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"Zounds! my liver's coming up;

I shall not survive the racket

Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we 're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,

Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on as I do now.
Laugh at all things,
Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore ;
While we 're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more?

Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30. 1809.
[First published, 1830.]


As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alon
May mine attract thy pensive eye!
And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,

Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my heart is buried here.

Where panting Nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin's craggy shore,
Divided by the dark blue main ;
A few, brief, rolling, seasons o'er,
Perchance I view her cliffs again:
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, Though Time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:

On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word—to love.

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share, Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less?
Nor be, what man should ever be,
The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had past
Through Danger's most destructive path,
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once arose,
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be ;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity :

And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'T will soothe to be, where thou hast been.
September, 1809.

September 14. 1809.


Он Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth,

I hardly thought to grieve once more,
To quit another spot on earth:

[Lord Byron's three servants.]

[In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says:-"I leave England without regret - I shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter."]

3 [These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophises in the stanzas on the thunderstorm of Zitza and in Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his mother:-" This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked; and her life has been from its commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance they would appear improbable.



CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast
The vengeance of the skies.

She was born at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point of character; excited the vengeance of Buonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy; several times risked her life; and is not yet five and twenty. She is here on her way to England to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here I have had scarcely any other companion. I have found her very Buonapretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. parte is even now so incensed against her, that her life would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a second time."]

4 [This thunderstorm occurred during the night of the 11th October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called

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The mountain-peasants to descend,
And lead us where they dwell.

Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?

And who 'mid thunder peals can hear
Our signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?

Nor rather deem from nightly cries
That outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!

Yet here one thought has still the power To keep my bosom warm.

While wand'ring through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy brow;

While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence, where art thou?

Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone :

Oh, may the storm that pours on me,
Bow down my head alone!

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I press'd thy lip;

And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain;
'T were hard if aught so fair as thou
Should linger on the main.

And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry

Which mirth and music sped;

Do thou, amid the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,

At times from out her latticed halls
Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;

Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, who had rode on before the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes the thunder as "roaring without intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over our heads; whilst the plains and the distant hills appeared in a perpetual blaze." "The tempest," he says, "was altogether terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. My Friend, with the priest and the servants, did not enter our hut till three

To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh. 1

And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,

A half-form'd tear, a transient spark
Of melancholy grace,

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun
Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thought'st on one, Who ever thinks on thee.

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine,

My spirit flies o'er mount and main, And mourns in search of thine.



THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast;
And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,
The ancient world was won and lost.

And now upon the scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman ;
Where stern Ambition once forsook
His wavering crown to follow woman.
Florence! whom I will love as well
As ever yet was said or sung,
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell)
Whilst thou art fair and I am young;

Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes:
Had bards as many realms as rhymes,

Thy charms might raise new Antonies. Though Fate forbids such things to be

Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!

I cannot lose a world for thee,

But would not lose thee for a world. November 14. 1809.



THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;
Delirium is our best deceiver.

Each lucid interval of thought

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought,

But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

in the morning. I now learnt from him that they had lost their way, and that, after wandering up and down in total ignorance of their position, they had stopped at last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, which they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been thus exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to talk of the thunderstorm in the plain of Zitza."]

1["These stanzas," says Mr. Moore, "have a music in them, which, independently of all meaning, is enchanting."]

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On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic-by the by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those ou board the frigate at upwards of four English miles; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may, in some measure, be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten, minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt; but, having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just stated; entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.

2 ["My companion," says Mr. Hobhouse, "had before made a more perilous, but less celebrated passage; for I recollect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from Old Lisbon to Belem Castle, and having to contend with a tide and counter current, the wind blowing freshly, was but little less than two hours in crossing."]

3 [At Orchomenus, where stood the Temple of the Graces, I was tempted to exclaim, "Whither have the Graces fled ? Little did I expect to find them here; yet here comes one of them with golden cups and coffee, and another with a book. The book is a register of names, some of which are far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord Byron's, connected with some lines which I here send you. — H. W. WILLIAMS.]

4 [We copy the following interesting account of the Maid of Athens and her family from the late eminent artist, Mr. Hugh Williams of Edinburgh's, "Travels in Italy, Greece," &c." Our servant, who had gone before to procure accommodation, met us at the gate, and conducted us to Theodore



"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art: Noble his object, glorious is his aim;

He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."


THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,

His name would bring more credit than his verse. ?

Ζώη μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

MAID of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ. 5

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each gean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ.


Macri, the Consulina's, where we at present live. This lady is the widow of the consul, and has three lovely daughters; the eldest celebrated for her beauty, and said to be the 'Maid of Athens' of Lord Byron. Their apartment is immediately opposite to ours, and, if you could see them, as we do now, through the gently waving aromatic plants before our window, you would leave your heart in Athens. Theresa, the Maid of Athens, Catinco, and Mariana, are of middle stature. On the crown of the head of each is a red Albanian skull-cap, with a blue tassel spread out and fastened down like a star. Near the edge or bottom of the skull-cap is a handkerchief of various colours bound round their temples. The youngest wears her hair loose, falling on her shoulders, -the hair behind descending down the back nearly to the waist, and, as usual, mixed with silk. The two eldest gene. rally have their hair bound, and fastened under the handkerchief. Their upper robe is a pelisse edged with fur, hanging loose down to the ankles; below is a handkerchief of muslin covering the bosom, and terminating at the waist, which is short; under that, a gown of striped silk or muslin, with a gore round the swell of the loins, falling in front in graceful negligence; white stockings and yellow slippers complete their attire. The two eldest have black, or dark, hair and eyes; their visage oval, and complexion somewhat pale, with teeth of dazzling whiteness. Their cheeks are rounded, and noses straight, rather inclined to aquiline. The youngest, Mariana, is very fair, her face not so finely rounded, but has a gayer expression than her sisters', whose countenances, except when the conversation has something of mirth in it, may be said to be rather pensive. Their persons are elegant, and their manners pleasing and ladylike, such as would be fascinating in any country. They possess very considerable powers of conversation, and their minds seem to be more instructed than those of the Greek women in general. With such attractions, it would, indeed, be remarkable, if they did not meet with great attentions from the travellers who occasionally are resident in Athens. They sit in the eastern style, a little reclined, with their limbs gathered under them on the divan, and without shoes. Their employments are the needle, tambouring, and reading." There is a beautiful engraving of the Maid of Athens in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. I.]

5 Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed they could not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means. " My life, I love you! which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressions were all Hellenised. Nn

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3 ["I am just come from an expedition through the Bosphorus to the Black Sea and the Cyanean Symplegades, up which last I scrambled with as great risk as ever the Argonauts escaped in their hoy. You remember the beginning of the nurse's dole in the Medea, of which I beg you to take the following translation, done on the summit."-Lord B. to Mr. Henry Drury, June 17. 1810.]

4 ["I have just escaped from a physician and a fever. In spite of my teeth and tongue, the English consul, my Tartar, Albanian, dragoman, forced a physician upon me, and in three days brought me to the last gasp. In this state I made my epitaph."- Lord Byron to Mr. Hodgson, Oct. 3. 1810.] 5 [These lines are copied from a leaf of the original MS. of the second canto of "Childe Harold."]

6 [On the departure, in July, 1810, of his friend and fellowtraveller, Mr. Hobhouse, for England, Lord Byron fixed his head-quarters at Athens, where he had taken lodgings in a Franciscan convent; making occasional excursions through Attica and the Morea, and employing himself, in the interval of his tours, in collecting materials for those notices on the state of modern Greece which are appended to the second canto of "Childe Harold." In this retreat also he wrote "Hints from Horace," "The Curse of Minerva," and "Remarks on the Romaic, or Modern Greek Language." He thus writes to his mother:-" At present, I do not care to venture a winter's voyage, even if I were otherwise tired of travelling: but I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind, instead of reading about them, and the bitter


« Δεύτε παίδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων, "7

SONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth,
And, worthy of such ties,
Display who gave us birth.


Sons of Greeks! let us go

In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow
In a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, Let your country see you rising, And all her chains are broke. Brave shades of chiefs and sages, Behold the coming strife!

Hellénes of past ages,

Oh, start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hill'd 8 city seeking,

Fight, conquer, till we're free.
Sons of Greeks, &c.

effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us to send our young men abroad, for a term, among the few allies our wars have left us. Here I see, and have conversed with, French, Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Americans, &c. &c. &c.; and, without losing sight of my own, I can judge of the countries and manners of others. When I see the superiority of England (which, by the by, we are a good deal mistaken about in many things), I am pleased; and where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. Now, I might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or fogged in your country, a century, without being sure of this, and without acquiring any thing more useful or amusing at home. I keep no journal; nor have I any intention of scribbling my travels. I have done with authorship; and if, in my last production, I have convinced the critics or the world I was something more than they took me for, I am satisfied; nor will I hazard that reputation by a future effort. It is true I have some others in manuscript, but I leave them for those who come after me; and, if deemed worth publishing, they may serve to prolong my memory, when I myself shall cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian artist taking some views of Athens, &c. &c. for me. This will be better than scribbling-a disease I hope myself cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet, recluse life; but God knows, and does best for us all."]


7 The song Aiúmi raidis, &c. was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionise Greece. This translation is as literal as the author could make it in verse. is of the same measure as that of the original. [While at the Capuchin convent, Lord Byron devoted some hours daily to the study of the Romaic; and various proofs of his diligence will be found in the APPENDIX. See Remarks on the Romaic or Modern Greek Language, with Specimens and Translations.]

Constantinople. "Erráλ05."

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers Lethargic dost thou lie? Awake, and join thy numbers

With Athens, old ally! Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song, Who saved ye once from falling, The terrible! the strong! Who made that bold diversion In old Thermopylæ, And warring with the Persian To keep his country free; With his three hundred waging The battle, long he stood,

And like a lion raging,

Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, &c. 1


σε Μπενω μες 'τσ' περιβόλι
Ωραιότατη Χάηδη," &c. 2

I ENTER thy garden of roses, 3
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful

When Love has abandon'd the bowers; Bring me hemlock -since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, Will deeply embitter the bowl; But when drunk to escape from thy malice, The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save:
Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave.

As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,

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[Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first part of his youth among his native mountains, in teaching ancient Greek to his countrymen. On the first burst of the French revolution, he joined himself to some other enthusiasts, and with them perambulated Greece, rousing the bold, and encouraging the timid, by his minstrelsy. He afterwards went to Vienna to solicit aid for a rising, which he and his comrades had for years been endeavouring to accomplish; but he was given up by the Austrian government to the Turks, who vainly endea voured by torture to force from him the names of the other conspirators.]

2 The song from which this is taken is a great favourite with the young girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner

Now sad is the garden of roses,
Beloved but false Haidée !
There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.


THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,

Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent, ache for thee.

March, 1811.

STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all :
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella ?
For character- he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to "Black-it."
Malta, May 16. 1811.

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