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Ir, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont

“ Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
(What maid will not the tale remember ?) To trace the birth and nursery of art :
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! Noble his object, glorious is his aim;

He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." If, when the wintry tempest roar’d,


The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, And thus of old thy current pour'd,

Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; Fair Venus! how I pity both!

But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,

His name would bring more credit than his verse.' For me, degenerate modern wretch,

1810. Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day.


Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ, But since he cross'd the rapid tide,

Maid of Athens,' ere we part, According to the doubtful story,

Give, oh, give me back my heart ! To woon-and-Lord knows what beside,

Or, since that has left my breast, And swam for Love, as I for Glory ;

Keep it now, and take the rest !

Hear my vow before I go, "Txere hard to say who fared the best :

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.» Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you !

By those tresses unconfined, He lost his labor, I my jest;

Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.”

By those lids whose jetty fringe
May 9, 1810.

Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Macri, the Consulina's, where we at present live. This lady Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Eken. is the widow of the consul, and has three lovely daughters; head of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam the eldest celebrated for her beauty, and said to be the from the European shore to the Asiatic-by the by, from • Maid of Athens' of Lord Byron. Their apartment is imAbydos to Sestos kould have been more correct. The whole mediately opposite to ours, and, if you could see thein, as we distance from the place whence we started to our landing on do now, ihrough the gently waving aromatic plants before the other side, including the length we were carried by the our window, you would leave your heart in Athens. Theeurrent. was computed by those on board the frigate at up resa, the Maid of Athens, Catinco, and Mariana, are of middle wards of four English miles; though the actual breadth is stature. On the crown of the head of each is a red Albanian barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat skull-cap, with a blue tassel spread out and fastened down 082 row directly across, and it may, in some ineasure, be like a star. Near the edge or bottom of the skull-cap is a estimate from the circumstance of the whole distance being handkerchief of various colors bound round their temples. accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and The youngest wears her hair loose, falling on her shoulders, by the other in an hour and ten, minutes. The water was -the hair behind descending down the back nearly to the extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows.

waist, and, as usual, inixed with silk. The two eldest About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt ; generally have their hair bound, and fastened under the bist, having ridden all the way from the Troad the same handkerchief. Their upper robe is a pelisse edged with fur, morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found hanging loose down to the ankles ; below is a handkerchief it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate an. of muslin covering the bosom, and terminating at the waist, chored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just which is short ; under that, a gown of striped silk or muslin, stated : entering a considerable way above the European, with a gore round the swell of the loins, falling in front in and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a graceful negligence ;-white stockings and yellow slippers poing Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and complete their attire. The two eldest have black, or dark, Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but hair and eyes; their visage oval, and complexion somewhat our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these cir pale, with teeth of dazzling whiteness. Their cheeks are cumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A rounded, and noses straight, rather inclined to aquiline. Dumber of the Salsette's crew were known to have ac The youngest, Mariana, is very fair, her face not so finely complished a greater distance; and the only thing that sur rounded, but has a gayer expression than her sisters', whose prised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the countenances, except when the conversation has something truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavored of mirth in it, may be said to be rather pensive. Their perto ascertain its practicability.

sons are elegant, and their manners pleasing and ladylike,

such as would be fascinating in any country. They possess “My companion,” says Mr. Hobhouse, “had before made a more perilous, but less celebrated passage; for I

very considerable powers of conversation, and their minds Teroilect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from

seem to be more instructed than those of the Greek women

in general. With such attractions, it would, indeed, be reON Lisbon to Belem Castle, and having to contend with a markable, if they did not meet with great attentions from tide and counter current, the wind blowing freshly, was but little less than two hours in crossing.")

the travellers who occasionally are resident in Athens. They

sit in the eastern style, a little reclined, with their limbs '( At Orehomenus, where stood the Temple of the Graces, gathered under them on the divan, and without shoes. I was terpiej to exclaim, " Whither have the Graces fled ?" Their employments are the needle, tambouring, and readLittle did I expect to find them here ; yet here comes one ing." There is a beautiful engraving of the Maid of Athens of them with golden cups and coffee, and another with a in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. I.) Book. The book is a register of names, some of which are far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord

5 Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I Byron's, connected with some lines which I here send

shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed you.-H. W. Williams.)

they could not; and if I do not, I may atfront the ladies. For

fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall We copy the following interesting account of the Maid do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means,“ My life, of Athens and her family from the late eminent artist, Mr. I love you!" which sounds very prettily in all languages, Hugh Williams of Edinburgh's " Travels in Italy, Greece,” and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal &c.-"Our servant, who had gone before to procure accom tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, modation, met us at the gate, and conducted us to Theodore whose erotic expressions were all Hellenised.

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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.

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 Therinopylæ,
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.'


The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left

Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gist

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.


«Μπενω μες τσπεριβόλι

'llparótarn Xánon, &c.2
I ENTER thy garden of roses,
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.

Nor need I write-to tell the talo

My pen were doubly weak : Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or wo,

That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent, ache for thee.

March, 1811.

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 :
Wil naught to my bosom restore thee?

Then open the gates of the grave.
As the chief who to combat advances

Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,

Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? Would the hope, which thou once bad 'st me cherish,'

For torture repay me too well?


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 mado;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phæbus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only “ Jeather and prunella ?”
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 'twere shame to “ Black-it."

Malta, May 16, 1811.

ner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whole number present joining in the chorus. I have heard it frequently at our “xopou," in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive

and pretty.

(Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first part of his oth anong his native mountains, in teaching ancient Greek to his countrymen. On the first burst of the French fevolution, 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 hard for years been endeavoring to accomplish; but he was given up by the Austrian government to the Turks, who rainly endeavored by torture to force from bum the names of ihe other conspirators.]

* The song from which this is taken is a great favorite with the young girls of Athens of all classes. Their man

(National songs and popular works of amusement throw no small light on the manners of a people : they are materials which most travellers have within their reach, but which they almost always disdain to collect. Lord Byron has shown a better taste ; and it is to be hoped that his example will, in future, be generally followed.-GEORGE ELLIS.)

*[Some notice of this poetaster has been given, antè, p. 442.

He died in 1810, and his works have followed him.)



A FRAGMENT. UNHAPPY Dives ! in an evil hour 'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accursed ! Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power; Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, How wondrous bright thy blooming mom arose ! But thou wert smitten with th' uuhallow'd thurst Of Crime unuamed, and thy sad noou must close In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.

1811. (First publeshel, 1899.)

FAREWELL TO MALTA. Adieu, yo joys of La Valette! Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! Adieu, ye mansions where I've ventured! Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! (How surely he who mounts you swears !) Adieu, ye merchants often failing! Adieu, thou mob forever railing! Adieu, ye packets—without letters ! Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters! Adieu, thoa damned'st quarantine, That gave me fever, and the spleen! Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! Adieu to Peter-whom no fault 's in, But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! Adieu red coats, and redder faces ! Adieu the supercilious air Of all that strut “en militaire !" I go—but God knows when, or why, To smoky towns and cloudy sky, To things (the honest truth to say) As bad—but in a different way.


Good plays are scarce,

So Moore writes farce:
The poet's fame grows brittle-

We knew before

'That Little 's Moore,
But now 'tis Moore that 's little.

Sept. 14, 1811. (First published, 1830.]

Farewell to these, but not adien,
Triumphant sons of truest blue !
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 'tis “ gratis."

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her-
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises thau in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gayly glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.


“Oh! banish care"-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and “banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thonght—but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.

"Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would be wail.
But mine has suffi:r'd more than well
'Twould suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child ;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;

And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse !
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scr bbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able,
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label,)
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods—I've got a fever!

May 26, 1811. (First published, 1832.)

1 ["On a leaf of one of Lord Byron's paper-books I find came out at the Lyceum Theatie, on the 9th of Septeman Epigram, which, though not perhaps particularly good, ber.) I consider myself bound to insert.” – MOORE. The farce in ? (Mr. Francis Hodgson, (not then the Reverend.) See question was called “M. P.; or, the Blue Stocking,” and anté, p. 552.)

Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour cre death appear,

When silent sorrow fears to sigh,

Till all was past! But who', no more

'Twas thine to reck of human wo, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast—as now they flow.

And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Returu'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Hare kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less."

But let this pass—I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-
I'll bie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's “ May is in the sere,”
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times;
Oi one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise ;
One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside;
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age ;
Him wilt thou know—and knowing pause,
Nor with the effcct forget the cause."

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811,"

[First published, 1830.]

Shall they not flow, when many a day

In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?

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Ours too the glance none saw beside ;

The smile none else inight understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,

The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

That Love each warmer wish forboro;
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,

Even passion blush'd to plead for more.
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine ;
The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But where is thine ?--Ah! where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid ?
By many a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet beloved in vain ;
The past, the future fled to thee,

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been a word, a look,

That softly said, “ We part in peace,"
Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.
And didst thou not, since Death for thee

Prepared a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart?

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom

The cup of wo for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again ;
But if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seck a filter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach me—too early taught by thee!

To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth thy love was such to me;
It sain would form my hope in heaven!

October 11, 1811.4

These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even creature of the poet's brain. “It was," he says, about the while under the pressure of recent sorrow, Lord Byron re time when he was thus bitterly feeling, and expressing, the Sened to the disappointment of his early affection, as the blight which his heart had suffered from a reul object of affecchief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to tion, that his poems on the death of an imaginery one were come.-MOORE.)

written ;- nor is it any wonder, when we consider the pecu"The anticipation of his own future career in these con.

liar circumstances under which these beautiful effusions eluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken

flowed from his fancy, that, of all his strains of pathos, they more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so

should be the most touching and most pure. They were, inthany instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be

deed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling

griefs ;-a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of would carry him. It seemned as if, with the power of paint

sorrow, refined and warmed in their passage ihrough his in fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition fancy, and forming ihus one di ep reservoir of mournful feelto be, hitaself, the dark subline he drew," and that, in his

ing." It is a pity to disturb a sentiment ihus benunfully ex! fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavored pressed; but Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dillas, bearing lo tancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit

ihe exact date of these Imes, viz. Oct. lith, Inl, writes as subjects for his pencil.- MOORE.)

follows:-"Thave been again shocked with a death, and have

lost one very dear to me in happier tines: but I have almost "[Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, Lord

forgot the laste of grief,' and supped full of horrors,' uill Byron says, “I am growing nervous, (how you will laugh!)

I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event but it is true.-really, wretchedly, ridicuously, fine-ladi

which, five yers ago, would bave bowed my head to the cally nervous. Your climate kills me; I can neither read, earth.” In his reply to this letter, Mr. Duilas says—“I white, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are lustless, and my nights restless: I have seldom any society,

thank you for your confidential communication. How truly I amd, when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I

do I wish that that being had lived, and lived yours! What

your obligations to her would have been in that case is inconsha'n't end with insanity; for I find a want of method in ceivable.” Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza atranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely.") were written, Lord Byron, on being asked io whom they re"Mr. Moore considers “Thyrza” as if she were a mere ferred, by a person in whose tenderness he never ceased to

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