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poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata ; e diretto a ge-
mitore della sacra sposa.
D1 due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, che degne di più mobil 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.
Io verso un flume d'amarissim'onde,
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, manessun risponde.

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Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta

1 (“This should have been written fifteen moons ago: the I am just come out from an hour's swim in

* [“The IIelen of Canova (a bust which is in the house

TRANSLATION FROM WITTORELLL on A. Nux.

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,
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 shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st 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
replies.

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TO THOMAS MOORE.

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neighbour —, who is all clergy and loyalty—mirth and in-
nocence—milk and water.” – Lord Byron to Mr. Moore,
Dec. 24. 1816.]
2 [“And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming,
Guitars, and every other sort of strumming.”—Beppo.
See ante, p. 145.]
* [“I went to most of the ridottos, &c., and though I did
not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I found the sword
wearing out the scabbard, though I have but just turned
the corner of twenty-nine.”— Lord Byron to Mr. Moore,
Feb. 28. 1817.]
• [“I have been ill with a slow sever, which at last took to
flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, atter

1816. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 569
- Though the night was made for lovin
SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. And the day returns too soon, 8,
As the Liberty lads o'er the sca Yet we'll go no more a roving
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, By the light of the moon.
So we, boys, we 1817.
Will die fighting, or live free, -
And down with all kings but King Ludd |
When the web that we weave is complete, VERSICLES. 4
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, I READ the “Christabel;"
We will fling the winding sheet Very well:
O'er the despot at our feet, I read the “Missionary;”
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. Pretty—very:
1 tried at “ Ilderim ; ”
Though black as his heart its hue, Ahem :
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, I read a sheet of “Margret of Anjou," "
Yet this is the dew Can you ?
Which the tree shall renew I turn'd a page of Scott's “Waterloo;"
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd | 1 Pooh pooh
Deccmber, 1816. I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white “Rylstone Doe:"
Hillo :
&c. &c. &c.

March, 1817.

TO MR. MURRAY.

To hook the reader, you, John Murray,
Have publish'd “Anjou's Margaret,”
Which won't be sold off in a hurry
(At least, it has not been as yet);
And then, still further to bewilder 'em,
Without remorse you set up “ Ilderim;”
So mind you don't get into debt,
Because as how, if you should fail,
These books would be but baddish bail.

And mind you do not let escape
These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry,
Which would be very treacherous—very,

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
DR. POLIDOR.I. 6

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way, -

a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot headach, 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 sleepless night.” – Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 25. 1817.]

* [The “ Missiona derim '' by Mr. Gally Miss Holford.]

* [For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori see Moore's “Notices.” “I never,” says Lord Byron, “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 mterest for him, for he is improved and improvable. You want a ‘civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it.”— Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 21. 1817.]

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BYRON'S WORKS.

Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.

I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery; Your dialogue is apt and smart; The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and every body dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see: And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, But—and I grieve to speak it — plays Are drugs — mere drugs, sir – now-a-days. I had a heavy loss by “Manuel,” — Too lucky if it prove not annual, And Sotheby, with his “Orestes," (Which, by the by, the author's best is,) Has lain so very long on hand, That I despair of all demand. I've advertised, but see my books, Or only watch my shopman's looks;– Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.

There's Byron too, who once did better, Has sent me, folded in a letter, A sort of — it's no more a drama Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; So alter'd since last year his pen is, I think he's lost his wits at Venice. In short, sir, what with one and t'other, I dare not venture on another. I write in haste; excuse each blunder; The coaches through the street so thunder 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.

The Quarterly—Ah, sir, if you Had but the genius to review — A smart critique upon St. Helena, Or if you only would but tell in a Short compass what but, to resume : As I was saying, sir, the room — The room 's so full of wits and bards, Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, And others, neither bards nor wits : – My humble tenement admits All persons in the dress of gent., From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent

A party dines with me to-day, All clever men, who make their way; Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, Are all partakers of my pantry. They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Stael's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advance — Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France :

1 [The fourth canto of “Childe Ilarold."]

Thus run our time and tongues away. —
But, to return, sir, to your play:
Sorry, sir, but I can not 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,

Jolix Mu RRAY.

August, 1817.

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.

My dear Mr. Murray,
You're in a damn'd hurry
To set up this ultimate Canto; 1
But (if they don't robus)
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
Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork.

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
Still extant in Venice;
But please, sir, to mention your pay.
Venice, January 8, 1818.

TO MR. MURRAY.

Stro An AN, 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 M.S. authors come;

Thou printest all — and sellest some – My Murray.

2 Pide your letter.

1817. Upon thy table's baize so green

1818. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 57.1

The last new Quarterly is seen, –

But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray 7

Along thy sprucest bookshelves 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; o And then thou hast the “Navy List,” My Murray.

And IIeaven forbid I should conclude
Without “the Board of Longitude,”
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray !
Venice, March 25. 1818.

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* [Ravenna—a city to which Lord Byron afterwards declared himself more attached than to any other place, except Greece. He resided in it rather more #. two years, “and quitted it,” says Madame Guiccioli, “with the deepest rogret, and with a presentiment that his departure would be the forerunner of a thousand evils: he was continually performing generous actions: many families owed to him the few prosperous days they ever enjoyed ; his arrival was spoken of as a piece of public, good fortune, and his departure as a public calamity.” . In the third canto of “Don Juan,” Lord Byron has ictured the tranquil life which, at this time, he was leadng : — “Sweet hour of twilight !—in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest which Boccaccio's lore And I) ryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee I

“The shrill cichlas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bells that rose the boughs among;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng,
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.”]

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