The pall of a past world; and then again shriek'd, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; And they were enemies: they met beside Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they raked up, And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Each other's aspects- saw, and shriek'd, and died And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, 1["Darkness" is a grand and gloomy sketch of the supposed consequences of the final extinction of the Sun and the heavenly bodies: executed, undoubtedly, with great and fearful force, but with something of German exaggeration, and a fantastical solution of incidents. The very conception is terrible above all conception of known calamity, and is too oppressive to the imagination to be contemplated with pleasure, even in the faint reflection of poetry. JEFFREY.] 2 [On the sheet containing the original draught of these lines, Lord Byron has written:-"The following poem (as most that I have endeavoured to write) is founded on a fact; and this detail is an attempt at a serious imitation of the style of a great poet-its beauties and its defects: I say the style; for the thoughts I claim as my own. In this, if there be any thing ridiculous, let it be attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth; of whom there can exist few greater admirers than myself. I have blended what I would deem to be the beauties as well as defects of his style; and it ought to be remembered, that, in such things, whether there be praise or dispraise, there is always what is called a compliment, however unintentional."] CHURCHILL'S GRAVE; 2 A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed The Gardener of that ground, why it might be And I had not the digging of this grave." I know not what of honour and of light Your honour pleases,"-then most pleased I shook From out my pocket's avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare So much but inconveniently: - Ye smile, I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while, Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. You are the fools, not I-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 FameThe Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 3 Diodati, 1816. 3 ["The Grave of Churchill might have called from Lord Byron a deeper commemoration; for, though they generally | differed in character and genius, there was a resemblance between their history and character. The satire of Churchill flowed with a more profuse, though not a more embittered, stream; while, on the other hand, he cannot be compared to Lord Byron in point of tenderness or imagination. But both these poets held themselves above the opinion of the world, and both were followed by the fame and popularity which they seemed to despise. The writings of both exhib an inborn, though sometimes ill-regulated, generosity of mind, and a spirit of proud independence, frequently pushed to extremes. Both carried their hatred of hypocrisy beyond the verge of prudence, and indulged their vein of satire to the borders of licentiousness. Both died in the flower of their age in a foreign land."-SIR WALTER SCOTT.-Churchill died at Boulogne, November 4, 1764, in the thirty-third year of his age." Though his associates obtained Christian buria' for him, by bringing the body to Dover, where it was interred in the old cemetery which once belonged to the collegiate church of St. Martin, they inscribed upon his tombstone, in E PROMETHEUS. TITAN! to whose immortal eyes Were not as things that gods despise ; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, Which speaks but in its loneliness, 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, Was thine and thou hast borne it well. That in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit : Thou 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 a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory. What is this Death ?-a quiet of the heart? The under-earth inhabitants-are they Or have they their own language? and a sense SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 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. 35. — "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 Ay de mi, Alhama! Cartas le fueron venidas Que Alhama era ganada. Las cartas echò en el fuego, Y al mensagero matava. Descavalga de una mula, Y en un cavallo cavalga. 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 Los Moros que el son oyeron, Alli hablò un Moro viejo; Ay de mi, Alhama! Aveys de saber, amigos, Que Christianos, con braveza, Alli hablò un viejo Alfaqui, Mataste los Bencerrages, Cogiste los tornadizos De Cordova la nombrada. Por esso mereces, Rey, Una pene bien doblada; Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, Y que se pierda Granada. Ay de mi, Alhama! 1 The effect of the original ballad-which existed both in Spanish and Arabic-was such that it was forbidden A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport. THE Moorish King rides up and down Of Bivarambla on he goes. Woe is me, Alhama! Letters to the monarch tell Woe is me, Alhama! He 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, That the trumpet straight should sound Woe is me, Alhama! And when the hollow drums of war Then the Moors, by this aware Woe is me, Alhama! Out then spake an aged Moor Out then spake old Alfaqui, "By thee were slain, in evil hour, Woe is me, Alhama! "And for this, oh King! is sent Woe is me, Alhama! Si no se respetan leyes, Ay de mi, Alhama! Fuego por los ojos vierte, Ay de mi, Alhama ! Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes Relinchando de colera. Ay de mi, Alhama ! Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, El de la vellida barba, Por la perdida de Alhama. Y cortarte la cabeza, Y ponerla en el Alhambra, Por que a ti castigo sea, Cavalleros, hombres buenos, Ay de mi, Alhama ! De averse Alhama perdido Perdieran hijos padres, Y casados las casadas: Las cosas que mas amara Perdi una hija donzella Que era la flor d' esta tierra, Cien doblas dava por ella, No me las estimo en nada. Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, Y la elevan al Alhambra, Hombres, niños y mugeres, Ay de mi, Alhama! Por las calles y ventanas Llora el Rey como fembra, "He who holds no laws in awe, He must perish by the law; And Granada must be won, And thyself with her undone." Woe is me, Alhama ! Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes. Woe is me, Alhama! "There is no law to say such things Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! Woe is me, Alhama! And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone; "Cavalier, and man of worth! Woe is me, Alhama ! "But on my soul Alhama weighs, "Sires have lost their children, wives "I lost a damsel in that hour, And as these things the old Moor said, And men and infants therein weep And from the windows o'er the walls 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 Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte A le fumanti tede d' imeneo : La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLL ON A NUN. Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter But thou at least from out the jealous door, Which shuts between your never-mecting eyes, May'st 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 replies. STANZAS FOR MUSIC BRIGHT be the place of thy soul ! In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 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 blest? TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, 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. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore. STANZAS FOR MUSIC THEY say that Hope is happiness; But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose the first-they set the last; And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory. Alas! it is delusion all: The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall, Nor dare we think on what we are. ["This should have been written fifteen moons ago: the first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic."— Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, July 10. 1817.] 2 ["The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house July, 1817.1 ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. Above the works and thoughts of man, of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byro "without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beauti of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of hu execution."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Nov. 25, 1816) 1 |