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In the desert a fountain is springing,

Where had been heapid a mass of bioly things
In the wide waste there still is a tree,

For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And a bird in the solitude singing,

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton bands
Which speaks to my spirit of thee,

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a tlame

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up

Their cyes

as it

grew lighter, and beheld I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.

Each other's aspects-saw, and shriek d and diedThe bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Did wander darkling in the eternal


!nknowing wlio he was upon whose brow Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Famine had written fiend. The world was void, Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air. The populous and the powerful was a lump. Morn came, and went and came, and brought no day; Seasonless, hierbless, freeless, manless, lifelessAnil men forgot their passions in the dread

A lump of death-a chaos of hard clay. Of this their desolation, and all hearts

The rivers, lakes, and ocran, all stood still,
Were child into a selfish prayer for light :

And nothing stirred within their silent depths ;
And they did live by wateh-hires—and the thrones, Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
The palaces of crowned kings-the buts,

And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they droppu, The habitations of all things which dwell,

They slept on ile abyss without a surge. Were burat for beacons; cities were consumed,

The waves were dead; the lides were in their grave, And inen were gatherd round their blazing homes The moon their mistress had expired before; To look once more into each other's face :

The winds were wither'd in the stagnaut air, Happy were those who dwelt within the eye

And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of the volcanos ud their moutain-torch.

Of aid from them- she was the universe.
A fearful bope was all the world contain'd.
Forests were set on fire-but hour by hour
They fell and faded-and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a craslı-and all was black,
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an uneartily aspect, as by fits

I stoop beside the grave of him who blazed -
The tlashes fell upou them : some lay down

The comet of a season, and I saw
And hid their cyes and wepe; and some did rest The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed.
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; With not the less of sorrow and of awe
And others hurried to and fro, and fed

On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
Their funcral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With name no clearer than the names unknown, With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd The pall of a past world; and then again

The gardener of that ground, why it might be With curses cast them down upon the dust,

That for this plant strangers his memory task d And gnash'd their teeth and lowlil. The wild birds | Through the thick deails of half a century; shrick,

And thus be answer'd-«Well, I do not know
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims 50;
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes lle died before my day of sextonship,
Came lame and treinulous; and vipers crawla

And I had not the digging of this grave. »
And iwined themselves among the multitude,

And is this all? I thought, -and do we rip
Hissing, but stingless-they were slain for food : The veil of immortality? and crave
And war, which for a moment was no inore,

I know not what of honour and of light
Did glut himself again. A meal was bouglic

Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? With blood, and each sale sullenly apart,

So soon and so successless? As I said, Corging himself in gloom: no love was left;

The architect of all on which we tread, All earth was but one thought-and that was death, For carth is but a tombstone, did essay Immediate and inflorious; and the pang

To extricate remembrance from the clay, Of famine fed upon all evtrails. Men

Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, Died, and their bones were tombless as their tlesla; Were it not that all life must end in one, The meagre by the meagre were devour'd.

Of which we are but dreamers ;-as be caught Exeo dogs assaild their masters, all save one,

As 't were the twilight of a former sun, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

Thus spoke le, -«I believe the man of whom The birds anal beasts and fanisliil men at bay,

You wot, who lies in this sclected tomb,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead

Whos a most famous writer in his day,
Lured their lauk jaws; himself songht out no food And therefore travellers step from out their way
But with a piteous and perpetual moun


pay luim honour,-and myself whateer And a quick desolate cry, licking the land

Your honour pleases.» Then most pleased I shook Which auswerd not with a caress--he died.

From out my pockets avaricious nook The crowd was famislid by degrees; lutino

Some certaju coins of silver, which as I were Of an enormous city did survive,

Perforee I gave this man, though I could spare And they were enemies; they met beside

So much but inconveniently. Ye smile, The dying embers of an altar place

I see yo, yo profane ones! all the wlule,

Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not I- for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a soften d eye,
On that old sexton's natural homily,
In wbich there was obscurity and fame,
The glory and the nothing of a name.

And firm will, and a deep sense,

Which even in torture can descry Ils own concentred recompense,

Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making death a victory.


PROMETHEUS. Titan! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise ; What was thy pily's recompense! A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The

agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh

Until its voice is echoless.

Ou, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!

Oh shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy Glory, and base in thy fall,

How wretched thy portion sball be!
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

A mockery that never shall die :
The curses of late, and the hisses of scorul,

Shail burden the winds of thy sky;
And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurld
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

Oh, where is thy spirit of yore,

The spirit that breathed in thy dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before,

And honour the passion that led ? Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep,

They groan from the place of their rest, And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep,

To see the foul stain on thy breast; For where is the glory they left thee in trust? 'T is scatter'd in darkness, 't is trampled in dust!

Titan! to thee the strife was given

Between the suffering and the will,

Which torture where they cannot kill ; And the inexorable heaven, And the deaf tyranny of fate, The ruling principle of hale, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die : The wretched gift eternity

Was thine---and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from 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 thy silence was his sentence, And in his soul a vain repentance, And evil dread, so ill dissembled That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Go look through the kingdoms of earth,

From Indus all round to the pole, And something of goodness, of honour, and worth,

Shall brighten the sins of the soul. But thou art alone in thy shame,

The world cannot liken thee there; Abhorrence and vice liave disfigured thy name

Beyond the low reach of compare: Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt leod us through time A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime!

While conquest illumined his sword,

While yet in his prowess he stood,
Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thy lord,

And welcomed the torrent of blood:
Though tyranny sat on his crown,

And wither'd the nations afar,
Yet bright in thy view was that despot's renown,

Till fortune deserted his car;
Then back from the chieftain thou slunkest

away, The foremost to insult, the first to betray!

Thy godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less

The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind.
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Suill in thy patient energy,

To the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable spirit,

Which earth and heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit.

Thou art a symbol and a sign
To mortals of their fate and force ;

Like thee, man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source:
And man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And lois sad uoallied existence :
To which his spirit may oppose
Itself-an equal to all woes,

Forgot were the fears be had done,

The toils he had borne in thy cause; Thou turued'st to worship a new rising sun,

And waft other songs of applause. But die storm was beginning to lower,

Adversity clouded his beam; And honour and faith were the brag of an hour,

And loyalıy's self but a dream :To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were restored, And the first that had scoffd were the first that adored.

What tumult thus burthens the air?

What trong thus encircles his thrope?

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"T is the shout of delight, 't is the millions that swear | Next--for some gracious service unexpresi,
lis sceptre
shall rule them alone.

And from its wages only to be guess'd
Reverses shall briglaten their zeal,

Raised from the toilet to the table, where
Misfortune shall hallow his name,

Her wondering bellers wait behind her chair:
And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
How quenchless the spirit and llaine

She dines from off the plate she lately wash d. That Frenchnen will breathe, when their hearts are Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, on fire,

The genial confidante, and general spy; For the hero they love, and the clief they admire! Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess ? Their hero has ruslı'd to tlic field;

An only infani's earliest governess !

She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
His laurels are cover'd with shade
But where is the spirit that never should yield,

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell.

An adept next in penmansbip she grows,
The loyalty never to fade?
Iu a moment desertion and guile

Is many a nameless slander defuly slows:

What she had made the pupil of her art,
Abandon'd him up to the foc;
The dastards that tlourislid and grew in luis smile

None know, but that high soul secured the heart,
Forsook and renounced him in woe;

lad panted for the truth it could not hear, And the millions thatswore they would perishi to save,

With longing loreast and uodeluded ear. Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave!

Foild was perversion by that youthful mind, The savage all wild in huis glen

Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could not blind,

Deceit infect not, near contagion soil,
Is nobler and better than thou;

Inciulgence weaken, nor example spoil,
Thou standest a wonder, a narvel to meu,

Nor master'd science tempe lier to look down
Such perfidy blackens thy brow!

On humbler talents with a pitying frown,
If thou wert the place of my birth,
At once from thy arms would I sever;

Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vaiu,

I'd tly to the uttermost ends of the earth,

ruffle to retaliate pain, And quit thee for ever and ever ;

Vor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow, And thinking of thee in my long after

Nor virtuc teach ansterity-uill now.

years, Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears.

Serenely purest of her sex that live.

But wanting one sweet weakness-10 forgive;
Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!

Too shockil at faults her soul can never know,
Oli, shame to thy children and thee!

She deems that all could be like her below:
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,

Foe to all vice, yet iardly virtue's friend-
How wretched thy portion shall be!

For virtue pardons those she would amend.
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

But to the theme-now laid aside too long,
A mockery that never shall die;

The baleful burther of this honest song
The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn,
Shall burthen the winds of thy sky:

Though all her former functions are no more,

She rules the circle which she served before. And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurla

If mothers-none know wliy-before her quake, The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

If daughters dread her for the mother's sake;

If early habits-those false links which bind,

At times, the loftiest to the meanest mind-
Lines composed on the occasion of I. R. II. the

PPS-being The angry essence of her deadly will;

Nave given her power too deeply to instil seen standing betwixt the coffins of llenry VIII and Charles I. in the royal vault at Windsor.

If like a snake she steal within your walls.

Till the black slime betra y her as she crawls;
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles, sce heartless Henry lies ;

If like a viper to the heart she wind,
Between them stands another scepired thing,

And leave the venom there she did not find;

What marvel that this hac of hatred works
it reigns—in all but mame, a king:

Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
In him the double tyrant starts to life.

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells! E chi royal vampyre wakes to life again.

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints, Ah! what can tombs avail --since these disgorge With all the kind mendacity of hints, The blood and dust of both to mould a G...fe. While mugling truth with falsehoori, sneers with smiles,

1813 A thread of candour with a web of wiles;

A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,

To hide her bloodless heart's soul-hardeo'd scheiding:

A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal,
Honest- honest laro!

And, without feeling, mock at all who feel;
If that thon best a desil. I cannot kill thee!

With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown,

A check of parchment, and an eye of stone.
Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,

Mark how the channels of her yellow blood Promoted thience to deck lier mistress' head;

0070 to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,

It moves,

Wer't the last drop in the well,

And I gasping on the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

"T is to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be Peace to thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore!



Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face).
Look on her features! and behold her mind,
As in the mirror of itself defioed:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged
This is no trait which might not be enlarged;
Yet true to « Nature's journeymen,» who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade,-
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-
The time shall come, nor long remote when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
Sad turn thee howling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of cruslid affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee, in thy leprosy of miod,
As loatlısome 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 bideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,
The widow'd courh of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims-and despair!
Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear,
Thy name-thy human name-10 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 30, 1816.

January 22, 1824, Missolonghi. 'T is time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it bath 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 wear the chain.

But 't is not thus, and 't is not here,

Such thoughes should shake my soul; nor now Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

CARMINA BYRONIS IN C. ELGIN. ASPICE, quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores,

Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide. Scote miser! quamvis nocuisti Palladis ædi,

Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus. Pygmalion statuam pro sponsa arsisse refertur ;

In statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest.

The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece around me see! The Spartan, borne upon

his shield, Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece, -she is awake!)

Awake my, spirit!-think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread all reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood! Unto thee, Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

LINES TO MR MOORE. (The following lines were addressed estempore by Lord Byron to his

friend Mr. Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy.)
My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I


Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?

The land of honourable death Is here-up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found

A soldier's grave--for thee the best; Then look around, and chuse thy ground,

And take thy rest.

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A kiss



accuracy. Of the tone of seriousness» I certainly recollect nothing : on the contrary, I thoughit Mr Bowles

rather disposed to treat the subject lightly; for he said Ravenna, February 7th, 1821.

(I have no objection to be contradicted if incorrect)

that some of his good-natured friends had come to him In the different pamphlets which you have had the good and exclaimed, « Eh! Bowles! how came you to make ness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles' controversy, 1 die Woods of Madeira, » etc., etc., and that he had been perceive that my dame is occasionally introduced by at some paius and pulling down of the poem to convince both parties. Mr Bowles refers more than once to what them that he had never made « the Woods» do

any be is pleased to consider «a remarkable circumstance,» thing of the kind. He was right, and I was wrong, not only in his letter to Mr Campbell, but in his reply and have been wrong still up to this acknowledgment; to the Quarterly. The Quarterly also, and Mr Gilchrist, for I ought to have looked twice before I wrote that have conferred on me the dangerous honour of a quo- which involved an inaccuracy capable of giving pain. lation; and Mr Bowles indirectly makes a kind of appeal The fact was, that although I had certainly before read to me personally, by saying, « Lord Byron, if he re- « the Spirit of Discovery, I took the quotation from menibers the circumstance, will witness» — (witness IN

the review. But the mistake was mine, and not the ITALIC, an ominous character for a testimony at pre- review's, which quoted the passage correctly enough, I sent).

believe. I blundered --God knows how-into attributI shall not avail myself of a «non mi ricordo, » evening the tremors of the lovers to the «Woods of Madeira,» after so long a residence in Italy;-1 do « remember by which they were surrounded. And I hereby do fully the circumstances and have no reluctance to relate it and freely declare and asseverate, that the Woods did (since called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance, not tremble to a kiss, and that the lovers did. I quote of time and the impression of interveviny events will from memorypermit me. In the year 1812, more than three years after the publication of « English Bards and Scotch

Stole on the list'ning silence, etc., etc. Reviewers, I had the honour of mecting Mr Bowles in

They (the lovers) trembled, even aa if the power, etc. Uie house of our venerable host of Human Life, etc.» And if I had been aware that this declaration would the last Argonaut of classic English poetry, and the have been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr Nestor of our inferior race of living poets. Nr Bowles Bowles, I should not have waited nine years to make it, calls this « soon after» the publication; but to me three notwithstanding that « English Bards and Scorch Reyears appear a considerable segment of the immortality viewers» had been suppressed some time previously to

I recollect nothing of the rest of my meeting him at Mr Rogers's. Our wortlıy liost che

company going into another room »- nor, though I miglit indeed have told him as much, as it was at his well remember the topography of our host's clegant and representation that I suppressed it. A new edition of classically-furnished mansion, could I swear to the very that lampoon was preparing for the press, wben Mr room where the conversation occurred, though the Rogers represented to me, that « I was now acquainted « taking down the poem» seems to fix it in the library with many of the persons mentioned in it, and will Hadd it been « taken up,» it would probably have been some on terms of intimacy;» and that he knew «one in the drawing-room. I presume also that the « re- family in particular to whom its suppression would markable circumstance» took place after dinner, as I give pleasure.» I did not hesitate one moment; it was conceive that neither Mr Bowless politeness nor appetite cancelled instantly; and it is no fault of mine that it would liave allowed him to detain «die rest of the com- bas ever been republished. When I left England, in pany» standing round their chairs in the wother room» April, 1816, with no very violent intentions of troubling while we were discussing the woods of Madeira,» in that country again, and ainidse scenes of various kinds stead of circulating its vintage Of Mr Bowles's « good- to distract my attention-almost my last act, I believe, humour» I have a full and not ungrateful recollection; was to sign a power of a worney, to yourself, to prevent is also of his goutleinanly manners and agreeable con- or suppress any attempts (of which several had beca versation. I speak of the whole, and not of particulars; made in Ireland) at a re-publication. It is proper that I for whether he did or did not use the precise words should state, that the persons with whom I was subse printed in the pumphlet, I cannot say, nor could lequently acquainted, whose names had occurred in that i

of a modern poem.

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