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In the desert a fountain is springing,
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
The flashes fell upon them: some lay down
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
Each other's aspects-saw, and shriek'd and died —
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd,
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED.
I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd. The wild birds Through the thick deaths of half a century;
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
And thus he answer'd-« Well, I do not know
I know not what of honour and of light
As 't were the twilight of a former sun,
Was a most famous writer in his day,
And therefore travellers step from out their way
Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
In which there was obscurity and fame,
The glory and the nothing of a name.
And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concentred recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making death a victory.
TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
Were not as things that gods despise;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
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.
Titan! to thee the strife was given
The ruling principle of hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
Was thine-and thou hast borne it well.
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.
Thy godlike crime was to be kind,
Still in thy patient energy,
In 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:
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence :
OH, 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 shall be! Derision shall strike thee forlorn,
A mockery that never shall die: The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, Shall burden the winds of thy sky; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!
Oh, where is thy spirit of yore,
The spirit that breathed in thy dead,
They groan from the place of their rest,
Go look through the kingdoms of earth,
And something of goodness, of honour, and worth,
The world cannot liken thee there;
Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime!
While conquest illumined his sword,
And wither'd the nations afar,
Yet bright in thy view was that despot's renown,
Forgot were the feats he had done,
The toils he had borne in thy cause;
And honour and faith were the brag of an hour,
To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were restored, And the first that had scoff'd were the first that adored.
What tumult thus burthens the air?
What throng thus encircles his throne?
'Tis the shout of delight, 't is the millions that swear
His sceptre shall rule them alone.
Reverses shall brighten their zeal,
Next-for some gracious service unexprest,
And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are
For the hero they love, and the chief they admire!
Their hero has rush'd to the field;
His laurels are cover'd with shade-
In a moment desertion and guile
Abandon'd him up to the foe;
The dastards that flourish'd and grew in his smile
And the millions that swore they would perish to save,
The savage all wild in his glen
Is nobler and better than thou;
A mockery that never shall die;
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess?
She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,
Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow,
But to the theme-now laid aside too long,
Lines composed on the occasion of II. R. H. the Pe R-g-t being The angry essence of her deadly will;
seen standing betwixt the coffins of Henry VIII and Charles I, in
FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE.
If that thou best a devil, I cannot kill thee!
BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints,
A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale
Look on her features! and behold her mind,
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged-
Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
March 30, 1816.
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.
LINES TO MR MOORE.
(The following lines were addressed extempore 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;
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.
THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES
ON THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE.
I'll play at Bowls with the sun and moon.
My mither 's auld, sir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in speaking to my Leddy, that cauna weel bide to be contradickit (as I ken naebody likes it if they could help themsells).
Ravenna, February 7th, 1821.
TALKS OF MY LANDLORD, Old Mortality, vol. ii.
with accuracy. Of the tone of seriousness» I certainly recollect nothing: on the contrary, I thought Mr Bowles rather disposed to treat the subject lightly; for he said (I have no objection to be contradicted if incorrect) that some of his good-natured friends had come to him and exclaimed, «Eh! Bowles! how came you to make the Woods of Madeira,» etc., etc., and that he had been at some pains and pulling down of the poem to convince them that he had never made «the Woods» do any thing of the kind. He was right, and I was wrong, and have been wrong still up to this acknowledgment; for I ought to have looked twice before I wrote that which involved an inaccuracy capable of giving pain. The fact was, that although I had certainly before read the Spirit of Discovery,» I took the quotation from the review. But the mistake was mine, and not the
Is the different pamphlets which you have had the goodness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles' controversy, perceive that my name is occasionally introduced by both parties. Mr Bowles refers more than once to what he is pleased to consider «a remarkable circumstance,» not only in his letter to Mr Campbell, but in his reply to the Quarterly. The Quarterly also, and Mr Gilchrist, have conferred on me the dangerous honour of a quotation; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind of appeal to me personally, by saying, «Lord Byron, if he remembers the circumstance, will witness» (witness IN 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 attribut
by which they were surrounded. And I hereby do fully and freely declare and asseverate, that the Woods did not tremble to a kiss, and that the lovers did. I quote from memory
Stole on the list ning silence, etc., etc.
I 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;-I do « remember the circumstance»-and have no reluctance to relate it (since called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance of time and the impression of intervening events will permit me. In the year 1812, more than three years after the publication of «English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, I had the honour of meeting Mr Bowles in the house of our venerable host of « Human Life, etc.» the last Argonaut of classic English poetry, and the Nestor of our inferior race of living poets. Mr Bowles calls this « soon after» the publication; but to me three years appear a considerable segment of the immortality of a modern poem. I recollect nothing of the rest of the company going into another room»-nor, though I well remember the topography of our host's elegant and classically-furnished mansion, could I swear to the very room where the conversation occurred, though the taking down the poem» seems to fix it in the library. Had it been taken up,» it would probably have been in the drawing-room. I presume also that the remarkable circumstance» took place after dinner, as I conceive that neither Mr Bowles's politeness nor appetite would have allowed him to detain « the rest of the company» standing round their chairs in the « other room» | while we were discussing the woods of Madeira,» instead of circulating its vintage. Of Mr Bowles's « goodhumour» I have a full and not ungrateful recollection; as also of his gentlemanly manners and agreeable conversation. I speak of the whole, and not of particulars; for whether he did or did not use the precise words printed in the pamphlet, I cannot say, nor could he
They (the lovers) trembled, even as if the power, etc. And if I had been aware that this declaration would have been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr Bowles, I should not have waited nine years to make it, notwithstanding that «English Bards and Scotch Reviewers» had been suppressed some time previously to my meeting him at Mr Rogers's. Our worthy host might indeed have told him as much, as it was at his representation that I suppressed it. A new edition of that lampoon was preparing for the press, when Mr Rogers represented to me, that «I was now acquainted with many of the persons mentioned in it, and with some on terms of intimacy;» and that he knew «one family in particular to whom its suppression would give pleasure.» I did not hesitate one moment; it was cancelled instantly; and it is no fault of mine that it has ever been republished. When I left England, in April, 1816, with no very violent intentions of troubling that country again, and amidst scenes of various kinds to distract my attention-almost my last act, I believe, was to sign a power of attorney, to yourself, to prevent or suppress any attempts (of which several had been made in Ireland) at a re-publication. It is proper that I should state, that the persons with whom I was subsequently acquainted, whose names had occurred in that ¦