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The henoa should be deeply dyed to make

The skin relieved appear more fairly fair:
She had no need of thuis, day ne'er will break

On mountain tops more heavenly white than her: The eye might doubt if it were well awake,

She was so like a vision; I might err,
But Shakspeare also says 't is very silly
« To gild refined gold, or paint the lily.”

Juan bad on a shawl of black and gold,

But a white baracan, and so transparent,
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold,

Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; llis turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold,

An emerald aigrelle with Haidee's hair in't
Surmounted as its clasp-a glowing crescent,
rays shone ever trembling, but incessant.

And now they were diverted by their suite,

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poel,
Which made their new establishment complete;

The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: llis verses rarely wanted their due feet,

And for his theme-he seldom sung below it, lle being paid to satirize or tlatter, As the psalın says, « inditing a good matter.»

LXXIS. lle praised the present, and abused the past,

Reversing the good custom of old days; An eastern nti-jacobin at last

Ile turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise. For some few years bis lot liad been o'ercast

By his seeming independent in his lays;
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha,
With truth like Soutley, and with versc like Crashaw.

He was a man who had seen many changes,

And always changed as true as any needle,
Ilis polar star being one which rather ranges,

And not the fix'd- he knew the way to whicedie;
So vile lie 'scaped the doom which oft avengas;

And being tluent (save indeed when feed ill),
He lied with such a fervour of intention-
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension.

But be had genius, - when a turncoat has it,

The « vates irritabilis» takes care
That without notice few full moons shall pass il;

Even good men like to make the public stare:--
But to iny subject-let me see-what was it?

Oh!-the third canto-and the pretty pair-
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode
Of living in their insular abode.

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less

company a very pleasant fellow,
Had been the favourite of full many a mess

Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; And though his meaning they could rarely guess,

Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow The glorious meed of popular applause, of which the first ne'er knows the second cause,

But now being lifted ito high society,

And having pick'd up several odds and ends
Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety,

He deem'd being in a lone isle among friends, That, without any danger of a riot, he

Miglit for long lying make himself amends; And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, Agree to a short armistice with truth.

LXXXIV. lle à travelld 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks,

And knew the self-loves of the different nations! And, having lived with people of all ranks,

Nad something ready upon most occasions-
Which got him a few presents and some thanks,

He varied with some skill lois adulations;
To «do at Rome as Romans do,» a piece
Of conduct was which he observed in Greece.

Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing,

He gave the different nations something national; 'T was all the same to him-«God save the king,

Or « Ca ira,» according to the fashion all.
His muse made increment of any thing,

Trom the higla lyrical to the low rational:
If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder
Himself from being as pliable as Piodar?

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ;

In England, a six-canto quarto tale;
In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on

The last war--much the same in Portugal;
Jo Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on

Would be old Goethe's-(see what says de Stact); In Italy, he'd ape the « Trecentisti ;» In Greece, le 'd sing some sort of hymn like this i ye.

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But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.

And where are they? and where art thou,

My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shadeI see their glorious black eyes shine:

But, gazing on cach glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

'T is something, in the dearth of fame,

Though liok'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep

Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd ?

Must we but blush?-Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ !

What! silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;- the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, « Let one living head, But one arise, we come, we come !» 'T is but the living who are dumb.

In vain-in vain : strike other chords ;

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave batiles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark! rising to the ignoble call How answers each bold bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus caveThink ye he meant them for a slave ? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine :

He served-but served PolycratesA tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung,

The modern Greek, in tolerable verse;
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young,

Yet in these times he might have done much worse : llis strain display'd some feeling-right or wrong;

And feeling, in a poet, is the source
Of others' feeling; but they are such liars,
And take all colours-- like the hands of dyers.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,

Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, per millions, think.

"T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses, Instead of speech, may form a lasting link

Of ages : to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper-even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's bis !

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,

His station, generation, even his nation,
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank

In chronological commemoration,
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank,

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station,
In diccing the foundation of a closet,
May turn his name up as a rare deposit.

And glory long has made the sages smile;

*T is something, nothing, words, illusion, windDepending more upon the historian's style

Than on the name a person leaves behind.
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ;

The present century was growing blind
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks,
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe.

Milton 's the prince of poets--so we say;

A little heavy, but no less divine;
An independent being in his day-

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; But his life falling into Johnson's way,

We're told this great high priest of all the Nine Was whipt at college-a harsh sire-odd spouse, For the first Mrs Milton left his house.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades!

Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind ! Such chaios as bis were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks

They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords, and native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells;

All these are, certes, entertaining facts,

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest acts;

Like Burns (whoin Doctor Currie well describes);
Like Cromwell's pranks ;-but although truth exacts

These amiable descriptions from the scribes,
As most essential to their hero's story,
They do not much contribute to his glory.

All are not moralists like Southey, when

le prated to the world of «Pantisocracy;» Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then

Scason'd his pedlar poems with democracy;
Or Coleridge, long before lois flighty pen

Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;
When he and Southey, following the same path,
Espoised two partners (milliners of Batlı).

Such names at present cut a convict ligure,

The very Botany Bay in moral geography;
Their loyal treason, renegado vigour,

Are good manure for their more bare biograplıy. Wordswortli's last quarto, by the way, is bigger

Than any since the birthday of typography; A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the « Excursion, »» Writ in a manner which is



We there builds up a formidable dyke

Between his own and others' intellect;
But Wordswortli's poem, and his followers, like

Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and lier seci,
Are things which in this century don't strike

The public mind, so few are the elect;
And the new births of both their stale virginitics
llave proved but dropsies taken for divinities.

But let me to my story : I must own,

If I have any fault, it is digression ;
Leaving my people to proceed alouc,

While I soliloquize beyond expression;
But these are my addresses from the throne,

Wuch put off business to the ensuing session :
Forgetung cach omission is a loss to
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto.

I know that what our neighbours call « longueurs»

(We've not so good a word, but have the thing In that complete perfection which ensures

An epic from Bob Southey every spring), -
Form not the true temptation which allures

The reader ; but it would not be hard to bring
Some fine examples of the épopée,
To prove its graud ingredient is ennui

ile learn from lloracr, Moiner sometimes sleeps;

Il fue without lim, Wordsworth sometimes wake lo viow with what complacency be crecps,

Withuis dear « l'aggoners,» around liis lakes;
He wistars for « a boat to sul the deeps-

Of Ocean ?-10, of air; and thico lie makes
Another outery for « a little boat,
Aud drivels seus to elit vell alloat

If he must fain sweep o'er the etherial plain,

And Pegasus runs restive in his « Watson. :)
Could lic not bed the loan of Charles's Wain?

Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? Or if, 100 classic for his vulgar brain,

le feara luis neck to venture such a pag on, And he must needs mount neared to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ?

C. Pedlars,» anda boats,» and « wapoons!» Oh! ye jade

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? That trash of such sort not alone evades

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Coles

Of sense and song above your graves may lisi-
The little boatman and his « Peter Bell >>
Con sucer at him who drew « Achitophel !

T our tale.— The feast was over, the slaves gone.

The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
The Arab lore and poct's song were done,

And every sound of revelry expired;
The lady and her lover, left alone,

rosy flood of twilight sky admired;-
Ive Varia ! o'er the earth and sea,
That heaveuliest hour of Heaven worthiest the

CU. Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft llave felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the carth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air.
And yet the forest leaves seem stirrd with prayer.

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer !

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love!
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!
Ave Maria ! oh chat face so fair!

Those downcast eyes bencath the almighty dava-
What though 't is but a pictured image strike-
That painting is no idol, 'l is too like.

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,

In nameless print, that I bave no devotion,
But set those persons down with me to pray,

yoti shall see who has the properesi dolion Of getting into heaven the shortest way,

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars,-all that springs from the great wisi Who bath produced, and will receive the soul.


Sucre lour of twilight-in the solitude

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow doet To where the last Cesarian fortress stood,

Ever-green forest! which Boccaccio's lore Ind Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, Ilow have I loved the twilight lour aud dice'


The shirill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,

And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along: The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, aud their chase, and the fair throng,
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover, shadowd my mind's eye.

Oh llesperus!5 thou bringest all good things-

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,

The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,

Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

Soft hour!6 which wakes the wish and melts the heart

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns !

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom

Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
Some hands unseen strewd flowers upon his tomb :7

Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Of feeling for some kindness done, when power
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.

But I'm digressing; while on earth has Nero,

Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
To do with the transactions of my hero,

More than such madmen's fellow-mau-the moon's? Sure my invention must be down at zero, And I grown one of

many « wooden

Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please
To dub the last of honours in degrees).

I feel this tediousness will never do-

'T is being too epic, and I must cut down (In copying) this long canto into two :

They 'll never find it out, unless I own The fact, excepring some experienced few;

And then as an improvement 't will be shown : I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, From Aristotle passim. -See 11e AntiVTS.

1. NOTHING so difficult as a begioning

Jo poesy, unless perliaps the end :
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning

The race; be sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for singing ;

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind 10 soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

But time, which brings all beings to their level,

And sharp adversity, will teach at last
Man,-and, as we would hope, -perhaps the devil,

That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veios revel,

We know not this—the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent wideps towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,

And wish'd that others held the same opinion :
They took it

up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion : Now my sere fancy « falls into the yellow

Leaf,» and imagination droops her pinion,
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk
Turus what was once romantic to burlesque.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,

"T is that I may not weep; and if I wcep, *T is that our nature cannot always bring

Itself to apathy, which we must steep
First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring,

Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep.
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx;
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.

Some have accused me of a strange design

Against the creed and morals of the land,
And trace it in this poem every line:

I don't pretend that I quite understand
My own meaning when I would be very fine ;

But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd,
Unless it was to be a moment merry-
A novel word in my vocabulary.

To the kind reader of our sober clime

This way of writing will appear exotic;
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,

Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revelld in the fancies of the time,

True knights,chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotie, But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet.

VIL llow I have treated it, I do not know

Perhap: no better than they have treated me Who have imputed such designs as show,

Not what they saw, but what they wishiil 10 see:
But if it gives them pleasure, be it 50,-

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free:
Meantime .Apollo plucks mne by the ear,
And tells me to resume my story birre.

Young Juan and his laviy-love were la

To their own hearts' most sweet sockiy;
Even time, the pitile-s, in sorrow cleft

With his rude seythe such penile bosoms; he Sighid to behold them of their hours bereft,

Though foe to love; and vot they could not be
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring,
Before one charm or hope bad naken wiu.

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their

Pure blood to stagnale, their great beart, to fail;
The blank grey was not made to blast their hair,

But, like the climes that know nor suow nor huil, They were all summer ligbening might assail

und sliver then to ulics, lilit to trail
A long and snakr-like life of dwl decry
Was not for them-try bad 100 little clay.

Thry were alone once more ; for them to be

Thus was another Eden; they were never
Weary, unless when separate : the tree

Cut from its forest root of yours-the river Damu'd from its fountain the child from the knee

And breast maternal wcand at once for ever,
Wonlel wither les, then these two toru apart;
Has! there is no instinct like the leari

The beart-- which may be brohen. 11.ppy they!

Thrier fortunate! who, of thit fragile mould.
The precious porcelain of human clay,

Break wins the lirst buil: they can be er bobolil
The long year Jinhu with betry day on day,

And all which must be borne, and never told;
While life's strange principle will often lic
Deepest in those who long the most to dil'.

Whom the gods love die young,» was said of yore,'

And many deatlıs do they escape by this:
The death of friends, and, ihai aliek slays even mori ---

The death of friendship, love, youth, uli dating Except mere breath: and since the silent shore

Awes it last even those whom longest mis 1 The old archer's shafts, periodeps the carly im Which men weep over may be preant to save.

Hudre und Juan thoughi bor or the dead;

The benen, ind carthanhuir, sot me made for them They found no fault with time, welve that loetled;

Thy not in themselves withit to condem LilWire the other's mirror, and but read

Joy wikling in their dark eye, like a fem, Ind! ho suda brightness was but the related Olther exchanging glances of afket10n.

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch,

The least glance better understood than words,
!! bich süll said all, and ne'er could say 100 much;

A language, too, but like to that of birds, known but to them, at least appearing such

As but to lovers a true sense affords;
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd
To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard:

All these were theirs, for they were children still,

And children still they should have ever been;
They were not made in the real world to fill

A buy clariter in the dull scene; But like two beings born from out a rill,

A nymph and ber beloved, all unseen
To paus their lives in fountains and on flowers,
ind never hnow the weight of human bours.

Moons changing had rolld on, and changeless foond

Those their brisht rise had lighted to such joys
As rarely they beluld throughout their round:

All these were not of the vain kind which cloys ; for theirs were buoyanı spirits, never bound

By the meie senees; and that which destroys
Vont love, possession, into them appear'd
I thing which each endearment more endear J.

Oh beutiful and rare is beautiful!

But theirs was love in which the mind delights
To los itself, when the wbole world grows dull,

And we are sick of its back sounds and sights, Intrigues, adventures of the common school,

Jos praty passions, marriages, and fligbes, Where llymen's corli but brangs one strumpet more. Whose husband ouly knows her not a wh-re.

XII. Hard words; barshe truth; a truth which many knox.

I nonphi. The faithful and the fairy pair, Who Dever found a single lour 100 slow,

What was it made thuonibus prompt from care Youns innate forlings all have felt below,

Which perish in the roat, but in them were
Tuberent; what we mortals call romantie,
ind always coty, though we deem it frantic.

This is in others a furtitious state,

In opiuin dream of too much youth and reading. 'n wit in then their nature or their fate :

so posada per bail wrtheir young hearts bleeding, For invier's knowledge was by no means great,

med man was a boy of saintly breeding, So that there was no reason for their loves, Vorr than for those of nightingales or doves.

Thiry sared upon the sunset; iisan hour

Dear into all, buit dearest to their pyen,
Toritud inide them what they were: the pouer

Of love lud linse ocrubelnd then from Suche Ilaen happiness bad bren their only dower,

And twilighet saw them link'd in pion's tits, Chumad with each otlacr, all things charmid that browns The pist seill welcome as the present thought.


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