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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, Una pene bien doblada ; Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, Y que se pierda Granada.

Ay de mi, Alhama ! “Si no se respetan lcyes, Es ley que todo se pierda; Y que se pierda Granada, Y que se pierdas en ella.”

Ay de mi, Alhama! Fuego por los ojos vierte, El Rey que esto oyera. Y como el otro de leyes De leyes tambien hablava.

Ay de mi, Alhama! “Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes De darle a Reyes disgusto”Esso dize el Rey Moro Relinchando de colera.

Ay de mi, Alhama! Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, El de la vellida barba, El Rey te manda prender, Por la perdida de Alhama.

Ay de mi, Alhama! Y cortate la cabeza, Y ponerla en el Alhambra, Por que a ti castigo sea, Y otros tiemblen en miralla.

Ay de mi, Alhama! “Cavalleros, hombres buenos, Dezid de mi parte al Rey, Al Rey Moro de Granada, Como no le devo nada.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Oul then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before:
“Wherefore call on us, o King ?
What may mean this gathering ?”

Woe is me, Alhama !
"Friends! ye have, alas! to know
Of a most disastrous blow,
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Albama's hold.”

Woe 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.

Woe is me, Alhama!
“By thee were slain, in evil hour,
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama !
“And for this, O King! is sent
On thee a double chastisement:
Thee and thine, ihy crown and realm,
One last wreck shall overwhelm.

Woe is me, Alhama!
“ He who holds no laws in awe,
He must perish by the law;
And Granada must be won,
And thyself with her undone."

Wue is me, Alhama !
Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes;
The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
Because he answer'd, and because
He spake exceeding well of laws.

Woe is me, Alhama! “There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings!”Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.

Woe is me, Alnama! Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! Though thy beard so hoary be, The King hath sent to have thee seized, For Alhama's loss displeased.

Woe is


And to fix thy head upon
High Alhambra's lofliest stone;
That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.

Woe is me, Alhama!
“Cavalier, and man of worth!
Let these words of mine go forth;
Let the Moorish Monarch know
That to him I nothing owe.

Woe is me, Alhama !

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Sonello composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morla poco sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had innanzi una figlia appena marilata ; è direlio all genitore della recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the

father of her who had lately taken the veil.

sacra sposa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte

Lieli 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. lo verso un fiume d'amarissim'onde,

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.

Of 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-too 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 shuis belween 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



Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,

Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

In this beloved marble view,

Above the works and thoughts of man, What Nature could, but would not, do,

And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond Imagination's power,

Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!


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 deseri 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,

'T' is 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.

What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore ?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,

Which, Thomas Moore?
But the Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore!
The Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore!
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,

Oh Thomas Moore!

So we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears ils sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.



As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,

So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free;
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,

We will fing the winding-sheet

O'er the despot at our feet,
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour’d.

| READ the Christabel;

Very well;
I read the Missionary;

I tried at Ilderim;


(1) “ The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of clergy and loyalty-mirth and innocence-milk and water." Madame the Counless d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron,“ without Lord B. to Mr. Moore. December 24, 1816. -E. exceplion, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human (3) “ I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took lo conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution."-E. flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after 3

(2) "Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord ! if there's week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot head-ach, horå row, but I 'll be among ye! How go on the weavers–the rible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, breakers of frames-the Lutherans of politics—the reformers ?.... and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic There's an amiable chanson for you!-all impromptu. I have of the place. Here are some versicles, which I made one sleepwrillen it principally to shock your neighbour --, who is all ess night." B. Lellers. Venice, March, 1817.

I read a sheet of Margaret of Anjou ;(1)

And for a piece of publication,
Can you?

If I decline on this occasion,
I lurn'd a page of Scott's Waterloo ;

It is not that I am not sensible
Pooh! pooh!

To merits in themselves ostensible,
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white Rylstone Doe; But-and I grieve to speak it-plays

Are drugs-mere drugs, sir-now-a-days. etc. ctc. etc.

I had a heavy loss by Manuel,

Too lucky if it prove not annual,-

And Sotheby, with his Orestes
To hook the reader, you, John Murray,

(Which, by the by, the author's best is), Have publish'd Anjou's Margaret,

Has lain so very long on hand Which won't be sold off in a hurry

That I despair of all demand. (At least, it has not been as yet);

I've advertised, but see my books, And then, still further to bewilder 'em,

Or only watch my shopman's looks ;Without remorse you set up Ilderim ;

Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, So mind you don't get into debt,

My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. Because as how, if you should fail,

There's Byron too, who once did better, These books would be but baddish bail.

Has sent me, folded in a letter, And mind you do not let escape

A sort ofit's no more a drama These rhymes lo Morning Post or Perry, Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; Which would be very treacherous-very,

So alter'd since last year his pen is, And get me into such a scrape!

I think he's lost his wits at Venice. For firstly, I should have to sally,

In short, sir, what with one and other, All in my little boat, against a Galley;

I dare not venture on another. And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight,

I write in haste; excuse each blunder; Have next to combat with the female knight. The coaches through the street so thunder!

March 25, 1817.

My room 's so full-we've Gifford here

Reading MS., with Hookham Frere,

Pronouncing on the nouns and particles

Of some of our forthcoming Articles.
DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, (3)

The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you Which is a good one in its way,

Ilod but the genius to review!Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,

A smart critique upon St. Helena, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels

Or if you only would but tell in a With tears, that, in a flux of grief,

Short compass what--But, to resume; Afford hysterical relief

As I was saying, sir, the roomTo shaller'd nerves and quicken’dl pulses,

The room's so full of wits and bards, Which your calastrophe convulses.

Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, I like your moral and machinery;

And others, neither bards nor wits: Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery;

My humble tenement admits Your dialogue is apt and smart;

All persons in the dress of gent., The play's concoction full of art;

From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. Your hero raves, your heroine cries,

A party dines with me to-day, All stab, and every body dies.

All clever men, who make their way; In short, your tragedy would be

Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, The very thing to hear and see:

Are all partakers of my pantry. (1) The Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles: Nerim (3) “Among other pretensions, Polidori had set bis heart upon by Mr. Gally Knight; and Margaret of Anjou by Miss Holsord. shining as an author, and one evening at Mr. Shelley's, pro-E.

ducing a tragedy of his own writing, insisted that they should (2) Mr. Murray not willing to accept, and not liking directly to undergo the operation of hearing it. To lighten the infliction, refuse, the publication of a tragedy written by the Doctor, con- Lord Byron look upon bimself the task of reader. In spite of sulled Lord Byron, who thus wrote to the former, dated 21st of the jealous walch kept upon every countenance by the author, August, 1817:—“I never was much more disgusted with any hu- it was impossible lo withstand the smile lurking in the eye of the man production than with the elernal nonsense, and tracasseries, reader, whose only resource against the outbreak of his own and empliness, and ill humour, and vanily of this young person; laughter lay in lauding, from lime to time, most vehemently, the but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispo- sublimity of the verses, and then adding, at the close of every silions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for such eulogy, 'I assure you, when I was in the Drury Lane Comhe is improved and improvable You want a civil and delicale mittee, much worse things we e offered to us.'” Moore. declension' for the medical tragedy ? Take it."-E.

Still extant in Venice;
But please, sir, to mention your pay.

VENICE, January 8, 1818.


They ’re at this moment in discussion
On poor De Staël's late dissolution,
Her book, they say, was in advance-
Pray Heaven she tell the truth of France!
Thus run our time and tongues away.
But, to return, sir, to your play:
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal,
Unless 't were acted by O'Neill.
My hands so full, my head so busy,
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy;
And so, with endless truth and hurry,
Dear Doctor, I am yours,



STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,

My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all-and sellest some-

My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,-
But where is thy new Magazine,

My Murray ?
Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The Art of Cookery, and mine,

My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the Navy List,

My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without “the Board of Longitude,”
Although this narrow paper would,

My Murray!

Venice, Marcb 25, 1818.

My dear Mr. Murray,

You're in a damn'd hurry
To set up this ultimate Canto;(1)

But (if they don't rob us)

You 'll see Mr. Hobhouse
Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.

For the Journal you hint of,

As ready to print off,
No doubt you do right to commend it;

But as yet I have writ off

The devil a bit of
Our Beppo:—when copied, I 'll send it.

Then you 've***'s Tour,

No great things, to be sure,-
You could hardly begin with a less work;

For the pompous rascallion,
Who don't speak Italian

(work. Nor French, must have scribbled by guess

You can make any loss up

With Spence and his gossip,
A work which must surely succeed;

Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,

With the new “Fytte” of Whistlecraft, Must make people purchase and read.

Then you've General Gordon,

Who girded his sword on,
To serve with a Muscovite master,

And help him to polish

A nation so owlish, They thought shaving their beards a disaster.

For the man, "poor and shrewd,"()

With whom you'd conclude A compact without more delay,

Perhaps some such pen is



His father's sense, his mother's grace,

In him, I hope, will always fil so; With-still to keep him in good case

The health and appetite of Rizzo.(3)


.To the tune of “ Why, how now, saucy jade?")

Way, how now, saucy Tom ?

If you thus must ramble, I will publish some

Remarks on Mister Campbell.

(1) The fourth Canto of Chiide Harold.-E.

namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in the Venetian dialect), (2) A phrase contained in a previous letter from Murray.-E. German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, Hebrew, Armenian, and

(3) On the birth of this child, the son of the British vice-con- Samaritan. The original lines, with the different versions above sul at Venice, Lord Byron wrote these lines. They are in no other mentioned, were printed, in a small neat volume, in the seminary respect remarkable, than that they were thought worthy of being of Padua.-E. metrically translated into no less tban ten different languages;

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