Which utters its song to adore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung. As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée. But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandon'd the bowers; Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, Will deeply embitter the bowl; But when drunk to escape from thy malice, The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel! in vain I implore thee My heart from these horrors to save: As the chief who to combat advances Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidée! Sons of Greeks, etc. (2) There Flora all wither'd reposes, TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, Επαινῶ μὲς τὸ περιβόλι, (3) Ωραιοτάτη Χαηδή, κ. τ. λ. I ENTER thy garden of roses, (4) Beloved and fair Haidée, Each morning where Flora reposes, Oh, lovely! thus low I implore thee, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, lation is as literal as the author could make it in verse. It is of the same measure as that of the original. [While at the Capuchin convent, Lord Byron devoted some hours daily to the study of the Romaic; and various proofs of his dili gence will be found in the Appendix to the Second Canto of Childe Harold, p. 104, antè.-L. E.] (1) Constantinople. “Éntáλopos.” (2) Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first part of his youth among his native mountains, in teaching ancient Greek to his countrymen. On the first burst of the French revolution, he joined himself to some other enthusiasts, and with them perambulated Greece, rousing the bold, and encouraging the timid by his minstrelsy. He afterwards went to Vienna, to solicit aid for a rising, which he and his comrades had for years been endeavouring to accomplish; but he was given up by the Austrian government to the Turks, who vainly endeavoured by torture to force from him the names of the other conspirators.-L. E. (3) The song from which this is taken is a great favourite with the young girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whole number pre sent joining in the chorus. I have heard it frequently at our "yópot," in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty. (4) "National songs and popular works of amusement throw no small light on the manners of a people: they are materials which most travellers have within their reach, but which they almost always disdain to collect. Lord Byron has shown a better taste; and it is to be hoped that his example will, in future, be generally followed." George Ellis.-L. E. And mourns o'er thine absence with me. MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. MAID of Athens, (6) ere we part, (5) Romaic expression of tenderness: If I translate it, I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed they could not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, "My life, I love you!" which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressions were all Hellenized. (6) We copy the following interesting account of the Maid of Athens and her family from the late eminent artist, Mr. Hugh Williams of Edinburgh's Travels in Italy, Greece, etc. -"Our servant, who had gone before to procure accommodation, met us at the gate, and conducted us to Theodora Macri, the Consulina's, where we at present live. This lady is the widow of the consul, and has three lovely daughters; the eldest, celebrated for her beauty, and said to be the 'Maid of Athens,' of Lord Byron. Their apartment is immediately opposite to ours, and, if you could see them, as we do now, through the gently-waving aromatic plants before our window, you would leave your heart in Athens. "Theresa, the Maid of Athens, Catinco, and Mariana, are of middle stature. On the crown of the head of each is a red Albanian skull-cap, with a blue tassel spread out and fastened down like a star. Near the edge or bottom of the skull-cap is a handkerchief of various colours bound round their temples. The youngest wears her hair loose, falling on her shoulders,-the hair behind descending down the back nearly to the waist, and, as usual, mixed with silk. The two eldest generally have their hair bound, and fastened By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each Ægean wind; By those lids, whose jetty fringe By those wild eyes like the roe, By that lip I long to taste; By all the token-flowers (1) that tell Maid of Athens! I am gone: Athens, 1810 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. (3) DEAR object of defeated care! Though now of love and thee bereft, Thine image and my tears are left. under the handkerchief. Their upper robe is a pelisse edged with fur, hanging loose down to the ankles; below is a handkerchief of muslin covering the bosom, and terminating at the waist, which is short; under that, a gown of striped silk or muslin, with a gore round the swell of the loins, falling in front in graceful negligence;-white stockings and yellow slippers complete their attire. The two eldest have black, or dark, hair and eyes; their visage oval, and com. plexion somewhat pale, with teeth of dazzling whiteness. Their cheeks are rounded, and noses straight, rather inclined to aquiline. The youngest, Mariana, is very fair, her face not so finely rounded, but has a gayer expression than her sisters', whose countenances, except when the conversation has something of mirth in it, may be said to be rather pensive. Their persons are elegant, and their manners pleasing and ladylike, such as would be fascinating in any country. They possess very considerable powers of conversation, and their minds seem to be more instructed than those of the Greek women in general. With such attractions, it would, indeed, be remarkable, if they did not meet with great attentions from the travellers who occasionally are resident in Athens. They sit in the eastern style, a little reclined, with their limbs gathered under them on the divan, and without shoes. Their employments are the needle, tambouring, and reading." There is a beautiful engraving of the Maid of Athens in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. 1.-L. E. We learn from Moore, that Byron, in making love to one of the three Athenian maids, "had recourse to an act of courtship often practised in that country-namely, giving himself a wound across the breast with his dagger. The young Athenian, by his own account, looked on very coolly during the operation, considering it a fit tribute to her beauty, but in no degree moved to gratitude." "The latest accounts of Theresa have broken the charm of poetry which surrounded her. She is said to be married and grown fat!" Finden's Illustrations -P. E. (1) In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc. convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman. A cinder says, "I burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, "Take me and fly;" but a pebble declares-what nothing else can. (2) Constantinople. These lines are copied from a leaf of the original MS. of the second canto of Childe Harold.-L. E. (4) "The last two lines, though hardly intelligible as connected with the rest of the poem, may, taken separately, be interpreted as employing a sort of prophetic conscious "Tis said with sorrow Time can hope; For by the death-blow of my hope ON PARTING. THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Till happier hours restore the gift Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, I ask no pledge to make me blest Nor one memorial for a breast, Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write-to tell the tale ness, that it was out of the wreck and ruin of all his hopes the immortality of his name was to arise." Moore.-P. E (5) On the departure, in July, 1810, of his friend and fellow-traveller, Mr. Hobhouse, for England, Lord Byron fixed his head-quarters at Athens, where he had taken lodzings in a Franciscan convent; making occasional excursions through Attica and the Morea, and employing himself, in the interval of his tours, in collecting materials for those notices on the state of modern Greece which are appended to the second canto of Childe Harold. In this retreat also he wrote Hints from Horace, The Curse of Minerva, mi Remarks on the Romaic, or Modern Greek Language. Be thus writes to his mother:-"At present, I do not care to venture a winter's voyage, even if I were otherwise tired of travelling; but I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind, instead of reading about them, and the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejadices of an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us to send our young men abroad, for a term, among the few allies our wars have left us. Here I see, and have conversed with, French, Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Americans, etc. etc. etc.; and, without los ing sight of my own, I can judge of the countries and manners of others. When I see the superiority of England (which, by the by, we are a good deal mistaken about in many things), I am pleased; and where I find her inferist, I am at least enlightened. Now, I might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or fogged in your country, a century, without being sure of this, and without acquiring any thing more useful or amusing at home. I keep no journal; ner have I any intention of scribbling my travels. 1 have done with authorship; and if, in my last production, I have com vinced the critics or the world I was something more than they took me for, I am satisfied; nor will I hazard that reputation by a future effort. It is true I bave some others is manuscript, but I leave them for those who come after me; and, if deemed worth publishing, they may serve to prolong my memory, when I myself shall cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian artist taking some views of Athens, etc. etc., for me. This will be better than scribbling-a disease I hope myself cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead s quiet recluse life; but God knows, and does best for us all."-L. E. "Notwithstanding this resolution to abandon for ere the vocation of authorship, and to leave the whole Cas talian state' to others, he was hardly landed in England (on his return), when we find him busily engaged in preparations for the publication of some of the poems which he had produced abroad." Moore.-P. E. By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. March, 1811. EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE STRANGER! behold, interr'd together, And if he did, 't were shame to "Black-it." FAREWELL TO MALTA. ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette! (How surely he who mounts you swears!) Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs, Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! Farewell to these, but not adieu, And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, And take my rhyme-because 'tis "gratis." (1) Some notice of this poetaster has been given, antè, p. 61. He died in 1810, and his works have followed him. -L. E. (2) The farce in question was called M.P.; or, the Blue And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser, And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us, I'll not offend with words uncivil, But only stare from out my casement, And ask, for what is such a place meant? Then, in my solitary nook, Return to scribbling, or a book, Or take my physic while I'm able And bless the gods-I've got a fever! Stocking, and came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.-L. E. (3) I. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See p. 64.-L. E. But not in morn's reflecting hour, 'T were long to tell, and vain to hear, But let this pass-I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an Eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain,I'll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain's "May is in the sere," Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times, Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, One who, in stern ambition's pride, Perchance not blood shall turn aside, One rank'd in some recording page With the worst anarchs of the age, Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause. (2) Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. (3) (1) "These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, the poet reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to come." Moore.-L. E. (2) "The anticipations of his own future career in these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of painting fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark sublime he drew;' and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil." Moore.-L. E. TO THYRZA.(4) WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one perchance, forgot, Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid? By many a shore and many a sea To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow. Affection's mingling tears were ours? The smile none else might understand; The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss, so guiltless and refined, That Love each warmer wish forebore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, Even Passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice, When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice, But sweet to me from none but thine! The pledge we wore-I wear it still, But never bent beneath till now! (3) Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, fr poet says, "I am growing nervous (how you will laugh -but it is true,-really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-Ish cally nervous. Your climate kills me; I can neither real. write, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are lit less, and my nights restless: I have seldom any societ and, when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that sha'n't end with insanity; for I find a want of th in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangri -L. E. (4) "The reader will laugh when I tell him, that it wa asserted to a friend of mine, that the lines To Tra published with the first Canto of Childe Harold, were u dressed to his bear! There is nothing so malignast thr Hatred will not invent or Folly believe," Medwin.-f, i Well hast thou left, in life's best bloom, I would not wish thee here again; But if, in worlds more blest than this, To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me too early taught by thee! It fain would form my hope in heaven! STANZAS. (2) AWAY, away, ye notes of woe! Be silent, thou once-soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence-for, oh! I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter days- But lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze On what I am-on what I was. The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony Is worse than discord to my heart! 'Tis silent all!-but on my ear The well-remember'd echoes thrill; A voice that now might well be still: Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep, Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. December 6, 1811. (1) Mr. Moore considers "Thyrza" as if she were a mere creature of the poet's brain. "It was," he says, "about the time when he was thus bitterly feeling, and expressing, the blight which his heart had suffered from a real object of affection, that his poems on the death of an imaginary one were written;-nor is it any wonder, when we consider the peculiar circumstances under which these beautiful effusions flowed from his fancy, that, of all his strains of pathos, they should be the most touching and most pure. They were, indeed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many griefs;-a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in their passage through his | fancy, and forming thus one deep reservoir of mournful feeling." It is a pity to disturb a sentiment thus beautifully | expressed; but Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lines, viz. Oct. 11th, 1811, writes as follows:-"I have been again shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to me in happier times: but I have STANZAS. ONE struggle more, and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee, Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below, What future grief can touch me more? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; It never would have been, but thou In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! On many a lone and lovely night " It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""Tis comfort still," I faintly said, "That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" Like freedom to the time-worn slave, A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days, When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st my gaze! How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill. almost forgot the taste of grief,' and 'supped full of horrors,' till I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event which, five years ago, would have bowed my head to the earth." In his reply to this letter, Mr. Dallas says, -"I thank you for your confidential communication. How truly do I wish that that being had lived, and lived yours! What your obligations to her would have been in that case is inconceivable." Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza were written, Lord Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by a person in whose tenderness he never ceased to confide, refused to answer, with marks of painful agitation, such as rendered any farther recurrence to the subject impossible. The reader must be left to form his own conclusion, The five following pieces are all devoted to Thyrza.—L. E. (2) "Now take a dose in another style. I wrote it a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former days." Lord B. te Mr. Hodgson. London, 1811.-P. E. |