Alli habló un Moro viejo; "Aveys de saber, amigos, Ya nos han tomado Alhama.” Alli hablò un viejo Alfaqui, "Mataste los Bencerrages, De Cordova la nombrada. Ay de mi, Alhama! "Por esso mereces, Rey, "Si no se respetan leyes, Fuego por los ojos vierte, "Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes Ay de mi, Alhama! Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, El de la vellida barba, El Rey te manda prender, Por la perdida de Alhama. Y cortate la cabeza, Y ponerla en el Alhambra, "Cavalleros, hombres buenos, Ay de mi, Alhama! Out then spake an aged Moor "Friends! ye have, alas! to know Out then spake old Alfaqui, "By thee were slain, in evil hour, Woe is me, Alhama! "And for this, O King! is sent On thee a double chastisement: "He who holds no laws in awe, Alhama! Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes; Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! The King hath sent to have thee seized, "De averse Alhama perdido A mi me pesa en el alma. Que si el Rey perdió su tierra, "Perdieran hijos padres, "Perdi una hija donzella Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, Hombres, niños y mugeres, Ay de mi, Alhama! Por las calles y ventanas Llora el Rey como fembra, Qu' es mucho lo que perdia SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. PER MONACA. Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; è diretto all genitore della sacra sposa. Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte A le fumanti tede d' imeneo : "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 Alhama! TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. ON A NUN. Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon-expires; But thou at least from out the jealous door, ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA.(1) 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! TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, Here's a double health to thee! '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. SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. (2) 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 dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. (1) "The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron," without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution."-E. | (2) "Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord! if there's a row, but I'll be among ye! How go on the weavers-the breakers of frames-the Lutherans of politics-the reformers?.... There's an amiable chanson for you!-all impromptu. I have written it principally to shock your neighbour who is all 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! TO THOMAS 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 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 its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, Though the night was made for loving, VERSICLES. (3) I READ the Christabel; Very well; I read the Missionary ; I tried at Ilderim; clergy and loyalty-mirth and innocence-milk and water.” Lord B. to Mr. Moore. December 24, 1816. -E. (3) "I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot head-ach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some versicles, which I made one sleepess night." B. Letters. Venice, March, 1817. I read a sheet of Margaret of Anjou ; (1) Can you? I turn'd a page of Scott's Waterloo; Pooh! pooh! I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white Rylstone Doe; Hillo! etc. etc. etc. TO MR. MURRAY. To hook the reader, you, John Murray, (At least, it has not been as yet); These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, And get me into such a scrape! For firstly, I should have to sally, All in my little boat, against a Galley; And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, Have next to combat with the female knight. March 25, 1817. EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, (3) To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery; (1) The Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles: Ilderim by Mr. Gally Knight; and Margaret of Anjou by Miss Holford. -E. (2) Mr. Murray not willing to accept, and not liking directly to refuse, the publication of a tragedy written by the Doctor, consulted Lord Byron, who thus wrote to the former, dated 21st of August, 1817:-"I never was much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and ill humour, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improvable You want a civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."-E. And for a piece of publication, It is not that I am not sensible A sort of it's no more a drama I write in haste; excuse each blunder; Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, A party dines with me to-day, (3) "Among other pretensions, Polidori had set his heart upon shining as an author, and one evening at Mr. Shelley's, producing a tragedy of his own writing, insisted that they should undergo the operation of hearing it. To lighten the infliction, Lord Byron took upon himself the task of reader. In spite of the jealous watch kept upon every countenance by the author, it was impossible to withstand the smile lurking in the eye of the reader, whose only resource against the outbreak of his own laughter lay in lauding, from time to time, most vehemently, the sublimity of the verses, and then adding, at the close of every such eulogy, 'I assure you, when I was in the Drury Lane Committee, much worse things were offered to us."" Moore. They're at this moment in discussion JOHN MURRAY. EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. My dear Mr. Murray, To set up this ultimate Canto; (1) Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. As ready to print off, No doubt you do right to commend it; 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 A work which must surely succeed; To serve with a Muscovite master, A nation so owlish, They thought shaving their beards a disaster. For the man, "poor and shrewd," (2) (1) The fourth Canto of Childe Harold.-E. (2) A phrase contained in a previous letter from Murray.-E. (3) On the birth of this child, the son of the British vice-consul at Venice, Lord Byron wrote these lines. They are in no other respect remarkable, than that they were thought worthy of being metrically translated into no less than ten different languages; Still extant in Venice; But please, sir, to mention your pay. VENICE, January 8, 1818. TO MR. MURRAY. STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, To thee, with hope and terror dumb, Upon thy table's baize so green Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Heaven forbid I should conclude VENICE, March 25, 1818. ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO HOPPNER. His father's sense, his mother's grace, In him, I hope, will always fit so; With still to keep him in good caseThe health and appetite of Rizzo. (3) NEW DUET. (To the tune of "Why, how now, saucy jade?") WHY, how now, saucy Tom? If you thus must ramble, I will publish some Remarks on Mister Campbell. namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in the Venetian dialect), German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, Hebrew, Armenian, and Samaritan. The original lines, with the different versions above mentioned, were printed, in a small neat volume, in the seminary of Padua.-E. |