The works of lord Byron

that?

And not in vain listen'd--Hush! what 's The door flew wide, not swiftly-but, as fly The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flightI see-I see-Ah, no!-'tis not-yet 'tis | And then swung back; nor close-but stood Ye powers! it is the-the-the-Pooh! the

cat!

awry,

Half letting in long shadows on the light, Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high,

For he had two, both tolerably bright,And in the door-way, darkening Darkness, stood

The sable Friar in his solemn hood.

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious,

thrust

His other arm forth-Wonder upon wonder! It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.

He found, as people on most trials must, That he had made at first a silly blunder,

And that in his confusion he had caught Only the wall instead of what he sought.

The ghost,if ghost it were,seem'd a sweet soul
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood:
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole
Forth into something much like flesh and
blood;

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, And they reveal'd (alas! that e'er they should!)

In fall, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace-FitzFulke!

THE ISLAND.

CANTO I.

THE morningwatch was come; the vessel

lay

Her course, and gently made her liquid way; The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow In furrows form'd by that majestic plough; The waters with their world were all before; Behind, the South Sea's many an islet-shore. The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, Dividing darkness from the dawning main; The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, Swam high, as eager of the coming ray; The stars from broader beams began to creep, And lift their shining eyelids from the deep; The sail resumed its lately-shadow'd white, And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight;

The purpling ocean owns the coming SunBut, ere he break, a deed is to be done.

The gallant Chief within his cabin slept, Secure in those by whom the watch was kept: His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore,

Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er; His name was added to the glorious roll Of those who search the storm-surrounded

Pole.

The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, And why should not his slumber be secure? Alas! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, And wilder hands would hold the vessel's

sheet;

And, half-uncivilized, preferr'd the cave
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave;
The gushing fruits that Nature gave untill'd;
The wood without a path but where they
will'd;

The field o'er which promiscuous Plenty
pour'd
Her horn; the equal land without a lord;
The wish-which ages have not yet subdued
In man-to have no master save his mood;
The Earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold
The glowing sun and produce all its gold:
The freedom which can call each grot a
home;

The general garden, where all steps may

breast,

Young hearts, which languish'd for some The hands, which trembled at thy voice,

arrest;

Where summer years and summer women Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy

sunny isle,

smile;

command

Men without country, who, too long The obedient helm shall veer, the sail

expand;

Had found no native home, or found it That savage spirit, which would lull by

estranged,

Its desperate escape from duty's path, The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, Glares round thee, in the scarce-believing | The courteous manners but from Nature eyes

caught, bought;

Of those who fear the Chief they sacrifice; The wealth unhoarded, and the love un-
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage,
Unless he drain the wine of passion-rage.

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath:

They come not; they are few,and,overawed, Must acquiesce while sterner hearts applaud. In vain thou dost demand the cause; a curse Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade,

Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid, The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. Thou dar'st them to their worst, exclaiming, "Fire!"

Bat they who pitied not could yet admire; Some lurking remnant of their former awe Restrain'd them longer than their broken law;

They would not dip their souls at once in blood,

Bat left thee to the mercies of the flood.

Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, driven

Before the mast by every wind of Heaven? And now, even now prepared with others'

few

Who wait their Chief, a melancholy crew:
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck

"Hoist out the boat!" was now the lead-Of that proud vessel-now a moral wreck

er's cry;

And who dare answer "No" to Mutiny,
In the first dawning of the drunken hour,
The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power?
The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate,
With its slight plank between thee and thy
fate;

Her only cargo such a scant supply
As promises the death their hands deny;
And just enough of water and of bread
To keep, some days, the dying from the dead:
Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and
twine,

But treasures all to Hermits of the brine,
Were added after, to the earnest prayer
Of those who saw no hope save sea and air;
And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole,
The feeling compass, Navigation's Soul.

And now the self-elected Chief finds time To stun the first sensation of his crime, And raise it in his followers-"Ho! the bowl!"

Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. Brandy for heroes!" Burke could once exclaim

No doubt a liquid path to epic fame;
And such the new-born heroes found it here,
And drain'd the draught with an applauding
cheer.

Huzza! for Otaheite!" was the cry;
How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny!
The gentle island, and the genial soil,

And view'd their Captain's fate with piteous eyes;

While others scoff'd his augur'd miseries,
Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail,
And the slight bark, so laden and so frail.
The tender Nautilus who steers his prow,
The sea-born sailor of his shell-canoe,
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea,
Seems far less fragile, and, alas! more free!
He, when the lightning-wing'd Tornados
sweep

The surge, is safe-his port is in the deep-
And triumphs o'er the Armadas of mankind,
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the
wind.

And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath,
Exclaim'd, "Depart at once! delay is death!"
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased
not all:

In that last moment could a word recal
Remorse for the black deed as yet half done,
And, what he hid from many, shew'd to one:
When Bligh, in stern reproach, demanded
where

Was now his grateful sense of former care?
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire
And blazon Britain's thousand glories
higher?

His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy
spell,

""Tis that! 'tis that! I am in Hell! in Hell!" No more he said; but, urging to the bark His Chief, commits him to his fragile ark: These the sole accents from his tongue that fell,

But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell.

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave; The breeze now sunk, now whisper'd from his cave;

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Where all partake the earth without dispute,
And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit;
Where none contest the fields, the woods,
the streams :-

The Goldless Age, where Gold disturbs no
dreams,

Inhabits or inhabited the shore,
Till Europe taught them better than before,
Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs,

As on the Eolian harp, his fitful wings
Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean-But left her vices also to their heirs.

strings.

With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd

skiff

Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-
seen cliff,

Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main:
That boat and ship shall never meet again!
But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief,
Their constant peril and their scant relief;
Their days of danger, and their nights of
pain;

Their manly courage, even when deem'd
in vain;
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son
Known to his mother in the skeleton;
The ills that lessen'd still their little store,
And starved even Hunger till he wrung no

Away with this! behold them as they were,
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err.
"Huzza! for Otaheite!" was the cry,
As stately swept the gallant vessel by.
The breeze springs up; the lately flapping

sail

For these most bloom where rests the war-To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, rior's head; But not to-night-to-night is for the heart. And we will sit in twilight's face, and see Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, The sweet moon glancing through the tooa-Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo! How lovely are your forms! how every sense Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep:

tree,

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough
Shall sadly please us as we lean below;
Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain
Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main,
Which spurn in columns back the baffled

Yes-from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers, =Then feast like spirits in their promised

bowers,

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf,
Then lay our limbs along the tender turf,
And, wet and shining from the sportive toil,
Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil,
And plait our garlands gather'd from the

grave,

And wear the wreaths that sprung from
out the brave.

But lo! night comes, the Mooa woos us back,
The sound of mats is heard along our track;
Anon the torchlight-dance shall fling its
sheen

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green;
And we too will be there; we too recal
The memory bright with many a festival,
Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes
For the first time were wafted in canoes.
Alas! for them the flower of mankind bleeds;
Alas! for them our fields are rank with
weeds:

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown.
Of wandering with the moon and love alone.
Bat be it so:-they taught us how to wield
The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field;
Now let them reap the harvest of their art!
But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart.
Strike up the dance, the cava-bowl fill high,
Drain every drop!-to-morrow we may die.
In summer-garments be our limbs array'd;
Around our waists the Tappa's white dis-
play'd;

Thick wreaths shall form our Coronal, like
Spring's,
And round our necks shall glance the Hooni-
strings;
So shall their brighter hues contrast the
glow

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below.

But now the dance is o'er - yet stay awhile; Ah. pause! nor yet put out the social smile.

Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign,
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain?
Who such would see, may from his lattice
view

The Old World more degraded than the
New,-

Now new no more,save where Columbia rears
Twin giants,born by Freedom to her spheres,
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave,
Glares with his Titan-eye, and sees no slave.

Such was this ditty of Tradition's days,
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys
In song, where Fame as yet hath left no sign
Beyond the sound, whose charm is half
divine;

Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye,
But yields young History all to harmony;
A boy Achilles, with the Centaur's lyre
In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire.
For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave,
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the
wave,

Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side,
Or gathering mountain-echoes as they glide,
Hath greater power o'er each true heart

and ear,

Than all the columns Conquest's minions

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