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SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. Rousseau—Voltaire our Gibbon-and De Staël

Leman! (1) these names are worthy of thy short,

Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no mare, Their memory thy remembrance would recall: To them thy banks were lovely as to all,

But they have made them lovelier, for the lere 1 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core of human hearts the rain of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by the How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,

Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

Diodati, July 1814.

EPIGRAM FROM MARTIAL. PIER IOS vatis Theodori flamma Penates Abstulit: hoc Musis, boc tibi, Phæbe, placet? O scelus, o magnum facinus, crimenque deurum, Non arsit pariter quod domus et dominus!

Lib. xi. Epig. 9. The Laureate's house hath been on fire: the Nine All smiling saw that pleasant bonfire shine. But, cruel fate! O damnable disaster! The house-the house is burnt, and not the master.

Like a clankless chain enthralling

Like the sleepless dreams that mockLike the frigid ice-drops falling

From the surf-surrounded rockSuch 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

All that fancy's self could paint;
Once it honour'd and esteem'd thee

As its idol and its saiut!
More than woman thou wast to me;

Not as man I look'd on thee:
Why, like woman, then undo 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

With opposing glance to me;
By that ear, which once could listen

To each tale I told to thee;
By that lip, its smile bestowing,

Which could soften sorrow's gush; By that cheek, once brightly glowing

With pure friendship’s well-feigu'd blush: 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; Oh! I could not-e'en in madness

Doom thee to thy just desert! Live! and when my life is over,

Should thine own be lengthen'd long, Thou mayst then too late discover,

By thy feelings, all my wrong. When thy beauties all are faded

When thy flatterers fawn no more-
Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded

Some regardless reptile's store-
Ere that hour—false syren! hear me!

Thou mayst feel what I do now,
While my spirit, hovering near thee,

Whispers friendship's broken vow!
But-'tis useless to upbraid thee

With thy past or present state:
What thou wast—my fancy masle thee;

What thou art-I know too late!


"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-Newgate

And Newgate will send you to-Parliament.

What made you in Lob's Pound to go,

My boy, Hobby?
Because I bade the people throw

The House into the lobby. You hate the House-why canvass then,

My boy Hobby? Because I would reform the den,

As member for the mobby. And who are now the people's men,

My boy, Hobby? There's I and Burdett, gentlemen,

And black guards Hunt and Cobbs. And when amid your friends you speak,

My boy, Hobby,
How is 't that you contrive to keep

Your watch within your fobby? Now tell me why you hate the Whigs,

My boy, Hobby! Because they want to run their rigs

As under Walpole Bobby.

(1) Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne- (See antè, p. 120.] able as society can make any place on earth." -“I have ” says Lord Byron, “traversed all Roussean's 1816.-L.E. ground with the Heloise before me, and am struck, to a The numerous notices left by Lord Byron open degree that I cannot express, with the force and accuracy appearance, conduct, and opinions of Madame of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. I en present, with much that is amusing, such a medley close you a sprig of Gibbon's acacia and some rose-leaves marks, that but for his tribute to her mergory in from his garden, which, with part of his house, I have just to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, it would seen. You will find bonourable mention, in his Life, made | to decide whether she was most an object of of this acacia, when he walked out on the night of concludenvy, or his admiration.-P.E. ing his history. Madame de Staël has made Copet as agree.

B. Letters,

place on earth.”

ns of Madame de Staal

it would be dificul an object of his feet,



SITIO Y TOMA DE ALHAMA. El qual dezia en Aravigo assi.

Por la ciudad de Granada,
Desde las puertas de Elvira
Hasta las de Bivarambla.

Ay de mi, Alhama!
Cartas le fueron venidas
Que Alhama era ganada,
Las cartas echó en el fuego,
Y al mensagero matava.

Ay de mi, Albama! Descavalga de una mula, Y en un cavallo cavalga. Por el Zacatin arriba Subido se avia al Alhambra.

Ay de mi, Alhama ! Como en el Alhambra estuvo, Al mismo punto mandava Que se toqnen las trompetas Con a ñafiles de plata.

Ay de mi, Alhama! Y que atambores de guerra Apriessa toquen alarma; Por que lo oygan sus Moros, Los de la Vega y Granada.

Ay de mi, Alhama! Los Moros que el son oyeron, Que al sangriento Marte llama, Uno a uno, y dos a dos, Un gran esquadron formavan.

Ay de mi, Alhama! Alli habló un Moro viejo; Desta manera hablava :“Para que nos llamas, Rey? Para que es este llamada ? »

Ay de mi, Alhama! "Aveys de saber, amigos, Una nueva desdichada: Que Christianos, con braveza, Ya nos han tomado Alhama."

Ay de mi, Alhama! Alli habló un viejo Alfaqui, De barba crecida y cana:« Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, Buen Rey; bien se te empleava.

Ay de mi, Albama! a Mataste los Bencerrages, Que era la flor de Granada; Cogiste los tornadizos De Cordova la nombrada.

Ay de mi, Alhama! “Por esso mereces, Rey, Una pene bien doblada; Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, Y que se pierda Granada.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

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
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gates to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Alhama!
Letters to the monarch tell
How Alhama's city fell:
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.

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
With the silver clarion round.

Woe is me, Alhama!
And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain,

Woe is me, Alhama !
Then the Moors, by this aware
That bloody Mars recall'd them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!
Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before :
“Wherefore call on us, o King ?
What may mean this gathering ?"

Woe is me, Alhama!
“ Friends! ye have, alas! to know
Of a most disastrous blow,
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold."

Woe is me, Alhama!
Out then spake old Alfaqui,
With his beard so white to see :
“Good King! thou art justly served,
Good King! this thou hast deserved.

Woe is me, Alhama! “ By thee were slain, in evil hour,

The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama !
“ And for this, O King! is sent
On thee a double chastisement:
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,
One last wreck shall overwhelm.

Woe is me, Alhama!

« Si no se respetan leyes,
Es ley que todo se pierda;
Y que se pierda Granada,
Y que te pierdas en ella.”

Ay de mi, Alhama!
Fuego por los ojos vierte,
El Rey que esto oyera.
Y como el otro de leyes
De leyes tambien hablava.

Ay de mi, Alhama! "Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes De darle a Reyes disgusto" Esso dize el Rey Moro Relinchando de colera.

Ay de mi, Alhama ! Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, El de la vellida barba, El Rey te manda prender, Por la perdida de Alhama.

Ay de mi, Alhama! Y cortarte la cabeza, Y ponerla en el Alhambra, Por que a ti castigo sea, Y otros tiemblen en miralla.

Ay de mi, Alhama ! Cavalleros, hombres buenos, Dezid de mi parte al Rey, Al Rey Moro de Granada, Como no le devo nada.

Ay de mi, Alhama! “De averse Alhama perdido

A mi me pesa en el alma.
Que si el Rey perdió su tierra,
Otro mucho mas perdiera.

Ay de mi, Alhama! « Perdieran hijos padres,

Y casados las casadas:
Las cosas que mas amara'
Perdiò l'un y el otro fama.

Ay de mi, Albama!
« Perdi una hija donzella
Que era la flor d' esta tierra,
Cien doblas dava por ella,
No me las estimo en nada."

Ay de mi, Alhama! Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, Le cortaron la cabeça, Y la elevan al Alhambra, Assi come el Rey lo manda.

Ay de mi, Alhama. Hombres, niños y mugeres, Lloran tan grande perdida. Lloravan todas las damas Quantas en Granada avia.

Ay de mi, Alhama! Por las calles y ventanas Mucho luto parecia ; Llora el Rey como fembra, Qu'es mucho lo que perdia.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

“He who holds no laws in awe,
He must perish by the law;
And Granada must be won,
And thyself with her undone."

Woe is me, Alhama!
Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes;
The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
Because he answer'd, and because
He spake exceeding well of laws.

Woe is me, Alhama! “There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings ! Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.

Woe is me, Alhama! Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! Though thy beard so hoary be, The King hath sent to have thee seized, For Alhama's loss displeased.

Woe is me, Alhama! And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone; That this for thee should be the law, And others tremble when they saw.

Woe is me, Albama! “ Cavalier, and man of worth! Let these words of mine go forth; Let the Moorish Monarch know That to him I nothing owe.

Woe is me, Alhama! “But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys; And if the King his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most.

Woe is me, Alhama! « Sires have lost their children, wives

Their lords, and valiant men their lives;
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.

Woe is me, Alhama!

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And as these things the old Moor said,
They sever'd from the trunk his head;
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
’T was carried, as the King decreed.

Woe is me, Albama!
And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.

Woe is me, Alhama! And from the windows o'er the walls The sable web of mourning falls; The King weeps as a woman o'er His loss, for it is much and sore.

Woe is me, Albama!


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

poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; è diretto al ge
nitore della sacra sposa.
Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte

Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil 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 fiume d'amarissim'onde,

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.


ON A NUN. Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter h ad recently died shortly after her marriage; and ad

dressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. Or 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,

Mayst 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.


In this beloved marble view,

Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,

And Beauty and Canova can!
Beyond Imagination's power,

Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,

So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free;
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,

We will fling the winding-sheet

O'er the despot at our feet,
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour’d.
Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,

Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be--peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.(2)

TO THOMAS MOORE. What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore ? What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore? Sigbing or suing now, Rhyming or wooing now, Billing or cooing now,

Which, Thomas Moore? But the Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore! The Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore!' Masking and humming, Fifing and drumming, (4) Guitarring and strumming,

Oh Thomas Moore!

(1) “The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house (3) « Are yon not near the Luddites ? By the Lord ! if of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron, there's a row, but I'll be among ye! How go on the weav“ without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beauti ers-the breakers of frames-the Lutherans of politics fal of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of hu the reformers ?...... There's an amiable chanson for you! man execution." --L.E.

---all impromptu. I have written it principally to sbock (2) The letter, containing the foregoing stanzas, is dated your neighbour --, who is all clergy and loyalty-mirth La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817, and, at the conclusion, Lord and innocence-milk and water.” Lord B. to Mr. Moore. Byron says :-“ This should have been written fifteen months December 24, 1816.-P. E. ago-the first stanza was. I am just come out from ani (4) “ And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, hour's swim in the Adriatic; and I write to you with a black

Guitars, and every other sort of strumming." eyed Venetian girl before me, reading Boccaccio."-P.E.

Beppo, Canto II. P.E.

So we 'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.


DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,(5)
Which is a good one in its way,
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 read the Christabel ;

Very well:
I read the Missionary;

I tried at Ilderim;

I read a sheet of Margaret of Anjou ;(3)

Can you?
I turn'd a page of Scott's Waterloo;

Pooh! pooh!
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white Rylstone Doe;

etc. etc. etc.

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, I
Have next to combat with the female knight.

March 25, 1817.

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 ofit's no more a drama
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama;
So aller'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 blander;
The coaches through the street so thunder!
My room's so full-we've Gifford here
Reading MS., with Hookbam Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
Of some of our forthcoming Articles.

"I did not dissipate mach upon the whole, yet I found i much more disgusted with any human production to the sword wearing out the scabbard,' though I have but

sense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and just turned the corner of twenty-nine." Letter to Moore. ill.humour, and vanity of this young person; bet

dispositions -PE.

some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispers (2) "I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, is improved and improvable. You want a 'civila after a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, bot cate declension for the medical tragedy? Tale head-ach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing (5) With regard to the dramatic attempt bere all of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I reco Moore says :-"Among other pretensions, be folk vered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some ver. set his heart upon shining as an author, and one sicles, which I made one sleepless night." B. Letters. Mr. Shelley's, producing a tragedy of his ow Venice, March, 1817.-L. E.

sisted tbat they should undergo the operation of (3) The Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles; Nderim To lighten the infliction, Lord Byron took upon by Mr. Gally Knight; and Margaret of Anjou by Miss Hol task of reader. In spite of the jealous watch ford.-L. E.

every countenance by the author, it was impossione (4) Dr, Polidori had composed a tragedy, which he wished stand the smile lurking in the eye of the reader, Mr. Murray to publish. It is presumable that, not willing resource against the outbreak of his own laugar to accept the Doctor's production, though somewhat averse landing, from time to time, most vebemently, the to give him a positive refusal, Mr. M. had in the mean time of the verses, and then adding, at the close or consulted Lord Byron, who thus writes to the latter gentle. enlogy, I assure you, when I was in the Drury a man, under date of 21st of August, 1817:-"I never was

August, 1017: "I never was mittee, much worse things were offered to US.

tragedy of his own writing, ib

on took upon hiasell the

I was impossible to wa ye of the reader, base any

the close of every s

De Drury lase ta

were offered to us.' -..

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