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Alli hablò un Moro viejo;
"Aveys de saber, amigos,
Ay de mi, Alhama! "Por esso mereces, Rey, Una pene bien doblada; Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, Y que se pierda Granada.
Ay de mi, Alhama! "Si no se respetan leyes, Es ley que todo se pierda; Y que se pierda Granada, Y que se pierdas en ella."
Ay de mi, Alhama!
Fuego por los ojos vierte,
Ay de mi, Alhama! "Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes De darle a Reyes disgusto❞— Esso dize Rey Moro Relinchando de colera.
Ay de mi, Alhama! Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, El de la vellida barba, El Rey te manda prender, Por la perdida de Alhama. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Y cortate la cabeza,
Ay de mi, Alhama!
Out then spake an aged Moor
Out then spake old Alfaqui,
Woe is me, Alhama!
Woe is me,
"But on my soul Alhama weighs,
"Sires have lost their children, wives
"I lost a damsel in that hour,
And as these things the old Moor said,
And men and infants therein weep
And from the windows o'er the walls
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 admired,
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more: I to the marble, where my daughter lies,
Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.
ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. (1)
In this beloved marble view,
Above the works and thoughts of man, What Nature could, but would not, do, And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond Imagination's power,
Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With immortality her dower, Behold the Helen of the heart!
TO THOMAS MOORE.
My boat is on the shore,
Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky 's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate. 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. 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,
SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. (2)
As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
Will die fighting, or live free;
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
When the web that we weave is complete,
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd.
(1) "The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron," without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution."-E. (2) "Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord! if there's but I'll be among ye! How go on the weavers-the breakers of frames-the Lutherans of politics-the reformers?.... There's an amiable chanson for you!-all impromptu. I have written it principally to shock your neighbour, who is all
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!
TO THOMAS MOORE. WHAT are you doing now, Oh Thomas Moore? What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ? Sighing or suing now, Rhyming 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! Masking and humming, Fifing and drumming, Guitarring and strumming, Oh Thomas Moore!
SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the soul wears out the breast,
Though the night was made for loving,
I READ the Christabel; Very well;
I read the Missionary ;
I tried at Ilderim;
clergy and loyalty-mirth and innocence-milk and water." Lord B. to Mr. Moore. December 24, 1816. –E.
(3) "I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot head-ach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some versicles, which I made one sleepess night." B. Letters. Venice, March, 1817.
I read a sheet of Margaret of Anjou ; (1)
I turn'd a page of Scott's Waterloo;
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white Rylstone Doe;
etc. etc. etc.
TO MR. MURRAY.
To hook the reader, you, John Murray,
(At least, it has not been as yet);
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 sally,
(2) Mr. Murray not willing to accept, and not liking directly to refuse, the publication of a tragedy written by the Doctor, consulted Lord Byron, who thus wrote to the former, dated 21st of August, 1817:-"I never was much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and ill humour, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improvable You want a civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."-E.
And for a piece of publication,
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
A sort of it's no more a drama
I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
The room's so full of wits and bards,
Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards,
And others, neither bards nor wits:-
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.
(3) "Among other pretensions, Polidori had set his heart upon shining as an author, and one evening at Mr. Shelley's, producing a tragedy of his own writing, insisted that they should undergo the operation of hearing it. To lighten the infliction, Lord Byron took upon himself the task of reader. In spite of the jealous watch kept upon every countenance by the author, it was impossible to withstand the smile lurking in the eye of the reader, whose only resource against the outbreak of his own laughter lay in lauding, from time to time, most vehemently, the sublimity of the verses, and then adding, at the close of every such eulogy, 'I assure you, when I was in the Drury Lane Committee, much worse things were offered to us.'" Moore.
Still extant in Venice;
VENICE, January 8, 1818.
TO MR. MURRAY.
They ’re at this moment in discussion
EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.
STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Venice, March 25, 1818.
My dear Mr. Murray,
You're in a damn'd hurry
But (if they don't rob us)
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse
For the Journal you hint of,
As ready to print off,
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of
Then you ’ve** *'s Tour,
No great things, to be sure,-
For the pompous rascallion,
[work. Nor French, must have scribbled by guess
You can make any loss up
With Spence and his gossip,
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,
And help him to polish
A nation so owlish, They thought shaving their beards a disaster.
For the man, “poor and shrewd,"(2)
With whom you'd conclude A compact without more delay,
Perhaps some such pen is
(1) The fourth Canto of Chiide Harold.-E.
namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in the Venetian dialect), (2) A phrase contained in a previous letter from Murray.-E. German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, Hebrew, Armenian, and
(3) On the birth of this child, the son of the British vice-con- Samaritan. The original lines, with the different versions above sul at Venice, Lord Byron wrote these lines. They are in no other mentioned, were printed, in a small neat volume, in the seminary respect remarkable, than that they were thought worthy of being of Padua.-E. metrically translated into no less tban ten different languages;