LXXXIX.

Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done! Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain❜d. XC.

Not all the blood at Talavera shed,

Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
Not Albuera, lavish of the dead,

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
When shall her olive-branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil!

XCI.

And thou, my friend! (1)—since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strainHad the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain: But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?

XCII.

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! (2)
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!

In

(I) The Honourable John Wingfield, of the Guards, who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. the short space of one month, I have lost her who gave me being, and most of those who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction:

"Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?

Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain,
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn."

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater honours against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame, on the spot where it was acquired; while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority.-[This and the following stanza were added in August, 1811. For an account of young Wingfield, see antè, p. 33, col. 2. Matthews was the son of the late John Matthews, Esq. (the representative of Herefordshire in the parliament of 1802-6), and brother of the author of The Diary of an Invalid, also untimely snatched ¦ away.-L. E.]

(2) Originally, "beloved the most." Dallas.-P. E.

(3) Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege [On the highest part of Lycabettus, as Chandler was informed by an eyewitness, the Venetians, in 1687, placed four mortars and six pieces of cannon, when they battered the Acropolis. One of the bombs was fatal to some of the sculpture on the west front of the Parthenon. "In 1667," says Mr. Hobhouse, "every antiquity of which there is now any trace in the Acropolis, was in a tolerable state of preservation. This

And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. XCIII.

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? stern critic! say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, [quell'd. Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were

CANTO II.

I.

COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas! Didst never yet one mortal song inspireGoddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire, (3) And years, that bade thy worship to expire: But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow [bestow. That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts

II.

Ancient of days! august Athena! (4) where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in sou!? Gone glimmering through the dream of things that

were:

First in the race that led to Glory's goal,

great temple might, at that period, be called entire ;-hav ing been previously a Christian church, it was then a mosque, the most beautiful in the world. The portion yet standing cannot fail to fill the mind f the most indifferent spectator with sentiments of astonishment and awe; and the same reflections arise upon the sight even of the enormous masses of marble ruins which are spread upon the area of the temple."-L. E.]

(4) We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld: the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the cer tainty of what she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents of cer. tain British nobility and gentry. "The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each succeeding firman! Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens; but it remained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, oefore its destruction in part, by fire during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of regard: it changed its worshippers, but still it was a place

They won, and pass'd away-is this the whole?
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering
tower,

Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power.

III.

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come-but molest not yon defenceless urn: Look on this spot-a nation's sepulchre! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield-religions take their turn: "Twas Jove's-'tis Mahomet's-and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. (1)

IV.

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heavenIs't not enough, unhappy thing! to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not, to what regions, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

V.

Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: (2) He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: Is that a temple where a god may dwell? Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell!

VI.

Look on its broken arch, its ruin’d wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:

of worship thrice sacred to devotion: its violation is a triple sacrilege. But

"Man, proud man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep."

(1) In the original MS. we find the following note to this stanza, which had been prepared for publication, but was afterwards withdrawn, "from a fear," says the poet, "that it might be considered rather as an attack than a defence of religion:"—"In this age of bigotry, when the puritan and priest have changed places, and the wretched Catholic is visited with the sins of his fathers,' even unto generations far beyond the pale of the commandment, the cast of opinion in these stanzas will, doubtless, meet with many a contemptuous anathema. But let it be remembered, that the spirit they breathe is desponding, not sneering, scepticism; that he who has seen the Greek and Moslem superstitions contending for mastery over the former shrines of polytheism --who has left in his own country, Pharisees, thanking God that they are not like publicans and sinners,' and Spaniards in theirs, abhorring the heretics, who have holpen them in their need,-will be not a little bewildered, and begin to think that, as only one of them can be right, they may, most of them, be wrong. With regard to morals, and the effect of religion on mankind, it appears, from all historical testimony, to have had less effect in making them love their neighbours, than inducing that cordial Christian abhorrence between sectaries and schismatics. The Turks and Quakers

Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul: Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Passion's host, that never brook'd control: Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? VII.

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! "All that we know is, nothing can be known." Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, But Silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest.

VIII.

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! (3)

IX.

There, thou!-whose love and life together fled,
Have left me here to love and live in vain—
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead
When busy Memory flashes on my brain?
Well-I will dream that we may meet again,
And woo the vision to my vacant breast:

If aught of young Remembrance then remain,
Be as it may Futurity's behest,

For me 't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! (4)

X.

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, (5) The marble column's yet unshaken base;

are the most tolerant: if an Infidel pays his heratch to the former, he may pray how, when, and where he pleases; and the mild tenets and devout demeanour of the latter make their lives the truest commentary on the Sermon on the Mount."— L. E.

(2) It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn their dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease; and he was indeed neglected who had not annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, etc.; and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous.

(3) In the original MS., for this magnificent stanza, we find what follows:

"Frown not upon me, churlish priest! that I
Look not for life, where life may never be;

I am no sucerer at thy phantasy;
Thou pitiest me,-alas! I envy thee,
Thou bold discoverer in an unknownsea,

Of happy isles and happier tenants there;

I ask thee not to prove a Sadducee;

Still dream of Paradise, thou know'st not where,

But lov'st too well to bid thine erring brother share.”—L. E. (4) Lord Byron wrote this stanza at Newstead, in October, 1811. on hearing of the death of his Cambridge friend, young Eddlestone. See antè, p. 23.-L. E.

(5) "The thought and the expression," says Professor

Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne; (1) Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. It may not be: nor ev'n can Fancy's eye Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.

XI.

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee
The latest relic of her ancient reign;

The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! (2)
England! I joy no child he was of thine:

Thy free-born men should spare what once was free;

Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. (3)

XII.

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: (4)

Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: Her sons, too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, (5) And never knew, till then, the weight of despots' chains.

XIII.

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue,
Albion was happy in Athena's tears?

Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung,
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears;
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land:
Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears,
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand,
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.(6)

Clarke, in a letter to the poet, “are here so truly Petrarch's, that I would ask you whether you ever read,

Poi quando 'l vero sgombra

Quel dolce error pur li medesmo assido,

Me freddo, pietra morta in pietra viva;

In guisa d'uom che pensi e piange e scriva;'

"Thus rendered by Wilmot,

But when rude truth destroys

The loved illusion of the dreamed sweets,

I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,

Less cold, less dead than I, and think and weep alone." "-L. E.

(1) The temple of Jupiter Olympins, of which sixteen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally there were one hundred and fifty. These columns, however, are, by many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon.

(2) "After the injuries of ages, the effect of storms and time, spoliations by power, destruction by lightnings from heaven, and bombardments by man, Lord Elgin inflicted the last injuries on the Parthenon, by the removal of the metopes and figures from its pediment." Finden's Illustrations.-P. E.

(3) The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago.-P. E. (4) See Appendix to this Canto [A.] for a note too long to be placed here.-L. E.

(5) I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment with the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the above

XIV.

Where was thine Ægis, Pallas! that apall'd
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? (7)
Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd,
His shade from Hades upon that dread day
Bursting to light in terrible array!

What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more,
To scare a second robber from his prey?
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore,
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield
before.

XV.

Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on

thee,

Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorr'd!

XVI.

But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little reck'd he of all that men regret; No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.

XVII.

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;

lines:-"When the last of the metopes was taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the superstructure, with one of the triglyphs, was thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri, Tag!-1 was present." The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present Disdar.

(6) After stanza xiii. the original MS. has the following:

"Come then, ye classic Thanes of each degree,
Dark Hamilton and sullen Aberdeen,
Come pilfer all the Pilgrim loves to see,
All that yet consecrates the fading scene:
Oh better were it ye had never been,
Nor ye, nor Elgin, nor that lesser wight,
The victim sad of vase-collecting spleen,
House-furnisher withal, one Thomas hight,

Than ye should bear one stone from wrong'd Athena's site.

Or will the gentle dilettanti crew
Now delegate the task to digging Gell,
That mighty limner of a bird's-eye view,
How like to Nature let his volumes tell;
Who can with him the folio's limits swell
With all the author saw, or said he saw?
Who can topographize or delve so well?
No boaster he, nor impudent and raw,

His pencil, pen, and shade, alike without a flaw."-L. E. (7) According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened Alaric from the Acropolis; but others relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer.-See Chandler.

Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.
XVIII.

And oh, the little warlike world within!
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, (1)
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high:
Hark, to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry!
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides;
Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.
XIX.

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd by all-not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and Fame: but Britous rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength

to nerve.

XX.

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale!
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,
That lagging barks may make their lazy way.
Ah! grievance sore and listless dull delay,
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day,
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, [these!
The flapping sail haul'd down, to halt for logs like
XXI.

The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,

Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.

XXII.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; (2)
Europe and Afric on each other gaze!
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:

(I) To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on deck during action."

(2) The promontory of Gibraltar (the ancient Mount Calpe) derives its name from the Arabic "Jebal al Tarik," being the spot where Tarik, the Moorish leader, laaded to attack Spain.-P. E.

(3) This sentiment is at variance with Dryden:

"Strange cozenage! none would live past years again."

It is also in direct opposition to Byron's own assertion quoted by Moore from his Lordship's journal:-"No man would live his life over again, is an old and true saying, which all can resolve for themselves."—P. E.

How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.

XXIII.

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end: The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy? [boy?(3) Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a

XXIV.

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; A flashing pang! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

XXV.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold [unroll'd. Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores

XXVI.

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

XXVII.

More blest the life of godly eremite,
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, (4)
Watching at eve upon the giant height,
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene.

(4) One of Lord Byron's chief delights was, as he himself states in one of his journals, after bathing in some retired spot, to seat himself on a high rock above the sea, and there remain for hours, gazing upon the sky and the waters." "He led the life," says Sir Egerton Brydges, "as he wrote the strains, of a true poet. He could sleep, and very frequently did sleep, wrapped up in his rough great-coat, on the hard boards of a deck, while the winds and the waves were roar ing round him on every side, and could subsist on a crust and a glass of water. It would be difficult to persuade me, that he who is a coxcomb in his manners, and artificial in his habits of life, could write good poetry."-L. E.

Alfieri, before his powers had attained their full splendour, indulged in a similar habit.-P. E.

That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.

XXVIII.

Pass we the long unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, And each well-known caprice of wave and wind; Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel; The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn-lo, land! and all is well.

XXIX.

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, (1)
The sister tenants of the middle deep;
There for the weary still a haven smiles,

Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep,
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride:
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;
While, thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly
sigh'd.

XXX.

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. Sweet Florence! could another ever share This wayward loveless heart, it would be thine: But, check'd by every tie, 1 may not dare To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine.

XXXI.

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, Save admiration glancing harmless by: Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, Who knew his votary often lost and caught, But knew him as his worshipper no more, And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: Since now he vainly urged him to adore, Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er.

XXXII.

Fair Florence (2) found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe,

(1) Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. ["The identity of the habitation," says Sir R. C. Hoare, in his Classical Tour, "assigned by poets to the nymph Calypso, has occasioned much discussion and variety of opinion. Some place it at Malta, and some at Goza."-P. E.]

(2) For an account of this accomplished but eccentric lady, whose acquaintance the poet formed at Malta, see Miscellaneous Poems, "To Florence." "In one so imaginative as Lord Byron, who, while he infused so much of his life into his poetry, mingled also not a little of poetry with his life, it is difficult," says Moore, "in unravelling the texture of his feelings, to distinguish at all times between the fanciful and the real. His description here, for instance, of the unmoved and loveless heart,' with which he contemplated even the charms

Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law; All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames.

XXXIII.

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, (3) And spread its snares licentious far and wide; Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, As long as aught was worthy to pursue: But Harold on such arts no more relied; And had he doted on those eyes so blue, Yet never would he join the lovers' whining crew.

XXXIV.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs;
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd?
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes;
But not too humbly, or she will despise
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes:
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise;

Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

XXXV.

"Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these! If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, Still to the last it rankles, a disease, Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please.

XXXVI.

Away! nor let me loiter in my song,
For we have many a mountain-path to tread,
And many a varied shore to sail along,
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led-
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head
Imagined in its little schemes of thought;
Or e'er in new Utopias were read,

To teach man what he might be, or he ought;
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught.

XXXVII.

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,
Though alway changing, in her aspect mild;
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-wean'd though not her favour'd child.

of this attractive person, is wholly at variance with the statements in many of his letters, and, above all, with one of the most graceful of his lesser poems, addressed to this same lady, during a thunder-storm on his road to Zitza." -L. E.

(3) Against this line it is sufficient to set the poet's own declaration, in 1821, already quoted, p. 35, col. 2. "I am not a Joseph, nor a Scipio, but I can safely affirm, that I never in my life seduced any woman."-L. E.

"We have here," says Moore, "another instance of his propensity to self-misrepresentation. However great might have been the irregularities of his college life, such phrases as the art of the spoiler,' and 'spreading snares,' were in no wise applicable to them."-P. E.