STANZAS TO THE PO.†

RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls,‡
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me;

What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

What do I say-a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;

And such as thou art were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not

ever;

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, But left long wrecks behind, and now again, Borne in our old unchanged career, we move; Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,

And I-to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

for

Her native walls, and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee,
Full of that thought: and, from that moment,

ne'er

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,—
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!

* On the birth of this child, the son of the British viceconsul at Venice, Lord Byron wrote these lines. They are in no other respect remarkable, than that they were thought worthy of being metrically translated into no less than ten different languages; namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in the Venetian dialect), German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, Hebrew, Armenian, and Samaritan.

+ About the middle of April, 1819, Lord Byron travelled from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he expected to find the Countess Guiccioli. The above stanzas, which have been as much admired as any thing of the kind he ever wrote, were composed, according to Madame Guiccioli, during this journey, and while Lord Byron was actually sail

The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?-
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.

A stranger loves the lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the black wind that chills the polar flood.

My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,
A slave again of love,—at least of thee.
'Tis vain to struggle―let me perish young-
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.
[April, 1819.]

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise

His offspring, who expired in other days

To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,-
This is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? Were it not easy, sir, and is 't not sweet To make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; A despot thou, and yet thy people free, And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. [Bologna, August 12, 1819.]

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIÈRES.

IF, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half a dozen dimples,

Then your face we might behold,
Looking, doubtless, much more snugly;
Yet even then 't would be d―d ugly.
[August 12, 1319.)

ing on the Po. In transmitting them to England, in May, 1820, he says, “They must not be published: pray recollect this, as they are mere verses of society, and written upon private feelings and passions." They were first printed in 1824.

Ravenna-a city to which Lord Byron afterwards declared himself more attached than to any other place, except Greece. He resided in it rather more than two years, "and quitted it," says Madame Guiccioli, “with the deepest regret. and with a presentiment that his departure would be the forerunner of a thousand evils. In the third canto of "Don Juan," Lord Byron has pictured the tranquil life which, at this time, he was leading.

STANZAS.*

COULD Love forever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavor

Be tried in vain--
No other pleasure

With this could measure;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,

They pluck Love's feather
From out his wing-
He'll stay forever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

Like Chiefs of Faction,

His life is action

A formal paction

That curbs his reign,

Obscures his glory,
Despot no more, he
Such territory

Quits with disdain.
Still, still advancing,
With banners glancing,
His power enhancing,

He must move on-
Repose but cloys him,
Retreat destroys him,

Love brooks not a degraded throne.

Wait not, fond lover!
Till years are over,
And then recover,

As from a dream.
While each bewailing
The other's failing,
With wrath and railing,
All hideous seem-
While first decreasing,
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing
All passion blight:
If once diminish'd
Love's reign is finish'd-

Then part in friendship-and bid good-night.

So shall Affection

To recollection

The dear connection

Bring back with joy:

You had not waited

Till, tired or hated,
Your passions sated
Began to cloy.

**Byron had been painfully excited by some circumstances which appeared to make it necessary that he should imme

crags

Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,

For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves; Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er !

Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy
chain,

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay, With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his browSuch servile devotion might shame him away.

*** Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of honor. To him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you might not like to state to me personally, such as 'heavy season'-'flat public '-'don't go off 'lordship writes too much'-' won't take advice '-' declining popularity'-'deduction for the trade'-'make very little '*generally lose by him '—' pirated edition '-' foreign edition'

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.
Ever-glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was be-

gun

But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,

And corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves, When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!

Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied!

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves

yield their prey?

Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign,—
To reign in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!
Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country
convince
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,

And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!"

Will thy yard of blue ribbon, poor Fingal, recall The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ?

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?

Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! Let thy beggars and helots their pittance uniteAnd a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison! Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast, Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge! And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George !"

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe!

-'severe criticisms,' etc., with other hints and howls for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer." -Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, August 23, 1821.

"The enclosed lines, as you will directly perceive, are written by the Rev. W. L. B. Of course it is for him to deny them if they are not."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Sep

tember 17, 1821.

Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to flow.

But let not his name be thine idol alone

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! A wretch never named but with curses and jeers! Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth,

Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth,

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. Without one single ray of her genius, without

The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her raceThe miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh, Erin! how low

Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right,

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight, And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee!

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land,

I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons,

And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.

For happy are they now reposing afar,—

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-dayNor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties

fled;

There was something so warm and sublime in the

core

Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! [September, 1821.]

*"I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the road from Florence to Pisa."-Byron Diary, Pisa, 6th November, 1821.

+"With a view of inducing Lord and Lady Blessington to prolong their stay at Genoa, Lord Byron suggested their taking a pretty villa called 'Il Paradiso,' in the neighborhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some intentions of

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA.*

Он, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory: And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?

'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled
Then away with all such from the head that is
hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!

Oh, FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee:
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround
thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my
story,

I knew it was love, and I feel it was glory.

STANZAS

TO A HINDOO AIR.

[November, 1881.}

Он!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover? Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? Far-far away! and alone along the billow?

Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay? How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,

And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom !-oh! my lonely Pillow!

IMPROMPTU.†

BENEATH Blessington's eyes
The reclaim'd Paradise

Should be free as the former from evil;
But, if the new Eve

For an Apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the devil?‡

[1823.]

residing there, he produced this impromptu." A portrait of Lady Blessington will be seen ante, "Life of Byron."

"The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa (which was also, I believe, a Casa Saluzzo) had been the one fixed on for his own residence, they said, 'Il Diavolo è ancora entrato in Paradiso.""-MOORE.