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The skin relieved appear more fairly fair:
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 a white baracan, and so transparent,
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
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poel,
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;
And always changed as true as any needle,
And not the fix'd- he knew the way to whicedie;
And being tluent (save indeed when feed ill),
The « vates irritabilis» takes care
Even good men like to make the public stare:--
Oh!-the third canto-and the pretty pair-
company a very pleasant fellow,
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,
And having pick'd up several odds and ends
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-
He varied with some skill lois adulations;
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.
Trom the higla lyrical to the low rational:
In England, a six-canto quarto tale;
The last war--much the same in Portugal;
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.
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.
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse;
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
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
"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
His station, generation, even his nation,
In chronological commemoration,
Or graven stone found in a barrack's station,
*T is something, nothing, words, illusion, windDepending more upon the historian's style
Than on the name a person leaves behind.
The present century was growing blind
A little heavy, but no less divine;
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;
Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; Like Titus' youth, and Cæsar's earliest acts;
Like Burns (whoin Doctor Currie well describes);
These amiable descriptions from the scribes,
le prated to the world of «Pantisocracy;» Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then
Scason'd his pedlar poems with democracy;
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;
The very Botany Bay in moral geography;
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
Between his own and others' intellect;
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and lier seci,
The public mind, so few are the elect;
If I have any fault, it is digression ;
While I soliloquize beyond expression;
Wuch put off business to the ensuing session :
(We've not so good a word, but have the thing In that complete perfection which ensures
An epic from Bob Southey every spring), -
The reader ; but it would not be hard to bring
Il fue without lim, Wordsworth sometimes wake lo viow with what complacency be crecps,
Withuis dear « l'aggoners,» around liis lakes;
Of Ocean ?-10, of air; and thico lie makes
And Pegasus runs restive in his « Watson. :)
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
Of sense and song above your graves may lisi-
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;
And every sound of revelry expired;
rosy flood of twilight sky admired;-
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,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love!
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!
Those downcast eyes bencath the almighty dava-
In nameless print, that I bave no devotion,
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'
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
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,
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ;
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,
Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void
Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
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
'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 :
The race; be sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
And sharp adversity, will teach at last
That neither of their intellects are vast:
We know not this—the blood flows on too fast;
And wish'd that others held the same opinion :
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,
"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
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep.
Against the creed and morals of the land,
I don't pretend that I quite understand
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd,
This way of writing will appear exotic;
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:
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free:
To their own hearts' most sweet sockiy;
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
Pure blood to stagnale, their great beart, to fail;
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
Thus was another Eden; they were never
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,
Thrier fortunate! who, of thit fragile mould.
Break wins the lirst buil: they can be er bobolil
And all which must be borne, and never told;
And many deatlıs do they escape by this:
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.
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 least glance better understood than words,
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;
And children still they should have ever been;
A buy clariter in the dull scene; But like two beings born from out a rill,
A nymph and ber beloved, all unseen
Those their brisht rise had lighted to such joys
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
But theirs was love in which the mind delights
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
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.
Dear into all, buit dearest to their pyen,
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.