What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.

Yet be the soft Triumvir's fault forgiven;

By this-how many lose not earth—but Heaven!
Consign their souls to Man's eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some Wanton's woe! 1160

XVI.

'Tis Morn—and o'er his altered features play
The beams-without the Hope of yesterday.
What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing,
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt;
While sets that Sun, and dews of Evening melt,
Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffened limb,
Refreshing earth-reviving all but him!

CANTO THE THIRD.

"Come vedi-ancor non m'abbandona."
DANTE, Inferno, v. 105.

I.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,1
Along Morea's hills the setting Sun;

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Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,2
The God of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse
More deeply purpled met his mellowing glance,

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1. The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem [The Curse of Minerva]; but they were written on the spot, in the Spring of 1811, and I scarce know why-the reader must excuse their appearance here—if he can. [See letter to Murray, October 23, 1812.]

2. [See Curse of Minerva, line 7, Poetical Works, 1898, i. 457. For Hydra, see A. L. Castellan's Lettres sur la Morée, 1820, i. 155176. He gives (p. 174) a striking description of a sunrise off the Cape of Sunium.]

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,
When-Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last.
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered Sage's1 latest day! 1190
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonising eyes,

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land, where Phoebus never frowned before:
But ere he sunk below Citharon's head,
The cup of woe was quaffed-the Spirit fled;
The Soul of him who scorned to fear or fly-
Who lived and died, as none can live or die !

I 200

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The Queen of night asserts her silent reign.2
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the Minaret :
The groves of olive scattered dark and wide

1. Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.

2. The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country: the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration.

1

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide;
The cypress saddening by the sacred Mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk ;1
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye-
And dull were his that passed him heedless by.

Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;
Again his waves in milder tints unfold
Their long array of sapphire and of gold,

Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle,

That frown-where gentler Ocean seems to smile.

II.

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Not now my theme-why turn my thoughts to thee?
Oh! who can look along thy native sea,

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale,
So much its magic must o'er all prevail?

Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set,

Fair Athens could thine evening face forget?
Not he-whose heart nor time nor distance frees,
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades !

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1. The Kiosk is a Turkish summer house: the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree, the wall intervenes.-Čephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.

[E. Dodwell (Classical Tour, 1819, i. 371) speaks of "a magnificent palm tree, which shoots among the ruins of the Ptolemaion," a short distance to the east of the Theseion. There is an illustration in its honour. The Theseion-which was "within five minutes' walk" of Byron's lodgings (Travels in Albania, 1858, i. 259)—contains the remains of the scholar, John Tweddell, died 1793, which a stone was placed, owing to the exertions of Lord Byron (Clarke's Travels, Part II. sect. i. p. 534). When Byron died, Colonel Stanhope proposed, and the chief Odysseus decreed, that he should be buried in the same spot.-Life, p. 640.]

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over

Nor seems this homage foreign to its strain,

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain-1
Would that with freedom it were thine again!

III.

The Sun hath sunk-and, darker than the night,
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height
Medora's heart-the third day's come and gone—
With it he comes not-sends not-faithless one!
The wind was fair though light! and storms were none.
Last eve Anselmo's bark returned, and yet

His only tidings that they had not met!

Though wild, as now, far different were the tale
Had Conrad waited for that single sail.

The night-breeze freshens-she that day had passed
In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast;
Sadly she sate on high-Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wandered, heedless of the spray
That dashed her garments oft, and warned away:
She saw not, felt not this-nor dared depart,
Nor deemed it cold-her chill was at her heart;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense-
His very Sight had shocked from life or sense!

It came at last—a sad and shattered boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought;
Some bleeding—all most wretched-these the few-
Scarce knew they how escaped-this all they knew.
In silence, darkling, each appeared to wait

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate :

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I. [After the battle of Salamis, B.C. 480, Paros fell under the dominion of Athens.]

VOL. III.

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