Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once arose,
And Stamboul's Oriental halls
The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity:
And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA.
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, May mine attract thy pensive eye! And when by thee that name is read, Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.
COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND WHILE BEWILDERED NEAR MOUNT PINDUS IN ALBANIA.
CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast
The vengeance of the skies.
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,
But show where rocks our path have crost,
Or gild the torrent's spray.
Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
When lightning broke the gloomHow welcome were its shade!-ah, no! 'Tis but a Turkish tomb.
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim-
My way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.
A shot is fired-by foe or friend?
Another-'tis to tell
The mountain-peasants to descend,
And lead us where they dwell.
Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear
Our signal of distress?
And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries That outlaws were abroad?
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.
While wandering through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence, where art thou?
Not on the sea, not on the sea,
Thy bark hath long been gone :
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,
Bow down my head alone!
Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I press'd thy lip;
And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain;
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou
Should linger on the main.
And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread, As in those hours of revelry
Which mirth and music sped;
Do thou, amid the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,
At times, from out her latticed halls,
Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.
And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark
Of melancholy grace,
Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun
Some coxcomb's raillery;
Nor own for once thou thought'st on one
Who ever thinks on thee.
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
When sever'd hearts repine,
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thine.
WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN Gulf.
THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost.
And now upon the scene I look,
The azure grave of many a Roman ; Where stern Ambition once forsook
His wavering crown to follow woman.
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey,
By hellish instinct all that cross their way;
Aged or young, the living or the dead,
No mercy find-these harpies must be fed.
Why do the injured unresisting yield
The calm possession of their native field?
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat,
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's
Seat? *
Health to immortal Jeffrey! once, in name,
England could boast a judge almost the same;
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just,
Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust,
And given the spirit to the world again,
To sentence letters as he sentenced men.
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black,
With voice as willing to decree the rack;
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw;
Since well instructed in the patriot school
To rail at party, though a party tool,
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore
Back to the sway they forfeited before,
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet,
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat?
Let Jeffreys' shade indulge the pious hope,
And greeting thus, present him with a rope :
'Heir to my virtues! man of equal nind!
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind,
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care,
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear.
Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve his
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, [life
And guard it sacred in its future wars,
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars!
Can none remember that eventful day,
That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray,
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye,
Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn,
The sixteenth storey, where himself was born,
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground,
And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound:
Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white
reams,
Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams;
This of his candour seem'd the sable dew,
That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue;
And all with justice deem'd the two combined
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind.
But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er [Moore;
The field, and saved him from the wrath of
From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead,
And straight restor'd it to her favourite's head;
That head, with greater than magnetic power,
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden shower,
And, though the thickening dross will scarce
refine,
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine.
My son' she cried, 'ne'er thirst for gore again,
Resign the pistol and resume the pen ;
O'er politics and poesy preside,
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide!
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit,
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit,
So long shall last thine unmolested reign,
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain.
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan,
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.*
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer,+ and
sometimes,
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes.
And classic Hallam,§ much renown'd for Greek;
Smug Sydney, too, thy bitter page shall seek,
Scott may perchance his name and influence lend,
And paltry Pillans || shall traduce his friend;
And Bow-Street myrmidons stood laughing by ?t executed in the front might have rendered the edifice more
Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock,
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock;
Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth,
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north;
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear,
The other half pursued its calm career; ‡
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base,
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place.
The Tolbooth felt-for marble sometimes can,
On such occasions, feel as much as man-
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms,
If Jeffrey died, except within her arms: §
• Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. ↑ In 1806, Messrs Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy: and, on examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage of the combatants, were found to have evaporated. This Incident gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. : The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum; it would have been highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have shown the smallest symptom of appre
This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be apprehended that the many unhappy criminals
callous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish.
His Lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athenian Society, and Reviewer of Gell's Topography of t Mr Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the principal pieces is a Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer: the translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus:
Instead of money and rings, I wot,
The hammer's bruises were her lot:
Thus Odin's son his hammer got.'
The Reverend Sydney Smith, the reputed author of
Peter Plymicy's Letters, and sundry criticismis.
§ Mr Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's Taste, and was exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein: it was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity.
The said Hallam is incensed, because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry-not for having said so, but on his account, as I understand his Lordship's feasts are preferable to his com positions. If he did not review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because it must have been painful to read, and irksome to praise it. If Mr Hallam will tell me who did review it, the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into the verse; till then, Hallam must stand for want of a better.
Pillans was a tutor at Eton.
Though I fly to Istambol,* Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Ζώη μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE'S DOLE
IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.
OH how I wish that an embargo
Had kept in port the good ship Argo!
Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks,
Had never pass'd the Azure rocks;
But now I fear her trip will be a
Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, &c. &c.
YOUTH, Nature, and relenting Jove,
To keep my lamp in strongly strove ;
But Romanelli was so stout,
He beat all three-and blew it out.
SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. KIND Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here HAROLD lies-but where's his Epitaph? If such you seek, try Westminster, and view Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A
PICTURE.
DEAR object of defeated care!
Though now of Love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair,
Thine image and my tears are left.
'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope;
But this I feel can ne'er be true:
For by the death-blow of my Hope
My Memory immortal grew.
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS
GREEK WAR SONG.
• Δεύτε παῖδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων.
SONS of the Greeks, arise!
The glorious hour's gone forth,
And, worthy of such ties,
Display who gave us birth.
Sons of Greeks! let us go
In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow
In river past our feet.
Then manfully despising
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
+ The song was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. This translation is as literal as the author could make it in verse. It is of the same measure as that of the original.
Let your country see you rising,
And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,
Oh, start again to life!
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hill'd city seeking,"
Fight, conquer, till we're free.
Sons of Greeks, &c.
Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?
Awake, and join thy numbers
With Athens, old ally!
Leonidas recalling,
That chief of ancient song,
Who saved ye once from falling,
The terrible! the strong!
Who made that bold diversion
In old Thermopylæ,
And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood,
And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blocd.
Sons of Greeks, &c.
TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,
• Μπενω μες τσ ̓ περιβόλι
Ωραιότατη Χάηδή, &ς.
I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,
Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which utters its song to adore thee,
Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée.
But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandon'd the bowers: Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, Will deeply embitter the bowl; But when drunk to escape from thy malice, The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel! in vain I implore thee
My heart from these horrors to save: Will nought to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave.
As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul, must I perish
By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish.
For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidée ! There Flora all wither'd reposes,
And mourns o'er thine absence with me.
THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.
ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? Have years of care for thine and thee Alike been all employ'd in vain? Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own.
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.* WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;
Ah! happy if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-
Auspicious to these suffering isles;
And be each drop in future years
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!
• The Princess Charlotte. (EDIT.)
THE CHAIN I GAVE.
FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,-
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too The chain is broke, the music mute. 'Tis past-to them and thee adieuFalse heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT,
LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER.
STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and prunella?'
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 'twere shame to 'Black it.
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!
Adieu, red coats, and redder faces !
Adieu, the supercilious air
Of all that strut 'en militaire !'
1 go-but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad-but in a different way.
Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue !
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and woman's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 'tis 'gratis.'
And now I've got to Mrs Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her-
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.
And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods I've got a fever.
UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst! Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose !
But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst
Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of
RE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE,
OR FARCICAL OPERA.
GOOD plays are scarce,
So Moore writes farce :
The poet's fame grows brittle
That Little's Moore,
But now 'tis Moore that's little.
IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO 'BANISH CARE.'
'OH! banish care '-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and banish care.'
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought--but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of anything but love.
"Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'Twould suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave,-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress.
Time had not made me love the less.
But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-
I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's 'May is in the sere,
Thou hear'st of one whose deepening crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times,
Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise
One, who in stern ambition's price,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside;
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,
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