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It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore;

That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.


What Exile from himself can flee ?i

To zones though more and more remote,

Still, still pursues, where'er I be,

The blight of life—the demon Thoughts

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,

And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,

With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask—

In pity from the search forbear: Smile on—nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the Hell that *s there. 3


Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu i

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?

» £" What Exile from himself cm flee? To other zones, howe'er remote. Still, still pursuing clings to me

The blight of life — the demon Thought." — MSJ « [ " Written January 25. 1810."— HS.] s In place of this song, which was written at Athens, January 25. 1810, and which contains, as Moore says, "some of the dreariest touches of sadness that ever Byron's pen let fall," we find, in the first draught of the Canto, the following:— 1.

Oh never talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies
It has not been your lot to see.

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz.
Although her eye be not of blue.

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses.
How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses!

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole

The fire, that through those silken lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll.

From eyes that cannot hldo their flashes:
And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses.
You'd swear each clustering lock could feci,

And curl'd to give her neck caresses.

Our English maids are long to woo,

And frigid even In possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at Love's confession:
But, born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is,
And who, — when fondly, fairly won.—

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?

The Spanish maid fa no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble,
And if she love, or if she hate.

Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold —

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely;
And, though it will not bend to gold,

•Twill love you long and love you dearly.

The Spanish girl that meets your love
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial,

For every thought Is bent to prove
Her passion in the hour of trial.

When thronging foemen menace Spain,
She dares the deed and shares the danger;

When all were changing thou alone wert true, First to be free, and last to be subdued: And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, A traitor only fell beneath the feud: * Here all were noble, save Nobility! None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry!


Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! They fight for freedom who were never free, A Kingless people for a nerveless state; Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slaves of Treachery: Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to Liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, " War even to the knife I"3 j


Te, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know.
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife:
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe
Can act, is acting there against man's life:
From flashing scimitar to secret knife,
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need —
So may he guard the sister and the wife,
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!6

And should her lover press the plain,
She hurls the spear, her love's avenger.

And when, beneath the evening star,

She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or sings to her attuned guitar

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero,
Or counts her beads wkh fairy hand

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper,
Or joins devotion's Choral band,

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper ; —

In each her charms the heart must move

Of all who venture to behold her;
Then let not maids less fair reprove
Because her bosom is not colder:
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam

Where many a toft and melting inald is.
But none abroad, and few at home,

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 4 Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz, in May, 1809.

* "War to tiie knife." Palafox's answer to the French general at the siege of Saragoza. [In his proclamation, also, he stated, that, should the French commit any robberies, devastations, and murders, no quarter should be given them. The dogs by whom he was beset, he said, scarcely left him time to clean his sword from their blood, but they still found their grave at Saragoza. All his addresses were in the samo spirit. "His language," says Mr. Southcy, ** had the high tone, and something of the inflation of Spanish romance, suiting the character of those to whom it was directed." See History of the Peninsular War, vol. iii. p. 132.]

6 The Canto, in the original MS., closes with the following stanzas: —

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know. Sights, Saints, Antiques, Arts, Anecdotes, and War, Go! hie ye hence to Paternoster Row — Are they not written in the Book of Carr,* Green Erin's Knight and Europe's wandering star I Then listen, Readers, to the Man of Ink, Hear what he did, and sought, and wrote afar; All these are coop'd within one Quarto's brink. This borrow, steal, —don't buy, —and tell us what you think.

• Porphyry said, that the prophecies of Daniel were written after their completion, and such may be my fate here; but it requires no second sight to toretell a tome: the first glimpse of the knight was enough. [In a letter written from Gibraltar. August 6. 1809, to his friend Hodson, Lord Byron says—" I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Cadiz ; and, like Swift's barber, have been down on my knees to beg he would net put nio into black and white."3

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Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain; Look oil the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain, Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw; [stain: let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw I


Xcr yet, alas! the dreadful work Is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd.


Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Sot all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her wcll-assertcd right. When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? How many a doubtful day shall sink in night. Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil 1

m-iny relic* Lere Giralda

I may roa read, with spectacles on eyes,
many \VeJlesleys did era bark for Spain,
Ai if thereto they meant to colonize,
How many troops y-cross*d the laughing main
That ne'er beheld the said return again:
How many buildings are in such a place,
How many leagues from this to yonder plain,
relics each cathedral grace,

stands on her gigantic base.

There may you read (Oh, Phoebus, save Sir John!

That these my words prophetic may not err)

All that was said, or sung, or lost, or won.

By Taunting Wellesley or by blundering Frere,

Me that wrote half the " Needy Knife-Grinder."*

Tbaj poesy the way to grandeur paves —

Who would not such diplomatists prefer?

But cease, my Muse, thy speed some respite craves, Leave Legates to their house, and armies to their graves.

Yet here of Vulpei mention may be made,

Who for the Junta model I'd sapient laws,

Taught them to govern ere they were obey'd:

Certe*. fit teacher to command, because

His soul Socratic no Xantippe awes;

Blest with a dame in Virtue's bosom nurst, —

With her let silent admiration pause !—

True to her second husband and her first: On such unshaken fame let Satire do its worst.

| 1 [The Honourable John Wingfield, of the Guards, who I <fied of a fever at Coimbra (May 14. 1811). I had known him J ten yean, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of •| mine. In the short space of one month, I have lost her who , rave me being, and most of those who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction: — ** Insatiate archer I could not one suffice? Thv shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late | Cnarles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. Hm powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater 'the ablest candidates, than those of any established.

on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently e

* [The a Needy Knife-grinder," in the Anti-jacobin, was a joist production of Messrs. Frere and Canning.]


And thou, my friend! 1 — since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strainHad the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain: But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain. By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest I What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?


Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most!3 Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear 1 Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here I And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence It rose, And moum'd and mourner lie united In repose.


Here is one fytte of Harold'9 pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall And some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? stern Critic I say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelTd.'

his fame on the spot where it was acquired; while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority. — fThis and the following stanza were added in August, 1811. fii one of his school-boy poems, entitled " Childish Recollections," Lord Byron has thus drawn the portrait of young Wingfield :—

"Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends, Thy name ennobles him who thus commends: From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise; The praise la his who now that tribute pays. Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, If hope anticipates the wnrds of truth, Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, To build his own upon thy deathless fame. Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list Of those with whom I lived supremely blest. Oft have we drained the fount of ancient lore, Though drinking deeply, thirsting still for more; Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one. In every clement, unchanged, the same, AH, ail that brothers should he, but the name." Matthews, the idol'of Lord Byron at college, was drowned, while bathing in the Cam, on the 2d of August. The following passage of a letter from Newstcad to his friend Scrope Davies, written immediately after the event, bears the impress of strong and even agonised feelings:—" My dearest Davies; some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in the house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do? I received a letter from him the day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come down to me— I want a friend. Mntthews's last letter was written on Friday,— on Saturday he was not. In ability, who was like Matthews? How did we all shrink Iwforo him. You do me but justice in saying 1 would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved his. This very evening aid I mean to write, inviting htm, as 1 invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. What will our poor Hobhous'e feel? His letters breathe but of Matthews. Come to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate —left almost alone in the world I"—Matthews was the son of John Matthews, F.sq. {the representative of Herefordshire, in the parliament of 18012—6), and brother of the author of " The Diary of an Invalid," also untimely snatched away.] 2 [" Beloved the most" —MS.] » C" Dec. 30th, 180i>." — MS.] B 2



Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven !— but thou, alas! Didst never yet one mortal song Inspire — Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was. And is, despite of war and wasting fire,1 And years, that bade thy worship to expire: But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire • Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow.


Ancient of days! august Athena «! where,
Where arc thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone — glimmering through the dream of things

that were:
First in the race that led to Glory's goal,
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole?
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering


Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

1 Tart of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege— [On the highest part of Lycabcttus, as Chandler was informed by an eye-witness, the Venetians, in 1687, placed four mortars and six pieces of cannon, when they battered the Acropolis. One of the bombs was fatal to some" of the sculpture on the west front of the Parthenon. "In 1667," says Mr. Hobhouse, "every antiquity of which there is now any trace in the Acropolis, was in a tolerable state of preservation. This great temple might, at that period, be called entire; — having been previously a Christian church, it was then a mosque, the most beautiful in the world. At present, only twenty-nine of the Doric columns, some of which no longer support their entablatures, and part of the left wall of the cell, remain standing. Those of the north side, the angular ones excepted, nave all fallen. The portion yet standing cannot fail to fill the mind of the indifferent spectator with sentiments of astonishment and awe; and the tame reflections arise upon the sight even of the enormous masses of marble ruins which are spread upon the area of the temple. Such scattered fragments will soon constitute the sole remains of the Temple of Minerva."]

* We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld : the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain British nobility and gentry. "The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest theprivilcgc of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph in tum, according to the tenor of each succeeding firman '. Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens . but it remained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a


Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn: Look ton this spot — a nation's sepulchre! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer bum. Even gods must yield — religions take their turn: 'Twas Jove's ■— 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hojw is built on reeds. 3


Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — Is't not enough, unhappy thing 1 to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou would'st be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not, to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? Still wilt thou dream 4 on future joy and wot*? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : * He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appcar'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: Is that a temple where a God may dwell? Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell!

church, and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of regard: it changed its worshippers; but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion: its violation is a triple sacrifice. But —

"Man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep."

. 3 fin the original MS. we find the following note to this and the five following stanzas, which had been prepared for publication, but was afterwards withdrawn, "from a fear," says the poet, " that it might be considered rather as an attack, than a defence of religion:" — " In this age of bigotry, when the puritan and priest have changed place*, and the wretched Catholic is visited with the' sins of his fathers,' even unto generations far beyond the pale of the commandment, the cast of opinion in these stanzas will, doubtless, meet with many a contemptuous anathema. But let it be remembered, that the spirit they breathe is desponding, not sneering, scepticism; that he who has seen the Greek and Moslem superstitions contending for mastery over the former shrines of Polytheism — who has left in his own, * Pharisees, thanking God that they are not like publicans and sinners/ and Spaniards in theirs, abhorring the heretics, who have hoi pen them in their need, — will be not a little bewildered, and begin to think, that as only one of them can be right, they may, most of them, be wrong. With regard to morals, and the effect of religion on mankind, tt appears, from all historical testimony, to have had less effect in making them love their neighbours, than inducing that cordial Christian abhorrence between sectaries and schismatics. The Turks and Quakers are the most tolerant: if an Infidel pays his heratch to the former, he may pray how, when, and where he pleases; and the mild tenets, and devout demeanour of the latter, make their lives the truest commentary on the Sermon on the Mount."]

* I" Still wilt thou harp." —MS.]

5 It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn their dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease; and he was indeed neglected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasldas, &c, and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous.

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Look on its broken arch, its ruin'tl wall,' In chambers desolate, and portals foul: Trs, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul: Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Passion's host, that never brook'd control: Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?


Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! ■ All that we know is, nothing can be known." Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? i hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan i brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what Chance or Fate proclalmeth best; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, ta: Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.


Tet it, as holiest men have deem'd, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
Bom tweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labours light I
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more!
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight,
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the


There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, Have left me here to love and live in vain — Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead When busy Memory flashes on my brain? Well — I win dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: If auxht of young Remembrance then remain, Be as it may Futurity's behest, •"gt me 1 were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest I*

- rin the original MS., for this magnificent stanza, we find what follows: —

- Frown not upon me, churlish Priest! that I Look not for life, where life may never be;

1 tm no aneerer at thy phantasy; Thou pitiest me, — alas! I envy thee, Thou bold discoverer in an unknown sea, Of happy isles and happier tenants there; 1 ask thee not to prove a Sadducee; SOU dream of Paradise, thou know'st not where. Bat lov'st too well to bid thine erring brother share."]

* rLord Byron wrote this stanza at Newstcad, in October, lall, an hearing of the death of his Cambridge friend, young Eifcnestone; ** making," he says, "the sixth, within four Bwora*. of friends and relations that 1 have lost between Mjt and the end of August." See post, Hours of Idleness, * lu Cornelian."J

* p The thought and the expression," says Professor | Clarke, in a letter to Lord Byron, "are here so truly Pe

Tarrh's, that 1 would ask you whether you ever read,—

'Pit quando 1 vero sgombra
Qo*l dolfe error pur It medesmo assUlo,
M* freddo, pietra morta in pietra viva;
in guisa d' uom che pensl e ptangc e scriva;'

■ Tims rendered by Wilmot,—
'But when rude truth destroys
TW !'.ved Illusion of the dreamed sweets,
/ lit me sf—rw oss the cold rugged Mtone,
Less cold, leas dead than I, and think and weep alone.' "J

.Here let me sit upon this massy stone,' The marble column's yet unshaken base; Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne : * Mightiest of many such I Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. It may not be: nor ev'n can Fancy's eye Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.


But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas lingcr'd, loth to flee The latest relic of her ancient reign; The last, the worst, duU spoiler, who was he? Blush, Caledonia 1 such thy son could Be! England! I joy no child he was of thine: Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; Tet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 5


But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared:

Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 8 His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: Her sons, too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 1 And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains.


What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy In Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.»

4 '1 Tie temple of Jupiter Olymplus, of which sixteen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally there were one hundred and fifty. These columns, however, are by many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon.

1 See Appendix to this Canto [A], for a note too long to be placed here. The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago.

• [M Cold and accursed as his native coast." — MS.3

7 I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment with tho public, but whose sanction will add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract from a verv obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the above lines : —M When the last of the metopes was taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, nnd, in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, TiAsr ! — 1 was present." The Disdar alluded to was the father of tho present Disdar.

"[After stanza xili. the original MS. lias the following: —

"Come, then, ye classic Thanes of each degree,

Dark Hamilton and sullen Aberdeen,

Come pilfer all the Pilgrim loves to see.

All that yet consecrates the fading scene:

Oh ! better were it ye had never been.

Nor ye, nor Elgin, nor that lesser wight,

The victim sad of vase-collectiug spleen,

llouse-fumishcr withal, one Thomas hight, Than ye should bear one stone from wrong'd Athena's site,


Where was thine jEgis, Pallas! that appali'd Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ? 1 Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain lnthrall'd, His shade from Hades upon that dread day Bursting to light in terrible array! What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.


Cold Is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd I


But where Is Harold? shall 1 then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little reck'd he of all that men regret; No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.


He that has sall'd upon the dark blue sea Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.


And oh, the little warlike world within! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,1 The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high: Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry! While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides; Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

Or will the gentle Dilettanti crew
Now delegate the task to digging Cell,
That mighty limner of a hirds'-eye view,
How like to Nature let his volumes tell:
Who can with him the folio's limits swell
With all the Author saw, or said he saw?
Who can topographize or delve so well?
No boaster he, nor Impudent and raw.
His pencil, pen, and shade, alike without a flaw."]

1 According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened Altric from the Acropolis; but others relate that the Gothic


'White Is the glassy deck, without a stain.

Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks. Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength 'to nerve.'


Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale! Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazy way. Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these 1


The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; * A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move. Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.


Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; Europe and Afric on each other gaze! Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.


'T is night, when Meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end: The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 5 Who with the weight of years would wish to bend. When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? Alas I when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy! [boy ? * Ah! happy years ! once more who would not be a

king was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer. — See Chandler.

* To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on deck during action.

3 [" From Discipline's stern law," &c. — MS.]

« [" Plies the brisk instrument that sailors love." — MS. J

* r_" Bleeds the lone heart, once boundless in its seal.

And friendless now, yet dreams it had a friend." —

« [" Ah 1 happy years! 1 would I were once more a bey."

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