The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds [diedand And they were enemies: they met beside A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. (1) I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed The gardener of that ground, why it might be And I had not the digging of this grave." I know not what of honour and of light (1) On the sheet containing the original draught of these lines, blended what I would deem to be the beauties as well as defects Lord Byron has written:-"The following poem (as most that I of his style; and it ought to be remembered, that in such things, have endeavoured to write) is founded on a fact; and this detail is whether there be prase or dispraise, there is always what is an attempt at a serious imitation of the style of a great poet-called a compliment, however unintentional."—E. Its beauties and its defects: I say, the style; for the thoughts I (2) Originallylaim as my own. In this, if there be any thing ridiculous, let it b. attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth, of whom there can exist few greater admirers than myself. I have "then most pleased, I shook My inward pocket's most retired nook, And out fell five and sixpence,"—E. Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. PROMETHEUS. TITAN! to whose immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality, Seen in their sad reality, DIODATI, 1816. Were not as things that gods despise; Which speaks but in its loneliness, Titan! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, And the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create Was thine-and thou hast borne it well. To render with thy precepts less (1) "The Grave of Churchill might have called from Lord Byron a deeper commemoration; for, though they generally differed in character and genius, there was a resemblance between their history and character. The satire of Churchill flowed with a more profuse, though not a more embittered, stream; while, on the other hand, he cannot be compared to Lord Byron in point of tenderness or imagination. But both these poets held themselves above the opinion of the world, and In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, To mortals of their fate and force; A troubled stream from a pure source; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Its own concentred recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making death a victory. What is this Death ?- a quiet of the heart? The absent are the dead-for they are cold, The under-earth inhabitants-are they But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? The ashes of a thousand ages spread Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? both were followed by the fame and popularity which they seemed to despise. The writings of both exhibit an inborn, though sometimes ill-regulated, generosity of mind, and a spirit of proud independence, frequently pushed to extremes. Both carried their hatred of hypocrisy beyond the verge of prudence, and indulged their vein of satire to the borders of licentiousness. Both died in the flower of their age in a foreign land." Walter Scott.-E. Or do they in their silent cities dwell Or have they their own language? and a sense ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. (1) 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 I was not-and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold, And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'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, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!- I have had many foes, but none like thee; 937 [shielded, But thou in safe implacability And thus upon the world-trust in thy truth- On things that were not, and on things that are- In Janus-spirits-the significant eye All found a place in thy philosophy. STANZAS TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM. Be it so!-we part for ever! Had I only loved thee, never Hadst thou been thus dear to me. Had I loved, and thus been slighted, That I better could have borne: Love is quell'd-when unrequitedBy the rising pulse of scorn. which cannot but heal the wound it causes: to him, because who, in the shattered feelings they betray, will not acknowledge the grief that hurries into error, and (may we add in charity!) atones for it!"-Lady Blessington. (1) These verses, written immediately after the failure of the written negotiation alluded to, ante, p. 926, were not intended for the public eye: as, however, they have found their way into circulation, we must reluctantly include them in this collection.-E. "These lines were written with deep feelings of pain, and (2) "Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, should be judged as the outpourings of a wounded spirit de- that he was not the first to make his domestic differences a topic manding pity more than anger. While to the public they are of pu public discussion. On the contrary, he saw himself, ere any of that value that any reasons for their suppression ought to fact but the one undisguised and tangible one was or could be be extremely strong; so, on the other hand, I trust, they cannot known, held up every where, and by every art of malice, as the hurt either her feelings to whom they are addressed, or his me- most infamous of men,-because he had parted from his wife." mory by whom they are written:-to her, because the very-Lockhart. bitterness of reproach proyes that unconquerable affection re Pride may cool what passion heated, And, in words, my vengeance wreak. Which can find no vent in speech, Which disdains relief to borrow From the heights that song can reach. Like a clankless chain enthralling Like the sleepless dreams that mock- From the surf-surrounded rock- More than woman thou wast to me; Not as man I look'd on thee: Why, like woman, then undo me? Why heap man's worst curse on me? Wast thou but a fiend, assuming Friendship's smile and woman's art, By that eye, which once could glisten By that lip, its smile bestowing, Which could soften sorrow's gush, By that cheek, once brightly glowing With pure friendship's well-feign'd blush: By all those false charms united, Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, And, without compunction, blighted What thou wouldst not kindly kill! Yet I curse thee not-in sadness Still I feel how dear thou wert; Oh! I could not-e'en in madnessDoom thee to thy just desert! Live! and when my life is over, Should thine own be lengthen'd long, (1) Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne-[See ante, p. 133.]"I have," says, Lord Byron, " traversed all Rousseau's ground with the Héloïse before me, and am struck, to a degree that I Thou mayst then too late discover, By thy feelings, all my wrong. When thy beauties all are faded When thy flatterers fawn no more-Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded Some regardless reptile's storeEre that hour-false syren! hear me !— Thou mayst feel what I do now, While my spirit, hovering near thee, Whispers friendship's broken vow! But 'tis useless to upbraid thee, With thy past or present state: What thou wast-my fancy made thee; What thou art-I know too late! SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De Staël— Their memory thy remembrance would recall: But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! EPIGRAM FROM MARTIAL. PIERIOS vatis Theodori flamma Penates THE Laureale's house hath been on fire: the Nine TO MR. HOBHOUSE. "Mors Janua vitæ." WOULD you get to the House through the true gate Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went, Let Parliament send you to-Newgate And Newgate will send you to-Parliament. cannot express, with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. I enclose you a sprig of Gibbon's acacia and some rose-leaves from his garden, which, with Cartas le fueron venidas Que Alhama era ganada. Descavalga de una mula, Como en el Alhambra estuvo, Que se toquen las trompetas Ay de mi, Alhama! Y que atambores de guerra Los Moros que el son oyeron, part of his house, I have just seen. You will find honourable mention, in his Life, made of this acacia, when he walked out on the night of concluding his history. Madame de Staël has A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD. ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA. Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport [The effect of the original ballad-which existed both in Spanish and Arabic-was such, that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada.] THE Moorish King rides up and down From Elvira's gates to those Woe is me, Alhama! Letters to the monarch tell Woe is me, Alhama! Me quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in. Woe is me, Alhama! When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, That the trumpet straight should sound Woe is me, Alhama! Then the Moors, by this aware Woe is me, Alhama! made Copet as agreeable as society can make any place on earth." B. Letters, 1816.-E. |