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To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gazo,

CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignilying painA father's love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending :-Vain The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain

Rivets the living links,—the enormous asp Enforces paug ou pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.

CLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and lightThe Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shalt hath just been shot-the row bright With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might

And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that ouo glance the Deity.

CLXVI. And send us prying into the abyss, To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear,-but never more, Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same :

It is enough in sooth that once we bore (was gore. These fardels of the heart-the heart whose sweat

CLXVII. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murinur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound; (ground, Through storm and darkness yawns the rending The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd,

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

CLXIL But in his delicate form-a dream of Love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Lang'd for a deathless lover from above, And maddend in that vision--are express'd All that ideal beauty ever bless'd The mind with in its most unearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly guest

A ray of immortality--and stood, Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god!

CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hush'd that pang forever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which fillid the imperial isles so full it seemd to cloy.

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven
The fire which we endure, it was repaid
By him to whom the energy was given
Which this poetic marble hath array'd
With an eternal glory—which, if made
By luman handx, is not of human thought ;
And Tune himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid

One ninglet in the dist-nor hath it caught A tiage of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,
The being who upheld it through the past ?
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
Ile ja no more--these breathings are his last;
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast,
And he himself as nothing :if he was
Anght but a phantasy, and could be class'd

Wiib forms which live and suffer- let that passHis shadow fades away into Destructiou’s mass,

CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety.--Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord,

And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead !

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes: in the dust
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did intrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd

Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes :-'twas but a meteor


CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall (cloud Through which all things grow phantoms; and the Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy balo searce allow'd

CLXXI. Wo unto us, not her ;' for she sleeps well: The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung

"**The Sath of the Princess Charlotte has been a shock present princess and future queen, and just as she began to * Desf. Venice,) and must have been an earthquake at be happy, and to enjoy herself, and the hopes which she in

Dhe fale of this poor girl is melancholy in every spired." I feel sorry in every respect."-Byron Letters.) TEspe, dying at (wenty or so, in childbed-or a boy too, a

Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung

We have had our reward--and it is here; Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate' That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, Which tumbles inightiest sovereigns, and hath fung Aud reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear Against their blind omnipotence a weight

As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,


Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,

With one fair Spirit for my minister,
These might have been her destiny ; but no,

That I might all forget the human race, Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,

And, hating no one, love but only her! Good without effort, great without a foe;

Ye Elements !-in whose ennobling stir But now a bride and mother-and now there!

I feel myself exalted-Can yo not How many ties did that stern moment tear!

Accord me such a being? Do I err From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast

In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppress’d Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. The land which loved thee so that none could love

thee best.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
Lo, Nemi!? navellid in the woody hills

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: So far, that the uprooting wind which tears

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
The oak froin his foundation, and which spills

From these our interviews, in which I steal
The ocean o'er its boundary, and beans
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares

From all I may be, or have been before,
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;

To mingle with the Universe, and feel And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
A deep cold settled aspect naught can shake,
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake.

RO on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roH!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;

Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
And near Albano's scarce divided waves

Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain Shine from a sister valley ;-and afar

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
“ Arms and the Man,” whose reascending star He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Rose o'er an empire :—but beneath thy right Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffiu'd, and uuknown.
Tully reposed from Rome ;-and where yon bar
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight

The Sabine farm was till’d, the weary bard's delight." His steps are not upon thy paths,thy fields

Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields ! CLXXV.

For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, But I forget.-My Pilgrim's shrine is won,

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And he and I must part,-so let it be

And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray His task and mine alike are nearly done; Yet once more let us look upon the sea;

And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies

His petty hope in some near port or bay,
The midland ocean breaks on him and me,
And from the Alban Mount we now behold

And dashest him again to earth :-there let him lay.
Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold

CLXXXI. Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine rollid The armaments which thunderstrike the walls

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,

And monarchs tremble in their capitals,

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Upon the blue Symplegades: long years

Their clay creator the vain title take
Long, though not very many, since have done Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
Have left us nearly where we had begun:

They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run,

Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

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1 Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken heart ; of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening's ride from the comCharles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in means and fortable inn of Albano. glory : Cromwell of anxiety; and, "the greatest is behind," 9 The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which has superfiuous list might be added, of names equally illustrious succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the prospect and unhappy.

embraces all the objects alluded to in this stanza; the Medi

terranean; the whole scene of the latter half of the Eneid, 9 The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber to the Egeria, and, from the shades which embosomed the temple headland of Circæum and the Cape of Terracina.-See of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive appellation Appendix, “ Historical Notes," No. XXXI.

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[When Lord Byron wrote this stanza, he had, no doubt, shock of this change is, I suspect, to be traced much of the the foowing passage in Boswell's Johnson floating on his eccentricity of Lord Byron's future life. This fourth Canto and:- Dining one day with General Paoli, and talking is the fruit of a mind which had stored itself with great care of projected journey to Italy, - A man,' said Johnson, and toil, and had digested with profound reflection and in: *to has not been in Italy, is always conscious of an infe tense vigor what it had learned: the sentiments are not Turity, from his not having seen what it is expected a man such as lie on the surface, but could only be awakend by stould see. The grand object of all travelling is to see the long meditation. Whoever reads it, and is not impressed scores of ibe Mediterranean. On those shores were the with the many grand virtues as well as gigantic powers of four great empires of the world ; the Assyrian, the Persian, the mind that wrote it, seems to me to afford a proof both of tha Grecian, and the Roman. All our religion, almost all insensibility of heart, and great stupidity of intellect.”-SIR our law, almost all our arts, almost all that sets us above E. BHYDGES.) Graxs, has come to us from the shores of the Mediterra 3 (** It was a thought worthy of the great spirit of Byron, Dean.' The General observed, that. The Mediterranean after exhibiting to us his Pilgrim amidst all the most striwould be a poble subject for a poern."-Life of Johnson, king scenes of earthly grandeur and earthly decay,-after Fo.. T. P. 143, ed. 1835. )

teaching us, like him, to sicken over the mutability, and

vanity, and emptiness of human greatness, to conduct hin :* This passage would, perhaps, be read without emo

and us at last to the borders of the Great Deep.' It is tion, if we did not know that Lord Byron was here descri.

there that we may perceive an image of the awful and unbahis actual feelings and habits, and that this was an un changeable abyss of eternity, into whose bosom so much ! afected picture of his propensities and amusements even has sunk, and all shall one day sink, -of that eternity where. frunt cuidhood, when he listened to the roar, and watched in the scorn and the contempt of man, and the melancholy toe tursts of the northern ocean on the tempestuous shores of great, and the fretting of little minds, shall be at rest forof Aberdeenshire. It was a fearful and violent change at

ever. No one, but a true poet of man and of nature, would the age of ten years to be separated from this congenial soli have dared to frame such a termination for such a Pilgrintode, - this independence so suited to his haughty and con

age. The image of the wanderer may well be associated, poslative spint, -- this rude grandeur of nature, - and

for a time, with the rock of Calpe, the shattered temples of ter* among the mere worldly-minded and selfish feroci

Athens, or the gigantic fragments of Rome; but when we ty, ibe ificcted polish and repelling coxcombry, of a great

wish to think of this dark personification as of a thing which public school How many thousand times did the moody,

is, where can we so well imagine him to have his daily slea, ad indignant boy wish himself back to the keen air

haunt as by the roaring of the waves ? It was thus that į - boisterous billows that broke lonely upon the simple Homer represented Achilles in his moments of ungovernaand sul-invigorating baunts of his childhood: How did he

ble and inconsolable grief for the loss of Patroclus. It was I prefer some ghost-story ; some tale of second-sight; some

thus he chose to depict the paternal despair of hriseusrelation of Robin Hood's feats; some harrowing narrative of bucraneer-exploits, to all of Horace, and Virgil, and “Βή δ' ακέων παρά θίνα πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης.» Homer, that was dinned into his repulsive spirit! To the -WILSON.



" One fatal remembrance-one sorrow that throws

Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes-
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,
For which joy hath no balm-and afliction no sting."








LONDON, May, 1813.



No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff,
First greets the homeward-veering skiff,
High o'er the land he saved in vain ;
When shall such hero live again?

ADVERTISEMENT. Tue tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly, either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the “olden time," or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some tiine subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.?

Fair clime !" where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Coloma's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the eastern wave:

[The “ Gjaour" was published in May, 1813, and abim was not, we are assured by Sir John Hobhouse, an object danily sustained the impression created by the first two can of his Lordship's attachment, but or that of his Turkish sertos of Childe Harold. Ii is obvious that in this, the first of his vant. For the Marquis of Sligo's account of the affair, see romantic narratives, Lord Byron's versification reflects the Moore's Notices.) admiration he always avowed for Mr. Coleridge's " Christ * A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some abel,"—ihe irregular rhythm of which had already been supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles.-*** There are, adopted in the Lay of the Last Minstrel." The fragmenta says Cumberland, in his Observer, “ a few lines by Plato, ry style of the composition was suggesied by the then new upon the tomb of Themistocles, which have a turn of ele and popular “Columbus" of Mr. Rogers. As to the subject, gant and pathetic simplicity in them, that deserves a better it was not merely by recent travel that the author had famil translation than I can give :iarized himself with Turkish history. “ OM Knolles," he said at Missolonghi, a few weeks before his death, " was one

. By the sea's margin, on the watery strand,

Thy monument, Themistocles, shall stand : of the first books that gave me pleasure when a child ; and I

By this directed to thy native sbore, believe it had much influence on my future wishes to visit

The merchant shall convey his freighted store : the Levant, and gave, perhaps, the oriental coloring which

And when our fleets are summond to the fight, is observed in my poetry.". In the margin of his copy of Mr. D'Israeli's Essay on the Literary Character, we find

Athens shall conquer with thy tomb in sight.'"] the following note :- Knolles, Caniemir, De Toit, Lady 44** Of the beautiful flow of Byron's fancy," says Moore, M, W. Montague, Hawkins's translation from Mignot's His. “ when its sources were once opened on any subject, the tory of the Turks, the Arabian Nights--all travels or histo Giaour affords one of the most remarkable instances: this ries, or books upon the East, I could ineet with, I had read, poem having accumulated under his hand, both in printing as well as Ricaut, before I was ten years old.")

and through successive editions, ull from four hundred lines, 2 [An event, in which Lord Byron was personally con of which it consisted in its first copy, it at present amounts to cerned, undoubtedly supplied the groundwork of this tale ; fourteen hundred. The plan, indeed, which he had adopted, but for the story, so circumstantially put forth, of his hav. of a series of fragments,-a set of orient pearls at random ing himself been the lover of this female slave, there is no strung'-left him free to introduce, without reference to foundation. The girl whose life the poet saved at Athens more than the general complexion of his story, whatever sen

But springs as to preclude his care,
And sweetly woos him-but to spare !
Strange-that where all is peace beside,
There passion riots in her pride,
And lust and rapine wildly reign
To darken o'er the fair domain.
It is as though the fiends prevail'd
Against the seraphs they assail'd,
And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell
The freed inheritors of hell;
So soft the scene, so form’d for joy,
So cursed the tyrants that destroy !

! And if at times a transient breeze

Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odors there!
For there—the Rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the Nightingale,'

The maid for whom his melody,

His thousand songs are heard on high,
Bloonis blushing to her lover's tale :
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,
Unbent by winds, unchilld by snows,
Far from the winters of the west,
By every breeze and season bless'd,
Returns the sweets by nature given
In sostest incense back to heaven;
And grateful yields that smiling sky
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.
And many a summer flower is there,
And many a shade that love might share,
And many a grotto, meant for rest,
That holds the pirate for a guest;
Whose bark in sheltering cove below
Larks for the passing peaceful prow,
Til the gay mariner's guitar
Ls heard, and seen the evening star;
Then stealing with the muffled oar,
Far shaded by the rocky shore,
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,
And turn to groans his roundelay.
Strange—that where Nature loved to trace,
As if for Gods, a dwelling-place,
And every charm and grace hath mix'd
Within the paradise she fixd,
There man, enamord of distress,
Should mar it into wilderness,
And trample, brute-like, o’er each flower
That tasks not one laborious hour;
Nor claims the culture of his hand
To bloom along the fairy land,

He who hath bent him o'er the dead'
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of ropose that's there,
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And—but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,

And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The dooin he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power ;
So fair, so calm, so softly seald,
The first, last look by death reveald !
Such is the aspect of this shore ;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.

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i finants or images his fancy, in its excursions, could collect; 2 The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor al bow little fettered he was by any regard to connection by night: with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is in these additions, appears from a note which accompanied accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. his own copy of this paragraph, in which he says,- I have 3 [If once the public notice is drawn to a poet, the talents Dot yet fixed the place of insertion for the following lines, he exhibits on a nearer view, the weight his mind carries bat all, when I see you-as I have no copy.' Even into with it in his every-day intercourse, somehow or other, are this new passage,

rich as it was at first, his fancy afterwards reflected around on his compositions, and co-operate in givpoured a fresh infusion."— The value of these after-touches ing a collateral force to their impression on the public. To of the master may be appreciated by comparing the follow this we must assign some part of the impression made by ing verses, from his original draft of this paragraph, with the "Giaour.” The thirty-five lines beginning “He who the form which they now wear :

hath bent him o'er the dead" are so beautiful, so original, * Fair clime! where ceaseless summer smiles,

and so utterly beyond the reach of any one whose poetical Benignant o'er those blessed isles,

genius was not very decided, and very rich, that they alone, Which, seen from far Colonna's height,

under the circumstances explained, were sufficient to secure Make glad the heart that hails the sight,

celebrity to this poem.--Sık E. BRYDGES.) And give to loneliness delight.

*[“ And mark'd the almost dreaming air There shiae the bright abodes ye scek, Like dimples upon Ocean's cheek,

Which speaks the sweet repose that's there.”—MS.) So smiling round the waters lave

5 Ay, but to die and go we know not where, These Edens of the eastern wave.

To lye in cold obstruction

?"Or if, at times, the transient breeze

Measure for Measure, act f. sc. 2. Break the smooth crystal of the seas,

6 I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opporOr brush one blossom from the trees,

tunity of witnessing what is here attempted in description ; How grateful is the gentle air

but those who have will probably retain a painful rememThat waves and wafts the fragrance there."

brance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few The whole of this passage, from line 7, down to line 167, exceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but

Who heard it first had cause to grieve,” was not in the for a few hours, after the spirit is not there." It is to be irst edition.)

remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well- expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the “Bulbul of a energy of the sufferer's character: but in death from a stab

berusand tales" is one of his appellations. [Thus, Mesihi, the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, as translated by Sir William Jones :

and the mind its bias, to the last. "Come, charming maid! and hear thy poet sing,

[In Dallaway's Constantinople, a book which Lord Byron Thyself the rose, and he the bird of spring :

is not unlikely to have consulted, I find a passage quoted from Lore bids him sing, and Love will be obey'd.

Gillies' History of Greece, which contains, perhaps, the first Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade."] seed of the thought thus expanded into full perfections


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