Alli habló 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 el 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.

"De averse Alhama perdido A mi me pesa en el alma.

Que si el Rey perdió su tierra,
Otro mucho mas perdiera.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

"Perdieran hijos padres,
Y casados las casadas:
Las cosas que mas amara
Perdiò l' un y el otro fama.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

"Perdi una hija donzella
Que era la flor d'esta tierra,
Cien doblas dava por ella,
No me las estimo en nada."
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui,
Le cortaron la cabeça,
Y la elevan al Alhambra,
Assi come el Rey lo manda.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Hombres, niños y mugeres,
Lloran tan grande perdida,
Lloravan todas las damas
Quantas en Granada avia.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Por las calles y ventanas
Mucho luto parecia ;

Llora el Rey como fembra,

Qu' es mucho lo que perdia
Ay de mi, Alhama!

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

PER MONACA.

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; è diretto all genitore della sacra sposa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte
L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d' imeneo :
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde,
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
Io verso un fiume d'amarissim' onde,
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.

"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 a row, 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.

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.

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.

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO
DR. POLIDORI.(2)

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, (3)
Which is a good one in its way,—
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief

To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.

I like your moral and machinery;

Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery;
Your dialogue is apt and smart;
The play's concoction full of art;
Your hero raves, your heroine cries,
All stab, and every body dies.
In short, your tragedy would be
The very thing to hear and see:

(1) The Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles: Ilderim by Mr. Gally Knight; and Margaret of Anjou by Miss Holford.

-E.

(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,
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 ť 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.

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.

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.

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

(1) The fourth Canto of Childe Harold.-E.

(2) A phrase contained in a previous letter from Murray.-E. (3) On the birth of this child, the son of the British vice-consul at Venice, Lord Byron wrote these lines. They are in no other respect remarkable, than that they were thought worthy of being metrically translated into no less than ten different languages;

Still extant in Venice; But please, sir, to mention your pay. VENICE, January 8, 1818.

TO MR. MURRAY.

STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus 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.

ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO

HOPPNER.

His father's sense, his mother's grace,

In him, I hope, will always fit so; With still to keep him in good caseThe health and appetite of Rizzo. (3)

NEW DUET.

(To the tune of "Why, how now, saucy jade?")

WHY, how now, saucy Tom?

If you thus must ramble, I will publish some

Remarks on Mister Campbell.

namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in the Venetian dialect), German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, Hebrew, Armenian, and Samaritan. The original lines, with the different versions above mentioned, were printed, in a small neat volume, in the seminary of Padua.-E.