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Alli hablò un Moro viejo;
Desta manera hablava :-
"Para que nos llamas, Rey?
Para que es este llamada ?"
Ay de mi, Alhama!

"Aveys de saber, amigos,
Una nueva desdichada:
Que Christianos, con braveza,
Ya nos han tomado Alhama."
Ay de mi, Alhama!
Alli hablò un viejo Alfaqui,
De barba crecida y cana :-
"Bien se te emplea, buen Rey,
Buen Rey; bien se te empleava.
Ay de mi, Alhama!
"Mataste los Bencerrages,
Que era la flor de Granada;
Cogiste los tornadizos
De Cordova la nombrada.

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,
El Rey que esto oyera.
Y como el otro de leyes
De leyes tambien hablava.

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,
Y ponerla en el Alhambra,
Por que a ti castigo sea,
Y otros tiemblen en miralla.
Ay de mi, Alhama!
"Cavalleros, hombres buenos,
Dezid de mi parte al Rey,
Al Rey Moro de Granada,
Como no le devo nada.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before:
"Wherefore call on us, O King?
What may mean this gathering ?"
Woe is me, Alhama!
"Friends! ye have, alas! to know
Of a most disastrous blow,
That the Christians, stern 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 flower;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama!
"And for this, O King! is sent
On thee a double chastisement:
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,
One last wreck shall overwhelm.
Woe is me, Alhama!
"He who holds no laws in awe,
He must perish by the law;
And Granada must be won,
And thyself with her undone."
Woe is me, Alhama!
Fire flash'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!
"There is no law to say such things
As may disgust the ear of kings!"-
Thus, snorting with his choler, said
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.
Woe is me, Alhama!
Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!
Though thy beard so hoary be,
The King hath sent to have thee seized,
For Alhama's loss displeased.
Woe is me, Alhama!
And to fix thy head upon
High Alhambra's loftiest stone;
That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.
Woe is me, Alhama!
"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!

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"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 lives;
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.
Woe is me, Alhama!

"I lost a damsel in that hour,
Of all the land the loveliest flower;
Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day."
Woe is me, Alhama!

And as these things the old Moor said,
They sever'd from the trunk his head;
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
'T was carried, as the King decreed.
Woe is me, Alhama!

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Cranada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Woe is me, Alhama!

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!

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,
Heaven made us happy ; and now, wretched sires,
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And, gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguish'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-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,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,

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,
The libation I would pour
Should be peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. (2)

As 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!

When 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 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

a row,

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.
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.
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.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

VERSICLES. (3)

I READ the Christabel; Very well;

I read the Missionary ;
Pretty-very:

I tried at Ilderim;
Ahem!

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.

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I read a sheet of Margaret of Anjou ; (1)
Can you?

I turn'd a page of Scott's Waterloo;
Pooh! pooh!

I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white Rylstone Doe;
Hillo!

etc. etc. etc.

TO MR. MURRAY.

To hook the reader, you, John Murray,
Have publish'd Anjou's Margaret,
Which won't be sold off in a hurry

(At least, it has not been as yet);
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 sally,
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, 1817.

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(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.

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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.

(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;
But please, sir, to mention your pay.

VENICE, January 8, 1818.

TO MR. MURRAY.

They ’re at this moment in discussion
On poor De Staël'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 't were 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,

JOHN MURRAY.

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EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.

STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Piodus 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 Magazine,

My Murray?
Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The Art of Cookery, and mine,

My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the Navy List,

My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without “the Board of Longitude,”
Although this narrow paper would,

My Murray!

Venice, March 25, 1818.

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My dear Mr. Murray,

You're in a damn'd hurry
To set up this ultimate Canto;(1)

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 rascallion,
Who don't speak Italian

[work. Nor French, must have scribbled by guess

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,"(2)

With whom you'd conclude A compact without more delay,

Perhaps some such pen is

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(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;

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