Whose manly breast the bearded arrow spurn'd, And strike at Folly thro' her rhyming page. Yet, tho' my pen indignant must disclaim The base pretenders to poetic fame, Think not my bosom, false to Genius' fires, 65 70 Ne'er felt the warmth the true-born Muse inspires; 'Tis that, alone, has steel'd my ardent breast, And bade me poise the biting lance in rest; Forc'd, from its scabbard, e'en my maiden sword 75 To try its temper on the rhyming horde. Then, first to thee, O, Byron! shall the Muse Pour what she feels, nor thou the praise refuse. Who have not own'd, as, with the "Childe," they trac'd The lovely scenes Misanthropy defac❜d, 85 And on the stormy sea of passion tost; Ting'd with sick hue each brightest object nigh, 90 NOTES. * On the merits of "Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage" I will not enlarge, as the sentiments of the Reviewers are in unison with those of the general reader. In brilliancy of versification this exquisite poem is superior to the "Minstrel" and the "Fairy Queen;" and, in accurate imagery, not inferior to the "Seasons." Lord Byron's subsequent publication (The Giaour), contains a description of the “ yet warm dead," of which, I think, the English language affords no parallel. 1 Still ev'ry thought the same impression gave, 95 Have they not felt, as well, his hapless doom, As the sad tribute to succeeding years; And hangs his lyre upon the cypress tree That shades her grave, in sad solemnity*! 100 NOTES. *Tu, che ne vai in Pindo, Ivi pende mia cetra ad un cipresso, Salutala in mio nome, e dille poi Ch'io son dagl'anni e da fortuna oppresso. TASSO. Thou, who to Pindus' flowery heights may'st go, Where hangs my lyre upon the cypress tree, Hail it from me; and say, that years, and woe, Oppress the bard with heaviest misery. Now will we turn, awhile, where hand in hand 110 115 If Mem'ry come, she comes with fear array'd, To future ages shall descend, and claim, 120 So, the bright stars, Orion's belt that form, Shine thro' the tempest, and defy the storm; So, blazing shed thro' Heav'n's sublime expanse, 125 130 Well said the Roman, in his courtly strain, 135 NOTES. * Imitatores, servum pecus. HOR. Epist. lib. i. p. 19. |