SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLL

PER MONACA.

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; e diretto al 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.

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.

Or 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, May'st 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.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul !
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be ; And our sorrow may cease to repine

When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be! There should not be the shadow of gloom, In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest?

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.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

THEY say that Hope is happiness;

But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless. They rose the first-they set the last;

And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory.

Alas! it is delusion all:

The future cheats us from afar,

Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are.

["This should have been written fifteen moons ago: the first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic."- Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, July 10. 1817.]

2 ["The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house

July, 1817. 1

ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. 2

this beloved marble view,

bove 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! November, 1816.

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."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Nov. 25. 1816.]

a row, but I'll be among ye! How go on the

the breakers of frames-the Lutherans of politic formers?...... There's an amiable chanson fc --all impromptu. I have written it principally to st your neighbour- -, who is all clergy and loyalty-mirth and innocence-milk and water."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Dec. 24. 1816.]

2 ["And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming."-Beppo. See ante, p. 145.]

3 ["I went to most of the ridottos, &c., and though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I found the sword wearing out the scabbard, though I have but just turned the corner of twenty-nine."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Feb. 28. 1817.]

["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

TO MR. MURRAY.

March, 1817.

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, 6

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,

Which is a good one in its way,

a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot headach, 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 sleepless night."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 25. 1817.]

5 [The Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles; "Ilderim" by Mr. Gally Knight; and " Margaret of Anjou" by Miss Holford.]

6 [For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori see Moore's "Notices." "I never," says Lord Byron, "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."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 21. 1817.]

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:
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.
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!

[The fourth canto of " Childe Harold."]

1 [On the birth of this child, the son of the British viceconsul 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; 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; from which we take the following:

GREEK.

Φρὴν πυκνὴ Πατρὸς καὶ Μητέρος ἀγλαὸν εἶδος
Αρτιτόκου κοσμοὶ νοῦν τι, δίμας τε βρέφους

Οφρα δὶ παντὶ βίω κ όλβιος, αἱὲν ἐραννοῦ
Σχοίη παῖς 'Ρίζου καὶ γάνος, ἠδὲ βίην.

LATIN.

Magnanimos Patris verset sub pectore sensus,
Maternus roseo fulgeat ore decor;
Neu quid felici desit, quo robore Rizzus
Festivo pollet, polleat iste puer.

ITALIAN.

Del Padre il senno, e il bel materno aspetto Splendano ognora in Te, fanciul diletto: Felice appien se al tuo corporeo velo Dona il lieto vigor di Rizzo ìl cielo.

THE VENETIAN DIALECT.

De graziete el to modelo

Sia la Mama, bel Putelo.
El talento del Papà
In ti cressa co l' età;
E per salsa, o contentin
Roba a Rizzo el so morbin.

GERMAN.

Aus des Kindes Auge strahlet
Seines Baters hoher Sinn,
Und der Mutter Schönheit malet
Sich in Wange, Mund, und Kinn.
Glücklich Kleiner wirst du seyn,
Kannst du Rizzo 's frohen Muthes,
Seines feurigen Blutes,
Seiner Stärke dich erfreu 'n.

FRENCH.

Sois en tout fortuné, semillant Jouvenceau,

Porte dans les festins la valeur de Rizzo,

Porte au barreau l'esprit que fait briller ton père,

Et pour vaincre ?-au boudoir sois beau comme ta mère.

SPANISH.

Si á la gracia materna el gusto ayuntas Y cordura del Padre, o bello Infante,

Scrás feliz, y lo serás bastante;

Mas, si felicidad guieres completa, Se, como Rizo, alegre, sé un atleta.

2 [About the middle of April, 1819, Lord Byron travelled from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he expected to find the Countess Guiccioli. The above stanzas, which have been as much admired as any thing of the kind he ever wrote, were composed, according to Madame Guiccioli's statement, during this journey, and while Lord Byron was actually sailing on the Po. In transmitting them to England, in May, 1820, he says," They must not be published: pray recollect this, as they are mere verses of society, and written upon private feelings and passions." They were first printed in 1824.]

3 [Ravenna-a city to which Lord Byron afterwards declared himself more attached than to any other place, except Greece. He resided in it rather more than two years, "and quitted it," says Madame Guiccioli, "with the deepest regret, and with a presentiment that his departure would be the forerunner of a thousand evils: he was continually performing generous actions: many families owed to him the few prosperous days they ever enjoyed; his arrival was spoken of as a piece of public good fortune, and his departure as a public calamity." In the third canto of Don Juan," Lord Byron has pictured the tranquil life which, at this time, he was leading:

"Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

"The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bells that rose the boughs among;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng,
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye."]

What do I say—a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;

And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not for ever; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away.

But left long wrecks behind, and now again,

Borne in our old unchanged career, we move; Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,

And I to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

She will look on thee, I have look'd on thee,

Full of that thought: and, from that moment, ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, Without the inseparable sigh for her!

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, Yes they will meet the wave I gaze on now: Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow!

The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,

But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.

["So, the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' sonetto! There, you dogs! there's a sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an' ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good: it was a very noble piece of principality."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray.ĺ 2["Would you like an epigram—a translation? written on some Frenchwoman, by Rulhières, I believe."— Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 12. 1819.]

It was

No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;

A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her

For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,

In every weather,

They pluck Love's feather

From out his wing

He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the Spring. ♦

3 [A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him at Ravenna when he wrote these Stanzas, says,-" They were composed, like many others, with no view of publication, but merely to relieve himself in a moment of suffering. He had been painfully excited by some circumstances which appeared to make it necessary that he should immediately quit Italy and in the day and the hour that he wrote the song was labouring under an access of fever."] "That sped his Spring."]

4 [V. L.