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The flashes fell upon them; some lay down Ships sailorless lay rolting on the sea, [droppi
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest and their masts fell down piecemeal; as they
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; They slept on the abyss without a surge-
And others hurried to and fro, and fed

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up The Moon, their mistress, had expired before; With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, The pall of a past world; and then again

And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need With curses cast them down upon the dust, Of aid from them--She was the Universe. And gnash'd their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds

DIODATI, July, 1816.
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, [shriek’d,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes

Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,

Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food :
And War, which for a moment was no more, I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
Did glut himself again ;-a meal was bought

The comet of a season, and I saw
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;

With not the less of sorrow and of awe All earth was but one thought-and that was On that neglected turf and quiet stone, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang [death, With name no clearer than the names unknown, Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The gardener of that ground, why it might be The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, That for this plant strangers his memory task'd Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, Through the thick deaths of half a century; And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

And thus he answer'd—“Well, I do not know The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead He died before my day of sextonship, Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, And I had not the digging of this grave.” But with a piteous and perpetual moan,

And is this all ? I thought,-and do we rip And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand

The veil of Immortality, and crave Which answer'd not with a caress-he died. I know not what of honour and of light The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but Iwo Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? Of an enormous city did survive,

So soon, and so successless ? As I said, And they were enemies: they met beside

The architect of all on which we tread, The dying embers of an altar-place,

for Earth is but a tomb-stone, did essay Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things l'o extricate remembrance from the clay,[thought, For an unholy usage; they raked up,

Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton Were it not that all life must end in one, The seeble ashes, and their feeble breath [hands of which we are but dreamers;-as he caught Blew for a little life, and made a flame

As 'twere the twilight of a former sun, Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Thus spoke he,-“I believe the man of whom Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld [died - You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and was a most famous writer in his day, Even of their mutual hideousness they died, And therefore travellers step from out their way Unknowing who he was upon whose brow To pay him honour,--and myself whate'er Famine had written Fiend. The world was bid, Your honour pleases,” – then most pleased I The populous and the powerful was a lump, From out my pocket's avaricious nook (shook(3) Seasonless, herbless, ireeless, manless, lifeless- Some certain coins of silver, which as ’lwere A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.

Perforce 1 gave this man, though I could spare The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, So much but inconveniently :-Ye smile, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,

(1) On the sheet containing the original draughl of these lines, blended what I would deem to be the beauties as well as defects Lord Byron has wrillen:-“The following poem (as most that I of his style ; and it ought to be remembered, that in such things, bave endeavoured to write) is founded on a fact; and this delail is whether there be prate or dispraise, there is always what is an attempt at a serious imitation of the style of a great poel- called a compliment, however unintentional.”—E. Its beauties and its defects : I say, the s'yle; for the thoughts I (2) Originallylaim as my own. In this, if there be any thing ridiculous, let it

"then most pleased, I shook b.attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth, of

My inward pockel's most relired nook, whom there can exist sew greater admirers than myself. I have

and out fell five and sixpence."-E.

Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not l-for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye,
On that old sexton's natural homily,
In which there was obscurity and fame,-
The glory and the nothing of a Name. (1)

DIODATI, 1816.


In the endurance, and repulse

Of thine impenetrable spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not conyulse,

A mighly lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign

To mortals of their fale and force;
Like thee, man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source ;
And man in portions can foresee
His 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.

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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 woe,

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

Until ils 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 doch 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 On 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 bigh Still in thy patient energy,

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 yet
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?

(1) "The Grave of Churchill might have called from Lord both were followed by the fame and popularity wbich they Byron a deeper commemoration; for, though they generally seemed to despise. The writings of both exhibit an inborn, differed in character and genius, there was a resemblance be-though sometimes ill-regulated, generosity of mind, and a spirit Tweep their history and character. The satire of Churchill of proud independence, frequently pushed 10 extremes. Bob Nowed with a more profuse, though not a more embillered, carried their balred of hypocrisy beyond the verge of prudence, stream; while, on the other hand, he cannot be compared to and indulged their vein of satire lo the borders of licentiousness. Lord Byron in point of tenderness or imagination. But both Both died in the power of their age in a foreign land." Walter These poels beld themselves above the opinion of the world, and Scoll.-E.

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Or do they in their silent cities dwell

But thou in safe implacability

[shielded, Each in his incommunicative cell ?

Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness Or have they their own language ? and a sense And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, Of breathless being ?-darken’d and intense

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not As midnight in her solitude 2-0 Earth!

Where are the past ?—and wherefore had they and thus upon the world-trust in thy truth-
The dead are thy inheritorsmand we [birth ? | And the wild fame of my ungovern’d youth-
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key

On things that were not, and on things that areOf thy profundity is in the grave,

Even upon such a basis hast thou built The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,

A monument, whose cement hath been guilt! Where I would walk in spirit, and behold

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, Our elements resolved to things untold,

And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, And fathom hidden wonders, and explore

Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life The essence of great bosoms now no more.

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,

Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
DIODATI, July, 1816. And found a nobler duty than to part.

But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,

For present anger, and for future gold ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.(1) And buying other’s grief at any price.

And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee :

The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;

Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
Methought that joy and health alone could be
Where I was not—and pain and sorrow here!

And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,

Deceit, averments incompatible,
And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold,
And shall be more so; for the mind recoils

Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell

In Janus-spirits--the significant eye
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,

Which learns to lie with silence—the pretext
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife

Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd-
We feel benumb’d, and wish to be no more,

The acquiescence in all things which tend, But in the after-silence on the shore,

No matter how, to the desired end

All found a place in thy philosophy. When all is lost, except a little life.

The means were worthy, and the end is wonI am too well avenged !--but 'twas my right;

I would not do by thee as thou hast done!(2) Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent

September, 1816. To be the Nemesis who should requite

Nordid Heaven choose so near an instrumcnt. Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou

STANZAS TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERHast been of such, 't will be accorded now.

STAND THEM. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!

Be it so !-we part for ever! Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel

Let the past as nothing be: A hollow agony which will not heal,

Had I only loved thee, never
For thou art pillow'd on a curse loo deep;

Hadst thou been thus dear to me.
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

Had I loved, and thus been slighted,
I have had many foes, but none like thee;

That I belter could have borne: For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,

Love is quell'd-when unrequitedAnd be avenged, or turn them into friend;

By the rising pulse of scorn.

(1) These verses, written immediately after the failure of the which cannot but heal the wound it causes: 10 him, because > #rillen negotiation alluded to, ante, p. 926, were not intended for who, in the shattered seelings they betray, will not acknowledge ihe public eye: as, however, they have found their way into circu- the grief that hurries into error, and (may we add in charity!) lation, we must reluctantly include them in this collection.-E. atones for it!”– Lady Blessington.

" These lines were written with deep seelings of pain, and (2) “Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, should be judged as the outpourings of a wounded spirit de chat he was not the first to make his domestic differences a lopic manding pily more than anger. While to the public they are of public discussion. On the contrary, he saw bimself, ere any of that value that any reasons for their suppression ought to (act but the one undisguised and tangible one was or could be be extremely strong; so, on the other hand, I trust, they cannot known, held up every where, and every art of malice, as the nurt either her feelings to whom they are addressed, or bis me- most infamous of men,-because he had parted from his wise." nory by whom they are wrillen:-10 her, because the very -Lockhari. bitterness of reproach proyes that unconquerable affection

Thou mayst then too late discover,

By thy feelings, all my wrong. When thy beauties all are faded

When thy flatterers fawn no more-Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded

Some regardless reptile's storeEre that hour-false syren! hear me!

Thou mayst feel what I do now, While my spirit, hovering near thee,

Whispers friendship's broken vow! But—'t is useless to upbraid thee,

With thy past or present state : What thou wast-my fancy made thee;

What thou arl-I know too late!

Pride may cool what passion heated,

'Time will tame the wayward will; But the heart in friendship cheated

Throbs with woe's most maddening thrill: Had I loved-I now might hate thee,

In that hatred solace seek, Might exult to execrate thee,

And, in words, my vengeance wreak. But there is a silent sorrow

Which can find no vent in speech, Which disdains relief to borrow

From the heights that song can reach. Like a clankless chain enthralling

Like the sleepless dreams that mockLike the frigid ice-drops falling

From the surf-surrounded rockSuch the cold and sickening feeling

Thou hast caused this heart to know; Stabb'd the deeper by concealing

From the world its bitter woe! Once it fondly, proudly, deem'd thee

All that fancy's self could paint;
Once it honour'd and esteem'd thee

As its idol and its saint!
More than woman thou wast to me;

Not as man I look'd on thee:
Why, like woman, then undo me ?

Why heap man's worst curse on me? Wast thou but a fiend, assuming

Friendship's smile and woman's art,
And, in borrow'd beauty blooming,

Trifling with a trusting heart ?
By that eye, which once could glisten

With opposing glance to me;
By that ear, which once could listen

To each tale I told to thee;
By that lip, its smile bestowing,

Which could soften sorrow's gush,
By that cheek, once brightly glowing

With pure friendship's well-feign'd blush: By all those false charms united,

Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, And, without compunction, blighted

What thou wouldst not kindly kill! Yet I curse thee not-in sadness

Still I feel how dear thou wert; Oh! I could not-e'en in madness

Doom thee to thy just desert! Live! and when my life is over,

Should thine own be lengthen'd long,

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De Staël

Leman! (1) these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no

more, l'heir memory thy remembrance would recall: To them thy banks were lovely as to all,

But they have maile 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.

EPIGRAM FROM MARTIAL. PIERIOS yatis Theodori flamma Penates Abstulit: hoc Musis, hoc tibi, Phæbe, placet ? O scelus, o magnum facinus, crimenque deorum, Non arsit pariter quod domus et dominus !

Lib. xi. Epig. 91. Che Laureale's house hath been on fire: the Nine All smiling saw that pleasant bonfire shine. But, cruel fale! O damnable disaster! The house-lhe house is burnt, and not the master,


“ Mors Janua vitæ." Would you get to the House through the true gate

Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went, Let Parliament send you to—Newgate

And Newgate will send you 10–Parliament.

(1) Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne-(See ante, p. 133.]– cannot express, with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, "I have,” says, Lord Byron, “traversed all Rousseau's ground and the beauty of their reality. I enclose you a sprig of Gibwith the Véloïse before me, and am struck, to a degree that I bon's acacia and some rose-leaves from bis garden, wbich, with

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El qual dezia en Aravigo assi.

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 echó 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 mí, Alhama ! Como en el Alhambra estuvo, Al mismo punto mandava Que se toquen las trompetas Con añasiles 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 sangrienlo Marte llama. Uno a uno, y dos a dos, Un gran esquadron formavan.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA. Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport (The effect of the original ballad—which existed both in Spanish and Arabic-was such, that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada.)

The Moorish King rides up and down
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gates to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Alhama!
Letters to the monarch tell
llow Alhama's city fell;
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew..

Woe is me, Alhama !
Me quits his mule, and mounts his horse,
And through the street directs his course;
Through the street of Zacatin
To the Alhambra spurring in.

Woe is me, Alhama!
When the Alhambra walls he gain’d,
On the moment he ordain'd
That the trumpet straight should sound
With the silver clarion round.

Woe is me, Alhama !
And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain,

Woe is me, Alhama !
Then the Moors, by this aware
That bloody Mars recalld them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

part of his house, I have just seen. You will find honourable made Copel as agreeable as society can make any place on earth.” mention, in bis Life, made of this acacia, when he walked out B. Lelters, 1816.-E. on the night of concluding bis history. Madame de Staël has

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