"And the brief epitaph in danger's day, "When those who win at length divide the prey, "And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each "brow,

"How had the brave who fell exulted now!"

§ 173. Athenian Prospect LORD BYRON.
SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not as in Northern climes obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of
heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, [last.
When-Athens! here thy wisest look'd his
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes :
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before;
But ere he sunk below Citharon's head,
The cup of woe was quaff'd-the spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly-
Who lived and died, as none can live or die!
But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.
No murky vapor, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams
play,

There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around with quivering beams beset
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye-
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.
Again the Egean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chaf'd breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,
Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle,
That frown-where gentler ocean seems to smile.

§ 174. Address on the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre. LORD BYRON.

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,
Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.
Ye who beheld, O sight, admired and mourn'd,
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments
[heav'n,
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames;
While thousands throng'd around the burning
dome,
[home;

riven,

Shrunk back appalled, and trembled for their
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own;
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall;
Say-shall this new nor less aspiring pile,
Reared, where once rose the mightiest in our
isle,
[knew,
Know the same favour which the former
A shrine for Shakespeare-worthy him and you?

Yes, it shall be the magic of that name
Defies the sithe of time, the torch of flame,
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama be where she hath been:-
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell;
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!
As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past.
Some hour propitious to our prayers, may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, stormed the sternest
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew: [heart;
Here
your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu.
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claimed, and claims,—nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head;
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals

bright,

Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; [glass, While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names emblazoned on our line; Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them.

Friends of the Stage-to whom both Players

and Plays

Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise, Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject,

If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And make us blush that you forbore to blame,
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplac'd applause :
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
The Drama's homage by her herald paid,
Receive our welcome too-whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win

your own.

The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, [side.
Still may we please, long-long may you pre-

$175. From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. LORD BYRON. He that has sailed 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, [prow. So gaily curl the waves before each dashing And oh, the little warlike world within! The well reev'd guns, the netted canopy, 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 school-boy Midshipman that standing by,Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,

And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

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 steru, 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!

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;

[lieve:

Now lads on shore may sigh and maids be-
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-ey'd Maid and dusky Moor,
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Distinct though darkening with her waning
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
But Mauritania's giant shadows frown, [phase;
From mountain cliff to coast descending
sombre down.

"Tis night, when meditation bids us feel
We once have lov'd, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a
friend.
[bend,
Who with the weight of years would wish to
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,
Death hath but little left him to destroy!

Ah! happy years! once more who would not
be a boy?

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere;
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year:
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast
Would still, albeit, in vain, the heavy heart

And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, [men, And roam along, the world's tir'd denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless, Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flatter'd, followed, sought, and sued This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

§ 176. To Thyrza. By the same. ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleas'd before:
Though ev'ry joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring:
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!

The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel a while the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the madd'ning soul;
The heart-the heart is lonely still!
On many a lone and lovely night

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deem'd the heav'nly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the Egean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moonAlas, it gleam'd upon her grave. When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" Like freedom to the time-worn slave,

A boon 'tis idle then to give; Relenting nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceas'd to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st my gaze! How ting'd by time with sorrows hue! The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be,

It feels, it sickens with the chill. Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! Though painful, welcome to my breast! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,

Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest! Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : Oh! what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead?

$177. From the Giaour. LORD BYRON. Recollections of Greece.

CLIME of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave—

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave-
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave
Oh servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !
These scenes their story not unknown-
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires,
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes-though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye,
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace,
Enough no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell,
And Self-abasement pav'd the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.
What can he tell who treads thy shore?

No legend of thine olden time,
No theme on which the muse might soar,
High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led

Thy sons to deeds sublime;
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slaves-nay the bondsmen of a slave,
And callous, save to crime;
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes
Mankind, where least above the brutes;
Without even savage virtue blest,
Without one free or valiant breast,
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft,
In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renown'd.
In vain might Liberty invoke
The spirit to its bondage broke,
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke.

§ 178. The Palace of Fortune. An Indian Tale.
SIR W. JONES.
MILD was the vernal gale, and calm the day,
When Maia near a crystal fountain lay,
Young Maia, fairest of the blue-eyed maids,
That rov'd at noon in Tibet's musky shades;