1 ["Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord! if there's a row, but I'll be among ye! How go on the weaversthe breakers of frames-the Lutherans of politics-the reformers?...... There's an amiable chanson for you!—all impromptu. I have written it principally to shock your neighbour, who is all clergy and loyalty-mirth and innocence-milk and water."Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Dec. 24. 1816.] 2 ["And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, Guitars, and every other sort of strumming."."- Beppo. See antè, p. 145.] 3 ["I went to most of the ridottos, &c., and though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I found the sword wearing out the scabbard, though I have but just turned the corner of twenty-nine."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Feb. 28. 1817.] ["I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after TO MR. MURRAY. March, 1817. To hook the reader, you, John Murray, Have publish'd "Anjou's Margaret," Which won't be sold off in a hurry (At least, it has not been as yet); And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up " Ilderim ;" So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. And mind you do not let escape These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, And get me into such a scrape! For, firstly, I should have to sally, All in my little boat, against a Galley; And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, Have next to combat with the female knight. March 25. 1817. EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot headach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some versicles, which I made one sleepless night."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 25. 1817.] 5 [The was written by Mr. Bowles; "IlMissionary" derim" by Mr. Gally Knight; and "Margaret of Anjou" by Miss Holford.] 6 [For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori see Moore's "Notices." "I never," says Lord Byron, "was much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and ill-humour, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improvable. You want a civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 21. 1817.] Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery; Your dialogue is apt and smart; The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and every body dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see: And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, But and I grieve to speak it-plays Or only watch my shopman's looks; - There's Byron too, who once did better, I write in haste; excuse each blunder; The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you Short compass what-but, to resume: The room's so full of wits and bards, Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, And others, neither bards nor wits : My humble tenement admits Our "Beppo: "-when copied, I'll send it. Then you 've 's Tour, No great things, to be sure, You could hardly begin with a less work; For the pompous rascallion, Who don't speak Italian Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork. You can make any loss up With "Spence" and his gossip, A work which must surely succeed; With the new "Fytte" of "Whistlecraft," Then you 've General Gordon, Who girded his sword on, To serve with a Muscovite master, And help him to polish A nation so owlish, [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. The original lines, with the different versions above mentioned, were printed, in a small neat volume, in the seminary of Padua; from which we take the following: GREEK. Φρὴν πυκνὴ Πατρὸς καὶ Μητέρος ἀγλαὸν είδος Όδρα δὶ παντὶ βίω κ όλβιος, απεν έραννού LATIN. Magnanimos Patris verset sub pectore sensus, ITALIAN. Del Padre il senno, e il bel materno aspetto Splendano ognora in Te, fanciul diletto: Felice appien ! se al tuo corporeo velo Dona il lieto vigor di Rizzo il cielo. THE VENETIAN DIALECT. De graziete el to modelo Sia la Mama, bel Putelo. El talento del Papà GERMAN. Aus des Kindes Auge strahlet Seiner Stärke dich erfreu 'n. FRENCH. Sois en tout fortuné, semillant Jouvenceau, Porte dans les festins la valeur de Rizzo, Porte au barreau l'esprit que fait briller ton père, ' Et pour vaincre ?-au boudoir sois beau comme ta mère. SPANISH. Si á la gracia materna el gusto ayuntas 2 [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's statement, during this journey, and while Lord Byron was actually sailing 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.] 3 [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: he was continually performing generous actions: many families owed to him the few prosperous days they ever enjoyed; his arrival was spoken of as a piece of public good fortune, and his departure as a public calamity." In the third canto of " Don Juan," Lord Byron has pictured the tranquil life which, at this time, he was leading: "Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore "The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, 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 for 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, And I to loving one I should not love. The current I behold will sweep beneath 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! The wave that bears my tears returns no more: But that which keepeth us apart is not 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 When lovers parted Feel broken-hearted, A few years older, For whom they sigh! They pluck Love's feather From out his wing He'll stay for ever, But sadly shiver Without his plumage, when past the Spring. He [A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him at Ravenna when he wrote these Stanzas, says," They were composed, like many others, with no view of publication, but merely to relieve himself in a moment of suffering had been painfully excited by some circumstances which ippeared to make it necessary that he should immediately cat Italy; and in the day and the hour that he wrote the s was labouring under an access of fever."] 4 [V. L." That sped his Spring."] Like Chiefs of Faction, That curbs his reign, Quits with disdain. He must move on- Retreat destroys him, Love brooks not a degraded throne. Wait not, fond lover! As from a dream. 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, As through the past: And eyes, the mirrors Of your sweet errors Reflect but rapture-not least though last. True, separations Ask more than patience; What desperations From such have risen! But yet remaining, What is 't but chaining Is but for boys— You'll find it torture Though sharper, shorter, To wean, and not wear out your joys. 1819. 1 [V. L." One last embrace, then, and bid good-night."] 2 [Or, "You come to him on earth again, He'll go with you to hell."] 3 Pray let not these versiculi go forth with my name, |