luck's all. Your 
 queens 
 Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
 Which puzzles us to know what Fortune 
 means : 
 But to continue : though her years were 
 waning, 
 Her [cUmacteric teased her like her teens ; 
 And though her dignity brook'd no 
 complaining, 
 So much did Juan's setting ofi distress her, 
 She could not find at first a fit successor. 
 
 XL VIII 
 
 But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 
 
 And four-and-twenty hours, and twice 
 that number 
 Of candidates requesting to be placed. 
 
 Made Catherine taste next night a quiet 
 slumber : — 
 Not that she meant to fix again in haste. 
 
 Nor did she find the quantity encumber. 
 But always choosing with deliberation. 
 Kept the place open for their emulation. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 While this high post of honour's in abey- 
 ance. 
 For one or two days, reader, we request 
 You'll mount with our young hero the 
 conveyance 
 Which wafted him from Petersburgh : 
 the best 
 Barouche, which had the glory to display 
 once 
 The fair czarina's autocratic crest. 
 When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris, 
 Was given to her favourite, and now borf 
 his. 
 
 I, 
 
 A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine. 
 All private favourites of Don Juan ; — for 
 
 (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
 He had a kind of inclination, or 
 
 Weakness, for what most people deem mere 
 vermin. 
 Live animals : an old maid of threescore 
 
 For cats and birds more penchant ne'er 
 display'd, 
 
 Although he was not old, nor even a maid ; — 
 
 Ll 
 
 The animals aforesaid occupied 
 
 Their station : there were valets, 
 secretaries. 
 In other vehicles ; but at his side 
 
 Sat little Leila, who suivived the parries 
 He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the 
 wide I 
 
 Slaughter of Ismafl. Though my wild 
 Muse varies 
 Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
 Whom he preserved, a pure and Uving pearl. 
 
 LII 
 
 Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
 And with that gentle, serious character. 
 As rare in living beings as a fossile 
 
 Man, 'midst thy mouldv mammoths, 
 " grand Cuvier ! " 
 111 fitted was her ignorance to jostle 
 
 Vv'ith this o'erwhelming world, where all 
 must err : 
 But she was yet but ten years old, and 
 
 therefore 
 Was tranquil, though she knew not why 
 or wherefore. 
 
 Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
 Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 
 
 I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 
 
 He was not yet quite old enough to prove 
 
 Parental feelings, and the other class, 
 Call'd brotherly affection, could not 
 move 
 
 His bosom, — for he never 'had a sister : 
 
 Ah ! if he had, how much he would have 
 miss'd her ! 
 
 LIV 
 
 And still less was it sensual ; for besides 
 That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
 (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' 
 salt tides. 
 As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) 
 Although ('twill happen as our planet 
 guides) 
 His youth was not the chastest that 
 might be, 
 There was the purest Platonism at bottom 
 Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 
 
 Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 
 He loved the infant orphan he had saved. 
 As patriots (now and then) may lovs a 
 nation ; 
 His pride, too, felt that she was not 
 enslaved 
 Owing to him ; — as also her salvation 
 Through his means and the church's 
 might be paved. 
 But one thing's odd, which here must be 
 
 inserted, 
 The little Turk refused to be converted. 
 
 'Twas strange enough she should retain the 
 
 impression 
 Through such a scene of change, and 
 
 dread, and slaughter ; 
 But though three bishops told her the 
 
 transgression, 
 
742 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 She show'd a great dislike to holy water : 
 She also had no passion for confession ; 
 Perhaps she had nothing to confess : — 
 no matter 
 Whate'er the cause, the church made little 
 
 of it — 
 She still held out that Mahomet was a 
 prophet. 
 
 LVII 
 
 In fact, the only Christian she could bear 
 Was Juan ; whom she seem'd to have 
 selected 
 In place of what her home and friends once 
 
 He naturally loved what he protected : 
 And thus they form'd a rather curious pair, 
 A guardian green in years, a ward con- 
 nected 
 In neither clime, time, blood, with her 
 
 defender ; 
 And yet this want of ties made theirs more 
 tender. 
 
 They joumey'd on through Poland and 
 
 through Warsaw, 
 Famous for mines of salt and yokes of 
 
 iron : 
 Through Courland also, which that famous 
 
 farce saw 
 Which gave her dukes the graceless name 
 
 of " Biron." 
 *Tis the same landscape which the modem 
 
 Mars saw. 
 Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, 
 
 the siren ! 
 To lose by one month's frost some twenty 
 
 years 
 Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 
 
 LIX 
 
 Let this not seem an anti-climax : — " Oh 
 My guard ! my old guard ! " exclaim'd 
 that god of clay. 
 Think of the Thunderer's falling down below 
 
 Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
 Alas ! that glory should be cbill'd by snow ! 
 But should we wish to warm us on our 
 way 
 Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
 Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's 
 flame. 
 
 LX 
 
 From Poland they came on through Prussia 
 Proper, 
 And Konigsberg, the capital, whose 
 vaunt, 
 Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper. 
 Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
 Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
 
 About philosophy, pui-sued his jaunt 
 To Germany, whose somewhat tardy 
 millions 
 
 Have princes who spur more than their 
 postilions. 
 
 LXI 
 
 And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and 
 the like, 
 Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine : — 
 Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye 
 strike 
 All phantasies, not even excepting mine ; 
 A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
 
 Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 
 Between the present and past worlds, and 
 
 hover 
 Upon their airy confines, half-seas-over. 
 
 LXI I 
 
 But Juan posted on through Manheim, 
 Bonn, 
 Which Drachenfels frowns over like a 
 spectre 
 Of the good feudal times for ever gone. 
 On which I have not time just now to 
 lecture. 
 From thence he was dra^Ti onwards to 
 Cologne, 
 A city which presents to the inspector 
 Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 
 The greatest number flesh hath ever 
 known.* 
 
 LXIII 
 
 From thence to Holland's Hague and 
 Helvoetsluys, 
 That water-land of Dutchmen and of 
 ditches. 
 Where juniper expresses its best juice. 
 The poor man's sparkling substitute for 
 riches. 
 Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
 But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 
 Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel. 
 Good government has left them, seems but 
 cruel. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail 
 Went bounding for the island of the free, 
 Towajds which the impatient wind blew 
 half a gale ; 
 High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd 
 in the sea 
 And sea-sick passengers tiu-n'd somewhat 
 pale ; 
 But Juan, season'd, as he well might be. 
 By former voyages, stood to watch the 
 
 skiffs, 
 Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of 
 the cliffs. 
 
 LXV 
 
 At length they rose, like a white wall along 
 Tlie blue sea's border ; and Don Tuan 
 
 felt— 
 What e\en young strangers feel a little 
 
 strong 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 743 
 
 At the first sight of Albion's challiy belt — 
 
 A kind of pride that he should be among 
 
 Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly 
 
 dealt 
 
 Their goods and edicts out from pole to 
 
 pole, 
 And made the very billows pay them toll. 
 
 I've no great cause to love that spot of 
 earth. 
 Which holds what might have been the 
 noblest nation ; 
 But though I owe it little but my birth, 
 
 I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
 For its decaying fame and former worth. 
 Seven years (the usual term of trans- 
 portation) 
 Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 
 When a man's country's going to the devil. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 
 How her great name is now throughout 
 abhorr'd ; 
 How eager all the earth is for the blow 
 Which shall lay bare her bosom to the 
 sword ; 
 How all the nations deem her their worst 
 foe, 
 That worse than worst of foes, the once 
 adored 
 False friend, who held out freedom to 
 
 mankind. 
 And now would chain them, to the very 
 mind ; — 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Would she be proud, or boast herself the 
 free. 
 Who is but first of slaves ? The nations 
 are 
 in prison, — but the gaoler, what is he ? 
 No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 
 Is the poor privilege to turn the key 
 
 Upon the captive, freedom ? He's as far 
 From the enjoyment of the earth and air 
 Who watches o'er the chain, as they who 
 wear. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest 
 beauties. 
 Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbour, and 
 hotel ; 
 Thy custom-house, with all its delicate 
 duties ; 
 Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 
 Thy packets, all whose passengers are 
 booties 
 To those who upon land or water dwell ; 
 And last, not least, to strangers unin- 
 
 structedj 
 Xhy long, long bills, whence nothing is 
 deducted. 
 
 Juan, though careless, young, and mag- 
 nifique. 
 And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and 
 credit, 
 Who did not limit much his bills per werk. 
 Yet stared at this a little, though he 
 paid it, — 
 (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek', 
 Before him summ'd the awful scroll and 
 read it :) 
 But, doubtless as the air, though seldom 
 
 supny, 
 Is free, the respiration's worth the money. 
 
 On with the horses ! Off ti) Canterbury ! 
 Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, 
 splash through puddle ; 
 Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so 
 merry ! 
 Not like slow Germany, wherein they 
 muddle 
 Along the road, as if they went to bury 
 Their fare ; and also pause besides, to 
 fuddle, 
 With " schnapps " — sad dogs ! whom 
 
 " Hundsfot," or " VerBucter," 
 Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 
 
 Now there is nothing gives a man such 
 spirits, 
 Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a 
 curry, 
 As going at full speed — no matter where its 
 
 Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry, 
 And merely for the sake of its own merits ; 
 For the less cause there is for all this 
 flurry, 
 The greater is the pleasure in arriving, 
 At the gre;it end of travel — which is drivings 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 They saw at Canterbury the cathedral ; 
 Black Edward's helm, and Becket's 
 bloody stone, ,_ , j , 
 
 Were pointed out as usual by the bedral. 
 In the same quaint, uninterested tone : — 
 There's glory again for you, gentle reader ! 
 All 
 Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
 Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias. 
 Which form that bitter draught, the human 
 species. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
 He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he 
 
 saw ,j , ,„ 
 
 That casque, which never stoop d except to 
 
 Time. , ^ . 
 
 Even the bold Churchman's tomb 
 
 excited awe. 
 
744 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Who died in the then great attempt to 
 
 climb 
 O'er kings, who now at least must talk 
 
 of law 
 Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 
 And ask'd why such a structure had been 
 
 raised : 
 
 LXXV 
 
 And being told it was " God's house," she 
 said 
 He was well lodged, but only wonder'd 
 how 
 He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead. 
 
 The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 
 
 His holy temples in the lands which bred 
 
 The True Believers ; — and her infant 
 
 brow 
 
 Was bent with grief that Mahomet should 
 
 resign 
 A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to 
 swine. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 On ! on ! through meadows, managed like 
 a garden, 
 A paradise of hops and high production ; 
 For, after years of travel by a bard in 
 Countries of greater heat, but lesser 
 suction, 
 A green field is a sight which makes him 
 pardon 
 The absence of that more sublime con- 
 struction 
 Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 
 Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 And when I think upon a pot a beer 
 
 But I won't weep ! — and so drive on, 
 postilions ! 
 As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their 
 career, 
 Juan admired these highways of free 
 millions ; 
 A country in all senses the most dear 
 To foreigner or native, save some silly 
 ones. 
 Who " kick against the pricks " just at this 
 
 juncture. 
 And for their pains get only a fresh 
 puncture. 
 
 L.XXVIII 
 
 What a delightful thing's a turnpike road ! 
 So smooth, so le\el, such a mode of 
 shaving 
 The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 
 Air can accomphsh, with his wide mngs 
 waving. 
 Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the 
 god 
 Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
 With the York mail ; — but onward as we 
 
 roll, 
 " Surgit amari aliquid " — the toll ] 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! 
 Take lives, take wives, take aught except 
 men's purses. 
 As Machiavel shows those in purple rai- 
 ment. 
 Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
 They hate a murderer much less than a 
 claimant 
 On that sweet ore which everybody 
 nurses. — 
 Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, 
 But keep your hands out of his breeches' 
 pocket : 
 
 LXXX 
 
 So said the Florentine ; ye monarchs, 
 hearken 
 To your instructor. Juan now was 
 borne. 
 Just as the day began to wane and darken, 
 O'er the high hill, which looks with pride 
 or scorn 
 Toward the great city. — Ye who have a 
 spark in 
 Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or 
 mourn 
 According as you take things well or ill ; 
 Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill ! 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as 
 
 from 
 A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
 Which well beseem'd the " Devil's draw- 
 ing-room," 
 As some have qualified that wondrous 
 
 place : 
 But Juan felt, though not approaching 
 
 home, 
 As one who, though he were not of the 
 
 race. 
 Revered the soil, of .those true sons the 
 
 mother, 
 Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied 
 
 t'other. 
 
 LX.XXII 
 
 A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and 
 shipping, 
 Durty and dusky, but as wide ss eye 
 Could reach, with here and there a sail just 
 skipping 
 In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
 Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
 On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ; 
 A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
 On a fool's head— and there is London 
 Town ! 
 
 Lx.xxin 
 But Juan saw not this : each WTeath of 
 smoke 
 Appear'd to him but as the magic \'apour 
 Of some alchymic furnace, from whence 
 broke 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 745 
 
 The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax 
 and paper) : 
 The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
 Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a 
 taper, 
 \yere nothing but the natural atmosphere. 
 Extremely wholesome, though but rarely 
 clear. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 He paused — and so will I ; as doth a crew 
 Before they give their broadside. By 
 and bye, 
 
 My gentle countrymen, we will renew 
 Our old acquaintance ; and at least I'll 
 try 
 
 To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
 Because they are so ; — a male Mrs. Fry, 
 
 With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 
 
 And brush a web or two from off your walls. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Oh Mrs. Fry ! Why go to Newgate ? Why 
 Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore 
 not begin 
 
 With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
 Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 
 
 To mend the people's an absurdity, 
 A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 
 
 Unless you make their betters better : — Fy ; 
 
 I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 Teach them the decencies of good three- 
 score ; 
 Cure them of tours, hussar and highland 
 dresses ; 
 Tell them that youth once gone returns 
 no more. 
 That hired huzzas redeem no land s 
 distresses * 
 Tell them Sir' William Curtis^ is a bore. 
 Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, 
 The witless Falstaft of a hoary Hal, 
 A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Tell them, though it may be perhaps too 
 late 
 On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, 
 
 To set up vain pretences of being great, 
 
 'fis not so to be good ; and be it stated, 
 
 The worthiest kings have ever loved least 
 
 And tell them But you won't, and I 
 
 have prated 
 Just now enough ; but by and bye 1 U 
 
 Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 
 
 CANTO THE ELEVENTH 
 I 
 WHEN Bishop Berkeley said " there was 
 no matter," 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 And proved it — 'twas no matter what 
 he said : 
 They say his system 'tis in vain to batter. 
 Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 
 And yet who can believe it ? I would 
 shatter 
 Gladly all matters down to stone or lead. 
 Or adamant, to find the world a spirit. 
 And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 
 
 II 
 What a sublime discovery 'twas to make 
 the 
 Universe universal egotism. 
 That all's ideal — all ourselves ; I'll stake the 
 World (be it what you will) that that's no 
 schism : 
 Oh Doubt ! — if thou be'st Doubt, for which 
 some take thee, 
 But which I doubt extremely — thou sole 
 prism 
 Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught 
 
 of spirit ! 
 Heaven's brandy, though our brain can 
 hardly bear it. 
 
 Ill 
 For ever and anon comes Indigestion, 
 (Not the most " dainty Ariel ") and per- 
 plexes 
 Our soarings with another sort of question : 
 And that which after all my spirit vexes. 
 Is, that I find no spot where man can rest 
 eve on. 
 Without confusion of the sorts and sexes. 
 Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 
 The world, which at the worst's a glorious 
 blunder — 
 
 IV 
 
 If it be chance ; or if it be according 
 To the old text, still better : — lest it 
 should 
 Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the 
 wording, 
 As several people think such hazards 
 rude. 
 They're right ; our days are too brief for 
 aft'ording 
 Space to dispute what no one ever could 
 Decide, and everybody one day will 
 Know very clearly — or at least Ue still. 
 
 V 
 
 And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
 Discussion, which is neither here nor 
 there : . ^ „ 
 
 If I agree that what is, is ; then this 1 call 
 Being quite perspicuous and extremely 
 fair ; 
 The truth is, I've grown lately rather 
 phthisical : 
 I don't know what the reason is — the air 
 Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 
 1 Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 
 
 a- 
 
74^ 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The first attack at once proved the Divi >- 
 ity 
 
 (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil); 
 The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
 
 The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 
 The fourth at once establish'd the whole 
 Trinity 
 
 On so uncontrovertible a level, 
 That I devoutly wish'd the three were four 
 On purpose to believe so much the more. 
 
 To our theme. — ^The man who has stood on 
 the Acropolis 
 And look'd down over Attica ; or he 
 Who has sail'd where picturesque Con- 
 stantinople is. 
 Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
 In small-eyed China's crockery-ware 
 metropoUs, 
 Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
 May not think much of London's first 
 
 appearance — 
 But ask him what he thinks of it a year 
 hence ? 
 
 Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill ; 
 Sunset the time, the place the same 
 declivity 
 Which looks along that vale of good and ill 
 Where London streets ferment in full 
 activity ; 
 While everything around was calm and 
 still, 
 Except the creak of wheels, which on 
 their pivot he 
 Heard, — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy 
 
 hum 
 Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 
 
 IX 
 
 I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
 Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the 
 summit. 
 And lost in wonder of so great a nation. 
 Gave way to't, since he could not over- 
 come it. 
 " And here," he cried, " is Freedom's 
 chosen station ; 
 Here peals the people's voice, nor can 
 entomb it 
 Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 
 Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 
 
 X 
 
 " Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here 
 people pay 
 But what they please ; and if that things 
 be dear, 
 'Tis only that they love to throw away 
 Their cash, to show how much they ha\e 
 a year. 
 
 Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 
 Traps for the traveller ; every highway's 
 
 clear ; 
 Here ' ' — he was interrupted by a knife. 
 With, — " Damn your eyes ! your money 
 
 or your life ! " — 
 
 These freeborn sounds proceeded from four 
 pads 
 
 In ambush laid, who had perceived him 
 loiter 
 Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 
 
 Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre. 
 In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
 
 Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter. 
 May find himself within that isle of riches 
 Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 
 
 .XII 
 
 Juan, who did not understand a word 
 Of English, save their shibboleth, " God 
 damn ! " 
 And even that he had so rarely heard. 
 He sometimes thought 'twas only their 
 *' Salam," 
 Or " God be with you ! " — and 'tis not 
 absurd 
 To think so : for half English as I am 
 (To my misfortune) never can I saj' 
 I heard them wish " God with you," save 
 that way ; — 
 
 Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 
 And being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
 
 Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 
 And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
 
 Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture. 
 And roar'd out, as he writhed his native 
 mud in. 
 
 Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
 
 " Oh Jack ! I'm floor'd by that 'ere 
 bloody Frenchman ! " 
 
 On which Jack and his train set oft at speed. 
 And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a dis- 
 tance. 
 Came up. all mar\eUing at such a deed, 
 .\nd offering, as usual, late assistance. 
 Juan, who saw the moon's late minion 
 bleed 
 As if his veins would pour out his exist- 
 ence. 
 
 Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
 And wish'd he had been less hasty with his 
 flint. 
 
 ' Perhaps," thought he, " it is the coun- 
 try's wont 
 
 To wrlcomo foreigners in this wav ; now 
 I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
 
 Differ, except in robbing with a bow, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 747 
 
 In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
 
 But what is to be done ? I can't allow 
 The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 
 So take him up ; I'll help you with the 
 load." 
 
 ,xvi 
 But ere they could perform this pious daty, 
 The dying man cried, " Hold ! I've got 
 my gruel ! 
 Oh ! for a glass of max ! ^ We've missed 
 our booty ; 
 Let me die where I am ! " And as the 
 fuel 
 Of life sunk in his heart, and thick and 
 sooty 
 The drops fell from his death- wound, 
 and he drew ill 
 His breath, — he from his swelling throat 
 
 untied 
 A kerchief, crying, " Give Sal that ! " — 
 and died. 
 
 XVII 
 
 The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell 
 down 
 
 Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 
 Exactly why it was before him thrown. 
 
 Nor what the meaning of the man's 
 farewell. 
 Poor Tom was once a kiddy ' upon town, 
 
 A thorough varmint, and a real swell. 
 Full flash, 3 all fancy, until fairly diddled. 
 His pockets first and then his body riddled. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Don Juan, having done the best he could 
 
 In all the circumstances of the case. 
 As soon as " Crowner's quest " * allow'd, 
 pursued 
 His travels to the capital apace ;^ 
 Esteeming it a little hard he should 
 
 In twelve hours' time, and very little 
 space. 
 Have been obliged to slay a free-born 
 
 native 
 In self-defence : this made him meditative. 
 
 xi.x 
 He from the world had cut off a great man, 
 Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 
 Who in a row like Tom could lead the van. 
 Booze in the ken,^ or at the spellken s 
 hustle ? , , . J, T, 
 
 Who queer a flat ? ' Who (spite of Bow- 
 street's ban) a % *T, 
 On the high toby-spice s so flash the 
 
 Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his 
 blowing) ,'' ., ,, J 
 
 So prime, so swell, « so nutty," and so 
 knowing ? 
 
 XX 
 
 But Tom's no more— and so no more ol 
 Tom. 
 
 Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing 
 'tis 
 Not long before the most of them go home. 
 Hail ! Thamis; hail ! Upon thy verge it 
 is 
 That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 
 In thunder, holds the way it can't well 
 miss. 
 Through Kennington and all the other 
 
 " tons," 
 Which make us wish ourselves in town at 
 once ; — 
 
 XXI 
 
 Through Groves, so call'd as being void of 
 trees, 
 (Like lucus from m> hght) ; through 
 prospects named 
 
 Mgunt Pleasant, as containing nought to 
 please, 
 "Nor much to climb ; through little boxes 
 framed 
 
 Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease. 
 With " To be let," upon their doors pro- 
 claim' d ; 
 
 Through "Rows" most modestly call'd 
 " Paradise," 
 
 Which Eve might quit without much sacri- 
 fice ; — 
 
 XXII 
 
 Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, 
 and a whirl 
 Of wheels, and roar of voices, and con- 
 fusion; 
 Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," ^ 
 There mails fast flying off like a delusion ; 
 There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
 In windows ; here the lamplighter's 
 infusion 
 Slowly distill'd into the gUmmermg glass 
 (For in those days we had not got to 
 gas—) ; " 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Through this, and much, and more, is the 
 approach 
 Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
 Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or 
 
 With slight exceptions, all the ways seem 
 
 one. , i , 
 
 I could say more, but do not choose to 
 
 encroach . . 
 
 Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The 
 
 sun ,, 
 
 Had set some time, and night was on the 
 
 ridge ,. ^, , ., 
 
 Of twihght, as the party cross'd the bridge. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 That's rather fine, the gentle sound of 
 Thamis— 
 Who vindicates a moment, too, his 
 stream — 
 
748 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Though hardly heard through multifarious 
 " damme's." 
 The lamps of Westminster's more regu- 
 lar gleam, 
 The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine 
 where fame is 
 A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 
 In shape ijf moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 
 Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 
 
 The Druids' groves are gone — so much the 
 better : 
 Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil 
 is it ?— 
 But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 
 That madmen may not bite 5'ou on a 
 visit ; 
 The Bench too seats or suits full manx a 
 debtor ; 
 The Mansion House, too (though some 
 people quiz it), 
 To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 
 But then the Abbey's worth the whole col- 
 lection. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross, 
 Pall Mall, and so forth, have a corusca- 
 tion 
 Like gold as in comparison to dross, 
 Match'd with the Continent's illumina- 
 tion. 
 Whose cities Night by no means deigns to 
 gloss. 
 The French were not yet a lamp-lighting 
 nation. 
 And when they grew so — on their new- 
 
 foimd lantern, 
 Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man 
 turn. 
 
 xxvii 
 
 A row of gentlemen along the streets 
 Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 
 
 As also bonfires made of country seats ; 
 But the old way is best for the purblind : 
 
 The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
 A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind. 
 
 Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and 
 frighten, 
 
 Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
 Could recommence to hunt his honest 
 man, 
 And found him not amidst the various pro- 
 genies 
 Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
 'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his 
 dodging his 
 Yet undiscover'd treasure. What 7 can 
 I've done to find the same throughout life's 
 
 journey. 
 But see the world is only one attorney. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, 
 Through crowds and carriages, but wax- 
 ing thinner 
 As thunder'd knockers broke the long 
 seal'd spell 
 Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early 
 dinner 
 Admitted a small party as night fell, — 
 
 Don Juan, our yomig diplomatic sinner. 
 Pursued his path, and drove past some 
 
 hotels, 
 St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells." 
 
 XXX 
 
 They reach 'd the hotel : forth stream'd 
 
 from the front door 
 
 A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
 
 The mob stood, and as usual several score 
 
 Of those pedestrian Paphians who 
 
 abound 
 In decent Loudon when the daylight's 
 
 o'er; 
 Commodious but immoral, they are 
 found 
 Useful, like Malthus, in promoting mar- 
 riage. — 
 But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 
 
 .XXXI 
 
 Into one of the sweetest of hotels. 
 
 Especially for foreigners — and m.ostly 
 For those whom favour or whom fortune 
 swells. 
 And cannot find a bill's small items 
 costly. 
 There many an envoy either dwelt or 
 dwells 
 (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 
 Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 
 And blazon o'er the door their names in 
 brass. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Juan, whose was a delicate commission. 
 
 Private, though publicly important, bore 
 No title to point out with due precision 
 The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 
 'Twas merely known, that on a secret mis- 
 sion 
 A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 
 Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who 
 
 was said 
 (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's 
 head. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Some rumour also of some strange adven- 
 tures 
 Had gone before him, and his wars and 
 loves ; 
 And as romantic heads are prettv painters, 
 And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 
 Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
 Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 749 
 
 He found himself extremely in the fashion, 
 Which serves our thinking people for a 
 passion. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 I don't mean that they are passionless, but 
 quite 
 
 The contrary ; but then 'tis in the head ; 
 Yet as the consequences are as bright 
 
 As if they acted with the heart instead, 
 What after all can signify the site 
 
 Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
 In safety to the place for which you start, 
 What matters if the road be head or heart ? 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Juan presented in the proper place, 
 
 To Droper placemen, every Russ creden- 
 tial. 
 And was received with all the due grimace. 
 By those who govern in the mood poten- 
 tial. 
 Who. seeing a handsome stripling with 
 smooth face, 
 Thought (what in state affairs is [most 
 essential) 
 That they as easily might do the youngster. 
 As hawks may pounce upon a woodland 
 songster. 
 
 xxxvi 
 They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
 
 And by we'll talk of that ; and if we 
 don't, 
 'Twill be because our notion is not high 
 
 Of politicians and their double front. 
 Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
 
 Now what I love in women is, they won't 
 Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 
 So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it . 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 And, after all, what is a lie ? 'Tis but 
 The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 
 
 Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
 A fact without some leaven of a lie. 
 
 The very shadow of true Truth would shut 
 Up annals, revelations, poesy, 
 
 And prophecy — except it should be dated 
 
 Some years before the incidents related. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
 Can tax my mild Muse with misan- 
 thropy ? , -, , 
 She rings the world's " Te Deum, and her 
 brow 
 Blushes for those who will not : — but to 
 
 Is idle • let us like most others bow. 
 
 Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty, ^_ 
 After the good example of " Green Erin, ' 
 Whose shamrock now seems rather worse 
 for wearing. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
 
 And mien excited general admiration — 
 I don't know which was more admired or 
 less : 
 One monstrous diamond drew much 
 observation, 
 Which Catherine in a moment of " ivresse " 
 (In love or brandy's fervent fermenta- 
 tion) 
 Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd ; 
 And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 
 
 Besides the ministers and underlings. 
 Who must be courteous to the accre- 
 dited 
 Diplomatists of rather wavering kings. 
 Until their royal riddle's fully read, 
 The very clerks, — those somewhat dirty 
 springs 
 Of office, or the house of of&ce, fed 
 By foul corruption into streams, — even 
 
 they 
 Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 
 
 XLI 
 
 And insolence no doubt is what they are 
 Employ'd for, since it is their daily 
 labour. 
 In the dear offices of peace or war ; 
 
 And should you dojibt, pray ask of your 
 next neighbour. 
 When for a passport. Or some other bar 
 To freedom, he applied (a grief and a 
 bore) , 
 If he found not this spawn of taxborn 
 
 riches, 
 Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b ^. 
 
 XLII 
 
 But Juan was received with much " em- 
 
 pressement : " — 
 These phrases of refinement I must 
 
 borrow 
 From our next neighbour's land, where, 
 
 like a chessman. 
 There is a move set down for joy or 
 
 sorrow. 
 Not only in mere talking, but the press. 
 
 Man 
 In islands is, it seems, downright and 
 
 thorough, 
 More than on continents — as if the sea 
 (See BiUingsgate) made even the tongue 
 
 more free. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 And yet the British " Damme" 's rather 
 Attic ; 
 Your continental oaths are but incon- 
 tinent. 
 And turn on things which no aristocratic 
 Spirit would name, and therefore even I 
 won't anent 
 
75° 
 
 This subject quote ; as it would be schis- 
 matic 
 In politesse, and have a sound affronting 
 in 't :— 
 
 But " Damme " 's quite ethereal, though 
 too daring — 
 
 Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 For downright rudeness, ye may stay at 
 home ; 
 For true or false politeness (and scarce 
 that 
 Now) you may cross the blue deep and 
 white foam — 
 The first the emblem (rarely though) of 
 what 
 You leave behind, the next of much you 
 come 
 To meet. However, 'tis no time too chat 
 On general topics ; poems must coniine 
 Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 
 
 XLV 
 
 In the great world, — which, being inter- 
 preted, 
 Meaneth-the west or worst end of the 
 city, 
 And about twice two thousand people bred 
 By no means to be very wise or witty, 
 But to sit up while others lie in bed. 
 And look down on the universe with 
 pity,— 
 Juan, as an inveterate patrician. 
 Was well received by persons of condition. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
 Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
 
 The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 
 And (should she not hold fast by love or 
 pride) 
 
 'Tis also of some moment to the latter : 
 A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side. 
 
 Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
 
 The horrid sin — and what's still worse, the 
 trouble. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, 
 
 And parts, and hearts : he danced and 
 sung, and had 
 An air as sentimental as Mozart's 
 
 Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 
 
 Or cheerful, without any " flaws or starts," 
 
 Just at the proper time : and though a 
 
 lad. 
 
 Had seen the world — which is a curious 
 
 sight. 
 And very much unlike what people ^\Tite. 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Fair 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded 
 dames 
 Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 
 
 For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 
 
 The painting and the painted ; youth, 
 
 ceruse, [claims, 
 
 Against his heart preferr'd their usual 
 
 Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
 
 Daughters admired his dress, and pious 
 
 mothers 
 Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 The milliners who furnish " drapery 
 Misses " ^* 
 Throughout the season, upon speculation 
 Of pa>Tnent ere the honey-moon's last 
 kisses 
 Have waned into a crescent's corusca- 
 tion. 
 Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
 
 Of a rich foreigner's initiation. 
 Not to be overlook' d — and gave such credit, 
 That futmre bridegrooms swore, and 
 sigh'd, and paid it. 
 
 L 
 
 The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er 
 
 sonnets. 
 
 And with the pages of the last Review 
 
 Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 
 
 Advanced in all their azure's highest hue : 
 
 They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and 
 
 upon its 
 
 Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 
 
 And which was softest, Russian or Cas- 
 
 tilian ? 
 And whether in his travels he saw Ilion ? 
 
 LI 
 
 Juan, who was a little superficial. 
 
 And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 
 Examined by this learned and especial ' 
 Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to 
 answer : 
 His duties warlike, loving or official. 
 
 His steady application as a dancer. 
 Had kept him from the brmk of Hippo- 
 
 crene. 
 Which now he found was blue instead of 
 green. 
 
 LII 
 
 However, he replied at hazard, with 
 
 A modest confidence and calm assurance, 
 Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 
 And pass'd for arguments of good endur- 
 ance. 
 That prodigy. Miss Araminta Smith 
 
 (Who at sixteen translated " Hercules 
 Furens " 
 Into as furious English), with her best look, 
 Set down his sayings in her common-place 
 book. 
 
 LIII 
 
 Juan knew several languages — as well 
 He might — and brought them up with 
 skill, in time 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 '^^ ^tTn '''^ ^^™^ "'"^ ''^^^ accompUsh'd 
 
 Who still regretted that he did not 
 rhyme. 
 There wanted but this requisite to swell 
 His quahties (with them) into subUme ; 
 i-ady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss M»via Man- 
 nish, 
 Both long'd extremely to be sung in 
 Spanish. 
 
 LIV 
 
 However, he did pretty well, and was 
 Admitted as an aspirant to all 
 
 The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, 
 At great assemblies or in parties small. 
 
 He saw ten thousand living authors pa.=s, 
 That being about their average numeral ; 
 
 Also the eighty "greatest living poets," 
 
 As every paltry magazine can show it's. 
 
 LV 
 
 In twice five years the " greatest living 
 poet," 
 Like to the champion in the fisty ring. 
 Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it. 
 
 Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 
 Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
 Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be 
 king,— 
 Was reckon'd a considerable time, 
 The grand Napoleon of the realms of 
 rhyme. 
 
 LVI 
 
 But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean 
 seems Cain : 
 -' La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at 
 zero. 
 Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise 
 again : 
 But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
 
 Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
 Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go. 
 With turncoat Southey for my turnkey 
 Lowe. 
 
 LVII 
 
 Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore 
 and Campbell 
 Before and after ; but now grown more 
 holy. 
 The muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 
 With poets almost clergymen, or wholly ; 
 And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 
 
 Beneath the very Reverend Rowley 
 Powley, 
 Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 
 A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 
 
 LVIII 
 
 Still he excels that artificial hard 
 
 Labourer in the same vineyard, though 
 the N'ine 
 Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 
 
 751 
 
 That neutralised dull Dorus of the Nine ; 
 That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor 
 bard ; 
 That ox of verse, who ploughs for every 
 line : — 
 Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
 The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest. — 
 
 LI.X 
 
 Then there's my gentle Euphues ; who, 
 they say. 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 
 He'll find it rather difficult some day 
 
 To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the 
 sway ; 
 And Wordsworth has supporters, two or 
 three ; 
 And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Savage 
 
 Landor " 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's 
 gander. 
 
 LX 
 
 John Keats, who was kill'd off by one 
 critique. 
 Just as he really promised something 
 great, 
 If not intelligible, without Greek 
 
 Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, 
 
 Much as they might have been supposed 
 
 to speak. 
 
 Poor fellow ! His was an untoward 
 
 fate ;■ 
 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery 
 
 particle. 
 Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. 
 
 LXI 
 
 The list grows long of live and dead pre- 
 tenders 
 To that which none will gain — or none 
 
 will know 
 The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time 
 
 renders 
 His last award, will have the long grass 
 
 grow 
 Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless 
 
 cinders. 
 If I might augur, I should rate but low 
 Their chances ; — they're too numerous, 
 
 like the thirty 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd 
 
 but dirty. 
 
 LXII 
 
 This is the literary lower empire. 
 
 Where the prastorian bands take up the 
 matter ; — 
 A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers 
 samphire," . 
 The insolent soldiery to soothe and 
 flatter, 
 With the same feelings as you'd coax a 
 vampire. 
 
75- 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Now, were I once at home, and in good 
 satire, 
 I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
 And show them what an intellectual war is. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 I think I know a trick or two, would turn 
 Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my 
 while 
 With such small gear to give myself con- 
 cern : 
 Indeed I've not the necessary bile ; 
 My natural temper's roally aught but stern. 
 And even my Muse's worst reproof's a 
 smile ; 
 And then she drops a brief and modern 
 
 curtsy. 
 And glides away, assured she never hurts 
 ye. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
 
 Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past 
 With some small profit through that field 
 so sterile. 
 Being tired in time, and neither least nor 
 last. 
 Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 
 And henceforth found himself more gaily 
 class'd 
 Amongst the higher spirits of the day, 
 The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray. 
 
 His moms he pass'd in business — which 
 dissected. 
 Was like all business, a laborious nothing 
 That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
 And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal 
 clothing, 
 And on our sofas makes us lie dejected. 
 And talk in tender horrors of our loath- 
 ing 
 All kinds of toil, save for our country's 
 good — [should. 
 
 Which grows no better, though 'tis time it 
 
 LXVI 
 
 His afternoons he pass'd in visits, lun- 
 cheons, 
 Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight 
 hour 
 In riding round those vegetable puncheons 
 Call'd " Parks." where there is neither 
 fruit nor flower 
 Enough to gratify a bee's slight munch- 
 ings ; 
 But after all it is the only " bower," 
 (In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable 
 
 fair 
 Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh 
 air. 
 
 L.XVIt 
 
 Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the 
 world ! 
 
 Then glare the lamps, then whirl the 
 wheels, then roar 
 Through street and square fast flashing 
 chariots hurl'd 
 Like hamess'd meteors ; then along the 
 floor 
 Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons are 
 twirl'd ; 
 Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
 Which opens to the thousand happy few 
 An earthly Paradise of " Or Molu." 
 
 LXCTII 
 
 There stands the noble hostess, nor shall 
 sink 
 With the three-thousandth curtsy; 
 there the waltz, 
 The only dance which teaches girls to think, 
 Makes one in love even with its very 
 faults. 
 Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their 
 brink. 
 And long the latest of arrivals halts, 
 'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd 
 
 to cUmb, 
 And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 
 
 Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
 Of the good company, can win a comer, 
 
 A door that's in or boudoir out of the way, 
 Where he may fix himself hke small 
 " Jack Horner," 
 
 And let the Babel round run as it may. 
 And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 
 
 Or an approver, or a mere spectator. 
 
 Yawning a little as the night grows later. 
 
 But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
 Who, like Don Juan, takes an active 
 share. 
 Must steer with care through all that 
 glittering sea 
 Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, 
 to where 
 He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
 Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 
 Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill. 
 Where Science marshals forth her own 
 quadrille. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
 Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride. 
 Let him take care that that which he pur- 
 sues 
 Is not at once too palpablv descried. 
 Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 
 His haste ; impatience is a blundering 
 guide. 
 Amongst a people famous for reflection, 
 Who like to play the fool with curcum- 
 spection. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 753 
 
 LXXII 
 
 But, if you can contrive, get next at sup- 
 pix; 
 Or if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle : — 
 Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 
 .In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
 'Which sits for ever upon memory's crup- 
 per. 
 The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in 
 vogue ! Ill 
 Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
 Of hopes and fears which shake a single 
 baU. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 But these precautionary hints can touch 
 
 Only the common run, who must pursue. 
 
 And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word 
 
 too much 
 
 Or little overturns ; and not the few 
 
 Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
 
 Wnom a good mien, especially if new, 
 
 Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or 
 
 nonsense. 
 Permits whate'er they please, or did not 
 long since. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
 Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 
 Like other slaves of course must pay his 
 ransom. 
 Before he can escape from so much dan- 
 ger 
 As will en\'iron a conspicuous man. Some 
 Talk about poetry, and " rack and 
 manger," 
 And ugliness, disease, as.toil and trouble ; — 
 1 OTsh they knew the life of a young noble. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 They are young, but know not youth — it 
 is anticipated ; 
 Handsome but wasted, rich without a 
 sou; . . 
 
 Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissi- 
 pated ; 
 Their cash comes from, their wealth goes 
 to a Jew ; 
 
 Both senates see their nightly votes par- 
 ticipated 
 Between the tyrant's and the tribunes 
 crew ; , , 'j 
 
 And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, 
 and whored. 
 
 The family vault receives another lord. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 Where is the world ? cries Young, at 
 eighty—" Where ,, 
 
 The world in which a man was born .' 
 
 Where is the world of eight years past ? 
 'Twas there — 
 
 I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of glass ' 
 
 Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed 
 
 on, ere 
 
 . A silent change dissolves the glittering 
 
 mass. 
 
 Statesman, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, 
 
 kings. 
 And dandies, all are gone on the wind's 
 wings. 
 
 LXXVIl 
 
 Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God 
 knows : 
 Where Uttle Castlereagh ? The devil 
 can tell : 
 Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
 Who bound the bar or senate in their 
 spell ? 
 Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her 
 woes ? 
 And where the Daughter, whom the 
 Isles loved well ? 
 Where are those martyr'd saints the Five 
 
 per Cents ? 
 And where — oh, where the devil are the 
 Rents ? 
 
 Lxxvni 
 Where's Brummel ? Dish'd. Where's 
 Long Pole Wellesley ? Diddled. 
 Where's Whitbread ? Romilly ? Where's 
 George the Third ? 
 Whore is his will ? (That's not so soon 
 unriddled.) 
 And where is " Fum " the Fourth, our 
 " royal bird ? " is 
 Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be 
 fiddled 
 Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : 
 " Caw me, caw thee " — for six months 
 
 hath been hatching 
 This scene of royal itch and loyal scratch- 
 ing. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 Where is Lord This ? And where my Lady 
 That? 
 The Honourable Mistresses and Misses ? 
 Some laid aside like an old Opera hat. 
 Married, unmarried, and remarried : 
 (this is 
 An evolution oft performed of late). 
 
 Where are the Dublin shouts — and Lon- 
 don hisses ? 
 Where are the Grenvilles ? Tum'd ■ as 
 
 usual. Where 
 My friends the Whigs ? Exactly where 
 they were. 
 
 L.XXX 
 
 Where are the Lady Carolines and Fran- 
 ceses ? 
 Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye 
 ann als 
 
 So brilliant, where the list of routs and 
 dances is, — 
 
754 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Thou Morning Post, sole record of the 
 
 panels 
 
 Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 
 
 Of fashion, — say what streams now fill 
 
 those channels ? 
 
 Some die, some fly, some languish on the 
 
 Continent, 
 Because the times have hardly left them 
 one tenant. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 Some who once set their caps at cautious 
 dukes. 
 Have taken up at length with younger 
 brothers : 
 Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks : 
 Some maids have been made wives, some 
 merely mothers ; 
 Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 
 In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
 There's little strange in this, but something 
 
 strange is 
 The unusual quicltness of these common 
 changes. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
 I have seen more changes, down from 
 monarchs to 
 The humblest individual under heaven, 
 Than might suffice a moderate century 
 through. 
 I knew that nought was lasting, but now 
 even 
 Change grows too changeable, without 
 being new : 
 Nought's permanent among the human 
 
 race. 
 Except the Whigs not getting into place. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a 
 Jupiter, 
 Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 
 (No matter which) turn politician stupider. 
 If that can well be, than his wooden 
 look. 
 But it is time that I should hoist my " blue 
 Peter," 
 And sail for a new theme : — I have seen 
 — and shook 
 To see it — the king hiss'd, and then carest ; 
 But don't pretend to settle which was best. 
 
 LXX.XIV 
 
 I have seen the Landholders without a rap — 
 I have seen Joanna Southcote — I have 
 seen 
 The House of Commons turn'd to a tax- 
 trap — 
 I have seen that sad affair of the late 
 Queen — 
 I have seen crowns worn instcul of a fool's 
 cap— 
 
 I have seen a Congress doing all that's 
 
 mean — 
 I have seen some nations like o'erloaded 
 
 asses. 
 Kick off their burthens — meaning the high 
 
 classes. 
 
 i.x.xxv 
 I have seen small poets, and great prosers, 
 and 
 Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 
 I have seen the funds at war with house and 
 land — 
 I have seen the country gentlemen turn 
 squeakers — 
 I have seen the people ridden o'er like 
 sand 
 By slaves on horseback — I have seen 
 malt liquors 
 Exchanged for " thin potations " by John 
 
 BuU— 
 I have seen John half detect himself a 
 fool.— 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe ! " 
 To-morrow sees another race as gay 
 And transient, and devour'd by the same 
 harpy. 
 " Life's a poor player," — then " play 
 out the play. 
 Ye villains 1 " and above all keep a sharp 
 eye 
 Much less on what you do than what you 
 say : 
 Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
 Not what you seem, but always what you 
 see. 
 
 L.x-x,x-\ni 
 But how shall I relate in other cantos 
 Of what befel our hero in the land. 
 Which 'tis the common cry, and lie to 
 vaunt as 
 .\ moral country ? But I hold my 
 hand — 
 For I disdain to WTite an Atalantis ; 
 
 But 'tis as well at once to understand 
 You are not a moral people, and you know 
 
 it 
 Without the aid of too sincere a poet. t 
 
 Lx.xxvni 
 \Miat Juan saw and underwent shall be 
 My topic, with of course the due re- 
 striction 
 Which is required bv proper courtesy ; 
 
 .\nd recollect the work is only fiction, 
 
 And that I sing of neither mine nor m^'. 
 
 Though e\ery scribe, in some slight turn 
 
 of diction. 
 
 Will hint allusions ne\-er tmant. X.-'er 
 
 doubt 
 This— when I speak, I don't hint, but ^heak 
 
 UUt. ' 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 755 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Whether he married with the third or 
 fourth 
 Offspring of some sage husband-hunting 
 countess, 
 Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
 (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial 
 bounties) 
 He tooli to regularly peopling Earth, 
 Of whicli your lawful awful wedlock 
 fount is, — 
 Or whether he was taken in for damages, 
 For being too exciursive in his homages, — 
 
 Is yet within the unread events of time. 
 
 Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will 
 
 back 
 
 Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 
 
 For being as much the subject of attack 
 
 As ever yet was any work sublime. 
 
 By those who love to say that white is 
 black. 
 So much the better ! — I may stand alone, 
 But would not change my free thoughts for 
 a throne. 
 
 CANTO THE TWELFTH 
 
 I 
 Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 
 Which is most barbarous is the middle 
 age 
 Of man ; it is — I really scarce know what ; 
 But when we hover between fool and 
 sage, 
 And don't know justly what we would be 
 at— 
 A period something like a prmted page, 
 Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
 Grows grizzled, and we are not what we 
 were ; — 
 
 II 
 Too old for youth, — too 5'oung, at thirty- 
 five. 
 To herd with boys, or hoard with good 
 threescore, — 
 1 wonder people should be left alive ; 
 
 But since they are, that epoch is a bore : 
 Love lingers still, although 'twere late to 
 wive ; • 
 
 And as for other love, the illusion s o er ; 
 And money, that most pure imagination. 
 Gleams only through the dawn of its crea- 
 tion. 
 
 Ill 
 O Gold ' Why call we misers miserable ? 
 Theirs is the pleasure that can never 
 
 Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain 
 
 Which holds fast other pleasures great 
 and small. 
 
 Ye who but see the saving man at table, 
 And scorn his temperate board, as none 
 at all. 
 
 And wonder how the wealthy can be spar- 
 ing. 
 
 Know not what visions spring from each 
 cheese-paring. 
 
 Love or lust makes man sick, and wine 
 much sicker ; 
 Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; 
 But making money, slowly first, then 
 quicker, 
 And adding still a little through each 
 cross 
 (Which will come over things), beats love 
 or liquor. 
 The gamester's counter, or the states- 
 man's dross. 
 O Gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper. 
 Which makes bank credit like a bark of 
 vapour. 
 
 Who hold the balance of the world ? Who 
 reign 
 O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal? 
 Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain ? 
 (That make old Europe's journals squeak 
 and gibber all.) 
 Who keep the world, both old and new, in 
 pain . 
 Or pleasure ? Who make pohtics run 
 glibber all ? 
 The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring ? 
 Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, 
 Baring. 
 
 VI 
 
 Those, and the trulv liberal Lafitte, 
 
 Are the true lords of Europe. Every 
 loan 
 
 Is not a merely speculative hit. 
 
 But seats a nation or upsets i throne. 
 
 Republics also get involved a bit ; 
 
 Columbia's stock hath holders not un- 
 known 
 
 On 'Change, and even thy silver soil, Peru, 
 
 Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 
 
 Why call the miser miserable ? as 
 
 I said before : the frugal Ufe is his. 
 Which ui a saint or cynic ever was 
 
 The theme of praise : a hermit would 
 not miss 
 Canonization for the self-same cause, 
 And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's 
 austerities ? 
 Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a 
 
 Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 
 
756 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 He is your only poet : — passion, pure 
 And sparkling on from heap to heap, 
 displays, 
 Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes 
 allure 
 Nations athwart the deep : the golden 
 rays 
 Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure : 
 On him the diamond pours its brilliant 
 blaze 
 While the mild emerald's beam shades 
 
 down the dies 
 Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 
 
 The lands on either side are his ; the ship 
 From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, un- 
 loads 
 
 For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
 Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads. 
 
 And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
 His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 
 
 While he, despising every sensual call. 
 
 Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 
 
 Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
 
 To build a college, or to found a race. 
 A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 
 Some dome surmoimted by his. meagre 
 face : 
 Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
 Even with the very ore which makes 
 them base ; 
 Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his 
 
 nation, 
 Or revel in the joys of calculation. 
 
 XI 
 
 But whether all, or each, or none of these 
 
 May be the hoarder's principle of action, 
 The fool will call such mania a disease : — 
 What is his own ? Go — look at each 
 transaction. 
 Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men 
 more ease 
 Than the mere plodding through each 
 " vulgar fraction ? " 
 Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 
 Let spendthrift's heirs inquire of yours — 
 who's wiser ? 
 
 How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charm- 
 ing chests 
 Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
 (Not of old victors, all whose heads and 
 crests 
 Weigh not the thin ore where their 
 visage shines. 
 But) of fine imclipt gold, where dully rests 
 Some likeness, which the glitteiiiig cir- 
 que coniines, 
 
 Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid 
 
 stamp : — 
 ^'es ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 
 
 XIII 
 
 "Love rules the camp, the court, the 
 grove, — for love 
 Is heaven, and heaven is love : " — so 
 sings the bard ; 
 Which it were rather difficult to prove 
 
 (A thing mth poetry in general hard). 
 Perhaps there may be something in " the 
 grove," 
 At least it rhymes to " love ; " but I'm 
 prepared 
 To doubt ^no less than landlords of their 
 
 rental) 
 If " courts " and '' camps " be quite so 
 sentimental. 
 
 .XIV 
 
 But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash 
 
 alone : 
 Cash rules the grove, and fells it too 
 
 beside ; 
 Without cash, camps were thin, and courts 
 
 were none ; 
 Without cash, Malthus tells you — " take 
 
 no brides." 
 So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his o'.vn 
 High ground, as virgin Cynthia swavs 
 
 the tides : 
 And as for " Heaven being Love," why not 
 
 say honey 
 Is wax ? Heaven is not Love, 'tis Matri- 
 mony. 
 
 .XV 
 
 Is not all love prohibited whatever, 
 Excepting marriage ? which is love, no 
 doubt. 
 After a sort ; but somehow people never 
 With the same thought the two words 
 have help'd out. 
 Love may exist with marriage, and should 
 ever. 
 And marriage also may exist without ; 
 But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
 And ought to go by quite another name. 
 
 .X\'I 
 
 Now if the " court," and " camp," and 
 , " grove," be not 
 
 Recruited all with constant married men. 
 Who ne\-er f.i\-eted their neighbour's lot, 
 
 I say that line's a lapsus of the pen ; — 
 Strange too in my " buon camerado " Scott, 
 
 So celebrated for his morals, when 
 My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
 To me ; — of which these morals are a 
 sample. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded 
 .\nd that's enoupfh : sticceeded in my 
 vouth. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 757 
 
 The only time when much success is 
 
 needed : 
 And my success produced what I, in 
 
 sooth, 
 Cared most about ; it need not now be 
 
 pleaded — 
 Whate'er it was, 'twas mine ; I've paid, 
 
 in truth. 
 Of late, the penalty of such success. 
 But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 
 
 xvin 
 That suit in Chancery, — which some per- 
 sons plead 
 
 In an appeal to the unborn, whom they. 
 In the faith of their procreative creed. 
 
 Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 
 To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
 
 To lean on for support in any way ; 
 Since odds are that posterity will know 
 No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 
 
 Why, I'm posterity — and so are you ; 
 And whom do we remember ? Not a 
 hundred. 
 Were every member written down all true. 
 The tenth or twentieth name would be 
 but blunder'd ; 
 Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out 
 a few. 
 And 'gainst these few your annalists 
 have thunder'd ; 
 And Mitford in the nineteenth century 
 Gives, with Greek truth, the good old 
 Greek the lie. 
 
 Good people all, of every degree. 
 
 Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 
 In this twelfth Canto 'tis my wish to be 
 
 As serious as if I had for inditers 
 Malthus and Wilberforce : — the last set 
 free 
 The Negroes, and is worth a million 
 fighters ; , , , 
 
 While Wellington has but enslaved the 
 
 Whites, 
 And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which 
 he writes. 
 
 I'm serious — so are all men upon paper ; 
 
 And why should I not form my specula- 
 tion, . 
 And hold up to the sun my little taper ? 
 
 Manldnd just now seem wrapt in medita- 
 
 On constitutions and steam-boats of 
 vapour ; . „ 
 
 WhUe sages write against all procreation. 
 Unless a man can calculate his means 
 Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans , 
 
 That's noble ! That's romantic ! For my 
 part, 
 I think that " Philo-genitiveness " is — 
 (Now here's a word quite after my own 
 heart. 
 Though there's a shorter a good deal 
 than this. 
 If that politeness set it not apart ; 
 
 But I'm resolved to say nought that's 
 amiss) — 
 I say, methinks that " Philo-genitiveness " 
 Might meet from men a little more for- 
 giveness. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 And now to business. — O my gentle Juan ! 
 Thou art in London — in that pleasant 
 place, » 
 
 Where every kind of mischief's daily 
 brewing, 
 Which can await warm youth in its wild 
 race. 
 'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one ; 
 Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
 Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
 Which foreigners can never understand. 
 
 What with a small diversity of climate. 
 
 Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate. 
 I could send forth my mandate like a 
 primate 
 Upon the rest of Europe's social state; 
 But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 
 Great Britain, which the Muse may 
 penetrate. 
 All countries have their " Lions," but in 
 
 thee 
 There is but one superb menagerie. 
 
 But I am sick of politics. Begin, ' 
 " Paulo Majora." Juan, undecided 
 
 Amongst the paths of being " taken in," 
 Above the ice had like a skater glided : 
 
 When tired of play, he flirted without sin 
 With some of those fair creatures who 
 have prided 
 
 Themselves on innocent tantalisation. 
 
 And hate all vice except its reputation. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 But these are few, and in the end they make 
 Some devilish escapade or stir, which 
 shows 
 That even the purest people may mistake 
 Their way through virtue's primrose 
 paths of snows ; 
 And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
 To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'er- 
 flows 
 Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) 
 With the kind world's amen — " Who would 
 have thought it I " 
 
738 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 xxvn 
 The little Leila, with her orient eyes, 
 
 And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
 (Which saw all western things with small 
 surprise, 
 
 To the surprise of people of condition. 
 Who think that novelties are butterflies 
 
 To be pursued as food for inanition,) 
 Her charming figure and romantic history 
 Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 The women much divided — as is usual 
 
 Amongst the sex in little things or great. 
 Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to 
 abuse you all — 
 I ba^'e always liked you better than I 
 ^ate : 
 Since I've gro'svn moral, still I must accuse 
 you all 
 Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
 And now there was a general sensation 
 Amongst you, about Leila's education. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 In one point only were you settled — and 
 You had reason : 'twas that a young 
 child of grace, 
 As beautiful as her own native land. 
 
 And far away, the last bud of her race, 
 Howe'er our friend Don Juan might com- 
 mand 
 Himself for iive," four, three, or two 
 years' space. 
 Would be much better taught beneath the 
 
 eye 
 Of peeresses whose follies had run drv. 
 
 So first there was a generous emulation, 
 And then there was a general competi- 
 tion, 
 
 To undertake the orphan's education. 
 As Juan was a person of condition, 
 
 It had been an affront on this occasion 
 To talk of a subscription or petition ; 
 
 But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages. 
 
 Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle 
 Ages," 
 
 XXXI 
 
 And one or two sad, separate wives, with- 
 out 
 A fruit to bloom upon their withering 
 bough — 
 Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and 
 " out," — 
 For that's the phrase that settles all 
 things now, 
 Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 
 And all her points as thorough-bred to 
 show : 
 .^nd I assure you, that like virgin honey 
 Tastes their first season (mostly if they 
 ha\'e money). 
 
 How all the needy honourable misters, 
 Each out-at-eibow peer, or desperate 
 
 dandy. 
 The watchful mothers, and the careful 
 
 sisters, 
 (Who, by the by, when clever, are more 
 
 handy 
 At making matches, where " 'tis gold that 
 
 glisters," 
 Than their he relatives), like flies o'er 
 
 candy 
 Buzz round " the Fortune " with their busy 
 
 battery, 
 To turn her head with waltzing and with 
 
 flattery ! 
 
 X.XXIII 
 
 Each aunt, each cousin, hath her specula- 
 tion ; 
 Nay, married dam.e3 will now and then 
 
 disco\"er 
 Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 
 I've known them court an heiress for 
 
 their lover. 
 " Tantffine ! " Such the virtues of high 
 
 station. 
 Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet's 
 
 " Dover ! " 
 While the poor rich wretch, object of these 
 
 cares. 
 Has cause to wish her sire had had male 
 
 heirs. 
 
 .X.XXIV 
 
 Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject 
 three dozen. 
 'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 
 And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 
 (Friends of the party), who begin ac- 
 cusals 
 Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to 
 have chosen 
 Poor Frederick, why did she accord 
 perusals 
 To his billets ? Why waltz with him ? 
 
 Why, I pr.^y. 
 Look yes last night, and yet say ho to-day ? 
 
 XXXV 
 
 " V^Tiy ?— Why ?— Besides, Fred reaUy 
 was attached ; 
 'Twas not her fortune — ^he has enough 
 without : 
 
 The time will come she'll wish that she had 
 
 snatch'd 
 
 So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 
 
 But the old Marchioness some plan had 
 
 hatch'd, 
 
 .-Vs I'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
 
 And after all poor Frederick luav do 
 
 better — 
 Pray did >-ou see her answer to his letter ? " 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 750 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Smart uniforms and sparlding coronets 
 Are spurn'd in turn, ,until lier turn 
 arrives, 
 After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
 Upon the sweepstakes for substantial 
 wives ; 
 And when at last the pretty creature gets 
 Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or 
 drives. 
 It soothes the awkward squad of the re- 
 jected 
 To find how very badly she selected. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 For sometimes they accept some long pur- 
 suer. 
 Worn out %vith importunity ; or fall 
 (But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 
 To the lot of him who scarce pursued at 
 all. 
 A hazy widower turn'd of forty's sure 
 (If 'tis not vain examples to recall) 
 To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got 
 
 her, I 
 See nought more strange in this than 
 t'other lottery. 
 
 xxxvni 
 I, for my part — (one " modern instance-" 
 more, 
 " True, 'tis a pity — pity 'tis, 'tis true ") 
 Was chosen from out an amatory score. 
 Albeit my years were less discreet than 
 few ; 
 But though I also had reform'd before 
 Those became one who soon were to be 
 two, 
 I'll not gainsay the generous pubUc's voice, 
 That the young lady made a monstrous 
 choice. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Oh, pardon mv digression — or at least 
 Peruse ! 'Ti'^ always with a moral end 
 
 That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
 For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 
 
 A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest, 
 My Muse by exhortation means to mend 
 
 All people, at all times, and in most places. 
 
 Which puts my Pegasus to these grave 
 paces. 
 
 XL 
 
 But now I'm going to be immoral ; now 
 
 I mean to show things really as they are. 
 Not as they ought to be : for I avow. 
 That till we see what's what m tact, 
 we're far ■ , , ^ • ^ 
 
 From much improvement with that virtu- 
 ous plough 
 Wliich skims the surface, leaving scarce 
 
 I Tnon the black loam long manured by Vice, 
 Only to keep its corn at the old price. 
 
 But first of little Leila we'll dispose ; 
 For like a day-dawn she was young and 
 pure, 
 Or like, the old comparison of snows, 
 Which are more pure than pleasant to be 
 sure. 
 Like many people every body knows, 
 Don Juan was delighted to secure 
 A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
 Who might not profit much by being at 
 large. 
 
 XLII 
 
 Besides, he had found out he was no tutor 
 (I wish that others would find out the 
 same) ; 
 And rather wish'd in such things to stand 
 neuter. 
 For silly wards will bring their guardians 
 blame : 
 So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
 
 To make his little wild .\siatic tame. 
 Consulting " the Society for Vice 
 Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his 
 choice. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Olden she was — but had been very young ; 
 Virtuous she was — and had been, I be- 
 lieve ; 
 Although the world has such an evil tongue 
 
 That but my chaster ear will not 
 
 receive 
 An echo of a syllable that's wrong ; 
 
 In fact, there's nothing makes me so 
 much grieve, 
 .\s that abominable tittle-tattle, 
 Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 
 
 Moreover I've remark'd (and I was once 
 A slight observer in a modest way), 
 
 And so may every one except a dunce, 
 That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
 
 Besides their knowledge of the world, and 
 sense 
 Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
 
 Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe 
 
 Which the mere passionless can never know. 
 
 XLV 
 
 While the harsh prude indemnifies her 
 virtue . 
 
 By railing at the unknown and envied 
 passion. 
 Seeking far less to save you than to hurt 
 you. 
 Or, what's still worse, to put you out ot 
 fashion, — . 
 
 The kinder veteran with calm words will 
 court you. 
 Entreating you to pause before you dasli 
 on ; 
 
76o 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Fxpounding and illustrating the riddle 
 Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 
 
 XL VI 
 
 Now whether it be thus, or that they are 
 stricter, 
 As better knowing why they should be so, 
 I think you'll find from many a family 
 picture. 
 That daughters of such mothers as may 
 know 
 The world by experience rather than by 
 lectture. 
 Turn out much better for the Smithfield 
 Show 
 Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 
 Than'ithose bred up by prudes without a 
 heart. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been 
 talk'd about — 
 As who has not, if female, young, and 
 pretty ? 
 But now no more the ghost of Scandal 
 stalk'd about ; 
 She merely was deem'd amiable and 
 witty. 
 And several of her best bon-mots were 
 hawk'd about : 
 Then she was given to charity and pity, 
 And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 
 For being a most exemplary wife. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 High in high circles, gentle in her own. 
 
 She was the mild reprover of the young. 
 Whenever — which means every day — 
 they'd shown 
 An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
 The quantity of good she did's unkno\vn, 
 Or at the least would lengthen out my 
 song : 
 In brief, the little orphan of the East 
 Had raised an interest in her, which in- 
 creased. 
 
 Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her. 
 Because she thought him a good heart at 
 bottom, 
 A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 
 Which was a wonder, if you think who 
 got him, 
 And how he had been toss'd, he scarce 
 knew whither ; 
 Though this might ruin others, it did not 
 him. 
 At least entirely — for he had seen too many 
 Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 
 
 L 
 
 And these \'icissitudes tell best in youth ; 
 
 For when they happen at a riper age. 
 People are apt to blame the Fate . forsooth, 
 
 And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
 Adversity is the first path to truth : 
 
 He who hath proved war, storm, or 
 woman's rage. 
 Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
 Hath won the experience which is deem'd 
 so weighty. 
 
 LI 
 
 How far it profits is another matter. — 
 Our hero gladly saw his little charge 
 Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up 
 daughter 
 Being long married, and thus set at large, 
 Had left all the accomplishments she 
 taught her 
 To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's 
 barge : 
 To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 
 More Muse-like — like to Cytherea's shell. 
 
 I call such things transmission ; for there is 
 
 A floating balance of accomplishment. 
 Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
 According as their minds or backs are 
 bent. 
 Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom 
 the ab3'ss 
 ■ Of metaphysics ; others are content 
 With music ; the most moderate shine as 
 
 wits ; 
 While others have a genius tum'd for fits. 
 
 But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords. 
 
 Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
 May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 
 
 With regular descent, in these our days, 
 The last year to the new transfers its 
 hoards ; 
 New \'estals claim men's eyes with the 
 same praise 
 Of " elegant " et ccEiera, in fresh batches — 
 All matchless creatures, and yet bent on 
 matches. 
 
 LIV 
 
 But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 
 Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new. 
 
 That from the first of Cantos up to this 
 I'\'e not begtm what we have to go 
 through. 
 
 These first twehe books are merely flour- 
 ishes, 
 Preludios. trying just a string or two 
 
 LTpon my Utc, or making the pegs sure ; 
 
 And when so, you shall have the overture. 
 
 My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
 About what's call'd success, or not 
 succeeding ; 
 Such thoughts are quite below the strain 
 they hive chosen. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 761 
 
 'Tis a " great moral lesson " they are 
 reading. 
 I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
 Cantos would do ; but at Apollo's plead- 
 ing, 
 If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 
 1 think to canter gently through a hundred. 
 
 LVI 
 
 Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts. 
 Yclept the Great World ; for it is the 
 least. 
 Although the highest : but as swords have 
 hilts 
 By which their power of mischief is 
 increased, 
 When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 
 Thus the low world, north, south, or 
 west, or east. 
 Must still obey the high — which is their 
 
 handle, 
 Their moon, their sun, their gas, their 
 farthing candle. 
 
 He had many friends who had many wives, 
 and was 
 Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 
 Of friendship which you may accept or pass. 
 It does nor good, nor harm : being 
 merely meant 
 To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 
 And draw them nightly when a ticket's 
 sent ; 
 And what with masquerades, and fetes, 
 
 and balls, 
 For the first season such a life scarce palls. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 A young unmarried man, with a good name 
 And fortune, has an awkward part to 
 play ; 
 For good society is but a game, 
 
 " The royal game of Goose," ' as I may 
 say. 
 Where everybody has some separate aim, 
 
 And end to answer, or a plan to lay — 
 The single ladies wishing to be double. 
 The married ones to save the virgins 
 trouble. 
 
 LIX 
 
 I don't mean this as general, but particular 
 Examples may be found of such pur- 
 suits : 
 Though several also keep their perpen- 
 dicular . . , J- 
 Like, poplars, with good principles for 
 roots; 
 Yet many have a method more reticular — 
 " Fishers for men," like sirens with soft 
 
 lutes : ■ , , , 
 
 For talk six times with the same single lady 
 And you may get the wedding dresses 
 
 ready. 
 
 Perhaps you'll have a letter from the 
 mother, 
 To say her daughter's feelings are tre- 
 pann'd ; 
 Perhaps you'll have a visit from the bro- 
 ther, 
 All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to 
 demand 
 What " your intentions are ? " — One way 
 or other 
 It seems the virgin's heart expects your 
 hand : 
 And between pity for her case and yours. 
 You'll add to Matrimony's list of cures. 
 
 I've linown a dozen weddings made even 
 thus. 
 And some of them high names : I have 
 also known 
 Young men who — though they hated to 
 discuss 
 Pretensions which they never dream'd 
 to have shown — 
 Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss. 
 
 Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 
 And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair. 
 In happier plight than if they f orm'd a pair. 
 
 There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
 
 A peril — not indeed like love or marriage. 
 
 But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
 
 It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 
 
 The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
 
 It adds an outward grace unto their 
 
 carriage — 
 
 But to denounce the amphibious sort of 
 
 harlot, 
 " Couleur de rose," who's neither white nor 
 scarlet. 
 
 L.XIII 
 
 Such is your cold coquette, who can't say 
 " No," 
 And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on 
 and off-ing 
 On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow-— 
 Then sees your heart wreck'd with an 
 inward scoffing. 
 This works a world of sentimental woe. 
 And sends new Werters yearly to their 
 cof&n ; 
 But yet is merely innocent flirtation. 
 Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 " Ye gods, I grow a talker ! " Let us 
 prate. 
 The next of perils, though I place it 
 stent^st. 
 Is when, without regard to " church or 
 state," 
 
 3D 
 
762 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 A wife makes or takes love in upright 
 
 earnest. 
 Abroad, such things decide few women's 
 
 fate— 
 (Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou 
 
 learnest) — 
 But in old England, when a young bride 
 
 errs. 
 Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case tu 
 
 hers. 
 
 LXV 
 
 For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, law- 
 suit 
 Country, where a young couple of the 
 same ages 
 Can't form a friendship, but the world 
 o'erawes it. 
 Then there's the vulgar trick of those 
 
 d d damages ! 
 
 A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause 
 it !— 
 Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 
 Besides those soothing speeches of the 
 
 pleaders. 
 And evidences which regale all readers. 
 
 But they who blunder thus are raw be- 
 ginners ; 
 A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
 Has saved the fame of thousand splendid 
 sinners. 
 The lovelidst oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
 You may see such at all the balls and 
 dinners. 
 Among the proudest of our aristocracy. 
 So gentle, charn>ing, charitable, chaste — 
 And all by having tact as well as taste. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Juan, who did not stand in the predica- 
 ment 
 Of a mere novice, had one safeguard 
 
 more ; 
 For he was sick — no, 'twas not the word 
 
 sick I meant — 
 But he had seen so much good love 
 
 before. 
 That he was not in heart so very weak ; — 
 
 I meant 
 But thus much, and no sneer against 
 
 the shore 
 Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, 
 
 bluer stockings, 
 Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double 
 
 knockings. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 But coming young from lands and scenes 
 
 romantic, 
 Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd 
 
 for P.ission, 
 And Passion's self must have a spice of 
 
 frantic. 
 
 Into a country where 'tis half a fashion; 
 
 Seem'd to him half commercial, half 
 
 pedantic, 
 
 Howe'er he might esteem this moral 
 
 nation : 
 
 Besides (alas ! his taste — forgive and pity !) 
 
 At first he did not think the women pretty. 
 
 I say at first — for he found out at last, 
 But by degrees, that they were fairer 
 far 
 Than the more glowing dames whose lot is 
 cast 
 Beneath the influence of the eastern star. 
 .\ further proof we should not judge in 
 haste ; 
 Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
 To taste : — the truth is, if men would con- 
 fess, 
 That novelties pleaseless than they impress. 
 
 LXX 
 
 Though travell'd, I have never had the 
 luck to 
 Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile 
 or Niger, 
 To that impracticable place Timbuctoo, 
 Where Geography finds no one to oblige 
 her 
 With such a chart as may be safel3' stuck 
 to— 
 For Europe ploughs in Afric like " bos 
 piger ; " 
 But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 
 No doubt I should be told that black is 
 fair. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 
 But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
 .\nd the whole matter rests upon eye- 
 sight. 
 .•\sk a blind man, the best judge. You'll 
 attack 
 Perhaps this new position — but I'm right ; 
 Or if I'm wrong, I'll not be ta'en aback : — 
 He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
 Within ; and what seest thou ? A 
 dubious spark. 
 
 L.XXII 
 
 But I'm relapsing into metaphysics, 
 
 ^ That lab\-rinth, whose clue is of the same 
 
 Construction as your cures for hectic 
 
 phthisic^. 
 Those bright moths fluttering round a 
 
 dying flame ; 
 And this reflection brings me to plain 
 
 physics. 
 And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 
 Compared with those of our pure pearls of 
 
 price. 
 Those polar summers, all sun, and some 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 763 
 
 Lxxm 
 <Jr say they are like virtuous mermaids, 
 wliose 
 Begimiings are fair faces, ends mere 
 fishes ; — 
 Not that there's not a quantity of those 
 Who have a due respect for their own 
 wishes. 
 Like Russians rushing from hot baths to 
 snows 
 Are they, at bottom virtuous even when 
 vicious J 
 They warm into a scrape, but keep of 
 
 course, 
 As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 But this has nought to do with their out- 
 sides. 
 I said that Juan did not think them 
 pretty 
 At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 
 Half her attractions — probably from 
 pity— 
 And rather calmly into the heart glides, 
 Than storms it a; a foe would take a city ; 
 But once there (if you doubt this, prithee 
 
 try) 
 She keeps it for you like a true ally. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 She cannot step as does an Arab barb. 
 
 Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 
 Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb. 
 Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is biu'n- 
 ing ; 
 Her voice, though sweet , is not so fit to warb- 
 le those bravuras (which I still am 
 learning 
 To like, though I have been seven years 
 
 in Ital}', 
 And have, or had, an ear that served me 
 prettily) ; — 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
 Others, in that oii-hand and dashing 
 style 
 Which takes so much — to give the devil 
 his due ; 
 Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 
 Nor settles all things in one interview, 
 (A thing approved as saving time and 
 toil) ;— 
 But though the soil may give you time and 
 
 trouble, 
 Well cultivated, it will render double. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 And if in fact she takes to a " grande 
 passion,'" 
 
 It is a verv serious thing indeed : 
 Nine times in ten 'tis but caprice or fashion. 
 
 Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead. 
 
 The pride of a mere child with a new sash 
 
 on, 
 
 Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed : 
 
 But the tenth instance wiU be a tornado, 
 
 For there's no saying what they will or may 
 
 do. 
 
 Lxxvni 
 The reason's obvious ; if there's an 6clat, 
 They lose their caste at once, as do the 
 Parias ; 
 And when the delicacies of the law 
 
 Have fill'd their papers with their com- 
 ments various. 
 Society, that china without flaw, 
 
 (The hypocrite !) will banish them like 
 Marius, 
 To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt : 
 For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 
 A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no 
 more, 
 And be thy sins forgiven ; " — but upon this 
 I leave the saints to settle their own 
 score. 
 Abroad, though doubtless they do much 
 amiss. 
 An erring woman finds an opener door 
 For her return to Virtue — as they call 
 That lady, who should be at home to all. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 For me, I leave the matter where I find it , 
 Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 
 People some ten times less in fact to mind 
 it. 
 And care but for discoveries and not 
 deeds. 
 And as for chastity, you'll never bind it 
 By all the laws the strictest lav.-yer 
 pleads. 
 But aggravate the crime you have not 
 
 prevented. 
 By rendering desperate those who had else 
 repented. 
 
 L-X.XXl 
 
 But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 
 Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
 
 Besides, he had not seen of several hundred 
 A lady altogether to his mind. 
 
 A little " blase" — 'tis not to be wonder'd 
 At, that his heart had got a tougher rind; 
 
 And though not vainer from his past suc- 
 cess. 
 
 No doubt his sensibilities were less. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 He also had been busy seeing sights — 
 The Parliament and all the other houses ; 
 
 Had sat beneath the gallery at nights. 
 To hear debates whose thunder roused 
 (not rouses) 
 
764 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The world to gaze upon those northern 
 lights 
 Which flash'd as far as where the musk- 
 bull browses ; 
 
 He had also stood at times behind the 
 throne — 
 
 But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham 
 gone. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 He saw, however, at the closing session. 
 That noble sight, when really free the 
 nation, 
 
 A king in constitutional possession 
 
 Of such a throne as is the proudest 
 station, 
 
 Though despots know it not — till the pro- 
 gression 
 
 Of freedom shall complete their education. 
 
 'Tis not mere splendour makes the show 
 august 
 
 To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be 
 now) 
 A Prince, the prince of princes at the 
 time, 
 With fascination in his very bow. 
 
 And full of promise, as the spring of 
 prime. 
 Though royalty was written on his brow. 
 He had then the grace, too, rare in every 
 clime, 
 Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 
 A finished gentleman from top to toe. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 And Juan was received, as hath been said, 
 Into the best society ; and there 
 
 Occurr'd what often happens, I'm afraid, 
 However discipUned and debonnaire : — 
 
 The talent and good humour he display'd, 
 Besides the mark'd distinction of his 
 air. 
 
 Exposed him, as was natural, to tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 Even though himself avoided the occasion. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 But what, and where, with whom, and 
 when, and why. 
 Is not to be put hastily together ; 
 And as my object is morality 
 
 (Whatever people say), I don't know 
 whether 
 I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 
 But harrow up his feeUngs till they 
 wither. 
 And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
 As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 
 
 L.XX.WII 
 
 Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction 
 Ends. When the body of the book'.v 
 begun , 
 
 You'U find it of a different construction 
 Fro'm what some people say 'twill be 
 when done ; 
 The plan at present's simply in concoction. 
 I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 
 That's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 
 Should neither court neglect, nor dread to 
 bear it. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
 Remember, reader ! you have had before 
 The worst of tempests and the 'oest of 
 battles. 
 That e'er were brew'd from elements or 
 gore. 
 Besides the most sublime of — Heaven 
 knows what else : 
 An usurer could scarce expect much 
 more — 
 But my best canto, save one on astronomy. 
 Will turn upon ". poUtical economy." 
 
 LX.XXIX 
 
 That is your present theme for popularity : 
 Now that the public hedge hath scarce 
 a stake, 
 It grows an act of patriotic charity, 
 
 To show the people the best way to 
 break. 
 My plan (but I, if but for singularity. 
 Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 
 Meantime, read all the national-debt 
 
 sinkers. 
 And tell me what you think of our great 
 thinkers. 
 
 CANTO THE THIRTEENTH 
 I 
 I NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time, 
 Since laughter now-a-davs is deem'd 
 too serious ; 
 A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime, 
 
 And critically held as deleterious : 
 Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime. 
 Although when long a little apt to weary 
 us ; 
 And therefore shall my lay soar high and 
 
 solemn. 
 As an old temple dwindled to a column. 
 
 II 
 The Lady Adeline Amtmde\-iUe 
 
 ('Tis an old Norman name, and to be 
 found 
 In pedigrees, bv those who wander still 
 Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
 Was high-born, wealthy by her father's 
 will. 
 And beauteous, even where beauties most 
 abound. 
 In Britain— which of course true patriots 
 find 
 The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 765 
 
 I'll not gainsay them ; it is not my cue ; 
 I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the 
 best : 
 An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue, 
 
 Is no great matter, so 'tis in request, 
 'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 
 
 The kindest may be taken as a test. 
 The fair sex should be always fair ; and no 
 
 man, 
 Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain 
 woman. 
 
 IV 
 
 And after that serene and somewhat dull 
 Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for 
 days 
 More quiet, when our moon's no more at 
 full, 
 We may presume to criticise or praise ; 
 Because indifference begins to lull 
 
 Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's 
 ways ; 
 Also because the figure and the face 
 Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger 
 place. 
 
 V 
 
 I know that some would fain postpone this 
 era. 
 Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
 Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera. 
 For they have pass'd life's equinoctial 
 line : 
 But then they have their claret and 
 Madeira 
 To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
 And county meetings, and the parliament, 
 And debt, and what not, for their solace 
 sent. 
 
 VI 
 
 And is there not religion, and reform, 
 Peace, war, the taxes, and what's called 
 the " Nation ? " 
 The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 
 
 The landed and the monied speculation ? 
 
 The joys of mutual hate to keep them 
 
 warm ? . . ., 
 
 Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
 
 Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
 
 Men love in haste, but they detest at 
 
 leisure. 
 
 VII 
 
 Rough Johnson, the great moralist, pro- 
 fess'd. 
 Right honestly, " he liked an honest 
 
 The only truth that yet has been contest 
 
 Within these latest thousand years or 
 
 later. , . 
 
 Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest :— 
 
 For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 
 
 And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 
 
 Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephis- 
 
 topheles ; 
 
 But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 
 Though 'twas not once so. U I sneer 
 sometimes. 
 It is because I cannot well do less. 
 
 And now and then it also suits my 
 rhymes. 
 I should be very willing to redress 
 
 Men's wrongs, and rather check than 
 punish crimes. 
 Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
 Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 
 
 IX 
 
 Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad, 
 Because it makes us smile : his hero's 
 right. 
 And still pursues the right ; — to curb the 
 bad 
 His only object, and 'gainst odds to 
 fight 
 His guerdon : 'tis his virtue makes him 
 mad ! 
 But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 
 A sorrier still is the great moral taught 
 By that real epic unto all who have thought. 
 
 Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 
 
 To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff ; 
 Opposing singly the united strong. 
 
 From foreign yoke to free the helpless 
 
 native : — 
 
 Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song, 
 
 Be for mere fancy's sport a theme 
 
 creative, 
 
 A jest, a riddle, Fame through thick and 
 
 thin sought ! 
 And Socrates himself but Wisdom's 
 Quixote ? 
 
 Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 
 A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
 Of his own country ; — seldom since that 
 day 
 Has Spain had heroes. While Romance 
 could charm. 
 The world gave ground before her bright 
 array; 
 And therefore have his volumes done 
 such harm. 
 That all their glory, as a composition, 
 Was dearly purchased by his laud's per- 
 dition. 
 
 I'm " at my old lunes " — digression, and 
 forget 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville ; 
 The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 
 
 Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
 But Destiny and Passion spread the net 
 
 (Fate is a good excuse for our own will), 
 
766 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 And caught them ; — what do they not 
 
 catch, methinks ? 
 But I'm not Qj)dipus, and life's a Sphinx. 
 
 XIII 
 
 I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 
 
 To venture a solution : " Davus sum ! " 
 And now I will proceed upon the pair. 
 Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's 
 hum. 
 Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that's 
 fair ; 
 Whose charms made all men speak, and 
 women dumb. 
 The last's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 
 And since that time there has not been a 
 second. 
 
 Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation, 
 And wedded unto one she had loved well — 
 
 A man known in the councils of the nation, 
 Cool, and quite English, imperturbable. 
 
 Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, 
 Proud of himself and her : the world 
 could tell 
 
 Nought against either, and both seem'd 
 secure — 
 
 She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 
 
 XV 
 
 It chanced some diplomatical relations. 
 
 Arising out of business, often brought 
 Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 
 Into close contact. Though reserved, 
 nor caught 
 By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and 
 patience. 
 And talent, on his haughty spirit 
 wrought. 
 And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
 In making men what courtesy calls friends. 
 
 XVI 
 
 And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
 Reserve and pride could make him, and 
 full slow 
 In judging men — when once his judgment 
 was 
 Determined, right or wrong, on friend or 
 foe, 
 Had all the pertinacity pride has. 
 Which knows no ebb to its imperious 
 flow. 
 And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided , 
 Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 
 
 XVII 
 
 His friendships, therefore, and no less 
 aversions. 
 Though oft well founded, which con- 
 firm'd but more 
 His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
 And Medes, would ne'er revoke what 
 went before. 
 
 His feelings had not those strange fits, like 
 
 tertians, 
 Of common likings, which make some 
 
 deplore 
 What they should laugh at — the mere ague 
 
 still 
 Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 " 'Tis not in mortals to command success : 
 But do you more, Sempronius — don'l 
 deserve it," 
 And take my word, you won't have any 
 less. 
 Be wary, watch the time, and always 
 serve it ; 
 Give gently way, when there's too great a 
 press ; 
 And for your conscience, only learn to 
 nerve it. 
 For, like a racer, or a boxer training, 
 'Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without 
 paining. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Lord Henry also liked to be superior. 
 As most men do, the little or the great ; 
 
 The very lowest find out an inferior. 
 At least they think so, to exert their 
 state 
 
 Upon : for there are very few things 
 wearier 
 Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight. 
 
 Which mortals generously would divide, 
 
 By bidding others carry while they ride. 
 
 XX 
 
 In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal. 
 O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 
 In years he had the advantage of time's 
 sequel ; 
 And, as he thought, in coimtry much 
 the same — 
 Because bold Britons have a tongue and 
 free quiU, 
 At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 
 And the Lord Henry was a great debater. 
 So that few members kept the house up 
 later. 
 
 These were advantages : and then he 
 thought — 
 It was his foible, but by no means 
 sinister — 
 That few or none more than himself had 
 caught 
 Court mysteries, having been himself a 
 minister : 
 He liked to teach that which he had been 
 taught. 
 And greatly shone whenever there had 
 been a stir ; 
 And reconciled all qualities which grace 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 767 
 
 Always a patriot, and sometimes a place- 
 man. 
 
 XXII 
 
 He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity; 
 He almost honour'd him for his docility ; 
 Because, though young, he acquiesced with 
 suavity, 
 Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
 He knew the world, and would not see 
 depravity 
 In faults which sometimes show the soil's 
 fertility. 
 If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop — 
 For then they are very difficult to stop. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
 Constantinople, and such distant places ; 
 Where people always did as they were bid. 
 Or did what they should not with foreign 
 graces. 
 Of coursers also spake they : Henry rid 
 Well, like most Englishmen, and loved 
 the races ; 
 And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 
 Could back a horse, as despots ride a 
 Russian. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 
 
 And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
 For Juan stood well both with Ins and 
 Outs, 
 As in freemasonry a higher brother. 
 Upon his talent Henry had no doubts ; 
 His manner show'd him sprung from a 
 high mother ; 
 And all men like to show their hospitality 
 Xo him whose breeding matches with his 
 quality. 
 
 XXV 
 
 At Blank- Blank Square; — ^for we will 
 break no squares 
 By naming streets : since men are so 
 censorious, 
 And apt to sow an author's wheat with 
 tares, 
 Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 
 W'here none were dreamt of, unto love's 
 affairs. 
 Which were, or are, or are to be notori- 
 ous, . , , , 
 That therefore do I previously declare. 
 Lord Henry's mansion was irf Blank-Blank 
 Square. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Also there bin another pious reason 
 
 For making squares and streets anony- 
 mous ; . 
 Which is, that there is scarce a single sea 
 
 soil , , 1 
 
 Which doth not shake some very splen- 
 did house 
 
 With some slight heart-quake of domestic 
 treason — 
 A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 
 Such I might stumble over unawares, 
 Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 
 
 xxvii 
 'Tis true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
 A place where peccadillos are unknown ; 
 But I have motives, whether wise or silly. 
 
 For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 
 Therefore I name not square, street, place, 
 until I 
 Find one where nothing naughty can be 
 shown, 
 A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 
 Such are — but I have lost the London 
 Chart. 
 
 .XXVIII 
 
 At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank 
 Square, 
 Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 
 As many other noble scions were ; 
 
 And some who had but talent for their 
 crest ; 
 Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 
 Or even mere fashion, which indeed's 
 the best 
 Recommendation ; and to be well drest 
 Will very often supersede the rest. 
 
 xxix 
 And since " there's safety in a multitude 
 
 Of counsellors," as Solomon has said. 
 Or some one for him, in some sage, grave 
 mood ; — 
 
 Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
 In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 
 
 Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 
 Which is the only cause that we can guess 
 Of Britain's present wealth and happi- 
 
 But as " there's safety " grafted in the 
 
 number 
 " Of counsellors " for men, — thus for the 
 
 sex 
 A large acquaintance lets not Virtue 
 
 slumber ; 
 Or should it shake, the choice will more 
 
 perplex — 
 Variety itself will more encumber. 
 
 'Midst many rocks we guard more 
 
 against wrecks ',J^ 
 And thus with women : howsoe'er it 
 
 shocks some's 
 Self-love, there's safety in a crowd of cox- 
 combs. 
 
 x.x.xi 
 But Adeline had not the least occasion 
 For such a shield, which leaves but httle 
 merit 
 
768 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 To virtue proper, or good education. 
 
 Her chief resource was in her own high 
 spirit, 
 Which judged mankind at their due esti- 
 mation ; 
 And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear 
 it : 
 Secure of admiration, its impression 
 Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 To all she was polite without parade ; 
 
 To some she show'd attention of that 
 kind 
 Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 
 
 In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
 A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 
 
 A gentle, genial courtesy of mind. 
 To those who were, or pass'd for meritori- 
 ous, 
 J ust to console sad glory for being glorious ; 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
 A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 
 
 Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men, 
 Who were or are the puppet-sliows of 
 praise. 
 
 The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
 On the most favour'd ; and amidst the 
 blaze 
 
 Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd. 
 
 What can ye recognise ? — a gilded cloud. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 There also was of course in Adeline 
 
 That calm patrician polish in the address, 
 
 Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
 Of anything which nature would ex- 
 press ; 
 
 Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
 At least his manner suffers not to guess. 
 
 That any thing he views can greatly please. 
 
 Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the 
 Chinese — 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Perhaps from Horace : his " Nil admirari" 
 Was what he call'd the " Art of Happi- 
 ness ; " 
 An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
 And have not yet attain'd to much suc- 
 cess. 
 However, 'tis expedient to be wary : 
 Indifference certes don't produce dis- 
 
 '■^^^^ ' *'H 
 
 And rash enthusiasm in good society 
 
 Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 But AdeUne was not indifferent : for 
 {Now for a common-place !) beneath 
 the snow. 
 
 As a volcano holds the lava more 
 
 Within — et ccEtera. Shall I go on ? — No, 
 
 I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, 
 
 So let the often-used volcano go. 
 Poor thing ! How frequently, by me and 
 
 others. 
 It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite 
 
 smothers ! 
 
 .XXXVII 
 
 I'll have another figure in a trice : — 
 ■What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 
 
 Frozen into a very vinous ice, 
 
 Which leaves few drops of that immor- 
 tal rain. 
 
 Yet in the very centre, past all price. 
 About a liquid glassful will remain ; ' 
 
 And this is stronger than the strongest 
 grape 
 
 Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 'Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintes- 
 sence ; 
 And thus the chiUiest aspects may con- 
 centre 
 A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 
 And such are many — though I only 
 meant her 
 From whom I now deduce these moral 
 lessons. 
 On which the Muse has always sought 
 to enter. 
 And your cold "people are beyond all price, 
 When once you've broken their confounded 
 ice. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 But after all they are a North- VSest Passage 
 Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 
 
 And as the good ships sent upon that 
 message 
 Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole 
 
 (Though Parry's efforts look a lucky' 
 presage), 
 Thus gentlemen mav run upon a shoal ; 
 
 For if the Pole's not open, but all frost 
 
 (A chance stiU), 'tis a voyage or vessel lost. 
 
 XL 
 
 And young beginners may as well com- 
 mence 
 With quiet cruising o'er the ocean 
 
 woman ; 
 While those who are not beginners should 
 
 have sense 
 Enough to make for port, ere time shall 
 
 summon 
 With his grey signal-flag; and the past 
 
 tense. 
 The dreary " Fuimtis " of all things 
 
 human, 
 Must be declined, while life's thin thread's 
 
 spun out 
 Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 769 
 
 But heaven must be diverted ; its diver- 
 sion 
 Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: 
 The world upon the whole is worth the 
 assertion 
 (If but for comfort) that all things are 
 kind : 
 And that same devilish doctrine of the 
 Persian, 
 Of the two principles, but leaves behind 
 As many doubts as any other doctrine 
 Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked 
 her in. 
 
 XLII 
 
 The English winter — ending in July, 
 To recommence in August— now was 
 done. 
 'Tis the postilion's paradise : wheels fly ; 
 On roads, east, south, north, west, there 
 is a run. 
 But for post-horses who finds sympathy ? 
 
 Man's pity for himself, or for his son. 
 Always premising that said son at college 
 Has not contracted much more debt than 
 knowledge. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 The London winter's ended in J uly — 
 Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
 
 In this : whatever other blunders lie 
 Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
 
 My Muse a glass of weatherology ; 
 For parliament is our barometer : 
 
 Let radicals its other acts attack, 
 
 Its sessions form our only almanack. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 When its quicksilver's down at zero, — lo ! 
 
 Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equip- 
 age ! 
 Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, 
 
 And happiest they who horses can en- 
 
 The turnpikes glow with dust ; and Rotten 
 Row 
 Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright 
 
 And tradesmen, with long bills and longer 
 
 Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. 
 
 XLV 
 
 They and their bills, " Arcadians both," 
 are left 
 To the Greek kalends of another session. 
 Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 
 
 What hope remains ? Of hope the full 
 possession 
 Or generous draft, conceded as a gift. 
 At a long date — till they can get a fresh 
 one — 
 Ha^vk'd about at a discount, small or large ; 
 Also the solace of an overcharge. 
 
 But these are trifles. Downward flies my 
 lord. 
 Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. 
 Away ! away ! " Fresh horses ! " are the 
 word, 
 And changed as quickly as hearts after 
 marriage ; 
 The obsequious landlord hath the change 
 restored ; 
 The postboys have no reasoft to dis- 
 parage 
 Their fee ; but ere the water'd wheels may 
 
 hiss hence, 
 The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence. 
 
 XLVIl 
 
 'Tis granted ; and the valet mounts the 
 dickey — 
 That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 
 Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 
 Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's 
 pen 
 Can paint, — " Cosi viaggino i Ricchi ! " 
 
 (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 
 If but to show I've travell'd : and what's 
 
 travel. 
 Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil ? ) 
 
 XLVIIl 
 
 The London winter and the country sum- 
 mer 
 Were well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a 
 pity. 
 
 When nature wears the gown that doth 
 become her. 
 To lose those best months in a sweaty 
 city, 
 
 And wait until the nightingale grows 
 dumber, 
 Listening debates not very wise or witty, 
 
 Ere patriots their true co<m(ry can remem- 
 ber ; — 
 
 But there's no shooting (save grouse) till 
 September. 
 
 XX.IX 
 
 I've done with my tirade. The world was 
 gone ; 
 The twice two thousand, for whom earth 
 was made. 
 Were vanish'd to be what they call alone — 
 That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
 As many guests, or more ; before whom 
 groan 
 As many covers, duly, daily laid. 
 Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
 Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 
 
 L 
 
 Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 
 Departed like the rest of their compeers, 
 
 The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 
 The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
 
77° 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 None than themselves could boast a 
 
 longer line. 
 Where time through heroes and through 
 
 beauties steers ; 
 And oaks as olden as their pedigree 
 Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 
 
 LI 
 
 A paragraph in every paper told 
 
 Of their departure : such is modem fame : 
 'Tis pity'that it takes no farther hold 
 Than an advertisement, or much the 
 same ; 
 When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows 
 cold. 
 The Morning Post vras foremost to pro- 
 claim — 
 " Departure, for his country seat, to-day. 
 Lord H. Amundeville and iLady A. 
 
 LII 
 
 " We understand the splendid host in- 
 tends 
 To entertain, this autumn, a select 
 And numerous party of his noble friends ; 
 'Midst whom we have heard, from 
 sources quite correct. 
 
 The Duke of D ■ the shooting season 
 
 spends. 
 With many more by rank and fashion 
 deck'd ; 
 Also a foreigner of high condition. 
 The envoy of the secret Russian mission." 
 
 mi 
 And thus we see — who doubts the Morn- 
 ing Post ? 
 (Whose articles are like the " Thirty- 
 nine," 
 Which those most swear to who believe 
 them most) — 
 Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to 
 shine, 
 Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host. 
 With those who. Pope says, " greatly 
 daring dine." — 
 'Tis odd, but true, — last war the News 
 
 abounded 
 More with these dinners than the kill'd or 
 wounded ; — 
 
 LIV 
 
 As thus : " On Thm-sday there was a 
 grand dinner ; 
 Present, Lords A. B. C,"— Earls, dukes 
 by name 
 Announced with no less pomp than \'ic- 
 tory's winner : 
 Then underneath, and in the very same 
 Column : date, " Falmouth. There has 
 lately been here 
 The Slap-dash regiment, so well known 
 to fame ; 
 Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
 The vacancies are fiU'd up — see Gazette." 
 
 To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair. 
 An old, old monastery once, and now 
 
 Still older mansion,— of a rich and rare 
 Mix'd Gothic, snch as artists aU allow 
 
 Few specimens yet left us can compare 
 Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, ^ 
 
 Because the monlis preferr'd a hill behind, 
 
 To shelter their devotion from the wind. 
 
 It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 
 Crown'd by high woodlands, where the 
 Druid oak 
 Stood, like CaractacUs, in act to rally 
 ■ His host, with broad arms 'gainst the 
 thunderstroke. 
 And from beneath liis boughs were seen to 
 sally . 
 The dappled foresters ; as day awoke, 
 The branching stag swept down with all 
 
 his herd. 
 To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a 
 bird. 
 
 LVlI 
 
 Before the mansion lay a lucid Lake, 
 Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly 
 fed 
 By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
 In currents through the caliner water 
 spread 
 Around : the wildfowl nestled in the brake 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 
 The woods sloped downwards to its brink, 
 
 and stood 
 With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 
 
 LVIU 
 
 Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 
 Sparkling with foam, until again sub- 
 siding, 
 rts shriller echoes — like an infant made 
 Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gli(Jing 
 Into a rivulet ; and thus allay'd. 
 
 Pursued its course, now gleaming, and 
 now hiding 
 Its windings through the woods ; now 
 
 clear, now blue. 
 According as the skies their shadows threw. 
 
 LIX 
 
 A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 
 
 (While vet the church was Rome's) stood 
 
 half apart 
 
 In a grand arch, which once screen'd many 
 
 an aisle. ' 
 
 These last had disappear'd— a loss to art : 
 
 The first yet frowm'd superbly o'er the soil, 
 
 "lean" ^ ^^' '" ^'^^ roughest 
 
 \\'hich mourn'd the power of time's or 
 
 tempest s march. 
 In gazing on that venerable arch. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 771 
 
 Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 
 Twelve saints had once stood sanctified 
 in stone ; 
 But these had fallen, not when the friars 
 fell. 
 But in the war which struck Charles 
 from his throne. 
 When each house was a fortalice — as tell 
 
 The annals of full many a line undone, — 
 The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
 For those who knew not to resign or reign. 
 
 But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
 The Virgin-Mother of the God-born 
 Child, 
 With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd 
 round. 
 Spared by some chance when all beside 
 was spoil'd ; 
 She made the earth below seem holy 
 ground. 
 This may be superstition, weak or wild, 
 But even the faintest relics of a shrine 
 Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 
 
 LXII 
 
 A mighty window, hollow in the centre. 
 
 Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 
 Through which the deepen'd glories once 
 could enter, 
 Streaming from off the sun like seraph's 
 wings, 
 Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now 
 fainter, 
 The gale sweeps through its fretwork, 
 and oft sings 
 The owl his anthem, where the silenced 
 
 quire 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like 
 fixe. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 But in the noontide of the moon, ana when 
 The wind is winged from one point of 
 heaven, 
 There moans a strange unearthly sound, 
 which then 
 Is musical — a dying accent driven 
 Through the huge arch, which soars and 
 sinks again, 
 aome deem it but the distant echo given 
 Back to the night wind by the waterfall. 
 And harmonised by the old choral wallj ;- 
 
 LXIV 
 
 Others, that some original shape, or form 
 Shaped by decay perchance, hath given 
 the power 
 (Though less than that of Memnon s 
 statue, warm 
 In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix d hour) 
 To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm 
 
 Sad. but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or 
 
 tower ; 
 The cause I know not, nor can solve : but 
 
 such 
 The fact : — I've heard it, — once perhaps 
 
 too much. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd. 
 Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings 
 quaint — 
 Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 
 And here perhaps a monster, there a 
 saint : 
 The spring gush'd through grim mouths of 
 granite made. 
 And sparliled into basins, where it spent 
 Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer 
 troubles. 
 
 txvi 
 
 The mansion's self was vast and venerable. 
 
 With more of the monastic than "has been 
 
 Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still 
 
 were stable. 
 
 The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : 
 
 An exquisite small chapel had been able. 
 
 Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 
 
 The rest had been reform 'd, replaced, or 
 
 sunk. 
 And spoke more of the baron than the 
 monk. 
 
 Lxvn 
 
 Huge halls, long galleries, spacious cham- 
 bers, join'd 
 By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 
 Might shock a connoisseur ; but when com- 
 bined, 
 Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts. 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind. 
 At least of those whose eyes are in their 
 hearts : 
 We gaze upon a giant for his stature. 
 Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Steel barons, molten the next generation 
 
 To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls. 
 Glanced from the walls in goodly preser- 
 vation : 
 And Lady Marys blooming into girls. 
 With fair long locks, had also kept their 
 station : 
 And countesses mature in robes and 
 pearls : 
 Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 
 Whose drapery hints we may admire them 
 freely. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 Judges in very formidable ermine 
 
 Were there, with brows that did not 
 much invite 
 
772 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The accused to think their lordships would 
 
 determine 
 His cause by leaning much irom might 
 
 to right : 
 Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 
 
 Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, 
 As hinting more (unless our judgments warp 
 
 us) 
 Of the " Star Chamber " than of " Habeas 
 
 Corpus." 
 
 LXX 
 
 Generals, some all in armour, of the old 
 And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the 
 
 lead ; 
 Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial 
 
 fold, 
 Huger than twelve of our degenerate 
 
 breed : 
 Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of 
 
 gold : 
 Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd 
 
 the steed ; 
 And here and there some stern high 
 
 patriot stood, 
 Who could not get the place for which he 
 
 sued. 
 
 But ever and anon, to soothe your vision. 
 Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 
 There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
 
 Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's ; 
 Here danced Albano's boys, and here the 
 sea shone 
 In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the 
 stories 
 Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 
 His brush with all the blood of all the 
 sainted. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lor- 
 raine ; 
 There Rembrandt made his darkness 
 equal Ught, 
 Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 
 Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic an- 
 chorite : — 
 But, lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 
 
 Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight : 
 His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel 
 
 quite Danish, 
 Or Dutch with thirst— What, ho ! a flask 
 of Rhenish. 
 
 -and 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 O reader ! if that thou canst read, 
 know, 
 
 'Tis not enough to spell, or even to read. 
 To constitute a reader ; there must go 
 Virtues of which both you and I have 
 need. 
 Firstly, begin with the beginning — (though 
 
 That clause is hard) ; and secondly, pro- 
 ceed : 
 
 Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, 
 sinning 
 
 In this sort, end at last with the beginning. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
 While I, without remorse of rhyme, or 
 fear, 
 Have built and laid out ground at such a 
 rate, 
 Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
 That poets were so from tlieir earliest date, 
 By Homer's "Catalogue of ships'-* is 
 dear ; 
 But a mere modem must be moderate — 
 I spare you then the furniture and plate. 
 
 LX.XV 
 
 The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
 The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 
 The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
 The pointer ranges, and the sportsman 
 beats 
 In russet jacket .- — lynx-like is his aim ; 
 Full grows bis bag, and wonderful his 
 feats. 
 
 Ah, nutbrown partridges ! Ah, brilUant 
 I pheasants ! 
 
 And ah, ye poachers ! — 'Tis no sport for 
 peasants. 
 
 LX.XVI 
 
 An English autumn, though it hath no 
 vines. 
 Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 
 The paths, o'er which the far festoon en- 
 twines 
 The red grape in the sunnv lands of song. 
 Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest 
 wines ; 
 The claret light, and the xMadeira strong ; 
 If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell 
 
 her. 
 The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
 Which makes the southern autumn's 
 day appear 
 As if 't would to a second spring resign 
 The season, rather than to winter drear.^ 
 
 Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, 
 
 The sea-coal fires, the " earliest of the 
 year ; " 
 Without doors, too, she may compete in 
 
 mellow. 
 As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 And for the effeminate vilUggmtura 
 
 Rife with more horns than hounds she 
 
 hath the chase, 
 So animated that it might allure a 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 773 
 
 Saint from his beads to join tlie jocund 
 race ; 
 Even Nirarod's self might leave the plains 
 of Dura,' 
 And wear the Melton jacket for a space : 
 If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
 Preserve of bores, who ought to be made 
 game. 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey 
 Consisted! of — we give the sex the pas — 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess 
 Crabby ; 
 The Ladies Scilly, Busey ; — Miss Eclat, 
 Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss 
 O'Tabby, 
 And Mrs. Rabbi, therichbanker'ssquaw; 
 A.lso the honourable Mrs. Sleep, 
 Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black 
 sheep : 
 
 LXXX 
 
 With other Countesses of Blank — but rank ; 
 At once the " he " and the " elite of 
 crowds ; 
 Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, 
 All purged and pious from their native 
 clouds ; 
 Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 
 No matter how or why, the passport 
 shrouds 
 The " pass6e " and the past ; for good 
 
 society 
 Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,— 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 That is, up to a certain point ; which 
 point 
 
 Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 
 Appearances appear to form the joint 
 
 On which it hinges in a higher station ; 
 And so that no explosion cry " Aroint 
 
 Thee, witch ! " or each Medea has her 
 
 Jason ; , j •*■, 
 
 Or (to the point with Horace and with 
 
 Pulci) . ., ,., 
 
 " 0mm tulit punctum, qua miscuit utile 
 
 dulci." 
 
 L-XXXII 
 
 I can't e.\actly trace their rule of right. 
 
 Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. 
 
 I've seen a virtuous woman put down 
 
 By the mere combination of a coterie ; 
 Also a so-so matron boldly fight 
 Her way back to the world by dmt of 
 
 And^sHnf the very Siria of the spheres, 
 Escaping with a few slight, scarless 
 sneers. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 I have seen more than I'll say :— but 
 we will see 
 
 How our villeggiatura will get on. 
 The party might consist of thirty-three 
 Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the 
 ton. 
 I have named a few, not foremost in degree. 
 But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may 
 run. 
 By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst 
 
 these 
 There also were some Irish absentees. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 There was Parolles, too, the legal bully. 
 Who limits all his battles to the bar 
 And senate : when invited elsewhere, 
 truly. 
 He shows more appetite for words than 
 war. 
 There was the young bard - Rackrhyme , 
 who had newly 
 Come out and gliramer'd as a six weeks' 
 star. 
 There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great 
 
 freethinker ; 
 And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty 
 drinker. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 There was the Duke of Dash, who was 
 a — duke, 
 " .'^y, every inch a " duke ; theie were 
 twelve peers 
 Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in 
 look 
 And intellect, that neither eyes nor 
 ears 
 For commoners had ever them mistook. 
 There were the six Miss Rawbolds — 
 pretty dears ! 
 All song and sentiment; whose hearts 
 
 were set 
 Less on a convent than a coronet. 
 
 L.XXXVI 
 
 There were four Honourable Misters , whose 
 Honour was more before their names 
 than after ; 
 There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 
 Whom France and Fortune lately 
 deign'd to waft here, 
 Whose chiefly harmless talent was to 
 amuse ; 
 But the clubs found it rather serious 
 laughter. 
 Because — such was his magic power to 
 
 please — 
 The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his 
 repartees. 
 
 LXXX VII 
 
 There was Dick Dubious, the metaphy- 
 sician, 
 Who loved philosophy and a good 
 dinner ; 
 
 Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 
 
774 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race- 
 winner. 
 There was the Reverend Rodomont Pre- 
 cisian, 
 Who did not hate so much the sin as 
 sinner ; 
 And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 
 Good at all things, but better at a bet. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic 
 guardsman ; 
 And General Fireface, famous in the 
 field, 
 A great tactician, and no less a swordsman. 
 Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he 
 kill'd. 
 There was the waggish Welsh Judge, 
 Jefferies Hardsman,' 
 In his grave office so completely skill'd. 
 That when a culprit came for condemna- 
 tion. 
 He had his judge's joke for consolation. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Good company's a chess-board — there are 
 kings. 
 Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; 
 the world's a game ; 
 Save that the puppets pull at their own 
 strings, 
 Methinks gay Punch hath something 
 of the same. 
 My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings. 
 Not stings, and flits through ether with- 
 out aim. 
 Alighting rarely : — were she but a hornet, 
 Perhaps there might be vices which would 
 mourn it. 
 
 xc 
 
 I had forgotten — but must not forget — 
 An orator, the latest of the session. 
 Who had deliver'd well a very set 
 
 Smooth speech, his first and maidenly 
 transgression 
 Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 
 With his debut, which made a strong 
 impression, 
 And rank'd with what is every day dis- 
 
 play'd — 
 " The best first speech that ever yet was 
 made." 
 
 xci 
 Proud of his " Hear hims ! " proud, too, of 
 his vote 
 And lost virginity of oratory. 
 Proud of his learning (just enough to quote). 
 
 He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
 With memory excellent to get by rote, 
 
 With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
 (".raced with some merit, and with more 
 
 effrontery, 
 " Hi^ country's pride." he came down to the 
 country. 
 
 There also were two wits by acclamation. 
 Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from 
 the Tweed,3 
 Both lawyers and both men of education.; 
 But Strongbow's mt'wasof morepolish'd 
 breed ; 
 Longbow was rich in an imagination 
 
 As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 
 But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — 
 While Strongbow's best things might have 
 come from Cato. 
 
 XCIII 
 
 Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsi- 
 chord ; 
 But Longbow wild as an ^olian harp, 
 With which the winds of heaven can claim 
 accord, 
 And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
 Of Strongbow's talk you would not change 
 a word : 
 At Longbow's phrases you might some- 
 times carp : 
 Both wits— one born so, and the other 
 
 bred. 
 This by his heart — his rival by his head. 
 
 xciv 
 If all these seem a heterogeneous mass 
 
 To be assembled at a country seat. 
 Yet think, a specimen of every class 
 
 Is better than a humdruni tete-i-tete. 
 The days of Comedy are gone, alas ! 
 
 When Congreve's fool could vie with 
 Moliere's bite -. 
 Society is smooth'd to that excess. 
 That manners hardly differ more than 
 dress. 
 
 xcv 
 Our ridicules are kept in the back ground — 
 
 Ridiculous enough, but also dhll ; 
 Professions, too, are no more to be found 
 Professional ; and there is nought to cull 
 Of folly's fruit ; for thougb your fools 
 abound. 
 They're barren, and not worth the pains 
 to pull. 
 Society is now one polish'd horde, 
 Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores 
 and Bored. 
 
 xcvi 
 But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, 
 gleaning 
 The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears 
 of truth ; 
 And, gentle reader ! when you gather mean- 
 mg. 
 You may be Boaz, and I— modest Ruth. 
 Farther I'd quote, but Scripture interven- 
 ing 
 ! Forbids. A great impression in my youth 
 Was made by .Mrs. Adams, where she cries 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 775 
 
 That Scriptures out of church are blas- 
 phemies." 
 
 XCVII 
 
 But what we can we glean in this vile age 
 Of chaff, although our gleaning9*e not 
 grist. 
 I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
 Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, 
 Who, in his common-place book, had a 
 page 
 Prepared each morn for evenings 
 " List, oh list ! " 
 " Alas, poor ghost ! " — What unexpected 
 
 woes 
 Await those who have studied their bons- 
 mots ! 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
 By many windings to their clever 
 clinch ; 
 And secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
 
 Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 
 But take an ell — and make a great sensa- 
 tion, 
 If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 
 When some smart talker puts them to the 
 
 test. 
 But seize the last word, lyhich no doubt's the 
 best. 
 
 Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 
 The party we have touch'd on vjere the 
 guests. 
 Their table was a board to tempt even 
 ghosts 
 To pass the Styx for more substantial 
 feasts. 
 I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 
 
 Albeit all human history attests 
 That happiness for man — the hungry 
 
 sinner ! — 
 Since Eve ate apples, much depends on 
 dinner. 
 
 
 
 Witness the lands which " flow'dwith milk 
 and honey," 
 Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
 To this we have added since, the love of 
 money. 
 The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
 Youth fades, and leaves our days no 
 longer sunny : 
 We tire of mistresses and parasites ; 
 But oh, ambrosial cash ! Ah ! who would 
 
 lose thee ? 
 When we no more can use, or even abuse 
 thee ! 
 
 CI 
 
 The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot. 
 Or hunt : the young, because they Uked 
 the sport — 
 
 The first thing boys like after play and 
 
 fruit ; 
 The middle-aged, to make the day more 
 
 short ; 
 For ennui is a growth of English root. 
 Though nameless in our language : — we 
 
 retort 
 The fact for words, and let the French 
 
 translate 
 That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. 
 
 The elderly walk'd through the library. 
 And tumbled books, or criticised the pic- 
 tures, 
 Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously. 
 And made upon the hot-house several 
 * stricttures, 
 Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 
 Or on the morning papers read their 
 lectures. 
 Or on the watch their longing eyes would 
 
 fix. 
 Longing at sixty for the hour of six. 
 
 But none were " gene : " the great hour of 
 
 union 
 Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all 
 
 were 
 Masters of their own time — or in commun- 
 ion. 
 Or solitary, as they cho^e to bear 
 The hours, which how to pass is but to few 
 
 known. 
 Each rose up at his o''vn, and had to 
 
 spare 
 What time he chose for dress, and broke 
 
 his fast 
 When, where, and how he chose for that 
 
 repast. 
 
 civ 
 The ladies — some rouged, some a httle 
 pale — 
 Met the morn as they might. If fine, 
 they rode, 
 Or walk'd; if foul, theyread, or told atale. 
 Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from 
 abroad ; 
 Discuss'd the fashion which might next 
 prevail, 
 And settled bonnets by the newest code. 
 Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one httle 
 
 letter, 
 To make each correspondent a new debtor. 
 
 cv 
 For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 
 
 The earth has nothing like a she epistle. 
 And hardly heaven — because it never ends, 
 
 1 love the mystery of a female missal. 
 Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 
 
 But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
 
776 DON JUAN 
 
 When he allured poor Dolon : — you had 
 
 better 
 Take care what you reply to such i letter. 
 
 cvi 
 Then there were billiards ; cards, too, but 
 no dice ; — 
 Save in the clubs no man of honour 
 plays ; — 
 Boats when 'twas water, skating when 
 'twas ice, 
 And the hard frost destroy'd the scent- 
 ing days ; 
 And angling, too, that solitary vice, 
 
 Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says : 
 The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in hi,. 
 
 gullet 
 Should have a hook, and a small trout io 
 pull it. 
 
 evil 
 With evening came the banquet and the 
 wine ; 
 The conversazione ; the duet. 
 Attuned by voices more or less divine 
 (My heart or head aches with the 
 memory yet). 
 The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would 
 shine ; 
 But the two youngest loved more to be 
 set 
 Down to the harp — because to music's 
 
 charms 
 They added graceful necks, white hands 
 and arms. 
 
 Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field 
 
 days. 
 For then the gentlemen were rather 
 
 tired) 
 Display'd some sylph-like figures in its 
 
 maze ; 
 Then there was small-talk ready when 
 
 required ; 
 Flirtation — but decoreus ; the mere 
 
 praise 
 Of charms that should or should not be 
 
 admired. 
 The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er 
 
 again. 
 And then retreated soberly — at ten. 
 
 crx 
 The politicians, in a nook apart. 
 
 Discuss'd the world, and settled all the 
 spheres ; 
 The wits watch'd every loophole for their 
 art. 
 To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
 Small is the rest of those who would be 
 smart, 
 A moment's good thing may have cost 
 them years 
 Before they find an hour to introduce it 
 
 And then, even then, some bore may make 
 them lose it. 
 
 ex 
 
 But all was gentle and aristocratic 
 
 In ^his our party; polish' d, smooth, 
 
 and cold, 
 As Phidian forms cut out of marble.- 
 
 Attic. ' 
 
 There now are no Squire Westerns as of 
 
 old ; 
 And our Sophias are not so emphatic, j 
 
 But fair as then, or fair-c-r to behold. ^ 
 
 We have no accomplish'd blackguards, "I 
 
 like Tom Jones, 
 But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones 
 
 CXI 
 
 They separated at an early hour ; 
 
 That is, ere midnight — which is London's 
 
 noon : 
 
 But in the country ladies seek their bower 
 
 A little earlier than the waning moon. 
 
 Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 
 
 May the rose call back its true colour 
 
 soon ! 
 
 Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest 
 
 tinters. 
 And lower the price of rouge — at least some 
 winters. 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTEENTH 
 
 I 
 ly from great nature's or our own abyss 
 Of thought we could but snatch a cer- 
 tainty. 
 Perhaps mankind might find the path they 
 miss — 
 But then 'twould spoil much good philos- 
 ophy. 
 One system eats another up, and this 
 Jluch as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 
 For when his pious consort gave him stones 
 In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 
 
 II 
 
 But System doth reverse the Titan's break- 
 fast. 
 And eats her parents, albeit the diges- 
 tion * 
 
 Is difficult. Pray tell me, can vou make 
 fast, 
 .After due search, your faith to any ■ 
 question ? 
 
 Look back o'er aijes. ere unto the stake fast 
 
 » You bmd yourself, and call some mode 
 the best one. 
 
 Nothing more true than not to trust your 
 senses ; 
 
 And yet what are your other evidences ? 
 
 Ill 
 For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny, 
 Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know 
 yoit, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 Except perhaps that you were bom to die ? \ 
 And both may after all turn out untrue. * 
 
 An age rnay come, Font of Eternity, 
 When nothing shall be either old or new, i 
 
 Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men 
 weep, 
 
 And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 
 
 777 
 
 A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
 Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 
 
 How clay shrinks back from more quiescent 
 clay ! 
 The very Suicide that pays his debt 
 
 At once without instalments (an old way 
 Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
 
 Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, 
 
 Less from disgust of life than dread of 
 death. 
 
 V 
 
 'Tis round him, near him, here, there, 
 every where. 
 And there's a courage which grows out of 
 fear, 
 Perhaps of all most desperate, which will 
 ^ dare 
 
 The worst to know it ; — when the moun- 
 tains rear 
 Their peaks beneath your human foot, and 
 there 
 You look down o'er the precipice, and 
 drear 
 The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a 
 
 minute. 
 Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 
 
 VI 
 
 'Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck 
 with terror. 
 Retire : but look into your past im- 
 pression ! 
 And you will find, though shuddering at 
 the mirror 
 Of your own thoughts, in all their self- 
 confession, 
 The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 
 
 To the unknown ; a secret prepossession. 
 To plunge with all your fears — but where ? 
 
 You know not. 
 And that's the reason why you do — or do 
 not. 
 
 VII 
 
 But what's this to the pm-pose ? you will 
 
 say. , . , 
 
 Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere specula- 
 tion, . 
 For which my sole excuse is — tis my way ; 
 Sometimes with and [sometimes without 
 occasion, 
 I write what's uppermost, without delay ; 
 This narrative is not meant for narration, 
 But a mere airy and fantastic basis. 
 To build up common things with common 
 places. 
 
 B.P.W. 
 
 You know, or don't know, that great Bacon 
 saith, 
 " Fhng up a straw, 'twill show the way 
 the wind blows ; " 
 And such a straw, borne on by human 
 breath, 
 Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 
 A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and 
 death, 
 A shadow which the onward soul behind 
 throws : 
 And mine's a bubble, not blown up for 
 
 praise. 
 But just to play with, as an infant plays. 
 
 I-X 
 
 The world is all before me — or behind ; 
 For I have seen a portion of that same, 
 And quitel enough for me to keep in mind ; — 
 Of passions, too, I have proved enough 
 to blame. 
 To the great pleasure of our friends, man- 
 kind. 
 Who like to mix some slight alloy with 
 fame ; 
 For I was rather famous in my time, 
 Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 
 
 X 
 
 I have brought this world about ray ears, 
 and eke 
 The other ; that's to say, the clergy — 
 who 
 Upon my head have bid their thunders 
 break 
 In pious libels by no means a few. 
 And yet I can't help scribbling once a week. 
 Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 
 In youth I wrote because my mind was full. 
 And now because I feel it growing dull. 
 
 But " why then pubhsh ? " — There are no 
 rewards 
 Of fame or profit when the world grows 
 weary. 
 I ask in turn, — Why do you play at cards ? 
 Why drink ? Why read ? — To make 
 some hour le^s dreary. 
 It occupies me to turn back regards. 
 
 On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or 
 cheery ; 
 And what I write I cast upon the stream, 
 To swim or sink — I have had at least my 
 dream. 
 
 XII 
 
 I think that were I certain of success, 
 
 I hardly could compose another line : 
 So long I've battled either more or less. 
 That no defeat can drive me from the 
 Nine. 
 This feeling 'tis not easy to express. 
 And vet 'tis not affected, I opine. 
 3E 
 
778 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 In play, there are two pleasures for your 
 
 choosing — 
 The one is winning, and the other losing. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Besides, ray Muse by no means deals in 
 
 fiction : 
 She gathers a repertory of facts, 
 Of course with some reserve and slight 
 
 restriction, 
 But mostly sings of human things and 
 
 acts — 
 And that's one cause she meets with con- 
 tradiction ; 
 For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er 
 
 attracts ; 
 And were her object only what's call'd 
 
 glory. 
 With more ease too she'd tell a different 
 
 story. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Love, war, a tempest — surely there's 
 variety : 
 AJsii a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
 A bird's eye view, too, of that wild. So- 
 ciety ; 
 A slight glance thrown on men of every 
 station. 
 If you have nought else, here's at least 
 satiety. 
 Both in performance and in preparation ; 
 And though these lines should only line 
 
 portmanteaus. 
 Trade will be all the better for these 
 Cantos. 
 
 XV 
 
 The portion of this world which I at pre- 
 sent 
 Have taken up to fill the following ser- 
 mon. 
 Is one of which there's no description 
 recent : 
 The reason why, is easy to determine : 
 Although it seems both prominent and 
 pleasant, 
 There is a sameness in its gems and 
 ermine, 
 A dull and family Ukeness through all ages, 
 Of no great promise for poetic pages. 
 
 With much to excite, there's little to 
 exalt ; 
 Nothing that speaks to all men a_nd all 
 times ; 
 A sort of varnish over every fault ; 
 
 A kind of common-place, even in their 
 crimes ; 
 Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 
 A want of that true nature which 
 sublimes 
 Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth 
 monotony 
 
 Of character, in those at least who have 
 got any. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers ofi parade. 
 They break their ranks and gladly leave 
 the drill ; 
 But then the roll-call draws them back 
 afraid, 
 And they must be or seem what they 
 were : still 
 Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 
 But when of the first sight you have had 
 your fill. 
 It palls — at least it did so upon me. 
 This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 When we ha\e made our love, and gamed 
 our gaming, 
 Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, some- 
 thing more ; 
 
 With dandies dined ; heard senators de- 
 claiming ; 
 Seen beauties brought to market by the 
 score. 
 
 Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely tam- 
 ing ; 
 There's httle left but to be bored or bore. 
 
 Witness those " ci devant H'ttnes hommes " 
 who stem 
 
 The stream, nor leave the v;orld which 
 leaveth them. 
 
 'Tis said — indeed a general complaint — 
 
 That no one has succeeded in describing 
 
 The monde, exactly a^ they ought to paint ; 
 
 Some say, that authors only =uatch, by 
 
 bribing 
 
 The porter, some slight scandals strange 
 
 and quaint, 
 
 To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 
 
 And that their books have but one style in 
 
 common — 
 My lady's prattle, filter'd through her 
 
 But this can't well be true, just now ; for 
 \mters 
 .\re grown of the beau monde a part 
 potential : 
 r\ e seen them balance even the scale with 
 fighters. 
 Especially when yoimg, for that's essen- 
 tial. 
 Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 
 Of what they deem themseh'es most con- 
 sequential. 
 The real portrait of the highest tribe ? 
 'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe. 
 
 .x.xi 
 " Hand ignara loquor ; " these are Xuga, 
 " quarunt 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 779 
 
 Pars parva fui." but still art and part. 
 Now I could much more easily sketch a 
 harem, 
 A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 
 Than these things ; and besides, I wish to 
 spare 'em, 
 For reasons whicli I choose to keep apart. 
 " Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit " — 
 Which means, that vulgar people must not 
 share it. 
 
 XXII 
 
 And therefore what I throw ofl is ideal — 
 Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of free- 
 masons ; 
 Which bears the same relation to the real. 
 As Captain Parry's voyage may do to 
 Jason's, 
 The grand arcanum's not for men to see all ; 
 
 My music has some myslic diapasons ; 
 And there is much which could not be 
 
 appreciated 
 In any manner by the uninitiated. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she 
 fell'd 
 The world (as, since that history, less 
 polite 
 Than true, hath been a creed so strictly 
 held) 
 Hns not yet given up the practice quite. 
 Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd. 
 Victim when wrong, and martyr oft 
 when right, 
 Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their 
 
 sins 
 Have shaving too entail'd upon their 
 chins, — 
 
 XXIV 
 
 A daily plague, which in the aggregate 
 May average on the whole with par- 
 turition. 
 But as to women, who can penetrate 
 The real sufferings of their she con- 
 dition ? 
 Man's very sympathy with their estate 
 Has much of selfishness, and more sus- 
 picion. 
 Their love, their virtue, beauty, education. 
 But form good housekeepers, to breed a 
 nation. 
 
 XXV 
 
 All this were very well , and can't be better ; 
 
 But even this is difficult. Heaven knows. 
 
 So many troubles from her birth beset her, 
 
 Such small distinction between friends 
 
 and foes. 
 
 The gilding wears so soon from off her 
 
 fetter, ■, , ,^ 
 
 That but ask any woman if she d 
 
 choose 
 (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
 Female or male ? a schoolboy or a queen ? 
 
 '- Petticoat influence " is a great reproach. 
 Which even those who obey would fain 
 be thought 
 
 To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 
 But since beneath it upon earth we are 
 brought. 
 
 By various joltings of life's hackney coach, 
 I for one venerate a petticoat — 
 
 A garment of a mystical subhmity, 
 
 No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 ^fuch I respect, and much 1 have adored. 
 In my young days, that chaste and 
 goodly ^'eil, 
 
 Which holds a treasure, like a miser's 
 hoard. 
 And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 
 
 .\ golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
 A loving letter with a mystic seal, 
 
 A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 
 
 Before a petticoat and peeping ankle ? 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 And when upon a silent, sullen day, 
 With a sirocco, for example, blowing, 
 
 When even the sea looks dim with all its 
 spray. 
 And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing, 
 
 And the sky shows that very ancient gray. 
 The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 
 
 'Tis pleasant, if then anything is pleasant, 
 
 To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 
 
 x.xix 
 We left our heroes and our heroines 
 
 In that fair clime which don't depend 
 on climate, 
 Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 
 Though certainly more difificult to 
 rhyme at. 
 Because the sun, and stars, and aught 
 that shines. 
 Mountains, and all we can be most sub- 
 lime at, 
 Are there oft dull and dreary as a dim — 
 Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all i^ne. 
 
 XXX 
 
 An in-door life is less poetical ; 
 
 And out of door hath showers, and mists, 
 and sleet. 
 With which I could not brew a pastoral. 
 
 But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
 All difficulties, whether great or small, 
 
 To spoil his undertaking, or complete, 
 And work away like spirit upon matter, 
 Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and 
 water. 
 
 ,xx.xi 
 Juan — in this respect, at least, like saints — 
 
 Was all things unto people of all sorts, 
 .\nd lived contentedly, without complaints, 
 
 In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — 
 
780 
 
 BOX JUAN 
 
 Corn with that happy soul which seldom 
 
 faints, 
 And mingling modesty in toils or sports. 
 He [likewise could be most things to all 
 
 women, 
 Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 
 
 'Tis also subject to the double danger 
 Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 
 
 Some pleasant jesting at the awkward 
 stranger ; 
 But Juan had been early taught to range 
 
 The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd 
 avenger. 
 So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack. 
 Knew that he had a rider on his back. 
 
 XX-XTII 
 
 And now in this new field, with some 
 applause. 
 He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, 
 and rail. 
 And never craned, and made but few 
 " faux pas," 
 And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 
 He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the 
 laws 
 Of hunting — for the sagest youth is 
 frail ; 
 Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and 
 
 then. 
 And once o'er several country gentlemen. 
 
 xxxiv 
 But on the whole, to general admiration 
 He acquitted both himself and horse : 
 the squires 
 Marvell'd at merit of another nation ; 
 The boors cried " Dang it ! who'd have 
 thought it ? " — Sires, 
 The Nestors of the sporting generation, 
 Swore praises, and recall d their former 
 fires ; 
 The huntsman's self relented to a grin. 
 And rated him almost a whipper-in. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Such were his trophies — not of spear and 
 
 shield. 
 But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes 
 
 foxes' brushes ; 
 \'et I must own, — although in this I yield 
 To patriot sympathy a Briton's 
 
 blushes, — 
 He thought at heart like courtly Chester- 
 field, 
 Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, 
 
 bushes, 
 And what not, though he rode beyond all 
 
 price, 
 Ask'd next dar, " If men ever hunted 
 
 twice ? " 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 He also had a quality uncommon 
 To early risers after a long chase. 
 
 Who wake in winter ere the cock can sum- 
 mon 
 December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
 
 A quality agreeable to woman, 
 
 When her soft, Uquid words run on apace, 
 
 Wlio likes a hstener, whether saint or 
 sinner, — 
 
 He did not fall asleep just after dinner ; 
 
 XXX VII 
 
 But, light and airy, stood on the alert. 
 
 And shone in the best part of dialogue, 
 By humouring always what they might 
 assert, 
 And listening to the topics most in 
 vogue, — 
 Now grave, now gay, but never dull or 
 pert ; 
 And smiling but in secret — cunning 
 rogue ! — 
 He ne'er presumed to make an error 
 
 clearer ; — 
 In short, there never was a better hearer. 
 
 xxxviii 
 And then he danced,' — all foreigners excel 
 
 The serious Angles in the eloquence 
 Of pantomime, — he danced, I sav, right 
 well. 
 With emphasis, and also with good 
 sense — 
 A thing in footing indispensable ; 
 
 He danced without theatrical pretence. 
 Not like a ballet-master in the van 
 Of his drill'd nymphs, but Uke a gentleman. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Chaste were his steps, each kept mthin due 
 bound, 
 And elegance was sprinkled o'er his 
 figure ; 
 Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the 
 ground, 
 And rather held in than put forth his 
 vigour ; 
 And then he had an ear for music's sound. 
 Which might defy a crotchet critic's 
 rigour. 
 Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our 
 
 hero. 
 He glanced like a personified Bolero ;> 
 
 Or, like a flying Hour before .\urora. 
 
 In Guide's famous fresco, which alone 
 Is worth a tour to Rome, although no 
 more a 
 Remnant were there of the old world's 
 sole throne. 
 The " tout ensemble " of his movements 
 wore a 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 781 
 
 Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 
 And ne'er to be described ; for to the 
 
 dolour 
 Of bards and prosers, words are void of 
 
 colour. 
 
 No marvel then he was a favourite , 
 
 A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; 
 A little spoilt, but by no means so quite ; 
 
 At least he kept his vanity retired. 
 Such was his tact, he could alike delight 
 The chaste, and those who are not so 
 much inspired. 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved 
 
 " tracasserie" 
 Began to treat him with some small 
 " agacerie." 
 
 She was a fine and somewhat full-blown 
 blonde, 
 Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
 For several winters in the grand, grand 
 monde. 
 I'd rather not say what might be related 
 Of her exploits, for this were ticklish 
 groimd ; 
 Besides there might be falsehood in 
 what's stated ; 
 Her late performance had been a dead set 
 At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 .KLIII 
 
 This noble personage began to look 
 A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
 
 But such small licences must lovers brook. 
 Mare freedoms of the female corporation. 
 
 Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 
 'Twill but precipitate a situation 
 
 Extremely disagreeable, but common 
 
 To calculators when they count on woman. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then 
 sneer'd ; 
 The misses bridled, and the matrons 
 frown'd ; 
 Some hoped things might not turn out as 
 they fear'd ; 
 Some would not deem such women could 
 be found ; 
 Some ne'er believed one half of what they 
 heard ; 
 Somelook'dperplex'd, and others look'd 
 profound ; 
 And several pitied with sincere regret 
 Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 XLV 
 
 But what is odd, none ever named the 
 duke. 
 Who, one might think, was somethmg m 
 the affair : 
 
 True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumour'd, 
 
 took 
 But small concern about the when, or 
 
 where. 
 Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
 Her gaieties, none had a right to stare : 
 Theirs was^that best of unions, past all 
 
 doubt. 
 Which never meets, and therefore can't 
 
 fall out. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 But, oh ! that I should ever pen so sad a 
 line ! 
 Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she. 
 My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 
 Began to think the duchess' conduct 
 free ; 
 Regretting much that she had chosen so 
 bad a line. 
 And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
 Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's, 
 
 fragility, 
 For which most friends reserve their sensi- 
 bility. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 There's nought in this bad world like sym- 
 pathy ; 
 'Tis so becoming to the soul and face. 
 Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh. 
 And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels 
 lace. 
 Without a friend, what were humanity. 
 
 To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
 Consoling us with — " Would you had 
 
 thought twice ! 
 Ah ! if you had but foUow'd my advice ! ' ' 
 
 XL VIII 
 
 O Job ! you had two friends : one's quite 
 enough, 
 Especially when we are ill at ease ; 
 They are but bad pilots when the weather's 
 rough. 
 Doctors less famous for their cures than 
 fees. 
 Let no man grumble when his friends fall 
 off, 
 As they will do like leaves at the first 
 breeze : 
 When your affairs come round, one way or 
 
 t'other. 
 Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 
 
 But this is not my maxim : had it been, 
 Some heart-aches had been spared me : 
 yet I care not — 
 I would not be a tortoise in his screen 
 Of stubborn shell, which waves and 
 weather wear not ; 
 'Tis better on the whole to have felt and 
 seen 
 That which humanity may bear, or bear 
 not ; 
 
782 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 'Twill teach discrrnment to the sensitive, 
 And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 
 
 L 
 
 Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 
 Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight 
 blast, 
 Is that portentous phrase, " I fold you so," 
 Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the 
 past, 
 Who, 'stead of saying what you now should 
 do, 
 Own thev foresaw that you would fall at 
 last. 
 And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " bonos 
 
 mores," 
 With a long memorandum of old stories. 
 
 LI 
 
 The Lady Adeline's serene severity 
 
 Was not confined to feeling for her friend, 
 
 Whose fame she rather doubted with pos- 
 terity, 
 Unless her habits should begin to mend : 
 
 But Juan also shared in her austerity. 
 But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was 
 penn'd : 
 
 His inexperience moved her gentle ruth. 
 
 And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth 
 
 LII 
 
 These forty days' advantage of her years — 
 And hers were those which can face cal- 
 culation. 
 Boldly referring to the list of peers 
 
 And noble births, nor dread the enumer- 
 ation — 
 Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
 
 For a young gentleman's fit education. 
 Though she was far from that leap year, 
 
 .whose leap, 
 In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. 
 
 LIII 
 
 This may be fix'd at somewhere before 
 thirty- 
 Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never 
 knew 
 The strictest in chronology and \'irtue 
 Advance beyond, while they could pass 
 for new. 
 O Time ! why dost not pause ? Thy 
 scythe, so dirty 
 With rust, should surely cease to hack 
 and hew. 
 Reset it : shave more smoothly, also 
 
 slower, 
 If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 
 
 LIV 
 
 But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
 Whose ripeness is but bitter .11 the best : 
 
 'Tw.is rather her experience made her sage, 
 For she had seen the world and stood its 
 test. 
 
 As I have said in — I forgot what page ; 
 My Muse despises reference, as you have 
 guess'd 
 
 By this time ; — but strike six from seven- 
 and-twenty. 
 
 And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 
 
 LV 
 
 At sixteen she came out ; presented, 
 vaunted. 
 She put all coronets into commotion : 
 At seventeen, too, the world was still en- 
 chanted 
 With the new Venus of their brilliant 
 ocean : 
 At eighteen, though below her feet still 
 panted 
 A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
 She had consented to create again 
 That Adam, call'd " the happiest of men." 
 
 Since then she had sparkled through three 
 glowing winters. 
 Admired, adored ; but also so correct, 
 That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 
 Without the apparel of being circum- 
 spect : 
 They could not even glean the slightest 
 splinters 
 From off the marble, which had no 
 defect. 
 She had also snatch'd a moment since her 
 
 marriage 
 To bear a son and heir — and one mis- 
 carriage. 
 
 Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around 
 
 her, 
 Those little glitterers of the London 
 
 night ; 
 But none of these possoss'd a sting to 
 
 wound her — 
 She was a pitch bevond a coxcomb's 
 
 flight. 
 Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant pro- 
 founder ; 
 But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted 
 
 right ; 
 And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, 
 
 dignify 
 .•\ woman, so she's good, what does it 
 
 signify ? 
 
 LVIII 
 
 I hate a moti\e, like a lingering bottle 
 Which with the landlord makes too 
 long a stand, 
 Leaving all claretless the unmcasten'd 
 throttle. 
 Especially with politics on hand ; 
 I hate it, as I hate a drove of 'cattle. 
 Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl 
 the sand 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 783 
 
 I hate it, as I hate an argument, 
 A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " con- 
 tent." 
 
 LIX 
 
 'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, 
 They are so much intertwisted with the 
 earth ; 
 
 So that the branch a goodly verdvure flings, 
 1 reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
 
 To trace all actions to their secret springs 
 Would make indeed some melancholy 
 mirth ; 
 
 But this is not at present my concern, 
 
 And I refer you to wise Oxenstjern.* 
 
 With the kind view of saving an ^clat, 
 
 Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 
 
 The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw 
 
 That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
 
 (For foreigners don't know that a faux pas 
 
 In England ranks quite on a different 
 
 list 
 
 from those of other lands unblest with 
 
 juries. 
 Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure 
 is;—) 
 
 LXI 
 
 The Lady Adeline resolved to take 
 
 Such measures as she thought might best 
 impede 
 The farther progress of this sad mistake. 
 She thought with some simplicity in- 
 deed ; 
 But innocence is bold even at the stake. 
 And simple in the world, and doth not 
 need 
 Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
 Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 
 
 It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
 His Grace was an enduring, married 
 man. 
 
 And was not likely all at once to burst 
 Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 
 
 Of Doctors' Commons : but she dreaded 
 first 
 The magic of her Grace's talisman. 
 
 And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 
 
 With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intri- 
 gante. 
 And somewhat mechante in her amorous 
 sphere : 
 One of those pretty, precious plagues, 
 which haunt 
 A lover with caprices soft and dear, 
 That like to make a quarrel, when they. 
 can't 
 Find one, each day of the delightful 
 year; 
 
 Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or 
 
 glow, 
 And — what is worst of all — won't let you 
 
 go; 
 
 LXIV 
 
 The sort of thing to turn a young man's 
 
 head. 
 
 Or make a Werter of him in the end. 
 
 No wonder then a purer soul should droad 
 
 This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ;■ 
 
 It were much better to be wed or dead. 
 
 Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
 
 'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush 
 
 on. 
 If that a " bonne fortune " ' be really 
 " bonne," 
 
 LXV 
 
 And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, 
 Which really knew or thought it knew 
 no guile. 
 She cah'd her husband now and then apart, 
 And bade him counsel Juan. With a 
 smile 
 Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
 To wean Don Juan from the siren's 
 wile ; 
 And auswer'd, like a statesman or a pro- 
 phet. 
 In such guise that she could make nothing 
 of it. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 
 In any body's business but the king's : " 
 Next, that " he never judged from what 
 appear'd, 
 Without strong reason, of those sort of 
 things : " 
 Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than 
 beard. 
 And was not to be held in leading- 
 strings ; " 
 And fourthly, what need hardly be said 
 
 twice, 
 " That good but rarely came from good 
 advice." 
 
 LXVII 
 
 And, therefore, doubtless to approve the 
 truth 
 Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 
 To leave the parties to themselves, for- 
 sooth — 
 At least as far as bienseance allows : 
 That time would temper Juan's faults of 
 youth ; 
 That young men rarely made monastic 
 vows ; 
 That opposition only more attaches — 
 But here a messenger brought in des- 
 patches : 
 
 LXVllI 
 
 And being of the coimcil call'd " tha 
 Privy, 
 
784 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, 
 To furnish matter for some future Livy 
 
 To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 
 And if their full contents I do not give ye, 
 
 It is because I do not know them yet ; 
 But T shall add them in a brief appendix. 
 To come between mine epic and its index. 
 
 But ere he went, he added a slight hint. 
 
 Another gentle common-place or two. 
 
 Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint. 
 
 And pass, for want of better, though not 
 
 new ; 
 
 Then broke his packet, to see what was 
 
 in't. 
 
 And having casually glanced it through, 
 
 Retired : and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd 
 
 her. 
 Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 
 
 He was a cold, good, honourable man. 
 Proud of his birth, and proud of every- 
 thing ; 
 A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
 
 A figure fit to walk before a king ; 
 Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
 On birthdays, glorious with a star and 
 string ; 
 The very model of a chamberlain — 
 And such I mean to make him when I 
 reign. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 But there was something wanting on the 
 whole — 
 I don't know what, and therefore cannot 
 tell— 
 Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — 
 call soul. 
 Certes it was not body ; he was well 
 Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
 
 A handsome man, that human miracle ; 
 And in each circumstance of love or war, 
 Had still preserved his perpendicular. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Still there was something, as I've said — 
 That undefinable, " Je ne spais quoi" 
 Which, for what I know, may of yore have 
 led ' 
 
 To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
 The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's 
 bed; 
 Though on the whole, no doubt, the 
 Dardan boy 
 Was much inferior to King Menelaiis : — 
 But thus it is some women will betray us. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 There is an awkward thing which much 
 perplexes. 
 Unless like ivise Tiresias we had proved 
 By turns the difference of the se\-eral sexes ; 
 
 Neither can show quite how they would 
 
 be loved. 
 
 The sensual for a short time but connects 
 
 us^ 
 
 The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 
 
 But both together form a kind of centaur, 
 
 Upon whose back 'tis better not to venture 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 A something all-sufficient for the heart 
 Is that for which the sex are always 
 seeking : 
 But how to fill up that same vacant part ? 
 There lies the rub — and this they are but 
 weak in. 
 Firail mariners afloat without a chart. 
 They run before the wind through high 
 seas breaking ; 
 And when they have made the shore 
 
 through every shock 
 'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 There is a flower call'd " Lo\-e in Idleness." 
 For which see Shakspeare's ever 
 blooming garden ; — 
 I will not make his great description less. 
 And beg his British godship's humble 
 pardon. 
 If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
 I touch a single leaf ' where he is 
 warden ; — 
 But though the flower is different, with 
 
 the French 
 Or Swiss Rousseau, cry " }'otld la Per- 
 venche ! " 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 Eureka ! I have found it ! What I mean 
 To say is, not that love is idleness. 
 
 But that in love such idleness has been 
 An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
 
 Hard labour's an indifferent go-between ; 
 Your men of business are not apt to 
 express 
 
 Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the 
 Argo, 
 
 Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 
 
 L.XXVII 
 
 " Beatus ille prociil ! " from '' negotiii " 
 
 Saith Horace: the great little poet's 
 
 ^vrong ; 
 
 His other maxim, " Xosciliir d sociis." 
 
 Is much more to the purpose of his song • 
 
 Though even that were sometimes too 
 
 ferocious, 
 
 Unless good company be kept too long • 
 
 But, in his teeth, ivhate'er their state or 
 
 station. 
 Thrice happy they who have an occupa- 
 tion ! 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Adam exchanged his Paradise for plough- 
 ing, '^ " 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 785 
 
 Eve made up millinery with fig leaves — 
 Ihe earliest knowledge from the tree so 
 knov/ing, 
 As far as I know, that the church 
 receives : 
 And since that time it need not cost much 
 showing, 
 That many of the ills o'er which man 
 grieves, 
 And still more women, spring from not 
 
 employing 
 Some hours to make the remnant worth 
 enjoying. 
 
 L.XXIX 
 
 And hence high lite is oft a dreary void, 
 A rack of pleasures, where we must 
 invent 
 A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
 Bards may sing what they please about 
 Content ; 
 Contented, when translated, means but 
 cloy'd ; 
 And hence arise the woes of sentiment. 
 Blue-devils, and blue-stockings, and ro- 
 mances 
 Reduced to practice, and perform'd like 
 dances. 
 
 L.XXX 
 
 I do declare, upon an affidavit, 
 
 Romances I ne'er read like those I have 
 seen ; 
 Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it. 
 Would some believe that such a tale 
 had been ; 
 But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 
 Some truths are better kept behind a 
 screen. 
 Especially when they would look like lies ; 
 I therefore deal in generalities. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 •• An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and 
 why ? 
 
 Because he mopeth idly in his shell. 
 And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 
 
 Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
 And d-propns of monks, their piety 
 
 With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
 Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
 Art apt exceedingly to run to seed. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 O Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown. 
 
 Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 
 
 Thou hast struck one immense Colossus 
 
 down, , .r ■ , 
 
 Thou moral Washmgton of Africa ! 
 But there's another little thing, I own, 
 Which you should perpetrate some sum- 
 mer's day . 
 And set the other half of earth to rights ; 
 You have freed the blacks — now pray shut 
 up the whites. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 Shut up the bald-coot ' bully Alexander ' 
 Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal ; 
 Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce 
 for gander," 
 And ask them how they like to be in 
 thrall ? 
 Shut up each high heroic salamander. 
 Who eats fire gratis (since the pay's but 
 small) ; 
 Shut up — no, not the King, but the Pavi- 
 lion, 
 Or else 'twill cost us all another milhon. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out ; 
 
 And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
 All things pursue exactly the same route, 
 
 As now with those of soi-disafU sound 
 m.iod. 
 This I could prove beyond a single doubt. 
 
 Were there a jot of sense among man- 
 kind ; 
 But till that point d'appui is found, alas ! 
 Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Our gentle Adeline had one defect-^ 
 Her heart was vacant, though a splendid 
 mansion ; 
 Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 
 As she had seen nought claiming its 
 expansion. 
 A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, 
 Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a 
 stanch one ; 
 But when the latter works its own undoing, 
 Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 She loved her lord, or thought so ; but thai 
 love 
 
 Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil. 
 The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 
 
 Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
 She had nothing to complain of, or 
 reprove. 
 
 No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 
 Their union was a model to behold, 
 Serene and noble, — conjugal, but cold . 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 There was no great disparity of years. 
 Though much in temper ; but they never 
 clash'd : 
 They moved like stars united in their 
 spheres. 
 Or Uke the Rhone by Leman's waters 
 wash'd. 
 Where mingled and yet separate appears 
 The river from the lake, all bluely 
 dash'd 
 Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 
 Which fain would lull its river-child to 
 
 sleep. 
 
786 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Now when she once had ta'en an interest 
 
 In anything, however she miglit flatter 
 
 Herself that her intentions were the best. 
 
 Intense intentions are a dangerous 
 
 matter : 
 
 Impressions were much stronger than she 
 
 guess'd, 
 
 And gather'd as they run like growing 
 
 Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 
 Was not at first too readily impress'd. 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 But when it was, she had that lurliing 
 demon 
 Of double nature, and thus doubly 
 named — 
 Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and sea- 
 men. 
 That is, when they succeed ; but greatly 
 blamed 
 Aft obstinacy,^ hoth in men and women, 
 Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is 
 tamed : — 
 And 'twill perplex the casuist in morality 
 To fix the due bounds of this dangerous 
 quality. 
 
 -Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 
 
 It had been hrmness ; now 'tis perti- 
 nacity : 
 
 Must the event decide between the two ? 
 I leave it to your people of sagacity 
 
 To draw the line between the false and true, 
 If such can e'er be drawn by man's 
 capacity : 
 
 My business is w^th Lady Adeline, 
 
 Who in her way too was a heroine. 
 
 She knew not her o^vn heart ; then how- 
 should I ? 
 I think not she was then in love with 
 Juan : 
 If so, she would have had the strength to 
 fly , 
 The wild sensation, unto her a new one ; 
 She merely felt a common syn'ipathy 
 (I will not say it was a false or true one) 
 In him, because she thought he was in 
 
 danger, — 
 Her husband's friend, her own, young, and 
 a stranger. 
 
 xcii 
 She was, or thought she was, his friend — 
 and this 
 Without the farce of friendship, or 
 romance 
 Of platonism, which leads so oft amiss 
 Ladies who ha\'e studied friendship but 
 in France, 
 Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 
 
 To thus much Adeline would not ad- 
 vance ; 
 
 But of such friendship as man's may to 
 man be 
 
 She was as capable as woman can be. 
 
 XCIII 
 
 No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
 Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 
 
 An innocent predominance annex. 
 
 And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
 
 If free from passion, which all friendship 
 checks. 
 And your true feelings fully understood. 
 
 No friend like to a woman earth discovers, 
 
 So that you have not been or will be lovers. 
 
 Love bears within its breast the very germ 
 Of change ; and how should this be 
 otherwise ? 
 That violent things more quickly find a 
 term 
 Is shown through nature's whole analo- 
 gies ; 
 And how should the most fierce of all be 
 firm ? 
 Would you have endless lightning in the 
 skies ? 
 Methinks Love's very title savs enough : 
 How should " the tender passion " e'er be 
 toupJi ? 
 
 Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 
 
 (I merely quote what I have heard from 
 many) 
 
 Had lovers not some reason to regret 
 The passion which made Solomon a zanv. 
 
 I've also seen some wives (not to forget 
 The marriage state, the best or worst of 
 any) 
 
 Who were the very paragons of wives. 
 
 Yet made the misery of at least two Hves. 
 
 I've also seen some female friends ('tis odd. 
 But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
 That faithful were through thick and thin, 
 abroad, 
 .At home, far more than ever yet was 
 Love — 
 Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 
 Upon me ; whom no scandal could 
 remove ; 
 Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my 
 
 battles, 
 Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 
 
 -XCVII 
 
 Whether Don Juan and chaste .\deline 
 Grew friends in this or anv other sense, 
 
 \\W\ be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 
 .'U present I am glad of a pretence 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 To Jeave them Inhering, as the effect is fine, 
 And keeps the atrociuus reader in sus- 
 pense : 
 The surest -way for ladies and for book. 
 To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 
 
 xcvm 
 Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied 
 Spanish 
 To read Don Quixote in the original, 
 A pleasure before which all others vanish • 
 Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 
 small," 
 Or serious, are the topics I must banish 
 To the next Canto ; where perhaps I shall 
 Say something to the purpose, and display 
 Considerable talent in my way. 
 
 xcix 
 Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
 
 Anticipating avjght about the.rnatter: 
 They'll only make mistakes about the fair, 
 
 And Juan too, especially the latter. 
 And I shall take a much more serious air 
 
 Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. 
 It IS not clear that Adeline and Juan 
 Will fall ; but if they do, 'twill be their 
 
 But great things spring from little : — Would 
 you think, 
 That in our youth, as dangerous a pas- 
 sion 
 As e'er brought man and woman to the 
 brink 
 Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion, 
 As few would ever dream could form the 
 link 
 Of such a sentimental situation ? 
 You'll never guess, I'll bet you millions, 
 
 milliards — 
 It all sprung from a harmless game at 
 billiards. 
 
 CI 
 
 'Tis strange, — but true ; for truth is always 
 strange ; 
 Stranger than fiction : if it could be told, 
 How much would novels gain by the ex- 
 change ! 
 How differentlv the world would men 
 behold I 
 How oft would vice and virtue places 
 change ! 
 The new world would be nothing to the 
 old. 
 If some Columbus of the moral seas 
 Would show mankind their souls' anti- 
 podes. 
 
 en 
 What " antres vast and deserts idle " then 
 
 Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 
 What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
 With self-love in the centre as their.pole ! 
 
 7S7 
 
 What Anthropophagi are nine or ten 
 Of those who hold the kingdoms in con- 
 trol ! 
 Were things but only call'd by their right 
 
 name, 
 Cajsar himself would be ashamed of fame. 
 
 CANTO THE FIFTEENTH 
 
 Ah ! — What should follow slips from my 
 reflection ; 
 Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 
 As a-propos of hope or retrospection. 
 As though the lurking thought had fol- 
 low'd free. 
 All present life is but an interjection, 
 
 An " Oh ! " or " Ah ! " of joy or misery. 
 Or a " Ha ! ha ! " or " Bah ! " — a yawn, or 
 
 " Pooh ! " 
 Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 
 
 But, more or less, the whole's a syncopfi 
 Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 
 
 The grand antithesis to great ennui. 
 Wherewith we break our bubbles on the 
 ocean, 
 
 That watery outline of eternity, 
 
 Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 
 
 Which ministers unto the soul's delight. 
 
 In seeing fhatters which are out of sight. 
 
 Ill 
 But all are better than the sigh supprest, 
 
 Corroding in the cavern of the heart. 
 Making the countenance a masque of rest. 
 
 And turning human nature to an art. 
 Few men dare show their thoughts of worst 
 or best ; 
 Dissimulation always sets apart 
 A corner for herself ; and therefore fiction 
 Is that which passes with least contradic- 
 tion. 
 
 IV 
 
 Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who can not 
 Remember, without telling, passion's 
 errors ? 
 The drainer of oblivion, even the sot. 
 Hath got blue devils for his morning 
 mirrors : 
 What though on Lethe's stream he seem to 
 float. 
 He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors; 
 The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 
 Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst 
 sand. 
 
 V 
 And as for love — love ! We will pro- 
 ceed. 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
 A pretty name as one would wish to read, 
 Must perch harmonious on my tuneful 
 quill. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 There's music in the sighing of a reed ; 
 
 There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
 There's music in all things-, if men had ears : 
 Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 
 
 VI 
 
 The Lady Adeline, right honourable. 
 And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less 
 so ; 
 For few of the soft sex are very stable 
 In then: resolves — alas ! that I should say 
 so ; 
 They differ as wine differs from its label. 
 When once decanted ; — I presume to 
 guess so, 
 But will not swear : yet both upon occasion , 
 Till old, may undergo adulteration. 
 
 VII 
 
 But Adeline was of the purest vintage. 
 The immingled essence of the grape ; and 
 yet 
 Brigut as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
 
 Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 
 A page where Time should hesitate to print 
 age. 
 And for which Nature might forego her 
 debt- 
 Sole creditor whose process doth involve 
 
 in't 
 The luck of finding every body solvent. 
 
 VIII 
 
 O Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou 
 daily 
 Knnckest at doors, at first with modest 
 tap, 
 Like a meek tradesman when, approaching 
 palely. 
 Some splendid debtor he would take by 
 sap : 
 But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
 
 Advances with exasperated rap. 
 And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome. 
 On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom'." 
 
 IX 
 
 Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor 
 
 Beauty ! 
 She is so rare, and thou hast so much 
 
 prey. 
 What though she now and then may slip 
 
 from duty. 
 The more's the reason why you ought to 
 
 stay : 
 Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for 
 
 your booty. 
 You should be civil in a modest way : 
 Suppress, then, some slight feminine dis- 
 eases. 
 And take as many heroes as Hea^■en 
 
 pleases. 
 
 X 
 
 Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 
 Where she was interested (as wsrssaid). 
 
 fiecause she was not apt, like some of us, 
 
 To like too readily, or too high breijl 
 To show it — (points we need not now dis-. 
 cuss) — 
 Would give up artlessly both heart and 
 head 
 Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent. 
 For objects worthy of the sentiment. 
 
 xr 
 Some p'arts of Juan's history, which Ru- 
 mour, 
 That live gazette, had scatter'd to dis- 
 figure. 
 She had heard ; but women hear with more 
 good humour 
 Such aberrations than we men of rigour : 
 Besides, his conduct, since in England, 
 grew more 
 Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier 
 vigour ; 
 Because he had, like .\lcibiades, 
 The art of living in all climes with ease. 
 
 XII 
 
 His manner was perhaps the more seduc- 
 tive, 
 Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to 
 seduce ; 
 Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
 
 Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 
 Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspec- 
 tive. 
 To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 
 And seem to say, " Resist us if you can " — 
 Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 
 
 XIII 
 
 They are wrong — that's not the way to set 
 about it ; 
 As, if they told the truth, could well be 
 shonTi. 
 But, right or wrong, Don Juan was with- 
 out it ; 
 In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
 Sincere he was — at least you could not 
 doubt it. 
 In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
 The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
 .\n arrow for the heart like a sweet \'oice. 
 
 XIV 
 
 By nature soft, his whole address held oft 
 Suspicion ; though not timid, his regard 
 
 \\'as such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, 
 To shield himself than put you on vour 
 guard : 
 
 Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, 
 But modesty's at times its own reward, 
 
 Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
 
 Will go much farther than there's need to 
 mention. 
 
 Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud 
 Insinuating without insinuation ■ 
 
DON JUAN- 
 
 789 
 
 Ofeivvant of the foibles of the crowd, 
 
 Yet ne er betraying this in conversation , 
 
 Proud with the proud, yet courteously 
 
 proud. 
 
 So as to make them feel he knew his 
 
 station 
 
 And theirs : — without a struggle for 
 
 priority. 
 He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority 
 
 XVI 
 
 That is, with men ■ with women he was what 
 They pleased to make or take him for ; 
 and their 
 Imagination's quite enough for that -. 
 So that the outline's tolerably fair. 
 They fill the canvass up — and " verbum 
 sat " 
 If once their phantasies be brought to 
 bear 
 Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 
 They can transfigure brighter than a 
 Raphael. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Adeline, no deep judge of character, 
 Was apt to add a colouring from Tier own : 
 
 'Tis thus the good will amiably err. 
 
 And eke the wise, as. has been often 
 shown. 
 
 Experience is the chief philosopher, 
 
 But saddest when his science is well 
 known ; 
 
 And persecuted sages teach the schools 
 
 Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater 
 Bacon ? 
 Great Socrates ? And thou, Diviner 
 still. 
 Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 
 And thy pure creed made sanction of all 
 ill? 
 Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 
 How was thy toil rewarded ? We might 
 fill 
 Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
 But leave them to the conscience of the 
 nations. 
 
 XIX 
 
 I perch upon an humbler promontory, 
 
 Amidst life's infinite variety : 
 With no great care for what is nicknamed 
 
 gloi^y- 
 But speculating as I cast mine eye 
 On what may suit or may not suit my 
 storv, .^ 
 
 And never straining hard to versify, 
 I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 
 With any body in a ride or walk. 
 
 XX 
 
 T don't know that there may be much 
 ability 
 
 Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 
 But there's a conversational facility, 
 Which may round off an hoar upon a 
 time. 
 Of this I'm sure at least, there's no servility 
 
 In mine irregularity of ';hime. 
 Which rings what's uppermost of new or 
 
 hoary, 
 Just as I feel the " Improvvisatore." 
 
 XXI 
 
 " Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die 
 aliquando 
 Et hene. die neutrum, die aliquando 
 male." 
 The first is rather more than mortal can do; 
 The second may be sadly done or gaily ; 
 The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 
 The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, 
 daily : 
 The whole together is what I could wish 
 To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 
 
 A modest hope — but modesty's my forte. 
 And pride my feeble : — let us ramble on. 
 
 I meant to make this poem very short. 
 But now I can't tell where it may not run . 
 
 No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
 To critics, or to hail the setting sun 
 
 Of t5T:anny of all kinds, my concision 
 
 Were more ; — but I was born for oppo- 
 sition , 
 
 XXIII 
 
 But then 'tis mostly on the weaker side ; 
 
 So that I verily believe if they 
 Who now are basking in their full-blown 
 pride 
 Were shaken down, and " dogs had h.ad 
 their day," 
 Though at the first I might perchance 
 deride 
 Their tumble, I should turn the other 
 way. 
 And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty. 
 Because 1 hate cN'en democratic royally. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
 If I had never proved the soft condition ; 
 
 I think I should have made monastic \'ows, 
 But for my own peculiar superstition : 
 
 'Gainst rhyme I never should have 
 knock'd my brows, 
 Nor broken my own head, nor that of 
 Priscian, 
 
 Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet. 
 
 If some one had not told me to forego it. 
 
 But " laissez aller " — knights and dames I 
 sing. 
 Such as the times may furnish. 'Tis a 
 flight 
 
79° 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Which seems at first to need no lo/ty wing, 
 Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite . 
 
 The diiEcuUy lies ia colouring 
 
 (Keeping the due proportions still in 
 sight) 
 
 With nature manners which are artificial, 
 
 And rend'ring general that whicB'is especial 
 
 XXVI 
 
 The difference is, that in the days of old 
 Men made the manners ; manners now 
 make men — 
 Pinn'd like a tlock, and fleeced too in their 
 fold. 
 At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten 
 Now this at all events must lender cold 
 Your writers, who must either draw 
 again 
 Days better drawn before, or else assume 
 The present, with their comriion -place 
 costume, 
 
 XXVII 
 
 We'll do our best to make the best on't :— 
 March ! 
 March, my Muse ! If y i' cannot fly, 
 yet flutter ; 
 And when you may not be sublime, be arch. 
 Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen 
 utter. 
 We surely may find something w rth re- 
 search : 
 Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 
 Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 
 While yet America was in her non-age. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 When Adeline, in all her growing sense 
 Of Juan's merits and his situation. 
 
 Felt on the whole an interest intense, — 
 Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation. 
 
 Or that he had an air of innocence, 
 Which is for innocence a sad tempta- 
 tion, — 
 
 As women hate half measures, on the whole. 
 
 She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul, 
 
 XXIX 
 
 She had a good opinion of advice. 
 
 Like all who give and eke receive it gratis. 
 
 For which small thanks are still the market 
 
 price. 
 
 Even where the article at highest rate is : 
 
 She thought upon the subject twice or 
 
 thrice. 
 
 And morally decided, the best state is 
 
 For morals, marriage ; and this question 
 
 carried. 
 She seriously advised him to get married. 
 
 Juan replied, with all becoming deference. 
 
 He had a predilection for that tie ; 
 But that, at present, with immediate refei 
 erire 
 
 Tcj his own circumstances, there might fie 
 Some difficulties, as in his own preference. 
 
 Or that of her to whom he might apply . 
 That still he'd wed with such or such a 
 
 lady, 
 If that they were not married all already. 
 
 X.XXI 
 
 Next to the making matches for herself, 
 And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or 
 kin. 
 Arranging them like books on the same 
 shelf. 
 There's nothing women love to dabble in 
 More (like a stock-holder in growing pel!) 
 Than match-making in general ; 'tis nosin 
 Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 
 That is, no doubt, the only reason where- 
 fore. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 But never yet (except of course a miss 
 Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
 
 Or wed already, who object to this) 
 
 Was there chaste dame who had not in 
 her head 
 
 Some drama of the marriage unities, 
 Observed as strictly both at board and 
 bed 
 
 As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
 
 They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 
 
 XX,XIII 
 
 They generally have some onlv son. 
 
 Some heir to a large property, some 
 friend 
 Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 
 Or grave Lord George, with whom per- 
 haps might end 
 A line, and leave posterity undone. 
 
 Unless a marriage was applied to mend 
 The prospect and their moials; and be- 
 sides. 
 They have at hand a blooming glut of 
 brides. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 From these the>- will be careful to select. 
 For this an heiress, and for that a beaut}' ; 
 
 I'or one a songstress who hath no detect, 
 For 't other one who promises much 
 duty ; 
 
 For this a lady no one can reject. 
 
 Whose sole accomplishments were quite 
 a boot\- ; 
 
 A second for her excellent connections • 
 
 A thurd, because there can be no objections! 
 
 XXXV 
 
 When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd 
 marriage ' r 
 
 In his harmonious settlement— (which 
 flourishes ; 
 
 Strangelv enough as yet without mitcar- 
 nage, 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 791 
 
 Because it breeds no more mouths than 
 it nourishes 
 
 Without those sad expenses which dis- 
 parage 
 What Nature naturally most en- 
 courages) — 
 
 Why caird he " Harmony " a state sans 
 wedloclc I ' 
 
 Now here I have got the preacher at a 
 dead lock. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Because he either meant to sneer at har- 
 mony 
 Or marriage, by divorcing them thus 
 oddly. 
 But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in 
 Germany 
 Or no, 'tis said his sect is rich and godly, 
 Pious and pure, beyond what I can term 
 any 
 Of ours, although they propagate more 
 broadly. 
 My objection's to his title, not his ritual, 
 Although I wonder how it grew habitual, 
 
 XXXVIl 
 
 But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
 Who favour, malgre Malthus, genera- 
 tion— 
 Protessors of that genial art, and patrons 
 Of all the modest part of propagation ; 
 Which after all at such a desperate rate 
 runs. 
 That half its produce tends to emigra- 
 tion, 
 ^hat sad result of passions and potatoes^ 
 Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; 
 I wish she had : his book's the eleventh 
 commandment, 
 Which says, " Thou shalt not marry," 
 unless well : 
 This he (as far as I can understand) 
 meant. 
 'Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell. 
 Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand " 
 meant ; ^ 
 But certes it conducts to lives ascetic;' 
 Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 But Adeline, who probably presumed 
 
 That Juan had enough of maintenance. 
 Or sepi^rate maintenance, in case 'twas 
 doom'd — 
 As on the whole it is an even chance 
 That bridegrooms, after they are fairly 
 groom'd, 
 May retrograde a little in the dance 
 Of marriage — (which might form a pain- 
 ter's fame, 
 
 Like Holbein's " Dance of Death " — but 
 'tis the same) ; — ■ 
 
 XL 
 
 But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 
 In her own mind, and that's enough for 
 woman : 
 But then, with whom ? There was the 
 sage Miss Reading, 
 Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, 
 and Miss Knowman, 
 And the two iair co-heiiesses Giltbedding. 
 She deem'd his merits something more 
 than common : 
 All these were unobjectionable matches, 
 And might go on, if well wound up, like 
 watches. 
 
 XLI 
 
 There was Miss Millpond, smooth as sum- 
 mer's sea. 
 That usual paragon, an only daughter ^ 
 Whn scem'd the cream of equanimity. 
 Till skimm'd — and then there was some 
 milk and water. 
 With a slight shade of blue too, it might be 
 Beneath the surface ; but what did it 
 matter ? 
 Love's riotous, but marriage should have 
 
 quiet, 
 Vnd being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 
 
 XLII 
 
 And then there was the Miss Audacia 
 
 Shoestring, 
 A dashing demoiselle of good estate. 
 Whose heart was iix'd upon a star or blue 
 
 string ; 
 But whether English dukes grew rare of 
 
 late, 
 Or that she had not harp'd upon the true 
 
 string. 
 By which such sirens can attract our 
 
 great, 
 She took up with some foreign younger 
 
 brother, 
 A Russ or Turk — the one's as good as 
 
 t'other. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 And then there was — but why should I go 
 on, [was 
 
 Unless the ladies should go off ? — there 
 Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 
 
 Of the best class, and better than her 
 class. — 
 Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 
 O'er life, too sweet an image for such 
 glass, 
 A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
 A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet 
 folded ; 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 
 Child to the care of guardians good and 
 kind ; 
 
792 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 But still her aspect had an air so lonely ' 
 Blood is not water ; and where shall we 
 find 
 Feelings of youth like those which over 
 thrown lie 
 By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
 To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 
 Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 
 
 XLV 
 
 Early in years, and yet more infantine 
 
 In figure, she had something of sublime 
 In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' 
 shine. 
 All youth — but with an aspect beyond 
 time ; 
 Radiant and grave — as pitying man's 
 decline ; 
 Mournful — but mournful of another's 
 crime. 
 She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door. 
 And grieved for those who could return no 
 more. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 She was a Cathohc, too, sincere, austere, 
 As far as her own gentle heart allow'd. 
 And deem'd that fallen worship far more 
 dear 
 Perhaps because 'twas fallen : her sires 
 were proud ' 
 Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the 
 ear 
 Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
 To novel power ; and as she was the last, 
 She held their old faith and old feelings 
 fast. 
 
 XL VII 
 
 She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew 
 
 As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 
 
 .As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew. 
 
 And kept her heart serene withirt its zone. 
 
 There was awe in the homage which she 
 
 drew ; 
 
 Her spirit seera'd as seated on a throne 
 
 Apart from the surrounding world, and 
 
 strong 
 In its own strength — most strange in one 
 so young ! 
 
 KLvm 
 Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue, 
 
 Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted. 
 Although hei birth and wealth had given 
 her vogue. 
 Beyond the charmers we have already 
 cited ; 
 Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 
 Against her being mention'd as well 
 fitted, 
 By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
 Of single gentlemen who would be double 
 
 XLIX 
 
 And this omission, like that of the bust 
 Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
 
 Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must.. 
 This he express'd half smiling and half 
 serious ; 
 When Adeline replied with some disgust. 
 And with an air, to say the least, imper- 
 ious, 
 She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 
 As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ? " 
 
 L 
 
 Juan rejoind — " She was a Catholic, 
 
 And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 
 Since he was sure his mother would fall 
 sick. 
 And the Pope thunder excommunication, 
 
 If • " But here Adeline, who seem'd to 
 
 pique 
 Herself extremely on the inoculation 
 Of others with her own opinions, stated — 
 As usual — the same reason which she late 
 did, 
 
 And wherefore not ? A reasonable reason, 
 If good, is none the worst for "repetition ; 
 
 If bad, the best way's certainly to tease on. 
 And amplify : you lose much by con- 
 cision. 
 
 Whereas insisting in or out of season 
 Convinces all men, even a politician ; 
 
 Or — ;what is just the same — it wearies out. 
 
 So the end's gain'd, what signifies the 
 route ? 
 
 Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
 For prejudice it was — against a creature' 
 
 .As pure as sanctity itself from vice. 
 
 With all the added charm of form and 
 feature. 
 
 For me appears a question far too nice. 
 Since Adeline was liberal by nature ; 
 
 But nature's nature, and has more caprices 
 
 Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 
 
 LITI 
 
 Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 
 With which .Aurora on those baubles 
 look'd. 
 Which charm most people in their earlier 
 day : 
 For there are few things bv mankind 
 less brook'd, 
 .And womankind too, if we so mav say. 
 Than finding thus their genius stand 
 rebuked. 
 Like " Anthony's by Cassar," bv the few 
 Who look upon them as they ought to do. 
 
 It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 
 Her place was far beyond it, and her 
 
 mind. 
 It was not scorn — which could not light on 
 
 one 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 793 
 
 Whose greatest iautt was leaving few to 
 find. 
 It was not jealousy, 1 think . but shun 
 Following the " ignes fatui " of man- 
 kind. 
 
 It was not but tis easier far. alas ! 
 
 To say what it was not than what it was. 
 
 Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 
 Of such discussion She was there a 
 guest ; 
 A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 
 Of rank and youth, though purer than 
 the rest, 
 Which flow'don for a moment in the beam 
 Time sheds a moment o'er each spark- 
 ling crest. 
 Had she known this, she would have 
 
 calmly smiled — 
 She had so much, or little, of the child. 
 
 The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
 Imposed not upon her : she saw her 
 blaze 
 Much as she would have seen a glow-worm 
 shine. 
 Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier 
 rays. 
 Juan was something she could not divine. 
 Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 
 Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 
 Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 
 
 Jlis fame too, — for he had that kind of 
 fame 
 Which sometimes plays the deuce with 
 womanlcind, 
 A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 
 Half virtues and whole vices being com- 
 bined ; 
 Faults which attract because they are not 
 tame ; 
 Follies trick'd out so brightly that they 
 blind :— 
 These seals upon her wax made no im- 
 pression. 
 Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 
 
 Juan knew nought of such a character — 
 High, yet resembling not his lost 
 Haidee ; 
 
 Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere ■ 
 The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 
 
 More warm, as lovely, and not l«ss sincere. 
 Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be. 
 
 Nor would be thus : — the difference in 
 them 
 
 Was such as lies between a flower and gem. | 
 
 Having wound up with this sublime com- 
 parison, 
 Methinks we may proceed upon our 
 narrative. 
 And, as my friend Scott says, " I sound 
 -my warison ; " 
 Scott, the superlative of my compara- 
 tive — 
 Scott, who can paint your Christian knight 
 or Saracen, 
 Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none 
 would share it, if 
 There had not been one Shakspeare and 
 
 Voltaire, 
 Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 
 
 I say, in my sUght way I may proceed 
 
 To play upon the surface of humanity. 
 
 I write the world, nor care if the world read. 
 
 At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
 
 My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may 
 
 breed 
 
 More foes by this same scroll : when I 
 
 began it, I 
 
 Thought that it might turn out so — now 
 
 I know it. 
 But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 
 
 The conference or congress (for it ended 
 As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
 Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 
 Some acids with the sweets — for she 
 was heady ; 
 But, ere the matter could be marr'd or 
 mended. 
 The silvery bell rang, not for " dinner 
 ready," 
 But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to 
 
 dress. 
 Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for 
 less. 
 
 Great things were now to be achieved at 
 table, 
 With massy plate for armour, knives and 
 forks 
 For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer's 
 able 
 (His feasts are not the worst part of his 
 works) 
 To draw up in array a single day-bill 
 Of modern dinners ? where more 
 mystery lurks. 
 In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout. 
 Than witches, b — ches, or physicians, 
 brew. 
 
 There was a goodly " soupe a la bonne 
 jemme,^^ 
 
 3P 
 
794 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Though God knows whence it came from ; 
 there was, too, 
 A turbot for rehef of those who cram, 
 Relieved with " dindon 4 la Parigeux :" 
 
 There also was the sinner that I am ! 
 
 How shall I get this gourmand stanza 
 through ? — 
 " Soupe a la Beauveau," whose relief was 
 
 dory. 
 Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 
 
 But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
 Or njiass ; for should I stretch into de- 
 tail, 
 My Muse would run much more into excess. 
 Than when some squeamish people deem 
 her frail ; 
 But tboug(i a " bonne vivante," I must con- 
 fess 
 Her stomach's not her peccant part ; 
 this tjile 
 Hovvever doth( require some slight refec- 
 tion. 
 Just to relieve her spirits fcom dejection. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Fowls " ^ la Conde," slices eke of salmon. 
 With " sauces Genevoises," and haunch 
 of veiiison : 
 Wines too, whch might again have slain 
 young Ammon — 
 A inan like whom I hop_' we sha'n't see 
 many soon; 
 They also set a glazed Westpbalian ham 
 on, 
 Whereon Apicius would bestow his beni- 
 son ; 
 And then there was champagne with foam- 
 ing whirls, 
 As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 Then there was God knows what " a 
 I'Allemande," 
 " A I'Espagnole," " timbaUe," and 
 " salpico^ " — 
 With things I can't withstand or under- 
 stand, 
 Though swallow'd with much zest upon 
 the whole ; 
 And " entremets " to piddle with at hand. 
 Gently to lull dQW^ the siibsidirjg ^oul ; 
 While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal 
 
 muffles — 
 {There's fame) — you(i,g partridge fillets, 
 deck'd with truffles. 
 
 L.-;vii 
 What are the fillets on tiie tictor's brow 
 To these ? They are rags or dust. Where 
 is the arch 
 Which nodded to the nation's spoils be- 
 low ? 
 
 Where the triumphal charjots' haughty 
 march ^ 
 Gone to where victories must like dinners 
 go 
 Farther I shall not follow the research : 
 But oh I ye modern heroes with your cart- 
 ridges, 
 When will your names lend lustre e'en to 
 partridges ? 
 
 Lxvin 
 Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
 FoUow'd by " petits puits d'amour " — 
 a dish 
 Of which perhaps the cookery rather \'aries, 
 
 So every one may dress it to his wish. 
 According to the best of dictionaries. 
 
 Which encyclopedise both flesh and fish ; 
 But even sans " confitures," it no less true 
 
 is. 
 There's pretty picking in those " petits 
 puits." 
 
 LXIX 
 
 The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
 Of intellect expanded ori t^yo coiurses ; 
 And indigestion's grand multiplication 
 
 Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 
 Who would suppose, from Adam's simple 
 ration. 
 That cookery could have call'd forth 
 such resources. 
 As form a science ^nd a nomenclature 
 From out the commonest demands of 
 nature ? 
 
 LXX 
 
 The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 
 
 The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
 The ladies with more moderation mingled 
 
 In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
 Also the younger men too : for a springald 
 
 Can't, like ripe age, in gormapdise excel. 
 But thinks less of good eating than the 
 
 whisper 
 (When seated next him) of sonae pretty 
 lisper. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 Alas ! I must leave undescribedthegibier, 
 
 The salmi, the consomme, the puree. 
 All which I use to make my rhymes run 
 glibber 
 Than could roast beef in our rough Jobu 
 Bull way. 
 I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 
 " Bubble and squeak " would spoil my 
 liquid lay, 
 But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
 The chaste description even of a " becasse ; " 
 
 LXXII 
 
 And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
 From nature for the ser\-icc of the gout — 
 
 Taste or the gvtit. — pronounce it as inclipes 
 Your stomach ! Ere you dine, the 
 French will do ; 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 795 
 
 But after, there are sometimes certain 
 
 signs 
 Which prove plaia English truer of the 
 
 tyo. 
 Hast ever had tlie ^oul ? I have not had 
 
 it— 
 But I may have, and you too, reader, 
 
 dread it, 
 
 Lxxm 
 The simple olives, best allies of wine. 
 Must I pass over in my Bill of fare ? 
 I must, although a favourite "plat" of 
 mine 
 In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every 
 where : 
 On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to 
 dine. 
 The grass my table-cloth, in open air. 
 On Sunium or Hvmettus, like Diogenes, 
 Of whom half my'philosophy the progeny 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl. 
 And vegetables, aU in masquerade. 
 
 The guests were placed according to their 
 roll. 
 But various as the various meats dis- 
 play'd : 
 
 Don Juan sat next an " 4 I'Espagnole " — 
 No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
 
 But so far like a ladv, that 'twas drest 
 
 Superbly, and contained a world of zest. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 By some odd chance too, he was placed 
 between 
 Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
 A situation difficult, I ween. 
 
 For man therein, with eyes and heart, to 
 dine. 
 Also the conference which we have seen 
 Was not such as to encourage him to 
 shine. 
 For Adeline, addressing few words to him. 
 With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look 
 through him. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 I sometimes almost think that eyes have 
 ears : 
 This much is sure, that, out of earshot, 
 things 
 Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, 
 Of which I can't tell whence their know- 
 ledge springs. . ^,^ u 
 Like that same mystic music of the spheres. 
 Which no one hears, so loudly though it 
 rings, , , , 
 'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
 Long dialogues— which pass'd without a 
 word ! 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Aurora sat with that indifference 
 
 Which piques a preux chevalier^as it 
 ought ; 
 
 Of all offences that's the worst offence. 
 Which seems to hint you are not worth 
 a thought. 
 
 Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence. 
 Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; 
 
 Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
 
 And after so much excellent advice. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 To his gay nothings, nothing was replied. 
 Or something which was nothing, as 
 urbanity 
 Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
 Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 
 The devil was in the girl I Could it be 
 pride ? 
 Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 
 Heaven knows ! But Adeline's maUcious 
 
 eyes 
 Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 
 
 * LXXIX 
 
 And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it;" 
 A kind of triumph I'U not recommend. 
 
 Because it sometimes, as I have seen or 
 read it, 
 Both in the case of lover and of friend, 
 
 Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit. 
 To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 
 
 For all men prophesy what it or was. 
 
 And hate those who won't let them come to 
 pass. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Juan was drawn thus into some attentions. 
 Slight but select, and just enough to ex- 
 press. 
 To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 
 That he would rather make them more 
 than less, 
 Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 
 Though probably much less a fact than 
 guess) 
 So far relax'd her thoughts from their 
 
 sweet prison. 
 As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 From answering she began to question ; 
 this 
 With her was rare ; and Adeline, who as 
 yet 
 Thought her predictions went not much 
 amiss. 
 Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette — 
 So very dif&cult, they say, it is 
 
 To keep extremes from meeting, when 
 once set 
 In motion ; but she here too much refined- 
 Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 
 
796 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 But Juan had a sort of winning way, 
 A proud humility, if such there be, 
 
 Which show'd such deference to what 
 females say, 
 As if each charming word were a decree. 
 
 His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to 
 
 And taught him when to be reserved or 
 free : 
 He had the art of drawing people out. 
 Without their seeing what he was about. 
 
 Lxxxin 
 Aurora, who in her indifference 
 
 Confounded him in common with the 
 crowd 
 Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had 
 more sense 
 Than whispering foplings, or than wit- 
 lings loud — 
 Commenced (from such slight things will 
 great commence) 
 To feel that flattery which attracts the 
 proud 
 Rather by deference than compliment. 
 And wins e\'en by a delicate dissent. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 And then he had good looks ; — that point 
 
 was carried 
 Nem. con, amongst the women, which I 
 
 grieve 
 To say leads oft to crim. con. with the 
 
 married — 
 A case which to the juries we may lea\'e. 
 Since with digressions we too long have 
 
 tarried. 
 Now though we know of old that looks 
 
 deceive. 
 And always have done, somehow these 
 
 good looks 
 Make more impression than the best of 
 
 books. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Aurora, who look'd more on books than 
 faces, 
 Was very young, although so very sage. 
 Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
 
 Especially upon a printed page. 
 But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces. 
 Has not the natural stays of strict old 
 age; 
 .■\nd Socrates, that model of all duty, 
 Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for 
 beauty. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 
 But innocently so, as Socrates : 
 
 And really, if the sage sublime and .Attic 
 At seventy years had phantasies like 
 these, 
 
 Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 
 
 Has shown, I know not why they should 
 
 displease 
 In virgins — always in a modest way. 
 Observe ; for that with me's a " sine 
 
 qua." ' 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke 
 (See tittleton), whene'er I have ex- 
 press'd 
 Opinions two, which at first sight may 
 look 
 Twin opposites, the second is the best. 
 Perhaps I have a third too, in a nook. 
 
 Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest : 
 But if a writer should be quite consistent. 
 How could he possibly show things exist- 
 ent ? 
 
 LXXXVtII 
 
 If people contradict themselves, can I 
 Help contradicting them, and every 
 body. 
 Even my veracious self ! — But that's a lie : 
 I never did so, never will — how should 
 I? 
 He who doubts all things nothing can deny ; 
 Truth's fountains may be clear — her 
 streams are muddy. 
 And cut through such canals of contra- 
 diction, 
 That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 
 
 LXX.XIX 
 
 Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable. 
 Are false, but may be render'd also true, 
 
 By those who sow thera in a land that's 
 arable. 
 'Tis wonderful what fable will not do ! 
 
 'Tis said it makes reality more bearable : 
 But what's reality ? Who has its 
 clue ? 
 
 Philosophy ? N'o : she too much rejects. 
 
 Religion ? Yes ; but which of all her sects -■' 
 
 Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty 
 clear ; 
 Perhaps it mav turn out that all were 
 right. 
 God help us ! Since we have need on our 
 career 
 To keep our holy beaeons always bright, 
 'Tis time that some new prophet should 
 appear. 
 Or old indulge man with a second sight. 
 Opinions wear out in some thousand years. 
 Without a small refreshment frotn the 
 spheres. 
 
 xci 
 But here again, why will I thus entangle 
 Myself with metaphysics ? None can 
 hate 
 So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
 .\nd yet. such is my folly, or my fate. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 797 
 
 I always knock my head against some angle 
 
 About the present, past, or future state : 
 
 Yet 1 wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 
 
 For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 
 
 But though I am a temperate theologian, 
 
 And also meek as a metaphysician. 
 Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan 
 As Eldon = on a lunatic commission. 
 In politics my duty is to show John 
 
 Bull something of the lower world's 
 condition. 
 It makes my blood boil like the springs of 
 
 Hecla.s 
 To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns 
 break law. 
 
 XCIII ' 
 
 But politics, and policy, and piety. 
 
 Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
 
 Not only for the sake of their variety, 
 But as subservient to a moral use ; 
 
 Because my business is to dress society. 
 And stuff with sage that very verdant 
 goose. 
 
 And now, that we may furnish with some 
 matter all 
 
 Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 
 
 xciv 
 And now I will give up all argument ; 
 And positively henceforth no tempta- 
 tion 
 Shall ' ' fool me to the top up of my bent : " — 
 Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 
 Indeed, I never knew what people meant 
 By deeming that my Muse's conver- 
 sation 
 Was dangerous ; — I think she is as harmless 
 As some who labour more and yet may 
 charm less. 
 
 xcv 
 Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 
 No ; but you have heard — I understand 
 — be dumb ! 
 And don't regret the time you may have 
 
 For you have got that pleasure still to 
 come : 
 And do not think I mean to sneer at most 
 Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
 That source of the sublime and the mysteri- 
 ous : — , ,. , . 
 For certain reasons my belief is serious. 
 
 xcvi 
 Serious ? You laugh ;— you may : that 
 will I not ; . ^ j. „ 
 
 My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
 T sav I do believe a haunted spot 
 
 Exists— and where ? That shall I not 
 
 Because I'd rather it should be forgot, 
 
 " Shadows the soul of Richard " nr.ay 
 
 appal. 
 In short, upon that subject I've some 
 
 qualms very 
 Like those of the philospher of Malmsbury .' 
 
 The night — (I sing by night — sometimes 
 an owl. 
 And now and then a nightingale) — is dim. 
 And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's 
 fowl 
 Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 
 Old portraits from old walls upon me 
 scowl — 
 I wish to heaven they would not look so 
 grim ; 
 The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 
 I think too that I have sat up too late : 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 And therefore, though 'tis by no means my 
 way 
 To rhyme at noon — when I have other 
 things 
 To think of, if I ever think — I say 
 
 I feel some chilly midnight shudderings. 
 And prudently postpone, until mid-day. 
 
 Treating a topic which, alas ! but brings 
 Shadows ; — but you must be in my con- 
 dition 
 Before you learn to call this superstition. 
 
 xcix 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 'Twixt night and morn, upon the hori- 
 zon's verge 
 How little do we know that which we are ! 
 How less what we may be ! The eternal 
 surge 
 Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
 Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new 
 emerge, 
 Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the 
 
 graves 
 Of empires heave but like some passing 
 waves. 
 
 CANTO THE SIXTEENTH 
 
 The antique Persians taught three useful 
 things, 
 To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the 
 truth. 
 This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 
 A mode adopted since by modern youth. 
 Bows have they, generally with two strings; 
 Horses they ride without remorse or 
 ruth ; 
 At speaking truth perhaps they are less 
 
 clever. 
 But draw the long bow better now than 
 ever. 
 
798 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The cause of this effect, or this defect, — 
 " For this effect defective comes by 
 cause," — 
 
 Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 
 But this I must say in my own applause, 
 
 Of all the Muses that I recollect, 
 
 Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws, 
 
 In some things, mine's beyond all contra- 
 diction 
 
 The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 
 
 And as she treats all things, and ne'er 
 retreats . 
 From any thing, this epic will contain 
 A wilderness of the most rare conceits. 
 Which you might elsewhere hope to find 
 in vain, 
 'Tis true there be some bitters with the 
 sweets, 
 Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't 
 complain. 
 But wonder they so few are, since my tale 
 
 is 
 " De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 
 
 IV 
 
 But of all truths which she has told, the 
 most 
 True is that which she is about to tell. 
 I said it was a story of a ghost — 
 
 What then ? I only know it so befell. 
 Have you explored the limits of the coast. 
 Where all the dwellers of the earth must 
 dwell ? 
 'Tis time to strike such puny doubters 
 
 dumb as 
 The sceptics who would not believe Colum- 
 bus. 
 
 V 
 
 Some people would impose now with 
 authority, 
 Turpin's or Monmouth Geoftry's Chroni- 
 cle ; 
 Men whose historical superiority 
 Is always greatest at a miracle. 
 But Saint Augustine has the great priority. 
 Who bids all men believe the impossible. 
 Because 'Us so. Who nibble, scribble, 
 
 quibble, he 
 Quiets at once with " g-uia impossibile." 
 
 VI 
 
 And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 
 
 Believe : — if 'tis improbable, you must, 
 And if it is impossible, you shall : 
 
 'Tis always best to take things upon 
 trust. 
 I do not speak profanely, to recall 
 Those holier mysteries which the wise 
 and just 
 Receive as gospel, and which grow more 
 rooted. 
 
 As all truths must, the more they are dis- 
 puted : 
 
 VII 
 
 I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 
 That in the course of some six thousand 
 years. 
 All nations have believed that from the 
 dead 
 A visitant at intervals appears ; 
 And what is strangest upon this strange 
 head. 
 Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 
 'Gainst such belief, there's something 
 
 stronger still 
 In its behalf, let those deny who will. 
 
 The dinner and the soiree too were done, 
 The supper too discuss'd, the dames 
 admired, 
 The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by 
 one — 
 The song was silent, and the dance 
 expired : 
 The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
 
 Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired. 
 And nothing brighter gleam'd through the 
 
 saloon 
 Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 
 
 IX 
 
 The evaporation of a joyous day 
 
 Is Uke the last glass of champagne, 
 without 
 
 The foam which made its virgin bumper 
 gay; 
 Or Uke a system coupled with a doubt ; 
 
 Or Uke a soda bottle when its spray 
 
 Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
 
 Or Uke a billow left by storms behind, 
 
 Without the animation of the wind ; 
 
 Or like an opiate, which brings troubled 
 rest. 
 Or none ; or like — like nothing that I 
 know 
 Except itself ; — such is the human breast ; 
 
 A thing, of which similitudes can show 
 No real likeness, — like the old T>Tian vest 
 Dyed purple, none at present can tell 
 how. 
 If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. 
 So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal 
 
 But next to dressing for a rout or baU, 
 Undressing is a woe ; our robe de cham- 
 bre 
 May sit like that of Nessus. and recall 
 Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear 
 than amber. 
 Titus exclaira'd, " I've lost a day ! " Of 
 aU 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 799 
 
 The nights and days most people can 
 
 remember, 
 (I have had of both, some not to be dis- 
 
 dain'd,) 
 I wish they'd state how many they have 
 
 gain'd. 
 
 XII 
 
 And Juan, on retiring for the night. 
 
 Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compro- 
 mised : 
 He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more 
 bright 
 
 Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 
 If he had known exactly his own plight. 
 
 He probably would have philosophised : 
 A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
 Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 
 
 XIII 
 
 He sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full 
 moon. 
 
 Where all sighs are deposited ; and now 
 It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
 
 As clear as such a climate will allow ; 
 And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
 
 To hail her with the apostrophe — " O 
 thou ! " 
 Of amatory egotism the Tuism, 
 Which further to explain would be a truism. 
 
 But lover, poet, or astronomer. 
 
 Shepherd, or swain, whoever may be- 
 hold. 
 Feel some abstraction when they gaze on 
 her : 
 Great thoughts we catch from thence 
 (besides a cold 
 Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err) ; 
 Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
 The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she 
 
 sways. 
 And also hearts, if there be truth in lays, 
 
 XV 
 
 Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
 For contemplation rather than his pillow; 
 The Gothic chamber, where he was en- 
 closed. 
 Let in the rippling sound of the lake's 
 billow. 
 With all the mystery by midnight caused : 
 Below his window waved (of course) a 
 willow ; 
 And he stood gazing out on the cascade 
 That ilash'd and after darken'd in the 
 shade. 
 
 XVI 
 Upon his table or his toilet, — which 
 
 Of these is not exactly ascertain'd, — 
 (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 
 
 'Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd,) 
 A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from 
 a niche. 
 
 Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd. 
 In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
 That time has left our fathers of their hall. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Then, as the night was clear though cold, 
 he threw 
 His chamber door wide open — and went 
 forth 
 Into a gallery, of a sombre hue. 
 
 Long, furnish'd with old pictures of 
 great worth. 
 Of knights and dames heroic and chaste 
 too. 
 As doubtless should be people of high 
 birth. 
 But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
 Have something ghastly, desolate, and 
 dread. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 The forms of the grim knight and pictured 
 saint 
 Look living in the moon ; and as you 
 turn 
 Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
 Of your own footsteps — voices from the 
 urn 
 Appear to wake, and shadows wild and 
 quaint 
 Start from the frames which fence their 
 aspects stern, 
 As if to ask how you can dare to keep 
 A vigil there, where all but death should 
 sleep. 
 
 XIX 
 
 And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 
 The charms of other days, in starlight 
 gleams, 
 Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still 
 wave 
 Along the canvass ; their eyes glance 
 like dreams 
 On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
 But death is imaged in their shadowy 
 beams. 
 A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 
 Be gilt, who sate hath ceaeed to be the 
 same. 
 
 XX 
 
 As Juan mused on mutability. 
 
 Or on his mistress — terms synonymous— 
 No sound except the echo of his sigh 
 Or step ran sadly through that antique 
 house ; 
 When suddenly he heard, or thought so, 
 nigh, 
 A supernatural agent — or a moiKe, 
 Whose little nibbling rustle wiU embarrass 
 Most people as it plays along the arras. 
 
 x.xi 
 It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
 In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, 
 appear'd, 
 
8oo 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in 
 shade, 
 With steps that trod as heavy, yet un- 
 heard ; 
 
 His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
 He moved as shadowy as the sisters 
 weird. 
 
 But slowly ; and as he passed Juan by, 
 
 Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright 
 eye. 
 
 XXII 
 
 J uan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
 
 Of such a spirit in these halls of old. 
 But thought, like most men, there was 
 nothing in't 
 Beyond the rumour which such spots un- 
 fold, 
 Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 
 Which passes ghosts in currency like 
 gold, 
 But rarely seen, like gold compared with 
 
 paper. 
 And did he see this ? or was it a vapour ? 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the 
 thing of air, 
 Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other 
 place ; 
 And Juan gazed upon it with a stare. 
 Yet could not speak or move ; but, on 
 its base 
 As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
 Twine like a knot of snakes around his 
 face ; 
 He tax'd his tongue for words, which were 
 
 not granted. 
 To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 
 
 The third time, after a still longer pause. 
 The shadow pass'd away — ^but where ? 
 the hall 
 Was long, and thus far there was no great 
 cause 
 To think his vanishing unnatural : 
 Doors there were many, through which, by. 
 the laws 
 Of physics, bodies whether short or tall 
 Might come or go ; but Juan could not 
 
 state 
 Through which the spectre seem'd to 
 evaporate. 
 
 XXV 
 
 He stood — how long he knew not, but it 
 seem'd 
 iVn age — expectant, powerless, with his 
 eyes 
 Strain'd on the spot where first the figure 
 gleam'd. 
 Then by degrees recali'd his energies, 
 .\nd would have pass'd the whole off as a 
 dream, 
 
 But could not wake ; he was, he did stir- 
 
 mise. 
 Waking already, and return'd at length 
 Back to his chamber, shorn of half his 
 
 strength. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 All there was as he left it : still his taper 
 Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use. 
 
 Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour ; 
 He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not 
 refuse 
 
 Their office ; he took up an old news- 
 paper ; 
 The paper was right easy to peruse ; 
 
 He read an article the king attacking. 
 
 And a long eulogy of " patent blacking." 
 
 XXVII 
 
 This savour'd of this world ; but his hand 
 shook : 
 He shut his door, and after having read 
 A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
 Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. 
 There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's 
 nook. 
 With what he had seen his phantasy he 
 fed ; 
 And though it was no opiate, slumber 
 
 crept 
 Upon him by degrees, and so he'slept. 
 
 XX\'III 
 
 He woke betimes ; and, as may be sup- 
 posed, 
 Ponder'd upon his \-i?itant or vision. 
 And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 
 At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
 The more he thought, the more his mind 
 was posed ; 
 In the mean time, his valet, whose pre- 
 cision 
 Was great, because his master brook' d no 
 
 less, 
 Ivnock'd to inform him it was time to 
 dress. 
 
 X.XIX 
 
 He dress'd ; and like young people he was 
 wont 
 To take some trouble with his toilet, but 
 This morning rather spent less time upon 't ; 
 
 Aside his verv mirror soon was put ; 
 His curls fell negligently o'er his front. 
 His clothes were not curb'd to their usual 
 cut. 
 His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 
 Almost an hair's breadth too much on one 
 side. 
 
 And when he walk'd down into the saloon. 
 He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea. 
 
 Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
 Had it not happen'd scaldine hot to be_ 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 8ol 
 
 Which made him have recourse unto his 
 
 spoon ; 
 So much distrait he was, that all could 
 
 see 
 That something was the matter — Adeline 
 The first — but what she could not well 
 
 divine. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd 
 as pale 
 Herself ; then hastily look'd down, and 
 mutter'd 
 Something, but what's not stated in my 
 tale. 
 Lord Kenry said, his muf&n was iU 
 butter'd ; 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her 
 veil, 
 And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing 
 utter'd. 
 Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes 
 Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 But seeing him all cold and silent still, 
 
 And every body wondering more or less. 
 Fair Adeline enquired, " If he were ill ? " 
 He started, and said, " Yes — no — ^rather 
 — yes." 
 The family physician had great skill. 
 And being present, now began to ex- 
 press 
 His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 
 The cause, but Juan said," He was quite 
 well." 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 " Quite well ; yes, — ^no." — These answers 
 were mysterious. 
 And yet his looks appear'd to sanction 
 both. 
 However they might savour of delirious ; 
 Something like iUness of a sudden 
 growth 
 Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means 
 serious : 
 But for the rest, as he himself seem'd 
 loth 
 To state the case, it might be ta'en for 
 
 granted 
 It was not the physician that he wanted. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his 
 chocolate, , . , , 
 
 Also the muffin whereof he complam d, 
 Said, Juan had not.got his usual look elate, 
 At which he marveU'd, since it had not 
 rain'd ; 
 Then ask'd her Grace what news were of 
 the duke of late ? 
 Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather 
 pain'd 
 With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
 Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hina e s. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Then Henry turn'dto Juan, and address'd 
 A few words of condolence on his state : 
 " You look," quoth he, " as if you had had 
 your rest 
 Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 
 " What Friar ? " said Juan ; and he did his 
 best 
 To put the question with an air sedate. 
 Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 
 To hinder him from growing still more 
 pallid. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 " Oh ! have you never heard of the Black 
 Friar ? 
 The spirit of these walls ? " — " In 
 truth not I." 
 " Why Fame — but Fame you know's 
 sometimes a liar — 
 Tells an odd story, of which by and by : 
 Whether with time the spectre has grown 
 shyer, 
 Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
 For such sights, though the tale is half 
 
 believed. 
 The Friar of last has not been oft per- 
 ceived. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 " The last time was " — " I pray," 
 
 said Adeline — 
 (Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's 
 brow. 
 And from its context thought she could 
 divine 
 Connections stronger than he chose 
 to avow 
 With this same legend) — "if you but design 
 To jest, you'll choose some other theme 
 just now, 
 Because the present tale has oft been told. 
 And isnot much improved by growing old." 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 " Jest ! " quoth Milor ; " why, Adeline, 
 you know 
 That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey 
 moon — 
 
 Saw " — "Well, no matter, 'twas so 
 
 long ago ; 
 
 But, come, I'll set your story to a tune. ' 
 
 Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow. 
 
 She seiz'd her harp, whose strings were 
 
 kindled soon 
 
 As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
 
 The air of " 'Twas a Friar of Orders Gray." 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 " But add the words," cried Henry, "which 
 you made ; 
 For Adeline is half a poetess," 
 Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 
 Of course the others could not but ex- 
 press 
 
8o2 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 In courtesy their ^\■ihh to see display'd 
 By one three talents, for there were no 
 
 less — 
 The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at 
 
 once 
 Could hardly he united by a dunce. 
 
 After some fascinating hesitation, — 
 The charming of these charmers, who 
 seem bound, 
 I can't tell why, to this dissimulation, — 
 Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the 
 ground 
 At first, then kindling into animation. 
 
 Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
 And sang with miuch simplicity, — a merit 
 Not the less precious, that we seldom hear 
 it. 
 
 Efeware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman stone. 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight 
 air, 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his prey. 
 And expell'd the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 Though he came in his might, with King 
 Henry's right. 
 
 To turn church lands to lay, 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay ; 
 A monk remain'd, unchased, unohain'd. 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
 For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in 
 the church. 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. 
 
 And whether for good, or whether for ill. 
 
 It is not mine to say ; 
 But still with the house of Amundeville 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve ; 
 And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes — but not to grieve. 
 
 When an heir is born, he's heard to mourn, 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 He walks from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'Tis shadow'd by his cowl ; 
 But his eyes may be seen from the folds 
 between, 
 
 And they sesm of a parted soul. 
 
 But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 He still retains his sway. 
 For he is yet the church's heir 
 
 Whoever may be the lay, 
 Amimdeville is lord by day, 
 
 But the monk is lord by night ; 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To questioi) that friar's right. 
 
 Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 And he'll say nought to you ; 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then grammercy ! for the Black Friar ; 
 
 Heaven sain him ! fair or foul. 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer. 
 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
 The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling 
 wires 
 Died from the touch that kindled them 
 to sound ; 
 And the pause foUow'd, which when song 
 expires 
 Pervades a moment those who listen 
 round ; 
 And then of course the circle much admires, 
 Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 
 The tones, the feeling, and the execution. 
 To the performer's diffident confusion. 
 
 Fair Adeline, though in a careless way. 
 As if she rated such accomplishment 
 
 As the mere pastime of an idle day, 
 Pursued an instant for her own content, 
 
 Would now and then as 'twere without 
 display. 
 Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
 
 To such performances with haughty smile, 
 
 To show she could, if it were worth her while. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
 Was — pardon the pedantic illustration^ 
 
 Trampling on Plato's pride with greater 
 pride, 
 .\s did the CTOic on some like occasion ; 
 
 Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
 Or thrown into a philosophic passion. 
 
 For a spoilt carpet — but the " Attic bee " 
 
 Was much consoled by his own repartee. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Thus .'\deline would throw into the shade 
 (By doing easily, whene'er she chose. 
 
 What dilettanti do with -sast parade) 
 Their sort at half profession ; for it grows 
 
 To soiuethmg like this when too oft dis- 
 play'd ; 
 .A.nd that it is so, e-^-ery body knows. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 803 
 
 Who have heard Miss That or This, or 
 
 Lady T'«ther, 
 Show off — to please their company or 
 
 mother. 
 
 XLV 
 
 Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 
 The admirations and the speculations ; 
 The " Mamma Mia's ! " and the " Amor 
 Mio's ! " 
 The '' Tanti palpiti's " on such occasions : 
 The " Lasciami's," and quavering 
 " Addio's ! " 
 Amongst our own most musical of 
 nations ; 
 With " Tu mi ohamas's " from Portingale, 
 To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 
 
 In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 
 Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray 
 Highlands, 
 That bring Lochaber back to eyes that 
 roam 
 O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
 The calentures of music which o'ercome 
 All mountaineers with dreams that they 
 are nigh lands, 
 No more to be beheld but in such visions — 
 Was Adehne well versed, as compositions. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue," 
 Could write rhymes, and compose more 
 than she wrote. 
 Made epigrams occasionally too 
 
 Upon her friends, as every body ought. 
 But still from that sublimer azure hue. 
 
 So much the present dye, she was.remote ; 
 Was weak enough to deem Pope a great 
 
 poet. 
 And what was worse, was not ashamed to 
 show it. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Aurora — since we are touching upon taste. 
 Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
 
 By whose degrees all characters are class'd^ 
 Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
 
 The worlds beyond this world's perplexing 
 
 Had more of her existence, for in her 
 There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
 Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too 
 as Space. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless 
 Grace, 
 The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, 
 whose mind. 
 If she had any, was upon her face. 
 
 And that was of a fascinating kind. 
 A little turn for mischief you might trace 
 Also thereon, — but that's not much ; we 
 fifld 
 
 Few females without some such gentle 
 
 leaven. 
 For fear we should suppose us quite in 
 
 heaven. 
 
 L 
 
 I have not heard she was at all poetic. 
 Though once she was seen reading the 
 " Bath Guide," 
 And " Hayley's Triumphs," which she 
 deem'd pathetic. 
 Because she said her temper had been 
 tried 
 So much, the bard had really been pro- 
 phetic 
 Of what she had gone through with — 
 since a bride. 
 But of all verse, what most insured her 
 
 praise 
 Were sonnets to herself , or " bouts rira6s."' 
 
 'Twere difficult to say what was the object 
 
 Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
 To bear on what appear'd to her the sub- 
 ject 
 Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
 Perhaps she merely had the simple project 
 To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
 Perhaps she might wish to confirm him 
 
 in it, 
 Though why I cannot say — at least this 
 minute, 
 
 LII 
 
 But so far the immediate effect 
 
 Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 
 
 A thing quite necessary to the elect. 
 Who wish to take the tone of their society : 
 
 In which you cannot be too circumspect. 
 Whether the mode be persiflage or piety. 
 
 But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy. 
 
 On painof much displeasing the gynocracy . ^ 
 
 LIII 
 
 And therefore Juan now began to rally 
 His spirits, and without more explana- 
 tion 
 To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
 Her Grace too, also seized the same 
 occasion. 
 With various similar remarks to tally, 
 But wish'd for a still more detail'd narra- 
 tion 
 Of this same mystic friar's curious doings. 
 About the present family's deaths and 
 wooings, 
 
 LIV 
 
 Of these few could say more than has been 
 said ; 
 They pass'd as such things do, for super- 
 stition 
 
 With some, while others, who had more in 
 dread 
 
8o4 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 The theme, half credited the strange 
 
 tradition ; 
 And much was talk'd on all sides on that 
 
 head : 
 But Juan, when cross-question'd on the 
 
 vision. 
 Which some supposed (though he had not 
 
 avow'd it) 
 Had stirr'd him, answered in a way to 
 
 cloud it. 
 
 And then, the mid-day having worn to one. 
 
 The company prepared to separate ; 
 Some to their several pastimes, or tononfi- 
 Some wondering 'twas so earlv, some ao 
 late. 
 There was a goodly match too, to be run 
 Between some greyhounds on my lord's 
 estate. 
 And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 
 Match'd for the spring, whom several went 
 to see. 
 
 There was a picture-dealer who had 
 brought, 
 A special Titian, warranted original, 
 So precious that it was not to be bought. 
 Though princes the possessor were be- 
 sieging all. 
 The king himself had cheapen'd it, but 
 thought 
 The civil list he deigns to accept, (oblig- 
 ing all 
 His subjects by his gracious acceptation) — 
 Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 
 
 LVII 
 
 But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,^ 
 The friend of artists, if not arts, — the 
 owner. 
 With motives the most classical and pure, 
 So that he would have been the very 
 donor, 
 Rather than seller, had his wants been 
 fewer. 
 So much he deem'd his patronage an 
 honour, 
 Had brought the capo d'opera 3 not for sale 
 But for his judgment — never known to fail. 
 
 There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 
 Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect. 
 Brought to survey these grey walls, which 
 though so thick. 
 Might have from time acquired somS 
 slight defect ; 
 Who after rummaging the Abbey through 
 thick 
 And thin, produced a plan whereby to 
 erect 
 New buildings of correctest conformation, 
 
 And throw do^vn old, which he call'd 
 I'cstoration. 
 
 LIX 
 
 The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
 Set to some thousands ('tis the usual 
 burden 
 Of that same tune, when people hum it 
 long) — 
 The price would speedily repay its worth 
 in 
 An edifice no less sublime than strong. 
 By which Lord Henry's good taste would 
 go forth in 
 Its glory, through all ages shining sunny. 
 For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
 
 LX 
 
 There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
 Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new 
 purchase ; 
 Also a lawsuit upon teniu-es burgage, 
 And one on tithes, which sure are Dis- 
 cord's torches. 
 Kindling Religion till she throws down her 
 gage, 
 " Untying " squires " to fight against 
 the churches ; " 
 There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and 
 
 ploughman. 
 For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 
 
 There were two poachers caught in a steel 
 trap. 
 Ready for gaol, their place of conva- 
 lescence ; 
 There was a country girl in a close cap 
 And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to 
 see, since — 
 Since — since— in youth. I had the sad 
 mishap — 
 But luckily I have paid few parish fees 
 since) : 
 That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with 
 
 rigour. 
 Presents the problem of a •double figure. 
 
 LXII 
 
 A reel within a bottle is a mystery. 
 
 One can't tell how it e'er got in or out ; 
 Therefore the present piece of natural 
 history 
 I leave to these who are fond of solving 
 doubt ; 
 And mereh state, though not for the cou- 
 sistor>-. 
 Lord Henry was a justice, and that 
 Scout 
 The constable, beneath a warrant's banner. 
 Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's- 
 manor. 
 
 L.XIII 
 
 Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 805 
 
 Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the 
 game 
 And morals of the country from caprices 
 Of those who have not a licence for the 
 same ; 
 And of all things, excepting tithes and 
 leases. 
 Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 
 Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 
 Arepuzzles to themost precautious benches. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 The present culprit was extremely pale. 
 Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being 
 red 
 By nature, as in higher dames less hale 
 'Tis white, at least when the;' just rise 
 from bed. 
 Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, 
 Poor soul ! for she was country born and 
 bred. 
 And knew no better in her immorality 
 Than to wax white — for blushes are for 
 quality'. 
 
 Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle 
 eye. 
 
 Had gather'd a large tear into its corner. 
 Which the poor thing at times essay'd to 
 dry. 
 
 For she was not a sentimental mourner 
 Parading all her sensibility, 
 
 Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 
 But stood in trembling, patient tribulation. 
 To be call'd up for her examination. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 (Of course these groups were scatter'd here 
 I and there. 
 
 Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
 The lawyers in the study ; and in air 
 
 The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; 
 the men sent 
 From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 
 
 Both busy (as a general in his tent 
 Writing despatches)in their several stations, 
 Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 but this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
 I While Scout, the parish guardian of the 
 1 frail, 
 
 biscuss'd (he hated beer yclept the "small") 
 ' A mighty mug of moral double ale. 
 She waited until Justice could recall 
 ' Its kind attentions to their proper pale. 
 To name a thing in nomenclature rather 
 perplexing for most virgins — a child's 
 father. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 You see here was enough of occupation 
 For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and 
 horses. 
 
 There was much bustle too, and prepara- 
 tion 
 Below stairs on the score of second 
 courses ; 
 
 Because, as suits their rank and situation. 
 Those who in counties have great land 
 resources 
 
 Have "public days," when all men may 
 carouse, 
 
 Though not exactly what's call'd " open 
 house." 
 
 But once a week or fortnight, wninvited 
 (Thus we translate a general invitation) 
 All country gentlemen, esquired or 
 knighted. 
 May drop in without cards, and take 
 their station 
 At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
 With fashionable wines and conver- 
 sation ; 
 And, as the isthmus of the grand connection, 
 Talk o'er themselves the past and next 
 election. 
 
 Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 
 Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or 
 
 rabbit. • 
 
 But county contests cost him rather 
 
 dearer, 
 Because the neighbom-ing Scotch Earl of 
 
 Giftgabbit 
 Had English influence, in the self-same 
 
 sphere here ; 
 His son, the Honourable Dick Dice- 
 
 drabbit, 
 Was member for the " other interest " 
 
 (meaning 
 The same self-interest, with a different 
 
 leaning) . 
 
 Courteous and cautious therefore in his 
 county, 
 He was all things to all men, and dis- 
 pensed 
 To some civility, to others bounty. 
 
 And promises to all — which last com- 
 menced 
 To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
 Not calculating how much they con- 
 densed ; 
 But what with keeping some, and breaking 
 
 others. 
 His word had the same value as another's. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 A friend to freedom and to freeholders — 
 yet 
 No less a friend to government — he held, 
 That he exactly the just medium hit 
 'Twixt place and patriotism^albeit com- 
 pell'd, 
 
8o6 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though 
 
 unfit, 
 
 He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,) 
 
 To hold some sinecures he wished abolish'd. 
 
 But that with them all law would be 
 
 demoUsh'd. 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 He was " free to confess " — (whence comes 
 this phrase ? 
 Is't English ? No — 'tis only parliamen- 
 
 *^y' • , • ■. 
 
 That innovation s spirit now-a-days 
 Had made more progress than for the 
 
 last century. 
 He would not tread a factious path to 
 
 praise, 
 Though for the public weal disposed to 
 
 venture high ; 
 As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
 That the fatigue was greater than the 
 
 profit. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 Heaven, and his friends, knew that a pri- 
 vate life 
 Had ever been his sole and whole am- 
 bition ; 
 
 But could he quit his king in times of strife. 
 Which threaten'd the whole country 
 with perdition ? 
 
 When demagogues would with a butcher's 
 knife 
 Cut through and through (oh ! damn- 
 able incision !) 
 
 The Gordian or Grardi-an knot, whose 
 strings 
 
 Have tied together commons, lords, and 
 kings. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Sooner " come place into the civil list 
 And champion him to the utmost — " 
 he would keep it. 
 Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : 
 
 Profit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 
 
 But should the day come when place ceased 
 
 to exist, 
 
 The country would have far more cause 
 
 to weep it : 
 
 For how could it go on ? Explain who 
 
 can ! 
 He gloried in the name of Englishman. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 He was as independent — ay, much more — 
 Than those who were not paid for inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 As common soldiers, or a common 
 
 shore, 
 Have in their several arts or parts 
 ascendance 
 O'er the irregulars in lust or gore. 
 
 Who do not give professional attend- 
 
 Thus on the mob all statesmen are as 
 
 eager 
 To prove their pride, as footmen to a 
 
 beggar. 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 
 
 And thought. I say no more — I've said 
 
 too much ; 
 
 For all of us have either heard or read — ^ 
 
 Off — or upon the hustings — some slight 
 
 such 
 
 Hints from the independent heart or head 
 
 Of the official candidate. I'll touch 
 No more on this — the dinner-bell hath 
 
 rung. 
 And grace is said ; the grace I should have 
 sung — 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 But I'm too late, and therefore must make 
 play. 
 'Twas a great banquet, such as Albioa 
 old 
 Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 
 Were something very glorious to behold. 
 But 'twas a public feast and pubUc day, — ■ 
 Quite full, right dull, guestS' hot, and 
 dishes cold. 
 Great plenty, much formality, small cheer. 
 And everybody out of their own sphere. - 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 The squires familiarly formal, and 
 
 My lords and ladies proudly condescend-^ 
 ing ; 
 The very servants puzzling how to hand 
 Their plates — without it might be too 
 much bending 
 From their high places by the sideboard's 
 stand — 
 Yet, like their masters, fearful of offend- 
 ing. 
 For any deviation from the graces 
 Might cost both man and master too — 
 their places. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 There were some hunters bold, and coursers 
 
 keen. 
 Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor grey- 
 hounds deign'd to lurch ; 
 Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen 
 EarUest to rise, and last to quit the 
 
 search 
 Of the poor partridge through his stubbK 
 
 screen. 
 There were some massy members of the 
 
 church, 
 Takers of tithes, and makers of good 
 
 matches, 
 -\nd se\eral who sung fewer psalms than 
 
 catches. 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 There were some country wags too — and, - 
 alas ! - 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 807 
 
 Some exiles from the town, who had been 
 driven 
 To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 
 
 And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 
 And lo ! upon tfiat day it came to pass, 
 I sate next that o'erwhelming son of 
 heaven. 
 The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,< 
 The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 [ knew him in his livelier London days, 
 A brilliant diner out, though but a 
 curate ; 
 And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise. 
 Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 
 ;0 Providence! how wondrous are thy 
 ways ! 
 Who would suppose thy gifts some- 
 times obdurate ?) 
 Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er 
 
 Lincoln, 
 , A fat fen vicarage, and nought fo think on. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 ;Hi5 jokes were sermons, and his sermons 
 
 jokes ; 
 ■ But both were thrown away amongst 
 
 the fens ; 
 
 For wit hath no great friend in ag^lsh folks. 
 
 No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
 
 Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 
 
 The poor priest was reduced to common 
 
 sense, 
 iOr to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
 !To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick; 
 I throng. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 There is a difference, says the song, " be- 
 tween 
 A beggar and a queen," or was (of late 
 The latter worse used of the two we've 
 
 But we'll say nothing of affairs of state) 
 A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
 
 A difference between crockery ware and 
 pl^te, , , J c- 1 
 
 As between EngUsh beef and Spartan 
 
 ■knd yet great heroes have been bred by 
 '; ! both. 
 
 ixxxv 
 
 But of all nature's discrepancies, none 
 Upon the whole is greater than the differ- 
 ence , ,, , 
 Beheld between the country ao4 the town, 
 ' Of which the latter merits every prefer- 
 ence j: il, • 
 
 ' From those who have few resources of their 
 
 ;' And only think, or act, or feel, with 
 reference 
 
 To some small plan of interest or am- 
 bition — 
 Both which are limited to no condition. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 But " en avant ! " The light loves lan- 
 guish o'er 
 Long banquets and too n^any guests, 
 although 
 A slight repast makes people love much 
 more, 
 Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 
 Even from our grammar upwards, friends 
 of yore 
 With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 
 To these the invention of champagne and 
 
 trufftes : 
 Temperance delights her, but long fastjng 
 ruffles. 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Dully past o'er the dinner of the day ; 
 And Juan took his place, he knew not 
 where. 
 Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 
 And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair : 
 Though knives and forks clang'd round as 
 in a fray. 
 He seem'd unconscious of all passing 
 there, 
 Till sonie one, with a groan, exprest a wish 
 (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 
 
 L.XXXVIII 
 
 On which, at the third asking of the bans, 
 He started ; and perceiving smiles 
 around 
 Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than 
 ouca, 
 And hastily — as nothing can confound 
 A wise man more than laughter from a 
 dunce — 
 Inflicted on the dish a deadly v/ound. 
 And with such hurry, that ere he could 
 
 curb it, 
 He had paid his neighbour's prayer with 
 half a turbot. 
 
 LXXXtX 
 This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd. 
 
 The supplicator being an amateur ; 
 But others, who, were left with scarce a 
 third, 
 Were angry — as they well might, to be 
 sure. • 
 They wonder'd how a young man ^o ab- 
 surd 
 Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
 And this, and his not knowing how much 
 
 oats 
 Had lall'n last market, cost his host three 
 votes. 
 
 xc 
 
 They little knew, or might have sympa- 
 thised. 
 
8o8 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 That he the night before had seen a 
 ghost, 
 A prologue which but slightly harmonised 
 With the substantial company engross'd 
 By matter, and so much materialised. 
 That one scarce knew at what to marvel 
 most 
 Of two things — ^how (the question rather 
 
 odd is) 
 Such bodies could have souls, or souls such 
 bodies. 
 
 But what confused him more than smile or 
 stare. 
 From all the 'squires and 'squiresses 
 around. 
 Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 
 
 Especially as he had been renown'd 
 For some vivacity among the fair, 
 Even in the country circle's narrow 
 bound — 
 (For little things upon my lord's estate 
 Were good small talk for others still less 
 great)— 
 
 Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
 And something like a smile upon her 
 cheek. 
 Now this he really rather took amiss ; 
 In those who rarely smile, their smile be- 
 speaks 
 A strong external motive ; and in this 
 Smile of Aurora's there was nought to 
 pique, 
 Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 
 Which some pretend to trace in ladies' 
 smiles. 
 
 'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 
 
 Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
 And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 
 Which was not very wise, and still less 
 witty. 
 Since he had gain'd at least her observation , 
 A most important outwork of the city — 
 As Juan should have known, had not his 
 
 senses 
 By last night's ghost been driven from 
 their defences. 
 
 But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 
 Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the con- 
 trary ; 
 Her aspect was as usual, still — not stern — 
 And she withdrew, but cast not down, 
 her eye, 
 Yet grew a little pale — with what ? con- 
 cern ? 
 I know not ; but her colour ne'er was 
 high— 
 
 Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and 
 
 always clear. 
 As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 
 
 xcv 
 But Adeline was occupied by fame 
 This day ; and watching, witching, con- 
 descending i 
 To the consumers of fish, fowl, and_game^ 
 And dignity with courtesy so blendingj 
 As all must blend whose part it is to aims 
 (Especially as the sixth year is ending 
 At their lord's, son's, or similar connec- 
 tion's 
 Safe conduct through the rocks of re- 
 elections. 
 
 xcvi 
 Though this was most expedient on the 
 whole. 
 And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 
 On Adeline while playing her grand role. 
 Which she went through as though it 
 were a dance, 
 Betraying only now and then her soul 
 
 By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
 (Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 
 Some doubt how much of Adeline was 
 real ; 
 
 xcvii 
 So well she acted all and every part 
 By turns — with that vivacious ver- 
 satility, 
 Which many people take for want of heart. 
 They err — 'tis merely what is call'd 
 mobility, 
 A thing of temperament and not of art, 
 Though seeming so, from its supposed 
 facility ; 
 And false — though true ; for surely they're 
 
 sincerest 
 Who are strongly acted on bv what is 
 nearest. 
 
 .xcvin 
 This makes your, actors, artists,' and 
 romancers, 
 Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages 
 never : 
 But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and 
 dancers, 
 Little that's great, but much of what is 
 clever ; 
 Mo=t orators, but very few financiers, 
 Though all Exchequer chancellors en- 
 deavour, 
 Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's 
 
 rigours. 
 And grow quite figurative with their figures. 
 
 xcix 
 The poets of arithmetic are they 
 
 \\'ho, though they prove not two andl 
 two to be 1. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 809 
 
 Have plainly made it out that four are 
 three, 
 Judging by what they take, and what thev 
 pay 
 The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, 
 That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
 The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 
 
 While Adeline dispensed her airs and 
 graces, 
 The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at 
 ease ; 
 Though too v/ell bred to quiz men to their 
 faces, 
 Her laughing blue eyes with a glance 
 could seize 
 The ridicules of people in all places — 
 
 That honey of your fashionable bees — 
 And store it up for mischievous enjoy- 
 ment ; 
 And this at present was her kind employ- 
 ment. 
 
 CI 
 
 However, the day closed, as days must 
 close ; 
 The evening also waned — and coffee 
 came. 
 Each carriage was announced, and ladies 
 rose. 
 And curtsying off, as curtsies country 
 dame. 
 Retired: with most unfashionable bows 
 Their docile esquires also did the same, 
 Delighted with theindinner and their host. 
 But with the Lady Adeline the most. 
 
 Some praised her beauty : others her great 
 grace ; 
 The warmth of her politeness, whose 
 sincerity 
 Was obvious in each feature of her face. 
 Whose traits were radiant with the rays 
 of verity. , , . , , 
 
 Yes : she was truly worthy her high place ! 
 No one could envy her deserved pros- 
 perity. . . 
 And then her dress— what beautiful sim- 
 plicity . ,,..,, 
 Draperied her form with curious felicity ! 
 
 cm 
 lleanwhile sweet Adeline deserved thek 
 
 By an impartial indemnification 
 For all her past exertion and soft phrases. 
 
 In a most edifying conversation, _ 
 Which turn'd upon their late guests miens 
 and faces. 
 And families, even to the last relation ; 
 Their hideous wives, their horrid selves 
 
 and dresses. 
 And truculent distortion of their tresses. 
 
 B.P.W., 
 
 True, she said little — 'twas the rest that 
 broke 
 Forth into universal epigram ; 
 But then 'twas to the purpose what she 
 spoke : 
 Like Addison's " faint praise," so wont 
 to damn. 
 Her own but served to set off every joke. 
 
 As music chimes in with a raelodrame. 
 How sweet the task to shield an absent 
 
 friend ! 
 I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 
 
 There were but two exceptions to this keen 
 Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one 
 
 Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
 And Juan, too, in general behind none 
 
 In gay remark on what he had heard or seen. 
 Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone : 
 
 In vain he heard the others rail or rally. 
 
 He would not join them in a' single sally. 
 
 'Tis true he saw Aurora look as though 
 She approved his silence ; she perhaps 
 mistook 
 Its motive for that charity we owe 
 
 But seldom pay the absent, nor would 
 look 
 Farther ; it might or it might not be so. 
 But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 
 Observing little in his reverie. 
 Yet saw this much, which he was glad to 
 see. 
 
 The ghost at least had done him this much 
 good, 
 In making him as silent as a ghost, 
 If in the circumstances which ensued 
 He gain'd esteem where it was worth 
 the most ; 
 And certainly Aurora had renew'd 
 
 In him some feelings he had lately lost, 
 Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps 
 
 ideal, 
 Are so divine, that I must deem them real .— 
 
 The love of higher things and better days ; 
 The unbounded hope, and heavenly 
 ignorance 
 Of what is call'd the world, and the 
 world's ways ; 
 The moments when we gather from a 
 glance 
 More joy than from all future pride or 
 praise. 
 Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er 
 entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own. 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone. 
 
 3G 
 
8ie 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 Who would not sigh Ai ai rav KfSepeiai/ 
 
 That hath a memory, or that had a 
 heart ? 
 Alas ! her star must fade like that of Dian : 
 Ray fades on ray, as years on years 
 depart. 
 Anacreon only had the soul to tie an 
 !Jn^yithering myrtle round the unblunted 
 dart 
 Of Eros : but though thou hast play'd U;^ 
 
 many tricks. 
 Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus 
 Genetrix ! " 
 
 ex 
 And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
 Heaving between this world and worlds 
 beyond, 
 Don Juan, when the midnight hour of 
 pillows 
 Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 
 Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, 
 willows 
 Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, 
 fond 
 Of those sweet bitter thoughts which 
 
 banish sleep. 
 And make the worldling sneer, the young- 
 ling weep. 
 
 CXI 
 
 The night was as before : he was undrest. 
 Saving his night-gown, which is an un- 
 dress ; 
 Completely "sans culotte," and without 
 vest ; 
 In short, he hardly could be clothed with 
 less : 
 But apprehensive of his spectral guest. 
 He sate with feelings awkward to ex- 
 press 
 (By those who have not had such visita- 
 tions). 
 Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 
 
 cxii 
 And not in vain he listen'd ; — Hush, what's 
 that ? 
 I see — I see — Ah, no ! — 'tis not — yet 
 'tis— 
 Ye powers ! it is t]\e — the — the — Pooh ! 
 the cat I 
 The devil njay take that stealthy pace of 
 his! 
 go liHe a spiritual pit-a-pat. 
 
 Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
 Gliding the first tipie to a rendezvous, 
 And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 
 
 Again — what is't ? The wind ? No, no,- 
 thi^ time 
 It is the sable Friar as bcforo, 
 With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, 
 
 Or (as rhymes may be in these days) 
 much more. 
 Again through shadows of the night sub- 
 Ume, 
 When deep sleep fell on men, and the 
 world wore 
 The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
 Spangled with gems — the monk made his 
 blood curdle. 
 
 A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, 
 
 Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a 
 
 slight clatter 
 
 Like showers which on the midnight gusts 
 
 will pass. 
 
 Sounding like very supernatural water, 
 
 Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 
 
 For immaterialism's a serious matter ; 
 
 So that even those whose faith is the most 
 
 great 
 In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 
 
 cxv 
 Were his eyes open ? — Yes ! and his 
 mouth too. 
 Surprise has this effect — to make oae 
 dumb, 
 Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips 
 through 
 As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
 Nigh and more nigh the a\vful echoes 
 drew. 
 Tremendous to a mortal tympanniji : 
 His eyes were open, and (as was before 
 Stated) his mouth, What open'd next ? 
 — the door. 
 
 cxvi 
 It open'd with a most infernal creak. 
 Like that of hell. " Lasciate ogni 
 
 The hinge seem'd to 
 
 speranza 
 Voi ch' entrate ! 
 
 speak. 
 Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this 
 
 stanza ; 
 Or — but all words upon such themes are 
 
 weak : 
 A single shade's sufficient to entrance a 
 Hero — for what is substance to a spirit ? 
 Or how is't matter trembles to come near 
 
 it ? 
 
 C.XVII 
 
 The door flew wide, not swiftlv. — but. as ^\ 
 The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober 
 flight— " 
 
 And then swung back ; nor close — but 
 stood awry 
 Half letting in long shadows on the light, 
 Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd 
 high, 
 For he had two, both tolerably bright. 
 And in the door-way, darkening darkness, 
 
 stood 
 The sable Friar m his solemn hood. 
 
DON JUAN 
 
 8n 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 Uoii Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
 The night before ; but being sick of 
 shaking, 
 He first inclined to think he had been mis- 
 taken ; 
 And then to be ashamed of such mis- 
 taking ; 
 His own internal gliost began to awaken 
 Within him, and to quell his corporal 
 quaking — 
 Hinting that soul and body on the whole 
 Were odds against a disembodied soul. 
 
 cxix 
 And then his dread grew wrath, and his 
 wrath fierce. 
 And he arose, advanced — the shade 
 retreated ; 
 But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 
 FoUow'd, his veins no longer cold, but 
 heated. 
 Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and 
 tierce. 
 At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 
 The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, 
 
 until 
 He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood 
 stone still. 
 
 Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 
 It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the 
 • wall, [showers. 
 
 On which the moonbeams fell in silvery 
 Chequer'd with all the tracery of the 
 
 hall ; , ^ . 
 
 He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest 
 
 cowers , , ,, ^ , ^, 
 
 When he can't tell what 'tis that doth 
 
 appal. 
 How odd, a single hobgobhn's non-entity 
 Should cause more fear than a whole host s 
 
 identity. 
 
 But still the shade reraain'd : the blue eyes 
 
 glared. 
 And rather variably for stony death : 
 Yet one thing rather good the grave had 
 
 spared. 
 The ghost had a remarkably sweet 
 
 breath ; 
 A straggling curl show'd he had been fahr- 
 
 hair'd ; 
 A red lip, with two rows of pearls be- 
 neath, 
 Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's 
 
 ivy shroud 
 The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey 
 
 cloud. 
 
 And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
 His other arm forth — Wonder upon 
 wonder ! 
 
 It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 
 Which beat as if there was a warm heart 
 under. 
 
 He found, as people on m.ost trials must, 
 That he had made at first a silly blunder, 
 
 And that in his confusion he had caught 
 
 Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 
 
 cxxni 
 The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet 
 soul 
 As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
 A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 
 Forth into something much like flesh 
 and blood ; 
 Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 
 And they reveal' d — alas ! that e'er they 
 should ! 
 In full, voluptuous, but not o'«;'grown 
 
 bulk, 
 The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz- 
 Fulke ! 
 
NOTES 
 
 813 
 
 NOTES 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 I.— Page 8. 
 And call'd, proud boast! the British drama 
 forth. 
 [" Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, 
 born in 1527- While a student of the 
 Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of 
 Gorbuduc, which was played before Queen 
 Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561"— 
 Campbell.] 
 
 The pride of princes, and the boast of song. 
 
 [Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, bom 
 in 1637, died in 1706. His character has 
 been drawn in the highest colours by Dry- 
 den, Pope, Prior, and Congreve.] 
 
 3-— Pa:ge 9. 
 
 WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
 OF MISS CHAWORTH. 
 
 [Miss Chaworth was married to John 
 Musters, Esq., in August, 1805.] 
 
 4. — Page 10. 
 
 / fancied that Mossop himself was outshone. 
 
 Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, 
 famous for his performance of Zanga. 
 
 5.— Page 12. 
 
 TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 
 
 [This " Mary " must not be confounded 
 with the heiress of Annesley, or " Mary " 
 of Aberdeen.] 
 
 6. — Page 12. 
 
 to one of whom the following stanzas were 
 addressed the next morning.] 
 
 [The occurrence took place at South- 
 well, and the beautiful lady to whom the 
 lines were addressed was Miss Houson.] 
 
 7. — Page 16. 
 For him thy Beltane yet may burn. 
 [Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on 
 the first of May, held ne.ir fires lighted 
 for the occasion.] 
 
 8. — Page 24. 
 
 Whether His Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; 
 
 [Lord Henry Petty, Marquis of Lans- 
 downe]. 
 
 9. — Page 27- 
 
 TO ELIZA. 
 
 [Miss Elizabeth Pigot of Southwell.] 
 
 10.— Page 32. , 
 
 PoMPOsus' virtues are but known to few : 
 [Dr. Butler, then head-master of Harrow.] 
 
 II. — Page 32. 
 
 Probus, the pride of science, and the boast, 
 
 Dr. Drury. This most able and excel- 
 lent man retired from his situation in 
 March, 1805, after having resided thirty- 
 five years at Harrow ; the last twenty as 
 head-master ; an office he held with equal 
 honour to himself and advantage to the 
 very extensive school over which he pre- 
 sided. 
 
 12. — Page 33. 
 
 Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
 
 [During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet 
 prevented the school-room from being 
 burnt down, by pointing out to the boys 
 the names of their fathers and grand- 
 fathers on the walls.] 
 
 13.— -Page 33. 
 
 Nor bolts nor bars against their strength 
 avail' d: 
 
 [Lord Byron elsewhere thus describes 
 his usual course of life while at Harrow — 
 " always cricketing, rebelling, rowing, and 
 in all manner of mischiefs." One day he 
 tore down the gratings from the window of 
 the hall ; and when asked by Dr. Butler 
 his reason for the outrage, coolly answered, 
 " because they darkened the room."] 
 
 14. — Page, 34. 
 Alamo ; best and dearest of my friends, 
 [The Hon. John Wingfield, of the Cold- 
 
8i4 
 
 NOTES 
 
 stream Guards, brother to Richard, fourth 
 Viscount Powerscourt.] 
 
 1 5 -—Page 34. 
 
 Davus, the harbinger oj childish joy ; 
 
 " [The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B.A., of 
 Christ Church, Oxford, who died Dec. 8, 
 1812, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged twenty- 
 four.] 
 
 16. — Page 34. 
 
 The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
 
 [The " factious strife " was brought on 
 by the breaking up of school, and the 
 dismissal of some volunteers from drill, 
 both happening at the same hour. The 
 butt-end of a musket was aimed at Byron's 
 head, and would have felled him to the 
 ground, but for the interposition of Tatter- 
 sall.-,— Moore.] 
 
 17.— Page 35. 
 
 Lycus ! oh me thy claims are justly great : 
 
 [John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare, 
 afterwards Governor of Bombay.] 
 
 18. — Page 35. 
 Shall fan- Eurvalus pass by unsung ? 
 [George John, fifth Earl of Delawarr.] 
 
 19.— Page 35. 
 See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; 
 [Edward Noel Long, Esq.] 
 
 20. — Page 40. 
 My Lycus ! wherefore dost thou weep ? 
 [The fiarl of Clare.] 
 
 21. — Page 41. 
 
 TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. 
 
 [Long, who was with Lord Byron both 
 at Harrow and Cambridge, entered the 
 Guards and served in the expedition to 
 Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 
 1809.1 
 
 22.^Page 42. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Miss Chaworth, afterwards Mrs. Musters. 
 
 23.— Page 43. 
 
 Keed I say, my sweet l\Iary. 'twas centred in 
 you ? 
 
 Mary Duff. Byron often speaks of this 
 ■' childish amour," lie being about eight. 
 
 24.— Page 43. ; 
 
 r think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ; 
 
 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge ol 
 the Highlands, not far from the ruins of 
 Dee Castle. 
 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES 
 
 I.— Page 45. 
 Adieu, thou Hill ! where early joy 
 Harrow. 
 
 2. — Page 46. 
 Streamlet ! along whose rippling surge 
 [The river Crete, at Southwell.] 
 
 3.— Page 46. 
 Yet Mary, all thy beauties seem 
 [Mary Duff.] 
 
 4.^Page 46. 
 And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love 
 [Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister.] 
 
 5.— Page 54. 
 
 stanzas to a lady on leaving ENGLAND. 
 
 [In the original MS., "To Mrs. Musters."] 
 
 6. — Page 05, 
 
 Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob ! where are you ? 
 
 [Lord Byron's three servants]. 
 
 7.— Page 55. 
 
 TO FLORENCE. 
 
 [Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the 
 Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a 
 few years ago. She was born at Constan- 
 tinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, 
 was Austrian Ambassador ; married un- 
 happily, yet has never been impeached in 
 point of character ; excited the vengeance 
 of Bonaparte, by taking a part in some 
 conspiracy ; several times risked her life ; 
 and is not yet five and twenty. Since my 
 arrival here [Malta]- 1 have had scarcely 
 any other companion.] 
 
 8.— Page 57. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 
 [The lady supposed to be the Maid of 
 Athens, was the eldest of three lovely 
 sisters — ■" Theresa, the Maid of .Athens, 
 
NOTES 
 
 815 
 
 Catinco, and Mariana. They possess very 
 considerable powers of conversation, and 
 their minds seem to be more instructed 
 than those of the Greek women in general] ." 
 
 9.— Page 57. 
 
 Romaic expression of tenderness : " My 
 Life, I love you." 
 
 10. — Page 59. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 [i.e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the 
 Reverend) .] 
 
 II. — Page 72. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR 
 PETER PARKER, BART. 
 
 [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814. 
 in his twenty-ninth year. He was Lord 
 Byron's first cousin.] 
 
 12. — Page 77. 
 Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore, 
 Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne. 
 
 13.— Page 85. 
 For Orford. 
 [Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last 
 nine Years of the Reign of George II.] 
 
 14.— Page 85. 
 and for Waldegrave. 
 [Memoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, 
 Governor of George III when Prince of 
 Wales.] 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND 
 SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 I. — Page 92. 
 
 Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be 
 just, 
 rin very early life, "Little's Poems" 
 were Lord Byron's favourite study.] 
 
 2. — Page 92. 
 Hibernian Strangford! with thine eyes of- 
 blue. 
 The reader, who may wish for an ex- 
 planation of this, may refer to Strang- 
 ?oS's Camoens," p. 127, no e to p^56,. or 
 io the last page of the Edinburgh Review 
 
 of Strangford's Camoens. 
 
 3.— Page 92. 
 
 That luckless mmi: never triumph'd there. 
 
 Hayley's two most notorious verse pro- 
 ductions are " Triumphs of Temper," and 
 " The Triumph of Music." He has also 
 written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 4. — Page 92. 
 
 Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime 
 
 The amiable Mr. Grahame has poured 
 forth two volumes of cant, under the name 
 of " Sabbath Walks " and " Biblical Pic- 
 tures. ' 
 
 5.— Page 93. 
 Consult Lord Fanny, and cpnfide in Curll ; 
 Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, 
 and was a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the 
 poetical name of Lord Hervey, author of 
 " Lines to the Imitator of Horace." 
 
 6. — Page 93. 
 
 And do from hate what Mallet did for hire. 
 
 Lord Bdingbroke hired Mallet to tra- 
 duce Pope after his decease, because the 
 poet had retained some copies of a work by 
 Lord Bolingbroke — the " Patriot King," — 
 which that splendid, but malignant genius 
 had ordered to be destroyed, 
 
 7.— Page 93. 
 
 To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to • 
 rhyme ; 
 
 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhyme- 
 ster. 
 
 8. — Page 93. 
 And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. 
 
 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's 
 works, for which he received three hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 9.— Page 93. 
 
 Fresh fish from Helicon ! who'll buy, who'll 
 buy ? 
 
 [" Fresh fisb from Helicon ! " — " Heli- 
 con " is a mountain, and not a fish-pond. 
 It should have been " Hippocrene." — B., 
 1816.] 
 
 10.— Page 93. 
 Had Cottle still adorn'd the counter's side, 
 
 Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know 
 which, but one or both, once sellers of 
 books they did not write, and now writers 
 
8i6 
 
 NOTES 
 
 of books they do not sell, have published 
 a pair of epics — " Alfred," (poor Alfred ! 
 Pye has been at him too !) — " Alfred," 
 and the " Fall of Cambria." 
 
 II. — Page 93. 
 
 Didl Maurice all his granite weight of leaves _ 
 
 [The Rev. Thomas Maurice wrote 
 " Westminster Abbey," and other poems, 
 the " History of Ancient and Modern Hin- 
 dostan," etc., and his own " Memoirs ; " — 
 a very amusing autobiography. He died 
 in 1824, at his apartments in theBritish 
 Museum ; where he had been for some 
 years assistant keeper of MSS.] 
 
 12. — Page 93. 
 
 May yu) rude hand disturb their early sleep ! 
 
 Poor Montgomery, the bard of Sheffield, 
 whose " Wanderer of Switzerland " is 
 worth a thousand " Lyrical Ballads," and 
 at least fifty " degraded epics." 
 
 13. — Page 94. 
 
 When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
 
 In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore me* 
 at Chalk Farm. The duel was prevented 
 by the interference of the magistracy ; and 
 on examination, the balls of the pistols 
 were found to have evaporated. This 
 incident gave occasion to much waggery in 
 the daily prints. 
 
 14. — Page 94. 
 
 Herbert shall wield Thorns hammer, und 
 
 sometimes, 
 
 [The Hon. William Herbert, brother to 
 the Earl of Carnarvon, is a translator of 
 Icelandic and other poetry.] 
 
 15. — Page 94. 
 Smug Sydney too thy bitter page shall seek. 
 The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed 
 author of Peter Plymley's Letters, and 
 sundry criticisms. 
 
 16. — Page 94. 
 And paltry Pillans shall traduce his friend ; 
 Pillans is a tutor at Eton ; [afterwards 
 Rector of the High School of Edinburgh.] 
 
 17.— Page 94. 
 While gay' Thalia's luckless votary. Lambe, 
 The Hon. George Lambe reviewed 
 " Beresford's Miseries," and is moreover 
 author of a farce. 
 
 18. — Page 95. 
 
 Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, 
 
 [Lord Henry Petty ; — now Marquis of 
 Lansdowne.] 
 
 ig.— Page 95. J 
 
 Declare his landlord can at least translated 
 Lord Holland has translated some speci- 
 mens of Lope de Vega, inserted in his Mfe 
 of the author. 
 
 20. — Page 95. 
 
 Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
 
 Mr. [afterwards Sir Lumley] Skeffington 
 is the illustrious author of the " Sleeping 
 Beautv ; " and some comedies, particularly 
 " Maids and Bachelors." Dibdin's panto- 
 mime of Mother Goose had a run of nearly' 
 a hundred nights, and brought more than 
 twenty thousand pounds to the treasury 
 of Covent Garden Theatre. 
 
 21. — Page 95. 
 
 Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay 
 
 designs ; 
 
 !\Ir. Greenwood is, we beUeve, scene-' 
 painter to Drury Lane Theatre — as such,' 
 Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him. 
 
 22. — Page 96. 
 
 Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! 
 
 Colonel Greville, manager of the Argyle 
 Rooms. 
 
 23. — Page 96. 
 
 To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall, 
 
 [Lord Falkland was killed in a duel by 
 Mr, Powell, in 1809.] 
 
 24.— Page 97. 
 
 Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets 
 
 try, 
 
 [Miles Peter Andrews, many years M.P. 
 for Bewdley, Colonel of the Prince of 
 Wales's Volunteers, proprietor of a gun- 
 powder manufactory at Dartford, author 
 of numerous prologues. epUogues, and 
 farces, and one of the heroes of the Baviad. 
 He died in 1814] 
 
 25.— Page 97. 
 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maltre, and pam- 
 phleteer ! 
 
 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published 
 an eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state 
 of the stage, and offers his plan for building 
 a new theatre. 
 
NOTES 
 
 817 
 
 * 26. — Page 97. 
 
 And Melville's Mantle prove a blanket too ! I 
 
 " Melville's Mantle," a parody on 
 " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 
 
 27. — Page 97. 
 
 Chained to the signature of 0. P. Q. 
 
 Various worthies who figure in the 
 poetical departments of the newspapers. 
 
 28. — Page 97. 
 
 When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, 
 
 [Joseph Blackett, the shoemaker. He 
 died at Seaham, in 1810. His poems were 
 afterwards collected by Pratt ; and, oddly 
 enough, his principal patroness was Miss 
 Milbank, then a perfect stranger to Lord 
 Byron. 
 
 29. — Page 97. 
 How ladies read, and literati laud ! 
 
 [This was meant for poor Blackett, who 
 was then patronised by " A. J. B." (Lady 
 Byron).] 
 
 _3o- — Page 98- 
 And Capel Lo§t declares 'tis quite sublime. 
 
 Capel Lofft, Esq., the Msecenas of shoe- 
 makers, and preface-writer-general to 
 distressed versemen ; a kind of gratis 
 accoucheiu' to those who wish to be de- 
 livered of rhyme, but do not know how to 
 bring forth. 
 
 3r. — Page 98. 
 Sotheby, 
 Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon 
 and Virgil's Georgics, and author of" Saul," 
 an epic poem. 
 
 32. — Page 98. 
 Macncil. 
 Hector Macneil, whose poems are de- 
 servedly popular, particularly " Scotland's 
 Scaith," and the " Waes of War." 
 
 33.— Page 99. 
 And here let Shee and Genius find a place, 
 
 Mr Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," 
 and " Elements of Art." [Afterwards 
 P.R.A.] 
 
 34.— Page 99. 
 Wright! 'twas thy happy lot at once to view- 
 
 Walter Rodwell Wright, late consul- 
 general for the Seven Islands, is author of a 
 very beautiful poem, " Horai louicie." 
 
 35.— Page 99. 
 
 And you, associate bards ! who snatch'd to 
 light 
 
 The translators of the Anthology, Bland 
 and Merivale. 
 
 36. — Page 99. 
 
 False glare attracts, but more offends the eye- 
 
 The neglect of the " Botanic Garden " is 
 some proof of returning taste. 
 
 37. — Page TOO. 
 
 With rhyme by Hoare, 
 
 [The Rev. Charles James Hoare puu- 
 lished, in 1808, the " Shipwreck of St. 
 Paul," a Seatonian prize poem.] 
 
 38. — Page 100. 
 and epic blank by Hoyle : 
 [The Rev. Charles Hoyle, author of 
 " Exodus," an epic in thirteen books, and 
 several other Seatonian prize poems.] 
 
 39. — Page 100. 
 Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 
 The " Games of Hoyle," well known to 
 the votaries of whist, chess, etc. 
 
 40. — Page 100. 
 So lost to Phcebus, that nor Hodgson's verse 
 [Besides a translation of Juvenal, Mr. 
 Hodgson has published " Lady Jane Grey," 
 " Sir Edgar," and " The Friends," a poem 
 in four books. He also translated, in con- 
 junction with Dr. Butler, Lucien Bona- 
 parte's unreadable epic of " Charlemagne."] 
 
 4r. — Page 100. 
 
 Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's 
 worse. 
 
 Hewson Clarke, Esq. 
 
 42. — Page 100. 
 
 And modern Britons glory in their sires. 
 
 The '■ Aboriginal Britons," an excellent 
 poem, by the Rev. George Richards, D.D. 
 
 43. — Page loi. 
 
 Where 'Kaff is clad in rocks, and crown'd 
 with snows sublime. 
 
 Mount Caucasus. 
 
8i8 
 
 NOTES 
 
 44. — Page iQi. 
 Cell ; 
 Author of Topography of Troy and 
 Ithaca. 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 
 I. — Page 104. 
 Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 
 [In Vanbrugh's comedy of the " Pro- 
 voked Husband."] 
 
 2. — Page 104. 
 // some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
 
 [" Johnson. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is 
 that Drawcansir ? 
 
 Bayes. Why, Sir, a great hero, that 
 frights his mistress, snubs up kings, baffles 
 armies, and does what he will, without 
 regard to numbers, good sense, or justice." 
 — Rehearsal.] 
 
 3.— Page 105. 
 Q^er Virgil'^ devilish verses and his own; 
 Harvey, the circulator of the circulation 
 of the blood, used to fling away Virgil in 
 his ecstasy of admiration and say, " the 
 book had a devil." 
 
 4. — Page 105. 
 
 (Unluc}iy Tavell ! doom'd to daily cares 
 
 [The Rev. G. F. Tavell was a fellow and 
 tutor of Trinity College, Cambridge, during 
 Lord Byron's residence, and owed this 
 notice to the zeal with which he protested 
 against his juvenile vagaries.] 
 
 5. — Page 106. 
 
 But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed 
 
 Under Plato's pillow a volume of the 
 Mimes of S-iphron was found the day he 
 died. 
 
 6. — Page 106. 
 
 And" Estifania" gull her" Copper" spouse! 
 
 Michael Perez, the Copper Captain, in 
 " Rule a Wife and have a Wife." 
 
 7. — Page 107. 
 
 Must wear a head in want 0/ Willis' skill ; 
 
 [Willis died in 1807 in the 90th year of 
 his age. He owes his pre-eminence among 
 the physicians of the insane to his having 
 attended George III inhis mental malady.] 
 
 8. — Page 107. * 
 where Baxter only " shoves,'' 
 
 " Baxter's Shove to heavy-a — d Chris- 
 tians," the veritable title of a book once 
 in good repute, and likely enough to be so 
 again. 
 
 9. — Page 108. 
 
 And keep your bushy locks a year from 
 Blake ; 
 
 As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, 
 and better paid. 
 
 10. — Page 109. 
 
 Let Havard's fate o'ertake him, who, for once. 
 
 For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, 
 see " Davies's Life of Garrick." I believe 
 it is " Regulus," or " Charles the First." 
 
 II. — Page III. 
 
 The cobbler-laureats 
 
 I beg Nathaniel's pardon : he is not a 
 cobbler ; it is a tailor, but begged Capel 
 Lofft to sink the profession in his preface 
 to two pair of panta — psha ! — of cantos, 
 which he wished the public to try on ; 
 but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so 
 far saved the expense of an advertisement 
 to his country customers. 
 
 do:mestic pieces 
 
 I.— Page 130. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 
 
 [His sister, the Honourable Jlrs. Leigh.] 
 
 2. — Page 131. 
 
 / did remind thee of our own dear Lake. 
 
 [The Lake of Newstead Abbey, which 
 he has described minutely in the thirteenth 
 canto of " Don Juan."] 
 
 IVIONODY ON THE DEATH OF 
 THE RIGHT HON. R. B. 
 SHERIDAN 
 
 I.— Page 133. 
 
 The worthy rival of the wondrous Three ! 
 Fox— Pitt— Burke. 
 
NOTES 
 
 819 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE 
 
 CANTO III 
 
 I. — Page 146. 
 
 And he, their prince, shall rank among tny 
 
 peers. 
 Petrarch. 
 
 CANTO IV 
 r, — Page 148, 
 A dome, its image, while the base expands 
 The Cupola of St. Peter's. 
 
 2, — Page 148. 
 
 His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word 
 
 The statue of Moses on the monument 
 
 of Julius II. 
 
 3. — Page 148. 
 
 Over the damn'd before the Judgment-throne, 
 The Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel. 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RIMINI, 
 
 I. — Page 158. 
 
 But Caina waits for him our life who 
 
 ended : " 
 
 [From Cain, the first fratricide. Caina 
 
 is that part of the Inferno to which 
 
 murderers are condemned.] 
 
 THE BLUES 
 I. — Page 161. 
 There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's 
 
 plays, 
 [Messrs. Southey and Sotheby.] 
 
 2. — Page 161. 
 
 / myself saw it puff'd in the " Old Girl's 
 
 Review," 
 
 [" My Grandmothelr's Review, the 
 
 British," which has since been gathered 
 
 to its grandmothers.] 
 
 3. — Page 161. 
 Tra. 'Tis theEnglish "Journalde Trevoux ;'< 
 [The " Journal de Trevoux " [in fifty-six 
 volumes) is one of the most curious collec- 
 tions of literary gossip in the world, and 
 the Poet paid the British Review an extra- 
 vagant compliment when he made the 
 comparison.] 
 
 4. — Page i5z. 
 He is made a collector. 
 [Mr. Wordsworth was collector of 
 stamps for Cumberland and Westmore- 
 land.] 
 
 5.— Page 163. 
 Ink. I shan't go so far — / can have them at 
 
 Grange's. 
 
 Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook 
 
 and fruiterer in Piccadilly. 
 
 6. — Page 163. 
 Lady Bluem. Sir George /thinks exactly 
 
 with Lady Bluebottle : 
 
 [Sir George Beaumont — a constant friend 
 
 of Mr. Wordsworth.] 
 
 7. — Page 163. 
 And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our 
 dear Bard, 
 [It was not the late Earl of Lonsdale, 
 but James, the first earl, who offered to 
 tjuild and man a ship of seventy-four guns, 
 towards the close of the American war ; 
 — hence the soubriquet in the text.] 
 
 8. — Page 164. 
 Ink. A propos — Do you dine With Sir Hum- 
 phry to-day ? 
 
 [Sir Humphrey Dav>', President of the 
 Royal Society.] 
 
 9. — Page 164. 
 But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 
 [The late Miss Lydia White, whose am- 
 bition was to be the hostess of the Uterary 
 celebrities of the day.] 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 
 
 I. — Page 174. 
 Pye come again ? No more — no more of 
 that ! " 
 [Henry ] ames Pye, the predecessor of Mr. 
 Southey in the poet-laureateship, died in 
 1 813. He was the author of many works 
 besides his offtcial Odes, and among others 
 "Alfred," an epic poem.] 
 
 2.— Page 175- 
 Reviewing " the ungentle craft," and then 
 See " Life of Henry Kirk White." 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 I. — Page 176. 
 Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 
 [The grave of Mr. Fox, in We>tininstfr 
 
820 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Abbev, is within eighteen inches of that 
 of Mr. Pitt.] 
 
 2. — Page 176. 
 A surgeon's statement, 
 [Mr. Barry O'Meara.] 
 
 3. — Page 176. 
 and an earl's harangues ! 
 [Earl Bathurst.] 
 
 4. — Page 176. 
 The paltry gaoler and the prying spy. 
 [Sir Hudson Lowe.] 
 
 5. — Page 176. 
 The staring stranger with his note-book nigh ? 
 [Captain Basil Hall's interesting account 
 of his interview with the ex-emperor occurs 
 in his " Voyage to Loo-choo."] 
 
 6. — Page 177. 
 To form, like Guesclin's dust, her talisman. 
 [Guesclin, constable of France, died in 
 the midst of his triumphs before Chateau- 
 neuf de Randon, in 1380. The English 
 garrison, which had conditioned to sur- 
 render at a certain time, marched out the 
 day after his death ; and the commander 
 respectfully laid the keys of the fortress on 
 the bier, so that it might appear to ha\'e 
 surrendered to his ashes.] 
 
 7. — Page 177 
 His name shall heal the alarm, like Ziska's 
 drum. 
 [John Ziska — a distinguished leader of 
 the Hussites. It is recorded of him, that 
 in dying, he ordered his skin to be made 
 the covering of a drum.] 
 
 8.— Page 178. 
 Lulzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 
 [Gustavus Adolphus fell at the great 
 battle of Lutzen, in No^-ember, 1632.] 
 
 9- — Page 180. 
 But lo ! a Congress ! What ! that hallow'd 
 name 
 [The Congress of the .Sovereigns of 
 Russia, Austria, Prussia, etc. etc., which 
 assembled at Verona, in the auttmm of 
 1822.] 
 
 II. — Page 181. 
 
 Resplendent sight ! Behold the coxcomb 
 Czar, 
 
 [The Emperor Alexander, who died in 
 
 1825.] 
 
 12. — Page 181. 
 La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on; 
 
 [Colonel La Harpe — the tutor of Alex- 
 ander — was supposed to have influenced 
 largely the character of his pupil.] 
 
 13. — Page 181. 
 Many an old woman, but no Catherine. 
 The dexterity of Catherine extricated 
 Peter (called the Great by courtesy), when 
 surrounded by the Mussulmans on the 
 banks of the river Pruth. 
 
 14- — Page 181. 
 
 Why wouldst thou leave calm HartwelVs 
 
 green abode, 
 
 [Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire — the 
 
 residence of Louis XVIII during the latter 
 
 years of the Emigration.] 
 
 15- — Page 182 
 Our last, our best, our only orator, 
 [Canning.] 
 
 16. — Page 183. 
 The banker, broker, baron, brethren, speed 
 [Baron Rothschild.] 
 
 17- — Page 184. 
 There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to 
 
 charters, 
 [The^ Duke de Montmorenci-Laval] 
 
 18. — Page 184. 
 
 The young Asfyana.r of Modern Troy ; 
 
 [Napoleon Francois Charles Joseph 
 Duke of Reichstadt, died at the palace of 
 Schdnbrunn, July 22, 1832, having just 
 attained his twenty-first year ] 
 
 10. — Page 180. 
 Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas • 
 [Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading 
 member of the American Congress died 
 in June, 1797.] 
 
 19— Page 184. 
 She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! 
 [George the Fourth is said to have been 
 annoyed on entering the levee-room at 
 Holyrood (Aug. 1822), in full Stuart 
 iartan, to see only one figure similarlr 
 attired (and of similar bulk)— that of Sir 
 WilUam Curtis.] 
 
NOTES 
 
 821 
 
 ' CHILDE HAROLD'S 
 PILGRIMAGE 
 
 Canto I. 
 I. — Page 187. 
 " Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 
 [William Fletcher, his faithful valet.] 
 
 2. — Stanza xxii. 
 There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthi- 
 est son, 
 [William Beckford, Esq., son of the 
 once-celebrated alderman, and heir to hi-, 
 enormous wealth, published, at the early 
 age of eighteen, " Memoirs of extraordinary 
 Painters ; " and in the following year the 
 romance " Vathek."] 
 
 3. — Stanza xxiv. 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late con- 
 vened ! 
 The Convention of Cintra was signed 
 in the palace of the Marchese Marialva. 
 [It was signed thirty miles from Cintra.] 
 
 4. — Stanza Ivi. 
 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batler'd 
 
 wall ? 
 
 Such were the exploits of the Maid of 
 Saragoza, who by her valour elevated lirr 
 self to the highest rank of heroines. 
 
 5. — Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 
 War, war is still the cry, " War even to the 
 
 knife ! " 
 
 "War to the knife." Palafox's answer 
 to the French general at the siege r.f 
 Saragoza. 
 
 6. — Stanza xci. 
 
 And thou, my friend ! — since unavailing 
 
 woe 
 
 The Honourable John Wingfield, of the 
 
 Guards, who died of a fever at Coimbra 
 
 (May 14, 1811). 
 
 Canto II. 
 I. — Stanza xviii. 
 The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, 
 To prevent blocks or splinters from fall- 
 ing on deck during action. 
 
 2. — Stanza xxix. 
 
 But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, 
 
 Goza is said to have been the island of 
 
 Calypso. — [Some think that the poets had 
 
 Goza in their eye, — others that the, 
 
 nymph's habitation was Malta.] 
 
 3. — Stanza xxx. 
 Sweet Florence! could another ever share 
 [Mrs. Spencer Smith, an accomplished 
 but eccentric lady, whose acquaintance 
 the poet formed at Malta.] 
 
 4. — Stanza xxxix. 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlooh'd the wave ; 
 Ithaca, 
 
 5. — Stanza xl. 
 Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ; 
 Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From 
 the promontory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho 
 is said to have thrown herself. 
 
 6. — Stanza xlvii. 
 To greet Albania's chief, whose dread com- 
 mand 
 The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this 
 extraordinary man there is an incorrect 
 account in Pouqueville's Travels. 
 
 7. — Stanza xlviii. 
 Monastic Zitza I from thy shady brow, 
 The convent and village of Zitza are 
 four hours' journey from Joannina, or 
 Yanina, the capital of the Pachalik. 
 In the valley the river Kalamas (once the 
 Acheron) flows, and, not far from Zitza, 
 forms a fine cataract. 
 
 8. — Stanza Iv. 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 
 Anciently Mount Tomarus. 
 
 9. — Stanza Ix. 
 f ust at this season Ramazani's fast 
 ["The Ramazan, or Turkish Lent. 
 During this month the strictest abstinence 
 is observed in the daytime, yet with the 
 setting of the sun the feasting commences : 
 then is the time for paying and receiving 
 visits, and for the amusements of Turkey, 
 puppet-shows, jugglers, dancers, and 
 story-tellers'." — Hobhouse.] 
 
 10. — Stanza Ixiii. 
 
 In Woodier acts conclude those who with 
 
 blood began. 
 
 [Ali was assassinated in February, 1822, 
 
 and his head sent to Constantinople, where 
 
 it was exhibited at the gates of the Seraglio.] 
 
 II. — Stanza l.xxi. 
 Each Palikar his sabre from him cast, 
 Palikar, shortened when addressed to a 
 single person, from TraAixopi, a general 
 
82 2 
 
 NOTES 
 
 name for a soldier amongst the Greeks 
 and Albanese, who speak Romaic : it 
 means, properly, " a lad." 
 
 12.— Page 208. 
 Tambourgi ! Tambourgi! thy 'lam m afar 
 Drummer. 
 
 13. — Page 208. 
 
 Chimarioi, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! 
 
 These stanzas are partly taken from 
 different Albanese songs, as far as I was 
 able to make them out by the exposition 
 of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 
 
 14. — Page 209. 
 Renumber the moment when Previsa fell, 
 It was taken by storm from the French. 
 
 15. — Page 209. 
 Let the yellow-hair'd 
 Yellow is the epithet given to the Rus- 
 sians. 
 
 16. — Page 209 
 Giaours 
 
 Infidel. 
 
 17. — Page 209. 
 view his horsetail i^'ith dread , 
 The insignia of a Pacha. 
 
 18. — Page 209. 
 When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er 
 the banks, 
 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 
 
 19. — Page 209. 
 Selidar ! unsheaihethen our chief's scimitar .' 
 Sword-bearer. 
 
 Canto III 
 I. — Stanza xx. 
 Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant 
 lord. 
 See the famous song on Harmodius and 
 Aristogiton. The best English translation 
 Is in Bland's Anthology, by Mr. (since Lord 
 Chief Justice) Denman : — 
 " With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," 
 etc. 
 
 2. — Stanza xxiii. 
 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost 
 
 fighting, fell. 
 
 [The Duke of Brunswick fell at Quatre 
 
 Bras ; his father received his death-wo\md 
 
 at Jena.l 
 
 3. — Stanza xxvi. 
 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each , 
 
 clansman's ears I 
 
 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant 
 
 Donald, the "gentle Lochiel " of the 
 
 " ' forty-five." 
 
 4. — Stanza xxvii. 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green 
 
 leaves, 
 
 The wood of Soignies is supposed to be 
 
 a remnant of the forest of Ardennes, 
 
 famous in Boiardo's Orlando. 
 
 5. — Stanza xxix. 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, , 
 [Tlie Earl of Carlisle ; by satirising him in 
 EngUsh Bards and Scotch Reviewers.] 
 
 6. — Stanza xxix. 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, .- 
 young, gallant Howard ! 
 [" In the late battles, Uke all the world, 
 I have lost a connection-^poor Frederick 
 Howard, the best of his race."] 
 
 7. — Page 220. 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels 
 The castle of Drachenfels stands on the ^ 
 highest summit of " the Seven Moun- 
 tains," over the Rhine banks; it is ifl 
 ruins, and connected with some singularj 
 traditions. j 
 
 8. — Stanza Iviii. 
 Here Ehrenbreitsteiu, with her shatter' d 
 wall 
 Ehrenbreitsteiu, i.e. " the broad stone 
 of honour," one of the strongest fortresses 
 in Europe, was dismantled and blown up by 
 the French at the truce of Leoben. 
 
 9.— Stanza Ixv. 
 
 Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject 
 
 lands. 
 
 Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman 
 
 capital of Helvetia, where Avenches now 
 
 stands. 
 
 10. — Stanza cv. 
 Of names which unto you bequeath' d a name ; 
 \^oltaire and Gibbon. 
 
 Canto IV 
 I. — Stanza xii. 
 Oil for one hour of blind old DandoKi! 
 The reader will recollect the exclamation 
 
NOTES 
 
 82 :s 
 
 of the Highlander, " Oh, for one hour of 
 Dundee! " Henry Dandolo, when elected 
 Doge, in ii92,was eighty-five yecurs of age. 
 When he commanded the Venetians at 
 the taking of Constantinople, he was 
 consequently ninety-seven years old. 
 
 2. — Stanza xiv. 
 The " Planter of the Lion," which through 
 fire 
 That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the 
 standard of the Repubhc, which is the 
 origin of the word Pantaloon — Pianta- 
 leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 
 
 3. — Stanza xviii. 
 And Otteiay, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shaks- 
 peare's urt, 
 " Venice Preserved ;" " Mysteries of 
 Udolpho ;" "The Ghost-Seer, or Arme- 
 nian;" "The Merchant of Venice;" 
 " Othello." 
 
 4. — Stanza xx. 
 But from their nature will the tannen gyow 
 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. 
 
 5. — Stanza xl, 
 
 And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
 
 [" I do not know whether Scott will like 
 
 it, but I have called him the ' Ariosto of the 
 
 North ' in my text. If he should not, say 
 
 so in time."] 
 
 6. — Stanza Ixvi. 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
 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 
 
 7. — Stanza cliii. 
 But lo! the dome — the vast and wondrous 
 dome, 
 This and the six next stanzas have a 
 reference to the church of St. Peter's, 
 
 8. — Stanza clxxi. 
 
 Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 
 r"The death of the Princess Charlotte 
 
 has been a shock even here (Venice), and 
 
 must have been an earthquake at home. J 
 
 9. — Stanza clxxiii. 
 Lo, Nemil ndveWd in the woody hills 
 The village of Nemi was near the Aririau 
 retreat of Egeria, and, from the shades 
 which embosomed the temple of Diana, 
 has preserved to this day its^ distinctive 
 appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but 
 an evening's ride from the comfortable 
 inn of Albano. 
 
 THE GIAOUR 
 
 I.— Page 254. 
 
 In echoes of the fat iophaihe, 
 
 " 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. 
 
 2. — Page 254. 
 Swift as the hurVd on high jerreeA 
 Jerreed, or djerrid, a blunted Turkish 
 javelin., which is darted from horseback 
 with great force and precision. 
 
 3.— Page 255. 
 
 And silver -sheathed ataghan ; 
 
 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. 
 
 4. — Page 256. 
 Though on Al-Sirafs arch I stood, 
 Al-Sirat, the bridge of breath, narrower 
 than the thread of a famished spider, and 
 sharper than the edge of a sword, over 
 which the Mussulmans must shatc 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 des- 
 census Averni," not very pleasing in pros- 
 pect to the next passenger. There is a 
 shorter cut downwards for the Jews and 
 Christians. 
 
 5. — Page 25S. 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan I 
 " Franguestan," Cireassia. 
 
 6. — Page 257. 
 " Bismillah ! now the peril's past ; 
 1 " In the name of God ; " the commence- 
 ment of all the chapters of the Koran but 
 lone andofprayer and thanksgiving. 
 
824 
 
 NOTES 
 
 7.— Page 257. 
 
 Noy raised the craven cry, A-maun ! 
 
 " Amaun," quarter, pardon. 
 
 8.— Page 258. 
 A fragment of his palampore, 
 The flowered shawls generally worn by 
 persons of rank. 
 
 9-— Page 258. 
 , His calpac rent — his caftan red — 
 The calpac is the solid cap or centre part 
 
 of the head-dress ; the shawl is wound 
 
 round it, and forms the turban. 
 
 10. — Page 259. 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe ; 
 Monkir and Nekir, are the inquisitors of 
 the dead, before whom the corpse under- 
 goes a slight noviciate and preparatory 
 training for damnation. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 
 
 Canto I 
 
 I. — Page 265. 
 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; 
 
 Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and 
 
 JuUet of the East. Sadi, the moral poet 
 
 of Persia. 
 
 2. — Page 266. 
 But yet the line of Carasman 
 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 condition 
 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. 
 
 3. — Pajg 266. 
 Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque, 
 " Chibouque," the Turkish pipe ' of 
 which the amber mouth-piece, and some- 
 times the ball which contains the leaf is 
 adorned with precious stones, if in pos4's- 
 sion of the wealthier orders. 
 
 4. — Page 266. 
 
 With Maugrabee and Mamaiuke, 
 
 " Maugrabee," Moorish mercenaries. 
 
 5. — Page 266. 
 His way amid his Delis took, 
 " Delis," bravos who form the forlorn 
 
 hope of the cavalry, and always begin the 
 action. [Also spelled " Pelhis."] 
 
 6. — Page 266. 
 Careering cleave the folded felt 
 A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar 
 practice by the Turks, and few but Mus- 
 sulman arms can cut through it at a single 
 stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used: 
 for the same purpose. The jerreed is a 
 game of blunt javehns, animated and grace-^ 
 ful. [See p. 823, col. 2.] 
 
 7. — Page 266. 
 Nor heard their Ollahs ~ wild and loud—^ 
 " Ollahs," AUa il AJlah, 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, parti^ 
 cularly dm-ing the jerreed.-or in the chasej 
 but mostly in battle. Their animation in 
 the field, and .gra^dty in the chamber, with 
 their pipes and comboloios, form an 
 amusing contrast. 
 
 8. — Page 267. 
 Within the caves of Istakar. 
 The treasures of the Pre-Adamite Sul- 
 tans. 
 
 9. — Page 267. 
 
 Was he not bred in Egripo ? 
 
 " Egripo," the Negropont. According 
 
 to the proverb, the Turks of Egripo, the 
 
 Jews of Salonica, audlhe Greeks of Athens, 
 
 are the worst of their respective races. 
 
 10. — Page 2 68. 
 Ah /yonder see the Tchocadar, 
 " Tchocadar " — one of the attendants 
 who precedes a man of authority. 
 
 Canto II 
 i. — Page 269. 
 And by her comboloio lies 
 " Comboloio '' — a Turkish rosary. 
 
 2. — Page 270. 
 In him was some young GaliongSe. 
 " GaKong^e " — or Galiougi, a sailor, 
 that is, a Turkish sailor ; the Greeks navi- 
 gate, the Turks work the guns. 
 
 3- — Page 270. 
 AndiPaswan's rebel hordes attest . 
 Paswan Oglou, the rebel of VViddin I 
 who, for the last years of his life, set the 
 whole power of the Porte at defiance 
 
NOTES 
 
 825 
 
 4. — Page 270. 
 They gave Ihcir horse-tails to the wind, 
 " Horse-tail," — the standard of a Pacha. 
 
 5. — Page 271. 
 H^ drank one draught, nor needed more! 
 Giafiir, Pacha oj Argyro Castro, or Scu- 
 tari, I am not sure which, was actually 
 taken off by the Albanian Ali, in the 
 manner described in the text. 
 
 6. — Page 272. 
 The last of Lambro^s patriots there 
 Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his 
 
 efforts, in 17S0-90, for the independence 
 
 of his country. 
 
 7- — Page 272. 
 To snatch the Rayahs from their fate 
 " Rayahs," — all who pay the capitation 
 tax, called the " Haratch." 
 
 THE CORSAIR 
 
 Canto II 
 I.— Page 283. 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice 
 Coffee. 
 
 2. — Page 283. 
 The long chibouque' s dissolving cloud supply, 
 " Chibouque," pipe. 
 
 3. — Page 283. 
 While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. 
 Dancing girls. 
 
 4.— Page 285. 
 And my stern vow and order's laws oppose 
 The Dervises are in colleges, and of differ- 
 ent orders, as the monks. 
 
 5.— Page 285. 
 They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 
 " Zatanai," Satan. 
 
 6.— Page 286. 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnarc, 
 Gulnare, a female name ; it means, hter- 
 ally, the flower of the pomegranate. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 I. — Page 315. 
 Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 
 [Timoleon, who had saved the life of his 
 
 B.P.«'- 
 
 brother Timophanes in battle, afterwards 
 killed him for aiming at the supreme power 
 in Corinth, preferring his duty to his coun- 
 try to the obligations of blood. 
 
 2. — Page 315. 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 [Ti-urkish holders of military fiefs, which 
 I 'blige them to join the army, mounted at 
 their own expense.] 
 
 3. — Page 315. 
 Coumourgi — he whose closing scene 
 Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three 
 sultans, and Grand Vizier to Achmet III., 
 alter recovering Peloponnesus from the 
 Venetians in one campaign, was mortally 
 wounded in the next, against the Germans, 
 at the battle of Peterwaradin (in the plain 
 of Carlowitz), in Hungary, endeavouring 
 to rally his guards. 
 
 4. — Page 318. 
 A nd each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 
 This tuft, or long lock, is left from a 
 superstition that Mahomet will draw 
 them into Paradise by it. 
 
 5. — Page 321. 
 The horsetails are plucked from the ground, 
 and the sword 
 The horsetails, fixed upon a lance, a 
 pacha's standard. 
 
 6. — Page 322. 
 A nd since the day, when in the strait 
 In the naval battle at the mouth of the 
 Dardanelles, between the Venetians and 
 Turks. 
 
 THE ISLAND 
 
 Canto II 
 I. — Page 345. 
 And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern chili 
 [George Stewart. "He was," says 
 Bligh, " a young man of creditable parents 
 in the Orkne s ; at which place, on the 
 return of the Resolution from the South 
 Seas, in 1780, we received so many civili- 
 ties, that, on that account only, I should 
 gladly have taken him with me : but, 
 independent of this recommendation, he 
 was a seaman, and had always borne a 
 good character."] 
 
 2.— Page 349. 
 But deem him sailor or philosopher. 
 Hobbes, the father of Locke's and other 
 3H 
 
826 
 
 NOTES 
 
 philosophy, was an inveterate smoker, — 
 even to pipes beyond computation. 
 
 MANFRED 
 
 I. — Page 365. 
 Efos and Anieros, at Gadara. 
 The philosopher JamblicuS: The story 
 of the raising of Eros and Anteros may be 
 found in his life by Euuapius. 
 
 2. — Page 369. 
 Phan. Man/red I 
 [Here is Lord Byron's commentary upon 
 the enigmatical text. " Manfred wanders 
 about in\'oking Spirits, which appear ti 
 him and are of no use ; he at last goes 
 to the very abode of the Evil Principle 
 in proprid persona, to evocate a ghost, 
 which appears, and gives him an ambi- 
 guous and disagreeable answer."] 
 
 to have robbed him of his books, besides 
 cheating and plaguing him in the economy 
 of his house. 
 
 2.— Page 599. 
 'Tts thai 1 still retain my " buff and blue ; '* 
 [Mr. Fo.x and the Whig Club of his time 
 adopted an uniform of blue and buff : 
 hence the coverings of the Edinburgh 
 Review.] 
 
 3.— Page 599. 
 
 Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ? 
 
 I allude not to our friend Landor's hero, 
 the traitor Count Julian, but to Gibbon's 
 hero, vulgarly yclept " The Apostate." 
 
 MARINO FALIERO 
 
 1. — Page 375. 
 Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 
 [The Avogadori, three in number, were 
 the conductors of criminal prosecutions 
 on the part of the state ; and no act of 
 the councils was valid, unless sanctioned 
 by the presence of one of them.] 
 
 2. — Page 382. 
 
 The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ; 
 
 [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 then led back into the 
 other compartment, or cell, upon the 
 bridge, still known by the name of the 
 Bridge of Sighs. — Hobhouse.] 
 
 WERNER 
 
 I.— Page 540. 
 From the Ravenstone by choking you myself. 
 The Ravenstone, " Rabenstein," is the 
 stone gibbet of Germany, and so called from 
 the ravens perching on it. 
 
 DON JUAN DEDICATION 
 
 I.— Page 598. 
 
 .And heartless daughters — worn — and pale 
 
 — and poor ; 
 
 Milton's two elder daughters are said 
 
 C.-iNTO I 
 
 I. — Stanza ii. 
 Vernon. 
 
 [General Vernon, who served with con- 
 siderable distinction in the navy, par- 
 ticularly in the capture of Porto Bello, died 
 in 1757] 
 
 2. — Stanza ii. 
 Cuynberland. 
 [Second son of George IT, distinguished 
 himself at the battles of Dettingen and 
 Fontenoy, and still more so at that of 
 CuUoden, where he defeated the Chevalier, 
 in 1746.] 
 
 3. — Stanza ii. 
 
 Prince Ferdinand. 
 
 [Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, who 
 
 gamed the victory of Minden. In 1762 he 
 
 drove the French out of Hesse. He died 
 
 in 1792.] 
 
 4. — Stanza ii. 
 Granby. 
 
 [Son of the third Duke of Rutland 
 
 signalised himself in 1745, on the in\-asion 
 by Prince Charles.] 
 
 5- — Stanza ii. 
 
 Burgoyne. 
 
 [An English general officer and dramatist, 
 
 who distinguished himself in the defence 
 
 of Portugal, in 1762, against the Spaniards.] 
 
 6. — Stanza ii. 
 
 Kcppel. 
 
 [Second son of the Earl of Albemarle. 
 
 Placed at the head of the Channel fleet, he 
 
 partially engaged, in 1778, the French 
 
 fleet, oft Oshant, which contrived to escape ] 
 
NOTES 
 
 827 
 
 7. — Stanza iii. 
 Barnave. 
 [Bariiave, one of the most active pro- 
 moters of the French Revolution, was in 
 1791 appointed President of the Constituent 
 Assembly.] 
 
 8. — Stanza iii. 
 
 BHssot, 
 
 [Brissot de Warville, at the age of 
 
 twenty, published several tracts, for one 
 
 of which he was, in 1784"; thrown into the 
 
 Bastile.] 
 
 9. — Stanza iii. 
 PUion. 
 [Petion, Mayor of Paris in 1791, took an 
 active part in the imprisonment of the king. ] 
 
 10. — Stanza iii. 
 Clootz. 
 [John Baptiste (better known under the 
 appellation of Anacharsis) Clootz. In 
 1790, at the bar of the National Conven- 
 tion, he describes himself as " the orator 
 of the human race."] 
 
 II. — Stanza iii. 
 Marceau. 
 [General Marceau first distinguished 
 himself in La Vendue. He was killed by a 
 rifle-ball at Alterkerchen.] 
 
 12. — Stanza iii. 
 Lannits. 
 [Lannes, Duke of Montebello, distin- 
 guished himself at Millesimo, Lodi, etc, 
 and lastly, at Esling ; where, in May, 1809, 
 he was killed by a cannon-shot.] 
 
 13. — Stanza iii. 
 
 Desaix. 
 
 [At the taking of Malta, and at the 
 
 battles of Chebreiss and of the Pyramids, 
 
 Desaix displayed the greatest bravery.] 
 
 14. — Stanza iii. 
 Moreaii. 
 [One of the most distinguished of the 
 Republican generals.] 
 
 15. — Stanza xi. 
 For her Feinagle's were an useless art. 
 [Professor Feinagle, of Baden, who in 
 1812 under the especial patronage of the 
 " Blues," delivered a course of lectures at 
 the Royal Institution, (London) on 
 Mnemonics.] Donna Inez is Lady Byron. 
 
 16. — Stanza xv. 
 Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, 
 [Sir Samuel Romilly lost his lady on tlie 
 29th of October, and committed suicide on 
 the 2nd of November, 1818. — Byron 
 Letters, June, 1819.] 
 
 17. — Stanza xvi. 
 Or Mrs, Trimmer's books on education, 
 [" Comparative View of the New Plan 
 
 of Education," " Teacher's Assistant," etc., 
 
 etc.] 
 
 18. — Stanza xvi. 
 Or " Caleb's Wife " set out in quest of 
 lovers, 
 [Hannah More's " Ccelebs in Search of a 
 Wife," etc, a sermon-like novel, which had 
 great success at the time, and is now for- 
 gotten.] 
 
 19. — Stanza xcv. 
 Boscan. 
 [Juan Boscan Almoga\'ci, of Barcelona, 
 died about the year 1543. In concert 
 with his friend Garcilasso, he introduced 
 the Italian style into Castilian poetry, and 
 commenced his labours by writing sonnets . 
 in the manner of Petrarch.] 
 
 20. — Stanza xcv. 
 Garcilasso. 
 [Garcilasso de la Vega, of a noble family 
 at Toledo, was a warrior as well as a poet. 
 .\fter serving with distinction in Germany, 
 .Africa, and Provence, he was killed, in 15 36, 
 by a stone thrown from a tower, which 
 fell upon his head as he was leading on his 
 battalion.] 
 
 21. — Stanza cxxxii, 
 
 Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 
 
 [ Jackson's Account of Tombuctoo, the 
 
 great Emporium of Central Africa. Sir 
 
 Edward's Parry's three Polar expeditions.] 
 
 22. — Stanza clxxxix. 
 The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney , 
 [William Brodie Gurney, Esq., the emi- 
 nent short-haad writer to the Houses of 
 ParUament.] 
 
 Canto II 
 I. — Stanza vii. 
 Excepting the Venetian FazzioU. 
 Fazzioli — literally, the little handker- 
 chiefs — the veils most availing of St. Mark. 
 
NOTES 
 
 2. — Stanza xxix. 
 But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 
 
 [" Notwithstanding tlie pumps dis- 
 charged fifty tons of water an hour, the ship 
 certainly must have gone down, had not 
 our expedients been attended with some 
 success. The pumps, to the excellent con- 
 struction of which I owe the preservation 
 of my life, were made by Mr. Mann, of 
 London." — Loss of the Hercules.] 
 Canto III 
 1. — Stanza ix. 
 They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 
 [The old ballad of " Death and the 
 Lady " is alluded to in Shakspeare.] 
 
 2. — Stanza x. 
 Dante. 
 Dante calls his wife, in the " Inferno,' 
 " la fiera moglie." 
 
 3— Page 665. 
 The Scian 
 [Homer.] 
 
 4.— Page 665. 
 
 and the Teian muse, 
 
 [Anacreon.] 
 
 Canto IV 
 I. — Stanza lxxx\'iii. 
 \ 'ou've heard of Raucocanti ? — I'm the man : 
 [Rauco-canti — may be rendered by 
 Hoarse-song.] 
 
 Canto V 
 
 I. — Stanza cxxxi. 
 
 The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
 
 [In Fielding's novel of Joseph Andrews.] 
 
 Canto VI 
 
 I. — Stanza ii. 
 
 Not all the re:'ertes of Jacob Behmen 
 
 [A noted visionary, bom near GorUtz, 
 
 in Upper Lusatia, in 1575, and founder o: 
 
 the sect called Behmenites.] 
 
 2. — Stanza x^ix. 
 
 He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
 
 The ladies of the seraglio. 
 
 3. — Stanza xxxi. 
 So Cantemir 
 [Demetrius Cantemir, a prince of .Mol- 
 davia, whose " History of the Gron-th 
 
 and Decay of the Ottoman Empire " was 
 translated into English by Tindal. He 
 died in 1723.] 
 
 4. — Stanza xxxi. 
 can tell you, or De Tott : 
 [" Memoirs of the State of the Turkish 
 Empire, 1785."] 
 
 5. — Stanza xl. 
 Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu ; in short, 
 [Katinka was the name of the youngest - 
 of the three girls, at whose house Lord .; 
 Byron resided while at Athens, in 18 10.] " 
 
 6. — Stanza xli. 
 Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
 [The good " points " of a Georgian girl 
 are a rosy or carnation tint on her cheek, 
 which they call numuck, " the salt of 
 beauty ; " dark hair, large black antelope 
 eyes and arched ej^e-brows, a small nose 
 and mouth, v/hite teeth, long neck, deli- 
 cate limbs and small joints.] 
 
 Canto VII 
 I. — Stanza xxxiii. 
 Of the Prince de Ligne 
 [Charles Joseph, Comte de Ligne, born 
 at Brussels. Being, in 1782, sent by the 
 Emperor Joseph II. on a mission to 
 Catherine, he became a gxeat favourite 
 with her. 
 
 Canto VIII 
 I. — Stanza xxiii. 
 {The antiquarians who can settle time. 
 See General Valancey and Sir Lawrence 
 Parsons. 
 
 2. — Stanza h-i. 
 \'ot reckoning him to be a " base Bezonian," 
 [Pistol's " Bezonian " is a corruption of 
 bisognoso — "a needv man" — metaphori- 
 cally (at least) " a scoundrel."] 
 
 Canto IX 
 I. — Stanza i. 
 Liimanity would rise, .?;i./ thunder" Xay ! " 
 Query, Ney .'—Printer's Devil. 
 
 2. — Stanza ii. 
 In Marinit's affair — in tad. 'twas shabby, 
 TThe late Lord Kinnaird was received 
 m Paris, in 1814, with great civilitv bv the 
 Duke of \\'elhngton and the roval famiiv 
 of France, but he got himself presented to 
 Buouapsrte during the Hundred Days and 
 
NOTES 
 
 829 
 
 intrigued with that faction. He became 
 acquainted at Brussels with MarinU, who 
 was mixed ijp in a conspiracy to assassinate 
 the Duke in the streets at Paris.] 
 
 3. — Stanza xviii. 
 
 Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speciilalion; 
 
 [" Pyrrho, the philosopher of Elis, was 
 in continual suspense of judgment ; he 
 doubted of everything."] 
 
 Canto X 
 I. — Stanza xv. 
 The endless soot bestows a tint fay deeper 
 Query, suit ? — Printer's Devil. 
 
 2. — Stanza xviii. 
 The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black 
 wall. 
 The brig of Don, near the " auld toun " 
 of Aberdeen, with its one arch, and its 
 black deep salmon-stream below, is in my 
 memory as yesterday. 
 
 5 — Stanza xlii. 
 We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 
 [Both Dr. Baillie and John Abernethy, 
 the great surgeon, were remarkable for 
 plainness of speech.] 
 
 4. — Stanza Ixii. 
 The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 
 St. Ursula and her eleven thousand 
 virgins were still extant in 1816, and may 
 be so yet, as much as ever. 
 
 5. — Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, 
 [In 1821 and 182::, tieorge IV., who is 
 the person recommended to Mrs. Fry's care, 
 visited Ireland, Hanos-er, and Scotland 
 Sir William Curtis was a boon companion 
 of the king.] 
 
 Canto XI 
 r. — Stanza xvi. 
 lass of max ! We've miss'd our 
 booty ; 
 [Gin or Hollands.] 
 
 2. — Stanza x->ii. 
 Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
 \\ thief of the lower order, who, when 
 he is breeched by a course of successful 
 depredation, dresses in the extreme of 
 vulgar gentility, and affects a knowingness 
 in his air and conversation, which renders 
 him in reality an object of ridicule.— Vaux.] 
 
 3. — Stanza xvii. 
 Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, 
 [A fellow who affects any particular 
 habit, as swearing, dressing in a particular 
 manner, taking snuff, etc., merely to be 
 noticed, is said to do it out of flash. — 
 Egan.] 
 
 Oh ! for a 
 
 .is 
 
 soon as 
 
 [" 2nd Clown. 
 1st Clown. 
 quest law. 
 
 — Stanza xviii. 
 
 ' Cro'i,iiner' s guest " allow' d, 
 
 pursued. 
 But is this law ? 
 Ay marry is't ; crowner's 
 ••—Hamlet.] 
 
 5. — Stanza xix. 
 Booze in the ken, 
 [.\ house that harbours thieves is called 
 a ken. — Slang Dictionary.] 
 
 6. — Stanza xix. 
 or at the spellken hustle ? 
 [The playhouse. — Ibid.] 
 
 7. — Stanza xix. 
 Who queer a flat ? Who (spite of Bow- 
 stmt's ban) 
 [To puzzle or confound a gull, or silly 
 fellow. — Ibid.] 
 
 8. — Stanza xix. 
 
 On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle ? 
 
 [Robbery on horseback. — Ibid.] 
 
 9. — Stanza xix. 
 
 With black-eyed Sal {his blowing), 
 
 [A pickpocket's trull. — Ibid. 
 
 10. — Stanza xix. 
 
 So prime, so swell, 
 
 [So gentlemanly. — Ibid.] 
 
 n. — Stanza xix. 
 so nutty, 
 [To be nuts upon, is to be very much 
 pleased or gratified with any thing; thus, 
 a person who conceives a strong inchna- 
 tion for another of the opposite sex is said 
 to be quite nutty upon him or her. — Ibid.] 
 
 r2. — Stanza xxii. 
 Here taverns wooing to a pint of "purl," 
 [A kind of medicated malt liquor, in 
 which wormwood and aromatics are 
 infused. — Todd.] 
 
S30 
 
 NOTES 
 
 13. — Stanza xxii. 
 
 {For in those days we had not got to gas — 1 >' 
 
 [The streets of London were firit 
 regularly lighted with gas in 1812.] 
 
 14. — Stanza xlix. 
 
 The milliners who furnish " drapery 
 Misses " 
 
 " Drapery Misses." — This terrri is prob- 
 ably anything now but a mystery. It 
 means a pretty, a high-born, a fashionable 
 young female, well instructed by her 
 friends, and furnished by her milliner with 
 a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
 when married, by the husband. 
 
 15. — Stanza Ixxviii. 
 
 And where is "Finn" the Fourth, our 
 " royal bird ? " 
 
 [See Moore's " Fum and Hum, the Two 
 Hirds of Royaltj^" appended to his 
 Fudge Family."] 
 
 Canto XII 
 
 I. — Stanza Iviii. 
 " The royal game of Goose** as I may say, 
 [This ancient game originated, I behave, 
 in Germany. It is called the game of the 
 goose, because at every fourth and fifth 
 compartment of the table in succession a 
 goose is depicted ; and if the cast thrown 
 by the player falls upon a goose, he moves 
 forward double the number of his throw. 
 — Strutt.] 
 
 Canto XIII 
 
 I. — Stanza Ixxviii. 
 
 Even Nimrod*s self might leave the plains of 
 
 Dura, 
 
 In Assyria. 
 
 2. — Stanza Ixxxviii. 
 
 There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jeffer- 
 ies Hardsman, 
 
 [George Hardinge, Esq., M.P , one of 
 the Welsh judges, died in 1816. His works 
 v/ere collected, in 1818, by Mr Nichols.] 
 
 3. — Stanza xcii. 
 
 Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the 
 Tweed, 
 
 [Curran and Erskine.] 
 
 Canto XIV 
 I. — Stanza xxxix. 
 He glanced like a personified Bolero ; 
 [A Spanish dance noted for its liveli- 
 ness.] 
 
 2. — Stanza lix. 
 
 And I refer you to wise O.xenstiern. 
 
 The famous Chancellor Oxenstiem said 
 to his son : " You see by this, my son, 
 with how little wisdom the kingdoms of the 
 world are governed." 
 
 3. — Stanza Ixxxiii. 
 Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander! 
 [The bald-coot is a small bird of prey in 
 marshes. The F.mperor Alexander v,'as 
 baldish.] 
 
 Canto XV 
 1. — Stanza viii. 
 On ready money, or " a draft on Ranso^n.*' 
 [Ransom, Kinnaird, & Co. were Lord 
 Byron's bankers.] 
 
 '^. — Stanza xxxv. 
 When Rapp the Harmonist 
 marriage 
 
 enibargo'd 
 
 This extraordinary and flourishing Ger- 
 man colony in America does not entirely-. 
 exclude matrimony, as the " Shakers " 
 do ; but lays such restrictions upon it as 
 prevent more than a certain quantum of 
 births within a certain number of years. 
 
 3. — Stanza xxx\iii. 
 Nor canvass wlial "so eminent a hand" 
 meant ; 
 Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, 
 was accustomed to call his WTiters " able- 
 pens," " persons of honour," and especi- 
 ally " eminent hands." 
 
 4. — Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 Observe ; for that with me*s a " sine qua." 
 Subauditur " non ; " omitted for the 
 sake of euphony. 
 
 5. — Stanza xcii. 
 As Eldon on a lunatic commission, 
 [John Scott, Earl of Eldon, Chancellor 
 of England (with the interruption of 
 lourteen months) from 1801 to 1830.] 
 
 6. — Stanza xcii. 
 // makes my blood boil like the springs of 
 
 Hecla, 
 Hecla is a famous hot-spring hi Iceland. 
 
NOTES 831 
 
 7, — Stanza xcvi. 
 
 2. — Stanza lii. 
 
 Like those of the philosopher of Mahnsbury. 
 
 On pain of much displeasing the gy no cracy 
 
 Hobbes : who, doubting of his own soul, 
 paid that compliment to the souls of other 
 people as to decline their visits, of which 
 he had some apprehension. 
 
 [Petticoat government — female power. — 
 Todd. 
 
 3. — Stanza Ivii. 
 Had brought the capo d'opera not for -sale, 
 
 Canto XVI 
 
 1, — Stanza 1. . 
 
 Were sonnets to herself, or " bouts rimes." 
 
 [The last words or rhymes of a number of 
 verses given to a poet to be filled up. — 
 Todd. 
 
 [Capo d'opera — chef-d' oeuvre — master- 
 piece.] 
 
 4. — Stanza Ixxxi. 
 
 The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
 
 [Sydney Smith, author of Peter Plyrnley's 
 Letters.] 
 
Index of First Lines. 
 
 A spirit pass'd before me : I beheld 
 A year ago, you swore, fond she ! 
 Absent or present, still to thee 
 Adieu, thou Hill ! where early joy 
 Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! 
 ^gle, beauty and poet, has two little 
 
 crimes . . .... 
 
 Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite 
 Ah, heedless girl ! why thus disclose 
 Ah ! Love was never yet without . 
 Ah ! — What should follow slips from 
 
 my reflection 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 And thou wert sad — yet I was not 
 
 with thee 
 
 And wilt thou weep when I am low 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone . 
 As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
 Away, away, ye notes of woe ! . 
 Away, away, your flattering arts . 
 Away with your fictions of flimsy 
 
 romance . . . . 
 
 Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens 
 
 of roses ! . . . . 
 
 PAGE 
 127 
 
 75 
 63 
 45 
 59 
 
 63 
 
 3 
 
 46 
 
 66 
 
 787 
 O2 
 
 131 
 53 
 55 
 79 
 60 
 3 
 
 27 
 
 72 
 
 Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn 
 
 Beneath Blessington's eyes 
 
 Bob Southey ! you're a poet and Poet 
 
 laureate 597 
 
 Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred 128 
 Bright be the place of thy soul ! . 77, 5 o 
 
 Candour compels me, Becher ! to com- 
 mend 29 
 
 Chill and mirk is the nightly blast . 56 
 Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — 
 
 but thou, alas ! ...... 199 
 
 Could I remount the river of my years 77 
 
 Could Love for ever . . . 83 
 
 Cruel C rinthus ! does the fell disease 3 
 
 Dear are the days of youth ! ... 37 
 Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with 
 
 mankind ; 37 
 
 Dear Doctor, I have read your play, . 80 
 
 Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene . 41 
 
 Dear object of defeated care ! ... 57 
 
 Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts 3 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dorset ! whose early steps with mine 
 
 have stray'd 8 
 
 Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead 12 
 
 Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman 
 
 sect 27 
 
 Equal to Jove that youth must be . 3 
 Ere the daughter of Brunswick is coM 
 
 in her grave 85 
 
 Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son de- 
 part ... 57 
 
 Fames for contemptuous breach of 
 
 sacred ties 69 
 
 Fame, wisdom, love, and power were 
 
 mine 124 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if for ever 127 
 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer . . 50 
 
 Farewell to the Land, where the gloom 
 
 of my Glory 74 
 
 Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 40 
 
 Few years have pass'd since thou and 
 
 I 50 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! lor I never be- 
 fore 53 
 
 For Oxford and for Waldegrave . . 85 
 
 Friend of my youth ! when young we 
 
 roved • - 44 
 
 From the last hill that looks on thy 
 
 once holy dome . . . r26 
 
 From out the mass of never-dying hill . 145 
 
 God the Eternal ! Infinite ! AUwise ! 485 
 
 Good plays are scarce 59 
 
 Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 5 
 
 Hail, Muse ! et cietera. — We left Juan 
 
 sleeping 646 
 
 He hath wrong'd his queen, but still 
 
 he is her lord 419 
 
 He, unto whom thou art so partial . 84 
 
 He who subliin e in epic n umbers roll'd 3 
 
 Here once engaged the stran ger's view 49 
 Here's a happy new year ! but with 
 
 reason 83 
 
 High in the midst, surro'inded by his 
 
 peers 23 
 
 Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren . 9 
 
834 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 His father's sense, his mother's grace 82 
 How pleasant were the songs of Too 
 
 bonal 
 
 How sweetly shines through azure 
 
 skies. ... . . 
 
 Hush'd are the winds, and still th 
 
 evening gloom .... 
 Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going . 
 
 343 
 
 14 
 
 54 
 
 I enter thy garden of roses 
 
 I had a dream, which was not all a 
 
 dream -75 
 
 I lay my branch of laurel down . . 67 
 
 I now mean to be serious ; — it is time . 764 
 
 1 read the " Christabel " . . 80 
 
 I saw thee weep — the big bright tirar . 123 
 I speak not, I trace not, I breathe nC't 
 
 thy name 70 
 
 I stood beside the era\'e of him who 
 
 blazed ... . . . "jb 
 
 I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of 
 
 Sighs 228 
 
 I wish to tune my quivering lyre 4 
 
 I would I were a careless child. . . 42 
 I would to heaven that I was so much 
 
 clay .... . .-ig; 
 
 If, for silver or for gold .... S3 
 
 If from great nature's or our own abyss 776 
 
 If in the month of dark December . . 57 
 
 If sometimes in the haunts of men 62 
 
 If that high world, which lies beyond 122 
 
 Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be. . . 63 
 In Coron's bay floats many a galley 
 
 light . " . . .283 
 
 In digging up your bones, Tom Paine . 84 
 
 In law an infant, and in years a boy . 1 ^ 
 
 In moments to delight devoted . . 68 
 In one dread night our city saw, and 
 
 sigh'd .....' 63 
 
 In one who felt as once he felt . . 4S 
 In the beginning was the Word next 
 
 God 149 
 
 In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp . 2 
 
 In the year since Jesus died for men 314 
 
 In this beloved marble view . ' 79 
 
 Is not the messenger returned ? . . 375 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair 
 
 child ! 212 
 
 It is the hour when from the boughs 321 
 
 John Adams lies here, of the parish of 
 
 Southwell . . ^g 
 
 Kind Reader, take your choice to cry 
 
 or laugh .... • . 57 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress 
 
 and myrtle . . . 264 
 
 Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy cUme 141 
 Lesbia ! since far from you r\e 
 
 ranged 12 
 
 Let Folly smile, to view the names i 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Long years ! — It tries the thrilling 
 
 frame to bear . 136 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part . . T 57 
 Many are poets who have never penn'd 147 
 Marion I why that pensive brow ? • 13 . 
 Montgomery ! true, the comm.on lot . 36 
 Muse of the many-twinkling feet ! 
 
 whose charms 116 
 
 Must thou go, my glorioui Chief 74 
 
 My boat is on the shore . . . 80 
 
 My dear Mr. Murray .... 81 
 
 My hair is gre5^ but not with years . 330 
 My love, be calmer ! .... 523 
 
 My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a 
 
 name . 130 
 
 My soul is dark — Oh! quickly string . 123 
 
 Nay, smile not at my sullen brow . . 197 
 Newstead ! fast-falling, once resplen- 
 dent dome ! 29 
 
 Night wanes — the Vapours round the 
 
 mountains curl'd 307 
 
 Nisus, the guardian of the portal, 
 
 stood . . . . " . . . .17 
 No breath of air to break the wave 252 
 No specious splendour of this stone . 24 
 Nothing so difficult as a beginning . 658 
 Not in those climes where I have late 
 
 been straying . 185 
 
 O'er the glad waters of the dark blue 
 
 sea 275 
 
 Of all the barbarous middle ages, that. 755 
 Of two fair \'irgins, modest, though 
 
 admired . 79 
 
 Oh, Anne, your offences to me have 
 
 been grevous 47 
 
 "Oh! banish care " — such ever be . 59 
 Oh, blood and thunder ! and oh, blood 
 
 and wounds ! 711 
 
 Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a patriot 
 
 now 84 
 
 Oh ! could Le Sage's demon's gift 9 
 
 O'n ! did those eyes, instead of fire . 11 
 Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for e^er 
 
 dear ! . . . .... 2 
 
 Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine 42 
 Oh how I wish that an embargo 57 
 
 Oh Lady, when I left the shore 55 
 
 Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee . . . 125 
 Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire 4 
 
 Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonelv — Pil- 
 low . . ..." .87 
 
 Oh say not, sweet .\nne, that the 
 
 Fates have decreed .... 47 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 123 
 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in 
 
 story 87 
 
 Oh, thou ! -n Hellas deem'd of hea- 
 venly birth .... . 185 
 Oh Venice ! \'enice ! when thy 
 
 marble walls . . . 133 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 835 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Oh ! v.-eep for those that wept by 
 
 Babel's stream .... . 12.; 
 
 Oh, Welhngton ! (or " \'ilhariton " — 
 
 for Fame . 7 
 
 Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever 
 
 my sorrow ? 
 
 Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to 
 
 each other 
 
 Oh ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth 
 
 of nd-ions . . ... 
 
 Oh you, who in all names can tickle 
 
 the town ... 
 Love ! O Glory ! what are ye who 
 
 fly 
 
 Once fairly set out on his party of 
 
 pleasure 
 
 iJnce more in man's frail world ! which 
 
 I had left . . . . 
 
 One struggle more, and I am free . 
 On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels 
 
 stray . . ... 
 
 Our father sleeps ; it is the hour when 
 
 they 
 
 Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own 
 
 world . . 
 
 " Our nation's foes lament on Fox's 
 
 death .... . . 25 
 
 Out, hunchback ! . . . . . 567 
 
 7:;'j 
 6 
 
 43 
 622 
 
 67 
 701 
 
 73 
 
 141 
 6r 
 
 r22 
 
 509 
 
 134 
 
 Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 
 Posterity will ne'er survey . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The antique Persians taught three use- 
 ful things 797 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf 
 on the fold . 
 
 The braziers, it seem.s, are preparmg 
 to pass 
 
 The chain I gave was fail' ( o \iew . 
 
 The Devil return'd to hell by two 
 
 The fight was o'er ; the flashing 
 through the -'jloom 
 
 The " good old times " — all times 
 when old are good — . 
 
 The harp the monarch minstrel swept 
 
 The King was on his throne 
 
 The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left , 
 
 The lamp must be replenish'd, but 
 even then . 
 
 The land where I was born sits by the 
 
 I seas 
 
 I The man of firm and noble soul 
 
 ' The modest bard, like many a bard 
 
 ! unknown 
 
 The Moorish King rides up and down . 
 
 The morning watch was come ; the 
 vessel lay 
 
 The " Origin of Love ! " — Ah, why 
 
 The roses of love glad the garden of 
 life 
 
 The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide 
 
 domain 299 
 
 The Son of Love and Lord of War I 
 
 126 
 
 84 
 63 
 68 
 
 176 
 121 
 125 
 
 58 
 
 358 
 
 158 
 
 4 
 
 57 
 78 
 
 341 
 66 
 
 13 
 
 smg 
 
 Remember him, whom passion's power 66 
 
 Remember thee ! remember thee ! . 65 
 
 Remind me not, remind me not . . 52 
 
 River, that rollest by the ancient walls 82 
 Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — 
 
 and De Stael . 77 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate 164 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 121. 
 
 Since now the hour is come at last . 5 
 Since our Country, our God — Oh,mv 
 
 Sire ! 123 
 
 Since the refinement of this polish'd 
 
 age . . 25 
 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be 
 
 run 112,290 
 
 So, we'll go no more a roving 80 
 
 Sons of the Greeks, arise ! . . 58 
 Spot of my youth ! whose hoary 
 
 branches sigh 45 
 
 Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath 
 
 shed -74 
 
 Start not — nor deem my spirit fled 5 1 
 Still must I hear ? — shall hoarse Fitz- 
 gerald bawl . 88 
 
 Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the tiroes . 81 
 
 Stranger ! behold, interr'd together . 58 
 
 Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star! 125 
 
 Sweet girl ! though only once we met . 24 
 
 85 
 
 56 
 
 143 
 
 T22 
 
 268 
 
 The Spell is broke, the charm is flown! 
 
 The Spirit of the fervent days of Old 
 
 The wild gazelle on Judah's hills . 
 
 The winds are high on Helle's wa\ e 
 
 The world is a bundle of hay . 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters . 
 
 There is a tear for all that die . 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men . 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give 
 like that it takes away 
 
 There was a time, I need not name . 
 
 These locks, which fondly thus en- 
 twine 
 
 Thev say that Hope is happiness . 
 
 Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long 
 fair hair. . ■ ... 
 
 Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 6 
 
 This Band, which bound thy j'ellow 
 hair . . 
 
 This day, of all our days, has done 
 
 This faint resemblance of thy charms 
 
 This votive pledge of fond esteem 
 
 Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue . 
 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle . 
 
 Though the day of my destiny's over . 
 
 Thou Power ! who hast ruled me 
 through infancy's days 
 
 Thou whose spell can raise the dead 
 
 Through cloudless skies, in silvery 
 
 sheen 5^ 
 
 35 
 84 
 12 
 7 
 49 
 66 
 129 
 
 48 
 123 
 
836 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Through life's dull road, so dim and 
 dirty .... . . 
 
 Through thy battlements, Newstead, 
 
 the hollow winds whistle . 
 Thy cheek is pale with thought, but 
 
 not from woe 
 
 Thy days are done, thy fame begun . 
 Thy verse is " sad " enough, no doubt 
 Time, on whose arbitrary wing 
 'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
 'Tis done — but yesterday a King ! 
 'Tis done ! — I saw it in my dreams 
 'Tis known, at least it should be, that 
 
 throughout .... 
 'Tis time this heart should be un- 
 moved 
 
 Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 
 To be the father of the fatherless . 
 To hook the reader, you, John Murray 
 'Twas after dread Pultowa's day 
 'Twas now the hour when Night had 
 driven 
 
 Unhappy Dives ! in an evil hour 
 
 Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft 
 
 or the sword .... 
 We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! . 
 We sate down and wept by the waters 
 Weep, daughter of a royal Ime 
 Well ! thou art happy, and I feel . 
 Were my bosom as false as thou 
 
 deem'st it to be 
 What are you doing now 
 What matter the pangs of a husband 
 
 and father 
 
 " What say I ? " — and not a syllable 
 
 further in prose . . . ' . 
 When all around grew drear and dark 
 When a man hath no freedom to fight 
 
 for at home 
 
 When Bishop Berkeley said " there 
 
 was no matter " .... 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering 
 
 clay . . 
 
 Whene'er I view those lips of thine . 
 " When energising objects men pur- 
 
 68 
 123 
 47 
 65 
 54 
 120 
 37 
 
 586 
 
 88 
 76 
 82 
 80 
 333 
 
 59 
 
 124 
 73 
 
 125 
 
 63 
 51 
 
 125 
 
 84 
 
 70 
 129 
 
 84 
 
 745 
 
 124 
 5 
 
 When fierce conflicting passions urge . 22 
 When Friendship or Love our sym- 
 pathies move 26 
 
 When from the heart where Sorrow sits 68 
 When I dream that you love me, you'll 
 
 surely forgive ; — jj 
 
 When I hear you express an affection 
 
 so warm 
 
 When I roved a young Highlander o'er 
 
 the dark heath . . . . 
 
 When Man, expell'd from Eden's 
 
 bowers . . ... 
 
 When Newton saw an apple fall he 
 
 found , . 
 
 When slow Disease, with all her host 
 
 of pains .... . . 
 
 When some proud son of man returns 
 
 to earth . . 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring 
 
 day 
 
 When the \'ain triumph of the im.- 
 
 perial lord . 
 
 When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense 
 
 sent ... 
 
 When Time, or soon or late shall bring 
 When, to then- airy hall, my father's 
 
 voice ... 
 When we tv^ro parted . . . . 
 
 Where are those honours, Ida ! once 
 
 your own 
 Where is the prisoner ? ... 
 White as a white sail on a dusky sea . 
 Who hath not glow'd above the page 
 
 where fame 
 Who kill'd John Keats ? . . ' 
 
 Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, 
 
 hired to grace 
 Why how now, Billy Bowles ? . 
 Why how now, saucy Tom ? 
 Why is my sleep disquieted ? . 
 Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's 
 
 disdain 
 
 Why should my anxious breast repine 
 With death doom'd to grapple 
 Without a stone to mark the spot . . 
 Woman ! experience might have told 
 me 
 
 Ye Cupids, droop each little head 
 
 Ye scenes of my childhood, whose 
 
 loved recollection . 
 You call me still 
 
 736 
 
 31 
 
 52 
 
 13* 
 
 71 
 
 67 
 61 
 
 2 
 50 
 
 7 
 458 
 353 
 
 102 
 
 84 
 84 
 
 124 
 26 
 
 39 
 84 
 60 
 
 change the word-^ 
 You have ask'd for 
 
 request . 
 Young Oak ! when I 
 
 deep in the ground 
 You're too late . 
 Your pardon, my friend 
 
 did offend 
 
 \-our life. — Oh ! 
 
 a verse : 
 
 -the 
 
 68 
 
 planted thee 
 
 if my rh3'nie3 
 
 I Youth, Nature and relenting Jc 
 
 48 
 159 
 
 27 
 57 
 
 Bnller & Tanntr Th. SdwooJ Pr!„ii„j, Works From 
 
 e and London 
 
PR 4350.FlT"""'""''">"-""-='>' 
 ''°m!NliM,l,r:.!!?,°.r,Vord Byron :with Intro 
 
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