George Gordon Byron

When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,

Could I remount the river of my years To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, I would not trace again the stream of hours

Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport[570] 1. The Moorish King rides up and down.

Oh! little lock of golden hue In gently waving ringlet curl'd, By the dear head on which you grew,

Animula! vagula, Blandula, Hospes, comesque corporis, Qu' nunc abibis in Loca -

Since the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,

1. And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again:

1. Montgomery! true, the common lot Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;

"But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician, Should condemn me for printing a second edition; If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,

Dear simple girl, those flattering arts, (From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,) Exist but in imagination,

Canto First. 1. The Gods of old are silent on the shore.

1. Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, Wafting destruction near thy charms,

Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller; Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits: disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a Gondola. As You Like It, act iv, sc. I, lines 33-35. Annotation of the Commentators.

I. Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth, Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!

I. I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand:

I. Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! - but thou, alas, Didst never yet one mortal song inspire -

I. Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?

Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying

"I cannot but remember such things were, And were most dear to me." 'Macbeth' [2]

A Fact Literally Rendered.[60] I stood beside the grave of him who blazed The Comet of a season, and I saw

In law an infant, [2] and in years a boy, In mind a slave to every vicious joy; From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd,

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Lady! if for the cold and cloudy clime Where I was born, but where I would not die, Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy

O blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds! These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:

When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,' And proved it - 't was no matter what he said: They say his system 't is in vain to batter,

Ah! - What should follow slips from my reflection; Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be As _' propos_ of hope or retrospection,

When amatory poets sing their loves In liquid lines mellifluously bland, And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,

I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,

If from great nature's or our own abyss Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss -

Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning

O, Wellington! (or 'Villainton' - for Fame Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; France could not even conquer your great name,

O ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,

The world is full of orphans: firstly, those Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase (But many a lonely tree the loftier grows

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly Around us ever, rarely to alight? There 's not a meteor in the polar sky

The antique Persians taught three useful things, To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings -

'There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, - taken at the flood,' - you know the rest, And most of us have found it now and then;

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation - 'T is said (for I 'll not answer above ground

Hail, Muse! et cetera. - We left Juan sleeping, Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,

I now mean to be serious; - it is time, Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime,

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that Which is most barbarous is the middle age Of man; it is - I really scarce know what;

Difficile est proprie communia dicere HOR. Epist. ad Pison I

1. If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow, (Though much I hope she will postpone it,)

"It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds." Ossian. 1.

"I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." - Shakespeare.

I. My Sister! my sweet Sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.

{Greek: Astaer prin men elampes eni tsuoisin hepsos.} {Plato's Epitaph (Epig. Gr'c., Jacobs, 1826, p. 309), quoted by Diog. Laertins.} Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear!

1. Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;

1. Fill the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;

First published in Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56 1. Hills of Annesley, Bleak and Barren,

[Greek: Maedam o panta nem_on, K.T.L_] [1] Great Jove! to whose Almighty Throne Both Gods and mortals homage pay,

Introduction To Francesca Of Rimini. The MS. of "a literal translation, word for word (versed like the original), of the episode of Francesca of Rimini" (Letter March 23, 1820, Letters, 1900, iv. 421), was sent to Murray from Ravenna, March 20, 1820 (ibid., p. 419), a week after Byron had forwarded the MS. of the Prophecy of Dante. Presumably the translation had been made in the interval by way of illustrating and justifying the unfamiliar metre of the "Dante Imitation." In the letter which accompanied the translation he writes, "Enclosed you will find, line for line, in third rhyme (terza rima,) of which your British Blackguard reader as yet understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini. You know that she was born here, and married, and slain, from Cary, Boyd, and such people already. I have done it into cramp English, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the possibility. You had best append it to the poems already sent by last three posts." In the matter of the "British Blackguard," that is, the general reader, Byron spoke by the card. Hayley's excellent translation of the three first cantos of the Inferno (vide ante, "Introduction to the Prophecy of Dante," p. 237), which must have been known to a previous generation, was forgotten, and with earlier experiments in terza rima, by Chaucer and the sixteenth and seventeenth century poets, neither Byron nor the British public had any familiar or definite acquaintance. But of late some interest had been awakened or revived in Dante and the Divina Commedia.

[Greek: Mesonuktiois poth hopais, k.t.l.] [1] Ode 3. 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven

[Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou kai panta krataeseo.] [1] (Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.) 1.

---- "Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum Reddere qu' ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." HOR. 'De Arte Poet'., II. 304 and 305.

1 I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave,

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire, Still would I steep my lips in bliss,

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss,

Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,

When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe

1. Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled?

1. Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! In you let the minions of luxury rove:

As the author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a Bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning. [2] 1. Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,

1. Start not - nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull,

And thou wert sad - yet I was not with thee; And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that Joy and Health alone could be

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,

"Away, away, - your flattering arts May now betray some simpler hearts; And you will smile at their believing,

1. Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind; I cannot deny such a precept is wise;

QUESTION. Nose and Chin that make a knocker,[hx] Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker;

[Greek: Ae' d' ae' me pheugei.] - [Pseud.] ANACREON, [Greek: Eis chruson]. 1. The roses of Love glad the garden of life,

Introduction To Mazeppa Mazeppa, a legend of the Russian Ukraine, or frontier region, is based on the passage in Voltaire's Charles XII. prefixed as the "Advertisement" to the poem. Voltaire seems to have known very little about the man or his history, and Byron, though he draws largely on his imagination, was content to take his substratum of fact from Voltaire. The "true story of Mazeppa" is worth re-telling for its own sake, and lends a fresh interest and vitality to the legend. Ivan Stepanovitch Mazeppa (or Mazepa), born about the year 1645, was of Cossack origin, but appears to have belonged, by descent or creation, to the lesser nobility of the semi-Polish Volhynia. He began life (1660) as a page of honour in the Court of King John Casimir V. of Poland, where he studied Latin, and acquired the tongue and pen of eloquent statesmanship. Banished from the court on account of a quarrel, he withdrew to his mother's estate in Volhynia, and there, to beguile the time, made love to the wife of a neighbouring magnate, the pane or Lord Falbowski. The intrigue was discovered, and to avenge his wrongs the outraged husband caused Mazeppa to be stripped to the skin, and bound to his own steed. The horse, lashed into madness, and terror-stricken by the discharge of a pistol, started off at a gallop, and rushing "thorough bush, thorough briar," carried his torn and bleeding rider into the courtyard of his own mansion! With regard to the sequel or issue of this episode, history is silent, but when the curtain rises again (A.D. 1674) Mazeppa is discovered in the character of writer-general or foreign secretary to Peter Dorosh'nko, hetman or president of the Western Ukraine, on the hither side of the Dni'per. From the service of Dorosh'nko, who came to an untimely end, he passed by a series of accidents into the employ of his rival, Samo'lovitch, hetman of the Eastern Ukraine, and, as his secretary or envoy, continued to attract the notice and to conciliate the good will of the (regent) Tzarina Sophia and her eminent boyard, Prince Basil Golitsyn. A time came (1687) when it served the interests of Russia to degrade Samo'lovitch, and raise Mazeppa to the post of hetman, and thenceforward, for twenty years and more, he held something like a regal sway over the whole of the Ukraine (a fertile "no-man's land," watered by the Dni'per and its tributaries), openly the loyal and zealous ally of his neighbour and suzerain, Peter the Great.

When the last sunshine of expiring Day In Summer's twilight weeps itself away, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour

I. Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be

Motto. On peut trouver des femmes qui n'ont jamais eu de galanterie, mais il est rare d'en trouver qui n'en aient jamais eu qu'une. - [R'flexions ... du Duc de la Rochefoucauld, No. lxxiii.] 1.

Where are those honours, IDA! once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,

Oh! mihi pr'teritos referat si Jupiter annos.[1] - Virgil. 1.

1. In one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame;

Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle, For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay; And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle

Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. [1] I. Through thy battlements, Newstead, [2] the hollow winds whistle:

1. Here once engaged the stranger's view Young Friendship's record simply trac'd;

In this belov'd marble view Above the works and thoughts of Man, What Nature could but would not do,

"Our Nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath: These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

Anne's Eye is liken'd to the Sun, From it such Beams of Beauty fall; And this can be denied by none,

1. How sweetly shines, through azure skies, The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore;

Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire, Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire, Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze,

1 As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven, 'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last;

I. Titan! to whose immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality,

The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning, And always are prating about and about it, But as Love of Existence itself's the beginning,

'Tis done! - I saw it in my dreams: No more with Hope the future beams; My days of happiness are few:

1. Remind me not, remind me not, Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,

1. Why, Pigot, complain Of this damsel's disdain,

1. So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night,

'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still, Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill. In vain he calls each Muse in order down,

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era motta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata: e diretto al genitore della sacra sposa. Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,

1. Breeze of the night in gentler sighs More softly murmur o'er the pillow;

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind![1] Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art: For there thy habitation is the heart -

A noble Lady of the Italian shore Lovely and young, herself a happy bride, Commands a verse, and will not be denied,

Rousseau - Voltaire - our Gibbon - and De Sta'l - Leman![75] these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more,

To be the father of the fatherless, To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise His offspring, who expired in other days

1. Oh! my lonely - lonely - lonely - Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover?

1. Tis done - and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail;

1. This votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;

I. Though the day of my Destiny's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined,[o]

1 There is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,

1. River, that rollest by the ancient walls, Where dwells the Lady of my love, when she

1. Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story - The days of our Youth are the days of our glory;

1. Could Love for ever Run like a river,

1. Adieu, thou Hill! [1] where early joy Spread roses o'er my brow;

I. The "good old times" - all times when old are good - Are gone; the present might be if they would;

"Nimium ne crede colori." - Virgil, [Ecl. ii. 17] O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, Though your hair were as red, as your stockings are blue.

1. No specious splendour of this stone Endears it to my memory ever;

- "Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit." Aeneid, lib. xii, 947, 948.

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear;    but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship, - to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla: - gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat.    Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

I. Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed

1. 'Tis fifty years, and yet their fray To us might seem but yesterday.

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; Well skill'd, in fight, the quivering lance to wield,

Greek: Ha barbitos de chordais Erota mounon aechei. [1]

"And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider." - [Life of Curran, ii. 336.] 1. Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,[593]

I. The morning watch was come; the vessel lay Her course, and gently made her liquid way;[ex]

I. White as a white sail on a dusky sea, When half the horizon's clouded and half free,

I. How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,[368] When Summer's Sun went down the coral bay!

I. The fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom, Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb,

Introduction To The Lament Of Tasso. The MS. of the Lament of Tasso is dated April 20, 1817. It was despatched from Florence April 23, and reached England May 12 (see Memoir of John Murray, 1891, i. 384). Proofs reached Byron June 7, and the poem was published July 17, 1817. "It was," he writes (April 26), "written in consequence of my having been lately in Ferrara." Again, writing from Rome (May 5, 1817), he asks if the MS. has arrived, and adds, "I look upon it as a 'These be good rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy" (Letters, 1900, iv. 112-115). Two months later he reverted to the theme of Tasso's ill-treatment at the hands of Duke Alphonso, in the memorable stanzas xxxv.-xxxix. of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold (Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 354-359; and for examination of the circumstances of Tasso's imprisonment in the Hospital of Sant' Anna, vide ibid., pp. 355, 356, note 1).

Canto The First. I. In the beginning was the Word next God;

1 Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair?

I. My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white

Canto The First. Once more in Man's frail world! which I had left So long that 'twas forgotten; and I feel

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Introduction To The Vision Of Judgment. Byron's Vision of Judgment is a parody of Southey's Vision of Judgement. The acts or fyttes of the quarrel between Byron and Southey occur in the following order. In the summer of 1817 Southey, accompanied by his friends, Humphrey Senhouse and the artist Edward Nash, passed some weeks (July) in Switzerland. They visited Chamouni, and at Montanvert, in the travellers' album, they found, in Shelley's handwriting, a Greek hexameter verse, in which he affirmed that he was an "atheist," together with an indignant comment ("fool!" also in Greek) superadded in an unknown hand (see Life of Shelley, by E. Dowden, 1886, ii. 30, note). Southey copied this entry into his note-book, and "spoke of the circumstance on his return" (circ. August 12, 1817). In the course of the next year some one told Byron that a rumour had reached England that he and Shelley "had formed a league of incest with two sisters," and that Southey and Coleridge were the authors of the scandal. There is nothing to show through what channel the report of the rumour reached Byron's ears, but it may be inferred that it was in his mind (see Letter to Murray, November 24, 1818, Letters, 1900, iv. 272) when he assailed Southey in the "Dedication" ("in good, simple, savage verse") to the First Canto of Don Juan, which was begun September 6, 1818. Shelley, who was already embittered against Southey (see the account of a dinner at Godwin's, November 6, 1817, Diary of H. C. Robinson, 1869, ii. 67), heard Byron read this "Dedication," and, in a letter to Peacock (October 8, 1818), describes it as being "more like a mixture of wormwood and verdigrease than satire."

Introduction To 'The Waltz' Byron spent the autumn of 1812 "by the waters of Cheltenham," and, besides writing to order his 'Song of Drury Lane' (the address spoken at the opening of the theatre, Oct. 10, 1812), he put in hand a 'Satire on Waltzing'. It was published anonymously in the following spring; but, possibly, because it was somewhat coolly received, he told Murray (April 21, 1813) "to contradict the report that he was the author of a certain malicious publication on waltzing." In his memoranda "chiefly with reference to my Byron," Moore notes "Byron's hatred of waltzing," and records a passage of arms between "the lame boy" and Mary Chaworth, which arose from her "dancing with some person who was unknown to her." Then, and always, he must have experienced the bitter sense of exclusion from active amusements; but it is a hasty assumption that Byron only denounced waltzing because he was unable to waltz himself. To modern sentiment, on the moral side, waltzing is unassailable; but the first impressions of spectators, to whom it was a novelty, were distinctly unfavourable. In a letter from Germany (May 17, 1799) Coleridge describes a dance round the maypole at R'beland.

1. There was a time, I need not name, Since it will ne'er forgotten be,

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, Magnus [1] his ample front sublime uprears: Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,

1. When I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe,

1. But once I dared to lift my eyes - To lift my eyes to thee;

Sweet girl! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget; And though we ne'er may meet again,

Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless crew! My strains were never meant for you; Remorseless Rancour still reveal,

1. This Band, which bound thy yellow hair Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;

These locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations

1. When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, A moment linger'd near the gate,

1. Oh! had my Fate been join'd with thine, [1] As once this pledge appear'd a token,

1 Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears;

1. Few years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name,

1. Oh! did those eyes instead of fire, With bright, but mild affection shine,

1. Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;

1 Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dissever;

1. Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous: I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you;

1. Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?

1. Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;

1. When I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe;

1. You say you love, and yet your eye No symptom of that love conveys,

1. In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp A friend, whom death alone could sever;

Let Folly smile, to view the names Of thee and me, in Friendship twin'd; Yet Virtue will have greater claims

"Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico." - HORACE. Dear LONG, in this sequester'd scene, While all around in slumber lie,

1. Eliza! [1] what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who, to woman, deny the soul's future existence;

1. Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover;

1. Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other; The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;

1. Harriet! to see such Circumspection, [2] In Ladies I have no objection

1. Julia! since far from you I've rang'd, Our souls with fond affection glow not;

1. LESBIA! since far from you I've rang'd, Our souls with fond affection glow not;

1. Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire, With bright, but mild affection shine:

1. Whene'er I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss;

1. When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive; Extend not your anger to sleep;

Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover, Since now, our dream of bliss is past,

MARION! why that pensive brow? What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air;

1. This faint resemblance of thy charms, (Though strong as mortal art could give,)

1. Rack'd by the flames of jealous rage, By all her torments deeply curst,

1. Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to woman deny the soul's future existence,

1. Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue Bright as thy mother's in their hue;

1. Parent of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious Queen of childish joys,

1. Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: A devilish deal more sad than witty!

1. You have asked for a verse: - the request In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny;

Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path of Ida's glade; Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,

Tu semper amoris Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago. VAL. FLAC. 'Argonaut', iv. 36.

1. Your pardon my friend, If my rhymes did offend,

1. Your pardon, my friend, If my rhymes did offend,

Woman! experience might have told me That all must love thee, who behold thee: Surely experience might have taught

1. Oh! well I know your subtle Sex, Frail daughters of the wanton Eve, -

[Greek: Thelo legein Atpeidas, k.t.l.] [1] Ode 1. To His Lyre.

[Greek: Eis rodon.] Ode 5 Mingle with the genial bowl

Equal to Jove that youth must be - Greater than Jove he seems to me - Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,

Ye Cupids droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Justum et tenacem propositi virum. HOR. 'Odes', iii. 3. I. 1.

[Greek: Erotes hyper men agan, K.T.L.[1]] 1. When fierce conflicting passions urge

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,

He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of Love, By Death's unequal[1] hand alike controul'd,

'Tis midnight - but it is not dark Within thy spacious place, St. Mark! The Lights within, the Lamps without,

1. Well! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too;

1. When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! [1]

If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember?)