But left long wrecks behind, and now again, And I to loving one I should not love. The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee, Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, That happy wave repass me in its flow! The wave that bears my tears returns no more: 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 youngLive 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. April, 1819. SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 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 raise His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,- Envy into unutterable praise." Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless? Were it not easy, sir, and is 't not sweet To make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; A despot thou, and yet thy people free, And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. EPIGRAM. FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES. 1f, for silver or for gold, You could melt ten thousand pimples Then your face we might behold, Looking, doubtless, much more snugly; Yet even then 't would be d-d ugly. August 12, 1819. STANZAS.1 Could Love for ever Be tried in vain - We'd hug the chain. Let's love a season; But let that season be only Spring. Without his plumage when past the Spring Like chiefs of Faction, That curbs his reign, Quits with disdain. He must move on - 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'dThen part in friendship,- and bid good-night So shall Affection To recollection The dear connexion Bring back with joy: You had not waited Till, tired or hated, Your passions sated Began to cloy. 1 A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him at Ra venna when he wrote these Stanzas, says,--"They were composed, like many others, with no view of publication, but merely to relieve himself in a moment of suffering. He had been painfully excited by some circumstances which appeared to make it necessary that he should im mediately quit Italy; and in the day and the hour that he wrote the song was labouring under an access of fever."-E Siede la terra dove nata fui Su la marina, dove il Po discende, Amor, che al cor gentil ratto s' apprende, Che mi fu tolta; e il modo ancor in' offende. Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona, Mi prese del costui piacer si forte, Che, come vedi, ancor non m' abbandona ; Amor condusse noi ad una morte: Caina3 attende chi in vita ci spense. Fin che il Poeta mi disse: "Che pense?" E cominciai: Francesca, i tuoi martiri Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto 1This transion, of what is generally considered the most exquisitely pathetic episode in the Divina Commedia, was executed in March, 1820, at Ravenna, where, just five centuries before, and in the very house in which the unfortunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed.-E. 2 Francesca, daughter of Guido da Polenta, Lord of Ravenna and of Cervia, was given by her father in marriage to Lanciotto, son of Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, a man of extraordinary courage, but deformed in his person. His brother, Paolo, who unhappily possessed those graces which the husband of Francesca wanted, engaged her affections; FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. "The land where I was born4 sits by the seas, Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. Love to one death conducted us along, But Caina waits for him our life who ended :" These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.Since I first listen'd to these souls offended, [bended, I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till "What think'st thou?" said the bard; when I unAnd recommenced: "Alas! unto such ill How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, and being taken in adultery, they were both put to death by the enraged Lanciotto. Guido was the son of Ostasio da Polenta, and made himself master of Ravenna in 1265. In 1322, he was deprived of his sovereignty, and died at Bologna in the year following. He is enumerated, by Tiraboschi, among the poets of his time.-E. understand that part of the Inferno to which murderers 3 From Cain, the first fratricide. By Caina we are to are condemned.-- E. 4 Ravenna. March 8-9, 1823. The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing; Him who bade England bow to Normandy, And left the name of conqueror more than king To his unconquerable dynasty. Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing, He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, And Britain's bravest victor was the last. THE IRISH AVATAR. 3 Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 4 Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; his mind. But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! "And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford, receive the paltry rider."- Curran. Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like hisbride. True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won, Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause. True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, To her desolate shore- where the emigrant stands But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! L te a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, heart! 1"Are you aware that Shelley has written an elegy on Keats, and accuses the Quarterly of killing him?".. Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, July 30, 1821.-E. 2 This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece. --E. 3" The enclosed lines, as you will directly perceive, are written by the Rev. W. L. B. Of course it is for him to deny them, if they are not." Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Sept. 17, 1821.--E. (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? Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign, To reign in that word see, ye ages, comprised The cause of the curses all annals contain, From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised! Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country convince Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!" Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns? Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite! Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen! Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison! Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast, And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge! The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George!" Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe! Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to flow. But let not his name be thine idol alone On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own; A wretch never named but with curses and jeers! 4"After the stanza on Grattan, will it please you to cause to insert the following addenda, which I dreamed of during to-day's siesta."--Lord Byron to Mr. Moore Sept. 20, 1821.-E. Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth, And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. Without one single ray of her genius, without The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt If she ever gave birth to a being so base. If she did let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring - See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons, And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. For happy are they now reposing afar, Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day-Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties filed; There was something so warm and sublime in the core Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour "T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! September, 1821. STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLO- Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; 'T is but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. Oh Fame! - if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 1 "I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the road from Florence to Pisa." -Byron Diary, Pisa, 6th Nov. 1821. --E. Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely- Pillow! Oh my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! And my head droops over thee like the willow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy - but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow! IMPROMPTU.3 Beneath Blessington's eyes Should be free as the former from evil; For an Apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil? 4 1823. TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. What Lawrence has painted so well; I am ashes where once I was fire, My life is not dated by years There are moments which act as a plough. And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow. 2 These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air--"Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing. - E. 3 With a view of inducing Lord and Lady Blessington to prolong their stay at Genoa, Lord Byron suggested their taking a pretty villa called "Il Paradiso," in the neighbourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some intentions of residing there, he produced this impromptu.-MOORE.-E. 4 The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jest 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 e ancora entrato in Paradiso."-MOORE.-E. |