Che come vedi ancor non m' abbandona ;
Amor condusse noi ad una morte :

Queste parole da lor ci fur porte.
Da ch' io 'ntesi quell' anime offense
Chinai 'l viso, e tanto 'l tenni basso
Fin che 'l Poeta mi disse: "Che pense ?"
Quando risposi, comminciai: "Oh lasso!
Quanti dolci pensier, quanto desio
Menò costoro al doloroso passo !"
Poi mi rivolsi a loro, e parlai io,

E cominciai: "Francesca, i tuoi martiri
A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.
Ma dimmi: al tempo de' dolci sospiri
A che, e come concedette amore
Che conosceste i dubbiosi desiri ?"
Ed ella a me : 66
nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria; † e ciò sa 'l tuo dottore.
Ma se a conoscer la prima radice

Del nos troamor tu hai cotanto affetto,
Farò come colui che pìange e dice.
Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto

Di Lancilotto § come amor lo strinse :
Soli eravamo e senza alcun sospetto.
Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse

Quella lettura, e scolorocci 'l viso..
Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.
Quando leggemmo il disiato riso

Esser baciato da cotanto amante,
Questi che mai da me non fia diviso,
La bocca mi baciò futto tremante :

Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse."
Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.
Mentre che l' uno spirito questo disse,
L'altro piangeva sì, che di pietade
Io venni men così com' io morisse,

E caddi come corpo morto cade.

**From Cain, the first fratricide. By Cainà we are to understand that part of the Inferno to which murderers are condemned.

"In omni adversitate fortunæ infelicissimum genus infortunii est fuisse felicem." -BOETIUS. Dante himself tells us, that Boetius and Cicero de Amicitia were the two first books that engaged his attention.-E.

In some of the editions it is 'dirò,' in others 'farò;'-an essential difference between 'saying' and 'doing,' which I know not how to decide. Ask Foscolo. The d-d editions drive me mad."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray.

§ One of the Knights of Arthur's Round Table, and the lover of Genevra, cclebrated in romance,

That, as thou see'st, yet, yet it doth remain.
Love to one death conducted us along,

But Cainà 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,

I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till

"What think'st thou ?" said the bard; when I unbended, And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ill

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies
Led these their evil fortune to fulfil!"
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes,
And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise.
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs,

*

By what and how thy love to passion rose,
So as his dim desires to recognise?"
Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes
Is to remind us of our happy days
In misery, and that thy teacher knows. †
But if to learn our passion's first root preys
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,

I will do even as he who weeps and says. ‡
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh,
Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too.
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously.
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue
All o'er discoloured by that reading were;
But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; §
When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her,
To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover,*
He who from me can be divided ne'er
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over.
Accursed was the book and he who wrote!
That day no further leaf we did uncover.'
While thus one spirit told us of their lot,

**

The other wept, so that with pity's thralls
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote,
And fell down even as a dead body falls.

LINES

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.*

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,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

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.
Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou

Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now.

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep !—
Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,

For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

I have had many foes, but none like thee;'
For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into friend;

But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded,
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare-
And thus upon the world—trust in thy truth—
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth--
On things that were not, and on things that are
Even upon such a basis hast thou built

A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!

These verses, of which the opening lines are given in Moore's Notices, were written immediately after the failure of the attempt which Lord Byron made to bring about an explanation with his Lady, ere he left Switzerland for Italy.-E.

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold—
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits-the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretext
Of prudence, with advantages annex'd-
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end—

All found a place in thy philosophy.

The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

September, 1816.

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 shali 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,

'T is 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.

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES.

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 die 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!

SO, WE 'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

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.