"Si no se respetan leyes,
Es ley que todo se pierda;
Y que se pierda Granada,
Y que te pierdas en ella."

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Fuego por los ojos vierte,
El Rey que esto oyera.
Y como el otro de leyes
De leyes tambien hablava.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

"Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes
De darle a Reyes disgusto"-
Esso dize el Rey Moro
Relinchando de colera.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui,

El de la vellida barba,

El Rey te manda prender,
Por la perdida de Alhama.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Y cortarte la cabeza,
Y ponerla en el Alhambra,
Por que a ti castigo sea,
Y otros tiemblen en miralla.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Cavalleros, hombres buenos,
Dezid de mi parte al Rey,
Al Rey Moro de Granada,
Como no le devo nada.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

"De averse Alhama perdido
A mi me pesa en el alma.
Que si el Rey perdiò su tierra,
Otro mucho mas perdiera.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

"Perdieran hijos padres,
Y casados las casadas:
Las cosas que mas amara'
Perdiò l' un y el otro fama.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

"Perdi una hija donzella
Que era la flor d' esta tierra,
Cien doblas dava por ella,
No me las estimo en nada."
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui,
Le cortaron la cabeça,
Y la elevan al Alhambra,
Assi come el Rey lo manda.
Ay de mi, Alhama.

Hombres, niños y mugeres,
Lloran tan grande perdida.
Lloravan todas las damas
Quantas en Granada avia.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Por las calles y ventanas
Mucho luto parecia ;

Llora el Rey como fembra,
Qu' es mucho lo que perdia.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes;
The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
Because he answer'd, and because
He spake exceeding well of laws.
Woe is me, Alhama!

"There is no law to say such things
As may disgust the ear of kings!"-
Thus, snorting with his choler, said
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.
Woe is me, Alhama!

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!
Though thy beard so hoary be,

The King hath sent to have thee seized,
For Alhama's loss displeased.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And to fix thy head upon

High Alhambra's loftiest stone;
That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.
Woe is me, Alhama!

"Cavalier, and man of worth!
Let these words of mine go forth;
Let the Moorish Monarch know
That to him I nothing owe.

Woe is me, Alhama!

"But on my soul Alhama weighs,
And on my inmost spirit preys;
And if the King his land hath lost,
Yet others may have lost the most.
Woe is me, Alhama!

"Sires have lost their children, wives
Their lords, and valiant men their lives;
One what best his love might claim
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.
Woe is me, Alhama!

"I lost a damsel in that hour,
Of all the land the loveliest flower;
Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day."
Woe is me, Alhama!

And as these things the old Moor said,
They sever'd from the trunk his head;
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
'Twas carried, as the King decreed.
Woe is me, Alhama!

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Woe is me, Alhama!

And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls;
The King weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.

Alhama!

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

PER MONACA.

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata; è diretto al ge nitore della sacra sposa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte

Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte
L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d'imeneo:

La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa

Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde,
La sua tenéra udir voce pietosa.
Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onde,

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.

ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. (1)

In this beloved marble view,

Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,
And Beauty and Canova can!
Beyond Imagination's power,
Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With immortality her dower,
Behold the Helen of the heart!

TO THOMAS MOORE.

My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell,

"Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would 'pour
Should be peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. (2)

(1) "The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron, "without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beauti. ful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of hu man execution."-L. E.

(2) The letter, containing the foregoing stanzas, is dated La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817, and, at the conclusion, Lord Byron says: This should have been written fifteen months ago-the first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic; and I write to you with a blackeyed Venetian girl before me, reading Boccaccio."-P. E.

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN.

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter
had recently died shortly after her marriage; and ad-
dressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
Or two fair virgins, modest, though admired,
Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And, gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon-expires;
But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.

But thou at least from out the jealous door,

Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more: I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,
And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. (3)

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we

Will die fighting, or live free;

And down with all kings but King Ludd!
When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding-sheet
O'er the despot at our feet,

And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd.

Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

TO MR. MURRAY.

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,
Which would be very treacherous-very,

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.

(I) "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." Letter to Moore. -P. E.

(2) "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 a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot head-ach, 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." B. Letters. Venice, March, 1817.-L. E.

(3) The Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles; Ilderim by Mr. Gally Knight; and Margaret of Anjou by Miss Holford.-L. E.

(4) Dr. Polidori had composed a tragedy, which he wished Mr. Murray to publish. It is presumable that, not willing to accept the Doctor's production, though somewhat averse to give him a positive refusal, Mr. M. had in the mean time consulted Lord Byron, who thus writes to the latter gentleman, under date of 21st of August, 1817:-"I never was

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO
DR. POLIDORI. (4)

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,(5)
Which is a good one in its way,-
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief

To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.

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
Are drugs-mere drugs, sir-now-a-days.
I had a heavy loss by Manuel,—
Too lucky if it prove not annual,—
And Sotheby, with his Orestes
(Which, by the by, the author's best is),
Has lain so very long on hand
That I despair of all demand.
I've advertised, but see my books,
Or only watch my shopman's looks;-
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber,
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.

There's Byron too, who once did better,
Has sent me, folded in a letter,
A sort of it's no more a drama
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama;
So alter'd since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice.
In short, sir, what with one and t'other,
I dare not venture on another.

I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
The coaches through the street so thunder!
My room's so full-we've Gifford here
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
Of some of our forthcoming Articles.

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; bat beha some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispestions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for be is improved and improvable. You want a civil and debcate declension for the medical tragedy? Take it."-P.

(5) With regard to the dramatic attempt here alluded t Moore says:- Among other pretensions, be (Polidor) had set his heart upon shining as an author, and one evening at Mr. Shelley's, producing a tragedy of his own writing, sisted that they should undergo the operation of hearing it To lighten the infliction, Lord Byron took upon himself the task of reader. In spite of the jealous watch kept up, every countenance by the author, it was impossible to wh stand the smile lurking in the eye of the reader, whose resource against the outbreak of his own laughter lay lauding, from time to time, most vehemently, the sub of the verses, and then adding, at the close of every eulogy, 'I assure you, when I was in the Drury Lane Con mittee, much worse things were offered to us.' -..

The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you
Had but the genius to review!-
A smart critique upon St. Helena,
Or if you only would but tell in a
Short compass
what- -But, to resume:
As I was saying, sir, the room-
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

All persons in the dress of gent.,
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.

A party dines with me to-day,
All clever men, who make their way;
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey,
Are all partakers of my pantry.
They're at this moment in discussion
On poor De Staël's late dissolution.
Her book, they say, was in advance—
Pray Heaven she tell the truth of France!
Thus run our time and tongues away.
But, to return, sir, to your play:
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal,
Unless 't were acted by O'Neill.
My hands so full, my head so busy,
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy;
And so, with endless truth and hurry,
Dear Doctor, I am yours,

JOHN MURRAY.

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.

My dear Mr. Murray,

You're in a damn'd hurry

To set up this ultimate Canto; (1)
But (if they don't rob us)
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.

For the Journal you hint of,

As ready to print off,

No doubt you do right to commend it; But as yet I have writ off

The devil a bit of

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;

Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,

With the new "Fytte" of Whistlecraft,

Must make people purchase and read.

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,

They thought shaving their beards a disaster.

(1) The fourth Canto of Childe Harold.-L. E.

Allusion is here made to a phrase contained in a previous letter from Mr. Murray.-P. E.

(3) 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

For the man, "poor and shrewd," (2) With whom you'd conclude A compact without more delay, Perhaps some such pen is Still extant in Venice;

But please, sir, to mention your pay.

VENICE, January 8, 1818.

TO MR. MURRAY.

STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all-and sellest some-
My Murray.

Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,—
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?

Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The Art of Cookery, and mine,
My Murray.

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the Navy List,
My Murray.

And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without "the Board of Longitude,"
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray!

VENICE, March 25, 1818.

ODE ON VENICE. (1)
Ou Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee

What should thy sons do?-any thing but weep:
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers-as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam,
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets.
Oh! agony-that centuries should reap

No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;
And even the Lion all subdued appears,
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum,
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along
The soft waves, once all musical to song,

That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng
Of gondolas-and to the busy hum

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds
Were but the overbeating of the heart,
And flow of too much happiness, which needs
The aid of age to turn its course apart
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood.
But these are better than the gloomy errors,
The weeds of nations in their last decay,
When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors,
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay;
And Hope is nothing but a false delay,
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning

Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning,
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain;-
And then he talks of life, and how again
He feels his spirits soaring-albeit weak,
And of the fresher air, which he would seek;
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps,
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps,
And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round-and shadows busy,
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness,-and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth.
There is no hope for nations!-Search the page
Of many thousand years-the daily scene,
The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

The everlasting to be which hath been,
Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear
Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
For 'tis our nature strikes us down: the beasts
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts

(1) This Ode was transmitted from Venice, along with Mazeppa.-L. E.

The Ode on Venice, as Lord Byron states in a letter

Are of as high an order-they must go
Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
What have they given your children in return?
A heritage of servitude and woes,

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.
What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal,
And deem this proof of loyalty the real;
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars,
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars?
All that your sires have left you, all that Time
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime,
Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read,
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all,
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,
Gushing from Freedom's fountains-when the crowd,
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,
And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain
Heavy and sore,-in which long yoked they plough'd
The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain,
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'd,
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:-
Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws,
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth
With all her seasons to repair the blight
With a few summers, and again put forth
Cities and generations-fair, when free-
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!
Glory and Empire! once upon these towers

With Freedom-godlike Triad! how ye sate!
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours
When Venice was an envy, might abate,

But did not quench, her spirit—in her fate
All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew
And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate,
Although they humbled-with the kingly few
The many felt, for from all days and climes
She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes
Were of the softer order-born of Love,
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead,
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread;
For these restored the Cross, that from above
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles;
Yet she but shares with them a common woe,
And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foe,
But knows what all-and, most of all, we know—
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
The name of Commonwealth is past and gone

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe;
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone

to Mr. Murray, was completed in July, 1818. Mr. Galt has justly designated it as "a spirited and indignant effusion, rich in a variety of impressive and original images.”—P. E