With mad disquietude on the dull sky, And they were enemies: they met beside And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd (1) "Darkness" is a grand and gloomy sketch of the supposed consequences of the final extinction of the sun and the heavenly bodies; executed, undoubtedly, with great and fearful force, but with something of German exaggeration, and a fantastical solution of incidents. The very conception is terrible above all conception of known calamity, and is too oppressive to the imagination to be contemplated with pleasure, even in the faint reflection of poetry." Jeffrey. -L. E. (2) On the sheet containing the original draught of these lines, Lord Byron has written:-"The following poem (as most that I have endeavoured to write) is founded on a fact; and this detail is an attempt at a serious imitation of the style of a great poet-its beauties and its defects: I say, the style; for the thoughts I claim as my own. In this, if there be any thing ridiculous, let it be attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth, of whom there can exist few greater admirers than myself. I have blended what I would deem to be the beauties as well as defects of his The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, CHURCHILL'S GRAVE; A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. (2) I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed The gardener of that ground, why it might be And I had not the digging of this grave. I know not what of honour and of light Your honour pleases," then most pleased I I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, In which there was obscurity and fame,- DIODATI, 1816. style; and it ought to be remembered, that, in such things, whether there be praise or dispraise, there is always what is called a compliment, however unintentional."-L. E. (3) Originally -"then most pleased, I shook My inward pocket's most retired nook, (4) "The Grave of Churchill might have called from Lord Byron a deeper commemoration; for, though they generally differed in character and genius, there was a resemblance between their history and character. The satire of Churchill flowed with a more profuse, though not a more embittered, stream; while, on the other hand, he cannot be compared to Lord Byron in point of tenderness or imagination. But both these poets held themselves above the opinion of the world, and both were followed by the fame and popularity which they seemed to despise. The writings of both exhibit an inborn, though sometimes ill-regulated, generosity of mind, and a spirit of proud independence, frequently pushed PROMETHEUS. TITAN! to whose immortal eyes Were not as things that gods despise; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, Which speaks but in its loneliness, Titan! to thee the strife was given And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create Was thine-and thou hast borne it well. To render with thy precepts less Of thine impenetrable spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, To mortals of their fate and force; A troubled stream from a pure source; And a firm will, and a deep sense, I's own concentred recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making death a victory. DIODATI, July, 1816. to extremes. Both carried their hatred of hypocrisy beyond the verge of prudence, and indulged their vein of satire to the borders of licentiousness. Both died in the flower of their age in a foreign land." Walter Scott.-L. E. (1) These verses, of which the opening lines are given in Moore's Life, were written immediately after the failure of the negotiation already alluded to, antè, p.877, but were not What is this Death?-a quiet of the heart? The absent are the dead-for they are cold, The under-earth inhabitants--are they Or have they their own language? and a sense As midnight in her solitude?-O Earth! Where are the past?—and wherefore had they birth? ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. (1) AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee; And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not—and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus?-it is as I foretold, And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, intended for the public eye: as, however, they have recently found their way into circulation, we must include them, though with reluctance, in this collection.-L. E. These lines "were written," says Lady Blessington, "with deep feelings of pain, and should be judged as the outpourings of a wounded spirit demanding pity more than anger. While to the public they are of that value that any, I am too well avenged!-but 't was my right; Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. I have had many foes, but none like thee; Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded, On things that were not, and on things that are- Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, reasons for their suppression ought to be extremely strong; so, on the other hand, I trust, they cannot hurt either her feelings to whom they are addressed, or his memory by whom they are written:-to her, because the very bitterness of reproach proves that unconquerable affection which cannot but heal the wound it causes: to him, because who, in the shattered feelings they betray, will not acknowledge the grief that hurries into error, and (may we add in cha rity) atones for it!”—P. E. (1) "Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, that he was not the first to make his domestic differ ences a topic of public discussion. On the contrary, he saw himself, ere any fact but the one undisguised and tangible one was or could be known, held up every where, and by every art of malice, as the most infamous of men,--because he bad parted from his wife. He was exquisitely sensitive: he was wounded at once by a thousand arrows: and all this with the most perfect and indignant knowledge, that of all who were assailing him not one knew any thing of the real merits of the case. Did he right, then, in publishing those squibs and tirades? No, certainly: it would have been nobler, better, wiser far, to have utterly scorned the assaults of such enemies, and taken no notice, of any kind, of them. But, because this young, hot-blooded, proud, patrician poet did not, amidst the exacerbation of feelings which he could not control, act in precisely the most dignified and wisest of all possible manners of action,-are we entitled, is the world at large entitled, to issue a broad sentence of vituperative condemnation? Do we know all that he had suffered?-have we imagination enough to compre. hend what he suffered, under circumstances such as these? -have we been tried in similar circumstances, whether we could feel the wound unflinchingly, and keep the weapon quiescent in the hand that trembled with all the excite. ments of insulted privacy, honour, and faith? STANZAS TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDER- BE it so!-we part for ever! Hadst thou been thus dear to me. Might exult to execrate thee, And, in words, my vengeance wreak. But there is a silent sorrow Which can find no vent in speech, From the heights that song can reach. "Let people consider, for a moment, what it is that they demand when they insist upon a poet of Byron's class abstaining altogether from expressing in his works any thing of his own feelings in regard to any thing that immediately concerns his own history. We tell him, in every possible form and shape, that the great and distinguishing merit of his poetry is the intense truth with which that poetry expresses his own personal feelings. We encourage him, in every possible way, to dissect his own heart for our entertainment-we tempt him, by every bribe most likely to act powerfully on a young and imaginative man, to plunge into the darkest depths of self-knowledge; to madden his brain with eternal self-scrutinies, to find his pride and his pleasure in what others shrink from as torture-we tempt him to indulge in these dangerous exercises, until they obviously acquire the power of leading him to the very brink of frenzy-we tempt him to find, and to see in this perilous vocation, the staple of his existence, the food of his ambition, the very essence of his glory;-and the moment that, by habits of our own creating, at least of our own encouraging and confirming, he is carried one single step beyond what we happen to approve of, we turn round with all the bitterness of spleen, and reproach him with the unmanliness of entertaining the public with his feelings in regard to his separation from his wife. This was truly the conduct of a fair and liberal public! To our view of the matter, Lord Byron, treated as he had been, tempted as he had been, and tortured and insulted as he was at the moment, did no more forfeit his character by writing what he did write upon that unhappy occasion, than another man. under circumstances of the same nature, would have done, by telling something of his mind about it to an intimate friend across the fire. The public had forced him into the habits of familiarity, and they received his confidence with nothing but anger and scorn." Lockhart.-L. E. Like a clankless chain enthralling Like the sleepless dreams that mockLike the frigid ice-drops falling From the surf-surrounded rock Such the cold and sickening feeling Thou hast caused this heart to know; Stabb'd the deeper by concealing From the world its bitter woe! Once it fondly, proudly, deem'd thee More than woman thou wast to me; Why heap man's worst curse on me? Wast thou but a fiend, assuming Friendship's smile and woman's art, And, in borrow'd beauty blooming, Trifling with a trusting heart? By that eye, which once could glisten By that lip, its smile bestowing, By all those false charms united, Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, And, without compunction, blighted What thou wouldst not kindly kill! Yet I curse thee not--in sadness Still I feel how dear thou wert; By thy feelings, all my wrong. When thy flatterers fawn no more— Some regardless reptile's store- But 'tis useless to upbraid thee With thy past or present state: What thou wast-my fancy made thee; What thou art-I know too late! (1) Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne-[See antè, p. 120.] "I have" says Lord Byron, "traversed all Roussean's ground with the Heloise before me, and am struck, to a degree that I cannot express, with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. I enclose you a sprig of Gibbon's acacia and some rose-leaves from his garden, which, with part of his house, I have just seen. You will find honourable mention, in his Life, made of this acacia, when he walked out on the night of concluding his history. Madame de Staël has made Copet as agree SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Of human hearts the ruin of a wall In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! DIODATI, July 1816. EPIGRAM FROM MARTIAL. PIERIOS vatis Theodori flamma Penates TO MR. HOBHOUSE. "Mors janua vitæ." WOULD you get to the House through the true gate Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went, Let Parliament send you to-NewgateAnd Newgate will send you to-Parliament. TO MR. HOBHOUSE, ON HIS IMPRISONMENT IN NEWGATE. WHAT made you in Lob's Pound to go, Because I bade the people throw The House into the lobby. Because I would reform the den, As member for the mobby. There's I and Burdett, gentlemen, And blackguards Hunt and Cobby. How is 't that you contrive to keep Because they want to run their rigs able as society can make any place on earth." B. Leiters, 1816.-L. E.] the The numerous notices left by Lord Byron upon appearance, conduct, and opinions of Madame de Stacl present, with much that is amusing, such a medley of marks, that but for his tribute to her memory in the net to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, it would be dific to decide whether she was most an object of his fear, h envy, or his admiration.-P. E. i ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO DEL SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA. El qual dezia en Aravigo assi. PASSEAVASE el Rey Moro Ay de mi, Alhama! Cartas le fueron venidas Que Alhama era ganada. Descavalga de una mula, Y en un cavallo cavalga. Como en el Alhambra estuvo, Que se toquen las trompetas Y que atambores de guerra Los Moros que el son oyeron, Alli hablò un Moro viejo; "Para que nos llamas, Rey? "Aveys de saber, amigos, Una nueva desdichada: Que Christianos, con braveza, Alli habló un viejo Alfaqui, "Mataste los Bencerrages, De Cordova la nombrada. "Por esso mereces, Rey, A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA. Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport. [The effect of the original ballad-which existed both in Spanish and Arabic-was such, that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada.] THE Moorish King rides up and down Woe is me, Alhama! Letters to the monarch tell Woe is me, Alhama! He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in. Woe is me, Alhama! When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, On the moment he ordain'd That the trumpet straight should sound Woe is me, Alhama! And when the hollow drums of war That the Moors of town and plain Then the Moors, by this aware Woe is me, Alhama! Out then spake an aged Moor Woe is me, Alhama! "Friends! ye have, alas! to know |