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ANSWER.

Why, how now, Parson Bowles?

Sure the priest is maudlin!

(To the public) How can you, d-n your Listen to his twaddling? [souls!

ODE ON VENICE. (1)

OH Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If 1. a northern wanderer, weep for thee
What should thy sons do?-any thing but weep:
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers-as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam,
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those what were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping

streets.

Oh! agony-that centuries should reap

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No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; ·
And even the Lion all subdued appears,
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum,
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along
The soft waves, once all musical to song,
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng
Of gondolas-and to the busy hum

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds
Were but the overbeating of the heart,
And flow of too much happiness, which needs
The aid of age to turn its course apart
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood.
But these are better than the gloomy errors,
The weeds of nations in their last decay,
When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors,
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay;
And Hope is nothing but a false delay,
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning

Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning,
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,

And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ;—
And then he talks of life, and how again

(1) Transmitted from Venice, along with Mazeppa.-E.

He feels his spirits soaring-albeit weak,
And of the fresher air, which he would seek;
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps,
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps,
And so the film comes o'er him—and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round-and shadows
busy,

At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness,-and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth.

There is no hope for nations!—Search the page
Of many thousand years—the daily scene,
The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

The everlasting to be which hath been,
Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear
Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
For 't is our nature strikes us down: the beasts
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts
Are of as high an order-they must go
Even where their driver goads them, though to
slaughter.

Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
What have they given your children in return?
A heritage of servitude and woes,

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.
What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal,
And deem this proof of loyalty the real;
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars,
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars?
All that your sires have left you, all that Time
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime,
Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read,
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all,
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,
Gushing from Freedom's fountains-when the
crowd,

Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,
And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain
Heavy and sore,-in which long yoked they plough'd
The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain,
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much
bow'd,

And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain :-
Yes! the few spirits—who, despite of deeds
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws,
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and Teave the earth
With all her seasons to repair the blight
With a few summers, and again put forth

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Cities and generations-fair, when freeFor, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

Glory and Empire! once upon these towers
With Freedom-godlike Triad! how ye sate!
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours
When Venice was an envy, might abate,
But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate
All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew
And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate,
Although they humbled-with the kingly few
The many felt, for from all days and climes
She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes
Were of the softer order-born of Love,
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead,
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread;
For these restored the Cross, that from above
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may

thank

The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles;
Yet she but shares with them a common woe,
And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foe,
But knows what all—and, most of all, we know
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time: For Tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded scienceStill one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, [bought May strike to those whose red right hands have

(1) About the middle of April, 1819, Lord Byron travelled from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he expected to find the Countess Guiccioli. These stanzas, which have been as much admired as any of the kind he ever wrote, were composed, according to Madame Guiccioli's statement, during this journey, and while Lord Byron was actually sailing on the Po. In trans

Rights cheaply earn'd with blood.-Still, still, for

ever

Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains.
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering:-better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!

STANZAS TO THE PO.(1)

RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls,(2)
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
A faint and fleeting memory of me;

What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!
What do I say—a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;

And such as thou art were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not for

ever;

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away— But left long wrecks behind: and now again, Borne in our old unchanged career, we move; Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,

And I-to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

Her native walls and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.
She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee,
Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,—
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:

mitting them to England, in May, 1820, he says, "They must not be published: pray recollect this, as they are mere verses of society, and written upon private feelings and passions." They were first printed in 1824.-E.

(2) He resided in the city of Ravenna rather more than two years, "and quitted it," says Madame Guiccioli," with the deep

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Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow! The wave that bears my tears returns no more; Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves the lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the black wind that chills the polar flood. My blood is all meridian; were it not,

I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,

A slave again of love,—at least of thee.
'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young-
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

EPIGRAM,

FROM THE FRENCH OF Rulhières.

IF, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half-a-dozen dimples,
Then your face we might behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly;
Yet even then 't would be d- -d ugly.

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, (1)

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and His offspring, who expired in other days [raise To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,— This is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless ?

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STANZAS. (2)

COULD Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour
Be tried in vain-
No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted.
Expect to die;

A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,
They pluck Love's feather
From out his wing-
He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the spring.(3)

Like chiefs of faction,
His life is action,
A formal paction

That curbs his reign, Obscures his glory; Despot no more, he

est regret, and with a presentiment that his departure would be (2) A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him a: Ravenna the forerunner of a thousand evils: he was continually perform- when he wrote these Stanzas, says,-"They were composed, ing generous actions: many families owed to him the few pros-like many others, with no view of publication, but merely to perous days they ever enjoyed; his arrival was spoken of as a piece of public good fortune, and his departure as a public calamity."-E.

(1) So the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' sonetto? There, you dogs! there's a sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good: it was a very noble piece of principality." Lord B. to Mr. Murray.-E.

relieve himself in a moment of suffering. He had been painfully excited by some circumstances which appeared to make it necessary that he should immediately quit Italy; and in the day and the hour that he wrote the song, was labouring under an access of fever."-E.

(3) "That sped his spring."-E

Such territory
Quits with disdain.
Still, still advancing,
With banners glancing,
His power enhancing,

He must move on-
Repose but cloys him,
Retreat destroys him,

Love brooks not a degraded throne.

Wait not, fond lover!
Till years are over,
And then recover,

As from a dream.
While each bewailing
The other's failing,
With wrath and railing,

All hideous seem-
While first decreasing,
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing

All passion blight:

If once diminish'd

Love's reign is finish'd

Then part in friendship,-and bid good-night.(1)

So shall affection

To recollection

The dear connection

Bring back with joy:
You had not waited
Till, tired or hated,
Your passions sated
Began to cloy.
Your last embraces
Leave no cold traces-

The same fond faces

As through the past;
And eyes, the mirrors
Of your sweet errors

Reflect but rapture-not least though last.

True, separations

Ask more than patience;

What desperations

From such have risen!

But yet remaining,
What is't but chaining

Hearts which, once waning,

Beat 'gainst their prison? Time can but cloy love,

(1) V. L.-"One last embrace, then, and bid good-night."-E. (2) These lines are extracted from a letter of Byron to Moore, bearing the above date, and preceded by the following from Cowper's John Gilpin:

"To-day it is my wedding day,

And all the folks would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware."-E.

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True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags; The Castle still stands, and the senate's no more, And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags

Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,

For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves! He comes, in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er;

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, And a new spring of noble affections ariseThen might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, [skies.

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now! Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay, With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his browSuch servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.
Ever-glorious Grattan! (2) the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, [begun-
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still

raves,

When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!

Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings

denied!

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves
yield their prey?

Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign! — heart!

The jest which it contains had been applied by the Genoese wits to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa (which was also, I believe, a casa saluzzo), had been the one fixed on for his own residence, they said, 'Il Diavolo é ancora entrato in Para diso."" Moore.

(1) "In one copy, the following sentence (taken from a letter of Curran, in the able life of that true Irishman, written by his son) is prefixed as a motto to the poem:- And Ireland like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider,'-At the end of the verses are these words;-(Signed) W. L. B

To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised

M. A., and written with a view to a bishoprick.'" Moore.

"I will show you my Irish Avatara. Moore tells me that it has saved him from writing on the same subject: he would have done it much better." Medwin,

(2) "After the stanza on Grattan, concluding with 'His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied,' will it please you to cause insert the following addenda,' which I dreamed of during to-day's siesta

Ever glorious Grattan,' etc. etc. etc."—

Letter from Byron to Moore.

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