Ay de mi, Alhama!

Y que atambores de guerra
Apriessa toquen alarma;
Por que lo oygan sus Moros,
Los de la Vega y Granada.
Ay de mi, Alhama !

Los Moros que el son oyeron,
Que al sangriento Marte llama,
Uno a uno, y dos a dos,

Un gran esquadron formavan.
Ay de mi, Alhama !

Alli hablò un Moro viejo;
Desta manera hablava:

Para que nos llamas, Rey?
Para que es este llamada ?

Ay de mi, Alhama !

Aveys de saber, amigos,
Una nueva desdichada :

Que Christianos, con braveza,
Ya nos han tomado Alhama.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Alli hablò un viejo Alfaqui,

De barba crecida y cana: -
Bien se te emplea, buen Rey,

Buen Rey; bien se te empleava.
Ay de mi, Alhama !

Mataste los Bencerrages,
Que era la flor de Granada:

Cogiste los tornadizos

De Cordova la nombrada.

Ay de mi, Alhama !

Por esso mereces, Rey,

Una pene bien doblada;

Que te pierdas tu y el reyno,

Y que se pierda Granada.

Ay de mi, Alhama !

1 The effect of the original ballad-which existed both in Spanish and Arabic-was such that it was forbidden

A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport.

THE Moorish King rides up and down
Through Granada's royal town;

From Elvira's gates to those

Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Letters to the monarch tell
How Alhama's city fell:
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin

To the Alhambra spurring in.

Woe is me, Alhama!

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd,

On the moment he ordain'd

That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain,
Woe is me, Alhama!

Then the Moors, by this aware
That bloody Mars recall'd them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before,
"Wherefore call on us, oh King?
What may mean this gathering?
Woe is me, Alhama!

"Friends! ye have, alas! to know
Of a most disastrous blow,

That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold."
Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake old Alfaqui,
With his beard so white to see,
"Good King! thou art justly served,
Good King! this thou hast deserved.
Woe is me, Alhama:

"By thee were slain, in evil hour,
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama ! "And for this, oh King! is sent

On thee a double chastisement:
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,
One last wreck shall overwhelm.

Woe is me, Alhama!

to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada.

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 !

"He who holds no laws in awe, He must perish by the law; And Granada must be won,

And thyself with her undone."

Woe is me, 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
"T was 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.
Woe is me, Alhama'

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

PER MONACA.

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta 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,

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 tenera 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 A NUN.

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.

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,
May'st 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.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul !
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be ; And our sorrow may cease to repine

When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be! There should not be the shadow of gloom, In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest?

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.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

THEY say that Hope is happiness;

But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless. They rose the first-they set the last;

And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be, And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory.

Alas! it is delusion all:

The future cheats us from afar,

Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are.

1 ["This should have been written fifteen moons ago: the first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic."- Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, July 10. 1817.]

2 ["The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house

July, 1817. 1

ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. 2

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!
November, 1816.

of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron, "without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Nov. 25. 1816.

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.]

4 ["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, 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.

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO
DR. POLIDORI. 6

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,—

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 "Missionary" was written by Mr. Bowles; "Ilderim" 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 improvYou want a civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 21. 1817.]

able.

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.

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

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.

2 Vide your letter.