PROMETHEUS.

TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise ;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show
The suffocating sense of wo,

Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill:
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift eternity

Was thine-and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
Ou him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,

In the endurance, and repulse

Of thine impenetrable Spirit,

Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit:

Thon art a symbol and a sign

To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source;

And Man in portions can foresee
H'S

's own funereal destiny;

His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:

To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself-and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry

Its own concentred recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
Diodati, July, 1816.

Sead of any consolatory or monitory text, this Epicurean line from one of his own poems

'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies.'" Southey's Cowper, vol. ii. p. 159.]

A FRAGMENT.

COULD I remount the river of my years

To the first fountain of our smiles and tears,
I would not trace again the stream of hours
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,
But bid it flow as now-until it glides
Into the number of the nameless tides.

What is this Death?-a quiet of the heart?
The whole of that of which we are a part?
For life is but a vision-what I see
Of all which lives alone is life to me,
And being so-the absent are the dead,
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread
A dreary shroud around us, and invest
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest.

The absent are the dead-for they are cold,
And ne'er can be what once we did behold;
And they are changed, and cheerless, or if yct
The unforgotten do not all forget,
Since thus divided-equal must it be
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;
It may be both-but one day end it must
In the dark union of insensate dust.

The under-earth inhabitants-are they
But mingled millions decomposed to clay?
The ashes of a thousand ages spread
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell?

Or have they their own language? and a senso
Of breathless being ?-darken'd and intense

As midnight in her solitude?-Oh Earth!

Where are the past ?-and wherefore had they birth?
The dead are thy inheritors--and we
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key
Of thy profundity is in the grave,
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold
Our elements resolved to things untold,
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore
The essence of great bosoms now no more.

Diodati, July, 1816.

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN.
ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De Staěl—
Leman these names are worthy of thy shore,
Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more,
Their memory thy remembrance would recall:
To them thy banks were lovely as to all,

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee, How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which of the heirs of immortality

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! Diodati, July, 1816.

1 Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne.-[See antè, p. 45."I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with the Heloise before me, and am struck to a degree that I cannot express, with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality."-Byron Letters, 1816.]

ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO
DEL SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA.1

El qual dezia en Aravigo assi.
PASSEAVASE el Rey Moro
Por la ciudad de Granada,
Desde las puertas de Elvira
Hasta las de Bivarambla.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Cartas le fueron venidas
Que Alhama era ganada.
Las cartas echo en el fuego,
Y al mensagero matava.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Descavalga de una mula,
Y en un cavallo cavalga.
Por el Zacatin arriba
Subido se avia al Alhambra.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Como en el Alhambra estuvo,
Al mismo punto mandava
Que se toquen las trompetas
Con añafiles de plata.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Y que atambores de guerra
Apriessa toquen alarma;
Por que lo oygan sus Moros,
Los de la Vega y Granada.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Los Moros que el son oyeron,
Que al sangriento Marte llama,
Uno a uno, y dos a dos,
Un gran esquadron formavan.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Alli hablò 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,

Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before,
"Wherefore call on us, oh King?
What may mean this gathering?"
Wo 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."
Wo 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.
Wo is me, 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!

And as these things the old Moor said,
They sever'd from the trunk his head;
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
"Twas carried, as the King decreed.
Wo is me, Alhama!

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep:
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Wo 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.
Wo is me, Alhama!

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

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.

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN.

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter
had recently died shortly after her marriage; and ad-
dressed to the father of her who had lately taken the ve
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-toe 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 re-
plies.

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 bless'd?

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.

"Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord! if there's a row, but I'll be among ye! How go on the weav ers-the breakers of frames-the Lutherans of politics-the reformers?..... There's an amiable chanson for you!-all mpromptu. I have written it principally to shock your eighbor, who is all clergy and loyalty-mirth and infocence-milk and water."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Dec. 94,1816.]

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming."-Beppo. See ante, p. 155.]

"I went to most of the ridottos, &c., and though I did dissipate much upon the whole, yet I found the sword Reanng out the scabbard, though I have but just turned The corner of twenty-nine."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Feb.

1817.) "I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to fying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, af

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.

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,-

[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-humor, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honor, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improveable. You want a civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 21, 1817.]