RITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK TO ABYDOS,1 If, in the month of dark December, (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero, nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both! For me, degenerate modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he cross'd the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo,-and-Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory; "Twere hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you! He lost his labor, I my jest ; For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.2 May 9, 1810. 1On 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 on 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 cireumstances, 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 endeavored to ascertain its practicability. "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."] [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.] 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 AT ORCHOMENUS. IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN: "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." BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING: THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, His name would bring more credit than his verse. 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 colors 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 generally 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.] 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. In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, &c. convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman. A cinder says, “I burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, "Take me and fly" but a pebble declares-what nothing else can. 2 Constantinople. ["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."] [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 "Re marks 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 TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG, “ Δεύτε παῖδες τῶν ̔Ελλήνων. SONS of the Greeks, arise! CHORUS. דיי Sons of Greeks! let us go Then manfully despising The Turkish tyrant's yoke, Oh, start again to life! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 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 fored 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 als satisfied; nor will I hazard that reputation by a future effort. It is true I have some others in manuscript, bat! leave them for those who come after me; and, if deered 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, Acúтe maides, &c., was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. Thas translation is as literal as the author could make it in versi. It is of the same measure as that of the original. [Wlule ai 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.] 8 Constantinople. “Επτάλοφος.” 66 Μπενω μες τσ' περιβόλι I ENTER thy garden of roses, Yet trembles for what it has sung; But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandon'd the bowers; But when drunk to escape from thy malice, My heart from these horrors to save: As the chief who to combat advances Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, Hast pierced through my heart to its core. Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish 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 endeavoring to accomplish; but he was given up by the Austrian government to the Turks, who vainly endeavored by torture to force from him the names of the other conspirators.] The song from which this is taken is a great favorite with the young girls of Athens of all classes. Their man 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. ON PARTING. THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Till happier hours restore the gift 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 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 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, March, 1811. EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, 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 "xópot," in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty. 9 [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.] 4 [Some notice of this poetaster has been given, antè, p. 442. He died in 1810, and his works have followed him.] FAREWELL TO MALTA. ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette! (How surely he who mounts you swears!) Adieu to Peter-whom no fault 's in, But could not teach a colonel waltzing; Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! Adieu the supercilious air Of all that strut "en militaire !" I go-but God knows when, or why, Farewell to these, but not adieu, And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser, And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us, May 26, 1811. [First published, 1832.] ["On a leaf of one of Lord Byron's paper-books I find an Epigram, which, though not perhaps particularly good, I consider myself bound to insert."-MOORE. The farce in question was called " M. P.; or, the Blue Stocking," and TO DIVES. 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 morn arose! But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. 1811. [First published, 1832.] ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA. 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, 1830.1] EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 66 IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR Perchance of mine, when wassail nights "Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of Septem ber.] [Mr. Francis Hodgson, (not then the Reverend.) See ante, p. 552.] And I have acted well my part, But let this pass-I'll whine no more, Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise; Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811." TO THYRZA. 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 To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! [These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, Lord Byron reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to Come.-MOORE.] The anticipation of his own future career in these coneluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling I would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of paint1g fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark "sublime he drew," and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavored to fancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil.-MOORE.] [Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, Lord Byron says, "I am growing nervous, (how you will laugh!) but it is true.-really, wretchedly, ridicuously, fine-ladieally nervous. Your climate kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights restless: I have seldom any society, and, when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity; for I find a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely."] [Mr. Moore considers "Thyrza" as if she were a mere Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here? Till all was past! But whe, 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. Shall they not flow, when many a day Ours too the glance none saw beside; The smile none else might 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 forbore; 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! Well hast thou left in life's best bloom I would not wish thee here again; But if in worlds more blest than this To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me too early taught by thee! It fain would form my hope in heaven! creature of the poet's brain. "It was," he says, "about the time when he was thus bitterly feeling, and expressing, the blight which his heart had suffered from a real object of affection, that his poems on the death of an imaginary one were written ;-nor is it any wonder, when we consider the peculiar circumstances under which these beautiful effusions flowed from his fancy, that, of all his strains of pathos, they should be the most touching and most pure. They were, indeed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many griefs;-a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in their passage through his fancy, and forming thus one deep reservoir of mournful feeling." It is a pity to disturb a sentiment thus beautifully expressed; but Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lmes, viz. Oct. 11th, 1811, writes as follows:-"I have been again shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to me in happier times: but I have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and supped full of horrors,' till I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event which, five years ago, would have bowed my head to the earth." In his reply to this letter, Mr. Dallas says "I thank you for your confidential communication. How truly do I wish that that being had lived, and lived yours! What your obligations to her would have been in that case is inconceivable." Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza were written, Lord Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by a person in whose tenderness he never ceased to |